Holes in “Shanqar’s Dialogue”

Hamed Bakhit Al-Sharif

The recent interview conducted by journalist Musab Mohammed Ali with the novelist Othman Shanqar has opened a wide fissure in the wall of contemporary Sudanese literary criticism. It reveals, with striking clarity, a methodological impasse: the persistent confusion between personal taste and rigorous critical standards. Shanqar’s central accusation—that an entire generation of contemporary novelists lacks an intellectual and aesthetic project—places us before a fundamental question: what exactly constitutes a “project” in literature? Shanqar states plainly: “Most of the novelists who have emerged over the past three decades do not possess writing projects grounded in an intellectual–aesthetic vision.” Yet it appears that Shanqar overlooks the fact that a literary project is not a fixed theoretical entity. This oversight obscures a simple truth: both globally and locally, the modern novel often forges its project through the gradual accumulation of texts and through the subtle aesthetic inclinations embedded within them.

One of the most glaring holes in this widely circulated interview—shared across several digital platforms and social media—is Shanqar’s reliance on impressionistic criticism under the guise of “aesthetic sensibility.” He states explicitly: “The issue is not whether the judgment is unjust or unfair; it is a personal critical judgment of taste… I possess my own critical sense of taste.” By acknowledging that his judgments stem from personal taste, Shanqar effectively absolves himself, at a methodological level, from providing structural or semiotic evidence for the alleged weakness of these texts. Such an appeal to critical subjectivity opens the door to sweeping, absolute judgments—such as describing major novelistic experiences as mere “isolated islands.” He claims that the works of these writers “resemble isolated islands, unconnected by any link, with no vessels of knowledge, beauty, or thought sailing between them.”

This assertion overlooks—or perhaps betrays unfamiliarity with—the concept of the unified fictional world that often serves as the epistemic thread connecting an author’s body of work. Writers such as Amir Tag Elsir or Mansour Al-Swaim, whom Shanqar mentions in the interview, cannot reasonably be described as producing isolated islands. The coherence of their fictional worlds becomes evident when one examines the recurring themes and the evolving narrative techniques within their works—clear indications of the strength and continuity of their intellectual and aesthetic projects when their oeuvre is read as a whole.

As for extra-textual factors, Shanqar argues that the current prominence of certain writers has been achieved independently of the quality of their writing. He asserts that “the names that have gained wide recognition have benefited from factors external to the literary work itself, such as networks of cultural relations, the presence of social media, literary prizes, and translations.” He goes further, describing these elements as “fragile levers such as translation and literary awards.” Yet this statement contains a partial truth deployed toward a misleading conclusion. In the global literary context, translation and awards are often consequences of artistic value rather than its creators.

Similarly, linking the literary experience of Abdelaziz Baraka Sakin to his political positions or intellectual alignments judges the writer as a citizen rather than as an artist. This type of criticism, in my view, falls into the trap of a narrow “literarism” that severs the text from its existential and political context.

Finally, regarding Shanqar’s labeling of Sudanese writers with what he calls the phenomenon of “alienation,” he writes: “Between the Sudanese writer and the socio-political reality there lies a black cloud of alienation that blinds him to the turbulent movement unfolding around him.” Here, a clear methodological contradiction emerges in Shanqar’s discourse. On the one hand, he demands that literature remain closely attached to reality and address local wars; on the other hand, he criticizes works that confront taboo subjects—such as slavery and sexuality—accusing them of seeking popularity. This is evident in his critique of Baraka Sakin when he states: “His approach to the ‘zone’ of politics was intended to exploit it in his literature in order to achieve the ‘popularity’ he aspired to.”

In doing so, Shanqar places the writer in an impossible dilemma: if the writer addresses war, he is accused of simplistic sensationalism; if he distances himself from it and from its underlying causes, he is accused of alienation. What Shanqar overlooks, however, is a fundamental methodological truth: the aesthetic distance that a creator takes from reality is intrinsic to the creative process itself. It is not evidence that the writer is, as Shanqar claims, “preoccupied with imitating imported literary models from other countries.”