Italian belly dancer arrested in Egypt for ‘using seductive techniques'
Sohila Tarek Hassan Haggag is a naturalised Italian, but was born in Egypt and holds Egyptian citizenship. She dances under the name of Linda Martino and has more than two million followers on social media.
Egyptian authorities arrested her at Cairo airport on June 22, accusing her of corrupting public morals with her provocative dancing.
The investigation was triggered by videos on her Instagram account, in which she writhes around in revealing clothing and describes herself as 'more than you can handle'.
Investigators said Ms Haggag 'appeared in indecent clothing, deliberately exposing sensitive areas of the body, in blatant violation of social values'.
She was reported to be in possession of substantial sums of money at the time of her arrest, which authorities described as the proceeds of 'activities liable to instigate depravity'.
The Cairo prosecutor accused her of having 'used seductive techniques and provocative dances to incite vice'.
She is expected to remain in jail for at least another two weeks, according to reports.
The Italian embassy in Cairo is seeking urgent clarification on her case.
Ms Haggag moved to Egypt several years ago and has built a highly successful career. She was previously married to an Italian and is said to have relatives in the Veneto region.
Her videos, often shot in popular venues to Egyptian hits, have attracted millions of views on Instagram and TikTok.
The indictments include investigations into a cabaret on Egypt's north coast, where Ms Haggag 'appeared in indecent clothing, deliberately exposing sensitive areas of her body, in clear violation of public morals and social values'.
'The investigations have ascertained that Linda used seduction techniques and provocative dances to incite vice,' the document read.
Egypt has clamped down on artists and influencers accused of undermining public morality in recent years.
Under the government of Abdel Fattah al-Sisi, at least five belly dancers have ended up in jail on charges similar to those against Ms Haggag, Italian media reported.
Katerina Andreeva, another belly dancer, has been given a one-year jail sentence on the same charges, Italian media reported.
The Egyptian crackdown comes despite efforts by Unesco to recognise belly dancing on its Lists of Intangible Cultural Heritage.
Amie Sultan, an Egyptian actress and currently one of the country's best-known belly dancers, has been pushing to give belly dancing a better reputation in its country of origin.
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When I Took My Young Son to the Country Where He Once Might Have Been Born, I Stunned Myself by the Risks I Took. It Was Transformative.
This piece is from the book Becoming Baba: Fatherhood, Faith, and Finding Meaning in America by Slate staff writer Aymann Ismail. Copyright © 2025 by the author and reprinted with permission of Doubleday. It was the summer of 2022, and we had big plans. I was set to accompany my 1-and-a-half-year-old son and pregnant wife halfway across the world to the country of our parents' origin. The morning of our flight, I turned to Mira. 'You know what I'm most excited about? Taking pictures like the ones I have of me as a baby in Egypt—at the Pyramids, at the beach with my family …' Mira looked at me, puzzled. 'That's what you're most excited about? Not that we're about to give his little palate a crash course in Egyptian food?' She rattled off all her favorite dishes. 'Mulukheya, bamya, kushari, falafel, shawarma …' 'Shawarma?' I laughed. 'Mira, he has no teeth.' 'I'll chew it for him and feed it to him like a mama bird!' Our goal was the same: to awaken Musa's inner Egyptian. After what felt like an eternity, the plane landed in Cairo. The second we stepped outside the air-conditioned sanctuary of the terminal, we were blasted with the scorching Egyptian heat. It was like swinging open the door of a preheated oven. I'd wondered if it was a good idea to come in the summer, but Mira hoped marking Musa's birthday in his ancestral homeland would make it worthwhile. Just beyond the scrum of people, we were greeted by a familiar and comforting sight—Mira's mother, Tant Maha, waving her arms and jumping up and down, radiating excitement. 'How was the flight!?' Maha asked as she guided us toward her waiting car. 'We didn't sleep,' Mira lamented to her mother. Maha nodded sympathetically. 'I know, I know. Believe me. I've done it many times, with four kids, not just one. And by myself, too,' she said. Mira's mother had her own apartment in a new development in Egypt called New Cairo, an upscale area in the desert designed to ease the city's congestion and offer a fresh urban space. Maha turned to us. 'So—what do you want to do first?' Without hesitation, Mira exclaimed, 'Falafel, please!' I enthusiastically joined in: 'Yes, and then sleep!' Maha playfully dismissed our desire for rest. 'You can sleep when you get back to America,' she retorted, setting the tone for the trip. There was no room for a car seat in the car, so I handed our son off to Mira. She was taken aback by my willingness to let go of my usual insistence on safety precautions. Even amid the honking horns and crowded streets, we felt a profound sense of peace. Everyone moving or driving seemed conscious of being tiny organisms in a vast ecosystem. I had been to Egypt before, but it was thrilling to see it through the eyes of a baba. But as we drove through the city, I couldn't help noticing all the potential dangers. Entire families with infants even younger than Musa were perched on mopeds hurtling down the highway. Children sat on the trunks of cars or the beds of pickup trucks. Mira enveloped Musa with her protective embrace, doing her best to at least give herself the illusion that she was keeping him safe. Our lives were out of our hands, and there was something beautiful about that. The chaos outside the car windows mirrored the tumultuous journey of becoming a baba. It's an unending challenge in accepting you're never in control. Each time I return to Egypt, I wonder why my parents ever left. The delicious food, the melodious echoes of the Athan, and the comforting warmth of the Egyptian sun—I couldn't believe that my parents chose to raise their children in New Jersey instead. With each turn, the streets of Egypt seamlessly blended ancient history with modern life. Donkey carts trotted alongside cars blaring mahragan music, and centuries-old architecture coexisted with majestic pyramids. Eventually, we reached a café nestled up a narrow flight of stairs, on the second floor of an unassuming residential building. I had planned on resting after breakfast, but the irresistible scents of freshly brewed coffee enticed me. Maha led the way, sharing her enthusiasm. 'This place offers all the traditional Egyptian dishes. It's always my first stop when I arrive in Cairo,' she explained in Arabic before ordering what felt like everything the café had to offer. Soon, 12 small meze dishes filled the table. We savored all of it: the besara, the fuul, the falafel, the torshi, the kofta, the ruz, the salata, the asal wa tahina, and more. With the utmost care, we selected bite-sized portions and arranged them artfully on Musa's plate. We allowed him to reach out and dip his fingers into the food and delighted in watching his little fingers explore the textures. Mira guided a falafel to his lips and encouraged him to take a bite. Instantly, his expression transformed into a mask of surprise and joy. His lips smacked with pleasure as he savored the new experience. 'I think he likes it,' I said. Maha exclaimed, 'Of course he does! He's Egyptian!' Afterward, we ventured east, leaving behind the ancient heart of Cairo. The roads gradually widened, creating a contrasting sense of spaciousness and calm. Many of the contemporary structures had been built within the past five years, and ongoing projects were visible everywhere. We encountered well-maintained gardens, lush patches of grass, and upscale shops and restaurants that exuded an atmosphere reminiscent of Dubai's new developments. New Cairo transported us to a world of opulence and grandeur, offering a glimpse into the future. I wasn't immediately sold on it. In fact, a part of me hated it—it wasn't the Egypt I had always romanticized. When my parents spoke about Egypt, they reminisced about the warm hospitality of its people; the soul-stirring call to prayer from mosques so old their minarets have stood for many generations; the bustling shops; the unique twist on the Arabic language; and the rhythm of each day that began and ended with a hot drink. I longed to introduce Musa to that Egypt. The days spent in the air conditioning, eating takeout before jumping into the pool, could wait. As soon as our bags were dropped off, my plans to get some rest were overcome by my desire to explore. I exchanged messages with my cousins, who urged me to come over right away. Mohamed, Yassir, and Osama had always treated me and my siblings like their own brothers and sister. And after our antics during the Egyptian revolution, Osama and I were bonded for life. They lived in a building that my grandfather Abouzid had built by hand. I extended an invite to Mira, though it was half-hearted. I was meeting male cousins at a café, and in a place like Egypt, societal norms dictated the facets of everyday life. Mira must have sensed that the invite was more of a courtesy: She casually declined. The journey lasted about an hour, but I didn't mind. The view beyond the window encapsulated everything I cherished about Egypt—the bright sun, the hazy veil of dust and sand, the surreal quality of cars rushing by. When we reached the neighborhood where my paternal family lived, the driver asked if we could get out there instead of the street address, gesturing toward an entrance to the unpaved street. I stepped out of the car with Musa in one arm and my backpack filled with diapers and other essentials in the other, and pressed forward down the narrow street, relying on a glimmer of faith that I would stumble upon a familiar landmark. At times, Shubrah can feel unsafe. It's a poor neighborhood, and there was no hiding that I was a foreigner, no matter how good my Arabic was. I passed packs of young men on every corner. One group was playing pool, and one of the larger of the teenage boys reached over and smacked another on the head, ripping the pool cue from his hand. They noticed me right away, but I felt safe holding Musa. Egyptian culture dictates a special respect for parents. Eventually, I recognized the street café where my cousins and their friends always gathered, and where I had spent countless hours sipping coffee during previous visits. I settled into one of the many empty white plastic chairs that lined the street. The café sprawled into the intersection with a simple outdoor setup: about 20 plastic chairs scattered haphazardly, a few small side tables, and a lone TV nailed to the exterior wall of someone's house. It felt as if it operated solely by communal consent, without the kinds of permits you'd expect back home in the United States. This café had become the neighborhood's outdoor living room, where individuals flowed in and out as they pleased. One man operated the entire café and tended to all the customers from his apartment. He would emerge to take orders, then disappear back into his apartment to prepare coffee or tea or to grab ice and a soda. The chairs sprawled across the intersection, and when the occasional car ventured through Shubrah's dusty roads, nobody budged an inch, so it was left to the driver to navigate the intricate maze. Small wonder that the taxi that dropped me off had hoped to avoid the densely packed area. Soon enough, Moawad, a family friend who often spent time with my cousins, spotted me and called out to me by a new name. 'Abu Musa!' he yelled: Musa's father. A bit shorter than me, he walked with an exaggerated swing of his arms, dipping his shoulders up and down like a bodybuilder. He was well groomed and sporting aviator sunglasses, with a laptop bag slung casually over his shoulder, standing out in an environment filled with older men in loose-fitting galabiyas and kids in tight ripped jeans and flip-flops. 'Have you ordered already?' I held up the empty cup in front of me, and he scoffed with genuine disappointment. 'If you wanted coffee, you should have told me. This coffee is OK. But it's not fit for a prince like you. Maybe I'll drink a cup here if I'm in a hurry. But for really good coffee? I go someplace else. Did you pay yet?' he asked. 'Not yet. I'm waiting for the basha to come back,' I said, chuckling. 'No problem,' he said, tugging my arm as we walked down the street toward my family's house. As we passed by the café owner's door, Moawad loudly called out and banged his fist on the window awning. 'Mohamed! We're in a hurry!' he yelled. 'Don't charge this guy. He's our guest from America!' We continued on our way. Moawad snatched Musa out of my arms and placed him high up on his shoulders. 'How are ya, Musa?' he greeted my son, eliciting a contagious grin as Musa bounced up and down. 'Osama got pulled away for work and sends his regards. I just spoke with him. He made me promise that if you needed anything, anything at all, it's my responsibility. I told him, 'Are you crazy? Aymann, the prince? Aymann, habibi.' All you have to do is ask.' He brought our brisk walk to a halt. 'Tell me. What do you want to do while you're here?' he asked. His kindness made me blush. My family is accommodating, but this felt like a whole new level. 'Nothing! I'm just here to see you all. I wanted to bring Musa, show him around, get him to meet the family, take some pictures, feed him some food, do whatever you guys are doing. Honestly, bringing him to Shubrah was really it,' I explained in halting Egyptian Arabic. Moawad smiled and nodded. 'Of course! Osama is like a brother to me, and because he loves you like a brother, that makes us brothers, too. So, if you need anything at all, you call me first, OK?' 'OK, then let's take a picture together,' I suggested. Moawad immediately spread Musa's arms like wings, which brought a wide smile to my son's face. 'Yalla. Say 'cheese'!' he exclaimed, excited to use the little English he knew. When I returned to the café, I was met with an unexpected sight—eight friends, comrades of Yassir and Osama, gathered around a tawla (backgammon) board, engrossed in a spirited match. Ahmed, their closest friend, who lived near my family's house, seemed wholly fixated on the black-and-white checkers before him. As I approached, one of the group, Islam, playfully chided me, 'Moawad mentioned he saw you sitting here alone. Why didn't you come over and say hello!' 'I had no idea anyone was here!' Their laughter filled the air. 'How strange! He even said you were drinking coffee here! How can you tolerate the taste of it?' another friend quipped, joining in the amusement as if to deliberately chide the old man who operated the café. 'Don't all of you drink coffee here? I see everyone with a cup!' I countered. 'Yes, we drink it, but we don't like it. It tastes like river water!' The comment echoed loudly, fueling the jovial atmosphere. I realized that I had encountered nearly every person within this lively group at some point in the past. It was as if Musa and I were surrounded by loving relatives. Following his defeat in the game of tawla, Ahmed rose from his seat in frustration, venting his exasperation at the friend who had bested him. He joined me, enveloping me in a protective gesture. 'Give me Musa,' he requested sternly, prying my drowsy son from my arms. Musa rested his head on Ahmed's shoulder and succumbed to his exhaustion. In a few minutes, Ahmed handed Musa over to another friend. Despite the animated conversations and boisterous laughter, Musa remained serene, as if tucked into the comfort of his own bedsheets. 'How is he still sleeping?' I commented to Ahmed, slightly bewildered. 'It's the heat. I have children of my own now, and all they seem to do is sleep. So lazy,' he said. 'So how does it feel to be back?' he asked me. I could see the curiosity in his eyes. 'Like I never left. I wanted to show Musa around so he can grow up feeling like an Egyptian.' Ahmed pulled my entire body toward him. 'He's Egyptian because you're Egyptian. You came here to visit us, and when you come and brighten our little corner, that light you bring is what makes you Egyptian.' This was a level of male intimacy that I don't usually experience in America, where expressions of male camaraderie are often given with a sense of caution and reservation. Even among friends I've had for what feels like my entire life, physical closeness can be uncomfortable or out of place. But in Egypt, Ahmed's embrace conveyed a warmth and acceptance that transcended words. There was no hesitation in his actions, no fear of judgment. The bond between us felt stronger, more genuine—nurtured by a culture that embraces emotional expression and physical touch between men. At first glance, the many male-only spaces in Cairo felt antiquated to my American sensibilities. Back home, the idea of excluding women from certain social spheres would be a relic of a bygone era. As I spent more time in these spaces in Egypt, however, I began to sense a unique kinship and ease among male friends that just didn't exist in America. Here was a space where men could express themselves freely, unburdened by societal expectations or judgments, and relieved of the pressure to perform masculinity in front of women. These environments emphasized brotherhood; advice and support were given freely. Ahmed added, 'But next time, leave your son with his mother, so we can go out and have some fun.' I protested immediately: 'What? I wouldn't want to leave Musa behind.' Sensing my devotion, Ahmed continued: 'There's nothing wrong with loving your child. But taking care of them this way when they're so young is usually left to the women. You should enjoy your time before they grow older, because then you will have to bring them everywhere,' he said. I hadn't even noticed that one of the friends in the group had quietly passed Musa to yet another person. I leaned back in my chair and accepted that I wasn't in charge of Musa now, but I could rest easy: He was with family, even if I hadn't seen these folks for years. Just then, the melodic call to prayer, the Athan, echoed through the air. Although a part of me felt drawn to stand up and head to the mosque, I observed that the guys hanging out didn't budge. In that moment, I realized that it was time to bring Musa back home and let him drift off to sleep for the night. I called an Uber, scooped Musa from the shoulder of one of my friends, and bade the group farewell. Ahmed insisted on accompanying me, and sent me off with a final hug before insisting on a selfie together. With his help, I climbed into the car. 'This is our brother! He is visiting from America. Take care of him and his son! They're our family, all right?' he told the driver. The driver nodded earnestly. 'Of course. He is my brother, too.' Though I was born in America, my parents had imparted a sense of our belonging to another culture, which afforded me a pride in being both American and Egyptian. But my connection to Egypt was different from what my parents knew. For them, it was the idyllic homeland they had left behind, where their religion, culture, and identities were deeply rooted. For me, Egypt was more abstract—a mosaic of family visits, nostalgic movies and songs, and cultural practices that felt both familiar and distant. Their success as parents seemed tied to how strongly we identified as Muslims, and Egypt, to me, represented an alternate reality. I imagined that had I grown up there, my parents might have been different—less anxious, less worried about external influences threatening to dilute or corrupt their children's faith. Egypt seemed like a place where we could simply exist, where Islam was seamlessly woven into daily life rather than being something to constantly protect. It wasn't just the origin of our family heritage; it was a sanctuary of relief and a way of being that I often found myself longing for. As I sought to pass this connection on to my son, whom I also hoped to raise with strong ties to Islam, I had to accept that his bond with Egypt might be even more strained than mine. He would be two generations removed from that land, and his parents had grown up in the same country where he was now being raised. If he developed any relationship to Egypt at all, it would be his own unique bond. And if I wanted him to feel even a hint of what Egypt meant to me, all I could do was leave a trail of breadcrumbs—photos of him as a baby in the arms of his relatives or standing atop the Pyramids—hoping that one day he'd follow them back. On the day before our journey back home, I made one final trip to Shubrah to say goodbye to my family there. Mira and Musa had joined me on one of my many visits to Shubrah, but on this particular visit, I went alone. I had something else on my mind, too—I asked Moawad to take me to that coffee place he had insisted was 'fit for a prince.' I hadn't forgotten. To my surprise, instead of leading me to a café, he guided me to a small kiosk, a modest vendor stall selling chips, chocolates, random spare smartphone parts, and a few pharmacy items like soap and toothpaste. On the counter was an electronic coffee machine. Moawad dropped a few coins on the counter and pressed a button; the machine buzzed to life, lights flickering, and dispensed a shot of hot Turkish coffee into a thin paper cup. I had to use the tips of my fingers to handle it. Moawad's eyes sparkled as he watched me take my first sip. The coffee tasted fine, though I couldn't quite understand why he'd made such a big deal about it. 'This really is worthy of a prince,' I said, playing along. 'You see? I told you!' He beamed as he locked arms with me again and took me for one last walk around the neighborhood.
Yahoo
5 hours ago
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Italian belly dancer arrested in Egypt for ‘using seductive techniques'
An Italian belly dancer has been arrested and detained in Egypt for 'using seductive techniques'. Sohila Tarek Hassan Haggag is a naturalised Italian, but was born in Egypt and holds Egyptian citizenship. She dances under the name of Linda Martino and has more than two million followers on social media. Egyptian authorities arrested her at Cairo airport on June 22, accusing her of corrupting public morals with her provocative dancing. The investigation was triggered by videos on her Instagram account, in which she writhes around in revealing clothing and describes herself as 'more than you can handle'. Investigators said Ms Haggag 'appeared in indecent clothing, deliberately exposing sensitive areas of the body, in blatant violation of social values'. She was reported to be in possession of substantial sums of money at the time of her arrest, which authorities described as the proceeds of 'activities liable to instigate depravity'. The Cairo prosecutor accused her of having 'used seductive techniques and provocative dances to incite vice'. She is expected to remain in jail for at least another two weeks, according to reports. The Italian embassy in Cairo is seeking urgent clarification on her case. Ms Haggag moved to Egypt several years ago and has built a highly successful career. She was previously married to an Italian and is said to have relatives in the Veneto region. Her videos, often shot in popular venues to Egyptian hits, have attracted millions of views on Instagram and TikTok. The indictments include investigations into a cabaret on Egypt's north coast, where Ms Haggag 'appeared in indecent clothing, deliberately exposing sensitive areas of her body, in clear violation of public morals and social values'. 'The investigations have ascertained that Linda used seduction techniques and provocative dances to incite vice,' the document read. Egypt has clamped down on artists and influencers accused of undermining public morality in recent years. Under the government of Abdel Fattah al-Sisi, at least five belly dancers have ended up in jail on charges similar to those against Ms Haggag, Italian media reported. Katerina Andreeva, another belly dancer, has been given a one-year jail sentence on the same charges, Italian media reported. The Egyptian crackdown comes despite efforts by Unesco to recognise belly dancing on its Lists of Intangible Cultural Heritage. Amie Sultan, an Egyptian actress and currently one of the country's best-known belly dancers, has been pushing to give belly dancing a better reputation in its country of origin. Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
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