To close Women in Translation Month, I’m reviewing what is arguably the most discussed world literature book of the year: Marilyn Booth’s translation of Omani writer Jokha Alharthi’s Celestial Bodies. The first Arabic-language winner of the Man Booker International Prize had a few surprises in store for me.
When starting this cryptic work, I quickly discovered that it’s best to do so with no expectations. Because of its blurb about three sisters—Mayya, Asma, and Khawla—who marry for motives including “duty” and rebounding from a “heartbreak,” I anticipated an Omani comedy of manners. Yet this text is a complex family saga spanning decades, its huge scope encompassing brief but telling character studies. While Celestial Bodies’ keen social consciousness offers a unique perspective, its considerable time leaps and shifts between third- and first-person narration make a convoluted impression.
The novel begins when Mayya marries a wealthy man—Abdallah, the son of Merchant Sulayman—after a disappointing first love. Mayya, however, is not the de facto heroine. As the only first-person speaker, Abdallah provides a reprieve from an otherwise cool and poetic omniscient third voice, drawing attention to issues ranging from domestic violence to autism to slavery (Oman outlawed slavery in 1970). He spends much of the narrative haunted by his unrequited love for Mayya, wondering: “You keep up this aura of friendly care, but what are you really thinking and feeling…” But he also reflects on Zarifa, his father’s slave and “long-time mistress” who served as his stand-in mother. After an argument, Abdallah’s father “abandoned her and married her off to the most aggressive and eccentric slave he had.” In Oman, at least, the abuses of slavery are not so easily dismissed as distant historical fact.
The family’s dysfunctional dynamic appears to continue with Mayya and Abdallah’s three children: London, Salim, and Muhammad. Abdallah proves a caring father when eldest daughter London escapes an abusive marriage, declaring, “You are a successful physician and you have your freedom and a good social life and he doesn’t deserve even a stray thought.” His desperation with youngest son Muhammad, who is autistic and continually slams a single door in their house, feels immediate and real. Though pushed to the background, Mayya’s sisters Asma and Khawla face their own familial challenges and unsuccessful marriages. Khawla, who waited for her ne’er-do-well fiancé to return home from Canada, accepts defeat and asks for a divorce: “She was at peace, so her heart stopped forgiving…Every night, the portrait of the Canadian girl on the key ring got bigger, and went to sleep on Khawla’s pillow.” Poignant snapshots of domestic disillusionment emerge as the novel’s strongest aspect.
Despite its refreshing approach and setting, Celestial Bodies is far from flawless. The sprawling family tree on the first page is a critical resource, and parts of the translation are confusing. Abdallah describes Mayya as his ethereal “air hostess,” which sounds more like an outdated term for a flight attendant than an otherworldly being. Huge time jumps made it difficult to follow the narrative. In one section, London is a newborn and her family is arguing about her unusual name. In the next, she is an adult and a physician. With such a large cast of characters, the experimental timeline is an added challenge that is difficult to overcome.
I enjoyed reading Celestial Bodies, but admit that its shortcomings left me wanting more. From generational tension to the burden of history, it has been a memorable Women in Translation Month. The latest works show how much progress the publishing industry has made, but there’s a long way to go.
Jokha Alharthi, Celestial Bodies, trans. Marilyn Booth (Sandstone Press, 2019)
Photo Credit: George Desipris via Pexels.
