Chop, chop, chop. A knife swiftly dices onions.
Blop, blop, blop. Water bubbles, signaling the pot has boiled.
A sharp, high-pitched ssssss erupts as garlic hits the hot oil.
The room fills with steam, the sound of pans clinking, and the comforting scent of a home-
cooked meal.
But the feeling that comes isn’t one of warmth or joy. Instead, it’s bittersweet—a knot in the
stomach and tears welling up but refusing to fall. When a meal vanishes from the table after the one who lovingly prepared it is no longer there, or when olive oil becomes the precious symbol of a homeland that feels increasingly out of reach, food transforms into a poignant trigger for grief.
In the Levant, food is not just sustenance; it’s a cornerstone of Arab hospitality and cultural
identity. Celebrations are built around food, and gatherings centered around it often become
celebrations in themselves. Yet, in a culture where joy and hospitality are deeply woven into
daily life, the role of food in grief is often overlooked.
A vessel of memory, what once nourished now carries both flavor and absence. Photo from “Halloumi Hearts” by Tamara Saade, shot between Beirut and Aarbaniye, 2021.
After a loss, family and friends visit the home of the deceased to pay their respects. In Western
cultures, it’s customary to bring casseroles or groceries to ease the burden on grieving families.
In the Arab world, guests also never arrive empty-handed. Here, however, grief gathers people around tables laden with home-cooked meals. Even during funerals—regardless of religion—the family of the deceased offers a meal to those attending the service.
This meal becomes a pause between prayers and condolences, a moment to share sustenance while grappling with loss. Tears mix with the taste of turkey sandwiches that crumble onto dark mourning attire. Riz ‘a Djej –chicken and rice, eaten standing up or on plastic chairs between shaking hands and murmured words of comfort, embodies the rancorous taste of mourning.
This intricate relationship between food and grief extends beyond the mourning period, reaching home, where the absence of a beloved dish is deeply felt.
The aftermath—grief leaves a residue, not unlike oil on a board or sorrow on the soul. Photo from “Halloumi Hearts” by Tamara Saade, shot between Beirut and Aarbaniye, 2021.
For Mehyo Al Jawhary, a chef based between Lebanon and Canada, this dish is his grandmother’s Wara’ ‘Arich. Since she passed away in 2020, he hasn’t had a single bite of it.“I guess it’s like an homage to her. It was her dish,” he says. “I’ll have it if it’s there and there’s
nothing else to eat, but I’ll always compare it. It will be nowhere as close to my Teta’s and it might be really good, but for me it won’t be it. In a weird way, if I have it from someone else and I like it more, it feels like a betrayal.”
Chef Al Jawhary’s passion for food stems from his childhood, shaped by a father who was known for his inventions of intricate food combinations, and a lineage of women— mother, grandmothers, and aunts— who excelled in the kitchen.
Cracking open something tender. A quiet gesture layered with landscapes, loss, and life. Photo from “Halloumi Hearts” by Tamara Saade, shot between Beirut and Aarbaniye, 2021.
But his special bond with his grandmother isn’t solely related to culinary skills; it emanates from her profound love and devotion to her grandson.
“She was one of those people that believed in me no matter what I did. She always stood by me,” he adds. “She always protected me. She always defended me, even when I was obviously wrong. When I got kicked out of school, she was the one that went behind everyone’s back and begged the principal to let me back in. She meant the world to me.”
When humans lose someone, they cling on to fragments of their memory. But as time passes, these fragments slip away. The sound of their voice grows faint. Their scent fades. Pictures become the only visual reminders. As sight and sound diminish, other senses take over—taste, above all. Food becomes a powerful trigger. A meal they once prepared takes on an unparalleled significance. It may become an obsession, or, conversely, something we cannot bear to face.
For Alia Benmoussa, a PhD student in chemistry, her recent connection to spicy food emerged from a desire to keep her father’s memory alive after he passed. “Spicy or hot food was never part of my diet. It burnt my lips, my throat. There was nothing enjoyable about it, I felt no pleasure eating spicy food,” she says. On the other hand, her father was never seen without it, always adding Tabasco or harissa to his meals. During the year after his passing, one day, she decided to add Tabasco to her couscous and tagines, then, spicy oil to her pizza. Slowly, spicy food began to integrate into her life.
“In a way, I am afraid of forgetting how he used to smell, the sound of his voice, all those little things that were specific to my dad,” Benmoussa explains. “I cannot reproduce those little things. Yet, I want to keep his memory; I cherish whatever can make me feel closer to him. Eating spicy food and feeling pleasure having it are some of my strategies to keep his memory vivid.”
The textures of grief: memories wilted like roses, diced like vegetables once shared across generations. Photo from “Halloumi Hearts” by Tamara Saade, shot between Beirut and Aarbaniye, 2021.
In the vast tapestry of human experience, where emotions color every thread, food is deeply
intertwined with grief. In moments of shock, our relationship with food can shift drastically.
Even as acceptance sets in, food remains a powerful conduit for emotion.
What makes food a gateway to memories, or fantasies—even moments that never happened, or promises that were never fulfilled— is its tangibility. As the only activity that engages all five senses, food has the unique power to transport people across space and time—to distant continents, vanished mountains, or memories that have long faded.
In the Levant, food is far more than nourishment. It is a vessel of emotion, a bridge between the
past and the present, and a testament to the enduring power of community. In moments of grief,
it becomes a language of its own, one that speaks of love. Ultimately, food becomes a means of remembrance and honor as well as a vessel for memory. Grief, though painful, is more than just a mental state; it is a full-body experience. It can shatter, paralyze, and color life forever.
Sabbah Haider is a researcher and filmmaker based in Paris. And hindbeh holds a special place for her— not only because that dish is hard to find in Paris. In 2020, she connected with a man through social media and built an epistolary relationship with him, while COVID and distance separated them between Lebanon and France.
Memory sizzles on the stove. Even the simplest acts like frying eggs become tributes to a life once shared. Photo from “Halloumi Hearts” by Tamara Saade, shot between Beirut and Aarbaniye, 2021.
“Food came up as a topic as we used to talk and get to know each other. Once, I mentioned I love hindbeh,” Haider explains. Following that conversation, the subject of hindbeh often came back and slowly grew as a symbol of the expectations of their first in-person encounter. Months later, when they met for the first time, Haider ended up disappointed. And although there was no hindbeh involved, the sour taste of it lingers in the back of her mind and heart.
“It’s crazy because this is a food I love. It’s weird. I’ve never had an intersection between
food and emotions with a guy before,” she explains. The dish became more than a simple meal or a reminder of Lebanon; it was associated with emotions that left a bitter memory for Haider. It became a reminder of expectations never met, an emotional fantasy that never unfolded, and grief for what could have been.
While food provides solace, it also serves as a medium for storytelling. Recipes passed down
through generations become vessels of history, carrying with them the tales of those who came
before. In the context of grief, preparing a loved one’s favorite dish can become an act of
remembrance and a way to keep their memory alive.
In the Levant, a region of the world where the land and its identity are revered, grief adds another layer. For those in exile, food often symbolizes what is missing—a taste of a home
that exists only in their memory or imagination. As Chef Reem Assil explains in her cookbook– which includes recipes from the Arab world intertwined with her family’s history from Gaza to the US, food is an act of resistance.
Food provides solace, while also providing a medium for storytelling. Photo from “Halloumi Hearts” by Tamara Saade, shot between Beirut and Aarbaniye, 2021. `
In the late 1990s, while Israel was still heavily bombing the south of Lebanon, Ghayyan Al Amine, a filmmaker and photographer, would spend his summers in his village of Sawwaneh, near the border. “Every time my mom made Laban Emmo, there would be an Israeli attack somewhere in the South, and that was especially true when my cousin visited from Beirut,” he explains. Rather than letting this association between Laban Emmo and Israel’s attacks ruin his relationship with the specific dish, Al Amine and his family turned it into another anecdote. “Nothing serious ever happened,” he says, “but we would get a scare every time and it became something of a joke amongst us.”
What happens when a dish once cherished becomes a bittersweet souvenir?
Grief has a way of painting the past with rose-colored hues, embellishing what was. And yet, isn’t that part of its purpose? That bite of a familiar meal can transport one back to happier times, offering comfort tinged with sadness. At other times, that same bite unleashes a wave of sorrow as shared moments with loved ones now gone come rushing back.
Bitterness preserved. A single slice of citrus mirrors the sharp sting of remembering. Photo from “Halloumi Hearts” by Tamara Saade, shot between Beirut and Aarbaniye, 2021.
Grief is a fundamental part of existence. Loss, heartbreak, and exile are familiar themes in the
Levant, a region shaped by conflict, history, and profound cultural richness. Here, where life is
lived intensely, the relationship with food—so integral to how life is navigated—is inevitably
altered by grief. Rather than shying away from grief, food can be embraced as a way to process and honor it. Facing these emotions and celebrating them allows food to serve as a bridge between loss and memory.
“Food is a lot of things,” explains Chef Al Jawhary. “Food is political. Food is culture. Food is
love. Food is heritage. It’s passed down. It’s tradition. It’s family. In the Middle East, we do
Sunday lunch or dinner with the family. I used to complain about having to go to my grandma’s house every Sunday. Now, I wish we could do it one more time.”
Tamara Saade
Born and raised in Lebanon, Tamara Saade is a journalist and photographer currently based in Beirut. She mainly covers Lebanon's ever-changing social landscape, focusing on human rights with a documentary approach through photography, writing, and videography. Working with different photographic formats and artistic platforms, she uses the intersectionality of the medium and the message to highlight her stories.
