Culture appropriation never used to bother me — hummus changed everything
Culture appropriation never used to bother me — hummus changed everything
A display of vibrant, eclectic hummus varieties—green with avocado, brown infused with chocolate, red laced with harissa, Marmite-styled, and truffle-flavored—left me feeling unsettled. The array stretched endlessly, evoking a sense of unease I hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t until I stood in a supermarket aisle that the weight of it hit me, shaking me in a way I couldn’t explain.
I dialed my mother in Jordan, who takes pride in her homemade hummus. As soon as she answered, I burst into tears, my voice trembling. She sensed my distress and offered a blunt response, typical of her straightforward nature:
“Ah, you must’ve caught a cold from that British weather?”
I replied with a shaky “Yes, Mama,” hoping to mask the deeper turmoil. The words to articulate my feelings were still elusive, but the seed of confusion had been planted.
Growing up in Jordan, my family’s roots trace back to Palestine. Before I was born, our ancestors were displaced in 1948, becoming refugees across generations. Yet, despite the hardships, I cherished my childhood, shaped by the simple joy of hummus. It was a regular part of our routine, especially on Fridays, when my mother would prepare it from scratch and we’d gather around the table, savoring every bite as a shared tradition.
When I first arrived in the UK in 2013 for my Master’s in Renewable Energy, the hummus I encountered in stores felt foreign. It was no longer just a dish—it had morphed into a trend, with labels like “fusion” and “chickpea-free” dominating shelves. The word hummus itself, meaning chickpea in Arabic, had become a brand, often stripped of its origins. It was then I realized how far the dish had strayed from its true essence.
My revelation came during a Halloween event in 2014. A friend shared how she’d been criticized for wearing a Native American costume, explaining that cultural appropriation involves taking elements from one culture without acknowledging their significance.
“Cultural appropriation is when a dominant group adopts aspects of another culture, often without permission or understanding of their history,”
she clarified, hitting me with the full weight of the concept.
That moment reshaped my perspective. Hummus, once a comforting part of my heritage, now symbolized a deeper issue. It was no longer just a meal—it was identity, tradition, and a piece of my family’s legacy. I sought out a Lebanese-Palestinian friend, asking for his mother’s recipe, curious about how it differed from what I’d known. The experience taught me that authenticity matters, and I’ve since dedicated myself to preserving it.
Now, I bring my homemade hummus to gatherings, from coffee shops to protest marches. People are often captivated by its depth, asking, “What’s your secret?” I’ve embraced the title “Hummus Guy,” using it as a platform to share the story behind the dish. Whether in Brighton or beyond, I hope to remind others that hummus is more than a dip—it’s a connection to the Levant, a history older than borders, and a legacy worth protecting.
