An Interview with Elif Shafak

Elif Shafak is the acclaimed author of fifteen books, ten of which are novels, including The Bastard of Istanbul and Honour, and is the most widely read female writer in Turkey. Her work has been translated into over forty languages, and she regularly contributes to publications including The New York Times, The Guardian, and Time magazine. Elif has been longlisted for the Orange Prize, the Baileys Prize and the IMPAC Dublin Award, and shortlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. She lives in London and can be found at www.elifshafak.com.

Dani Hedlund (DH)

What inspired you to write Three Daughters of Eve?

Elif Shafak (ES)

I see every novel as a different journey. When I look at my books, every one of them is so different because I was a different person when I wrote that book. Books change us. With this book it was very close to the bone. Everything I observed in Turkey, particularly in Istanbul, somehow seeped into this novel. Even though it is a work of imagination, another side of me was constantly observing as I was writing this book. 

DH

This is a very complicated book. How did you keep all of it straight? How did you keep the plot so coherent?

ES

I like writing layered books. To me, that’s the beauty of the novel as a genre. The canvas can be so big, or small, depending on the story. What interests me most is how different characters knowingly, or unknowingly, influence each other. How destinies, just like water, mix all the time. I love chasing those connections. 

DH

What was it like emotionally for you to dig so “close to the bone?” Was it more difficult than you’ve experienced in your other writing?

ES

It was difficult and emotional. In my books, I like to weave the personal and the political. Sometimes I start with my own story, but I end up telling someone else’s story. That’s the beauty of fiction. It helps you to go beyond the boundaries of the self. For me, fiction is not necessarily autobiographical. It is a connection with the Other. When I look at my own background I realize the very fact that I was raised by two women, my mother and my grandmother, had a large impact on me. I grew up observing strong women in a very patriarchal and sexist society. Turkey, like the rest of the Middle East, is quite male-dominated. That doesn’t mean that women are passive or that women are silent. They’re not. They are constantly trying and struggling. I think it makes a big difference if women can have a solidarity, a sisterhood, and empower each other. This is what I saw between my mother and my grandmother, even though they are very different women. This is what is lacking today, in Turkey and elsewhere. It makes me sad that we are still looking and longing for a women’s movement that brings women of completely different backgrounds together and helps them to work together around shared values. 

DH

The backdrop of Turkey is fascinating, particularly Istanbul, and you show how the country has changed over the past thirty years. What was it like as a writer to view that change? 

ES

In many ways Turkey is such an important country. What happens in Turkey has repercussions beyond its borders. Over the years I’ve had many readers from different parts of the world—Pakistan, Lebanon, Qatar, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Iran. These readers tell me that they used to view Turkey, maybe not as a role model, but as a possibility. A possibility that a majority Muslim country could embrace western values. I’m sad to say that because we failed so badly in Turkey in developing our own democracy, it became a bad message for the rest of the Muslim world. Right now, we have a very strong nationalistic movement. Ultra-nationalism has been on the rise. Islamism has been on the rise and it became much more conservative. The government has become increasingly authoritarian. It is not a coincidence that as nationalism, Islamism, and authoritarianism increase so does sexism. When societies go backward, we women have much more to lose than men. 

DH

How representative is this book of Turkey in the 1980s?

ES

At the end of the day it is a work of imagination, but some of the harshest scenes in the book are also the most realistic. The entire book takes place over the course of a very long, colorful supper scene. It begins with starters, the main course follows, and finishes with the desserts. The narrative flashes back and forth in time around this central motif. At one point, I wanted to name the book The Last Supper of the Turkish Bourgeoisie. The dinner chapters are the most realistic of the book. They are filled with what I directly heard and witnessed. In 2016 and 2017, there were more than thirty terror attacks in Turkey and much was changing politically. You would go to dinner parties and it was quite schizophrenic. One moment people would be talking about designer bags, and the next moment people would be talking about death. Someone would have checked their twitter feed and learned there had been a suicide attack. Then the mood would change. I observed that schizophrenia, that fragmented existence. Collectively, people can lose their sanity like that. 

DH

Your prose style has such a beautiful flow. At times I found myself wanting to read it aloud. What was it like to develop that style?

ES

For me, voices are so important. Writers need to be good observers, but more importantly they need to be good listeners. I commute between languages, just like I commute between cultures. My earlier novels were all written in Turkish first, but about fourteen years ago I began writing in English first. Since that time, every novel was completed in English and then translated into Turkish by a professional translator. After that, I take the translation and rewrite it. That commute back and forth between languages taught me so much. I began to pay attention to the things that we can’t translate from one language to another. It is not only a matter of linguistics and grammar, but also the culture surrounding the language. I realized over time if there’s sorrow in my writing, or longing, I find it easier to express in Turkish. Whereas humor, irony, and satire are definitely much easier in English. It is fascinating to see how we change as we move from one language to another. Our voices change. Our body language changes. The English language has an amazing vocabulary. In Turkey, we have reduced our language. Many words of Arabic and Persian origins were taken out of the language. As a result, we have lost many words and nuances. In Turkish I can say “yellow” and I can say “red,” but the shades in between are gone because they are of Persian origin. 

DH

You’ve highlighted the differences between the two languages and the cultures they embody. What is universal between the two?

ES

Our need for storytelling is universal. It is simple and fundamental. It is not going to change. The art of storytelling is universal and timeless. On the other hand, it worries me to think about what the world would be like if there were no stories. That would be a place without much empathy, and a world without empathy is a very dark place. Stories take us out of our own little worlds and help us to connect with someone else and see life from that person’s perspective. In Turkey, I have a very diverse readership. Among those readers, some are very xenophobic. If you speak to them publicly, they will tell you all kinds of negative things about the minorities in Turkey. But the same people will tell me that in my novel the character they loved the most is one of those minorities. I also have homophobic readers because that is the way they were raised. It is the only narrative they have heard, but they come to care about characters who are bisexual, transsexual, or gay. I often have wondered about people who are publicly intolerant. When they are reading a novel, when they retreat into their inner space, they become, at least relatively speaking, a little bit more ready to connect with the Other. That is no coincidence. That is the art of storytelling. The novel as genre carves up a little individual space where we can be multiple, where we can meet the multiplicity within, and hopefully be more open-minded. 

DH

Do you think that someone can engage with the art of storytelling enough to begin questioning their own motives? Will we be able to see a change in the way cultures, societies, and individuals act?

ES

I don’t think that literature is enough on its own, but it is a central component. In Turkey, we go to school and we swallow a very official version of history. That official version is very top-down, and in some ways nationalistic. But then when you read a novel you see that the Ottoman empire was a mixture of so many stories. Reality changed depending on who was telling the story. If I asked a concubine in the sixteenth century what her life was like, she would tell me one story. If I asked a sultan, he would tell me a different story. If I asked a Jewish miller, or an Armenian silversmith, or a prostitute, they would tell me very different stories. These are stories that many people are not ready to hear, but they matter. They have been suppressed, silenced, forgotten, and pushed to the periphery. That is why I think it is important for writers to have a sense of memory, especially in countries like Turkey where, unfortunately, we have collective amnesia. I believe memories are our responsibility. Not to get stuck in the past, but hopefully to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past and to build a better future.  

DH

There’s a strong current in all your books, merging Eastern and Western storytelling. You blend mysticism with modernity. How did this unique storytelling style develop?

ES

It was primarily my maternal grandmother’s influence on me. She is the woman who raised me. I was born in France, in Strasbourg. My parent’s marriage collapsed and as a toddler I came to Turkey. By that time my mother had dropped out of university thinking love was all she needed. She had nothing—no career, no money, nothing to fall back on. In this state, we arrived at my maternal grandmother’s house. I remember it was a very conservative environment. Very religious, patriarchal, middle class. Immediately people were looking for a potential husband for my mother. A young woman on her own was regarded as a threat. My maternal grandmother intervened. She told my mother to go back to university and complete her courses and give herself some choices. 

In my early years, I used to call my grandmother “mother” and my mother “big sister.” My grandmother’s house was filled with superstitions, magic, and chaos. The stories she would tell were a part of an oral culture that had been handed from one generation to the next. Those stories were so alive and left an impact on me. In Turkey, novelists usually focus on the Western canon. I’ve always read Western novels, but I have an academic background, so nonfiction is also important to me. At the same time, I’m open to Eastern culture, which is full of mysticism. I love to mix them because they have mixed already in my own personal life. 

DH

Your novels often focus on characters encompassing vast themes: multiculturalism, feminism, reconstruction, redemption, masculinity, identity. With such complex themes, what is the starting point when you begin a project?

ES

I see knowledge as a circle. I don’t like to compartmentalize it. In academia, I graduated from international relations and moved on to women’s studies, which at the time was completely unknown in Turkey. I loved it. We were the first students of women’s studies. For my PhD, I moved to political philosophy. I came to the states and moved around. My whole life has been very nomadic, different cities, different cultures. And yet, there are threads that connect all these cultures and locations. I am interested in those threads. I don’t like extreme specialization, in the sense of building walls around us. I don’t think that is helpful. I like it when political scientists read novels, and novelists read books on business. We need to get out of our own cocoons and try to see different forms of creativity. It is great exercise for the mind and you will start to notice the connections. That is how a culture moves forward. I’m very much in favor of diversity and cosmopolitanism. I whole heartedly believe in these values. It makes me sad that in Turkey we have lost these values. There’s a constant attempt in my books to reflect diversity, to give more voice to the voiceless, to bring the periphery to the center, to turn the official way of telling stories upside down and show what was forgotten or forsaken. 

DH

As both a novelist and a political scientist, how do you conceptualize the interaction between politics and storytelling? 

ES

Many countries have wounded democracies, wobbly democracies, or nondemocracies. Turkey, Pakistan, Egypt, Nigeria, Venezuela, Philippines, and Russia are all examples. If you happen to be an author from such a country, you do not have the luxury of being apolitical. On the other hand, I’m a feminist. Women’s movements of past generations have taught us that the personal is also political. When we talk about politics, it is not necessarily party politics. There is politics in our kitchens, in our bedrooms, in our day-to-day relationships. Wherever there is power, there is a political dimension. I like to describe politics in a broader context. If you bring those elements together, there is politics in my work. I like to ask questions about taboos and about silences. I don’t like when writers try to preach or teach. I find that very off-putting, as if the writer knows better. We don’t know better. We’re just telling a story and we’re creating a story together with the reader. A writer’s job is to ask questions—difficult questions about difficult issues. It is not our job to try to teach something or dictate the answer because every person is going to read that book in a different way. Each reading will be unique, and they will have their own answers at the end of the book. Years ago, there was a very clear-cut distinction and Eastern authors were more political. That is changing. Increasingly, Western authors are feeling the urgency to speak up on important issues. There is a politicization of the literary environment across the world. 

DH

What are you working on now? 

ES

I’m working on a new novel. There are two different ways of writing a novel. One is more like engineering: structure, details, blueprint. The second is you’re drunk. You don’t know what you are doing but you have a strong passion and intuition and you just follow it. My style has always been the latter. I do a lot of research. I take that piece very seriously, with a lot of discipline. But that aside, I follow my intuition and let the characters guide me. At the moment I don’t know what I am doing. All I know is I am writing a novel.