Food is more than nourishment; it carries the stories of a people — their land and families, struggles and joys. For Palestinians, cuisine holds a profound connection to their heritage, but the trendy rise of Israeli food is putting that at risk.
A Palestinian vendor prepares hummus plates at a store before the daily ‘iftar’ (fast breaking) meal during the Muslim holy month of Ramadan in Gaza City on March 28, 2023. Omar Al-Dirawi/APA Images via ZUMA Press Wire
February 01, 2025
PARIS — It was one of those days when my lunch break couldn’t come soon enough. My stomach growled, and my mind kept drifting to one thing: hummus. Not just any hummus, not the pre-packaged kind I’ve seen in every supermarket since arriving in Paris. No, I was longing for that creamy, dreamy, silk-on-your-tongue and speckled-with-paprika hummus from back home.
I found myself wandering down the streets of the French capital’s 17th arrondissement, scanning storefronts for something that could satisfy my craving.
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After awhile, I spotted a small, unassuming restaurant with a sign that read “Cuisine du Moyen-Orient” (Middle Eastern Cuisine). My Egyptian heart lifted. Middle Eastern food is my comfort zone — a world of flavors I know and love.
I walked in, greeted by the warm, inviting aroma of sumac, cardamom, and coriander. The air was thick with the scent of grilled meats and freshly baked bread. My eyes darted around the room, taking in the scene: plates of arayes stuffed with spiced lamb, platters of mixed grill sizzling with skewers of chicken and beef, and vibrant salads dotted with pomegranate seeds and herbs. It was a feast for the senses, and I felt right at home.
With my belly still focused on hummus, I approached the counter, ready to place my order, when something on the menu caught my eye: “Original Israeli Hummus.” I paused. Original?
Hummus, a dish I’ve known my entire life as a staple of Palestinian and Levantine cuisine, was now being advertised as “Israeli.” Maybe the owners were from Israel, Ok. But original? The word hung in the air, heavy with implication.
Appropriation on a plate
Over the past decade, Israeli cuisine has gained international acclaim, with a surge in cookbooks, restaurants, and global food festivals celebrating its flavors. Chefs and restauranteurs like Yotam Ottolenghi have brought dishes like maqluba, shakshuka, and za’atar-spiced bread to the forefront of global food culture.
Yet, many of these celebrated dishes — like the spiced layers of maqluba or the herb-infused warmth of za’atar bread —trace their origins to Palestinian culture. This culinary crossover is not merely a coincidence; it is part of a complex and often controversial narrative where food becomes a tool for cultural storytelling — and sometimes outright appropriation.
These are efforts to cement foods as symbols of Israeli identity.
Palestinian dishes, deeply tied to the soil and traditions of the region, are being increasingly rebranded. Hummus, falafel, and labneh, staples of Palestinian cuisine, are often marketed globally as “Israeli.” The rise of Israeli street food has brought these dishes to the world stage, but frequently without acknowledgment of their Palestinian roots.
Take, for instance, the 2010 “hummus contest” organized in Israel to set a world record. While lighthearted on the surface, it underscored a deeper narrative: the effort to cement these foods as symbols of Israeli identity. Similarly, falafel, a dish with deep roots in Arab culture, is now regularly marketed as “Israeli street food” in international cookbooks, restaurants, and media outlets.
A Palestinian vendor prepares hummus plates at a store before the daily ‘iftar’ (fast breaking) meal during the Muslim holy month of Ramadan in Gaza City on March 28, 2023.
Omar Al-Dirawi/APA Images via ZUMA Press Wire
Palestinian food, stolen stories
This is not just an innocent rebranding. It is part of a larger effort to rewrite the history of the region, to erase Palestinian ties to the land and to the very food that defines them. As Edward Said writes in Culture and Imperialism, when a culture is displaced, its history and identity are often erased in the process.
By taking ownership of Palestinian dishes, Israel is engaging in a form of cultural conquest. It’s not just about food; it’s about control—the control of history, of narrative, and of memory.
Each meal is a quiet act of defiance
Food, at its core, is a marker of culture and history. As sociologist Pierre Bourdieu argues, cuisine is always more than sustenance; it is a symbol of identity and pride. For Palestinians, each dish — from the zing of Salata Falahiyeh to the comforting aroma of mujaddara — carries the weight of their history and resilience. It tells stories of olive groves tended for generations and vineyards that have thrived despite hardship. Each meal is a quiet act of defiance, saying, “We are here, we endure.”
Yet, globalization complicates this narrative. As Palestinian dishes are embraced by a global audience under new labels, their origins risk being obscured. The phenomenon has been called “gastro-colonialism” — the stripping of cultural identity from food and its repackaging under a different narrative. Said’s concept of cultural imperialism resonates here: when a culture is displaced, its traditions are often co-opted and rebranded, erasing the voices of those who originally created them.
Historian and anthropologist Lila Abu-Lughod emphasizes that all cultural practices, especially those tied to everyday life, are essential to identity. When these are taken, it’s not just recipes that are lost; it’s the stories and memories they carry.
Growls of resistance
Despite these challenges, Palestinians are fighting back, reclaiming their culinary heritage and sharing it with the world. Through cookbooks, food festivals, and social media, chefs and activists are telling the stories behind the dishes, ensuring their origins are recognized. Events like the Palestinian Food Festival in London celebrate dishes such as maqluba, musakhan, and knafeh as distinctly Palestinian, challenging the erasure of their history.
Returning to that afternoon that I discovered the Moyen-Orientrestaurant in Paris, I politely asked the cashier, “Which country’s cuisine is this?” He looked up, smiled, and responded, “Israeli, specifically Tel Avivian.”
I nodded, thanked him, and decided I would take my growling stomach.