Before I get started, I'd like to say thank you to both to NetGalley and Harper Voyager for the ARC in exchange for an honest review. I'd also like to offer a disclaimer: I've known the author for years online. While I would like to say that my opinions are unbiased, I'm afraid that I cannot claim to be wholly unprejudiced where my friends are concerned, even if that bias is subconscious. However, I will do my best to offer my unsolicited, earnest feedback with this review.
Now that we are all on the same page...
Have you ever heard of "lightning in a bottle"? Or it may be more appropriate to call what Elsbai has captured as "djinn in a bottle," because novels like The Daughters of Izdihar, the first of a series called The Alamaxa Duology, make storytelling look less like craft and more like magic. The writing is propulsive and thoroughly cinematic -- utterly unputdownable after you read that first page -- which is a quality that made series like Harry Potter or The Hunger Games absolute blockbusters. If this isn't the novel everyone on BookTok is talking about in 2023, I'll eat my hat.
Daughters is set in a fantastical country inspired by a historical Egypt known as Ramsawa. There, manipulators of one of the four elements (fire, earth, air, and water), known as weavers, are tolerated for their innate powers at best and scorned as heretical by religious acolytes at worst. They are feared for their capabilities; as are Ramsawi women, who are held in just as much contempt as weavers, if not more so.
In the face of such oppression, two women -- Nehal and Giorgina -- are coming of age in the Ramsawi city of Alamaxa amidst a rising tide of change for both women and weavers. Both are involved in the feminist organization known as The Daughters of Izdihar, which not only serves women practically by offering food and sourcing healthcare, but also politically, as its members fight for suffrage and equal protection under the law. Both are also weavers, and weavers are also beginning to experience some amount of freedom, as the long-shuttered Alamaxa Academy of the Weaving Arts reopens for the first time in two centuries. It's the only formal school where men can learn to harness and utilize their magical gift (and women, too, for an exorbitant price). Looming on the horizon, however, is the threat of war from a neighboring country, not to mention the threats posed by violence from within, like police who brutalize protestors with impunity. One stray gust of errant wind could bring a tempest to Ramsawa, and that tension is illustrated on every page.
It is a delicate balancing act to propel the plot forward and not lose sight of any one of these disparate elements, which a lesser author might be prone to do. But Elsbai handles her narrative with ease, much like a water weaver who transforms liquid into ice into steam back to liquid again. A lot of this ease is owed to the specificity of the world-building, and how readers slip undetected between each narrative, experiencing first-hand how a privileged aristocrat like Nehal and a working-class romantic like Giorgina can inhabit the same city, but entirely different worlds.
What also makes this balance possible is how each character is rendered, primarily, with empathy and compassion. This is a choice that runs parallel to the hero's journey Nehal and Giorgina are both on, as Nehal learns how to advocate for others, and Giorgina learns how to advocate for herself. That these lessons are inextricable from their pursuit of justice in the face of overwhelming odds is the point. The personal is political in The Daughters of Izdihar. They may be able to manipulate grains of sand or gusts of wind, but it is these women believing in each other which grants them their most salient, fearsome power: the power to effect change.
Most importantly, though? This book is fun. It is *extremely* hard not to root for a ragtag group of characters who are fighting against a violent heteropatriarchy, which I would argue will be refreshingly cathartic to read in 2023. (It was in 2022!)
Five out of five stars.