Never-ending Exile Soup | Kivilcim Akay

It’s a sunny afternoon, and I’m sitting in a café chatting with John. John P. Portelli is a poet and author who retired as a philosophy professor from the University of Toronto. For John, retirement is merely a term on official documents. His mind, ever-active, is a marvel of clarity woven with humour and conscience. He has authored numerous works of fiction and poetry. After signing a copy of his poetry collection “Here Was”—translated into Turkish—for my father, a lifelong devotee of poetry, he pulls out another book from his bag. This one is “The Shadow,” co-authored with Ahmet Miqdad. Together, the two poets wrote this collection for the children of Palestine, donating all proceeds to support the Palestinian people.

John asks me why I haven’t yet started making a documentary about the plight of the Palestinian people. What are you waiting for? he encourages me enthusiastically. I can’t go there, I reply. If you can’t go, find a way to connect with people there by phone—listen to their stories and document them, he suggests. Then, taking out his phone, he shows me his newly written poem, “Never-ending Exile.” He asks me to read it aloud:

John P. Portelli and “The Shadow”

Never-ending Exile

"Exile is strangely compelling to think about but terrible to experience."

(Edward Said)

Finally, we reached Khan Yunis

Deir al Balah Beacme unbearable

perhaps here the drones will not reach us

you texted me

how many times do you have endure exile

to get rid of this agony?

in the modest tent your wife peals a shrivelled potato

while you worriedly search for a bag of flour,

your young son staring at the sea

his older sister narrating its wonders

is this the same sea?

and your mother carefully dips her foot in the sea

dreaming that one day she can see al Quds.

John wrote this poem a few days ago, after finally managing to reconnect—albeit by text message—with a friend in Palestine who is struggling to survive. His friend, a fellow academic, had managed to escape from Gaza to Deir al Balah with his wife, mother, son, and daughter—miraculously all alive. But as the poem illustrates, exile never ends. From Deir al Balah, they moved again, this time to Khan Yunis. The fact that his entire family survived these transitions intact is itself a miracle.

John’s friend described the desperate state of their meals in the makeshift tent they now call home. Without food, there is no life. The day they spoke was a lucky one—his friend and family had managed to find a potato to eat. If they could find a bit of flour, it would be a windfall. More often than not, they gather wild grass, boil it with a pinch of spice if available, and make soup to stave off hunger. There are even worse days, filled with nothing but emptiness. Thousands of genocide survivors are still, in the 21st century, trying to survive by boiling grass and water into soup to avoid starvation.

In the modern world, exile takes many forms. The most familiar is that of artists and thinkers forced to flee their homelands under authoritarian regimes, targeted for their ideas and words, and struggling to rebuild lonely lives in Europe or America. But exile amid physical warfare is, without question, the most devastating and deadly form.

As a writer deeply engaged with culinary culture and the philosophy of food, I couldn’t stop thinking about that soup—made of grass, a pinch of spice if they’re lucky, and water. What could it possibly taste like? As Edward Said’s quote preceding John’s poem reminds us: Exile is strangely compelling to think about but terrible to experience. This soup must taste the same way—both compelling and terrible. There’s no need to attempt a futile recreation in my kitchen; I can already imagine the sour, bland taste on my tongue.

As someone who often ponders the flavors words evoke in the mind and on the palate, I asked myself: If exile had a taste, would it resemble this soup? This thought led me to name it in my mind: “Never-ending Exile Soup.” A soup I hope I will never have to taste in my life. Yet its existence has become the embodiment of the word “exile” in both my mind and my palate.

Like all peoples who continue to suffer genocide and oppression, the future of the Palestinian people remains uncertain. Given the lack of ethical and moral values in the age we live in, one no longer needs to be a prophet to foresee what lies ahead. We may not know what the fate of Palestine will be, but don't be surprised if, in five or ten years' time, this soup of grass and water is served with silver spoons in five-star restaurants at exorbitant prices.

I look forward with hope to the day when the names of those who inflict great suffering - and those who shamelessly profit from it - are recorded for posterity. Until then, the bitter taste of 'never-ending exile soup' remains in my mind, a haunting reminder of mankind's greed.

Kıvılcım Akay

Kivilcim Akay is a Turkish writer, filmmaker and culinary culture researcher of Kurdish origin. Graduated from Akdeniz University Faculty of Fine Arts, Cinema. She is the director of the documentary films Olive, Amina, My Wish is Peace and 100 Years of Fashion. She is working on her new documentary project ‘Sweet & Sour’. She narrates her research on Mediterranean culinary culture and the philosophy - politics of  cuisine.  In addition to cuisine, she focuses on issues such as human rights, migration, culture & art and belonging in her writings and films. 

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