The success of the first season of the American TV series Mo has paved the way for a second instalment that further explores the journey of a Palestinian family. Season 2, released last month on Netflix, delves deeper into the lives and shared anxieties of family members and their struggles, including the search for asylum and the bureaucratic hurdles of securing residency in the United States.
Reaching beyond the traditional narrative of displacement, tragedy, and instability, Season 2 tackles issues such as identity anxiety, the role of memory, the dimensions of Palestinian life globally, and the difficulties Palestinians face in America.
The show’s creators—writer and lead actor Mohammed Amer (playing Mo Najjar), co-writer Ramy Youssef, and director Solvan ‘Slick’ Naim—have elevated the series both in terms of the storytelling and the quality of direction. Unlike others who have sought to tread this path, they do not simply recount the historical trauma of exile.
Memory and identity
Mo explores adaptation, the reinterpretation of national memory, and the complexities of integration. It offers a dynamic exploration of Palestinian identity and its evolving relationship with the wider world, as viewers follow the life of Mo Najjar, a falafel taco chef seeking asylum in Houston, who has a Catholic girlfriend (who his mum disapproves of) and an eclectic group of friends.
This is a story about striving to redefine and understand oneself in a foreign land, about preserving memory and heritage while adapting to new realities, about wanting to integrate while keeping one’s identity. It also illustrates how personal experiences are deeply intertwined with collective identity. Each Palestinian character negotiates their own adjustments, reflecting the complexities of displacement.
Streaming at a moment in history that might one day be described as a nadir for the Palestinian cause, Mo is outwardly composed, yet inwardly seething with suppressed anger that does not manifest as direct action. This is reflective of the Palestinian struggle—pushed to boiling point, yet restrained by an unrelenting desire to break free from living under oppressive surveillance systems.
He is frustrated by American bureaucracy and a lack of empathy, as his undocumented status leaves him stranded in Mexico and separated from his girlfriend, whom he distances himself from out of shame over his circumstances.
From his experience at a detention centre for border crossers, to being forced to wear an electronic ankle monitor, his experience may resonate with those who have waded through legal restraints for a fresh start. Mo is quick-tempered because his anxiety has no release except through emotional outbursts or impulsive decisions.
Bureaucratic apathy
Throughout much of modern history, Palestinian refugees have been treated as security threats to be controlled and monitored, not people with unique human experiences. The director uses this contrast between lifeless bureaucracy and vibrant humanity to show the pencil pushers as lacking expression or emotion amidst the warmth and empathy from those with whom Mo shares his story.
He discovers that people relate to him, underscoring the tension between social solidarity and institutional neglect, a theme further reinforced through key sub-plots, such as Mo's attempt to sell olive oil to a store manager, where emotional storytelling helps forge social connections. Humanity transcends geographical and political boundaries, mirroring the global engagement with the Palestinian cause, in contrast with state governments that remain neutral or indifferent.
Mo's mother (Farah Bsieso) is still a central figure in his life. Often seen following the news on a phone, she embodies the idea that Palestine never truly leaves you. Unlike her children, she carries the weight of collective memory, preserving the family's roots despite their displacement. She is a central figure in understanding the household's contradictions and transformations.
Wider family
Stranded in Mexico, Mo faces an indifferent bureaucratic system and the forced isolation imposed on migrants and asylum-seekers, yet the series shifts its lens between different family members. The younger son, Sami Najjar (Omar Elba), is autistic. For him, the displacement experience is entirely different. Whereas Sami struggles to communicate (a difficulty exacerbated in a harsh and uncaring bureaucratic world), Mo is outgoing and actively seeking his place in the world.
The daughter, who is married to an American, tries to keep a balance within the household. Yet the mother resists her daughter's plea to seek treatment for Sami, a decision that seems harsh, but is rooted in her approach to an unforgiving world. She believes that her love and attention is enough to help her son, nurturing his intelligence in her own way while forming a protective shield around him.
The series frames the narrative of integration through its female characters—the mother preserving tradition, and the daughter open to integrating. In a poignant scene, the daughter tries to pull her mother into a new phase of life, not by abandoning Palestine, its news, or updates, but by breaking free from the endless cycle of tragedy that defines Palestinian existence. The scene ultimately ends with both women in tears. Every attempt to forget ends up being fleeting in the face of overwhelming trauma.
As well as showing the family's attachment to Palestinian cultural symbols (as a form of resistance against a dominant culture seeking erasure), Season 2 looks at the family's internal dynamics. Presented as a self-regulating social system, relationships constantly adjust in response to the conditions of asylum and change.
A substitute state
In the absence of Palestinian state or institutional support, Mo also highlights the role of the family as the foundational unit of Palestinian society. The family becomes the structure that preserves both the organisational and emotional integrity of the individual. With that in mind, oppression and displacement are not merely physical acts of uprooting, but attempts to sever Palestinians from any unifying framework.
In that sense, this series offers a unique perspective on resistance—not direct political struggle, but the endurance of families as custodians of identity and tradition, safeguarding Palestinian history and geography, manifesting through family bonds that preserve the memory of the homeland and reconstruct Palestinian identity in exile through stories, traditions, and social interactions.
This is keenly felt when a grandson goes missing at an arcade, triggering a wave of collective panic. The scriptwriters are aware of the heightened Palestinian fear of loss—not just of a child, but of identity. His disappearance is a metaphor.
In Mo's family, his mother—already the guardian of memory—takes on the role of mediator, too. She becomes the central figure around whom everyone gravitates in moments of tension and crisis, reinforcing the family's role as a binding force that continuously redefines the meaning of Palestinian identity and belonging. The ethical foundation of the Palestinian family is rooted in compassion and solidarity. Mothers play a pivotal role in maintaining harmony within the household and in the family's external relations.
Imagery and symbols
Symbolism is key. Through his imaginings, outbursts, and dreams—recurring elements throughout the series—Mo introduces a set of symbolic motifs in surrealistic sequences. Here, the key is not just as a traditional Palestinian symbol of return, but a deeply personal object tied to the loss of Mo's father and of a vanished home. It carries an intimate significance, representing security, home, and family.
The key resurfaces whenever Mo distances himself from his mother, his girlfriend, or the idea of a protective father figure. Through these symbolic layers, the series moves beyond conventional Palestinian imagery (olive trees, land, roots etc) to introduce a deeply personal dimension to displacement.
Throughout, the series constructs a visual language that encapsulates loss as a psychological state. Locked doors, shifting shadows, and fluctuating lighting that encircle Mo, all serve as reminders of what is missing.
When he returns to Palestine, he does not get a physical key, but gets something else instead: to see his father's face in an old video of the joyous singing of Palestinian families. The key is now imbued with his father's memory.
For Mo, comedy becomes a means of identifying with his experience and Palestinian history—for resisting oppression and reconstructing identity. For him, the past is not just nostalgia; it is a right and a meaning to be preserved despite oppression and exile.
Palestinian identity is not confined to geography but extends through daily practices, inherited values, and traditions. Coexistence is an integral part of Palestinian existence, evident in the communal support among refugees and diaspora communities that are evolving into tightly-knit networks that compensate for the absence of a state or formal institutions.
These structures are not merely survival mechanisms; they serve as a dramatic expression of how refugees recreate their environments through solidarity, rebuilding the lost homeland in new spaces.
