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Synopsis
Synopsis
When retired Legionnaire Ismael learns that his mother has survived in his war-torn hometown, he is pulled back to Mali, a country he knows only through the memories of a Tuareg family exiled in Paris. To reach her, he must cross a desert contested by jihadists, nationalist fighters, foreign interests, and old rivalries, and face the secrets his father buried. With his childhood friend Aziza and Izlan, a Tuareg musician, he sees that the road home is also a reckoning with the violence inside himself while rediscovering the essence of love and faith, leading him to question his purpose and reclaim his role as a leader.
Why I'm writing this story
Why I'm writing this story
Who is valid enough to write stories that are not his own? Am I qualified to tell a story I haven't experienced? That question has followed me since I began this novel.
It started with the music. I heard Tuareg guitar on my brother's phone, and the images that followed would not leave me. I began researching during my first year in Canada, while I was settling into a new country, absorbing culture shock and learning a place with few familiar resources. I was a newcomer, learning how migration reshapes your sense of place and self. That is probably why I understood Ismael first. He is a man pulled between where he grew up and where his people come from. I asked myself why my hero was a wanderer, not a warrior. The answer was that I know what it is to feel like a wanderer, an imposter trying to fit in. My exile was a choice. The Tuareg people's was not.
I built a story outline and studied Mali's politics, economy, and culture, and how colonialism and nationalism have shaped Tuareg lives. I listened to Tinariwen, Bombino, and Imarhan, and read scholars, including Eric Schmidt's Rhythms of Value and Andy Morgan's MUSIC, CULTURE & CONFLICT IN MALI. Then I saw the flaw in my approach. My research was too Western-centric. I was relying on academic sources and not listening to the people whose story I wanted to tell. I realized I was at risk of repeating the colonial habits I set out to question.
That changed how I work. I now believe oral tradition, including the narratives of the Tuareg and the griots and jelis who keep memory alive through voice and music, is knowledge, not a footnote to be filtered through Western academia. My time with the curatorial work at Dalhousie Art Gallery sharpened this further, working on my exhibition In Relation: Black Material Life and Memory on Mi’kma’ki, by teaching me to center the voices of people and communities and to question whose story is being told, and by whom.
I chose Mali because it is a miniature of the world. Its land and history show how colonialism has changed shape without disappearing: in the extraction of its resources, in the banking and debt traps that bind nations to their lenders, and in the stereotypes about being Black and being African that excuse both. The novel also asks what every nation, ethnic group and outside power that has crossed this land has left behind, for better and for worse, and how we can move forward truthfully. I believe the traditions passed from generation to generation are among the keys to that path. I want readers to see the beauty of Mali, and its quiet influence on the world.
A call for help
A call for help
The more I learn, the less permission I feel I have. I fear butchering this story and writing a novel that dehumanizes a people who have endured enough. So I'm asking for help. I'm looking for:
Tamasheq, Bambara, and French speakers who can communicate in English, who can help me get the language, names, and details right
Tuareg, Malian, and diaspora readers
Musicians, griots, jelis and cultural custodians willing to share their knowledge, in conversation or through introductions
Scholars, writers and community members with firsthand experience of Mali and the Sahel
I also want to travel to Mali and listen at the source, when it can be done safely. If this story resonates with you, please reach out through the links below. I would be grateful for your time and glad to give something back.
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 to 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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