Day of Honey: A Memoir of Food, Love, and War

by Annia Ciezadlo

  I had been thinking about The Siege quite a bit since then.

  When 20th Century Fox started filming The Siege in the late 1990s, I had just moved to the heavily Polish Brooklyn neighborhood of Greenpoint. Apparently the real Atlantic Avenue didn’t have enough brownstones to look like New York on film, so overnight, Hollywood set designers transformed Greenpoint’s Little Warsaw into a cinematic version of the Arab street. Awnings that had once read Obiady Polski (Polish Dinners) now surged with Arabic script. Tanks rolled past under klieg lights. Wandering down the imitation Atlantic Avenue, it was easy to imagine that all of our carefully constructed ethnic identities were nothing but Hollywood sets, as specious a notion as the species Syrianica, a scaffolding you could put up or tear down in a couple of hours.

  The city had papered Greenpoint’s streetlights with flyers forbidding people to park because of Martial Law, the movie’s working title; as it happened, many Greenpointers had fled Poland in the early 1980s, when it was under actual Communist martial law. Middle-aged Polish émigrés would stop and glower at the Hollywood diktats with gloomy satisfaction: You see? I told you it would happen here too.

  Back in September 2001, red and yellow traffic lights flowed over the dark windshield. The few cars ghosting down the empty avenue ignored them. Everyone ran red lights during the days after the attacks. Stopping seemed pointless, like everything else.

  “No, man, that’s not true,” I said finally. “A lot of the Arabs here left their countries because they weren’t al-Qaeda. A lot of them left to get away from those guys.”

  Al-Qaeda wouldn’t have had much use for my Arab: he’s a Shiite, at least by birth. But introducing the Sunni-Shiite divide seemed a little ambitious in this case. “They left cause their countries were messed up,” I said. “The ones that are here are the ones that wanted to come to America.”

  He looked hard at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes flashing in the little strip of glass.

  I sighed. “You know, most of the Arabs here in the U.S. are actually Christians.”

  A cowardly argument. My own Arab was a Muslim, after all.

  “Shyeah!” the cabbie spat. “They act like they’re Christians. They pretend. But they’re really al-Qaeda.”

  Gray metal shutters hid the store windows, but memory filled in what I couldn’t see. Here on my right was Malko Karkanni’s shabby storefront, jammed with bins of olives and dusty coffeepots. Mr. Karkanni liked to talk; if you had time, he would pull out a stool, make you tea, and talk about the lack of human rights in Syria, the country he still missed. Ahead on the left was a restaurant named Fountain, with a real fountain inside, like an Ottoman courtyard; once, when I told the waiter where my grandmother was from, he broke into fluent Greek. And here was Sahadi’s, the famous deli and supermarket, run by a family that has been part of New York ever since 1895, when Abraham Sahadi opened his import-export company in lower Manhattan, back when my ancestors were still plowing fields in Scotland, Galicia, and the Peloponnese.

  “Well, my boyfriend’s an Arab,” I said suddenly. The words tumbled out, high-pitched and breathless. “And he’s not al-Qaeda, and I have a lot of Arab friends, and they’re not al-Qaeda either!”

  The eyes flashed back at me again, a little more anxiously this time. Was he going to kick me out of his car? Would he call the police, the FBI, and tell them about me and my Arab boyfriend?

  Or would he just shake his head and decide that I was a fool—one of a breed of unfortunate women who marry foreign men, put them through flight school, and end up later on talk shows insisting that “he seemed so normal”? Like Annette Bening in The Siege, who falls for an educated Arab guy, a Palestinian college professor who acts normal but—you can’t trust them—turns out to be a terrorist in the end?

  He thought about it for a block or two before he spoke. His voice was casual, and unexpectedly gentle, as if we had backed up and rewound the whole conversation to the beginning.

  “You know that place Sahadi’s?” he said. “Y’ever been in there? They got some great food in there, yeah. Hummus, falafel, you know. Boy, that stuff is pretty good. You ever try it?”

  There’s a saying in Arabic: Fi khibz wa meleh bainetna—there is bread and salt between us. It means that once we’ve eaten together, sharing bread and salt, the ancient symbols of hospitality, we cannot fight. It’s a lovely idea, that you can counter conflict with cuisine. And I don’t swallow it for a second. Just look at any civil war. Or at our own dinner tables, groaning with evidence to the contrary.

  After September 11, liberal New Yorkers flocked to Arabic restaurants, Afghan, even Indian—anything that seemed vaguely Muslim, as if to say, “Hey, we know you’re not the bad guys. Look, we trust you, we’re eating your food.” New York newspapers ran stories about foreigners and their food, most of which followed much the same formula: the warmhearted émigré alludes mournfully to troubles in his homeland; assures the readers that not all Arabs/Afghans/Muslims are bad; and then shares his recipe for something involving eggplants. They were everywhere after September 11, photos of immigrants holding out plates of food, their eyes beseeching, “Don’t deport me! Have some hummus!” But a lot of them did get deported, and American soldiers got sent to Afghanistan and Iraq. A decade later, the lesson seems clear: You can eat eggplant until your toes turn purple, and it won’t stop governments from going to war.

  But then again, there is something about food. Even the most ordinary dinner tells manifold stories of history, economics, and culture. You can experience a country and a people through its food in a way that you can’t through, say, its news broadcasts.

  Food connects. In biblical times, people sealed contracts with salt, because it preserves, protects, and heals—an idea that goes back to the ancient Assyrians, who called a friend “a man of my salt.” Like Persephone’s pomegranate seeds, the alchemy of eating binds you to a place and a people. This bond is fragile; people who eat together one day can kill each other the next. All the more reason we should preserve it.

  Many books narrate history as a series of wars: who won, who lost, who was to blame (usually the ones who lost). I look at history as a series of meals. War is part of our ongoing struggle to get food—most wars are over resources, after all, even when the parties pretend otherwise.

  But food is also part of a deeper conflict, one that we all carry inside us: whether to stay in one place and settle down, or whether to stay on the move. The struggle between these two tendencies, whether it takes the form of war or not, shapes the story of human civilization. And so this is a book about war, but it is also about travel and migration, and how food helps people find or re-create their homes.

  One of my old journalism professors, a man with the unforgettable name of Dick Blood, used to roar that if you want to write the story, you have to eat the meal. He was talking about Thanksgiving, when reporters visit homeless shelters, collect a few quotes, and head back to the newsroom to pump out heartwarming little features without ever tasting the turkey. But I’ve found that this command—“You have to eat the meal”—is a good rule for life in general. And so whenever I visit a new place, I pursue a private ritual: I never let myself leave without eating at least one local thing.

  We all carry maps of the world in our heads. Mine, if you could see it, would resemble a gigantic dinner table, full of dishes from every place I’ve been. Spanish Harlem is a cubano. Tucson is avocado chicken. Chicago is yaprakis; Beirut is makdous; and Baghdad—well, Baghdad is another story.

  In the fall of 2003, I spent my honeymoon in Baghdad. I’d married the boyfriend, who was also a reporter, and his newspaper had posted him to Iraq. So I moved to Beirut, with my brand-new husband and a few suitcases, and then to Baghdad.

  For the next year, we tried to act like normal newlyweds. We did our laundry, went grocery shopping, and argued about what to have for dinner like any young couple, while reporting on the war. And throughout all of it, I cooked.

  Some people construct work space
s when they travel, lining up their papers with care, stacking their books on the table, taping family pictures to the mirror. When I’m in a strange new city and feeling rootless, I cook. No matter how inhospitable the room or the streets outside, I construct a little field kitchen. In Baghdad, it was a hot plate plugged into a dubious electrical socket in the hallway outside the bathroom. I haunt the local markets and cook whatever I find: fresh green almonds, fleshy black figs, just-killed chickens with their heads still on. I cook to comprehend the place I’ve landed in, to touch and feel and take in the raw materials of my new surroundings. I cook foods that seem familiar and foods that seem strange. I cook because eating has always been my most reliable way of understanding the world. I cook because I am always, always hungry. And I cook for that oldest of reasons: to banish loneliness, homesickness, the persistent feeling that I don’t belong in a place. If you can conjure something of substance from the flux of your life—if you can anchor yourself in the earth, like Antaeus, the mythical giant who grew stronger every time his feet touched the ground—you are at home in the world, at least for that meal.

  In every war zone, there is another battle, a shadow conflict that rages quietly behind the scenes. You don’t see much of it on television or in the movies. This hidden war consists of the slow but relentless destruction of everyday civilian life: The children can’t go to school. The pregnant woman can’t give birth at a hospital. The farmer can’t plow his fields. The musician can’t play his guitar. The professor can’t teach her class. For civilians, war becomes a relentless accumulation of can’ts.

  But no matter what else you can’t do, you still have to eat. During wartime, people’s lives begin to revolve around food: first to stay alive, but also to stay human. Food restores a sense of familiarity. It allows us to reach out to others, because cooking and eating are often communal activities. Food can cut across social barriers, spanning class and sectarian lines (though it can also, of course, reinforce them). Making and sharing food are essential to maintaining the rhythms of everyday life.

  I went to the Middle East like most Americans, relatively naive about both Arab culture and American foreign policy. Over the next six years, I saw plenty of war, but I also saw normal, everyday life. I sat through ceremonial dinners with tribal sheikhs in Baghdad; kneeled and ate kubbet hamudh on the floor with Iraqi women from Fallujah; drank home-brewed arak with Christian militiamen in the mountains of Lebanon; feasted on boiled turkey with a mild-mannered peshmerga warlord in Kurdistan; and learned how to make yakhnet kusa and many other dishes from my Lebanese mother-in-law, Umm Hassane, who doesn’t speak a word of English. Other people saw more, did more, risked more. But I ate more.

  If you want to understand war, you have to understand everyday life first. The dominant narrative of the Middle East is perpetual conflict: the bombs and the bullets and the battles are always different, and yet always, somehow, depressingly the same. And so this book is not about the ever-evolving ways in which people kill or die during wars but about how they live before, during, and after those wars. It’s about the millions of small ways people cope—the ways they arrange their lives, under sometimes unimaginable stress and hardship, and the ways they survive.

  Every society has an immune system, a silent army that tries to bring the body politic back to homeostasis. People find ways to reconstruct their daily lives from the shambles of war; like my friend Leena, who once held a dinner party in her Beirut bomb shelter, they work with what they have. This is the story of that other war, the one that takes place in the moments between bombings: the baker keeps the communal oven going so his neighborhood can have bread; the restaurateur converts his café into a refugee center; the farmer feeds his neighbors from his dwindling stock of preserves; the parents drive all over Baghdad trying to find an open bakery so their daughter can have a birthday cake. They are warriors just as much as those who carry guns. There are many ways to save civilization. One of the simplest is with food.

  Chapter 1

  The Quiet Assassin

  IN A RATIONAL world, Mohamad and I would never last. I talk; he observes. I launch into rambling, circuitous stories whose destinations I sometimes forget before I’m halfway through. He’ll listen quietly, then eviscerate with one perfect sentence. I like to drink. He’ll take a sip or two of red wine, then sit and watch with a quiet smile. He is calm and rational; I’m proud, opinionated, and easily enraged. I curse like a sailor. He does not. You will never hear Mohamad describe anything as “the biggest in the universe” or “the dumbest thing I ever heard.” Without hyperbole I would die.

  Nowhere do we disagree so much as over food. I will eat anything, from tongue to tripe to grilled lamb testicles—a delicacy in Lebanon, which is just one of many reasons I like the place. In school I was that kid who sidled up to you and said, “You gonna eat that?” Watching me finish off leftover meatballs, a friend once observed, “You know, Annia, I think you’d eat a roll of paper towels if someone told you it was food.”

  Mohamad, on the other hand, refuses to consume: asparagus, artichokes, mushrooms, beets; anything cruciferous; pumpkin not in the form of pie; duck; pork; fish of any kind, shellfish, seaweed, and anything else that emerges from water, such as frogs or eels; beef that hasn’t been cooked to resemble linoleum; coffee or beer. That is a partial list.

  A friend invited us to dinner once and called me first to find out what Mohamad liked.

  “How about I tell you what he doesn’t like instead?” I said, in case she had any ideas.

  There was a long silence as she imagined life with someone who refused to eat all these foods.

  “Wow, Annia,” she said in a hushed voice. And then: “You must love him a lot.”

  Strange, then, that the whole thing started off with food. And a convoluted, introverted kind of food at that: stuffed grape leaves. If we hadn’t eaten the grape leaves, Mohamad wouldn’t have asked me about my grandmother; if I hadn’t told him about my grandmother, he would never have talked about his mother, and we wouldn’t have heard the stories (or was it the stuffed grape leaves themselves?) that made us realize we were falling in love.

  In any event, I blame the grape leaves. They got us talking; they instigated our travels—across the Boulevard of Death, to Turkey, on to Afghanistan, and ultimately to Baghdad and Beirut.

  But first to Queens.

  I watched him for a moment before he saw me. He was waiting for me as I walked down out of the elevated train station, a grave, small figure standing still amid the roaring tide of rush-hour commuters, satiny black hair almost, but not quite, concealing his eyes. They were big and long-lashed, the color of roasted cocoa beans, beneath straight black eyebrows. What saved him from looking too pretty was the long, sardonic nose and the posture of a man whose idea of an exciting evening is poring over city procurement documents. Mohamad covered transportation for Newsday, the Long Island–based newspaper. I wrote about urban poverty and politics for a small monthly newsmagazine. It was April 2001.

  In those days I believed that transportation, the warp of bridges and buses and subways that wove New York City’s eight million souls together, was the most glamorous beat in the world. And so, during our occasional dinners, we spoke of transportation policy. Over Indian food on Sixth Street, we outlined the city’s ten-step franchise approval process; at Habib’s, a cramped East Village falafel place, where Habib played Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, we spoke of pedestrianization. Over dessert, we discussed the intricate beauties of congestion pricing. Our conversation bristled with acronyms of city, state, and federal agencies: HPD, MTA, HCFA. The stuff of romance, of adventure, it was not.

  And yet, every time this new friend called me, I felt a mysterious exhilaration. I saved up anecdotes about obscure city bureaucrats to tell him. Sometimes I laughed out loud for no reason. I told myself these feelings were just the novelty of getting to know a new friend. “A nice guy,” I told my friends, “but a little boring. We mostly just talk about work.” But the
truth was that I would talk about work. He would listen.

  Mohamad is a quiet man. He speaks so softly and so seldom that one of his former coworkers christened him “the quiet assassin.” That watchfulness made him a formidable investigative reporter. But over dinner it made my palms sweat. If I asked him a question, he would pause before responding, watching me silently, and I would feel that I was the one being interrogated. I avoided looking directly into his eyes; whenever I did, I would forget what I was saying, caught off guard by their expression of amused intelligence. And so I would stare down at his precisely folded hands, or at his mouth, with its occasional crooked hint of a smile, and keep talking. I can talk as much as I can eat, and at the same time too.

  He never talked about himself and seldom ventured an opinion. Which was a shame, because something about his voice made my heart beat faster, perhaps because I hardly ever heard it. His eyes hinted at thoughts and stories, hidden away somewhere inside. But maybe I was imagining that. I was about to give up on him when unexpectedly, one sunny spring day, he invited me out to his neighborhood in Queens.

  Mohamad pointed out the neighborhood landmarks as we walked: here was Queens Boulevard, so perilous to pedestrians that the New York Daily News had christened it the “Boulevard of Death.” And here was Sunnyside Gardens, where he lived, the famous Progressive-era experiment in shared urban living. Rows of brick garden apartments all backed onto a massive common garden: a shared backyard for children to play, dogs to gambol, and families to eat picnics together.

  “The Gardens is a cool idea because people have to cooperate, and get along with their neighbors, so they can share the space,” Mohamad said.

  Then he laughed, rolled his eyes. “Of course, what usually ends up happening is they each just take their own piece of the yard and fence it off. But still. It’s a nice idea.”