Not everything needs to be an anecdote or lesson. Sometimes things are best left between a man and God.

Defining a “Muslim” or “Islamic” fiction genre can be challenging due to considerations of permissibility,¹ creativity, and purpose. But one does not learn Islam from fiction; one witnesses the expression of it.

Omar Braun, the protagonist of Abdullah Yousef’s debut novel, Blood of the Levant, exemplifies this perfectly. The world of Blood of the Levant is part historical-fiction and part military fiction, with a dose of fantasy. The novel unravels in two parallels: one of Omar’s past, culminating in a tragedy-turned-revenge story, and the other a quest typified with ragtag heroes, an infiltration subplot, and an innocent girl with undiscovered powers in the midst of it all.

In the late nineteenth century, Russia and Europa are at war. Conquest turns over Ichor Metal, a precious resource with herculean strengthening properties. A young Omar soon discovers that he’s an Ichor Heart—a human with unique physiology granting him extraordinary physical abilities. In his case, speedy healing makes him almost impervious to being shot, stabbed, or swung at with one’s choice of weaponry, posing a minor problem to the existing world powers. His mother warns him to keep his power hidden, but when the Russians begin their massacres, vengeance sets Omar on a course to join Europa’s Royal Legion.

In the present, Omar, along with a group of other Ichor Hearts, sets off to infiltrate Russian command. Prince Yuri, the Tsar’s only son, has gone missing. Their journey is soon waylaid with battle and strange occurrences; namely, a young orphaned girl who displays Ichor Heart traits that Omar saves and begrudgingly brings along. He names her Yasmeen. He ends up adopting her, of course.

There are some places that would benefit from a strong editor and a tighter weaving of narrative and dialogue. Mentions of Ichor Metal are scant; it’s meant to give context to the conflict, but further explanation is limited. Are Ichor Metal and the Ichor Heart conditions related? Is it a magical resource or the vibranium of this world?

At times, it is also unclear whether the scene takes place in the past or present. At others, there are inconsistent shifts in point-of-view (omniscient to limited, or from one character to the other and back) in a single scene – by no means do these speak to the writer’s skill, rather they highlight the larger need for capable Muslim publishers, agents, editors, etc. 

Characteristic of similarly situated novels, the first part is worldbuilding-heavy. It was not until the second part that I found myself fully immersed and invested in the story. The action scenes are certainly exciting, but my favorite sequence is Prince Yuri’s appearance and subsequent dialogue with Omar, as the author does a fantastic job of building tension, deftly depicting Prince Yuri’s maniacal mental state, and acute intelligence in detecting treachery. Where there is plenty of angst, there is plenty of rugged wit to go with. 

In sum, it is a strong entry in the genre of Islamic fiction.

For readers interested in an analytical book review, I will further focus on issues I find most contested in the Islamic fiction niche. Blood of the Levant has plenty of themes to choose from; one could write entire sections on the commingling with non-Muslim characters in an honest way, avoiding the perennialist elements so rife in many attempts at interfaith contexts; spiritual cultivation in mentor-mentee relationships; fatherhood; femininity and masculinity; grief and loss; approaches to sin and redemption; and other metanarratives myself and other writers have previously discussed.²³

However, there is one place the author succeeds where other novels seldom do, in an issue at the crux of many objections to Muslim fiction: the treatment of theology apropos of personal and societal progress.

The postmodern era is marked by a radical skepticism toward grand theories. By deconstructing the concept of objective truth and dismantling ideals, progress lies in challenging all established truths as mere relative conventions. Detachment from spiritual and religious frameworks is seen in stories that collapse traditional ideals in favor self-realization and liberation from every constraint. A protagonist’s climax is thus marked by “embracing oneself fully” without much consideration for, or even at the cost of, moral obligations. This champions self-discovery and the idea that one’s primary allegiance should be to their own aspirations above all else, and is a glaring problem in contemporary approaches to incorporating Muslim characters, usually stripping them of every impetus but the material.

Blood of the Levant sets a strong precedent to the contrary. Instead of self-realization, the author establishes a resounding call to duty and ascendance through actualizing God’s Will. In one exchange, Omar is questioned by Walter, his adoptive father and mentor (who is also a Christian):

I want to give her a choice. The choice that I couldn’t make.

“When have any of us had a choice in all this? Did God give you the choice to be born with your trait or not, with the indomitable urge to use it each day? Did God give me the ‘choice’ to be talented as I am in my art of conquest? We are chosen for these roles from the day our souls are breathed into our mother’s womb.”

The novel’s most vibrant moments stem from showcasing the ethical impulse in snippets, like the one above, that provide a glimpse as to what Omar’s journey is about — it is not about a man finding happiness in what he wants, but learning to center his wants around the purpose God created him for.

And his path to purpose is thorny. He abandons God at one point, admitting to having left prayer since the attack on his village. He tries to find solace in fighting rings and beer. He loses close comrades and is ashamed to reconnect with those he left behind in his village. In the present, Omar doesn’t know how to fully prepare Yasmeen for the world she is growing into. Enemies lurk in every corner. He is stabbed, shot, punched and kicked at; he jumps over ledges and is pushed over ledges. He is a likable combination of chivalry and sarcasm, at times a curmudgeon. He does not think too highly of himself but does not think of himself as drowning in unending woes either.

Prince Yuri even asks him,

“No matter what calamity it is, you who believe in God always have some explanation for it. It’s always either a punishment or a test. You view it that way, you can never lose, right?” 

“And you no longer believe?”

“No, I don’t,” Yuri said, his kind smile disappearing. 

“Well, it’s harder than it looks.”

It, being faith, is hard, but at no point does Omar lash at the constraints so that they align with who he is or the wrongs he commits. Instead, he changes.

When we ask, is Islamic fantasy possible, it is not a question of whether it is possible to write characters with vaguely Muslim names and behaviors into the story, but whether the contours of that world maintain a coherence to the Islamic theological framework even with chosen fantastical elements. It is possible for those other than the prophets and awliya to display miracles, Dajjal the foremost example. But unlike Marvel or other universes where powers are either features of a god or from technological freak accidents, the author asserts the theological possibility of a world in which some humans could have “superpowers.” The explanation we are given of the Ichor Hearts’ abilities undergirds a level of believable fantasticalism and the care the author writes with to ensure theological soundness.

What’s to say Allah didn’t grant such prowess to a man of destiny in the age of heroes, and not just him, but thousands since the days of Adam and Eve? He doesn’t need to morally deserve such power. He could merely be a force meant to humble the thousands of men he wreaks havoc on, to inspire them to be a part of something greater than themselves.

The other compelling aspect of the novel, particularly in the second half, is Omar’s relationship with Yasmeen and its revelations concerning gender. Yasmeen, to his horror, is a girl with Ichor Heart abilities, putting her at high-risk of abduction by those intending to breed her for more super-powered soldiers. Omar’s reluctance to care for her grows into genuine paternal love. Soon, he begins to train her mentally and physically for the trials ahead. 

Nonetheless, while Yasmeen is a character foil to Omar, she begins to play a vital role in the crisis towards the end. She is a major driving force not only for his motivations but in her own pursuit of war as an orphaned girl wanting justice. They compliment each other: “Just as Yasmeen’s job was to grow stronger, his was to become gentler.”

Relatedly, the author acknowledges normative gender responsibilities and does not sugar-coat the fact that any society that places women on the front lines has failed. Omar reminds Yasmeen that as a girl, soldierhood is not her role. But there are times when fighting, too, becomes obligatory upon women and children, so she must prepare to defend herself.

In the last quarter of the novel, we are introduced to Lana, a female fighter who has lost her entire family. Her appearance sparks a similar discussion regarding women and the particularity of the situation. But rather than justifying it as an achievement in and of itself, that women are participating in violence as a goal to be sought, as is so often the route regarding female representation, the author ties it back to God: “Besides, martyrdom is for both men and women, is it not?”

Additionally, Omar’s anecdotes of youthful yearning for a childhood friend are tastefully done. Desire is a given, but the female form is never described in the sexually provocative manner typical of novels today. And neither is every woman present viewed solely through the lens of sexual fulfillment: the novel features an older doctor responsible for researching the Ichor Heart condition, Dr. Alice Claire, whom Omar respects and treats as a second mother. There are no overtures towards Lana either, she is established as a character with independent motivations while honoring appropriate gender interaction.

This is a book written mostly for male readers, which is fine, books are written with a particular audience in mind. No book is everything for everyone. This does not mean female readers will not enjoy it, but that its exploration of masculinity and the rugged journey Omar embarks on and the banter with his companions has a type of underdog, steampunk quality to it that young men may find especially satisfying. 

Omar is a good example of what a Muslim man may be — flawed, vengeful, vicious — and what they should be — protective and dutiful to family — against a complex backdrop woven with various mythologies, well-rounded characters, and macabre humor. As it stands, Blood of the Levant is setting itself up to be an epic saga, inshaAllah.

This is not a sponsored post. You can purchase the book here.

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Disclaimer: Material published by Traversing Tradition is meant to foster scholarly inquiry and rich discussion. The views, opinions, beliefs, or strategies represented in published articles and subsequent comments do not necessarily represent the views of Traversing Tradition or any employee thereof.

1. Shaykh Musa Furber, Fiction and the Sacred Law (Sept. 21, 2015), https://musafurber.com/2015/09/21/fiction-and-the-sacred-law/ [↩]
2. For a discussion of Islam and fantasy, see Ibraheem Ali, Faith and Fantasy: Is Islamic Fiction Viable?, Traversing Tradition (Jan. 20, 2020), https://traversingtradition.com/2020/01/20/faith-and-fantasy-is-islamic-fiction-viable/ [↩]
3. For a discussion of liberal narratives, see Heraa Hashmi, Representation Culture: Negotiating the TV Muslim, Traversing Tradition (June 26, 2022), https://traversingtradition.com/2022/06/24/representation-culture-negotiating-the-tv-muslim/ [↩]