There Are Rivers in the Sky

by Elif Shafak

“Words are like birds,” says Mr. Bradbury. “When you publish books, you are setting caged birds free. They can go wherever they please. They can fly over the highest walls and across vast distances, settling in the mansions of the gentry, in farmsteads

and laborers’ cottages alike. You never know whom those words will reach, whose hearts will succumb to their sweet songs.”

More and more, he comes to realize that people fall into three camps: those who hardly, if ever, see beauty, even when it strikes them between the eyes; those who recognize it only when it is made apparent to them; and those rare souls who find beauty everywhere they turn, even in the most unexpected places.

“Because with all the others—the stamps or the pretty, shiny paper—you can use them only once or twice, then they are gone, but books, it seems to me, do not end, even when we are finished reading them.”

not a Black woman from Virginia. In the Tunisian quarter, Arthur sees skins of leopards and lions; and in the Persian section, he touches rugs so soft he suspects they must have been woven by angels.

that enables one man to move thousands of pounds of iron; and he blushes at the sight of marble statues with their

The divisions that make up class are, in truth, the borders on a map. When you are born into wealth and privilege, you inherit a plan that outlines the paths ahead, indicating the shortcuts and byways available to reach your destination, informing you of the lush valleys where you may rest and the tricky terrain to avoid. If you enter the world without such a map, you are bereft of proper guidance. You lose your way more easily, trying to pass through what you thought were orchards and gardens, only to discover they are marshland and peat bogs.

hear a gentle lapping in the distance. They are all there. The lost rivers of time, out of sight and out of mind but notable in their absence, like phantom limbs that still have the power to cause pain. They are here and everywhere, eroding the solid structures on which we have built our careers, marriages, reputations and relationships, evermore flowing onwards—with or without us. Zaleekhah knows she may not be one of them, but she will always be attracted to people who are pulled toward something bigger and better than themselves, a passion that lasts a lifetime, even though it will consume them in the end.

too young to understand that, in deciding what will be remembered, a museum, any museum, is also deciding, in part, what will be forgotten.

extraordinary people who appear unexpectedly on our paths, and, just as suddenly, they disappear, leaving their indelible marks and a sense of regret. Brief and bright, like a match striking a flame in the dark, they heat the damp kindling of our hearts and then they are gone.

Clock-time, however punctual it may purport to be, is distorted and deceptive. It runs under the illusion that everything is moving steadily forward, and the future, therefore, will always be better than the past. Story-time understands the fragility of peace, the fickleness of circumstances, the dangers lurking in the night but also appreciates small acts of kindness. That is why minorities do not live in clock-time. They live in story-time. When the borek is baked, a delicious smell wafting throughout the house, Grandma cuts a generous portion for Narin. She sets a pitcher of a cold, foamy yogurt drink by her plate and smiles fondly as she watches the child tuck in. “When someone gives you the food they’ve prepared, they give you their heart.” Grandma says that when she was little, there was a Muslim girl she

“You can’t know what is possible unless you try to imagine it first,”

Home is where your loved ones are, but the reverse is also true. Those you love are your sanctuary, your shelter, your country and even, when it comes to that, your exile. Wherever they go, you will follow.

Once you have savored the taste of travel, he says, your life will never be the same again.

That’s the thing about failing: either it makes you super-afraid of failing again or, somehow, you learn to overcome fear.”

“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.”

“Where you have set your mind

begin the journey Let your heart have no fear, keep your eyes on me.”

“When I first moved to London, my brothers gave me a fish. A tetra. I called her Ki-ang. It means ‘to love’ in Ancient Sumerian. I didn’t know the noun for ‘love,’ so the verb had to do. Anyways Ki-ang was very cute, but I thought she must be lonely and so I bought another fish to keep her company—and for a while things were fine, and the second fish grew bigger, but one morning, when I checked, there was only one fish in the bowl. Love had disappeared.” The cab pulls over in front of them, and the driver pokes his head out of the window, nodding in their direction. “Was it an angelfish, the other one?” asks Zaleekhah. “Yeah, you see, you know how these stories go. But I didn’t. It turns out you can never keep the two together for too long, because the chances are the angelfish will gobble up the tetra.” They stride toward the car. Nen opens the door for Zaleekhah. “It’s just it got me thinking tonight…I never gave the second fish a name, but if I could now, I’d call it ‘Gratitude.’ ”

Zaleekhah gets into the cab. Through the open window she looks at Nen. “You’re saying Gratitude swallows Love.” “Yes, if it gets too big.” Nen’s gaze is unflinching. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry into your personal life. All I’m saying is, one needs to keep an eye on that Gratitude fish, I learned to my cost.”

Arthur is beginning to suspect that civilization is the name we give to what little we have salvaged from a loss that no one wants to remember. Triumphs are erected upon the jerry-built scaffolding of brutalities untold, heroic legends spun from the thread of aggressions and atrocities. The irrigation system was Nineveh’s glowing achievement—but how many lives were squandered in its construction?

There is always another side, a forgotten side. Water was the city’s greatest asset and defining feature, yet it was also what undermined it in the end. The large amounts of salt deposited by torrent and tide wrecked the soil. Rivers raised, rivers razed. Sometimes your biggest strength becomes your worst weakness.

sweeping from the Mediterranean

nods, a softness to her gaze.

though.” “Everyone, I promise you. Is there such a thing as absolute

moments

“We can fall asleep holding hands, nothing else—we’ll be like river otters.” “I like otters,” says Zaleekhah. “They link paws so they don’t drift

away from each other. That’s how they survive.”

flight: In the blackest sky there is a star glimmering high above, in the deepest night, a candle burning bright. Never despair. You must always look for the nearest source of life.

But Arthur is convinced that everyone has a gift. 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?