Reevaluating 'The Arab of the Future': Addressing Stereotypes in Riad Sattouf's Narrative
From admiration to disillusionment
For years, The Arab of the Future by Riad Sattouf was one of my favorite books. I eagerly consumed the first four volumes, captivated by Sattouf's ability to weave personal history with vivid illustrations and sharp humor.
Each chapter deepened my admiration for his storytelling. When the fifth volume took a while to be published, I found myself matching the delay with my own; it took me just as long to read it. Then, last year, my sister gifted me the sixth installment. A year later, it still sits unopened on my shelf, collecting dust.
Three days ago, I stumbled upon an interview with Sattouf, and something shifted. As I listened to him speak about his father—a central figure in the series—I began to see the book in a new light. What once felt like a profound and honest exploration of identity and family now struck me as deeply problematic. It opened my eyes to how problematic this series truly is.
I can understand that Sattouf may have had a difficult and complex relationship with his father. It’s natural for an artist to draw from personal experiences, and I respect his right to share his story.
But in this interview, as he laughed about his father being anti-Semitic, uneducated, and a fanatical admirer of dictators, I was struck by the condescension in his tone. The way he recounted these traits was not just critical—it bordered on mockery.
This wasn’t merely a son reflecting on a difficult parent; it was someone reducing a person—and by extension, a culture—to a caricature.
Sattouf’s father was a flawed man, no doubt, but the way he was being spoken about felt deeply problematic. It was as if Sattouf’s portrayal served less to understand his father’s complexities and more to fuel an already prevalent narrative about Muslim men being ignorant, oppressive, and morally bankrupt.
Looking back, I realize how much the book leans into damaging stereotypes. Sattouf's depiction of his father—and, by extension, the world of Muslim men—is one that reinforces the same tired tropes often found in Western media.
His father is portrayed as ignorant, authoritarian, illiterate, and unloving—traits that, while possibly true of one individual, are presented in a way that makes them feel emblematic of Muslim men as a whole.
In France, where the book has been wildly successful, this depiction feels particularly harmful. It feeds into a narrative that is already deeply ingrained in French society: that Muslim men are backward, uneducated, and oppressive.
Rarely are Muslim men portrayed as intelligent, caring, or loving—qualities that are as universal as the stereotypes imposed on them.These portrayals collectively shape how Muslim men are viewed in society, often reducing them to caricatures. They fail to account for the diversity, intelligence, kindness, and humanity that exist within any community.
As someone who spends a lot of time in bookstores, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend: books written by Arabic authors—or those about Arabic or Muslim characters—are almost always centered on oppression. These narratives frequently depict Islam as inherently repressive and Muslim men as oppressors. The veil or hijab, for example, is rarely portrayed as something positive or as a choice made by women themselves; instead, it is framed as a symbol of subjugation.
This pattern extends to the broader media landscape. Films, TV shows, and literature almost never uplift Muslim men. Instead, they draw a consistently negative picture of the Islamic world rarely portrayed as a source of empowerment, love, or spirituality, and Muslim men are seldom shown as caring, intelligent, or capable of leading nuanced lives.
Hollywood Films: American Sniper (2014), Muslim men are almost exclusively depicted as terrorists or violent insurgents.
Television: Homeland (2011–2020) and 24 (2001–2010) often portray Muslim men as radicalized threats.
Literature: Ayaan Hirsi Ali’s memoirs focus on narratives of escape from Islam, emphasizing the religion as oppressive.
French Cinema: La Haine (1995) and Les Misérables (2019) offer a nuanced look at the lives of marginalized communities, but Muslim men are often portrayed as angry & violent victims of their circumstances, rarely as complex, multi-dimensional figures with agency and care.
French Media: Michel Houellebecq's Submission, depict Islam as a societal threat, further entrenching fear and misunderstanding.
This constant stream of negative portrayals creates a narrow and damaging perception of Muslims in the collective imagination. It suggests that oppression and ignorance define Islam and its followers, leaving no room for stories that reflect the richness, diversity, and beauty of Muslim cultures.
The success of The Arab of the Future now makes more sense to me. It aligns with what French audiences expect and perhaps even want to see. It validates their preconceived notions about Muslim men and Muslim families. It doesn’t challenge the dominant narrative; it reinforces it.
This isn’t to say that Sattouf’s story isn’t valid. His experiences are his own, and he has every right to tell them. But as readers, we must consider the broader impact of the stories we consume and celebrate. We must ask ourselves:
Does this story perpetuate harmful stereotypes? Does it offer a balanced and nuanced portrayal of the community it depicts?
While The Arab of the Future may be a compelling piece of art, it is also a deeply problematic one. And as I reflect on my journey with this book, I find myself grappling with the tension between admiring the craft and critiquing the harm it perpetuates.