Forthcoming
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Breaking the Chains of Silence
Breaking the Chains of Silence opens where any serious account of Kenya must begin: with silence. But this is not the quiet of peace or the calm of justice. It is a manufactured silence—forged by land theft, detention, exile, assassinations, police bullets, and media too intimidated to print the truth. It is the silence that follows the gun and precedes the next uprising.
This book bravely refuses that silence. It dismantles the comfortable myth that Kenya became free simply because a flag was raised in 1963. It rejects the official narrative that the struggle ended with independence, leaving citizens as spectators while a small elite inherited the state, the land, the police, and the economy. Instead, it insists that Kenya’s real history is not the story of presidents, but of working people—first fighting colonialism, then confronting the imperialism that survived under new flags and through local agents.
Crucially, the book refuses to imprison resistance in the past. It reads the present with urgency, seeing the courage of the Gen Z movement, the defiance of the RutoMustGo protests, and the young people who walked into streets patrolled by a contemptuous state. It sees their rejection of taxation, corruption, and police violence. Yet it refuses to flatter that moment into myth. It insists that spontaneous anger must evolve into organisation, protest into political education, and generational revolt must find its class foundation. The cry of the youth must meet the power of workers.
While the essays engage with current contradictions, they remain rooted in theory—one essential element for revolutionary change. The other is practice: putting ideas into action and facing the enemy where bullets and prisons are the reality. This combination of theory and practice lays the groundwork for a people’s revolution. It is for this reason the book includes Gathanga Ndung’u’s vital essay, From Mau Mau to Ruto Must Go: A Genealogy of Resistance, which connects historical struggle to today’s frontline.
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God Is Not Here
God Is Not Here is a collection of 50 poems written in response to the profound political, social, and human crisis in Afghanistan, particularly the systematic erasure of women from public life under an extremist and patriarchal regime. Through poetry, the collection records the experiences of women living under restrictions, fear, forced silence, and the loss of their fundamental freedoms.
At the heart of the collection is the belief that writing can be an act of resistance. When women are denied the right to speak, study, work, move freely, and participate in society, poetry becomes a way of reclaiming voice and presence. These poems transform personal pain, fear, anger, grief, and isolation into language, testimony, and resistance.
The collection moves between intimate and collective experiences. Kabul and Kandahar appear as landscapes marked by grief, memory, war, silence, and survival. Images of walls, abandoned cities, mosques, darkness, pomegranates, flowers, butterflies, and women’s bodies create a tension between confinement and freedom, death and life, silence and speech.
The poems also question the use of religion and morality as instruments of control, confronting the contradictions between religious rhetoric and the violence inflicted upon women in its name. At the same time, the collection insists that women remain capable of hope, dignity, awareness, and resistance even under extreme conditions.
The central argument is that the suffering of Afghan women must not disappear into silence or be forgotten by history. The poems seek to preserve the voices and experiences of women who have been pushed out of public space and to challenge the idea that silence means consent.
Ultimately, God Is Not Here is both a personal and collective act of resistance: an attempt to turn pain into art and confinement into voice, and a testament to the power of the pen and a hope for freedom and awareness.
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Between Two Mornings
Between Two Mornings is a novel that unfolds over a single day in Gaza—from six in the morning until four the next morning—following twelve ordinary people as they try to keep themselves, and each other, from disappearing. Lujain, a young girl, learns from her teacher Noor that “a person does not become zero.” Her father, Abu Wissam, stands in a distribution line and insists his family is seven, though the register says five. Samer runs from hospital to hospital clutching a photograph of his missing brother Tariq. Rahaf, a nursing student, delivers a baby in a tent with one glove and a shrinking bottle of water. A photographer named Hassan must decide when to raise his camera and when to set it down. An old man counts his grandchildren each night. A poet carries half a bucket of water. A mother sends one message: “I am here.”
Anas Al-Madhoun writes with devastating restraint, refusing spectacle and refusing despair. Each chapter is a door into a life that cannot be reduced to a number, a list, or a headline. The novel asks not for pity but for attention: see the person before the news, the name before the list, the hand that tried even when it could not succeed. In the conclusion, the book reveals what happened to each character—and in doing so, demands that they be remembered not as casualties, but as people who wrote, counted, taught, searched, healed, witnessed, and preserved. Between Two Mornings is a work of witness and of love, insisting that even an unfinished morning deserves to be noticed.
Key words: Gaza, literary fiction, displacement, Palestinian literature, war fiction, human resilience, Arabic novel