Three Daughters of Eve

by Elif Shafak

  ‘Hmm … and you are a feminist?’ Peri asked cautiously, finding it hard to match the term with the girl’s outlook.

  ‘I sure am,’ said the girl. ‘I am a Muslim feminist and if some people think that’s impossible, it’s their problem. Not mine.’

  As Peri put down her signature, she had a sudden memory of her ex-boyfriend in Turkey. He was not only against reading European literature but also against all kinds of Western ideologies, of which he said feminism was threat number one. A red herring to steer our sisters away from the real issue: class conflict. There was no need for a women’s separate movement, since the demise of economic exploitation would automatically end all sorts of discrimination. The emancipation of women would come with the emancipation of the proletariat.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the girl, as she took back her pen and paper. ‘My name is Mona, by the way. What’s yours?’

  ‘Peri.’

  ‘Good to meet you,’ said Mona. Her smile was radiant.

  Peri learned that Mona was Egyptian-American. Born in New Jersey, she had moved with her family to Cairo when she was about ten. ‘The children should be raised in Muslim culture,’ her father had said. Several years later, having discovered that life in Egypt was tougher than they had expected – or that they were after all true Americans – they had gone back to the States. It was her second year at Oxford, and she was changing disciplines to focus on philosophy. Her mother was covered, she said, but not her older sister. ‘We have made different choices in life.’

  Besides championing feminism, Mona was involved in a series of volunteer activities: Aid to the Balkans Society, Friends of Palestine Society, Sufi Studies Society, Migration Studies Society; and the Oxford Islamic Society, where she was one of the leading members. She was also about to launch a ‘hip-hop society’ because she loved the music. Drawing on her encounter with diverse cultures, she wrote lyrics, hoping that one day someone would rap them.

  ‘Wow, how do you find time for all that?’ Peri asked.

  Mona shook her head. ‘It’s not about finding time. It’s simply about time management. That is why Allah gave us five prayers a day – to structure our lives.’

  Peri, who had never adhered to the five prayers – not even to one, not even in her religious phase after her father’s heart attack – pursed her lips and said softly, ‘You seem at home with religion.’

  ‘I guess you might say I am at peace with who I am,’ said Mona, and checked her watch. ‘Need to go, but I’m sure I’ll see you around. I’m always collecting signatures for one good cause or another.’

  Before they parted they shook hands – firmly, that was Mona’s style.

  That same night Peri wrote in her God-diary: Some people want to change the world; others, their partners or friends. As for me, I would love to change God. Now that would be something. Wouldn’t everyone in the world benefit from that?

  Back in Istanbul, Peri had tried, often unsuccessfully, to behave like an extrovert when she was not, and had socialized more than she cared to. At Oxford, with the cultural pressure off her shoulders, she enjoyed, no, she treasured, the solitude. Introversion was not the only reason she shunned most of the excitement of Freshers’ Week. She found out that, although certain events (student common room teas, gatherings with dons) were free, others (vegan cupcakes, halal marshmallows, vegetarian pizzas) required money. She would be better off on her limited budget if she avoided the hullabaloo. Instead, she concentrated on her to-do list: getting her student ID; purchasing textbooks, if possible second-hand; opening a student bank account. Bent on figuring out the cheapest way to survive, she compared prices in shops and supermarkets.

  Peri was probably one of the few students who was thrilled when the week, with all its fun and frolic, came to an end. The term started right away. Relieved, she settled into a routine of lectures, tutorials, reading lists and essays. In an environment that was totally new to her, studying was a solid rope to hold on to and she did so with all her might.

  Shirin came and went at different hours, leaving a trail of perfume lingering in the air. Heady molecules of magnolia and cedar. Although the rhythms of their daily lives were driven by incompatible habits, increasingly they had breakfasts and lunches together, conferring about the lectures, the dons and, sometimes, that subject of perpetual interest – boys. Peri, who did not have much experience in this field, would listen to Shirin jabber non-stop about the art of dating the male of the species, her spirits sinking lower and lower. In the company of experienced friends who effortlessly flirt, there’s a despondency that descends on a relative novice, a feeling of being left so far behind as to become a mere spectator.

  Peri searched for the seminar Shirin had mentioned. She located it on a list of optional seminars offered by the Philosophy Department, some with impressive and elaborate titles: ‘The Atomists’ Critique of Creationism’; ‘Holism in Stoic Psychology and Epistemology’; ‘Plato’s Philosopher Kings, The Good Life and the Noble Lie’; ‘Aquinas: His Medieval Critics and Fellow Scholastics’; ‘German Idealism and Kant on Philosophy of Religion’; ‘Philosophical Issues in the Cognitive Sciences’.

  Towards the bottom of the list a short title stood out: ‘GOD’. Next to it was a description: By drawing on sources from antiquity to the present day, from philology to poetry, from mysticism to neuroscience, from Eastern philosophers to their Western counterparts, this seminar explores what we talk about when we talk about God.

  In brackets was the name of the instructor: Professor Anthony Zacharias Azur. Underneath was a note: Limited space, speak to the instructor first. Caution: This may or may not be the right class for you.

  Peri found the description intriguing, the arrogance behind it as beguiling as it was off-putting. She thought about inquiring further, but in the frenzy of those early days she soon forgot about it.

  Shirin was right. ‘God’ would have to wait.

  The Black Caviar

  Istanbul, 2016

  The main course – wild-mushroom risotto and roasted lamb with saffron and honey-mint sauce – was served on large silver platters garnished with grilled vegetables at the edges. The sight of maids in their starched uniforms marching in and lifting the covers on heaps of steaming meat was so theatrical that some of those present applauded with delight. Their spirits swelled by the delicacies and the wine, the guests became more cheerful and increasingly louder and bolder.

  ‘Frankly, I don’t believe in democracy,’ said an architect with a crew cut and perfectly groomed goatee. His firm had made huge profits from construction projects across the city. ‘Take Singapore, success without democracy. China. Same. It’s a fast-moving world. Decisions must be implemented like lightning. Europe wastes time with petty debates while Singapore gallops ahead. Why? Because they are focused. Democracy is a loss of time and money.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said an interior designer who was the architect’s fiancée and prospective third wife. ‘I always say, in the Muslim world democracy is redundant. Even in the West it’s a headache, let’s admit it, but around here, totally unsuitable!’

  The businessman’s wife agreed. ‘Imagine, my son has a master’s degree in business. My husband employs thousands. But in our family, we have only three votes. Our driver’s brother in their village has eight children. I’m not sure if they’ve ever read a book in their life; they’ll have ten votes! In Europe, the public is educated. Democracy cannot harm. The Middle East is a different story! Granting an equal vote to the ignorant is like handing matches to a toddler. The house could burn down!’

  Stroking the hair on his chin with the knuckle of his index finger, the architect said, ‘Well, I’m not suggesting we should abandon the ballot box. We couldn’t explain that to the West. A controlled democracy is just fine. A cadre of bureaucrats and technocrats under a smart, strong leader. So long as the person at the top knows what he’s doing, I’m fine with authority. How else will foreign investors come?’

  Everyone turned and looked at the
only foreigner at the table – an American hedge-fund manager visiting the city. He had been trying to follow the conversation with the help of sporadic translations whispered in his ear. Thrust into the spotlight, he fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Nobody wants a destabilized region, for sure. You know what folks in Washington call the Middle East? The Muddle East! Sorry, guys, but it’s a mess.’

  Some of the guests laughed, a few grimaced. Mess it was, but it was their mess. They could criticize it to their heart’s content, but not a rich American. Sensing the negative energy, the hedge-fund manager compressed his lips.

  ‘All the more reason to support my thesis,’ the architect said between mouthfuls of risotto. An apolitical man for many years, and though half Kurdish by blood, lately he displayed chauvinistic tendencies.

  ‘Well, the entire region is coming to the same realization,’ the bank CEO conceded. ‘After the Arab Spring fiasco, any sane person has to recognize the benefits of strong leadership and stability.’

  ‘Democracy is passé! I know it might sound shocking to some, but so be it,’ said the architect, pleased that his views were gaining acceptance. ‘I’m all for benevolent dictatorship.’

  ‘The problem with democracy is it’s a luxury, like Beluga caviar,’ said a plastic surgeon who owned a clinic in Istanbul but lived in Stockholm. ‘In the Middle East, it’s unaffordable.’

  ‘Even Europe doesn’t believe in it any more,’ said the journalist, stabbing his fork into a piece of lamb. ‘The EU is in tatters.’

  ‘They behaved like a pussycat when Russia turned into a tiger in the Ukraine,’ said the architect, now in his pomp. ‘Like it or not, this is the century of tigers. Sure, they won’t love you if you’re a tiger. But they’ll fear you, and that’s what matters.’

  ‘Personally, I’m glad we weren’t allowed into the EU. Good riddance,’ mused the PR woman. ‘Otherwise we could have been like Greece.’ She gently pulled her earlobe, made a tsk-tsk sound, and knocked on the table twice.

  ‘The Greeks? They are hankering for the Ottomans to come back, they were happier when we ruled over them …’ remarked the architect with a chuckle, which he cut short when he noticed Peri’s expression. He turned to Adnan, with a wink. ‘I’m afraid your wife doesn’t like my jokes.’

  At which Adnan, who had been listening with one hand under his chin, gave a smile – half sombre, half sympathetic. ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  Peri’s eyes fell on the risotto congealed on her plate. She could have let the comments pass; a bit like other people’s cigar smoke, unwanted but tolerable to an extent. But she had promised herself, years ago, right after she left Oxford, never to be silent again.

  With a tight nod, she said to her husband, ‘But it is true, I don’t like this kind of talk. Democracy as black caviar, states like tigers …’ As this was the first time she had spoken in a while, all heads turned towards her and she returned their gaze. ‘You see, there’s no such thing as benevolent dictatorship.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked the architect.

  ‘Because there’s no such thing as a small god. Once somebody starts playing God, sooner or later, things will get out of hand.’

  All the while her mind raced with thoughts about Professor Azur. He’s a bit like God himself. Might things not have gone so wrong had he only acknowledged that he, no less than his students, was only human?

  ‘Get real,’ cut in the architect. ‘This isn’t your fancy Oxford! We’re talking about realpolitik. Our neighbours are Syria, Iran, Iraq. Not Finland, Norway, Denmark. You’ll never get Scandinavian-style democracy in the Middle East.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Peri said. ‘But you can’t stop me from wishing for it. You can’t stop us all from desiring what we are denied.’

  ‘Desire! What a word!’ said the architect, as he leaned forward, his palms flat on the table. ‘Now you’re entering dangerous waters.’

  Peri shook her head, aware that according to the Advanced Learner’s Guide to Patriarchy, members of the Decent Turkish Ladies’ Club could not defend in public the merits of ‘desire’. But she sorely wished to cancel her membership – and if she could not resign, she should be sacked. She thought of Shirin. Her feisty friend would surely have given this man a piece of her mind. Animated by this thought, Peri said, softly, ‘If you’re telling me I should accept things as they are … that nations, like obedient good wives, should also give up their dreams … their fantasies … then your grasp of international relations – and women for that matter – is weaker than I thought.’

  There was a brief silence, palpable, when no one knew what to say. Into the leaden moment the businessman lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, clapped his hands, like a flamenco dancer about to take centre stage, and roared, as jovial as before, ‘Where on earth is our next course?’

  The swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room was pushed open and the servants came scurrying in.

  The Celebration

  Oxford, 2000

  It was Shirin’s twentieth birthday, which she was celebrating at the Turf Tavern – a centuries-old, half-timbered pub down a narrow alley under the old city walls. Peri, late to the party, walked purposefully with a present tucked under her arm. Having agonized over what to get her friend, she had settled on something she knew Shirin would love: a jean jacket studded with brightly coloured sparkling beads. It had cost her a small fortune.

  When Peri entered the oak-panelled pub, a warm humidity of alcohol and laughter enveloped her under the low ceiling. Given Shirin’s popularity, she had expected a large crowd, and so there was. A knot of noisy friends surrounded the birthday girl, whose new boyfriend was next to her, his arm on her shoulder. Her previous boyfriend – a second-year Physics student, clever and kind – had overplanned their encounters to the point of exasperation, according to Shirin. ‘I decided to dump him after I saw his weekly schedule.’ Times for morning lectures, library hours, gym, tutorials were all blocked off. The 4.15–5.15 p.m. slot had her name entered. On Friday evening there was another spot reserved for her. ‘Can you believe it, Mouse, he’s squeezed me in between 7.30 and 10.30 p.m.? Dinner, film, sex.’

  Shirin’s loud voice jolted Peri out of her thoughts. ‘Hey, here’s my neighbour. Hi, there!’

  Looking stunning in a pearl-and-sequin-embellished top and white, tight-fitting, low-slung jeans, Shirin grabbed her present and gave Peri a kiss and a hug. ‘Where have you been? You missed the guest of honour. He just left.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Azur,’ Shirin said, her eyes beaming. ‘He was here. I can’t believe he came. So cool! He just stopped by, gave a toast and left.’

  Shirin seemed to want to say more but someone pulled her by the arm to blow out the candles on the cake. Peri glanced around, not expecting to know any of Shirin’s gregarious friends, who were standing, drinking and talking loudly. To her surprise, however, she saw a familiar face: Mona. In an orange long-sleeved tunic over trousers and a matching headscarf, the girl was sitting at a corner table, sipping a glass of cola.

  ‘Hi, Mona.’

  ‘So happy to see you,’ said Mona, looking relieved to have someone to talk to.

  ‘I didn’t know you were friends with Shirin,’ said Peri, as she sat down next to her.

  ‘Well, not exactly friends, but she invited me and I thought …’ said Mona, her voice trailing away.

  Peri realized what the girl did not express aloud. You didn’t easily turn down an invitation from one of the most popular students in college. So Mona – outgoing and self-confident – had come, not knowing quite what to expect. Now, among dozens of uninhibited, rollicking party-goers swaying to a rhythm only they themselves could hear, she felt an unease she dared not show.

  The two of them plunged into a conversation – over slices of birthday cake – while Shirin and her friends had rowdy fun.

  ‘May I ask you something?’ said Peri. ‘When we first met you said you and your sister had made different choices in life. So
does that mean … you prefer to cover your head?’

  ‘Of course. My parents always gave me the option. My hijab is a personal decision, a testimony to my faith. It gives me peace and confidence.’ Mona’s face darkened. ‘Even though I have been bullied for it, endlessly.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Sure, but it didn’t stop me. If I, with my headscarf, don’t challenge stereotypes, who’s going to do it for me? I want to shake things up. People look at me as if I’m a passive, obedient victim of male power. Well, I’m not. I have a mind of my own. My hijab has never got in the way of my independence.’

  Peri listened intrigued, finding in this girl a younger version of her own mother. The same outspoken defiance, the same resoluteness. It was a feeling she knew only too well. She was accustomed to people prattling on fervently, self-assuredly. What it was about her that inspired others to pour out their emotions, she couldn’t fathom. It seemed peculiar for someone as ambivalent as she to be inundated by the certainties and passions of others.

  ‘These hip-hop lyrics you write … are they about religion?’

  Mona laughed. ‘Hip-hop is about love. Poetry. Maybe a bit of anger too – against injustice and inequality. It’s empowering –’

  A burst of laughter in the background cut short her reply. Someone had challenged Shirin’s boyfriend to a yard-of-ale contest. A two-foot-tall glass with a large bulb at one end was filled with beer, which the boy was now chugging as fast as possible. He managed to finish the drink, his face plastered with a cheesy grin and his shirt soaking. To the cheers of the crowd, he gave Shirin a long, wet, happy kiss, but suddenly stopped to rush outside, having been overcome by the need to vomit.