Why Are Sudanese Novels Excluded from Major Arab Literary Prizes?

Why was In Search of Mustafa Saeed excluded from the shortlist of the Arabic Prize for Fiction—misleadingly known as the “Booker,” a name it does not truly deserve?

This is a novel that, within just two months of publication, generated dozens of critical articles, all documented and easily verifiable online with a single Google search. The volume of serious critical engagement it received exceeds that of many novels that were ultimately selected—some written by authors whose literary history is barely known.

I do not wish to dwell on the biased and selective nature of the chosen list: the repeated recycling of certain names elevated to the status of literary idols, alongside the occasional inclusion of unknown writers merely to claim that the prize supports “new voices.” This is misleading. There is an old saying: “Include the weak so they fall quickly.”

For the past five years, Sudanese writers have been noticeably absent from the lists. The last recurring Sudanese presence was Amir Tag Elsir, who once reached the shortlist with The Grub Hunter—an appearance that felt more like a token gesture than genuine recognition. Hamour Ziada reached the shortlist with The Longing of the Dervish, aided by his winning the Naguib Mahfouz Prize that same year; it seemed the jury felt obliged, out of embarrassment, not to exclude him.

Hamed Al-Nazir appeared twice on the longlist, during years when Jamal Mahjoub—a British writer of Sudanese origin—was on the jury.

The Booker’s policy is undeniably selective and biased. I possess enough evidence to write an entire book on the matter. Literary merit—the text itself—appears to have little or no relevance to the final selection process.

My history with the Booker is not recent. Publishers who have worked with me believe deeply in my writing and have no interest in questions of identity, race, colour, or nationality. Among them was the British publisher Moment, which nominated my novel Shawarma in 2014 at the height of its popularity. Readers know this well. The novel was excluded for unknown reasons. A member of the jury—an Egyptian critic whom I later met in Muscat during the shortlist announcement (we even have a photo together)—simply told me: “Forgive us, Emad.”

That same year, a novel by Baraka Sakin was also nominated. One juror dismissed it with a hand gesture, saying, “It’s too small,” as if novels were measured by page count. Ironically, the English Booker-winning novel Orbital from last year is barely 140 pages, and Julian Barnes’s The Sense of an Ending, which won in 2011, is just over 120 pages—readable in a single sitting.

That year, a weak novel by Rabai al-Madhoun won the prize—I say this without fear or shame. One can hardly endure five pages of it. He was pushed to victory by his peers, while the chair of the jury appeared little more than decorative.

The second experience was again with Moment. Its owner, Hikmat Al-Haj, nominated my novel Qarsila, about the Darfur war, in 2017. It was excluded as well. When I contacted Sahar Khalifeh, the Palestinian writer and chair of the jury, she told me she had never seen the novel. She implied the publisher may have deceived me. I sent her the email confirming receipt from the jury coordinator. She never responded. This is the same person who accidentally posted confidential information on Facebook the night before the shortlist announcement, later apologizing and claiming it was a mistake.

In 2019, the Egyptian publisher Atlas nominated my novel The Gypsy Imam. The nomination was strongly supported by Mahmoud Abdel Nabi, an active Egyptian publisher and member of the Writers’ Union, who genuinely believed in the text. We met in Muscat, where he told fellow publishers, “This is next year’s Booker winner.” Yet with Moroccan academic Charafeddine Majdouline chairing the jury, the novel met the same fate as its predecessors.

The pattern repeated in 2021 with The Miracle of Buddha, nominated by Kuwaiti publisher Ahmed Al-Haidar of Platinum Book. Despite having the option to nominate writers from his own region, he chose my novel out of conviction. The jury that year was chaired by Shawqi Bzeih, with Shukri Mabkhout and Ali Al-Muqri among its members. Once again—nothing.

I did not lose faith. In 2023, I submitted Angels in Faras, which had previously won first prize as a manuscript at the Khartoum Prize for Literary Creativity in 2019, organized by Sudan’s Ministry of Culture after the revolution. Due to publication delays by the ministry, it was eventually published by Willows house in South Sudan. It was excluded under the claim that it had already been published—an entirely false pretext.

I have always believed in my writing. I know what I write, and I understand the politics of literary prizes. But the repetition of this pattern caused deep frustration and led me to stop submitting for a time.

This year, I returned with In Search of Mustafa Saeed. Mahmoud Abdel Nabi once again supported the journey, this time as director of Ibiidi Publishing in Egypt. His confidence was strong, as was that of many critics. Yet the announced list was deeply disappointing. It recycled former winners—such as Azzedine Al-Aissawi, who has already been crowned and seems never satisfied—as well as habitual longlist names like Ahmed Abdel Latif, Said Khatibi, and Amin Zaoui, who are unlikely to progress further. The Booker’s pattern is well known.

At this point, one begins to doubt—not oneself, but the position of Sudanese fiction within the Arab literary establishment. Are these truly the great geniuses of the Arabic novel? It is perplexing. One of the shortlisted works is by a writer of aphorisms who produced a novel exceeding 700 pages—far too long to be seriously read during the screening phase.

Through my sources, I learned that my novel reached the final stages of the prize but was deliberately removed—for reasons I understand, even if they are never officially stated.

This is not about me personally. That is why I write this. I know it is unsettling—but it must be said. It is a wake-up call in a barren desert. The issue concerns the broader context of Sudanese fiction and our fraught entry into an Arab literary framework that controls access and recognition.

At this point, we are left with two choices: either we abandon faith in these Arab prizes entirely, or we continue to endure an exclusionary system rooted in bias—one that needs no explanation from bloated committees carefully selected in exchange for generous honoraria. What is called “screening” is, in truth, a process of domestication and reinforcement of repetition and authority.

May God have mercy on Sudanese writers, and grant them strength on this difficult path.