Naruto and Other Godless Heroes: Can Manga Bear The Weight of Islam?

Introduction

As a teenager, I spent an ungodly number of hours wrapped up in the Naruto series, Fullmetal Alchemist, Hunter x Hunter, and Attack on Titan. At the height of my Manga fever, I turned to the original Japanese versions which were undiluted like the English dubbed ones. After school, my siblings and I would sink into those worlds, swept up by their impossible stakes and strangely familiar morals. Those anime were an escape and a place where courage and loyalty stirred something deep within. For a time, I even believed they carried the same breath as my own faith. With age, I learned how far that resemblance truly went.

In an interview and subsequent essay for Traversing Tradition, Dr. Naoki Yamamoto identifies a moral exhaustion within modern Japan. In his 2021 piece, he observes that the narratives of Naruto, Anpanman, and other shōnen heroes gesture toward virtues once central to Japan’s ethical life: repentance, mentorship, and perseverance. He explains that these virtues now survive only as fragments of a moral order detached from its spiritual roots. Reflecting on his Japanese translation of al-Sulamī’s Futuwwa, he presents the Sufi treatise as a possible framework to restore meaning to Japan’s moral imagination. By invoking futuwwa, Yamamoto attempts a dialogue between Islamic spiritual chivalry and the moral archetypes of manga, suggesting that their heroic ethos, though secularized, still carries echoes of a transcendent code.

Bringing manga and Islam into conversation is, at its core, an attempt to explore where human moral imagination meets divine revelation. The question that begs to be answered is: can artistic imagination, through its sincerity, still orient the heart toward a transcendent source it no longer names? Is the persistence of moral beauty within the secular imagination sufficient enough to draw up parallels with the profundity of monotheistic faith? This essay asks, finally, whether art can do more than remind us of the good, whether it can preserve and give life to virtue, or whether only revelation can root those virtues and sustain them.

The Sacred Beyond Shōnen

One of the great appeals of shōnen manga lies in its humanism. Its heroes are rarely flawless paragons, yet their character development is an undeniable facet of fascination. Tanjiro Kamado of Demon Slayer is paradigmatic. He is not the domineering masculine figure familiar from Hollywood blockbusters but prays for the demons he slays and insists on recognizing their former humanity. Situated in a mythic world informed by Japan’s syncretic inheritance of Buddhist ideals of samsara, Taoist harmonism, and Shinto humanism and animism, Naruto Uzumaki stands as a moral countercurrent that rejects vengeance after the devastation of his village, seeking instead to transcend the cycle of hatred through compassion and self-mastery. These figures are compelling because they refuse the simple binary of hero and villain; they embody what Yamamoto praises as an ethic of empathy and perseverance.

Yet the horizon within which these gestures occur is radically different from Islam’s. In such manga, morality emerges as a kind of social contract: bonds of friendship, loyalty to the group, or the will to protect others provide the measure of right and wrong. What is “evil” is often reimagined as estrangement from the community, and “repentance” means restoring those ties through remorse or reconciliation. The ultimate authority lies not in an external source but in the story itself such as what convinces the reader, what allows the cast to remain intact, or what feels cathartic within the narrative. This horizon is powerful for drama, but it remains confined to the realm of manga imagination.

A Muslim encountering the moral imagination of manga may feel an immediate resonance. The emotional lexicon of compassion, endurance, and self-sacrifice speaks directly to the fiṭra, that primordial human disposition oriented toward what is good and beautiful. When one is stirred by Naruto’s refusal to perpetuate vengeance or by a character’s awakening through suffering, what moves within is not alien to Islam’s moral psychology; it is the fiṭrī intuition responding to traces of the good wherever they appear. Islam, after all, affirms through the principles of al-ʿādah muḥakkamah (“sound customs”) and mā raʾāhu al-muslimūna ḥasanan fa-huwa ʿinda Allāhi ḥasan (“what believers deem good is good in the sight of God”) that human communities, guided by their uncorrupted nature, can arrive at practices and judgments that approximate divine wisdom. A Muslim’s affinity for such narratives in manga may thus be seen as an instance of ʿurf ṣaḥīḥ, a culturally situated moral perception that, though formed in another civilizational horizon, still echoes universal ethical truths inscribed in human nature.

Yet this resonance remains partial, for Islam situates moral value within a metaphysical order that transcends the immanent horizon of human feeling. The philosophies underlying much of manga whether shaped by Shinto humanism, Buddhist notions of saṃsāra, or Taoist harmonism, ultimately treat virtue as contingent upon context, a product of emotional refinement or communal harmony. From the standpoint of al-taḥsīn wa al-taqbīḥ, such moral systems rely primarily on ʿaql, unaided reason, to discern the good. Islam, however, teaches that while reason can recognize the beauty of compassion or justice, only naql, divine revelation, can anchor these intuitions in eternal truth and direct them toward the Divine rather than the self or society. Therefore what manga intuits through empathy, Islam confirms through ontology.

In this light, the Muslim viewer stands at an epistemic bridge between two moral grammars: one born of human striving, the other of divine disclosure. Their appreciation for the ethical motifs of manga becomes neither imitation nor rejection, but taʾdīb: a process of moral cultivation through discernment. By engaging art that stirs the fiṭra, the believer recognizes the universal moral longing of humanity, yet through ʿaql disciplined by naql, discerns where such longing remains incomplete. This dual awareness transforms cultural affinity into a site of intellectual hospitality which acknowledges that all beauty hints at transcendence, but only revelation discloses its source.

Without revelation, compassion remains a fragile impulse, beautiful in its immediacy yet bound by circumstance, a response to suffering rather than a recognition of divine command. Within revelation, however, compassion is completely transfigured from a mere aesthetic virtue or moral instinct into an act of worship that unites the finite creature with the infinite Creator.

In the narrative horizon of manga, morality unfolds as a drama of catharsis, its power resting in evoking empathy, resolving conflict, and restoring harmony. In the Qurʾanic horizon, by contrast, morality is inseparable from submission, for the moral life reflects harmony with the divine command, the pursuit of the ultimate good, and the return of the soul to its origin. Within this vision, compassion, justice, and sacrifice are not mere human excellences but participations in the divine order of being, acts whose reality and perfection are fulfilled only through orientation to al Haqq, in whom all truth and goodness converge.

The difference, then, is not one of degree but of kind: one portrays goodness as a human possibility, the other unveils it as a metaphysical necessity, a truth that anchors all being. It is precisely at this juncture that the question of sacrifice arises. For in Islam, the highest expression of morality lies not in sentiment or giving for the sake of social harmony, but in surrender to the will of God, beyond narrative, beyond reason, beyond the self.

Sacrifice and Submission

Much of what moves readers in Manga storytelling is the valorization of sacrifice and characters willingly shouldering unbearable burdens for others. In Naruto, Itachi annihilates his clan in order to prevent civil war, choosing to become a hated pariah so that his village might survive. Even Anpanman, that cheerful children’s hero, offers pieces of himself to nourish those in need. Yamamoto’s futuwwa essay seizes upon this motif, suggesting that the Anpanman ethic embodies the same generosity that Islamic chivalry demands. The comparison is rhetorically attractive, for sacrifice is among the most universal of moral languages.

But narrative sacrifice is not submission. The sacrifices found in manga are cathartic gestures within the boundaries of a story. They are offered for village, for comrades, for family, or for peace. They resolve plot tension and generate sympathy, but they do not transcend the immanent horizon of human need and communal survival. By contrast, the Islamic archetype is not a shinobi sealing a beast within himself, nor a bread-headed hero feeding hungry children, but the prophet Abraham prepared to give his son for sacrifice for no reason other than God’s command. That act was not heroic in the narrative sense nor was it designed for catharsis or socio-political stability. It was pure submission and surrender to a transcendent will for reasons beyond human comprehension.

Futuwwa belongs to this same order of submission. It is not simply the willingness to be generous or courageous but an ethic sanctified by Tawhid, animated by eschatology, and embedded within a system of law and knowledge. The selflessness of futuwwa is not sentimentality but sacrament and therefore to conflate it with Anpanman’s kindness or the tragic sacrifices of manga characters is to mistake narrative pathos for metaphysical obedience. The difference is decisive.

Evil, Relativism, and the Absence of Judgment

Another hallmark of shōnen manga narratives is the humanization of the enemy. Villains are rarely depicted as embodiments of absolute evil; rather, they are granted histories, traumas, and motivations that render their actions intelligible. In Naruto, Nagato’s transformation into “Pain” arises from the loss of his loved ones and the devastation of war. His identity becomes inseparable from the suffering he has endured, leading him to conclude that only through shared anguish can humanity learn empathy. Likewise, in Kimetsu no Yaiba, demons are shown in flashbacks as once vulnerable humans, eliciting pity even as they are defeated. 

Within these narratives, evil is displaced from the realm of metaphysics to that of psychology in which atrocities are rationalized through backstory, and cruelty is reframed as a symptom of unhealed suffering. The result is wrongdoing being reframed through a narrative sympathy so persuasive that empathy feels almost inevitable, often in shōnen manga, the emotional depth given to the antagonist draws the viewer into understanding rather than judgment, making even transgression feel profoundly human. 

Yamamoto identifies tawba as one of the spiritual elements present in Naruto. Yet to equate the series’ portrayals of remorse with tawba is to overlook the profound theological and moral depth that repentance holds within the Islamic tradition. In the Qurʾanic view, tawba is not a simply a therapeutic release from guilt or a moral mitigation achieved through sympathetic storytelling, rather it is fundamentally a return of the soul to its rightful orientation toward the Divine. Al-Ghazali describes tawba as the first station on the path to God, a moment when the intellect, heart, and converge in awareness of one’s estrangement and in the resolve to restore harmony with the Creator. It consists of recognizing sin as a veil upon the heart, sincere remorse for the separation it entails, and a firm determination never to return to it. Repentance in this sense is not a narrative device but an inner realignment that transforms the human being’s relation to truth itself. 

Islamic thought situates mercy (raḥma) within the framework of justice (ʿadl), understanding the two not as opposites but as complementary dimensions of the divine order. The tyrant’s suffering does not erase his tyranny, nor does the murderer’s grief diminish the inviolable sanctity of life (ḥurmat al-nafs). Divine mercy is not the suspension of judgment but its perfection, an attribute of God that embraces all creation while preserving the moral gravity of every deed. As Taha Abdurrahman explains in his moral philosophy, mercy cannot be separated from amāna, the trust that binds moral agency to divine responsibility. For him, raḥma is not a passive sentiment but an act of ʿaql muʾtamin, a trustworthy reason that feels, understands, and acts in fidelity to the truth. Compassion that abandons accountability becomes mere emotion, losing both its ontological depth and its moral coherence.¹ True raḥma therefore reconciles empathy with justice by transforming it into an instrument of restoration rather than indulgence. 

In shōnen manga, redemption dramatizes reconciliation through empathy, while Islamic tawba achieves reconciliation through transcendence and accountability in uniting remorse with awareness of the divine order that governs all existence. The moral universe of shonen manga, unanchored by revelation, wavers between empathy and relativism. It extends compassion without measure, imagines redemption without repentance, and seeks justice without transcendence. In the absence of a final horizon, moral truth dissolves into emotion, leaving empathy noble in intention yet empty in meaning.

The Depth of Roots

At the heart of Yamamoto’s argument lies a question about modernity, as he observes that the Japanese, living “after virtue,” appear to have lost the system of knowledge that once sustained ethical practice. He draws attention to cultural-symbols such as Bushidō, Anpanman, Naruto, and Tanjiro and suggests that while these remain prominent, they may function more like visible gestures of virtue whose deeper roots into tradition and meaning have become attenuated by the pressures of efficiency and profit. In this sense, Japanese culture, like many modern societies, subsists on fragments of inherited virtue even as the metaphysical scaffolding that once gave them coherence fades. But the solution that Yamamoto presents risks flattening the very depth of the Islamic tradition he intends to affirm.

Yamamoto suggests that futuwwa might be introduced to Japan as a continuation of the Anpanman ethic, as evidence that there are still societies which preserve an ethos of service. The intention behind this suggestion is generous and sincere, yet the comparison fails to capture the spiritual and intellectual horizon of futuwwa. The Anpanman ethic is moving precisely because it is sentimental and designed for children; it is simplistic-dualistic-morality rendered consumable, and its self-sacrifice, while noble, remains a story meant to inspire rather than instruct on adab. Futuwwa, by contrast, originates in tawḥīd and constitutes an integrated moral-ontological path that draws upon jurisprudence, theology, mysticism, and philosophy. It forms a comprehensive ethic in which service, humility, and courage converge in the pursuit of divine pleasure: generosity mirrors the attributes of God, humility effaces the self, and courage accepts death as fidelity to truth.² To equate this spiritual discipline with Anpanman’s altruism is to confuse allegory with ontology and to overlook the metaphysical ground that exemplifies Islamic ethics.

Yamamoto’s invitation for Japanese Muslims to engage their surrounding culture through moral continuity, allowing Islam to renew the ethical sensibilities still latent in Japanese tradition, remains a valuable opening for dialogue. However, it must remain in view that Islamic moral understanding emerged within a classical tradition where ethics were never regarded as an independent code of conduct but as part of a comprehensive intellectual and spiritual order. The ethical consciousness of modern Japan, shaped by secular modernity and the transformation of traditional moral codes, often preserves the outward forms of duty, sincerity, and restraint while detaching them from their earlier religious and metaphysical roots. What endures is a refined sense of harmony and social responsibility, admirable in its civility yet largely confined to cultural and civic frameworks rather than animated by a transcendent moral vision.³

It is in contrast to this that the coherence of the Islamic moral cosmos becomes clear, for it draws its meaning from revelation, reason, and the ultimate purpose of human life, which is to know and worship God. Within this integrated vision, fiqh orders human action, kalām safeguards belief, taṣawwuf purifies the heart, and falsafa contemplates the nature of being and the good, together forming a single structure in which knowledge, action, and being are inseparably bound. Ethics in this understanding is not a system that can be detached and applied to another moral universe but a living expression of a worldview, to approach Islamic ethics with such awareness is to perceive its unity and coherence, to see how intellect, spirit, and conduct converge in the pursuit of the good.

Toward a Final Judgment

Dr. Yamamoto observes, “As time passed, I came to the following conclusion: my classmate loved Naruto not only because it was ninja manga, but also for the spiritual elements it contained: teacher (hodja/murshid), working spirit (sayr wa suluk), guidance (irshad), repentance (tawba), among others.” His insight is perceptive, for it recognizes that even popular storytelling can gesture toward spiritual archetypes. This comparison also reveals how easily categories drawn from sacred experience can be transformed when read through a secular imagination. The concepts he lists are not only moral symbols but elements of a sacred vocabulary grounded in revelation, law, and disciplined spiritual practice. 

In Islamic tradition, the murshid is not a mentor in the modern sense but a realized guide who embodies the inward path of knowledge and purification. Their task is to shape the heart, awaken presence, and lead the seeker toward proximity to God. To identify this figure with Naruto’s murshid Jiraiya, who is literally called the “pervy sage” and is often portrayed in a drunken stupor, unable to offer Naruto consistent guidance, is to place two fundamentally different moral grammars side by side. The Islamic tradition does not deny human weakness and nature, however the murshid is not a comic companion on the road to growth but the living exemplar of one who has traversed the inner path and whose presence itself is rendered instruction.

Yamamoto’s reflections nevertheless stem from a generous and creative impulse. He wishes to find echoes of virtue in Japanese culture and to use them as meeting points with Islam. While moral imagination is often shaped more by fiction than by revelation, this effort to bridge sensibilities is both admirable and sincere. What is needed is awareness of proportion. Cultural narratives can reflect elements of the sacred, but they cannot contain its depth. Naruto’s perseverance gestures toward sabr, yet remains an ethic of personal resolve. Tanjiro’s compassion recalls rahma, but without its divine horizon. Anpanman’s altruism resembles futuwwa, yet lacks its metaphysical root in service to God. Recognizing these parallels can enrich cross-cultural understanding, so long as one remembers that resemblance is not equivalence, and the sacred must not be domesticated into metaphor.

Japanese shonen manga moves audiences because they dramatize the human longing for reconciliation, the search for meaning, the dignity of sacrifice. The moral vision expressed in manga retains its significance because it demonstrates that even within a secular culture, human beings continue to wrestle with questions of purpose, coherence, and ethical order. The discussion becomes even more compelling when viewed as an experiment in moral sensibility, reminding us that the human faculties which respond to revelation: reason, conscience, and moral perception, remain active even when detached from a transcendent framework.

Islam situates moral life within an ontological and theological order in which meaning is not constructed from human sentiment but received through revelation. Ethics, in this view, is inseparable from truth, for it rests upon the reality of divine command and the telos of creation itself. Tawḥīd affirms the unity of existence and thus grounds the coherence of all moral action, while the Qur’an, as divine speech, provides the criterion of judgment and orientation, and the Sharīʿa gives this moral responsibility tangible form in law and conduct. Within this horizon, futuwwa embodies virtue as disciplined strength directed toward service, and tawba restores the self to its proper orientation through awareness, remorse, and resolve. These are not poetic analogies but conceptual categories that integrate knowledge, action, and being within a unified moral cosmos.

To appreciate manga is to recognize in it a vision of moral struggle and self-cultivation that reflects universal ethical intuitions, even as it remains bound to the cultural forms through which it speaks. Its stories often reveal the beauty of perseverance, compassion, and sincerity. Yet art, however profound, can only intimate moral truth, for it interprets existence within the limits of experience, whereas revelation discloses the very structure of reality. To grasp this distinction is not to diminish the moral intelligence of Japanese manga in an age when art often unfolds amid spiritual desolation and moral fatigue, but to situate it within a wider order of meaning in which revelation provides the measure by which all virtue attains coherence and purpose. My convictions on this matter are, I confess, rather settled, though not so intransigent as to prevent me from ending the evening in a comfortable chair, rewatching my favourite anime series with a mixture of admiration and theological reservations.

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Photo by Collin Wigger on Unsplash

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.

Works Cited:

1. Taha Abdurrahman, Rūḥ al-Dīn: min ḍayq al-ʿalmāniyya ilā saʿat al-iʾtimāniyya [The Spirit of Religion: From the Narrowness of Secularism to the Vastness of the Ethics of Trust] (Casablanca: al-Markaz al-Thaqāfī al-ʿArabī, 2012), pp. 157–162. [↩]
2. Recep Şentürk, “Futuwwah: Codifying Youth Ethics from the Sunnah with Reference to Sulami’s Kitāb al-Futuwwah,” International Journal of the Asian Philosophical Association 14, no. 1 (2021): 13–38. [↩]
3. Robert N. Bellah, Tokugawa Religion: The Cultural Roots of Modern Japan (New York: Free Press, 1985), 142–149. [↩]