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The first Ramadan series, or ‘musalsalat’ in Arabic, I remember watching was ‘Umm Kalthum’, released in December 1999. I was eight years old; mildly worried about the Y2K bug and fasting every second or third day with my extended maternal family in Khartoum.

Every evening, after we had stuffed our faces with cumin-laden foul and freshly fried tahmiya and bamiya and mulaah and kisra and Aaseeda, after the men had gone to the mosque next door and the women peeled off in pairs to pray in a nearby bedroom, after our religious and gastronomic appetites had been sated, it was finally time. The members of the family would arrange themselves in front of the television in the salon, each in their usual spot and cradling a glass of red tea, ready for the evening musalsalat.ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý

It is said that the modern day musalsalat derives its origins from ‘hakawatis’, storytellers who were part of the fabric of social life across Arab-speaking cultures. Before television or cinema, these would be the individuals regaling audiences in coffeeshops or private homes with tales of legend and myth. It was as much entertainment as it was oral history, creating and reinforcing the stories people believe about themselves and their society.

''Ramadan musalsalat in their current form began in the 90s, as the Egyptian TV industry boomed and producers recognised the opportunity in the holy month. There was an enormous captive audience, families congregating together to break their fast at the same time across the region, hungry for a collective activity that requires little energy (and little spending).''

Ramadan musalsalat in their current form began in the 90s, as the Egyptian TV industry boomed and producers recognised the opportunity in the holy month. There was an enormous captive audience, families congregating together to break their fast at the same time across the region, hungry for a collective activity that requires little energy (and little spending).

And as with the hakawatis, these prestige TV shows, replete with the stars and celebrities, are more than just entertainment. They reflect (and occasionally challenge) the power dynamics, political interests and urgent questions of the day. In societies with high distrust in state press, these shows have outsized influence.

In 2001 for example, the Ramadan series ‘Aeylat Al Hajj Metwalli’ (The Family of Al Hajj Metwalli), exploded onto the cultural consciousness. The Egyptian depicted a wealthy merchant in constant search for a new wife, a man who used his interpretation of Islam to deny women their rights, obsessed with youth, beauty and material gain.

Naturally, Aeylat stirred up anger and frustration from women’s rights advocates, arguing the show was excusing and normalising unethical, even misogynist behaviour. It is interesting to consider this show against the political landscape in Egypt in 2001, a time of increased repression from then leader Hosni Mubarak, and the US invasion of Afghanistan.

It is true that the television landscape of 2022 is not quite the same as the turn of the century. The cultural hegemony of Egypt, although still significant, has waned slightly, partly due to the increase in competition from other Arab-language states, and to the plethora of available entertainment options for audiences across the region.

However, the power they have to normalise ideas and address urgent contemporary issues cannot be underestimated.Ìý

In 2016, the first episode of Emirati show ‘Khiyanat Watan’ (The Betrayal of a Country) delving into the inner workings of the Muslim Brotherhood attracted 48 million viewers. Based on a novel, the Abu Dhabi TV show was incredibly popular, reportedly watched by .

But not all Ramadan series are made the same. In 2017, Saudi funded MBC’s ‘Al Gharabeeb Al Soud’ (The Black Crows) explored the lives of members of Daesh. It received deeply ambivalent reviews from viewers, who found it trafficked in stereotypes and superficiality. Unsurprisingly, the show was the .

In 2020, ‘Um Haroun’ was another fiercely controversial series, depicting a fictional Gulf village in the 1940s and the interrelated lives of the Muslim, Christian and Jewish inhabitants. Although MBC stated the show’s message was one of ‘’, many were critical, seeing it as part of the push towards ‘Israeli normalisation’ and stifling the voices of Palestinians.

Even my very own Um Kalthoom series, which so captivated me as a young girl, was influential in reinforcing the legend of the singer, and as much about national pride as it was about her life story.

So what’s on offer this year? What are the urgent questions tackled by the Ramadan series, and what can they potentially tell us about current Arab-speaking society’s concerns and challenges?Ìý

The third season of Egypt’s El Ekhteyar (The Choice) airing, a nationalistic affair that all but rewrites history, depicting a state-approved version of the July 2013 military coup that overthrew Mohammed Morsi and brought the current president, Abdel Fattah el-Sisi, to power.

Pro-regime messaging continues in Al Aedoon (The Returnees), following the allegedly true stories of Egyptian security forces dealing with Daesh returnees between 2018 and 2020.

There are also the classic comedy shows like Ahlam Saeida (Saeeda’s Dreams) and Minhu Waladna (Who is our son?) as well as the Arabic language adaptation of Suits, an unusual move during the Ramadan season.

But the stand out social issue show of the season appears to be ‘Fatin Amal Harby’, a show exploring family violence, divorce, and the hardships (personal and legal) Egyptian women face in separating from partners. Perhaps one of the first shows to delve into these issues in detail, especially from a woman’s perspective, Fatin Amal Harby has reinvigorated a still-urgent conversation about the rights of women, and is an indication that, even today, the power of the Ramadan series still remains.

Yassmin Abdel-Magied is aÌýSudanese-Australian author andÌýsocial justice advocate. She is a regular columnistÌýfor °®Âþµº.

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