Dar El Shorouk

Ahmed Abdel Moneim Ramadan | Cats Howl and Dogs Meow | Dar El Shorouk | 2023

Axel Timo Purr: This week I visited the Cairo International Film Festival and watched the Egyptian film Complaint No. 713317. Although it is a comedy, it reveals a great deal about the country. I wondered whether this applies not only to film, but also to contemporary Egyptian literature. For example, your story The Cairo Fire, which we published, follows a man who goes out at night and encounters a monkey that seems to be searching for a woman, while fire repeatedly appears in the background. I was wondering: is this political in any sense—especially since you mention demonstrations—or is it primarily an attempt to capture an absurd moment?

Ahmed Abdel Moneim Ramadan: Primarily, it is an absurd moment. It reflects the strange and absurd life we are living—not only in Cairo or Egypt, but everywhere. Of course, every piece of writing has a background. It may be political, social, or shaped by everyday realities. My stories are not directly political, but politics and social conditions inevitably play a role in the background of my ideas and my perspective.
The absurd scenes themselves are influenced by the socio-economic and political realities we live in, even if they are not addressed explicitly.

I had to think of your story while watching that film. There, it’s a refrigerator; in your story, it’s a monkey. In both cases, it’s absurd, funny and sad at the same time.

If arts were completely detached from these questions, it would feel strange and artificial. We are inevitably affected by our reality, and we try to express our concerns through different forms—sometimes through comedy, as in the film you mentioned, or through fantasy in novels and short stories.
This kind of fantasy is not away from reality; on the contrary, it reflects it. It functions as a mirror.

The last time I interviewed an Egyptian writer was years ago, when I spoke with Alaa Al Aswany during the Mubarak era. At that time, everything he described about the literary scene felt deeply political. Looking back now, from Mubarak’s time to today, what would you say are the biggest changes in Egyptian literature?

Literature and cultural life in Egypt have gone through several major shifts over the past twenty years. One significant change occurred in the early 2000s, during the Mubarak era. New publishing houses were founded, and a transformation in the literary landscape took place.
In the 1970s, 80s, and 90s, there were relatively few publishers and limited opportunities for writers to publish their work. This changed dramatically in the 2000s. Writers such as Alaa Al Aswany, Ahmad Al-Aidi, and others reached large audiences, and many small publishing houses emerged.
At certain points, Egypt was publishing between 200 and 400 novel and short story books a year—a remarkable increase. During the final years of Mubarak’s rule, political literature was especially prominent and widely read. This continued for several years after the 2011 revolution.
Then another shift occurred roughly a decade ago. The reasons are not entirely clear. Perhaps readers grew tired of political discourse after the upheavals, or perhaps writers themselves found it increasingly difficult to express what they wanted to say openly.

So there were several phases of change. Would you say that today more escapist literature is successful? In Germany, for example, many publishers claim that so-called high literature is disappearing, while romance and young adult fiction dominate because they are profitable.

In Egypt—and perhaps in the Arab world more generally—the readership is clearly divided. There is a large group of readers drawn to bestsellers: romance, thrillers, horror novels. These genres sell well.
At the same time, there is a smaller but committed readership that we might call intellectual. Some publishing houses continue to focus on this audience. In recent years, there has been a noticeable turn toward fantasy, experimental forms, and historical novels.
Overall, the scene is divided between novels written for commercial success and novels written for intellectual readers and literary prizes.

Would you say that serious writers—let me call them that for now—can actually make a living from writing? You yourself work as a doctor. Is it realistically possible in Egypt to survive financially as a novelist?

No, it is extremely difficult—almost impossible—to live from literature alone. Many writers work in journalism or translation, which are at least related to writing. Others, like me, have completely different professions. Writing by itself rarely provides a stable income.

That reminds me of Alaa Al Aswany. Even after the success of The Yacoubian Building, he continued working as a dentist.

Exactly. Even being a bestseller does not necessarily change that reality. Literary prizes can help, especially the large ones from the Gulf region, but they usually offer only temporary financial security. You cannot rely on them for a lifetime, and if you focused on gaining prizes, you will lose your unique writing personality by trying to fullfill the prize standards.
I remember a conversation with Dr. Gaber Asfour, who was Egypt’s Minister of Culture around 2014. He once called me about one of my novels, praised it, and then said—almost jokingly, but very seriously at the same time: “Do not think about leaving your job as a doctor unless you win the Nobel Prize. If you don’t win the Nobel, you must keep your profession. There is no other way.”
I think that sentence describes the situation of writers in Egypt very accurately.

How do you personally manage to combine your medical career with writing?

It is challenging. I try to organize my schedule so that I have some days off for reading and writing. Of course, this double life slows my literary progress somehow, but I have responsibilities and cannot abandon my profession.
At the same time, I cannot stop writing. I love it, and I feel compelled to tell stories.

In August I spoke to a writer in the Philippines, Angeli E. Dumatol,  who is also a doctor. She said her medical work provides endless material for her writing. Do you feel the same?

To some extent, yes. I see people in their most vulnerable moments, which offers deep insight into their inner lives and how they face suffering. This influences my writing indirectly.
However, I do not like writing about medical cases or illness itself, and certainly not romanticized doctor stories. The influence is psychological rather than thematic.

In Germany, educators observe that many young teachers are unfamiliar with classical literature. I wonder how this compares to Egypt. Are writers like Naguib Mahfouz or Sonallah Ibrahim still widely read?

It varies. Naguib Mahfouz is still widely read, even among younger readers—perhaps partly because of the Nobel Prize. Other great writers, such as Youssef Idris or Tawfiq al-Hakim, receive less attention today.
Sonallah Ibrahim is not yet a “classic” in the traditional sense; his death was recent, and his reception may change over time, however it will be frustrating for me.

Do Arab writers today see themselves primarily as national writers or as part of a broader Arab literary culture?

I guess the pan-Arab idea in the 1950s and 60s sense no longer exists in the same form. Political differences between Arab countries have become more pronounced. In Egypt, some even argue that Egyptians are not Arabs but something entirely separate—an idea I strongly disagree with.
We share language, history, cultural background, and many common political realities. While political unification is unrealistic today, cultural and literary communication across borders is still possible, important and vital.

A lighter question: in Germany, strong regional dialects can sometimes feel almost incomprehensible. Is it similar in the Arab world?

Absolutely. Some dialects are very difficult to understand, especially where Arabic is heavily mixed with other languages, such as French. Egyptian Arabic, however, is widely understood because of cinema and media. When communication becomes difficult, we simply switch to Modern Standard Arabic.

Has Western literature become more influential over the past decades?

We are influenced by Western literature, often not by its newest writers and latest developments. The main issue is delay in translation. By the time a book becomes recognized here, it may already be considered well-known elsewhere.

I agree. When we review, for example the latest novel by Sally Rooney, Intermezzo, it is usually translated simultaneously into Spanish, French, or German—but rarely into Arabic. This always surprises me, given the vast potential readership.

Indeed. Translation of recent books is slow, and Nobel Prize winners are sometimes unknown to us until they receive the prize.
That said, classic Western literature—Orwell, Kafka, Camus— as well as latin literature – Marquez, Llosa- are constantly republished and widely read, even though it is not part of the public school curriculum,. In private schools, such as the one I attended, we study English literature, mostly classics like Charles Dickens or William Shakespeare—but not writers such as Kafka. We are open to world literature, which is why we often discover new authors through the Nobel Prize or the International Booker- which fits well as we have an arabic prize populary called the Arab Booker.

Unfortunately, this prize remains largely unnoticed in the West, despite the many outstanding novels it highlights. This leads me to a broader question: with much of North Africa—Morocco aside—facing economic decline, do writers reflect these everyday hardships in their work? I ask because one of our Indonesian authors, Argus S. Sarjono, observed the opposite trend, with literature becoming increasingly escapist, even in poetry.

Some writers avoid it entirely and turn to escapism because life is already difficult enough. Others address it indirectly—through fantasy, irony, or allegory. Even when it is not explicit, socio-economic reality shapes what we write.

To conclude: if you had to recommend three Egyptian authors to Western readers, whom would you choose?

I deeply admire Sonallah Ibrahim and his work. Yusuf Idris deserves to be read more widely and more attentively. And Mohamed Makhzangi is an outstanding short-story writer, whose work I greatly value.

All men. What about female writers? From what I see, especially in poetry –  we published recently  two very intense poems by Paris based Alaa Hassanien and Egypt based Aya Gamal Mohey Eldeen –  there seems to be a strong movement if I am not mistaken?

Yes of course, There is a new wave of female writers in the different fileds of literature. I’d recommend  the novelist Asmaa El-Sheikh, specially her novel 'Cellini Caffe'.

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