In these polarised times, we need to be aware of what we share as humans

British-Turkish writer Elif Shafak, who became an international sensation with ‘Forty Rules of Love’, has just written her 19th book, a novel that connects ancient Mesopotamia, Victorian England and present-day Turkey through a single drop of water. Shafak, who listens to heavy metal when she writes, spoke to Namita Devidayal about literature, ecofeminism, and being gentle and radical at the same time

As a writer, I’m not only interested in stories, but also silences — people who have been silenced throughout history.Most stories told to us, especially in Turkey, are from the point of view of a man in a position of power. But the stories of women, of minorities, of men who do not have power, for instance, have been forgotten. I’ve always been interested in the untold stories, the silences, the taboos, the gaps. Literature has the power to re-humanise the people who have been dehumanised, to make the unheard heard. That said, this book was very difficult for me to write because all the worlds are built around a single tiny drop of water.

Even at this age (52), I really don’t know where the stories come from. All I know is I am interested in nature. We have turned ourselves into consumers and the more you consume, the more value you have. I think we need to question that. We need to understand that we are only a small part of a very delicate ecosystem in which trees have a voice, water has presence. I am also interested in ecofeminism. When we talk about the climate crisis, we are actually talking about a freshwater crisis, and this especially impacts women all around the world, for they carry water to their communities and often have to walk long distances, increasing the possibility of gender violence. So, everything is connected. This is my love poem to water.

I was born in France but shortly afterwards, my parents got separated and my mother brought me to Ankara in Turkey. So, two things are very crucial to me: First, the sense of displacement and the idea of homeland. The second is the solidarity and sisterhood between my mother and my grandmother. Even though they are very different, they supported each other tremendously. My grandmother was barely educated but she whole-heartedly believed in women’s independence. So, when my mum returned as a young divorcee with no career, no money, no diploma, it was my grandmother who encouraged her to go back to university so that she could have choices, and she took care of me. At a very vulnerable moment in our life, my grandmother’s support changed our destiny. I’m a big believer in women supporting women.

I’m not religious at all, especially when it comes to organised religion. I think spirituality is an individual quest and everyone’s journey is different, like fingerprints. Secularism is crucial — where religion does not try to dominate and shape public life, especially for women.

I think it’s one of the most important questions of our time precisely because of how deeply and bitterly polarised we have become. For storytellers, there is no such thing as us versus them. There are only human beings. There is no ‘other’. So, we have to question these dualities that are constantly being imposed on us. We have to find a new narrative that is aware of what we share as human beings. To me, words like diversity and multiculturalism are precious — not only the diversity outside, but also the pluralism within my own soul. I sincerely believe that in life, we don’t learn so much from sameness but from differences. I don’t want to be surrounded by people who think like me, dress like me, talk like me, because that is a very self-centred existence. If what you’re telling me makes sense, I’m willing to revise my opinions, to leave the door a little open. What we have lost in the age of internet is real intellectual exchange. Coming back to the question of certainties, the absolute certainty of dogma really frightens me. It is a beautiful thing to be able to say, ‘I don’t know’. I like the humility of people who say, I’m on a journey, I’m learning, I’m a student of life.

While giving talks at schools, I found that six- and seven-year-olds have so much courage and chutzpah. When you ask if there are any artists or poets in the room, many hands go up. At that age, girls are so confident, sometimes more than boys. But in middle and upper school, it’s amazing how much things change. Girls don’t want to speak up. No one wants to be an artist or writer. We have basically told these kids — don’t stand out, blend in. So, little by little, we chip away their confidence and creativity. All I can tell the young writer is: Don’t let that happen to you. Go back to that inner garden you had as a child and rebuild it.