Walking through a British supermarket aisle, I suddenly froze in my tracks. Before me stretched an entire shelf filled with wild, colorful variations of hummus. There was green hummus with avocado, brown hummus with chocolate, red hummus with harissa, even Marmite hummus and truffle hummus. The endless display left me deeply unsettled and genuinely shaken, an emotional reaction that caught me completely off guard.
A Cultural Staple Transformed
I immediately called my mother in Jordan, who proudly claims to make the world's best hummus. Hearing her voice, I began sobbing uncontrollably. She heard my sniffles and, in her typical tough-love manner, asked if I'd caught a cold from the British weather. "Yes, Mama," I mumbled. "Just a cold." I couldn't bring myself to verbalize my shock and disgust because I lacked the vocabulary to describe what I was experiencing.
Now I have the words. My mind couldn't comprehend that my culture—embodied in hummus—was being culturally appropriated. The realization makes me physically sick.
Roots in Displacement and Tradition
I grew up in Jordan, though my family originally comes from Palestine. Before my birth, they were forced to flee in 1948, becoming refugees. Despite this displacement, I enjoyed a happy childhood with my parents and older sister. Throughout those years, hummus remained a constant staple in our lives.
Every Friday, we observed a family breakfast ritual where my mother would make hummus from scratch. We'd gather around the table, sharing this dish that represented so much more than food. When I turned eighteen and started driving, I'd bring home plates from various "hummuseries"—specialty shops dedicated to this beloved dish. With loud music playing and windows down, having a warm hummus plate on the passenger seat felt profoundly comforting.
My mother would critique every version, comparing them to her own. I always agreed—hers was truly the best.
A Cultural Awakening in Britain
Everything changed when I moved to the United Kingdom in 2013 to pursue a Master's Degree in Renewable Energy. In British supermarkets, I encountered countless "fusion" hummus varieties—many containing no chickpeas whatsoever. This was particularly jarring because the word "hummus" literally means chickpea in Arabic. Without chickpeas, it's simply a dip, not hummus.
Culinary innovation can be wonderful, but what often appears as fusion frequently becomes confusion—or worse, cultural erasure. I learned this lesson almost by accident during Halloween in 2014, when a friend mentioned being criticized for wearing a Native American costume. She explained it was considered cultural appropriation.
Initially confused, I asked if cultural appropriation wasn't actually appreciation of another culture. She shook her head and clarified: "Cultural appropriation occurs when members of one culture—typically a dominant one—adopt elements of another culture without permission, understanding, or respect for its significance and history. There's usually a power imbalance involved, often leading to misrepresentation."
The Moment of Realization
That explanation made everything click. My shock in the supermarket aisle stemmed from witnessing what had become of my culture, my hummus. To me, hummus represents more than just a recipe—it's an identity rooted in the Levant region, long before modern political borders were established.
Once I understood how far hummus had drifted from its origins, I asked a Lebanese-Palestinian friend for his mother's legendary recipe. Having always relied on local sources in Jordan, I'd never needed to make hummus myself before. My friend generously shared the recipe, and through practice, I eventually perfected it.
Becoming the "Hummus Guy"
Now I actively share authentic hummus with everyone I meet in Brighton, where I currently live. Café baristas, flower shop owners, food critics, and fellow amateur theater actors have all sampled my creation. They listen attentively as I explain hummus's history, its personal significance, and what it means to my family.
I've even prepared large pots of hummus to bring to pro-Palestine marches. When people ask about my secret ingredient, I smile and reply, "Palestinian love." This dedication has earned me the nickname "Hummus Guy," which I've embraced along with my mission to spread authentic hummus worldwide.
The Sacred Nature of Cultural Food
Hummus appears on every Levantine breakfast table, telling stories across generations. When commercialized without context or acknowledgment of origin, something sacred disappears. It feels as though hummus has been colonized, butchered, and brutalized—even the pronunciation of the word itself sounds foreign and disconnected.
These fusion variations aren't inherently evil; they're simply mislabeled and misleading. If it's a beetroot dip, it should be called a beetroot dip. When cultural heritage gets repackaged and resold—especially while communities connected to that heritage continue struggling—it becomes insulting. This isn't just about hummus; it's about history, belonging, and pride.
A Personal Mission for Cultural Preservation
If I can protect this small piece of culture, I will. Ultimately, I want supermarkets to honor authentic ingredients and traditional hummus recipes. The cultural appropriation must stop. I can ensure people understand where hummus truly comes from, and that understanding matters profoundly—to me and to my community.
So yes, I'm on a dedicated mission. I'm here to free the hummus, to reclaim its cultural significance, and to share its authentic story with the world. This journey has transformed from personal shock to purposeful advocacy, all sparked by that fateful supermarket encounter with fusion hummus varieties that felt so disconnected from their cultural roots.
