Sudanese author Hammour Ziada on embracing the surreal

How did you manage to preserve your creative freedom after that incident?

That incident gave me the opportunity to truly exercise my creative freedom. Before it, I was constrained by an internal censor heavily influenced by the society around me. The experience of exile and living abroad made me feel liberated.

I've come to view freedom as a profound responsibility and the highest value in art. I no longer think it's enough to simply produce good art; it must also stem from the artist's freedom, not from what they are compelled to say.

Since your first novel, Al-Kunj, you've moved from traditional literature to the surreal. Did Sudanese folklore play a role in that?

It wasn't a conscious decision; rather, the surreal is an intrinsic part of life in Sudan. Surreal tales are inseparable from realism in our Sudanese experience. When I wrote about this in Al-Kunj, I was simply being true to Sudan's reality and imagination.

One of the oldest historical texts in Sudanese heritage, The Layers of Wad Dayf Allah, written in the late 18th century, is a compendium of Sudanese saints, much like The Ornament of the Saints by Al-Asfahani or The Layers of the Saints by Al-Sha'rani.

It, too, is filled with miraculous tales and divine acts that people believe and treat as truth. It contains an entire history of sheikhs who fly through the air, resurrect the dead, and exist in two places at once. Tayeb Salih wrote about such surrealism in The Wedding of Zein. This is the school of Sudanese imagination, where the surreal is seen as part and parcel of ordinary life.

You incorporate historical documents into your novel The Longing of the Dervish. How was that experience?

This was part of creating the novel's atmosphere. Historical documents carry weight in literary texts and, when used correctly, lend greater realism to the work. Navigating the narrow space between fact and fiction is an enjoyable challenge.

How did you react to your novel Sleeping at the Feet of the Mountain being adapted into the feature film You Will Die at Twenty? Did the director succeed in translating the written word into a visual narrative?

The director presented his own interpretation of the novel, which I did not interfere with and was entirely satisfied with. This is the 'death of the author' era—a reader's interpretations take precedence over the writer's intentions. So it follows that a director should have the right to present their own interpretation in drama.

He chose to create a film inspired by the story's events rather than a literal adaptation. He changed some characters and added and removed details. I had no objections to this, as he ultimately delivered a cohesive and brilliant artistic work that did not spoil the story for those who wish to read it.

Did you have any involvement or provide feedback for the film?

The director, my friend Amjad Abu Alala, would send me updated versions of the screenplay after each revision or development, but I preferred not to scrutinise the drafts. At times, I avoided reading them altogether so as not to form opinions or object to specific details. All I did was offer some marginal comments that aligned with the director's vision.

Conflicts and wars are widespread in Sudan and other Arab countries. How do you engage with them?

Seeing is not the same as hearing. Although the Sudanese civil war loomed over us during the final years of Omar al-Bashir's regime, we did not anticipate its brutality until it engulfed us.

Wars are the twin of despair. They first consume memory, leaving no life beyond the present moment, no solution but the gun, and no hope but in death—killing or being killed. It is a grim reality when the future of an entire country is dictated by the consciousness of a handful of armed men who decide who lives and who dies.

There are currently more than 12 million Sudanese refugees, with millions more enduring harsh conditions in war zones. The catastrophe is that war has yet to teach us the value of peace and coexistence. Instead, we remain under the illusion that more fighting will bring peace, a delusion that leads only to more ruin. To belong to a country burning before the world's eyes, with the fire being fuelled rather than extinguished, is an extremely disorienting feeling.

Arab fiction has seen a surge in recent years. What are your thoughts on this?

This is a positive development. The publishing industry in the Arab world lagged for years. Despite complaints that there are now more writers than readers, I don't see this as a crisis. These are the boom years.

Eventually, things will settle, and only those with something to say to an audience willing to listen will continue to write and publish. I see no harm in the abundance of publications or in readers trying their hand at writing. In the end, only those with a story worth telling will endure.