January 13, 2025
In this wide-ranging conversation, acclaimed and award-winning Algerian novelist Amara Lakhous talks about writing in multiple languages, the importance of detective novels to democracy, Mediterranean noir, and more.
Thank you so much for taking the time.
In your “green cheese” essay (“On the Quest to Write in a Third Language,” LitHub), you wrote a bit about your life as the impossible dreamer, the sixth of eight siblings. Can you tell us a little about the books and stories in your house growing up? Do you remember where you got that copy of Madame Bovary at age 15? From a bookshop, library, or school?
Amara Lakhous: I grew up in a poor family. My mother could neither read nor write, while my father had taught himself the basics to read and write in French. The only book in our house was the Dictionnaire Larousse, which my father had purchased in the 1950s while living in France as an immigrant. My father was extremely protective of that dictionary: to consult it, we had to ask for permission and return it immediately afterward. It was the only book in the house, almost a sacred object.
We didn’t have a television until I turned thirteen. Sometimes, on weekends, I would visit my uncles to watch a little television, but at home, our evenings were spent differently. My eldest sister, who was like a second mother to us, helped our mother take care of us. I remember her sitting with us in a circle and reading novels borrowed from school by my other sisters. She would read in French but summarize the stories in Kabyle, our language.
The stories she told often revolved around orphans. I particularly recall some episodes where my sisters were moved to tears, while we boys tried to be strong, hiding our emotions. Those evenings, those stories, were my first encounter with the world of books.
The first book I bought and read was at fourteen, during middle school. It was Al Qahira Al Jadida (The New Cairo) by Naguib Mahfouz, a novel published in 1945 that explores the social and cultural transformations of Cairo. I was deeply struck by that reading. However, at school, there was no encouragement to read; books were not part of our daily lives. In my first year of high school, I met an extraordinary teacher named Jamila, a name that in Arabic means “beautiful.” And she was, not just in appearance but also in world vision. She taught us French and introduced us to Germinal by Émile Zola. She spoke to us about Zola’s intellectual commitment and the famous Dreyfus affair.
After Germinal came Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert; I don’t remember how I got my copy—perhaps I borrowed it, perhaps I bought it. What I do clearly remember is how completely immersed I became in that book. I read it in the evenings, at night, even waking up to continue. That novel taught me what literature is. It awakened a new empathy in me, especially toward women. Growing up in a family with my mother and five sisters, I lived in a world of women, but I had never truly understood it. Through Emma Bovary, I began to see them differently, to understand their emotions, dreams, and sufferings. Madame Bovary changed my worldview.
Later, when I wrote Divorce Islamic Style, a novel about the condition of a Muslim woman, the model was Madame Bovary. That book remained a guiding light for my writing.
If Madame Bovary inspired you to write—did you begin writing soon after?
AL: My experience with stories was not initially linked to reading but to listening. I grew up in an oral culture: Thamazight or Kabyle, my native language, was an oral language, not a written one. Only in recent years has it begun to be taught in schools and its writing standardized. In my time, though, it was a language that lived only through spoken stories. And I was fascinated by it. I listened avidly, memorized, and at some point, the desire to tell stories myself was born.
In middle school, I participated in a poetry and storytelling competition. I wrote my first story about twin brothers in a village: one good and the other evil. I was sixteen, and that was my first experience with writing.
In high school, an exceptional teacher asked us to write a short story about a young man who, coming from a village, experienced the shock of arriving in the city. I knew that theme well: I lived in the city but returned every summer to my family’s village. I wrote a story about a boy facing this transition and read it in class.
When I finished, the teacher looked at me seriously and gave me an address, telling me to send the story to a newspaper for publication. I was stunned. I sent it, but it was never published. Despite the disappointment, that moment remained a revelation for me: I realized that writing could be my path, a way to give voice to the stories inside me.
The path that you’ve carved through & with language is a delight. Writing in darija, fos7a, Italian—with side journeys into Tamazight, French, and English—I am wondering what you have discovered about how each of these languages might change your literary project. Are you more likely to write about certain topics in darija vs. fos7a, in Italian vs. English? How did you know طير الليل (Night Bird) would be written in Arabic vs., for instance, in Italian?
AL: I live immersed in five languages. My mother tongue, Tamazight, I speak fluently with the accent of my parents’ village, though unfortunately, I do not know how to write it. After Algeria’s independence, forced Arabization made it illegal in schools, depriving me of the opportunity to learn it formally.
The second is Arabic. Here, I must pause to explain that Arabic includes both Standard Arabic and numerous local dialects. I speak Algerian Arabic, which I learned on the streets and Egyptian Arabic by watching movies and TV series. Later, living in Italy, I had the chance to engage with other Arabic dialects. Today, I can understand almost all Arabic dialects and, in many cases, express myself in them as well.
The third language is French. I studied it in elementary school and practiced it during summer vacations with my cousins who lived in France.
The fourth language is Italian, which I learned at the age of 25, and the fifth is English, which I studied seriously starting ten years ago when I immigrated to the United States in 2014. I live with these five languages and never use the word “master” in relation to them. For me, a language is not a slave to dominate but a companion to coexist with.
This coexistence with multiple languages has shaped my perspective on diversity. I believe diversity is a fundamental theme in both my life and my novels. It’s about negotiating and coexisting with differences, finding a balance between my identity and others’. Diversity, for me, is a mirror that reflects us and challenges us to find understanding.
This awareness was born in my family. I am the sixth of nine children, with five sisters and three brothers. Even though we had the same parents, received the same upbringing, and lived under the same roof, I discovered early on that we were all different. Some were lighter or darker-skinned, more or less intelligent, more extroverted or introverted. These differences taught me that diversity is not a problem but an essential part of life.
When I came into contact with the outside world, I was already prepared to see diversity as a richness. My relationship with languages also reflects this openness. Each language, for me, represents a mirror for another. Just as no one leaves the house in the morning without looking in a mirror — because it’s impossible to see our own face with our own eyes — languages observe, enrich, and complement one another.
When I started writing in Arabic, I felt I was missing the multilingual dimension. Writing in Italian allowed me to regain a balance. Living in the United States today, I feel the desire to write in English. I also hope, one day, to learn to write in Tamazight, my mother tongue.
I have made peace with my relationship with French. For me, French does not belong exclusively to the French nation. It is not part of the legacy of colonialism, but I consider colonialism to be destruction and oppression, whereas language is civilization. For this reason, French is my language, not the language of the French.
In my writing, each character seems to find their voice in a specific language. For example, in my novel Divorce Islamic Style, an Egyptian immigrant in Italy expressed herself better in Italian on certain topics, while a Sicilian interpreter character was better able to express himself in Arabic. I give my characters the freedom to speak the language that best represents their inner world.
In my latest novel, طير الليل, written in Arabic, I wrote an Italian version, but the characters seemed to refuse to speak to me in Italian. They wanted to express themselves only in Arabic. I respected their will and gave the text to the translator Francesco Leggio.
Languages, for me, do not live in conflict but in collaboration. They have the same dignity, the same love, and the same respect. I try to use them as best as I can and honor the richness they bring to my life.
At the end of the day, I choose my characters, and they are the ones who decide in which language they want to express themselves.
Did Italian give you more flexibility, in some way, than being an Algerian writer working in French?
AL: The phrase often heard regarding Algerians’ relationship with French is that of Kateb Yacine: “Le français est un butin de guerre” (“French is a war booty”). For me, however, Italian is a booty of love, not of war. It is a language that has no connection to colonialism. Italy, in fact, never colonized Algeria. It’s a language I loved even before I knew it. I adored Italian cinema. During my adolescence, I discovered Italian cinema, dubbed in French. Later, I went to Italy and learned Italian. I learned it with great love.
Writing in Italian, rather than in French, gave me a lot. First of all, it gave me peace of mind. There are no colonial tensions. Thus, I was able to write outside of such conflicts. Moreover, it gave me the opportunity to be creative. I took a new path. There aren’t many Algerians who write in both Italian and Arabic. Perhaps I am the only writer who is both Arabic- and Italian-speaking. In the case of French, however, there are already many writers. This gave me more freedom to express my creativity.
The first thing I sought was to write in a context free from constant tensions. Writing in French, in fact, often means being accused of betrayal, as still happens today to some Algerian Francophone writers. They are considered traitors, but I strongly disagree. Everyone has the right to choose the language they prefer. As I often say, language does not belong to a nation but to those who speak it, to those who use it. However, I cannot ignore the fact that writers who write in French are often manipulated, especially by the right wing and far-right in France. This is a fact. Writing in French can be very difficult and contentious. France still uses French as a tool of monopoly, sometimes even as a means of perpetuating a “colonialist hegemony,” something I do not share at all.
By writing in Italian, I also wanted to escape this Arabophone-Francophone conflict. I have always said: instead of denying one of the two languages, let us seek to broaden horizons, to enrich them with other languages. Instead of being trapped in this dualism, which recalls the dualism between good and evil, I prefer to seek other paths. I do not agree with this Manichaean vision.
Italian gave me, first and foremost, the freedom to write outside of these tensions. Furthermore, my books are an example of this. Clash of Civilizations Over an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio was initially written in Arabic, then rewritten in Italian, and finally retranslated into French. An Algerian publisher purchased the translation rights from a French publisher to publish it in Algeria. In the end, Italian also proved to be a bridge between Arabic and French. I deeply believe in the recognition and coexistence of languages. I like it when languages are used as tools for dialogue and not as weapons to destroy, diminish, or humiliate others.
Elias Khoury has claimed (surely at least partially tongue in cheek, since he did write White Faces) that there are no detective novels in Arabic. In any event, there seems to be more of the murder mystery genre among Algerian writers than anywhere else in the region. What has drawn you to playing with this genre as part of your literary project?
In Oran, where The Fertility of Evil is set. Photo courtesy of the author.
AL: First of all, when discussing the absence of investigative stories or detective characters in Arabic literature, this can be traced back to the lack of democracy in dictatorial or totalitarian regimes, where emphasis is placed on the importance of order. Dictatorships, in fact, derive their legitimacy from their ability to establish and maintain order. However, the detective story or thriller genre challenges this concept: it introduces disorder and exposes crimes. I believe that the best way for writers to contribute to the democratization of a society is precisely by writing detective stories or thrillers.
This genre allows us to address complex and profound themes. However, I prefer noir as a narrative form. Unlike detective stories, which can be conceived as mere entertainment novels often characterized by a game with the reader to discover who committed the crime—as happens in Georges Simenon or Agatha Christie’s detective stories—noir analyzes the deep dynamics of an entire society in crisis. Often, in noir, the truth does not come to light, is not accepted, or is not claimed. This genre highlights that the ending is never the classic one, where order and truth triumph, but rather a starting point for further reflection and questions.
Precisely because of these characteristics, I insist on the value of Mediterranean noir, which I consider profoundly different from the detective stories of Nordic countries. While the latter often present an investigation aimed at re-establishing apparent order, Mediterranean noir focuses on a complex and layered representation of social and political dynamics. In Algeria and other Mediterranean countries, for instance, there are authors who are heavily investing in this genre, using it as a narrative key to depict society and engage the reader. It’s not just about finding the criminal and bringing them to justice, but about investigating who is behind the crime: the instigator. This pursuit adds an extra layer of depth to the narrative, transforming it into a tool of critical and social analysis.
My reference point in this genre is Leonardo Sciascia, one of the greatest Italian and, I would say, Mediterranean writers. In his novels about the mafia, the ending never provides a definitive truth. Instead, it represents the beginning of a journey of inquiry, an invitation to question seriously and deeply. This approach not only enriches noir as a literary genre but transforms it into a means of challenging the apparent social order and stimulating authentic reflection on society’s contradictions and evils.
There are a growing number of books about the Black Decade in Algeria. What do you feel literature can (or should, or must) contribute to the discussion and understanding of that period? What sorts of books do you think are missing from the literary landscape, when it comes to 90s Algeria, that you’d like to see written?
AL: A few years ago, in Algeria, I stated that the role of the Algerian writer—and, more broadly, that of the Mediterranean writers—is twofold: to be both historian and psychologist. As a psychologist, the writer’s role is to reconcile collective memory with the past, helping people look back with awareness. The past, in fact, resembles shadows: they never disappear or vanish. Through a process of elaboration, we can learn to live with these shadows that wound us. Running away is futile because the shadows always catch up with us. We cannot completely rid ourselves of the wounds of memory, but we can try to reconcile with them, finding a way to coexist.
In this process, forgiveness plays a fundamental role: it is a powerful weapon that disarms the wounds, stripping them of their ability to hurt us. Therefore, the task of the Algerian writer — and what I have tried to do in my latest novel — is to face the past with courage. We cannot escape memory. Algeria, unfortunately, has a difficult relationship with its past, often preferring to flee rather than confront it. This happened with the 1990s as well: instead of analyzing what happened, understanding the mistakes, and asking for forgiveness, the path of escape was chosen, legalizing civil reconciliation. But escaping is not a solution. Acknowledging one’s mistakes is already a great step toward peace.
The role of writers, then, is also to tell stories, even the most painful ones. As a reader, I believe it is essential to approach the past with sensitivity. Writing about the 1990s, the “Black Decade” of terrorism, requires courage and justice. It is necessary to avoid being manipulated, maintaining narrative integrity. Unfortunately, today, we witness attempts at manipulation: for example, the French right-wing seeks to erase memories of the Algerian liberation war and the massacres committed by French colonialism, instead proposing a narrative centered only on the 1990s. But every wound deserves to be addressed, without hierarchies and without manipulation.
Addressing these themes is a delicate task that requires sensitivity and creativity. Writing about wounds, about difficult and terrible years like those of terrorism, is not simple but necessary. We must look at the past and face it. Like shadows, painful memories do not disappear, but we can learn to live with them, finding a balance that allows us to move forward without forgetting.
Can you talk about how Leonardo Sciascia inspires this work, and anything at all about where the trilogy goes next?
AL: Sciascia (1922-1989) profoundly inspired me and played a fundamental role in my path as a writer. I can summarize his teachings in three key points, which have shaped not only my approach to writing but also my way of interpreting the world.
The first teaching is not to leave history to historians. History is essential material for the writer, a living resource to be handled with care and creativity. From my first novel, even before knowing Sciascia, I sought to explore Algerian history as a key to understanding the present. In my novels, the idea of longue durée (the long duration) is central: to understand a phenomenon, it is necessary to trace it back to the past, not stopping at immediate causes but delving into indirect ones. Only by expanding the temporal framework can the complexity of a phenomenon be grasped.
The second teaching concerns the role of religion in daily and public life. Sciascia lucidly analyzed the role of the Catholic Church in society and politics. Similarly, I have tried to explore the role of Islam in the public sphere. Consequently, I am convinced that religion and politics must remain separate: when they mix, they damage each other.
The third teaching concerns the role of the intellectual and the civic commitment. Sciascia taught me that intellectuals have the duty to fight for justice, to express their point of view with courage, and to confront the most pressing issues of society without fear.
You have translated your own work and surely adapted freely as you saw fit. I understand that you work with Lotfi Nia, Alexander Elinson, and Francesco Leggio in a collaborative manner. I would love if you could talk a little about what this collaboration looks like.
AL: Last March, at Yale, where I teach, we presented the results of an experiment we called Collective Translingual Translation. In this project, I worked as the author alongside my three translators: Alexander Elinson for English, Lotfi Nia for French, and Francesco Leggio for Italian. It was an extraordinary experience to exchange ideas, confront each other, and confirm that languages are like mirrors: the more mirrors we have at our disposal, the better we can see ourselves.
This project stemmed from two fundamental reflections I developed during my experience as a writer. The first concerns my writing in Arabic and Italian. When I write in Arabic, I always feel like a translator as well. This is because there is a significant distance between spoken and written Arabic, a distance that I do not find in Italian. In Italian, the closeness between written and spoken language is such that I don’t perceive writing as a process of translation. In contrast, in Arabic, I inevitably have to translate: my characters do not speak in Standard Arabic as they would in everyday life. If I were to use Algerian Arabic, I would have to include many French words, making everything extremely complex. Thus, Arab writers operate in a translational sphere, transforming local Arabic into Standard Arabic. This leads me to conclude that writing in Arabic is equivalent to performing the function of a translator. And if that’s the case, then we must deeply understand what translation means. Arab writers must master the art of translation.
The second reflection concerns the role of the editor, which is almost nonexistent in the Arab world or, when present, is limited to correcting typos and grammatical errors. An editor, however, is much more: they are a mirror for the author, someone to discuss characters, narrative strength, and plot construction with. Writing in Arabic, I have always felt the absence of this figure with whom I could engage and improve my work. However, by working with translators, I had the opportunity to rewrite a text that had already been published. Thanks to their observations and suggestions, I hope to publish a truly improved new edition.
The translators, too, benefited from this process. Translation is, after all, a matter of choices: for every sentence, every word, there are a lot of possibilities, but one must identify the most suitable solution for the target language. Languages not only behave differently but also complement one another.
For the future, I have decided that my texts written in Arabic will not be published before being translated into Italian, French, and English. I want the translation process to occur before publication so that the perspectives of my translators can be directly integrated into the final text. I would also like to involve translators of other languages to further expand this experience. It is a promising experiment that I hope can be extended to other writers and translators, creating a collective and translingual dialogue.
And then, the title: Are you hoping to keep the title طير الليل (Night Bird) in English, or do you imagine it differently?
AL: After reflecting and rewriting the text I had published in Arabic, طير الليل (Night Bird) , and also discussing it with my translators, I realized that I was no longer convinced by the title. Looking back, I remembered that the original title I had chosen for this novel was The Fertility of Evil. I don’t know exactly what happened, but gradually, Night Bird forced its way into my mind and established itself.
This change had profound consequences. By changing the title, I also transformed the main character because Night Bird was his pseudonym. The metaphor of the bird, at that point, changed: Night Bird became the hoopoe. It was a significant metamorphosis, redefining both the title and the heart of the novel. If one day this book is republished in a new edition—which I hope—it will no longer be titled Night Bird but will return to being The Fertility of Evil.
In French, the translation has already been published with this title, and I hope the same will soon happen in English and Italian. This work of collective translation has been extremely useful to me: it allowed me to review the text with new eyes—not only mine but also those of others. It was a precious and transformative experience.
What other recent Algerian books have you enjoyed? Especially, of course, noir or crime fiction, and those we might not know about?
AL: I had the pleasure and privilege of reading Said Khatibi’s latest novel, The End of the Sahara. Said is a dear friend, and we often share our texts to exchange opinions and suggestions. I had the chance to read the early drafts of this novel. I closely followed his journey—a patient, determined, and profoundly professional effort that brought him to this remarkable achievement.
The novel is an extraordinary work that portrays Algeria, masterfully delving into its recent past. Said skillfully weaves the present and historical memory in a compelling narrative, demonstrating a profound understanding of the country’s cultural and political context. It stands out for its ability to shed light on the roots of the present while never losing sight of the humanity within the stories it tells.
I am thrilled that the book will be published in French by the prestigious publishing house Gallimard and book in French and Bitter Lemon Press will publish the English edition, translated by our talented friend Alexander Elinson. I sincerely hope The End of the Sahara achieves the great success it truly deserves.
Tomorrow, we’ll have a conversation with translator Alexander Elinson.