Omani writer and author of Silken Gazelles, Jokha Alharthi.
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Omani writer Jokha Alharthi’s new novel, Silken Gazelles (Simon & Schuster), translated from the Arabic by Marilyn Booth, begins dramatically. A woman is suddenly told of her father’s death; and as she gives a loud wail, her baby girl, Layla, who she had been clutching, falls out of her hands, and lands into the arms of one of the mourners. The mourner, Saada, has a 10-month-old child of her own—Asiya, and as she offers her breast to the child she plucks from the air, she names her Ghazaala, or gazelle. Alharthi, who won the 2019 Man Booker International Prize, along with translator Marilyn Booth, for her novel Celestial Bodies, deftly tells the story of the milk-sisters in her new book, and of their journey from village to city, the changes they encounter, and the grief they carry. Edited excerpts from an interview:
How were the characters Ghazaala and Asiya born?
I first thought about Ghazaala. I was thinking of her for months without writing a word. Then I wrote a few scenes that I did not like and deleted them. At that point, Asiya came along and I started again, writing about them both. You might say that the characters were born—and reborn—in the writing and rewriting of the novel.
Like in your earlier books, one of the strands in ‘Silken Gazelles’ is the acute grief carried by different generations. Do you think women carry grief differently through the ages?
Or perhaps they have been expected to carry it? We are, differently, experiencing the strengths of women, through and beyond grief, in all of the novels. Perhaps one important point is that it does not get easier — there is a perception that it is easier for the younger generation. But sometimes the illusion of modern freedom does not translate into an ease of agency or actual freedom. I think a lot about Maliha in Silken Gazelles — she’s only a few years older than Ghazaala but seems to have less freedom of movement, or self-expression.
Themes of patriarchy, love, loss, class relations, sisterhood dominate ‘Silken Gazelles’ too. Are these the dominant concerns in Omani society?
I do not see myself, nor any writer, as a definitive spokesperson for Omani society. Our society, like any other, is a tapestry woven with intricate threads of diversity, layered with complexities that resist singular interpretations. Omani society is as multifaceted and paradoxical as any other, filled with competing narratives and lived realities. What interests me as a writer are the subtle nuances and tensions that define human relationships—the intricate dance between love and power, the evolving dynamics of friendship, and the silent yet potent currents of social class and gender. It is in the interstices of relationships, in the unspoken words and fleeting moments, that I find the richest material. My work reflects the diversity and contradictions inherent in our society, not as a means of explanation, but as a way to engage with the ever-shifting landscape of human existence.
Arabic literature is old, and the English speaking world is just discovering it. How important is the art and craft of translation?
We are lucky to have literature in translation. It allows us to transcend the boundaries of language, culture, and geography. Through translation, we gain access to the vast and varied landscapes of human experience. It is offering us insights into lives, emotions, and histories that would otherwise remain foreign and inaccessible.
Imagine the loss if we were confined to stories only within our own language — how narrow our understanding of the world would be, how limited our empathy. In India this must be particularly true — to think of India and see India must be quite different in Kerala and in Assam, or in Tamil or in Gujarati. Through translation, however, we are able to encounter the wisdom of Confucius, the magic realism of Gabriel García Márquez, the timelessness of Tagore and the intensity of Dostoevsky — all without leaving the comfort of our own language.
There are many Arabic authors that I like. In this particular moment in time, in history, I would recommend writers from Palestine. Reading Adania Shibli’s Minor Detail may change the viewpoint of many readers with regard to what happened in Palestine in 1948. The novelist Ghassan Kanafani and the poet Mahmoud Darwish are a must. From Oman, I would suggest Zahran Alqasmy.
‘I do not see myself nor any writer as a definitive spokesperson for Omani society,’ says the writer.
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Getty Images
When the world is in turmoil, how important is it to hear voices of women, who usually face the brunt in a conflict situation?
I think it is always important. Perhaps because fiction helps us to concentrate on the individual fate of characters? Or at least to a certain extent. Whereas global turmoil is quite hard to think about because we are removed from the lives of individual women in Gaza or Ukraine or Sudan or Yemen.
The novel can also do something valuable in taking us away from the generalised narrative of current affairs and allowing the imagination to run free. This is why, in a novel, it is nice to leave a little room for the reader to fill in the details of the scenes, to feel that they are in close proximity with the characters and their stories.
sudipta.datta@thehindu.co.in
Published – October 11, 2024 09:05 am IST
