Jokha Alharthi on Her Latest Novel: ‘Humans Connect through Stories’

Last month, Jokha Alharthi’s latest novel — her third in English translation — appeared in Marilyn Booth’s translation. In Silken Gazelles, an excerpt of which appears today on ArabLit, the author explores a childhood friendship and the traces of this special connection that linger in adulthood.

Alharthi burst onto the international literary scene when her first novel translated to English, Celestial Bodies, won the Man Booker International.

Alharthi and ArabLit’s Layla Faraj spoke about her latest novel in an interview that’s been translated and edited for clarity.

The town that Ghazala and Asiya grew up in was renamed during their childhood from Sharaat Bat to Al-Waha. Later on, Ghazala admits that the town will always be Shaarat Bat to her. This is but one instance where the concept of naming comes up in the novel. Can you tell me about the relationship you have to naming and names?

Jokha Alharthi: I came from a culture that believes names change people. In some regions in Oman when a child continuously falls ill, their parents turn to changing their name; the child is given a new, “lighter”, name than their birth name. In Silken Gazelles, when Harir’s grandfather is a young boy, he decides that he will change his own name to one that his father does not approve of. This boy will later become a pearl tradesman and he will live both the glory and the defeats of this trade in the Gulf.

As for the girl who is born at the beginning of the novel, she has two names:  Layla, a name which symbolizes both the lover and the beloved in the Arab heritage, and Ghazallah, a name which is associated with beauty, mobility, weightlessness, and a status which oscillates between amiability and brutality. Who used to call her Layla? And who calls her Ghazaala? I think that the implications of these questions are open to the reader’s interpretation.

In Oman there are many villages with strange names, some of which carry negative connotations such as “Soqam”, illness. Starting in the seventies many of these names have been changed to carry a more positive meaning. “Wabal” became “Manal”; Misfortune was now Achievement. “Soqam” became “Afiyah”; Illness turned into Good Health. It is in this vein that I imagined “Sharaat Bat” becoming “Al-Waha”: how will this change affect those who grew up with the old name?

One of my favorite characters in the novel is The Singer to The Queen, whose relationship with Ghazala is built on and made more intimate through the act of storytelling. Through their relationship, we also see how telling stories keeps Asiya, Saada, and Shaarat Bat alive for Ghazala. Do you see writing a novel as an extension of this relationship and attempt at preservation? What is the role of storytelling in human relationships?

JA: Humans connect through stories. Whenever we tell a story to someone else, we are allowing them to enter a space that is ours alone; with nothing but our words we have taken a space that was once ours and expanded it to include our listener. What will they do with our stories? Perhaps they will expand our story further or change its meaning by interpreting it as they wish. Stories allow for this exchange. They build a foundation of trust in relationships, whether platonic or romantic, and allow lovers to freely share their worlds with one another.  This is what occurred between Ghazaala and The Singer to the Queen. I am glad that The Singer to the Queen caught your attention, some readers don’t like him or don’t understand him.

To love is to have a lifelong relationship with grief. Losing Asiya leaves Ghazala in search of love in other relationships in her life. We see her attempt to know love in its different forms, while mourning a form of love that no longer exists: her childhood friendship. How are love and loss interacting in this novel, and how are they related to the act of growing older? Could you speak more on childhood friendship and what moved you to focus a novel on this special bond?

JA: In Silken Gazelles, a unique relationship is formed between two young girls, Ghazaala and Asiya. They grow up together like sisters despite their different personalities. Here we touch upon love, protection, the feeling of safety, security, and trust. All of these feelings are stirred up in Ghazaala’s future relationships as a mature woman and along her way to adulthood where she endures arduous phases of life and complicated relationships.

For that reason, I agree with you. Childhood friendships play an extremely important role in this novel. They affect concepts that are fundamental to Ghazaala, especially since she loses this important connection in her life forever.

On the other hand, there is the character Harir who was inseparable from her horse Loza during her childhood. Even though Harir did not ride for a long time , in the end she returns to her love of horses and riding, finding in it a way to connect with her own child.

You are the first Omani woman to have a novel translated into English, and your book, Celestial Bodies, is the first book translated from Arabic to win the Man Booker International Prize. What is your relationship to translation in English and other languages? Has your relationship to translation changed since your first book was translated to now?

JA: I believe that I am lucky because my novel was translated into English by a phenomenal translator, Marilyn Booth. She understands my writing’s sensibilities and makes room for Arabic and Omani words in her translation, whose timber becomes familiar over time to the English reader. I read her translations of Celestial Bodies, Bitter Orange Tree, and Silken Gazelles before they were published of course. We would discuss different topics and the discussions were always positive. As a writer, I understand the translator’s place and trust their ability and understanding of their mother tongue. Just as she, as a translator, trusts my sensibilities and the expressions or words I choose to use. This is what produces a text that is satisfying to both parties.

It is a strange feeling to read your book in a different language. They are your very ideas, and your works, but it is not exactly your language.

In terms of the other languages which I am not proficient in, such as French, Russian, Korean, or  Italian, there is no path for me other than that of trust in the publishing house’s choice to send my books to talented and experienced translators. I will sometimes consult a friend who does speak one of those languages. I have gotten to know some of my translators although I do not know them all. I am, however, grateful to all of them for their extraordinary effort.

Layla Faraj is a rising senior at Barnard College studying English and Literary Translation. Her work has appeared in the Modern Love section of the New York Times, in a short film in collaboration with Whatsapp, and elsewhere.