Via Community News Service, a University of Vermont journalism internship for The Montpelier Bridge
MONTPELIER — On a recent Friday evening, Bent Nails Bistro filled with chatter as locals took their seats for Middle Eastern Dance Night.
The small bar, known for its live music, drew a mostly older crowd for drinks, dinner and a performance by Magdalene C.R. Miller, a dancer who performs as simply Magdalene.
On stage, Magdalene moved with precision and confidence. The mood was convivial and intimate, with steady applause between songs.
Magdalene, who lives and teaches in Vermont, describes her work as “using Middle Eastern dance to spread joy and connection.”
Dancing has grounded her since childhood, she said. As a nurse and intimacy coach who works closely with women, she’s seen how powerful it can be to bring people into a shared sense of community.
Magdalene acknowledges that she’s a white performer engaged in an art form rooted in Middle Eastern, North African, and Arab cultures.
Critics argue that white dancers may inadvertently exoticize these traditions, that the dances aren’t theirs to teach, and performers don’t always acknowledge histories or origins.
Magdalene said she’s keenly aware of those dynamics, and wrestles with them.
“I think about this constantly — probably to an obsessive degree,” she said. “I only want to honor the cultures and dances I represent.”
Even the phrase “Middle Eastern dance” is complicated, said Ilyse Morgenstein Fuerst, a University of Vermont professor who studies race, colonialism, and religion.
“Egyptian dance forms are not the same as Turkish dance forms, and they’re not the same as Jordanian dance forms. To collapse them all into one category is to miss the specificity of those practices,” she said.
“We would never do that to other kinds of cultures. We barely allow New York and Chicago to be the same, and those are both American cities,” Morgenstein Fuerst said.
According to historians, “Middle Eastern dance” first entered the American popular imagination as an attraction at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, marketed to Western audiences as a glimpse of the “exotic East.”
From there, it found a home in nightclubs and cabarets, and by the mid-20th century, it had developed into a distinct American style, complete with stage names, ornate costumes, and often-sexualized dress.
Palestinian-Egyptian writer Randa Jarrar challenged the way some Western performers adopt imagined versions of Arab identity in her 2014 essay in Salon, “Why I Can’t Stand White Belly Dancers.”
She described what she called “Arab Face,” recalling an invitation that featured a white dancer and her friends “dressed in Orientalist garb with eye makeup caked on for full kohl effect and glittery accessories.”
The piece drew national attention and sparked public debate over cultural appropriation and intent.
For many Americans, Middle Eastern dance serves as a broad label: one that feels familiar to audiences who might not know the differences.
To some scholars, that flexibility can sometimes obscure important distinctions. As Morgenstein Fuerst points out, the term “Middle East” itself is politically constructed.
“It’s always been a political term,” she said. “It’s east of what, and the middle of what? Who is the author of that?”
Still, it is possible to study an art form from another culture with respect, said UVM’s Morgenstein Fuerst.
“But if you’re learning belly dance from a white instructor who’s mispronouncing words you don’t even know are being mispronounced, chances are, you’re doing appropriation, not appreciation,” Morgenstein Fuerst said.
Back in Montpelier, Magdalene’s friend and fellow dancer watched the performance. She goes by her stage name, Irit, and says dance is central to her life.
“My passion,” Irit said simply. “That’s what I do, I perform.”
Irit described her friend’s performance as vibrant and carefully chosen.
“There’s such a variety. I went to Egypt, I went to Turkey… there’s such a variety of dances and songs and music and styles,” she said.
Magdalene said she doesn’t claim to represent whole cultures.
“My training is in Egyptian dance, everything from baladi (folk) to raqs sharqi (stage),” Magdalene said.
“What I can do is help people fall in love with the music, see something new, and maybe build a little more tolerance and curiosity,” she said.
As the night ended, the audience rose in applause. Magdalene thanked the crowd and hugged her friends.
“If people leave feeling connected — to each other, to the music, to something larger — then I’ve done my job,” Magdalene said.