(Scene from United States of Al, a sitcom on CBS)

Muslim television characters have been popping up regularly on TV screens lately, and now there are even a few that will make you laugh. Most recently, Netflix greenlit a comedy series co-created by comedians and actors Mo Amer and Ramy Youssef. The show will center on Amer’s character, a Palestinian refugee stuck in a years-long immigration process, which is based on his own story of growing up as a Muslim refugee in Houston. His co-creator, Ramy Youssef, is the well-known star and creator of Hulu’s award-winning Ramy (2019–present), a sitcom based on Youssef’s life as an Egyptian Muslim kid growing up in New Jersey. With its critical reception, Ramy galvanized a resurgence in television comedies where Muslims are the main protagonists.

Part of why Ramy is so successful is because it sidesteps the common post-9/11 depiction of Muslims as terrorists and tells a story that is rooted in personal experience. Comedy has long been a way for minoritized communities to create shared experiences with broader audiences. Humor has the ability to persuade viewers through feelings and emotions rather than argument and debate, which opens up space to tackle complex issues and dissolve social tensions. Like other marginalized communities before them, Muslims are putting comedy to use as a strategy to produce more dynamic portrayals of Muslims on television.

The network situation comedy has emerged as a palatable genre to introduce a more complex portrait of Muslims to mainstream American audiences. Two recent examples include CBS’s United States of Al (2021–present) and TBS’s Chad (2021–present). These shows prompt audiences to consider how the representation of Muslims in American television is shifting. Does centering Muslim characters and narratives, written and developed by Muslims, establish a more diverse portrait of the American public and challenge an industry largely controlled by a homogeneous assembly of decision-makers? Sure it does. But instead of asking if this new comedic trend is “positive” or “negative,” it might be more helpful to ask who these shows are for, and consider what social or political consequences we can expect from this expanding spectrum of stories and personalities on network television.

Ultimately, while United States of Al and Chad center Muslim narratives, they oversimplify the religious lives of Muslims on screen and often perpetuate negative stereotypes about Islam, much like the harmful terrorist tropes of earlier television dramas.

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United States of Al focuses on two people whose lives are intricately intertwined because of the twenty-year American war in Afghanistan: Marine veteran Riley and his friend Awalmir, or Al, an Afghan interpreter for the U.S. military. The pair worked closely together over a number of years, as revealed through flashbacks, and after a multi-year effort Riley was able to help Al obtain a visa to come to the United States. Season One tells Al’s story as he adjusts to his new American environment, including living with Riley’s family in suburban Ohio, learning neighborly social norms, navigating gender norms and relationships, handling finances, and dealing with homesickness. The show portrays all of this while simultaneously narrating Riley’s post-war veteran life, which tackles issues of death and loss, depression and trauma, and strained relationships with his estranged wife and daughter. Visually the show resembles a traditional multi-camera soundstage sitcom with a laugh track like network shows Friends and The Big Bang Theory. Altogether, the narrative threads about post-military life and a blue collar aesthetic make the show legible and appealing to prime time CBS viewers, which enables the program to introduce elements of Afghan culture to an audience that would likely not seek it out otherwise.

United States of Al should be commended for many things. While the show is produced by Chuck Lorre, the “King of Sitcoms,” the show has several Afghan writers. For mainstream television, Muslim writers, and writers of color broadly, are still uncommon. Their inclusion, as well as the production leadership of two Iranian-Americans, Reza Aslan and Mahyad Tousi, is notable for a program that attracts millions of viewers every week.

United States of Al also presents a wide range of Muslim characters, giving voice to those who are willing to collaborate with U.S. military as well as those who oppose any kind of U.S. intervention in Afghanistan. The involvement of Muslims in the production of the series and the strength of their on-screen representation has won the series some Muslim fans. Sue Obeidi, Director of the Hollywood Bureau at Muslim Public Affairs Council (MPAC), even went so far as to say, “United States of Al is one of the most important shows on TV right now — and I mean that. We’re invested in shows like United States of Al because they reaffirm the impact of representation on screen and showcase how far our communities have come and how much work lies ahead.”

Despite all the ground the program is breaking, there is much to critique about the show. United States of Al tries to add depth to the main character by including elements from Al’s Afghan life and cultural background. But even with the presence of Muslims in the writer’s room, the show relies on unsurprising stereotypes, such as jokes about “strange” food, religious eating habits, and bargaining for deals. Al is presented as a model minority who is deferential to elders, communally and family oriented, and selfless. These virtuous qualities are often suspended over and above the flawed actions of his American counterparts who struggle in many ways. Al’s primary objective in the show is to help Riley get his life in order, which makes Al integral only because he supports the white male character.

Of additional concern is the casting of Al, played by Adhir Kalyan, who is a South African of Indian ancestry. The casting of a non-Afghan and non-Muslim as the main protagonist follows a long history of depicting minoritized characters as substitutable or interchangeable “others.” The lead Muslim actor’s ethnic and religious ambiguity tells viewers, and especially Afghans, that the producers do not believe Afghan self-representation is necessary when Afghans tell stories about themselves on television.

Some viewers might forgive these concerns, but other elements in the show more strongly reinforce prejudices and assumptions about Muslims. In one episode about Al’s quest to get his driver’s license, the woman DMV worker administering his test is wearing shorts, which Al finds shocking and distracting, so much so that it causes him to have a small fender bender. If the intention behind this scene was to demonstrate culture shock around sartorial differences, the producers clumsily wrap the scenario in stereotypes about the lustfulness of Muslim men. The leering camera angle, Al’s mystifying anxiety, and the reactionary accident cannot be detached from the media archive of sleazy sheikh images or public presumptions about Muslim men as sexual deviants. Unfortunately, for unfamiliar viewers it would be difficult to catch the nuances in such a portrayal.

For many viewers, the most harmful cliché is the show’s very premise, centered on Muslim allegiance to U.S. patriotism and militaristic nationalism, which reinforces the limited portrayal of Muslim characters since 9/11. One of the most biting critiques comes from scholars Sahar Ghumkhor and Anila Daulatzai who lampoon the program for its whitewashing of the war in Afghanistan and its trivialization of the resulting human and material loss. The show’s underlying assertion is that America’s goal of saving Afghans was altruistic and outweighed the disturbing consequences that military intervention created in Afghanistan.

Overall, United States of Al can pessimistically be read as propaganda for the U.S. empire that constructs a “good Muslim” archetype rooted in American patriotism. Despite the range of Muslim identities and the individual depth each one is given, the show cannot escape its anchoring in the “War on Terror.” According to the logic of the show, Muslims who support U.S. policy abroad are the only ones of value to American public life.

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The other new series that centers Muslim identities is TBS’s Chad. Unlike United States of Al, Chad has a more cinematic feel. The main character Chad Amani, played by the Iranian American writer and creator Nasim Pedrad, is an odd and generally unlikable teenager. He is awkward, self-absorbed, opinionated, and frequently unable to read situations and the social cues of his peers. As a Persian American, Chad is embarrassed by his Middle Eastern family heritage and struggles with his personal identity. In his quest for confidence, he is easily swayed by what he perceives as cool and the whims of his classmates. Chad’s story unrolls alongside sub-narratives about his mother Naz, younger sister Nicki, and Uncle Hamid, who all feel more comfortable in their skin and secure in their identities. The show is written empathetically about a Middle Eastern family, but also includes a relatable flawed main character who resembles the awkward teenage years of many non-Muslim viewers.

Chad takes an unusual, but perhaps realistic, approach to the role of Islam in the lives of its characters. The creators tackle Muslim identity as both a narrative challenge for its characters and as opportunity to counter stereotypes about Islam. One way they do this is by contrasting Chad’s irritation with his religion with the depiction of his mother’s Muslim boyfriend, Ikrimah.

For Chad, he sees Islam as an obstacle to his social goals and worthless for his personal growth. The tension is made explicit in the show’s first episode through a conversation between Chad and his mother:

CHAD:
You’re dating a Muslim guy?

NAZ:
Chad, you do realize we’re technically Muslim?

CHAD:
Yea, we’re Muslim enough. We don’t need people thinking that’s like our whole thing.

NAZ:
What is your problem with our heritage?

CHAD:
I’m embarrassed by it and I’d like to fit in. I’ve made that very clear to you. If you wanted us to be so Muslim you should have raised us in freakin’ Ramalaladon (sic).

In these opening moments, Islam does not fall prey to typical stereotypes, but it is certainly not shown in a “positive” light. Chad believes his Muslim heritage is incompatible with American cultural values, and therefore, shedding signs of foreignness is his best strategy as a 14 year old trying to fit in. Even while Chad may embody a desire for assimilation that reflects the experiences of some Muslims, the portrayal may still displease many Muslim viewers. Most Muslim spectators won’t see themselves in a character who is constantly disparaging Islam and likely won’t see this type of representation as a productive move forward for their community.

In other moments Chad works to rupture common assumptions about Muslims. For example, when Naz’s date arrives in the scene described above, Chad obnoxiously asks before opening the door, “On a scale of 1-10 just how Muslim will his physical situation be?” Without waiting for a response Chad cracks the door, and the camera pans up as Chad looks at his mother’s boyfriend Ikrimah, a handsome and fit Black Muslim man. The juxtaposition between the viewer’s likely expectation of an Arab man (a sentiment embodied by Chad) and the image of someone from the largest racial group of U.S. Muslims forces spectators to confront their beliefs about Muslims. Here the show uses stereotypes to its advantage and disrupts viewer expectations about who Muslims are in America.

This dual personality of Chad reveals the burden of representation for Muslim creatives. It is difficult to meet the inclinations of mainstream viewers while also telling personal and peculiar stories that resonate for Muslim audiences. If more Muslims were on television, the quirky or stereotypical stories would just be one among a wide spectrum of narratives. But since Muslim-centered shows are still limited, unsophisticated portrayals seem even more damaging.

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United States of Al and Chad both keep their specific Muslim audience in mind by adding cultural specificity while also putting universal themes to work to appeal to their broad network viewers. Most of the Muslim creatives involved in these projects have communicated their goal to humanize Muslims through nuanced storytelling and “positive” representation. This presumes that their target audience may not already believe this about Muslims and, with network television skewed toward an older demographic of viewers, it is easy to conclude that they are largely made for a broad, predominantly non-Muslim audience.

But the sitcom genre relies heavily on caricatures in order to make Muslims legible to non-Muslim audiences, which makes it difficult to meet the progressive goals of its creators while also being successful in that type of television environment. Consequently, it would seem that it is only when television writers inform their stories with messy versions of Muslim culture and identity that they are able to succeed in portraying characters in “authentic” ways. But such cultural specific elements might be off putting for non-Muslims who cannot recognize their preconceptions about Islam in these presentations. This is why, as scholar and activist Su’ad Abdul Khabeer has noted, “representation is a trap because mainstream media is a powerful space of recognition—on someone else’s terms and to preserve someone else’s power. This results in a lot of policing and gatekeeping, internal and external.” These challenges have been shared by other minoritized groups, such as Asian-American, Black, Latino, LGBTQ, and Jewish, as they strive to represent their communities authentically. In order to be entertaining and alluring for broad audiences, the Muslim sitcom cannot stray too far from preconfigured network television audience expectations.

In United States of Al and Chad we see the current spectrum of possible Muslim representation on mainstream American television. This ranges from a neutered self-denial of Muslim cultural or spiritual heritage (compare this with Aziz Ansari’s “Religion” episode on Masters Of None where he also rejects normative modes of Muslim religiosity and identification), to a more nuanced Muslim accomplice of U.S. patriotism. It’s hard to imagine widespread support from Muslim audiences if the choice is a program that trivializes the tradition or one that reproduces silly and damaging stereotypes tied to the domination of global Muslim communities.

Luckily network television isn’t the only game in town and other creative environments have opened up interesting ways to depict Muslim stories on screen. Streaming platforms, which garner a different and younger audience, have been able to work with a more complex production-reception exchange where unique storytelling connects with both popular and critical audiences. While networks need to ensure their prime-time slots attract viewers to appease advertisers, streaming platforms can take chances with novel programs that aim for more limited audiences because their funding model does not rely on commercials. Hulu’s Ramy exemplifies this notable direction. Netflix’s forthcoming Mo Amer show might see similar success. Recent British sitcoms such as We Are Lady Parts (2021–present) and Man Like Mobeen (2017–present) follow a comparable template that use creative narratives and varied Muslim characters that hit the mark with audiences, and frame Islam as just one part of dynamic intersecting identities.

While these programs tread new ground for the representations of Muslims, it may be that they have simply entered a new enclosure that governs the types of identities that mainstream networks will tolerate. In the end, network sitcoms open up new opportunities for Muslim storytelling, but such comedies may only reinforce the limited options for Muslims in American public life. If the development of the Muslim sitcom is orchestrated by the laugh-track of network television genre conventions, we will continue to see a narrow range of Muslim characters on the small screen who reinforce white liberal notions of secular multiculturalism and American patriotism.

Kristian Petersen is the editor of Muslims in the Movies: A Global Anthology (ILEX Foundation & Harvard University Press, 2021), and New Approaches to Islam in Film (Routledge, 2021), and co-editor of Digital Humanities and Research Methods in Religious Studies: An Introduction (de Gruyter, 2021). He co-hosts the New Books in Islamic Studies podcast on the New Books Network. You can find him on Twitter @BabaKristian.