I grew up in a Palestinian refugee camp.
My friends who know it like to call it the “Deluxe Camp.”
If you grew up in this part of the world, the word “camp” doesn’t refer to a nice tent with a fire pit next to it and a hammock tied between two tree trunks. What often comes to mind are white and blue tents stamped with the United Nations logo scattered across them, or makeshift shelters made of repurposed billboard vinyl. The camp can also refer to grey concrete buildings or bare cement blocks, tangled power lines that nearly block out the sky, crumbling roads, portraits of political leaders and resistance groups plastered across the streets, and the occasional sightings of armed men scattered all around. This is a sight I didn’t encounter until my late twenties, when I began visiting other camps as part of a clown troupe I performed with.
It was then that I realized how “deluxe” the camp I grew up in was.
The word “camp” doesn’t refer to a nice tent with a fire pit next to it and a hammock tied between two tree trunks. What often comes to mind are white and blue tents stamped with the United Nations logo scattered across them, or makeshift shelters made of repurposed billboard vinyl. The “Deluxe Camp,” Dbayeh, Lebanon. Photos by Hisham Assaad.
This “Deluxe Camp” is situated on the periphery of Dbayeh, outside of Beirut, atop a hill overlooking Nahr El Kalb and Jounieh from one side, and Beirut from the other. It looks like a small village, with houses built side by side. The residents were relocated from the tents that served as their only shelter—erected near the current site of the camp— into tents that determined each family’s territory at the current camp, which later transformed into concrete houses with metal sheets for roofs.
This “temporary” residence was not temporary after all. Tents and metal roofs wouldn’t hold up in the long run, so people fixed their homes bit by bit over the decades. Many painted their outer walls, nurtured loquat and fig trees, and decorated their living spaces with night-blooming jasmine, which filled the streets with their aroma on spring and summer nights. The camp was once known as the Hanna Eid Camp, named after a notable Palestinian martyr. Later, its name was changed to reflect its geographic location, becoming the Dbayeh Camp. This renaming likely played a dual role, beginning the process of gentrifying the area and diluting the Palestinian resistance identity of the residents— a move that was perpetuated by the Lebanese civil war and the violence that accompanied it.
Prior to becoming the victim of relentless construction and dull concrete buildings, the camp used to be surrounded by greenery and tall trees. The hillside separating the camp, owned by the Maronite monastery on top, was our playground. During the warm months of spring, my mother and paternal grandmother would take my two younger sisters and me on their foraging walks. All the greenery would be washed from the previous night’s rain and the warm sun would have already dried the mud. While we were expected to just pick flowers and frolic among the diverse flora, I was more curious. I would ask my mom and grandmother about the different types of greens they were foraging for. More often than not, I mispronounced the name of akoub (Gundelia) —my version sounding suspiciously like a swear word in Arabic—which never failed to make them laugh. Those walks instilled in me a gatherer instinct. To this day, wherever I go, I find myself looking around the green and brown earth for edible plants.
Pickled wild thyme —As a child, Hisham would join his mother and grandmother on their foraging walks, showing interest in the different greens they picked from green areas. Photo by Hisham Assaad via his blog Cookin5m2.
I see things from a food perspective.
Memories are tied to tastes and smells. There’s always a food memory linking me to people, or them to me. Even places. The camp, for all its imperfections –tiny homes scattered across 5 parallel streets, walls shared between neighbors, some houses tucked underground where the sun doesn’t reach, others still topped with metal sheet roofs and stained with mold– was not the ideal living space. But we got used to it. We made a home out of it, one filled with many memories and traditions that live on to this day.
Saturday mornings had a distinct feel. The serenity would be interrupted by a bike horn—the kind that sounds like a circus clown’s, signaling the arrival of the kaak seller. On the back of his bike, round brioche and purse-shaped breads hung from a horizontal pole on a wooden frame, covered with a transparent sheet of plastic to keep them safe from dust. Upon request, he would snatch a kaakeh from the pole, ripping the handle in the process, and fill it with zaatar or Picon, a yellow processed cheese.
Kaak vendors were never a rare sight. Sometimes, though rarely, a kaak vendor would come on foot, carrying a wooden tabletop on his head, stabilized by a donut-shaped cushion and a folded metal table base resting on his shoulder, honk in hand to announce his arrival. I think that sight has completely faded into distant memories.
Saturdays in the “Deluxe Camp” almost always featured a kaak seller roaming through the streets. Photo by Hisham Assaad.
Sundays felt blessed. Church bells would echo across the camp, calling people for prayer, before everyone returned to their kitchens and prepared the day’s mashewe (barbecue)—a typical lunch format for weekend family lunches in the Levant. The smoke would create a haze that filled the narrow streets with a wonderful aroma of grilled meats and chicken. The Sunday table spread doesn’t have to be lavish; tabbouleh, hummus, and grilled meats with french fries is all it takes to feed a family. If the family is capable, a few more delicious appetizers make it to the table; a plate of shanklish, zaatar-coated fermented cheese, with chopped tomatoes, onions, and loads of olive oil. Maybe a plate of vegetarian stuffed vine leaves or swiss chards when in season. Someone, somewhere would be playing loud music along with their meal, and the arak (anise-flavored liquor) glasses were never empty. It is rare to have a Sunday without someone grilling meat, unless it’s during Lent, or back at the height of the economic crisis. Even then, a platter of riz ‘aa djej, would include a lesser amount of meat with rice and served with a whole chicken or cheaper cuts on top and garnished with fried peanuts instead of almonds and pine nuts.
During the economic crisis, riz ‘aa djej never left the table. Instead, it would include a lesser amount of meat with rice and served with a whole chicken or cheaper cuts on top and garnished with fried peanuts instead of almonds and pine nuts. Photo by Hisham Assaad.
Certain Palestinian traditions are not so different from Lebanese ones. Some have been lost over time, while others were hidden then forgotten, like the accent that many people from the camp have gradually replaced with the Lebanese one. I am one of them. I carry the Lebanese nationality, but the accent I inherited from my family once made me a target of mockery on the school bus. Ironically, the kids who mocked me spoke in Lebanese accents themselves, even though they carried the Palestinian refugee identification card.
To fit in, and to save myself from more of these incidents, I subconsciously made the switch. I hid my identity to be accepted socially. I assume many of those who lived through the Lebanese Civil War (1975-1990) had to do the same, to avoid being singled out, until they were asked to present their ID at certain checkpoints.
Those who lived during that period also witnessed the capture of the “Deluxe” camp by Christian militias who sought revenge for the actions of armed Palestinians in other camps, who themselves were acting in retaliation. It was a whole vicious cycle of violence. Once again, the residents were expelled from their homes. Bulldozers stood ready to destroy the whole area and the residents’ bodies were about to fill a mass grave.
The camp had long been unarmed, stripped of protection, and no longer affiliated with any political or liberation movements from other camps— by will of its own residents. There was no dominant political presence, neither Palestinian nor Lebanese, except for a few who supported Lebanese political parties, including some involved in the aforementioned incident itself.
During the Lebanese Civil War, Christian militias captured the camp, seeking revenge for the actions of armed Palestinians in other camps, who themselves were acting in retaliation. Photo by Hisham Assaad via his blog Cookin5m2.
Nowadays, you’ll see more Lebanese flags than symbols of Palestine, at least outside the houses in the camp. I remember my aunt had a map of Palestine in her bedroom, but no one in the family ever spoke much about the land their parents were forcibly expelled from.
When we spoke about Palestine, my grandma never painted it as a utopia with over-saturated scenery and rainbows connecting the hills. She rarely spoke of their journey to Dbayeh, or how they fled to the UAE during the civil war. When I asked her about Palestine and Al Bassa, the village she and most of the residents of the camp came from, her stories were filled with memories. She told me about the olive groves her father owned in Al Bassa, a village just south of the border with Lebanon and a little east of the Mediterranean. She would laugh as she remembered how her father used to send her to spy on her (many) sisters to see if any were sneaking off to talk to boys. Boys, in turn, would try to get closer to the girl they liked by joining evening family gatherings, helping to make shaariye (vermicelli), passing time and stealing glances under the supervision of the family.
Winter nights were long. They would spend them making fatayer (dough parcels) and other time-consuming foods, serving tea or foraged herbal infusions, and sharing dried fruits and nuts from the basket hung from the ceiling— kept safely out of reach from moisture and bugs.
These traditions, for the most part, made their way into the camp and stayed. My paternal grandma, like any other grandma, always offered something she had made—whether it was a bowl of ready-made custard from a powdered mix, or fatayer filled with spinach or foraged greens she had bought when she was no longer able to forage for herself. Sometimes we would help her make fatayer, maamoul, or kaak asfar on Easter. She taught my mom, who lost her own mother at a young age, how to make maftoul, Palestinian hand-rolled couscous. We would gather around to watch, trying to learn, and marveling at the quiet precision of her hands.
Since then, Mom has been making maftoul for an ever-growing audience. Very few people know about this dish and even fewer know how to make it.
The version we make at home is slow-cooked and ceremonial. It starts in a huge stockpot, filled with simmering lamb meat and bones, chickpeas, onions, and warming aromatics such as cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. The maftoul pearls are steamed over this rich broth, then seasoned with olive oil and similar spices. It’s a winter dish by excellence. Every time mom makes it, there would be a long list of people to invite, whether they’re relatives, close neighbors from the camp, or friends we promised to share this meal with.
The stars of the dish, the little pearls, which have been appropriated by Israel and marketed as “Israeli couscous”, most likely originate from North Africa and were adapted by Levantine people into the dish known as moghrabieh, a possible corruption of the name Maghreb/Maghrebieh (Maghreb meaning “place of sunset,” “west,” or “from Morocco”).
The moghrabieh we make with maftoul is similar to the Lebanese version but with slight distinctions that somehow make the dish feel drastically different. In the Palestinian version, the pearls are made of cracked wheat, hand-rolled in flour, water, and olive oil. The Lebanese variant, on the other hand, is a semolina-based pasta, cooked in a stew of chicken, onions, and chickpeas, spiced mainly with caraway. It is commonly found on restaurant plat du jour menus, while the Palestinian version carries a more eventful, almost ceremonial presence at home.
Palestinian maftoul is cooked in a huge pot with simmering lamb meat and bones, chickpeas, onions, and warming aromatics such as cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. The pearls are made of cracked wheat, hand-rolled in flour, water, and olive oil. Photo by Hisham Assaad.
Some occasions, although celebrated in Lebanese communities, feel different at the camp. Take the eve of Saint Barbara’s Day, celebrated on December 3 of each year. Children dress up and go from door-to-door singing traditional songs for the occasion, collecting candy and money along the way, and are often offered sweets made specifically for this occasion. Even today, if one walks the narrow humble streets of the camp on that night, they are greeted by the unmistakable scents of this holiday’s sweets being prepared. The aromas of orange blossom water and rose water along with the sweet and dense smell of ‘ater (sugar syrup) boiling on the stove for the ‘atayef (yeasted pancakes) filled the entire neighbourhood.
But the most essential dessert for this occasion would be ‘ameh; wheat berries soaked and cooked in an anise-infused broth, then sweetened and served in small bowls, topped with desiccated coconut, raisins, and a medley of nuts.
Some of the soaked, uncooked wheat berries would be spread on a damp cotton fluff and set at the base of the Christmas tree, next to the nativity scene—usually assembled the day after Saint Barbara’s day. Over the weeks of December, the wheat would sprout into bright green shoots, making the scene more alive.
What my family experienced before me and what I went through myself could have driven us to different places. I am glad it didn’t. Once I became aware of that legacy, I felt even more compelled to share it, talk about it, and take pride in the experiences of my people—experiences that are rather forgotten.
Our stories have somehow merged and morphed with the Lebanese context around us. Many of us didn’t remain confined within the physical borders of the camp; we also tried to break out of the psychological borders inherited from our parents, past traumas and all, just like others in the diverse society we live in have done as well, to ultimately coexist together. Our experiences aren’t so different. We live through the same national hardships, yet we continue to choose joy— an undeniable, and often enviable, desire for life and a deep love for good food.
A page out of the second edition of Hisham’s first cookbook BAYRUT(2025), in which he introduces readers to accessible and delicious recipes ranging from classic Levantine food to dishes with a modern twist. Photo courtesy of Hisham Assaad.
This is where I found myself: in the kitchen, cooking and talking—speaking about what brings us together and what sets us apart. Exploring the culinary differences that enrich both of our cuisines. This is what made me who I am today, a person who understands that food and politics are undeniably linked and their separation is an indication of privilege which I do not and cannot allow myself to have.
The memories I choose to hold on to from the camp are the good ones. That doesn’t mean erasing and forgetting the harder ones we, and all those who live in camps (and in Lebanon), have had to endure. But life always finds a way to sprout. Like a fig tree crawling out of a concrete wall, we persist, offering shade and fruit to those who approach with respect.
Hisham Assaad
Hisham Assaad is a Lebanese Palestinian cookbook author, food photographer, and clown who shares recipes and stories on his blog,cookin5m2, which focuses on the challenges of cooking good food in a tiny home kitchen in Beirut. He has published two books: Bayrut The Cookbook (2021) and Taboon (2024). Raised in a food-loving family who were expelled to Lebanon from their village in Palestine in 1948, Hisham works on preserving his heritage, whether it's Lebanese or Palestinian, his heritage in the face of being lost to history or cultural appropriation or systematic erasure. He has worked as a guide on boutique food tours of Beirut and the surrounding countryside for Taste Lebanon and is a frequent guest chef at local restaurants and festivals. He also works as a humanitarian clown with Clown Me In, His work has been featured in print and online media as well as on television and radio, including a weekly show with a well-known Lebanese host, giving culinary tips and recipes since 2020.
