What Mo Showed Us About Palestine, Power, and Who Gets to Belong
Through a Palestinian protagonist, Mo captured how the weight of belonging shapes immigrants of all backgrounds.
Ramadan Mubarak! This spiritual season of reflection is making me think even deeper about the stories we tell and the way they shape our world.
This past weekend, the Oscars celebrated outstanding storytelling, and despite the ongoing rollback of DEI efforts in the U.S., moments of representation broke through: Zoe Saldana became the first descendant of Dominican immigrants to win an Oscar, and a documentary on Palestinians facing settler vioence ethnic won big—even though it can’t be distributed in the U.S.
No Other Land’s big moment at the Oscars reminds me of another instance of Palestinian storytelling onscreen—Mo, the acclaimed Netflix series. Created by and starring comedian Mo Amer, it follows Mo Najjar, a Palestinian refugee in Houston navigating the absurdities of the U.S. immigration system. In a media landscape that often flattens immigrant stories into trauma porn or feel-good assimilation tales, Mo finds humor in exile’s contradictions. For Palestinians, their homeland isn’t a distant memory—it’s ever-present, inescapable. The show walks a tightrope, embracing its Palestinian identity while speaking to universal themes of belonging, family, and survival. It rejects stereotypes, portraying a Palestinian family not as symbols but as people—arguing, loving, and trying to live with dignity (and some laughs) along the way.
Heads up: spoilers ahead!
One episode, in particular, stuck with me in how it explored hierarchies within immigrant communities through the character of Maria, Mo’s Mexican-American girlfriend.
Maria is a local entrepreneur trying to grow her business despite major obstacles. Her credit was ruined when her alcoholic father maxed out credit cards in her name, and the only way to clear it is by pressing charges—an impossible choice many first-generation Americans face, where family loyalty and financial survival collide.
Hoping for a break, Maria brings her business plan to a housewarming party hosted by her college friend Sheila, an Indian American woman who married a bitcoin-rich white man. She arrives early, hoping Sheila and her husband will invest. It’s a deeply vulnerable moment—swallowing your pride for opportunity, something immigrants and their children know all too well.
Sheila and her husband agree to give Maria the loan. Immediately after, she casually asks Maria to clean up during the party—treating her as help, not a friend. The moment is a gut punch because of its painful authenticity. Through marriage and assimilation, Sheila has moved closer to whiteness and wealth, and has shamefully internalized racial hierarchies that place whiteness at the top and Latinx identity lower down.
This storyline reveals a complex dynamic: how certain immigrant groups—particularly those labeled "model minorities" like Indian Americans—can sometimes adopt the same oppressive hierarchies that once marginalized them, becoming enablers in a cycle of systemic racism. It's a specific kind of betrayal—being otherized not by the dominant culture, but by someone who should inherently understand your struggle.
The show brilliantly captures how white supremacist attitudes are internalized and transmitted within immigrant communities, illustrating how these power dynamics can shift. Immigrant communities are not monolithic; they can simultaneously be victims of oppression and, in certain moments, complicit in perpetuating it against others.
Maria’s reaction—her dignity in the face of humiliation, refusing to be diminished—speaks to the resilience needed to survive in a system designed to erode who you are. Her storyline is a reminder that immigrant narratives aren’t one-size-fits-all. Class, race, gender, and country of origin all intersect, creating vastly different experiences even among those who share the “immigrant” label.
Other moments in the show that stuck with me:
🔹 Mo refusing to get married to Maria for a green card—a choice rooted in integrity despite the impossible situation refugees face. The system gives you so few options, but choosing dignity over security becomes an act of defiance.
🔹 The “man of the house” burden—Mo carrying the responsibility of providing for his family, something so many immigrant kids inherit too early. It’s not just about survival; it’s about proving to the world—and yourself—that you can hold everything together.
🔹 His reflection on “privileged asylum”—even within the asylum system, there’s a hierarchy. Some refugees get protection more easily than others; some get to the U.S. on a plane, others by crossing a dangerous border on foot. It’s a rare acknowledgment that even in struggle, privilege exists.
🔹 His friendship with his Nigerian-American best friend—a quiet, unspoken bond between two outsiders. The way Mo portrays cross-cultural friendships feels natural, never forced or tokenizing.
🔹 That gut-wrenching scene of parents crossing the U.S.-Mexican border with a newborn—perhaps the most visceral moment in the show, reminding us that exile isn’t just political.
🔹The Series Finale: This episode is set in Palestine and the show, perhaps the only one of its kind ever, reveals the terrifying and humiliating experiences Palestinians face when attempting to return to visit family or their homeland—for those who are even able to do so. The final scene is more gut-wrenching than I could have imagined, but I won't spoil it for those who haven't watched.
Why This Hits Different Right Now
At a time when Palestinian voices are being silenced across industries—academia, journalism, Hollywood—the cancellation of Mo feels especially pointed. Art creates change in ways nothing else can. Policy debates and news reports tell us what is happening, but stories like Mo show us why it matters. They make us feel. They remind us that behind every immigration case number, every asylum application, every war displacement clip, there are real people with dreams, flaws, and lives that deserve to be seen. Mo's ability to tie the Palestinian narrative to the struggles of displaced communities and immigrants in the U.S. is what makes the show extraordinary.
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