Jamaican writer Safiya Sinclair. Photo by Beowulf Sheehan, used with permission.

In April of this year, towards the close of the annual Bocas Lit Fest in Port of Spain, Trinidad, Safiya Sinclair’s memoir “How to Say Babylon,” which chronicles her struggle to break free of her rigid Rastafarian upbringing and find her own voice, was announced as the winner of the prestigious OCM Bocas Prize for Caribbean Literature. For the young Jamaican author, it was a moment of both shock and overwhelming gratitude.

“I was surprised because we found out live at the prize ceremony,” Sinclair tells me via Zoom. “And it was [Haitian-American writer and chief judge] Edwidge Danticat that announced the winner. It made the moment even more special for me because she’s a writer I look up to so much and who’s been a source of inspiration for so many of us Caribbean writers and readers.”

For Sinclair, the recognition is not just a personal achievement but a moment of pride for Jamaica. “If I can make Jamaica proud, I’m always happy. Bocas is the biggest literary prize in the Caribbean, and I was just happy that I could represent Jamaica. For me, that’s everything.”

When asked about how winning the prize might influence her future work or the perception of Caribbean non-fiction literature, Sinclair emphasised that her writing is not driven by the pursuit of awards. “I never really write thinking about prizes,” she says, “Of course, it’s a great honour, but the writing itself is the real prize. Having the book available in the Caribbean, having people read it and connect with it, that’s where I find the most gratitude.”

The ways in which the Trinidad-based literary festival has shone a spotlight on Caribbean literature is not lost on her: “This is what we need in our region,” she says, “to celebrate our writers and not just have Caribbean writers celebrated elsewhere for the Caribbean to recognise their worth.”

“I always think about myself when I was a young girl,” she continues, “writing in my room late at night and how much even the smallest act of encouragement or support meant to me. If there’s any way I can give back and do that in Jamaica, that’s one thing I am hoping to do. I’m looking at the example that Bocas is setting as one that I would love to see on the ground in Jamaica.”

Acknowledging the efforts of both individuals and groups in Jamaica who focus on literacy and reading outside of the formal education system, she explains, “They emphasise sharing books that people can relate to, not just in terms of the complexion or nationality of the writer, but also the stories they put out.”

Sinclair’s passion for nurturing the next generation of writers is evident. “We need more Jamaican poets. If there’s a 10-year-old or 12-year-old who is the next Jamaican poet, what can we do to encourage them and make sure they have the support they need to be the next generation?”

Growing up in a strict Rastafarian household, Sinclair tells me that she and her siblings always felt different. “Our teachers and peers treated us differently because we had dreadlocks,” she says. “We felt like outcasts. Even some Jamaican people don’t know what it’s like growing up Rastafari. Later, as a teenager, I felt this was something I would eventually write about because there’s so much unknown about Rastafari, especially being a young woman in a male-centred faith.”

Sinclair's poems — she won the 2017 OCM Bocas Prize for Poetry with her debut collection, “Cannibal” — explore themes that are centred around Caribbean womanhood, family, and history. “How to Say Babylon,” she explains, is an extension of those themes while being more intentional about exploring girlhood and womanhood within the Rastafari context: “Many people don’t know what that looks like.”

The title, meanwhile, reflects a significant part of Sinclair’s upbringing. “It was always about saying no to Babylon,” she tells me, “but also learning what it meant when you said it and how to reject it. This was a huge part of our childhood and education, figuring out the binary of us versus them, inside the house versus outside the gate.”

Sinclair's father, who her website describes as “a volatile reggae musician and militant adherent to a strict sect of Rastafari,” was in a band called “Future Wind” when he was a teenager. According to family lore, the group was quite popular locally, achieving “almost Beatles-like fame.”

“Wherever they played,” Sinclair tells me, “girls would come and scream in the audience. This is as my mother and other women in my family have told it to me. But I came long after that, at least a decade after.”

When she did, though, she came with a keen sense of observation about what was happening around her. Still, writing the memoir came with its own set of challenges: “A lot of them were just personal, trying to approach memories that were hard and painful. I knew if the book was going to be true and honest, I had to stay with those memories and find a way to write them without it feeling like harm.”

To decompress from the emotional weight of writing, Sinclair turned to various activities. “I finished a lot of the manuscript during the pandemic. I became obsessed with the show “Survivor,” watching all [at the time] 40 seasons. It was a good way to turn my mind off; they were all in island settings, so it was good. I also got into “I Love Lucy,” which I’d never seen before. Watching it every night before bed was a good way to step out of the heavy space of writing.” She also read a lot of novels and poems, and took many walks.

Since the book was published on October 3, 2023, Sinclair has received consistent feedback from readers. People all over the world, of varying ages and from different walks of life, have reached out to her to say they connected with her story.

“I get messages every day, which has been one of the most surprising things,” she reveals. “Some grew up similarly, in fundamental Christian or Mormon households, or had similar fathers. The most surprising messages are from men who say they cried reading the book, or [that] it made them think about their daughters, or what kind of father they are. If the book can do that, then I have done something good in the world.”

As for her family’s reaction to the book, Sinclair noted, “It’s been harder for my immediate family, especially my siblings and my Mom, who lived through the same trauma as me. It’s hard for them to revisit those memories. My mother and middle sister have read some of it, but they cry every time. They’ve all expressed how proud they are of me. I talked to them throughout the writing process, consulting them about their memories to make it a collective effort. My auntie, who’s in the book, read it with her husband and has been my biggest cheerleader.”

Her father, however, hasn't said a word to her about it. “He asked to read the book last summer,” she says, “and I gave him a copy before it came out. He called me a lot initially, trying to correct minute details. I asked him to promise not to say anything until he read it to the end, and that was the last conversation we had about the book.”

Part of the reason Sinclair was able to turn such difficult subject matter into such a compelling and heartrending read is the standard set by her literary influences. “I think [Toni] Morrison is the greatest writer who ever lived,” she says. “Her prose writing style, the depth, complexity, and lyric genius of her work, is something I aspire to. If I could achieve even a tenth of that, I’d be happy.”

Sinclair specifically remembers being “just blown away” after reading “Song of Solomon” for the first time: “I couldn’t believe I’d never read it in any class, despite having a doctorate. It’s a book everyone needs to read.” The “lushness, muscularity, and vividness” of Gabriel García Márquez‘s prose — she specifically cites “One Hundred Years of Solitude” and his short story “The Autumn of the Patriarch” — have also made a lasting impression on her: “Every time I read [the latter], I’m stunned by the height of what language can do. It’s magical.”

Sinclair herself has been exploring new formats in her writing, working on libretti — pieces that are turned into choral odes and short operas: “I’m currently working on a piece that’s 80 minutes long, involving a master chorale and an orchestra. It’s a new challenge for me, imagining how the lines will come alive in voices and instruments.”

She doesn’t read music, but wishes she did: “In another life, I would. It’s something I admire and would love to learn.” She has an eclectic taste in tunes as well, including indie rock, emo, and female-driven songwriters like Lana Del Rey. “But I also love music I can dance to and turn my mind off,” she says, “like Top 40. I don’t pin myself down to a specific genre; I just go with my mood.”

In reflecting on her literary journey thus far, Sinclair acknowledged the impact of her own resolve and resilience. “I think my younger self imagined it as a reason to keep going,” she says. “There was always a desire to excel, but so many things have happened that I wish I could go back and tell her, ‘Girl, you don’t even know what’s about to happen.’ It’s because of her tenacity that all of this is possible.”

Since winning the OCM Bocas Prize, “How to Say Babylon” has been translated into French. A paperback version has also been published, further extending its reach and impact. This fall, she will be in Europe representing Bocas and talking about Caribbean literature.