Unreal art, real consequences: When imagination meets institutional fear

The arrest of Abd El-Rahman Khaled for producing an AI-generated promotional video for the Grand Egyptian Museum, allegedly in violation of intellectual property rights, has sparked widespread debate over the limits of intellectual property law. Do these laws protect creativity—or do they serve monopolistic interests?

The video, which featured global stars like Mohamed Salah and Lionel Messi, went viral. Messi’s appearance drew particular attention, as critics condemned it amid allegations that he supports Zionism and donates to Israel. The video circulated so widely that many mistook it for an official advertisement for the museum’s long-anticipated opening.

The backlash prompted the Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities to issue a statement denying any connection to the video, which it labeled as “fake content” that constituted “a violation of intellectual property and public performance rights.” Minister of Tourism and Antiquities Sherif Fathy publicly accused the creator of stealing intellectual property.

The ministry filed a complaint, and Khaled was arrested. He was later released after pro-government voices expressed sympathy, portraying him as a “creative and patriotic young man.” The ministry also withdrew its complaint.

This incident highlights the tension between AI-driven creativity and legal restrictions. The video, a personal initiative, was met with a punitive official response. The conflict between the young man’s seemingly good intentions and the state’s legal approach underscores the significance of the case—and the broader question of how artificial intelligence intersects with intellectual property and the potential to restrict digital creativity.

Alleged violations

Fundamental questions arise about the rights allegedly violated, and whether the Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities had any legal standing to litigate the matter. The AI-generated video included images of global celebrities, raising issues tied to image rights (a person’s control over the use of their likeness) and rights of publicity (the ability to profit from one’s reputation and public persona). These rights belong to the individuals concerned, not to the state.

Despite this, the ministry acted as the primary complainant even though the original rights holders had taken no action. This reveals a clear conflation of legal standing and vested interest in the state’s official argument.

The official discourse further blurred lines by describing the incident as intellectual property theft. This broad use of the term conflated plagiarism—claiming someone else’s work as one’s own—with legitimate artistic practices such as imitation, generative art, creative appropriation, or recontextualization.

Generative art refers to producing new works using tools such as AI or traditional digital methods, by starting from existing elements but transforming them into an independent piece.

Creative appropriation and recontextualization are longstanding traditions in art and literature, drawing on existing images, melodies, styles, or ideas and reinterpreting them in new contexts. For instance, an artist might incorporate a celebrity’s image into a critical work, or a poet might reframe an old verse in a modern poem.

These practices are accepted artistic traditions rooted in quotation, transformation, and reinterpretation—and should not be equated with theft.

Regarding creators’ rights, the official response reflects a distinction that is still under active debate and ongoing regulation. There is a clear difference between AI-assisted works, which include a substantial human contribution attributable to an author, and fully AI-generated works devoid of any clear human imprint.

Regarding trademarks and the museum’s visual identity, protection extends only to the official logo and design. It does not grant absolute control over all representations of the site. Since the museum was publicly funded, its visual identity arguably belongs in the public domain.

Trademark law protects only against uses that might lead to consumer confusion or unfair competition. The video was never presented as an official advertisement, meaning there was no real likelihood of confusion.

Nonetheless, claims of harm were amplified without any factual basis. Nothing indicated that the museum or its upcoming inauguration suffered any negative impact from a short, non-commercial video clearly presented as an individual, unofficial effort.

Deconstructing the claim

At first glance, the state’s treatment of the video appears to be an attempt to restrict creativity. Upon closer inspection, however, the official framing of AI as a threat to intellectual property serves monopolistic interests more than it protects the right of artists.

Historically, intellectual property laws were designed less to protect individual creators than to safeguard publishers and producers. In the digital era, these laws have expanded into a restrictive framework that limits the possibilities of transformative reuse, leaving experimental or educational works vulnerable to legal threats. Intellectual property has become a tool for entrenching privilege and controlling production and distribution channels, rather than an instrument for fostering creativity.

Artificial intelligence starkly highlights this contradiction. The algorithms that generate content are trained on the cultural commons freely available online—humanity’s collective output. Yet individuals are barred from knowing or auditing what and how these algorithms learn, while large corporations and states monopolize the results and transform them into new sources of profit. The result is that individual experimentation is criminalized, while ownership and revenue remain concentrated in dominant institutions.

Legal misclassification

In Khaled’s case, the Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities pursued a criminal route from the outset, bypassing the standard escalation typically seen in intellectual property disputes. Normally, such cases begin with a formal notice, a takedown request, a correction, or even a disclaimer clarifying the unofficial nature of the content.

If proven material harm exists, civil remedies like compensation or settlement may follow. But the immediate jump to criminal prosecution, as happened with Khaled, criminalized an artistic initiative that brought no financial gain—violating the principle of proportionality between act and consequence.

This overreach has implications far beyond Khaled. Referring such initiatives to criminal investigation creates a chilling effect that discourages content creators and artists from experimenting with new forms of digital expression for fear of prosecution.

When intellectual property laws are applied expansively, they cease to protect rights and instead become a tool for suppressing freedom of expression and creativity. This expansion manifests in malicious or preemptive complaints aimed at silencing criticism, parody, or satire. In turn, public discourse loses essential tools of commentary and correction.

Authorities are also increasingly prone to overreach in content removal demands, targeting works that pose no real infringement simply because they conflict with narrow political or commercial interests. The definition of harm itself has been broadened to include mere embarrassment or a narrative that conflicts with official accounts—making artistic initiatives and critical speech vulnerable to erasure.

What happened to Khaled goes beyond a simple legal dispute over a short video; it reveals a larger pattern shaping the relationship between creativity and regulation in the age of artificial intelligence.

When intellectual property laws are invoked to criminalize individual artistic efforts, the underlying message is that cultural space belongs not to the public, but to the state and corporations. Instead of safeguarding authors’ rights and nurturing creativity, the law becomes a mechanism to enclose the cultural commons under institutional control.