“The world must know that freedom is at stake”

Interview by Stephanie von Hayek

Mr. Daoud, when was the last time you were in Algeria?

That was a long time ago. I have been living in France since the summer of 2023. I fled my homeland with only a suitcase.

In autumn 2024, your fellow writer, Boualem Sansal, was arrested upon arrival at the airport in Algiers. Now he has been sentenced to five years in prison. He is 80 years old and seriously ill. 

Officially, he was arrested because of an interview. But in reality, the regime wants to strengthen its own position: voter turnout in the last elections was low. Support is gained either through religion or through anti-French rhetoric. Arresting a Francophone Algerian writer who calls for more individual freedom sends the message: We have arrested a traitor. That automatically puts you on the right side. The more the French push for Boualem's release, the less willing the regime is to do so. The government claims that France wants to recolonise the country. That makes them popular.

“There is neither a free press, nor can foreign media report from Algeria.”

On top of that, we writers have not been forgiven for standing up for Israel after the events of October 7. That's another reason to persecute us. No one in Europe knows that in Algeria, the Islamists took over first the judiciary, then the schools, then the media. Now they want to control culture as well. Putting Boualem in prison sends a message to France: we can arrest him and you can do nothing about it. This applies to everyone, including writers in the future. German diplomacy should exert influence.

What is the current situation in Algeria?

There is a climate of fear. When I arrived in Paris a year and a half ago, no one could believe that. There is no free press in Algeria, nor can foreign media report from there—journalists are not granted visas. On top of that, if you say that things are getting worse in Algeria, you are considered Islamophobic. Some left-wing media outlets really don't really want to see what is happening there. There's a kind of artificial silence about [Algeria]. But now, with Boualem's arrest, many people have finally understood.

“Islamists believe in virgins in paradise. They kill women here to live with them there.”

The civil war broke out in 1991 after the Front Islamique du Salut appeared to be winning the election only for the army to disallow the election. The army then seized power in a coup with France's approval. Looking back, how do you view the annulment of the elections?

There is no good answer to that question. Is it a good idea to save democracy by undemocratic means? Or should democracy be allowed to take its course? Strong states can deal with this, such as Morocco or Jordan. They allowed the Islamists to come to power, but since they were unable to prove themselves effective, their influence remained limited. As far as Algeria is concerned, I supported the annulment of the elections because I knew the Islamists. Once they are in power, everything is God's will – and you can't go against that.

Last year, your novel Houris won the Prix Goncourt. You chose the Algerian civil war as your subject. Why?

Because it's a war I experienced, one that caused me and those around me a great deal of suffering. This is a war that one is forbidden by law to talk about in Algeria! That renders a person totally powerless. I lived in a country where I was only told about the colonial war, which ended with independence in 1962. I wanted people to talk about both wars. The enemies of democracy, and of women, think in totalitarian terms and are gaining influence around the world. I want people to know that we were the first country to pay the price for this. The world must know that freedom, women's rights, and happiness are at stake. My novel is not about war, but about the right to happiness.

"Houri" is what the protagonist Aube calls her unborn child. In the Islamic faith, “houris” are virgins who await heroes in heaven. Can you explain this fantasy?

If you are a good believer, you go to paradise, where virgins await you, women who are sex slaves. It's an ancient mythology. But now people are blowing themselves up because they believe in it. For me, that's pathological. You kill women here so you can live with them in the afterlife. If you were capable of love, you would love the living, not the dead.

You dedicated the book to your mother, Yamina: "A ma mère, ma langue secrète" (To my mother, my secret language). What is this "secret language" that so moves you?

Algerian. No one in the Arab world speaks “Arabic.” It would be like saying that Europeans speak Latin. In my country, we have Berber and Algerian. I can understand a Moroccan, a Tunisian, but not someone from Saudi Arabia. So the secret language is the language that is actually spoken, but is forbidden. There are no books or newspapers in Algerian, and it is a language that is widely despised. In our country, conservatives call it the vulgar language.

Power also plays out in language and within its parameters.

Yes. Sermons are in Arabic, as are political speeches, but advertising is in Algerian because it's about money. The musical genre that has conquered the world and originates in Oran, my city, is Raï. It is sung in Algerian, which is why it was opposed by the Islamists.

Your protagonist, Aube, has her throat cut by Islamists, but she survives. We listen to her as she bears witness to the horrific massacres committed by Islamists. What is it that is left unsaid?

Aube is a woman who escaped a massacre and had her vocal cords cut, who can't speak aloud. It is about a war that cannot be talked about, by law. Because it was a shameful, suicidal war, not a noble one like the war against France. It is so painful that it is difficult to find words to describe it.

The scar on Aube's neck is a smile hidden under her scarf, as if “sourire” were to be understood literally as “sous-rire,” something that lies beneath, not always visible. What did you want to convey with that?

That is the essence of the story. Someone who can't speak, but who bears the scars of war. If Aube didn't have a scar, you could say, well, no one will believe me, but she has one that reminds her of the war every day. I wanted to show the difficulties I have, concealing a true story. You can conceal it, but it's still there.

“Literature reminds us that people can be different from ourselves.”

And why the smile?

Because there are different kinds of smiles: an amused smile, a mocking smile, a smile of revenge. Smiling is ambiguous.

Has writing about the massacres of the Algerian civilian population made you understand something about humanity's capacity for cruelty?

I have completely lost faith in people. If people are capable of such acts, then I can no longer trust them. At the same time, I am part of this humanity—how can I trust myself? But I have learned that we have an incredible ability within us to overcome all of this. For me, the novel is a return to life. The protagonist has made the journey that Algeria still has ahead of it.

We are observing a social regression even in Western democracies. Sexual prudery, something which affects women in particular, is experiencing a comeback. You say that a society is only truly free for men if women's rights are accepted. Why don't women count in Algeria?

You could ask the question differently: why do Islamists hate women so much? There are clues. Women give life—that is the greatest mystery that exists. They represent desire, sexuality, and happiness. Islamists don't love life. Because women give and protect life, they hate them. Love leads us to bare ourselves. A radical religious person is someone who considers themselves to be God. They prefer to shut themselves away in their faith rather than approach a woman and accept being naked.

“A book is like a body, the reader is its soul.”

“It takes many books to be free,” you have said in an interview. You also said that you yourself were once very religious, but that books liberated you. What can literature achieve?

Literature reminds us that people can be different from ourselves. It allows us to travel, to love, even when we are locked in a room. It does what it can. But what do we do for literature? We must protect authors, help them, read their books, and translate them. I am in France. I am persecuted. Boualem Sansal is in prison. If they kill Boualem, we will all pay the price. Do you think I wanted to go through so much trouble writing a book? I didn't do it because I'm a hero, but because it gives my life meaning. But a book doesn't live unless it is read. It's like a body, the reader is its soul. If there is no soul, there is no life.