According to the English writer Geoff Dyer, in every book there is a silent agreement between the author and the readers. In fiction, this pact is straightforward: "Trust me with your time, and I will share a story." In nonfiction, though, the expectations are much more stringent: "I vow to convey, to the best of my ability, the truth." This connection between the writer and the reader is vital, especially in works that explore real lives and experiences. Dyer emphasizes that violating this trust does not just damage the narrative, it undermines the foundation of trust that exists between the writer and the readers. When that trust is broken, readers find themselves lost, uncertain of what or who to believe.
This fragile balance of trust now looms over “Houris,” the latest novel of the Algerian-French writer Kamel Daoud. Though celebrated for winning the 2024 Prix Goncourt, the book has become overshadowed by a scandal of ethics and authenticity tied to this very dilemma.
At the heart of the controversy is Saâda Arbane, an Algerian woman whose harrowing story appears to have been woven into Daoud’s novel without her consent. As the sole survivor of a terrorist massacre during Algeria’s "Black Decade," Arbane’s life has been defined by survival and silence, a silence now shattered by the very medium that claimed to fictionalize it. Arbane alleges that her story, which she confided in therapeutic sessions with Daoud’s wife, a psychiatrist, became the foundation for “Houris.” In doing so, Daoud not only appropriated her trauma but may have also violated the sanctity of patient confidentiality. According to Arbane’s testimony, Daoud also deliberately misled his readers by presenting the novel as a work of pure fiction.
Misusing Trauma: Kamel Daoud’s “Houris” Under Fire for Allegations of Misinformation and Exploitation
Arbane, claims to be the real-life inspiration behind “Aube,” the main character of “Houris.” In an interview with One TV on Friday, November 15, she leveled serious accusations against Daoud, alleging that he appropriated her story without consent.
Speaking in a barely audible voice during the interview, she accused the author of revealing her personal story and past without her permission. She stated that she felt compelled to speak out “to denounce the abuse Kamel Daoud inflicted by using my story in his book.”
According to Arbane, she had explicitly refused to allow her story to be shared when Daoud’s wife suggested it. “But he went ahead and disclosed it,” she lamented, seated alongside her husband. Arbane tearfully added that Daoud not only deprived her of the opportunity of disclosing her own narrative, he is “tarnishing” her reputation.
Arbane explained that she never told Kamel Daoud her story directly. Instead, she had shared her story with Daoud’s wife, the psychiatrist who had treated her since 2015 for the severe trauma stemming from an atrocity she endured 25 years ago.
According to her, her story is too similar to the plot for it to be a coincidence. She drew the analogy by showing her tattoos and clarifying that the character has the same tattoos with the same significance. She elaborated by explaining that she is the only survivor of slaughter in Algeria, by showing her medical file. The scar on her neck and her inaudible voice are also a testament to her survival.
Arbane further revealed that the Daoud couple repeatedly requested her consent to write a book about her tragedy, but she consistently refused. Yet, when she read “Houris,” she recognized her life through specific details—her scar, tracheostomy tube, tattoos, abortion, and her work at a hair salon—all described in the novel.
After the book’s release, Arbane contacted Daoud’s wife to express her concerns: “I told her everyone is calling me about a book that seems to be about me.” The wife allegedly denied the connection, insisting that the novel was about a blonde-haired, green-eyed victim. To pacify Arbane, she gave her a signed copy of the book saying: “Our country has often been saved by brave women, and you are one of them. With my admiration, Kamel Daoud.”
According to Arbane, Daoud’s wife even attempted to offer her the promise of an opportunity to write the script for a film adaptation of the novel, which Arbane considered a form of hush money.
The Breach of Confidentiality in “Houris”
The breach of confidentiality, if proven, is both a moral and a legal failure. Without any doubt, patient confidentiality is sacrosanct in psychiatry. People would not be able to lay their most intimate details bare without this belief in an unwavering trust between the patient and the doctor. The American Psychiatric Association’s code of ethics,for example, is unequivocal: “Psychiatrists shall not use the information obtained from their patients to exploit them.”
In this case, the information Arbane shared with Daoud’s wife during therapy appears to have found its way into the public domain through his prose. The psychiatrist seems to have failed in her duty to protect her patient’s privacy. Daoud, in turn, would bear responsibility for capitalizing on this breach—a double betrayal, made more egregious by Arbane’s repeated refusals to allow her story to be shared.
The Legal and Literary Fallout of Kamel Daoud’s “Houris"
The ethical boundaries of artistic inspiration have long been debated, with writers like Truman Capote and Karl Ove Knausgård facing criticism for drawing deeply from real lives. While Capote blurred fiction and nonfiction in “In Cold Blood,” and Knausgård exposed intimate family details in “My Struggle,” both defended their work as art aimed at revealing broader truths.
But the case of Kamel Daoud feels distinctly darker. Unlike Capote or Knausgård, whose subjects entered their works knowingly, albeit reluctantly, Arbane was denied agency entirely. Her story was appropriated from a space meant to be inviolable: the therapy room.
If Arbane’s claims hold weight, legal repercussions could follow. Many countries, including Algeria and France, uphold strict laws regarding medical confidentiality. In France, where Daoud resides and where “Houris” was published, breaching medical confidentiality can result in hefty fines and imprisonment. The extent of Daoud’s liability may hinge on whether he knowingly accessed privileged information; and if so, whether he exploited it for personal gain.
Beyond legal consequences lies a broader ethical reckoning. Writers who appropriate others’ pain must grapple with the moral implications of their craft. To write about trauma is to wield immense power, and the decision to use someone else’s suffering as a plot device demands care, consent, and humility. Without these, the act of writing risks becoming an act of violence. This is why Arbane described the novel as an “abuse.” Throughout the interview Arbane adamantly insisted that Daoud did not have the right to tell her story on her behalf, she was the one who was in charge of “when and how to tell the story.”
The Human Cost of Daoud’s “Houris”
In the interview, Arbane’s voice—rendered fragile by injuries sustained during the attack that killed her family—conveys a deep sense of violation. Her trauma, once confined to the realm of private pain, has been repackaged and sold as fiction. Worse still, she alleges that Daoud’s wife attempted to pacify her with gifts and reassurances that the novel was not about her. These actions, far from resolving the conflict, only deepened the perception of exploitation.
The human cost of such breaches is incalculable. For Arbane, who was unable to sleep for three days after reading the novel, the publication of “Houris” has reopened wounds she spent decades trying to heal. For survivors of trauma, the act of sharing their story is often an act of reclamation. Stripping that agency away, as Daoud is accused of doing, robs survivors of their power, reducing them to mere subjects in someone else’s narrative.
Readers and institutions now share a measure of responsibility. If accolades for “Houris,” including the prestigious Prix Goncourt, persist, they risk validating the erasure of Arbane’s voice—a voice already marginalized by trauma, gender, and geography.
Institutions like literary prize committees must also grapple with their role in legitimizing such works. Should they reward narratives that exploit real-life pain without consent, or should they prioritize ethical storytelling, where the boundaries between fiction and appropriation are navigated ethically?
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