In Turkish author Elif Shafak’s 2021 novel: “The Island of Missing Trees,” the trauma of the division of two communities is highlighted through the discovery of her hybrid past by Ada, whose father is Greek and mother Turkish. The main protagonist’s name immediately denotes a nuanced, polysemic identity: It can either be short for Ellada, a popular name in Cyprus at one time among the Greeks, or ada, which means island in Turkish. Regardless of emphasis, one thing is certain: her name encompasses a multitude of affiliations relating to her country of origin, including instead of excluding its complex and many facets.
Elif Shafak’s characters navigate an intensely traumatic past where even the natural world, symbolised by the fluctuating state of health of a fig tree growing at the place where Greek and Turk first fell in love with each other. Significantly, this is a fig tree that is given a voice and afforded a character of its own, for that tree is the island itself. The choice of the fig tree is fraught with symbolism. Mentioned in the Quran, it also symbolises the loss of innocence, as exemplified by Adam and Even choosing to cover their shame with fig leaves upon eating the forbidden fruit. Jesus in the Gospel of Luke used the fig tree to hint at the end times: “Look at the fig tree, and all the trees; as soon as they come out in leaf, you see for yourselves and know that the summer is already near.” At the same time, in the Gospel of Mark, He cursed the fig tree that bore no fruit. This arguably, is the Cyprus of today, an island divided by a deep slash of hatred, perpetuated by the invader’s belief that in the twenty first century, two civilised peoples cannot live together as equals but rather, must only co-exist in parallel with each other, in a form of ritualised apartheid. This truly is a fig tree that is cursed, for it grows in poisoned soil. That poison, the poison of prejudice, fear of the other and a complete refusal of those holding the fig tree hostage to view all of its figs as its legitimate constituent parts has stunted its growth, rendered it sickly and non-viable. It is a withering, dying, twisted thing, perverted from its true course.
In the novel, Kostas, Ada’s father, manages to ensure the survival of the fig tree and the memory of his beloved, by taking a cutting and removing it altogether from its blighted soil. Even though the climate of his adopted country, England, is inimical to the survival of the fig tree, through a careful burying of the tree during the harsh Britannic winter, he is able to find a way to make it endure. It is this cutting, the author possibly implies, that conveys and perpetuates the true essence and vitality of its mother and is able to carry on, even as its progenitor plant, mired in disease, withers and fails. This element of the novel is both hopeful and deeply troubling. On the one hand, the author suggests that removed from the context of the bad blood, the hostility and the violence, the very essence of Cyprus, life itself, can thrive. In like vein, she may possibly be suggesting that the human cuttings of Cyprus, its exiles and their descendants, transplanted throughout the diaspora are best placed to propagate the true meaning of all that Cyprus signifies, for they are doing so on soil unblighted by trauma.
Nonetheless, it becomes apparent that a condition precedent to such survival or renewal is the act of “burying” the fig tree. To what extent does reconciliation depend on an agreed or mutual ‘burial’ of the past? Can targeted amnesia or a tacit agreement to gloss over controversial aspects of Cyprus’ history truly constitute a feasible pathway towards a ‘solution’ to the island’s current problems or does it in fact exacerbate and feed already existing resentment and paranoia? Given that this process of renewal in the novel takes place upon the soil of Cyprus’ erstwhile colonial dynast, is Elif Shafak implying that the wounds that have afflicted Cyprus are so deep that there is no hope of recovery and instead she should be allowed to die a natural death, with the very best of her legacy to live on in climes and countries that played a large part in creating her woes in the first place?
Main protagonist Ada’s place in the novel belies such an approach. Neither Greek, nor Turkish, exposed to none of the history that has shaped her parent’s lives, she experiences deep existential angst and mental anguish when she is unable to place her mother’s death in context. However, her slow and painful rediscovery of the past does not seem in any way to effect any meaningful change on the island that was responsible for her existence. Instead, it helps her to come to terms with herself, on another island, where all are free to choose their own identities, remember or forget, in relative peace and safety.
Significantly, the climax of the novel comes in the realisation that Ada’s dead mother’s spirit has merged with that of the Fig Tree. The girl’s mother is at one with Mother Cyprus, and it is this consubstantial identity that we are compelled to consider: one that is able to transcend borders, natural and man-imposed barriers and imbue its children with support, warmth, guidance and inspiration wherever they may be.
There are many things missing in Cyprus. Trees, people, memories, an order and way of things that seems impossible to re-acquire. But there are also things that are being found. Just recently, some of my fellow-parishioners discovered the bones of their brothers, missing persons since 1974. Others, returning to their homes in the north for the first time, re-discovered photo albums or precious household possessions, retained by those who came to occupy their homes. Greeks and Turks travelling to and from the occupied north and democratic free Cyprus are re-discovering that despite the propaganda by those who wish to legitimise violence as a means of keeping their illegal regime in power, both peoples are united by infinitely more things than divides them.
A case in point, is the Cypriot diaspora. In countries such as Australia, both communities have shown that they can live side by side with each other, engage with each other, debate and dispute each other and befriend each other in a climate of mutual respect and friendship. By “burying the fig tree,” that is, being sensitive to each other’s trauma and avoiding hurtful and impolite behaviour, the soil of pain is gradually healed, allowing such collaborations as the one I enjoyed with the late lamented Fahri Kiamil, in assisting with the organisation of the Melbourne Harmony Festival. In his accountant’s office in Brunswick, he sang me songs of his homeland Cyprus, in Turkish, and I sang him songs of my grandfather’s ancestral place of origin in Tralles, now known as Aydin. We never could agree on who was to blame for the invasion of Cyprus. The only thing we did agree upon was that war and violence are unacceptable and that all involved were diminished as a result.
It may be that Cyprus will never be re-united. If so, this would be a tragedy. While we, the transplanted ones, have the luxury of burying Elif Shafak’s fig-tree from a place of safety, far removed by time and position from the scene of the crime, those still living in a land blighted by invasion and kept apart by a military regime deserve a just resolution, one founded upon International Law and the principals of Human Rights. Until that time, we can only pray that the spirit of Cyprus, whether mediated through a fig tree, memory, or lethe, maintains in all her children, an imperishable love for their island of origin, one that will ultimately enable them to surmount their hurt, their trauma and their pain, to overcome their curse and bring them together once more, flourishing, and bearing fruit for all to savour.
DEAN KALIMNIOU
kalymnios@hotmail.com
First published in NKEE on Saturday 13 July 2024
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