Scribing Resistance in a Muslim Matriarchy: A Review of Aamir Hussain’s Under the Full and Crescent Moon

Read Sumaiya Matin's review of Aamir Hussain's contemplative work of alternate history.

Under the Full and Crescent Moon by Aamir Hussain is a thought-provoking reimagining of history that centers female agency and religious diversity during the Islamic Golden Age, a period of extensive social, scientific, cultural and economic development in the Islamic world between the 8th and 13th centuries.

In a fictional matriarchal Andalusian city named Medina’tul-Agham, Khadija, an introverted, bookish daughter of a widower mufti (Muslim legal expert) takes on the responsibility of reviewing and issuing fatwas (religious rulings or opinions). With the arrival of zealot outsiders who perceive the leadership of women as a weakness (despite the established prosperity, peace, and stability of Medina’tul-Agham), the fictional society starts to become polarized. The values that lay its foundation start to crumble, and Khadija takes it upon herself to restore them. The point of divergence from history in this narrative is Khadija’s success in maintaining the matriarchal societal structure, and she does this by overcoming her hamartia or tragic flaw of self-doubt (and an inclination to retreat)–the very quality that keeps her humble and open to learning. 

An inventive alternate history, the narrative explores several questions relevant to present-day: What could a matriarchal Muslim society look like? What does leadership in an increasingly diverse society require?

One of the most intriguing aspects of this novel is how it explores (and does not explore) ‘otherness,’ specifically of women, as their voices are hardly documented in historical records.

How involved were Muslim women in Islamic scholarship during the Islamic Golden Age? A little research reveals that although many qadis (magistrates or judges of a Sharia law court) were male, there were a number of Muslim women in leadership positions including those in religious scholarship, teaching, and the arts. Gender roles varied from region to region. By grounding a speculative matriarchal societal structure in this historical framework, Hussain creates a world that is historically plausible. 

Hussain establishes this period through an evocative scene in the Prologue where the head imam, Imam Fatima, looks for the moon to determine the arrival of Eid-al-Fitr.

Just as the imam’s gaze turned down to deliver the disappointing news to the waiting throng, a flash of silver caught her eye. It was the youngest new moon she had ever seen, barely a sliver of a white curve set against the deepening blue of the evening sky. She leaned a little dangerously over the parapet to confirm what she was seeing and then nodded as a smile spread across her weathered face…In a clear, strong voice, Imam Fatima called out the news, “Praise be to God. The new moon is sighted…”

It is refreshing that the protagonist, Khadija, is a young woman navigating a space/role that mostly men occupy today. She holds the pen on matters of Islamic law and societal decision-making, and the people of Medina’tul-Agham give her the respect she is due. In fact, when she transgresses during a moment of doubt, it is not her gender or age that influence the head imam or qadi to question her, but rather, the fracturing of trust within the relationship, as well as the principles of honesty and integrity required of a mufti.

“By God, my true mistake, Qadi,” Khadija concluded, “was believing you when you told me the best I could aspire to was to be a copier of my father’s works rather than an author of my own.”

Khadija’s internalized doubt about whether she can become a mufti serves as a mirror. I reflect on the assumptions we have today about how a Muslim woman’s gender restricts her in matters of religious leadership. Why is it that in the majority of religious institutions today, the perspectives and participation of women in leadership are limited? What if there are many more Khadijas in these spaces now? 

When Wasaf (the primary antagonist) and the other zealots arrive, they suspect Khadija of altering the religion and claim the customs of The Circle–a women-only forum for societal decision-making and collection of wages–diminish men’s rights. This festers fear and division. Medina’tul Agham was built by sons and grandsons of ex-slaves and widows of war, and this is also a hard pill for Wasaf to swallow. The subversion of power dynamics in the unique city of Medina’tul-Agham and the attempts of Wasaf and his followers to overthrow them, reveals that societal hierarchies are constructed, not destined—that changes in circumstances require us to adapt, and this malleability makes us human. If there is one message this story echoes into the present, it is the triumph of this humanity over any ideology.

Attacking Imam Fatima’s rule directly would only invite a crackdown from the emperor, who had shown consistency in upholding the rule of local leaders…Wasaf made plain their goal was succession. The next phase of Wasaf’s plan was to…undermine Fatima’s leadership so that when the time came to choose Fatima’s successor in a few years, they would be the kingmakers and the rule of women would be consigned to the dust bin of history.

Like any society, matriarchal Medina’tul-Agham is bound to evolve, but how did people of that historical era respond to change? I find the tides of resistance and assimilation in Medina’tul-Agham to resemble that of the present-day, raising timely questions about citizenship and belonging. Who is included or excluded in shaping a society’s overall values and decisions? Whose rights matter? 

Another fascinating endeavour of the novel is how it illustrates the application of Sharia Law within a matriarchal societal structure, something some would consider oxymoronic (and might I add, miseducation and Islamophobia may play a role in this). The presence of emotionally aware, respectful men and astute, visionary women in peaceful Medina’tul-Agham certainly restore faith in theocracies. In a globalized world today, with different interpretations of Islamic law (and Islamic schools of thought), what would an effective approach to theocratic governance look like? Would a matriarchal structure (or one leaning toward one) bring modern-day theocracies more balance and perspective?

Hussain’s worldbuilding nurtures the depth and resonance of his thematic explorations. Simple rituals, such as drinking coffee, Islamic social etiquette like greetings and expressions, or the relatable bond between father and daughter ground me in the norms and customs of the society, and the character relationships. Debates about power, hierarchies, and equality therefore feel more assiduous, in a way that modern-day social media wars and sometimes postmodernist writing do not. Consider for example, debates about the relationship between women’s clothing (including head coverings) modesty, and faith. While modern-day commentators may give bite-sized, copy-paste verses from religious books, hadiths, (or even popular podcasters) to prove their sentiments, the narrator does not fail to provide context of local customs, trends, and history (and not overbearingly so) as Khadija, too, searches for answers.

Khadija bent to examine the verse that Hafsa was pointing to. She flipped back and forth between the pages of the Holy Quran, pretending to examine the context of this final verse to give herself time to reflect and consider…Khadija glanced around at the many perfumed women in the hall with their beautiful clothes and painted faces. If she accepted her own unspoken attack on Hafsa’s modesty, then what would it mean for the rest of them?[...] “I cannot say that your head cover is commanded by Islam,” Khadija conceded carefully. “But if done for the purpose of modesty, which you have shown to have been commanded by God, then I would agree with you that it is laudable.”

The omniscient narrator allows for alternating points-of-view, enriching the world from different angles. Khadija is new to both Islamic law and the society’s public realm, allowing me to explore themes through fresh eyes. Similarly, when the point-of-view rotates to Wasaf, an outsider to the city, there is backstory that does not feel like exposition. The world, with its speculative elements, is translated with ease. 

There is, however, a missed opportunity to develop Medina’tul-Agham’s matriarchy further. Khadija uses her intelligence, logic, and determination to face the threats lurking in Medina’tul-Agham, prioritizing her mission over two suitors, but her journey remains an individualistic hero’s journey. The other women in the narrative—be it Imam Fatima, Khadija’s new friends, other female elders or various cliques attending the Circle—are given limited page time. 

What are all the different dimensions of these women? How do women within a matriarchy express their own vulnerabilities and support each others’? How do they handle conflict?We see Khadija apologizing for her reactions during a period of grief, but the onus of connection during troubled times falls on her. How would the nurturing traits of matriarchies, such as community building and cooperation, enable women and men to better care for each other, and address the divisions (and competition) that hatched between women with the arrival of the outsiders? That being said, the overall community-orientation in Islamic cultures does shine through in this novel, highlighting the alignment between matriarchal and Islamic beliefs. 

Perhaps the limited exploration of the matriarchy is simply a harrowing echo of the dissonance in the present-day–despite women’s movements, there are still barriers to applying matriarchal values in our current world. 

Where to dig for these answers? In the context of the story, I think of Khadija’s mother and how her death leaves Khadija to navigate girl and womanhood with few female characters in her life. What is the role of a mother within a matriarchy in preparing her young for the world (that Khadija missed out on)? How would it differ from how young girls and women are prepared for the constantly changing, diverse world today?

She looked up at the heavens and saw the pale brilliance of the full moon at the same time as the thinnest of crescents and every phase in between. The mystery of it made her think of her mother, whom she could no longer remember, and she sat up to stare at it in wonder, hugging her knees to her chest. She felt the comforting presence of her father, radiating love and encouragement again. She turned to look at him, but he wasn’t there, and she realized that he wasn’t beside her at all as she had thought, but behind…It was with this realization that she awoke. As-salaam-walaikum, she thought. She did not know whom she had felt compelled to greet, but she felt at peace.

Hussain’s experimentation in this novel is a breath of fresh air. An immersion in philosophical battlefields through propelling plot points and steady story beats, while basking in charming (albeit clear, unembellished) language. The scenes of Khadija scavenging the Quran and her father’s issued fatwas to reconcile her reason, gut, and heart, stay with me, as does the tug of war between universal application of religion and local customs. Her quest for solutions in a society facing change, whether it be the rights of religious minorities or Muslim women seeking marriage to suitors outside of the faith, eerily resemble present-day conundrums. In these ways, and through what is left unsaid, Under the Full and Crescent Moon does what alternate history does best: prompts readers to check their assumptions, to trace the roots of what they know or have been told, to venture into unknown scenarios.

Writing fictional characters, especially marginalized ones crossing thorny subjects, is an effort tangled in our own assumptions and limitations, and Hussain, as a debut novelist, has bravely taken the plunge. For readers unafraid to ponder historical and theological possibilities, Under the Full and Crescent Moon will be a contemplative, wholesome expedition. 

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Under the Full and Crescent Moon is available from Dundurn Press.