Basem Khandakji on exile, imprisonment, and purpose

A Mask the Colour of the Sky is the first novel in your Mirror Quartet. What message does this body of work seek to convey—and what lies ahead?

A Mask the Colour of the Sky is the first novel of a literary project I am undertaking called The Literature of Engagement. I extend an open invitation to all Arab and Palestinian writers to join me in this endeavour.

At the heart of this exercise are key questions such as: how do we write literature that resists colonialism from within the confines of colonialism? How do we expose the contours of 'the other'? How do we cast light on the fraught, entangled relationship between Palestinians and Israelis?

This novel is the opening act of a larger symphonic composition. It will be followed by The Sacristan of the Holocaust, perhaps the most contentious work I have yet attempted. In it, I portray a quintessential Zionist figure—a white Ashkenazi Israeli and a former paratrooper officer who resides between Tel Aviv and Deir Yassin. Creating and developing this character demanded a harrowing, exhausting technique: I thought in Hebrew but wrote in Arabic. The voice of Zionism resounds so vividly in the novel that it will be hard for people to believe a Palestinian actually wrote it.

You speak with great tenderness about friendship and shared struggle. It is clear that your relationship with the late Walid Daqqa was extraordinary. How did this bond shape your literary and human journey? How did you come to know him, and in what ways did he inspire you? Is there a forthcoming work that will honour his memory?

My late friend and comrade Walid Daqqa was far more than a passing acquaintance. Ours was a bond forged in struggle—a profound and enduring kinship. His absence—felt so acutely within the prison walls we once shared—remains a wound I carry to this day. I met Walid early in my incarceration, and it was immediately clear that he was unlike any other prisoner. He commanded a presence that compelled attention and reflection. In his company, one could not help but sit, converse, learn, and be inspired.

When I was writing A Mask the Colour of the Sky, Walid and I were imprisoned in the same facility and section. We often exchanged thoughts, debated ideas, and shared fragments of our inner worlds. In the final six months before my release—a period marked by isolation, deprivation, and relentless harassment—I composed, entirely in my mind, a fully formed novel about Walid Daqqa. Now that I have found refuge in Cairo, I will soon commit it to paper. The novel will centre on Walid and his extraordinary journey. It is, in essence, a tribute to his life, his thought, and the indelible mark he left on all who knew him.

In your work, you pose profound existential questions from within the heart of the Palestinian experience. Has Palestine served as a platform for questioning the human condition, or do these questions, in fact, lead us back to Palestine itself?

The Palestinian question is, without doubt, a constant presence in my novels. I write from a culturally engaged Palestinian standpoint that is in perpetual dialogue with its own condition. In this sense, Palestine becomes a site of existential inquiry—a locus of unresolved being. I depart from it and return to it, time and again. It is the axis around which my literary orbit turns.

Even in my historical writings, Palestine remains the unspoken protagonist. The character of Khayzaran in Misk al-Kifayah is the Palestinian woman—an embodiment of the homeland. Badr al-Din in The Eclipse of Badr al-Din is the Palestinian in search of elusive answers.

Why does the Palestinian suffer a crisis of existence? Because he suffers a crisis of identity. Without identity, there is no existence. I believe we Palestinians have yet to articulate a comprehensive concept of Palestinian identity. This is the task I have set for myself: to reclaim and rewrite our literary and cultural narrative in a way that anchors an ethical discourse—one capable of confronting a world mired in double standards.

Do you envision writing a novel about Gaza?

Gaza is my open wound. Every time I witness its devastation, and every time I behold its endurance and resistance, I ask myself how I might capture its ruin. How can I capture such steadfastness, such defiant beauty? How are we to fulfil the promises we owe to Gaza's children?

Gaza, to me, is larger than any novel. To write it, I must first cultivate the critical distance that allows me to approach my wound without being consumed by it. I believe, with all my heart, that this ruin will one day become a beautiful ruin—but only when we transfigure it through the act of writing. Gaza will, without question, be present in my future works.

Has your poetic background shaped your novel writing? 

My poetic journey has profoundly shaped my literary craft, especially in its capacity to carry the weight of narrative thought. There is a poetic hint in my prose— something I acknowledge and cultivate. When I first transitioned from poetry to fiction, I worried that my poetic language—with its concision and intensity— might falter in the expansive terrain of the novel. But I was astonished by its endurance, its ability to sustain the long breath of narrative. Poetry remains ever-present in my prose, and I strive to nourish and refine it.

Now that you are free, what do you wish to say about the plight of prisoners in Israeli jails, and what message do you send to your fellow inmates?

Though I was released a month ago, I still live with them, in spirit, in rhythm, in memory. I remain attuned to the cadence of prison life. I cannot fully enjoy my freedom when I know they are suffering every day. I left behind extraordinary prisoners, brilliant writers. My heart aches for them, but writing about them helps ease this ache. Perhaps my freedom will find its fullness in the act of writing them into the world. For writing, too, is a form of liberation.

After more than two decades of captivity, only to be exiled from your homeland, how has this left you feeling? And how are you navigating this new reality in Cairo?

To be exiled from Palestine after 21 years of imprisonment is, undeniably, a profound rupture. Yet my arrival in Egypt has been a healing of sorts—a restoration of meaning. Egypt has always held a place in my imagination, ever since childhood, as a landscape of literary and cultural grandeur.

When I arrived in Cairo, when I entered it in safety, I was overwhelmed by its intellectual depth, its literary richness, and the warmth with which it embraced me and my literary condition. I hope to remain here. I hope Egypt will become the homeland of my words, if not of my body.

Which writers and thinkers most influenced you during your time in prison, and what projects are you currently pursuing?

My reading has always gravitated towards philosophy, thought, sociology, and history. I was deeply influenced by Edward Said, Antonio Gramsci, and Frantz Fanon. In literature, my spiritual father is the late Elias Khoury, whose novels played a pivotal role in shaping my narrative sensibility.

As for my current projects, I am working on a novel dedicated to my late friend Walid Daqqa. Alongside that, I am focused on developing and institutionalising The Literature of Engagement Project I spoke about earlier. I place great faith in our collective ability, as writers, to establish this literary form and to build a platform that exposes the colonial occupation of Palestine.