Haneen al-Sayegh on Writing Women and Collective Solidarity

In conversation with Ali Layth Azeez

How did you start writing? Was it poetry or fiction that introduced you to the world of literature, and how do you prefer to express your thoughts?

Haneen Al-Sayegh: Poetry was my gateway into the world of creative writing. I had published three books of poetry before I started my first novel. Perhaps I was initially drawn to poetry because of its inherent ambiguity and openness to interpretation — qualities that reflected my own inner state at the time. As my thoughts and feelings evolved, I felt increasingly compelled to give them form within the more expansive, sustained structure of a novel — one that could accommodate intellectual boldness and deal with issues that are often silenced.

It is difficult, if not impossible, to favor one of the two forms over the other. A poem often arrives like an emotional storm — unexpected, urgent, demanding to be heard. A novel, on the other hand, is a long and deliberate meditation, marked by reflection, technique, architecture and unwavering devotion.

What excites you about writing literature? Is it an attempt to understand the world or to change it?

HAS: The act of understanding is in itself a form of transformation. One cannot hope to change the world without first entering into a dialogue with it — and such a dialogue is impossible in the absence of understanding. Writing, then, becomes both an intellectual inquiry and a moral commitment.

How is your writing influenced by what you read? Are there particular authors who have influenced your literary training?

HAS: Every writer must eventually develop a unique literary voice, and mine is closely tied to how I perceive myself and the world around me. I tend to engage deeply with all my characters — reflecting on them, psychoanalyzing them, empathizing with them — even when I do not share their moral or intellectual perspectives. Writers such as Anaïs Nin, Audre Lorde, Nawal El Saadawi and Bertrand Russell have left an indelible mark on my thinking and creative sensibilities. But ultimately my writing is a crystallization of my own human experience, filtered through an ever-evolving consciousness.

How did the idea for The Women’s Charter come about? What were your expectations about its reception?

HAS: The novel began as an intimate letter to my daughter — an attempt to share with her my worldview and the cultural landscape in which I came of age. When I finished it and shared it with a few trusted friends, the idea of publishing came naturally. I was aware that I had created a coherent and mature work, both structurally and thematically, but I kept my expectations modest. After all, literature, unlike ambition, is driven not by prediction but by necessity.

What was the main message you wanted to convey with the novel, and do you think it was received as you intended?

HAS: At its core, the novel explores a shared bond of pain and resilience that unites women across religious, cultural, and social divides. From the feedback I’ve received — particularly in talks and letters from across the Arab world — I sense that this message has resonated deeply. Yet I recognize that some women resist this sense of collective solidarity, seeing other women as rivals rather than as sisters-in-struggle. The road to mutual recognition is not linear.

How does the novel deal with the concept of feminist identity, and — do you think that Arab women still suffer from stereotypes in Arab literature?

HAS: For me, feminist identity is essentially a human identity. You cannot understand the dilemmas of women without understanding the condition of men. Real liberation does not come from antagonism, but from understanding and alliance. The Women’s Charter does not exclude men — it calls on them to listen, to understand, to engage.

Sadly, many depictions of Arab women in literature remain confined to reductive tropes: the broken, submissive woman pleading for freedom or awaiting salvation. Even motherhood is often portrayed through the lens of helplessness. In truth, there are mothers who, in the face of immense adversity, summon unimaginable strength to protect their daughters from the same tragedies they themselves have endured.

The novel is about the relationship between women’s bodies and souls. Do you think that the body is still the site of cultural and social conflict?

HAS: It is not just a belief, I know it intimately and undeniably. The female body remains a contested space, especially where it is often not seen as belonging to the woman herself. It is treated as communal property == governed by fathers, husbands, sons and society at large. Every decision — from education to dress, from mobility to marriage — can become a site of negotiation or control. Guardianship is not only a legal reality; it is a psychological and social atmosphere.

Do you think that writing about women’s issues should only be done from a female perspective, or do you think that men can also give an honest picture of women’s suffering?

HAS: A man can certainly write authentically about women’s experiences — provided he approaches them with deep empathy, genuine curiosity and a willingness to give up the privileges granted to him by patriarchal norms. He must be prepared to listen, to unlearn and to engage without condescension. Only then can he hope to represent these experiences with honesty and integrity.

How did Amal deal with the struggle for motherhood and independence? Was her choice ultimately a liberation or another form of social coercion?

HAS: Amal faced a cruel dilemma: stay in a suffocating marriage to stay close to her daughter, or leave the home and relinquish custody to regain her mental and emotional well-being. She chose the latter — not out of selfishness, but out of the hope that one day she could return as a whole woman, not just a soulless caregiver.

Her decision was a form of liberation — psychological, social and spiritual. Yet, as the novel suggests, “the liberation of women in the East is rarely possible without a corresponding amount of emotional, social and moral pain.”

The novel deals with the issue of women in the Druze community, a sensitive topic. What was the reaction to the novel?

HAS: The reactions have been both intense and enlightening. While some criticism was inevitable, it paled in comparison to the profound letters I received from Druze women — and from intellectuals within the community — thanking me for shedding light on their struggles, their silence and their inner strength. For me, this is the highest form of affirmation.

How do you see the role of literature in addressing social and political issues? Do you think literature can really make a difference?

HAS: Reading and writing are inherently introspective acts — each reader and writer wrestles with their own prejudices, hopes and disillusions. But literature has a quiet power: it fosters empathy, invites nuance, and destabilizes the binaries that divide us. It may not overthrow systems, but it can change hearts — and hearts can move mountains. My writing is born of two intertwined impulses: the desire to understand and the yearning for freedom. The cause of women lies at the intersection of both.

How do you see the relationship between literary narrative and reality? Can literature replace the social sciences in understanding societies?

HAS: Literature does not replace reality — it reinvents it. Even if it is rooted in fiction, the novel is driven by lived experience. The Women’s Charter was born out of the real stories of women I’d met — some I knew intimately, others only from a distance. What fascinated me was how fictional characters, once inspired by reality, began to rebel against it — to diverge, to evolve. Each character contains both a real and an imagined self. And sometimes fiction illuminates what reality obscures.

Did you feel any pressure while writing, especially knowing that the novel deals with a sensitive subject?

HAS: At the time of writing, I had no certainty that the novel would ever be published. This lack of expectation gave me a rare freedom. I was writing in a space untouched by external judgement — a world without editors, publishers or critics. In this solitude, I could write with transparency and truth. It is perhaps this unfiltered honesty to which readers and critics have responded most.

Do you expect the novel to win the IPAF, and if so, how will it affect your literary career?

HAS: All the shortlisted novels are outstanding and each deserves recognition. As for me, I deliberately avoid the trappings of expectation — not just in literature, but in life. Prizes are moments; writing is a calling. What matters most is the work itself, and whether it endures.

After the success of the novel, what is the next step in your literary career? Do you have new projects?

HAS: Yes — I have already finished writing my second novel. It will be published by Dar Al-Adab in September 2025. But for me, writing is not a series of projects; it is an ongoing engagement with the world, a way of thinking aloud and a way of living attentively.

Ali Layth Azeez is an Iraqi scholar, translator, and content creator. He obtained a master’s in English Literature from the University of Baghdad. He has translated a collection of Gothic short stories and Julia by Sandra Newman (publication pending) into Arabic. He currently works as an instructor at the American University in Baghdad.

With thanks to Nada Hodali.