A meal under the stars

Some years ago, I had to re-learn how to eat - in an area of Libya that thanks to changes that have occurred under President Muammar Gaddafi, has since been radically transformed socially and culturally.

I was conducting field research in one of Libya's semi-arid zones, among men who considered themselves "tribesmen", some of whom had been raised as nomads, and all of whom firmly believed that there were some matters of honour for which one had to be prepared to kill or die.

The men also ate from the same large bowl (or rather, four or five men to a bowl). On some occasions, like weddings or funerals (at the time) or thanksgiving for healing or a new house, many men, sometimes hundreds, gathered; the women had their own area and, from their songs and clapping, a livelier time during celebrations.

Eating together in this way, particularly when the meat belonged to an animal sacrificed for the occasion by the host, following the example of "the Prophet Abraham", created and reaffirmed certain bonds of responsibility between men. Each man joined such gatherings by wishing peace on everyone present and shaking the hand of each man individually.

This was no mere pious formula. Conflicts repeatedly erupted in the area: over land, on real or perceived insults, after some knifing incident involving young men... Even an obviously involuntary case of manslaughter - a road accident - required a delegation of the killer's wider social group, "men of respect", to visit the victim's family and contain a potential conflict.

Most households owned guns - shotguns, pistols and revolvers bought on the market, guns brought home from army training and "kept" (with a wink from a tribal friend in the quartermaster's store). Those who could, "borrowed" machine guns for a wedding celebration, to fire rapid short bursts into the air.

For violence was also aestheticised. Boys from a young age would pore over a gun, purloined from an older brother, commenting as critically on its quality, as they did with cars. When someone pulled a gun on another man, the judgment of how serious he was and what offence was to be taken depended on what kind of gun he had used and how, stylistically, he had touted it.

So, to be told "Peace be upon you", however casually or mundanely, was always an affirmation and recreation of a fragile and potentially fraught peace. When meals brought large numbers of men together, the event was also an occasion to gauge - from who came and who did not, and who came despite so-and-so being there (or did he not realise? and just how did he shake his hand?) - the state of the world.

It was just my luck that the confederation of tribes I had chosen to conduct my research on were famous for, and simply loved, a particular dish, called Bazin. The Maltese word bazin means "sludgy mess" and must be originally derived from the sight of this dish, especially after four men have spent a few minutes heartily kneading barley paste with their hands, rolling it in sauce, and popping it into their mouths with lip-smacking gusto. (They also have a sweet called ghasida - eaten in the same way and producing the messy sight suggested by the same word in Maltese.)

Bazin was the special dish for honoured guests. I had to learn how to eat it... after first disciplining my stomach not to churn at the sight. (I used to have nightmares about vomiting into the dish only a few seconds after thanking my host for his generosity at such a repast.)

It took about a half dozen times and then I had it down pat - even feeling some mild indignation when a thoughtful host suggested I might prefer couscous or rice, rather than bazin, being a European and all that.

But did learning how to eat bazin mean that I had begun "to learn the culture"? No. It is not just a matter of degree. To think that I had even begun "to learn the culture" because I knew how to slosh and slap food with my hands in a large bowl with another three men would have sent me in the entirely wrong direction, in my understanding of those men's lives.

To re-learn how to eat was not principally about whether and when to speak during a meal, what the right manners were (yes, there was a code). It was about re-learning the place of shared food (especially meat) in the lives of these men - an importance they were able to articulate in elaborate ways on some issues, and which they were not conscious of in others.

It was an experience that prepared me to be sceptical of exercises in "intercultural dialogue" based on singing songs and sharing food, which leaves everything important out.

In a way, the "intercultural dialogue" conducted in the semi-desert was much more alive when my hosts and I were not afraid of pointing out our differences.

"You've been with us for six months," one man said, "and you still don't know how to eat." He was pointing out to my method of only perfunctorily kneading my bazin and then chewing it for longer.

"My brother, I am using the capitalist method," I quipped, referring to an economic system I knew he found repugnant. "Full employment for mouth and hand. It is why Europe keeps ahead of you." Like him, I was applying a teasing pressure that was permissible between two equal men - during or after a meal.

Such dry exchanges, like the arguments over politics and theology after eating, semi-reclined on mattresses under the stars, fostered greater friendship than any insipid avoidance of any topic that might give mild offence.

As in Malta, the rounds of collective eating are much more intense in the summer. As Malta is in full barbeque swing, I wonder what my Libyan friends would make of us: the men's shorts, the mixed company, the ohs and ahs about rucola and grilled tuna... and the "Hiii!" instead of the giving of peace.

ranierfsadni@europe.com