What happens when political activism tears a family apart? Egyptian filmmaker Bassam Mortada's Abo Zaabal 89 reveals all

Political activism is often shrouded in a romantic, even heroic halo – those who dedicate themselves to it are seen as champions of a cause that promises a better life for others.

But what happens in their private lives? How much of that altruistic generosity truly benefits their loved ones – or, rather, how much does it harm them?

At the age of five, Bassam Mortada first visited his father Mahmoud, a left-wing political convict, in the infamous Abo Zaabal prison.

The memory of the police’s intrusion remained vivid, even if much of it made little sense to him at the time.

What began as confusion gradually hardened into resentment over the years. Raised by his mother, Fardous – a fellow socialist activist – Bassam watched her navigate the hardships of single parenthood.

Soon after Mahmoud’s eventual release, he left for Vienna and abandoned his wife and son again, this time voluntarily, which only widened the emotional distance within the family.

Inside Abo Zaabal

In his poignant documentary Abo Zaabal 89, which won the Best Feature Documentary Award at the 45th Cairo International Film Festival and was recently presented at the 27th Thessaloniki International Documentary Festival, Bassam revisits this painful past to reconnect with his estranged parents and uncover the emotional toll of their political activism.

Blending intimate conversations, archival material, cassette tapes from his father, and a monologue turned into a theatre performance by a close family friend, the film explores how Egypt’s turbulent political history shaped not only a generation of activists but also the fragile inner lives of their children.

The film is both a search for historical truth and a personal journey toward trauma healing.

Tracing the fault lines of his family's past, Bassam Mortada wasn’t just confronting history – he was stepping directly into his own unresolved pain.

Raised in a politically active Egyptian nuclear, Bassam’s childhood was steeped in ideology, protest, and the pursuit of justice. But in the shadows of that noble cause, something quieter and more personal was left unspoken: the emotional cost.

“My childhood was spent in a political activist household, which shaped me for life,” Bassam tells The New Arab.

“My parents belonged to the socialist movement. Socialism and the struggle for justice in Egypt were the most important values for them.”

There was pride in that legacy — no doubt — but also complexity. “On one hand, I felt proud that my parents were so engaged politically. On the other hand, it had a massive impact on us. Family life came second. We only talked about politics, and even our feelings were always tied to political events. My parents’ friends were all the same; same ideas, same upbringing. It was like being inside a bubble.”

That bubble burst in 1989. The aftermath of the Abo Zaabal Prison incident — a brutal episode in Egypt’s political history — became a defining trauma for the Mortada family. It was an event that cast a long, complicated shadow over their lives.

“I always knew one day we would talk about it seriously,” Bassam says. “Not just in passing or when we were angry. I wanted to create a space where we could speak about pain while doing normal things — cooking, folding laundry, just being home.”

Asked about how his parents reacted to the idea of having their lives — so personal, so politically loaded — put under the lens, Bassam explains: “They weren’t against it. In fact, they were happy to finally talk and have it documented in a film. But during the process, they realised it was harder than they thought.”

Despite being seasoned public speakers from their activist years, this project hit a different nerve. “I told them, ‘We are not talking to the public — we are talking to each other as a family.’ That’s when it became emotionally difficult.”

Working with an 'imagined archive' 

As part of his research, Bassam cast a wide net, reaching beyond just family and friends. He immersed himself in political records, protest material, and media from the late 1980s.

“I looked at everything — news articles, protest documents, even tiny notes smuggled out of prison. I watched films, listened to the music of that time. I wasn’t just after facts, I wanted to know how people expressed their sadness and pain,” he shares. 

One of the most jarring discoveries along the way wasn’t in an archive, but in its absence.

“I learned that Egypt has no easy-to-use public archive. That’s a big problem. Even in families, people don’t save things – no photos, no letters. We don’t value memory. That’s heartbreaking, especially for filmmakers. It says something about how little we care about preserving both personal and national history,” he shares. 

Faced with a lack of historical footage, Bassam had to be creative. Together with editor Ahmed Abo el-Fadl, they crafted what he calls an “imagined archive.”

“Editing was very hard and took a long time,” he admits. “There weren’t many old videos or photos to use. So we had to build emotional authenticity another way. We were looking for a way to balance feeling and fact, as our goal was not to make just a political film. I wanted something that held family emotions and politics in the same frame.”

At some point in the film, the crumbling statue of Lenin — a symbol of the fall of communism — serves as a pivotal image, reflecting Mahmoud’s emotional collapse as a devoted believer in leftist ideology.

“My father was very disappointed,” Bassam comments. “He felt the world he knew was gone. And it wasn’t just personal — it was a global loss. That collective failure made it easier for him to accept his own. He didn’t feel alone. Everyone was losing something. He permitted himself to let go.”

This led Bassam to a deeper inquiry: what happens to men in moments of defeat? How do they carry loss, and how does that echo through their relationships?

At one point in the film, his father asks, “Was it my fault or was it out of my control?” It’s a piercing question — one without a clean answer. And that, Bassam says, is the point.

“There’s no clear answer. That’s what the film is about. Life isn’t black and white. That’s why I ended it with a question. It might feel unresolved, but that’s exactly how our real story feels, too.”

Reconnection between father and son

The filmmaking process, though emotionally taxing, became a catalyst for a subtle but powerful reconnection between father and son.

“We definitely came closer by making the film together,” he tells The New Arab. “That’s something new and important for both of us.”

Bassam continues, "As for the past — it’s complicated. But now he knows I’m not judging him. I’m telling his story to understand myself. My own pain. Our shared relationship. And I think that’s something many people can relate to.”

Abo Zaabal 89 has started reaching international audiences, and Bassam finds himself fascinated by how different viewers respond.

He wonders if a story so rooted in Egypt’s political history can still resonate with those unfamiliar with its context.

“I’m thinking a lot about how people from other countries, other generations, receive films like this — ones that don’t explain everything,” he says.

“Can they still feel the story, even if they don’t know all the background? That’s the big question on my mind now.”

Mariana Hristova is a freelance film critic, cultural journalist, and programmer. She contributes to national and international outlets and has curated programs for Filmoteca De Catalunya, Arxiu Xcèntric, goEast Wiesbaden, etc. Her professional interests include cinema from the European peripheries and archival and amateur films