Why I Sometimes Pretend to Hate Cooking

Do I really hate cooking ? Of course not. Why would anyone despise the mechanism that puts perfectly wrapped and aligned grape leaves (if you don't know what I am talking about then you are missing out on a lot) and shinning baklava squares on his or her plate ?

Grape Leaves 

Baklava 

Ever since I was a kid, my only concern has been to hammer down all the family recipes before I leave to college, and so far my record stands at 0. It's not that I don't enjoy cooking, but every time I go into the kitchen I feel like I'm submitting to the enemy. In the Smoke Signal, Victor explains to Thomas the Native American stereotype of looking stoic and mean; as an equivalent, stereotypical Middle Eastern girls have excellent culinary skills. However, in Middle Eastern societies, it is more of a prerequisite for girls to be successful in life - or just in marriage because that pretty much equates to success in the Middle East- than just a stereotype. Most of the time, when a girl cooks, it is not to fulfill her creative cravings nor to express herself through cooking, but it's mainly for her "man". So that when he comes home from work or when he wants to invite his buddies over, he'll have someone to cook for him. Cooking has become a way to confine women in the same way Stanton felt that women were oppressed by the laws, "He has compelled her to submit to laws, in the formation of which she had no voice". Cooking becomes an instrument to subjugate women, to place them in a kitchen - whether they like it or not- and make them feel it's their duty to feed their grown-up husbands. That's why I hate cooking; not because I don't like cleaning up ( although I have to admit, it's not my favorite part) or I don't like munching down grape leaves at a rate of 52 per minute, it's that society - mostly men and potential future obnoxious mother-in-laws- is judging me not based on my character but based on how well I can satisfy its food cravings.

The Final Farewell

I don't recall saying goodbye. That second to last night I had a sleepover with all my cousins, and we stayed up all night, and the next day we all had traditional Syrian breakfast together. When I had to leave and visit my grandma, they barely acknowledged me. I glimpsed at their faces and shrugged not knowing it would be three more years until I see them again.

At a random instant that day it's likely that I heard the first artillery shelling sounds - I simply don't remember- but all I know is that by the time I went to bed I was awake with wide open eyes mistaking the air conditioner sound for a military chopper. Close to ten the next morning, I tried to fit thirteen years into two suitcases; I finished packing and looked around my room, and I recognized all things that couldn't fit: my friends, my memories, my family, my home, my school, my childhood, my language, and most dear to my heart, my country. I went to the living room and tried to act nonchalantly, but I was secretly praying that this house will be left standing for my children to see. For some reason, a sting in my heart, I knew my prayers wouldn't help. I glanced around the house one last time, put my pajamas on my bed, grabbed my suitcases and got in the car, and went far far away from home.

The day was sunny, I traveled past an empty street with foreign sounds, past my childhood and across the border, and then to Troy, where I found peace, but I haven't been home again. I changed, but it has only made me more nostalgic. I was selfish. I abandoned my country.

Damascus, Syria