layla means night and the elephant in the room

I’m going to start this piece by telling you two stories. The first one is the famed Arabian Nights and the second one is about a group of blind men and an elephant.

Perhaps I don’t need to tell you about the first story. It’s called One Thousand and One Nights and this collection of framed stories has been delighting a wide range of audiences, from children to adults to adults looking for themed porn.

The second story deals with perception. So there’s this group of blind men. They don’t know what an elephant looks like. A zoo keeper is nice enough to place the blind men in a room with a very docile elephant. One blind man touches its ear and says, “Ooh, an elephant is vertical and flat and thin!”; another rubs its leg and says, “No! An elephant is thick and sturdy, although also vertical!”; yet another feels its trunk and says, “You’re both wrong! An elephant is squishy and a bit hairy and moves about a lot, and very, very long.”; another glides his hand over the elephant’s skin and says, “I don’t think so. An elephant is big and rough.”; another plays with its tusk and says, “I’m not sure what you guys are on about. An elephant feels pointy, and perhaps dangerous. I’m not going anywhere near it.”; and finally, the last one, the lucky fellow who gets to be close to the animal’s butt says, “Are you high? An elephant is very, very skinny, almost non existent, and it’s very slinky,” because he’s touching its tail.

An audience member viewing “Layla Means Night”, a dance/theatrical/installation arts performance presented by Rosanna Gamson may feel like one of those blind men.

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As we checked in for the show, we received a slip of paper with different colors. Then we were served wine and mimosa and food and some dancers even offered to wash our hands. Here the story began immediately. We were introduced to three characters: The insecure, misogynistic bitch king (yeah, I use “bitch” for men. You should try it. It feels emancipating), the executioner (who painfully, ever so slowly raised her cleaver and brought it down on one poor satsuma after another every minute), and the wives (played by a charming cast of the teenage dancers ODC Dance Jam) taking turns visiting the king and doing a dance routine to no music. No, no belly dancing involved. This was strictly modern dance meets hints of Sufi and Persian dances.

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A blonde Scheherzade fleeted about in an almost tattered white and light pink gown, greeting guests, while the narrator, Niloufar Talebi (who also helped with the text and translations for this show) was a vision in black and crazy-ass feathered headdress that she unfortunately took off as the night unfolds (I simply couldn’t stop staring at her face. Four words: gorgeous facial bone structure).

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Then it got real. Remember the colored paper? Yeah, I didn’t get one.

The audience was divided into three groups based on the color of paper they received. I decided to join the Red group. I began to suspect that this was an all girls group (a relief from six years of all-male Catholic high school, which I couldn’t complain about), as we were given a fan to, “Cover our faces with when we encounter members of different groups.” And so began the concealment and the play of perspective.

In a way, the concept was sort of ingenious. The three groups were divided on gender (I guess I wasn’t given a paper either because I had a press invitation (ah, perks!) or because the greeters at the door simply couldn’t tell if I was a boy or a girl (genderblending FTW!). Anyhoo, I was glad that I made the decision to join the girl group. After all, red is my favorite color. IMG_2846

The problem with this was that each group would get a different show, and a carefully selected one at that. Not only did each group view the show in a different order (although all groups were in the same room in the first sequence where they introduced the story and in the last sequence where we were told the moral of the story by Scheherazade) but also had different stories told to them.My all-girl red group had the opportunity to see the guy group blindfolded with orange cloth as the dancers in black (teen ODC Dance Jam, the still living wives) were telling them stories. As a member of the girl group, I could see the other dancers (in red (souls of the dead wives))  perform near the men, almost touching the men, but of course the men could only hear stories told by the living wives. They were oblivious to what was happening around them. And as a member of the girl group, all I could hear was the whispers. Whispers. Whispers. Of the stories. And this scared the glitter out of me.

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The whispers stayed throughout the show but were somehow passed on to the dead wives (red dancers), as the King blabbered to the guy group about negative space. He was obviously getting the guys to take on his side to justify the beheading of women. 

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I am not going to give you a play by play, but in the style of Edmund White’s States of Desire, here are some memorable details:

  1. Whispers. Seriously. As someone who constantly eavesdrops, it’s frustrating to have pieces of information so close within your reach yet far enough so that one cannot decipher the whole information. And what’s worse, the performers recited the different information at the same time, making it even harder to hear.
  2. Colors. Obviously red, black, and white play significant part. But orange? Well, according to Gamson, orange (cloths, even the satsumas and strung almost-dried dandelions that gave the rooms and stages a distinct scent) symbolized life. The new, still living wives wore black and the orange ribbon tied around their neck, signified that they were still alive. Gamson added that the making of orange juice in the morning signified a new day. I used to drink orange juice every morning for two weeks, until I realized every time I routinely drank orange juice (or strawberry smoothie or vitamin C), I would start getting crazy painful mouth sores.
  3. Obviously the play is about hiding information. The girl group got to the banquet room very much later while the men went to the banquet room earlier (and therefore wined and dined and got to spend some minutes sitting and sharing stories and their feelings) as the new wives were being executed in front of them (the girl group was only wined and dined and got to spend some minutes sitting and sharing stories and our feelings with Niloufar Talebi and then write our stories on a tiny scrap of orange paper that hung from the ceiling).
  4. In the banquet, Niloufar, while sitting on an orange chair, told us a real story of her father asking her when she was just fourteen years old, “Would you rather be dim and happy or knowing and suffer?” to which she never gave us her reply. Something to think about. Also: I wondered if she told the same story every night.
  5. The shadow play with the story of the giantess. It’s amazing how distance and light can generate the illusion of size.
  6. The Persian musicians (Houman Pourmehdi, Pirayeh Pourafar, and vocalist Alireza Shahmohammadi), whose songs I could listen to all day.
  7. The strung butterflies and cleavers in the red voyeur room.
  8. They taught us to zaghareet, which is a high-pitched ululation sound that Middle-Eastern women make to cheer on something or someone. At one point, we were to zaghareet after each new wife was beheaded. Genius.
  9. I didn’t even mind going up and down and up and down the stairs, although seeing the Exit signs and the posters and photographs on the walls of the staircase (and signs that said “Please turn off lights or fan” or “Absolutely no street shoes in the studio”) kind of took away the illusion of being in a different world.

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In the end, though, as fascinating as the concept of the show is, I don’t understand the merit of withholding information, especially since you’re trying to do a play about gender and sexism and feminism. Yes, each member of each gender will have different interpretation of the show, but with themes as dividing as gender and sexism and feminism, why not give everyone the whole same show?

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We grew up being a boy or a girl (or both) and having sets of rules and morals and etiquette and manners shoved down our throat: what to wear, how to talk, how to behave; and our perception about members of the opposite gender is helped shaped by our society anyway, so why not just trust the audience to see everything, go home, and interpret the play according to her/his knowledge and social upbringing? 

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In an article published by InDance, Niloufar Talebi wrote, “What I grapple with working on this project is the fact that any mention of a performance inspired by the Nights conjured images of djinns and fairies and magic lamps and harem pants. And of course of the mighty “Scheherazade” reduced in Western Orientalist depictions to an enticing half-naked woman confined to entertaining a domineering man who can do as he pleases and have as man women as he wants. Which is far from the truth. She is much more than that, you will see.”

You know, this idea of “enticing half-naked woman” is starting to get on my nerves. I mean, I am a belly dancer (although I’m a dude), and Talebi’s statement sounds very reductive. There are belly dancers, just like jazz, modern, ballet dancers, just like poets and writers, who struggle every day to take the art of belly dancing to a respectable level. I mean, “half-naked”? It’s not like the costumes of the performers of “Layla Means Night” were less revealing than belly dancers.

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Another thing: this show is billed as an “immersive dance theater work”, and I have to tell you, despite the climbing up and down and signs (which are all just logistics), it was quite immersive. The scent of the satsumas and the flowers, the banquet (a much deserved break for some of us, which also justified the ticket price), the sheer curtains, the theatrics. One couldn’t help but ask: did these theatrics actually help elevate the experience or merely become props on which those involved in the production relied (heavily or otherwise)? Because to be honest, there were moments when the dancers, who had quite uniformed body type, were not in sync when I supposed they were supposed to be synced, but I got so distracted by the dark lighting and the curtains.

Apart from the music, the only thing that’s remotely Persian (dance-wise, excluding the musicians and Talebi’s poems) is the performance in the Red Voyeur Box, which was eerie and fabulous.

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I sat down with ODC Theater Director Christy Bolingbroke who was kind enough to spare her minutes as Rosanna Gamson excused herself to prepare for the second show (“Layla Means Night” ran twice an evening, 7 PM and 9 PM) and I told her about my happy mixed-up with the girl group (I was so not going to join a group with that much testosterone). Then I asked her if someone had $150 to spend, would he or she be able to join each group and get the experience as a whole? The answer is no. I mean, you could ask to join the group of your gender or a mixed group, but not the group of a different gender.

So, if you are really, really curious, and you have that much money, this is my advice: dress in drag.

***

Rosanna Gamson / World Wide presents Layla Means Night at 7 PM and 9 PM, October 30 to November 3 at ODC Theater, 3153 17th Street, San Francisco. Tickets are $35 – 50. Click here for more information.

Photos by Yuska Lutfi Tuanakotta. For more photos, go to the Flickr Album.

everyday haiku: why do you like me?

“why do you like me?”
I said. he smiled and replied,
“coz you’re gay as fuck.”

“Everyday Haiku” is updated on random (hopefully more frequent than hardly ever) basis. For the sake of these posts, the definition of haiku is a form of poetry that has three lines. The first line has five syllables, the second one has seven, and the third one has five.

everyday haiku: you are beautiful

you are beautiful
even your insanity
adds to your allure

Sexy

“Everyday Haiku” is updated on random (hopefully more frequent than hardly ever) basis. For the sake of these posts, the definition of haiku is a form of poetry that has three lines. The first line has five syllables, the second one has seven, and the third one has five.

everyday haiku: I treat you so bad

I treat you so bad
Yet you’re still in love with me
I don’t deserve you

“Everyday Haiku” is updated on random (hopefully more frequent than hardly ever) basis. For the sake of these posts, the definition of haiku is a form of poetry that has three lines. The first line has five syllables, the second one has seven, and the third one has five.

so-and-so enters dressed as a girl

Here, come closer. Let me tell you a story.

Have you heard of drag queens? Yes. Of course you have. They’ve been with us for a long time now. You can find them in ancient lores and tales, reliefs and real life. The Romans, the Arabs, the Greeks, the Hindis, all great and not-so-great nations have men who dress as women and sing and dance and recite poems and jokes and make people laugh and cry and laugh again. Do you you know what “drag” stands for”? See this post’s title. So thank you, Shakespeare, whoever you are, for coining the word “drag”.

Now then, have you heard of Islam? Oh, absolutely. Well, I am not here to criticize Islam or muslims. Who am I to do so? It is true that I’ve spent all my life being persecuted by it and other religions, but I digress. What I’m trying to say is that Islam does not like men dressing up as women, and vice versa. What I’m trying to say is that Islam does not like women. Period. Especially her period. Period.

What if I told you that Indonesia had the biggest muslim population in the world? Oh, but it’s true.

Now what if I told you that there are drag queens in Indonesia? Not just in Bali, where Islam’s mighty claws cannot rip and tear them to pieces, but in places like Yogyakarta, where its Sultan called International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Intersex Association (ILGA) unethical and denied its right to hold a conference. Yes. In Indonesia, where even ILGA’s website is blocked, like a porn site, a smut site, an illegal site. Yes. In Indonesia, where protection of sexual-orientation is not recognized and homosexuality and cross-dressing are still considered deviations. Illnesses.

Yet nothing can stop these showgirls from shaving their face, from tucking between their legs. With their paddings and their stockings and their leggings and their heels and their rouge and powder and fake eyelashes and cream and bronzer and gilded microphones.

Nothing can stop these showgirls from receiving adoration from women, men, those who are both, and those who do not want to be either.

Nothing can stop these showgirls from being what they are, for being ahead of their time, for being brave, for being both frank and Francine. For defying death in a country whose main religion still condones stoning and cutting off hands and legs.

Nothing can stop these showgirls from coming, basking in the spotlight, and leaving a trail of glitter.

And that’s all they really ever want. Now go spread the word.

The drag queens of Oyot Godhong Cabaret Show at Mirota Batik / House of Raminten, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Photos by yours truly.

The drag queens of Oyot Godhong Cabaret Show at Mirota Batik / House of Raminten, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Photos by yours truly.

Indonesia, a country overrun by Islamic idiots.

Indonesia, a country overrun by Islamic idiots. Happy Ramadan and Eid.

***

Inspired by the Anachronism Prompt from the Daily Post.

everyday haiku: there’s that look again

there’s that look again
and the eyes, the lips, the smile
joy runs down my cheeks

“Everyday Haiku” is updated on random (hopefully more frequent than hardly ever) basis. For the sake of these posts, the definition of haiku is a form of poetry that has three lines. The first line has five syllables, the second one has seven, and the third one has five.

they say i’m a fag

They say I’m a fag
And that’s the honest truth
I don’t deny it
I’ve been that way since my youth

They say I’m ugly
Well, I have good and bad days
My skin isn’t flawless and I have Orc teeth
And insecurities about my body and my face

They say I’m a weirdo
I know I’m sometimes strange
And more often than not
I act deranged

They say I’m passive-aggressive
Like it’s something awful
I’ve seen other things they do
That are far more horrible

Well, they can say anything they want
They can say anything they please
As long as they don’t say I can’t live my life
And live my dreams and live in peace

hate the religion and the religious

You know, I’m really tired of reading/hearing people write/say “hate homosexuality, don’t hate homosexuals”. What in straight hell does that even mean? Homosexuals exist because we commit homosexual acts. No matter what anyone thinks, sex is a natural act and there are people who exclusively have sex with members of the opposite sex (like my parents, well, as far as I know anyway) and those who exclusively have sex with members of the same sex (like me).

So, in light of that statement, which is usually made by religious people from monotheistic and patriarchal religions (Judaism, Christianity, Islam), I say hate the religion AND the religious. Why?

  1. For wars (jihad, holy wars, whatever) they’ve created, especially the collateral damage (loss of innocent souls including and especially those of animals’, loss of reputation of country involved (yeah, I’m talking about my lovely country Indonesia, yay us!)). Seriously, do homosexuals create wars? Fashion wars, perhaps, because we’re chic and we know what’s gorgeous and what’s not (obviously this doesn’t reflect people like Johnny Weir) and we’re not scared to tell our friends, “Honey, don’t.”

    So many don'ts, so little time.

    So many don’ts, so little time. But then again, he’s not my friend.

  2. For the persecution of women and homosexuals. 

    I’m not only talking about the visible one right now (*cough*Islam*cough* and to some extent Catholicism (if I were a Catholic, I’d rather have a female pope)), but also past actions like this. Oh yeah, I still harbor resentment.To make matters worse, women of Islam, do you know that you only inherit 1/8 of your dead husband’s money, and that’s so much less than your son and your daughter? But hey, money doesn’t make the world go round, does it? No, of course not, but it offers a sense of comfort and protection, especially when one’s older and more feeble. Also, polygamy? Really?

    This is probably the least horrifying and gory image I can get from the Internet.

    This is probably the least horrifying and gory image I can get from the Internet of persecution of women.

  3. For wanting others to convert. 

    Oh yes. Classic. Pitting the “believers” with the “unbelievers”. You know, for religions as persecuted as Christianity and Islam, you think they’d be less of a bully. But no. This reminds me of one of my exes who told me he was abused by his boyfriend and then went on and did horrible things to me.* 

    Also, just so you know, the Jews welcomed Muhammad when he traveled (hijra) in June 622 CE from Mecca to Medina (then called Yathrib) after his failed campaign. The leaders of Jewish tribes in Yathrib were intrigued and let him come. Big mistake. Muhammad banished Jews, not only from Yathrib, but also from Arabia, beginning with the Qaynuqa tribe in 624 CE (that’s two years after Muhammad arrived in Yathrib). Want more evidence? Knock yourself out.

    As romantic as this looks, caravans crossing deserts had to deal with extreme desert temperature and raids.

    As romantic as this looks, caravans crossing deserts had to deal with extreme desert temperature and raids. Painting by Charles Theodore Frere.

  4. For basic intolerance. 

    Ah, my muslim friends acquaintances  fellow human beings countrymen who are now doing the fasting tradition in Ramadan. Do you really have to parade every sahur (meal before dawn to prepare for that day’s fast) and scream and shout every three in the morning? Not everyone in the vicinity is muslim, you intolerant bunch. 

    Also, the morning call to prayers? Can you turn the volume down, please? Some of us need sleep. I’m looking at you, the muslims at Masjid Sunda Kelapa, Jakarta. I live like a mile away from you and I can hear you loud and clear every goddamn morning and now, ever night from 1 AM to 2 AM, I can hear fiery (or is it angry?) preaching from your mosque, right before the sahur parade. Just a basic background for those who aren’t familiar with muslim practices: muslims pray five times daily, and it’s customary to be reminded with a call to prayer (adhan) that it’s praying time. This adhan is broadcast from minarets using loudspeakers (in some cases, REALLY LOUDspeakers). 

    In Malaysia, a Chinese couple was jailed for promoting the eating of pork during Ramadan and non-muslim students ate in a toilet TO PRACTICE TOLERANCE. 

    Indonesia of course has its own case to deal with: a member of Islamic Defenders Front (Front Pembela Islam / FPI, a notoriously violent and stupid “organization”) was involved in a fatal hit-and-run while doing Ramadan raids in Kendal (no doubt driving under influence, as they’re usually drunk during raids to summon their courage. I’m not joking).

    I could totally relate to Grendel (from Beowulf tale). That poor, horrible creature just wants to sleep.

    I could totally relate to Grendel (from Beowulf tale). That poor, horrible creature just wants to sleep.

So, let me ask you this, how can you separate the religious from religion? I mean, sure not all religious people behave that way. Not every religious man or woman or whatever condone violence and driving out others who don’t share the same faith. Just like homosexuality and homosexuals. Not everyone of us is a predator. Not everyone of us wants to have sex all the time.

Happy Ramadan, happy Eid, happy whatever religious festivity you want. May peace be with you. Thank goodness I’m vegetarian, otherwise I’d eat pork in front of mosques.

But really, who am I to teach about hate? After all, I am not a preacher. Or religious.

Dat nose!

Dat nose!

*Addendum: on Facebook, a friend pointed out that religion wasn’t the core of problem, it’s power.

Why, yes. Of course it’s power. In the Old Testament, Jews were the victims, then they rose to power (and tormented Christians and Pagans). In the New Testament, Christians were the victims, then they rose to power (and tormented Jews and Pagans). In Quran, Muslims were the victims, then Islam rose to power (and tormented Jews and Christians and Pagans).

even if i could

They just sat there. Empty plates and full stomachs. They just sat there. The two of them. He and his friend. His friend fumbled with the glass tea pot and poured jasmine tea into his white cup.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I wonder where it all went wrong.”

His friend looked up.

“I wonder if I could pinpoint that very moment when I made that mistake, you know? Just to know when and with whom.”

His friend reached over the table, over the empty plates, over the glass pots and white cups of jasmine tea, to his hand.

“But even, even if I could, it wouldn’t be useful now, would it?”

His friend squeezed his hand. That was the only thing his friend could do at this moment. That was the only thing his friend could ever want at this moment, to be with him and no one else.

zenne dancer: but is it really belly dance?

I am somehow adverse to gay movies. I don’t watch Queer as Folk, I don’t watch Dante’s Cove (haha, softcore porn, anyone?), I don’t watch Milk, I don’t watch Happy Together, heck, I don’t even watch Brokeback Mountain nor Naked Boys Singing nor Cloud Atlas (although technically it’s not a gay movie) and Boys Don’t Cry bored me to tears. I also don’t watch Glee or Sex in the City and I think Will & Grace is not funny. That being said, I love The Hours and Kinky Boots. And To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar. And Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. And RuPaul’s Starrbooty. 

Zenne DancerWhat can I say, I’ve always loved showbiz. And speaking of which, as a small-time belly dancer, this particular Turkish / German movie intrigued me, and ever since news of it came out last year (or in 2011?) I’d been searching for it. A few days ago I finally found it and well, here’s the review.

Zenne is based on a true story of honor killing of one Ahmet Yildiz on a summer night of 2008. The suspect is his own father who cannot accept his son’s homosexuality, and Yildiz’s father is still at large.

Aside from bad acting from Giovanni Arvaneh (who played Daniel Bert the German photographer), everyone else is stellar in this movie. And I love Demir Demirkan’s version of Erik Satie’s Gnossienne no. 1.

I’ve never been to Turkey. A few years ago, when Mom and I planned on going there, two bombs went off in Istanbul. So we visited Italy and Greece instead. Then the uprising happened (and is still happening), so good for them for being fed up with the government but I really, really want to go, so bad for me because the situation is probably unpredictable as of right now.

My point is, I don’t know what Turkey is like, but Zenne is set in Istanbul and many parts are presented in the movie. There are some chic parts of the city and there are some poorer parts. This diversity is also evident in the way different families view homosexuality. The family of Can (the dancer, played by Kerem Can) loves him to death, even the guy who’s having a relationship with Can’s aunt. Well, Can’s brother (played by the oh so sexy Tolga Tekin) is a bully, but that’s probably because he’s burnt out from the war. We’ll discuss this later. Meanwhile, Ahmet’s (played brilliantly by Erkan Avci) parents are portrayed as being unable to accept their gay son while Ahmet’s sister (also played brilliantly by Esme Madra) loves Ahmet.

L-R: Can (the dancer), Ahmet, and Daniel (the photographer).

L-R: Can (the dancer), Ahmet, and Daniel (the photographer).

Can’s father died in the war, and well, his brother has post-war stress. Can’s mother and aunt don’t want him to go to war so he has to stay indoors during day time to avoid ID checks.

Daniel the photographer meets Can at a gay club where Can dances. Daniel wants to photograph Can in costume. Ahmet is present when Daniel meets Can for the second time and then for the third time, and well, love blooms. Daniel, being German (developed country that recognizes homosexual rights) fear for Ahmet’s life and wants to take Ahmet with him to Bavaria. However, both Can and Ahmet have to go to the military post first to claim their homosexuality so they don’t have to be enlisted.

Can and Ahmet, so chic!

Can and Ahmet, so chic!

So how exactly does one claim one’s homosexuality and escape conscription? Easy! Just bring evidence (photos) of being fucked by another guy. Ahmet and Daniel go off to get busy while Can finds someone else. Can waxes Ahmet’s hairy back and dresses him up and puts makeup on him as they go to the military post and tells Ahmet to tell the examiners that he’s also a zenne (dancer). Their plan works, Can and Ahmet don’t have to enlist. 

However, Ahmet left his sex photos in his car, and the private detective paid by Ahmet’s father to stalk him discovers the photos and gives them to Ahmet’s father as proof of Ahmet’s homosexuality. Ahmet says goodbye to Can, then goes to Daniel to leave for Bavaria. Ahmet never arrives. He’s shot to death on the pavement.

Isn’t it scarily amazing how one can escape from one type of death and yet the thing that enables such escape leads one to another type of death?

The thing that really gets me is how Daniel (again, he’s from Germany, a developed nation) forces Ahmet to just tell his parents that he’s gay, repeatedly asking what can possibly go wrong, they are his parents and they love him and will accept him. Oh, Lord. Talk about ignorance. This is why I think people from countries with advanced laws concerning human rights live in glass bubble. I envy them, while at the same time I’m sorry for their ignorance.

Daniel with Ahmet.

Daniel with Ahmet.

At one time, after he’s done photography children in a poor district, Daniel says to Ahmet, “You should’ve seen those children. They’re smiling and laughing. There’s hope in their eyes.”

To which Ahmet replies, “No, they’re smiling and laughing because you give them chocolate.”

That’s right. You don’t know how it is to be stuck in a third-world country where gays are prosecuted and women have minimal rights. You come here for your project, to win prizes and money and then you go home and the people you’ve met become nothing but distant memories and you pray for them for a short while (if you still pray), and then you go on with your life.

At least Daniel wants to bring Ahmet back to Bavaria and give him a better life.

I don't think belly dancers wear this kind of costume. Well, probably some dancers at Tribal Fest do.

I don’t think belly dancers wear this kind of costume. Well, probably some dancers at Total Fuckery Tribal Fest do.

Finally, one thing that bothers me is that this story hinges on the appeal of male belly dancer. I don’t know. I’ve been a belly dance student since 2008 and I don’t think Can does belly dance. When Daniel meets Can for the first time, he says he’s interested in male belly dancer and that he wants to photograph Can in costume. So I assume that’s what people think belly dancing is?

I know, I know, who am I to say what belly dancing is or isn’t? Well, I have a belly dance blog, and I usually review belly dance movies there and there’s a reason I’m not posting my review of Zenne Dancer on my belly dance blog.

Oh and by the way, as usual: here’s a sexy image.

Cihan (Tolga Tekin) showing Ahmet what they do in the military. Mmmhmm. Sign me up!

Cihan (Tolga Tekin) showing Ahmet what they do in the military. Mmmhmm. Sign me up for the next war!