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Help, My Mum’s An iPad Kid! Unpacking the Brainrot-ification of Arab Parents

BYSara Mihssin

May 7, 2026

The term “iPad Kid” is normally used to describe the screen-addicted Gen Alpha, a generation born between 2010-2024, who are glued to their oversized screens in an endless scroll. Conversations around screentime, doomscrolling, and ingesting questionable online content are typically reserved for the younger generation, with an emphasis on the damaging effects on their mental health. But what if the iPad kid is no longer a generational phenomenon? What if the cohort we really need to worry about is our Arab parents?

My mum is an Instagram Reels addict. She bombards my DMs with questionable podcast clips and AI-generated, kitschy Islamic greeting videos that look like they were made on PowerPoint in 2007. She’s not alone; my grandma lives on Snapchat, documenting her errands like it’s a “day in the life in Baghdad.” And my uncle? He’s a self-proclaimed self-help “addict” who ingests Anas Bukhash like it’s gospel.

Although the screentime between the iPad kid and our older relatives might be far more alike than we think, the way they are consuming their media and appraising it is in stark contrast. Whilst the iPad kid has only ever known a world with social media, our elders regard it with novelty and confusion. In an age of oversaturated feeds, what happens when our elders are left to scroll without the appropriate digital literacy to protect them from online brain rot?

From Gen Alpha, to Zoomers, to Boomers, scrolling is universal, but the type of media and the platforms they use are anything but. Younger generations use the internet to follow trends, shaping identity through virality and pop culture through platforms like TikTok and Instagram.

Older generations, on the other hand, use it for self-help podcasts, bizarre AI videos, and an endless stream of greetings. Their experience is less shaped by algorithms and more by each other, through WhatsApp forwards and Facebook community groups.

Every Arab will be familiar with the maximalist greetings that live in our WhatsApp forwards and DMs. They’ve become an ecosystem of their own, endlessly circulating and multiplying. Sparkly GIFs with Arabic greetings bombard our inboxes like it’s breaking news; bright, blaring, and in your face. They often reach their peak around religious holidays, but that doesn’t stop them coming through at other times of the year, often in the form of asking for God’s blessing or, in my case as a single woman, praying I finally find a husband.

The Arab auntie greeting has advanced into its own aesthetic world, something New York–based artist Sarah Elawad leans into by reworking these ornate GIFs and videos into her own quirky Ramadan and Eid greetings. An ode and appreciation to the digital way in which Arabs uniquely communicate.

In a culture that prioritizes the collective over the individual, this outpouring and need for connection through overt maximalism feels natural, especially where expressing your love abundantly is a part of everyday life. One friend of mine had to tell her grandma to stop sending Arabic greetings to her French boyfriend. They had never met, but that didn’t stop her. To her, this was bonding, an intrinsic part of our culture.

The problem is only worsened by how information is shared within the Arab bubble. Mirroring a real neighborhood, our digital circles have resulted in a space where content is less likely to be critically assessed, where concepts like fake news or AI are not always recognized as such. Trust often lies in who shared it, rather than where it came from.

The rise of AI-generated content has exploded, with trends like “Italian brainrot” consuming Gen-Alpha over the past year. But this hasn’t stopped our parents and grandparents from living in their own version of an AI utopia. Their obsession with these bizarre videos has taken hold, despite the shoddy graphics and questionable storylines. From grandmas lifting heavy weights and Cristiano Ronaldo singing El Tannoura by Fares Karam to family members posing with Donald Trump.

The difference between the iPad kid and the iPad adult is that one can recognize these images as AI-generated, while the other believes they’re witnessing something real, miraculous, even. In my own household, the number of arguments spent trying to convince family members that the videos they can’t stop looping aren’t real has become exhausting.

But there is a darker side to this level of vulnerability. In the US, a Southern Californian tech company has launched an AI-powered “Jesus”, offering paid one-to-one conversations from $1.99 a minute. For those who are elderly or isolated, this isn’t just novelty, it’s something easily exploited; as a new alternate reality opens up to the digitally illiterate, what might they believe in the face of very believable (or even not so believable) AI?

This exploitation of naivety also exists in the “fake news” space, where the older generation take the media as authority, and authority as truth. One friend who is dealing with the age-old problem of thinning hair is hit daily with a barrel of reels from his mum on how to combat said hair loss. Pumpkin seed supplements and natural remedies sent endlessly, taking some Arab aunties’ health advice as gospel over any form of evidence-based research.

The misinformation can take on a more serious tone as “news” travels through the void of WhatsApp and Telegram messages. Breaking news is recirculated— old repurposed footage on an Instagram Reel, a parody news article on X, screenshots of mistranslated headlines— forwarded endlessly with no context or fact-checking. A perfect example is the supposed “deaths” of world leaders, first posted as parodies on X, before quickly being picked up and shared as fact. In moments of crisis, particularly when news from home travels first through social media, urgency often replaces verification, and parody or hyperbole replace truth.

With a global population of around 470 million Arabs, where 30 million live in diaspora, the phone is not just a source of entertainment, it is a lifeline. As families are scattered across the world, social media becomes a way of maintaining connection, especially in the face of current conflict. Reels, TikToks, WhatsApp messages, Facebook posts, and Instagram stories become stand-ins for conversation. For many, the first update on loved ones far from home might not come through a phone call, but through a post, a video, or a forwarded message. The screen becomes a way of checking in, of staying close, of feeling present.

But the issue with our elders is not usage, it’s discernment. In an era of endless content, produced at speed and in overwhelming volume, critical thinking becomes essential. And while it is difficult for anyone to keep up, those who are relatively new to technology have not had time for digital literacy to develop. In that gap, misinformation, manipulation and blind trust begin to take hold.

The conversation around screen time has long been focused on the youth, but perhaps it’s time we widened the lens. Because the iPad kid hasn’t just grown up. In many ways, they’ve grown older.

Help, My Mum’s An iPad Kid! Unpacking the Brainrot-ification of Arab Parents

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Help, My Mum’s An iPad Kid! Unpacking the Brainrot-ification of Arab Parents

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