Kuwaiti author Abdulwahab Al-Hamadi is gaining recognition for his diverse body of work, which spans novels, plays, and biographical accounts rooted in both Kuwaiti and broader Arab history. His latest novel,”The Year of the Fat Cats,” has been shortlisted for the prestigious 2025 Katara Prize,signaling a growing international interest in regional storytelling. In a recent interview with Asharq, Al-Hamadi discussed his creative process and the challenges of bringing lesser-known historical periods – like pre-oil Kuwait and Al-Andalus – to life through fiction and theatrical performance.
Kuwaiti author Abdulwahab Al-Hamadi seamlessly navigates diverse narrative styles, showcasing a remarkable range in his work. His novel “The Year of the Fat Cats” revisits life in Kuwait before the oil boom, while “No Victor” – which won a Kuwaiti state award in 2021 – delves into Andalusian history, raising questions of identity and memory. Al-Hamadi also explores travel writing in “Andalusian Paths,” and offers documented testimonies of Kuwaiti citizens’ lives under Iraqi occupation in “Voices Building Memory.” His latest work is a play titled “Outside the Country… Inside the Country.”
Al-Hamadi spoke with Asharq about his varied creative journey and his recent novel, “The Year of the Fat Cats,” which was shortlisted for the 2025 Katara Prize according to Asharq. The recognition highlights the growing interest in regional literature and storytelling.
Your play recently premiered in Cairo. What is it about?
It’s a monodrama based on the life of Syrian-Swedish artist Saad Hajjo. I began developing it when I found, through his story of migration from country to country, ideas I wanted to explore onstage. The play was performed by Saad Hajjo himself, directed by Nanda Mohammed, and we presented it in Cairo for one night. It was a significant and impactful performance, and added a great deal to my experience.
“The Year of the Fat Cats” takes readers back to Kuwait a century ago. What were the biggest challenges in documenting life in that era?
Writing “The Year of the Fat Cats” was a considerable challenge, as I didn’t live through that period. However, I have a passion for history and some knowledge of local history. That said, it wasn’t enough, so I turned to books, references, and documents – particularly British ones – while being mindful that documents aren’t infallible and that accounts from foreigners who passed through the region may contain inaccuracies.
As I immersed myself in research, I discovered a surge in important historical writings about Kuwaiti society before the oil boom. Studies focused on old professions, analyzed relationships between people, and documented customs and traditions. I benefited from all of that reading.
I also consulted with friends who work on the “Old Kuwait City Landmarks” research project at the Kuwait Research and Studies Center, gaining valuable insights into Kuwait’s history, places, people, and events. Even with all the research and reading, I felt the path was clear and the novel project was calling to me.
Do you find Kuwait’s history, particularly the pre-oil era, provides suitable material for literary writing?
Absolutely. Throughout literary history, writers in the Gulf and beyond have engaged with their history and attempted to write about it, especially Kuwaiti novelists of my generation in recent years. Kuwaiti history is rich with themes suitable for literary exploration, but I believe it’s essential for the author to be knowledgeable about the subject, diligently research, and strive for accuracy in their writing.
There are hundreds of documented stories about life at sea and on land in Kuwait, found in books by Westerners and Kuwaitis alike, such as Alan Villiers’ “Sons of Sindbad,” Dr. Yaqoub Al-Haji’s works on “Nakhudas of Sailing Voyages,” and Dr. Faisal Al-Wazzan’s encyclopedia of the Iraqi invasion. The sheer volume and quality of these historical stories related to Kuwait lead me to believe that the challenge doesn’t lie in the subjects themselves, but in how they are written and conveyed through the art of the novel.
Did you use the Kuwaiti dialect in the novel’s dialogue? Were you concerned that might limit its reach to a wider Arab readership?
Actually, the dialect in “The Year of the Fat Cats” wasn’t strictly a local Kuwaiti dialect as some might think. It was a deliberate choice of dialect; those familiar with Arabic dialects know that Classical Arabic forms the largest part of them, and most Kuwaiti dialect vocabulary belongs to Classical Arabic.
In “The Year of the Fat Cats,” I intentionally chose words that were commonly used by people as a local dialect, when in reality they are rooted in Classical Arabic. I was influenced by Naguib Mahfouz’s linguistic choices, where what appears to be colloquial language is actually Classical Arabic framed in a common vernacular. Fortunately, that approach resonated with Arab readers.
The novel touches on the relationship between Kuwait and Iraq, and the migration of young people to study there or in Egypt. What do you believe spoils relationships between nations?
Ignorance is the primary cause of strained relationships between nations. Then comes the belief in stereotypes that persist no matter how often they are debunked. I found during my writing that relationships between Arab nations are generally good and interactive, with mutual benefits and goodwill. However, ignorance and stereotypes contribute to selective blindness in a large segment of the population, especially among those who consider themselves intellectuals, but are actually merchants of empty rhetoric.
Your strong connection to Egypt is evident in your writing. What is the source of that affection?
Egypt is the sun of Arab culture, especially since the late 19th century. It radiated through foundational cultural books and great thinkers. It’s natural, therefore, that I and others cherish Egypt, with whom Kuwaitis have had a relationship dating back to before the oil boom, and which stood with us during the occupation.
Your narrative structure is diverse. How do you determine it for each work?
There are many ways to write and revise until one arrives at a style that feels right and suits the subject of their novel. It’s like the idea of the novel itself, which often emerges from the unknown, and one spends long hours trying to find its roots.
Perhaps the most accurate answer is that all those choices are born from reading, dialogue with friends, and a constant search. In the case of “The Year of the Fat Cats,” for example, I chose a direct-address narrator, which I don’t usually prefer when reading a novel.
Upon researching what critics have said, I found that this technique isn’t favored by either writers or publishers worldwide. However, they argue that it obscures the common illusion that the speaker in the novel is the author, creating a barrier between them and the reader, allowing them to focus on the character and the story without associating it with the author. That’s a benefit I wanted to give my novel’s protagonist a distinct existence.
You returned to the story of Al-Andalus in “No Victor” after exploring it in “Andalusian Paths.” What is your connection to Al-Andalus?
My story with Al-Andalus is an old one, stemming from my interest in Arab and Islamic history. I was fascinated by the Al-Andalus period, which is always portrayed as a “golden age” in our daily literature. I tried to challenge that image in “Andalusian Paths” and then explore it more extensively in “No Victor,” using it as an example to deconstruct and analyze the problems of Arab memory related to the past, which often obscures the future.
How did your work in tourism influence your literary experience?
The historical group tours I lead have had a significant impact on me. Exposure to the histories and customs of different peoples has made me constantly seek to identify the commonalities between people, which are numerous.
I observed the historical transformations of each country we visited, and the hopes and dreams of its people. Both of those things have added to my knowledge and humanity, which I repeatedly use in my characters, stories, and even articles.
You published “Voices Building Memory,” a collection of testimonies from citizens about daily life in Kuwait during the Iraqi occupation. How did the occupation period affect you?
During that period, I was at a formative stage in my development, just over ten years old, and unconsciously adopted a pan-Arab perspective. I also believed in the credibility of everything the media was telling us.
When the occupation began, that entire structure crumbled. I couldn’t imagine that the aggressor would be an Arab brother. The Iraqi occupation was a pivotal moment in my life when I witnessed soldiers wreaking havoc on the places of my memory, replacing names with ones they brought with them.
When I began working on “Voices Building Memory,” I faced several challenges, including my desire to correct the false narrative that Kuwait was an empty land during the occupation. I was fortunate to find handwritten testimonies that painted a full spectrum of Kuwaiti society – from sheikhs and merchants to people from all walks of life – who were steadfastly resisting the occupier in their own ways.
Some resisted with weapons, others with money, with the pen, and with leaflets. There were groups organizing neighborhood cleaning and managing their daily affairs, amidst a halt in imports, a scarcity of goods, and a gradual shortage of supplies.
I tried to correct another false narrative, highlighting the positive role of Arab communities, contrary to what is commonly believed. This book is aimed at the new generations, to serve as a memory of a moment that forged Kuwaitis into one body.
How do you see the relationship between official history and the space the novel opens for unofficial history?
Official history, through the record of human history, is largely the history of leaders and influencers. Ordinary people have no place in it. That’s why the novel has come to be the voice of the people, for they are the true makers of history.
I would like to point out that relying on the history found in fictional novels as factual history is intellectual laziness, as history – for those who seek it – exists in research books, academic debates, and the writings of scholars specializing in the field.
The positive side of novels classified as historical is that they can be a gateway to discovering history. For example, after reading Amin Maalouf’s “Leo Africanus,” I began reading everything I could find about Hassan al-Wazzan, the novel’s protagonist. I remember that research being one of the first lessons that showed me the difference between writing a real person in a novel and how close that can be to the truth, and how the author recreates it to become a character in their novel.
How do you view the role of Arab awards in promoting the value of works that originate from the local environment, and their impact on writers?
Arab awards play a significant role in stimulating literary writing and increasing production. There are drawbacks that cannot be ignored, but the positives outweigh them. Awards, with their longlists and shortlists, have created readers who anticipate them, and have helped highlight excellent narrative experiences that would have taken years to reach the reader.
You’ve moved between travel literature, historical novels, theater, and biography. What determines your choice of literary form?
In truth, I don’t know how the themes come about, grow, and choose their form. Let me give an example: the book I’m publishing soon about Ahmed Mishari Al-Adwani, one of the most important administrators and poets in the Arab world in the 20th century. His remarkable experience, in my opinion, hadn’t received the attention it deserved. When he was named Person of the Year, it prompted me to write an article about him exceeding three thousand words.
Then, in a moment of despair, I began to further explore Al-Adwani’s personality, turning the article into a book, and found myself immersed in a sea of forty thousand words.
