Elif Birbiri
Me: I miss hummus from Antakya.
Dad: Me too.
Me: I wonder if they are still alive, and if the shop is open.
Dad: Do you dare to go back?
Me: I don’t.
Dad: Get ready then, we are going.
This conversation happened in my hometown, Adana, eight months after the 2023 Turkey-Syria earthquakes. As a family, we could not go to Antakya for a while. We did not dare. None of us was ready to see that precious city we called “second home” devastated. We lost people we knew. Everyone around us has lost someone they knew. As we entered the town, I was holding my breath to face the reality of who was left. At first, I burst into tears, seeing every familiar street and building collapsing. We were visiting every possible place we knew, hoping to find them alive. When we entered Uzun Çarşı (Long Bazaar), I saw the bakery was open. Words cannot explain how happy I was to see the whole bakery team alive. I did not dare to ask about their families at first. Have you ever felt ashamed that your entire family was alive? I did. We all did. Antakya, or Antioch if you will, has been the most beautiful place I have ever been, and its food has been the most delicious food to me.
On February 6, 2023, two earthquakes hit Turkey and Syria, as severe as 7.7 and 7.8 magnitude. There were thousands of aftershocks in the following months. Antakya is one of the eleven cities in Turkey hit by the earthquake, but it went through the worst devastation of all, leaving the city unrecognizable. People lost their loved ones. These lives are not limited to humans but also include the ecological loss of landscapes, animals, trees, and plants. This could have been prevented. This could have been handled differently. The experts had been warning the local and central governments about what was coming. Natural disasters are never that ‘natural.’ It is political. Its aftermath has also been as political as the earthquake. Two years after the earthquakes, the central government still does not provide the city with its basic needs – new homes, clean water, food supplies, and a habitable city to build a life. Antakya is left with uncertainty.
How do people move on? What does food mean after losing loved ones? How does food appear in mourning, resisting, missing and reconstructing the city? We know how generic it may sound to have multiplicities at a particular place – multiethnicity, multireligious, and multiculturalism. Antakya may be one of the rare examples where people enjoy these multiplicities. Food has been an integral part of the city’s heritage, and so it continues to be in the aftermath of the earthquake when grieving for the lives we lost. It is not only about the food but also the city’s multicultural heritage, which is unique in a country like Turkey where the singular “statehood” is reinforced.
The Long Bazaar is a great example of people reopening their shops, doing what they know best – selling food while holding onto the past. The hummus makers would make it in front of you fresh. They would serve it with local olive oil, tomatoes and pickles. You can find both fresh and dried zaatar. If you taste it once, you cannot forget it, as it feels like you are tasting the land. Every corner of the city has different smells from kunefe shops: Antakya kömbe cookies, Antakya coffee, local mezzes and more. In the aftermath of the earthquake, Antakya’s culinary heritage spread to different cities in Turkey along with its people. Currently, there are new Antakya restaurants and shops in these cities, which are reshaping the culinary practices of their new homes. The stories of these dishes transform into something different from their past as they travel. When we collectively lose our loved ones, food can also turn into dishes for mourning rituals. But how do we mourn for a city and its lost lives? People may stay in silence; others may scream and cry. This time, people have been mourning for the city in their own distinct ways. Some people burnt bay leaves as a way to honour the lost lives, as a traditional ritual which is inherent to Antakya. The bay trees are deeply rooted in the city’s historical narratives and symbolism. The aromatic smoke was seen as a gesture of remembrance and a symbolic salute to the spirits of those who were lost. Unsurprisingly, food played a key role in these days of mourning.
On the fortieth day of the earthquake, the inhabitants practiced a tradition for the dead. The fortieth day of death marks an important milestone in the grieving process. It is practiced by various communities, including Muslims and Orthodox Christians. For that religious ritual, herise, was made to feed thousands of people. It is a dish made on various occasions, including wedding ceremonies, circumcisions, and death. This time, it was coordinated by two chefs and cooked communally in large cauldrons over an open fire for hours, making it a labour-intensive process. Community members take turns stirring the pot, engaging in conversation, sharing memories, and making the time spent together meaningful. The hours-long labour around the fire is more than just preparing a dish. It is an expression of collective memory, cultural heritage, and resilience.
Before making herise for the fortieth day after the earthquake, food was linked to ‘happy memories’ for me. However, that changed. I realized that food is as much about remembrance, sorrow, and memory as it is about joyful moments. Merve Sinem Serin (2024) explains the collective feeling of remembering: “One way we can respond to the fear of forgetting is by trying to create collective memory. Individually, we need to consciously come together again to gather our memories, the symbols and rituals we have built around the city, and, ultimately, the shared life we have constructed. It is essential to make these elements accessible to the public once more.”1 As Serin suggested, we came together in Antakya, ate hummus and zaatar, had coffee from Affan Kahvesi, and bought our staples from the local shops, like we always did. Everything tasted the same, yet so different. We will return whenever possible. Antakya is not alone.
- Serin, Merve Sinem. 2024. “Antakya’ya Ağıt.” Nehna. February 6. Accessed February 18, 2025. https://www.nehna.org/post/antakya-ya-agit ↩︎
Biography
Elif Birbiri is a PhD student in Anthropology at York University with a broad interest in the intersections of agri-food systems, gendered dimensions of food production, and environmental studies. She brings both professional kitchen experience and academic training to her work. Elif is actively involved in scholarly communities, including the Canadian Association for Food Studies and the Graduate Association for Food Studies. She enjoys cooking for her friends and family and gathering them around a table.
gradfoodstudies.org 