by Elif Shafak
Others chipped in with myriad greetings, a jumble of voices and laughter.
‘Great!’ Azur said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I see you’re full of brash confidence. Always a promising sign – or a recipe for disaster. We’ll see which.’
Behind his black-and-tortoiseshell spectacles, his eyes shone like beads of burnished sea-glass. His tone surged in waves of enthusiasm, like an explorer back from far-off lands now sharing his adventures among friends. He congratulated everyone for having the curiosity and chutzpah to enrol in the seminar and added, with a wink, that he also expected them to have the stamina to go all the way to the end. From the ease and speed with which he spoke it was hard, if not impossible, to fathom when he was joking and when he was serious.
‘As you may have already noticed, there are eleven of you – ten would have been too perfect, and perfection is boring,’ Azur said. He looked around and clucked his tongue. ‘I can see we have work to do … You’ve spread out your chairs as if you’re afraid of catching pneumonia. So if I may trouble you, ladies and gentlemen, could you please stand up?’
Surprised, amused, the students did as they were told.
‘How obedient! The highest virtue in the eyes of the Lord, they say. Now could you rearrange your chairs to make a circle – that being the most suitable shape for talking about God.’
Different subjects required different sitting arrangements, Azur explained. For politics, scattered and amorphous; for sociology, a neat triangle; for statistics, a rectangle; and for international relations, a parallelogram. But God had to be discussed in a circle, everyone on the circumference equidistant from the centre, looking at one another’s eyes.
‘From now on, when I walk in each week, I’ll expect to find you sitting in a ring.’
It took them a few minutes, and a bit of chair scraping and shuffling around, to accomplish the task. When they finished, the shape they’d formed resembled more of a squeezed lemon than a proper circle. Professor Azur, though not fully pleased, thanked them for their efforts. Next, he asked them to introduce themselves in a few sentences, mentioning their backgrounds and, in particular, why they were interested in God, ‘when there are surely more entertaining things for young people out there’.
The first to speak was Mona. She said after the tragedy of 9/11, she was extremely worried about the perception of Islam in the West. Careful with her words, she said she was proud to be a young Muslim woman, loved her faith with all her heart, but was frustrated by the amount of prejudice she had to deal with almost every day. ‘People who don’t know anything about Islam make gross generalizations about my religion, my Prophet, my faith.’ She added quickly, ‘And my headscarf.’ She said she was here to engage in honest discussions about the nature of the Almighty, since they were all created by Him and created differently for a reason. ‘I respect diversity, but I also expect to be respected in return.’
The young man beside Mona, when it was his turn to speak, straightened his back and cleared his throat. His name was Ed. Coming from a scientific background, he said he approached God ‘with objective caution and intellectual neutrality’. He believed that science and faith could marry, as likely as not, but one had to filter out the irrational parts of religion, of which there were many. ‘My dad is Jewish, my mum is Protestant, both non-observant,’ he added. ‘I suppose, like Mona, but in a different way, I’m interested in identity and faith in the modern age – although God has never been an issue for me, frankly.’
‘Then why are you here?’ asked a muscular and slightly pockmarked, sandy-haired boy, spinning a pencil between his fingers. ‘I thought everyone in this class had an issue with God!’
Peri noticed Ed glance up at Professor Azur, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Something passed between them – a message she could not decode.
Azur turned to the sandy-haired boy. ‘Normally, I expect and encourage students to comment on each other’s words, but not at this early stage. We are baby chicks hatching. Let’s first poke our heads out of the egg.’
The next to speak was Róisín, a pretty girl with a noticeable Irish accent. She had large brown eyes and dark sleek hair, a strand of which momentarily caught on her lip as she began to speak. She said she was raised Catholic and attended Mass every week. She was fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful people at the Oxford Catholic Society, but she wished to broaden her perspective. ‘I thought it’d be interesting to take this seminar. Just to see how God is being discussed outside my comfort zone. So …’ She left the sentence unfinished, as if she trusted others to finish it for her.
‘I guess I’m next,’ kicked in the sandy-haired boy, spinning the pencil faster now. ‘I’m Kevin – a Rhodes Scholar from Fresno, California.’
His broad face contorting, Kevin argued that Ernest Hemingway, who was right about everything, had nailed it when he said all thinking people were atheists. He himself was a devoted atheist for one. ‘I don’t believe in any of this bullshit and that’s why I’m here. I want to engage in constructive debates on science, evolution and what you guys keep calling God. I’m sure I’ll soon piss everyone off.’
Someone sniffed, either with derision or pity, impossible to tell.
‘Hello, everyone. My name is Avi. I’m a member of the Oxford Chabad Society. I also work part time at the Samson Judaica Library, which is the largest Judaica library around. Some of you might not know that Oxford has a rich Jewish heritage.’
Avi argued there was enough hatred in the world to catapult humanity into World War Three. The ghost of history haunted the present moment. He said human beings were capable of horrible atrocities, as seen in the Holocaust and in the destruction of the Twin Towers. The need to foster a true dialogue across religions was urgent. Fear of God was the strongest deterrent against the violent streak in Homo sapiens. In the modern age, God was needed more than ever before.
Avi seemed willing to say more but the dark-haired girl next to him interjected, brisk and restless. Her name was Sujatha. She talked about the differences between Eastern philosophy and its Western counterpart – ‘or Middle Eastern, I should say, since Abrahamic religions all come from the same region. It takes an outsider to notice how similar they are.’
Sujatha said, as a Brit of Indian origin, her motto in life was: ‘Your idea of you creates your reality.’ In her eyes, God had no attributes. She didn’t mean to offend anyone but she found the Abrahamic God too stern, judgemental, aloof. ‘I say: everything is God. Whereas you say: everything is God’s. That little apostrophe makes a huge difference.’
At once compliant and defiant, Sujatha concluded by saying how much she was looking forward to discussing these philosophical disparities at length.
With every person that spoke, Peri slid further down in her chair, visibly shrinking herself. She wished she could disappear altogether. She began to have a gnawing suspicion that Professor Azur had cherry-picked the students, not so much on the merits of their academic credentials as on their personal stories and ambitions. No two students came from the same background and there were obvious differences of opinion among them that could easily escalate into a clash. Perhaps that was what Azur wanted: a conflict – or many. Perhaps he was experimenting on his students without their being aware, as though they were a litter of mice, scurrying and scrapping inside the walls of his mental laboratory. If so, what could he possibly be testing – a new idea of God?
There was something else that troubled Peri. If every person around her had been selected so as to assemble a miniature Babel, why had she been chosen? What could Azur know about her when she had told him so little? The more she racked her brain, the more insecure she felt. Dr Raymond’s words echoed in her ears: His teaching method is unorthodox. It doesn’t sit well with everyone. It’s a seminar that divides students. Some enjoy it; others become profoundly unhappy.
‘Hi, I’m Kimber,’ said a girl with hair so curly that whenever she moved her head a few ringlets bounced up and down. ‘I have a long
answer and a short answer.’
‘Start with the long one,’ said Professor Azur.
Kimber explained that her father was a priest in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. They were Mormons. All her family and friends were Mormons. She said she was interested in this seminar because God gave meaning to her life and she intended to expand her understanding of Him. She added that young people today were solely interested in dating or studying for exams or finding a job with more money than anyone could ever use. But she believed there had to be more to life. ‘We each have a distinct purpose on earth. I’m still searching for mine.’
‘And the short answer?’ Azur demanded.
Kimber giggled. ‘I made a bet with my friend. She said you’re the meanest tutor when it comes to marking essays. I’m a straight-A student. Never failed in any class since kindergarten. So I took the challenge.’
A serene smile crossed Azur’s lips. ‘ “Truth is so rare a thing; it is delightful to tell it.” ’
Peri, her mouth half covered by her hand, could not help murmuring to herself, ‘Emily Dickinson.’
‘Let’s move on. Next!’ instructed the professor.
Adam. Rounded nose, cleft chin and high eyebrows that made him look as though the world were a constant surprise to him. He said culturally he was an Anglican but not a churchgoer. It was not necessary to go to church, he added, since he believed God was about Love and God loved him the way he was. ‘I believe in the universal principle of “Live, Love, Learn”. All with a capital L. That’s all.’
‘Is it my turn?’ asked the girl beside him. ‘My name is Elizabeth. Born and bred in Oxfordshire, haven’t travelled far from home. My family comes from a proud Quaker heritage. I don’t have an issue with God but I do have a problem with a He-God.’
Elizabeth explained that human beings had lost touch with nature and the Earth as Goddess. Throughout history, femininity had been suppressed. The price was paid in wars, bloodshed and violence. She said she was into old religions, Shamanism, Wicca, Tibetan Buddhism. ‘Anything that helps us to reconnect with the Mother Earth.’ She urged everyone to stop thinking of God as a He, and to start practising saying She.
Now it was only Peri and the boy beside her who were yet to talk. Peri gestured with her hand that he should go first and he gestured for her to go instead. She yielded.
‘Okay, my name is Peri …’
‘And that quote was from Emily Dickinson, well done,’ Azur cut in.
Peri knew she was blushing. She had no idea the professor had heard her. ‘I come from Istanbul and …’ She lost her train of thought and stammered, feeling foolish for mentioning the city she was born in instead of saying something more substantive like the others had. ‘Uhm … I’m not … I’m not … sure why I’m here.’
‘Then quit,’ said Kevin cheekily. ‘That’ll make us ten again. I want the perfect number!’
A ripple of laughter spread through the circle. Peri lowered her gaze. How had she managed to stumble over a simple introduction when all the others, despite their apparent differences, had sailed through theirs seamlessly?
The last to speak was a boy called Bruno. He said he was not a Marxist or anything, but on the issue of religion being the poison of the people, he agreed with Marx – and the former Albanian leader Enver Hoxha, whose views he had read once and found remarkable in their clarity on the subject of religion.
‘That’s fine, young man,’ Azur said, ‘but when we quote others, particularly philosophers and poets for whom words are important, we must do so with precision. What Marx actually said was: “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.” ’
‘Right. Same thing,’ Bruno rejoined, barely disguising his irritation at being interrupted on a topic he felt passionate about. His chin jutting out as if preparing for a blow, he said Mona had asked for honest discussions and he was going to be honest to the point of being blunt. He was aware that some people might not like to hear what he had to say, but he believed this was a seminar that valued free debate. He had a problem with Islam. To be fair, he added, he would have an issue with all monotheistic religions, but Christianity and Judaism were reformed, whereas Islam was not.
Bruno argued that Islam’s treatment of women was unacceptable and had he been born a woman into this faith he would have abandoned it at the speed of light. He said that Islam would have to be thoroughly altered to be suitable for today’s world, but under the circumstances that was inconceivable, because both the Holy Book and the hadiths were seen as absolute, unequivocal.
‘If change is forbidden, how can we improve this religion?’
From her corner Mona gave him an icy look and a piece of her mind. ‘Who says I need you to improve my religion?’
‘Brilliant, everyone; great start!’ interjected Azur. ‘Thank you for sharing your thoughts so eloquently. After listening to you harangue each other about religion, instead of God, which is our main subject, I need to explain, in no uncertain terms, what this seminar will be about.’
Walking in a circle inside the ring of students, the professor moved with assurance and spoke with ardour. ‘We’re not here to confer about Islam or Christianity or Judaism or Hinduism. We might touch upon these traditions, but only insofar as our central topic requires it. Ours is a scientific inquiry into the nature of God. You can’t let your personal beliefs get in the way. When you become emotional about a subject, any subject, just remember, as Russell noted, “The degree of one’s emotions varies inversely with one’s knowledge of the facts.” ’
The light in the room faded as the sun passed behind a large cloud. Azur’s eyes glinted. ‘Are we all clear on that?’
‘Yes,’ the students answered in an effervescent chorus.
Then, a few seconds later, softly: ‘No.’ It was Peri.
Azur stopped. ‘What was that you said?’
‘Sorry … it’s … I just don’t think there’s anything wrong about responding to emotions.’ Peri gesticulated with both hands. ‘We’re human beings. That means we are driven more by emotions than by reason. So why belittle emotions?’ She glanced up at the professor, dreading the expression she might find on his face.
He was calm, supportive, even slightly impressed by her objection. ‘That’s good, Istanbul girl, keep challenging.’
Azur said that if, at the end of their years at Oxford, they still spoke, thought and wrote in the same way as they did when they had started university, they would have wasted their time and their families’ money. They might as well go back home now. ‘Be prepared to change, all of you. Only stone boulders do not change – actually, they do too.’
Here they were, at the oldest university in the English-speaking world, Azur said. Oxford had not only been a centre for academic study and scientific research throughout centuries, but also a hub of theological debate and religious dispute.
‘You’re lucky! You’re in the right place to talk God!’
As Professor Azur kept lecturing, his entire demeanour changed. His face, hitherto settled, now became distinctly animated. His tone, no longer careful and contained, had an edge, a blade of steel that he normally kept in the shadows, but that he now made no attempt to conceal. He reminded Peri of a street cat in Istanbul, not the timid and bruised kind that gave humans a wide berth, but one of those independent felines that crept along the highest of walls, full of strutting aplomb, surveying the neighbourhood as if it were its secret kingdom.
‘All right, here’s a question. If someone from the Bronze Age appeared and asked you to describe God, what would you say?’
‘He’s merciful,’ Mona said.
‘Self-sufficient,’ Avi added.
‘Not He, but She,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Neither He nor She,’ said Kevin. ‘It’s all lies.’
Professor Azur frowned. ‘Bravo, you stupendously failed the test.’
‘Why’s that?’ Br
uno objected.
‘Because you do not share the same language, remember, you and your hairy ancestor.’ He produced a stack of papers and a box of crayons, which he asked Róisín to hand out. ‘Forget words. Explain through images!’
‘What?’ Bruno exclaimed. ‘You want us to draw? Are we little kids?’
‘I wish you were,’ Azur said. ‘You’d have a greater imagination and a better grasp of complexity.’
Mona put up her hand. ‘Sir, Islam forbids idols. We don’t depict God. We believe He is beyond our perception.’
‘Fair enough. Draw what you just told me.’
For the next ten minutes they shifted and shuffled, sighed and complained but, by and by, began producing an array of work. A picture of the universe – stars and galaxies and meteors. A cluster of white clouds pierced by a bolt of lightning. An image of Jesus Christ with his arms wide open. A mosque with golden domes under the sun. Lord Ganesha with his elephant head. A goddess with plump breasts. A candle in the dark. A page deliberately left blank … Everyone visualized God in their own way. As for Peri, after a brief hesitation, she made a dot, which she then turned into a question mark.
‘Time’s up,’ said Professor Azur. He distributed another batch of paper. ‘Having sketched what God is, I’d like you to illustrate what God is not.’
‘What?’
Azur arched his eyebrows. ‘Stop reacting, Bruno, and get to work.’
A demon with snake-yellow eyes. An iron mask of horror. A foetid swamp. A smoking gun. A knife caked in blood. Fire. Destruction. A fragment from hell … Oddly, imagining what God was not proved harder than imagining what He was. Only Elizabeth seemed to find the task easy. She simply drew a man.
‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ said Professor Azur. ‘Could you lift the two drawings and hold them side by side? Show them to everyone in the circle.’
This they did, inspecting one another’s works.
‘Now turn the images towards yourselves. Okay? Great! We’re about to examine a question raised by philosophers, scholars and mystics throughout history: what is the relationship between the two pictures?’