Traditional Ramadan dishes of Saudi Arabia

In the past in Saudi Arabia, people opted for simple but hearty Ramadan dishes. (Shutterstock)
Updated 13 June 2018

Traditional Ramadan dishes of Saudi Arabia

JEDDAH: Around the world, Ramadan is a special time for Muslims to get together with family and loved ones and share meals that take on added significance during the holy month. The culture in Saudi Arabia is diverse, and the people are keen on preserving and upholding the traditions. The older generation often reminisces about the good old days, when things were simpler — including the food.

Um-Khalid, who is 77 years old, and Abu-Khalid, 80, from Hail, have been married for more than 55 years. They recalled simpler times gone by, when the region’s harsh conditions meant that people opted for simple but hearty Ramadan dishes.

“Iftar during Ramadan was usually simple,” said Um-Khalid. “We’d break our fast over Arabic coffee and dates that we would buy in Buraidah, which is known for the best types to this day. We would then either eat a good, hefty meal after Taraweeh prayers or before, depending on my husband’s liking.”

“I always had a sweet tooth,” said Abu-Khalid. “I like having hanini, which is a mix of dates, wheat flour, ghee and sugar. Sugar was a commodity in those days and we rarely had any but Um-Khalid would use it specially for me during Ramadan.”

“He still loves hanini to this day,” adds Um-Khalid. “For large gatherings, thareed was the dish that you’d always find on our table. We made thareed when had a good collection of vegetables, and it’s based on small pieces of lamb cooked with zucchini, carrot and potatoes, placed on thin bread.”

Um-Majid comes from the lush, green, mountainous region of Rijal Almaa in the southern province of Asir region.

“We grew up tending to our sheep and crops from an early age, so it was more tiring during the days of Ramadan,” she said.

“My mother would wake up early in the morning to tend to our iftar meal. Khubz, which is your typical bread made with wheat flour, was made fresh everyday alongside our aseeda. It was a two-person task, where my mother cooked pitted dates in a deep pan filled with water and mixed in with wheat flour on a low heat for at least at hour. The mix thickens and when it resembled a gooey dough, it would be served with ghee and sometimes honey. It was a hearty meal, which she said would keep our bones strong and healthy for our daily tasks.

“Our Arabic coffee was slightly different from other regions. It’s slightly bitter because we infuse it with crushed cloves for a stronger flavor.”

Makkah and Madinah are historically significant cities in Islam. Um-Ghassan remembers traveling between them, as her father was a merchant.

“The house was always busy,” she said. “Growing up in a family of nine children, the boys would tend to my father’s store while we girls stayed with our mother.

“The majlis was always in tip-top shape — or ‘metabtab’ as my mother would say. Zamzam water in a clay jug was always infused with incense from Mastik gum, with silver tu-tu cups too.

“My sisters and I helped my mother prepare our favorite Ramadan dishes, always after Dhuhr prayers. We made buff samboosa (samosa), foul (made fava beans) and grain soup, and there was always subya juice, which my father made himself,” she added.

“Subya was made by immersing in water cut, dry loaves of wheat bread, sugar, cardamom, cinnamon and yeast and letting it sit overnight. Since we didn’t have a modern fridge, it was made daily. My mother said it replenished our bodies so we wouldn’t be thirsty the next day.

“The table was always ready when the men came back from breaking their fast in the Holy Mosque. There’s not much difference on today’s table — except for maybe chicken nuggets, of course.”

Um-Lama recalled her grandmother’s tales about Ramadan, when their tribal caravan traveled around Al-Ahsa region in the east, long before King Abdul Aziz reunified the land.

“I learned the best desert dish from my grandmother,” she said. “She remembered Ramadan as a young child to be in the cold winter months and they’d always have a sweet dish called al-safseef ready. It contained a lot of small razeez dates from local farms, with date syrup or honey, a bit of ginger powder, and sweet cumin brought in from abroad. Nowadays, we add almonds for decoration.”

Talal Derki: ‘I’m not a part of this, but I have to understand’

Updated 22 February 2019

Talal Derki: ‘I’m not a part of this, but I have to understand’

  • Why the Syrian filmmaker risked his life for his Oscar-nominated documentary ‘Of Fathers and Sons’

DUBAI: Of all the achievements of Arab filmmakers in recent times, Talal Derki’s “Of Fathers and Sons” may be the most stunning. The only non-American film nominated for Best Documentary at the 91st Academy Awards, which take place this Sunday, “Of Fathers and Sons” is the kind of film one might imagine making, but never believe could actually be made. It’s a story that Derki risked his life to tell.

For two and a half years, the Syrian filmmaker lived in northern Syria with Abu Osama, a member of the Al-Nusra Front (also known as Al-Qaeda in the Levant), and his family. There, he pretended to be sympathetic to their cause so that he could film them in an attempt to learn, first-hand, how young men become radicalized. Focusing on a father and his sons, the film lays bare in terrifying detail how young boys with kindness in their hearts find themselves in an Al-Qaeda training camp at a tender young age, all to gain the approval of their beloved patriarch.

“The idea started with my previous film,” Derki tells Arab News. “After the siege of Homs in my last film, ‘Return to Homs,’ after all the massacres, a lot of people on the ground moved to be more radical. It’s a war, but I started wondering how this movement managed to brainwash and bring all these people (over) to their side, and how they gained their trust. I saw a lot of kids with their fathers involved in fights. All these things put questions in my mind. I’m not a part of this, but I also have to understand.”

Derki didn’t want to make a film about the Syrian war or about violence. He wanted to examine life behind closed doors, focusing on the generation of young Syrian men raised in wartime. To do so, he had to go deep undercover.

After starting research for the film at the end of 2013, Derki used many ‘fixers’ to help him work his way into this close-knit community, gain people’s trust, and identify his subjects. He settled on Abu Osama and his sons. He convinced them that he was on their side, and was given intimate access to their lives in return — all the time aware that he could not let them know what kind of film he was actually making.

“Abu Osama wasn’t well known. He’s not the leader. What attracted me to him is how strongly he believed in what he was doing, in the ideology. When you look at him, he looks like a normal father, a lovely father,” says Derki. “This paradox between these two faces — between a lovely father and the father who is ready to sacrifice his kids in order to (realize) his ideology — this is part of my cinematic vision. If I went to a regular cliché jihadist, people would not watch the film. People would leave the cinema after five minutes, believe me.”

Though Derki managed to gain the trust of the family and the Al-Nusra Front, he was always conscious that no matter how friendly they were with him, he was never really creating a true connection with anyone he was filming. And he was powerless to create positive change while he was there.

“I was undercover as a sympathizer,” he says. “This is how they know me. I couldn’t be more than an observer. Sometimes, if I could, I would act as a merciful guy with the kids so they would not get punishment. I played that role. But in a big-topic issue, you couldn’t do anything but make your own film out of this chaos.

“I was connected to them only as a filmmaker, because, at the end of the day, if they knew I had a different purpose than what they thought, I would lose my life,” he continues. “When I had a good moment to film, I was satisfied and happy. As time passed, I had to accept all these things — all these ideas, all this behavior — without any (question). My mission there was to make a film.”

“Of Fathers and Sons” is purely observational. Derki keeps himself out of the story as much as possible, zooming in on a father and his son in everyday moments, in order to see how they interact, the love and trust they build, and the ways that a son’s dedication to his father is twisted to dark ends.

“The knowledge I got from this experience is about the roots of violence — the circle of violence — and the eternal relationship between the dictatorial father and his son; the masculine power that destroys our society,” Derki explains. “All of these things gave me more understanding that it all starts from childhood. Why does someone like me decide not to carry a weapon? If you grow up in a society in which your father, your teacher, are harming you, and punishing you by hitting you, and you’re used to receiving violence, then when you grow up you are very capable of carrying weapons and killing someone for any idea you start to believe in.”

By the second half of the film, the eldest son of Abu Osama is participating in an Al-Qaeda training camp. In one harrowing scene, the young boys are told to lie still on the ground while bullets are shot next to their heads and feet in order to teach them to lose their fear. Even now, years on from filming, Derki thinks about Abu Osama’s young children, hoping they can escape from the fate that already killed their father, who Derki says died at the end of 2018.

“Emotionally, I feel sad for the kids. They are still around 12 years old, it’s still possible to take them out of this and start a new life. Even in the moment when I was there, it was still possible,” he says. “They appreciate life. (But) in this ideology, they appreciate death. Death is their request — not life. Not humanity.”

Derki is speaking to Arab News from Los Angeles, ahead of Sunday’s Oscars ceremony. While there, Derki has had the chance to celebrate with the other Arab nominees, Egyptian-American actor Rami Malek and Lebanese filmmaker Nadine Labaki.

“It was great to meet them and to have some conversation — to be three nominees from the Arab world at the biggest global celebration. It’s very intense,” he says. “I hope that, in the upcoming year, this will bring more success for Arab filmmakers.

“Nadine said she liked it so much. And I liked her film,” Derki continues. “I really want to work with Rami in the future, he’s a very talented actor.”

Whatever happens at the Oscars, Derki hopes the attention his film has received will ultimately be a force for good in the Arab world.

“It’s about how we can protect the new generation in the other Muslim countries,” he explains. “What can we do to build a generation without violence, to focus more on life, love, and communicating with other cultures, instead of building walls around us?”