Art not sex, dancers take a stand

Like geishas of Japan, they were connoisseurs of fine arts before status deteriorated under British rule

With her arms stretched out and her hands elegantly curved, the young dancer stamps her feet with aplomb, defying prejudice.

Her art is reviled by many in religiously conservative Pakistan, where it is often linked with prostitution.

"We constantly have to explain to people that dance is an art form, it's not just about what happens in the red light areas, not just about entertaining men and sexuality," Suhaee Abro said.

Graceful and poised in her richly colored sari, she practices the odissi form of dance, in which movements of the face and hands are perfectly timed.

Dance is deeply embedded in Pakistani culture, in marriages, folk festivals and films - the complex choreography similar to that found in Bollywood.

But for women to be seen dancing outside of a family setting, and worse still to perform for money is deeply frowned upon in the Muslim-majority country.

"Unfortunately it is associated with the 'dancing girls of Lahore'," said Rahat Kazmi from the National Academy for Performing Arts - a reference to prostitutes swaying awkwardly in the red light district of Pakistan's cultural capital.

Threat of mindset

Historically, classical dance in the subcontinent was the domain of tawaifs, courtesans of the Mughal Empire, which ruled India for hundreds of years until the advent of British rule in the 19th century.

Like the geishas of Japan, they were known as connoisseurs of the fine arts before their status deteriorated, especially under British rule, to mere prostitutes.

Today, prostitutes sometimes use dancing as a cover to carry out their illegal trade.

It is therefore necessary "to create this bifurcation and say that no, this is art also", according to Kazmi.

"I am a practicing Muslim and a dancer, and I don't see why this should clash. My heart does not feel anything wrong," said anthropologist and professional dancer Feriyal Aslam, who practices Bharatanatyam, a form from southern India.

"But my mum herself feels it is wrong, She thinks 'what will I say to God one day, that I did not tell my daughter to do the right thing'," said the 40-year-old, who has also written a thesis on the subject.

Dance was banned in 1981 as part of an Islamization drive led by military leader Zia-ul-Haq.

His directive specifically targeted dancers wearing ankle bells, an essential accessory of the main classical forms which the authorities associated with obscenity and nudity.

The directive exists to this day but its application has eased, though new threats have emerged.

"Now the bureaucratic hassle is not so strong, but the Taliban mindset has gotten into the mind of the people," said dancer Sheema Kirmani.

Anyone in the audience "who feels that he might get to heaven by killing you can just walk up to the stage and do so," she said.

Feriyal Aslam remains optimistic for the new generation, pointing out that these challenges are also an opportunity for innovation as dancers adapt traditional forms to the modern, local context.

"It is unique and exciting as a dance scholar to see what Pakistani classical dancers are able to do," she says.