In her first feature film, Zeina Abdel Baky, daughter of veteran actor Ashraf Abdel Baky, emerges as a promising voice in Egyptian cinema, and a filmmaker unafraid to take risks. Meen Yesadak (Who’d Believe It?) premiered at the Cairo International Film Festival in 2024, competing in the “Arab Horizons” section.
Though it initially generated buzz on the festival circuit, the film recently trended on social media again after its 2024 release on the Shahid streaming platform, drawing a wave of discussion, debate, and divided opinions.
A Story Rooted in Silence and Neglect
At its core, Meen Yesadak follows Jayda Mansour, who plays Nadine, a young woman in her 20s who comes from a wealthy yet emotionally barren household. She meets Bassem, played by Youssef Omar, a charming fraudster who offers her the one factor in life which her parents never provided: attention.
Nadine’s father, a powerful and perpetually busy businessman played by Sherif Mounir, rarely gives her the time of day, while her mother is emotionally absent and uninterested in her struggles. The only person Nadine forms a genuine connection with in her household is Karima, her maid, portrayed by Arfah Abdulrasool. But, that connection is broken when her parents abruptly fire her, cutting off Nadine’s only stable relationship.
Nadine and Bassem’s relationship later on evolves into a complex, morally grey partnership built on deceit, survival, loneliness, and trauma. As the line between victim and perpetrator blurs, the film drags the viewer into the emotional consequences of looking for love in broken places.
Their scamming schemes eventually entangle them with a dangerous figure, played by Ashraf Abdel Baky, whose involvement raises the stakes and forces the couple to confront the consequences of their choices.
Not Your Everyday Egyptian Film
What immediately sets Meen Yesadak apart is how brave and unformulaic it is. This is not your average Egyptian melodrama or romantic thriller. There are no flashy one-liners, no over-the-top gestures of love. The characters, especially Nadine and Bassem, are muted, even cold at times, but that is the only way they know how to show emotion.
They do not love each other like idealized movie characters; they are clinging to each other for warmth, fear, and self-preservation. Their love is quiet, cautious, almost contractual, and that makes the relationship unsettlingly authentic.
Even in scenes where Bassem “defends” Nadine, his actions never read like heroic romantic jealousy. Instead, the actions feels like a man trying to satisfy his own guilt, as if by protecting her, he is proving to himself that he is not a villain.
Take the scene where he sees her father’s friend (played by Sherif Helmy) attempting to rape her: his reaction of beating the rapist until death is not out of deep love but rather a reflex of conscience. He needs to believe he is still a good person, and defending Nadine gives him that illusion. His reaction is less about her and more about absolving himself, momentarily silencing his guilt and the part of him that knows he has led her into this life.
Subtlety Over Sensation
The film refuses to spoon-feed its viewers. One of the most brilliant yet easily missed moments involves Karima, who suffers from early-stage Alzheimer’s. In one scene, she offers Nadine a lemon drink, exits the room, then returns with another. At first, the scene looks like a continuity error, but later we realize it is a nuanced depiction of memory loss.
This moment is not dramatized. There is no music cue, no dramatic breakdown: just a woman who forgets, in the background of a larger story. This kind of subtle character detail is rare in Egyptian cinema, which often portrays illness with melodramatic flourishes. Zeina resists that and, in doing so, delivers a scene that is quietly devastating.
“Toxic Love”? Or Unflinching Realism?
Some critics have attacked Meen Yesadak for “promoting toxic relationships” or normalizing cohabitation without marriage, a topic still deeply taboo in many parts of Egyptian society. However, this criticism misunderstands the role of art.
A filmmaker showing the reality of a relationship that is flawed, complex, and destructive is not the same as endorsing the relationship. The film does not glorify Nadine and Bassem’s bond; the film dissects its nature. The film shows how people fall into these traps, what drives them, and what they lose. If anything, the film could act as a cautionary tale, not a celebration and, ultimately, a reflection of a reality that exists within our own society as well.
Performance in Restraint
The performances could deliberately be seen as low-key, but that it could also be just realistic everyday life.
Many complained that the acting felt “cold” or “flat,” but that is precisely what gives the film its edge. Real people in dangerous relationships do not always cry and scream. Sometimes they sit, numb, because they have already felt too much.
This is especially true in scenes like the hospital confrontation, where Bassem’s anger seems more about himself than about protecting Nadine. Or in the final moments of the film, when Nadine returns to her parents, only to find that nothing has changed. Her father is still emotionally absent; her mother is still preoccupied with her own world. No one noticed she left. No one asked where she went.
And that is perhaps the film’s most tragic message: Nadine did not change her parents or teach them a lesson because she was never important enough to them to begin with.
A Bold First Step
One can easily forget that Meen Yesadak is Zeina’s first feature film and does not rely on A-list actor fame. The film casts young, unfamiliar faces and trusts them to carry heavy, complex material and does not chase easy applause.
The fact that the art work has made such noise from festivals to streaming without leaning on commercial tropes is a testament to Zeina’s bravery as a filmmaker. She chose a morally uncomfortable topic, showing characters in emotional gray zones. She dared to leave questions unanswered.
In a bold and deeply personal move, Zeina cast her own father, Ashraf Abdelbaky, in the role of the film’s villain, his first time ever portraying such a character. Not only did he rise to the challenge, earning widespread applause for his chilling performance, but it was his daughter who wrote the role specifically for him.
In doing so, she joins the growing movement of Egyptian female directors pushing through the noise and making films that matter not because they flatter, but because they cut deep.
(SPOILER ALERT)
“A Safe Ending” But the Only One That Could Work?
The online audience viewed Bassem’s death at the end as too shocking. But in a film that draws such a fine line between empathy and critique, the ending may have been the only one capable of giving audiences a sense of resolution, especially given how controversial the film’s subject matter is. Thus, if the film ended any other way, it could have faced a lot of backlash.
To satisfy audiences and institutions that view the relationship as toxic or immoral, the film had to deliver “consequences.” In a way, Bassem’s death is not merely a narrative conclusion, but a cultural and ideological closure. The audience unconsciously demands punishment for wrongdoing, even when they have come to understand the character and have formed an emotional connection . The film’s choice of his death seemed connected to his former bad deeds to satisfy the viewers.
The final scene elevates this from a moral tale to cinematic poetry. Nadine sits alone in white, while a time-lapse shows the world moving on without her. Time has stopped for her, a visual metaphor for grief, guilt, and psychological death. The white clothes that she is wearing represent a symbolic kafan (burial shroud), which is a white cloth that gets wrapped around dead bodies, implying that she, too, died that day, just not physically.
Despite being spoiled in promos and online chatter, the scene where Bassem dies still grips you. From the sound of the whistle to the sudden shift in the camera, there is an almost unbearable tension. You know it is coming, and yet you still flinch.
That kind of visceral reaction does not come from plot alone, but from execution. From how well a director builds space, expectation, and silence. Zeina shows she has that instinct.
Final Verdict
Meen Yesadak is not flawless, but it is a film that takes bold, creative risks. It confronts flawed family dynamics and engages with subjects many might prefer to ignore. Zeina’s debut feature cuts through social comfort zones with realism, subtlety, and tragic honesty.
The film may frustrate some, or anger others. But, what is undeniable is that it lingers.
The opinions and ideas expressed in this article are the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the views of Egyptian Streets’ editorial team.
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