In recent years, a wave of female-led dramas addressing women’s issues has emerged, touching on themes like divorce, gender-based violence, inheritance rights, and financial independence. Shows like Faten Amal Harby and Taht El Wisaya move away from tropes of women seeking revenge or domination, offering viewers a dose of socially grounded drama. Yet, behind these narratives lies a critical issue: the tendency to shape female characters to fit societal expectations rather than challenge them. These shows present women’s issues through scenarios that reinforce dominant power dynamics instead of advocating for change.
Beraghm El Qanoun (Against the Law) exemplifies this trend. Upon its release, it was quickly compared to other popular series that address the struggles of women within oppressive legal and societal systems. However, while it maintained high viewership and trended consistently, it ultimately fell short in subverting the very norms it claims to critique.
The plot centers around Leila, played by Eman El Assi, a lawyer forced back into her profession by her husband Akram’s sudden disappearance. She’s thrust into a web of betrayal and deceit, running after truths about Akram (portrayed by Mohamed Al-Qass) that threaten to unravel her family’s future. At face value, Leila’s journey could be that of a complex, resilient woman challenging the limitations imposed on her. But as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that she’s less a symbol of resistance than a character crafted to fit neatly within society’s ideal of a “strong woman”—one who, ultimately, conforms to the roles laid out for her as someone responding to issues instead of being an agent of her destiny.
This issue runs through Beraghm El Qanoun: female characters are given roles that feel tailored by familiar tropes rather than nuanced realities. For example, Sawsan, played by Jouri Badr, is portrayed as a vindictive, manipulative, gold-digging woman driven by jealousy. She sabotages Leila’s pursuit of truth out of sheer spite, seducing friends and twisting loyalties to serve her ends. Her motivations are shallow, designed not to make her complex but to justify her downfall—a character painted as an embodiment of “female evil,” whose only purpose is to incite the audience’s contempt.
Meanwhile, male antagonists receive depth and sympathy. Akram, the primary villain, is humanized through a tragic backstory that paints him as a victim of circumstance. His abusive tendencies are softened by the revelation of a traumatic past, hinting at childhood scars left by familial rejection and sibling rivalry. His actions, while violent, are explained away as the scars of emotional neglect, granting him layers and a sense of tragedy that the female antagonists are never afforded. Instead, they’re one-dimensional, their “sins” attributed to inherent moral flaws rather than anything resembling complex motivation.
Another male antagonist, portrayed by Walid Fawaz, is a miserly husband who subjects his family to financial, physical, and emotional abuse. His misogyny is eventually explained by his own mother’s marital betrayal, casting his misogyny as a reaction to personal trauma rather than an intrinsic character defect. His cruelty becomes almost excusable in the eyes of the narrative, a byproduct of abandonment rather than genuine malice. When his mother reappears, her perspective is conspicuously absent, especially since her ex-husband is presented as a regular father trying his best to guide his son away from stinginess.
This imbalance reflects a broader societal bias, visible in a key scene between Leila and her sister Faten. Faten, subjected to years of psychological and financial abuse by her husband, finally finds a semblance of comfort in a virtual affair. But rather than acknowledge her pain, Leila condemns her, reinforcing a double standard that equates women’s mistakes with inherent failure while allowing men’s flaws to be “explained.” When Leila slaps her sister—a shocking moment that lays bare her allegiance to societal norms—viewers are left to confront the brutal reality: even the protagonist, the supposed hero, upholds the very double standards she’s meant to resist.
Beraghm El Qanoun uses its female characters’ struggles to create drama, but it does little to challenge the structures that create these struggles. Instead, it capitalizes on the allure of “women’s empowerment” while packaging female suffering as entertainment. Leila’s journey—and Akram’s eventual punishment—feel like narrative concessions meant to appease audiences rather than provoke thought. Female characters suffer and endure, but they never challenge the order that keeps them in their place. The show’s resolution is not one of liberation or justice, but of containment, reassuring viewers that things will remain comfortably unchanged.
At its core, Beraghm El Qanoun profits from the appearance of empowerment while leaving the patriarchal foundations unshaken. It raises the question: has the portrayal of women’s issues in media become merely a profitable label?
