Encountering the ‘other’ is something we do almost daily, and yet it feels taboo to write about. This is especially true in today’s political climate, where the ‘other’ is scapegoated, villainised, or – at best – victimised. Many find it easier to distance themselves from the ‘other’ in order to make sense of today’s social problems – just look at the recent rise in racist and anti-immigrant sentiment in the UK. This distance is manufactured by elite groups who wish to redirect our frustration from real national problems (the housing crisis, rising unemployment, lack of political choice) to a racialised ‘other’ who invades our shores and steals our jobs. It’s a classic tactic of dividing the working class so that we cannot realise our collective power, which would threaten the status quo which so benefits the elite.
What if making space for encounters is how we begin to close the gap? In a polarised and divided world, those first moments of connection could be key to understanding not just the ‘other’, but each other.
And if we can’t write about it, how can we begin to understand our encounters with the ‘other’ and bridge the gap between our experiences? When every story feels imbued with intergenerational trauma, such encounters can sometimes feel like straying into dauntingly murky waters. Writing on such topics risks dredging up the past. For many of us, however, reading is the vehicle by which we understand the world around us. So, how can we begin to grapple with our experiences of encountering the trauma of the ‘other’ when the topic feels so taboo? We must begin by trying (and indeed, failing) to put these encounters into words. Encountering is the first step in creating space for – and eventually, understanding – the ‘other’.
I have yet to discover an author who cultivates this space of understanding as deeply and as tenderly as Elif Shafak. Her 2021 novel, The Island of Missing Trees, is a masterclass in making space for and understanding the ‘other’. The Island of Missing Trees is a Romeo and Juliet-style romance between two teenagers – Kostas and Defne – caught on opposite sides of a divided Cyprus in the summer of 1974. The naivety of youth allows the thrill of new love to mask the trauma embedded in each of their lives. The pair meet secretly in a safe space – The Happy Fig tavern – and their love grows deeper, although each meeting becomes more fraught as the conflict outside grows in parallel. Finally, we see the clouds of youth part, and intergenerational trauma begin to drive a wedge between the two characters. Kostas is sent to live with his uncle in England, and Defne grows resentful of his distance, not just from her but from the socio-political context within which they started their relationship.
As Defne and Kostas grow, so too does their understanding of the trauma of their ancestors. In this process, their own trauma becomes so vast that it becomes impossible to hold space for the trauma of the other. Readers feel this most painfully in Defne’s decision not to tell Kostas – who is removed both physically and symbolically – of her pregnancy. Distance enables Defne to ‘other’ Kostas, and they are unable to close this distance until they find each other again many years later. Key to rebuilding their relationship is the energy they commit to understanding each other’s experiences. They come to understand each other through what unites them – their love for each other and for the island on which they grew up – rather than their status as Greek or Turkish Cypriots. This commitment to understanding is lacking across the world, and it makes us apathetic to each other. Shafak uses her main characters to explore how we might summon the energy to commit to a common understanding in a politically disillusioned global society.
This energy cannot be manufactured artificially. It is, by nature, organic. It is born of community and communality. While we can’t create such an energy, we can create the spaces which allow it to thrive. Shafak provides a wonderful example in The Happy Fig – the tavern in which Kostas and Defne start their relationship, built around a sturdy and glorious fig tree. The tavern feels like an extension of the tree, its walls springing from the tree’s roots, its ceiling reaching up to provide cover, its inhabitants brimming with life and light and food. The tree – and by extension, the tavern – is the axis around which this story spins. The Happy Fig is representative of global spaces of understanding which focus on what we have in common, rather than what divides us. These spaces are vital as they allow us to encounter different perspectives and build relationships from such encounters. Without The Happy Fig, a young Turkish woman and a young Greek man may never have found the space to fall in love in such a hostile environment. Within The Happy Fig, people are brought together by their love of food, wine, and company, rather than divided by the side of the island they happened to be born on.
As well as providing this space of understanding, Shafak also gifts the reader a neutral narrator in the form of the fig tree, allowing us a perspective we had not previously considered – that of the unburdened bystander. This unusual character allows Shafak to explore complex political thought without the inherent bias of humanity. Only the fig tree could recognise that “humans think they know with certainty where their being ends and someone else’s starts”. We are so emburdened with our own trauma that we have become selfish. We fail to recognise the inherent interconnectedness of our lives. This is seen most clearly in our attitude towards borders – those arbitrary lines with which we determine who is deserving of our compassion. If borders do not matter to the fig tree, they do not exist for the rest of the natural world. Shafak puts it beautifully: the partition cuts through “abandoned villages, coastal hinterlands, wetlands, fallow lands, pine forests, fertile plains, copper vines, and archaeological sites”, highlighting the superficiality of this division.
Archaeology goes on to become a significant part of the story. As a grown woman, Defne works for the UN Committee of Missing Persons, where she works with a team recovering the remains of those who were killed during the conflict so that their families might get closure. Defne’s role reminds us of the importance of memory, particularly for those who have faced conflict and displacement. Shafak reminds us that “the voices of our motherlands will never stop echoing in our minds”. Alongside the value of memory, Shafak uses Ada (Defne and Kostas’s daughter) to teach us that it is not everyone’s job to remember everything all the time. By telling a story across generations, Shafak reminds the reader that we must let go of the past in order to move forward. This is key to making space for compassion and understanding. In the words of Defne’s eccentric sister: “if you weep for all the sorrows in this world, in the end you will have no eyes”. Shafak is not trying to give us any kind of solution here; rather, she reminds us that we have within ourselves the space to honour our own trauma while still being empathetic towards the trauma of each other. Each other is as worthy of kindness and respect as ourselves.
When I read, I try to figure out what the author is trying to teach us through their stories. The Island of Missing Trees is full of lessons. Be kind, make space, reach out, slow down. Ultimately, Shafak’s tender yet uncompromising storytelling encourages us to take more time to understand each other. She reminds us that, though the world may feel as though it passes us by, it is within our power to create and preserve spaces which cultivate kindness, respect, and understanding. The Island of Missing Trees is one of these spaces.
Spaces such as these are created and sustained by our encounters with each other. Through her compelling style of storytelling, Shafak urges us to seek out encounters with each other and allow them to expand our collective understanding. The novel was published in 2021, but its message of understanding and togetherness is timeless, as relevant now as in the 1970s setting of the novel.
