I have spent the last five years travelling across the Arab region, talking to people about sex: what they do, what they don't, what they think and why. Depending on your perspective, this might sound like a dream job or a highly dubious occupation. For me, it is something else altogether. Sex is the lens through which I study society, because what happens in intimate life is shaped by forces on a bigger stage – politics and economics, religion and tradition, gender and generations – and vice versa.
As I've found, if you really want to know a people, start by looking inside their bedrooms. And if you really want to know yourself, start by writing a book.
I'm Egyptian and Muslim, but I grew up in the west, far from my Arab roots. I began Sex and the Citadel to help outsiders – like myself – to better comprehend this pivotal part of the world, up-close and personal. But in the end, my book is as much for those inside the region, for the hundreds of men and women who so generously shared their experiences and expertise, and for the many more I have yet to meet.
Across the Middle East and north Africa, sex is bound up in taboo and double standards, shame and silence (by no means a uniquely Arab situation, as I've learned from readers from around the world). But there are also remarkable individuals who are challenging these restrictions, in a delicate balancing act between their desire to make a difference and a deep appreciation of how change happens in the Arab region – by evolution, not revolution, in a gradual push along the grain of religion and culture.
Sex and the Citadel is my contribution to their efforts, on the region's scenic route to democracy – full of false starts and emergency stops, U-turns and detours. It is, I hope, a foundation on which people – especially the young, and women – can question received wisdoms about sexual life, as they have proved so willing and able to do in politics. And I hope it will give them the power to push back against those who argue that to resist today's narrow status quo is to undermine our "traditional" Arab and Muslim values. There is a long history in Islam, right back to the time of the Prophet Muhammad, of talking frankly about sex – not just its problems but also its pleasures, and not just for men but also for women. If my book can help others to discover that past, understand the present and imagine a better future, as it has for me, then Sex and the Citadel will have been a job well done.
Extract
If you know only Arabic, don't have the money to consult a specialist, and lack easy access to the internet, your options for explicit advice on sexual matters are limited – all the more so if you're a woman. My friend Azza and her circle were at a loss. In their desperation for details, they turned to me for help. "Ya Shereen, they have so many problems," Azza said. "They are not satisfied with their husbands, but they don't know what to do."
I thought toys might add some fun, even though some local sex therapists are firmly against them. Although there are a couple of shops in Cairo that discreetly sell a few items, supply is sporadic; one shop owner described to me the customs gauntlet he has to run to bring back, tucked away in his suitcase from overseas trips, even the few subtle vibrators he has in stock. In any case, Azza would rather die than be caught buying this stuff in public, so I asked her and her sisters to look on the web and give me a list of items I could pick up on my next trip abroad.
Together, we worked our way through the online catalogue. Dildos were out; Azza warned against anything too phallic, which might make husbands feel dispensable. Ben-wa balls – essentially a pair of ping pong balls inserted into the vagina for strengthening and stimulation – posed a particular problem. "How do you get them out?" Azza asked. "Well, there's a string attached. You remove them just like a tampon," I explained. But it turns out that Azza and her circle don't use tampons. Traditional beliefs about the impurity of menstrual blood, and the perceived health risks of letting it linger in the body, make tampons an unpopular choice with many women. But there was more to it than that. "My friend wanted to try them before she was married, but her mother wanted to kill her: 'You will lose your virginity!'" Azza said. But surely, after a couple of kids each, this was no longer an issue for Azza and her friends? "They are afraid to touch this area. My sister-in-law says when she washes down there after sex, she has fear. This area is always forbidden us, even after marriage."
