If there is one word that has been stretched beyond recognition in internet culture, it is toxic. What used to describe genuinely harmful behavior is now used for anything that rubs someone the wrong way. A late reply? Toxic. A personality clash? Toxic.
These days, toxic has become Gen Z’s go-to label for anything that makes them feel uncomfortable. But that was not always the case. Not long ago, calling a behavior toxic was not as straightforward, mainly because some of those behaviors were so deeply integrated into the fabric of culture that calling them out was not just about the act itself, but about questioning an entire way of life.
Still, there is some room for a middle ground; one that acknowledges harmful behavior without dismissing generational or cultural differences outright. Some Egyptian films and TV series, like Maweed Ala El Ashaa (A Dinner Date, 1981) and Bent Esmaha Zaat (A Girl Named Zat, 2013), navigate this space with subtlety.
They do not overtly label certain maternal behaviors as toxic, but through some scenes, they invite the viewer to recognize the harm while also understanding that these patterns are deeply embedded in culture, extending far beyond the individual.
Maweed Ala El Ashaa (A Dinner Date, 1981), directed by Mohamed Khan, is an Egyptian feminist tragedy that follows Nawal (played by Soad Hosni), a woman trapped in a controlling marriage to Ezzat (played by Hussein Fahmy). While the film centers on Nawal’s fight for autonomy, her relationship with her mother (played by Zouzou Mady), though not a focal point, provides a telling glimpse into toxic maternal dynamics.
Nawal’s mother, a minor yet significant presence, represents a more subdued kind of toxicity; one shaped by social conditioning and silent compliance with patriarchal norms. In a way, her minor role subtly reflects how toxicity was not always visible or easily named at the time, but instead, it lingered quietly in the background.
In one of the film’s most emotional moments, Nawal pleads with her mother: “Mama, I want to know, can you love me one time, can you love me once?” In another, she says, “You are my mom, you are the one supposed to be supporting me.” Yet throughout these scenes, her mother remains largely unmoved, not out of coldness, but out of a conviction shaped by a very different set of values.
To her, love is not expressed through softness or emotional validation, but through sacrifice, endurance, and doing what she believes is best, even if that “best” ultimately causes harm.
In another moment, Nawal’s mother dismisses her with the remark that she knows nothing about life, an attempt to assert her own experience and authority. But in doing so, she unintentionally deepens Nawal’s growing sense of inadequacy. The comment cuts at something fragile, prompting Nawal to respond with anguish: “Why do you always make me feel like I am weak and little?”
By today’s standards, Nawal’s mother might quickly be labeled as toxic for her inability to truly see or respond to her daughter’s pain. But the film resists that easy judgment. Instead, it offers space to view her behavior not as the fault of one individual, but as the outcome of a culture that shaped her.
Decades later, similar themes resurface in Bent Esmaha Zaat (A Girl Named Zat, 2013), a TV series based on Sonallah Ibrahim’s novel. Tracing the life of Zat (played by Nelly Karim) from the 1952 Egyptian Revolution to the early 2000s, the series explores the social and political changes in Egypt through her personal journey.
At its heart is an intimate portrayal of family life, particularly Zat’s relationship with her mother (played by Entsar). Much like Maweed Ala El Ashaa (A Dinner Date, 1981), the mother-daughter dynamic is not framed as overtly or entirely toxic. Instead, it is shown as a bond shaped, and at times strained, by the larger cultural and political forces surrounding them.
Zat is, in many ways, every mother, every grandmother, every young Egyptian woman we still see around us today. Her story resonates because it captures something universal: a daughter navigating life under the weight of a mother’s control, whether it is deciding which college to attend or whom to marry.
Her mother’s behavior reflects a deeper tension faced by many Egyptian women, torn between the pull of tradition and the desire for autonomy in a changing world.
In one telling scene, Zat’s mother comes to stay at her home, and within moments, the generational divide becomes unmistakably clear. She critiques everything, from the smallest details of the decor to the behavior of Zat’s friends and the noise they bring. The home, traditionally a private space and a reflection of family identity, becomes a battleground.
For Zat, it is a space of autonomy, but through her mother’s eyes, it becomes a site of disapproval, symbolizing the larger clash between two ways of being, two value systems, and two generations.
Both mothers, though loving in their own ways, are not intentionally toxic, but they still inflict harm by placing societal expectations above their daughters’ emotional well-being. Their actions reveal that toxicity is often shaped by a web of cultural, social, and political pressures.
Long before toxic became a Gen Z buzzword, these two works were already unpacking the kinds of behaviors we now rush to label. They were ahead of their time, urging us to look beyond the surface and into the deeper layers, a tangle of culture, tradition, and social pressure, that reveal just how blurry the lines around “toxic” can really be.
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