This article examines three literary narratives from distinct cultural backgrounds – Hayy Ibn Yaqzan (Islamic), Robinson Crusoe (European colonial), and Mai An Tiêm (Vietnamese)  — through the lens of the human-nature relationship. Although each protagonist experiences isolation on an island, their interactions with nature reflect fundamentally different ecological and moral worldviews. Hayy represents a model of harmony with nature as a manifestation of cosmic order; Tiêm embodies a respectful, agricultural collaboration with the land as a path to moral redemption; while Crusoe exemplifies an extractive, utilitarian stance rooted in the colonial capitalist mindset of the 17th and 18th centuries.

By comparing these texts, the article argues that literature not only encodes metaphysical and philosophical ideas but also expresses cultural attitudes toward the planet and its inhabitants. In an era of unprecedented global ecological degradation, such comparative readings become increasingly urgent. While modern systems perpetuate environmental and social exploitation —  through arms trade, land dispossession, disregard for non-human life as evident in the destruction of ecosystems, intellectual domination, or violent conflicts — world literature offers multiple lenses for dismantling monocultural thinking and imagining more ecologically just futures.

This article has a story contribution by Hanh T. L. Nguyen, Social Research and Cultural Studies, National Yang Ming Chiao Tung University.

Introduction: Islands as Cultural Mirrors

The idea for this short comparative essay emerged from a conversation with my supervisor (Ya-Chung Chuang) [1] about his ongoing research on the transformations brought about by urbanization not through humans, but through the interrogation of space and animals. His project approaches urban change by examining how the environment and non-human life forms are affected by development.   I thought that ​​viewing humans as beings that, like non-humans, are part of nature rather than its masters or exploiters, is essential to rethinking our ecological patterns. I later discussed this idea with my friend and colleague Hanh, mentioning Hayy Ibn Yaqzan and Robinson Crusoe. As we talked about their shared themes of solitude, survival, and the search for meaning, Hanh suggested adding a Vietnamese folk tale, Mai An Tiêm, to broaden the comparison. Her idea helped shape this article into a reflection on how three different cultures imagine the figure of a man alone on an island, and what that setting reveals about their views on nature, knowledge, and civilization.

The image of the deserted island has captured the imagination of storytellers across cultures and centuries. Stripped of civilization, an island becomes not merely a geographic space, but a philosophical and moral fabric. What does a person become when isolated from society? Do they master the island, or become one with it? Do they return transformed, or seek to transform others?

This article compares three island stories from vastly different cultures and historical moments:

• Hayy Ibn Yaqzan, a  12th-century Islamic philosophical tale by Ibn Tufayl [2];
• Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe’s 18th-century English novel; and
• Mai An Tiêm, a Vietnamese folk story.

Though each features a protagonist marooned or exiled on an island, their philosophical assumptions diverge. These stories reflect not just individual journeys but cultural worldviews about knowledge, nature, authority, and the self. In today’s world, dominated by a Western logic of extraction, and conquest, it is urgent to re-engage with alternative imaginaries, both from within and beyond Western traditions, that rethink our relationship to the world not as a resource to be exploited, but as a web of relations we live within. These tales offer us competing visions. What we choose to learn from them may shape how we understand our ecological crisis, colonial pasts, and social futures.

I. Hayy Ibn Yaqzan: Philosophical Awakening in Nature’s Embrace

Written by the Andalusian polymath Ibn Tufayl in the 12th century, Hayy Ibn Yaqzan is often regarded as the first philosophical novel. The title translates as “Alive, Son of the Awake” with Hayy meaning “alive” and Yaqzan meaning “awake.” The name itself signals the themes of vitality and spiritual awareness. The narrative centers on a boy raised by a gazelle on a deserted island, entirely isolated from human society. Without language, scripture, or guidance, Hayy learns by observing nature, dissecting animals, contemplating the heavens, and gradually rising from material curiosity to metaphysical insight.

Through rational inquiry and intuition, Hayy comes to recognize the existence of a Creator. He develops a form of natural theology that mirrors the Sufi mysticism. Hayy’s path is one of solitary enlightenment, echoing the idea that truth is accessible through reason and inner purification, independent of society or revelation.

When Hayy finally meets another human, a traveler from a nearby island named Absal, he is initially eager to share his knowledge. But upon visiting society, Hayy finds that most people are either unwilling or unable to grasp the truth he has discovered. He returns to solitude, concluding that truth may not be teachable to the masses.

In Ibn Tufayl’s Hayy ibn Yaqzan, we witness not just the story of a solitary man on a deserted island, but the unfolding of a unique civilizational experiment, one where the world is built from scratch. Hayy, raised by a gazelle and untouched by human society, does not inherit culture, religion, or even language in the traditional sense. Instead, he learns by observing nature, by feeling the pulse of the universe through his senses and intellect. This journey, as Younus Mirza suggests, is more than a self-discovery; it is a form of civilizational birth in which knowledge comes before community, and ethics emerge not from rules but from harmony with nature (Božović, 2017). If we view Hayy’s island through the lens of Chuang’s concepts of social formation and spatial construction, we find a radical alternative to state power and organized religion. Hayy does not conquer a space like Crusoe, nor is he embedded in a dynastic economy like Prince Ban. His is an island of epistemic freedom. Yet, the ending is not without tension: when Hayy finally meets society, the reader is left to wonder whether his pure, self-formed knowledge can survive the corruption of statehood and orthodoxy. In this way, Hayy’s journey becomes an allegory for the larger question of how place, power, and knowledge interact and whether it is possible to truly think and live outside inherited systems (Božović, 2017).

Hayy’s journey exemplifies Islamic humanism: the belief that humans possess the faculties, both rational and spiritual, to ascend toward divine understanding. The story challenges the authority of dogma and emphasizes direct experience of the world and self.

II. Robinson Crusoe: Enlightenment Rationality and Colonial Conquest

Published in 1719, Robinson Crusoe is widely considered the first English novel. Daniel Defoe’s protagonist is a European castaway who survives 28 years on a deserted island. Crusoe, unlike Hayy, is a product of capitalist modernity: industrious, pragmatic, and thoroughly rational. He catalogues, builds, colonizes, and transforms the island into a microcosm of European civilization.

His survival is framed not as spiritual awakening, but as the triumph of Enlightenment virtues: reason, labor, and dominion over nature. Nature is not a teacher but raw material to be subdued. In one famous passage, Crusoe reflects on how he improves the land and gives thanks to God for his industriousness, blending Protestant work ethic with imperial arrogance.

The arrival of Friday, an Indigenous man whom Crusoe “saves” from cannibals, introduces a disturbing racial and civilizational hierarchy. Crusoe renames him, teaches him English, converts him to Christianity. Friday becomes a servant, a student, and a symbol of the “civilizing mission.”

Image is generated by author using AI, portrays Crusoe’s domination over the island, symbolizing colonial conquest and the exploitation of both people and natural resources.

Crusoe’s island is an allegory of Western colonialism, rooted in the belief that uninhabited lands await discovery and cultivation. His “empire of one” reflects the Enlightenment’s anthropocentrism, and the racialized power dynamic with Friday anticipates the logic of empire, slavery, and modern capitalism.

In contemporary terms, Crusoe’s story mirrors how the West views the world as an open island to be mastered, exploited, and “developed.” The environmental and social consequences of such a worldview are now all too visible.

III. Mai An Tiêm: Moral Fortitude, Confucian Harmony, and Redemption through Nature

The Vietnamese folk tale of Mai An Tiêm (sometimes known as Prince Ban), as explored in ecological readings of traditional narratives (Lê Đức, 2025), likely dates to centuries of oral storytelling. In the most common version, Mai An Tiêm, a royal servant or adopted son, is banished to a deserted island for claiming that his success came from Heaven (Trời) rather than royal favor. His exile is not a punishment for wrongdoing, but a test of humility and moral character.

On the island, An Tiêm does not attempt to conquer the landscape. Instead, he observes, survives, and plants seeds dropped by a bird. These grow into watermelons, a fruit previously unknown. He inscribes his name onto them, and when they drift back to the mainland, the king learns of his survival and invites him back, recognizing his virtue and resilience.

Unlike Crusoe’s rationalism or Hayy’s mysticism, An Tiêm embodies Confucian ideals: loyalty, endurance, and self-cultivation. He also reflects Daoist values of harmony with nature and quiet acceptance of fate. His labor is not aimed at profit, but appears as a moral demonstration of sincerity and cosmic trust.

The tale suggests that Heavenly justice supersedes human authority. Exile becomes a path to redemption, and nature is a quiet ally, not a threat or servant.

In Vietnamese traditional narratives, particularly those examined by Le Duc (2025), folklore functions not simply as entertainment but as an ensemble of ecological parables that train the imagination toward sustainable living. These stories consistently unfold around human‑nature entanglements where the land speaks, the seasons teach, and the harvest is a moral contract. In the tale of Mai An Tiêm, this ethos is visible: the hero does not “conquer” the island or extract its bounty for profit, but uses watermelon seeds entrusted by nature itself, writing his name on them, and allowing their drift back to the mainland as a symbol of reciprocity and relational stewardship. This contrasts with the extractive logic of empire. Thus, the Vietnamese model offers a third spatial logic: not domination, not mere isolation, but dialogic co‑habitation with place. By reading Prince Tiêm’s myth through this lens, we uncover how indigenous narrative memory embedded an environmental ethics long before the modern concept of “ecology” emerged, suggesting that what we call “sustainability” has roots not only in policy but in tradition. 

Mai An Tiêm’s story resists the Western logic of colonial domination or individualistic enlightenment. It affirms that integrity, trust in fate, and respectful labor are paths to survival and honor. His return is not triumphant conquest but restorative justice; he is welcomed not as a ruler, but as a man of moral strength.