Sumaiya Matin Interviews Sadi Muktadir

(Hanover Square Press, 2024)

Sadi Muktadir

Sumaiya Matin: First of all, congratulations on publishing your debut novel Land of No Regrets! The premise of this novel is original and creative. It was an intriguing read and I really appreciated the opportunity to delve into this very specific world you built—rarely written about and inaccessible to many in the general public. The loneliness and grief experienced by those stuck in institutions against their will (and in the middle of nowhere) was haunting, but there was also the theme of friendship and a sense of adventure—making this novel, overall, quite unique. I’d like to focus our interview on process, as I’m fascinated by what different writers explore and experience as they craft their stories.

I’ll start with asking about your overall journey with writing Land of No Regrets. How long did it take you to write it and how was the journey like, from getting the story on paper to having it published and out on shelves? What were the major challenges you faced? The small and big moments of triumph?

Sadi Muktadir: Land of No Regrets sat in my head for many years when I was in my late teens and early-to-mid twenties, but not in a real ‘this is a novel I want to write’ sense. Just that I knew about things that happen that the Western public-at-large didn’t know about (life in a Madrasa). These things that I knew happen, were also things I knew would make a great story, and also an important story that should be shared with a Western readership. When I began to take writing seriously in my late twenties, I knew that Land of No Regrets would need to be written and so that’s what I did. I didn’t know if I could write a novel though, so I started with short stories and challenged myself to write a single, self-contained chapter set in the world of Land of No Regrets. It got a great response and so I committed to writing the entire novel, which took the better part of a year. During that year I was pretty focused and diligent in getting everything onto paper, and looking back on the publishing journey, that was the easiest part. I set about finding an agent, which took about six months (during the early part of the pandemic), and I was also really adamant that I get a U.S. agent. A year was spent in edits and going back and forth on drafts, and then it finally went out on submission where it was picked up by HarperCollins and Hanover Square Press. The biggest challenges were definitely in getting an agent (I started my publishing journey attempting to get an agent to represent my short story collection, which was ineffectual), and then getting a publisher. Those two hurdles were also the biggest moments of triumph. I really feel like I tenacity’d (I know that’s not a word), my way into a book deal with the help of my amazing agent, Stephen Barr.

Sumaiya Matin: Although the story was told predominantly through the point of view of the main protagonist, Nabil, you ultimately included multiple perspectives. For example, we hear from Farid, and there is also a journalistic perspective near the end. How did you land on the decision to use multiple points of view? What led you to giving Nabil more chapters? Given that the four characters are very similar in background, experience, and interests, how did you navigate distinguishing their voices from one another?

Sadi Muktadir: Originally, the first draft of the novel was just Nabil and the journal entries. For me, that was the most direct way to tell the story, through the strongest narrator and the one easiest for readers to probably identify with. At the same time, it didn’t even cross my mind to write from other perspectives, I didn’t think that was ‘allowed’, which is a silly thought. When my first editor, Aeman Ansari (then at a literary agency) suggested it, I was like ‘That’s amazing, I didn’t even think of that!’ So I went about writing a bunch of chapters from other perspectives, including a few from some people who didn’t make the final draft (the Maulanas, Hafiz Abdullah, etc.). This added so much to the story, though in the first few drafts, I had to do a bit of work to distinguish the boys from one another because although to me, they were all different, for readers they weren’t coming across that way. Distinguishing their voices was done through highlighting qualities and aspects of their personality that were different from one another (an interest in art, physical size, intelligence, a sense of humour, etc.)

Sumaiya Matin: Land of No Regrets touches on many themes such as the tension between obligation/obedience to family expectations and one’s individual desires—particularly during one’s youth when one is exploring their interests and values, and developing their identity. It also touches on the tension between belief or awareness of an afterlife and the humanistic urges of the present. These themes are very similar to the ones I explore in my own literary memoir, The Shaytan Bride: A Bangladeshi Canadian Memoir of Desire and Faith, published by Dundurn Press. What I noticed in your novel was that despite a collective dissatisfaction in being at the madrasa, each of your characters had their individual level of comfort when it came to pushing against expectations versus identifying with them. Was there a message you wished to convey through exploration of these themes? Any thoughts on how these themes emerged for you as you wrote the story?

Sadi Muktadir: If I’m understanding your question right, when you’re saying ‘collective dissatisfaction’, you’re referring to a collective dissatisfaction with their fates and in obeying their community’s expectations, and how they all had different levels of comfort in pushing against those expectations. That was critical for me to establish because I wanted to present an honest and fair portrayal of my community. In my experience growing up, we didn’t all hate those institutions, we didn’t all rail against them or suffer, nor do I believe those institutions were evil or just harmful to our development. So it was important that I showed that some of the kids also felt that way. Some of the kids wanted to identify with their community’s expectations and do their parents proud. I think the message I wanted to convey was that we should make room for all of human experience and feelings and expand on what’s okay. There’s so much guilt and shame around doubts or bad deeds and there should be, but we’re also all doing our best, and maybe we don’t know everything, and maybe we misunderstand so much and put our faith in the wrong places. These were feelings I had forever growing up, didn’t see reflected in my literature, and so they emerged for me almost unbidden, I didn’t know how exactly they would manifest in the writing, but they did in the end.

Sumaiya Matin: Speaking of themes, I really enjoyed reading about the friendship between the four boys. This was such a strength in the novel. I saw the friendship as a vehicle carrying the story through. I’m curious how you imagined it, in terms of impact on the narrative.

Sadi Muktadir: I think I imagined it in the same way. Friendships sustain us. We can’t survive alone, I think most of us are social beings, and at that age especially, we come together and coalesce around shared experiences and backgrounds and the circumstances of where we are. The love those four boys had for each other is at the core of the narrative and the only way I could write about it was remembering the kind of love I shared with my own friends during those years. All the stupid shit we got up to in the end had a use after all.

Sumaiya Matin: I am curious about the geographical location you chose for this story. Al Haque, the religious institution where the majority of the story takes place, is located in a remote, rural town in Ontario. To me, this remoteness worked to exacerbate the sense of being trapped in the four boys. It also intensified Nabil’s grief of losing his previous identity, as he had very few reminders of his earlier life. However, I imagine that the remoteness would serve characters in the story who were choosing to develop a new identity or strengthen their sense of religious identity. What was your thought process in making this artistic choice of Al Haque being in a remote town versus on a street in Scarborough?

Sadi Muktadir: Thankfully, this was less an artistic choice and more a realistic one. If I had written a story about a Madrasa on a busy street in Scarborough, I would have presented a dishonest lie about something I had no idea about. It would have been a story from someone who didn’t know how things were done, and was making it up (poorly), to capitalize on a trend of ‘brown trauma stories’, or trying to use a community for clout to get a book deal. The reality is that Madrasas are purposefully established in rural areas for the exact reason you referred to, to help people develop their new identity and keep them away from distraction, friends and family. That said, there are absolutely day-time Madrasas in busy areas that function as full-time private schools, but placing a school in a remote area is a function of reality. It’s where all the craziest shit goes down.

Sumaiya Matin: As a South Asian Muslim writer myself, I have often felt and noticed a strong inclination from Muslim writers or those writing about Muslim characters to mitigate expected biases and negative stereotypes about racialized and/or Muslim communities, as if they carry an onus to represent the communities more wholesomely. This is certainly something I navigated while writing about taboo topics in The Shaytan Bride, such as honour-based abuse. Given the negative portrayals and misrepresentation of Muslims, racialized communities, or immigrants in broader media, this vulnerability is understandable. When I heard your interview on CBC radio, I resonated with what you said about being truthful about issues within the communities you are writing about while trusting the reader to use their discretion, and know these issues aren’t the whole community (and I’m paraphrasing here). In what ways does this awareness/vigilance of the “panopticon” surveillance of Muslims as I call it in The Shaytan Bride resonate (or not resonate) for you? How were your craft choices influenced by this awareness?

Sadi Muktadir: I am fully aware that I might see a comment or a review one day that says ‘See, this is why we can’t let them in! What a survivor!’ and I will hate myself briefly for writing this. So it resonates, insofar as I know readers will use the story to serve whatever bias they already feel. That said, I made a decision very early on that this story needed to be told so my craft choices were uninfluenced by this awareness. At the end of the day, I needed to tell this story this way because it was a great story that was also important, regardless of whether readers come away with the worst possible interpretation of my community. This is an honest portrayal of my experiences through fiction. (When I think about it some more, though, I’m not being entirely honest when I say that I was uninfluenced. The reality is that I tried to present redeeming and positive experiences of things that happen in those institutions too, to show that brown Muslims are more than just whatever the worst of us may believe.)

Sumaiya Matin: What I appreciated in your novel was that the characters were at different points on the spectrum of religiosity or spirituality or adherence to the Al Haque culture, and I imagine that your readership may also reflect this variation and difference. This leads me to ask, did you have a particular audience in mind when you were writing this book?

Sadi Muktadir: For sure, when I wrote this book, I did not intend for it to be a spiritual book dealing with religion, though that’s what it became, simply because that’s what’s inside me. Even though it’s set in a Madrasa, I intended for it to be an empty book about shithead teenagers. I wasn’t too concerned with how religious or not-religious the readership was, just aware that everyone has an opinion on God and whether they believe. The audience I had in mind was Muslims, then the West, and then the World.

Sumaiya Matin: I know many racialized writers or writers from minority groups often grapple with writing about what is important or interesting to them versus what the mainstream publishing industry would desire or find too niche. As you were writing about characters from historically underrepresented communities, did you think about what the publishing industry or marketers may or may not accept or reject in terms of ‘possibly contentious, gray area, too niche, or undesired topics’ at any point during the writing and agent-seeking process?

Sadi Muktadir: No, I didn’t concern myself with this or think about what the publishing industry wants or may accept. I also lose respect for writers who write with the industry in mind and write something that will get them a book deal. That said, something we hear in creative fields often is ‘Create/write/sing/draw something that’s different, fresh and no one is doing.’ And that the industry always wants something new and different. So was I aware that this story was new and different? Absolutely. Even if my novel is bad, no one has written anything like it. And I was also aware of this when I decided to write this story, so I knew I had a shot. Was I worried it was too niche? Yes. But I think a writer’s allegiance is to their own interests, not what interests Them. I couldn’t do it any other way, even if that meant I’d never get a book deal. I’d rather swallow cyanide than Google the top trends in fiction or know who got a book and for how much.

Sumaiya Matin: The addition of Cynthia Lewis’ perspective was a brilliant choice in my opinion, as it really added balance in the story. I also found it intriguing that you included the voice of an older Cynthia Lewis. Similarly, we also get a glimpse of an older Nabil on the subway in the epilogue. What led you to include past, present, and future selves of these characters? 

Sadi Muktadir: I love literary fiction, and that’s what I wanted to write. I felt that in order to write for adults, we needed some reflection as an adult. We needed to know that these events are in the past, things happened, and we can’t really stop them for better or worse. One of my favourite books, Norwegian Wood, begins with the adult protagonist on a plane, before the narrative jumps to his university life and stays there for the rest of the book. Framing the story that way helped me illustrate that this isn’t a story ‘stuck’ in time or about a certain age or something. I also love books about young people that are very much so intended for adults, I learn so much that way.

Sumaiya Matin: Speaking of the epilogue, both that and the last chapter really stayed with me after finishing the book. I was left with a myriad of emotions. Could you talk about how you approached the ending of this book (with of course, as few spoilers as possible)?

Sadi Muktadir: For sure! I think early on in the writing process, I knew the book would end that way. I also knew that that would be the end of the story, and that readers, editors, publishers, may feel like I need to explain more, or provide a lengthy denouement or something. But the reality is that the story ends there. Everything extra would just be fluff. I didn’t want to do it. That’s the end. The emotions you say you’re left with are exactly what I want. I knew not only that the book would end that way, that it would end in that abrupt fashion. That’s how life is, you don’t get the answer to everything and stories are left unfinished. I knew that after the last chapter, I wanted the epilogue to just happen, and for readers to make sense of everything else themselves. There was a bit of pushback from editors here, and readers deserved more, so I ultimately gave in and explained a lot in the epilogue, but the original draft was much more vague and nebulous.

Sumaiya Matin: Who were your literary influences while writing this novel?

Sadi Muktadir: James Joyce, Charles Dickens, Osamu Dazai, a few others. Charles Dickens helped me fall in love with literary fiction as a teenager and think about trying something similar one day. He wrote about young people and romance in a way that I was a sucker for. James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man changed my life. There are sections of my book (no one knows this except for you now), that are lifted directly from Joyce’s work and put into my own work because the sermons about Catholic brimstone and fire are so similar to the bhaiyans we hear growing up that the language never needed to be altered. It was just my way of paying homage and showing people how similar it all is in the end. Writing this novel I also thought a lot about Junot Diaz’s book about that high school nerd who falls in love and destroys his life, and a whole bunch of other books too to be honest.

Sumaiya Matin: What are you working on next?

Sadi Muktadir: A lot of stuff! A script for a movie, short stories, and the beginning of another novel. I love storytelling, it’s the only way I know how to communicate with the world and describe my feelings. But I really want to stay away from the themes I wrote about in this novel (faith, friendship, teenagers, etc).

Sumaiya Matin: In wrapping up this interview, I’d love to know—and I am sure other readers may as well—whether you have any suggestions or advice for those of us who are embarking on writing a debut fiction novel. I am currently working on one, and I know I would certainly be interested.

Sadi Muktadir: Don’t give up and understand what not giving up looks like. In creative fields, we often get that piece of advice. ‘Don’t give up!’ People always tell us to stick with it. I’d suggest that you understand what that means, what sticking with it looks like. It means answering uncomfortable questions around when your book is finished. It means cancelling plans, eating jokes about your ‘writing’ career. It means denying something and being selfish, especially when there’s nothing to show for it. It means being selfish. It means sacrificing something for something else that’s important to you, but a whim to them. No one will ever really respect what you’re doing except other writers or artists. If you need to do it do it. 
​
Sumaiya Matin: Thank you for your time and for answering my burning questions. Thank you, also, for writing this book and giving life to these characters—bringing the Canadian literary landscape one step closer to reflecting the diversity of our communities. Looking forward to your next project!

​Sadi Muktadir is a writer from Toronto. His debut novel, Land of No Regrets, is published by HarperCollins Canada and Hanover Square Press (May 21st, 2024). His short stories have appeared in Joyland Magazine, the Humber Literary Review, Blank Spaces, The New Quarterly and other places. He is a two-time finalist for the Thomas Morton Memorial Prize in Literary Excellence and twice shortlisted for the Malahat Open Season Awards for best short fiction. He works as an Editor, and continues to read, write, travel and grow as a cook. Find him online at @sadi_muktadir on both Twitter and Instagram.

---

Sumaiya Matin is a writer, social worker/psychotherapist, and public policy professional. She has a Master of Social Work and a graduate certificate in creative writing from the Humber School for Writers. She is currently working toward her Master of Fine Arts (in Creative Writing) at the University of British Columbia.
​
Sumaiya is passionate about exploring the intersection of literature and mental health. In 2021, she released a literary memoir titled The Shaytan Bride: A Bangladeshi Canadian Memoir of Desire and Faith (Toronto: Dundurn Press, 2021) which speaks to themes such as migration, identity, mental health, and honour-based violence. Her other non-fiction work can be found in magazines such as Poetry is Dead and Living Hyphen. Find her online at @sumaiya.matin on Instagram or www.sumaiyamatin.com