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For a region partially shaped by relentless political unrest and generational displacement, speculative futures are less of a creative indulgence than a coping mechanism. In Western and Eastern cinema, dystopian genres have often grappled with reality, constructing alternate worlds that, while sometimes seen as escapist, are better understood as confrontational. To ironically borrow from Western thought, Susan Sontag once noted in her essay, ‘The Imagination of Disaster’, “science fiction films are not about science; they are about disasters.”
Sci-fi embodies a kind of tension, temptation, and trepidation – driven by fantasies of escape and fuelled by deep, simmering anger and exhaustion. The genre may reach for faraway galaxies but remains tethered to an uncertain future. Much of the Middle East and broader SWANA region has been shaped by colonial histories, with borders drawn by foreign powers and a legacy of political and economic control. Under the expansive umbrella of speculative fiction, sci-fi shares space with utopia, dystopia, horror, and even fairytales – all narratives that depart from realism to explore possibilities, boundaries, and unknowns. In both Western and Eastern contexts, speculation has historically served as a platform for colonial ideologies to shape collective identities or designate enemies. At the same time, revolutionary movements have wielded it to imagine societal orders rooted in autonomy, preservation, and resistance rather than colonial hierarchy. When stripped of nuances, science fiction is a flirtation with boundless ambition and scientific possibilities – an invitation to the question, ‘what if?’
The genre began to take on a defined shape during the 19th century in the West amid the scientific and industrial revolutions. An early iconic text was Jules Verne’s From the Earth to the Moon (1865), rooted in a fascination with scientific possibility. The novel follows a post-Civil War Baltimore Gun Club as they plot to fire a projectile to the Moon with a massive cannon. Verne’s speculative physics imagined a future grounded in scientific potential, so much so that The Pall Mall Gazette in 1880 coined the term ‘space-ship’ for his fictional Columbiad.
A century later, in 1969, as Apollo 11 returned from the Moon, the crew referenced Verne in a broadcast, recognising the foresight of his vision. Sci-fi’s origins may be embedded – or perhaps better documented – in the West, shaped by Enlightenment ideals of reason and technological progress. Yet, its resonance reaches further with the genre’s mutant qualities, absorbing and reflecting diverse contexts.
Sci-Fi in Arabic Literature
Before sci-fi made its way to the big screen, sci-fi literature in the SWANA region had already been more extensively explored and documented than its cinematic counterpart.
In Arab literature, science fiction also finds its roots in a long-standing tradition of the fantastical. One Thousand and One Nights may not be sci-fi in the strict modern sense, but it stretches into the realm of speculative narrative, stretching the boundaries of human experience. These early stories laid the groundwork for Arab writers to later approach the future – not as an abstraction but as a space for contesting ideas, culture, and power. Authors like Ahmed Khaled Towfik, Nabil Farouk, and Taleb Omran have crafted narratives engaging with futuristic and dystopian themes, leading to a richer literary body of work and more comprehensive scholarly analysis in the region.
In the 2013 book La Fantascienza nella Letteratura Araba (Science Fiction in Arabic Literature), Italian scholar Ada Barbaro, who specialises in Arabic language and literature, examines how Arab writers use science fiction to explore speculative futures and address contemporary tensions in the Arab world. She highlights that this genre, often marginalised in the broader canon, serves as a tool of resistance against the constraints of tradition, modernity, and imposed narratives.
In an interview with ArabLit.org, Barbaro notes, “Arabic sci-fi comes in a relationship to the production in English. But we have to open a post-colonial discourse here: the sci-fi in English comes with industrial development, which comes late in the Arab countries. Not to mention that the ‘novel’ arrives late in these countries, being an imported literary form. We can say that the sci-fi in Arabic was born in the 1950s, more or less. However, these new elements integrate themselves into a substrate that already belongs to the Arab world, just as happened with sci-fi in English or in French: It was not born all of a sudden.”
Early Beginnings of Sci-Fi and Fantasia in the SWANA
Speculative Arabic narratives often get grouped under sci-fi, though they’re typically rooted in fantasia, blending speculative elements with absurdist themes rather than technological theories. This distinction shapes much of early Egyptian sci-fi’ cinema, where narratives related to folklore first emerged in the region, often with a comedic slant to deliver commentary without confrontation. Among the first genre films were Niazi Mostafa’s Where Did You Get This (Min Aina Laka Haza, 1952) and The Secret of the Vanishing Cap (Sirr Taqiyyat Al-Ikhfa, 1959). These films reflected Mostafa’s fascination with Hollywood’s Universal Studios and the work of visual effects artist John P. Fulton, famous for his invisibility effects in The Invisible Man (1933). While inventive, these films stayed closer to fantasy, framing invisibility as a magical phenomenon rather than a scientific concept.
In the same year, 1959, Journey to the Moon (Rihlah ela el-Qamar), directed by Hamada Abdel Wahab, marked a pivotal moment in Egyptian cinema toward traditional science fiction. The film, produced on a modest budget, satirised Western space-invasion narratives, reflecting the global fascination with space exploration during the late 1950s. This period coincided with president Gamal Abdel Nasser’s push for modernisation and Arab nationalism, with the film arguably channelling Egypt’s aspirations and anxieties amid rapid social change. While Journey to the Moon aligns with the global interest in space exploration, it was more a comedic adventure than a direct commentary on the ‘space race’ between the US and the USSR. In Egyptian cinema, addressing social and political tensions through comedy isn’t a workaround but a cultural signature. Comedy in Egyptian film and theatre has historically served as a soft but pointed critique, allowing filmmakers and playwrites to raise sensitive issues in ways that resonate with local audiences.
Outside of Egypt, Turkish cinema ventured into science fiction with Çetin İnanç’s The Man Who Saves the World (Dünyayı Kurtaran Adam, 1982), which audaciously incorporated unauthorised footage from Star Wars and other sci-fi films, leading many to label it a blatant rip-off. This creative choice was driven by budget constraints and a desire to capitalise on the global sci-fi craze ignited by Star Wars.
Overall, fantasia continued to be integral to Middle Eastern media, blending folklore and mythology to reflect cultural traditions. In the 1990s, this genre was used to impart moral lessons and address contemporary social issues with shows such as Kan Ya Ma Kan (Once Upon a Time, 1992–2000). The Syrian TV series exemplified the approach of fantastical storytelling promoting social virtues, aligning with the tradition of Ramadan television shows that often explore similar themes.
Thematic Divergence and Evolution of Sci-Fi in the East and West
While Western science fiction often explores themes of technological advancement and individualism, Middle Eastern and SWANA narratives frequently delve into collective memory, identity, and the lingering impacts of colonialism. This contrasts sharply with Western sci-fi, where heroes like Neo in The Matrix or Murphy in Interstellar actively dismantle oppressive systems or venture into new worlds, embodying the promise of redemption and reinvention. Though often bleak, Western dystopias leave space for transformation, suggesting that humanity can transcend its limitations and rebuild. In Blade Runner, for example, the dystopian cityscape is a place to overcome, and in Children of Men, hope for humanity is symbolised by the birth of a child in a collapsing world. The aesthetics in these films often reflect this underlying optimism: grand, sprawling visuals and dynamic, movement-driven shots that amplify the scale of the characters’ journeys toward a reimagined future. However, it’s worth noting that while these films offer glimpses of hope, their narratives are layered, often leaving outcomes ambiguous. Blade Runner, for instance, closes on unresolved questions, while Children of Men depicts a world where hope is precarious, teetering on the edge of collapse. Western sci-fi often constructs fictional worlds and mythologies to examine social theories in abstraction.
In contrast, Middle Eastern sci-fi draws directly from lived realities and modern-day conflicts. This restrained optimism contrasts sharply with Middle Eastern sci-fi, where the tension feels magnified, amplifying the weight of survival and identity in societies confronting internal and external pressures. This approach grounds SWANA narratives in the familiar tensions of identity, memory, and survival, making the themes of resistance and endurance feel less hypothetical and more urgent.
Such ideas can be found in the works of Larissa Sansour – a Palestinian artist based in London who uses photography, film, sculpture, and installation to explore the surreal dynamics of Palestinian existence. In her sci-fi short In the Future, They Ate from the Finest Porcelain, she introduces a ‘narrative terrorist’ who defies traditional ideas of terrorism and history. This protagonist doesn’t fight with violence but through storytelling and archaeology, burying porcelain dishes embedded with Palestinian DNA to resist the erasure of culture. Sansour’s film challenges viewers to question who holds the power to shape history, especially within the charged landscape of the Israeli occupation of Palestine, pushing us to reconsider the legitimacy of historical narratives and who benefits from their construction or erasure.
In other films by Sansour, such as In Vitro and A Space Exodus, similar narratives and visual approaches – often marked by dark, minimalist aesthetics and symbolism – use speculative settings to explore similar themes of displacement and cultural erasure. “In my 2019 film In Vitro, a scientist is having a dialogue in an underground bunker with the clone of her deceased daughter. Thirty years after an apocalypse, they discuss the value of memory and nostalgia for creating a future,” shares Sansour in an interview with ICON MENA. “The film presents a debate between two generations, one who has seen the world of the past and one born in exile. What role should the past be allowed to play? If you had the chance to rid yourself of the traumas of the past, why wouldn’t you? Memory is identity, but if your identity is inseparable from trauma, is it really something to cling to?”
Middle Eastern science fiction often embraces an art house aesthetic marked by experimental storytelling and symbolic imagery. This approach distinguishes it from mainstream Western sci-fi, which typically leans toward high-budget special effects and action-driven narratives. Generally, sci-fi in the Middle East contends with tight budgets and limited infrastructure, making high-concept films challenging. Yes, sci-fi doesn’t always need a Hollywood budget – a sharp narrative can carry the concept without extensive visuals. Still, more substantial funding would open the door for larger-scale productions that capture the region’s voice with a more significant impact. In 2020, the Middle East’s movies and entertainment industry was valued at about $1.86 billion and is expected to grow by approximately 8.5% each year from 2021 to 2028. In contrast, the US film industry is significantly larger. For example, in 2024, the US movie and video production market will be around $36.2 billion.
Emerging and established regional film funds, such as the Doha Film Institute (DFI), have been instrumental in supporting filmmakers through its grants program, which has benefited over 650 film projects from 74 countries since 2011. However, the allocation for science fiction projects is not specified, indicating a potential gap in targeted funding for this genre. For instance, Aerials (2016), the first science fiction film made in the UAE, emerged despite these financial constraints. While it received mixed reviews, its production highlights the challenges and potential of sci-fi filmmaking in the region.
Modern sci-fi/speculative films, such as Ouroboros (2017) by Basma Alsharif, Submarine (2016) by Mounia Akl, and Scales (2019) by Shahad Ameen, incorporate minimalist and art-house elements to explore themes of displacement, environmental degradation, and societal norms, respectively. However, Sansour’s films reflect an aesthetic deeply influenced by her background in art and sculpture. In In Vitro, the protagonist encounters a sizeable black sphere, a repository of trauma and memory. Initially conceived as a visual effect, Sansour made it a physical object – a five-metre fibreglass sphere painted in the deepest black, erasing all light and appearing as a massive, looming disc. Presented outside its cinematic context, the sphere’s intimidating presence transforms its impact, shifting it from a symbol to a visceral experience. Sansour’s dive into sci-fi began with a clear intent: to repurpose Western sci-fi tropes and challenge expectations around who gets to use these narratives. As a female artist from the Middle East, she saw an opportunity to shift the power dynamics – using the language and effects of Western sci-fi to tackle regional socio-political issues in a novel manner. Her approach doesn’t just reinterpret the genre; it “renegotiated the representation of the Middle East and the narrative vantage point expected from that region.”
Speculation as the Gateway
While Western genres use speculation to exercise colonial thought, Eastern genres reveal the inner workings of colonial ideologies, showcasing how imagination is used to forge collective identities or enemies. In contrast, revolutionary movements envision new societal orders not rooted in colonial hierarchy but in preservation and resistance, ones that dream of autonomy. In his Public Program Series, Footnotes on the Fictive Present, hosted by The Center for the Humanities at CUNY Graduate Center, researcher Adam HajYahia writes, “The historicised twinning of the two may be considered emancipatory as much as it is fascist, yet it appears as if the obsession with the political potential of imagination and aesthetics has come to be a modern vocation.” Today, there’s an intensified focus on how art and imagination might reshape political realities.
HajYahia references Mona Benyamin’s 2020 short film, Moonscape, where the protagonist’s quest for a ‘lunar passport’ satirises the limitations of colonial borders, encapsulating the claustrophobic experience of Palestinians as they attempt to escape their reality, only to find even their imagination restricted. Benyamin combines surreal aesthetics with Arab pop culture to intensify the psychological toll of militarised borders, illustrating how colonial structures permeate physical space and personal aspiration. In sci-fi, claustrophobia operates as a philosophical predicament where the physical and imaginative boundaries blur. The genre heightens this tension through closed worlds and authoritarian futures, portraying confinement as a condition that shapes the self as profoundly as it shapes society. In these narratives, colonial histories infiltrate even the realm of dreams, turning the act of imagination into an act of resistance.
Arab sci-fi moves beyond escapism, becoming a lens to explore the tensions between memory and possibility, confinement and imagination. In works by filmmakers like Larissa Sansour and Mona Benyamin, the future is rarely a place of freedom unburdened by the past; instead, it’s shaped by a haunting familiarity, where the scars of colonialism and the limitations of reality remain intact, even in the most speculative worlds. “I find that these genres and the distance to the present that they provide do offer a platform for alternate narratives. They invite explorations of concepts and issues that tend to fall through the cracks in most mainstream dialogue where a natural urgency tends to favour the more acutely pressing themes,” shares Sansour. “Once you temporally remove yourself from the perpetual urgency, you have the chance to create a more philosophically liberated space where no one will challenge the fiction for the immediate concerns it might neglect. In recent years, I have been working a lot with genetics, memory and inherited trauma. The discipline of epigenetics suggests that trauma is transferred between generations at the genetic level, which means that even in the absence of storytelling, trauma lives on and inflicts harm in future generations.”
Through this lens, the genre becomes a space to question where we are going and how we carry our histories with us – and what that means for a future where even the act of dreaming is tinged with resistance. In Arab sci-fi, freedom feels elusive even when pursued. Dystopian aesthetics reinforce the notion that the past, with its colonial scars, is a landscape that cannot be entirely left behind. These works question whether a future unbound by colonialism and displacement is possible. Sansour notes that “The present Palestinian reality is inextricable from its past and its future,” and “sci-fi offers the framework to address all three tenses simultaneously.” The aesthetics themselves suggest that true liberation is as complex and fragmented as the landscapes and histories these characters inhabit, reinforcing that in the Middle East, “the leap from a politically and socially dire present to a future utopia is a very big one which invariably would appear to miss a few essential steps.”
In this sense, the Arab sci-fi hero’s journey is not about conquering external systems but confronting an internalised past that persists in every corner of the future. Rather than providing escapism, Arab sci-fi holds a mirror to the enduring struggle for autonomy, carving out a space where even the act of dreaming is fraught with political weight.
Scientific progress feels like a distant luxury when the most speculative ambition is political, economic, and even moral stability. Stability itself appears as an almost utopian vision, making technological leaps seem irrelevant, even absurd. Advanced tools mean little in a world where ethical breakdown, political complacency, and a widening chasm between governments and citizens persist as fundamental obstacles. This situation brings forth an uncomfortable realisation that the very notion of ‘progress’ is skewed in a landscape defined by political stagnation and humanitarian neglect. If anything, the idea of ‘progress’ demands questioning the institutional frameworks that shape regional and foreign policy.
Viewed in this light, it’s no surprise that Arab sci-fi rejects – consciously or subconsciously – the Western tropes of starships and cybernetic revolutions. Instead, these narratives confront history, political oppression, and the fixation on survival, rooted in a reality where bare existence feels speculative enough.
While Western sci-fi often asks, “What if?”, Arab sci-fi seems more preoccupied with the question, “What now?”
Words: Rand Al-Hadethi
