Fear and clothing in Egypt

A quixotic resolution at the bottom of Cairo’s legislative docket would make the galabiyya the national dress. Maria Golia traces the Egyptian history of who wears what, and why.

When Egypt’s People’s Assembly is in session, the majority of its 454 members wear suits. But at least a third opt for the galabiyya, the same floor-length gown with bell-shaped sleeves worn by the voting males of their rural constituencies. This makes them anomalies among Egypt’s urban males. Many such men have at least one galabiyya in their wardrobes, and might even wear it around the house. You wouldn’t know it, though, from walking around Cairo or Alexandria, where the garment is distinctly out of vogue.

For most urban Egyptians, the galabiyya – long the unofficial uniform of Egypt’s fellahin (farmers) – is inseparable from connotations of poverty and backwardness. On city streets, the gown is mostly seen on building guardians and dispossessed farmers. And, like beards, the galabiyya is increasingly associated with fundamentalism, especially when worn in the ungainly shin-length Salafist fashion. Galabiyya-wearing citizens are refused entry to the city’s opera house (where ties and jackets are de rigueur) and likewise unappreciated in upscale officers’ clubs and five-star hotels – this despite the fact that Gulf Arab visitors are welcome everywhere in the national dress of their choice.

This February, Mostafa El-Gendy, a 48-year-old member of the People’s Assembly, introduced a resolution calling for the galabiyya’s instatement as the national costume. He argued that singling out Egypt’s traditional dress for discrimination not only smacks of self-loathing, but is also unconstitutional. He does not want to make the galabiyya obligatory, only to guarantee those who wear it the same degree of respect afforded men in suits. “If both galabiyyas and suits are appropriate for members of Parliament,” he said, “then the same should go for the man in the street.”

El-Gendy, a prominent tourism investor, won his assembly seat in 2005 on an independent ticket, a rare feat given how few aspiring politicians dare decline affiliation with the ruling National Democratic Party. “Why,” he asked when I visited him in September, “should we hide from our rural origins?” Moreover, in a galabiyya, “you can’t tell a George from a Mohammed” – ie a Coptic Christian from a Muslim – “or a rich man from a poor one”.

Egypt has a long history of clothing-related controversies, all of which reflect shifts in how Egyptians see themselves and wish to be seen by others. Recent consternation over the veil is but one example. Egyptian feminists (Muslim and Copt) cast off their veils in the 1920s, saying “we refuse to be confined to the harem”. In the last two decades, women have cited similar arguments to support their decisions to put the veil back on, giving them greater freedom of movement in a male-dominated society that still wishes they would stay home. Egypt is constantly renegotiating the boundaries of tradition – often, when practices change, it can be difficult to remember their underlying causes.

Indeed, it wasn’t long ago that the galabiyya was acceptable costume for both country folk and members of the up-and-coming urban middle class. Its golden days were the 1950s and 1960s, when Gamal Abdel Nasser’s policies attempted to empower workers and fellahin and close the abysmal gap between rich and poor. Nasser played to the rural masses, Egypt’s largest voting constituency, by boosting their image and self-confidence. Sturdy-looking, galabiyya-wearing fellahin were celebrated on postage stamps and nationally-distributed magazine covers. Traditionally-clad men performed their gracefully martial stick dance on the Opera House stage.

Continue reading-The National: Fear and clothing in Egypt