Ramadan is meant to be a time for spiritual practice and self-discipline, to reconnect with the Islamic faith and tradition. It is a period of “less”; less indulgence, less distraction, less focus on the material world. Rather, it is a time for nourishing the soul, conserving mental and physical resources, and fostering empathy. Yet in Egypt, and elsewhere in the modern Muslim world, the dominant cultural experience of Ramadan has become one of “more”—more consumption, more self-indulgence, and more detachment from the meaning of the holy month.

Nothing exemplifies this shift more than Ramadan broadcast scheduling in Egypt. Once a communal experience reflecting the nuances of Egyptian life, today’s Ramadan series have morphed into a commercialized extravaganza, prioritizing quantity over quality, spectacle over substance, and profit over authenticity. This transformation has diluted the role of Ramadan series as a mirror of Egyptian society and led to the misrepresentation and alienation of Egyptian communities on screen.

Entertainment has long been intertwined with Ramadan traditions. Symbols of togetherness, like lanterns, the sundown cannon, the mesaharati (who drums people awake for the suhoor meal), and the festive dining table, all evoke a shared cultural memory. However, pinpointing exactly when entertainment began to overtake these traditions is difficult.

Before the domination of Ramadan TV, families gathered around the radio to listen to Amal Fahmy’s and Bayram Al-Tunsi’s “Fawazeer” (Ramadan riddles) in the 1950s and early 1960s. The era of black-and-white TV introduced “Fawazeer Al-Thulathi”, featuring the legendary trio of Samir Ghanem, George Sedhom, and Al-Deif Ahmed, which further embedded entertainment into the Ramadan experience. But these early forms of media consumption were interactive, intellectually engaging, and deeply rooted in Egyptian culture—families competed to solve riddles together, turning Ramadan entertainment into a unifying experience.

As the 1960s wore on, TV dramas became part of the Ramadan landscape. Egypt’s first-ever TV series, “Hareb Men Al-Ayyam” (Runaway of the Days), aired in 1962, though its connection to Ramadan is debated. A more definitive example is Al-Qahira w Al-Nas (Cairo & the People) which aired weekly before, during and after Ramadan in 1968. Inspired by the American series Peyton Place, it stood in stark contrast to today’s high-budget productions. Al-Qahira w Al-Nas tackled socio-economic struggles, bureaucracy, and the daily realities of the Egyptian middle class in the aftermath of the 1967 war. It featured actors like Nour El-Sherif and Mahmoud Yassin, who would later become icons of Egyptian cinema.

What was most striking was how open and uncensored the series was. Director Mohamed Fadel once described how his team met every few weeks to craft episodes that reflected contemporary societal issues, including corruption in Egypt’s socialist party elections. At the time, censorship was more of a formality; the real stories of Egyptian life made it to screen. This begs the question: Did the decline in accurate societal representation stem from changes in censorship laws? If so, who benefited from that shift?

From Storytelling to Commercial Spectacle

Ramadan television remained a collective experience for many years. As a child, my family would gather around the TV to watch a single series together—one show, one shared moment every night for 30 days. While the household was typically ringing with voices calling for iftar, suhoor, or prayer, the moment the episode began, an unusual silence fell over the room (in contrast to our otherwise lively family interactions). In retrospect, perhaps that silence foreshadowed the cultural shift we were about to witness.

As I became part of the entertainment industry, I noticed a troubling transformation: Ramadan TV was no longer about families bonding over storytelling. Instead, it had become a race. A race to produce more content, attract more advertisements, and manufacture fleeting cultural trends. The essence of storytelling was being drowned in capitalist incentives, and the answer to my earlier question became clearer: industry was benefiting, while authenticity was being lost.

Today, Egyptian TV series increasingly fail to reflect the reality of Egyptian communities. Characters feel artificial, their stories detached from genuine lived experiences. Many series prioritize opulence, unrealistic lifestyles, and commercial interests over depth, nuance, and relatability. Instead of portraying Egypt’s cultural and socio-economic diversity, television has become an elite spectacle—a beautified version of Egypt that many Egyptians no longer recognize.

Falsehood on Screen: The Illusion of Representation

As an actor, I have read scripts and played characters that don’t represent me, my friends, or my family. The rare exceptions – those one or two authentic productions – remind me of what Egyptian television once was: a space for real storytelling, meaningful conversations, and cultural introspection.

But more often than not, I find myself watching unrelatable characters, whose appearance alone feels disconnected from the world they are meant to inhabit. I see actors who have spent hours in makeup chairs, uttering lines they don’t believe, and playing roles so distant from themselves and reality. What’s lost in this process (cultural authenticity, meaningful representation, artistic integrity) is dismissed as collateral damage.

The absurdity of this commercialization reached a peak when I noticed a scene in a Ramadan comedy series featuring an aerial view of Cairo, only to realize that a home appliances company had sponsored their billboard to be added via CGI. The fact that even the cityscape had been altered to fit corporate interests made me feel as though I was living inside a Black Mirror episode.

The commercialization of Ramadan series has trapped creative souls—writers, directors, and actors alike—and forced them into a machine that prioritizes quantity over quality, spectacle over substance. Many of my colleagues feel disillusioned, burdened by the pressure to remain relevant in an industry that has reduced storytelling to a disposable commodity. I, too, have succumbed to this cycle, working on productions I don’t believe in, simply to stay present in the industry.

Why? Because in an industry that values visibility above all else, absence is a risk. To refuse participation is to risk being forgotten. So, we conform, we adapt, we become part of the machine, all the while hoping for a future where storytelling regains its integrity.

The Ramadan TV race is no longer about cultural storytelling, it is about overconsumption. Just as food, social gatherings, and consumer habits escalate during Ramadan, so too does our media consumption. Instead of focusing on a few well-crafted, meaningful narratives, the industry floods the market with 30+ shows, each competing for attention, ad revenue, and social media dominance.

Reclaiming the Purpose of Ramadan Storytelling

Perhaps the real solution lies not in sheer volume but in curation and depth. Much like Al-Qahira w Al-Nas once did, today’s media landscape requires fewer, but more incisive, works: narratives that challenge, reflect, and engage with contemporary realities rather than merely occupying airtime. Thoughtfully crafted series, such as some currently airing, that explore women’s rights, technological ethics, child abuse and systemic injustices hold far greater cultural significance than a glut of productions diluted by commercial imperatives.

Excess, after all, does not equate to enrichment. If anything, the saturation of Ramadan television has led to an erosion of meaning, where storytelling has become secondary to visual display. What was once an opportunity for collective engagement has paradoxically fostered detachment, turning what should be a month of introspection and shared experience into another unneeded domain of unchecked consumerist impulse.

Ironically, the true spirit of Ramadan—of community, of presence, of meaningful connection—is no longer found in the glossy productions flooding our screens. It is outside, in the streets, where people gather in the post-iftar hum of cafés, sharing a game of backgammon over a coffee. It is in the simple rituals that remain untouched by spectacle. And as the overproduction of Ramadan television continues to grow, perhaps the most authentic stories are no longer those being broadcast, but those unfolding in the spaces where screens have not yet taken hold.