This matter of conscience was passed on to me by my grandmother and father. It must be the most lasting legacy. If it had been a house or household possessions, they could have been sold; if it had been money, it would have been spent. Since my grandmother’s and father’s search had yielded no results, what could I do except make at least some halva for him?
There is no longer any possibility that my uncle Mardik is alive. Even if he survived those hellish days, he must have died of old age by now. Since the date of his death is unknown, each time I make halva, I say an Our Father for my uncle Mardik.
My kitchen is always stocked with semolina, powdered sugar, butter, and pine nuts. Sometimes I make semolina halva in memory of great-grandparents I never met, a relative who died years ago, or a loved one we buried that very week. In truth, halva is an excuse to go into the kitchen once more and remember those I love and miss—those whose deaths I still cannot accept.
(...)
Eat the halva as you like, warm or cold. Whether you make it for your grandmother or grandfather, I ask you not to forget my uncle Mardik, too. Then perhaps my grandmother Takuhi’s conscience—and her broken bones—will find peace.
In a chapter of her book “May Your Table Be Filled with Joy,” Takuhi Tovmasyan writes about halva. She recounts how her family searched for Mardik for years and how the pain of his absence was passed from one generation to the next, like an inheritance. The legacy she inherited from her family was not only moral; it also shaped the spices and other ingredients in her kitchen. In the chapter on halva, Tovmasyan conveys this pain across generations through the halva she made for Mardik, writing, “Even if he survived, he must be dead by now.” When we read this chapter, we too made halva for our relatives Aunt Haramsin and Uncle Samuel, saying, “There is no longer any possibility that they are alive.” Like many communities in Turkey, we Armenians also make halva in memory of our deceased and share it with neighbors, friends, and relatives, praying for their souls. For us, preparing and sharing food is part of mourning; it is a way of sharing the grief of losing a loved one. Depending on their means, the family prepares a meal at which the deceased is remembered and prayers are said for their soul. In the interviews we conducted for Panavor, we saw that dishes prepared for occasions such as funerals, weddings, and births—and the methods and spices used to make them—vary according to where people were born, live, or have settled. For example, while living in Syria, Roza Tantik could easily set up a grill and cook a variety of dishes on it. After her family had to move to Yerevan because of the Syrian Civil War, she could no longer continue this practice. Their new apartment had no balcony, so for a time she could not set up a grill; this was very difficult for her. When they later moved to an apartment with a balcony in Yerevan, the first thing she did was set up the grill and cook various kebabs. During our visit, Roza Tantik fired up her beloved grill for us and cooked a variety of delicious dishes, including eggplant kebab.
Roza Tantik’s preference for an apartment with a balcony reflects a broader pattern we noticed in our narrators’ stories: moving between continents, countries, and even cities can significantly change people’s cooking and eating habits. These changes, in turn, can play an important role in shaping their identities. In his book “A Walk in Istanbul Neighborhoods,” Hagop Baronyan describes how a neighborhood’s atmosphere influences people’s political conduct and eating habits. Writing about Istanbul’s 34 neighborhoods in the second half of the nineteenth century, he portrays each as distinct and notes that a neighborhood’s atmosphere affects what its residents eat and drink. For example, according to Baronyan, there are striking parallels between the atmosphere of Samatya and the habit of drinking raki in Samatya. In fact, he begins the section that describes Samatya with the following words: "Those who don't drink raki should leave... They have no right to enter this neighborhood."
During the interviews, we observed not only differences but also intersections among people from various regions. The most striking of these intersections was the effort of everyone we visited to host us in the best way possible. Robin Fox describes gathering around a table, preparing food, and sharing a meal as social impulses. He writes, "Food is also a moment for altruism to be expressed through sharing, distributing, and giving, whether from parents to children, from children to in-laws, or to guests and strangers," and defines sharing a meal as a way of expressing love. We repeatedly experienced what Fox describes during our visits to different cities for Panavor. The grill Roza Tantik had set up for us in Yerevan was set up again several times in Vakıflı Village. Another but similar example to our experiences in Vakıflı Village and Yerevan took place in Istanbul, while we were hosted by Yıldız Kuyrik. Yıldız Kuyrik, who was born in Kayseri, prepared dozens of kinds of mantı for us without tiring, cooked them all, and sang beautifully as she worked. We can name only a few here, but almost all our interviewees prepared and served dishes requiring considerable physical effort, such as borani, tıttu, madzunov kofte, Mayis dolma, and topik.
Since beginning our interviews for Panavor in November 2022, we have had the opportunity to sit at many different tables. At each one, our interviewees shared not only delicious dishes but also intimate stories from their lives. Even in Istanbul, where many of our interviewees had lived for a long time, the spices used in their cooking varied according to where their families had come from. Their efforts, even decades later, to remain faithful to the dishes and spices of their ancestors cannot be explained by personal taste alone. We believe the dishes served at these tables reflect not only individual preferences but also the cultures people are trying to preserve as their heritage. This heritage involves not only knowing a recipe or a particular way of preparing a dish, but also passing that culture on to the next generation. During our fieldwork in Vakıflı, the last Armenian village in the Musa Ler region, nearly everyone we interviewed spoke about the importance of herisa and what it represents. At the time of our fieldwork, 107 years after the Musa Ler resistance, we saw that each August people brought out seven pots to represent the villages that existed before 1915 and to commemorate their ancestors’ struggle for survival. Misak Ahparig describes the tradition this way:
“But the main event in our village, you could say, is when they prepare herisa for the Feast of the Assumption of the Holy Mother of God. This is very important for the people of Musa Ler. This is not Musa Ler, but you are now standing on Musa Ler’s foundation, in Vakıflı Village. The people of Musa Ler have spread across the world—to Armenia, Anjar, Paris, and various cities in America—and herisa remains an ancient, foundational dish for them.”
Based on our interviews, we can say that culinary culture and eating habits passed down from generation to generation have a social dimension as well as a personal one. People who grow up within a particular culinary culture are influenced by the dishes prepared for special occasions—such as baptisms, Easter, Christmas, and the Feast of the Assumption—and by the rituals performed while preparing them. These practices play an important role in shaping identity and can become significant milestones in people’s lives. Examples include Roza Tantik’s wish to cook traditional Urfa dishes on a grill, Yıldız Kuyrik’s preparation of many kinds of mantı as a way of preserving Kayseri’s culinary culture, and the Armenians of Vakıflı’s decades-long continuation of inherited traditions and rituals. Natalia Fedorczak likewise argues that food and culture are closely intertwined: each dish connects to a community’s history, stories, and deeply personal cultural experiences. She sees food as a crucial part of personal identity and of one’s connection to a culture. As Fedorczak suggests, culinary culture offers ways to share grief and express love, while shaping relationships and identity. Our tastes—and the memories and meanings that dishes evoke—are closely tied to the families in which we grew up, the places where we live, and the cultures of which we are part.