The Hand of Iman finds friendship in a brutally unequal society | Canada Voices

The latest novel by Beninese-Canadian author Ryad Assani-Razaki, The Hand of Iman, is a work as layered as it is urgent. Structured around elemental tenets of faith and centred on a cast of interwoven voices, the novel unfolds in an unnamed but unmistakably African setting, where the promise of Western wealth and safety feels distant, even illusory.

In a brutally unequal society scarred by child slavery and false promises of Western salvation, two boys – Toumani, a survivor hardened by suffering, and Iman, a dreamer desperate to escape – forge a fragile friendship shaped by trauma, longing and a shared love that exposes the futility of hope in a world where survival offers no guarantee of freedom.

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Assani-Razaki’s characters, especially the women, are written with a fierce interiority that defies narrative simplicity. The book moves between brutality and grace, casting religion not as a force of repression but as a source of purpose, clarity and moral resistance.

In an interview, Assani-Razaki spoke about adaptation, belief and the weight of history on personal fate – and why he believes The Hand of Iman is, ultimately, a message of hope.

Early in the novel, Toumani reflects: “As a solution to my situation, I had settled for adaptation, the only way for me – as for human beings in general – to master my condition.” I’ve been thinking about this line in the context of war and those who suffer from it. Do you feel this sentiment leans more toward self-defeat or resolve?

I haven’t experienced war, so I want to be sensitive in answering this. What I can say is that, in a general context of hardship, adaptation can be seen as resolve, depending on perspective. Adaptation doesn’t mean a refusal to change one’s condition. Instead, it means transitioning to a state where your circumstances, while still being acknowledged, do not coerce your decisions.

For instance, in a boxing match, a blow hurts, and the natural response is to run from the pain. Adaptation, in that context, means accepting that you must endure the blow – it’s the only way to bring yourself close enough to your opponent to defeat them. The Taoists define acceptance not as a refusal to change a situation, but as taking control over your reality before you can alter it.

I found the character of Hadja fascinating – she reminded me of my own mother, especially in her devotion to God. You incorporate Islamic faith into a fully fleshed-out character, rather than inserting religion for its own sake. What do you hope this book communicates about a religion that is so often scrutinized and misunderstood?

Hadja has been one of the most entertaining characters I’ve ever written, in part because she’s the most distant from me. She is very old, very wise, but most importantly, she accepts all the hurdles of life without complaint. This is where her religion plays an important part.

Today, particularly in the West, religion is perceived as a force that “pushes outward,” from a centre that is generally seen as foreign – especially in the case of Islam – and as something that constrains freedom. It’s often reduced to a set of prohibitions: You should not eat pork, you should not engage in intimacy outside of marriage and so on. It’s seen as a wave that topples the building blocks of what we define as freedom.

I wanted to write a character who reverses that perspective. Hadja pulls religion inward and uses it as a toolset to build up her strength and resolve. Rather than “What should I not do?” it becomes “What should I do?” Religion becomes a guide that defines her direction, her purpose – it’s the clay that moulds her.

You chose not to name the novel’s setting, though there are clear references to Black Africa. What guided that decision?

Evidently, the story is based on personal experience. So, the setting is that environment familiar to me, which is Black Africa. However, naming the country posed the risk of restricting the experience to that specific place or its political climate, and that would have changed the message significantly.

It was important to show that this isn’t a critique of a specific country or leader, but a description of a shared human experience across Africa – shaped by slavery, colonialism and neo-colonialism. Every individual destiny has been altered as a result of the history that defined the continent as a whole.

This book is an ode to intergenerational trauma. Do you think, at this moment in history, we’re seeing breaks in the cycle, or does it persist in new forms?

It’s not so much a cycle of trauma that must be broken, but rather that each generation finds its own way of dealing with the burden of being alive. This is simply the story of humanity. And I don’t think it’s meant to ever stop.

Similarly, how did you settle on the name Iman for this character?

Iman loosely translates as faith or belief. But in an Islamic context, it carries a deeper meaning – one that’s often lost in English. Iman evokes a sense of security, peace, tranquillity and freedom from fear because of a deep-rooted conviction in a certain truth.

The book is a message of hope. This is a dark world, but we will get through – because we have Iman.

The title itself evokes a moment of generosity – Iman offers his hand to Toumani, a gesture of friendship and purity. Without giving too much away, we see that this purity is later challenged. Where do you locate hope in the book with that in mind?

This is an interesting question. The whole book is hopeful. We follow three generations of characters, and none of them ever gives up.

The Hand of Iman is also a play on the Hand of Fatima, a palm-shaped amulet used in North African and Middle Eastern tradition to ward off the evil eye. The Hand of Iman acknowledges that there is evil in the world – but also that we have the tools to fight it. That tool is the purity within us.

This interview has been edited and condensed.