Sharad Kohli
West Asia – or to be more precise, Kuwait – was home for the first 10 years and nine months of my existence, then for a couple more years between the ages of 13 and 15, before a short but all-too-knafah-sweet 22 months in Dubai brought an end to our Arabian adventure. And while I can’t ever forget the intense summer heat, the bustle and buzz of the traditional souks, and the heart-on-sleeve football, it’s the gustatory highlights that share space with the sights, sounds and smells of my childhood.
The region is a melting pot of nationalities and identities, as much as the dishonest and disrespectful ‘west’ might want to present Arabs as a homogeneous ethnic group and paint them with lazy and racist stereotypes. In Kuwait, for instance, there was a large Palestinian community – the biggest in the Arab world, if memory serves me right – alongside a good number of Egyptians. There were others too, among them the Lebanese, Iranians and Syrians. Iranians, in fact, manned the little baqala (grocery) store just a few steps away from our front door in the neighbourhood of Hawally, their smiling demeanour welcoming us each time my sister and I ventured there to pick up some khubz, the bread common to the Arabs of the peninsula, the Levant and the Maghreb.
Of course, as a boy, I had little understanding of how these nations differed from each other, in culture, cuisine and character. What, for example, separates the Libyans from the Omanis, or the Yemenis from the Iraqis? Well, as much as that which unites them, nuances that would be lost on colonialists old and new. This much would become more clearer to me when we moved to Dubai, in those days not the financial powerhouse it would go on to become, yet a shade more cosmopolitan than Kuwait. Back then, all I knew and believed was that the food of my adopted home tasted great.
Growing up in a Punjabi family, everyday fare was simple: a katori of dal and a seasonal vegetable, accompanied either by chapati or rice (usually the former). Once a week, we’d indulge in a meal that consisted of a half-chicken slow cooked in a tandoor alongside a rich dal makhani; these were on the menu of the restaurant my father had opened barely a few months before I was born. Both slap-up meal and comfort food, it filled the tummy and made the heart sing.
Still, to a child, anything apart from the ordinary and the everyday just feels exotic. It’s exactly what hummus and baba ganoush, and falafel and shawarma, would have felt to me, whether rustled up at home or indulged in outside. Still, there’s more to the gastronomy of the Arab peoples than just these mainstays, for all that they form the foundation of a meal that is as nutritious as it is tasty and filling. Add a chicken, mutton, beef or fish preparation to this spread, and you have dawat-e-shiraz, a feast that is an endeavour of love, created from whatever ingredients are in the pantry or the fridge at home.
Yet, when served at another’s house, especially by a people renowned, over the centuries, for their hospitality, it transforms into an epiphany, one where you can expect generous helpings and loving refills. For, your hosts are eager to please, to ensure that you are fed well and leave grateful for being embraced by strangers whose attention made you feel one of them. Indeed, there are no more convivial folks on the planet than these wonderful people with the biggest of hearts.
It’s a point that needs to be emphasised considering how readily the Europeans and Americans go out of their way – at times subtly, but mostly unambiguously, and often crudely – to pull down and mock Arabs wherever they may be. The Arabs, it would do well to remember, presided over an age of enlightenment much before Europe did. Intellectually and artistically, in science, medicine and education – and enabled by the light and learning of Islam – theirs is a history and a civilisation that predates the achievements of the old continent.
And no amount of having their culture appropriated or culinary heritage stolen can disguise the gifts and genius of the Arabs. Meanwhile, in the matbakh (kitchen), effort and emotion give rise to magic.
‘You are my guest’
On its own, a simple mezze platter would make the perfect meal but add something meaty, and that meal is transformed. I recall the kebabs savoured in Kuwait, the thought of which still makes my mouth water. In particular, the Iraqi and Syrian kebabs, which came with more fat, giving them a different, and altogether distinct, mouthfeel; robust, rustic and earthy. In Dubai, I got to try Lebanese kebabs, which were softer and more succulent. Here was food that could lift the mood, anywhere, anytime.
Across the territory where the Arabs predominate – from the Zagros mountains, the Persian Gulf and the Mediterranean, to the sprawling Sahara and out west to the Indian and Atlantic oceans – meat-based dishes abound but variety is of the essence. Nowhere would you come across the same preparation cooked in exactly the same way; the spices and seasoning added, the grains and legumes used, or the type of game favoured, would vary each time you crossed a border (and sometimes even within borders). There is so much diversity in the cuisine of the Arabs that it would take a lifetime to be able to sample it. I certainly hope to do so.
A muqabbilat (Arabic for starters) is a spread of goodness and comfort. The hummus – velvety but with a hint of the grit of the chickpeas on the tongue – sharing space with the mutabal, in which the aubergine’s smoky bursts contrast agreeably with its grainy texture. Paired with just khubz and grilled meats – or, in Lebanon, with kibbeh, the delish kofta-like appetiser made of ground meat, bulgur wheat, and spices – and you have a meal that is versatile enough to be both light and hearty. Alongside, a serving of tabbouleh (salad) promises spoonfuls of juicy and crunchy delight, complementing the assortment of flavours on the plate.
This is what I have always imagined as the perfect afternoon or evening khana. Of course, each country would have specialities of its own, dishes that showcase their culinary quirks and heritage. Every breakfast or lunch, supper or dinner, wherever you may be blessed to find yourself the guest of an Arab family, is both ceremony and celebration, a link to the land and to tradition, and a coming together of memory and identity. It nourishes and gratifies, is of the earth and of the spirit.
At home, an ‘Arabic’ meal today would consist of hummus, usually made by a local home chef (or homemade mutabal, when eggplant is in season), sardines from a tin, olives, feta cheese and salad. It’s a reminder of a place where the aroma of fish on the fry would come wafting in on the sea breeze, and the sight and sizzle of shredded meat on a shawarma spit would leave you hungry for a bite or a dozen, experiences that formed the sensual tapestry of our lives. But it’s also, more poignantly, a reminder of a region set aflame, and its people dehumanised, of food being deliberately denied to a desperate and hungry population, of the torment of the Palestinians and their unending wait for a homeland.
In an unequal and often brutal world, food opens doors and brings us together. It humanises each other and imbues every communal meal with meaning. But the empath, pained, will ask: where is the joy in the food on my plate, when women, men and children are being starved? If it is being weaponised against my sisters and brothers, how can it possibly sustain me?
Food, you come to realise, takes you back home when the distance becomes unbridgeable, it wraps you in a warm hug of nostalgia when the present becomes too heavy, it heals when illness leaves you drained, it settles when the mind goes a-wander, and it consoles when despair darkens your days. In our more-than three decades away from the wonders of Arabia – the radiance of its civilisation, the majesty of its culture, and the kindnesses of the Arabs – it has been the cuisine, in all its scrumptious glory, that has allowed us to stay in touch.
I shall, Inshallah, break bread again in their midst, when Palestine is liberated, and when she, along with the wider Arab community, is left alone to show to the world the luminosity and depth of their humanity, the tenderness of their natures, and the comradeship and cheer that comes from sharing a table with them.