Water is the unifying thread which ties our lives together, across manufactured constructs of space and time. Water does not know past or present, friend or foe. It travels calmly, constantly, and freely. For many of us, water is like an old friend: a steady, reassuring hand. Its cooling presence gives us time to reflect, rather than leaping into the inviting flames of anger. Water forms the background of our lives, and we are lost without it.
In Elif Shafak’s Rivers in the Sky, water is not the story, but the storyteller. As in much of her work, Shafak employs the inanimate narrator to tell the story without the mar of human bias. Water – though it holds memory – cannot hold a grudge, making it the perfect channel through which to explore stories of collective grief and loss. Water, in the form of rain, rivers, and seas, connects us through time and space and gives us the opportunity to reflect on collective memory. The novel cuts across eras and borders, with each of the three primary characters reflecting a different time: Arthur is a young genius in 17th century London; Narin is a Yazidi teenager in modern-day Turkey; Zaleekhah is a water scientist in modern-day London. Though their stories are separated by borders and centuries, their lives would not have been the same without each other, and without the rivers which set the backdrop to their lives.
Each chapter of the novel begins with a distinction: by the River Thames, or by the River Tigris. In her definition of location through watermark rather than landmark, Shafak subtly and immediately subverts the expectation of location as fixed. The Tigris and the Thames are constantly in flux, reflecting the passage of time that flows through human habitations and challenging the supremacy of their creation. London may not be the same today as it was in 1850, yet the Thames still flows through its heart. By centring her stories around rivers, Shafak reminds the reader of the primacy of nature. These rivers were here before us, and will remain after we are gone. In the face of their constancy, human foibles – war, grief, pain – are fleeting. Water sees it all.
That is not to say, however, that water is beyond us or our concerns. Water is not empty – indeed, it holds memory with more clarity than the blinkered human brain. Water reflects our stories and memories back to us, while simultaneously showing us the stories and memories of others. Water reminds us that our story is not the only one worth knowing. Our story may not exist without the stories of others. It is a story told through water, which brings Shafak’s characters together – The Epic of Gilgamesh, carved on lapis lazuli, and carried across continents. Once part of ancient Mesopotamian king Ashurbanipal’s library, the ornate tablet is a symbol of Arthur’s obsession; a reminder of Zarin’s history; a prized possession of Zaleekhah’s uncle. In its colour, constancy, and content, it symbolises water. A flash of blue connecting stories across time, encouraging reflection on those who came before us.
This is the ultimate lesson of Shafak’s novel: we are all part of something bigger than ourselves, and we can be reminded of this by seeking water’s reflection. In its rippled surface, our selves are multiplied. We see the generations that came before us, and the ones that will come after. This intergenerational connection is seen most clearly in the character of Narin. Throughout the novel, she is rarely seen without her grandmother, who is constantly telling stories, teaching lessons, and showing love. Their relationship is representative of the feminine tradition of oral storytelling – important in all cultures, but particularly those who have suffered persecution or exile. Narin’s grandmother’s storytelling is made more vital in the knowledge that Narin will soon lose her hearing, effectively ending a long tradition of connecting generations through stories. Narin spends her time with her grandmother listening intently, desperate to capture the stories before she is no longer able to receive them. The stories will remain in her blood, though, long after her hearing goes, and even after she is captured and her grandmother killed by the Islamic State.
Stories, like water, cross borders as well as generations. When Arthur, a young boy growing up in destitution in 17th century London, learns of the stories of ancient Nineveh and Ashurbanipal, he is inspired to embark on a journey across the seas to find the missing piece of The Epic of Gilgamesh. This journey will introduce him to language, love, and loss – and will eventually take his life. Centuries later, Narin is fascinated by the gravestone of the English scholar which lies abandoned near her hometown. She thinks of him when the dam is completed, and the town is submerged. Arthur’s journey begins by the River Thames and ends beneath the River Tigris. In a different time, Narin, born by the River Tigris, ends up in a houseboat on the River Thames. Following her capture by the Islamic state, Narin, like many other young Yazidi girls, ends up on the black market, where Zaleekhah’s uncle seeks to ‘save’ her from her captors in return for her kidney. This is how Zaleekhah finds out about a young girl named Narin, who will eventually become her adopted daughter.
Shafak’s characters are entangled like tendrils of steam rising from a mug – invisible but certain. Their lives would not be the same without each other. In a disconnected, digital world, it is easy to forget the inherent interconnectedness of our lives. Despite its constancy, we seem to forget our connections without physical reminders of them. Shafak’s novel is a tender evocation of the strings between us.
Paradoxically – and perhaps selfishly – we find it difficult to reflect on these connections without first reflecting on ourselves. The effort of making space for others when your self is boxed in feels like an impossible task. This is the gentler reminder of Shafak’s novel, best reflected through Zaleekhah: while we need others, we need ourselves first. Zaleekhah begins the novel adrift. Freshly divorced, she leaves her home and moves to a houseboat on the River Thames with so little hope for the future that she does not buy furniture. Throughout her story, she is reflected in the water beneath her. At first rocky, the storm inside her calms throughout the novel until she feels anchored within herself and her place in the world. It is through self-reflection that she achieves this. Though her partner Nen is by her side, Zaleekhah’s ability to reflect on her self is what saves her life, and gives her the strength to stand up to her uncle to save Narin’s as well.
Zaleekhah gives her pain to water, and this allows her to carry on. As a water scientist, one of her areas of study is water memory: the theory that water retains ‘memory’ of substances dissolved in it, even after it has been diluted to such an extent that the substances no longer remain in the water. If water has memory, can it absorb all that we give to it when we submerge ourselves in its depths? As well as allowing us to reflect, water also allows us to let go. Those tuned in to the wonder of wild swimming – myself included – know that there is nothing quite like the submission of giving yourself to the water. Water is equal parts greedy and generous; it takes the edges from our pain and keeps it for itself. This act of taking allows us to carry on without the weight of our collective trauma. Water, then, is full of human stories. The rivers in Shafak’s novel do not tell the story – they are the story. The story does not exist without them, as we do not exist without each other.
Shafak’s novel teaches us that there are, indeed, rivers in the sky, with rain in our bodies and clouds underground. Water runs through our veins and connects us like fungal networks between trees. Our memories are indelibly marked by each other. Our past could not have happened alone, and we cannot picture a future without each other.
