🍂Author Interview: Zaher Alajlani
In Memory Eternal and Other Stories, the reader steps into a world where suffering becomes metaphysical, memory becomes both sanctuary and torment, and death lingers not as an ending but as a philosophical presence. The author—shaped by migration, grief, cultural dislocation, and a lifelong search for meaning—writes with a rare emotional intensity. His characters move through coffee shops, forests, hospitals, and quiet apartments, yet each ordinary space becomes charged with existential weight.
This interview explores the spiritual, psychological, and cultural forces behind the collection. From Mitsos’s antinatalist despair to Mrs. Saraciu’s devastating loneliness, from Orthodox Christian symbolism to the fractured identity of a “cultural nomad,” the author offers a deeply personal look at how suffering, faith, and memory shape both his fiction and his life.
What follows is a conversation about grief, meaning, moral ambiguity, and the quiet acts of compassion that keep us human.
Your collection opens with “Memory Eternal,” a story steeped in grief, antinatalism, and existential dread. What drew you to Mitsos as a character, and what did you want his suffering to reveal about the human condition?
To me, fiction branches out from the reality I live, then takes on a life of its own. “Memory Eternal” represents the trajectory my life could’ve taken had I remained an antinatalist. I lived Mitsos’s misery well into my thirties. I lived in the same area where he lives for almost ten years. I walked the same streets he walks, and I felt his loss when I grieved my brother and favorite aunt, both of whom were killed while the war in Syria made it impossible for me to attend their funerals. As for the intellectual side of the story, one of the things that has always fascinated me is man’s ability to perpetuate his misery for the sake of abstract convictions. Mitsos’s refusal to let his relationship with Maria become meaningful doesn’t come from a well-thought-out intellectual position, but from fear stemming from rigid rationalism in reaction to the loss of his family. That was my reaction, too, until my wife and I decided to have a child—a huge leap of faith for me back then. The birth of my son, however, has been the best thing that has ever happened to us, and I got to experience a spiritual and psychological change that can’t be communicated but simply experienced. This brings me to the way the human condition is treated in the story. The dilemma is represented in simple terms: if death is certain, then life is meaningless. That’s why we should embrace some sort of meta-rationalism, and in most cases, that is faith. Not necessarily faith in the religious sense, but faith nonetheless. Mitsos couldn’t do that, and that’s the source of his tragedy—a tragedy of the mundane and meaningless masquerading as the intellectual.
Many of your protagonists—Mitsos, Ioannis, Edward, Dimitris—experience suffering as something almost metaphysical. How do you personally understand suffering, and why does it play such a central role in your fiction?
Everyone thinks that their suffering is the most singular in the world, and this is understandable. We, as humans, live through phenomenological experience, but years of soul-searching have led me to believe that there is a different kind of suffering. That type of suffering doesn’t merely change us but uproots us and changes our self-perception and the perception of the world in a very dysfunctional way. And that’s where I think you’re very right to describe it as “metaphysical.” If I were to put it in simpler terms, losing a loved one is definitely suffering, and one that changes us. But losing a loved one while your whole country, society, family, religious convictions, and long-standing friendships are falling apart is a different kind of suffering, the one where you feel like there is no rock-bottom to hit or a bitter closure to attain. Despite all of that rationalization, I truly have given up on trying to understand suffering or making sense of it for the sake of my sanity. This brings me to the final part of your question: If suffering isn’t central to my fiction, I won’t be able to write anything.
Death appears in nearly every story, not only as an event but as a philosophical presence. What do you believe death teaches us, and how does it shape the way your characters search for meaning?
Schopenhauer says that “without death there would hardly have been any philosophizing.” I find this quote quite profound. Thus, in my fiction, I feel that mortality, quite subconsciously, always ends up being a plot device, but without a dreadful sense of finality. Even in “Memory Eternal” or “A Garden in a Forest,” death itself is represented as a continuation of something bigger. In Edward’s case, in particular, the story ends with his hearing “an angelic hymn about going on after a loved one had departed.” So, death is not only a source of meaning but part of the larger process of attaining it.
Memory in your stories is both a refuge and a torment. How do you see the relationship between memory and identity, especially in characters like Mitsos and Edward?
I find the very concept of the self or identity very confusing because we are faced with two difficult questions: Are we who we actually are, or are we who we think we are? And what is truly the difference between the two? Here, I think, memory, though imperfect, helps us feel grounded. The good and the bad that we experience shape us and can be a source of comfort and torment. The two characters you mentioned are radically different. Mitsos’s memory is his tormentor, something that tortures him without giving him a sense of being grounded. Even his passion for running symbolizes his attempt to escape his past. In Edward’s case, memory begins as a source of torment and comfort, but then transforms into a source of identity, a very functional one. His run through the forest by the end of the story comes to a halt, and his memory takes him back to his mother’s words and helps him find the strength he needs to overcome her death.
Loneliness permeates the collection—from Mitsos’s emotional isolation to Mrs. Saraciu’s devastating solitude in “Saint Catalina.” What interests you about loneliness as a narrative force?
It seems to me that we experience our truest selves in isolation. Thus, my characters’ anxieties, aspirations, and traumas become more powerful as narrative forces when the reader can first identify with their loneliness.
Orthodox Christian imagery appears throughout the book—priests, icons, hymns, the phrase “Memory Eternal.” How has faith, whether cultural or personal, shaped your storytelling?
In countries where Orthodox Christianity is dominant, you encounter a different kind of religion, one that is not merely dogma but the axis around which an entire culture revolves. Social reality is shaped by Orthodox symbolism, and the characters, especially Mitsos and Edward, can’t be separated from Orthodoxy, which serves as a spiritual and cultural incubator. For me, Orthodox Christianity is a faith, a frame of mind, and a way of life. What inspires me most about my faith is that it doesn’t deny suffering or make feel-good promises. It recognizes suffering and offers a spiritual path to overcome it.
Several stories explore moral ambiguity—characters who commit terrible acts yet remain deeply human. What attracts you to morally complex protagonists?
I think it is nearly impossible to categorize people as simply good or evil. Human nature is contradictory, and even the vilest human beings have some good qualities. They might not be redeeming characteristics, but nevertheless they’re not evil. I think you’re referring here primarily to the protagonist of “Deep Within,” Ioannis. What attracted me to him was his unreliability. His narration comes across as confessional, which gives him a hint of credibility. However, this is contradicted by the fact that he seems to be psychotic. So, if you read into his narrative, rather than reading it, you can see that his unreliability works well with the concept of moral ambiguity.
“Saint Catalina” is one of the most emotionally powerful stories in the collection. What inspired this story, and what did you hope readers would feel when encountering Mrs. Saraciu’s grief?
In “Saint Catalina,” Mrs. Saraciu loses he entire family in one single accident. Her sole solace is the young neighbor who visits her and who is now about to leave Romania. Dr. Catalina’s reaction to the old woman’s plight is helplessness. She knows very well she can’t do anything to help her, yet she shows compassion. The main message of the story is that compassion in itself is enough. A random act of kindness, unpromoted and unjustified, can bring hope to someone who really needs it.
As a Syrian writer living in Romania, how have your personal experiences—migration, cultural shifts, academic life—shaped the emotional landscape of your stories?
I have a very complex relationship with my identity as a Syrian. Sometimes I prize my “Syrianness.” Other times, I feel bitter about it and resent it. I spent half of my life in Syria, and that part of my life has a surreal quality—almost like a fever dream. I spent the remainder of my life in Athens, Greece, and then in Cluj-Napoca, Romania. Clearly, my personal experience as a migrant shaped me and my writing. My underdog characters, especially in my earlier work, are inspired by the marginalization I felt as a Syrian, especially before I moved to Romania. A common trait of many protagonists in my fiction is their ability to move on, no matter how broken they are. This derives from the reality I lived for many years. That said, even in Syria, I felt an unbearable sense of isolation. Most of the time, I felt like I lived in exile in my own country. Despite how psychologically challenging that was, it made it easier for me to adapt abroad. So, you can say that I’ve always been a cultural nomad. A good example of how that reflects in my writing is Mitsos. When he becomes depressed after losing Maria, he is no longer able to identify with his country or any symbol related to it.
You’ve published multiple collections and have a debut novel releasing soon. How does Memory Eternal and Other Stories fit into your larger body of work? Is it a turning point, a continuation, or something entirely new?
Writing for me is a state of being, and therefore, there is a continuity to it. This collection is the result of the years I spent in the writing craft and what I learned about the craft and myself while writing everything that came before Memory Eternal and Other Stories.
What do you hope readers carry with them after finishing this collection?
First and foremost, I hope that my book will entertain my readers. Fiction must be entertaining. That’s the whole point of telling stories. If the book fails at that, then its moral or intellectual depth becomes irrelevant.
In Closing…
Memory Eternal and Other Stories is a collection that lingers long after the final page—haunting, unsettling, and profoundly human. Through characters who endure loss, isolation, and moral conflict, the author reminds us that suffering is not merely a theme but a lens through which meaning is often revealed. His reflections in this interview illuminate the emotional and philosophical foundations of his work, offering readers a deeper understanding of the worlds he creates.
Above all, he hopes readers are entertained—that the stories captivate, move, and immerse. Yet the emotional resonance of his fiction ensures something more: a quiet echo of empathy, a recognition of shared fragility, and a reminder that even in the darkest corners of human experience, there is always a path forward.
Thank you for joining us for this conversation, and for stepping into the rich, introspective universe of Memory Eternal and Other Stories.
