Kawthar Al-Jahmi’s Journey: From ‘Bint Tripoli’ to Award-winning Novelist

For June 2026, our Monthly Newsletter for Publishing Professionals (this month, curated by Masoud Masoud) will focus on Libya’s publishing scene: publishers, prizes, festivals, and how authors make things work in an unstable living, working, reading, and publishing environment. Thus, this month, we will be particularly featuring excerpts from Libyan works and talks with Libyan writers.

Today, Kawthar al-Jahmi talks about her writing and reading journeys, the role of literary prizes, submitting her novel to the publisher a day before giving birth, and developing a writing practice while working and raising children.

To start off with, can you tell us a little about your journey to writing and publishing? My understanding is that you first started writing under pseudonyms in various online forums, and that you moved from more essayistic and polemical writings to fiction. What motivated your turn toward fiction? And what is the relationship in your work between ideas — and a journalistic or essayistic impulse — and your imaginary worlds? 

Kawthar Al-Jahmi: Like many writers, I started writing and contributing to online forums. Prior to that, in my childhood, I created comic stories that were heavily influenced by children’s comic magazines. I was also involved in school literary competitions and morning speeches in the school morning broadcast. Though those were short, scattered phases, I can now see that the writing seed was planted then.I began writing under pseudonyms, mostly “Bint Tripoli” (Daughter of Tripoli) in various Arab and Libyan forums. Following the social media boom, I transitioned to blogging and created my personal blog: “An Ordinary Woman” (Sayyida ‘Adiya). I chose a pseudonym because I feared judgment and was always afraid of a question that no one has actually asked me to this day: “Who do you think you are to write?”

As for transitioning from essays to novels, I believe the opposite is true. When I was writing purely for myself, unconcerned with publication or readership, I wrote short stories and some prose poetry. Later, I found the courage to write polemical and unconventional essays as well as topics that weren’t necessarily controversial but addressed ideas that were only circulating verbally but haven’t been documented in writing. I love writing about what goes on inside our minds; those details and worries lingering in the back of our minds. During that phase, narrative writing was moving forward at times and retreating at others. I was not forcing myself to write in a specific form. Meaning, if an idea provoked something in me, I would let it manifest in my mind, without much control on my part. Then, once I feel it’s ready, I would write in whatever form I believe would be the most powerful to convey it, whether that was essay, short story, or novel.

I read that some of your earliest influences were Ghada Samman and Nizar Qabbani. What was it about these two Syrian giants that really struck you, as a young reader and writer? What other books inspired your desire to write — to write toward them, against them, to build on them, or otherwise? 

KAJ: Reading to Ghada Al-Samman was a significant point in my reading journey; I believe I was a completely different person after reading her. After reading her, I discovered that literature can be painful, and that I could use simple words to describe complex emotions, difficult experiences, and boundless bitterness. Before that, I used to read translated literature. I would hear about Arab writers but feel they wrote at a level far beyond my comprehension. It was a strange paradox. This was probably because the translated literature I read consisted of abridged versions of famous classical novels like Jane Eyre, Little Women, Les Misérables, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and The Good Earth. At the time, the only Arabic book I had read was Taha Hussein’s The Days, which is a semi-autobiography. I believe the version I read was simplified and abridged, as it was an edition tailored for primary school students in Egypt, which I stumbled upon in my father’s library (my father attended primary school in Egypt).

The same applied to Nizar Qabbani. People who knew my fondness for his poems assumed I was a romantic looking for romantic poetry. In fact, what captivated me most was his political poetry. Discovering Al-Samman and Qabbani coincided with my growing understanding of the reality and events in the Arab region as well as a sense of rejection and rebellion that I found no way to express except through writing. As I immersed myself entirely in reading their works, I started writing poetry, short stories, and essays. I was deeply influenced by both of their styles, especially Al-Samman’s; I used to write in a style almost identical to hers and would borrow some of her metaphors. Currently, whenever I experience a reading slump, I reread their books, and once I do, the magic of discovering the sheer pleasure of reading returns to me.

There are many books that influenced me, most of them are from Arabic literature, especially works by Ghada Al-Samman. I can say these are the books that shaped me, or rather, shaped the moral foundation from which my writing stems. Among them, I would mention: The Departure of Old Ports (a short story collection by Ghada Al-Samman), My Story with Poetry (an autobiography by Nizar Qabbani), An Arab and Free Woman (essays by Ghada Al-Samman), and Animal Farm, the well-known novel by George Orwell.

Prizes seem to have been a critical part of your publishing journey, first the short-story prize for ‘’Al-Mahrousa 1785’’ and then the prestigious Mai Ghassoub Prize for your first novel, The Returnees (2019), which was then published by Dar al-Saqi. Were there other things that helped and encouraged you, as an emerging writer? What more do you think could be done to encourage young Libyans to write (in the current sociopolitical environment)? 

KAJ: I cannot deny the importance of literary prizes, and don’t agree with the absolute criticism of them. Literary awards are valuable when they help bring more attention and readership to them and their work. However, they do not guarantee a writer’s continuity. The Mai Ghassoub Prize spared me the labyrinthine process of finding a publisher willing to accept my first novel. This is a major challenge across the Arab region, where most publishing submissions are either rejected (sometimes without the manuscript even being read) or accepted only if the author pays a fee to cover publication costs, especially when they are still obscure.

I had already begun writing The Returnees when I came across the announcement of the prize, so I took it as a sign or at least a way to force myself to finish the novel and stop procrastinating. In those days, I was a member of “Fasila” which is an online publishing platform dedicated to supporting emerging writers. That environment provided me with strong psychological support. I always advise anyone who aspires to write and publish to place themselves in an environment that resembles them; an environment of writers and journalists. Writing feeds on the unexpected, often bizarre conversations between writers and on the mutual support they give one another. Writers often offer advice and talk about writing far more, and far better, than they actually write! And here I am, doing the exact same thing!

Could you talk a bit about Fasila and the role collective platforms played in your journey as a reader and writer? 

KAJ: In literary discussions or among interested groups, I always say that writing on platforms and blogs is very much like going to the gym. Writing is a muscle that requires flexibility and nourishment which come from practice and reading. Contributing to online writing platforms and newspapers helps to continue practicing and reading for the purpose of research for writing.

I will not claim that writing daily is a simple plan; in fact, it is an almost impossible piece of advice, and I do not believe it suits everyone; especially women, and mothers in particular, and I don’t think I need to explain why. However, that does not mean that good writing is impossible for a working mother despite her endless responsibilities. I believe that writing for an hour, two to three days a week, is quite sufficient. It does not necessarily have to be writing something entirely new; sometimes it’s just rewriting, or editing an essay or a story (I worked as an editor for the Fasila platform for two years, and that helped me immensely).

Currently, Fasila is on hiatus and striving to make a comeback, so I practice my writing by exchanging emails with some close friends, replying to wonderful interviews like this one, or simply writing random journal entries.

Where do you go to discover new writing? Where do you find new writers and new books?

KAJ: The ideas I write about come to me on their own/naturally. It can be a detail I hear during a conversation with my husband about his day, from my work in school, on the streets, and in my country’s lineups at the bank and gas station, in hospital waiting rooms, large family gatherings, and even in social media comments! This world is full of stories that easily surpass our own imaginations.

As for books and writers, during my adolescence, I picked whatever caught my eyes. Sometimes, I would discover wonderful writers through newspaper columns in magazines which encouraged me to get their books, as was the case with Ahlam Mosteghanemi and Anis Mansour. Following the rise of social media, I began discovering books and authors through their social media presence; perhaps this is the one service that softens my resentment toward these platforms.

What have been the key moments of change to the Libyan and broader Arabic literary landscape during your time as a writer? How have these moments — 2011, for instance — impacted how you read and write? 

KAJ: I believe that the literary landscape, regionally and locally has been influenced most by technology, the rising popularity of various social platforms, and the emergence of literary and cultural influencers (even though they are fewer in number and less impactful than content creators in other fields). I witnessed this shift when the internet first entered Libya in 2000, then with the widespread use of Facebook in 2011, and subsequently with the rise of other platforms, most recently TikTok.

As much as technology has pulled us away from our initial reading habits and reduced the depth of our reading, it has immensely served writers providing them with a space to share their early writings and to receive feedback from a wider audience, extending far beyond their own countries. Like many others, I continue to benefit from technology whether by introducing people to my writings or in selecting my new reads. Social media was the reason I entered the Mai Ghassoub competition, which led to my debut novel winning and being published. Through it, I came to know the Libyan publisher Ghassan Fergiani, resulting in the publication of my subsequent books with the publishing house. Social media has allowed me to discover more writers and decide whether or not to obtain their books based on their writing styles, shared essays, and interviews.

There are also the rapid political shifts and the shocking security events we have lived through in Libya since 2011 which have instilled in me a deep, intense sense of injustice and disillusionment. Writing about all of that puts me in a better mood and eases my distress as it gives me a sense of fulfillment when I say what I need to say, regardless of how many people read or listen.

And tell us about sending in your novel to the publishing house a day before your delivery date! 

KAJ: This is a beautiful memory that I hold dear to my heart. I remember that the final deadline to submit the novel to the competition committee was June 30th, 2018, while my scheduled C-section was set for June 10th. That was during the last week of Ramadan that year and I had already finished the draft that I submitted. It was the third draft, after having gone through two rounds of revision and editing; I edited it myself the first time, and the second time it was edited by my friend (the founder of the Fasila platform).

Writing this novel, literally, accompanied me throughout the months of my pregnancy; it felt like an additional pregnancy that I chose to deliver just one day before giving birth to my son, Mu’nis (my fourth and youngest child). I intentionally delayed submitting the manuscript until the very last moment before my delivery day. I wanted to minimize the time I would spend overthinking it and worrying about the judges’ opinions, knowing that from the next day onward, I would be entirely dedicated to the newborn and time would fly by until the winner was announced. So, it wasn’t that I was forced to send it at the last minute due to a lack of time; on the contrary, I used my childbirth as a way to keep my nerves from burning out. Giving birth to a child was much easier for me than overthinking about the fate of my first novel.

Tell us a bit about the research you put into ولد بلاد. What role does research (into the struggles of stateless Libyans, in this case) play in your work constructing novels?

KAJ: You have touched upon a very important point. Researching the legal and social aspects of the subject was a major challenge for me as I was deeply afraid that the writing might fall short of doing this group justice, or worse, come across as offensive rather than helpful. I started with conducting an online research on Libyan laws concerning citizenship. I then reached out for help from an Egyptian man whose mother is Libyan. He lives in Tripoli and has founded an association called: “A Stranger in My Mother’s Homeland.” He was incredibly cooperative; I remain deeply grateful to him for his time and open-mindedness.

I also find that I need to have a copy of حي القطط السمان. What is your relationship to the short-story form, and how do you approach writing a short story (vs. constructing the whole world of a novel)? 

KAJ: I began writing short stories a long time ago. My first novel, The Returnees, was actually meant to be a short story project. However, it expanded and branched out in my mind until I realized it was a novel, not a short story. I love the short-story genre for its ability to have condensed meaning and elements of surprise. On the other hand, I love novels because of the intimacy we build with the characters and settings.

I’ve read you make the point that many male writers can’t write from a woman’s point of view, even if their houses are full of women, while women are often compelled to understand both men’s and women’s points of views. What is it that helps you get into the mindset of a character? 

KAJ: To be honest, I don’t recall saying or mentioning that; perhaps my point was understood differently. I believe that a professional writer is fully capable of writing from the perspective of a different gender; in fact, they can even write from the perspective of non-human creatures. Perhaps it is the widespread notion that women are difficult to understand which deters male writers from writing from a woman’s point of view, and even when creating female characters, they often resort to using the third-person narrative.

For me, I always keep in mind that there is no fundamental difference between the emotions of a man and a woman; the difference lies perhaps in how they handle problems and react to them. The few men in my life were enough examples to shape my expectations regarding my male characters. I’m inspired by my father and uncles’ reactions and attitudes which assist me when writing a male character. I was also old enough and aware when my younger brother was born (the only boy in our house). I witnessed his childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood. My deep affection for my brother nurtured a profound understanding of his feelings within me. I observed him with eyes of love and care, not with the eyes of a judgmental overseer. Consequently, I found myself, in a way, possessing his memories and gaining the ability to understand him and the challenges that males face in our society. This, in particular, is likely what helped me sketch the character of Majdi in my novel Wild Blad (ولد بلاد). Later, I met my husband, and through his endless, fascinating stories, I think I came to understand men even better, though I wouldn’t claim to have mastered it completely.

You’ve said that what women writers lack in Libya is “confidence, female writers need confidence in their pens and to take the risk to publish and face the obstacles of the process with a high-held head and openness. Writing to closed drawers is not a real experience.” These are a lot of excellent points, but . . . where did you find your confidence? And how do you think — institutions? or publishing houses? or other women writers? — could help build the confidence of Libyan women writers?

KAJ: I believe my upbringing is the reason. I grew up with open-minded parents who expressed their opinions without hesitation. They possessed that “curse,” the curse of positivity, which means interacting with surrounding circumstances productively. They always leaned toward solving problems, and they succeeded at it. So, I am a fortunate daughter.

Both of my parents were educated, the upbringing of my siblings and I was their top priority. I mean upbringing and nurture rather than just providing care. They dealt seriously with our school issues and followed up with teachers, monitored us from a supportive distance, and placed their trust in our choices.

My father allowed us to learn how to use the internet and visit internet cafes at a time when they were overwhelmingly crowded with men. Later, we owned a desktop computer at home when it still wasn’t common among my school peers. My father encouraged me to read when he noticed my passion for it, helping me obtain magazines and books. My mother encouraged me to participate in drawing competitions and to correspond with children from other Arab countries via airmail through the pen-pal sections of children’s magazines. At the early age of eight, I won second place in a drawing competition held by a local magazine. The drawing depicted a rainy day on a main street where an angry girl stood with an umbrella. She was angry because she couldn’t cross the street due to the passing cars. I remember my family attending the award ceremony with me, but the award staff placed me in a seat in the front row all by myself so that I wouldn’t find it difficult to walk up and receive the prize when my name was called. While my parents sat in the back rows, I was terrified as it was a completely new experience to me. They were so proud of me, even though most of the audience laughed when I walked up alone, with my short stature, to accept my award. I was the youngest contestant, and it looked unusual. The audience’s laughter and whispers saddened me, but my parents insisted that they weren’t laughing at me; they were simply surprised by how young I was compared to the other winners. I have spoken at length about this memory, perhaps because it is the first time I am sharing it in a literary interview, and I thank you for prompting me to unearth such memories. I am forever grateful to my family.

As for other women writers, I cannot assume they all had a childhood like mine or were granted the same opportunities I had. However, I strongly wish for solidarity among us, for us to support one another more. I believe this solidarity fosters their confidence and breaks down the barriers of fear or hesitation. I actually feel this happening from time to time. Women in the last two decades are quite different from those who came before them.

Who are some of the Libyan writers who you think should be read more widely? 

KAJ: I believe that Ibrahim Al-Koni, Hisham Matar, Najwa Bin Shatwan, and Mohamed Alnaas have already achieved a wide reach and recognition regionally and globally. I think Aisha Ibrahim deserves a greater opportunity. In fact, she has already begun to carve a name for herself regionally over the last three years. We also have Azza Maghur, a short-story writer who doesn’t actively chase fame, but I would love to see her read on a wider scale, as she has a brilliant project that chronicles the transformations of urban Libyan society.