by Lekan Aleshe-Shittu, Staff Writer
On Saturday, October 17, 2026, at a town hall in Michigan for U.S. Senate candidate Abdul El-Sayed, a white American man named Tommy got up and asked El-Sayed whether he disavowed the Muslim Brotherhood. The question was combative, but it was couched in a veil of faux sincerity. When El-Sayed asked why he’d directed that question to him, the man refused to acknowledge his implicit racism and Islamophobia, arguing that he would ask anyone regardless of background such a question. But one is left to wonder: if it were a white, Christian man on the stage, would anyone ask him whether he disavowed the Muslim Brotherhood?
Watching the video reminded me of an essay I read called “Clash of Ignorance” by Edward Said many years ago, in which he relays an interaction he had with a journalist who continuously queried him about Islam and 9/11. Certainly, the perpetrators of the attack identified as Muslim. But Said, a Palestinian Christian, did not. His perceived proximity to Muslim identity, however, was enough to tie him to notions of primitivism and destruction—ideas constantly ascribed to Muslims and Arabs in this cultural context.
The manner in which Muslims and Arabs are perceived and portrayed by American media is one often rooted in Orientalist thought. They are frequently depicted as a foil or antithesis to the West. These illustrations fall prey to destructive stereotypes revolving around violence, terror, and sexual perversion. Evidence of this fact is presented plainly in the interaction between El-Sayed and Tommy. Media—and here, I mean both press and entertainment—detailing or analyzing Muslim and Arab identities has done so in manners seeking to further marginalize these peoples, alienating the voices of the almost two billion adherents to the faith of Islam. I offer a counter narrative.
Two years ago, I watched Mo—a show created by Egyptian-American writer, comedian, actor and showrunner, Ramy Youssef, and Palestinian-American comedian, writer and actor, Mo Ameer. It follows the life of one Palestinian refugee, Mo Najjar, as he walks the rather perilous (and humorous) line between cultural preservation and cultural assimilation. It explores the prominent potholes of refugee life, centering the pain, loss, and grief present when an individual is forced to live in limbo. In Mo, our protagonist is plagued with a gnawing inability to belong: an agonizing disconnect from the two places he considers home, the United States and Palestine.
Interestingly, the show tackles the heavy subject matter through the lens of comedy. In doing so, it paints a nuanced and empathetic portrait of what it means to be Muslim in the United States. The use of humor to tell such a story also personifies Mo, fleshing him out as a character. We, the audience, not only connect to him through his absurdity and wit, but also cement and celebrate his humanity—a phenomenon largely absent from many pieces of media aiming to delineate Islam, Muslims, or Muslim-American life today.
The show is also tragic in its depiction of statelessness, displacement and the horrors of familial suffering. In the first episode, Mo, who is not legally permitted to work in the United States, is laid off from his job at a mobile store in Houston. In order to support his family, he begins selling counterfeit luxury goods, trying to avoid law enforcement and the ever-looming threat of deportation. As the series progresses, he tackles addiction, gun violence, and the harmful effects of the U.S. healthcare system. By all means, the show makes it piercingly clear that our protagonist does not lead an easy life. Yet, by having Muslims and Arab-Americans at its helm, it ensures that it does not fall victim to destructive stereotypes of trauma, torment or violence—stereotypes which not only saturate media portrayals of these identities, but define them.
Therein lies the difference when we give people the agency to tell their own stories—there's nuance in how the story is told. Both Islam and Arab identity are often unchanging, static, immobile phenomena in the eyes of Orientalists. Because of this, these people are often limited in the ways they engage with the subject matter.
Watching Abdul El-Sayed tackle the man’s question made me quite excited, and it is what led me to revisit Mo. The only way to combat harmful representations of marginalized and denigrated peoples is to place the pen, the camera, the easel, whatever vehicle of storytelling, into their hands. The only person who has the power to define your personhood is you. And I think that’s fucking beautiful.
