Christine Otten on telling the stories of the marginalised

The Dutch novelist is famous for capturing the rhythm and style of the poets who became the forefathers of hip-hop, but her work has also brought civil rights leaders and refugees to life

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Dutch writer, journalist and performer Christine Otten attends a photocall during the annual Edinburgh International Book Festival at George Street on August 23, 2017, in Edinburgh, Scotland.

Christine Otten on telling the stories of the marginalised

Nesrein El-Bakhshawangy

last update on 22 Sep 2025

Dutch writer Christine Otten is known for novels and plays inspired by real people. Her breakthrough came with The Last Poets, set in 1969 Harlem in New York, and named after its subjects—a group of African-American artists who helped define popular culture in the United States for the subsequent decades. The novel gained renown for its distinctive rhythmic style and pace when it was published in Dutch in 2004 and subsequently in English.

Her career as a novelist began with 1995’s Blue Metal, about a 15-year-old girl discovering the world of music, establishing the connection through her own work with other art forms. She has also channelled the voices of marginalised groups, including prisoners, and has spoken out over Israel’s war on Gaza. Otten is also a music journalist and is known for performing her work.

She spoke to Al Majalla about the inspiration behind her books and the affinity she has felt with the people whose stories she has told to such acclaim. This is the conversation.

In The Last Poets, you vividly capture the rhythms of the African American spoken word and its ties to the origin of hip-hop. How did immersing yourself in poets' personal archives and live performances shape the novel, and what risks did you take in blending biography with fiction to honour their legacy?

It all started when I first met Umar Bin Hassan and Abiodun Oyewole, two of the original members of The Last Poets, in the Summer of 2000 in New York. It was through my son’s love for hip-hop music that I got to know them, interviewing them for a newspaper. I was not prepared for what happened when we met.

These men were so open and honest about their lives and work. I was immersed in their world and stories that capture 1950s America from an African American perspective.

The stories were about struggle, racism, love, poetry, life, and were very intimate. I clicked with these men, especially with Umar, with whom I had a lot in common. We both had fathers who struggled with psychiatric problems—Umar’s dad because of racism and exclusion, mine because of poverty and estrangement.

We both came from working-class families, and we both knew what it meant to have to be much more mature as a child and the hurt that comes with that.

Of course, Umar had a much harder life than I ever had, but there was a strong personal bond. I guess Umar planted the idea of writing a novel in my head, although I immediately felt compelled to preserve this amazing epic tale.

So, I immersed myself in their history by reading everything I could about the Black liberation struggle, as well as novels by Toni Morrison and James Baldwin. I listened to jazz, soul, and R&B music and watched documentaries.

But most of all, I talked to people, the poets themselves, their wives, ex-wives, daughters, mothers, sisters. A feminine perspective was essential because these men were seen as icons. I wanted to humanise them.

Of course, it's tricky to blend biography and fiction, but the fictional part was mainly getting under the skin of the characters. I followed up on all the amazing stories they told me and got into the characters.

Later, they said I took poetic license, but that it (my depiction) was mainly how it was. I just tried to be honest and write with love and integrity about the poets, without turning them into saints. It helped that they were as open about their flaws as they were about their achievements.

You reconstruct their lives by weaving together fictionalised biography and poetry. How did stepping into the perspectives of Black American men challenge your assumptions about storytelling, and what did you learn about the limits and ethical possibilities of literary empathy?

I discovered I could be anyone. This book was a liberation for me, both as an artist and as a person. But it did not come without pain.

The relationship with Umar and the other poets was sometimes tested because, naturally, there was distrust toward me as a white woman. I felt deeply lonely at times.

I just remained myself and did not pretend to be anything different from who I was. I could connect deeply to their stories and history, and maybe it helped that my ancestors were fighters in a way, working-class people who were very conscious of oppression and fought against it. Eventually, Umar and I had a very close friendship that has lasted till today.

As for the writing, inspired by the group’s own poetic essence—jazz and the ‘wildness’ of their stories—I started writing and discovered for the first time that I could make music with words.

Given this flagrant injustice now taking place in Gaza, writers have a responsibility to speak out. Keeping your head down makes you complicit in a way.

Dutch writer, Christine Otten

At that time, the concept of cultural appropriation was not something very well-known, and I was somewhat naïve, maybe, although I would rather call that uninhibited. I must have had some 'blind spots', but overall, I wrote about people, not black people.

Thankfully, I received many positive reactions from black readers, including those from the United States and South Africa. The best reaction came from a guy who is in prison for life in Texas. He wrote: "This book is about us, about what it means to be black and enjoying every minute of it."

Your narratives often centre on real events and historical figures—from poets to civil rights activists and, more recently, prisoners. What draws you to stories of marginalised voices overcoming systemic barriers, and how do you incorporate elements like black music and history to infuse your writing with rhythmic authenticity?

It is all about immersing yourself in the subject, forgetting yourself almost, and writing not only with your brain but with your heart and body. I have learned that with empathy, openness, and love, you can almost identify with anybody, in any circumstances. However, you also have to be willing to question your own views and opinions at times and recognise your privileged position and life through the eyes of someone else.

Your novel Rafaël transforms a true story of lovers separated by the Jasmine Revolution into a meditation on borders and migration. How did you balance the emotional intimacy of Winny and Nizar's story with the socio-political realities of European immigration?

The story was pretty much self-explanatory. Nizar was very badly treated by the European police and officials. The couple were non-political—both just being born at very different places on earth—which gave them different rights and privileges, which Winny wasn't aware of when she fell in love with Nizar.

This book was a collaborative project with filmmakers; I was asked to write this novel by the creative producer who stumbled upon the story. I initially hesitated to take on the project, but speaking with Winny and Nizar persuaded me that it was important and that I could do it.

Winny was pregnant when their disturbing journey started. We travelled together to Lampedusa, where Nizar was kept in a kind of prison for refugees, but we were not allowed into the camp to see him.

We Had Love, We Had Guns explores the life of the civil rights leader Robert F. Williams, presenting not just a historical chronicle but an intimate family portrait, through the voices of his wife and son. What made you choose them as narrators?

I wanted to humanise the struggle of the family, showing that wives and children also pay a price for the activism of their spouses/fathers. Williams, together with ordinary men in the south, during the 1950s, decided to arm and defend themselves against the violence of white supremacists. They never shot anybody. But arming in itself was enough to scare the Ku Klux Klan, and it made Williams and his family a target for police and officials.

The Prison Monologues have evolved from writing workshops into full-length theatrical productions staged inside and outside prison walls. How do you approach the process of translating inmates' personal stories into performance?

I followed the same working process as I do when writing my novels, so I talk extensively with the former inmates and their families, keeping them part of the process.

Writing the play was not the hardest thing. You just have to stay honest, try not to be above the people you write about, have no judgment, although of course I have judgments, but try to be as uninhibited as possible. And choose the perspective of the inmates without forgetting the victims and all.

If you humanise these stories, anybody can identify with them, which is important, and that really resonated with audiences.

Your workshops with prisoners have inspired novels like One of Us and Once I Told You My Story. How has witnessing inmates' struggles with reintegration after detention reshaped your understanding of true freedom, and how does this manifest in your depictions of post-prison life?

Former inmates face significant difficulties reintegrating into the outside world. They have this enormous stigma, and it is so hard for them to find jobs. Freedom is relative; some inmates experience the outside world not as freedom at all, but as a constant search for a place to be respected and accepted for who they are. Most former inmates just want one thing: a normal life. Luckily, we could help some of our former members of the writing group in prison find work.

Supplied — Dutch writer, journalist and performer Christine Otten.

In August 2025, the Dutch Foreign Minister Caspar Veldkamp resigned after failing to secure sanctions against Israel over its military actions in Gaza, prompting the mass resignation of his party's ministers. You were among those publicly supporting Gaza, including through protests. How do you see the role of writers and artists in moments like this, and how has this shaped your own sense of literary and civic responsibility?

I think writers have a responsibility to speak out, especially given this flagrant injustice that is now taking place in Gaza. Keeping your head down makes you complicit in a way.

I think the ongoing protests have changed the mood in our country. For the people in Gaza, this changes nothing in their daily struggles and horrors they endure, but in the long term, it hopefully changes the European and Dutch position toward Israel.

The protests have significantly altered popular views on what is happening in the Middle East and within our own countries. In June, 150,000 people were demonstrating for Gaza and against our government, which still does nothing to end this tragedy. But it's a small sign of hope.

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