There Are Rivers in the Sky

by Elif Shafak

Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence. —Ovid Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. —W. B. Yeats There are different wells within us. Some fill with each good rain, Others are far, far too deep For that. —Hafiz

In those days, in those far-off days, In those nights, in those far-off nights, In those years, in those far-off years, In olden times… Did you see the sons of Sumer and Akkad? I saw them. How do they fare? They drink water from the place of a massacre. —Tablet XII, Epic of Gilgamesh (Translated by Andrew George)

Heart, liver, stomach, lungs, neck, eyes, soul…It is as if love, by its fluid nature, its riverine force, is all about the melding of markers, to the extent that you can no longer tell where your being ends and another’s begins.

Grown-ups are not good at masking their concerns, although they can hide their delight and curiosity surprisingly well. Whereas with children it is the other way round. Children can tactfully mute their anxiety and conceal their sorrow, but will struggle not to express their excitement. That is what growing up means, in some simple way: learning to repress all expressions of pure happiness and joy.

Some people learn love, kindness. Others, I’m afraid, abuse and brutality. But the best students are those who acquire generosity and compassion from their encounters with hardship and cruelty. The ones who choose not to inflict their suffering on to others. And what you learn is what you take with you to your grave.” “Why so much hatred toward us?” “Hatred is a poison served in three cups. The first is when people despise those they desire—because they want to have them in their possession. It’s all out of hubris! The second is when people loathe those they do not understand. It’s all out of fear! Then there is the third kind—when people hate those they have hurt.”

“But why?” “Because the tree remembers what the axe forgets.” “What does that mean?” “It means it’s not the harmer who bears the scars, but the one who has been harmed. For us, memory is all we have. If you want to know who you are, you need to learn the stories of your ancestors.

I’m so proud of you, habibti. I want you to be very successful. Remember, people like us cannot afford to fail. “People like us”…immigrants, exiles, refugees, newcomers, outsiders…Too many words for a shared, recognizable sentiment that, no matter how often described, remains largely undefined. Children of uprooted parents are born into the memory tribe. Both their present and their future are forever shaped by their ancestral past, regardless of whether they have any knowledge of it. If they flourish and prosper, their achievements will be attributed to a whole community; and, in the same way, their failures will be chalked up to something bigger and older than themselves, be it family, religion or ethnicity.

A tear falls on the back of her hand. Lacrimal fluid, composed of intricate patterns of crystallized salt invisible to the eye. This drop, water from her own body, containing a trace of her DNA, was a snowflake once upon a time or a wisp of steam, perhaps here or many kilometers away, repeatedly mutating from liquid to solid to vapor and back again, yet retaining its molecular essence. It remained hidden under the fossil-filled earth for tens if not thousands of years, climbed up to the skies and returned to earth in mist, fog, monsoon or hailstorm, perpetually displaced and relocated. Water is the consummate immigrant, trapped in transit, never able to settle.

water never ceases to surprise her, astonishingly resilient but also acutely vulnerable—a drying, dying force.

She wants to excuse herself from a world where she often feels like an outsider, a confused and clumsy latecomer, an accidental guest who walked in through the wrong door at the wrong time.

All she wants, right now, is to retreat, a silent admission of defeat for someone tired of trying to survive—less a departure than a homecoming, a return to water.

We never want our parents’ weaknesses to be seen by others. Their failures are our own private affair, a secret we would rather keep to ourselves; when they become public, for everyone’s consumption, we are no longer the children we once were.

If, as the poets say, the journey of life resembles the march of rivers to the sea, at times meandering aimlessly, at others purposeful and unswerving, the bend in the flow is where the story takes a sudden turn, winding away from its predicted course into a fresh and unexpected direction. Becoming an apprentice at one of England’s leading printing and publishing houses is the twist that changes Arthur’s destiny forever.

Numbers are important and Grandma’s favorite is seven. In order to process an emotion, be it good or bad, you must allow seven days to pass. So if you fall in love, with a lightness to your moves like the speck of pollen on the wing of a butterfly, you have to wait seven days, and, if after that period you still feel the same way, then and only then can you trust your heart. Never make a major decision unless you have spent seven days contemplating it. If you are cross with someone, or are on the verge of breaking ties with them, once again, you must delay any reaction for seven moons. This is the only way to ensure you will not be led astray by rage or revenge. A deal ought to brew for seven days before it is sealed; a house has to be blessed in seven corners before anyone moves in. You cannot bake a loaf of bread unless the yeast has rested for seven cycles. A newborn baby must be guarded from evil spirits for seven sunrises. There are seven days in a week, seven sages walking the earth, seven regions in the human body, seven sleepers in a cave escaping persecution, seven cardinal sins for which seven doors to hell have been reserved. Of the seven days, Wednesdays are the most propitious. That is when Grandma prepares her balms, ointments and tinctures, because, as everyone knows, Melek Tawûs descended on this venerated day, making it the most auspicious time to do good. If you have a hidden wish, something too intimate to share, you may just as well whisper it to a flow...

will take care of it. Equally, if you wake up from a nightmare in the middle of the night, turn on the tap and tell it to the water. It will soothe your pounding heart, wash away your fears. Grandma says one should be kind to every living being, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, for you can never know in what shape or form you or a loved one will be reborn. “Yesterday I was a river. Tomorrow, I may return as a raindrop.”

Rivers have personalities. Some calm down with age, winding ponderously across fertile plains and meadows; others become bitter, surging with rage, tumbling through steep gorges; while yet others remain agitated and confused till the end. No two rivers are alike. The Tigris is, and has always been, “the mad one,” “the swift one.” Not like its twin, the Euphrates, which, having a gentler disposition, courses at a slower pace, taking its time, absorbing its surroundings as it passes by. These two mighty currents—though both spring from the womb of the Taurus Mountains in Turkey and run parallel for most of their lengthy peregrinations until they perish together in the Persian Gulf—are strikingly dissimilar—much as two siblings can be very different, despite sharing the same parents. “They speak to each other, you know, the Tigris and the Euphrates. When the wind blows this way, you can hear them.” Narin scoffs. “Really—can you hear them now?” “I can, actually,” says the old woman, craning her neck. “Listen, they’re gossiping again, those two. They are very chatty. Euphrates is complaining. She says: ‘Why are you so restless, my Tigris? You’re tiring everyone—and yourself. Why this endless rage of yours?’ ” Narin draws closer. “And what does Tigris say?” “Tigris says, ‘Why’re you asking, my Euphrates? Even if I were to explain, you’d never understand. You’re blessed with calmness of spirit. I’m not like you. It’s so hard to be me—it’s hard to have to fight all the time.’ ” “A...

“Oh, Euphrates says, ‘But you’re mistaken about me. If you only knew how difficult it is to be calm and composed. If you only knew, it takes a fierce fight inside to remain peaceful on the outside.’ ” “What does that mean?” “That tranquillity does not come easily.” The child is silent for a moment, her lips compressed. “Which river is wiser, do you think, Grandma?” “Well, if you promise not to mention it to our Tigris…” “I promise,” Narin says instantly. “Good, in that case I’ll tell you. Actually, I agree with Euphrates. Better to be a gentle soul than one consumed by anger, resentment and vengeance. Anyone can wage war, but maintaining peace is a difficult thing. Because of this, I respect Euphrates more, but let’s keep it from our grumpy old Tigris, eh? No need to enrage him any further.”

It is perhaps easier to justify the end of a relationship—both to yourself and to others—when there is a definite, tangible cause, no matter how painful. But it is harder to grasp the gradual evaporation of love, a loss so slow and subtle as to be barely detectable, until it is fully gone. Now she feels like a passenger on a sleeper train who awakens and draws back the curtains, only to find an unfamiliar landscape that had been there all along. She cannot pull the curtains closed again.

She is almost thirty-one years old. She has no children, no parents. This time last year she was certain that her husband was her family. Their colleagues always commented on how perfectly matched they were, which was meant as a compliment, and also the politest way of saying neither could have found anyone better. It was true, though: they seemed like a good couple, and there were times when they really were—if only she’d had the capacity for happiness. But she also knows that the fabric of their marriage had worn thin in many places. All it needed was one sharp tug for it to tear.

Few things harden the human heart as fast as jealousy. Cold and commanding, it settles quickly in the warm spot left by affection, chilling it with its bitter touch.

She asked him if he ever regretted studying “aquatic memory,” given the price he paid for choosing such a controversial subject. “Not for one second. I wanted to research an unknown property of water, and I treasured every moment of it.” “But it cost you so much.” “True…but you and I both love the work we do and that love is beyond all personal success or failure. You’ll pick up where I’ve left off, and, if you falter, someone else will take on your research. We do this to keep scientific inquiry going—with or without us.” Thinking about these words now, Zaleekhah curls into herself and hugs her knees. The sofa is shorter than she is, but that’s not the cause of her discomfort. She feels guilty for never having told Berenberg how much he meant to her and she feels guilty for telling her husband how much Berenberg meant to her. She was silent when she should have spoken; she spoke when she should have been silent. Either way, guilt is her most loyal companion. And regret, too—not so much for her acts as for her failure to act. She was drawn to Berenberg’s dedication and perseverance, a devotion so selfless as to seek only the good of its object, an unreasonable commitment perhaps more commonly observed in ancient mystics and ascetics than in the modern workplace.

“My brother,” Nen says, smiling. “The youngest. I have four more.” “You have five brothers?” “Yup, all younger than me. We’re a big clan.” Always intrigued by large families, Zaleekhah can’t help asking, “What was that like growing up?” “Depends which stage of growing up we’re talking about. It was pretty terrible when I was little—the boys were loud, always quarreling. And it was worse when we were teenagers. Dirty socks everywhere…Yet, somewhere along the way, it became an amazing blessing. How about you?” “Oh, I’m an only child.” “And what was that like growing up?” “A bit lonely,” says Zaleekhah. “But my cousin Helen was like a sister to me, if that counts.” “Cousins, friends, books, songs, poems, trees…anything that brings meaning into our lives counts.”

Arthur wonders if sadness can ever be unreasonable. What if it has its own reasons, even if they may not be obvious to others?

why he himself is here, for

She turns to Zaleekhah and says, “People think a tattoo is an act of rebellion or something, but, actually, it’s a form of storytelling. That’s what most customers come in for—not just some random image or word in ink. They come because they have a story to tell.”

“You mean he failed—like any other human being.” “I guess you can put it that way. I was brought up to think differently, though. Uncle always says people like us cannot afford to fail. Immigrants, I mean.” Nen jams her hands in her pockets. “I don’t know your uncle, but I respectfully disagree. I’d have thought especially an immigrant would understand what it feels like to meet loss and still not be defeated.”

“You should come mudlarking with us sometime.” Nen takes her hands out of her pockets. “It’s a good start to the day, peaceful, calming—especially for those of us endowed with a restless heart.” A look of puzzlement crosses Zaleekhah’s face. “Epic of Gilgamesh,” says Nen. “That’s how Gilgamesh’s mother complains to the gods: Why did you endow my son with a restless heart? You have moved him to travel…face a battle unknown.” Nen

Home is where your absence is felt, the echo of your voice kept alive, no matter how long you have been away or how far you may have strayed, a place that still beats with the pulse of your heart.

Discomfort is not an emotional state but a doorway she easily passes through several times a day.

Epic of Gilgamesh.” “I do.” “And you tattoo its characters?” “I do.” “Lord, heavens!” Another sigh. “It’s a great poem, though.” Nen nods. “It is—and it has fans from all over the world. You should see the tourists coming to my shop—from Japan, Norway, Canada…The ancient poem unites us across borders, but also, in some strange way, we can never seem to agree on how to interpret it. That’s why it’s been treasured by dictators and dissidents alike, the mighty and the weak. It can be read in multiple ways.”

“And how do you read it?” asks Uncle Malek. Nen takes a second to reply. “For me, the epic is primarily about both the fragility and resilience of being human, and, also, it is about the possibility for change. Learning to care for others, not just yourself. Gilgamesh, let’s admit, is an awful person in the beginning, and it is only through love and friendship and loss that he becomes more humble and gentle. So it is a story in which there is no hero in the traditional sense, and everything is either fractured or fluid—like life itself.”

“Where you have set your mind begin the journey Let your heart have no fear, keep your eyes on me.”

Arthur is invited to join, although it is unusual for an outsider to attend the ceremony. He is deeply moved. He understands they are making an exception for him. They see him as a friend. It occurs to him on that night that there is a side to friendship that resembles faith. Both are built on the fragility of trust.

That’s what it means to me, Ancient Mesopotamia.”

“I envy happy people,” says Zaleekhah. “Not in a jealous way—it’s more that I’m puzzled by them. I want to study them—put them under a microscope like a specimen. How do they even do it? Whereas I’m always off-balance.” Nen offers Zaleekhah half of her orange. She says when we look at a person all we see in that moment is a partial image of them, often subconsciously biased. They appear successful and content, and so we conclude there must be something wrong with us, since we cannot be more like them. But that image is not the full reality and nor are we that simple or static. “We are all like clay tablets, chipped around the edges, hiding our little secrets and cracks.” “Not everyone, though.” “Everyone, I promise you. Is there such a thing as absolute happiness? Never-ending success? A perfect marriage? A quick fix to cure anxiety? We want to believe there is—just like Gilgamesh wanted to believe he could live forever. Then we’re defeated, humbled. We learn to accept there’ll always be something amiss, something broken, and unless we are kind to ourselves it won’t change, this feeling of incompleteness.”

Mesopotamian lore understands that water is the defining force of life. Trees are “rooted water,” streams are “flowing water,” birds are “flying water,” mountains are “rising water,” and, as for humans, they are, and will always be, “warring water,” never at peace. Water has memory. Rivers are especially good at remembering.

Given a chance and a modicum of support, anyone can elevate their skill. In the end, perhaps what separates one individual from another is not talent but passion. And what is passion if not a restlessness of the heart, an intense yearning to surpass your limits, like a river overflowing its banks?

Books by and about this remarkable character have been central to my research, such as his Assyrian Discoveries: An Account of Explorations and Discoveries on the Site of Nineveh, during 1873 and 1874 and The Chaldean Account of Genesis. I would especially like to highlight David Damrosch’s fabulous masterpiece The Buried Book: The Loss and Rediscovery of the Great Epic of Gilgamesh. Irving Finkel’s The Ark Before Noah: Decoding the Story of the Flood offers illuminating and helpful insights. I have learned a lot from Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation, the Flood, Gilgamesh, and Others (translated by Stephanie Dalley) and The Epic of Gilgamesh (translated by Andrew George). The lovers of the poem hail from all around the globe and I count myself among them.

Gilgamesh Among Us: Modern Encounters with the Ancient Epic by Theodore Ziolkowski is a fascinating source on the continuing influence and allure of the world’s oldest work of literature. Austen Henry Layard’s groundbreaking work Nineveh and Its Remains: With an Account of a Visit to the Chaldaean Christians of Kurdistan, and the Yezidis, or Devil-Worshippers; and an Enquiry into the Manners and Arts of the Ancient Assyrians has been crucial in my research and attentive readers will notice that I have played with the word order in the original title. Assyrian Palace Sculptures by Paul Collins, I Am Ashurbanipal: King of the World, King of Assyria, edited by Gareth Brereton, and Winged Bull: The Extraordinary Life of Henry Layard, the Adventurer Who Discovered the Lost City of Nineveh by Jeff Pearce have been precious sources. The scene where Arthur witnesses a kadi, a religious judge, grant permission to deceive and even slaughter the Yazidis on the grounds that they are not “people of the book” is based on Layard’s own accounts. It is real.

Rivers of the Sultan: The Tigris and Euphrates in the Ottoman Empire by Faisal H. Husain; Tigris and Euphrates Rivers: Their Environment from Headwaters to Mouth, edited by Laith A. Jawad; and Wounded Tigris: A Journey Through the Cradle of Civilization by Leon McCarron helped me both from historical and geographical perspectives. Yet perhaps the greatest challenge arose when I delved into the richness and complexity of Yazidi culture and traditions. A collective identity that has been transmitted throughout the centuries mostly through songs, stories, lullabies and poems could not be understood solely by focusing on written texts. I have debated a lot which spelling to use—Yazidi, Yezidi or Êzidi—and the only reason I chose the first was to maintain the continuity in the novel with the nineteenth-century script and Arthur’s discovery of Layard’s book.

The genocide that took place in 2014 happened in front of the eyes of the entire world. Sinjar: 14 Days That Saved the Yazidis from Islamic State by Susan Shand; Yezidi Sunset: The Genocide by ISIS in Iraq by Paul Martin Kingery; and Shadow on the Mountain: A Yazidi Memoir of Terror, Resistance and Hope by Shaker Jeffrey and Katharine Holstein are heartbreaking and powerful accounts. State Responsibility and the Genocide of the Yazidis, edited by Baroness Helena Kennedy, Aarif Abraham, Lord David Alton and Tatyana Eatwell, is a pivotal document, and I want to emphasize the meticulous investigations of the Yazidi Justice Committee (YJC).

They say as a novelist you must not fall in love with your subject matter, but, as much as I admire the intellect and appreciate the realm of ideas, I do not believe you can write a novel solely from the rational mind. The heart must also be in it, and, once the heart is in it, who knows where it will take you. This novel is where my heart led me. This novel is my love song to rivers—those still living and those that are long gone.