Review of How to Say Babylon by Safiya Sinclair
Sometimes, a book comes along that resonates so deeply you find yourself reflecting on your own life and beliefs long after you’ve turned the last page. That was my experience with How to Say Babylon, Safiya Sinclair’s powerful memoir that delves into the complexities of her upbringing in Rastafari culture and the painful realities of familial relationships shaped by faith, isolation, and abuse. It took me a couple of months to articulate my thoughts on this stunning work—not just for its raw emotional content, but also because it sparked so many reflections on my own journey with faith and identity.
At its heart, How to Say Babylon is a profound exploration of the intersection between personal trauma and the intricate layers of religious tradition. Sinclair’s narrative unfolds against the backdrop of her family’s experience with Rastafari, revealing the both empowering and oppressive elements of a faith tradition often misunderstood. Her account resonates with themes of critique and deconstruction, much like the readings from authors such as Aaliyah Bilal in Temple Folk and Lamya H. in Hijab Butch Blues. Sinclair’s work feels like a conversation among these narratives, shedding light on the often overlooked struggles within communities bound by profound belief.
One particularly striking aspect of Sinclair’s writing is her ability to evoke immediate emotion through her prose, which is breathtakingly lyrical. There were moments I found myself breathless, ensnared by her vivid imagery and the way she captured the emotional landscape of her childhood. At one point, she writes, "living in a Rasta household was like being at constant church," and in those words, I could feel the weight of the atmosphere that both nurtured and suffocated her. Her candid reflections on her father’s religious hypocrisy reveal not just personal anguish but also a societal commentary on the dangers of unchecked power within religious households.
Sinclair also brilliantly navigates the history of Rastafari, detailing the cultural erasure and commercialization of a community that, despite its marginalization, shapes the identity and livelihood of many. I was particularly struck by her observation that Rastafari, while shunned at home, became “living mascots” for tourism—a painful irony that underscores the complexities of cultural representation and exploitation. It’s a theme that reminded me of Sarah M. Broom’s The Yellow House, where the reclamation of history becomes a powerful act of resistance.
While Sinclair’s narrative is a triumph in many respects, I found myself yearning for a deeper exploration of her mother’s role within this familial dynamic. There were moments when I felt the mother’s complicity in the father’s abusive behaviors was glossed over, and I couldn’t help but ponder the broader implications of maternal influence in cycles of trauma. My own experiences colored this perspective, underscoring the complex interplay of victimhood and agency that often exists in such familial structures.
For anyone who has grappled with their own faith or familial legacies, How to Say Babylon offers a poignant reflection of those struggles. Sinclair’s bravery in recounting her story will resonate with readers who seek to understand the intricacies of their own identities and beliefs. This memoir is not just about deconstructing faith; it’s about reconciling with the legacies we inherit.
In closing, I wholeheartedly recommend How to Say Babylon to readers who appreciate memoirs that weave together personal narrative and broader sociocultural critique. Sinclair’s journey is one of resilience, and her writing serves as both a mirror and a window for anyone navigating the turbulent waters of identity, faith, and familial ties. It’s a book that lingered in my heart and mind long after I closed it—and I suspect it will for you, too.