Arab Media & Society

Are they taking the medicine?

The Ostrich and the Peacock makes a clear statement about the lack of sex education in Egypt. As Samira’s mother pins on her wedding veil, she hurriedly assures her daughter that she has given her “the best possible education.” The scene then jumps to the nuptial chamber, where Hamdi rips his terrified bride’s dress apart in brutish haste to perform a deed before practiced only with prostitutes.  But do Egyptians believe that Dr. Kotb has correctly diagnosed her society’s disease—that they are in need of sexual help?

Many admit it readily.  “It’s awful,” declared Nora, 28, an Egyptian woman who runs her own translation business. “Most mothers tell their daughters nothing at all about sex before their wedding night.” Mona, 45, also recognizes the consequences of failing to educate children about sex.[5] Forced to support her two young sons and an unemployed husband by working as a maid, she worries obsessively about her children’s education and exposure to corruption. “My mother never even explained to me what menstruation was,” she admitted. “But the relationship of the child and the mother should be strong enough that the child can tell his or her mother anything. Especially with the spread of pornographic sites, a parent should be very careful about what children hear.”

The abundance of available information on the subject in Egypt has indeed become formidable. While not everyone has access to the Internet, the “cheap books” (derided by the fictional Dr. Fatema) offering information and advice on sex and marriage line displays of street shops from Mohandiseen, an upper-class neighborhood of Cairo, to the sidewalk markets of ‘Ataba, a “sha‘aby” or popular area. Such selections as “’Urfi” Marriage is Halaal, penned by an Al Azhar sheikh, Dr. Mustafa ‘Atiyya Mustafa, and The Secrets of Love, Marriage, Sex, Success, Genius and Happiness, penned by an unassociated writer, may inspire more giggles than credibility to the Western consumer, but their very existence indicates that sexual advice is in demand.

However, many Egyptian consumers of this advice, whatever its slant may be, still regard sexual information as a liability rather than a benefit. This type of resistance makes it difficult for many to embrace Kalaam Kibeer.  “I just don’t think Egypt is ready for a show like that,” Mona declared. “Even though of course she is right that the Quran is the best source of information about sex. All Muslims should know that.”

Others do not mince words. “People hate her,” declared Nawal, 27, a Syrian housewife married to an Egyptian. “They think she is against Islam.”

Even some who support the idea of an Islamic sex show expressed reservations about

the degree of detail Dr. Kotb sees fit to broadcast on uncensored television. “I agree that we, in the Arab World I mean, need more information about sex,” concedes Mona. “But this is too much for right now. For adults, okay. But people are afraid that if their children hear all of these details too soon, they will be encouraged to try things out.” Although she admitted that scientific, Islamic information was preferable to uncontrolled information over the Internet, she insisted that details in and of themselves were too provocative for an Arab audience. In particular, exposure to such information could be ruinous for girls: “A mother should sit down with her daughter maybe two weeks before the wedding to explain these things, but not before! Otherwise the girl might get curious and experiment, and destroy her honor.”

These are valid reservations in a society that places a high value on sexual purity for unmarried girls, especially in rural areas where “honor killings” still occur with some frequency. Kotb, however, does not hold herself responsible for the make-up of her show’s audience. “Of course the show is not intended for children. Even my youngest daughter understands that it’s not for her and leaves the room when it comes on. But I cannot be in every home to supervise!” The doctor smiles and spreads her hands in contrition. “I cannot be every child’s parent. I have my own children. That is the parents’ responsibility, and it is up to them to decide when their children are ready.” Hamoda agrees. “We broadcast the show at 11:30 p.m. for a reason,” he points out. Convincing parents that they should use Kalaam Kibeer to educate their children about sex in the first place may be a stretch. But as the show’s fame grows, this could change.

On the other hand, some find Buthayna Kamel’s approach not specific enough. “[Kamel] is not a specialist,” complains Dr. Said al-Wakil, a professor at Cairo University, “so she can’t really give any helpful advice. Instead, she tends simply to support the values of the society.”

Kamel is aware of these criticisms, but shrugs them off: “People accuse me of not being a specialist or a psychologist, of not solving people’s problems. I tell them, I am not here to solve problems. These are confessions. I am here to listen.”

Moreover, one episode of I‘taraafaat Layliyya or Argouk Afhamni should convince even the greatest skeptic that answering the questions fielded would be a stiff charge no matter what kind of specialist was tackling them. Kamel focuses on encouraging downtrodden women not to blame themselves, not to lose confidence, and not to depend on men. But one has to bear one’s audience in mind, Kamel points out. Even those facing life crises due to oppressive societal circumstances cannot change their mentalities on command. “I talk to a lot of people on my show who are uneducated,” she reflects. “And if it’s a woman working as a maid, or a schoolgirl in a poor neighborhood, I know her mentality won’t change. I can’t say, ‘get out of there and go get a PhD.’”

Kotb’s show could perhaps benefit from similar considerations. Some seem to find the show’s content too academic. Nawal admitted that “she is doing a great thing and the show is very daring, but you should ask my mother-in-law about this instead . . . she’s a muthaqqaf (an intellectual) and understands these things better than I do.”

These criticisms suggest Kalaam Kibeer’s producers may need to re-imagine the show to influence a wider audience. Certainly the novelty of a female Islamic sex doctor has undeniable attraction; but novelty in and of itself is not necessarily an advantage.  If indeed the goal is to “change the culture,” one must consider the interests of a wider public. As long as it remains within an Islamic frame, the show could probably stand to be less academic and retain its credibility. Despite the flashing “caution” signs, Kalaam Kibeer remains quite tame. Although the mere spectacle of a Muslim lady tittering over a nervous groom struggling to keep “a strong, sustained erection” on his wedding night may suffice for many, it may take more creativity to make Kalaam Kibeer a household name.

Kotb does plan improvements for the upcoming season of Kalaam Kibeer. She hopes to streamline the various strains of her sex education into segments corresponding to the curricula she uses in her clinic. “This way I can give clearer, more accessible lessons,” she explains. Hamoda says that the next season will also make use of satellite technology to have video interviews with specialists from around the world. Both of these enhancements could give the show a snappier, more accessible feel, and its popularity is likely to grow.

Hamoda remains optimistic. “Egypt is so huge, it’s the best place to try things out,” he says. “Even the lowest rating in Egypt still means you are reaching half a million people!” And Kalaam Kibeer has far surpassed the lowest rungs, as it places consistently second or third for its time slot throughout Egypt according to Hamoda. “It’s worth it, even for one viewer who picks up the receiver and calls us,” Hamoda declares. “And my opinion is that one equals ten. If you see us, and you tell your friend, who tells her friend . . . It could take a long time, but I believe in this show. I believe in the message.”