Leïla Slimani: "Thinking about my language makes me feel a mixture of sadness and shame, anger and frustration."

BarcelonaBorn in Rabat in 1981, Leila Slimani She has dedicated three books to exploring family history. The writer, who moved to Paris at 18 and currently resides in Lisbon, explores the complexity of Morocco's recent history and, at the same time, many issues that affect us all, such as the passage of time, loss, identity, freedom, utopia, and the futures we imagined as young people. She has published the novel I'll take the fire (Ángulo / Cabaret Voltaire), translated into Catalan by Joan Casas.

The title itself is impressive. I'll take the fire It evokes both destruction and rebirth. What does that fire represent to you? Is it a symbol of freedom, rage, or resistance?

— This title has many meanings. In the novel, people leave their homes, their countries; some die or lose their social status. I wanted to pose this question: what do we take with us when we leave? What do we take and what do we abandon? What do we keep from the people who have disappeared? I wanted to question transmission, inheritance, what remains of our past. Fire is simultaneously warmth, love, passion, but also rage and resistance. It's that energy we carry within us that defines us, that helps us, that keeps us alive, and that moves us forward.

The book reflects on memory and recollections. The scene where Mia visits the farm after her grandparents' death is wonderful. As this is the third book in the trilogy, what has looking back taught you?

— When Mia arrives at her grandparents' house, she discovers a world frozen in the past, where nothing has changed. She feels scared and melancholic. But above all, she understands that the past can be a prison, a place where we close ourselves off for fear of facing the present and the future. I think all writers have a very strong connection with the past; we also write so that this past haunts us, for the desire to relive what has disappeared. But I believe the past should serve above all as fuel for the future. Ultimately, I didn't want to write a book about the past, but about the futures that previous generations had imagined. Futures that haven't come true. I'm reaching an age where I can already see the dreams of youth fading, and I think I wanted to understand this: how dreams die.

Tell us about the writing process. At one point, Mia says she's going crazy. As a writer, how do you combat the isolation and obsession that writing can entail?

— It's getting harder and harder. I suffered greatly while writing this novel and experienced a real writer's block for weeks. I love solitude, but I must admit that lately I've been questioning my way of life and everything that being a writer entails. Philip Roth said he hated being a writer, and now I'm beginning to understand why. The more you write, the more you live in fiction and the less you live in real life.

Mia receives One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez, to forget sadness. But once you become a writer, there comes a time when you can no longer read. Can you talk about this paradox?

— You can't be a writer without being a reader. I've lived in novels since I was a teenager. I've spent more time with fictional characters than with real people. And I think, at one point, it was too much, like an overdose. It was as if reality was becoming increasingly fleeting and boring. All those books around me reminded me of all those years locked away, alone.

Morocco and all its contradictions are one of the major themes of the trilogy. Corruption, in particular, is very present in this book. You write that innocence only exists in books. Can you expand on that?

— I don't believe in innocence or purity. I was deeply struck by that Dostoevsky quote: "We are all guilty of everything and everyone in front of everyone else, and I more than the rest." I believe that being in the world means losing our innocence, and that we can't avoid making mistakes in our relationships with others. But perhaps literature allows us to reach the deepest intimacy of a being, its secret life; it gives us access to a form of innocence. In books, we replace judgment with empathy and tenderness.

Mia struggles to understand the lessons her father wanted to teach her. He talked about freedom of expression, gender equality, and the right to live as one wishes, but he ended by saying that things don't work that way in Morocco. Do they work that way anywhere?

— It's clear that there's always a difference between what can be done behind closed doors and what can be done in public. But the difference is that in Morocco, the law is restrictive. The Daoud family lives by values that contemporary Moroccan society doesn't recognize, and Mia's father tries to teach her to adapt. He wants her to understand that, although he believes in freedom of expression, she can't exercise it outside the home. That, although she believes in gender equality, she must be aware that, before the law, she is not equal to a man. Even today, many Moroccans live a kind of double life: their behavior inside the home, with people they trust, is very different from how they behave on the street.

Mehdi is a very interesting character. He doesn't want to know anything about his parents or siblings, never talks about where he comes from, and admires Casablanca because it's a city without memory. Is memory a burden?

— It could be. I see Mehdi a bit like the Great Gatsby. A man without a past. I think Mehdi, because he attended a colonial school and married a very Westernized woman, feels like an outsider within his own family. He probably feels like he's betrayed them, betrayed his roots. He likes the idea of reinventing himself, erasing the past, and becoming whoever he wants. Sometimes, it's the price to pay for freedom. In Morocco, family is very important. It's very unusual not to define oneself in relation to family, clan, or city.

He always looks to the future and initially has hope. He talks about the fall of the Berlin Wall and says that no wall can resist the dreams of youth. He imagines a world without walls, only tunnels. In 2025, do you share this hope?

— Unfortunately, no. Some will say Mehdi is naive or stupid, but I think he's a utopian. A man of his time. In 1989, there were six border walls in the world, and today there are more than seventy-five, some recent, such as in Bulgaria, Hungary, Finland, or between the United States and Mexico. Ultimately, what writing this trilogy has taught me is that we never fully understand our own times and that, most of the time, we are incapable of imagining what the future holds. The future is uncertain: this is what makes it both terrifying and beautiful. If it's not written down, it's because we still have the freedom to invent it.

Since school, Mia has known which lines she can't cross: religion, the king, the Sahara, Palestine, and the Intifada. Is this still the case in Morocco?

— Yes, there are always topics sacred that cannot be approached without caution. At the same time, it's necessary to recognize that things have changed a lot: Moroccans today are much more informed than when the novel was written. They are open to the world and accept a diversity of points of view. For example, I was surprised to discover in a survey that 35% of Moroccans declared themselves non-practicing. It's a society that's changing at a dizzying speed.

What do you lose when you integrate into a new country? What have you lost?

— I don't know. It's impossible to define what I've lost. I've become a different person, but I couldn't tell you who the girl who arrived in Paris in 1999 was. She was probably very different from the woman I am today. I've lost my roots, but at the same time I'm trying to regain them by writing about my country.

Language is part of identity. France has tended to impose French. What is its relationship with Arabic?

— Complicated and melancholic. I believe each novel is an attempt to answer a question. And the question at the origin and center of my trilogy is this: why don't I speak my language? What does the Arabic language mean to me? Thinking about it provokes a mixture of sadness and shame, anger and frustration. How can I tell you, make you understand that I don't speak the language that should be mine? That I live with a phantom language, like a limb you feel, even if it's been amputated. I've searched for this language everywhere. I've desired it, I've pursued it, I've followed strangers down the street just to hear them pronounce those familiar syllables.

He dedicates the book to all those who must hide their sexuality.

— I've been campaigning for sexual rights in Morocco for years, for everyone's right to control their own bodies. This book is inspired by some of my gay friends, for whom life isn't easy, and I wanted to pay tribute to their courage.