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Who is valid enough to write stories that are not his own? Am I qualified to tell a story I haven’t experienced? That’s the question that has kept bugging me ever since I started writing this novel about the Tuareg people of the Sahara. Ever since I got a taste of their music from my brother's phone, the Tuareg have captured my soul in ways I can't understand. It took me a while to know why I kept on seeing vivid images in my head, those stories begging to be told.
That’s how I got started with my book, The Blue Veiled Wanderer. The first thing that came to make sense from the visions I saw. But I asked myself again, why a wanderer? Why not a warrior where the Tuareg have been known to patrol in the land of nothingness with a Takoba sword strapped on their sides, sitting at the humps of a camel. Why a wanderer?
So as I tried to make sense of the clue, I researched the Tuareg. From the Tuareg musicians that made me in love like Tinariwaren, Bombino, and Imarhan, to the complex history and cultural background using resources such as Andy Morgan, Rhythums of value, etc.
The more I dived deeper, the more I knew nothing. It was making me less permitted to tell their stories. And yet as someone living in another country away from home, I feel like a wanderer, an imposter trying to fit in. An exile, but certainly it was with choice, unlike the Tuareg people who likewise didn't.
That’s how it has been tough writing this book. I’ve been diving deep into the psyche of the Tuareg people and everyone involved in the grand scheme of this ongoing story. This is where I ask for help. I fear butchering your story for an epic novel that dehumanizes the Tuaregs who’ve suffered and those around them. If there is someone out there who can speak Tamasheq and French, or even English, I ask for a plea to make this work as accurate as possible. Feel free to reach out to me through my socials if the story resonates with you. All links are found below.
Synopsis
Synopsis
After receiving a call revealing that his mother survived in his war-torn hometown, retired Legionnaire Ismael is compelled to return to Mali. The journey forces him to confront the ghosts of his past—the sins his father had hidden during their years as Tuareg diaspora in Paris. To save his mother, Ismael must navigate the dangerous landscape of his homeland.
With the aid of his childhood friend Aziza and her team of selfless volunteers, along with Izlan, a Tuareg musician, and his loyal militants in the Sahel, Ismael faces formidable adversaries. Jihadists besiege ancient lands, Tuareg nationalists sack local towns, and fanatics promise a new beginning, each vying for control of the desert and its untapped riches, including the legendary radioactive bullets, Euphorium. As these forces clash, Ismael’s mission becomes a crucible where intentions are questioned, and alliances are tested.
Amid the escalating conflict, Ismael is drawn into a web of shifting allegiances, where he must confront not only external enemies but also his inner demons. In his race to rescue his mother, he is forced to reckon with his capacity for violence and the darkness within. Along the way, he rediscovers the essence of love and faith, leading him to question his purpose and reclaim his role as a leader. Through this perilous journey, Ismael seeks to call the desert his home once more and to uncover the truths buried beneath the shifting sands.
The Blue Veiled Wanderer explores identity, belonging, and the search for home amid the midst of cultural diversity and the challenges of globalization.
Excerpt from Blue Veiled Wanderer
Excerpt from Blue Veiled Wanderer
The old militant loomed over the fallen woman, his camel snorting in defiance. She dared protest against a supposed liberation mission, which turned into a village raid. The militants ransacked the few remaining resources the obscure village depended on.
He yanked the camel's reins, stepping back from a man who blocked his further assault on Aziza.
"Pray that we won't cross paths again," the old militant sneered.
"Don't let that bother you," Ismael replied. "Keep your old habits away."
The sneer turned into a smirk. The condescension brewed further, "How ironic. The diaspora who can hardly speak our language leading these men."
"Amanekol chief blood flows in my veins," said Ismael. "More legitimate than you and your old ways are."
With a final look of disgust and a promise of blood, the old militant turned his camel away. He ordered the rest of the militants to march toward the southern villages.
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