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A Small Death by Mohammad Hassan Alwan: A Soul-Stirring Portrait of Ibn Arabi
A haunting, humanizing historical novel that traces the mystic’s path through love, loss, and divine longing across Andalusia and the Islamic world.
🎥 Scroll to the end of the article to watch the full video review from The Nook.
Let us begin, not with a dramatic start, but with a slow breath—a pause before diving into deep, sometimes dirty waters. A Small Death is less a novel and more a journey. Not the superficial kind with travel photos in Mecca or Córdoba. No. This is a hard, soul-testing walk through the dust, pain, and deep longing of Ibn Arabi’s life—written with both care and harsh honesty.
Mohammad Hassan Alwan has achieved something remarkable. He’s written a novel about the most mysterious of Islamic mystics—Shaykh al-Akbar, the Great Master, the poet-theologian who said he saw God in a woman’s face—and instead of making him a saint, Alwan does something more daring: he shows his humanity. He makes him suffer, desire, leave others, lie, preach, cry, and yes—sell slaves. This isn’t a flawless life story. This is a sensitive, honest portrait of a man who was grounded in the real world even as he dreamed of higher things.
The novel starts with a story trick. A manuscript, moving across the centuries—from 13th-century Azerbaijan to 21st-century Lebanon—like a lost object that keeps appearing. It’s a clever literary device, but Alwan’s goal is not just to be clever—he wants to move you deeply. The heart of the novel is Ibn Arabi’s own story, starting not at birth, but just before. Yes, from the womb. It may sound odd, but the story’s honest voice makes it believable from the first line. It feels like we are not just being told a story, but invited to experience it ourselves.
And what a story it is.
Alwan’s Ibn Arabi is always divided between the physical and the spiritual. A boy from busy Andalusian streets, who later wanders through Aleppo, Baghdad, Jerusalem, and Mecca, always in search of knowledge, love, and closeness to the divine. He loves the mysterious Nizam, even naming a poem after her, and loses himself in wine, poetry, and spiritual discoveries. Just when you feel close to him, Alwan reminds you of the difficult truths and contradictions in pursuing holiness.
This is not a clean or idealized spiritual journey. There are slaves—owned, sold, and called "like family," which is a disturbing contrast. Wives are left behind with children as Ibn Arabi continues his travels, appearing more loyal to his Sufi friends than to the women in his life. The story reveals betrayal, weakness, and selfishness—honestly. Alwan does not excuse his character. He simply shows that his flaws remain a part of his story.
And therein lies the novel’s brilliance.
Alwan is not just writing a historical novel, but exploring memories. He looks beyond the legend of Ibn Arabi—not to lessen him, but to show him clearly. The unpleasant aspects are present, but so is the greatness. The writing—beautifully translated by William M. Hutchins—moves between the ordinary and the spiritual. Some passages feel like rising smoke in a quiet place, and others feel like sharp reality.
One minute you ponder metaphysical deceit; the next, you wince at Ibn Arabi’s cruel indifference to a dying friend. His detachment toward Badr, his companion through hardship, reads as emotional neglect. It’s ugly but true. That’s the point—spiritual greatness clashes with moral imperfection.
This novel doesn’t ask you to like Ibn Arabi. It dares you to witness him.
Structurally, A Small Death is a slow burn. If you want your historical fiction tight and punchy, you may drift off before Fez. But surrender to its rhythms—detours, monologues, sacred digressions—and you may find yourself changed. It’s not easy. Neither is the journey to God.
Don’t forget: the novel is also funny. Dry, sly, and quietly subversive. There’s no slapstick, but there’s a wink in the prose. Alwan knows the sacred can be absurd. Even mystics get sick. Even saints sulk.
By the final pages, as Ibn Arabi’s bones tremble on his way to the grave, the truth is simple: all enlightenment is earned in increments—through humiliation, longing, and a thousand small deaths.
In the end, A Small Death is a great novel about a great man made small by time, desire, and the beautiful failures of being human.
If you love poetry, Sufism, or simply the exquisite ache of a well-told story, let this book break you.
And then, maybe—just maybe—it’ll put you back together.