1 million Muslims in NYC and you’re still single?
The cheeky tone may suggest the persona of a disappointed aunt, but this is simply one of the many viral advertisements throughout NYC aimed at young single Muslims by the app Muzz, the latest in an increasing array of “halal” dating apps that are trying to capitalize on the high-stakes industry of marriage among Muslims in the West. Minder, Muzz, Salams, Muslima—all were established with the intent of breaking into a romantic market that has largely been mediated through family or religious leaders, a practice that can be viewed as niche and overly traditional by Western standards. Instead of completely ignoring this distinction, these apps aim to lure in their target audience by explicitly acknowledging the dissonance, such as in another advertisement that teasingly dares Muslims to “arrange your own marriage before your parents do.”
The nature of courtship in Islamic communities has long been a subject of intercultural dialogue. “Islam is not a static import,” writes the anthropologist Zareena Grewal in her study Marriage in Colour: Race, Religion, and Spouse Selection in Four American Mosques; “It is a dynamic discursive resource for young adults who challenge their parents’ ideologies of colour and racial prejudices as well as the racism that envelops the contemporary US.” Critically lauded shows like Ramy have attempted to showcase the gamut of pitfalls and anxious behaviors that come with the trial and error of exploring romance as a young adult Muslim. There have also been long-standing criticisms of how romance for Muslim women has been portrayed on-screen: the trope of interfaith courtship as liberation for Muslimahs raised in more conservative households, for one, has been the subject of sustained critique from Muslim women.
Hulu’s new reality series Muslim Matchmaker is the latest offering to the canon of on-screen examinations of romance and marriage in American Muslim communities, following the popularity of Netflix’s successful Indian Matchmaking and Jewish Matchmaking programs. The premise is straightforward—young Muslim adults throughout the country solicit the services of matchmakers Hoda Abrahim and Yasmin Elhady to take the next step in their lives and find their mate within the ummah, confronting issues of compatibility, culture, class, and social expectations. The cast ranges from a budding doctor whose commitment to chastity runs afoul of current social standards in romance to a mid-thirties Bengali New Yorker who is concerned that her age will be prohibitive to courtship. Peppered throughout are insights into the mainstream Muslim perspective on marriage as a tenet of faith.
“For Muslims, marriage is an act of worship,” says Elhady in the show’s pilot episode, highlighting the hadith that states that a successful and righteous Islamic marriage helps protect half of your deen. Her business partner, Abrahim, has a more measured approach to the topic. “Marriage is a blessing and a gift from God,” she stresses. “But it’s complicated, and it’s anxiety-inducing.”
The framework offered for their matchmaking services (as presented on the show, at least) is fairly self-explanatory: the duo meet with prospective clients, get a sense of their wants and must-haves, and pair them with individuals who they think would be good matches, asking them to commit to three in-person dates in as many months while they seek to determine if they are compatible enough to establish an emotional connection and build toward a future together. As they seek to navigate commitment, they work through 300 questions that help ascertain where they align or mismatch as a couple. There are a few logistical elements that are largely glossed over in the process—for long-distance courtship, for example, who decides which party will fly out first? Where are they staying? Who is footing the logistical cost, the television show or the prospective mate?
While it is not a beat-for-beat replication of the traditional path of religious courtship, it is a process that takes into account the attitudes toward marriage of young American Muslims—revert, immigrant, Black American, or otherwise—where faith itself is a point of entry to bridging cultural gaps. Aspiring lovebirds discuss their budding romances with friends and family, pray Istikhara for guidance on personality matches, and discuss halal-haram ratios.
The show does a competent job of reflecting many of the stress factors that consume most young single people regardless of faith: family pressure and social and class dynamics are all thoroughly explored as the clients seek their match. Take the story of Uneeb, a forty-year-old self-described nerd (Comic Con photos and all) from New Jersey. His struggles in finding a connection are reminiscent of many awkward suitors—stumbling over dad jokes, social etiquette foibles—but the show also takes a moment to examine his relationship with his identity and faith, as he discloses the struggles he faced being a Muslim engineer who was part of the team that rebuilt the World Trade Center. Linking his professional hurdles to his anxieties in pursuing faith-based dating is a nuanced narrative that Muslim Matchmaker excels at delivering.
While the show succeeds in making the journey relatable for a wider audience, it unintentionally obscures some of the more harmful dynamics rooted in misogyny and patriarchy. As with Jewish Matchmaking and Indian Matchmaking, the attempt to cast a big tent ultimately renders the more conservative elements of courtship—largely articulated by the clients’ parents—into thinly veiled doublespeak that aligns with traditional customs overseen by a wali or mahram. Both on television and in practice, this can quickly devolve into a form of benevolent patriarchy, as this monitoring structure enforces an alienating double-standard of surveilling Muslim women.
Intentionally or not, a woman’s position in society, social acceptance, and perceived validity ultimately ends up being arbitrated through the lens of their proximity and adherence to the men who surround them, who function as their vehicle to religious community. While this practice is not articulated within the Qur’an itself, it has pervaded much of modern social Islamic convention because of an oft-invoked hadith that suggests a “righteous woman’s” fidelity is the obligation and ultimate reward of being an observant Muslim.
This model of religious patriarchy is pervasive and contributes to much of the pressure on young Muslim women to seek marriage as a priority above all else—for many, it is the smoothest path to minimizing the hyperscrutiny that comes with being a visibly Muslim woman. It is that overwhelming pressure that makes it hard to simply regard the practice of matchmaking as one without context or implications: are the women signing up because they personally are ready for romantic love with someone who shares their faith, or are they eager to shed the stigma of daring to be single and unmarried? It is hard to revel in the meet-cutes and relatable peaks and valleys of love and partnership when the unexplored and unanswered question lies in the fact that for many, an unmarried Muslim woman is someone who has failed in her religious and familial obligation.
All in all, Muslim Matchmaker amounts to a fairly earnest approach to representation: Muslims, they’re just like us, dating woes and all. It may not be reasonable for a dating show to explore all the hurdles that may surface—when the main objective is to show Muslim couples successfully marrying and finding happiness on their terms, the crushing pressure to go directly from the family’s house to a husband’s house is an inconvenient truth that impedes on the happy-go-lucky journey the series aims to present. But just as other values are explored—kids, faith practices, age, cultural gaps, et cetera—it would be refreshing to embrace an open conversation about why women feel compelled to take this step, regardless of their comfort level, and how single women are often left to feel undervalued and disposable in their respective communities. It may not be the most romantic story to tell—one where the marriage itself brings relief from the constant noise of expectations—but it would be an honest one.