Son of Sin by Omar Sakr
“Jamal stared, appalled. The Smiths were a family of unspoken secrets, of the-walls-are-listening sign language: direct speech was abhorred, a profound thing that had to be earned, and which you were never meant to actually earn, at least not while the adults were alive. They wanted to keep their shames secret, as proper.”
Son of Sin (2022) is the debut full-length novel from prize-winning Arab Australian poet Omar Sakr. What might be seen as a detour from his impressive recognition as an acclaimed poet is actually a culmination of Sakr’s own lived experiences and a bringing together of his unique, lyrical prose to tell a perspective distinctly missing from current Australian literature.
Spanning Australia, Turkey, and Lebanon, Son of Sin is told in four parts that chart the conflict through one man's life and his attempts to reconcile his identity against familial and religious duties and a backdrop of trauma.
Jamal Smith is a young Muslim teen living in Western Sydney, on the precipice of his emerging sexual identity. We meet Jamal while he and his large extended family are fasting as part of Ramadan. This time is characterised for Jamal and his young peers by denial and suppression of their wants and needs:
“No food, no water, no cursing, no violence, no sex, no masturbation - not even smoke could pass your lips from sunrise to sunset during Ramadan. It was a hard reset, learning how to go willingly from feast to famine, to redefine feast as anything.”
This foundation of famine is built on as he is increasingly aware of his own desires. The consequences of sin and avoiding being sinful preoccupy him as he tries to navigate a growing knowledge of his sexual urges:
“It was haram to eat pork, to drink alcohol, to do drugs, to be with girls before marriage, to speak back to your mother, to disobey your elders, to listen to music, to piss while standing up, to leave shoes on their side or up, their dirty soles facing God. Each year it grew and grew, this tree of sin, crowned by the ultimate taboo: that no boy should love another boy.”
After experiencing his first sexual awakening on a holy Ramadan night with a male friend, Jamal’s struggles as sin and desire start to compound. As a young teen, his fears around sinning take the shape of nightmares: he is haunted by a djinn who takes his form with “molten black” eyes and a “look of malevolent joy.” As he gets older, his fears morph into a self-perpetuated cycle of hidden sexual experimentation, self-abuse, doubt, hate, and isolation.
In part two, Jamal has impulsively left Australia for Turkey to meet his estranged father and attempt to pull together some connection to a part of his heritage that has been previously dismissed. But he returns home, disappointed, unable to reconcile his need for a guiding father figure with the stranger he comes face to face with:
“Jamal’s teeth were pressed so tight together he was sure they would snap, and his blood roared, as his father continued telling the story of his mundane miracle …The revelation cycled through him with startling intensity, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sheer absurd simplicity of it. Simplicity or arrogance, madness or genius, what do you call it when a man prays to God for a sin and claims its deliverance as answer?”
As an adult, Jamal’s mental health deteriorates as the pressures of excavating his queer identity alongside emerging memories of a traumatic and violent past and family secrets begin to surface. Childhood memories of abuse and violent punishments for the slightest misdemeanor start to consume him - the internalised narrative that he is “ibn haram:” a son of sin.
Sakr slots moments of Australia’s modern history into the narrative; Jamal watches the 2005 Cronulla riots unfold on the news and ignores his family's “nonsense” as they all group chat to remind each other to vote no in the 2017 same-sex marriage plebiscite. In doing so, Sakr reminds us that Jamal’s experiences of rage, racism, and bias continue to ripple across society - that individuals like Jamal are still fighting to be seen in their full capacity as human beings.
Sakr’s masterful poetic craft is evident throughout, but there are also many vivid scenes of conflict and brutality. At times, these are difficult to read. There is little respite from these scenes as much of the book is taken up by Jamal’s demons; however, there are a few moments of warmth. Jamal falls in love and cultivates friendships with other young men amongst whom he feels seen and accepted.
While a much-needed narrative, I did feel the book was uneven and perhaps another edit would have elevated the pace and narrative. The first part takes up almost half the book, providing the reader with enough detail to accept Jamal’s motivations (even if sometimes these are questionable) in the remaining parts. But we are often returned to the details of the first part throughout.
Sakr’s lyrical prose is strong, at times, the descriptive language was layered too thickly. Similes work best for me when used sparingly, and in a novel of this length, with so many characters and richly detailed scenes, similes could have taken more of a backseat.
But these are minor thoughts in a book that will undoubtedly be welcomed for the fresh characters and hit of complexity it offers the Australian literary scene.
Elaine Mead is a freelance writer and book reviewer, currently residing in nipaluna (Hobart), Tasmania. She is passionate about the ways we can use literature to learn from our experiences to become more authentic versions of ourselves and obsessed with showing you photos of her Dachshund puppy. You can find her online under www.wordswithelaine.com.
