My journey into the clandestine world of Iranian dance began in 1990. My instructor was Nahid Kabiri, a family friend of my mother’s and a former member of the Iranian Folkloric Dance Academy before its dissolution in 1979, following the Islamic Revolution. Within the secluded confines of private homes, she initiated me and other women into the diverse tapestry of Iranian dance: vibrant folk dances from the North, South, and West, graceful classical Persian styles, captivating dances inspired by belly dance traditions, and energetic Azari folk dances.
Kabiri’s dedication extended beyond mere instruction; she envisioned a performance troupe. Knowing that public performances could lead to legal repercussions, she transformed her dimly lit, humid basement into our secret stage. With the help of a few dedicated women, we cleared away cobwebs and swept the dust-laden floor. Kabiri furnished the space with aged wooden benches, piecing them together and covering them with rugs to protect us from the protruding rusty nails and splinters. These makeshift, rug-draped benches became our stage. To accommodate an audience, she borrowed an assortment of over 100 mismatched dining room chairs from friends and neighbors, creating a clandestine theater.
Tickets were discreetly sold, exclusively to women. The rationale was strategic: in the event of discovery and a raid by the morality police, we could present the gathering as a women’s celebration of the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday. The absence of men, we hoped, would significantly lessen the perceived severity of our transgression. Our families and trusted friends played a crucial role in spreading the word within our close circles.
Kabiri, a visionary in every sense, designed our costumes, which were then meticulously sewn by a local seamstress, funded collectively by all of us. For stage lighting, we installed additional lamps into the existing fixture above our performance area. We managed a single rehearsal on our improvised stage on the very day of the performance. To avoid attracting unwanted attention from potentially informant neighbors, attendees were instructed to park several blocks away and approach the basement on foot. To our astonishment, we achieved a complete sell-out.
The memories of that night are somewhat blurred by my intense nervousness. I recall our pre-performance huddle in my teacher’s living room, where her husband cautioned us against ever disclosing details of this performance and warned us about the potential legal ramifications. They emphasized the importance of maintaining a unified narrative should authorities question us.
However, one memory remains vivid: gazing out at the audience and witnessing tears streaming down their faces. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the depth of their emotion. But now, as I recount this experience, I comprehend the weight of the situation, the profound sense of oppression, and the simmering anger at witnessing something beautiful being concealed, suppressed, and almost forgotten.
A black and white photograph shows a woman in a long dark dress with light colored embroidery standing on a rug covered platform in front of a seated audience of women.
The Historical Tapestry of Dance in Iran and its Current Criminalization
Iran boasts a rich and intricate history of dance. However, in the Islamic Republic of Iran, the art of dance is paradoxically deemed a crime. Since the 1979 Islamic Revolution, the stringent, authoritarian laws implemented by the fundamentalist Islamic regime have cast a shadow over dancers. The prevailing view within the regime considers the moving body, particularly the female form, as inherently sinful and female dancers as sexually provocative, leading to the ostracization of dance and dancers.
This negative perception of dance predates the Islamic Revolution. Historically, in Iranian culture, being labeled a dancer (“raqqas”) or entertainer has been considered derogatory, bringing dishonor to families. Accounts from travelers and historical court records from the Safavid and Qajar dynasties, which ruled Iran from the 16th century to the early 20th century, reveal that professional dancers were often confined to the harem, performing solely for the entertainment of the ruling Shah.
Following the Constitutional Revolution of 1905, anything associated with the Qajar era or earlier was often viewed as corrupt and decadent. Influenced by European ideals, a sense of cultural self-deprecation took root among some Iranians, leading to a preference for “modern” Western cultures.
Consequently, professional dancers lost societal favor, becoming relegated to nightclubs considered disreputable. Over-sexualized portrayals of dance in Iranian cinema between the 1950s and 1970s further solidified this negative stereotype of female dancers as immoral women who objectified their bodies, wore revealing attire, and performed seductively for male audiences. This historical context lays the groundwork for understanding the current precarious position of the Iranian dancer.
The 1979 Ban and the Suppression of Movement
In a stark move in 1979, the Islamic Republic officially outlawed all forms of dance. Despite the Quran’s silence on dance, music, and visual arts, Ayatollah Khomeini, the Supreme Leader, swiftly banned dance in all its forms, dismissing it as frivolous and indecent. The Iranian National Ballet Company, national folk dance ensembles, and all public dance performances were abruptly disbanded.
The regime’s stance is rooted in the belief that Islam views the human body as a source of intense sexual desires. Female dancers, through their movements and the exposure of their bodies, are perceived as inciting unlawful desires in men. This ideology led to the enactment of fundamentalist laws in the Islamic Republic, mandating veiling for all women and prohibiting public dance.
According to the research of Dr. Karin van Nieuwkerk, a faculty member in philosophy, theology, and religious studies at Radboud University in The Netherlands, women in many Middle Eastern cultures are often reduced to their sexual bodies. Therefore, “moving is considered immoral for women as it draws even more attention to their shameful bodies.” This perspective underscores the deeply embedded cultural and religious justifications used to suppress Iranian dancers, particularly women.
Navigating Duality: Life as a Dancer in Contemporary Iran
Modern Iran is a mosaic of diverse cultural, linguistic, and ethnic traditions. Paradoxically, while many Iranians may appreciate traditional folk dances as charming and innocent, and view dancing at weddings as joyous celebrations, professional dancers often face judgment and are deemed corrupt and immoral. This inherent hypocrisy and the stigma attached to the dancing body, especially that of a female solo dancer, have contributed to the erosion of Persian cultural expression.
A significant dichotomy exists in attitudes towards dance in public versus private settings, for men versus women, and between residents of metropolitan cities and those in more conservative towns. For many, including myself, life in Iran is characterized by this perpetual duality: adhering to strict regulations in public while seeking pockets of freedom within the privacy of one’s home. This duality extends to the very essence of being an Iranian dancer.
This “relative” freedom comes with constant vigilance and the potential need for bribery to avoid scrutiny from the morality police, the Pasdaran (Iranian Revolutionary Guards), or the Basij militia. These forces, reporting directly to the Revolutionary Guards and the Supreme Leader, have the authority to raid homes, arrest individuals, and impose punishments for perceived offenses, including dancing. The penalties can range from beatings and torture to imprisonment and hefty fines.
Dance itself in Iran exists as a dual concept. On one hand, it is condemned as disgraceful and shameful, especially solo improvisational dance by women. On the other, it is deeply ingrained as a symbol of joy, celebration, and unity. This dichotomy is central to understanding the lived experience of an Iranian dancer.
There are generally recognized to be four main categories of dance in Iran:
- Folk dances: These encompass line dances, often named after specific villages or tribes.
- Solo improvised dances: Characterized by delicate and graceful movements, these dances are rooted in the court dances of the Safavid and Qajar eras and are typically performed in urban or private settings.
- Combat dances: Athletic and martial in nature, these dances mimic combat techniques and historically served to train warriors, primarily performed in Zoorkhaneh (traditional houses of strength).
- Spiritual dances: Ritualistic dances practiced by Sufis or dervishes, often associated with spiritual practices.
Classical ballet holds a unique position, often viewed as an elite Western art form. Consequently, it sometimes garners more respect than solo improvised dances, perceived as more traditional and less “Westernized”. In pre-revolutionary Iran, the government attempted to cultivate a façade of cultural sophistication by establishing national dance companies. These companies presented Westernized, “respectable” versions of regional folk and solo dances, minimizing hip movements, using loose-fitting costumes, and framing them within Western choreographic structures. Western ballet choreographers, such as Robert de Warren from the Royal Ballet, were invited to train these companies, lending an air of Western professionalism and prestige.
This attempt to elevate Iranian dance on the global stage ironically led to the Westernization and alteration of traditional forms. Folk and solo dances were adapted to align with Western sensibilities, potentially resulting in the loss of historical nuance and authentic tradition. This cultural assimilation and appropriation further complicate the identity of the Iranian dancer.
A color photograph shows a woman in a white dress with blue embroidery and a blue headscarf performing a dance with her arms outstretched.
Dance as a Path to Identity and Self-Discovery
Growing up as a woman in Iran, I personally experienced the government’s pervasive control over female bodies and their movement. My dance journey began at the age of five in the early 1980s. My mother enrolled my sister and me in Persian classical dance classes with Farzaneh Kaboli.
Years later, I discovered Kaboli’s significant legacy as one of the most renowned dancers from pre-revolutionary Iran. She had been a lead dancer in the Iranian National and Folkloric Dance Academy under the direction of Robert De Warren. I studied with Kaboli for approximately two years before our family relocated to the United States. Upon our return to Iran years later, I began studying with Kabiri and eventually performed with her troupe.
Initially, my dance journey was initiated by my mother. However, I continued to dance because it became a vital source of solace and hope in an environment where even wearing a backpack to school could be construed as Western influence and attract punishment. Dancing with friends and family at gatherings, dancing in the solitude of my bedroom, or participating in clandestine performances became a way to understand myself and forge my identity. For many years, living in an oppressive society where freedom of movement and expression were curtailed, dance became a personal sanctuary.
As I delved deeper into Iranian and Middle Eastern dances, I became aware of the Western-centric lens through which much of the scholarly work on these traditions has been conducted. These external influences have had both positive and negative impacts, contributing to preservation, alteration, and appropriation. Despite these complexities, I continue to dance. My motivations are multifaceted: to reclaim agency over my body, to articulate my voice through movement, to safeguard the dances of my heritage, to dismantle the internalized cultural self-hatred I have inherited, and to illuminate the beauty and significance of these dances for others. For the Iranian dancer, dance is not merely an art form; it is a profound act of self-affirmation.
Dance as Resilience and a Tool for Political Resistance
Despite facing the threat of imprisonment, forced pledges to cease dancing, substantial fines, and physical intimidation, my first dance teacher, Farzaneh Kaboli, perseveres in dancing, teaching, and performing. Her dance company has even presented performances in Tehran theaters for all-female audiences, offering a flicker of hope after decades of suppression. This act of defiance embodies the spirit of the Iranian dancer.
The term jihad embodies the concept of striving for self-improvement and resisting unjust oppression. For me and numerous dancers in the Middle East, dance is a potent form of political resistance against oppressive regimes. Our jihad is the utilization of art as a weapon against injustice perpetrated by “Islamic” regimes and religious extremism. In this context, the Iranian dancer becomes a symbol of cultural defiance and resilience.
