Falafel

In the woods, the war is silent footsteps, birds and shadows follow the trail, and the dead fly low with unfurled sleeves, invisible and present, nocturnal animals of a spring that tries its best to be discreet. No war is distant.
[…]
From the poetry collection “Pane del bosco” by C. L. Candiani

No war is distant. It’s not echoes of misfortune reaching my peaceful Greek retreat, but an awareness that seeps from every leaf, that every wave constantly and relentlessly crashes upon the shores of daily life. It’s no longer hatred that burns my bones, as it has in other years and other lives. No longer the sense of injustice fueling resentment good only for some outburst of opinion. Though at times I feel its sinuous coils climbing up my ankles. It’s not by hating war that peace is achieved, I feel I can say today, building on many battles, primarily inner ones. Instead, we must love peace to bring it into being.

And this also means accepting struggle – which is not conflict because it has no enemy – as a natural dimension, inherent in the experience of evolving, emerging, aspiring: ultimately, the vital urge to simply exist. We must reclaim the responsibility of having delegated power externally, rather than complaining about its abuses and injustices. Complaining is the best way to dissipate energy; notice that. And we need a lot of it to change the world, before changing “the world.” The world is in the eyes of the beholder: to transform it, we must first change our way of relating to and knowing reality, ceasing to impose ourselves upon it with all the violence of our demands, phobias, and ego-driven desires.

And so, yesterday morning, I performed a kind of very personal ritual to celebrate the beauty of a people and a Land to which I am deeply connected and whose suffering I perceive as if it were that of a vital organ of my own. I did this instead of writing an article of political analysis and denunciation, as I had initially envisioned. Writing about the atrocities occurring, the arrogance of power, the violence of which “morality” is capable, would undoubtedly have vented the pressure cooker of sadness, anger, and frustration, giving me an illusion of relief. Instead, I chose to cook with them. Sadness as a gentle musical backdrop, anger making the movements of my hands incisive and determined, frustration suggesting pleasant detours, breaking predefined rules and procedures. They danced with me throughout the preparation, changing form again and again, blending with the scent of spices and opening doors to new spaces of attention, awareness, and care. I meditated on the art of rebellion.

I celebrated my love for Palestine and the Palestinian people by cooking falafel.

Pop Palestine

We are born bringing nothing,
we die able to take nothing, and in between,
in the eternal that
reconnects in the brief
blink of an eye,
we fight to possess something.
N.Nur-ad-Din

I met Fidaa years after my trip to Palestine. I later had the chance to meet her in person, thanks to the experience of the Lilith’s Pier (Il Molo di Lilith) circle in Turin, which I co-founded, and to Annina.
Fidaa Ibrahim Abuhamdieh, a culinary activist, is my teacher of Palestinian cuisine. I first followed her through her blog, then by immersing myself in the poetic, flavorful, and moving pages of her travel and recipe book, Pop Palestine—which I highly recommend.

To resist also means to oppose and confront, but let’s not forget that, first and foremost, to resist is to create (Florence Aubenas and Miguel Benasayag wrote another worthwhile book on this topic)

In this sense, Pop Palestine is a book of resistance, political precisely because it doesn’t speak about politics; it enacts it, giving us a fresh and passionate image of Palestine, of a culture and identity whose vitality, happiness, and richness are expressed—in the absence of other possible dimensions—primarily through its cuisine. This cuisine is a heart large enough to encompass a complexity of traditions skillfully blended by centuries of wisdom; a tool for “making soul,” memory, community, culture, and—naturally—hospitality. Food serves as a means of deep communication, nourishing those who stay, those who pass by, those who leave, and those who open themselves to receive and learn; it nourishes one’s dearest loved ones and, equally, the stranger, who is no longer a stranger the moment they accept the offered food. “There is neither meeting nor parting, there is only the pure pleasure of dynamic space,” recites a psychic formula of imaginal creation that, to me, perfectly encapsulates the sacred quality, in its convivial lightness, of the act of cooking and sharing food inherent in Palestinian culture.

The Recipe

And so we come to my falafel recipe, with a few personal twists, but largely inspired by Fidaa’s. Oh, I’m known for eyeballing quantities, so for precise measurements… buy the book.

Soak the chickpeas overnight with a pinch of baking soda.

Read this poem, and let the verses resonate and inspire you throughout the preparation.

“As you prepare your breakfast, think of others,
don’t forget the food of doves.

As you wage your wars, think of others,
don’t forget those who demand peace.

As you pay your water bill, think of others,
those who milk the clouds.

As you are about to return home, your home, think of others,
don’t forget the tent-dwelling peoples.

As you sleep counting the planets, think of others,
those who cannot find a place to sleep.

As you free yourself with metaphors, think of others,
those who have lost the right to express themselves.

As you think of others, those far away, think of yourself,
and say: ‘If only I were a candle in the midst of darkness.’”

Maḥmūd Darwīsh

Once done, thoroughly dry the chickpeas, massaging them with a kitchen towel. This is a crucial step for success! If you want to be extra safe, spread them out on a baking sheet and briefly put them in a convection oven to remove any remaining moisture. Otherwise, your falafel might fall apart during cooking, leading to utter disappointment and a meditation session to rebalance yourself.
Place the chickpeas (it should be about 300g) in a food processor with a coarsely chopped onion, one teaspoon of cumin (I used two, but you need to like it!), two of dried coriander, and two of salt. Optionally, you can add some fresh parsley. Blend until you get a homogeneous mixture. If you find it too moist to form patties, you can add a little chickpea flour – a grandmother’s trick. Let the mixture rest for about ten minutes while you prepare and enjoy a good mint tea and nibble on a date. I had them handy because I used them to make a delicious pancake variation, adding blended dates, cocoa, and cinnamon to the batter.
Once your tea is finished, form the patties, compacting them well. Enjoy the scent of the spices and the soft texture in your hands. Fry in plenty of olive oil (I’m watching you if you use anything else!) until they are golden brown, and carefully blot off the excess oil with absorbent paper.

I suggest eating them piping hot, accompanied by a tomato and onion salad and spiced vegetable dips. For example, Mutabbal Batinjan, which we could translate as “fragrant or spiced eggplant cream,” also known as Baba Ghanoush (meaning “a father spoiled by too many cuddles”): a sauce of flame-roasted and coarsely chopped eggplant, mixed with tahini, garlic, and lemon. Optionally, a drizzle of pomegranate molasses. This time, I added a touch of tomato and chili pepper to the eggplant.
But something fresh was missing to add an extra touch of cheer to the ensemble: and so, Zucchini Mutabbal! Oven-roasted zucchini, which I then chopped and mixed with oil, garlic, Greek yogurt, and ginger. A hint of acidity will enhance the harmony of the falafel’s warm, comforting flavors.
If you want to further enrich your palate, make a simple dough of water, flour, turmeric, pepper, and a pinch of baking soda. Once rolled out, cut out small discs and pan-fry them. You’ll get small, bright yellow flatbreads that will complete the picture and make it easier to inevitably scoop up every last bit of sauce.

Consume with awareness. Perhaps meditate lightly—not superficially—on what “rebellion” means to you. Allow the food to suggest ideas and thoughts you’ve never entertained before. Cast overboard the heavy ballast of the already known, the hearsay, or what’s been externally ingrained. Permit yourself a step beyond what you believe is right and good, convenient and appropriate. Start from your innermost self. From your natural urges for freedom, which inevitably encounter resistance, fears, and attachments. After all, how could we conceive of freedom except dialectically, as freedom from?
Try to perceive the act of rebellion as an act of love that must begin right now, precisely during this meal, and starting with how you think, nourish yourself, and perceive in this moment.
To quote Bergonzoni: “re-bellare,” to return to the beautiful. I’ve always found this a powerful suggestion: to rediscover and defend beauty above every separative moral value. Beyond contradictions and dualisms. To pursue ever wider, more intense, deeper, and integrated degrees of freedom.