Review of Kaveh Akbar's Martyr!

Kaveh Akbar, an Iranian-American poet celebrated for his collections Calling a Wolf a Wolf and Pilgrim Bell, steps into fiction with Martyr!, published in 2024 by Knopf. A finalist for the 2024 National Book Award, this debut novel follows Cyrus Shams, a young Iranian-American poet navigating addiction, grief, and the search for meaning after his mother’s death in the 1988 Iran Air Flight 655 tragedy. Blending poetic prose, multiple perspectives, and historical weight, the book explores identity and resilience. Its thesis argues that the pursuit of a meaningful life, even through trauma, fosters profound self-discovery and connection: “A life could be meaningful, even if it ended”

This serves as a wake-up call, revealing the ground reality of living between cultures while offering hope for healing. For Indian readers, its focus on identity and emotional strength resonates deeply, making it a must-read for those navigating societal pressures and personal struggles. Akbar’s lyrical, intimate style, like a friend sharing a heartfelt story over chai, invites reflection on life’s deeper questions.

Martyr! traces Cyrus Shams, a 28-year-old poet in recovery from addiction, as he seeks purpose in a life shaped by loss. Set in Indiana and New York, the novel weaves realism, dream sequences, and voices from Cyrus’s mother, Roya, his uncle, Arash, and others, drawing on the Iran Air Flight 655 disaster, where a U.S. missile killed 290 civilians. The narrative explores grief, cultural dislocation, and the power of art to heal.

The story begins with Cyrus’s fixation on martyrdom: “He wanted his death to mean something, like his mother’s didn’t” (Akbar, 2024, p. 8). Orphaned after Roya’s death and his father’s passing, Cyrus feels unmoored: “Grief was the air he breathed” (p. 13). His past addiction lingers: “Booze and pills gave him purpose, until they didn’t” (p. 25). Sober now, he struggles with his poetry: “His poems were stuck, like his life” (p. 30).

Cyrus’s quest to write a book on martyrs drives the plot: “Martyrdom was his way to wrestle with meaning” (p. 42). A tweet about Orkideh, an Iranian-American artist staging her death as art in Brooklyn, sparks his journey: “She was turning her death into art” (p. 55). With his friend and lover, Zee, Cyrus heads to New York: “Zee was his anchor, but also his mirror” (p. 60). Their bond is complex: “Love was messy, but it was all they had” (p. 65).

Flashbacks reveal Roya’s life in 1980s Iran: “Roya dreamed of a life beyond borders” (p. 80). Her love for Leila, a woman fleeing abuse, adds depth: “Love was her rebellion, her risk” (p. 85). Arash, Cyrus’s uncle, shares his wartime role: “Arash rode through battlefields, pretending to be an angel” (p. 110). His acts of comfort haunt Cyrus: “The angel was a lie, but it gave them peace” (p. 115).

In Brooklyn, Cyrus connects with Orkideh: “Their Iranian roots were a bridge across time” (p. 140). Her perspective shifts his thinking: “Death doesn’t need to be grand to matter” (p. 145). A shocking revelation unfolds: Orkideh is Roya, who survived the crash but built a new life: “She was alive, but not as his mother anymore” (p. 200). This reframes Cyrus’s grief: “His mother’s life was a kind of martyrdom” (p. 205).

Healing comes through art and connection: “Writing was his way to stitch the pieces together” (p. 220). Cyrus’s dreams, featuring figures like Lisa Simpson, blend humor and insight: “Dreams were where he argued with the world” (p. 230). The novel ends with hope, suggesting transformation: “He wasn’t whole, but he was healing” (p. 290). Akbar emphasizes resilience: “Life was the art of carrying on” (p. 295).

The novel’s greatest strength is its poetic prose, crafting a vivid, emotional narrative. Akbar’s language, lyrical yet grounded, feels like a friend unpacking a profound tale: “A life could be meaningful, even if it ended” (Akbar, 2024, p. 10). The historical anchor of the Iran Air Flight 655 disaster adds weight: “He wanted his death to mean something, like his mother’s didn’t” (p. 8). For Indian readers, this echoes the pain of collective tragedies like the 1984 riots.

Cyrus’s arc is deeply human: “Grief was the air he breathed” (p. 13). His battles with addiction and identity are universal: “Booze and pills gave him purpose, until they didn’t” (p. 25). The multi-voiced structure, including Roya and Arash, enriches the story: “Roya dreamed of a life beyond borders” (p. 80). Dream sequences add creativity: “Dreams were where he argued with the world” (p. 230).

The exploration of cultural dislocation is poignant: “Their Iranian roots were a bridge across time” (p. 140). Indian readers, navigating dual identities, will find this relatable. The novel’s humor, like Cyrus’s imagined talks with pop culture icons, balances the heaviness: “Life was the art of carrying on” (p. 295). Akbar’s focus on art as healing inspires: “Writing was his way to stitch the pieces together” (p. 220). The novel’s compact yet layered structure suits busy readers.

The novel’s American setting limits its cultural scope. Focused on Iranian-American experiences, it overlooks parallels to Indian issues like caste or communal tensions: “Their Iranian roots were a bridge across time” (p. 140). A broader lens would enhance relevance. The non-linear structure, with dreams and shifting voices, can feel disorienting: “Dreams were where he argued with the world” (p. 230). Indian readers, used to straightforward stories, may find this tough.

Female characters, like Roya and Orkideh, are compelling but often secondary: “She was alive, but not as his mother anymore” (p. 200). Their arcs lack the depth of Cyrus’s, limiting emotional impact. Solutions, like writing for healing, are poetic but vague: “Writing was his way to stitch the pieces together” (p. 220). Indian youth, facing practical challenges, may want more actionable advice. American pop culture references may feel distant: “Dreams were where he argued with the world” (p. 230).

Why Indian Youth Readers Must Read This Book

Indian youth, wrestling with academic stress and societal expectations, will find Martyr! a heartfelt guide to resilience and self-discovery. Cyrus’s struggle with identity mirrors the ground reality of balancing tradition and modernity in India: “Grief was the air he breathed” (Akbar, 2024, p. 13). For students tackling board exams or UPSC preparations, this is a wake-up call to face challenges with hope, not despair, and to see setbacks as steps toward growth.

The novel’s focus on loss and recovery speaks to youth facing mental health pressures: “Booze and pills gave him purpose, until they didn’t” (p. 25). In a system heavy on rote learning, Cyrus’s search for meaning inspires: “Martyrdom was his way to wrestle with meaning” (p. 42). The theme of cultural dislocation resonates with those navigating globalized identities: “Their Iranian roots were a bridge across time” (p. 140).

Akbar’s emphasis on art as healing empowers creative minds: “Writing was his way to stitch the pieces together” (p. 220). For youth in a tough job market, chasing roles in tech or startups, the story’s hope offers strength: “He wasn’t whole, but he was healing” (p. 290). Like a friend sharing wisdom over chai, Martyr! urges Indian youth to find purpose amidst chaos, making it a must-read for those playing catch-up in a fast-paced world.

Martyr! is a luminous, soulful exploration of grief, identity, and healing, with lines like “Life was the art of carrying on” (Akbar, 2024, p. 295) capturing its essence. Its poetic depth and emotional resonance outweigh its Western focus and complex structure. Recommended for literature lovers and those seeking stories of resilience, it offers a profound perspective on identity, especially meaningful for Indian youth navigating personal and cultural challenges.