The Island of Missing Trees

by Elif Shafak

The places where we were born are the shape of our lives, even when we are away from them.

As you aged you cared less and less about what others thought of you, and only then could you be more free.

Because that is what migrations and relocations do to us: when you leave your home for unknown shores, you don’t simply carry on as before; a part of you dies inside so that another part can start all over again.

Where do you start someone’s story when every life has more than one thread and what we call birth is not the only beginning, nor is death exactly an end?

ayip. Are you familiar with that word? It means “shame”. It’s the word of my life. Don’t wear short skirts. Sit with your legs together. Don’t laugh out loud. Girls don’t do that. Girls don’t do this. It’s ayip.

If families resemble trees, as they say, arborescent structures with entangled roots and individual branches jutting out at awkward angles, family traumas are like thick, translucent resin dripping from a cut in the bark. They trickle down generations.

We are scared of happiness, you see. From a tender age we have been taught that in the air, in the Etesian wind, an uncanny exchange is at work, so that for every morsel of contentment there will follow a morsel of suffering, for every peal of laughter there is a drop of tear ready to roll, because that is the way of this strange world, and hence we try not to look too happy, even on days when we might feel so inside.

Food is the heart of a culture,’ replied Meryem. ‘You don’t know your ancestors’ cuisine, you don’t know who you are.’

good advice is always annoying and bad advice never is. So if what I say irritates you, take it as good advice.’

‘What I am trying to say is, you are young and the young are impatient. They can’t wait for school to be over and life to begin. But let me tell you a secret: it already has! This is what life is. Boredom, frustration, trying to get out of things, longing for something better.

Superstitions are the shadows of fears unknown.

What I tell you, therefore, I tell through the prism of my own understanding, undoubtedly. No storyteller is completely objective. But I have always tried to grasp every story through diverse angles, shifting perspectives, conflicting narratives. Truth is a rhizome – an underground plant stem with lateral shoots. You need to dig deep to reach it and, once unearthed, you have to treat it with respect.

wherever there is war and a painful partition, there will be no winners, human or otherwise.

‘That’s because your husband was not a nice man. An arsehole, I’m beginning to suspect.’ ‘Arsehole,’ repeated Meryem, tasting the word with the tip of her tongue. ‘I never swear.’ ‘Well, you should. It feels good.’

Maybe we give other names to grief because we are too scared to call it by its name.’

I think you’re expecting too much of women. You want them to sacrifice themselves for the happiness of others, try to accommodate everyone and conform to beauty standards that aren’t based in reality. That’s unfair.’