I'm a Muslim sexual health educator. "Ramy" shouldn't surprise you.
“Statistically, Muslim countries consume more porn than anyone else…the men who are yelling at me are the same men who are clicking on me.”
— Mia Khalifa in “Ramy,” Season 2, Episode 4.
My husband immediately turned to me: “That’s what you talk about in your parent workshops.”
Yes, indeed.
I first heard about “Ramy” in the summer of 2019, when my colleagues were discussing the show. There were mixed sentiments regarding the story line, the spotlighting of (yet another) a Muslim male protagonist, and an open dialogue about the themes and tropes that were woven throughout season one. I had not seen the show, yet their discussion peaked my interest.
My husband and I ended up watching Season 1 of “Ramy” soon thereafter, and we‘ve also watched Season 2, which was released post-Ramadan. Even though I have been working as a sexual health educator in Muslim communities for over ten years, the “sex is out in the open” approach initially surprised me. And yet, it also didn’t surprise me, because in the span of my career developing programs, curricula, and teaching Muslims about sexual health, I’ve pretty much heard it all.
Over the last twelve years, I’ve worked in Islamic schools, teaching middle and high school students about puberty, healthy relationships, empowered abstinence, and decision making. I’ve sat in conference rooms with male school-board members, explaining sexual health issues that students are facing, and what can be done to support them. I’ve facilitated parent workshops detailing the “why” and “how” to have ongoing conversations with their children about their bodies. I’ve written and developed sexual health education curricula for Muslim boys and trained male facilitators. I’ve led workshops on college campuses with Muslim students and heard countless disclosures of sexual assault. I’ve answered questions and held space to talk about masturbation, sexual pleasure, birth control and contraception, sexually-transmitted infections, sexual dysfunction, child sexual abuse and pornography. And I’ve stood at the front of workshop rooms at national conferences, speaking to non-Muslim professionals about the importance of values-based sexual health education approaches when working with Muslim communities.
For these reasons, nothing about sexual health with Muslims surprises me. Including the way in which it’s depicted in “Ramy” because I know firsthand the reality within Muslim communities, which is often invisible to those who do not work in the field, and to those who don’t acknowledge the importance of sexual health as Muslims. What “Ramy” brings is unfiltered narratives that push back against the dangerous over-simplification of sexual health to “don’t have sex before marriage or you’ll go to hell.” The show does this by flinging the sexual health door wide open, and as a result, makes many Muslim viewers squeamish and uncomfortable. And yet, if we are not able to see examples of the struggles that Muslims face when they are exploring their spiritual and sexual identities, how can we have productive conversations and support one another on our journey?
Speaking of productive conversations, what are the actual issues that Muslim communities face related to sexual health? Sobia Ali-Faisal, PhD sent waves through Muslim communities when the results of her 2015 research study on Muslims and premarital sex were published. In this study of 403 Canadian and American Muslims, ages 17–35, two-thirds had engaged in pre-marital sex and of the one-third that had not, fifty percent of them had at least considered it. The study further revealed that of those who received sexual health education growing up, only 4.2% received it from a mosque. Clearly, the reductionistic “don’t have sex before marriage” message is not working, and there’s research to back up the fact that fear-based abstinence approaches are much less productive, and more harmful, than empowered-abstinence frameworks (more to come on this in another article). Our Muslim communities fail to provide comprehensive, values-based sexual health education to youth and families — we should not be surprised by these statistics, but rather realize that nuanced conversations about sexual health, rooted in Islamic spirituality, are not happening as much as broadly and as often as they need to be.
While premarital sex is one reality, there are many others that result in trauma. Muslims — especially women of color, Black folks, individuals with disabilities, and those from LGBTQ+ communities —are increasingly victims of sexual violence. Muslim youth, without access to values-based sexual health education, are learning about sex from pornography, social media, and their peers. Muslim women — who aren’t supported with understanding their bodies and sexual health literacy — often deal with sexual health issues and dysfunctions (i.e. such as pelvic pain) in silence. Muslim men — without de-colonized, spiritual understandings of masculinity — are not only causing spiritual, emotional, physical, and sexual harm within their homes and communities, but are also speaking against victims of sexual violence rather than supporting them. While these issues are no different than other faith-based communities, or even secular ones, they require holistic approaches that are intersectional and use an Islamic spirituality framework.
In essence, Muslims — across the spectrum and diversity of lived experiences — are navigating religious, racial, cultural, sexual, and individual identities. We know that the young adult years (i.e. defined here as ages 12–28, neurologically speaking) are incredibly formative, not only due to puberty and sexual development, but also because the brain is going through a “use it or lose it” stage, where extra gray matter is pruned off, effectively making the brain a leaner, meaner thinking machine for adulthood. We also know that the part of the brain that is responsible for complex decision making, predicting consequences, and identity formation is the pre-frontal cortex — the area that literally sits behind your forehead. This area of the brain is the last to develop in humans, and isn’t consolidated until our mid to late twenties (and sometimes, later in life for men). Thus, adolescents are essentially making difficult decisions without the more nuanced part of their brain matured, which means that they: (a) need to learn about healthy decision making, from adults, and consequences related to their actions; and that (b) if they don’t, their lower, emotional brain centers (i.e. the limbic system) drives decision making.
In other words, for Muslim youth and adults to make fully-informed decisions, they need ALL of the information. And they’re not receiving it. Especially when we talk about sex and decision making.
“I feel like I have this hole I’m trying to fill…” — Ramy
Muslims have sexual health from birth to death — obviously, this does not mean that we’re sexually active for our whole lives. The notion of humans having sexual health is much broader than that — we are born with reproductive systems; we learn how to take care of our “private parts” the moment we start to potty train; we learn skills such as dressing ourselves and unchanging, and doing so privately, from early childhood; we develop and nourish self-worth and our body image; we learn that we do not touch other people’s private parts and that people need privacy when taking care of their own bodies’ needs; we also learn (I would hope) about consent, healthy relationships, and boundaries from an early age; and much more. And of course, there are religious teachings that relate to menstruation, sexual activity, and so forth. All of this is to say that learning about sexual health is lifelong, not a pre-marriage rite of passage. Sexual health needs grow across life-stages and human development, and we must be responsive to this. And most importantly, we have to understand and embrace the notion that sexuality within Islam is sacred. We cannot take the sacred out of the sexual, even though colonization from within and outside of Islam have been chipping away at this for centuries.
In essence, we need discomfort if we are going to learn about and address the issues relating to sexual health and sexual violence in our communities. And yet, when you examine people’s critiques of how “Ramy” portrays sex, you come to understand that these critiques are symptoms of a much deeper problem: that people are projecting their discomfort with sexual health. Their reaction is no different than those I’ve received from workshop participants, some of whom have shown anger when I openly speak about the issues Muslim youth and adults are facing, and what type of education is needed to prevent them. As a result, I now pre-empt workshops by telling participants that the content may trigger a cascade of uncomfortable internal responses and their responsibility is to work through these feelings, not to project their discomfort onto me. With both “Ramy” and my work, this same understanding applies: just because you haven’t experienced or been exposed to the topics of pornography, sex, masturbation, sexual pleasure, and the like, does not mean that they’re not relevant to your life. The opportunity that “Ramy” offers us is to use our discomfort for productive means: to figure out why it’s there and to take the steps needed to enhance our understanding of sexual health. And to support other people with theirs.
To be clear, “Ramy” is obviously not a source of accurate, comprehensive, values-based sexual health education. Nor does it accurately represent the scope of sexual health issues our communities are facing. Nor was the show created to teach about Islam or Muslims. What “Ramy” does offer are vignettes relating to sexual health, through the eyes of an Arab, Muslim, heterosexual man (obviously, one show cannot represent all Muslims). And while we can go into a deep analysis of everything that’s problematic with “Ramy” (which has been done), we simultaneously need to acknowledge what the show gets right: that Muslims are facing numerous challenges with their sexual health, often interwoven with their religious and spiritual identities.
And we need to be doing much more to support one another through our journeys.
