If you had set out to find Elif Shafak while she was crafting her latest novel, you would have stumbled upon her by the Thames in a riverside home, accompanied by the pulsating rhythms of heavy metal music. The British-Turkish author of a collection of 20 books confesses her dislike for silence. Instead, she feeds her creativity with repeated playbacks of her favourite music, including genres like melodic death metal, metal core, industrial metal and Scandinavian Viking sounds.
In the work of creating her novel, “There Are Rivers in the Sky”, the sound of roaring music in the backdrop was harmonised with the fluctuating mood of the river right outside. Living in a riverside house for two and half months, she experienced high tides showering her garden and was able to take in the river’s dynamics and dance to its rhythm.
Readers navigating through “There Are Rivers in the Sky” can acknowledge the impact of these observed water patterns through the almost 500 page narrative that spans across generations and continents. It’s genesis was a single water drop, a symbol of Shafak’s dedication to the element. She explains that the region of her origin, the Middle East, is facing a severe and alarming water scarcity. In her view, the essence of the narrative of our times and the climate crisis, in particular, is rooted in a profound freshwater crisis.
The book’s narrative originates in ancient Mesopotamia, triggered by a raindrop that sparks off a surge of a flood. It then branches out to cover a wide array of themes, including relic ownership debates, lost rivers, organ harvesting, genocide and mudlarking. Throughout the narrative, the single water drop re-emerges in various forms – a snowflake, a cloud, a river, a teardrop – intertwining the diverse elements of the story and symbolising Earth’s interconnectivity and life’s interdependence.
Shafak emphasises the undervalued nature of water, warning against taking it for granted and urging us to appreciate the value down to the last drop.
Shafak found inspiration for her novel’s structure from the sceptre of a water molecule, composed of two hydrogen atoms bonded to one oxygen atom. The narrative revolves around three central characters: Zaleekah, a hydrologist living in a houseboat on the Thames in contemporary 2018; Narin, a Yazidi girl living by the Tigris in 2014; and Arthur, a man from Victorian London who connects them all. Arthur, born into poverty on the Thames banks in 1840, finds his way to the Ottoman Empire through his groundbreaking work as an Assyriologist, in pursuit of a lost fragment of an ancient verse – The Epic of Gilgamesh.
Shafak expresses her fondness for The Epic of Gilgamesh, hailed as the most ancient piece of literature worldwide. She asserts that despite being the cradle of civilisation and a source of significant art, creativity and architecture, the Middle East’s mythologies are often neglected and it is typically viewed as a turbulent area, marred by strife, issues and conflicts.
The character of Arthur draws on the real-life Assyriologist, George Smith – the first to decode the Epic, sections of which are housed in the British Museum. Shafak’s work explores subtly nuanced questions about how to handle artifacts displaced globally across museums.
As a writer hailing from a ‘damaged democracy,’ Shafak maintains that she has never had the privilege to be politically neutral. She expresses her strong viewpoints about colonial archaeology and the criticisms towards institutional colonialism while at the same time acknowledging the individual archaeologists who strive hard follow their passion.
Engaging in such conversations, though, should be done calmly according to Shafak, without trying to avoid difficult topics.
The narrative revolves around the intricate issue of cultural artefacts and their significance to regional minorities, with a particular emphasis on Nineveh, currently located in Iraq. This focus arises due to the devastation caused by Isis in the area. The author suggests that frequently these artefacts’ true owners, the local minority groups, are often overlooked, remarking that this is a crucial distinction to be acknowledged.
The author’s narrative also explores the severe suffering of the Yazidi people during two periods; the 19th century and again in 2014 when the group faced a horrifying genocide by Islamic State militants. The author highlights that this was just one episode in history’s lengthy list of massacres, carried out in full view of the world. Evidences of these grim realities have been depicted in the narrative, sourced from survivors’ gut-wrenching accounts.
The author has expressed a preference for taking historical data into account when writing her stories, but also emphasises the existence of countless untold narratives. She suggests that conventional history, especially as taught in countries like Turkey, has traditionally centred around the male perspective, creating a gap when it comes to accounts of women and minorities. The author acknowledges that while literature may not completely resolve this issue, it can highlight these unsaid stories’ existence.
The author, who self-identifies as a ‘world citizen’ and a ‘humanity’s citizen’, uses her position of influence to advocate for minorities, immigrants and voiceless individuals. Her wanderer existence, having lived in various global locations due to her separated parents and mother’s diplomatic career, has significantly shaped her perspective. Having spent her childhood in Strasbourg and Ankara, her teenage years in an international school in Madrid, and visiting her mother in Jordan and Germany, she has substantial international exposure. Following teaching stints in the US, she now resides in London and is an outspoken feminist.
“It is vital for individuals to articulate multiple senses of belonging,” she articulates. “Undeniably, my Turkish identity is an integral aspect of me. It certainly has influenced my literature. And I relate deeply with the citizens, the customs […] yet concurrently, I sense a connection to multiple other locales as well.”
Shafak launched her debut book, Pinhan, in 1998 when merely 26 years old. She penned her initial books in Turkish, employing a dual prose mode that irked certain readers due to its merger of contemporary, standardised Turkish and the archaic Ottoman language.
“In Turkey, in general terms, if you’re exceptionally traditional, then older words should attract your interest; if you incline towards progressiveness, you ought to use newer terms. However, in my capacity as a writer, I’ve staunchly maintained: we require both traditional and contemporary words. […] Language isn’t unchanging. It’s not possible to impose it. […] Many were surprised that a youthful, liberal woman was keen on archaic words or even knowledgeable about them. But my emphasis is, I am passionate about language. I adore multiple languages. In my view, language isn’t a utility like a pencil that I utilise and then set aside. I venture into that domain. I immerse myself in it.”
Since 2004, Shafak has been penning in English, and appreciates the “cognitive detachment” of a different language.
“It impels you to examine details with more intensity. Perhaps words that people who speak English natively might underestimate, you begin to ponder over them with greater care. […] It’s comparable to stepping back. To scrutinise a painting in greater detail, you don’t always advance, instead taking a step back.”
‘Once I am engrossed in a novel, that transforms into my universe, defining my reality. I strive to inhabit that realm as persistently and intensely as feasible.’
Shafak is not intimidated by tackling major subjects in her books or activism – her writing has addressed a range of concerns from honour killings to sex work, religion, generational trauma, and beyond. As a writer emerging from an “injured democracy”, she emphasises that she was never afforded the leisure of keeping away from politics.
Shafak believes profoundly in the link between politics and literature. Her firm stand on this was evident in 2006, when she was charged with “denigrating Turkishness” under Turkish law, specifically, Article 301. In her book, The Bastard of Istanbul, she had a character refer to the “genocide” of Armenians by the Ottoman Empire. This saw Shafak potentially facing up to three years in a cell.
At the heart of this distressing experience, she was expecting a child, and throughout her pregnancy, the trial proceeded. Demonstrations on the streets featuring burning of EU signs and revulsion against her photographs marked this period. It was only one day prior to delivering her daughter that her name was cleared from the accusations. Although a horrifying experience, it didn’t diminish her courage. Shafak persisted in writing and speaking fervently about topics that mattered to her.
Again in 2019, when she published the Booker-shortlisted 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in this Strange World, she encountered scrutiny from Turkish investigators for “obscenity crimes”, due to the portrayal of topics like child abuse and sexual harassment in her books.
“I cannot deny the impact of these events, they were unnerving and unsettling,” she admits.
“I presume a part of me was heavily affected by this experience. However, I’ve also experienced a flood of affection and moving letters. Turkey is a highly intricate nation.”
She is perpetually mindful that anything she pens down, shares or tweets could be misconstrued and potentially turned against her.
“However, I believe what helps me is the sense of freedom I encounter when I write. While I’m immersed in a novel, it becomes my reality, my world. I strive to sustain this state as extensively and intensely as feasible. It’s only when the book is complete and handed to my editor, the anxiety steps in. But by then, it’s far too late, the book has been written. It possesses its own existence and I should honour that. Therefore, I cherish the liberty that comes with storytelling.”
Her latest work, There Are Rivers in the Sky, is due to be published by Viking on the 8th of August.