Sex and the Citadel (9 page)

Official marriage was never going to be an option, Laila said. She comes from an upper-middle-class family, with educated parents, and was attending a private foreign-language school when she met her boyfriend, one of Egypt’s millions of drug users. “I knew this relationship would not continue and my parents will not accept an addict,” she told me. Besides, her boyfriend was keener on
‘urfi
than formal marriage. “He encouraged me because he doesn’t want to feel responsible. In
‘urfi
marriage, all the essential things in a normal marriage are not required of him.”

From the beginning, Laila was under no illusions about the Islamic-acceptability of her arrangement. But that’s not why she did it. “In my religion, I know it’s not halal, but it’s a sign of commitment,” she explained. “It’s for the couple. It’s a paper that’s worth nothing, but they think it is something that connects them.” She was clear in her mind on this. “I know that my religion does not accept
‘urfi
marriage; I am doing it to make me feel better, but I know it’s not right. In my religion, marriage is about more than having pleasure. It’s a journey in life and it’s two persons coming together.… Maybe parents, they want to see a good life for their kids and that’s why they don’t accept it.”

Laila holds a harder line on
‘urfi
marriage than do some of Egypt’s Islamic scholars. The religious permissibility of
‘urfi
takes us back to the heart of what makes a marriage in Islam. The minimal set of requirements depends on whom you ask. Some scholars argue that an intent to settle down and start a family is key. Others argue that
ishhar
, or public announcement, is central to making a marriage Islamically sound; some insist that the consent of a woman’s
wali
(official guardian) is vital. But other scholars maintain that all it takes to make a real marriage in Islam is an offer, acceptance,
mahr
(which can be as little as the couple agrees—or
none at all, if the bride consents), and two witnesses—a
wali
is not required, provided a woman is mature and knows her own mind.
⁴¹

Aside from religious objections, criticism of
‘urfi
marriages in Egypt also centers on their ambiguous legal status. Although they are not officially registered, courts have the power to grant women divorce from
‘urfi
marriage so long as they can provide evidence (witnesses or a written contract) that the union existed—a paradoxical situation in which the state is essentially liberating women from something it doesn’t recognize in the first place. Women have no rights to financial support during or after
‘urfi
marriages, including inheritance, and the children of such marriages can find themselves in an awkward position.
⁴²
As a result,
‘urfi
marriages are generally presented as a raw deal for women.

But some women see
‘urfi
marriage differently; Suhaila, a widow in her early thirties living in Cairo with a young daughter, is one of them. Suhaila seems to have it all: education, money, looks, and a bright personality. So it’s no wonder that one of Azza’s brothers, a married man with teenage kids, fell for her at first sight. To pursue their relationship, the couple entered into an
‘urfi
marriage, at Suhaila’s request. For her, this arrangement offers the benefits of attractive male companionship, as well as the protection of a man about the house, without the material complications of an official marriage.

In Azza’s family, her brother’s
‘urfi
marriage is anything but secret, having had a written contract, a lawyer, and two witnesses. But it’s the basis of seemingly endless discussion—or rather, dispute—among family members. Not surprisingly, Azza’s official sister-in-law is unhappy with the arrangement, but there’s not much she can do when her husband disappears to Suhaila’s apartment for much of the week. Most of his brothers and sisters are upset; to them, this is just thinly disguised adultery. And while Suhaila is holding most of the cards in this relationship, she’s not revealing her hand: her friends and daughter have been told this marriage is official.

Their union is closer to yet another Islamic spin on matrimony:
zawaj misyar
, or so-called ambulant marriage. These arrangements are creating quite a stir in the Arab region, particularly in Saudi Arabia. They are akin to official marriage in the sense that, in some countries, they are registered with the state with full documentation, as well as witnesses, and the wife and any children resulting from the marriage have the same rights of inheritance as they would in an official marriage. One key difference, however, is that during the union the husband does not necessarily have to financially support his
misyar
wife, who remains at her original home. In Egypt,
misyar
marriage has been endorsed by an edict from Dar alIfta, the government body that issues fatwas—that is, legal opinions from Islamic authorities—to the dismay of women’s rights groups, who consider it a lesser form of marriage that gives women few entitlements.
⁴³

At the end of the day, debates over informal marriage, in its evolving forms, are not really about haram or halal, or even legal rights. Informal marriages, particularly among young people, are widely seen as both a symptom and a cause of family breakdown. Because they usually take place without parental knowledge, let alone consent, they subvert social convention and circumvent family control. Therein lies a large part of the problem, because they challenge patriarchal authority—troubling to the family and, by extension, to the state as well. Some describe
‘urfi
marriage as an innovative middle ground between the perceived sexual laxity of the West and traditional Islamic codes, offering women more latitude than conventional matrimony. But the majority of people appear—at least in public—to be less enthusiastic about alternative unions: in a national survey of Egyptian youth, for example, fewer than 10 percent of men and women under thirty thought
‘urfi
a solution to Egypt’s marriage problems.
⁴⁴
Most people I know in such marriages regard them, at best, as a temporary fix until they can get the real thing; the day has not yet dawned when informal marriage is widely considered a lifestyle choice rather than a last resort.

PILLOW TALK

For all the effort Egyptians make to get married, all is not well in the conjugal bed. The pressure-cooker atmosphere of recent years—which blew in the protests of 2011—continues to build in married life. For Azza and her circle, this means less-than-steamy relations; what research there is on the sex lives of Egyptian couples and their counterparts across the region shows she and her friends are not alone.
⁴⁵

Lackluster lovemaking is positively un-Islamic. There are plenty of stories about the sayings and doings of the Prophet Muhammad that extol the pleasures of sex for husbands and wives. “Let none of you come upon his wife like an animal, and let there be an emissary between them,” the Prophet is reported to have said. “What is this emissary, O Messenger of God?” a clueless believer asked. “The kiss and [sweet] words,” he replied.
⁴⁶
According to another account, the Prophet ranked peremptory foreplay and failure to sexually satisfy one’s partner among serious male deficiencies. Indeed, the Prophet’s regular advice on the nitty-gritty of sexual life featured prominently in medieval Christian attacks on the new faith, whose unabashed sensuality was seen as a cunning ploy to win converts and undermine Christianity’s more austere official line, which exalted virginity, chastity, and monogamy. “It is impossible that he who excites his people to sensual things rather than to spiritual ones would be a true messenger of God,” sniffed a thirteenth-century Spanish philosopher.
⁴⁷

One woman out to breathe that pioneering spirit back into marital relations is Heba Kotb, the Arab world’s best-known sex therapist. “You have just one life. We don’t have a lot of time in this world. And we practice sex, so let’s practice it in a good way,” she enthused. “Let’s transform it into the dynamo of our life and our happiness.” Kotb and I first met at her clinic in a trendy part of Cairo. “For now, I’m booked three months in advance. Daily, I see between ten and twenty [patients]. In the summer [when Egyptians
living abroad, and Arabs from elsewhere in the region, visit Cairo], it’s usually a mess,” she told me. Her Egyptian patients come from all classes, locations, and age groups; although women are traditionally expected to head into sexual hibernation at menopause (
sinn al-ya’s
in Arabic, “age of despair”), Kotb’s clientele also includes a sprinkling of those well past retirement.

Patients were not always as forthcoming. When Kotb first set up shop in 2001, the few people bold enough to seek help were wary about putting in an appearance. “In the very first days of my practice, privacy was very important to them. The man would ask whether he would be seen in my office or not [and], if there’s another patient on the day, whether there would be a space so that they would not overlap. It was a very sensitive issue,” she recalled. “For now, no. They are waiting outside, ten to fifteen patients at the same time, and they have no problem to be seen by each other. Things change.”

This change is in part due to Kotb herself. In 2006, she burst into Arab households with
Kalam Kabiir
(
Big Talk
), a weekly TV series on sexual problems broadcast by one of Egypt’s private satellite channels. The show’s dozen or so episodes openly ventured into areas where other presenters had feared to tread—online porn, oral sex, and wedding night jitters, among them. For just under an hour, a soberly suited Kotb, her hair and neck fully covered by a hijab, dispensed advice on various topics, her lengthy monologues relieved by the occasional guest expert and an imam giving an Islamic take on the issue at hand, be it masturbation or voyeurism.

Kotb’s show mirrored her experience with patients. Back at the clinic, it’s clear that the region’s sexual dynamo is out of order. “Husbands and wives, they don’t know they should communicate about what they want sexually. They don’t know that sexuality is something we can discuss,” she observed. “They are full of the idea that this is an instinct. It’s an instinct only in animals, but we as people—praise be to God almighty—we need to communicate.”

Kotb described a typical consultation to me: “It’s a nice couple. They want the wife to be happier, [so] they come together. He says she is not interested in sex—she’s not spontaneous. Then they get
into mutual accusations. [She says] all he wants is his pleasure and it’s over in five minutes—he’s selfish.” Kotb spends a lot of time getting couples back to basics. “I teach them techniques, Masters and Johnson, Kinsey. Using pictures in a book or on the computer, I am showing them: here is something called the clitoris, here is the labia, try … this is sensitive to this and that … friction transverse, longitudinally, circular, et cetera.” Over the course of half a dozen sessions, Kotb encourages couples to explore their bodies. “Sometimes I give them exercises: go and get to know yourself and each other. Then come back and tell me. If they tell me it looks like this, I know they went and did it, they are not lying.” It’s not just anatomy and physiology on the syllabus; Kotb spends a lot of time with her clients working on psychology as well—getting men to understand the fine art of wooing their wives in and out of bed.

As for women, some cases require overtime. In her practice, Kotb sees a lot of vaginismus—three or four patients a day with a condition that makes them seize up during intercourse, rendering penetration painful if not impossible. There is plenty of research from Egypt to show that female sexual dysfunction is a common enough condition. One study of almost a thousand married women—mainly high-school-educated housewives—in a region north of Cairo found that nearly 70 percent had some sort of sexual dysfunction; of those, around half reported low desire and difficulties reaching orgasm, and roughly a third said they had trouble with arousal or pain on intercourse.
⁴⁸
A comparable study of women in southern Egypt found equally high rates of sexual dysfunction: over half of the women surveyed said they were sexually dissatisfied.
⁴⁹
But one woman’s disappointment can be another’s fulfillment. Other research in Egypt has shown that for some women, the fact that their husbands are enjoying themselves in bed is how they define their own sexual pleasure—for them, having their own orgasm simply doesn’t enter into the equation.
⁵⁰

Kotb, however, has noticed a change in the women turning up at her clinic over the years. Earlier it was mainly husbands dragging in their wives for consultation; after the uprising, she found the situation reversed. “Women are more courageous now to accuse
their husbands of not being good [in bed]. It is the spirit of the revolution—I have to reject, I have to refuse, I have to say no [I am not the one to blame],” she told me. “Today I had a couple, he is not asking her for sex, only once a month. When he approaches, sometimes he loses his erection, so she is starting to talk: ‘I don’t accept this relation. We are like brother and sister living together here, and you have to do something about yourself.’ ”

Kotb’s advice to couples is shaped by her faith. “I love Islam,” she told me. “I admire the religion. In radical Christianity, sex is not a good thing, even within marriage. But this is not logic; people find themselves desiring something, and they couldn’t get attached to that religion, so they start to get out of that religion. In Islam, it’s the contrary: sex is something that is advised, that is pushed to [ward].… This makes people more religious and more loving to this religion, which is giving them all this space, which is giving them all this pleasure—and also the reward in this life and the hereafter.”