In this op-ed, writer Bilal Hassam reflects on Mo season 2, out on Netflix, and what the show’s success means for the future of how Palestinians are depicted on TV and in movies.
For decades, Palestinian representation on screen, much like Muslim representation, has largely been trapped between erasure and caricature. If they were shown at all, it was typically through the narrow lens of conflict, either as nameless victims or one-dimensional villains.
A USC Annenberg study found that in 2018 and 2019, Muslims—despite being a quarter of the world’s population—held just 1% of speaking or named roles in top-rated series from the U.S., U.K., Australia, and New Zealand, highlighting a broader pattern of systemic marginalization. Too often shows with Muslim characters, like Bodyguard or Homeland, end up perpetuating harmful tropes. Most onscreen depictions of Muslims sidestep the full complexity of Muslim identity, offering just enough visibility to feign representation while avoiding any real engagement with Muslim histories, struggles and diverse cultures — and failing, in particular, to engage with the lived experiences of Palestinians, Muslim or not.
Then came Mo.
In 2022, Mo — a groundbreaking series inspired by comedian Mohammed “Mo” Amer’s life — burst onto Netflix with grit and authenticity. Co-created with Ramy Youssef, Amer not only starred but also directed several episodes. From the very first scene, as Amer hustled onto our screens as Mo Najjar, a Palestinian refugee in Houston, it was clear: this show was different. Mo wasn’t just Palestinian-led with Amer at the helm — it was Palestinian through and through, in humor, heart, and defiance.
With a rare 100% fresh Rotten Tomatoes score and climbing to no. 3 on their list of top 100 Netflix shows, season 2 doubles down, delivering a story that is both deeply personal and universally resonant as it explores asylum limbo, intergenerational trauma, and exile, all while remaining laugh-out-loud funny. Now, just as it reaches new heights, Mo’s future is somewhat undetermined; Netflix has said season 2 is its final season, but in Mo Amer's words, "there's so much more to this story.”
Season 1 leaves our titular character stranded in Mexico after a botched olive oil deal goes wrong, with his statelessness leaving him no legal way to return to the U.S. Season 2 picks up six months later, with Mo still marooned in Mexico, navigating absurd legal loopholes and hatching increasingly desperate schemes to return home. The season follows his signature blend of hustle, humor, and heartbreak as he attempts to reclaim his life, culminating in a deeply personal journey to Palestine in search of belonging, identity, and connection to the homeland he has never truly known.
Mo has broken new ground, and its impact will undoubtedly be felt for years to come. That’s why Netflix’s decision not to renew Mo after just two seasons feels like a missed opportunity to continue a groundbreaking Palestinian story in an industry still hesitant to fully embrace authentic Palestinian and Muslim narratives.
Filmmaker Darin J. Sallam recalls on the Muslim Girl Code podcast that those who finance movies have been candid: Palestinian stories just aren't "trendy." Even for Oscar-nominated, BAFTA-winning filmmaker Farah Nabulsi, the roadblocks are constant. She told The New Arab that some directors avoid Palestinian stories to sidestep the “headache” of backlash, while others quietly shut the door.
Cultural Specificity as a Quiet Act of Rebellion
Authenticity in television is too often a hollow promise. Mo offers something far more radical. It isn’t just authentic; it’s unapologetically specific, embracing the richness of a lived-in culture without pausing to explain itself.
Being married into a Palestinian family, I was struck by Mo’s attention to the smallest details — details that may seem incidental to outsiders but carry unspeakable weight for Palestinians: the casual references to tarneeb, the ever-present bottle of olive oil, serving zeit wa za’atar, or bamia simmering on the stove. These aren’t just decorations, they are cultural anchors, persisting through exile, shaping identity and resistance.
It’s these seemingly mundane moments that resonate most deeply. Watching Mo, my wife was moved to tears by the simplest depictions of Palestinian daily life, scenes that rarely, if ever, find their way onto our screens.
My own mother-in-law, like Mo’s mother and countless Palestinian mothers everywhere, is glued to the news, doomscrolling between connection and helplessness. She cannot bear to watch, yet she cannot look away. There is something deeply cathartic in that rare, unfiltered visibility, the quiet recognition that the horrors unfolding today will continue to reverberate across generations.
Mo’s cultural specificity, then, is not just about representation, it is an act of reclamation, subverting long-standing, malicious stereotypes, reminding us that authenticity isn't a performance — it's rebellion.
The Politics of Mo: When the Personal is Inherently Political
Amer initially attempted to address Hamas' Oct. 7th attack on Israel and the subsequent Israeli military onslaught on Gaza in Mo’s second season. However, framing the narrative around the crisis felt forced. "Every scene became really didactic, and this wasn’t the show," he told Vulture, explaining that instead of explicit messaging, Mo allows Palestine to exist as "a steady thrum in the background of the characters’ lives that serves as a source of sadness, hope, and sitcom shenanigans."
Yet the irony is inescapable: while Mo brought audiences back to Palestine on screen, Amer himself was unable to set foot in his homeland, staying just 45 minutes away in Jordan due to safety concerns. The very logistics of the show became a stark reminder of how Palestinian existence itself is inherently politicized.
Bella Hadid has long advocated for Palestine, and she said on the Rep podcast in 2022, “I really do believe that if I started speaking about Palestine, when I was 20, I wouldn't have gotten the recognition and the respect that I have now.” Melissa Barrera was fired from the Scream franchise after posting in support of Palestinians on social media, posts that Spyglass interpreted as “incitement of hate”. Barrera responded expressing her condemnation of antisemitism and Islamophobia, adding that she disapproves of “hate and prejudice of any kind against any group of people.” They are not the only ones. As support for Artists4Ceasefire has grown, so too has the backlash, with many facing possible blacklisting, lost opportunities, and potential professional exile, all after refusing to stay silent in an industry that claims to champion free expression.
Yet, despite the “absolutely excruciating” process, Mo finds the strength to alchemize pain into laughter, tragedy into resilience — gifting us the sweetness within the struggle and a reminder that joy itself can be an act of resistance.
Beyond a personal or cultural-specific story, Mo delivers a message that is both urgently timely and timeless in its resonance. The show situates the Palestinian struggle for self-determination within a broader colonial narrative, subtly drawing parallels between Mo’s statelessness and the struggles of undocumented immigrants, Mexican border communities, and Indigenous Americans. The injustice of Thanksgiving is woven into the story as a quiet nod to the enduring legacies of displacement and occupation, demonstrating how the fight for dignity, land, and belonging is not just a Palestinian issue, it is a universal struggle against colonialism, borders, and erasure.
That’s what makes Mo’s end feel so heavy. In a landscape of erasure and censorship, Mo was a rare triumph, daring to exist on its own terms.
Its absence leaves a void, but it also raises a challenge: If Mo has taught us anything, it’s that existence itself is a form of resistance. Now, it’s up to us to ensure these stories are not just remembered, they are demanded.
