FOYER: 02 Hearth & Home

FOYER

Hearth & Home

Find the sounds of home. Transport yourself to new cultures and places by listening to our playlist with music selected by our contributors

foyermagazine.co.uk/soundscape

Founder & Editor

Fiona Livingston

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Culture Cube Ltd

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Robert Livingston

Julien Rouvière

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FOYER Issue 02

March 2023

Published by Culture Cube Ltd

ISSN 2753-6106

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Cover design: Lou Kiss

Additional illustrations: Zara Toledo

I’ve always wondered about that age old phrase ‘home is where the heart is’. What does that mean if you have lived in multiple countries? Or you are born into a country different to that of your parents? Is ‘home’ the motherland where your cultural roots are? Or is it where you were born? Perhaps it is none of these things, but is instead an emotional connection to the things that make home real to us, that give us a sense of belonging, that make us feel whole.

This second edition of FOYER addresses our theme of ‘hearth and home’ with a sense of warmth. It feels poetic and humourous, but also realistic and sometimes unfailingly truthful. In its realism. Set out in the rooms of a home, we attempt to bring the home to life, making you feel welcome, dear reader, into our home, into many homes, into our place of warmth. Through these articles we provide you with a hearth by the fire to read and experience new cultures, thoughts and ideas whilst you toast a marshmallow or a crumpet, and drink hot chocolate in the warm glow of a fireplace.

addressing why one Portugese mother left her homeland, and in the other we see how bringing the texture of nature into the home injects a sense of peace and tranquility.

A blend of the past and the future is forever present within these pages. An acknowledgement of where we have come from and what makes up our cultural identity seeps through the pages. You can almost smell the scents of Jamaica in Kadine Christie’s suitcase, and touch the detailed embroidery of Chikankari in Varisha Tariq’s homage to the artform. Katerina Chernysheva’s report on the Afro-Colombian tradition of burying an umbilical chord to always remain connected to ‘home’ is enlightening and shows how home can be both a profound and simple motif. Each bring us back to the past, but allow us to move on into our futures, creating our own sense of home and belonging.

©Culture Cube Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without prior permission. Views expressed are those of the contributors and do not necessarily reflect those of the publisher.

Contributors:

Stephanie Anjo, Kasia Bereza, Katerina Chernysheva, Kadine Christie, Hanneke Jewson, Lou Kiss, Alexandra Kumala, Susan Lado, Becky Lee Smith, Lemon Tree Trust, Fiona Livingston, Heedayah Lockman, Renée Milkie, Zoya Naaz Rehman, Anoushka Narayanan, Overexbosed, Tamara Pešić , Gurpreet Ralia, Daniela Saravia, Anita Suster, Zara Toledo, Varisha Tariq, and Samia Qaiyum

To find out more about our contributors, please visit our website at foyermagazine.co.uk/contributors

In this issue we take you to a kaleidoscope of places and countries where each story is different but in some way connected. We uncover traditions that bond us, such as eating a big pot of Madjaari with family and friends, and how a simple vegetable such as chicory and a national Indonesian dessert can conjure up memories of times past, as well as sharing recipes of Sarma, directly connecting us to heritage with our hands. Discover how to create new traditions that make us feel whole by finding your soul in floristry, or reconnecting with forgotten traditions such as wearing the Korean hanbok and Punjabi hair oiling. Through three voices from displaced women from Syria, we experience how they are re-creating home whilst they are away from it, by cooking traditional dishes in a camp, supported by the Lemon Tree Trust. We immerse ourselves through two films,

New pathways are forged, and sometimes surprising outcomes are realised. Hanneke Jewson’s interview confronts the idea of where you are born is where you are from, and challenges this notion. Samia Qaiyum details the impact of traveling on a weak passport and the implications this has on her life. Anita Suster redefines the meaning of home empowering you to make your own terms and conditions.

With these thoughts and feelings in mind, I feel that home is always with us. Whether that be wherever we lay our hats, with family and friends, with objects that are dear to us, or with scents and flavours. These small and big things connect us back to our own individual sense of home, creating who we are and empowering us to make home wherever we want to or wherever we can.

So keep on carving your own path, and home will be at the end of the lane waiting for you with the fire lit.

Fiona (Founder & Editor, FOYER)

5 STUDY ROOM

P.45 Of Rootlessness and Restlessness

Samia Qaiyum

P.47 Hey Kid! Where is Home?

What is Home?

Susan Lado

P.51 Arranging Myself

Daniela Saravia

2 SNUG

P.21 Fragments of Reflections

Fiona Livingston

P. 22 Immigrant

Kasia Bereza

P.23 Belonging is an Avant-Garde

Art Form

Zoya Naaz Rehman

7 BEDROOM

P.87 Maintaining my roots: generational hair oiling and relationships with hair

Gurpreet Ralia

P.89 Carrying home wherever I go

Varisha Tariq

P.97 Harabaji’s 80th birthday celebration 2000.10.21

Becky Lee Smith

9 GAMES ROOM

P.115 Booklist

P.116 QR code bingo

8 TERRACE & GARDEN

P.107 Textures of Hearth

Overexbosed

P.103 What Does Your Umbilical Cord Say About You?

Katerina Chernysheva

1 FOYER

P.9 Where is Home?

P.11 Postcards Home

Fiona Livingston

CONTENTS FLOOR PLAN

4 SUNROOM

P.37 Roots

Stephanie Anjo

3 LIVING ROOM

P.27 Where you are born is not where you belong

Hanneke Jewson

P.29 Be yourself, but not like that

Anita Suster

P.31 In the In Between Anoushka Narayanan

6 KITCHEN

P.57 Sarma recipeTamara Pešić

P.65 Bitter Leaves Fiona Livingston

P.61 You know that American saying “Saturdays are for the boys”?

Well for me it was “Fridays are for Mjaddara”Renee Milkie

P.69 Jamaican immigrants carry a little bit of home in suitcases Kadine Kristie

P.71 Cincau Santan, Without Es Alexandra Kumala

P.75 A Taste of Home Lemon Tree Trust

Image by Ylanite Koppens, Unsplash

What is home?

This diagram shows the predominant word for ‘home’ used in the top 27 languages used by first language speakers worldwide.

Source: Wikipedia, List of languages by number of native speakers

by Fiona Livingston

Photos: Kevin Grieve, Dylan Leagh, Josie Jean, and Craig

Mclachlan, UnSplash

Friday 3 March, 2020, Scheveningen Netherlands

This postcard is coming to you from the back of a failed kite boarding expedition. My cousin said Scheveningen has a long sandy beach which is supposed to be good for these types of things, so I thought I’d give it a go! I forgot I’m not very well balanced, so I saw more of the water than I planned to, and inhaled more salty water than I thought was safe! But, now I’m here with a mint choc chip ice cream, nursing my wounded pride.

Whilst sitting on a deck chair, an old local woman asked me: ‘who are you from?’ I said ‘the grocer’. Apparently in the olden days there were only a few family surnames in this neck of the woods, so I suppose this was a way of telling the difference! It made me feel included.

Ice cream score: 5/10 Not enough chocolate chips. Sacrilege! Doei! X

Foyer

Early morning surfers at Scheveningen Beach

Tuesday 24 April, 2020, Southend-on-Sea, England

Hi Dani, Writing to you from sunny Southend, the place where I grew up. It’s a coastal town with a fun fair, amusement park, slot machines, and ice cream, of course. There is a long esplanade which runs alongside the beaches. It was nice to walk along here again, I can smell hot cinnamon donuts in the air. Ah a sense of nostalgia! I used to spend a lot of time at the Three Shells café with my dad, sometimes I had an ice cream sundae. Crazy to see how little has changed. I can still see the oil refinery in the distance, and the benches are all in the same positions. I sat down with an ice cream and watched the world go by. The seagulls have become bigger. It must be all the chips!

Heading to my old house tomorrow. Feeling strange.

Ice cream score: 6/10. Too sugary!

Wish you were here Love V

Sunday 17 November, 2020, Troon, Scotland

Dearest, I made it here, finally. It’s windy, and there is a chill in the air. But what do you expect in the West coast of Scotland. The train journey was long, and delayed. Visiting dad’s house in Troon and went for a walk. It’s a rocky outcrop section of the beach, there are sand dunes on the other side. I’ve been investigating the rock pools, found a few shells and a crab. The dog had fun playing in the sea foam. You should try and come here sometime, but maybe in the summer, I’m not sure you will survive in the winter. You can tell I’m from the south, all the locals are wearing t-shirts! I felt more like a local when I finished an ice cream at 8 °C . A win in my eyes!

Ice cream score: 8/10 huge shards of chocolate, with added pear chunks. A revelation!

I’ll write again soon, Violet xx

Foyer

The beach at Troon

nook, hideaway, windowseat, cubbyhole, den, hideaway, cubby

Image by ganjalex, Shutterstock

Slow down and you can hear it

A trembling in your chest

A heart without a home

The soil cold and moist in my hand

Filters through my fingers, like my ideas of home

Breeze carried in the wind

A journey coming up ahead

Half knowing where to turn

The other half lost and left behind

A fraud

An imposter

A person looking for acceptance

A foundling

A will o the wisp

A fragment of light jumping from shattered glass

A rainbow reflected on the ceiling

Sudden, but lost in an instant

An idea, a way through, a hearth keeps me warm

Split in two but making a whole,

The Earth grounds me, nature is my home

All around me, wherever I go

A chance to settle, to be complete, make my own way, Don’t listen to what you should be, be what you are with two feet on the ground, looking at the clouds, dreaming of the future, of feeling home, of slowing down, being, just being capturing reflections in my hands

Making a whole, a whole me, just for me

by Fiona Livingston

Outside we try to be like you

Stumbling semblance, not in step Green or red top for you dear

IMM IGR ANT

- You don’t drink milk in your tea?

Home was magicked far away

By big boots with smaller minds

It exists, though not for us

Not a place that we can find

Huddle from the storm my love

Rest your limbs in new shelter

Say you’re fine when you were not, When not, when not, when never

Inside our place, we are free

To take off the tattered coat

Lay the baggage of our mind

Down and dream, again, to dream.

By Kasia Bereza

an Iranian, a Jew, a Korean, and a Kashmiri Pandit walk into a New York City bar. an out of tune quartet, a symphony discordant to everybody other than themselves. they breeze past a girl who’s telling a story and when the fire alarm went off, i totally froze!

on the street outside, people look like little figures snatched from a map that someone threw darts at blindfolded. inside, they play Russian roulette with the flavors of leaving. pull the trigger, what do you taste?

is it Kashmiri rogan josh or Iranian fesenjoon or Jewish matzah ball soup? a sensory explosion, paired with an out of body experience. limbs moving like a puppet on strings, running outside this bar, but the street is empty now. a tripwire appears out of nowhere, splayed out on the ground for a moment, knees scraped and bleeding, but pulled back up immediately. there is no time to tend to the bleeding wound. no time to think about your blood on this foreign land this land that does not belong to you, or anyone else here, this land that belongs only to its indigenous people. but you’d rather have lost blood here than be split blood elsewhere. all motion is driven by the muscle memory of endurance when eating breakfast is an act of resistance. pay attention to your breath, it is present. its menthol air hard to ignore, each exhale a defiant echo of here, here, here this is what survival tastes like. and then, the aftertaste. a whirlwind. tumbling through space and time, hand outstretched, reaching for those that came before you. them, mirroring you. for a moment, a connection, like god and adam; savor it.

it is a privilege to be frozen at the sound of a fire alarm set off by a smoke detector that caught a whiff of someone’s burnt toast. when you know what it’s like to leave a home, you do not have this privilege. instead, you keep a bag by your front door, within reach if it comes down to it. tastefully disguise it as a chic piece of decor. in it, all of your life’s most valuable souvenirs.

by Zoya Naaz Rehman

Avant-Garde Art Form

the loss of everything you’ve ever known teaches you to master the art of preparation. it is impossible to take everything, you must leave things behind. the burden of knowing how to travel light is a heavy one.

pull the trigger again, there’s a wildcard now. more spinning– leaving tastes bad but arriving tastes worse. how do you build a home from a spice box of memories? arriving is like a much-anticipated package of homemade kimchi wrapped in three layers that still somehow leaked in transit: sharp and sour, a kick to the ribs when other people wrinkle their noses, ask what that funky smell is.

but then, the spinning stops. the familiar notes hit you, this place starts to taste like home. the kimchi at a broken-in table, in an apartment that is yours. beside it, jars of doon chetin and dill pickles, a pot of Persian tea with nabat; a collection of lighthouses soothing hungry sailors. it is true that you cannot stop playing with legos for the fear of stepping on one, who knows what you could build? and here it is, what you built. an everyday exchange of neurons carrying memories, the casual intimacy of show and tell with the innards of the bags by the door, telling these stories of preservation and of resilience, even of joy with a silent plea of be careful, and receiving tenderness in return. what is belonging if not your roommate’s tahchin singing with your nadur gaad, or a plate of hamantaschen filled with dan pat for dessert. what is terroir if not a fancy French way of saying

LIVING ROOM 3

family room, sitting room, salon, lounge, parlour, reception room

Illustration by Heedayah Lockman

Identity and country are closely linked. A nation itself has an identity, a culture if you will. That culture is made by its history, its history made by its people, the people were born on that bit of earth. It is an endless circle within the continued movement of time. The history extends, the people evolve, the earth renews, but the circle remains. Or does it. Here are some people who fell outside of the circle’s embrace.

Once upon a time, but actually in 1975 and 1976, two brothers were born. Robert and Michael grew up in Northern Ireland to English parents in the time of the troubles. It is these two brothers that fell out of what seemed to be a perfect circle. For if your country is linked to your identity, then how can these brothers not identify with the same country?

‘Our lives were very linear,’ says Michael, the younger brother, ‘until age eighteen, after that our lives diverged quite a bit.’

Robert, the eldest, was a young boy when he sat in a classroom watching the football World Cup. The kids in the room cheered, Ireland had made a great pass. A few moments later Robert cheered - he was one of the few: England had scored. In the classroom next door, all the children were asked to name their church, so that they could be separated by religion. They reached Michael. ‘What is your church?’ Michael, who had asked his mother innocently what church they belonged to not a day earlier, answered: ‘The Church of England.’ And alone he sat.

There were, however, other small hints of what was to come. They made fun of Robert’s accent and there was a feeling of being different in Northern Ireland, but Robert always felt Northern Irish. When Robert was called ‘The English kid,’ it was a joke and he laughed it off. He was a Northern Irish kid after all. Michael, on the other hand hit the other side of town one or two nights and Michael heard the same thing. ‘The English kid,’ and he knew they were coming to get him. ‘You build up your defences and

barriers and you double down and think “Yes, I am an English kid, go for it”.’ Michael was the English kid.

Sport had always been something sub-conscious for Robert. ‘With all my sports teams, I start to organically support them and once I support a team, I am stuck with them. I never felt anything other than that I should be supporting Ireland.’ Michael too, was an Ireland supporter, that is until he saw England play. ‘When I was exposed to English rugby, I supported England and it wasn’t a choice. It was just what I did, I leant towards it. I realised straight away that I supported England rugby.’

The cracks remained small, too small to see any difference between these two brothers of Northern Ireland with the funny English accents, but in their minds, differing push and pull factors dictated their choice of university. Robert went to London and so did Michael. ‘To be honest, I felt pressure from my parents to go away, to experience life outside of Northern Ireland,’ admits Robert. Whereas Michael enthused: ‘It was what I had been preparing for. All my history was in England, my heroes were there. Simply, I’m English and England, specifically London, was where I needed to go.’

Robert settled in well; he made friends. ‘I made very strong friendships, but not of the same strength as those in Northern Ireland. I felt like the people in England were less happy, less genuine, less open that people in Northern Ireland.’ For Michael on the other hand: ‘Northern Ireland felt like home until I went to University. I always thought I was going to go back, but when I arrived in London I knew straight away “This is my home.” It’s where I wanted to be. It blew all the cobwebs away and if there were any ties holding me down to Northern Ireland, it blew them away. I wasn’t going back.’

At this point it might be obvious to reveal that Robert, indeed, did go back. When he arrived in Belfast he felt like he was coming home. Around him grew close friends from (Southern) Ireland, Northern Ireland and some from England. Over time, they became like family and they are still, even when he discovered the missing piece of his heart was in America. Robert now belongs with his wife and son in America, but will be, forever, Irish.

Michael stayed in England. From the place where he belonged, friendships sprouted and he felt at home. When his parents split up and his brother moved to America, Michael’s friends, much like Robert’s friends, became his family.

‘In the end, it’s a combination of family, history, personality, upbringing and maybe nearly a dozen factors that come into play to give you a destination. I belong because of social reasons, but I will always be English.’

Michael

I don’t think my identity has changed, but my sense of belonging has. When coming back to Northern Ireland, it feels like coming back to my homeland, but I don’t feel like I belong there anymore. When they ask me where I’m from, I would say “I am Irish.” For me, having links with where you live is where you feel at home and where you identify. My temperament and personality, I feel more akin with the people from Northern Ireland.’

Robert

by Hanneke Jewson —

is not where you belong

room

Be yourself, but not like that words and image by

This set off some deeply rooted alarm bells. How could the message ‘come as you are’ have a T&C? Doesn’t that contradict the point? I was annoyed and honestly, obsessed. Shouldn’t we be showing up as our truest selves with our friends regardless of a dress code? I’m sorry, but what? Was it a joke? I mean, maybe. But even so, it brought something to the surface that I couldn’t stop thinking about — what happens when we show up as our truest self in spaces we consider ‘home’ and the response is ‘ah, not like that’.

In short, my answer is that it forces you to zoom out, re-evaluate and redefine what home is outside of traditional definitions; is it a feeling? Is it a place? People? For me, the search for this answer has taken me on a journey that I didn’t even know I was on. Bear with me — in order to explain where I’m at now, I’ll have to take you back in time to my first definition of home: where I was raised.

Growing up in my household was like entering the Balkans in the middle of the western suburbs of Melbourne, Australia. As soon as you walked through the front door you were met with aromas of eastern European cooking, distant chatter of Serbian, Croatian and Slovak TV shows, folklore art and doilies (so many doilies). From the age of five until fifteen I did Slovak dancing, went to Slovak language school and attended Yugoslav-Slovak events. My life was nestled within a cultural, language and sensory melting pot; something that I would later realise is a big part of what makes me feel most at home.

Anita Suster

It wasn’t until I hit the age of nineteen that I really started to question ‘wait, who am I without the impressions of my family, culture and surroundings? What’s that girl like? What does home feel like for her?’. This was the beginning of my search for an opportunity to step outside of my cultural bubble, move abroad and start anew. I’ve been lucky enough to have lived in three different countries: Denmark, Germany and Sweden. Finding your footing in your home country is a challenge, let alone finding it abroad. As I started showing up as my truest self I was met with a lot of awkward silence. Rather than falling into the comfort of being a chameleon, this resistance led me to find my people, places — and ultimately, myself.

I found that the more I showed up as myself, the more honest I could be with how I moved through the world and dealt with resistance. I always thought that I’d have a singular definition of home, but I realise there isn’t a onesize-fits-all answer, it’s lots of little personal things. Home is a string of different feelings and adjectives. For me, it’s freedom, community and a melting pot of cultures — these are things I seek, regardless of where I am in the world. The freedom to create a life outside of family and cultural expectations; communities that encourage authenticity and self-expression, and lastly a bridging of diverse cultures and backgrounds.

I think that’s the power of redefining the meaning of home — it allows you to make your own terms and conditions outside of the ones being thrown your way.

Recently a friend of mine was invited to a birthday party and the dress code was ‘dress as your most authentic self’, followed by terms and conditions saying ‘BUT! Nothing plain. If you wear something plain, you’ll have to strip into your undies’.

Navigating the contrasts of these impressions led me to become a bit of a chameleon. In order to find balance with discovering my identity while respecting the views of my parents and my culture, I found ways to compartmentalise aspects of myself in order to “fit in” — and by that, I mean I became quite passive.

—

How feeling out of place helps us re-define the meaning of ‘home’

In the In Between words

and artwork

by Anoushka Narayanan

Where are you from?

A simple question which is often given a simple answer. A town, a city, or a country, it doesn’t need much thought. In my experience this question elicits a very quick and intense feeling of dread; where do I start? Do I say I’m from India, because that’s where my parents are from, and it’s the culture I grew up with? Oh, but I’ve never actually lived there, so that’s not accurate. How about I say Oman, the country I actually grew up in and lived for 15 years. It still feels weird to say I’m ‘from’ there, though. “Oh I’m from all around,” I’d say, ignoring the growing identity crisis within.

How does one begin to define ‘home’? Oxford dictionary gives a definition as ‘a town or country etc. that you come from, that you live in, or where you are living and feel you belong to’. For some, all three of those statements have different answers. The third is still something I’m searching for an answer for. I have two friends from two separate points within my life with both similar and very different ideas of what home is. One friend, Friend A, grew up very similarly to me; very familiar with Indian culture but growing up as an Omani. When I first asked her what home means to her she responded with “comfort and belonging” — more as a feeling than a place. It’s the familiarity and the people you are with that shapes how you see and feel about your home. It is also interesting to me that she mentions the nationalities of her two passports. Often when I am stumped with the dreaded question, I’ve had people ask me what passport do I hold, and that somehow magically answers the question. She talks about how while she owns a certain country’s passport, she doesn’t necessarily feel connected to the culture of said country. For now she is content with saying that Muscat is her home, but that can certainly change at

another future point in her life, depending on the people she’s with (not necessarily family, either).

Friend B grew up so culturally different; having been born and brought up in the UK. He mentions that where you’re from originally is the place you’re born in, and a place you know you’re way around. However, he makes a fascinating point on how since he’s moved out of his family’s home, the building itself doesn’t feel the same as it used to. He has the same idea as friend A, I’ve noticed, that it’s due to the people as well as the memories associated with the place that makes it home. The feeling of ‘home’ isn’t attached to the physical structure of the house, but it’s the surrounding area that gives him nostalgia, and that ‘going home’, to him is going to where your family is; a small switch in home as a feeling versus home as a physical place.

I picked these two friends for their perspectives as I thought they would be complete opposites to each other; in some ways it certainly is. Friend A feels that home can and may change for her, that it’s dependent on where she is in her life and who she’s surrounded with. She’s also clear in what home isn’t, the culture she doesn’t identify with or relate to. Friend B, on the other hand, I’ve noticed only mentions one place when discussing home, compared to friend A’s multiple cultural identities she grew up with. There’s a feeling of nostalgia when he goes back home, that comes from the surroundings and the memories attached to it.

How odd, and how fascinating, that a place can shape so much of our identity. It was only once I’d settled into university in London that I was truly aware of this hole in my identity. The friends and peers I’ve met here were and have always been from one place, down to the

specific town, county, city, much like friend B. Back then I had thought it made for a solid foundation in who someone is, when they can point to one small spot and immediately think “home”. A lot of those years in university were spent chasing that solidity, but feeling like an incorrect puzzle piece. I used to define home only as a place; a physical manifestation of your past, a monument to your existence. So when you are unable to answer a straightforward question as “where are you from?” easily, it almost felt like my mere existence was hanging by a thread. I had no “permanent” so to say, a structure where I could find evidence of my childhood, no one house that has seen me at every age. So close was my validity as a real person dependent on a physical home that I feared I could disappear at the drop of a hat. While objectively it is much more interesting to be from more than one place, it was mostly isolating; being surrounded by people who know who they are because of who and where they were, I felt like I was missing out on something. That I was incomplete and would never be finished.

These feelings were at its peak during my university years; the frail connection between where I was from and who I was had affected me so deeply. I never did think there would be a time where I would think of this as the past. The opportunity to reflect on it in this article came at such an interesting time, a pivotal moment where I realised that I don’t feel as lost or as isolated as I once did. At one point this feeling of being in between two phases of my life, between a home that was for my past self, and a home for a future self I hadn’t met yet was what made my personality, or rather lack thereof and it was suffocating. Now, while nothing has changed all that much, I no longer feel the constant urge to belong to just one place; I find it fortunate that I can place certain parts of my life and growth in specific countries, dividing it easily into chapters. It’s almost like I’ve come full circle; from being horribly lost and rejecting my multiple homes in the vain search for a physical place, to being lost and accepting it. A realisation that that little space in the in between, is a comfortable void, and my home.

“How does one begin to define ‘home’? Oxford dictionary gives a definition as ‘a town or country etc. that you come from, that you live in, or where you are living and feel you belong to’. For some, all three of those statements have different answers. The third is still something I’m searching for an answer for.”

Illustration from the animation ‘Roots’ by Stephanie Anjo

ROOTS

An exploration of cultural research and motivations behind my graduate animation

words and artwork by Stephanie Anjo

Art Essay

What aspects of your culture do you carry with you? How does your identity shift in the process of adapting to a new country? How do you reconnect with your homeland? These were thoughts which compelled me to explore my parent’s departure from their home in Portugal and feelings towards rebuilding a new one in England. As my curiosity to the subject has inevitably deepened, I have felt it to be crucial to understand my cultural roots in order to feel integrated with this aspect of my identity. As a second-generation immigrant, you can sometimes feel a sense of detachment from this. I feel this longing for connection often comes out subliminally in my work through incorporation of agricultural visuals and themes.

‘Roots’ interweaves fragments of conversations I recorded with my mum and divulges the affective impact of immigration, including the cultural traditions which contextualise and consolidate these experiences. The creative process was integral to my project and acted as a tool to facilitate and incentivise discussions which had been circulating in my head for many years. Animation felt to be a fitting medium due to its ability to engage with abstract concepts such as emotions, which can be challenging to articulate through other forms. The voiceover guides the piece as the scenes morph, dissolve and reshape like a stream of thoughts, reinforcing a sense of transience upon reminiscence.

Whilst researching, I was particularly drawn to the notion of ‘Acculturation1’ whereby an individual adjusts to a new culture. In the process of adapting to an unfamiliar language, social structures, and mannerisms, I wondered, what happens to your previous culture? How do you integrate this within a new lifestyle? I found this subject to be closely echoed in my conversations with my mum when she used the phrase “half half” to describe her identity, “We aren’t too similar to the people there (Portugal) and here (England), we are in the middle’’. This provoked a vivid visual and I reflected on whether this is a common feeling of individuals who leave their homeland; an inbetween of both cultures. My mum elaborated to say how “You adapt a little bit but you never lose your traditions”, giving the example of the carnival in Portugal which she remembers

fondly every February even though she no longer goes to it. Growing up in England, many of these Portuguese traditions are enthralling to me. Within the tiny villages where my parents are from, Ponte de Sor and Tramaga, a widow may choose to wear black for the rest of her life after her husband passes away. Such is the case with my own grandma. I can’t recall a time she has worn colour. My grandma also cooks using a fire stove and most people have a small allotment in their gardens, sharing fruit and vegetables with their neighbours daily. This agricultural and slower pace of life has always been a contrast to my norm when I have visited my family.

Anna Pechurinac2 proposes how migrants may articulate a feeling of home through the practice of ‘regrounding’ which includes “engagement with familiar objects, photographs, and food which may reconnect the individual

with their homeland.” I have found this to be true in my own upbringing. My mum’s connection to her culture can be retraced to her amalgamation of Portuguese and English sentences, her evening programs and traditional foods which she cooks at home such as ‘Bacalhau com Natas3’, ‘Feijoada de Lulas4’ and (always) soup. These elements maintain a tangible bond to her roots and are a way of passing down the knowledge to me. She describes how she does this and speaks to me in Portuguese so I won’t forget it. It is something which I have come to deeply appreciate as I’ve become more in tune with and began to question my own cultural identity. Unfolding aspects of your homeland with others can be a heart-felt way to encourage understanding of differing cultures. Being away from family can be the most distressing thing about leaving home and reconnecting with these small acts can bring a small sense of familiarity.

This project gave my mum and I the space to reflect on our Portuguese roots and in a wider sense, understand the impact of immigration. Including the sacrifices and benefits it may bring. Whilst my relationship with Portugal derives mostly from my parents, I have tried to form my own bond independently through exploration in my creative practice and writing. ‘Roots’ has since taken on a life of its own as I have got to share my thoughts at a few animation festival screenings, notably Lisbon and Espinho, which warmly welcomed me. I have felt for the first time I have contributed to my home community.

1 Acculturation refers to the process of adapting to a new cultural environment through learning and incorporating the language, beliefs, values and mannerisms

2 Anna Pechurinac, Material Cultures, Migrations, and Identities: What the Eye Cannot See (2016)

3 Bacalhau com Natas: a Portuguese fish dish containing cod and cream

4 Feijoada de Lulas: a squid, bean and sausage stew

Scan the QR code to watch ‘Roots’

Art Essay

Floral bouquet by Daniela Saravia

Of Rootlessness and Restlessness

by Samia Qaiyum

As experts continue to advocate for ethical travel, one third culture kid uncovers the many woes and one (surprising) merit of holding an appallingly weak passport

A long-standing resident of my bedside table is a book by the name of Third Culture Kids: Growing Up Among Worlds. It explains the restlessness I’ve felt my whole life. It delves into the somewhat dysfunctional patterns of my romantic relationships. It even insists that I’m holding onto unresolved grief due to the “hidden losses” in my life. But nowhere in its 308 pages lies a solution to my biggest problem: my passport.

I’ll backtrack.

The concept of passport privilege is a bit like money; those who have it seem to think it isn’t an issue, blissfully unaware of the extent to which it can impact one’s life. My passport privilege — or lack thereof — dates back to November 1982 in the city of Dubai, my place of birth. It’s hardly a hot take that birthright citizenship is not granted to those born in the six Gulf Cooperation Council countries: Qatar, Kuwait, Oman, Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, and the UAE. As a result, they’re home to a unique group of people who are often overlooked in the overall third culture kids (TCK) narrative.

Hailing from the likes of Syria, Sudan, Iraq, Iran, India, Pakistan, Palestine, and Egypt, they speak different languages and observe different traditions but have one very important thing in common: they’ve never lived in their passport countries. And because they’re deprived of citizenship and the rights that come with it, they spend their entire lives not only questioning their identity (arguably more than the average TCK) but also facing discrimination ranging from bullying in schools to lower salaries in

the workplace. I know because I am one such TCK.

As someone born to Pakistani parents who loved to travel, my childhood trips to Pakistan were interspersed with holidays in Los Angeles, London, Venice, Amsterdam, Tokyo, and Singapore, shaping me into a citizen of the world. Then 9/11 happened, just as I was heading to the US as an 18-year-old international student. Overnight, Islamophobia escalated, and the world became a very different place for people like me. Pakistan — a country where I was always treated as a foreigner — became synonymous with terrorism, and I was suddenly guilty by association. Today, the Pakistani passport is the fourth weakest in the world, assigned a passport power rank of #90, according to the Passport Index.

This means anything bearing the label of Myanmar, Lebanon, and Libya — countries not exactly known for their political stability — boast a higher mobility score. And because the universe loves a bit of irony, the UAE passport currently ranks #1, allowing Emiratis to travel visa-free to a whopping 122 countries and enjoy a visa on arrival in 59 others. Admittedly, the nerve-racking process of applying for visas (the stacks of paperwork and weeks of waiting, guarantee nothing) wouldn’t matter as much if I wasn’t a freelance travel writer by profession. But as a Pakistani passport holder whose livelihood depends on travel, it affects me constantly.

For starters, I’ll never qualify for a fulltime role at a travel publication. Time and time again, I’ve had to turn down significant assignments abroad because I couldn’t secure a visa in time. As for the sheer amount of press trips I’ve had to pass on to someone else? Countless. As Culture Editor at my previous company, I was invited to Paris to interview the cast of Stranger Things in 2019, and the only editor in the Middle East to receive the said invitation. Did I want to go? Yes. Could I go? No. The call came only days before the press junket, which is why my colleague — a fashion editor with an American passport — ended up going as I watched from the sidelines.

I’m often questioned as to why I’ve chosen to go down a career path riddled with challenges and why I continue to traverse the globe with a weak passport in tow. My answer? Travel is home. As a third culture kid, I’ll never fully fit in anywhere, and airports, therefore, feel like an equaliser of sorts — I don’t belong, but neither do you. While the average person dreads the long queues and overzealous security, I find joy in the endless possibilities, the digital departures boards a reminder of places to explore and stories to tell.

I’m now a culmination of all the stamps in my passport. Vietnam is where volunteer work helped me heal from trauma, Nepal is where I embraced the chaos of street photography, New York City is where I discovered my knack for uncovering a city’s greatest secrets. Sure, unlike my peers in the travel industry, I can’t claim to have visited over 100 countries. I’m nowhere close. But those weeks, while my passport

sits in the drawer of an embassy, I spend painstakingly researching sustainable eateries, cultural hotspots, hidden gems, local haunts, indigenous crafts, natural wonders, and immersive experiences in anticipation of that stamp.

Every destination I visit, I master, never taking my presence for granted. Turns out, I’ve long been practising slow travel, an ethical approach brought into the conversation by the pandemic. And I’ll continue to do so long after people have returned to their pre-pandemic pace of whirlwind getaways — I am the girl with the green passport, after all.

Hey kid!

Where is home? What is Home?

by Susan Lado

More than 50 years ago, the description — third culture kid — was born. Before then, what has now become an active community of people in different corners of the world with diverse experiences and identities across different cultures, used to have no name. And we have Ruth Hill Useem to thank for a name. What’s in a name, you might ask? Dr. Useem believed that the experiences of these TCKs (as the name is now fondly shortened) showed common themes; a diplomat’s, missionary’s, or military personnel’s kid would often spend their developing years away from their parent’s home countries because their parents had to work in a foreign land. Sometimes, some TCKs were children of TCKs, and soon, you could find up to three generations of TCKs in a single family.

What’s in a name, you might ask?

For the TCK, that name is a go-to concept that begins to deconstruct what may otherwise be difficult, especially when asked, where are you from? Where’s home? For a TCK, home is unlikely as it is known by another kid who was born and raised in a single culture; for a kid who, now an adult, can point to a single country and a region where they and their forebears have lived and thrived. For a TCK, home often brings to mind a quote

attributed to Pliny the Elder, the Roman author who lived until AD 79, which reads,

“Home is where the heart is.”

A third culture TCKs create for themselves is an attempt to connect their parents’ culture (the first culture) with the culture of their current location (the second culture). If a TCK moves across countries often, creating a third culture for themselves can become difficult. Indeed, it makes you wonder how

‘home’ or feelings of home are considered by the TCK community. Interestingly, TCKs can feel at home wherever they are despite their environment, belonging both everywhere and nowhere all at once. How do TCKs create or understand what home is when they’ve lived in multiple countries?

For Every TCK, Home is Unique

There isn’t any one universal kind of TCK. Every TCK you will meet is unique, with their experiences always different from the next. This uniqueness is also present in how a TCK creates home. Erik Vyhmeister was born in Michigan, U.S., and moved to Argentina at four years old and then to the Philippines when he was eight. Now, as an adult, he’s back in Michigan, and he says that the U.S. does not at all feel like home. An observer might think it odd because, technically, Michigan should be home — where his parents were born and raised, and he too. So, why does Michigan not feel like home? Abeer Yusuf said she felt most at home at Changi Airport, Singapore. She’s never lived in Singapore a day, so why was that airport where she felt most at home? She says it was the airport she flew out of (via connecting flights to her actual destination) all the time as a kid. Changi Airport became the most familiar place for her changing life experiences, an anchoring place of sorts.

Erik and Abeer describe phrases common to every human being’s perception of home–comfortable and familiar. Yet, TCKs often never describe the culture and country their parents left as comfortable, familiar, or even accepting, and so, not home. For some TCKs, home is where their parents are currently located — even as adults, home becomes where their parents have settled, even if they have never visited or lived in that location yet. TCKs are often off-balance in those places where other people would think is home (that is, where their parents were born). In their daily lives, TCKs will struggle with the happenings

around this ‘home’, making it necessary for them to apply creativity to regain balance. There’s a saying that when a growing tree is transplanted too frequently, its roots never grow deep. For TCKs, this analogy is particularly relatable. A natural phenomenon that occurs with transplanted trees is something called transplant shock. Trees in transplant shock often develop yellow leaves that dry out and turn brown even when it isn’t fall or winter season yet. Often, these transplanted trees die out because they are not correctly cared for. And yet, with the proper care, a transplanted tree can recover from the shock and establish itself on new grounds. Same as TCKs.

The strength of a TCK’s ability to be at home wherever they are lies in their adaptable nature. Erik, getting transplanted between three countries in just eight years, had to say goodbye to friends, school systems, cultures, and languages he’d grown familiar with, not knowing if he’ll ever see or experience them again. He had to adapt! For TCKs, home is an emotional environment other than a geographical place. Home is cultivated in their hearts, where they can find comfort and familiarity. TCKs always find a home in themselves–they have to — even as they trot and travel, seeing and being in many geographical homes more frequently than they can control. With time, an interesting truth emerges for every TCK: the world is their home. Not a single corner of it alone, but all of it. As Abeer puts it, a TCK is a visible representation of a global citizen. Their culture is uniquely theirs, drawn from their parents’ lived cultural experiences and the cultural experiences of their host country…countries. And so is their home — a unique, mobile, evolving creation by them, for them, and always accessible to them when they desire it.

@thirdculturemillennial is a space for third culture individuals to connect and gain inspiration in an increasingly complex world. Our shared experiences may bind us under the simple label of TCK. Still, our individual experiences, enriching, yet complicated remain too unique to fit in one box. This community is a chance for TCKs to see and be seen, no matter what, where, or when! It provides third culture individuals with motivation and food for thought while they navigate the journey they’re on.

For a long time I both admired and envied people who felt right at home and connected to their country. The feeling is alien to me or maybe I feel alien to my family’s home country. It didn’t help that the first nine years of my life were spent in a string of countries as part of the US Air Force life and then suddenly stopped to settle in a single place. Despite mostly growing up in Costa Rica and speaking the local language, I usually felt like an imposter when I tried connecting with others in Spanish.

When the pandemic hit, I found that my way to decompress was through flower arranging. I had always liked flowers but had never taken the time to explore making my own bouquets. With a glass of Chardonnay and a lot of free time on my hands, I started diving into the floral abyss and something clicked. Alone on the ground with a vase, some scissors and a bunch of flowers, I feel grounded. My hands take the lead and play with the different colors, textures and shapes until I’ve come up with a bouquet that feels just right.

One year into the pandemic, I got the opportunity to move to the Czech Republic. I was both excited and anxious about living in a foreign country without speaking the local language. I worried about how I would connect with others in a new country when I already had trouble connecting with others in my own country of origin. But once I was in the Czech Republic, I realised the country shares the same floral appreciation as I do, if not more. The streets of Prague are overflowing with flower shops, and floral arrangements breathe life into so many bars, cafes and shops.

I found my first favourite flower shop quickly and would visit it religiously, spending about an hour every visit, carefully observing all of the new flowers I was exposed to and then arranging them into my own bouquet. One day, the florist who had consistently remained quiet and serious on each visit looked at my arrangement, smiled and said: “Hezky…you always make such pretty bouquets.” I felt so warm inside and practically ran home to tell my husband of the Czech florist who took a moment to compliment my flower arranging.

It’s been over a year since I moved here, and I feel grounded and grateful. Being in a country full of foreigners has taken the self imposed pressure off to connect with others through culture. Instead, I continue to make my flower arrangements and feel at peace. Because when I arrange flowers, I am my most authentic self. Any feelings over cultural identity (or the lack of it) fade away, which I’ve learned is okay.

—

KITCHEN 5

cookhouse, kitchenette, kitchen-diner, galley, scullery

Image: Nosheen’s Kousa Mahshi ©Dirk Jan Visser

Sarma

(Fermented Cabbage Rolls)

by Tamara Pešić

PREPARATION

1. Start with the vegetables. For the filling, chop all vegetables into fine pieces.

2. Put a little vegetable oil in a pan and fry the onions until golden. Sprinkle with a pinch of sugar. Add some garlic. And then add the finely chopped carrots. Continue with celery and courgette (and potatoes, if you want them in your filling).

INGREDIENTS

• Fermented cabbage head (you should be able to find it in some smaller supermarkets if you don’t like to ferment it yourself using the recipe on page 59)

• 3 onions, or 6 shallots

• 2 cloves of garlic (of course you can add more)

• 3-4 carrots

• 1 celery, optional

• 1 courgette

• 300 g rice

• 2-3 potatoes (either chop and mix them with the other ingredients or leave them whole and eat them together with the rolls)

• 2 handful of roasted walnuts, chopped into small pieces

• 2 teaspoons paprika pulp or powder

• salt and pepper

• bay leaves

• water or vegetable broth. I usually try to save some whenever I cook, but a vegetable stock cube from a health–food shop (Reformhaus) also works. Water is also fine since it will cook long enough to develop juiciness and flavour. You can also use sauerkraut juice from your fermented cabbage head, if you like the sourness.

Sarma, stuffed cabbage rolls, especially good for cold winter evenings but they’re comforting all year. The part I always liked the most about it were the roasted fermented leaves that embosom the filling. In the original recipes they are filled with meat and rice, but I replace it with tasty vegetables and fresh seasonings. Recipe

Optional: a handful of mushrooms, chopped and sautéd, for some umami–flavour. I like to mix oyster mushrooms with king oyster mushrooms and brown champignons but try whatever you can get at the farmers — or supermarket, or, even better, a forest!

3. Add 250ml of water and let it simmer.

4. Add the walnuts. Roast them in a separate pan, then chop them and add to the other ingredients.

5. Pour another 250ml of water and stir. Season with about 2 teaspoons of paprika pulp.

6. Wash 300 grams of rice and pour over the vegetables.

7. Season with 1-2 teaspoons of salt and some black pepper.

8. Add another glass of water (or wine, for a more intensive taste). After simmering for a few minutes, set aside.

9. Now you can start to remove the fermented cabbage leaves from the core, one by one. Cut away the thickest part and put it aside, for snacking.

10. Fill with 1-2 tablespoons of your prepared vegetables and then roll up carefully. Fold in the sides just before the end of the leaf.

11. Put the cabbage rolls into a casserole and sauté them. Fill up with water or vegetable broth until lightly covered.

12. Grace with a few bay leaves on top and cover with a lid. Let it simmer for half an hour and then put it into the oven at 180°C and roast for another 2-3 hours.

Notes:

Sarma (filled cabbage leaves) is a dish from south–eastern Europe (Balkan region). The origin of the word is Turkish meaning ‘wrapped‘. There it’s more common to stuff grape leaves — ‘Dolma’ but also with many other vegetables such as onions and tomatoes. (Stuffed vine leaves without meat are called ‘liar’s dolma’ in Turkish.)

If you would like to add a white roux for a thicker consistency put two tablespoons of vegetable oil or butter into a pan and then add a tablespoon of flour. You can season it with grated nutmeg or paprika. Now pour over your cabbage rolls and bake for another half hour.

Fermented Cabbage

Fermented cabbage is a staple food during frigid Balkan winters. In Belgrade, where I partly grew up, almost every household had some Kiseli Kupus (sour cabbage) in their basement, with its pungent smells wafting between the streets. You need a few things before you start: a fermentation crock with a lid or a food–safe bucket, a fermentation weight because the cabbage heads will swim up to the top of your brine (and they need to be completely covered in it), and you need some time and patience, for at least 4–6 weeks.

INGREDIENTS

• white cabbage(s)

• non–iodized salt, unrefined sea salt, for a 3% brine

• water (amount depends on the weight of your cabbage but easy to figure out)

Optional:

• garlic, peeled and slightly squeezed

• peppercorns

• bay leaves

PREPARATION

1. Wash the cabbage. Remove the outer leaves of the cabbage head, if necessary. Then you can carefully remove a bit of the core, but it’s not necessary to remove everything. Fill the core with salt and let it sit for one day.

2. Now the 3% brine. The brine should generously cover your cabbage heads. How much brine you need depends on your fermentation container as well as the size and amount of your cabbage. For a 3% concentration you will need 30 grams of sea salt, per liter. You can even go up to 3.5%. An accurate water / salt ratio is important. Weigh each cabbage before you put them into your crock. Write down the weight. Then cover them with water, make sure to note each liter. Then use the following formula: Weight of salt = weight of cabbage and water x/100-x (the x is the desired brine percentage).

For a 3% brine: weight of the cabbage and water x 3 / 97. Now you have the amount of salt that you need. Especially in the beginning, always measure the salt accurately, since different types of salt do not have the same weight on a tablespoon.

Keep in mind: accuracy is important here. When you have your brine you can pour it over your cabbage. Cover and done. Time to rest. Put the crock in a cool place where it can rest for at least 6 weeks until you can enjoy it.

Note:

To avoid surface mold growth, always keep the cabbage submerged in the brine. You can use a cabbage leaf and put a clean plate, jar or fermentation weight on top of it. If you find some mold on the surface, just skim it off and remove the upper leaf.

Ilustrations by Milena Bassen

by Renée Milkie

Every Friday, our kitchen was filled with the smell of burnt onions1. Olive oil and cumin dancing in the air, rolling out through the screen door and into the small-town street I called home. The biggest tanjara2 in the pantry found its usual place on the stove, bubbling with enough stewed lentils and rice to feed my entire family, their extended family, the neighbors, the neighbors’ families, and really everyone in our town just in case, oh I don’t know, my grandfather’s doctor or the guy who works at the market decided to unexpectedly stop by and was hungry. (Quick sidebar here: Running the risk of not having enough food for someone whether you expected that someone or not was, according to my family, quite possibly the most embarrassing thing that could befall a person. I was taught at a very early age to avoid it at all costs lest my life be ruined and I die from the embarrassment of it all. You see how I might not understand the concept of moderation nor how to cook for less than 30 people.)

Back to our story.

While Mjaddara is a simple dish to make, it can pack a powerful punch — both on your appetite (yum!) and… your hair (read: rinse and repeat x 2 of that Herbal Essences shampoo or risk smelling like a spice rack the rest of the evening). I had to plan my shower schedule and coordinate outfits around the prep & execution of Mjaddara. But it was worth it. Worth it to watch my tiny Lebanese grandmother hover over the stove in her “cooking gown”3 , pouring one spice and then another into a pot so large she could fall into it. Worth it to have the door hang open all evening so uncles, aunts, & cousins could roll in, grab a bowl along with a seat and talk about their day. Worth it to fill my tummy with a savory, simple meal that both warmed and rooted me.

It was moments like these that were my ticket into the Lebanese community — validation that I knew enough of the culture to

be considered one of their own. See, when my family came to the US it was during a time when it wasn’t cool to be different; they worked hard to integrate and assimilate into small town USA. Eventually, the daily use of Arabic as well as cultural references faded as we gave birth to new generations but (thankfully) strong remnants of our Lebanese heritage remained. This left me in the uncomfortable position of being not quite American enough to fit in with US friends and not quite Lebanese enough to be looked at as an equal by my Arab friends. While they spoke Arabic fluently, I couldn’t. Where they had inside jokes about their “fresh off the boat” parents, I wasn’t really able to relate. So they looked at me like I was an outsider. Like someone who just didn’t get it. The problem was, my American friends looked at me the same. They didn’t think it was so cool to smell like onions at the Friday Middle School dance.

But funny enough, THAT was what got me in

with my Arab friends. I might not have been able to fully speak the language of my people but Lebanese food… I knew. It was my aha moment! While they may have had to translate the song we were listening to, they didn’t have to translate the food on the table. I finally felt like one of them. I was accepted and seen. We could relish in the delicious details of family meals, we could break bread together and effortlessly communicate through the various dishes whose names and flavors I knew so well. We could laugh over shared stories of our grandmothers needing two extra freezers in the garage to store all of the food4 or cringe over being forced to spend countless summer mornings picking grape leaves off the vine to only spend our school free afternoons stuffing and rolling them.

While some believe that it’s the language that preserves a culture, I believe that it is preserved through its food, providing connection and nourishment in more ways than one.

You know that American saying “Saturdays are for the boys”? Well for me it was “Fridays are for Mjaddara”

words and images

From ancient ingredients to the processes and practices, they don’t just build a meal but a culture. Each dish is rooted in centuries of wisdom and storytelling, reflective of both the triumphs and the tribulations, tying together generations upon generations. From the preparation through to the execution, the intention is to care and love for the people around you.

For me, these ingredients were the bridge connecting my small town USA world to our sweet village in Northern Lebanon. It was my connection to the family members I had never met and the traditions that can so easily fade with time and space. It’s what helped me to find who I am and gave me the community I so desperately sought. These dishes are not just meals, they are cultural ingredients breathing life into its people, centering them as they find their way back home.

FOYER

An independent magazine celebrating literary fiction, poetry, reportage, memoir, artwork and photographic essays from individuals of mixed-culture, second-generation and third-culture kid backgrounds

Explore the cultural threads that connects us all

1 Mjaddara will call for caramelization of onions but that wasn’t enough for me - needed them burnt.

2 HUGE pot specifically designed for Arabs because they cook for an entire village instead of the family of four seated at their dinner table.

3 This is true.

4 True story. We had two full sized refrigerators and four full sized freezers

Stories: foyermagazine.co.uk | Updates: @foyer_mag

BITTER LEAVES

by Fiona Livingston

Delft blue patterned tiles. A sailing boat. A windmill. A bouquet of flowers. These are what pattern the backsplash of oma’s, my grandmother’s, kitchen. Her heavy legs, solid like amber from years of standing in the family greengrocer shop, move about the small kitchen like a ballet dancer; precise, choreographed, but with years of training.

I sit at the large, dark wood dining table covered with a cream crochet table spread, like a spider’s web protecting the un-blemished tabletop. I look up at the ceiling and see the steam from the pot of boiling water on the stove rise up and tickle the glass chandelier which my mother is cleaning. She says it calms her.

Chicory is a bitter vegetable.

In front of me in a clear glass bowl are white bullet shaped vegetables, with radioactive green ‘kiss curl’ tips, a witlof. An endive. A chicory. They were so large, bigger than two of my small child sized hands clasped together. Shuffling in her slippers, Oma takes the bowl and tips them into the boiling water, squeaking as their flesh hits the water. Maybe that is the bitterness seeping away?

This is one of my very earliest memories of visiting my oma in The Netherlands. I don’t know how much of this is real, with shapes blurred and colours flared, the sepia hued room cast in an iridescent light, probably reflections from the newly dusted chandelier.

The scent of maple infused coffee with caramel undertones begins to fill the room.

Stage one is complete.

Oma ran a greengrocer shop, just off the high street in her hometown. There is a picture of me as a baby sitting on the counter, looking happily at a forest green, knobbly cabbage. My mother used to make batches of sauerkraut. Every week. She doesn’t eat it anymore. Not hard to see why. Bands of fruit and vegetables stacked up in pale wooden crates lean against the window outside the shop, like a landslide on Everest, about to reach tipping point. When asked ‘what is for dinner?’, the answer would be ‘carrots’, ‘potatoes’, ‘cabbage’. Vegetables ruled in oma’s home.

Blanch the chicory. Now let it drain until cool.

A bright blue colander, nibbled through years of use, sits perched on top of a bowl, draining the bitter water away from the now transparent skinned chicory.

I am not able to speak Dutch. My oma was unable to speak English. We were perpetual strangers to one another. Related by blood, but strangers forever. Awkward silences. Staring at each other. So much to say. But nothing said. Starved of language and words, I only had sounds and scents to guide me. Oma’s cooking created a bridge for us. Two aliens being understood.

Memoir

“Fiontje”, little Fiona. Diminutives are much more common in Dutch than in English. To me, this was the Dutch name my oma gave to me. The only word she said to me.

“Oma” was the only word I said to her. It was cold that winter in Vlaardingen. I only wanted one dish when the air was cold enough to see your breath. I used to think I was a dragon.

Witlof met ham en kaas (chicory with ham and cheese). A heart filling dish, with blanched chicory wrapped in ham, covered in a blanket of thick slices of cheese. Baked. Cheese bubbling away around the edges of the glass baking dish. Covered in permanent brown flecks, from countless baking expeditions that have come before.

I sat at the dining table, my legs dangling down from the chair, and slowly pierced the skin of the chicory. It makes a sound like a tyre being sliced. I cut a ‘V’ into the bottom to remove the bitter heart.

Remove the heart.

My fingers are wet as I slice the hearts from the warm vegetable. It feels alive! Struggling to grip the moist chicory, my knife slips and knicks my finger. A small bead of blood pokes through my skin. I hide this injury from oma. I don’t want her to think I have failed in my task. As penance, I pick up the heart and place it on my tongue and begin to chew. Yes, it is bitter. My face scrunches up. I fight through it. The bitter juices running down my throat and staining my lips.

I used to feel like a stranger in oma’s home. An unwanted, but tolerated guest. Wearing different clothes, using foreign words. Sullen. Closed off. Day dreaming. BITTER. Was I born bitter like a chicory? Is that why I liked eating them?

Bitter for not being part of this family in the same way my cousins were. Bitter for not speaking the same language. Bitter for not being understood. B.I.T.T.E.R.

Even to this day I don’t like bitter foods. Perhaps the bitter heart is still there stuck inside my chest?

Wrap each chicory in ham and cover with cheese.

Bake for 20 minutes until golden with crispy edges.

Oma passed away five years ago. It is only now that I miss her. That I understand her and appreciate her. How close she really was to me, and I to her. Our lack of language and cultural connection didn’t matter. We were family and that’s all that mattered. I miss being wrapped in her arms, the heat of the oven. Peeling vegetable leaves, topping and tailing Brussels sprouts. Her deft hands working the vegetables, like an artist. Perhaps my bitterness at not belonging has been blanched too. I’ve softened over the years, become transparent, like the skin of a witlof.

In my memory-dream, she picks up a whole nutmeg, and grates a little on top of the baked chicory covering it in a rusted brown powder. Then a little over me, smiling, as I dance under the scented dust, the spice blending into my freckles, connecting us together.

Chicory doesn’t taste the same anywhere else.

Only at oma’s home has the bitterness gone.

—

Image1: Chicory (endive), Fiona Livingston Image 2: ©18C Dutch tile, Gutzemberg, Shutterstock

Memoir Memoir

Jamaican immigrants carry a little bit of home in suitcases

I open another bag and the slight scent of pimento wood3 opens my appetite and tempts my palate. The breadfruit has been roasted and what remains is for me to slice them in the shape of a partial eclipse and fry them.

I take the parcels out that need immediate refrigeration — the fry fish, the ackee4, bammy5. My three children grab for the sweet island treats — the coconut drops and the gizadas6, the breads and bullas, the tamarind balls and busta candies7

Recently, my husband traveled to the island and returned with extra luggage.

As though it was Christmas morning, my three children and I gathered around the suitcase, bouncing up and down like springs, excited to see the gifts inside. He unzipped the suitcase and the sweet and spicy scents of the island swirled through our American home. “I just love that smell,” my son said, inhaling audibly and letting out mmmmm. My mouth watered at the prospect of unwrapping each parcel of pleasure packed in foil and plastic.

As I pull the first parcel from the luggage, I am transported to turquoise waters of the Caribbean that offer fresh fish, and luscious green landscape bearing edible flowers, ground food, and wild fruits. I move from the edges of the island that’s been manicured for tourists, and up the hills where the enslaved once fled to for freedom and where the land offered sustenance for their frail bodies. Strength

reclaimed, they searched their new surroundings and discovered guavas, guineps1, and a galore of delicious fruits and ground foods.

I see hands that seem to carry seasoning in their palms, busying themselves to make an outside fire of dried pimento sticks to fry fish, saute carrots and onions, and roast yams and breadfruits2. I see long machetes chopping, peeling, and slicing strips of sugarcanes. I see hands parceling a little piece of home for me.

In my American kitchen, I open a bag and pop nature’s candy into my mouth. The sugarcane reminds me of my grandfather, who once taught me how to extract the juice from the stalk. “Suck the juice. Spit the stalk,” I used to say when my children were younger, but now they are sugarcane pros. We are on an island in our kitchen, eating sugarcane to our belly’s content.

My son’s eyes widened when I opened a bag of fine yellow grains of cornmeal. Though he was born in the United States, I have been making Jamaican cornmeal porridge for him since he was

four months old. At first, I thinned the creamy-thick porridge by adding more milk so he could suck it easily from his bottle. Then, I spooned small amounts on a rubber-encased spoon, blew to cool it, and cho-cho-trained it into his mouth. As though the warm spices of cinnamon, nutmeg and the sweetness of condensed milk and brown sugar were music to his young palate, he wiggled his upper body and opened his mouth for more. Now, at thirteen years old, it is the porridge he requests at least once a week.

A part of me lights up when he requests the porridge I drank as a little girl on the island. When I eye-measured the cornmeal, cinnamon and coconut milk, I think of my grandmother stirring the cornmeal porridge to a silky smooth consistency in a dutchie pan on the outside fire. “This is not the brand I like but it will have to do,”

Mommy said about Goya cornmeal when I migrated from Jamaica to the United States at the age of ten. Memories of watching my mother make cornmeal porridge in the snow globe of our home in New Jersey, warms me.

by Kadine Christie Kitchen

“Just a pinch of salt makes it sweeter,” I say, sharing my grandmother’s unwritten recipe with my son.

“This porridge is high-maintenance,” I said, mimicking my mother as I whisked porridge for the twenty-minute cooking time. My son smiles and nods his head in acknowledgement. I am propelled from the past and into the future. I envision my son in the kitchen cho-cho-training his favorite porridge into his children’s mouths.

As years stretch on, future generations will be pulled farther away from their culture of origin. Sharing scents, little parcels, and unwritten recipes connects them to cultural heritage.

1 Guineps also known as Spanish limes taste like a cross between a lychee and a lime

2 Breadfruit is a prickly oval fruit. It is commonly used as a vegetable and tastes similar to baked bread.

3 Pimento wood comes from the allspice tree, which is prominent throughout Jamaica

4 Ackee fruit is Jamaica’s national fruit, and is cooked and used as a vegetable

5 Bammy is a traditional Jamaican cassava flatbread

6 Gizadas: A traditional Jamaican and Portuguese dessert, this coconut pastry snack is an open face tart with grated, spiced sweetened coconut

7 Busta Candy is a Jamaican candy made from coconut and brown sugar

Image: Shutterstock

Memoir

Cincau Santan,

by Alexandra Kumala

without Es

The dollar just dropped. Mami and Papa fought all the time. Your were my tower of comfort and refuge. I found peace and happiness in our lazy afternoons with you away from home. The day we stumbled upon a hole-in-the-wall dessert shop opposite our neighborhood garden one day, you handed me some coins to buy a dessert for the both of us and walked me to the counter and taught me how to order. That day, I learned to talk to a stranger independently for the first time. I got both of us the special: es cincau kelapa muda. No condensed milk for mine, no coconut syrup for yours. You picked the corner table since customers avoid that spot most, because you knew it was where the sturdy stools were left, and I was free to swing and bob around over those chairs. I later found out that it wasn’t

just to avoid wobbly and unbalanced seats, but so you wouldn’t have to apologize for my exaggerated excitement to other customers.

I picked up a cheap plastic spoon enthusiastically, its thick handle dwarfed my tiny hand. When the santan splattered all over the spoon, my hand kept slipping off the slick handle. You saw me grip onto the spoon so tightly to the point that my knuckles turned white, so you offered to wipe its slimy handle each time I started having trouble holding it. I had gulped down all the cincau in less than five minutes, so you pushed your bowl towards me to offer what was left of yours. In about seven mouthfuls, I finished yours, too. Pink santan dripped from my chin, coconut syrup stuck the ends of my hair strands together, and my face not far from a circus clown with caked makeup. You smiled and slowly wiped sticky sauce off my cheeks.

2

I was ten. The dictatorship had fallen. I now knew that all the fights Mami and Papa always had were because of you. You think of Mami as a “shameless gold digger” from a “dirty vil-

lage.” I despised you and everyone around you. I never wanted to be associated with you. But Mami and Papa had forced me to go spend time with you at our favorite dessert shop — or what used to be my favorite shop — over summer break. It was their way of keeping in touch with you without actually being in touch themselves. You knew that I knew, that I hated you, but pretended like no tension was between us. You tried to impress me by telling me about the stamps you’ve collected and the unusually thick fog that morning. Useless small talk, I thought. As if you’re trying to lengthen the time we spend together, you bought me the largest bowl of es cincau santan so it would take me twice as long to finish. As I swallowed forcefully, my eyes shifting between the hollows of the chipped wooden table and shooting glances of disgust at you, you tried to make small talk about the shop’s new garlands, their renovated backyard, and the new waitresses. Your fake words churned my stomach. I felt like throwing up from the heat I left in my chest. Maybe you should thank my “dirty, lowly” mother for teaching me good manners, because I would have stood up, threw es cincau at your face, and walked away otherwise. But because of her “inferior” values, I held back. I gnashed my teeth until I could hear my jaws click to every grind. The burnt scent of your roasted kopi luwak2 was nauseating innocent senses, and this was an effective way to stop myself from the dizzying aroma. My mouth would become too hot, and then I’d wash it with the cold, condensed milk. Once in

3

means to ‘eat out’

Cincau Santan: grass jelly + coconut milk (yes, only 2!) optional ingredients: syrup, pandan leaves, chia seeds, palm sugar

Kopi Luwak: luwak coffee beans + the world’s most expensive coffee beans, plucked from civet cat poop

makan-makan:

spoonful. It was … semisweet. Maybe because Mami asked for no sugar, or because I was a new person, and to my new tongue, the texture I used to savor had dissipated. “Next time just get me the wedang ronde,” I told Mami.

// I was twenty. On a short summer visit back home, I finally decided to stop by the dessert shop. There was a part of me that wondered if the deteriorating economy would destroy the shop’s meager survival. It probably won’t even be there anymore ... like you. I was wrong. Its new expansive menu — although still written on age-stained paper poorly laminated in cheap plastic curling and unfurling at the edges — now boasted add-ons: tapioca pearls, lychee jelly, strawberry syrup, mango topping, chocolate chips, banana slices. I ordered our classic, plain cincau santan. Without es this time, even in the sweltering heat, because an acupuncturist had told me that to balance your internal organs you must drink hot drinks when the weather is hot, and cold drinks when it’s cold. Was this my first dessert in days? I don’t remember, in the forty- something hours I have been awake, nursing jet lag, when I had last spoiled myself with something sweet.

The fancy, carved glassware they now serve them in felt too heavy. I prayed that my shaky hands didn’t slip and lose grip of the bowl. I spotted our table in the same quiet corner that was somewhat separated from the rest of the eating area. They had upgraded from unbalanced wooden stools to sturdy rattan chairs with armrests. My body curved comfortably into the large cushions and my mind traveled to the past.

Who knew our chatty and not-so-chatty meals marked the economic turning points of a nation? I tried to beckon our laughter and smiles into my memory, as if performing a seance to moments I had destroyed or buried. But reminders of your prejudice kept overshadowing our better days.

As I swallow each tasteless bite, I try to remember the phone call, all but a blurry, dull and gnawing pang of anxiety centered around this unclear sense of finality. You were gone. I felt nothing but numbness and disconnect. First came a wave of worthlessness, then creeping confusion, and then a lack of feelings altogether. I couldn’t even recall our last meeting — our last exchange, even our last goodbye. Your funeral was brief, but I have

paper

buried you deeply in my memory, just like the sweet aroma of this cincau santan, without es. It pains me how I thought about you more now than I did when you were alive. I wonder if this is my subconscious trying to make up for how little I thought of you over the recent years. I hope I’ll think and remember you less and less as the time passes. It feels bittersweet. I could almost taste it from the santan.

Today I celebrate my birthday. I am now the age you were when you had your seventh child. I am child-free, I keep thinking about motherhood in recent months. Not because it’s on my horizon, but because it seems further out of sight than ever. I’m really good at dodging questions at weddings. Like standing by the dessert bar and getting seconds and thirds of es cincau santan. They make it with all kinds of vegan syrup and vegan toppings these days.

How is the afterlife? Is there a God? Can you talk to them? Is it true that they understand all languages? So we don’t actually have to pray in Arabic or Hebrew or Sanskrit? Are you omnipresent? Do you meet your friends? Do you all float around on earth watching your descendants repeat the same mistakes and destroy the economy? Do you judge me watching porn instead of going on a real date? How does time work? Can you see “the future”? Will you whisper in my ear and tell me if a date will eventually be a spouse? Will I have a granddaughter one day?

It’s a small gathering this year. I’ll have a makan-makan3 by my apartment with my independent girlfriends tonight, and an open house at Mami’s backyard next week for friends and their kids to drop by. Mami asked me what I wanted to order. No cakes, I demand. Just lapis legit, nastar, and juice. “Are you sure you don’t want anything else? For the kids?”

What do you think? Maybe I’ll make sure they build memories from sticky clown faces covered in condensed milk, coconut syrup, and pink santan.

“Its new expansive menu — although still written on age-stained edges — now boasted add-ons: tapioca pearls, lychee jelly, strawberry

Artwork by Zara Toledo Fiction

poorly laminated in cheap plastic curling and unfurling at the syrup, mango topping, chocolate chips, banana slices.”

A Taste of Home

in collaboration with Lemon Tree Trust

Food has immense power to conjure up a different time and place, as well as bring people together. Cooking recipes that evoke memories of home can be a huge comfort for people who have been forced to flee their homes and who are establishing a new life in a strange land. Khanem, Nosheen and Noora are three Syrian women, now living in camps for displaced people in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq. Here they share some of their favourite dishes and why these represent such important family memories.

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Lemon Tree Trust is a small NGO that works in refugee and IDP (internally displaced people) camps in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, supporting people to create home and community gardens. It currently operates in nine camps across the region and has been supporting Khanem, Nosheen, Noora and many others like them.

Growing food and flowers empowers people to improve their wellbeing and their environment, helping them put down new roots and restoring dignity and hope. Since 2015, Lemon Tree Trust has been organising annual garden competitions and monthly garden awards, as well as building community gardens and distributing trees, seeds and plants. It also runs popular cooking competitions that showcase all the delicious produce being grown in home gardens with limited resources. These offer women, in particular, a way to create community friendships, as well as remember and celebrate their heritage and culture.

Find out more about Lemon Tree Trust www.lemontreetrust.org

Follow Lemon Tree Trust on social media @LemonTreeTrust

Khanem

Khanem and her husband left their hometown of Qamishli in Northern Syria after war broke out and settled in Domiz 1, the largest camp in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq. Now in their 50’s, they have raised seven children and are now grandparents too.

Khanem’s family memories are closely intertwined with recollections of the meals she would cook for her children. Potato soup with a tomato broth, sava (a wheatbased dish similar to couscous), spices like cumin and coriander, and sheep’s cheese mixed with garlic. These things don’t just represent Syrian cooking to Khanem, they represent home.

Since settling in Domiz 1, Khanem has become something of a local expert when it comes to traditional Syrian cooking. She is regularly called upon by neighbours and friends for cooking tips. Although she now finds herself in an inadequate kitchen, with a limited budget and lack of ingredients, she still finds joy in cooking recipes from her past.

She says: “When my children were young, I would spend hours creating large family meals but as they grew up, my kitchen became empty, so I began helping my neighbours. Some women here have lost their mothers, and when they come to ask for advice, it fills my heart with joy to help them.”

Khanem’s Tawa

Ingredients:

• 2 medium-sized aubergines, peeled & cut lengthwise into 1cm or 1/2 inch slices

• 10 small tomatoes (8 sliced into rounds, 2 diced)

• 5 small potatoes, peeled and sliced into rounds

• 1 medium onion, finely chopped

• 6 small lemons

• 1 green pepper, diced

• 25g of finely chopped parsley

• 2 tablespoons olive oil

• 450g pound ground beef

• 2 cloves garlic, minced

• 1 teaspoon salt

• ¼ teaspoon pepper

• ¼ teaspoon of paprika

• 2 cans of 425g tomato paste

Method:

1. Coat a large round pan with oil and preheat oven to 160°C

2. Layer the entire bottom of pan with sliced tomato rounds, leaving a few rounds to add to the top of the dish later

3. Layer sliced potato rounds directly on top of tomato layer

4. In a separate bowl, mix minced beef, chopped onion, green pepper, diced tomato, parsley, garlic, salt, pepper and paprika

5. Layer beef mixture on top of potato layer in pan

6. Lightly brush both sides of aubergine slices with olive oil, and layer on top of beef mixture

7. Brush each slice of aubergine facing up with tomato paste

8. Add remaining tomato rounds on top

9. Place in oven and bake for 30-40 minutes

10. Remove from the oven and serve immediately with quarter slices of lemon to squeeze over.

Nosheen’s Kousa Mahshi

Ingredients:

• 200g medium-grain rice

• 6 small courgettes

• 6 small tomatoes

• 150g of finely chopped green onion

• 20g of finely chopped fresh parsley

• 225g minced beef

• ¼ teaspoon allspice

• salt & freshly ground black pepper

• 2 lemons, cut into rounds

• 240ml lemon juice

• 3 cloves minced garlic

• 3 teaspoons dried mint

Method:

1. Soak rice in a bowl for approximately 30 minutes, then rinse and drain until water runs clear

2. Cut off tops of tomatoes and top ends of courgettes. Use a spoon to empty tomato contents into a bowl to dice for later, and a corer for the inside of the courgette. Be careful not to puncture sides or bottom. For added detail, use a vegetable peeler to remove thin vertical lines of skin of the courgettes.

3. In a bowl, gently knead together drained rice, ground meat, green onion, diced tomato, parsley and allspice, plus generous amounts of salt and pepper.

4. Fill each tomato and courgette about three-quarters full with the meat-rice mixture, leaving enough room for the rice to expand as it cooks.

5. To cook, select a deep pot in which the tomatoes and courgettes can fit tightly in an upright position. Line bottom of pot with lemon slices.

6. Arrange tomatoes and courgette in the pot, upright with the opening on top. Add enough water to cover them, adding also the salt, lemon juice, garlic and mint to the water. Cover pot, bring to a boil over medium heat, then reduce heat to low and let simmer for 30 minutes.

7. Simmer until rice is fully cooked and courgette is tender. Carefully transfer to a serving platter.

Nosheen

Since her very early life, Nosheen has felt a strong connection with Syrian food. Her father, a beekeeper and honey merchant by trade, instilled in her a love for simple, natural flavours. Her strongest early memories are of sneaking bites of honeycomb with her brother while it dried in the sun. Food was something that brought her family together, as well as a means of making a living.

Nosheen became a beekeeper herself. When she married, she moved from the family home to Damascus, taking with her everything she had learnt from her father about making honey and from her mother about cooking.

Now a mother herself, she and her family live in Domiz 1 camp, far away from the beehives she once tended. On Saturday mornings, she feeds her children breakfast of tea with honey, sun-dried aubergines and flatbreads dipped in fresh olive oil and sprinkled with Za’atar — a spice mix scented with thyme, sesame and sumac. It is a fragrant reminder of home.

Food is a strong connection to her late mother. Nosheen says: “My mother would cook in the traditional way. She used fewer ingredients than we do today but managed to create more flavour. I still can never make the dishes quite like hers — your mother’s cooking is always the best.”

Noora is originally from Damascus in Syria. She fled with her family when war broke out in 2011, threatening the stability of the country and forcing many people from their homes. She took the difficult decision to move across the border to the Kurdistan Region of Iraq and she now lives in Gawillan refugee camp, which was established in 2013.

She loves gardening and has created a small garden at her shelter where she grows fragrant herbs and flowers including basil, mint, lavender and jasmine. She dreams of one day having a larger garden where she could grow all kinds of fruit trees and roses. She says; “My mother taught me to cook and the thing I most like about cooking now is when my own children help me. I still cook recipes that remind me of my family’s home in Syria. I will never forget the memories I have of my home and that time of my life.”

Her recipe is for molokhia, commonly known in English as jute or Jew’s mallow, cooked with chicken. It is a popular ingredient of Middle Eastern dishes and has many health benefits including being rich in fibre and potassium. It is widely grown by gardeners in refugee and IDP camps, but you could use spinach instead.

Noora’s Molokhia with Chicken

Serves 8 people

Ingredients:

• 2 tablespoons olive oil

• 500g chicken (thigh and breast), diced

• 4 cloves garlic, roughly chopped

• 200g dried molokhia (Jew’s mallow) rehydrated in water overnight

• 1 teaspoon salt

• Juice of 1 lemon

• 1 cup of cold water (or vegetable stock)

Method:

1. Lightly brown the chicken with the olive oil in a large pan (with a lid)

2. Add the garlic and continue to cook for a few minutes, stirring to prevent the garlic from burning

3. Drain the molokhia, squeezing out any excess water by hand, and add it to the pan with the rest of the salt and the lemon juice

4. Add the water or stock and bring to a simmer

5. Turn down the heat, put a lid on the pan and leave to simmer for 30-40 minutes

Serve with lemon quarters, Kurdish naan bread or rice and fresh salad or tabbouleh.

Image 1: Nosheen’s kousa mahshi © Dirk Jan Visser

Image 2: Noora’s molokhia © Britt Willoughby Dyer

Image 3: Khanem in Azadi Community Garden © Dirk Jan Visser

Image 4: Nosheen making kousa mahshi © Dirk Jan Visser

Image 5: Nosheen and her children © Dirk Jan Visser

Image 6: Noora in the kitchen © Britt Willoughby Dyer

Image 7: Noora’s table © Britt Willoughby Dyer

Recipe

Image: Becky Lee Smith

Maintaining my roots: generational hair oiling and relationships with hair

by Gurpreet Ralia

I’ve built a resilience to lifting super-hot plates out of the microwave. A weekly occasion: pulling out a bowl of an oily concoction out of the heat chamber. Heating it to an almost unbearable temperature was supposed to give it more of a healing effect. Really, it just felt a lot nicer on the scalp. Our hair was to be dressed with this oil cocktail to bring it back to life, because Lord knows the damage we’ve done to it.

There’s hints of coconut, almond, amla and the holy, holy grail: castor oil. The bonding agent, the healer, the Dhanvantari1 of hair oils. The ultimate medicine. And so, the healing experience would begin. Myself, my sister and my cousin would play a roulette to sit at the feet of our mothers and have oil massaged into our hair. Here we share stories, it’s a bonding experience for our two generations of women. My mother and aunty in their late 50s, us sisters in our 20s. This ritual has embedded itself into our home-comforts, and more importantly, into my growing attachment to my humble hair.

Growing up in a Sikh household, I always understood the importance of keeping your hair. Though my parents weren’t entirely strict in me keeping it, I did feel an obligation not to cut my hair. My locks were long, black and thick. I was nine when I saw my sister had begun cutting her hair. She rocked bobs, the fringe, dyed it red, I was in awe. Her friends, some of my other cousins, too, followed suit, and I felt like I was missing out. I became obsessed with cutting my hair. I remember the disappointment I felt from those around me when I first got it cut. I was incredibly excited, my parents shared not the same enthusiasm. I was, so to speak, the last hope in keeping my natural hair. It wasn’t until I was

around 12 that I established a weekly routine of straightening my hair. How dare I shear this hair that has so lovingly and ritualistically been preserved by hair oils?

My relationship with my hair has not always been a positive one. Growing up, my hair was always thrown back into a rough ponytail. The friziness and tomboyishness of it made me feel like less of a girl. One day, I began letting my hair down, naïve to the upkeep it would need. The day I seethed with anger for being cursed with thick, matted hair when I was waiting outside my classroom in year 4 during a parent’s evening. It was days after I had fractured my wrist and gained a gross braze on my face from falling face first onto concrete. My hair was constantly getting caught in the unsightly, bloody cuts on my face. A girl in the year above came and sat next to me and asked, ‘Gurpreet, do you not comb your hair?’. I was taken aback and didn’t know what to say. I made some excuse

that I couldn’t do it properly with a fractured wrist, and she insisted it always looked like this. How dare she insult my hair that has so lovingly and ritualistically been protected by my mother’s hands?

Needless to say, my hopelessness with my barnet led to me giving up the oiling. Mum would pester me to have it done, but it no longer appealed to me. Why should I keep trying to look after something that I, and everyone else hates? At this point, my internalised racism made me ashamed to have my hair oiled, lest I be known as the ‘greasy’ girl at school. Or the girl who ‘smells like Asian shops’, like I’d overheard in public. The warmth was being extracted from my body, and my hair. The warmth was my culture.

Really, it was exactly what I always needed. I’d grown up taking care of myself, and I did not necessarily talk to anyone about my reservations and was left to fantasise about having my hair out, silky and straight, like the other girls. It was really up to me with my hair, and I didn’t want to embrace it. I wanted something completely different. It was safe to say my hair wasn’t my pride, and it really destroyed my self-esteem even at a young age. Heck, I remember leaving it out for a little while in year 3 and my teachers gave me (literally) a bin bag full of bobbles. All I remember was wanting to cry. I hid them for days until my Mum found them in my backpack and I had to explain.

I did not even understand the brevity of when I’d gotten it cut and the hairdresser brought a pair of thinning scissors to my hair. I’d only asked for it to be shorter, but I showed a photo of a Caucasian woman with the hair I wanted. To my naivety, I didn’t realise our hair textures were different. It then became that

when I was struggling anxiety, pulling my hair was a regular occurrence. My hair became more of a nuisance, it was a lot easier to be frustrated with it and wanting to bleach it became incredibly necessary— blind to the damage it would cause. My hair is still suffering from the after-effects of this process, and I feel incredibly sorry for my hair. Most importantly to me, it’s had its Indian-ness taken out of it. It’s had the commitment stripped from it.

I’d been ridiculed before for having thick, bushy eyebrows and darker facial hair. I’ve been threading, waxing, lasering, since I was 12. An age where most Caucasian girls don’t even have to worry about their hair growth. Instead, at the age of 12, I was trialling different beauty parlours, being waxed by my sister at home and sleeping most nights with bloody legs from the pain of shaving. Yes, some of it is inconvenient hair and can be removed, but it’s what makes me, me. It’s part of my identity. The hair on my head which is on show every day, has been processed, thinned, burnt, pulled, everything you can imagine, which makes me wonder how much of my identity it retains.

And, now, the act of putting oil in my hair is more of an upsetting one. Not as much for pleasure, maintenance and happy-comfort. It’s more for replenishment, out of sadness and desperation, and a more painful-comfort. What I can be grateful for, however, is that I have this remedy at all. I thank my Indian roots for putting this ritual into my story, and for giving me a chance to regrow again. For forgiving me of my past treatment of it, as long as I ensure I treat it from now on (and top up the amount of castor oil).

1Dhanwantari is considered a mythical deity born with ambrosia in one hand and Ayurveda in the other, at the end of the churning of milk ocean.

Artwork by Zara Toledo

Carrying home wherever I go

by Varisha Tariq

Wearing Chikankari in London seemed bizarre, so out of place. I felt like I was wearing an art piece. Or putting my culture on display as if I was inhabiting a global museum. Back home, in Lucknow, I wore these to go to the office or on brunch dates with my friends. And it wasn’t just me, it was everyone I knew. Wearing Chikankari pieces was an ordinary part of my life.

From the city of Nawabs, comes the handwork of Chikankari, almost 200 years old and the heritage of Mughal India. Today around 5000 families in and around Lucknow are dedicated to carrying forward this traditional work, with Chikankari slowly transforming into a global phenomenon. Chikankari is an elegant form of hand embroidery on different kinds of clothing. There have been several mentions of this in Indian Literature but the most recent understanding is that it was part of East Bengal and during the reign of Mughal Emperors in the 18th century, it came to my city, Lucknow. The craft faced its own set of ups and downs. From the hands of the elite, it was transferred to the hands of the poor for commercial purposes in the 20th century, after the reign of landowners and rulers ended during British Rule. Now women and children were the ones making it. In the late twentieth century, a study sponsored by UNICEF highlighted the impact of labour on children and finally, the craft mostly shifted to the hands of women who wanted to be independent. To this date, the Chikan work in Lucknow comes from factories where it is primarily women craftsmen. In Lucknow, Chikankari stores are in almost every area, where you have a job done on Sari, Kurtas, Tops, Stoles, and my favourite, long gowns. The materials range from cotton to chiffon, depending on what you want to wear.

When you look closely, the embroidery is so delicate and gentle. From flowers to patterns, you can understand how the work is not only influenced by the rich diversity of India but also by the intricate patterns that can be found in Central Asia. As a city, Lucknow is popular for its tehzeeb or this idea of noble behaviour from the people in Lucknow. Not only is it reflective of the royal influence on the city but a unique identifier attached to the whole city, of people being gentle in their behaviour. Nawabi culture, as it is popularly known. The Chikan work is as delicate as the culture of the city.

“Chikankari is an elegant form of hand embroidery on different kinds of clothing.”

When I was first immigrating to the UK, I knew that the change in clothing would be a deeply emotional shift for me. What you wear in your own house is not a representation of culture for you, but your most comfortable clothing, the one you are used to wearing. Yes, of course, even places in other parts of India view chikankari work as a cultural phenomenon but one does not stand out wearing those. I wore this piece in London very recently, without any cultural reason, and just because I missed home and I wanted to. Although I enjoyed the compliments I received from strangers when I was dressed in this, I knew it was because I was wearing something vastly different, maybe something that I can only wear at festivals or very specific gatherings of Indians.

When I moved here, thanks to globalisation, it did not take long to blend in with the crowd where the wardrobe consists, very narrowly, of Zara, H&M, M&S, Primark or Uniqlo. The fashion of London bleeds into almost having a uniform look. Given the season, that does make sense. However, you lose a little bit of your identity in trying to fit in. I desperately miss the loud colours from back home. The shades of pastel, the blazing red or the screaming shades of pink. You would never stand out if you were wearing the entire colour palette. It would be so ordinary to be expressive with your clothing. As an immigrant, I am constantly aware of the colours and types of clothing I am wearing. And it is not just me, I look at people from other South Asian communities feeling the same. Home, I have come to realise, can be found hidden in so many places. I would find hints of blue in their eye shadow or a popping statement earring from a street market in India, or a peek of traditional long shirts with elephants and peacocks hidden beneath their very long brown overcoat.

Photo note: Chikankari’s work often uses different colours of threads for a vivid design. Cotton threads are one of the most popular ones used by craftsmen. The more tricky a particular set of thread is to work with, the more expensive a piece of clothing becomes.

Images: jointly curated by Varisha and her mother Ghazala Tariq. Photos of Varisha were taken by Arushi Mishra

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“Home, I have come to realise, can be found hidden in so many places. I would find hints of blue in their eye shadow or a popping statement earring from a street market in India, or a peek of traditional long shirts with elephants and peacocks hidden beneath their very long brown overcoat.”

Fabrics, much like music and perfume, have a way of connecting you to your past. When I was wearing this, I was back in my home, on an eid get-together, laughing with my family and friends or I was back in the arms of my best friend on her birthday. Wearing this piece, in the heart of London, kept me connected to my home and my people. If you were to take my word for it, it felt a little bit like magic, as if it had transported me back to them.

Despite feeling like I am a piece of art, walking down Kings Cross square, I felt so proud to be able to wear my pink Chikan piece. Thousands of women have, through working at Chikan Kari factories, found empowerment. This is not a piece that is coming from the factories of Bangladesh or Sri Lanka where women are underpaid and exploited but instead it is coming from my home where this work has freed so many women from economic oppression. It serves as a reminder that I have uprooted my entire life and moved away from home in pursuit of a better future but I’ll always have hints of it in my heart (and my wardrobe). A line of clothing with such a rich cultural heritage is an important piece that an immigrant like me can hold onto. I’ll be wearing my share of the brands, but every so often you’ll find a piece of home, peeking from beneath my cardigan.

Harabaji’s 80th birthday celebration 2000.10.21

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Images by Becky Lee Smith

As a child, I disliked being half-Korean and wanted to be fully English. I was never proud to be mixed-race because in the area I lived most people would only associate it with being half Black half White, and if I tried to claim being mixed-race I would get laughed at and told I am not mixed-race. It hurt me that people assumed my White Father was not related to me (I was a Daddy’s girl) and I hated children remarking on my features in school which was predominantly White in a suburban area. I shunned my Mother trying to teach me Korean culture and language and would retort to her ‘I am English!’, and watched her try less and less. This is something I deeply regret, as I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for my Mother to have her own daughter push her culture away.

I am separated from my Mother’s family in Korea which takes its toll on enhancing my Korean speaking skills. For these reasons and more, I am passionate about sharing Korean culture and learning more about it myself. I only really started to embrace my heritage when the Hallyu wave began in the early 2000s and I saw non-Koreans embracing Korean music and drama and food. When I saw K Pop stars that resembled my own features I began to take more pride in my looks and Korean culture. Ironically, whenever I visit my Korean family I feel a different kind of connection with them than I do with

my English family. It’s a different way of showing love my English family are more reserved with showing feelings of affection (the stiff British upper lip), whereas my Korean family shower me with affection and love. Neither is more or less, it’s just different.

We would often visit Korea during summer holidays, and one particular summer I vividly remember is my harabaji’s (grandfather) 80th (# ), a major milestone for his generation as historically, living to the age of 60 was a huge milestone, but thanks to major leaps in Korean medicine and technology there is

longer life longevity. Thus, my harabaji’s 80th birthday was an extravagant celebration, with ceremonial foods and his close family dressed in the traditional Korean attire of ‘hanbok’. I was around 7 years old at this time.

It is one of my strongest memories of my earlier years, firstly because I had never experienced such a lavish birthday living in the UK. But what lingers in my mind more was the embarrassment and shame I felt at wearing hanbok. In the picture, I am with my beautiful umma, aunties and cousins. They stand proudly next to each other, pride and love binding us together, yet in that moment, all I felt was that I didn’t ‘belong’ in this hanbok.

In my naïve, child eyes I was only ‘half-blooded’ Korean, and strongly wanted to be seen as English to everyone at the party. I complained to my umma that the material was itchy, and that I felt too hot (when in reality it was the softest, breathable material I’d ever tried). When I looked in the mirror at myself in the hanbok and how Korean I looked, all I wanted to do was wear my white Western style dress.

As we were a close family to my harabaji, we were ushered to the stage, where people came to give offerings and bow to my harabaji. I remember having a sickening sense of panic that I would be exposed to the audience in my ‘hanbok’ and quickly changed into my white dress. Ironically, the white dress was itchy and stiff. I was struggling to smile for the guests and cameras, but I felt that I belonged more in the white dress

than the Korean ‘hanbok’ as for me, I wasn’t Korean enough.

Reflecting on this day, I wish I had worn the hanbok for the whole night and enjoyed the cool, light fabric swaying side to side as I moved instead of suffering in the itchy cotton fabric of the white dress that left rashes on my skin.

They say mistakes are just life lessons learned, and I’ve learnt so much. I am Korean. I am British. I am me. Rather than being half of something, I am both my cultures.

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TERRACE & GARDEN 7

veranda, deck, porch, sundeck, lanai

Image: Overexbosed

What Does Your Umbilical Cord Say About You?

by Katerina Chernysheva

At the end of class, Jairo gestures to Danza Comun students that it’s time for their saludo1. Neat rows merge into a semi-circle of dancers facing two drummers at the head of the stage like an altar. The semi-circle begins to shift as each dancer takes turns filling the center with choreography-free expression dedicated to the drummers before joining the opposite end of the line. The drums are a sacred part of Jairo’s class, just like they are the heart of celebrations, mourning and daily life in African culture. Everyone participates in the ritual of paying their gratitude with movement. No exceptions.

A mechanical technician by trade, Jairo moved from Tumaco, a small port city by the Pacific, to Bogotá in search of work opportunities. To help navigate life in the capital, he leaned on the steps taught by his grandparents and the beat he was rocked to as a baby. His neighbors and friends must have noticed because requests to teach African dance began

flooding in. While dance was always an intrinsic part of Jairo’s life, he didn’t expect it to become his calling.

Most tumaqueños are Afro-Colombian or indigenous, just like the rest of the Pacific coast. When the slave trade scattered West Africans around the world, Colombia became home to one of the largest black populations outside of Africa and the majority settled on the Caribbean and Pacific coast. The cultural confluence birthed fusions like Colombian salsa, cumbia and mapalé. But Jairo was fascinated with the Afro dance of the Mandingue, one of the largest cultural groups in Western Africa.

We are all connected to our homes in some way. May it be through traditions, food or crafts. But on Colombia’s Pacific coast, that connection takes on a more literal meaning. When a girl is born, her umbilical cord is buried in the back of the house in hopes of sealing her fate as a homemaker. In the case of a boy,

it is planted under a tree to eternalize ties with the land. This ritual is common practice in African and indigenous tribes, but the intentions behind it change according to country and region. Some cultures believe it will help raise a more obedient child, while others hope for future fertility. And in Afro-Colombian traditions, the significance is to save families from being torn from their homes. But the protective forces could not intervene in the armed conflict that left mothers and the land aching.

The tragic period in Colombia is referred to as La Violencia — a five-decade-long war between the Colombian government, guerilla and paramilitary groups, and the drug trafficking industry fighting for power and territory. It wreaked havoc countrywide, killing hundreds of thousands of civilians and displacing over five million people, over half of whom fled from settlements along the Pacific coast.

Unlike his siblings who are pulled to the territory by an invisible force, Jairo was born in a hospital and never experienced umbilical cord burial. Instead, he found his drawing force in dance that acted as a crutch and expression of mourning for victims in Tumaco and celebration of his African roots that were cut in the sixteenth century. Dedicating 14 years of his life to carrying on the legacy of the African diaspora through movement and music, Jairo’s class at Danza Comun became a sacred place of healing, community and discovery.

“I look like a gringa2”, says Paola, one of Jairo’s students, moving thick locks of highlights away from her porcelain face, “but I want to learn about my ancestors.” A desire for a deeper understanding of Colombia’s complex past and origins is shared by many on stage and all over the country. This seemed like an extra-curricular activity in Colombia until combining history classes with geography and law in one subject of Social Sciences was reversed in 2017.

But first, she had to overcome the internal conflict between a Catholic upbringing and the primal movement of African dance. She now sees what she used to deem taboo as an expression of creative female energy. The circle has shifted, and it’s her turn. Paola leaps into the middle, thrusting forward and folding as if to scoop up a harvest. Without breaking eye contact with the drummer, she challenges his rhythm by shimmying faster.

The circle shifts again as Eduardo levitates to the middle replacing Paola. Using the long head scarf holding together his curls as a prop, he rhythmically stomps and flicks his wrist as if planting seeds. “I’ve been dancing since I was nine, but contemporary and ballet.” He didn’t discover African dance until later in life when his family moved to Colombia from Venezuela. “As an immigrant, I thought my life in Colombia would only be working to survive, but when Bogotá takes me away from who I am, this space brings me back to myself.”

Erica somersaults into the center. She hasn’t wiped off her smile the entire class and still radiates energy. Circling the stage, she plugs an imaginary cord into the bellies until all dancers are linked to her like a web. She bends backward,

1Saluda is the Spanish word for greeting or wave 2Gringa is slang for a foreign female in Latin America Illustrations: Tetiana_u, Shutterstock

The Texture of Hearth by Overexbosed

To me, texture is always full of feelings and emotions. During the pandemic, I made the decision to settle my life in the UK. My partner and I started renovating our first home by the end of the lock-down. We both enjoy going outdoors to explore nature. Hence, the agreement of bringing nature elements inside our home was made effortlessly. The house turned out being filled with texture of tranquillity and calmness. When it comes to my photography practice, the texture of nature always draws my attention and inspires me. I want these captured moments of my photos to be felt the way I feel about them, which are primitive and raw emotions. I try to bring these feelings back to a place where I call home.

Photos from left to right and top to bottom:

1/ Kitchen worktop

2/ Hay bales

3/ Statue on the floor

4/ Microcement Floor

5/ A handcrafted chair under the staircase

6/ Texture of sky - 1

7/ Texture of sky - 2

8/ A floor lamp

9/ Texture of a tree with snow

10/ A cable and a treetrunk vase

Photo essay Photo essay

Photo essay Photo essay

Where in the world will it take you?

Crying in H Mart, Michelle Zauner

Winter in Sokcho, Elisa Shua Dusapin

Your Emergency Contact has Ex- perienced an emergency, Chen Chen

The Reading List, Sara Nisha Adams

Things we do not tell the people we love, Huma Qureshi

Article locations

Central America

P. 51 Arranging myself

Caribbean

P.69Jamaican immigrants carry a little bit of home in suitcases

South America

P. 103 What Does Your Umbilical Cord Say About You?

Northern Europe

P.11 Postcards home

P.21 Fragments of Reflections

P.65 Bitter Leaves

Western Europe

P.57 Sarma

P.27 Where you are born is not where you belong

Southern Europe

P. 37 Roots

Eastern Europe

P. 22 Immigrant

Western Asia

P. 31 In the In between

P.45 Of Rootlessness and Restlessness

P. 61 You know that American saying “Saturdays are for the boys”? Well for me it was “Fridays are for Mjaddara”

P. 75 A Taste of Home

Southern Asia

P.23 Belonging is an Avant-Garde

Art Form

P.87 Maintaining my roots

P. 89 Carrying home wherever go

Eastern Asia

P. 97 Harabaji’s 80th birthday celebration 2000.10.21

P. 107 The Texture of Hearth

Southeastern Asia

P. 71 Cincau Santan, without es

Australia and New Zealand

P. 29 Be yourself, but not like that

This map was made using the United Nations geoscheme, which is a system which divides the countries of the world into regional and subregional groups. It was devised by the United Nations Statistics Division (UNSD) based on the M49 coding classification. The creators note that “the assignment of countries or areas to specific groupings is for statistical convenience and does not imply any assumption regarding political or other affiliation of countries or territories”. Map credit: CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=497598

In Issue 02, we discover Punjabi hair oiling, the intricate embroidery of Lucknow’s Chikankari and connecting to Korea by wearing the Hanbok. We go on a journey to three beaches to confront feelings of not quite fitting in but feeling like you should. We learn what it is like to travel on a weak passport, how to redefine your experience of home, and to consider the idea that where you are born is not always where you belong. We venture to Colombia to experience the Afro-Colombian tradition of burying a newborn’s umbilical cord, and muse over how to find yourself through floristry in Prague. Through photo essays we explore bringing the textures of hearth and nature into the home, and watch an animation uncovering Portugese roots. And we try our hand at creating Sarma, experience the bonding powers of a big pot of Mjaddara, smell the spices of Jamaica, read fictional tales of Indonesia’s cincau santan dessert, and connect with three displaced Syrian women living in Kurdistan who bring a taste of home to their camp.

FOYER is an independent magazine celebrating literary fiction, poetry, reportage, memoir, artwork and photographic essays from individuals of mixed-culture, second-generation and third-culture kid backgrounds. Let’s explore the cultural threads that connect us all.