How To Say Babylon: A Jamaican Memoir: A Jamaican Memoir

by Safiya Sinclair

An extraordinary and inspiring memoir of family, education and resilience, from award-winning poet Safiya Sinclair.

There was more than one way to be lost, more than one way to be saved.

Born in Montego Bay, Jamaica, where luxury hotels line pristine white sand beaches, Safiya Sinclair grew up guarding herself against an ever-present threat. Her father, a volatile reggae musician and strict believer in a militant sect of Rastafari, railed against Babylon, the corrupting influence of the immoral Western world just beyond their gate. To protect the purity of the women in their family he forbade almost nowhere but home and school, no friends but this family and no future but this path.

Her mother did what she could to bring joy to her children with books and poetry. But as Safiya’s imagination reached beyond its restrictive borders, her burgeoning independence brought with it ever greater clashes with her father. Soon she realised that if she was to live at all, she had to find some way to leave home. But how?

In seeking to understand the past of her family, Safiya Sinclair takes listeners inside a world that is little understood by those outside it and offers an astonishing personal reckoning. How to Say Babylon is an unforgettable story of a young woman’s determination to live life on her own terms.

Genres: Memoir, Nonfiction, Audiobook, Book Club, Biography, Feminism, Religion

Audible Audio

First published October 3, 2023

About the author

Safiya Sinclair was born and raised in Montego Bay, Jamaica. She is the recipient of a Whiting Writers' Award, the Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Fellowship from the Poetry Foundation, and a Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center Fellowship. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, the Kenyon Review, Boston Review, Gulf Coast, the Gettysburg Review, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere. Sinclair received her MFA in poetry from the University of Virginia and is a Dornsife Doctoral Fellow at the University of Southern California.

Reviews

[BookOfCinz · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is the gold standard of memoirs. Brilliant, moving, an emotional journey, layered, spectacular, heavy, redeeming, unforgettable and un-putdownable.

I read this book a month ago and I am still unable to put into words how brilliant this memoir is. My life is forever changed reading this book. Safiya Sincliar’s writing is forever in my heart and I need everyone to experience this masterpiece and for it to win all the awards.

How To Say Babylon: A Jamaican Memoir by Safiya Sinclair’s explores childhood and adulthood growing up in a very strict Rastafarian household in Jamaica where she and especially her sisters were subjected to numerous rules to maintain and keep their purity. She showcases how this upbringing impacted every part of her life and how she was able to break free.

Safiya grew up in a Jamaican household with her mother, brother and sisters to a Rastafarian father. He was once in a popular band when he met her mother before they fell in love and started having children. He became obsessed with everything ital, purity and the teachings of Selassie and Rastafarianism. She and her siblings had to cover themselves constantly, they weren’t allowed to have friends, or lean into the Western world because it was a construct of Babylon. When asked why certain things were they way they were, “Babylon business” would be the resounding answer. Disobedience was never tolerated and her father ruled with a strong first or sometimes belt.

Despite all of this Safiya and her siblings turned out to be academically gifted, receiving scholarships, awards and being the head of their classes. This was a point of pride for her father who loved that his children were considered geniuses. Through their academic gift they were able to break free of their father’s strict rule but the scars continue to be there. In Sinclair how she worked through the trauma and how she made it out on the other side.
Friends, I have read 60 books for the year so far and this is one of my top favourite reads. I felt real emotions reading this book, I was sobbing at the end of the book and that goes back to how much of an expert writer Sinclair is. She carried me through a range of emotions which all ended in forgiveness.

I have read a lot of memoirs and this one shines the brightest and I think it is because Sinclair was able to lay bare all the things that happened to her and how she dealt with it. I learned so much about Jamaica’s history with Rastafarianism and I thank Sinclair for putting in the work and research and shining light on the massacre that happened to Rastafarians living in Jamaica. This was also the first time I read a book that details what it is like being raised with a devout Rastafarian parent.

What I loved about this book is that Sinclair did not tell a one-dimensional story, it was “my father treated me bad” she showcase his history, why he is the way he is today and how that fed into how he raised his children. His character arc… can it be a character arc if it’s a real life story? But the father’s character arc was *chef’s kiss* and the ending will ruin you!

If you only read one book in your life, read this!

Additional Note I know publishing are supposed to market other memoirs using memoirs we may know but I wish they had tried harder for a book like this that is distinctly Jamaican. So, if you read this memoir and loved it I highlight recommend you read Lorna Goodison's From Harvey River: A Memoir of My Mother and Her Island. In her book Sinclair wrote about Jamaica and her father, in Goodison's book she also wrote about Jamaica and her mother. These books are talking to each other and I hope you find the time to read and listen.

[Lisa of Troy · Rating 5 out of 5]

A Book That Will Stay With Me For A Long Time

How to Say Babylon is a richly observed memoir of familial dysfunction centered on a young girl, the author, living in Jamaica under the rule of her authoritarian father.

This book is fascinating to read, shedding light on the history of Jamaica and steeped in family drama.

The prose is dazzling - the author has a background in poetry, and Sinclair has a masterful understanding of foreshadowing.

Although the narrative is extremely compelling, there were a few flaws:
1) The father was painted in a one dimensional light. He must have done something positive or kind.
2) Sinclair didn't balance light and dark very well, especially covering the sections in her teen and early adult years.
3) The ending isn't strong enough and is unremarkable.

Overall, How to Say Babylon is a highly addictive book, a must-read if you enjoyed Educated or The Glass Castle.

*Thanks, NetGalley, for a free copy of this book in exchange for my fair and unbiased review.

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[Sharon Orlopp · Rating 5 out of 5]

I was hooked from the first page of Safiya Sinclair's memoir, How to Say Babylon: A Memoir. Babylon refers to the sinister forces of western ideology, colonialism, and Christianity.

Her father was a strict Jamaican Rastafarian which meant that his wife and daughters could not wear pants or makeup, or have friends. They were prisoners in their home. Sinclair's father felt a woman's best virtue was obedience and he ruled the household with fear, terror, and violence.

Sinclair's mother introduced her daughters to books because she taught wealthy children how to read. Books created time travel and irrefutable power. Her mother bought her a book of poetry where she learned that pain can be transformed into something beautiful. Sinclair promised herself that she would fly from the cage her father had constructed.

Sinclair's writing style is powerful and pulsating. Some of the memorable passages include:
* Terror lay dormant in our house
* The delicate dance of disremembering the bruise from the night before
* Learned how to sew their mouths shut
* Buoyed by the faintest fumes of hope
* My father sharpened the verbal tools in his arsenal
* Our household was a monsoon of chaos
* Writing felt like oxygen
* Outdreaming the confines of our small world
* There is no American dream without the American massacre

After reading How to Say Babylon: A Memoir, I want to read Cannibal and Catacombs, books of poetry by Sinclair.

Thanks to NetGalley for providing an ARC in exchange for my honest review. Expected publication date is October 3, 2023.

Highly recommend!

[Thomas · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.5 stars

Powerful memoir about Safiya Sinclair’s experience growing up in a strict Rastafarian household in Jamaica and the abuse inflicted upon her and her family by her father. I appreciated the boldness and honesty in which Sinclair described her father’s cruelty and how it affected her feelings and perspective on the world. I liked the vividness of her prose as well as her journey to escape her father’s influence and find her own voice through writing and education.

There were a couple of reasons I didn’t love this memoir as much as many others on here. First, I found some of her writing a bit repetitive, especially in the first half of the book. I also found the ending a bit abrupt and was curious to read more about her processing of her trauma and her relationship with her father. Still, I can see why this book has captured people’s attention.

[Inad · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 stars

I was shocked to discover that this book was not written for me, a Jamaican who grew up intimately familiar with Rastafari culture. I found this book squarely aimed at the western raised, (likely Christian or Agnostic) staunch feminist reader. A reader whose innate knowledge doesn’t include the parameters of Babylon.

I thought that because Sinclair and I share a reality shared by so few, this would read as a Toni Morrison book for me: filled with unexplained secrets only we can understand. Instead, Sinclair paints colorful portraits of the Jamaica I know, but attaches them to wafts of judgment I can only recognize at times as the distinctly western or European gaze. I imagine this book would be a raging success in any white, feminist book circle.

For me, it was almost painful to read. I saw a girl forced to interpret a religion through her father’s mistakes. Sinclair comes so close to realizing that the problem is her father, not Rastafari. But, time and again she gives him an out through the religion. the memoir makes regular note of Christians doing something, and later talks about a Rasta doing the same things— always blaming the Rasta’s action on the religion but saying nothing of the Christian’s identical actions.

There is her Christian maternal grandfather, who married a girl decades his junior, and groped another young girl versus A young 18 old Rasta woman who married a man decades her senior. Sinclair makes specific note of the unfairness of the age gap only for the Rasta.

There is her Christian paternal grandmother, who cannot (or will not) speak a word against her husband no matter how mean he is to her children and grandchildren versus Sinclair’s own mother who suffers from the same inability. Sinclair makes specific note of how the tenets of the Rastafari are the evils that stole her mother’s freedom. But says nothing of the reasons behind her grandmothers nonexistent freedom.

She says Rasta women are always in the kitchen talking while the men huddle outside beating drums and singing… Interpreting this separation in a way only a western mind can: as unfairness. (And conveniently ignoring that this is true of Jamaican culture regardless of the religion)

In my view, the common enemy in her life’s story is “men”. It’s an enemy that reappears all throughout the memoir regardless of religion, and one we share as children of old-school Jamaican parents. No matter the religion, this stifling evil seems to spread around the island like a plague. Because of her father’s militancy, though, Sinclair came to name the evil Rastafari. Whenever she introduced a new evil from tenets of Rastafari, I read them as a young girl unveiling the evils that resulted from her father’s misunderstandings of Rastafari.

Nevertheless, I found Sinclair’s story intoxicating for several reasons. First, I have only ever lived as a Jamaican. I grew up being warned of Babylon, hearing Haile Selassie I referred to as “his imperial majesty” (even today, it’s the only way my father refers to him), and interpreting the veiled, and sometimes twisted Rasta man speak with the expertise of a mother tongue language. I had never thought of any of it as history before. this memoir changed that. I realized it’s a history so few know and it was a strange beauty to read it, although from a seemingly western point of view, with all its honorifics and historical violence included.

Second, Sinclair’s writing is powerful. It moves any reader who is attentive to her string of words that seem to make the soul dance. I also really appreciated her voice in this space. She’s the first woman I’ve ever heard publicly voice their qualms with the Rasta culture. (I’m sure there are many more out there). I had only ever heard/internalized the rastafari that creates strong, lionhearted men and women. I admired it (I am not a Rasta or a Christian— but my Christian grandmother reminds me so much of Sinclair’s paternal grandmother, and my own parents of Sinclair’s parents. Although my own father is more closely aligned with the 12 tribes). It was a great balancing experience to read about and atone with the abusive side of the religion.

Third, I read this memoir as an intricate story of hurt and longing for the love of the one who hurt you. It’s a poetic cycle. By trying so hard to erase his parents’ wrongs, Sinclair’s father unintentionally recreated them. Sinclair, armed with the strength only a woman can possess, breaks free from the cycle, heals, and lives to tell the tale.

[Hannah Greendale (Hello, Bookworm) · Rating 4 out of 5]

Not an easy read but too inspiring to ignore.

Check out my BookTube review on Hello, Bookworm.📚🐛

“While my mother had saved me from the waves and gave me breath, my father tried to save me only by suffocation.”

Safiya Sinclair is first and foremost a poet, and it shows in this gorgeous memoir. Her prose sings with descriptions of night’s shimmering voices, a seaside hamlet with wind-gnarled trees, and of a family living in such close quarters that they know “the subtle dialect of each other’s dreams”.

How to Say Babylon charts Sinclair’s experience growing up with a father whose devotion to the religious and political Rastafari movement strictly defines her childhood. Of her parents’ journey into Rastafari, Sinclair writes: "my mother felt called because she wanted to nurture, and my father felt called because he wanted to burn."

Her tyrant father and his beliefs determine what Sinclair eats, how she dresses, who she befriends, and how she styles her hair. It also keeps her detained at home, distanced from education and opportunity, and with no hope of a future beyond transforming herself into the humbled and pregnant wife of a Rastaman; "ordinary and unselfed".

Sinclair briefly educates readers on the origin of the Rastafarian movement and shines a light on the continued legacy of colonialism, as her hometown in Montego Bay, Jamaica is owned by Spanish and British hoteliers. "Our new colonization," she writes.

She also writes with brutal honestly about the emotional, mental, verbal, and physical abuse both she and her siblings endured for years. She accurately touches on the lasting impact such abuse has on a person.

How to Say Babylon is a beautifully crafted story of girl with a fire in her belly and a poem in her heart, who finds the strength to break free from the life her abusive father envisions for her and instead choose her own path. It’s also a story of a girl clinging to her mother for support and for a light in the dark, someone to pull her from the drowning waves of defeat so that she can rise above and find success as a poet and writer.

Highly recommend! Just don't expect it to be a quick, light read, and make sure you're in the right headspace before diving in, as this book contains graphic depictions of abuse.

[Jennifer ~ TarHeelReader · Rating 5 out of 5]

I highly recommend the read/listen experience for this one. Safiya Sinclair’s narration is exceptional. I have read a little about the history of the Rastafarian movement. I am certain this is the first firsthand account I’ve read.

Safiya shares the early story of each of her parents, then when they meet and later start a family. From the start, I was stuck by the complexity and honesty in the way she shared about each family member. When her father joins the Rastafarian movement and adheres to all their principles, the family life is shaped further and further by his extreme control and volatile outbursts.

Safiya and her siblings grow up this way, with her father shunning Western influence and oppressively and obsessively worrying that his children, especially his female children, would be obedient. At the same time, her mother, while knowing her place in the family, shares books with her children, and poetry; what would ultimately open up the world and provide an escape in multiple ways.

Safiya’s story is one of triumph, against a backdrop of the patriarchy and the longstanding remnants of colonialism. As I listened to her boldly share her truth, even though I knew she would make it out, her journey was harrowing getting there. In every setback on the road, I could feel the fire, poetry, lyricism, the heartbeat in her words. Writing was, indeed, her oxygen, and you can feel her breath, her soul, in every passage.

I received a gifted physical copy, and I also purchased the audio from librofm.

Many of my reviews can also be found on my blog: www.jennifertarheelreader.com and instagram: www.instagram.com/tarheelreader

[Bianca · Rating 4 out of 5]

I don't read that many memoirs, but since this was getting such glowing reviews, I couldn't help myself.
Safiya Sinclair's memoir is on another level when it comes to language, with stunning descriptions and beautiful phrases.

From a human perspective, it was quite interesting as well, albeit I had to pace myself because my blood boiled when I read about an authoritarian, deluded father who was judge and jury, with a volatile personality and quick to throw physical punishments.

It's always good to learn something new, in this case, it was about Rastafarianism. Its social movement roots excited me, learning that they wanted to live closer to land, and eat a vegetarian diet made me think good on them.

Spoiler: it turns out that, like all religions, it's just another patriarchal incarnation, with old fashioned rules where the men rule authoritatively and the women do everything in and around the home and have no say - at least that was the case in the Sinclair's family. The women are expected to be monogamous, but the men have no such qualms, spreading their seed easily, in many cases, without bothering to look after the resulting crops.

My heart broke for Safiya's mum, such a caring, resourceful woman, who had had her fair share of childhood trauma but she managed to rise above it.

While the father had his own childhood trauma, had he not taken out his frustrations on his family members, I would have felt more benevolent towards him. Those stupid gender stereotypes don't help men either, but since they have the power and choose to ignore women, I will not feel too sorry for them.

[Brian · Rating 5 out of 5]

The best thing I've read, in any genre, in recent memory.

This is the memoir that will be read 200 years from now. What an incredible talent Sinclair is - to be able to write prose and poetry with such artistry. Astounding.

[Traci Thomas · Rating 4 out of 5]

The writing in this book is undoubtedly great. The memoir was too long for me, it was repetitive and didn't have the pay off (as far as story structure) that I hoped she was building toward. I had some questions about the audience for this book and her relationship to her family, patriarchy, and whiteness, especially based on how the book wraps up.

[K · Rating 3 out of 5]

Started off really strong, and felt connected to the book despite lyrical prose (I tend to not do well with this). But the pacing issues were frustrating. And sometimes I was like enough with the poetry and metaphor come out and say it. But I learned some new things and think she’s a good writer.

[Brandice · Rating 4 out of 5]

Safiya Sinclair is a brilliant writer. In her memoir, How to Say Babylon, she shares her story of growing up in a strict, Rastafarian household. Her dad had a volatile temper and was incredibly controlling. Her mom took on a lot in an attempt to shield Safiya and her siblings most of the time, though this wasn’t the case all the time. ⁣
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Both of Safiya’s parents had extremely difficult, rough upbringings. I truly felt for each of them, but it was also hard to learn about the environment they chose to create for their own family. Some of their decisions have had long lasting impacts on each of their 4 children.
⁣
Safiya takes readers on an emotional journey — You feel the highs and lows, the pain and the love she has experienced with her family and in pursuit of her education. I would have liked to learn a little more about Safiya’s experience in the US once she moved to continue her education, yet her story as shared is not short on powerful moments. ⁣
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I’ve been hearing great things about How to Say Babylon since it came out last year. I think it took me a little longer to get into it than many other readers, but Safiya’s writing was so good and I certainly get the hype — 4.5 stars

[Bethany (Beautifully Bookish Bethany) · Rating 5 out of 5]

Wow, I don't know how to convey to you how beautifully written and affecting this memoir is. It made me cry, which doesn't happen often in books. But while the content is tough, it's written in such a raw and visceral way you feel a sense of immediacy rather than at arms length. And it's so obvious that the author is also a poet because the way she puts together words and sentences is just beautiful. Memoirs sometimes feel a bit arms length, but this feels more like the experience of reading a novel if that makes sense. And I learned a lot from it as well.

How to Say Babylon recounts Sinclair's upbringing in Jamaica under a very strict, patriarchal Rastafari household. I honestly didn't realize that this was an entire religion of sorts and was unfamiliar with the history of Rastafarianism. Sinclair weaves together this history and how it intersects with that of her family. The appeal of the faith as anti-colonial and celebrating Blackness, but also the heavy oppression of women and girls, and the impact of their diet on developing children who need other nutrients. This is a book dealing with religious trauma, abuse, and finally escaping that upbringing and making a life for herself.

But also the complex feelings that come with having parents you love, but who have hurt and abused you. Yes, this was informative, but it also made me FEEL things so deeply. And I have so much respect for Sinclair being willing to dig into so many painful memories and put them on the page, in hopes that it might save future generations of girls. I cannot recommend this one enough, just know you might need breaks and should be in the right frame of mind because parts of it are devastating and it includes very graphic depictions of physical about among others. I received a copy of this book for review, all opinions are my own.

[Michelle · Rating 5 out of 5]

Safiya grew up under a strict Rastafari father, and this is her memoir.

Going into this, I knew very little about Rastafarian culture / religion aside from Bob Marley, who was a longtime member of the movement.

There has never been a single leader followed by all Rastafari, which makes everything a little complicated. Each father is ruling his own kingdom, and in Safiya's case, her environment was unstable, isolating, and the fear of Babylon was real.

This book was a delight to read. Safiya is an award-winning poet, and in her memoir, each sentence is as beautiful as you'd expect, even when harrowing.

I learnt a lot reading this. Unforgettable.

Five stars.

[Elizabeth George]

In the interest of full disclosure, the author was the recipient of a grant from the Elizabeth George Foundation. However, I had completely forgotten that when I bought the book and only saw the foundation being acknowledged at the end of the book.

I loved this memoir. It is gorgeously written. While the author grew up in poverty and with a strict and abusive Rastafarian father, there is never a moment during the story where she adopts a tone of self-pity. She relives her past and explores her past, explaining and detailing the family's experiences. When she finally makes the break that allows her to become who she is today, there is no easy road to her chosen destination: a published poet.

Prior to reading this book, I knew nothing about Rastafari sects. I knew nothing about the Rastafari lifestyle or the misogyny and dehumanizing of women that is at the heart of the particular sect whose rules and beliefs the author's father adheres to. The fact that the author, her mother, and her sisters managed to escape and establish their lives and individuality speaks to their tremendous courage and their determination not to be reduced to the roles the Rastafari man of the house has decided they will play.

But what is most remarkable about the book is the manner in which the author manages to rekindle her relationship with her father, not only forgiving him for the treatment she experienced at his hands but also moving forward in such a way that he is able finally to see what he has done to her and to her sisters and mother and to offer all of them the most profound of apologies.

It is in all ways an amazing book, well-deserving of all the praise it has received. .

[Anita Pomerantz · Rating 4 out of 5]

This memoir tells Safiya's story of growing up in Jamaica - poor, black, and the daughter of a Rastafarian man whose own upbringing left him unfit for parenthood. His belief system in regards to women was that they needed their virtue to be protected from the white, developed world, known as Babylon, by any means possible. He essentially sequestered his three daughters away from society, and this memoir relates Safiya's upbringing in this context.

Interestingly, all of the children in the Sinclair family are immensely talented, and these talents ultimately acted as a crowbar to a different life. Safiya is a poet, and this memoir is infused with the language of poetry. This beautiful writing was both an asset to the book - - elevating it far above a story of mere trauma, and a detriment, making it a bit harder to "get into" the story. The initial few chapters are ones where you may be tempted not to continue, but the writing gets more assured and more propulsive as the book continues, leading to a satisfying conclusion.

[Monica · Rating 4 out of 5]

Another book that will be in the running for best this year. This was a really amazing memoir. I am as far away from Rastafarian and Jamaica as is imaginable, yet her story resonated with me so much! rtf

4.5+Stars

Listened to the audiobook. The author narrated and this really is the way to consume this book.

[Nevin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Waw! This book blew me away! It was written very lyrically and beautifully. Her memoir was written honestly with so much depth. Some parts were very hard to read as she and her siblings suffered unimaginable physical and psychological abuse in the hands of a very unstable father.

This is the story of a very talented and extremely intelligent young woman who endured severe trauma yet came out of it stronger than ever! The author has won many prestigious awards regarding her poetry and books. She has earned a PHD and is a professor in literature and poetry 👏

I would highly recommend this book

Enjoy 🍷

[Gabriella · Rating 5 out of 5]

Actual Rating: 4.5 stars

This book, and the life it encapsulates, are achievements in every sense of the word! It took me a few months to end up reviewing this one, partially because the content was so raw, and partially because I had so much to say about it! So, here goes another essay/review. 😊

Deconstruction as my favorite 2023 topic
How to Say Babylon culminated my journey through a series of books where the narrators are chafing against the confines of their faith traditions. These books include Temple Folk by Aaliyah Bilal, Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H., and All the Sinners Bleed by S.A. Cosby. I LOVED how they all felt in close conversation with one another, and think these selections, along with a few other texts, would make for a fantastic syllabus or book club.

I particularly felt a strong connection between what Safiya Sinclair is attempting in How to Say Babylon, and what Aaliyah Bilal is attempting in Temple Folk. In one of the interviews about her short story collection, Bilal notes that “everything of note that has ever been written about African American Muslims has been academic or some kind of journalistic nonfiction.” Her goal with Temple Folk, then, was to provide a more human-scale account of her religious community’s experiences. Bilal’s stories about an underrecognized Black religious group allows readers to encounter this group without the sterilized, probing lens of academia. In my opinion, Safiya Sinclair makes a similar effort to shine a more compassionate, personable light on Rastafari communities through her memoir.

As in the other books, shining a light on insider experiences of a faith tradition creates even more windows for deconstruction. While much outsider coverage of the Rastafari handles them with kid gloves, Sinclair has the bravery to address the faith’s issues with chauvinism, patriarchy, and hypocrisy head-on. This allowed me to see a bunch of similarities with my own upbringing. This memoir reveals the way that Rastafari communities can be just as hierarchical and potentially harmful as less-stigmatized Black religions. My friend and buddy read partner, Michaela, helped me understand why this idea was such a revelation. As "Christians", we employ a certain hubris even in deconstruction: we come to believe that our religion is the only one powerful enough to cause harm, and every other faith tradition should be left without critique, because they already face enough repression. How to Say Babylon rips this illusion apart.

One of the clearest criticisms Sinclair makes in this book is of the religious hypocrisy of her father, who manipulated Rastafari principles to terrorize his family. As this memoir explains, part of this manipulation is because of the isolated ways many Rastamen practiced their faith. This isolation was by design—the colonial Jamaican government severely repressed the Rastafari movement in its early years, destroying communes and persecuting followers. In Sinclair’s words, this repression led to “the painful undoing of my family a generation later, because it encouraged most Rastafari to individualize their livity at home, with impunity. There, in the privacy of their own households, each Rasta bredren could be a living godhead, the king of his own secluded temple.” (40) I nearly stood up in my seat when reading that part of the book, because that was when I knew it would be frighteningly relatable.

The transition from an interconnected religious community to a more isolated religious practice creates fertile ground for severe familial abuse. As Sinclair notes, justifications for this abuse can be found in most Abrahamic theologies, which deputize husbands and fathers to become omnipotent authorities in their households. Whether the specific religious term for these spiritual deputies is “priesthood holder”, “living godhead”, or some other concept, the impact is the same. The home becomes a faith-sanctioned arena for domestic violence, as the father becomes the designated interpreter of the faith. Sinclair explains this concept further on page 137: “…every Rastaman was the godhead in his household, that every word my father spoke was gospel. There was no foundational text or unifying tenets, no holy house except the Mansion of Djani. That living in a Rasta household was like being at constant church, except the scripture was as variable as the sky, my father both the god of the sea and the god of the Sun.” In other words, all sorts of religions provide a launchpad for fathers’ patriarchal domination within the home!!

Initially, I think my biases about religion, mental health, and class obscured the similarities between how Christian and Rastafari men abuse their families. My prejudices led me to believe the colonial stereotypes about Rastas as “madmen”, which is laughable given the cunning, religiously-sanctioned mechanisms Djani used to shield himself from scrutiny. Eventually, Sinclair’s descriptions made the parallels obvious: “My father raged, disgusted, and mocked [the neighbors] as butus at the dinner table, then smiled liquescent and waved politely, even engaged them in mindless conversation when he saw them outside. He was an astute politician. He seemed to care immensely about what people thought of him, and as I grew older, the more his contradictions became plain. He despised Babylon, while yearning for its trappings…it struck me how much grace he offered these meat-eating strangers, and how little for us.” (141)

In addition to these stunning ruminations on her father’s religious hypocrisy, I noticed even more similarities as Sinclair layered in historical and political information about the Rastafari movement. Through this history, I found her father to be engaged in a form of religious practice that feels unique to the politics of Black Gen X (this review has my most formed thoughts on that topic). Because Djani was haunted by the state’s annihilation of Rastafari’s collective and political elements, he resigned himself to a defanged, isolated, respectable practice of the faith. Unfortunately, his discontent over this resignation was reserved for his family—thus tying the threads between his abuse, and many other religious patriarchs.

The craft here is amazing!
In case it wasn’t already clear, this lady wrote the hell out of this book. So many passages took my breath away, and that is not a regular occurrence for me as a reader. I can’t say I’ll be first in line to read Sinclair’s poetry collection now, but there is no way to deny that her lyricism makes this memoir a beautiful journey. These scenes and chapters are cinematic, momentous, and impossible to turn away from—I literally felt like these things were happening to me because of how she placed you right in the action. I haven’t read something that stuck with me in this way for several years.

In the early sections of the memoir, you get the sense that Sinclair is trying to retrace her parents’ upbringings, and understand exactly what led them to Rastafari. This creates masterful portraits of historical moments like Emperor Haile Selassie’s 1966 visit to Jamaica, detailing how the man could barely exit the plane because of the number of Rastas who surrounded it. These snapshot-in-time images expand to include her parents’ encounter at a late night houseparty, a scene that felt like it deserved a full A24 treatment. As the story progresses, Sinclair’s can’t-look-away characterization becomes all the more heartbreaking. You see the pathway towards escalating abuse unfolding before Safiya and her siblings, but know that there is so much longer to go in the story before they will be able to escape from this nightmare.

Thanks to this craft, Sinclair is instructive without being heavy-handed. Her enthralling characterization of her parents in the early chapters helps explain just how people who join cults are often primed for them by their oppression in general society, as well as in their families of origin. How To Say Babylon also accomplishes something similar to my favorite memoir ever,The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom. As Sinclair works to correct Jamaica’s historical record about her former faith tradition, I am reminded of how Broom corrects New Orleans’ cartographic record about her former neighborhood. Just as Broom notes how residents of New Orleans East provided the labor that powered the French Quarter’s tourist traps, Sinclair notes how the Rastafari served a similar role in Montego Bay’s resorts. On page 59, she particularly notes how “The Rastafari, though still shunned and outcast by their own people, became the living mascots and main cultural export of Jamaican tourism, with barely any profit to the Rasta community. It must have wounded my father to see his entire ethos and spiritual source diluted and commercialized for the foreign masses while painfully maligned at home.” (59) Because of the groundwork Sinclair does to show how much Rastafari meant to her father, its ironic treatment within Jamaica is particularly tragic.

The politics here are…confusing
Despite Sinclair’s amazing analysis of how religion reinforced her father’s violence, she seemed strangely unable to connect the dots on the other political topics within this memoir. This is perhaps not completely unexpected—after all, this is a Read with Jenna pick. I hate that Jenna Bush Hager has such good taste in literature, because whenever I want to read a book she’s selected for her club, it feels like I’m supporting the rebranding of her warmongering family!!!! If I could summarize the sanitization of imperialism that comes with her selection process, I feel like it’s saying “hey y’all, let’s read to empathize with the repressed religious women of the former colonies!!” In this case, it’s a double homicide—How to Say Babylon ultimately was on Obama’s Favorite 2023 Books list, too.

It’s easy to say that authors can’t help which audiences enjoy their books. However, I think that the embrace of this book by so many “heads of Babylon” actually relates to its politics. I felt a similar way about Chain Gang All-Stars , another Read with Jenna selection. There is a weird phenomenon right now where authors cite anti-colonialism or PIC abolition as guiding themes of their books, but the spectacle in their stories overshadows these themes. The book’s popular reception, along with the authors’ acceptance of the popular narratives, dilute the political messages one could have found within them. Basically, I’m arguing that in our modern times, the work does not “stand for itself”, particularly when the authors are cheesing in NBC interviews with Jenna and Hoda!!! The branding really matters.

The reception of How to Say Babylon particularly plays into the colonial feminists’ desires to “save” women of color from their wayward Indigenous religions. As Michaela and I discussed, this is only really an option for Black women deconstructing from non-Christian cults—when church kids deconstruct, we just become heathens! Our oppressive religion *is* the Bush Family’s oppressive religion, and so there is no Faustian deal to be made in the critique of it. Michaela noted how this is an unfortunate example of how being raised in cults with some leftist ideology can stunt your politics even after you leave. As a nondenominational Baptist, when I deconstruct, I can throw the baby out with the bathwater—both the politics and the theology of my faith are flawed! However, I cannot imagine how much more challenging things must be for someone deconstructing from the Rastafari tradition. This can be seen within this memoir, as the characters end up espousing very different sets of politics: one that works for the father who has never left his home country, and one that works for the daughter seeking American residence to escape said father. So unlike deconstructing Christians (who are just critiquing the dominant religion), women in Safiya’s place can find common cause with someone like Jenna Bush Hager, who is against Safiya’s father and his cult, but not against the conditions that created the Sinclair family’s suffering (i.e. colonialism.) I completely get it, because I wouldn’t want to hear anything my father had to say if he treated me like Safiya’s did!!! But unfortunately, like all broken clocks, the rastamen were right at least twice a day: 1) about the West’s role in Jamaica’s suffering, and 2) about the West’s exploitation of Jamaican artists who tell stories of that suffering.

In terms of other missing politics, Michaela brought up that (un)desirability is an absent thread throughout this memoir. This lady was a teen model, for Christ sakes!! I have been particularly nauseated by how much media coverage of this book has been absolutely OBSESSED with Safiya cutting her locs—Terry Gross, I’m looking at you!! It strikes me as very similar to how white people are obsessed with surveilling and policing hijabis. In addition to having a lot to do with texturism, these fascinations seem to be rooted in this lingering imperial desire to “consume” the attractiveness of Rastafari and/or Muslim women, something that can’t be successfully accomplished while these women have dreads or head coverings. So again, this idea of “rescuing” colonized women from their wayward religions is more about the desire to exploit these women for Western viewing pleasure. I’m not at all saying that Safiya shouldn’t have been able to decide what to do with her hair—of course she should have! But again, the perverse fixation on Safiya’s hair is a pattern that is SHARED by both her father and many American readers of this book.

We HAVE to talk about the mom.
Now, let’s talk about the main reason I docked .75-stars from my review. I cannot imagine how brave Safiya must be to write this openly about the deeply subjugating and humiliating experience of having such a domineering father. I haven’t experienced a quarter of the trauma she has, and I still find myself ashamed by the large shadow my father’s actions cast over my adult life. Extracting yourself from this influence is a painful, lengthy process, and it’s deeply impressive that Sinclair is able to write so openly about it.

At the same time, I hope that in the future, she might also have the space to write more critically about the disappointing actions of her mother. There are brief glimpses of Safiya’s anguish over her mother’s choices, such as when the mother directly aided the father in physically beating Safiya, as retaliation for the mother’s frustration with a comment Safiya made. However, most of this book glosses over the mother’s role in facilitating abuse, in favor of a sanitized narrative that is being promoted ad-nauseam in mainstream coverage of this book: that Safiya’s mother “saved her children from abuse by introducing them to literature.”

That’s certainly one interpretation, but I would be *super* surprised if it’s the only one. I would particularly have loved to know how Safiya’s siblings felt about this view of their mother. Based on the few sections about the youngest sister, I think Shari might particularly object to this narrative. This is the child who, according to this memoir, the mother willingly left alone for months on end with the father, this man who the mother knew was so violent that she herself couldn’t stand to be in the house with him anymore. It is impossible that a memoirist who so clearly outlines paternal abuse does not understand how the abandonment of Shari is an instance of maternal neglect, harm, and failure. Shockingly, the only justification Safiya offers is that her mother sent money home to help with Shari’s care during the mother’s month-long visits to her family. Of course, the mother’s actions are not nearly as vile as the father’s, but comparisons to a monster are a cruel, insufficient way to measure support for children.

I should probably explain why this feels so important to me, in hopes of not being too harsh on a memoirist for merely sharing her own experiences. Throughout my life, I have been conscripted into being my mother’s confidant, defender, mediator, and scapegoat in her ongoing conflicts with my father. In many ways, this role seems very similar to what Safiya, another eldest daughter, experiences in her relationship to her mother. Over the years, I have also learned that my mother placed very different sorts of demands on my younger siblings. At times, she neglected them when her marriage become too much for her to handle (similar to how Safiya’s mother neglected Shari), and in startling occasions, she even facilitated their abuse as a means of petty retaliation (similar to how Safiya’s mother prevented her from escaping the father’s beating.) Through time (and divorce!), I am now able to see how my mother used her children as shields for her own discontent, while also recruiting us to come to her defense.

These experiences have made me particularly attuned to the complicated, unfortunate ways that mothers who are victims of domestic violence can still exercise power over their children. None of these things make the mother responsible for the father’s abuse, but they make it EXTREMELY hard for me to read simplistic narratives of mothers in these situations being “heroes” for their children. In these situations, it is by no means the mother’s fault that they don’t have the societal or communal support they need, but it still is unfair that the children end up being the mothers’ greatest helpers in these situations, and the children fail to receive the help they need from either parent. That’s what aggravates me so much about Safiya’s glorification of her mom in this memoir—I’m not saying the mother didn’t help, but the mother’s help wasn’t enough to end their abuse. Ignoring this reality feels like a let-down.

Final Thoughts
Even with my gripes, I cannot emphasize enough how impressive this book is. As long as you are in a headspace to be transferred into a world of deep sorrow and reflection on some of the most painful experiences that can happen to children and families, I would highly recommend it.

[Kasa Cotugno · Rating 5 out of 5]

It is easy to see, from page one, why this is one of the most anticipated books of the Fall. Safiya Sinclair is an award winning poet, a woman who has lived many lives but who was forged first and foremost in her native Jamaica as the oldest child in a Rastafarian family. I admit to ignorance of this culture, of the extreme patriarchy at its heart, explicitly espousing the double standard. Sinclair credits her father's artistic side, but her accomplishments and those of her siblings arise from a wellspring of strength: "My family lived in close quarters and knew the subtle dialect of each other's dreams." In this as in other examples, her prose rumbles like poetry, moving and dipping like the patois of her native country. As she matures she becomes more aware that her father's way of life is not necessarily correct, however she obediently adheres to the strictures he imposes until she finally is able to live her life as herself and not chattel to a man. It is the power of the written word, exemplified by poetry, that gives her the strength to find herself. And this book generously and honestly describes that journey.

[Robert Sheard · Rating 3 out of 5]

Very similar to Tara Westover's Educated, but set in Jamaican Rasta culture. A paranoid, conspiracy-theory-believer, deluded messianic Rasta father rules over the family with violence, both physical and emotional.

The author escapes to America through a series of scholarships to study writing. Then suddenly, in the last 35 pages, while she's in her MFA program at UVA, white America somehow becomes guilty of everything that was awful in her life and then she finishes the memoir back in Jamaica with a completely romanticized view of her upbringing and her father? Completely pulls the rug out from under her own story, for me.

[Tania · Rating 4 out of 5]

4.5 stars. I think the secret to writing a great memoir is to look at universal themes, but show how these themes touched your life in a unique way. How to Say Babylon does this brilliantly - we all had some issues with our parents and their rules when we were growing up, but very few of us were raised by Rastafarian parents. This combined with the author's beautiful writing and incredibly vivid descriptions of Jamaica made this my favourite memoir for 2023.

[DeannaReadsandSleeps · Rating 5 out of 5]

goodness…

[Erin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Read for Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge 2025, prompt #12 - Read a staff pick from an indie bookstore. (The Plot Twist, South Charleston, West Virginia.)

[Jeanne · Rating 5 out of 5]

Memory is a river. Memory is a pebble at the bottom of the river, slippery with the moss of our living hours. Memory is a tributary, a brackish stream returning to the ocean that dreamt it. Memory is the sea. Memory is the house on the sand with a red door I have stepped through, trying to remember the history of the waves. (p. XI).

You get the picture: a memoir that recognizes memory as changing and changeable. A poet's memoir.

How to Say Babylon was written by a Rastafarian musician's oldest daughter. Although there are various Rasta sects, they all are part of a nonviolent movement that aim to free the poor and downtrodden of "Babylon’s colonial system." Rasta attempts to challenge poverty and racism through unity and Black empowerment. Nonetheless, in a racist colonial system, he often felt excluded by both Blacks and whites and oppressed by wealthy Jamaican and Foreign whites. He attempted to find a foothold that fed his soul, protected his children, and kept his daughters pure – although often did not have enough money to put food in his family's stomachs or keep lights on in the evening. "He believed that if he kept playing his reggae with righteous conviction, this crooked world would wake up and change. If he kept playing, he could save Black people’s minds, and we would reach Zion, the promised land in Africa" (p. 44).

Sometimes love saves us. Sometimes it kills. Safiya Sinclair's parents followed different paths in sharing their love. Her mother was nonjudgmental and nurtured Sinclair's mind and poet's soul. She fought to give her unimagined opportunities. Her father's love was fearful and paranoid. In his eyes,

the perfect daughter was humble and had no care for vanity. She had no needs, yet nursed the needs of others, breastfeeding an army of Jah’s mighty warriors. The perfect daughter sat under the apple shade and waited to be called, her mind empty and emptying. She followed no god but her father, until he was replaced with her husband. The perfect daughter was nothing but a vessel for the man’s seed, unblemished clay waiting for Jah’s fingerprint. (p. 107)

Often memoirs arc from poverty and abuse to empowerment and success. How to Say Babylon is no exception. She described finding the courage to change, discovering a voice and meaning through her poetry, being mentored (well and poorly) as an intellectual and a poet, and forgiving. Just because this arc is frequently described does not make it any less compelling – especially as I don't think I'd read about Rastas before, at least a first-person narrative.

Read with reggae in the background, hot sun on your shoulders, and mango sliced into a turquoise bowl.

[Holly R W · Rating 4 out of 5]

"How to Say Babylon" is Safiya Sinclair's haunting memoir of growing up in Montego Bay, Jamaica in a Rastafarian family. The book's cover shows her cutting her dreadlocks when older and is most symbolic. It is not an easy book to read, as Safiya goes into detail about how she suffered at the hands of her abusive father.

Safiya explains the Rastafarian ideology to her readers - culturally and historically. I would hesitate to call it a religion. Many times in the book, it seemed like a cult. Certainly, when Safiya was growing up, she explained that the Rastafarians had dwindled in number and were scorned by most Jamaican citizens. Her dreadlocks set her apart; Other girls mocked her for having them. Her mother first plaited her hair that way when Safiyah was 8 years old.

Family consisted of Safiyah's father, mother, brother and two younger sisters. They grew up in abject poverty. Father was a Rastafarian musician, singing Bob Marley's music to white tourists in the resorts. He did not allow Safiyah's mother to work outside of the home. Money was in short supply.

Due to her father's controlling nature and paranoia, Safiyah and her sibs were not allowed to leave their home (except for school), have friends, or see extended family. He called the outside world "Babylon" - a wicked place. Due to this, the four children were extremely close with each other. Safiyah's mother was loving and generous with them, trying (unsuccessfully) to shield them from their hurtful father. However, Safiyah's mother smoked marijuana all day long and allowed her children to try it when they were small.


Safiyah first discovered poetry as a way of expressing her feelings. She is now a respected poet and this comes through in the language she uses in the memoir. I especially liked how she wrote her father's speech, encapsulating his Rastafarian patois.

Here is how she described her introduction to poetry.
"A new world was slowly opening its lacquered shell to me, its radiance beckoning."

This is her story of how she came to embrace this world in its entirety, entering with poetry and expanding beyond it.


4.5 stars


Here is the author discussing her memoir. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qEct5...

[Emmkay · Rating 5 out of 5]

Poet Safiya Sinclair has written a beautiful, absorbing memoir of her coming of age. She grew up in an insular, patriarchal Rastafarian family in which her father, once a popular reggae musician, was his own godhead. The family was increasingly isolated, moving frequently, the children rarely allowed outside other than for school, her father increasingly preoccupied with protecting the girls’ virtue from ‘Babylon’ outside their gates. However, the children benefitted from her mother’s fierce commitment to their education, and Safiya in particular received her mother’s love of poetry at an early age, drawing on it to become a published poet in her teens. Safiya’s increasing independence created increased tension with her father, who saw her as a ‘Jezebel’ luring her mother and sisters away from him and towards Babylon.

I learned so much about Rastafarianism, about which I realize I had only a very slim understanding (reggae, irie, vegan food, marijuana - seemed quite relaxed). The historical background and the belief system were fascinating to learn more about, the patriarchal structure disappointing though by no means unique. Reading about the Sinclair children’s upbringing also had me thinking about the Bronte sisters - another isolated, talented groups of siblings. A great read. 4.5.

“‘I was a dead-left child, abandoned.’ Her voice was thin and faraway. I gazed into the unspoken distance of where she was now gazing. ‘My world was small and bleak. But poetry made it seem wide and wild and warmer.’

Her face lit up as she laughed and told me that that was alliteration. I asked her what alliteration was and she explained it to me.

I crowded in greedy. Each word she tossed I caught, and watched it come alive in my hands.

‘Poetry is the best of what I have come to love about this world,’ my mother said.”

[Liralen · Rating 5 out of 5]

The countryside had always belonged to my father. Cloistered amidst towering blue mahoes and primeval ferns, this is where he was born. Where he first communed with Jah, roaring back at the thunder. Where he first called himself Rasta. Where I would watch the men in my family grow mighty while the women shrunk. Where tonight, after years of diminishment under his shadow, I refused to shrink anymore. At nineteen years old, all my fear had finally given way to fire. (loc. 80*)

Growing up in a strict Rastafari household in Jamaica, Sinclair learned above all to guard herself against the dangers of Babylon: against imperialism, Christianity, atheism, white people, impurity. Her parents loved her and her siblings fiercely, fought for them to get the best education possible, but at the same time, her father's adherence to religion, and his dissatisfaction with his circumstances, got more and more stifling. He would do anything to protect his daughters from Babylon—even if that meant destroying them in the process.

Years later, while retracing the history of my family's journey into Rastafari, I would eventually come to understand that my mother felt called because she wanted to nurture, and my father felt called because he wanted to burn. (loc. 352)

This is such a complicated, heart-wrenching story, and it is absolutely beautifully written. I didn't know, going in, that Sinclair is a celebrated poet, but I guessed that she was a poet within the first few pages. One of the things I love about poetry (or, poetry done right) is that it calls for such precision of language, and when a poet can translate that skill into prose—not an easy job—it can be phenomenal. Part of Sinclair's story is about learning to hone her skills as a poet, but even when she's writing about writing (a memoir topic I approach with extreme caution), she's writing as well about survival. Because her father could hold her back from the gates of Babylon, but he could not make her desire the restricted life of subservient daughter, subservient wife, voiceless poet.

I'm not sure where Sinclair is going as a writer from here, but wherever it is, I'll follow.

Thanks to the author and publisher for providing a review copy through NetGalley.

*Quotes are from an ARC and may not be final.

[Booksblabbering || Cait❣️ · Rating 3 out of 5]

Take a deep breath.
This memoir will grab readers by the throat and heart because of the beauty of its words, but will penetrate due to the thorniness and complexity of its ideas. Sinclair’s story exposes the rot in the heart of a not-quite post-colonial nation that also boasts about its distinctive identity.

Born in a seaside Jamaican village, Safiya Sinclair grew up in a strict Rastafarian family, ruled by her father's strict patriarchal views with extreme repressive control of her childhood.

We follow Sinclair’s reflective journey as she risks the wrath of her father, a reggae musician who feared his daughters being corrupted by Western influences — what Rastas call “Babylon”.

There was more than one way to be lost. More than one way to be saved. While my mother had saved me from the waves and gave me breath, my father had tried to save me only by suffocation. With ever increasing strictures, with incense smoke, with fire. Both had wanted better for me, but only one of them would protect me in the end.

Sinclair shares her own family history alongside the political and religious histories of Jamaica.
This makes it more intimate and shocking, framing the realities of colonialism, imperialism, child abuse, and sexual coercion within in the retelling of Black girlhood.

A book, I soon learned, was time travel. Each page held irrefutable power.

This book started off irrefutably five stars. However, after the halfway point, I felt myself slightly losing interest as the language became less poetic, everything felt more mundane, and her recounting felt predictable.

However, saying that I have to acknowledge that this is real life. Of course, it is going to be predictable as she has already alluded she is a poet. Of course, it makes sense she goes to school, experiences racism, breaks away from her father, and cements her own identity.
This perhaps sound callous, however this is what I knew to expect from a memoir such as this.
What does this expectation tell us of the world?

Heartbreaking, yet hopeful, I recommend the audiobook!

Bookstagram

[Dona's Books · Rating 4 out of 5]

Full review on my blog!



Thank you to the author Safiya Sinclair, publishers 37Ink, and TLC Book Tours, for an advance paperback copy of ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ ʙᴀʙʏʟᴏɴ. Thank you also to NetGalley for an accomanying widget. All views are mine.

ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ ʙᴀʙʏʟᴏɴ is a stunning memoir in which the author tells of her upbringing that was all the things we should never think of when we think of family. Religious abuse. Cruel beatings. Going hungry. And yet, Safiya kept the spark inside her alive, not just to survive her young life, but to become a creative writer-- to gain the voice she'd always been denied. It's a moving book, full of pain and meaning.

Rating: 💇🏿‍♀️💇🏿‍♀️💇🏿‍♀️💇🏿‍♀️ / 5 daughters severing ties
Recommend? Yes!
Finished: Aug 1 23
Format: Digital arc, Kindle
Read this book if you like:
👨‍👩‍👦‍👦 family stories, family drama
👭🏽 teenage girl friendships
💇🏿‍♀️ women's coming of age
💚 Rastafari
❤️‍🩹 overcoming abuse

DNF at 54% for repeated detailed descriptions of physical violence against children. This is a huge trigger for me, and this book contained no trigger warnings in the front matter.