How a Homecoming to Jamaica Helped Author Marlon James Write ‘The Disappearers’

In this installment, Booker Prize-winning author Marlon James, renowned for his visceral storytelling and unflinching exploration of complex historical narratives, delves into the intensely personal journey that shaped his highly anticipated new novel, The Disappearers. James, whose previous works include the critically acclaimed A Brief History of Seven Killings (winner of the 2015 Booker Prize) and the epic Dark Star Trilogy (Black Leopard, Red Wolf and Moon Witch, Spider King), returns to the vibrant, yet often challenging, landscape of his Jamaican hometown, Kingston, to excavate a hidden queer history he once refused to acknowledge.

The Disappearers, a monumental 640-page work, plunges readers into the tumultuous 1980s and 1990s in Jamaica, following the lives of queer men after they endure a brutal anti-gay hate crime during a play rehearsal. The narrative then meticulously traces the survivors’ paths as they navigate a society grappling with profound contradictions. More than just a story of individual resilience, the Booker Prize-nominated book is a potent exploration of enduring homophobia, both historically and in contemporary Jamaica, the pervasive and insidious specter of colonialism, the devastating impact of the AIDS crisis, and the ingrained frameworks of power that perpetually demand dominance or submission. To craft this deeply resonant and historically informed work, James embarked on extensive research trips across the Caribbean nation in 2023 and 2024, seeking to understand a queer heritage and lived experience that he had consciously suppressed before coming out himself. His travels across Jamaica were not merely geographic; they were a profound expedition into memory, identity, and the collective consciousness of a community often rendered invisible.

"I went to Kingston in 2023 and 2024 to do research for The Disappearers," James recounts, explaining his meticulous approach to historical fiction. "For my books, I like to interview dozens of people, especially when I’m writing about something I don’t know a lot about." This dedication to oral history is particularly crucial when documenting the lives of marginalized communities, whose stories are frequently absent from official records. James’s personal connection to the subject matter is palpable: "I grew up in Jamaica in the 1980s, but I didn’t experience queer life there—I was in the church, praying away the gay." This candid admission underscores the deeply personal nature of his quest, as he sought to uncover the realities of an existence he had been taught to deny. His research spanned decades, from the early 2000s all the way back to the 1940s, driven by a novelist’s insatiable curiosity. "I get curious about my characters’ lives before the novel even begins. Most of what I uncover in research never makes it directly into the book, but I just need to know for myself."

To connect with Jamaicans who could share their experiences from these specific eras, James leveraged his network of local queer friends, and soon, word spread about his project. The nature of his endeavor—a novel, not a documentary—seemed to encourage a greater openness. "A lot of people wanted to talk to me. They were very forthcoming about their lives." The scope of his inquiry extended beyond Jamaica’s shores, acknowledging the vital role of the diaspora in preserving and transmitting queer histories. "I even spoke to Jamaicans in New Orleans, Toronto, and Montreal who helped fill in the blanks, recalling what I never knew about Jamaica." These interviews provided invaluable insights into the nuanced realities of queer life, both within the island nation and among those who sought refuge or found community abroad.

One of the most striking revelations from his research challenged prevailing stereotypes about Jamaica’s historical relationship with its LGBTQ+ community. "For example, given the country’s reputation as homophobic, I was shocked that, at one point, there were five gay bars in Kingston at the same time." This discovery speaks to a period, largely pre-dating the heightened homophobia of the late 20th century, where spaces for queer expression and community thrived, albeit perhaps discreetly. These establishments bore names rich with character and history: "They had wonderful names like Fanny Hill. There was Marshall’s—and then another Marshall’s because the co-owners had a falling out and they both refused to give up the name. There was The Closet, but then the people there also had a falling out, so some of them went to form their own club The Interim Closet. And there was Andante." Andante, in particular, captured the imagination: "Andante was a jazz bar, but everybody knew that by 9 p.m. the drag queens would perform. Celebrities and the brother of the prime minister would go to see the shows." This detail is incredibly significant, suggesting a level of public awareness and even acceptance among certain strata of society, where prominent figures would openly attend drag performances. This era, perhaps in the post-independence fervor of the 1960s and early 1970s, before the full force of evangelical Christianity and colonial-era anti-sodomy laws became more aggressively enforced, presented a different picture of queer life in Jamaica—one of vibrant, if sometimes covert, cultural expression and community building.

However, this period of relative, albeit fragile, openness was tragically short-lived. "But by the late ’80s and ’90s they were all gone. With the AIDS crisis, homophobia really exploded in Jamaica." The arrival of HIV/AIDS profoundly altered the social landscape, providing a devastating catalyst for increased prejudice and violence. "As a religious country, we believe what preachers tell us, and they said AIDS was God’s punishment." This narrative, echoing similar sentiments globally, demonized queer individuals and led to a dramatic regression in social acceptance. The vibrant gay nightlife that once flourished was forced underground: "The gay nightlife went underground, there were still parties, but the bars and clubs never lasted very long." This shift marked a perilous turn for Jamaica’s queer community, forcing many into deeper shadows for their own safety, a grim reality further compounded by the continued existence of colonial-era buggery laws that criminalized same-sex acts, providing a legal basis for discrimination and violence.

Despite this historical regression, James found glimmers of hope and resilience, particularly when speaking with older members of the queer community. "Talking to the older gays, I learned they’re just trying to get back to where Jamaica already was in 1972." This sentiment speaks volumes about the lost ground and the ongoing struggle to reclaim a space of acceptance that once, however briefly, existed. James’s quest to interview a 90-year-old man, potentially "the oldest gay in Jamaica right now," led him to Mountambrin, an artists’ retreat about an hour from Montego Bay. This establishment, initially conceived as a hotel "primarily for queer people," eventually opened its doors to a broader clientele due to financial necessity. Yet, its essence remains: "It’s still around and it’s for everyone, but you walk in and he has a lot of phallic art and statues of naked men, as one does." The very existence of Mountambrin, and the fact that "Gays are actually staying in Jamaica," signifies a profound shift. "In the past so many queer and trans people had to leave just to survive." The ability to remain on the island, to find and create spaces of safety and expression, represents a fragile but significant victory for current generations.

The generational divide, however, also brings a new kind of activism and self-acceptance. "With the kids, I find there’s more ease." James visited his alma mater, the University of the West Indies (UWI), and was "shocked" to discover the existence of a queer students’ association. His instinct to offer a familiar "it gets better" speech was met with a refreshingly defiant response: "They were like, ‘We don’t want to hear that shit. Do you know Beyoncé?’ I loved it." This anecdote is not merely about pop culture; it’s a powerful statement of agency. These young people refuse to be defined by struggle or to wait for a better future; they demand the right to live fully and joyfully in the present, to have the typical concerns of youth rather than fear for their lives. The image of one interviewee arriving "in pink hair extensions and a pink jumpsuit" and nonchalantly stating, "I just got off the bus," perfectly encapsulates this newfound confidence and visibility. "All right, girl," James quips, acknowledging this bold embrace of self.

Yet, James is careful to temper this optimism, emphasizing that the battle is far from over. "But I don’t want to paint too rosy a picture. I also spoke to lesbians who said men threaten to rape them every week. Shit’s still going on." The pervasive threat of violence, particularly against women and gender non-conforming individuals, remains a stark reality. The continued existence of organizations like Equality for All (formerly the Jamaica Forum for Lesbians, All-Sexuals and Gays, or J-FLAG) underscores this ongoing struggle. "We have the Jamaica Forum for Lesbians, All-Sexuals and Gays [now Equality for All] for a reason—it’s an uphill battle." These organizations work tirelessly to advocate for human rights, provide support, and challenge discriminatory laws and social attitudes in a country where anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment, often fueled by religious fundamentalism and colonial legacies, is still deeply entrenched.

"To live in Jamaica is to confront history, which is all around you. But also it’s hard tracking down that history," James observes, highlighting the deliberate erasure of queer narratives. His years-long search for "just one piece of footage showing a drag ball in Jamaica"—a pursuit he hasn’t abandoned—speaks to the fragility of such records. "It has to exist. I haven’t given up. But I get it because part of how past generations tried to stay safe was by destroying the evidence." This act of self-preservation, while understandable, creates enormous gaps in the historical record, making the work of authors like James even more critical. He speculates, "actually, maybe the guy who owns Mountambrin has a massive trove," a hopeful thought that underscores the value of individual archives and memory keepers. The Disappearers itself is "loosely based on a gay bashing that I knew happened in the late ’80s, but I didn’t have material proof." The arduous process of finding someone in his interviews who finally "corroborated my memory of it" speaks to the validation and weight that oral history brings to narratives often dismissed or forgotten. "Again, I just needed to know for myself."

This deeply personal motivation fuels his creative process, resulting in characters who are composites—"fictional—composites of people I’ve met or heard of and whatever’s in my imagination—but some of them could have existed." James fully expects that "There are Jamaicans who will read The Disappearers and recognize these characters, maybe even know people just like them." This deep connection between his fictional world and lived realities solidifies the novel’s importance. "This is the most personal book I’ve written. I do want it to serve as a record." He articulates a profound truth about the power of literature: "That’s what fiction can do: fill in the blanks that history can’t or doesn’t want to." Official history often focuses on the powerful, the famous, the political, frequently overlooking the rich tapestry of everyday lives. "History books, to an extent, are only the story of famous people and politicians. You don’t always see how regular people get through their lives, how extraordinary ordinary people are." Through The Disappearers, James aims to rectify this, giving voice and visibility to those extraordinary ordinary people who navigated prejudice, built communities, and survived in the shadows of Jamaican society.

While this was his first time traveling specifically for a book project, James notes that his extensive travels have always been a wellspring of inspiration. "Traveling naturally makes me more curious." His unique approach to immersing himself in a new environment reflects his dedication to understanding a place on its own terms: "To feel like I’m really experiencing a place, the first thing I do is unpack my bags completely, everywhere I go. It makes me feel less like a tourist, I guess. When I settle in, I find that I’m more prepared to take a country on its own terms." This philosophy of deep engagement and openness to experience is evident throughout The Disappearers, a novel that promises not only to entertain but also to educate, challenge, and ultimately, to bear witness to a vital, often-silenced chapter of Jamaican and queer history. By returning home and meticulously piecing together the fragments of a past he once avoided, Marlon James has crafted a powerful literary testament to resilience, memory, and the enduring human spirit.

—As told to Matt Ortile