I settled deeper into my black sweater, pulling my hood over my face to hide it. I was in the local coffee shop watching people come and go, letting the grief hold onto me relentlessly. I heard so much talk about so many different things - local news, family drama, a popstar, a song they listened to… One man started speaking about a celebrity. He said that the guy was his hero.

Hero.

That word made me angry, and sometimes even the anger overwhelmed the grief, and I had to leave, before the anger left me, and became visible.

Did they even know what the word hero meant? Probably not. Nowadays, hero was a word that everyone threw around. 'You’re my hero,' they’d say, or 'he’s my hero,' but their hero would consistently change, sometimes, day by day.

Did they know a hero? Had they ever met one? I had. My older brother was a hero, and now, this world was one hero less.

He could do anything. He would swing me onto his strong shoulders and run around the park as I clung to him, wrapping my arms around his forehead. He would sweat as he ran and my arms would get wet, but I didn't mind. It was fun to fly around on his shoulders.  When he got tired, he’d shift me onto his back. He never told me he got weary. Sometimes I’d have to ask him to play another game just so he wouldn’t get too tired. And then we’d run around the park some more as I chased after him, working my short legs as hard as they’d go. He was so tall and his legs were so much longer. He was definitely faster than me, but he would always slow down and I’d be able to tackle him, knock him over into the grass. Then we’d laugh awhile at how silly we were.

“You’re getting stronger and bigger,” he’d tell me as he ruffled my hair. “And you’re getting taller!”

“I’m catching up with you!”

“Ah, not quite yet!” He’d laugh.

I’d puff my cheeks out and leap to my feet. He’d flash that mischievous, foxy grin before hopping up, racing off into the distance back home. “Catch me if you can!” he would laugh. I would run like the wind, running after my brother to try and beat him to the door. We’d both rush to the door and by then I was panting to try and catch my breath, but he never used to lose his breath. I always won, but I knew he was letting me.

It would be dinnertime by then, and he would sneak a small piece of fruit off his plate and slide it over onto mine. Mother never found out. Besides, fruit was healthy for a growing boy, wasn’t it? Perhaps she knew. Mothers know everything. I learned to never try to get away with anything from her, but she didn’t seem to mind.

After dinner I would take out our prayer rugs and pray with him. His rug was big and mine was so tiny. And his voice was nice and deep. I thought it was better than all the other guys people used to listen to.

My brother was really religious. He would spend his nights praying. Sometimes I would try to stay awake and watch him but I would always fall asleep.

He used to lead the taraweeh prayers and I used to stand in the front line with my chest nearly bursting with pride. When I got tired I would sit down and he would encourage me to get up. He would say that he knew I was strong enough to pray all the rakahs. And later when I heard some boys saying that he had a nice voice I would walk up to them and tell them that he was my brother.

He helped me so much. He was there for me on my first fast, and when I finished my hifdh. And then the years passed, but our relationship seemed to never die. I grew to my teen years and he was off to college. But still, he did not forget me and always came by to visit during the weekends and holidays. We’d walk to the local park, and we’d play tag just like the old days, even though he was 25 years old. Did he feel silly running around like a kid with his shirt collar untidy and his work tie lopsided? He always reminded me of a kid, and I’d never forget the days when he spent his weekends playing hide-and-seek with a six year old. He was so kind. He seemed invincible.

Then one day something took my brother away from us. Do you know what it was? It was a car. Inside it was a careless boy, heavily intoxicated. He had fallen asleep at the wheel. And even though he hurt, my brother told me to not worry. He told me to not blame the driver, that what had happened was supposed to happen. That it was qadr. And then he smiled at me and told me that he would see me in Jannah, inshaa`Allah. I was sad and frightened that I was alone in the world, but he had told me not to worry. And when times got rough, I remember my brother’s last, childish grin that was forever inscribed on my heart.

noun 

1. prose literature, especially novels, describing imaginary events and people. 
2. invention as opposed to fact. 
3. a false belief or statement, accepted as true for the sake of convenience.

If one looks carefully at the above definitions, it's quite obvious that when fiction is used in a literary sense, the first definition most certainly applies, and thus Islamic fiction would be defined as: Islamic prose literature, describing imaginary events and people, right?

Why then do some people insist that literary fiction - whether Islamically orientated or not - is more suited to fit into the third definition: a false belief or statement. Of course, it is known that fiction is not fact - no writer presents it as such - yet many place writers of fiction into the same boat as those who tell lies!

And funnily enough, a lie is: 1) an intentionally false statement. 2) a situation involving deception or founded on a mistaken impression - none of which a fiction writer does!

It's mind-boggling, to say the least. One can go round in circles for years, trying to work out why exactly people are afraid of fiction. Is it because the stories are not true? If so, that doesn't equate them to be useless, does it? From the many Islamic fiction books that I have read, they are extremely beneficial, alhamdulillaah. But yet... they are a pack of lies!

But what is defined as preaching? Is it where you’re reading more facts than an actual plot (is the story even fiction anymore?), or is it where characters are explicitly stating what is and isn’t allowed?

I’ve read Islamic fiction novels which I found to be informative and taught me a thing or two, however the Amazon reviews were screaming about them being preachy and looking down at other religions. Novels such as ‘The Minaret‘ by Lela Aboulela, which I absolutely loved reading, were far from being preachy in my eyes, still there remained people who felt there was a little too much Islam in it!

How far can the lines of disseminating information be stretched before the preachiness flags are waved, and is it at all subjective?

I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Muslims tend to think that Islamic fiction is of no benefit - they say it doesn’t increase a reader in anything good. We have found this to be the total opposite, so we’ve come up with a short list of 4 reasons why Islamic fiction is needed.

Here goes…

•   → Stories that are not preachy, do not have a predictable storyline, and do not condone acts that are contradictory to Islam are more beneficial for teens and the youth as leisurely reading compared to books that are the opposite. Don’t you agree?

•   → Islamic fiction is an illustrative form of art; it differs from simple fact, yet places fact into real-life scenarios - a mind-blowing imaginative way of showing how Islam is applicable to every area of our lives. It also has the potential of being an extremely powerful da’wah tool.

•   → Islamic fiction is a window to get a glimpse into the life of others - those who are Muslims in faith, yet different in character, and drives home how we can best avoid mistakes characters make. It’s not about telling you what to do with your life - no one wants to read fiction like that - but about giving you examples of mistakes so you don’t fall into them.

•   → Muslims are humans too, infallible yet striving, and Islamic fiction does not set out to make us more perfect than we are. Islamic fiction is about portraying real people, with all their goodness and infallibility too. Some people feel uncomfortable about Muslims’ bad side being shown, but it’s important to remember that Islam is the one that’s perfect, not necessarily its followers.

Now we’ve come up with our list of 4 reasons why Islamic fiction is important, can you think of any?

An image of utter beauty, gliding so gracefully
Your confidence and sophistication, they truly inspire me.

Like a perfect entity
A servant so true and free
You amaze me
With your love that conquers all.

You’re like a bird
Because you fly so high.
Like a dove
Swimming beneath the sky.
You’re like an eagle
Determined to fly.
You’re a nightingale

Oh, how I wish that I too could fly . . .

There seems like nothing, nothing that you cannot do.
You attempt, and trust that you’ll see it through.
And although this is true
You fear that your heart is not sound
But your love, just brings your heart back round.

Like a perfect entity
Filled with true love from above.
You amaze me
With the love that has harboured your heart.
You’re like a bird
Flying on top of the world

You’re a traveller
Journeying to your Final Abode.
You’ve been honoured
With provisions that make you shine.
You’ve been blessed

With a gift that I wish was mine . . .

Your head full of love ensures you strive for your Beloved,
Most High.
Your wings of fear and hope,
keep you balanced into the sky,
Gliding beautifully for your Lord, Most High.

Like a bird, you’re gracefully flying
with precious wings from above.
You’re my soul at peace
The inner-me that I yearn to be

A Muhsinah - the elite state that I so long to achieve.

A smile lingered on the corner of her lips as she reminisced her rebellious days. With her head resting in her hands, Mulky Roble revealed how much of a wild child she used to be. Innocence enveloped her face, just as the black khimar that hugged around her shoulders hid her unsettled past. Yet contentment was evident as she confided in me about how much of an impact a novel written by a Muslimah has had on her life. Although she is only of the unfledged age of eighteen, Mulky had many rough patches in her younger teen years, with a trail of exclusions and suspensions from school.

Mulky considered herself to be like other girls her age: she loved shopping and looking great, so it was no surprise when Mulky confessed her previous hatred for the written word. “I hated them,” she blurted when I asked about books, “I didn’t have time to read them, and I just thought they were rubbish.” And while reading classical literature is a requirement in English classes, she had managed to evade reading them in class, with the exception of one. “I wouldn’t really count that as reading,” she laughed, “because the teacher read the book to us in class - I didn’t read it myself.” Mulky may be considered to be from the minority of girls who do not like to read, since reading is more popular amongst females. But speaking to girls at a local Muslim youth group revealed that while the girls loved to read, not one of them had picked up a copy of Muslim fiction. So what was it that led Mulky to read Echoes by Jamilah Kolocotronis?

“Well, you were distributing Echoes and everyone in the youth group was saying how ‘sick’ [interesting] it was, and some of you just kept talking about it. So I wanted to know what everyone was going on about. When I read the first chapter, I just had to keep on going. I was curious to find out what happened at the end.” And according to Mulky, this is something of a miracle considering her resentment towards books in the past, but for her, it was more than a mere book. “It was so emotional, and I cried all the way through,” she laughed shyly. “Some parts just really touched me. I cried at the end.” We both laughed at this point - her from embarrassment and me from shock since Echoes isn’t exactly an emotional roller-coaster. Yet, what surprised me more was what Mulky told me next. “I never used to read before reading Echoes, but now I love reading.” None would have thought that Muslim fiction could have the power to affect a teenager in such a way - especially a toughnut like Mulky Roble.

Muslim fiction has had a hard time in gaining respect within the Muslim community, with some deeming it a waste of time and tantamount to lies. The shelves of Muslim book stores are laden with books, but few - if any - are Muslim fiction. Despite this, our teens are reading novels that condone intercourse outside of marriage, free-mingling with the opposite gender, partying and other acts that Islam frowns upon. It is from reading such books that our teens desire to have a slice of that pie, and Mulky confirmed this. “Teens who read romance, or books like that end up thinking, ‘Oh, I need a man, now’, but reading fiction for Muslim teenagers will kinda show them a better way.” It was with this exact line of thought that I delved into the world of publishing.

As a teenager, there were no books with Muslim characters, I was left to the traps of teenage books that left me feeling odd for not having a boyfriend and resentful for not being allowed to go to parties. Now, in troubling times where our youth are struggling to find their place in society, many are slipping through our fingers due to what they read. The emotions that are evoked and images that are painted through words cannot be undermined; they have the potential to be extremely powerful, and Mulky’s case is a fine example. “[Echoes] really touched me, I started being kind to my mum after reading it,” - these are the words of a rebellious teenager whose loving mother once found hard to tame. Is there then any doubt that Muslim fiction can be of profound benefit?

Initial thoughts of Muslim fiction are books that are preachy and dictating, and my experience has for the most been the complete opposite. Novels are supposed to take readers on a journey through a character’s life and expose them to their inner feelings and thoughts, and a book containing Muslim characters should be no less engaging.

Although Muslims have their faults, shortcomings and internal struggles like every other human, a workshop I conducted at a youth group revealed that teens are averted from Muslim fiction due to the belief that the characters will be portrayed as the perfect Muslim. For the girls I spoke to, many elements of a book would gain their
interest, the most important being the story itself; they seek stories that are exciting, engaging and speak their language. Stories that represent them and their issues, and not those that put them down.

While many writers have woken up to realise the great benefit Muslim fiction can bring into the lives of readers, there are still only a handful of Muslim publishers willing to publish them. Those of us who do are the pioneers of a new movement - one that can shine a new dawn in the lives of many. Getting Muslim fiction onto bookshelves is still a great task, but the happiness in knowing that it has reached some teenagers is comforting nonetheless. There may not have been any Muslim fiction books to devour in my days of fervent reading, yet it is my dream that our youth will be from the generation where Muslim fiction is readily available and no longer a rarity.

This article was published in the Spring 2009 issue of SISTERS magazine.