Our Syria

Since the eighth century BC, for Asians Syria has been the first glimpse of “the Great Sea,” a great land of culture to the West, as well as home to the most beautiful ancient mosques and churches. To Westerners, Damascus and Aleppo have always been the gateways to the Orient, the ancient marble and tile work peeking out along tumbledown medieval streets a reminder of the country’s biblical and classical heritage. Both of these groups of visitors brought travelers and traders; one bringing pepper, saffron, silk, and porcelain, the other precious metals and new-fangled technology. The markets of Syria still reek of the mingling odors of flowers, spices, tea, baking bread, and its legendary courtyard houses. Both have also brought armies; Tiglath-Pileser’s Imperial Army of Assyria, the hoplites of Alexander the Great, crusading knights, Mongol warriors, and Ottoman janissaries have all raped and burned across Syria. Many Syrians alive today were born under French rule. And now, once again, fighters are coming from afar and tearing the country apart.

Our culture is under attack as never before—our greatest buildings are being razed to the ground and our people are fleeing their homeland, disappearing into countries around the globe to seek a new, safer life. But one part of our heritage is still alive and well and will continue no matter what drives families from their homes. This is possibly the country’s darkest hour, but even now in tiny flats in Beirut, Berlin, and Bradford, Syrian families are searching out the best tomatoes and lemons, pomegranates and parsley, to recreate the dishes that remind them of home.

Syrians are masters of adversity, and nothing unites and inspires them as much as food. They will let loose with sugar, caffeine, herbs, and spices. A Syrian mother with barely two pennies to rub together can miraculously produce six or seven dishes bursting with flavor every day. And it’s an all-day operation—rolling vine leaves, frying huge batches of eggplant, finely chopping parsley for tabbouleh. Such is the power that food has to connect us to our past: we hope that this book will be a way to preserve that hugely rich part of Syrian culture, at a time when it is most at threat.

When I was growing up in Syria, no one went abroad. My family and I lived in a one-story house that my dad built in a village in the Hauran, the remote and unglamorous mountain region on Syria’s border with Jordan—all red soil and black stones—whose main claim to fame over the years has been as a hiding place for rebels and heretics.

We grew up behind the Iron Curtain under Hafez al-Assad, so we missed out on the consumer revolution that took the West by storm in the last century. Even now, everything is cooked fresh. Away from the hurly-burly of the world economy, Syrians have always made their own cheese and yogurt, grown their own olives for olive oil and roses for rose water. The more perspective I get from spending time out of my country, the more extraordinarily vibrant our food culture seems.

We don’t stint on flavor. Sweets are very, very sweet; we ladle on the lemon and the pomegranate molasses. And look away now if you don’t like raw garlic. Syrians are food chauvinists; nothing elsewhere tastes quite like the flavors of your own village, the way your own mother cooked them. As the last of my family contemplate leaving behind our little village, this is my Noah’s ark: a capsule containing the intoxicating taste of home.

Growing up in Baghdad meant a constant gathering of my huge Iraqi family and, of course, that meant huge feasts to go with it. My dad particularly loved cooking and hosting; naturally my three siblings and I grew up with a passion for food.

Most of my family fled Baghdad during the Iraq War and are now spread all over the world. Many of them are in Amman, and when I visit, I spend every day in a different auntie’s kitchen, learning each one’s special recipes. What I find interesting is that all my aunties cook the same dish but in a different way, each with her own special ingredient or method. Now I know whose Timan Baagila (fava bean and dill rice) is the most flavorful, whose kebabs are the most succulent, and whose dolma (stuffed vine leaves) are so juicy that I simply cannot stop eating. I have come to realize this is the same with Syrian women too; each has her own special way of making a traditional dish.

My introduction to Syrian cuisine came in 2010, when I was visiting Damascus to research a theater piece I was writing. Waking up to the smell of freshly baked mana’eesh (pizza-like dough with toppings of za’atar, cheese, or meat) and hopping across the road to buy a couple for breakfast was one of my favorite times of day. I soon began to realize just how utterly delicious and flavorful Syrian food is. There are many similarities to Iraqi food, of course, but discovering the intricate flavors of Syrian cuisine added a whole new dimension to my palate.