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Jannah Essa Author Interview
Twenty Years and Then Some follows a spiritually restless woman who moves across cities and relationships in search of love and meaning, only to discover that faith, desire, and identity refuse to align. What was the initial idea behind this story, and how did that transform as you were writing the novel?
I began writing the novel in November 2024, following a year-long stay in the United Kingdom and shortly after the events of October 7, 2023. Many of the events described in Chapter 8 were written in direct response to real-life incidents as they unfolded. Because of this, the novel cannot be categorized as typical autofiction. The narrative begins in the present day before retreating twenty years to narrate Aisha’s journey—a story largely inspired by my personal experiences, my frustrations in romance, and stories from my inner circle. Following the climax in Chapter 5, the script gradually transitions back into the present.
I was in shock, much like the rest of the world, and I felt compelled to build an authentic voice from within the region. I realized that if I, a native, could not initially see the full truth, how could the rest of the world? I wondered how many others, like me, once dismissed such realities as mere conspiracy theories. As I delved deeper into the history of Zionism and modern geopolitics, the “bigger picture” became clearer and more predictable. This is why I was able to anticipate the events we see today—such as the closure of the Strait of Hormuz and the escalating energy crisis. It is proof that humanity is interconnected, regardless of where one lives. However, when I speak of “humanity,” I do not mean the United Nations; I have come to view it as a deceptive organization.
The most difficult challenge in writing this script was weaving together history, religion/spirituality, and romance without creating a disjointed narrative. My natural style consists of short, romantic pieces—the kind I publish on Instagram—and I often require that “romantic flair” just to find the mood to write. Chapter 6 alone required five months of research, drafting, and constant revision. I considered discarding it several times, but I ultimately retained it because it provides the necessary foundation for Chapter 8. I have included an “Author’s Note” for that section to guide the reader.
The main plot explores the connection between Aisha’s spirituality and the “illusions” of her 2009 vision, paralleling the illusions under which humanity currently lives due to a small group seeking to control the earth for their own benefit. While Aisha’s journey is individual, the Zionist vision is collective; I believe we, as humans, must unite regardless of our beliefs to rid ourselves of that evil.
To provide context for an American audience: just last week, millions of ordinary American taxpayers participated in the “No Kings” protests. Yet, one must ask: who truly has the final say? If you follow the money, you find the truth. This is precisely what the plot of my novel addresses.
I chose to tell this story through the lens of my Shia faith, which required me to delve deeply into Shiism and its cultural nuances. With this context established, I believe I can now answer your questions in a way that will resonate more deeply.
Aisha’s relationships are marked by misalignment, chemistry without safety, safety without love. What interested you about that emotional pattern?
To speak candidly, the text reflects my frustrations with both the male ego and the dominant Sunni traditions of the Middle East. Even when the narrative shifts focus from a Sunni character like Abdulrahman to the Shia men in the opening chapters, the result is the same: men remain men.
Faith in this novel is not background; it’s active, shaping perception and experience. How did you approach integrating theology into the emotional life of the character?
To answer briefly, I should focus on Munther. He and Aisha share the same values: resilience in their faith and a pride that outweighs romantic love. She wasn’t angry at him for his choice, as she understood it; she was simply upset that he didn’t execute it properly. I hope you can see where I am coming from.
Do you see Aisha’s journey as leading toward resolution, or toward a different kind of uncertainty?
With Muhammad, I intentionally avoided a black-and-white conclusion. The ending serves as a reminder to stay true to one’s values and to never lose hope in a brighter future.
Author Links: GoodReads | Facebook | Website
From a cryptic vision at the age of twenty-two, Aisha begins a transformative journey across the world’s iconic cities—from the mist of London to the spiritual heart of Najaf, and from the neon streets of New York to the historic alleys of Madrid. Driven by a search for love and identity, she navigates a complex landscape where faith and doubt collide.
What starts as a personal quest evolves into a profound awakening: the illusions we harbor extend far beyond our individual lives. Aisha finds herself caught in the crosscurrents of long-standing sectarian divides and the geopolitical shifts following October 7th, where the myths of the past are confronted by the harsh realities of the present.
Her name itself, Aisha, carries a heavy symbolic weight—a bridge between identities in a world torn by religious and political strife. Through her intricate relationship with Abdulrahman, the narrative challenges the very boundaries of truth, asking: Can we truly wake from our illusions? And is the ultimate truth only found in the clarity of departure?.
“Two Years and Then Some” is not merely a tale of romance; it is a deep intellectual odyssey exploring how myths shape the destinies of nations, and the whispers of a soul caught between the living and the dead.
Twenty Years & Then Some: The Year the Compass Broke
I found Twenty Years and Then Some to be a restless, intimate novel about a woman trying to make sense of desire, faith, memory, and selfhood while moving between London, Iraq, and later Mashhad, all under the pressure of romantic entanglements that never quite become refuge. Aisha’s story unfolds through encounters with men like Mustafa, whose gentleness can’t kindle love, and Diyaa, whose emotional evasions wound precisely because the chemistry feels real, while her spiritual life keeps pulling her toward shrines, graves, prophecy, and questions of intercession that are not ornamental to the plot but the plot’s deepest engine. What emerges is less a conventional romance than a record of inner weather, a book about a woman whose compass is broken not because she lacks intelligence, but because feeling, belief, and longing keep pointing in different directions.
The book’s voice has a confessional intensity that can be startling, sometimes almost feverish, and when it works, it really works. I kept thinking of the scene in Najaf where shared laughter with a grieving woman breaks the heaviness for a moment, and of the visit to the grandmother’s grave, where longing for marriage, fear of death, family history, and theology all gather in one charged space. Those moments feel lived rather than engineered. The prose often reaches for grandeur, but it also knows when to come down into a sharply human detail, like Aaliya arriving with thyme pastries and Arabic coffee, or Aisha watching Diyaa’s restraint on the sofa and feeling that non-kiss as a form of intimacy more unsettling than an actual touch. I admired how often the writing refuses embarrassment. It’s earnest in a way many contemporary novels are scared to be, and that earnestness gives it heat. The novel can sometimes circle the same emotions, the narrator’s self-awareness sometimes deepens the feeling, and sometimes merely names it again. Still, even that repetition began to feel like part of the design, the rhythm of someone who knows the lesson intellectually long before she can bear to live it.
I was equally taken by the book’s ideas, especially because they’re inseparable from the narrator’s emotional life. This isn’t a novel that treats faith as background decoration. Its Shia spiritual imagination, its meditations on shrines, the dead, intercession, visions, and historical erasure give the whole book a metaphysical charge that sets it apart from more familiar breakup fiction. I found the contrast between Aisha and Diyaa especially revealing: he reaches for Helen Fisher and the anatomy of love, trying to reduce heartbreak to something legible and clinical, while she insists that love belongs as much to myth, intuition, and holiness as it does to biology. That tension gives the novel real intellectual texture. I also appreciated the passages where private suffering opens onto political and sectarian history, especially the reflections on demolition, memory, and the Wahhabi project. Those sections are bold and deeply felt, though they can be more essayistic than dramatic. I liked that the novel had something serious to say, but there were moments when I felt the fiction briefly gave way to argument. Even so, the argument is never hollow. It comes from a bruised inner life, which gives it conviction.
I came away from this book feeling I’d spent time inside a mind that is ardent, contradictory, wounded, and fiercely searching. It’s strongest when it allows romance, theology, and memory to collide without trying to tidy the mess. I’d recommend it to readers who like emotionally candid literary fiction, especially those interested in faith, sectarian identity, diasporic loneliness, and the unnerving gap between knowing what’s good for you and wanting something else anyway.
