Mouneh-Making in Times of War

On an early September morning, a precarious calm reigns over Hebbariyeh, a southern Lebanese village that lies on the southwest foot of Mount Hermon, a mountain range that straddles Lebanon, Syria and occupied Palestine. It’s a region known for its olive orchards, and its fig, pine and oak trees.

Montaha is preparing makdous from her pink, ground-floor house. It’s a traditional Levantine preserve made of tender, small-sized eggplants. It’s their season. She does this work while keeping all the doors and windows open. It prevents them from shattering, she says. Israel has been frequently bombarding her village.

The war has affected her ability to sell her products, which have been the source of her livelihood since her late husband fell ill. It allows her to support herself and her family while maintaining her autonomy.

As she stuffs the makdous with red pepper, chili, walnuts, and garlic, her eyes hold back unshed tears. Behind her on the shelf, next to jars of makdous submerged in olive oil among many other hand-made preserves, sits a photograph of a young man. It’s Farouk, her twenty-year old son, a paramedic who Israel killed earlier in March.

She tells me that Farouk used to help her distill the rose water – a slow and long process that requires rotating shifts. She’d work during the day, and he would take over during the evenings. Now, she is alone. He only pays her visits in her dreams.

Mouneh preparations – the craft of preserving our lands’ generous offerings in jars: from eggplants and other legumes, to fruits, grains, dairy and many other produce—demands hard work and plenty of patience. It is an antidote to today’s unsustainable, fast-paced world that seeks instant gratification and immediate results.

“We work during summers to save for winters; this is the life of a farmer” she says. During spring, summer and autumn, in- season, abundant produce is preserved for later use, ensuring there is access to enough food to withstand winters.

This practice, which can be traced back to the time when humans transitioned from hunting and gathering to farming, was a radical leap forward in human progress. A nomadic way of life was lost to the emergence of sedentary agrarian communities: early farmers permanently settled in one place, learned to plant, grow and harvest crops by observing nature and aligning themselves with its cycles.

When enough food began to be cultivated for immediate consumption, storing the surplus became possible, and this protected people from the scarcity that would mainly result from seasonal changes, as well as other uncertainties such as wars.

Hasna, or ‘Umm Rabih’ as she refers to herself, which translates into ‘Mother of Rabih’, a name that means ‘Spring’ in reference to her eldest son, works on her mouneh from April through November. She learned it from her mother.

Her house in Chebaa, which is less than 10 km from Hebbariyeh, sits right on the border between Lebanon and occupied Palestine. She can see the Israeli radar site on top of a hill overlooking her window while she uses her hands to roll thick and creamy yogurt into smooth balls that she will soak in jars of olive oil, commonly referred to as labne mkaazale, with the support of her neighbor Aisha, and two other women.

We are more than neighbors, we are sisters”, she tells me, emphasizing the value of kinship and community. ‘’It is very precious to see you here,” she adds. This is our first encounter after I contacted her two days earlier for an interview. She continues, “Here, we are used to each other, but this year, we couldn’t unite with our relatives and loved ones … now we can rarely leave the house because of the bombing.

Her neighbor tried to get to his land to check on his crops, she says, but due to Israel’s persistent shelling, he was forced to leave. Now, he can no longer access it, and the season was inevitably lost. Shrapnel from a nearby Israeli attack also struck her home while she was working on her mouneh. “We got scared”, she continues, “but we kept on working. We have commitments with the shepherds we buy goat milk from”.

These collective ties, agricultural practices, and all the knowledge surrounding mouneh-making, were born of the Levantine people’s interrelationship with the land: the resources, ecosystems, and the millennia-old accumulation of observations and experiences that stemmed from it.

It is believed that the world’s first attempts at farming, and ensuing practices of preserving food, originated right here, in the Levant, on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean. This region is known for its fertility and its four distinct seasons, spanning across present-day Lebanon, Palestine, Syria, Iraq and Jordan. In this specific geography, our ancestors’ interaction with their natural environment gave rise to a distinguished society with a system of agricultural and ecological knowledge that evolved over the course of thousands of years, passed down and shaped by various civilizations.

“Our ancestors were farmers and they prepared mouneh that would last a whole year. They didn’t have refrigerators back then”, says Naima from Houla, a village situated in the southern Bint Jbeil district, further West, where a couple of natural reserves have been established. Houla has been relentlessly subjected to Israeli strikes, forcing its inhabitants to temporarily relocate. Naima left Houla for Chakra, where she is now staying with her relatives. Since then, her home was completely destroyed.

The atmosphere of war in that part of the South is more intense than in Hebbariyeh and Chebaa. The sounds of surrounding bombardments are loud and heavy. Naima picks up on my unease. She stares at me and tells me there is nothing to worry about, mocking the fact that 60 missiles flew over her head last time while she was drying burghul (cracked wheat) on the rooftop of her temporary home. She will use some of it to make keshek, a fermented dairy preserve made of burghul and yogurt, especially suitable to be eaten during cold winter weather. “We need to work to eat. We don’t want to have to rely on anyone to feed us”, she tells me. After a shared moment of silence, she continues, “What, are we stronger than the Palestinians? There are no people as powerful as them”.

Naima asks me not to take too long before visiting again, and that she will be preparing kebbet adas next time we meet. It’s a dish made of lentils and burghul.