The Linguist

14 The Linguist Vol/64 No/1 ciol.org.uk/thelinguist Translating her grandfather Shemsi Mehmeti's novel, R B Castrioti learns what translation can reveal about ourselves, and others T ranslation is an art – a delicate weaving of two worlds with threads that are at once fragile and unbreakable. It requires a translator to wrestle with the 'untranslatable', to balance fidelity with artistry, precision with poetry. This tension lies at the heart of my current project: bringing Bijtë e Tokës së Djegur (Sons of the Scorched Earth) by Shemsi Mehmeti (né Castrioti) – my grandfather – into the English language. This novel is a landscape of loss and longing, shaped by the idioms and rhythms of a people whose history clings to every syllable. Translating it feels like trying to carry water cupped in both hands, knowing that no matter how carefully I tread, some will inevitably slip through my fingers. Take the Albanian word mall, for instance. Within its single syllable lives a universe – a longing so profound it becomes grief for what is no longer or what, perhaps, never was. How does one carry such a weight into English? I am considering using the phrase 'There was a lament in his soul' to express the deep, aching desire for something unattainable, though 'yearning' or 'pining' might be more fitting. None of these words, however, fully captures the grief embedded in mall, so I may rely on the surrounding text to convey its full emotional weight. Every page of this novel presents a fresh challenge. There are idioms tied to Albania's harsh landscapes, silences laden with unspoken truths, and cultural nuances that defy straightforward translation. It is here, in the spaces where languages refuse to align, that the translator must become an artist, sculpting the ineffable into a shape the reader can hold. Consider the phrase Qëndro o Sokol Llapi, se burrat nuk lodhen për gjumë. Translated literally, it reads: 'Stay strong, Sokol Llapi, men don't grow tired for sleep.' On the surface, it seems like a father's reproach to his son. Beneath that, however, lies an Albanian cultural ideal: resilience and fortitude in the face of hardship. Rendering this in English Shifting the landscape requires careful negotiation to preserve its essence while ensuring it resonates with a different audience. Similarly, expressions like Hana nuk la pa e qortuar të shoqin ('Hana spared no reproach for her husband') carry more than their literal meanings. I translated it as 'Hana made sure to reprimand her husband at every turn', which conveys the same sense of unflinching criticism, reflecting the cultural expectation of the time, while making it feel more natural to an English-speaking audience. These phrases whisper of familial dynamics and shared histories, of societal norms that bind individuals to a collective understanding. Translating them demands cultural fluency and a deep reverence for the original text. Linguistic hurdles The Albanian language presents its own unique hurdles. Shaped by centuries of history and isolation, it is rich with idioms and expressions that resist neat unpacking into English. Some words, like mall, carry layers of meaning that defy direct translation. Others thrive in what is left unsaid, in the spaces between words. Translating these nuances often feels like trying to explain a dream: perfectly coherent in its native form, but prone to unravelling in the retelling. Consider the phrase bëj kujdes (lit. 'be careful'). While this might seem straightforward, in Albanian it is often used in situations where there is an emotional subtext – a warning given with love or concern, one that suggests 'I care about you and I don't want you to get hurt' or 'I hope CONTINUING LEGACY Shemsi Mehmeti at his desk FEATURES

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