Behind ‘The Slave Yards’

Why did you decide to write about slavery in 20th century Libya?

As a writer, what is always at the forefront of my mind are stories: old stories, new stories. The question I ask myself sometimes is: what is the point of us talking about writing based on history when history keeps repeating itself? The slavery that I wrote about, that was prevalent in the last century in Arab and Islamic countries, came back today in the very same way when Daesh took control of areas in Iraq, Syria; took women captive and sold them in slave markets. Daesh took us back to the Dark Ages while we’re living in the 21st century! Isn’t writing about Daesh at this time, a sort of historical writing?

What are the resources that you relied on during your writing process?

First and foremost, oral narration, before I started my research into the phenomenon of slavery, which was a legal way of life and a customary trade that the Ottoman states in the Arab world relied on as a source of income and tax collection (similar to oil today). Then I stood for some time at what was left of the neighbourhood where the slave pens had been, where enslaved Blacks resided, as well as those who had been liberated, but were yet to achieve economic independence. 

Their roots are deep in our history, like those of the African slaves in America, Spain, Portugal, Holland, Belgium, Turkey, and the list goes on. Life changes and Blacks are no longer slaves, struggling for their freedom, but much of the story remains the same when we talk about the emergence, development, and demise of this practice.

The Slave Yards is one of the few novels that delve into the history of slaves in the Arab world, why do you think this is?

What prevents a writer from writing freely is the fear that it may be tied to religion. Slavery in the Arab and Islamic world isn’t separate from the religious texts which didn’t forbid it or criminalise it, it’s part of a vast jurisprudential heritage that tried to justify, mitigate, or theorise it.

Many people avoid opposing the social, political, religious institutions, so as not to make their lives difficult. As such they prefer to write about other topics.  

How was this novel of yours about slavery received?

It was warmly celebrated throughout the Arab world (which surprised me), but when it was put forward for three major Arab prizes and didn’t win any, I wasn’t as surprised!

You took some time to write this novel, why is that?

The reason is, the nature of my life in Libya, I didn’t find time for writing. I wrote a part, but then left it to study for a master’s degree and then work in university teaching. I grew completely absorbed by those tasks, and simply trying to make ends meet, meaning writing was left behind. This leads me to talk about the lack of ‘writing residencies’ in the Arab world. 

I notice that you used a lot of characters in The Slave Yards, why?

I like to narrate the heart and the edges of a scene that I write, to look down on it from up above. In my works, the stories of the characters will be told from different perspectives, a story within the main story. I used to do this as a child when I would draw. Whenever I was asked to draw a house, or a street, or something else, I would draw people in the street, or people crossing the street and leaving the page, footprints left behind, or a shadow. When drawing a family portrait, I would draw someone hanging the picture as if he had passed away or lived abroad. 

I don’t think I’m the only one who works like this. The Dutch artist Peter Breugel was famous for the number of people in his paintings, and Alfred Hitchcock also had people merely passing through in more than thirty of his films.

Did you delete some scenes while editing this novel?

I usually write then cut out some parts. I cut out a chapter to lessen the intensity of the sorrow in the novel. It’s a chapter where Ali is sick and details how he dies in Atiqa’s house, his cousin.

What was the hardest scene for you to write in this novel?

The burning of the slave pens, I felt as if I had set fire to living beings, and the scenes where I wrote about the orphan Miftah, I sobbed afterwards.

I remember that the circumstances in which you wrote this novel were quite difficult, how did you overcome them?

I was suffering from deep depression, as well as psoriasis on my hand and leg. My skin was burning, and whenever I moved my hand or leg, the affected area peeled, and I would bleed. I can now say that it takes a strong and courageous woman to defeat psoriasis! In fact, it was the cortisone that made it better. As for my depression, the doctor told me to think positively and to see the glass as half-full, but I’m still looking for said glass till today!

I noticed that in your short story collection, An Ongoing Coincidence that you focus more on contemporary Libya, whereas in your novel you focused on the past. How did this come about?

Libya has always been my first source of inspiration: its present, future, or past. It’s fertile material for writing, a locked trunk out of which I pull stories. As for why a story, or a novel, it’s the nature of the topic that decides that. The theme of what is being written decides the final form of the work: story, novel, play, etc. 

You’ve been living in Italy for a number of years now, has your identity changed?

A part of me is still the same, just as a part of me has changed, and there is a part that I can’t guarantee will remain the same or change; but how does such a complex process take place? I don’t know; the ogre of Italian and European bureaucracy leaves no room for the foreigner to even momentarily forget who he is, where he has come from, and so forth. Thanks to it for always reminding us of our first identity, that we are no more than foreigners, even if we are cut off from the societies that birthed us. Such discussions keep one’s first identity within them like the dregs at the bottom of a bottle.

Where do your stories come from?

I used to say that they don’t come from the souk, but then one time I came across a story there, and changed my mind. I started telling myself that all spaces have stories: cemeteries, Mars, royal palaces, and even places yet to be discovered have stories, or some sort of inspiration, waiting for someone to write. If I went with you to Mars to look for water but didn’t find it there, then I’m certain that I’d find a story there worth writing. 

And what’s the story here?

To begin with, it would be about people who went to Mars to find water and failed, which would then develop into them finding other things, and this story would then intersect with the discovery of the microwave which initially was a project to do with radar, and the story of America being discovered, which was originally a quest for the East Indies, or the invention of cornflakes which was a failed attempt to cook wheat for sanatorium inmates!

Stories are always found in the folds, not visible to us; we’ve got to turn over the stones to bring them to light. 

What are you working on these days?

I’m done putting the finishing touches on a new novel about Italy, Roma Termini, that will be released soon at the Abu Dhabi International Book Fair.

It’s a novel that is far from the culture that I came from and my identity (once more we come back to the broad theme of identity). It’s a novel that sheds light on migration within Europe, from socialist Europe to capitalist Europe. It’s a new experience for me to sink my pen into such different soil.

Seeing as some of the topics you write about as a woman in the Arab world are quite sensitive, have you ever thought of using a pen name?

In the early days, the managing editor of a local newspaper suggested that I write under the name ‘Umm Anas” – that’s my son.  But I refused saying that I had given birth to him, and that I wouldn’t hide behind his name. What has my son got to do with what I write, and sign my name to? Can I travel on a passport with my name written as ‘so and so’s mother’? I write to feel liberated, to be myself, if my name isn’t free, then whom am I writing for? Some reckless decision making was necessary to venture out and to break the fear I had of society: its social, political and religious powers.

If I had thought about what he advised for a longer period of time, I might have done it. But thank God, I only took his advice when it came to using a borrowed name, the president’s wife’s name to be specific, at laundry shops, car garages, restaurant reservations, at the butcher’s and so forth. It was the right decision to write her name on all the delivery receipts because we were nothing more than slaves in her country, her husband’s country - and I wanted to keep my name off of any lists for public services.

If you could go back in time and give your younger self advice, what would you say?

Go abroad quickly; don’t waste time; put yourself in someone else's shoes; don’t wait around for anyone else or anything to change.

What does literary success look like to you? Having your work translated into a number of languages? Winning prizes?

If we look beyond the literary value of a work that makes it immortal, then it will of course be translation because the book will reach more readers, and it also will earn a good return. Prizes as well, the greatest of them being the Nobel because it’s the only literary prize with a big enough purse to be able to transform the life of the writer, and move him from a place of poverty to a place of comfort. The writer won’t be forced to take on other jobs that he doesn’t like in order to pay his bills or his taxes. Success is what will give you a carefree life, a decent life - one where you don’t have to worry about treatment if you fall ill, money if you need it, and sustaining a livelihood if you migrate. Most importantly, there’s no boss to report to.

Having been your translator for a while, we’ve become friends, and I’ve heard about some unbelievable events in your life story. Will you be writing your autobiography anytime soon?

My life is winding, with many stops, some experiences dark, others strange. It deserves to be shared without a doubt, so that people know why I’m always smiling, but I don’t know when I’ll let them know, and make them cry.

What does Arabic literature lack to go global?

After learning how to walk, it shouldn’t crawl. Arabic literature needs a real translation initiative that is global, instead of waiting for donations or for Pablo Escobar to come out of his grave and sponsor us. I wrote more than once to the relevant Arab cultural bodies, and I got no response, not even a nod of acknowledgement. It seems that the overwhelming presence that we see when it comes to celebrating Arabic language, is for the sake of spoken Arabic, not for its literature! 

You all have convinced the microphones, but not us.