Abdellah Taïa was born in Rabat, Morocco, in 1973, the second youngest of nine children. His parents were poor, relying on his father’s modest wage from the local library to support the entire family.

Their home was small and overcrowded—he shared a bedroom with his mother, six sisters, and baby brother. Living in such cramped conditions often led to squabbles among family members. Despite this, Abdellah had a strong relationship with his parents, especially his mother, who later featured in his book Living in Your Light (2022).

From a young age, Abdellah Taïa knew he was different and recognised early on that he was gay, though this was never discussed at home. His feminine mannerisms drew ridicule at school, but he kept quiet and held his head down. However, something darker was looming.

In his village, older boys and men began to target him. In Morocco, it’s tragically common for children to be abused, often by someone close—like a cousin or neighbour. Society turns a blind eye to this, treating such matters as unimportant.

One summer night in 1985, a group of older boys came to Abdellah’s house. He was in bed, struggling to sleep in the heat. The boys called out, mocking him: “Abdellah, little girl.” They coaxed him outside, promising not to hurt him. But they lied. That night, they took turns raping him. Something inside Abdellah broke, and he was never the same little boy again.

In the aftermath, he was filled with anger—especially toward his family. His parents and older brother had done nothing to protect him. No one ever spoke of that night. It became a silent wound.

Abdellah responded by trying to erase any trace of his true self. He changed his voice, his mannerisms, and avoided anything that might be seen as “gay.” But the new version of himself was harder, colder, because his innocence had been stripped away.

After the rape, he developed survival strategies to cope with the lack of compassion from those he loved. Forgiveness does not come easily. He cannot forgive his rapists—he believes they’ve long forgotten what they did, perhaps living ordinary lives now. But he has learned to forget them, to protect himself.

He says he survived by being kind to himself, refusing to become heartless. He dislikes the word “resilient,” which he feels implies emotional numbness. Instead, he preserved his sensibilities by retreating into solitude.

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I met Abdellah in Paris on a warm June evening to interview him about his life—a perfect opportunity to ask about his books, films, and what it means to be a gay Muslim writer in an often-hostile world. He spoke excellent English and came across as warm, friendly, and courteous.

Abdellah told me he loves living in Paris, where he has lived since 1999, and now considers it his home. After becoming fully fluent in French, he pursued a doctorate in Letters at La Sorbonne University. He was deeply influenced by French literature and relished the works of Victor Hugo, Voltaire, Émile Zola, and André Gide, among others. As a young man, Abdellah never imagined becoming a writer—he believed writing was reserved for the elite, the bourgeois.

During our conversation, he also spoke candidly about the darker side of Paris and France, where racism and discrimination are often directed at those who are not white or ethnically French. He has encountered this ugliness more than once.

Still, he sees his future in Paris. He lives modestly in a rented apartment, sustained by his royalties. Abdellah is a humble man, uninterested in grandeur or extravagance.

Abdellah has a deep compassion for those often disregarded and marginalised by society. His 2015 novel, A Country for the Dying, reflects this empathy.

Set in Paris during the summer of 2010, the story follows a diverse cast of Moroccan and Iranian characters—including a sex worker and a trans woman—who, along with their partners, find friendship, love, and refuge in one another.

What unites them all is a shared identity as dreamers. But as the narrative unfolds, they come to understand that dreaming carries a price—one that, more often than not, is exacted in flesh.

When I asked Abdellah Taïa which one of his books he likes the best, he immediately named An Arab Melancholy (2008). He wrote it during a time of great uncertainty—living in Paris without indefinite leave to remain, required to report to the police every three months, and unsure whether he would be allowed to stay. It was the most difficult period of his life since leaving Morocco. Yet, the book’s success made it all worthwhile.

The novel is a semi-autobiographical account of a young gay man growing up in 1980s Morocco. It touches on Abdellah’s own experiences of childhood abuse while focusing on the protagonist’s dream of escaping the violence and repression of his environment. Longing for freedom and creative expression, he dreams of fleeing to Egypt to pursue his ambition of becoming a famous film director.

Abdellah was visibly moved when I told him how much I loved the book—that I was so compelled by the story, I finished it in just two sittings.

In 2006, at the age of 33, Abdellah Taïa made headlines by publicly coming out as gay during an interview with the French-Arab journal Tel Quel. It was the first time he spoke openly about his sexuality—and also the first time he revealed the abuse he had endured in his youth. The interview marked a historic moment, making him the first openly gay writer to be published in Morocco.

The media response was sharply divided. While many praised his courage and honesty, others accused him of betraying Moroccan values by exposing what they saw as private societal issues. On a personal level, some friends expressed sorrow and regret for not having supported him earlier.

The experience, though groundbreaking, reopened old wounds for Abdellah and left him feeling isolated once again. Abdellah’s mother was upset by his public coming out, but she never rejected him. His siblings, however, stopped speaking to him for six years.

He understands the cultural silence of his parents’ generation and holds no resentment. Both his parents have since passed away.

Today, he has reconnected with some of his siblings, though a quiet tension remains. Abdellah’s nieces and nephews—including one who is gay—are far more open-minded than their parents’ generation. They often show support for his work on social media and openly acknowledge his success.

Abdellah Taïa has a keen eye for storytelling, often crafting narratives that are far removed from his own life. Yet, he frequently weaves fragments of personal experience into his work—developing characters inspired by people he knows or drawing on events he has lived through.

Some of his novels delve into deeply intimate aspects of his own life and that of his family. He has said that growing up in a large family left him with many voices inside him, each contributing to his creative process. Abdellah is deliberate in the memories he chooses to share, while striving to make his stories feel as close to real life as possible.

He shared with me that writing a book typically takes him about two years. He doesn’t write every day and often begins by writing longhand before transferring his work to a computer. Abdellah values periods of rest between projects, allowing his mind to cleanse itself and avoid creative stagnation. These breaks help him recharge and prepare for new ideas. When inspiration strikes, he usually forms the storyline and structure in his mind before committing anything to paper.

Abdellah has enjoyed phenomenal success as a novelist; his works are rarely absent from the shortlists of major literary awards in France and beyond. His books have been translated into several languages, including English, Arabic, German, Japanese, Greek, and Kurdish Sorani.

Over the years, he has been nominated for numerous literary awards and, in 2010, won the prestigious Prix de Flore for his novel Le Jour du Roi (The King’s Day). This novel delves into the oppressive era of Morocco under King Hassan II, a time marked by the torture and killing of political dissidents.

At its core are two 14-year-old boys, Omar and Khalid, who come from vastly different social backgrounds but share a close friendship. Their bond is tested when Khalid, the son of a wealthy man, is chosen by their school to kiss the King’s hand during a royal visit to their town. The moment triggers a shift in their relationship—from affection to envy—as Omar becomes consumed by jealousy. The friendship quickly deteriorates, culminating in Omar’s decision to take deadly revenge against his friend.

In 2022, Abdellah Taïa was shortlisted for the esteemed Prix Goncourt for his novel Vivre à ta lumière (Living in Your Light), which features a photograph of his mother on the cover.

Living in your Light offers a fictionalised account of the life of Abdellah’s late mother, M’Barka Allali Taïa. After her death in 2010, Abdellah discovered aspects of her life before she married his father, including her first husband, who was sent to fight in France’s colonial war in Indochina.

The story portrays the resilience of a strong woman who endured hardship and dreamed of a better life for her children. Despite being illiterate, she passed on remarkable gifts to them—intelligence, strength, boldness, and courage. The novel is a poignant tribute to her legacy and the quiet power she embodied.

Abdellah has always had a creative mind and a deep love for music—a passion he inherited from his older brother, Abdelk’bir, who introduced him to icons like David Bowie, George Michael, and Freddie Mercury. Although he has achieved much literary acclaim, Abdellah told me that his true passion is screenwriting.

From a young age, he was captivated by cinema, especially post-colonial Egyptian films that reflected Arab realities and explored themes of love and struggle. The freedom shown in these films—where women appeared unveiled and alcohol was consumed openly—filled him with a sense of possibility and hope. At thirteen, Abdellah made a promise to himself that one day, he would go to Paris to become a director and filmmaker.

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Abdellah Taïa made his directorial debut with a film adaptation of his novel Salvation Army (L’armée du Salut), which premiered at the Venice and Toronto Film Festivals in 2013. It was later screened at the National Film Festival in Tangier in February 2014, where it won multiple awards.

Originally published in 2006, Salvation Army is a coming-of-age story offering an unflinching, deeply personal account of Abdellah’s early life in Morocco. With striking candour, it traces his journey from a childhood shaped by rigid family dynamics and a society that denies homosexuality to his formative years as a teenager and young man.

From Rabat to Tangier to Geneva, the narrative follows Abdellah’s early sexual awakening—including his attraction to his eldest brother. Salvation Army is raw, gripping, and brutally honest and is a powerful portrayal of identity, desire, and the search for belonging.

Abdellah also wrote a short 10-minute screenplay for the 2023 film Never Stop Shouting, in which he pens a heartfelt letter to his gay nephew, Brahim. This deeply supportive message was crafted to help Brahim overcome fear, walk confidently in his truth, and feel profoundly loved. The letter served as both a personal gesture and a broader statement of solidarity, offering warmth, courage, and unconditional acceptance.

In 2025, Abdellah Taïa released a series of creative projects that continued his bold exploration of identity, intimacy, and queer life in the Arab world. His short film Cairo Streets tells a tender gay love story set against the bustling, emotionally charged backdrop of Egypt’s capital. Premiering at the Locarno Film Festival in Switzerland, the film captures fleeting moments of connection and vulnerability in a place where such expressions are often silenced.

Abdellah also recently wrote the screenplay for Cabo Negro, a moving story about the friendship between a lesbian woman and a gay man. Set in a quiet coastal town of Northern Morocco, the film gently explores their shared experiences of marginalisation and the quiet strength they draw from one another. It’s a story of tenderness, solidarity, and deep emotional connection.

We concluded our interview by discussing the rights of gay people in Morocco and other Islamic countries. Abdellah’s public coming out prompted Moroccan media to address gay rights and the oppression of LGBTQ+ individuals in Arab states. He explained that gay men in Morocco are still treated as second-class citizens—often subjected to hostile stares, verbal abuse, and rejection by their families. The cultural stigma, more than religious doctrine, views homosexuality as incompatible with Moroccan traditions. This mindset was reinforced during French colonial rule, which suppressed sexual expression.

However, change is emerging among younger generations. Social media has given gay youth a platform to connect, share experiences, and find community. Unlike Abdellah’s generation, where being gay meant living in secrecy, today’s youth are more vocal and less isolated.

While government policy remains unchanged, media coverage has become more neutral. The term ‘mithly’, meaning someone attracted to the same gender, is now used more commonly and respectfully. Abdellah noted that this shift is not limited to Morocco but is happening across the Arab world—a quiet revolution of sorts.

Although Abdellah still identifies as a Moroccan Muslim, he draws a clear line between religion and the broader cultural forces that shape society—art, architecture, history, psychology, and poetry. He holds Arab culture close to his heart, yet he remains deeply pained by the rigid expectations placed on queer people in Morocco.

As a writer, he chooses to see the world through the lens of love, not through the narrow confines of law, dogma, or tradition.

He never set out to be a symbol or a reformer. He writes not to provoke, but because he loves—loves men, loves language, loves truth. His stories are born from that love, not from a desire to wage war on society.

Still, he refuses to let the blame for LGBTQ+ oppression rest solely on Islamic countries. Abdellah is quick to point out that bigotry wears many faces—from the veiled intolerance of conservative regimes to the loud, populist hatred of Trumpism and the far-right in the West. In every corner of the world, there are forces working to strip people of their dignity.

Abdellah Taïa’s books and films have touched lives across continents, offering solace, courage, and clarity. After meeting this extraordinary man and writer, I am certain that his creative journey will carry on for a very long time. Abdellah will continue to illuminate the world—not just with his talent, but with his unwavering commitment to truth, tenderness, and the transformative power of storytelling.