Now for the newsletter…

We are in the fourth year of the counter-revolutionary war in Sudan. I wrote this for the New Arab, one of the outlets I am grateful for always encouraging me to keep this crisis in the headlines. I hope these words move you.

Reading the statistics, it is natural to fall into despair.

The counter-revolutionary war in Sudan is entering its fourth year. Thousands of civilians have been senselessly murdered, and many more have been injured, brutalised and traumatised beyond imagination. Millions of children have missed vital periods of schooling, and hundreds of thousands are in the throes of famine. Bloodstains from massacres have been visible from space.

The hallmarks of genocide have once again been determined in Darfur. Drone attacks have hit schools and weddings. According to the United Nations, three years into this war, the number of survivors needing support for sexual violence has quadrupled. Despair, in some ways, feels like the only appropriate response.

But on a day like today, I refuse to indulge in despair. Instead, I may entertain rage; the white-hot emotion that sears my chest daily as I reckon with how much of my dear Sudan this counter-revolutionary war has destroyed. I rage at the injustice, the exploitation, and the deliberate abandonment of the Sudanese civilians who so bravely overthrew a dictator of almost thirty years a mere six years ago.

But on a day like today, I am drawn to feeling something more profound than my regular dose of rage. A feeling that is as much emotion as it is a commitment. A sensation that is in fact a belief: a deep, strong, unshakeable conviction that this war will end. It must end.

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Indeed, it can end – if only those in positions of power make different choices. When you put it that simply, that clearly, a glimmer of light can be seen in the darkness.

Warmongers and genocidaires depend on our despair to continue their pillage. When we despair, we abandon; when we abandon, we condemn a people to a false fate. This is the bigotry of low expectations, but at the structural level: if ‘we’ don’t believe the Sudanese people can have the freedom, peace and justice they organised, protested and died for, and when it appears that their efforts have collapsed, we sigh and say, it was always going to be this way, wasn’t it? It was inevitable.

But this war is not inevitable. This destruction is not unavoidable. This conflict – this famine, these massacres, these war crimes – none of this is the natural fate of Sudanese people. These are deliberate choices, policy positions, and actions being allowed by the international community.

From the UAE, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, to Russia, Turkey, Iran: leaders in positions of power all over the world are, in various ways, enabling the massacre of Sudanese civilians, because right now, there is little incentive for the war crimes to stop.

There have been reports of munitions from China and Bulgaria, even military equipment from the UK, turning up in Sudan, yet scant attention or culpability. Why should either party involved move towards peace when they can continue to export gum arabic, livestock, and gold? When they can profit from the nation’s resources without taxation, without reparation, lining personal coffers instead of supporting the welfare of the people?

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Yet, the warring parties and those who support them pay almost no cost for their actions. When there is so little accountability for the industrial-scale despoiling of Sudan, it is no wonder it continues.

We have to demand more. We have to demand better for the Sudanese people. We have to demand accountability, action, and attention to the worst humanitarian crisis in the world, this blight on all our souls.

At this point, literally anything helps. Talk about Sudan, once a day, to someone new. Donate to grassroots organisations like the Sudan Solidarity Collective, or the Darfur Women Action Group. Support Tagatu3’s Academic and Cultural Boycott of the UAE, which demands that cultural and academic institutions divest from any investment projects made with the Emirati state, royal families, and complicit institutions. Join a virtual teach-in organised by the Sudanese Resistance Front. Attend a protest in your area. Ensure your gold is genocide free. Join the People’s Arms Embargo. Sign up for Atar, a magazine that delivers news from the ground, and support local journalism. Volunteer for the Sudan Digital Archive. Wear a t-shirt or a tote. I don’t care what you do, but do something.

The train might have left the station, but it is time to pull the emergency brake. This war cannot be allowed to continue. If it does, we all accept that a people can be condemned to depths of depravity for nothing more than the gross appetites of greedy men.

I don’t believe we accept that at all. I believe we know better. And if enough of us raise our voices, in every and any way we possibly can, then maybe, this god-forsaken war will finally end, and the Sudanese people can begin that long road back to each other; back to the peace, freedom and justice we so deserve.

I’d also love to share with you a recently released podcast episode, based on the story of my aunt (which I initially wrote about last year).

These 35 minutes took months of painstaking reporting, interviews and shedloads of tears, but I hope you will agree that the final result is profoundly heart wrenching, moving, and inspiring. Please give it a listen here, or wherever you get your podcasts.

That’s all for the moment. You will hear a little more from me in the next few weeks, the book launch for my upcoming novel is so soon inshallah (please pre-order here if you haven’t yet, as bookshops will only really stock the book if they get pre-orders).

PRE-ORDER AT SEA

I’m doing readings and panels all over Canada (Ottawa, Toronto, Vancouver), the US (LA, NYC) and the UK (London, Edinburgh), so if you’re in any of these places, I’d love to meet you in person! All events are listed here, so please do check them out and come through if you’re available (and let me know in the comments if you will be so we can be excited about #SubstackIRL!).

BOOK TICKET TO EVENT

Right. Big love to you all.

Until next time, inshallah—

Yx

It’s something I’ve been doing for years now - from my obsessive forum surfing and tumblr days (which I will never link), to the blog I began in earnest in 2012 (it was called ‘Redefining the Narrative’ and it was very wholesome), to this Substack, borne out of a desire to capture my days in Paris, and then evolving into something akin to a public diary, a place where I could write without deadline or expectation or editorial oversight.

To think, I have been writing on the internet for at least fifteen years. Wild.

One of the perks of writing on the internet, that is to say, writing for oneself, is the flexibility, the ability to constantly be experimenting, adapting, finding new ways to change. This very substack has had many iterations, from those mid-weekly link drops to subscriber chats, to changing formats - you have all stuck with me through all sorts of pivots.

I hope that now, you will stay with me through this next one.

From 2026, Good Chat will be rebranding.

The weekly letters will turn into a monthly newsletter, a reflection of my changing workload and in order to ensure I’m adding the most value every email. But most importantly, the focus of this space will narrow. It will now be fully on Sudan.

Perhaps this was a long time coming. If you look at all my most popular posts, and the majority of my most recent ones, they are overwhelmingly about Sudan. Whether through cultural events or my reportage, I have felt an increasing duty to bring stories about Sudan to the world, and I figured it was time I commit to the bit.

What should you expect? I imagine a combination of cultural stories as well as ‘human interest’ ones, pieces I cannot place in other publications and perhaps those I want to save for you. I intend to write more about our diverse music, dance, film, history, yes the current crisis, but also the current inspirations, such as the work of the Emergency Response Rooms which is so criminally underreported, I’m starting to wonder if there is a conspiracy at play.

So tell me - what would you like to hear about re Sudan? Do you want interviews? Do you want insights into our history? Is there something completely different that you’d like to know about? Reply to this email or drop a comment below and let me know!

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Speaking of Sudan, if you haven’t placed a bid on the fundraising auction yet, what are you doing?! We’re so close to 10k it hurts! If you’ve been putting it off, this is your reminder…

All the money goes to folks on the ground in El-Fasher. Thank you to everyone who came to the screening of the film Sudan, Remember Us a few weeks ago in London - we raised 1200 GBP and that has now been donated to the Sudan Solidarity Collective, making its way to community kitchens on the ground.

I might occasionally drop a newsletter or two about impending book events and book related activity, given I’m launching both Silverbrook and At Sea next year - would that be okay with y’all?

Right. That’s all from me this week, and maybe until the end of the year - although I might do a TV or book round up, if you’re interested? I watched All Her Fault and Wild Cherry recently, and both were pretty decent if you’re looking for a bingeable show. Everyone is talking about the new Rosalía album, and if you’ve got good headphones you should check it out (I kid, sorry all my friends who have been banging on about this, I’m being contrarian for no reason). I appreciate a piece of art with ambition, and this album certainly has that!

I hope this week is kind to you, wherever you are in the world.

Best,
Yassmin

Have any of you lovely readers ever organised a silent, online, fundraising auction? I hadn’t, but like most things, I went into it with gusto and a belief that it would all work out, despite never having attempted such an endeavour in my life, and with a schedule so full I spent most mornings wondering if there was any commitment I could cancel in order to be able to make it through the day.

Fortunately, I am surrounded by brilliant people. Together with , Karen, Charlotte, Anny and a couple of other loved ones I looped in, we were able to pull together this frankly gargantuan offering of over 3001 artworks, mentorships, experiences, services. You really have to see it to believe it!

CHECK OUT THE AUCTION!

I am truly grateful to everyone who has donated. Thank you, thank you. Thanks for taking the chance on this initiative, and for offering such pure forms of support. To all those who bid, and who support this effort financially, thank you as well. This cannot happen without you! Also - to Raafaye, who designed this incredible logo in the dead of night? What a legend.

What else to tell you this week?

My mind is rather consumed, I must admit, by the logistics of this fundraiser, and I do find myself rather enjoying it - the spinning of plates, the constant problem solving, the adrenaline and the thrill of embarking on something without any idea of how it will pan out. I’m sure better fundraisers than I do have plans, do have goals and have a much finer tuned sense of what they are aiming for and how to get there, but this is not a professional undertaking for me. It’s a passion project, a duty, a calling - a place to channel all my angst and anger and energy into something productive. For the first time in a while, I have direction (wrt to Sudan). It might not last long, but it is something.

Something else I’ve been thinking about a lot these days is the way we talk about ‘who we are fighting’. I am considering more and more the importance of moving away from identity-based framing, even in my day-to-day conversations. Leave aside the fact that there is no ‘white man’ to blame in Sudan’s current war against civilians - the battles we are in today are so urgent, we cannot be sloppy in our articulations. Let us be clear: our enemies are tyranny and oppression, in whatever form that manifests.

These are age old battles. From Hamlet to Wicked (both shows I saw this week!) the story is the same. Not ‘Good’ vs ‘Evil’, but ‘Justice’ vs ‘Injustice’. Sovereignty vs Tyranny. Freedom vs Oppression. Fiction, depending on the author and the time they are writing in, is either utterly tragic, or wonderfully escapist. But in real life, in our lives, the outcome is far from guaranteed.

I feel it, you know. More than ever, and in a way I no longer feel is comparable to any other time in my lifetime. We are on the inflection point, are we not? We have been for a while. The question I keep asking myself is, what am I going to do about it? How am I resisting? What role am I playing? If I was looking back, how would I judge my actions?

Nothing is guaranteed. But all we have is what we can control. What are we doing with the lot we have been given? Hopefully not endless soliloquizing (Hamlet, you had some good lines bruv but really? Maybe journalling in morning pages might have helped).

I kid. Maybe a little soliloquizing is okay. We’re only human, after all. All the reading in the world doesn’t prepare you for the approach of authoritarianism and fascism, lol. It’s like puberty, or childbirth (I guess?). IYKYK.

Right. I’ve got to go finish off a script for Emmerdale (yay!) and corral more people into bidding for items on the auction (maybe you?). Thank you as always for your attention, your engagement, your care. I hope your week is blessed, inshallah.

Until next time,

Yassmin

(I’ll leave you with my most recent video for The New Arab)

“Do you have a therapist?”

The question, asked by a friend as we stood in front of a Kenny Marshall James painting depicting enslaved Africans cross the middle passage, took me by surprise. I had been talking about Sudan, venting frustration about something or other, so I had to pause and collect my thoughts, before responding.

“A therapist?” I felt wrong footed, unsure why the conversation had shifted so suddenly. “What for?”

“Well, to deal with all of this,” she gestured. “How do you work through all of these feelings?”

@yassmin_amWent to the Kenny James Marshall exhibit at the @royalacademyarts and it was LIT!! Well worth the visit. #artexhibition #exhibition #kennyjamesmarshall

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I couldn’t dismiss the thought fast enough. I replied somewhat defensively, angrily, my palpable frustration a disproportionate response to her kind and concerned query. In the moment, I wasn’t even aware of why I was taking such offence: members of my family work in therapeutic services, I have had therapy in the past, I have often extolled the importance of such treatment to others. Why was I reacting like the concept of ‘working through my feelings on Sudan’ with a therapist was borderline insulting?

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“I don’t want to have to explain what’s going on,” was one reason I offered. While a weak and superficial take, it was not entirely untrue. Being diaspora Sudanese in this moment is to constantly be explaining, justifying, educating. There is little room for the actual emotion; one cannot be in tears when producing an instagram reel on ‘three things you should know about Sudan’. That being said, any therapist worth their salt would do the prep work to understand the context, so hopefully a session wouldn’t be about the geopolitical implications of the current war, but on my personal well-being. No, that couldn’t be the real reason.

“I don’t want to have to talk about my feelings to someone who has never had a genocide happen to their people,” was another of my defensive arguments. I said this line with much stronger invective and with a loud enough voice that I don’t think I imagined seeing my friend flinch. There is a seed of truth here, but again, it doesn’t entirely stack up to scrutiny. Someone doesn’t have to go through the same trauma to be a good listener, a useful interlocutor, a kind and wise counsellor or guide during a difficult time. Yes, there is an ready-made closeness and intimacy that arises from shared experience, but that alone isn’t enough. So once more, it was a justification papering over something deeper.

As I reflected on the conversation in the days afterward, I was reminded of a relative of mine who volunteers with the Sudan Solidarity Collective. We had recently met up for coffee in Vancouver, and ours was the first conversation in a long time I found myself able to relax. There was a shared understanding, both said and unsaid, but not only that, we seemed to be grappling with the same demons - the loss of our homes, the frustration over the divisions within the Sudanese communities, the desire to do as much as we could with an understanding that we would never be able to do enough. She ‘got it’.

But after a back and forth, including lamenting the violence of having the RSF trash and graffiti family bedrooms, my cousin leaned back and sighed. We had been discussing the loss of memory and material goods, but the SSC was also working with those who had just escaped the genocide in El-Fasher, on foot.

“People were texting in the Whatsapp Group like ‘we’ve just gotten out’, and within 48 hours they were asking us about setting up new community kitchens in the places where they’d set up camp.”

Tears were in both our eyes.

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“Subhanallah, the resilience!” I exclaimed, or something to that effect, though there was nothing I could say that could do justice to what these people were finding the strength to do. My cousin said what we were both thinking. “How can I complain when that is what our people are facing?”

If they were able to continue, surely we could too.

I know this is not the ideal thinking. I know it doesn’t work that way. I know; indeed, I have said the same thing to many of my activist friends over the years. Don’t work yourself to the bone out of guilt, don’t deny your feelings, take care of yourselves because we are in it for the long haul. Alhamdulilah, I think I am doing alright in this regard. I’m trying as best as I can to pace myself, to share work, to manage expectations.

And yet. I do not think I have it in me to ‘go there’. If I’m honest, that was what my knee jerk reaction to my friend’s question was all about. What is happening in Sudan, what is being done to Sudanese people, how the way the very fabric of the land and the society is being torn asunder, all while the tragedy - despite its historic scale - is so deeply invisibilised; all of it feels so utterly rage inducing, so overwhelmingly angering, I do not trust myself to open that pandora’s box. I feel it within me, most of the time, a burning coal of fury I keep buried under a thick layer of ash I top up with prayers and supplications, begging Allah to keep my temper in check.

Maybe my friend is right. Maybe I do need to talk to someone about it, otherwise said rage might poison my life in other ways. But I don’t think I can bring myself to do that right now, and honestly, I don’t know if I ever will. Instead, I will continue channeling the heat into my writing, into my organising (if you’re a creative, please donate to our fundraising auction), into my prayer. Maybe there is no working ‘through’ something like this. Maybe there is only living with it, and doing our best not to pass the anger on.

In moments like these, I realise I sound more and more like the older generation; my aunts and uncles and elders who had all the time in the world to talk politics, and never spoke a word on how they felt about it. I had imagined our generation would be different. I had hoped so. But now, I understand their choices, the necessity of compartmentalising. What is the use of talk in these times, talk that will only remind me of my rage. If we must speak, let us speak of joy. Let us speak of anything else but the demons that plague us, because they have already taken too much.

A version of this piece was originally published on The New Arab. Also, for Turkish language readers, check out this interview I did on Sudan for Perspektif.

I think of myself as pretty tech-savvy. In fact, I consider myself quite tech-literate; I learnt to code as a teen, built websites on Dreamweaver (RIP), did engineering, mostly use open-source, zero knowledge software and even tried to sell a book about tech myths and society (but apparently I ‘didn’t have the credibility’, which is a story for another day).

All that is to say, I feel confident in my relationship with tech, and my ability to parse the real from the bs. I even score 100% on those ‘AI vs Real’ quizzes that now populate my feeds:

video via Tiktok

How many did you get right? See, even if you got all of them right, I think that it’s partly because we were looking out for it. When you’re watching videos during a scrolling session, you’re not keeping your eye out for the signs, are you? You’re just passively taking it in, assuming that what you’re getting is real. That’s what I realised I was doing, anyway. Because when I saw this video, I fully thought it was real:

…and I shared it, without checking the source. ‘How cool’, I said to people. ‘Looks like things aren’t always what they may appear!’

Well, joke’s on me

source

I mean… damn, y’all! I got duped! For the first time since ‘Sora’ was announced, I’m now thinking about how I am going to re-structure my approach to my social media feed engagement. I need to change something… but I’m not yet sure what.

How are you all thinking about responding to the AI Slop and propoganda/misinformation that is infiltrating our feeds in an increasingly convincing and difficult-to-detect fashion?

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What else happened this week? Well.

Number One

Proof drops! I’ve now visited bookshops in London, Edinburgh, Leeds, Manchester and Cheltenham, spreading the good word about Silverbrook. Tres exciting. Book 1 in the series is out Jan 2026… and I just got my edits on the first draft of Book 2!

For those who don’t know what a proof drop is, I created this neat little explainer:

As you can see, it’s been a big week of content creation. I’ve been making the most of my Cap Cut subscription fee… and it wasn’t just on Silverbrook (reminder, you can pre-order here) but also on…

Number Two

The launch of the Creatives4Sudan Fundraiser!

Creatives4Sudan are asking creatives from around the world to donate something fun exciting (or simply a piece of art, a signed book, an hour of your time for mentoring) for a fundraising auction to raise money for Sudan - specifically for those affected by the ongoing genocide in Darfur. If you’re so inclined, please head to eyesonsudan.net/auction - and keep an eye out for when the fundraiser goes live, because you can then bid and buy on all the wonderful things people have donated!

donate today!

Number Three

Have I had time to watch television? Not really. Have I sacrificed to do so nonetheless? Yes, yes I have. BBC’s Riot Women, by the inimitable Sally Wainwright, was a lot of fun. Some described it as a bit ‘on the nose’, and it is. Just go in expecting that, and you might be alright.

The most recent season of Apple TV’s Slow Horses is hitting all the right, cosy notes. Beyond that, you know I’m keeping up with my own show, ITV’s Emmerdale. Anyone else watching the drama unfold in the Dales? Episodes are now going up on YouTube, my most recent one is here!

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Number Four

On Friday, I had the honour of being hosted by Edinburgh Deaf Action’s Book Club. I did a reading from my essay in the collection ‘It’s Not About the Burqa’, as well as an excerpt from At Sea. All my readings were interpreted into British Sign Language, and I had a moving interactions with many members of the audience on the themes of language, and belonging.

One of the interpreters - Emmy - told me about how she’d recently learnt that in Sudan there is no formalised Sign Language, but many tens, if not hundreds of local languages, likely growing out of deaf people in families developing their own forms of communication. She also told of me the African Sign Languages Resource Center, and while the website looks still under development, I found even the concept fascinating and compelling.

I have so often thought about how language and meaning and culture are tied together, and when language is through gesture - as it is with sign - how does that change its ability to be maintained, passed down? What can we learn from how Deaf communities hold onto their heritage? All things I don’t have the answers to in this moment, but seeds for future blooming, perhaps.

Number Five

I joined on the podcast 2 Pals and a Pod to give a primer on Sudan. I feel like I’ve done many versions of this conversation, but if you are new here and are looking for a 101 type introduction, this is a good place to start.

I’ll be honest. It’s been a tough few weeks, emotionally and psychologically. The most recent events in Sudan are taking their toll, bringing fresh waves of grief as well as a renewed sense of urgency to find ways to respond. This time around, I’m also trying to find a way to balance this advocacy with the promotional work required around my book releases, as well as continuing to bring my best possible self to the Emmerdale writing team. It has been challenging. However, Allah is the best of planners, no? So, we move forward, step by step by step. I hope I am moving with grace, and if I am not - please do forgive me.

Reminder, for those in London, I am hosting this fundraising screening on Friday inshallah. Do come through! There will be Zine making and a great Q&A inshallah.

Take care of yourselves inshallah.

Yassmin

With the news coming out of El Fasher this week of massacres so horrific the blood is visible from space, many folks have recently woken up to the terrors folks in Darfur and across Sudan have been facing for months now. As a regular reader of this newsletter, you are likely familiar with my writing on current war against civilians, whether on the battle of narrative, the heartbreak of not being seen, the struggle with powerlessness. I didn’t want to repeat the same sentiments, regurgitate familiar despairs. Today, I instead share a different piece, one I originally wrote for and published with the Oxford Academic journal ‘Communication, Culture and Critique’. It is a piece inspired by Binyavanga Wainaina’s “How to Write About Africa” published in Granta twenty years ago.

As you read this short piece, remember what I write in the abstract: “this article’s role is not to scold. It is a balm for Sudanese readers, African readers, those who recognize the invisibilizing that Sudan and the Sudanese have been subjected to, in this decade and the preceding. It is a release, a reaction, and an invitation: what might it really mean, to write about Sudan?”

Always use the word “forgotten” in your title. Subtitles may include words like “hopeless,” “violent,” “crisis,” “conflict.” Other words that might be useful are “ignored,” “invisible,” “neglected.” Remember to use the passive voice. Do not draw attention to who is doing the ignoring or forgetting, only imply that this is the permanent and unchanging curse of the state.

Never include an image of the natural beauty of Sudan or Sudanese people in your work. Ensure desperation bleeds through the pages, through protruding bones, bulging bellies, blackened and bombed out carcasses of buildings. Think in sepia. If you want to be particularly striking, use a close up shot of a woman’s eyes, staring down the barrel of the camera, her entire face wrapped up in bright cloth, an air of defiance and accusation in her gaze. A fly perched on the skin like a mole is good. The objective of any image is to induce pity, or guilt.

In your article, in your opinion piece, in your Pulitzer Prize-winning feature, treat Sudan as if it were one homogenous place. Sudan is made up of 18 states, 50 million people and over 70 indigenous languages. Ignore this. Speak of “the land,” whisper in awe at the vastness of the desert, decry the harshness of the conditions. Refer to geographies more often than cities; mention “The Sahel,” “The Sahara,” “The Horn,” “The Red Sea” instead of “Atbara,” “El-Obeid,” “Nyala,” “Sennar”. Describe Sudan using other countries people have heard of but also do not understand. Call it “the new Somalia,” “the new Syria,” “the new Libya,” “the new Yemen”. Don’t worry too much that these framings are inaccurate and do not make sense. Focus on the unintelligibility, the mass suffering, the vibe. Suffering is a language people in your world can understand, but don’t forget to make clear that this is the type of catastrophe unique to “the region,” that is to say, a situation so “deplorable,” so “inhumane,” that it could not possibly happen “here,” wherever your Western audience might be.

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Describe what is happening as a “civil war.” The audience will be most comfortable when the Sudanese are seen to be killing each other like unthinking savages, rather than for common reasons like territorial and resource acquisition, the gain of political and economic power. If you mention “genocide,” intimate the reasons are about “tribal tensions” or “rivalries,” or even better, “hatred”. Emphasize the lack of thinking (in them, not you). You may choose to describe it as a “proxy” war, suggesting an understanding of the geopolitical ramifications of the situation. Resist the urge to delve into specifics, these are irrelevant and boring to your reader. Avoid using the most accurate phrase, “counter-revolutionary” war. It has far too many syllables and brings to mind the Sudanese civilians who successfully overthrew a dictator of almost thirty years in a powerful and non-violent resistance movement. Don’t mention the revolution at all. Your readers cannot imagine learning about community building, mutual aid and justice from the likes of Sudanese people. The only knowledge they will accept from Africans must be veiled in dust, shadowed by witchcraft, involve some beating of the earth or ingesting offal-like food.

Taboo subjects: moments of ordinary domestic joy, students going to school, laptops and any form of technology that feels current (like an Apple watch), parts of the country not experiencing direct conflict where life has continued uninterrupted, humor. Sophisticated art and culture.

Speak of Sudan as a place with no history and no future. Ignore the ancient Nubian pyramids in Nuri, Jebel Barkal, El-Kurru, Meroë, but if you do mention them, don’t forget to describe them as forgotten. In order not to confuse your audience, ensure you give all credit to the Egyptians for any “civilization” that Sudan may unexpectedly contain. Remember, Sudan is the gateway to “real” Africa, and by “real,” you mean “Black.” Make sure to transpose North American understandings of racial hierarchies here. Yours is the superior understanding.

Remind readers at the beginning that this is the worst humanitarian crisis in the world, and state it as natural fact, rather than the result of a series of choices made by leaders and institutions your readers admire. Emphasize the severity of the crisis but avoid using testimony from Sudanese people themselves. Use data collected by organizations your readers believe and respect, even in a post-fact world. Two to three letter institutions are best: the UN, WFP, AI, IMF, RC, MSF. Spend most of your time covering the basic facts but add no context, so it appears that the conflict erupted apropos of nothing, that this is simply a return to the natural state of the Sudanese people. Use Sudan and Africa interchangeably in your text, your readers/viewers/consumers will not notice the swap. Render Sudan as Africa, and Africa as Sudan.

Don’t trouble yourself with precision, accuracy and analysis. Ensure you make broad, sweeping statements about the evil rife within the military elite and militiamen you encounter, either in person, or virtually, or on your social media feed. Mention foreign interests, but do not single out the American dollars, British Pounds, Euros, Riyals or Dirhams that are complicit. Just encourage a boycott, obliquely. Do not explain the strategy. Sudan does not need strategy. It needs attention.

When you speak to Sudanese people, make sure to ask them why “everyone” forgets about the war in Sudan. Ignore the fact that they themselves have been advocating, have been donating, have been screaming about it from the rooftops since the first bullets were fired (make sure you mention the bullets being fired, ideally during your interview, even if it is being conducted virtually and you are thousands of miles away). Presume this Sudanese person has not tried hard enough to tell the world about the war, a war that you know is so very terrible and that you pride yourself on educating “the world” about. Offer suggestions for how they can “get the word out,” as you have done. You love Sudan, you love Africa: your words, your platform is evidence of how much you care. Your liberal credentials are impeccable.

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Once you have done your bit, published your article or your post, send it to every single African you know, as a demonstration of your connection to the cause. Take pride in the fact that you are not like other Westerners, you do care, you are not racist, you are different. Consider your reposts about Sudan proof that you are not anti-black. Do not feel bad when you mix up the Sudanese flag and the Palestinian one. Decide to wear them both, that way you are protected from any critique.

When you win a prize for your work “raising awareness,” make sure to thank your Sudanese “partners” in your acceptance speech. They might have been the journalists on the ground risking life and limb to procure the information, but that is not what is important. Your platform is. You are the conduit through which news about Sudan arrives. This is vital work, and you do it because you care. When you accept the award, do not mention that your Sudanese partners were unable to get a visa to enter the country where the ceremony is being held.

We don’t know how many people have been killed in El Fasher. If you want to donate to directly support folks on the ground who have escaped, consider Sudan Solidarity Collective.

A family relation who volunteers with the SSC told me recently how their contacts in community kitchens in El Fasher were updating the group chats as they escaped the town… and as soon as they arrived to a safe place (like Tawila) they were immediately writing about setting up new kitchens, the logistics of how to feed and care for everyone else. Imagine! You’ve just escaped a massacre, and as soon as you’re safe, you begin to think about how to look after each other? The examples of mutual aid and support Sudanese people and the people of Darfur demonstrate is utterly inspiring.

So. I continue to share information and links on my instagram, and will be posting shortly about a fundraising auction that will go live in a couple of weeks, inshallah. Stay tuned, do not despair, and keep talking about Sudan. It’s the least we can do.

Until next week, inshallah.
Yassmin

There’s a moment in every episode of The Pitt where I literally cringe. In the pilot, it’s when they’re resetting the bone in a woman’s leg, where her foot was caught between the train and platform. It’s grisly, but not in that gratuitous way of shows like The Boys and other gleeful gore-fests. It feels utterly human. Heartbreakingly, breathtakingly, shockingly us. I don’t look away. I grimace, but continue to stare at the screen, willing myself to face something I know is only made to look real, but seems pretty close to it.

I’d been hearing about HBO’s drama The Pitt for a while now. It’s won a bunch of Emmys and other accolades, and generally been lauded by critics I respect. But… I’d been holding out. Medical shows aren’t really my bag, I have a thing about doctors and not wanting to give them more credit than the world already gives them, especially when the medical field has a long-ass history of treating women, and African/Black women in particular, as if we are barely human. My own personal interactions with doctors has left a lot to be desired, and so beyond a short-lived obsession with Grey’s Anatomy while procrastinating from university exams, I tended not to gravitate towards hospital based TV shows. Yes, there was Scrubs, but that’s comedy, right?

All that said, four hours deep into a long haul flight I hadn’t properly prepared for (not a single show downloaded onto any of my devices and a novel to thick for me to slide back into), I decided maybe it was time to test out this famed drama.

Reader, The Pitt did not disappoint.

You can read the reviews (I’m late to the party, so there are reviews everywhere). But let me tell you what I responded to:

The Structure

Folks who have read my fiction will know I love a ticking time bomb, a tight timeline, a chronological constraint. The Pitt structures every episode around each hour of a shift at an Emergency Room in Pittsburg. So, episode one is 7:00am to 8:00am, ep two is 8:00am to 9:00am, and so on. The result is pacy, fluid, but also a constant reminder that holy shite, so much happens in a single hour in the ER.

The Characters

We follow Dr Michael “Robby” Robinavitch as he manages the ER, on a day we are told early on is a difficult day for him (cue brief flashbacks to the ER during the COVID-19 lockdowns, which is a collective trauma we still do not engage with enough). He is…not self destructive! Reader, I was shocked! He is competent! and kind! and thoughtful, doing his best, fighting the good fight… man is tired, but he keeps showing up… and so do all of his colleagues. There are the students (necessary in any medical drama) that make mistakes here and there, but not because they are shagging each other in the break room, but because they are normal people learning difficult things and dealing with human emotions like any of us would be. It feels like a drama where both the viewers and the characters are treated with respect, and god do I wish there was more of that in TV! Thank you, R Scott Gemmill.

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The Issues

This is a show with a point of view, but it’s not shoving messages down anyone’s throat. It is making points in a way only a medical drama could - we are all human, we all have bodies, and we all experience pain, loss, trauma, grief. This feels like a show that is sensitive to all the ways in which we are coming apart as societies in the Anglosphere, and is paying attention to various ways individuals are trying to hold it together - despite the systems that seem to conspire against us. It’s done with a light, deft touch, but it is unmistakably there, and the show is all the better for it.

There is strand in the show where two siblings are struggling to let their elderly father pass. The father had left a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ directive, but his adult children - the daughter especially - struggles with this reality. At some point, Dr Robby asks if they’re religious. “God no, no God,” the daughter says. Robby pauses, then offers something else: the Hawaiian concept of Ho’oponopono, a practice of forgiveness and reconciliation. The ritual is centered around four mantras. ‘I love you. Thank you. I forgive you, please forgive me.’

That was the order in which Robby relayed the phrases to the siblings. When I looked online, the phrases were switched around. ‘I’m sorry, forgive me, thank you, I love you.’

Simple, indeed. But aren’t most profound things so?

Shows like The Pitt make me want to be a better writer. They make me want to be a better human. They remind me, in ways that are sentimental and not, that death comes for us all, and that maybe we shouldn’t hide from that, or try to forget it, but think about it often, and use it as a reminder to squeeze those we love that little bit tighter, every time we have a chance.

Let us not be tightfisted with our love. We never know how much time we have left.

Until next week, inshallah…

Yassmin

(PS Let me know if you’ve watched The Pitt? Do you love it as much as I now do???)

It’s cold in London again, and dare I say, I love it (My friend is shuddering at that statement, I know it!). There is something about grey London that feels like the city is returning to its truest self, the sunny days of the short summer discarded like a fancy dress costume after an exciting, but uncommon, night out. Cold London makes me want to write, it makes me want to create, it makes me want to sit down with multiple books and films and hot drinks with friends. It brings out a side of me I didn’t know I had when I lived in hot places.

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A friend pointed out to me recently that my entire career in the arts has been in London (or Europe, technically, since a year of it was in France). Isn’t that wild? It’s been eight years since I left Australia, and I built a whole new practice from scratch. You Must Be Layla, my first professional fictional project, and arguably creative work, was written in London. Specifically, in Second Home, the co-working space I fell in love with within months of my arrival. It makes sense to me that my writing practice developed in this city, although I’m realising now it feels inextricable from it. Maybe that’s why cold London makes me feel so creative, because that’s where I learned to be so.

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A question for you: would you prefer this newsletter on a Sunday, or on a Monday morning?

I recently heard an author - quite a successful one, with all their books highly lauded and awarded - say that they didn’t consider themselves a writer, really. Or perhaps the word used was ‘author’. They said that not considering them ‘that’ gave them a freedom to be experimental. To do things an ‘author’ might not.

The statement annoyed me. It felt like a rejection of the title and because it felt patently untrue. This person was an author, and while they might not ‘feel’ like an author, or describe themselves as one, surely they objectively were one. Surely.

I was amused at my own irritation. I had been that person for years. A person who had published books (admittedly, none as commercially or critically successful, but still), and I did not refer to myself as a writer (certainly not an author). When had I become someone who rejected the title to someone who defended it? When had those sliding doors moved? The transition was so silent, so seamless, I did not notice until complete.

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The goalposts have moved though. They always do. Now, they are about being a ‘good’ writer, working at the craft (one that I do still find confounding in its subjectivity) and striving to produce the best work that I can. There is a pleasure in that, not unlike the pleasure of carpentry or mechanics. You spend all your time chiseling and sanding and working away, and then at some point, the pieces come together, you step back, and you’ve created a thing. It might not yet work, might need tuning or varnishing or a complete overhaul, but it is a thing you brought into the world, and that is always something to be proud of.

What my annoyance at the successful author’s statement taught me was that I was no longer an amateur. I had left the shores of uncertainty and tentativeness and swum strongly into the unknown. I have learnt to ride the currents, to read the waves, to sense the winds and chart my own course. That does not mean I am not afraid. That does not mean it is not risky. But it means I have committed - certainly for now - and no longer need to hide behind denial. That distancing? It was always about protection. It was always me saying ‘I’m not sure I’m good enough to call myself this thing, because if I do, if I stake my claim, then I have to deal with the realities of it.’

There is a vulnerability in striking out, revealing your desire. But what is art without it?

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I’m wondering if this space becomes more of a place to talk about things I’m reading and watching in an honest way, not simply a roundup of recommendations, but something more critical, more engaged, perhaps even more risky - opinions that I wouldn’t tweet, but would talk about at a dinner table. I’m considering this, but I’m also considering what it is to talk about the work of my peers, or those who are still creating, those who have done a vulnerable thing. I don’t know yet whether or not it’s worth it. Perhaps that is what a paywall can be useful for? What do you think?

That said, I saw Dreamers at the London Film Festival and can highly recommend it. A love story set in an immigration detention center here in the UK. Profound, tender and moving, it will be out in cinemas in December.

I’m also watching House of Guinness, which I’m thoroughly enjoying. Think Peaky Blinders meets Succession if it was a British soap/telenovella. On Netflix.

Lastly, a remind that if you’re in London, I’m hosting a fundraising screening of this incredible documentary on the 14th of November. Please come through. Tickets here, and if you can’t attend but would like to donate to folks facing famine in Sudan, please donate here.

Right. That’s all from me this weekend, folks. Sending love, as always.

Yassmin

Summer has well and truly arrived in London.

I love this city in the heat.

It’s too warm, of course. There are few air-conditioned buildings and the houses are not designed with ventilation and cooling in mind. But the days are long, spirits are high, and anything seems possible.

It occurred to me that this time last year, I was embarking on a brand new adventure: moving to Leeds, and interning on the British continuing drama, Emmerdale.

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Here I am, one year later, a fully fleged member of the writers team. Subhanallah. I cannot tell you how wild and wonderful this journey has been. As I wrote in my post at the time, getting a place on the Original Voices scheme was the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack - or rather, of being the needle in the haystack and doing everything you can to be found.

Turning that internship into something more sustainable seemed impossible. People told me it was so. There are more English Premier League footballers than there are TV staff writers in the UK, I was told. Nobody had joined the writers team from this scheme in the show’s history. It couldn’t be done.

Alhamdulilah, honestly. With the grace of Allah, anything is possible.

Alhamdulilah, Alhamdulilah, Alhamdulilah.

Like this time last year though, I am feeling like it is time for a break from the weekly schedule of this newsletter. I do enjoy it so, however I am once again, in a season of creating; writing first drafts of long form projects, developing out new ideas, feeding the beast. So, I’m here to share that I will be taking a few weeks off - likely until after the Edinburgh book festival in August. I may pop back into your inboxes here and there with a guest post, or to announce something or other, but generally, I will be taking a step back.

Thank you, as always, for your patience, your care, your thoughts, your prayers.

In case you are in Europe over the summer, there are a few events I’m appearing at that you are all most welcome to, inshallah:

Sudan, Power, and Free Expression

Hosted by myself with English PEN, we ask the question: Is Sudan being forgotten, or is it being ignored? What power structures contribute to this relative lack of institutional engagement? What are the free expression and media freedom issues at play – both in the UK and internationally? How do they intersect with international economic and political interests? How do they relate to an ideological and material move away from internationalism and global cooperation?

Please join us! Tickets are here.

Edinburgh International Book Festival

I’m chairing a load of events from between the 9th and 17th of August, inshallah, including:

• The Monsters Inside Our Head with Josh Silver & Andy Darcy Theo on how fantasy writing can help us better understand our mental health,

• A conversation with Mike Berners-Lee on Climate Action and the Power of Truth,

• The inimitable Melissa Lucashenko on her new book Edenglassie, and ‘Torching the Myths of Colonialism’, and

• A jam packed panel with Surekha Davies, Omar El Akkad & Nicola Kelly on ‘Who Counts as Human?’

This is only a selection of the events I’m chairing (it’s going to be a busy time!) and an even smaller selection of the hundreds of events at the festival. Hope to see you there, iA!

Black Ballad Weekender

I’ll also be at the ‘ultimate lifestyle festival, celebration & sanctuary for black women in Britain and beyond’, the Black Ballad Weekender! The line up is packed mashallah, and I will be on a panel about being a modern Black woman of faith. Come through!

Right. That’s it for the moment. Enjoy your summer (northern hemisphere lot) and keep warm this winter (you southerners, you)… and although the world feels like it is more on fire than ever, remember to ground yourself in the present moment where you are. Remember you are loved. Remember your life matters. May Allah shower us all in blessings, always, inshallah… and I’ll catch y’all round soon! Yx

New Feature: Sudanese People Don’t Have the Luxury of Hating Elon Musk

“I don’t think Elon Musk is even aware of Sudan,” Alsarah tells New Lines. “He’s got his eyes on bigger prizes. He doesn’t see the people using it, to him it’s about the technology.”

I’m so pleased to have finally published what I have been calling ‘The Starlink Piece’ on New Lines. I’ve been fascinated by the contradictory feelings I’ve had about Musk over the last couple of years, because regardless of his shenanigans and you know, reckless and deadly choices, his Starlink Space X tech is effectively the only reason I can communicate with my family in Sudan, and how most on the ground are able to be in contact with each other and the outside world. I spoke to almost a dozen people for this story and am super pleased with how it turned out, Alhamdulilah, so I hope you enjoy the read.

Perhaps all my efforts trying to decide how I feel about Musk are a misuse of energy. Far more interesting than the whims of an individual man, no matter how powerful, is another question for Sudan and for Sudanese people: how to move beyond and outside the imaginations of techno-imperialists and elite-led, authoritarian, militarized governance.

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When you have lived in many places, your chosen family becomes home

I’ve lived in six cities over the last twelve years. Despite having grown up not moving around a lot, it would appear that as an adult, I love it. Revel in it. Thrill in the shift and change and transformation a new place offers.

That being said, it’s not always easy… and finding community somewhere new isn’t something we are necessarily taught. Most of my moves have been to places without other family, and so I’ve had to learn how to recreate that structure when I arrive.

There aren’t guides for how to make a new city feel like home. How to find family, community, a sense of belonging. In my experience, it’s a combination of the right environment, boundless enthusiasm and a little bit of luck. The hand of fate, you might say. But even divine intervention requires your intention.

My latest piece for Hyphen is a love letter to the chosen family.

Even as I describe this, I feel myself bumping into the limitations of the English language. In Arabic, my first language, there are words beyond friend and family. From “zameel” (someone who you know like a colleague) to “qareen” (a soulmate you are inseparable from), language contains possibilities and creates realities.

Have you moved around a lot? Do you feel like chosen family is important to you, or not so much?

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For Sudan

Where to even begin with this blockbuster evening? There will be a proper round up video soon, but suffice to say I’m so…overwhelmed by how fulfulling it was to be in a room full of Sudanese people and those who love us, celebrating, laughing, crying, dancing… may we always be gathered in times of joy, inshallah. Thanks also to my co-curating Waleed Elgadi and all the Shubbak and Grand Junction team who made the night possible.

Coming up… Workshops4Sudan

Inspired by Workshops4Gaza, this is a fundraising initiative supporting the Sudan Solidarity Collective, who “work through a mutual aid structure to provide direct support to civilian-led collectives tirelessly working on the ground in Sudan.”

I’m so honoured to be delivering the next workshop inshallah - on Monday! If you’re around, please come check it out (recording will also be available for those who buy tickets if you can’t make the live event).

Workshop Title: Sudan Through Story: The Power of Sudanese Art and Keeping Culture Alive.

Storytelling has a important role in the making of Sudanese identity and history. Join us to learn about Sudanese stories and Sudanese storytellers.

From the Kingdom of Kush to Tayib Saleh, from poet Obeid Abdul Nur to rapper Dafencii, this session is about deepening your understanding of Sudanese people through the nation's bountiful art and culture. Yassmin Abdel-Magied will be sharing the unique ways in which Sudanese stories are told, the myths and characters that have shaped society, the challenges faced by storytellers and the power of narrative in creating possibility, in the past and today.

Date: Monday, June 16th 2025.

Time: 4:30 PM EST

Tickets here!

This week I also helped launch the Edinburgh International Book Festival program at the British Library - if you’ve in Edinburgh in August, please come to some of my events inshallah! I’m interviewing some incredible folks, including Melissa Lucashenko, Omar El Akkad, Mike Berners-Lee and many more. Hope to see you there inshallah!

…and I attend the launch of my dear friend Natasha’s debut book, Another World is Possible. My interview with her on this fantastic work will be out hopefully next week, so I will share it with y’all soon!

Now - I’m off to work on my next Emmerdale script (🥳🥳🥳🥳). The Yorkshire Dales await! Do let me know your thoughts on chosen family… or whether I might see you in Edinburgh in August inshallah!

See you next week (iA!)

Yx

Something I wrote about then, and still holds true now, was my reluctance to sign up to any political label, or party, or ‘tribe’. I’ve never been a paid up member of any political party (as far as I can remember!) and I feel nervous ascribing my views and beliefs to any one group1.

Why?

I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. I think part of me balks at what I perceive I would have to ‘give up’ if I declared any formal affiliation: my agency, my independence, my freedom of thought. There is a level of toeing the line that comes with any group membership, which makes sense, but feels like an imposition I find personally challenging. That is not to say I am not aligned with specific perspectives, in solidarity with and supportive off particular groups and causes I believe in and so on. After all, you cannot resist oppression and tyranny on your ones! But, I suppose, I enjoy being a freelancer or a free agent in all senses of the word - economically, culturally, politically, philosophically. I am most comfortable in the position of outsider.

Funny, no?

I am fascinated by this internal contradiction in myself. I wonder, is it a position made from a place of strength, or fear? I write so much about collectivism, community, belonging and unbelonging, yet oftentimes the places I most gravitate towards are places where I am an interloper, alien and unusual and somewhat uninvited. Why do I so enjoy observing cultures unlike my own, those dominant and domineering, remote and inaccessible? Why do I revel so much in the thrill?

Whether it’s my time on the rigs or as an F1 reporter, ski-slopes or horseback, the desert or Fair Isle, if it’s a place people are surprised to see me, I’m gonna beeline straight there.

What is that about? Why so drawn to worlds I don’t see myself in more than those I do? Is it curiosity, or voyeurism?

Many years ago, I came across an article that said that in the United States, the stats of women matriculating in engineering didn’t consider the racial differences between students. Now, I can’t find the piece (I spent a while looking!) but the vibe was this: Black and Asian women weren’t leaving engineering at the same rate as white women...and perhaps that was because there was strong cultural/gendered expectations on the white women from their white male colleagues. That is to say, the men in the engineering school - majority white - had such strong gendered expectations of women, but those expectations were racially coded, and had most impact on white women, so, women in the same racial category. This was why, the piece argues, more white women proportionally dropped out than any other racial group…

Now, how robust this research was, I cannot be sure. But what I do know is that it reflects my reality while studying engineering. It was true that the majority of the boys I studied with had strong, often sexist, takes on what women should and shouldn’t do, but somehow, they didn’t apply them to me - or at least, I didn’t feel that bothered by them, like those takes applied to me. Was it hubris, or was it because I felt so outside their cultural context?

All this is a roundabout way of saying… perhaps I love being an outsider because being on the outside is its own form of freedom?

There is a type of liberation in not being legible. There is a power in it, or at least I have learnt to find one, where those around you don’t understand you or why you make the choices you do. For me, being an outsider grants me the illegibility that I transform into my liberty.

You might argue that what I speak of is a lesser form of freedom, one that isn’t ‘true’, or ‘full’, or ‘complete’. Real freedom, you might say, is the agency and ability to live life on my terms within the cultural contexts one is borne from, but yall - that feels far off. That would be a world without patriarchy, white-supremacy, the current iteration of capitalism, etc etc etc. It feels like a heavy lift.

This way, I get to do me, in the world we’re currently in, and not in the future.

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That could be true.

Or perhaps, this is my way of coping with never having felt like I belong. By telling myself a compelling story, I turn a wound into a strength.

Or maybe, I just don’t like being told what to do, and this is my convulted justification for it.

Ha!

What do you think? How do you relate to in-groups and out-groups and labels and tribes? Do you like being an outsider? Do you resent it? Let me know!

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But I must confess, there was one part of an interview he did that stuck with me, and it had nothing to do with politics at all. It was a question about how Coates felt about each of his five previously published books.

I really felt that segment. He talked about which book he loves, which he feels was misunderstood… he talks about these pieces of work in a way that only the author can, and I ate it up.

Unfortunately, I can’t find nor remember which interview that was (so if you do know, please drop it in the comments!) But it did make me reflect on my own relationship to my published works, which I thought I’d share with you today!

So, in order of oldest to newest…

Yassmin’s Story

Ah, the original memoir. I was 23 when I sold this, 24 when it came out. I was young, earnest, and had absolutely no understanding of how lucky I was to publish this work, and how the month-long book tour and national marketing campaign was not something every writer got. To be fair, people told me that at the time, but I was still working as an engineer, remember? I did not think I’d be writing another book. I was just happy to go along for the ride.

The second version came out in 2017, just as my life blew up. How do I feel about Yassmin’s Story now? Mixed. I mostly conceive of it as a snapshot in time, a book that says less about me as a writer and more about who I was as a driven young person, obsessed with making the most of every opportunity and fully believing in my ability to change the world. This is the book that is closest to what people wanted and expected from me, which is probably why it is quite possibly my most commercially successful book to date (in terms of Australian book sales).

I find it difficult to revisit this book. My politics were less evolved (though fortunately, my values were pretty much the same). If you want the most wholesome version of me, this is where to find her. I’m just not that person anymore.

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You Must Be Layla

The book that honestly, I think most people know me for? This little bad boy has done gangbusters in schools especially, selling enough that I earned out my (small) advance within a year (which is not super common!) I get told every year how many copies are being borrowed out of libraries, and to my delight, the book is still doing strong, mashallah. So from that point of view, I’m gently proud of this one. It’s like the gutsy kid succeeding against the odds. YMBL was my first work of fiction, the project that kept me sane after I’d moved from Australia to London in late 2017/2018. It is a simple story told plainly, but it continues to resonate with readers around the world. A girl inventor fighting back against her bully? What’s not to love?

There’s even an illustrated Penguin Readers edition that came out - I mean, how cool!!!

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Listen, Layla

Ah, the sequel!

This was the first book that began to get some award recognition, getting longlisted in a few different places and even getting a Kirkus review. I wrote this book during the 2018/2019 Sudanese revolution, and so even though this is a book for young readers, it is full of stories of revolt, protest, change and transformation. This was the first book I wrote where I began to entertain the idea of being a ‘writer’ for real, someone who had control over the story and text. I was pleased to be able to introduce some super meaty ideas to the readers, and LL is probably the book that gave me the confidence to begin writing what I wanted to write and not what I thought I should.

For whatever reason, perhaps because it is a sequel, or because it was published during COVID, Listen, Layla didn’t reach the audience I hoped it would. It still did okay, Alhamdulilah, but you know. It’s an underappreciated one.

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Talking About a Revolution

Oh, my misunderstood child!

TAAR is the non-fiction collection of essays that I had my heart set on writing for as long as I had written… but gosh, folks. People were not picking up what I was putting down!

For me, this is my most honest piece of work, one that shows how I have developed as a writer and as a thinker over my twenties. It reflects who I am in its wide range of topics (from citizenship to cryptocurrency) and in the essays varying levels of sophistication (half the pieces are previously published works from my twenties, the other I wrote for this collection at the age of thirty), in its somewhat subversive approach. The response I got was that it was too much for folks, unwieldy, not focused enough, not what people wanted. Some felt like the title was misleading, others poked holes in older essays and ignored the recontextulisation offered, and most, I realised, just wanted something different from me. This was my first big piece of non-fiction work since I’d left Australia, and I think people wanted me to talk about that. They wanted a tell all, a confession, a rallying cry, something. There are elements of that throughout the text, but I was not interested in writing on someone else’s terms. I wrote what I wanted to.

Turns out, writing on your own terms is great for your soul, not always great for the balance sheet :P So, this is the work I am most protective of. I still point people towards it if they want to get to know my writing, but always with the knowledge it will probably confuse more than impress. C’est la vie!

(If you’re one of the few that has read this book, what do you think? Would love more feedback because I don’t 100% understand how people have responded to TAAR).

Stand Up and Speak Out Against Racism

Last but not least, SUSOAR.

The book that was commissioned following the great BLM resurgence of 2020. This was not something I expected to write, but I am super professionally proud of what we created. It’s a reference text I believe will stand the test of time, with as much to teach adults as it does young people. Possibly the least known of my works - the only one I didn’t really do a tour for - but the most awarded and critically acclaimed, reflecting the amount of research, distillation, consideration and incredible illustration work by Aleesha Nandhra. Arguably my least artistic work, but the most impactful one? Who knows.

Well, there you go! There are, of course, the books that never saw the light of day (one historical fiction, one technology non-fiction), the anthologies I contributed to (It’s Not About the Burqa, New Daughters of Africa, The Puffin Book of Big Dreams, Life’s Short Talk Fast), and the truth that how I feel about each of these works changes as the years go by. But all in all, I feel grateful. Maintaining a career as a writer is far more difficult than publishing a single book. Publishing is a risk averse business. You’re only as good as your last sales report, and that report can be brutal (Trust. I am no Ta Nehisi Coates!) But we do our best, try ride the wave for as long as it’s cresting, and hope readers get something out of the work.

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As you know, next year is a big one (inshallah). The first of the SILVERBROOK teen fantasy series comes out in January, and then the literary fiction novel AT SEA is out in May. I have no idea how I will feel about them as they are released into the world, or how readers and critics will receive them. But I will keep y’all posted, because what else is Substack for but a way to work through feelings?! Hopefully we can have some fun along the way!

Please let me know in the comments what you thought of all this — too self indulgent? Has it brought up a bunch of questions? Do you feel differently about the books than I think readers do? Tell me everything, and see you next week (inshallah!)

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Oh, boy.

I noticed the headline a few weeks ago. ‘Women are using ChatGPT as a free therapist – can AI replace mental health experts?’ This hadn’t been the first time I’d seen a similar piece: Dazed published a feature late last year on a similar theme.

I frowned, but didn’t pay it much attention… until I a friend told me recently that she did the same. She enjoyed using ChatGPT (and that OpenAI LLM specifically, not any other ones) for therapy.

I must confess, I didn’t quite know how to respond. Do I say hey, have you thought of the security and surveillance implications of giving your deepest and darkest thoughts to a profit-driven company that retains everything you input, permanently?1 Not sure that would have been the most convincing approach. Do I instead try, hey, is there stuff you’d like to talk to us (your friends) about that you don’t feel comfortable sharing at the moment? What can we do to help bridge that gap? Or maybe what would suffice was the the much more open ended, why?

The impression I got in the end was similar to the women interviewed in the piece above. People enjoy the ease of engagement and the non-judgmental space to ask all the ‘the crass, the gruesome, the almost cruel questions’ that they don’t feel comfortable asking elsewhere. It’s about, in the words of Fortune 500 AI Advisor Allie Miller, psychological safety.

“Our best work comes when we have psychological safety, and why would that be any different working alongside AI? The lack of judgement and unrestricted exploration makes it an ideal playground for big dreams, potentially embarrassing questions, or hazy, half-formed goals.2”

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THE NEW NORMAL

With all that said, I was then not entirely surprised to read a recent HBR piece indicating therapy and companionship was the main way people were using GenAI in 2025. So perhaps GenAI won’t take your job, but it might take your therapist?

Listen, I’m still digesting the results of the survey. It’s interesting to see how much it’s changed from 2024, perhaps indicating that so many of us are still figuring out what it is useful for.

To be honest, I’ve just not used much GenAI in my life yet. I’m not opposed to it, more I haven’t particularly found a need. But I’m curious about what value it can actually provide (I must say, it’s decent at giving me a 200 word bio… and I did update my about section with its ‘take’. Would love to hear what you think!)

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All in all, I wasn’t entirely mad at all the quotes that came out of the study. For example, the author shares on therapy/companionship (#1) this reflection:

“Where I’m from, in South Africa, mental healthcare barely exists; there’s a psychologist for 1 in every 100,000 people and a psychiatrist for 1 in every 300,000 people. Large language models are accessible to everyone, and they can help. Unfortunately, data safety is not a concern when your health is deteriorating, and survival is the morning agenda.”

Fair enough, right? Or not? I feel torn, but I suppose my instinct is - as a person living in closer proximity to the power sources of these companies (certainly in comparison to someone in South Africa) - it reminds me of my responsibility to push for more security and privacy for all users. This is important not just for me, but to avoid the risk of neo-techno-colonialism, or data theft from those who can’t protect themselves, that is rampant.

Other quotes from the study remind me that I don’t hate technology (!), I’m just uber uncomfortable with the idea we either accept Sam Altman’s version of reality (where we all lose and him and his mates shoot off to Mars) or we’re backward Luddites who will eventually waste away, jobless and alone. Some even gave me ideas for how I could use a specific (safe) product in my own life3…

People said things like “I asked it to create a timeline for me to clean and organize my house before we have guests staying,” or “I wanted an extensive vacation itinerary with many details, such as rustic places to stay and to eat, key things to see, and hidden gems, while minimizing driving time. The output was perfect.” All very sensible. My favourite though?

“I received a Penalty Charge Notice (PCN) for entering a bus lane. The council were after £80 from me for what was about a 20-second stop, if that. I asked ChatGPT to write me an appeal and this morning got the letter saying the PCN has been voided. Thank you, AI, because I would have likely just paid the money if I had to type out a long, boring appeal letter myself.”

IS AN LLM A GOOD THERAPIST?

Coming back to the question at hand. Opinions on an LLM’s effectiveness as therapists vary, but by and large experts all seem to agree that it shouldn’t be considered a one-to-one replacement.

This early 2024 study suggested ‘ChatGPT offers an interesting complement to psychotherapy and an easily accessible, good (and currently free) place to go for people with mental-health problems who have not yet sought professional help and have no psychotherapeutic experience.’ But, they caution, it is not a substitute and the solutions offered are hardly comprehensive.

Another study4, focused on the client’s response to advice, complicates the picture. Participants were asked to determine if a response was from ChatGPT or from a human therapist. Curiously, they were not very good at telling the difference - but this is not the same as whether or not the therapy was effective. It does go some way to explaining why people feel comfortable confiding in the chatbots though; if you feel like it sounds ‘like a human’, then you won’t experience the mental bump that might stop you being honest.

I appreciated this conclusion: AI therapy is like journaling (if your journal was being sold to companies with a profit motive and state actors who love repression). At best, they suggest, it is ‘a structured tool for self-reflection,’ whereas at worst, ‘it gives the illusion of healing, while keeping you stuck in your own head.’

So, as always with this theme, the jury is still out.

What do you all think? Have you used ChatGPT or any other locally hosted LLM for therapy or journaling? Do you think it is something we shouldn’t judge? Or do you think, as an interlocutor of mine recently suggested, ‘we should bring back shame’ in relation to this tool? Would love to hear your thoughts!

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I love industry advice content. Podcasts, blogs, substacks: I pretty much learnt how to write scripts by listening to the entire back catalog of Scriptnotes (it’s worth the subscription) and reading old scripts1.

There are, of course, a multitude of different writing advice columns and shows out there. I tend to prefer those helmed by working professionals, folks like showrunner of Chernobyl and The Last of Us Craig Mazin, or the most recent showrunner for Poker Face, Tony Tost. But I’ll be honest. Listening to the ways you could break in to film and TV ten to twenty years ago is often a disheartening experience, because things have changed so significantly. The industry is contracting, the opportunities for outsiders are fewer, and the pathways that many of today’s successful showrunners took are no longer available.

But we move, right?

In ‘The Script I Would Write If I Was Trying To Break In Right Now’, Tony Tost is honest about this reality. He reflects on how the script that got him his first Hollywood break might not be suited to this moment, but then gives great practical advice on what kind of script might be. But reading his pieces got me thinking. If I were to break it down, what does a path into screenwriting look like today?

My route will not be everyone’s path in, but I find it can be helpful to hear the steps someone took along the way. So, here’s a potted history of my journey (so far, inshallah)!

As many of you know, I did not begin my professional life in the arts. I studied mechanical engineering, was obsessed with building cars (that went fast) and spent most of my time around dirty, greasy, loud equipment (and men). I loved it.

During the early 2010s, as Tony Tost was beginning his career in Hollywood, I was blogging away - first, on Sudan, then, about life on the rigs. I wanted a place to share the weird and wonderful experiences I was having…and that blog eventually led to my first published essay (in 2013), then a published book (2016).

The book precipitated a fork in the road. The engineering company I worked for didn’t want a writer on their hands, but I didn’t like being told what to do, especially since I was quite good at my job (and my boss agreed!). Push came to shove, and I was asked to choose. Engineering, or writing.

I still can’t believe I chose to write. Subhanallah.

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I didn’t really know that I was choosing writing. I think I was really choosing to not be controlled, because the thought of having my voice stifled felt unbearable. I was 24 years old, walking away from the industry and sector I had adored and pedestalled my whole life, but the choice felt clear: I would not let a corporation dictate my future.

Anyway. I pottered about for a few years; broadcasting, causing national scandals, writing fiction for younger readers, feeling my way through the world.

I moved to London in late 2017. About a year later, a friend and I co-created a dramedy TV series titled SAME SAME. At the time, I wasn’t thinking of myself as a writer: I was on-screen talent. We storylined the show together, but my friend did the heavy lifting on the scripts.

This was 2018/2019. In 2020, the show was optioned. We were in paid development for a while, took it to a streamer, but COVID intervened. The project was put on ice.

That could have been the end of my screenwriting journey. We’d had a lot of hype and excitement (an option! a streamer! great talent! etc!) but in the end, we weren’t able to pull it off. It just so happened though that at the same time, I was learning to write plays…

It’s now mid-2019. I’m trawling twitter for a new hobby. I find a part time acting course - CASPA Arts - that I can afford in both time and money. I perform in my first ever panto. The director of the show, Christa Harris, is working on another production at the time and one of their writers drops out at the last minute.

She asks if I would be interesting in the co-writing role. I say no, I’m not a playwright, I know nothing! She persists. I eventually agree, and end up being part of United Queendom, a sold-out immersive theatre production at Kensington Palace.

The show got mixed reviews (life!) but it was a whole heap of fun to work on, and most importantly, it introduced me to the woman who would then become my agent, Jess Cooper. A few months into the COVID lockdowns, once I’d licked my wounds about SAME SAME and felt ready to tackle a new adventure, Jess asked what I would really like to do. For the first time, I entertained the notion I’d always considered mere fantasy: write television.

It would be almost five years between me writing my first pilot script in late 2020 and my first ‘transmission’, i.e. my first episode appearing on TV. There were many times I genuinely didn’t know if I would make it to my first credit2.

But! One thing that did help me break in, that Tony Tost talks about in his piece, is this: leaning in to my voice.

My first spec script, RIGGED, was about a murder set on an oil rig. We unfortunately sent it out just before Amazon announced their show THE RIG, so there was no chance of mine getting made after that. However, the script was a calling card. It showed producers I had a unique voice, could use it in an interesting but genre-familiar way, and that I had a fascinating personal story.

That was enough to get me into meetings with producers, begin to develop relationships, and kickstart the long, arduous but ultimately joyful journey towards a professional screenwriting career.

(Let me know if you want to know more…? Drop a comment or reply to the email :D)

I didn’t grow up doing arty things like ‘going to the theater’. My first theater outing was sometime in the 2010s, to see a strange ol’ thing called ‘Avenue Q’. My dear friend Avrithi and I were university students (or perhaps we had just graduated, I cannot remember), and thought it would be ever so adult of us to go ‘to a show’.

Honestly, I had no idea what was happening on stage. I think I spent half of the show being like…is this okay? Here’s a sample to give you a sense:

I didn’t go to the theater for quite a few years after that!

But, fast forward a decade or so, and how things have changed! I’ve written for the theatre, had plays produced, and yes, have become someone who enjoys a cheeky night out on the West End. Alhamdulilah.

All that to say, I recently saw two shows that I’ve been mulling on and have wanted to share with y’all: The Years, and Kyoto.

An adaptation of the book Les Années by Nobel prize winner Annie Ernaux, The Years was a clever production of a complex book. An autobiography of sorts (I must confess, one I have yet to read) it is the story of a woman’s life in France, of a tale as old as time: the process of aging, of realising that no matter what you do, time will march on.

The book has been described as a ‘collective autobiography’, but watching the play, I was struck by how the collective was being defined. ‘Algeria’, ‘The Muslims’, ‘The Arabs’, etc, were all referred to obliquely, described as outside the group knowingly understood as ‘us’, ‘we’. The play reminded me that in Ernaux’s world, in the world of the play, the critics, the reviewers - people like myself are Other. We are subjects, more news than human, more history than present, more margin than main text. Even if I watched, and like everyone else, thought of myself as the protagonist, the show made it clear that this narrator was not talking about me.

The dissonance was discomfitting. I could not escape the reminder that while I may imagine myself as part of such a collective experience, I was performing the imaginative leap those in the dominant culture rarely take themselves1.

Despite my sense of Othering, one aspect of the play rang universally true. A line about sitting at the family dinner table. That moment when you look around and realise there are children and nieces and nephews and many younger than you, while your parents were now the elders; most, if not all of the older generation having died.

Shit, I thought. I’m the middle now. I’m in the middle generation. How did that happen? What does that mean?

There is still a sense of a ‘future’, but it’s not as shiny and untouched as it was a decade ago. There is less sense of mystery. Inroads have been made, choices settled upon. We are in the future we once dreamed about. We are the adults in the room.

Subhanallah.

I left that play feeling worried. Not about the world, but about my place in it. How do I handle this ever rushing passage of time? How do any of us?

But the next play I saw placed me in an entirely different headspace, though I feel like the two are in conversation.

Kyoto is pitched as a ‘political thriller’, but it is more historical drama. It is about how, against all odds, the Kyoto Protocol was passed. You mightn’t think there’s much in it, but I’m tellin ya. It was a ride!

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I didn’t know much of the Protocol’s history. Frankly, by the time I came to political consciousness around the climate crisis, I had taken Kyoto for granted. But this was a fascinating, and unexpectedly inspiring, take on a diplomatic process that feels ever more extraodinary in these times. How did they get all the countries to agree?

The negotiations were fraught. Backbreaking. Went throughhhh the nights. Look at the timestamp in the video below: they worked past sunrise on the final day.

We know of course, that the Protocol did not quite achieve what it set out to do. But there was something about the characterisation of the Chairman of the negotiations, Raúl Estrada, that moved me. On stage, when faced with oil lobbyist Don Pearlman - obsessed with winning ‘For America’ at all costs2 - the typically humerous Raúl’s is earnest, deadpan in response.

I will show you what I’m fighting for, he says to Pearlman. Agreement.

It’s hard, isn’t it?

Agreement.

It’s bone-crushingly hard.

That’s what struck me as I watched the dramatised negotiations of the Protocol, and has remained with me since. I wonder about the people who were there, trying their best, and those who ultimately managed to achieve what few had done before, or since. Agree. On doing something. On action. On progress. On change, for the better. The feat, they pulled off. What a feat! Yes, we can say things haven’t panned out as they might have hoped. But they showed us what was possible, did they not? The world is surely better with the Protocol than without it?

It’s so much easier not to agree. It’s so much easier to poke holes, to find flaws, to decide against, to advocate for the bleeding devil. It is functionally and objectively easier to destroy than it is to build. That is why the work so many of us do is so hard - because we want to create. Alternatives. Possibilities. Futures.

But in order to do so, we have to find ways to agree. We have to find zones of agreement - what we can, at the bare minimum, come together on.

It was curious, to watch negotiations being made. It became clear that this wasn’t about the moral positions of the delegates - that wasn’t what was on the table. Everyone understood there were a variety of moral and political positions, took that as a given. No, negotiations were about something else.

They were about asking the question: if we acknowledge the urge to begin from a place of self interest, how do we get everyone - everyone - to shift to the collective?

How do we get more people on board?

How do we get people on side?

What is the possibility?

What is the negotiation?

What is the compromise?

What is in the zone of agreement?

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Now, I don’t know if we can take the dramatisation of a UN diplomatic negotiation as gospel, but there’s something in it for me. Something in understanding that engaging with ‘opposing’ parties from a place of refusing to surrender might be morally soothing, but won’t get us anywhere. Now of course, not all noegotiations are in good faith - most of Don Pearlman’s work was in terrible faith, that man was dripping poison from the get go! But if we’re all working towards the same goal? Surely there’s gotta be a way.

Heck, what am I talking about. I’m not negotiating anything right now. Why did this have such an impact?

Maybe this isn’t a piece about collective action, or individual memory. Maybe it’s about the power of art. About the power of a story to move us. To shift something. To change the world.

Did you know that Kyoto, the city, was almost destroyed by the atomic bomb in World War Two? Apparently, it was taken off the list by Secretary of War Henry Stimson. According to some historians, because he’d honeymooned there.

Instead, the US bombed Nagasaki.

Not all our decisions are going to be as world defining as Stimson’s, or Estrada’s. But they matter. Because what is society, but the collective choices we all make? What is culture, but the ordinary things we do, every day?

Has there been a piece of art that’s moved you? Have you shifted into the zone of agreement recently? Would love to hear from you, friends.

Blessings,
Yassmin

I recently attended an interview with the Egyptian-Canadian writer and journalist Omar El Akkad ahead of the publication of his book, One Day Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This.

The book was born from a viral tweet sent shortly after bombardment began in Gaza in October 2023. El Akkad wrote: “One day, when it’s safe, when there’s no personal downside to calling a thing what it is, when it’s too late to hold anyone accountable, everyone will have always been against this.” The post was viewed more than 10 million times.

More than 150 people warmed the room on a cold London night to hear him speak. By the time I reached the front of the signing line, all copies of his book had sold out. Alhamdulillah, I thought, agreeing with his publisher’s comments that this was a vital message, a critical meditation, the needed challenge for Western readers to grapple with their nations’ complicity in what has been termed the “first live-streamed genocide”.

Yet, despite the sharp clarity of El Akkad’s words, the truth of his analysis and the profound power of his critique, I was unable to remain entirely present during the discourse. Alongside my complete and lifelong solidarity with the Palestinian people, the feeling that kept interrupting was one I did not want to engage with, one I had no sense of how to acknowledge.

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Would people ever one day “always have been against” the war in Sudan?

What does the answer to that question tell us? About Sudan, about the value we place on human life, about ourselves?

El Akkad’s writing, and the writing of many Palestinians and their allies, points to a truth about the war in Palestine that is distinct from the war in Sudan: the battle of narrative.

Part of the red hot anger, the betrayal that many in the West feel, arises from the “derangement” of politicians, leaders and news organisations, who continue to disseminate lies, mistruths and propaganda about the war, despite positioning themselves as paragons of moral virtue and truth.

Sudan’s challenge is different. There is no battle of narrative. There is an utter lack of narrative. People are “already against this”, but it doesn’t seem to matter enough. There is an utter dearth of interest in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of us, the genocide being committed as I type these words, the millions facing acute hunger, and the many millions more displaced.

I am reminded of the death of a marriage. When there is an argument there is the hope for progress, because at least the parties are engaged with each other. When there is silence, when all sides have left the table, then you know the battle is lost.

Sometimes, a dark, shameful part of me wishes there was a battle of narrative I could engage in. Maybe it would mean Sudanese lives mattered enough to fight about.

At this point, I feel I must issue a disclaimer. Our causes are not in competition with each other, and freedom is not a zero-sum game. Talking about Sudan does not – must not – come at the expense of talking about Palestine, and we must also be wary of those using the Sudanese cause to diminish the activism and agitation of Palestinians and their allies.

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Perhaps this is one battle of narrative Sudan has unwittingly found itself in, used as a pejorative talking point in the same way those defending Muslim women’s right to wear the hijab are faced with accusations that they “don’t care about the women in Iran”. These are bad faith arguments that are unconcerned with the actual people in question.

So why begin a piece about Sudan by talking about Palestine at all? Partly, I suppose, to start to try to make sense of a phenomenon I struggle with daily. To give those around me the benefit of the doubt; to resist the urge to point the finger and issue simplistic accusations forged in the blaze of desperation after years of being made invisible; to connect our struggles.

After all, there are no two flags as similar and as easily confused as Sudan’s and Palestine’s. We are distorted mirror images of one another, peoples so often frozen by the imaginations – or lack of imaginations – of others, refused the dignity of life as full, human beings who desire little more than peace and our freedom.

I had planned to feature more voices on the ground in this piece, yet the reality of the conflict once again interrupted any neat narrative I had hoped to write. My contacts in El-Fasher, the capital city of North Darfur, found themselves squeezed once again between heavy aerial bombardment by the Sudanese Armed Forces and shelling and drone attacks by the Rapid Support Forces, trapped between an exploding rock and a deadly hard place.

“I’m sorry for my late reply,” came a recent message from one contact. “The local authority keeps shutting down the network.” That was the last I heard from them, my questions languishing in the WhatsApp chat unread, “single ticked”.

Another activist tells me she cannot bring herself to ask her contact to do an interview. She was panicking about feeding herself and not getting killed.

I feel ashamed, like a narrative vulture, picking at my people’s bones.

In Khartoum, my aunt does not reply to questions about how she is doing. In the few moments of snatched connectivity, she forwards jokes and Arabic memes to the group chat. “I don’t want to talk about this stinking war,” she said. “Send photos of your cooking, of pretty hairstyles, of nice things.” Joy, she said. That’s what she wanted. Joy.

I am reminded of the bursts of joy I witnessed in the images of Palestinians returning to northern Gaza. Singing, laughter, jubilation… despite the dehumanising brutality, the Palestinians had what Omar El Akkad described as “the asymmetrical power of joy”.

I think of this as another quality the Sudanese share with Palestinians – the asymmetrical power of joy. Unencumbered by our wrangling on moral positions, uninterested in the limitations of our imaginations. They continue to live. Subhanallah.

This article was first published by Index on Censorship on 10 April 2025, and later republished on The New Arab on the 11th of April. It appeared in Volume 54, Issue 1 of Index on Censorship's print magazine, titled: The forgotten patients: Lost voices in the global healthcare system. Read more about the issue here.

I am in Cairo.

I am in Cairo, once again.

I am in Cairo, and the last time I was here (also for Eid), we spent the entire trip crumpled in front of 24 hour news, watching our city and country fall apart. I did BBC interviews using my iPhone 12 front camera and watched the hunched figure of my grandmother climb onto an evacuation flight on the international news. My aunt asked me to stop speaking to the press, in case her family faced retaliation. I made Tiktoks. I clawed out my beating, broken heart out of my chest for all to see. I tried to believe them when they said it will all be over in a few days, a week max.

I am in Cairo, two years later, and the war is still not over.

But I am here, and like meeting a child after a few years, I am shocked by developments everyone else has become accustomed to.

Sudan has come to Cairo.

For the lucky ones, at least.

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My father and aunt argue with their elders who want to return, now that the army has reclaimed the capital. Elders sit wrapped in colourful toubs in soulless Cairo apartments, physically safe but shorn of their context, their meaning, what they might consider their lives.

There is nothing to go back to.

There is everything to go back for.

The arguments are passionate, no holds barred. No running water, no electricity, what food will you eat! But these pleas fall on unlistening ears. They want to go home.

What is there for us here but death?

I ask my aunt if she misses Sudan. She laughs, rueful.

What is Sudan? What does it mean to be Sudanese?

I am beginning to understand there really is no going back.

We - my nuclear family - were the migrants once. The family that moved away, the branch that sprouted out from the main trunk - connected, but somehow different.

Now, the rest of the family was asking the same questions I had been asking my entire life. What does it mean to be Sudanese?

We have become a family of migrants. Where is the Sudanese in that?

I feel the burden of responsibility on my shoulders, squeezing down on my torso, roiling my stomach. My back curves with the weight. How on earth are we going to hold onto who we are?

I worry I am not strong enough.

I used to visit my family on one street. Now, to see the same people, I have to go to four different continents.

My dad repeats this line over and over as we visit the houses of relatives on the first day of Eid. It soon transpires we are transplanting a distinctly Sudanese custom onto an Egyptian context. Nobody does visits like this in Egypt, we are told, because everyone lives too far apart. The traffic, the heat - whatever. In Egypt, they don’t visit each other on Eid, they just call.

No matter. We must bring something with us, even if it is only our presence.

I wonder if we will ever visit all the relatives on the same street again.

It feels unlikely.

I do not know how to hold this grief.

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I am in Cairo and it is easier this time, but the ease frightens me. We have normalised the horrific, the unthinkable. But what else is there to do?

I curse myself for not taking more photos. Not recording more of my elders’ tales. I wonder, if I ever have children, will they know of their history, my birthplace, only through stories and photographs? Will they only receive the diluted version of who we are/were, a photocopy of a photocopy?

I never imagined we would be here. This is the ugly truth.

Cairo forces me to reckon with the fact that I always believed Khartoum would be there. That the family was constant. That there would be somewhere to return.

I am in Cairo, not in Khartoum, and my heart is in my hands and half my family never want to set foot in Sudan again. The other half is desperate, yearning to feel its earth and I feel entitled to none of it. I feel entitled to nothing, no place, no language nor custom and I wonder is this freedom, or is it captivity? My tongue is heavy and my vocab rusty and so I spent my nights looking up Arabic courses in London, Cairo, Damascus. I do a quiz and learn I am ‘lower intermediate’ and wonder whether the fact this was (is?) my mother tongue makes any difference.

I am in Cairo and it is hot.

I am in Cairo and the world keeps moving forward.

I am in Cairo and while this city is nothing like Khartoum, I am simply grateful that I can visit. Get a visa, enter the country, hug my kin. Family is not straight forward. This city isn’t, either. But it’s all we’ve got right now. That’s got to be something, right?

Thank you all for reading this newsletter. It feels nice to be back in conversation with you all.

I hope you enjoyed all the guest posts during Ramadan. From visiting Buddhist monasteries to publishing a book, we had such a range of wonderful submissions! Thank all who wrote in - hopefully I’ve replied to everyone now1. I’ll continue to provide the space for the occasional guest post in the future, so do get in touch if you’d like to write for this newsletter inshallah.

I attended this workshop with a dear friend, someone whose counsel I value and whose life choices echo many of mine own. We spent much of the day together in one of those rare ‘hang out’ Sundays, where the plan is loose, the time elastic, and the many shared hours allowing what is most important to rise to the top. Parts of the conversation surprised me, our discourse allowing possibilities to emerge that I had not expected, the dialectic doing what dialectic is meant to do: arriving at the truth of a matter, helping me see what I could not do alone.

It was a cold day, the type of baltic temperature which forces your hands into your pockets and freezes the tops of your ears until they hurt, but the bitter experience somehow only added to my joy, our muttered exclamations a shared intimacy. Errands were run, evening plans blurred, and I wondered if this level of contentment was achievable every day, or whether it felt so special precisely because it was such a rare treat.

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I had written a different newsletter to share with you all today, but the tone of that piece is angrier, sharper, unresolved. It didn’t feel right to send it out, but I’m not at home, at my desk, and I don’t have a back up article to share. So instead, I thought I would write to you from exactly where I am, sitting on my friend’s couch, watching the arrival of dusk through their front window, the sounds of a neighbour’s guitar filtering through the wall.

It’s been overwhelming returning from Fair Isle to the Big Smoke of London. I’ve had two naps at my desk and not nearly enough sleep, throwing myself back into the fray with pure abandon and not enough grace. But what I am grateful for is returning to a city full of people I love, and who love me back. A city of welcome, of anonymity, of infinite possibility. I love this city, with all its foibles, and will forever be grateful for the lease of life it gave me when I was at my lowest.

It can feel impossible to find yourself amongst the grey concrete and pursed lips, the impatience and the traffic and the never ending, ugly, cold. But this city is also full of warm blooded humans and a quiet, unbreakable resolve. We mock the phrase ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’, but is that not the secular Inshallah, a saying that understands maybe not everything is in your control, but why not do what you can?

My phone battery has turned red now. I have so much more to tell you all, but I suppose it’ll have to wait for another day, inshallah. I hope your Sunday has been slow, regenerative, hopeful - or if not, at the very least, I wish you a moment of joy. Until next week, friends. Yx

The statement took me by surprise. I frowned slightly as I took a cupcake from the proffered platter, biting into the light and airy sponge and quietly marveling at the smooth texture of the chocolate icing. It was not thick and granular, as lesser cupcakes can be. This had the feel of whipped cream and fairy bread, the delight of a childhood sprint along the pier, the mundane made brilliant. I asked him for his secret and he said baking powder, which I was sure was true and not all at the same time.

‘What do you mean?’

I had heard people say they cook out of survival, out of a need for routine, meditation, joy, but never self defense.

‘I’m a picky eater. But if you cook, you’re no longer picky.’

It turned out he didn’t like tomatoes. Suddenly, the initial assertion made a lot more sense.

My relationship with cooking has always been somewhat fraught. I too, have a relationship with cooking that is about self defense, but it operates in a different way. By and large, I refuse to cook, out of self-defense.

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It will not surprise you that in Sudanese culture, a woman’s ability to cook is highly prized. My grandmothers’ skills in the kitchen were widely regarded by their communities, my maternal grandmother known for catering entire weddings on her own, that is, cooking for hundreds, sometimes thousands of hungry and judgemental Sudanese guests, presiding over the kitchen with humour, grit and a level of professional execution Carmy could only dream of.

I went to live with said grandmother in Khartoum after university, spending six months back home to ‘reconnect’, practice my Arabic and - according to every auntie I met from the airport onward - presumably find a husband.

As soon as I arrived, my grandmother announced that I was to learn how to cook.

‘But I know how to cook!’ I protested, thinking of my ability to whip up a mean fried egg, spinach and feta puff pastry square, the perfect choc-chip cookie. Home Economics, the subject at school created to teach young girls how to become ‘good wives’ was one I excelled at. I had made chocolate mousse during Ramadan that even the teacher was impressed by. I could cook!

My grandma was unconvinced. What about bamia, mullah, 3aseeda, ta3meeya and all the other dishes that make up the Sudanese diet? How was I supposed to find a husband if I couldn’t actually cook?

‘I don’t know, maybe I’ll find a husband with my personality?’ I had replied, blithe in my optimism.

My grandmother laughed.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

I shocked myself and everyone I knew when, after first meeting the man who would later become my husband, I cooked him dinner.

It was as if all the lessons drilled into me by my mother and grandmother had in fact wormed their way into my DNA. My gut instinct was to lure this man into my good graces not through a scintillating display of wit and intellectual prowess, but with 3adas1.

I came to my senses during the meal, and told him that this was false advertising, and perhaps the last meal I might ever make him, but I wanted him to know that I could in fact cook, and I was an excellent chef at that, but I have a no-kitchen policy and no man would change that.

I was quite pleased with myself.

But when I brought this incident up with a friend a few months ago, I had apparently retconned the entire affair.

‘You didn’t cook for me,’ he laughed. ‘I brought the ingredients and made dinner. You made dessert!’

I’m still not sure where my false memory came from.

I was twenty years old when I got my job on the rigs. As a field worker, I lived in camps and offshore, and for four years of my life, ate what was provided by the company. Of course, the meat was never halal and seafood was a rare treat, so I became accustomed to bland pasta and steamed vegetables. I didn’t mind it, I wasn’t fussy. Because while my grandmothers loved to cook, saw their culinary creations as an extension of their worth, my parents treated food mostly as sustenance. Breakfast was regimented, Mondays toast, Tuesdays cereal, Wednesdays yoghurt, Thursdays toast and Fridays free choice - toast, cereal or yoghurt.

I didn’t mind. What was food but nutrition, or the excuse to bring people together? It was a vehicle, not the main event. I am not a picky eater.

Moving to Perth was the first time I was entirely responsible for my diet. Between time offshore, I was a 23 year old with disposable income and new - white, middle class - friends who ate out at restaurants like it was a normal thing.

Growing up, the excursion to the fish and chip shop was the high point of the week. If my father had room in the budget we might even be treated to a serving of calamari. Once or twice a year, we might go to Sizzlers, the open buffet that meant real celebration. Restaurants as regular outings was not an option I knew existed.

I was inducted into the realm of small plates and weekend brunches and oat flat whites and triple digit bills. God bless middle class white women and their refined palates. This was a whole new world.

A few years later, I’m seeing in the new year with a group of friends and acquaintances in a half-renovated mansion on a lake in Italy. Someone in the house enjoys entertaining, and I still recall the rich smell of baked pears leaving the oven, my first taste of the fruit with mascarpone. The only time I had heard of the cheese before was in the joke.

What is the best type of cheese to hide a horse in? Mascarpone.

I had not helped with the meal preparation, though I’m sure I did some of the setting up and cleaning away. At some point in the dinner, someone asked if I knew how to cook. ‘Well, I can read.’ I replied, not quite understanding the ensuing laughter. Cooking was about following a set of instructions, like fixing an engine. The idea of framing it as a question of ability seemed odd to me. It felt like asking ‘Can you keep yourself alive?’

There is a more thought out essay in these vignettes that I am working my way towards, but I find myself feeling self conscious about doing so. I feel trapped by the gendered expectations around cooking, unable to conceive of time in the kitchen as a capitulation rather than a choice, joy. The irony is, as my mother often told guests, I’m quite good at it! Alhamdulilah, I have ‘the knack’ for putting ingredients together in ways that bring the best out of them, reminding my mother of her own mother’s skills, and her self-perceived lack. But despite the pleasure I derive from feeding, sustaining and entertaining myself and others through food, I cannot seem to escape the resistance within me. Something about the kitchen feels like a trap.

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I had known, theoretically, that Fair Isle Studio was a self-catering residency, that there was only one shop on the isle open for a handful of hours a few days a week. I understood that fresh fruit and veg was only available when the boat was able to get in, and options would be limited. But it wasn’t until I was telling a friend about the trip that the penny dropped.

‘What are you going to eat?’

Gosh, I thought. For the first time in a very long time, I will have no-one to outsource this vital question to. There are no restaurants I can order from, no partners or housemates to share the load, no company-provided dispensations. And it wasn’t going to be for just a week or two, a period of time I could perhaps fast, or bring enough food from the mainland with me to cover. For the first time in a long time, I was going to have to reacquaint myself with the kitchen…

Once again, I surprised myself.

Isn’t it funny how we can still do that?

I’m going to pause this here, folks. There is more to this story, of course, but again I come back to my feeling of self consciousness - even shame - writing about this topic, and I’m feeling the urge to bring YOU into the conversation. What is your relationship with cooking, with the kitchen? How does your cultural background, gender, upbringing play into it? Do you feel food is mostly about sustenance, community, or something else? Why do I find this stuff so weird to talk about?!?!?!

Drop a comment, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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I listen to Scriptnotes as I wash the dishes and go to the loo, I rake over Into the Woods and Philip Shelley’s newsletter like a spy looking for clues, I watch interviews with writers and directors convinced that listening to them talk about their process will magically improve my own.

The above interview was one of the good ones. Sorkin, of The West Wing, The Newsroom, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, A Few Good Men, and many more, talks about dialogue as music, his approach to character, admits his weakness (even lack of interest) in plot and explores his career in conversation with David Brooks. One of the questions I found most interesting - or revealing - for myself, was when Brooks asks:

‘Do you have a moral purpose [in your writing]? Are you trying to improve the world or are you trying to see the world?’

Sorkin doesn’t completely reply, but says he does not really have a political agenda. His doesn’t matter so much. It was the question that got me thinking: do I write to see the world, or improve it?

It begs a deeper question: do I think writing is my most effective way to improve the world?

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Regular readers of this newsletter know that I love thinking about writing: as it pertains to activism, to memory, responsibility. I’m constantly looking for a why in writing, because at some deep level, I don’t know if I believe in the stories we tell about why it’s so important.

Engineers don’t spend all their time thinking about why they are engineers or why engineering is important. Training and working (and being raised by) engineers meant that I was always convinced of the importance of the profession, constantly evangalised it, spent my free time making it accessible for young people, low key made it my entire identity. Doctors, I feel, are similar - society, certainly the one I was socialised in, never questioned the importance of doctors. They were essential. Valuable. No question.

But writing feels like a fragile creature or delicate lace: constantly needing protection, reinforcement, justification for its existence. No-one, to my knowledge, has ever called a doily an ‘essential item’. Writers have always interrogated why they write, offering reasons, arguments, justifications.

Perhaps that is natural. To write is to think, and maybe if you’re a doctor or an engineer thinking about the why isn’t so much part of your job description. It doesn’t make you better at what you do, necessarily. Perhaps, thinking about the why in writing helps the work.

Does it?

Sigh. I’m not sure what the point of re-litigating this question even is. I mean, I’m writing, aren’t I? I’m doing the thing. Isn’t that enough? I’m not doing the engineering thing, even though it would make far more financial, societal and pscyhological sense. This truth about myself surprises me, often. Why don’t I return to engineering, I’m often asked, by myself and others. I’ll spin a tale of mostly-truths - I would need to retrain (not sure going back to drilling oil and gas is the finest idea), I would need to stop writing and having public opinions (the condition of every engineering company I’ve spoken to, and evidenced by the broken careers of many outspoken engineers who are often women and/or Black), I would likely go back to some version of a 9-5 (which I simply cannot abide).

I’ve thought about going ‘back’ constantly. I cannot tell you the number of times I have seriously considered re-applying for an engineering role, or a masters in some sort of engineering/tech related field. It has been an active question since I transitioned out, in 2017.

But the truth of the matter is far less rational. It’s uncomfortable, a wet swimsuit underneath a fresh outfit. The real, hard, ugly nub of the truth is, I just… don’t want to?

I feel embarrassed even typing it.

It feels far too flimsy a reason.

But then again, mama always said I never did anything I didn’t want to.

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I loved engineering. I loved the way math and physics stretched my brain, I loved the satisfaction of solving hard problems, I loved being part of literally making the world work. I loved every bit of it. But, once I was booted out of daily life in industry, found new worlds of possibility in the arts, history, politics, the lure of my old life somewhat faded. That’s not to say it dissipated entirely, but contending with the reality of engineering versus my dream of it was difficult. I left the industry as those two stories began to diverge, pulling away like plastic film packaging over rotting fruit. But this feels disloyal to admit.

I wanted to change the narrative about women in STEM! I wanted to show how important it was to take up space! I wanted to beat the statistic that most women leave the industry within five years of graduating (I did not beat the stat). I was so committed to the story, I would rather bite into maggot inflected flesh with a rictus grin than change my tune. Frankly, I didn’t know how to.

I still don’t.

I don’t call myself an engineer anymore, because it is no longer what I do. I’ve now been a freelance creative for longer than I worked and studied in STEM. But I can’t seem to shake the belief that this work, the work of writing, the work of telling stories, is not essential.

Which begs an even deeper question: Why do I feel the need to be essential?

I think we’re getting to the truth of it now.

If you live in a world that tells you who you are is of no importance: whether because you are a woman, or African, or a migrant, or Muslim, there are a myriad of ways to respond. Maybe, mine was carved from my parent’s approach: become indispensable.

That way, you will never be taken out with the trash.

If you’re an engineer or a doctor, you will be needed. They might not like you, they might not stand you, and they certainly might try to make your life hell, but they will have to admit that you’re useful, and useful means valuable. Useful means alive.

If you’re not useful, then how will you protect yourself?

I don’t know if I will ever be free of the deep rooted need to be useful. It feels more visceral than rational, an embodied belief that I might not be able to ever change.

So, I live with this tension, and I wonder if it is a test from God. If I believe my worth is in being useful, yet I spend the majority of my time not being useful (according to my own rubric), what do I think of my own value?

I feel like Allah is asking me to sit with this question. To feel how it presses against my ego, the discomfort of a full bladder I refuse to relieve.

I have often felt Allah has drawn me to this path, but I’ve not understood why. The only reasons I could think of were laced with delusions of grandeur, that my writing might change things, do things, be useful.

But I wonder if actually, the path is more about me. About keeping me humble, keeping my ego in check. If what you do is not what you value, how might you need to change your metrics of what is valuable? Of who is valuable?

Maybe Allah is showing me that I had a fatal flaw in my value system. That I was placing value on human beings not for who they were, but what they did. That would need to change, if I truly wanted to live the abolitionist, transformational justice values I claim to hold.

Huh.

Looks like I write to see, and improve, eh? See the world, and improve myself.

Okay… back to that script, eh?

😅

See y’all next week, inshallah!

Yassmin