Culture appropriation never used to bother me — hummus changed everything

Culture appropriation never used to bother me — hummus changed everything

A display of diverse, vibrant hummus varieties lined up on a shelf, each one a bold experiment in flavor. From avocado-infused green to chocolate-brown and harissa-red, the options were endless. Even Marmite and truffle versions made their way into the mix, leaving me both intrigued and unsettled.

It wasn’t until I relocated to the UK in 2013 for my Master’s in Renewable Energy that my perspective on hummus shifted dramatically. Supermarkets revealed a bewildering array of hummus ‘fusions’—some omitting chickpeas entirely. The word hummus, which literally means chickpea in Arabic, had been stretched beyond recognition. While culinary innovation is welcome, I began to see how some ‘fusions’ leaned more toward confusion or even erasure.

‘Ah, you must’ve caught a cold from that British weather?’

I dialed my mother in Jordan, who boasts about her culinary expertise with the dish. As soon as I heard her voice, I broke down in tears. She sensed my sniffles and, in her typical firm yet caring way, remarked, ‘Not a cold, then? What’s wrong?’ I couldn’t articulate my feelings yet, so I simply replied, ‘Just a cold, Mama.’

My family hails from Palestine, and we became refugees after they were displaced in 1948. Despite this, I had a happy childhood with my parents and older sister. Hummus was a constant presence in our lives, especially every Friday morning as part of a cherished family tradition. Mum would prepare it from scratch, and we’d gather around the table, savoring the meal together.

Before moving to the UK, I never needed to make hummus myself. Local markets in Jordan always had fresh batches. But once I was in the country, I started noticing how it was being transformed. I brought home plates from ‘hummuseries,’ enjoying the loud music and open windows. My mother would critique them all, comparing them to her own recipe. I used to agree—hers was the best of all.

Then came the moment of clarity. During Halloween in 2014, a friend shared how she was reprimanded for wearing a Native American costume. She explained, ‘Cultural appropriation occurs when a dominant culture adopts elements from another without permission or awareness of their historical context, often creating a power imbalance and misrepresenting the original culture.’

That revelation hit me hard. The shock I felt in that supermarket aisle wasn’t just about the dish—it was about the roots of my culture. Hummus, once a simple staple, had become a symbol of something deeper. It was tied to my family’s history, the Levant, and the identity that had been shaped by generations of tradition.

Now, I share my authentic hummus with everyone I encounter, and it’s always received with enthusiasm. Even in Brighton, where I live, café baristas, flower shop owners, and fellow theatre enthusiasts have tasted it. They listen when I explain its significance, its ties to my heritage, and how it represents more than just a dip.

I’ve even brought large batches to pro-Palestine demonstrations, offering it to strangers as a gesture of connection. Whenever I do, people ask, ‘What’s your secret?’ I answer with pride, knowing it’s not just about the recipe—it’s about reclaiming a piece of my identity in a world that often dilutes it.