![]() Although MBC stated the show’s message was one of ‘ tolerance, moderation, openness, and coexistence showcasing a region before sectarianism’, many were critical, seeing it as part of the push towards ‘Israeli normalisation’ and stifling the voices of Palestinians.Įven 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. ![]() 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. Unsurprisingly, the show was the outcome of a partnership between the Saudi network and US foreign policy actors in their fight against ‘ISIL’. It received deeply ambivalent reviews from viewers, who found it trafficked in stereotypes and superficiality. In 2017, Saudi funded MBC’s ‘Al Gharabeeb Al Soud’ (The Black Crows) explored the lives of members of Daesh. Based on a novel, the Abu Dhabi TV show was incredibly popular, reportedly watched by 72% of all Emirates.īut not all Ramadan series are made the same. 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. However, the power they have to normalise ideas and address urgent contemporary issues cannot be underestimated. 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. It is true that the television landscape of 2022 is not quite the same as the turn of the century. 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. Naturally, Aeylat stirred up anger and frustration from women’s rights advocates, arguing the show was excusing and normalising unethical, even misogynist behaviour. The Egyptian show 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. In 2001 for example, the Ramadan series ‘Aeylat Al Hajj Metwalli’ (The Family of Al Hajj Metwalli), exploded onto the cultural consciousness. In societies with high distrust in state press, these shows have outsized influence. They reflect (and occasionally challenge) the power dynamics, political interests and urgent questions of the day. 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).Īnd as with the hakawatis, these prestige TV shows, replete with the stars and celebrities, are more than just entertainment. 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. It was as much entertainment as it was oral history, creating and reinforcing the stories people believe about themselves and their society. Before television or cinema, these would be the individuals regaling audiences in coffeeshops or private homes with tales of legend and myth. 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. 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. 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.Įvery 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 first Ramadan series, or ‘musalsalat’ in Arabic, I remember watching was ‘Umm Kalthum’, released in December 1999. ![]()
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