Culture appropriation never used to bother me — hummus changed everything
Culture appropriation never used to bother me — hummus changed everything
A shelf brimming with an array of vibrant, unconventional hummus varieties—green with avocado, brown featuring chocolate, red infused with harissa, and even Marmite-flavored—left me staring in disbelief. The sight of these fusions, some lacking chickpeas entirely, struck me like a wave. I had never felt so unsettled by something so simple, and the emotion caught me unprepared.
I dialed my mother in Jordan, who proudly asserts she makes the best hummus. As soon as her voice came through, I began to cry, overwhelmed by a sense of loss I couldn’t articulate. She detected my sniffles and, with her signature no-nonsense tone, remarked,
“Ah, you must’ve caught a cold from that British weather?”
“Yes, Mama,” I replied, my voice trembling. “Just a cold.” I couldn’t voice the true reason behind my tears—the way hummus had been transformed, stripped of its roots. My family’s history, however, is steeped in its tradition. Though I was raised in Jordan, my family hails from Palestine. They were displaced in 1948, becoming refugees after the Arab-Israeli conflict.
Despite this, my childhood was filled with warmth and joy. Hummus was more than a food item; it was a constant presence. Every Friday, we gathered as a family for breakfast, the table always adorned with my mother’s homemade version. She would prepare it from scratch, and we’d savor it together. Even when I was old enough to drive, I’d collect plates from local hummus shops, enjoying the ritual of bringing it home with music playing and windows rolled down.
It wasn’t until I moved to the UK in 2013, pursuing a Master’s in Renewable Energy, that my perspective shifted. In supermarkets, I encountered a bewildering range of hummus “creations”—some bearing no resemblance to the chickpea-based dish I knew. The word
“hummus literally means chickpea in Arabic.”
became a revelation. If the core ingredient was missing, it wasn’t hummus anymore; it was just a generic dip.
Halloween 2014, a tradition I’d never fully embraced, became the moment I understood. A friend shared how she’d been criticized for wearing a Native American costume, explaining that cultural appropriation often involves dominant cultures adopting elements without acknowledging their significance. “It’s not about appreciation,” she clarified. “It’s about power dynamics and misrepresentation.” The realization hit hard, connecting my earlier unease to the broader issue of cultural erasure.
Seeking clarity, I turned to a Lebanese-Palestinian friend and requested his mother’s recipe. His description made me see how much I’d taken for granted. For the first time, I felt the need to recreate it myself, ensuring it stayed tied to my heritage. Now, I serve my authentic hummus at gatherings, from Brighton cafes to pro-Palestine rallies. Each time, people inquire, “What’s your secret?”
Embracing my role as a hummus advocate, I’ve transformed my passion into a mission. Sharing the dish isn’t just about flavor—it’s about preserving identity, honoring history, and challenging the way cultures are diluted or stolen. Hummus, once a familiar comfort, has become a symbol of resilience and connection. It shows up at every Levantine breakfast, a reminder of where I come from.