Essentially Egyptian: raqs sharqi has experienced its fair share of controversy over the generations but despite adversity the power of Middle Eastern dance remains strong and is currently attracting growing global attention. Maria Golia reports from Cairo.

NOT FAR FROM the pyramids at one of Cairo's 5-star hotels, several hundred women of a dozen nationalities file into a conference hall to the strains of raucous music. The gathering they are here to attend will offer special insights into Egyptian character and culture. What's more, it will kick off a week of 'joyful activities' designed to further their quest for self-expression, as well as physical and mental empowerment.

These women haven't travelled from Siberia and Sao Paolo just to contemplate the Sphinx, though it's in their itinerary. They've come to Cairo for a concentrated dose of the hootchy-kootchy, as it was once called, or belly dancing, now more acceptably referred to as Middle Eastern Dance.

The Nile Group, founded by several Egyptian dance aficionados, is one of two local organisations offering these 'dance holidays', mini-festivals comprised of workshops, top-notch performances, and sightseeing opportunities. Their clients are garnered partly from the internet, but largely through an informal network of dance instructors and enthusiasts extending around the globe.

According to Dr Hassan Khalil, theatre professor at Cairo's Academy of Arts and workshop instructor at the Nile Group's festival, Middle Eastern dance counts some 4m practitioners, "a million alone in Brazil". The number may be larger still; a Google search for 'belly-dance' yields nearly 3m sites.

Cairo's dance festivals, attended annually by several thousand women (and a few men), are carving out a tourism-market niche and demonstrating the dance's international appeal. At a time when the

Egyptian authorities are anxiously promoting beaches and monuments, this is one national resource that needs no advertising. The dance called raqs sharqi in Arabic (eastern dance), has varied origins, which some Egyptians predictably trace to the pharaohs. The movements associated with the dance have also been linked to age-old birthing practices, muscular disciplines designed to deliver the mother of a healthy child with minimal pain. Some experts say the dance takes its regal poise from its Persian roots, and its spinal undulations from Turkey and that gypsy tribes who migrated here from India first combined and articulated the diverse forms.

Egypt is nonetheless considered "the source" by a variety of devotees, for whom Cairo, the Hollywood of belly dancing, holds unrivalled appeal. It is the home of world-renowned performers, and it is here that the music traditionally accompanying the dance has been much elaborated. Festival attendees seem to agree that Egypt's dance, when well-performed, is an artistic discipline, embodying the essence of self-knowing feminine sensuality.

Yet however impressive Egypt's traditional dance may appear to outsiders, some insiders believe it is in trouble. Local audiences are diminishing. Only a few 5-star hotels and nightclubs still produce the floor shows with large orchestras and dance divas that were once a standard feature of Cairo's nightlife.

The cost of these dinner shows ($120 per person) may be part of the problem, but so is the capital's increasingly moralistic atmosphere. Openly-displayed religiosity is more fashionable these days than nightclubbing. But the dance and dancers have always attracted ambivalence. On the one hand, women and men of all ages love to dance and appreciate good dancers. Boys and girls learn through observing adults at family celebrations which would not be complete without music and dance.

On the other hand, despite its rich cultural origins, raqs sharqi is not accepted as an art form, nor is it formally taught. What foreigners perceive as the Egyptian woman's tool of empowerment is actually frequently frowned upon in public settings, and professional dancers must endure a variety of prejudice. Egyptian law once prevented belly dancers from testifying in court. Religious injunctions impede their participation in rituals like alms-giving during Ramadan or partaking in the hajj.

Some Egyptian dancers, like some film actresses, have taken the veil, and fewer Egyptian women may be adopting the dance as a profession. Currently, the number of foreign dancers performing already matches, if not outnumbers, the locals. Yet even foreign dancers face restrictions. Aside from being seen as 'loose' women, they must leave their passport with the Ministry of Interior, and obtain written permission to travel. Both foreign and local dancers must register monthly with the vice police in order to be legally allowed to perform.

Dancing is, however, a potentially profitable--and taxable--profession. Top-billing dancers may command fees of tens of thousands of Egyptian pounds for 45-minute appearances at private weddings and parties. Cairenes once joked that the government's cut of a single diva's income constituted a GDP contribution ranked just below tourism and the Suez Canal.

Whether for moral, financial or image-related reasons, Egypt's government has historically attempted to control the dance. In 1834, Mohammed Ali issued an edict banishing belly dancers from the capital so as not to offend foreign visitors. Dancers migrated to Luxor and Aswan, and their public followed them. By the 1920s they were back in Cairo, and the street named for Mohammed Ali had ironically become the centre of the dancers' community.

During the ladies' absence, boy dancers, often in drag, performed convincingly in their stead. Interestingly, male belly dancers are back in vogue and an Egyptian named Tito was featured in the Nile Group's opening ceremony. He performed the pointedly masculine Upper Egyptian stick dance, but also shimmied outstandingly.

In the socialist 1960s under Gamal Abdel Nasser, belly dancing was again restricted and people were encouraged to develop a taste for the more 'modern' form of ballet. In a country where earthy voluptuousness is favoured over lithe, ethereal beauty, ballet never quite caught on. The public called for the reinstatement of its favourite dance and the government complied, with the proviso that the belly and navel of the dancer be covered. The law remains intact, although sheer, flesh-coloured nylon defeats it daily, and younger dancers often ignore it altogether.

Lately, government officials have been questioning the appropriateness, in a traditional Islamic culture, of some performers' appearances in MTV videos. In 2003, a busty young Lebanese singer named Nancy Agram outraged the Egyptian People's Assembly, and in 2004 an Egyptian named Rubi upset members of parliament enough to institute a ban on state-owned TV, on all music videos showing women's navels. Since most Egyptians have access to either satellite TV or the internet, this attempt to 'protect our daughter's morals', was duly noted, and promptly forgotten.

MTV may upset some pious Egyptians, who complain about western entertainmenrs permissiveness and believe it has degraded local standards. But navels were a touchy issue in the US too, and not so long ago. The protagonist of a mid-1960s TV show, I Dream of Jeannie, wore hip-hugging 'harem pants' that censors succeeded in raising to her waist.

Although Islam is widely portrayed in the West as sexually repressive, this represents a significant reversal of opinion. The Christian West historically viewed Islam as shockingly sensual, partly because of polygamy, but also because it encouraged sex for pleasure, and not just procreation (amongst spouses, of course). Early descriptions of oriental dancing only confirmed longstanding preconceptions.

Nineteenth century Europeans and Americans who visited Egypt described the local dance as 'obscene', 'horrid' and 'disgusting'. At the 1893 World's Fair un-corseted dancers performing their dizzying moves in the Cairo Exhibition caused the Society for the Suppression of Vices to try to shut the theatre down. Silent movies of belly-dancers shown in Atlantic City nickelodeons were amongst the first films ever to be censored.

These days Egyptians are censoring themselves, and religious attitudes have made the dance less openly appreciated than before. If current economic trends continue, with an authoritarian state pursuing an open market, and the gap between rich and poor widening fast, people will continue looking heavenwards for the help they feel they've been otherwise denied. Nevertheless, raqs sharqi remains a vital part of local culture in familial settings, the most natural way to express and share joy, an increasingly precious commodity.

For the local dance community, the Nile Group festivals and others like them represent a creative means to weather the socio-economic storm. They provide additional venues for professional dancers, and teaching jobs for those past their prime, which is saying quite a lot, since women may dance professionally well into their 50s.

The dance's favourable image abroad is indeed partly owed to the status it offers both full-bodied and mature women. The best dancers are considered those who can articulate emotions, humour and experience with the help of music, no matter what their shape or age.

The message that every human form is beautiful, and that everyone can dance, is well-received by women who increasingly reject the unattainable aesthetic standards celebrated in western media.

One of the Nile Group's intentions says Dr Hassan Khalil, is to export raqs sharqi so as to safe-guard and spread its practice. But given the dance's ubiquity in households throughout Egypt and the Middle East, this seems somewhat alarmist. Social constraints may hinder raqs sharqi's performance, but the urge to dance runs deep, and raqs sharqi's unique enticements will no doubt delight and enthral for generations to come.