An interview with Saddam Al-Zaidi on January 26th, 2023 for Diffah Al-Araby
In his novels published consecutively between 2019 and 2022—Ashes of the Roots, Symphony of the South, and The Barbed Wire Farm—the Chadian novelist Taher Al-Noor focuses on the social and political history of Chad. He does so through a beautifully poetic narrative language, sustained by a patient and lyrical tone. His storytelling is layered with surprise and wonder, including in his fourth novel Goudala, which won the Tawfiq Bakkar Prize for Arabic Fiction in Tunisia in its latest edition.
It is worth noting that until 2004, no novels had been written in Arabic in Chad—a country where both French and Arabic are spoken and where cultures and ethnicities are richly diverse. This interview sheds light on the current landscape of Arabic fiction writing in Chad—a scene that casts only a faint light amid deep darkness. To date, no more than 20 novels have been published in Arabic, and publishing houses that print Arabic books are virtually nonexistent. The conversation also touches on the decline of Arabic-language journalism in Chad, Al-Noor’s own experience in the press, and his upcoming book in the travel literature genre.
Tawfiq Bakkar Prize
(*) Let’s begin with the Tawfiq Bakkar Prize for Arabic Fiction, Tunisia, 4th edition (2022), in which your manuscript Goudala won first place. How did you feel when you received the news? Did you expect to win?
Honestly, my feelings at the time were mixed—between joy, gratitude, and surprise. Joy, because I realized that self-fulfillment is possible with perseverance and consistency. Gratitude, because the prize committee accepted the difference coming from a writer beyond the Sahara, who tells stories from worlds and settings very different from the familiar Arab contexts, despite the geographical proximity and shared human concerns. Strangely, I was about to sleep when I got the news via a writer friend who sent me the announcement. I didn’t check the award’s email until the next day, but as we say, the news “blew away my sleep” that night.
Frankly, I didn’t expect to win at all. I know I write in a different way, and I assumed that most Arab prizes wouldn’t embrace my difference openly. That’s why I was astonished that the Tawfiq Bakkar jury didn’t see my different worlds as a barrier to winning an Arab award.
(*) Tell us about Goudala.
Goudala takes place in a small village in central Chad. It begins with the events of the so-called “Nine-Month War” of 1979 and builds a strange blend of village life and war—stories, events, mad and confused characters, lovers, witches, and the unhinged. Naturally, the devastation of war poisons the environment, spreads disease and epidemics, and leads to insecurity. Arable land becomes scarce, barren lands expand, and hunger—spawned from greed for power and dominance—spreads like another epidemic.
Since the novel’s theme incorporates myth and legend, when war breaks out and devours everything, the protagonists must find ways to survive. They are compelled to seek refuge and fend off catastrophe using supernatural forces that cold military machines cannot overcome.
The novel also includes many small, intricate details about its characters, where ritual intertwines with myth, myth with reality, and reality with politics. Each layer is presented in a way that serves the text and propels the narrative forward.
“When I began publishing, there were no Arabic publishing houses in Chad. There were French ones, of course, but our francophone and arabophone worlds live in isolation from one another.”
The Absence of Arabic Publishers
(*) You turned to Arab publishing houses. Is publishing in Chad even possible, or are Arabic literary publishers entirely absent?
When I started publishing, there were no Arabic-language publishers in Chad. French publishers existed, of course, but our francophone and arabophone spheres live in mutual isolation. So I was forced to publish abroad if I wanted my books in print. I didn’t want to self-publish as some writers did—releasing their work like memos, with no formal structure to protect their intellectual rights. That wasn’t an option for me.
Publishing abroad not only gave my work visibility and access to serious readers and critics, but it also acted as a bridge for enlightenment, discovery, and dialogue with new generations in different countries—as well as with history, science, and life itself. Literature is shaped by cultural accumulation and how people perceive identity and the arts.
(*) Less than two decades ago, in 2004, the first Arabic novel was published in Chad—unlike French-language novels, which have a longer history. Since then, how many Arabic novels have been published? And what’s your view of their literary quality?
Although almost 20 years have passed since the first Arabic novel appeared in Chad, the total output remains limited—no more than 20 novels. These vary in narrative techniques and storytelling quality. Some reach a level worthy of attention and reading, while others remain modest—either due to limited talent or a lack of life and cultural experience.
Journalism in Chad
(*) You worked as an editorial secretary for New N’Djamena newspaper and for Al-Ayyam. Tell us about that experience, and more generally, about the state of Arabic-language journalism in Chad.
Fiction writing is like a walk through narrative landscapes, as Umberto Eco put it. A novelist works with imagined, even fabricated, maps—drawing multiple lives and characters, with beginnings, endings, crossroads, and fates. Some live, some die. Life, after all, is a black comedy or a human farce.
Journalism led me into narrative writing. I fully agree with what American writer Dorothy Brande said: that any writer intending to write fiction should train in journalism first. Journalism teaches two essential lessons: first, how to write for long periods without fatigue; and second, once you surpass that initial fatigue, you discover an inner energy that carries you further than expected. Without journalism, I doubt I could’ve written fiction with this kind of sustained momentum.
That said, the Arabic press environment I worked in has changed dramatically in recent years. Arabic newspapers today barely play a role. Digital media has overtaken print, and publishers—who fund their newspapers privately—often feel defeated. Support is minimal, coming from personal donations, meager institutional subscriptions, and occasional state funds that arrive just once a year.
(*) In 2015, you received the “University Storyteller” award from King Faisal University in Chad. What was that competition like? Do you have an interest in short stories?
The competition was open only to enrolled students. In addition to short stories, it included other genres, mainly poetry. However, it hasn’t been organized in recent years—possibly due to lack of funds, poor organization, or unclear vision.
Personally, I’m not very fond of short stories. I may have written a few out of a desire to narrate, but once I discovered my passion for the novel, I let go of short stories—just as I had with poetry before.
Between the Courtroom and Writing
(*) You earned a maîtrise in Law from King Faisal University in Chad in 2015, and a diploma in judicial training from the National School for Judicial Training, where you now work in Chadian courts. How do you balance legal work with the rituals and demands of fiction writing?
It’s true—my legal profession completely contrasts with my passion for fiction writing. But I’ve managed to keep writing while leaving my legal persona behind at the courthouse. It may be hard to find the time, but my love of solitude, my disinterest in social activities, and my ability to embrace isolation have helped immensely. All I need is “a room of one’s own,” as Virginia Woolf put it, where I can wrestle with the complexity of fictional worlds.
As Milan Kundera says, “The spirit of the novel is the spirit of complexity,” and every novel tells the reader that things are more complicated than they seem. Yes, writing a good novel is far more complex than it may appear to a reader who sees a nearly polished product and assumes the writer was simply handed divine inspiration on a silver platter.
A Chadian in Lebanon
(*) Shifting away from fiction, you’re about to publish a travel memoir titled The Earth’s Tale to the Sky: Days in Lebanon. How was the experience of writing travel literature, and what’s the book about?
During my time in journalism, I read a lot of travel literature. I’ve always loved exploring new horizons (to borrow a phrase from the well-known Arabic travel series) and dreamed of writing something in the vein of Anis Mansour, Mahmoud Al-Saadani, Ibn Battuta, or Ibn Umar Al-Tunisi. But that requires money and a bolder spirit than mine.
My first travelogue dates back to 2016—an internal border trip I took with the late Adam Abdullah, founder of New N’Djamena newspaper. That journey remains unpublished. The Earth’s Tale to the Sky: Days in Lebanon was written after my 2017 trip to Lebanon. I completed it soon after my return and initially submitted it to an Egyptian publisher, who kept postponing publication with various excuses. Eventually, I canceled the contract and signed with Al-Musawarat Publishing in Sudan.
Personally, I throw myself into anything I pursue. I write for the thrill, the passion, and the joy of it—and I’ll stop the day I feel I can no longer bring fresh water to the sea of creative words. As the American poet Charles Bukowski says in his poem So You Want to Be a Writer:
If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it./
If it isn’t burning from within you, from your heart, your mind, your mouth, your gut, don’t do it…/
If you’re doing it for money or fame, don’t do it./
Don’t do it unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket,/
unless not writing will drive you to madness or suicide or murder.
The writer plays the role of creator—because he creates. And we must love what we create and breathe life into it, filling it with pain, dreams, and new hope.
