➣Original in Arabic, translated by Alice S. Youssef

When Syrians found themselves with neither the financial means nor the space in their suitcases to carry their homes, their friends, or the countless memories they had left behind, they learned to distil their grief into spices and beloved dishes. Their tears became recipes, their longing became flavour. What had been violently torn from the heart found its way back into the body, stitched to the stomach instead—a Syrian identity preserved, not removed. It may sound like the beginning of an emotionally charged story about the generations displaced since 2011. Yet it is, in many ways, the story of a people who have inhabited this corner of the world for millennia.  

One of the elderly grandmothers in the village, as she lit a hand-rolled cigarette of locally grown Arabic tobacco, said something that has stayed with me ever since: “If you want to understand a people’s heritage—one that holds fast to tradition while embracing change—you must begin with its cuisine and the stories behind it.” Years later, my French friend Emily, who also grew up in the village of Vaison-la-Romaine, echoed those words as she described her delight in discovering Syrian food and the way cooking creates relationships, stories, and a sense of community.“I’ll be honest,” she said. “My first encounter with Syrians surprised me. I had my own preconceptions. How could people who recoil at escargot—a dish many French people consider a delicacy—so enthusiastically gather around a meal made from a sheep’s stomach stuffed with rice and nuts?”  

Our shared interest in cooking helped bridge many of our differences. Indeed, this social interaction was a cultural exchange par excellence, allowing us to share personal stories, folktales, legends, and feelings about our country in general and our regions in particular. What surprised me most was the openness and diversity of the people, the level of common ground we shared, and simultaneously, the regional bias surrounding each dish, as if it were an identity or a sacred symbol. As our journey extended beyond Damascus and into other regions, Emily discovered the regional identity of each area through a few bites, many smiles, and grandmothers' tales—which I'm almost certain she didn't understand a word of—but the spirit of generosity among the people brought so much joy to the place. One of the funny situations that happened constantly on our trip (because I'm not one for striking up conversations or building social connections) was my repeated question in colloquial Arabic: "Are you making makdous this year ?" Makdous* is a shared national identity for all governorates and one of the main elements in the breakfast and dinner meals for families, so the conversation automatically takes shape after this question. 

Sadly, I think that, this year, most Syrians have lost hope of making makdous. In its place, they may be forced to adopt a new national identity—one born not of choice but of exclusion—which may seem distorted, disfigured  at first, or perhaps forever. In recent years, the word forever has turned Syrian dreams into a nightmare. What saddens me even more is that I did not realise how deeply my own sense of alienation had taken root in such ordinary details: I do not eat makdous, I do not drink tea, and I do not smoke. The small rituals that once affirmed my identity are quietly disappearing. It is fortunate that, every now and then, I find myself craving malqasa or dibs wa talj, traditional dishes from the regions of Qadmous and Mount Hermon; otherwise, I might well consider myself stateless. 

*Makdous: a traditional Levantine preserve of small eggplants stuffed with walnuts, garlic, and red pepper, cured in olive oil. Beyond its culinary significance, makdous holds a particular place in the cultural memory of Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, and Jordan, where its annual preparation is often a family ritual evoking home, belonging, and shared heritage. 

ARABIC