The second season of Ramy, the breakout Hulu series following the life of first-generation Muslim American Ramy Hassan (played by Ramy Youseff), begins much like the first.
Ramy, whose parents immigrated from Egypt, wants to find his place in the world, and for him, that means finally connecting with his faith. He’s tired of living at his family’s home in New Jersey and working in his uncle’s jewelry store, and he knows that his addiction to pornography is, well, more than a little haram.
In the first season of the show, which premiered in 2019, Ramy’s delinquent behavior leads him to hit rock bottom. After his addiction to casual sex leads him to sleep with a married man’s wife, his father angrily confronts him.
Ramy decides that the only way he can reconnect with his Egyptian Muslim roots is to take a trip to Cairo. Perhaps one way to escape the anomie of Western civilization is to leave the West altogether?
But when Ramy arrives in Cairo, he finds that Egypt’s youth are hardly the pious Muslims he expected. In many ways, they’re just as westernized as Ramy, if not more. When he discovers that his family in Egypt is more interested in consumerism and clubbing than in creed, he once again finds himself spiritually rudderless, which is where the second season begins.
We learn that a relationship he started with his cousin in Egypt ended with as little fanfare as the rest of his trysts. (Romancing your cousin is a normal thing in the Middle East: one of Ramy’s friends, Mo, tells him that it’s fine because when you marry your cousin, there are “no in-laws — everyone’s just in.”)
Thus, Ramy stumbles on a wise conclusion: It’s not the environment he’s in that’s leading him down the wrong path but rather the fact that he hasn’t done enough work on himself to become a confident and responsible young adult, let alone a devout Muslim.
That’s where the show introduces us to Sheikh Ali, played brilliantly by Oscar-winner Mahershala Ali. Ali is a Sufi imam who leads a neighborhood mosque offering a form of Islam that appeals more to liberal young Muslims such as Ramy. For instance, this mosque seats women side by side with men, something that you’ll find in very few mosques even in the relatively progressive United States, let alone in the rest of the world.
Ramy confides his problems in the sheikh, beginning a spiritual journey that involves everything from welcoming a combat veteran suffering from PTSD into the faith to a trip to an eccentric Arab oligarch’s mansion (featuring a cameo by the social media personality Mia Khalifa) to solicit funding.
The show’s writers, who include Youssef himself, are careful to use Ali’s star power sparingly — it would’ve been easy to let an actor of his caliber overshadow the rest of the series’ newcomer cast. Instead, the sheikh acts as a sort of north star for Ramy and his family, offering guidance that moves the plot along without crowding out the rest of the characters.
Speaking of the rest of the Hassan clan, the second season reminds us that the show’s namesake isn’t the only interesting personality in this series. We get episodes focused on Ramy’s sister, mother, father, and even eccentric uncle.
These episodes are brave on multiple fronts: Not only do they take supporting characters and elevate them into the spotlight, but they touch on contentious issues that you’re unlikely to see presented elsewhere in prestige television.
Unlike so many TV characters from ethnic and religious minority groups, the characters of Ramy are neither virtuous victims nor demonized others. They contain both good and bad, both saintly and sinful behavior.
For instance, the show is unflinching in its honest portrayal of the sexist, anti-black, and anti-Semitic sentiments expressed by some Muslims. As someone who comes from the same religious community, I can testify that these are common attitudes expressed by some of my co-religionists, but for some reason, they are very rarely acknowledged in public life.
Perhaps our liberal entertainment overlords believe that acknowledging such flaws among some American Muslims would be a form of blaming the victims.
But the ethos of Ramy is that American Muslims are not, by and large, just victims cast adrift on an ocean of Islamophobia. When Mo’s diner is defaced by hateful graffiti, he exclaims, “It couldn’t come at a better time! … Ramadan and hate crime? My God, I couldn’t pay for that kind of publicity. This is great. Look at this place. It’s jammin’!”
At a time when New York Times staffers claim with straight faces that a conservative op-ed by a U.S. senator threatens their physical safety, Ramy reminds us that we’re all a lot less fragile than we’re told to believe.
The message of season two is that Ramy is in control of his own destiny. It’s up to him to become a better Muslim and a more responsible adult; no woke savior will cure him of his pornography addiction or teach him how to be part of a stable and faithful romantic relationship.
It’s that spirit that is embodied by Sheikh Ali when he encounters a gaggle of anti-Muslim protesters outside his mosque. Rather than cower in fear, he starts heating up some cups of hot chocolate.
“If there’s anything that may show these men that we’re not their enemy, it may be that hot chocolate,” he tells Ramy.
“So you think the hot chocolate may make them Muslim?” Ramy asks.
“Only God knows, but they’re not beyond our love,” Ali responds.
It’s hard to imagine that a series about a sex addict from New Jersey who lives with his parents could do so much for Islam’s image in the U.S., but Ramy may very well be my faith’s best ambassador.
Zaid Jilani is a Bridging Differences writing fellow at the University of California, Berkeley’s Greater Good Science Center and a freelance journalist.
