At first glance, this is content that looks like ordinary relationship advice. A young man, perhaps feeling lost in the world of modern dating, watches a video and hears himself described as the victim. The influencer, known in these spaces as Atta’i, speaks with confidence about why women behave the way they do, why men are disposable, why marriage is a trap, and why male frustration is a truth that no one wants to say out loud. But when you actually watch his videos, it becomes clear that this is not about helping anyone build a loving connection. It is about framing every interaction between men and women as a war for power. Atta’i’s advice is built on suspicion, resentment, and a worldview in which women are not partners but adversaries to be managed, controlled, and, if necessary, punished. WIRED Middle East has watched his content, and what is most troubling is not simply that it is angry. It is that the anger is consistently directed at women, and that violence is presented as an acceptable answer to feeling rejected. In one video, he describes violence as a form of “disciplining” women. In another, he talks about retaliating against sexual rejection. This is not an isolated incident or a mistake of language. It is the core of a broader ideology that has found fertile ground online, where male pain is so often redirected into misogyny, and where women become the symbol of everything that feels unfair, unstable, and out of reach.
The phenomenon is not new, but its Arabic-speaking version has its own specific texture. It would be easy to dismiss the Arab manosphere as simply a translation of the Western “Red Pill” movement, where internet gurus claim to reveal the hidden truths of female nature and male worth. But that would be a mistake. The creators who have built large followings across the Arab world have done more than borrow ideas from American or British influencers. They have adapted those ideas to local anxieties, and in doing so, they have made them feel deeply relevant to men who are struggling with questions that are close to home. These questions are about religion, masculinity, marriage, money, and the rapid social changes that are reshaping the region. A young man in Cairo or Amman or Beirut may not feel immediately connected to a right-wing American complaining about feminism in English, but he may feel very connected to a sheikh who speaks in Arabic about the pressures of providing for a family, the fear of being humiliated by a woman, the anger at a society that seems to be abandoning traditional values, and the belief that women are being encouraged to disrespect men. The manosphere in the Arab world speaks directly to that sense of loss. It offers a story that makes sense out of chaos: men are suffering because women have been given too much freedom, because religious values have been abandoned, because money is scarce and dignity is scarce, and because the world has changed in ways that leave men behind. This story is powerful because it is simple, and it is dangerous because it gives men someone to blame.
Researcher and analyst Marc Kaddoura has studied these online communities closely, and his observations help explain why they resonate so strongly. He argues that influencers in this space deliberately use financial insecurity and political instability as fuel for their messaging. They know that their audiences are anxious, not just about relationships but about their entire lives. In a region where economic opportunities can be scarce, where corruption can block every path to success, where governments and systems often fail ordinary people, there is a deep reservoir of frustration. These influencers tap into that frustration and point it toward a target that is always available: women. They also use religious identity as a way to build trust and loyalty. By wrapping their messages in the language of Islam, by quoting scripture or invoking moral decay, they present themselves as defenders of the faith rather than purveyors of resentment. They appeal to fears about declining morality and social cohesion, warning that families are falling apart, that modesty is disappearing, that the streets are full of temptation, and that men must assert control before it is too late. Misogyny becomes an explanation for a much wider sense of defeat. It is not simply that a man cannot find a wife; it is that the entire world has been organized to humiliate him. And women, who are visible, present, and often seeking their own independence, become the most visible target of that humiliation. The problem, Kaddoura suggests, is not that these men are religious. The problem is that they use religious authority, whether real or claimed, to justify something that has nothing to do with faith: harassment, bullying, public surveillance of women, and a relentless campaign to put women back into what they see as their proper place.
This is a crucial distinction. In any healthy society, religious expression is protected and often beautiful. People should be free to practice their faith, to speak about their beliefs, and to share their traditions with others. What should concern us is when religious authority is used as a weapon. In the Muslim manosphere, religion is often not about spirituality, mercy, or wisdom. It is about control. Women are watched, judged, and policed, sometimes by strangers on the street and sometimes by millions of anonymous commenters online. The language of modesty is used to shame women for what they wear, for how they move, for whether they smile at the wrong person, for having a career, for choosing not to have children, for existing in public without a male guardian. And this is not limited to one country or one particular group. The Muslim manosphere crosses borders, languages, and platforms. A video made in London can be watched in Riyadh, in Kuala Lumpur, in Istanbul, in Detroit. The same phrases, the same grievances, and the same angry faces appear in different languages, but they are all speaking to the same idea: that women are the cause of male suffering, and that men have a right to discipline them. This global reach is part of what makes the movement so difficult to combat. It is not a single YouTube channel or a single telegram group. It is a network of influencers, preachers, and self-appointed experts who reinforce each other’s messages and introduce new audiences to a worldview that is fundamentally hostile to women.
One of the most prominent figures in this English-speaking Muslim manosphere is Ali Dawah, a UK-based creator whose channel is full of street debates and commentary about relationships, gender roles, religion, and Western culture. Ali is not an obscure figure. He has a massive following, and his videos are constantly shared across social media. In one clip, he says that he hates Muslim feminists “the most.” It is an odd thing to say, especially for someone who claims to speak for a faith that emphasizes justice and compassion. But the reason the clip gets views is exactly because of that hatred. It signals to his audience that he shares their anger, that he will not soften his language, and that he is willing to say what others are afraid to say. In another video, he approaches women in public and challenges them over clothing he describes as immodest. He does not know these women. He does not know their circumstances, their hearts, or their intentions. But he feels authorized to confront them, to lecture them, to film them, and to post the interaction online for millions to see. This is not dawah. The word “dawah” in Arabic means an invitation to learn about Islam. It is supposed to be an open hand, not a closed fist. But the so-called Dawah Bros, of which Ali is one of the most popular examples, have turned the concept upside down. They are known for being aggressive, confrontational, and intrusive. They do not invite; they interrogate. They do not educate; they embarrass. They use the language of Islamic outreach to create content that has more in common with the Red Pill than with religious scholarship. And they do it all in the name of defending morality, all while performing the exact opposite of what their faith teaches about compassion, kindness, and the privacy of others.
Kaddoura sees these creators as the platform-native successors to an older type of media figure. In the 1990s, Islamic television programs in Egypt and Saudi Arabia regularly featured sheikhs answering callers’ questions about relationships, clothing, and acceptable behavior. These shows were deeply conservative, but they were also structured. There was a host, a guest, a phone call, a question, and an answer. There was a sense of order and respect. The sheikh was an authority, sure, but he operated within boundaries. He did not follow people into shopping malls. He did not film random women and put them on the internet. He did not algorithmically feed his content to thousands of young men who were already angry and looking for validation. Today’s influencers, by contrast, live inside the platform itself. They are not limited to scheduled broadcasts. They can upload a video at two in the morning. They can react to a news story within minutes. They can take a comment from a follower and turn it into a full-length sermon. And they are not only interacting with people who have chosen to call in and ask a question. They are reaching the bored, the lonely, the frustrated, the confused, the young men who are scrolling through their phones at three in the afternoon with no job, no relationship, no prospects, and a growing sense that the world owes them something. The algorithm does not care about the truth. It cares about engagement. And nothing engages a young man more than someone telling him that his problems are not his fault, that his anger is justified, and that the solution lies in putting women back in their place.
In the end, the story of the Arab manosphere is also a human story. It is about men who feel invisible, emasculated, and left behind by a world that no longer seems to honor them. It is about loneliness and economic insecurity and the terrifying experience of watching old certainties collapse. None of that should be mocked. Those feelings are real. But the men who exploit those feelings for views and influence are not heroes. They are profiteers of pain. They take a fragile moment of vulnerability and turn it into a permanent state of rage. They tell a man that the reason he cannot find love is because women have been corrupted, when the truth may be much more complicated. They tell him that respect means obedience, when real respect is mutual. They tell him that his religion commands him to control women, when his religion actually commands him to be just. The result is not a healthier generation of men. It is a generation of men who are more suspicious, more isolated, and more hostile toward half of humanity. And it is not a healthier society. It is a society where women are watched, accused, and silenced, where religious authority is used as a shield for cruelty, and where the internet gives misogyny a million different voices, all speaking in the same angry language. The challenge is not only to expose these voices for what they are, but to offer something better: a vision of masculinity that does not depend on controlling women, a vision of religion that is merciful rather than punishing, and a vision of relationships built not on power but on respect. That is the path forward, and it will not be easy. But nothing worth building ever is.
