Znood el sit is a Middle Eastern dessert delightfully named after the plump “custardy” part of a woman’s upper arm. As I bite into it, crisp pastry gives way to a luxurious, yet somehow light, custard filling. It is dusted with crushed pistachios and smells like roses. I devour it in two bites. I don’t mind if it goes straight to the wobbly parts of my arms.
When I was asked by Forty South to start a column about multicultural Tasmania, it made sense to begin with something as universal as food. We’ve all experienced how comfort foods can trigger nostalgia. When we share what we eat, we share our stories, struggles and memories.
For many migrants, food becomes an important and enduring connection to their homeland. My own mother migrated from Singapore to Australia before I was born. Throughout my childhood she cooked for me the dishes of her childhood: laksa, Malay chicken curry, char kway teow (flat rice noodles), and curry puffs. Food was our everyday connection to Singapore.
I imagine the role that food plays in fostering a sense of home must be even more vital for those forced to flee their homeland due to war or political upheaval. It was with this in mind that I visited the Kitchen at the Migrant Resource Centre Tasmania in Glenorchy to speak to some of the refugees who work there about their food, and their stories.
The Kitchen is a social enterprise project that provides workplace experience, training and employment for people from migrant and refugee backgrounds. It is open to the public for lunch from Wednesday to Friday with a menu that changes according to the background of current staff and the fresh produce donated by Government House. Megan Quill, the food manager, tells me that the previous week there were boxes of kale, cabbages and cauliflower covering the large dining table at the centre of the cafe.
Megan Quill formerly ran Tricycle Cafe at Salamanca Arts Centre. Although the Kitchen was set up to train migrants and refugees, it’s a place of mutual learning. “We are doing work experience here, orientation in an Australian kitchen, but we are all getting taught about each other’s food. I do cook things, but people don’t want my food – they want Abebea’s food and Huweida’s food!”
The menu has recently featured dishes like Eritrean injera (fermented flat bread) served with potato and silverbeet; alicha (an Ethiopian stew), shishbarak (meat and onion dumplings in a yoghurt, garlic and coriander sauce), and halewat el jibn (chilled mozzarella dough filled with custard, drizzled with sugar syrup, and topped with rose petal jam).
When I arrive at the Kitchen, Abebea Behraki is finishing off a spicy pumpkin dish that is part of today’s menu. Abebea is a refugee from Eritrea. She grew up in a village and started cooking around the age of 13. Her mother worked on a farm, and as the eldest daughter Abebea cooked for the family: “Small dishes, maybe breakfast, maybe dinner, [we had] no fridge, no anything.”
In the mid-1980s, around the age of 16, Abebea fled to Sudan. Eritrea was embroiled in a 30-year war, a struggle for independence from Ethiopia. Abebea lived in Sudan for almost 30 years, where she was married and gave birth to a son. She tells me that life in Sudan was, “very hard, very hard”. Her tone conveys everything. Sudan is a country with a long history of political upheaval and genocide; I don’t question her any further. Eventually Abebea’s family applied for asylum through the UN, and waited 10 years for a visa for Australia.
When Abebea arrived in Tasmania in 2017, she spoke Tigrinya and Arabic but very little English, “only ABCD”. She had never used a computer. She threw herself into studying English at TasTAFE, “writing, writing, writing, and helping my son at home”. Afterwards she stayed on at TasTAFE to complete a hospitality course. “In Tasmania we have opportunities,” she says, “When I came to Australia, I came to Tasmania and never [left]. My family is very happy in Tasmania. The people are good, and [there is] safety. The weather is very cold, but I like it! I like Tasmania!”
Her joy is infectious.
In late 2019, Abebea began a work placement at the Kitchen to practice her English and gain work experience. She is now an employee. “Spicy, chilli, injera, anything Eritrean style, I cook it. I love to cook,” she says. On the cafe wall is a small poster about Abebea. It says she would like to open a small business cooking Eritrean food.
I ask her about this dream and she says, “Maybe in the future. I love sharing food. I love sharing my country with other people. I am happy.”
Abebea shows me the Eritrean injera (flatbread) she has prepared, and a big tub of injera starter which contains teff, sorghum, self-raising flour and fenugreek. It bubbles when left to ferment, giving the bread its distinctive texture. Injera is normally eaten with the hands and Abebea laughs as she tells me that some Australians eat it with a knife and fork.
When I ask about Tasmania’s Eritrean community, Abebea tells me they sometimes get together for a meal or coffee at home. In both Eritrean and Ethiopian culture, preparing and drinking coffee is an important ritual. Every day Abebea dons a beautiful dress and roasts coffee beans on a small butane stove at home. The freshly roasted beans are taken around the room for family and friends to smell before being ground and made into coffee. Some of that sense of ceremony has made its way to the Kitchen where Abebea roasts green coffee beans over the stove. She serves me a small cup of dark and aromatic coffee to which she has added some ground ginger.
Meanwhile Huweida Nader has just pulled a warm tray of pastries out of the oven. Huweida is a refugee from Syria. The first time she remembers cooking was as a teenager when her mother was out of the house. She dipped a banana in flour and vanilla, and fried it in oil.
About four years ago, in the midst of the ongoing Syrian civil war, Huweida fled to neighbouring Iraq with her husband and two adult sons. Her family spent two years waiting for a visa in Erbil before making it to Australia. “I like Tasmania. I never leave Tasmania,” she says. “Maybe to visit Melbourne or Sydney, but I stay here.” She places her hands firmly on the table for emphasis.
“In Syria I spoke French and Arabic, French helped me with my English,” says Huweida, who also studied English at TasTAFE. Her love of cooking led her to a work placement, and eventually employment, at the Kitchen. She particularly enjoys making Syrian sweets. “My mother taught me how to make many sweets.” One of her favourite things to make is ma’amoul, which is semolina shortbread filled with walnuts and drenched in icing sugar. When I visit she is in the process of preparing it for the next day.
The glass-fronted display case at the Kitchen is filled with other desserts Huweida has made, including znood el sit (the custard pastries named after a woman’s upper arm that I drooled about earlier) and seewa (buttery biscuits filled with sweet date paste). The top of the biscuits is imprinted with a pattern of lines and circles. Huweida makes seewa using a mould that belonged to her mother and which she brought all the way from Syria. “It is my dream to open a bakery,” she tells me.
Tasmania will be very lucky if she realises her dream.
. . .
While I’m visiting the Kitchen, a customer tells me she’s driven “all the way from Howrah” to try Abebea’s injera. Two elderly women settle in for morning tea. A mother comes by for lunch with her toddler. A couple of 20-somethings pop in for a coffee. As a result of Covid-19, the Kitchen has had fewer opportunities to cater for events. Instead it has been busy providing $2 meals for seniors, and donating boxes of food staples to migrants, refugees and temporary visa holders who have lost work due to Covid.
Before I leave, I gobble down a plate of falafels Abebea has just fried; crispy on the outside, velvety on the inside. I can’t resist the sweets stacked high in the glass display so I buy several to take home including polo, a deep-fried coconut cake from Ghana made by one of the kitchen’s work experience participants.
I’m already plotting to go back to work my way through the entire menu.
During my brief visit to the Kitchen I’ve learned about Eritrean coffee ceremonies, desserts named after parts of a woman’s body and a biscuit mould that was carried from Syria to Iraq. And I have learned something about Tasmania, how it is home to some and haven to others. The Kitchen, a warm and inviting hub for its diverse clientele, is an important part of that haven.
Megan Quill tells me that working at the Kitchen is the best job she has ever had. It is easy to see how that might be the case – the delight and generosity with which Abebea and Huweida share their cooking with the Tasmanian community is irresistible. As I step outside into a gusty spring day, I see Tasmania from a new perspective, the way Abebea and Huweida see it: a safe place.
The Migrant Resource Centre Tasmania Kitchen is located at the KGV Sports and Community Centre, Level G, 1A Anfield St, Glenorchy. It is open for lunch Wednesday to Friday 11am to 2.30pm, and can provide catering for private parties and events.
Stephanie Jack is an Australian Singaporean actor and writer. She has lived in six countries and on board a yacht. She is a graduate of Harvard’s American Repertory Theater Institute, and the creator of 'Mixed Up', a YouTube series exploring mixed race identity. Her artistic work is propelled by a keen desire to bridge cultural divides. Having returned to Tasmania during Covid-19, Stephanie is finding island life immensely rewarding. More about her can be found at www.stephanie-jack.com.
