The Island of Missing Trees

So many times in her past she had suspected that she carried within a sadness that was not quite her own. In science class they had learned that everyone inherited one chromosome from their mother and one from their father—long threads of DNA with thousands of genes that built billions of neurons and trillions of connections between them. All that genetic information passed from parents to offspring—survival, growth, reproduction, the colour of your hair, the shape of your nose, whether you had freckles or sneezed in sunlight—everything was in there. But none of that answered the one question burning in her mind: was it also possible to inherit something as intangible and immeasurable as sorrow?

Not a very sensible thing to do, I admit, to fall for someone who is not of your kind, someone who will only complicate your life, disrupt your routine and mess with your sense of stability and rootedness. But, then again, anyone who expects love to be sensible has perhaps never loved.

For it is a land without borders, a lover’s body. You discover it, not at once, but step by anxious step, losing your way, your sense of direction, treading its sunlit valleys and rolling fields, finding it warm and welcoming, and then, hidden in quiet corners, running into caverns invisible and unexpected, pits where you stumble and cut yourself.

Where there is trauma, look for signs, for there are always signs. Cracks that appear in our trunks, splits that won’t heal, leaves that display autumn colours in spring, bark that peals like unmoulted skin. But no matter what kind of trouble it may be going through, a tree always knows that it is linked to endless life forms—from honey fungus, the largest living thing, down to the smallest bacteria and archaea—and that its existence is not an isolated happenstance but intrinsic to a wider community. Even trees of different species show solidarity with one another regardless of their differences, which is more than you can say for so many humans.

When we left the tavern… the moon, the smell of your hair, your hand in my hair, your hand in my hand, after all the horror when we realized we had only each other to depend on.

You know what I’ve been thinking since? I’ve been thinking that you are my country. Is that a strange thing to say? Without you, I don’t have a home in the world; I am a felled tree, my roots severed all around; you can topple me with the touch of a finger.

[Kostas] asked, cautiously, “And the missing you’ve found here, were they Greeks or Turks?”

“They were islanders,” [Defne] said and there was a sharp edge to her voice then. “Islanders, like us.”

Overhearing, David interjected. “That’s the thing, my friend. You don’t know until you send the bones to a lab and get a report. When you hold a skull in your hands, can you tell if it’s a Christian or Muslim? All that bloodshed, for what? Stupid, stupid wars.”

David turned to Kostas. “The Nuremberg trials were a landmark. That’s when people realized how random and widespread violence actually is. Neighbours turning against neighbours, friends selling out friends. Now that’s a different kind of evil, one that we still haven’t come to grips with as humanity. It’s a difficult subject across the world—the acts of barbarity that happen off the battlefield.”

“The tree was being strangled by its own roots. Because it was happening under the earth, it was undetectable. If the encircling roots are not found in time, they start putting pressure on the tree and it just becomes too much to bear.”

Ada was silent.

“Your mother loved you very much, more than anything in this world. Her death had nothing to do with the absence of love. She was blooming and thriving with your love, and I’d like to believe with mine, too, but underneath, something was strangling her—the past, the memories, the roots.”