There Are Rivers in the Sky: A Journey Through Time, Water, and Storytelling
When I first picked up Elif Shafak’s There Are Rivers in the Sky, I was drawn in by its ambitious premise. Exploring the female erasure of the original god of storytelling through the lens of the water cycle, this novel promised an intricate tapestry of history, culture, and human experience. As a long-time admirer of Shafak’s work, particularly her previous novel 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World, I was eager to dive into this new world. However, as I turned the pages, I found myself both enchanted and occasionally disengaged.
The story unfolds through three key narratives spanning different time periods and locations, weaving a rich historical backdrop. Arthur Smyth, born in 1840 London during the height of the British Empire, is perhaps the most compelling character, carrying the weight of both personal and broader societal struggles. His mother’s scavenging for treasures along the Thames and his magical birth amidst a snowy spectacle create a vivid setting that draws the reader in. Yet, at times, I felt that Arthur, despite his interesting circumstances, bordered on archetypal—his goodness almost painfully overt.
Then there’s Narin, a Yezidi girl from 2014, whose baptism unfolds against the somber realities of her community. Her storyline shines brightly in the latter part of the novel, particularly as it grapples with trauma and resilience amidst historical persecution. The profound depth of her experiences left me pondering the weight of remembrance and the burdens often borne by women, encapsulated perfectly in the line, “Mourning is a women’s job, and so is remembrance.”
And then there was Zaleekhah, a modern scientist whose privileged life fails to connect on the same emotional level. I found her narrative the weakest; the exploration of "water molecules having memory" felt like an overreached scientific concept that didn’t quite hit the mark. Her character felt more like a plot device than a fully fleshed-out individual, which was disappointing given how rich the other narratives were.
Shafak’s writing is undeniably poetic, threading together themes of displacement and connection through the cyclical nature of water. The dialogue, however, often veers into instructional territory, leaving little room for subtlety. It’s as if the characters, steeped in their “Goodness,” were too often telling me how to feel about each situation rather than allowing me to navigate the emotional undertow on my own.
But there are moments of brilliance. I chuckled at some of Arthur’s escapades around London, especially when he attempted to traverse distances that now necessitate a tube ride. Shafak’s historical references, from the cholera outbreaks to Dickensian glimpses, were enjoyable and well-integrated, adding richness to the narrative.
Ultimately, while There Are Rivers in the Sky elegantly ties together different strands of history and shares vital insights on Yezidi culture, my engagement wavered. Readers looking for deep character development may find the morally upright cast a tad bland, akin to the overt cheerfulness of a Broadway musical. Yet, if you’re keen on themes of memory, storytelling, and the unyielding nature of water, this book offers an engaging, reflective experience.
In conclusion, I would recommend this novel to those intrigued by historical narratives interwoven with pressing contemporary themes. It’s a book that could resonate deeply with readers who value the cultural exploration of trauma and belonging. While I may have experienced some fatigue, the reflections it stirred within me remind me that every reading journey shapes our understanding of connection and history, even when the characters don’t always allow us to fully immerse ourselves.
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