Harvesting the homeland: How the Syrian bulgur season used to bring joy to villagers

Love is also in the air. The village's young men and women exchange glances and court one another.

Children revel in this atmosphere, too, playing the role of eager messengers, flitting around the grand cauldron where the sturdy wheat grains are boiled after being cleaned on the edge of the well.

A beloved ritual

From the village well, the women draw water.

They nestle the wheat in soaked sieves and begin a meticulous cleansing process in a vast stone basin. This isn't mere washing; it's a sacred rinse-and-repeat ritual, until each grain gleams with pristine purity.

Eligible young women (and prospective brides) happily work alongside the village's young men and immerse themselves in this age-old rite. Meanwhile, watchful grandmothers preside over the process in silence, seated near the well while trading knowing looks.

Children eagerly await the arrival of the man responsible for wheat-boiling duties. When he approaches, he's accompanied by a donkey bearing the grand cauldron. He sets it up near the spot where the steaming bulgur will later cool. (Or, sometimes, closer to the well itself.)

His movements give away his years of experience.

He gracefully walks around the cauldron, assisted by robust men who help him ensure it lands steadily on the solid stones. Amidst the relentless summer heat, a fire is kindled, and we watch in breathless anticipation as the water begins to simmer, patiently awaiting the ripening of the wheat grains.

Guardian angels

Stories are told of men who once stirred boiling waters with their bare arms. They earned a reputation that borders on saintly, as many believed God's grace turned the scalding torrents into tranquil streams against their naked skin.

Among these men were my mother's uncles, who, through her storytelling, brought our family's legends to life. Many times, she would ask my uncles to bless our provisions and meals. As a young kid, I was totally captivated, eager for every tidbit of information I could get about these men who embodied holiness.

In my eyes, they were guardian angels. Wise and dignified.

Once, I said, "Uncle, I can hardly believe that you stirred that cauldron with your bare arms!" He cast a gentle, protective gaze my way, aware of my innocence, or maybe my naiveté.

He could have also been a bit scared of my grandmother, who was the bearer of the family's religious heritage and loved her grandchildren deeply. She fiercely defended us whenever we ventured too far.

Still, deep inside, I deeply admired these men who performed extraordinary feats for their loved ones.

Later, as I got to know them better, they bashfully shared their own sad tales of times gone by. They spoke of women who were neglected and destitute. They recalled elderly women who needed superhuman help. The kind that went beyond stirring bulgur with their bare arms or the lifting of heavy sacks of wheat.

I often try to resurrect the past lives of these remarkable men and women and their daily rituals in the secluded village of Marimeen.

Marimeen was once so far removed from the rest of the world, accessible only via a five-kilometre dirt road. We would traverse it even in the middle of storms, along with the treacherous path from Afrin to Aleppo.

In the winters, getting there became nothing short of a miracle – you had to fight against the unrelenting deluge and wet, squelching grounds to survive.

Goodbye, baby teeth

The fire gradually dims at the cauldron, leaving the simmering wheat to sing. The slender keeper covers it with clean burlap sacks, waiting for it to ripen over the gentle embers.

Utensils are gathered, and young women carry the boiled wheat on their heads up to the roof, where young men eagerly await them to accept the trays. Up there, they spread the bulgur.

After saying farewell to the fire, excited children form a queue, each holding a plate and waiting for their share of freshly boiled wheat. It's sweetened to perfection – the flavours still linger on my taste buds today.

The youngest children, still transitioning from baby teeth to permanent ones, have their own traditions.

Hoisted on their mothers' shoulders, they clutch their teeth, look toward the sun, and throw them in the air. "Take this donkey's tooth, and give me the grace of a deer's!" they joyfully howl, as onlookers cheer them on.

Afterwards, they savour the sugared wheat, surrounded by heartfelt wishes for a long and joyous life.

Love and heartbreak

Meanwhile, on the rooftops, young men and women are hard at work. The men playfully take the copper basins from the young women, distributing the freshly boiled wheat across the surface.

Mothers step in when needed, deftly spreading it with their hands, allowing the sun to lend its magic to the drying process.

Laughter fills the air. Budding lovers swap coy looks, and sometimes a gentle touch or a stolen kiss.

In this bustling backdrop, a bit of theatre unfolds. Young women discreetly send messages. But if an undesired boy makes his move, he'll be shot down.

How? He won't be allowed to take the basin from her hands. Meanwhile, the luckier young men accept basins from the girls of their dreams.

It's an operetta of betrayal, broken hearts and blossoming romance sung through bulgur basins.

In the evening, exhaustion settles in. My mother breaks into joyful ululations and appreciation for the young girls who helped us. She prays for abundant prosperity and good health for their families, too.

After sunset, my siblings, cousins, and I – fuelled by our youthful vigour – race to stir the simmered wheat on the rooftop. We own this little piece of the ritual and loudly proclaim it. Still, our mothers watch over us, ensuring every grain is flipped over to avoid spoiled batches.

Onward journey

A few days later, the boiled wheat finally dries. It's carefully packed into burlap sacks, waiting to be ground. The sacks are transported to al-Adseh, a circular stone structure (known by many names).

At its heart lies a large, black and round basalt stone. It's rotated by a mule tied to a wooden lever. It spins for four or five hours, meticulously separating the boiled wheat grains from their husks. A man stands, watching, with his head tilted to the side. Using deft hands, he guides the wheat where it needs to go.

The mule gets tired under the relentless sun. Women cradle grains in sieves, waiting for the wind to offer them a reprieve. Wheat husks dance in the air, fragile and sun-kissed, eventually flying through the village streets and alleyways to leave a sponge-like residue. (We walk over it, and it feels like dancing on silk.)

The wheat grains are then manually ground on dark stones (an ancient art), which had served as mills for countless millennia before the advent of specialised bulgur-making machinery.

The villagers wait impatiently to take up their assigned roles.

At the appointed hour, sprawling mats and sacks of boiled wheat are spread out. The soothing hum of the English Lister Petter engine rumbles, as the wheat husks are draped over my mother, sisters, and female relatives, who have gathered to partake in the final act of bulgur craftsmanship.

Two varieties of bulgur emerge from this labour of love: the velvety soft kind, destined for a kaleidoscope of kibbeh dishes, and the rugged coarse bulgur, primed for a whole other spectrum of culinary delights.

The children are rewarded with a share of kreesa, a concoction born from the remnants of the soft bulgur, akin to ambrosial semolina.

(Our mothers watch closely to ensure we don't overeat, trying to save us from stomach aches later that night. We know the risks, too, but none of us can resist the scent of freshly prepared bulgur.)

Before the bulgur is packed into burlap sacks, it's purified; every trace of husk is shredded until it gleams like a gold nugget.

Discreetly, a few portions are sent to the homes of needy families. It's a gesture that, we hope, will bring blessings upon our provisions and meals.

Families also send some as gifts to their daughters who are married. It's a gesture of goodwill towards the in-laws, signalling ongoing support for their child, but it's also a "hint" that the bride's family possesses the ability to provide for their daughter and her children.

Today's bulgur

For Syrians today, bulgur has become too expensive to buy. The sad reality is that this once simple pleasure, deeply treasured by many, has disappeared from households along with several other basic food items.

For instance, Syrians can't even afford olive oil, in a land ranked fourth or fifth globally in its production.

Bulgur and olive oil are deep-rooted staples of Syrian cuisine. They are used on special occasions and placed near shrines as a sign of their sanctity.

But even though bulgur has left our tables for now, its revered memory remains forever etched into our minds.