How do we honour our ancestors and their lives and revisit our history in a way that helps us relate to others and not hate them?

As we mark World Refugee Day today, how do we reconstruct Maltese identities, while learning to be hospitable towards asylum seekers and refugees? Does peaceful coexistence last?

When asylum seekers and refugees are mentioned in public or private discourse, those listening may find themselves torn between two dominant narratives: the welcoming narrative, where words such as hospitality and integration are used; and, on the other extreme, a violent narrative of exclusion, that often verbalises fears, and exploits those fears to fuel more fear, with the intent of moving towards policies of exclusion or marginalisation.

The problem with the welcoming narrative is that it often fails to address the real fears many feel, such as who are we becoming by accepting others to become us? In what ways are we changing and how is this affecting our identity?

Of course, we are changing for a myriad of reasons, and not simply because of the arrival of refugees. It is always easier to scapegoat minority groups rather than question how neo-liberalism has changed us. Is it strengthening our community ties or disrupting them?   While some fears are clearly xenophobic, often tinged with islamophobia, we have to acknowledge that fears have to be addressed, and weaved into our dialogue. Migrants too have their own fears about integration and how they go about achieving it.

In this country, we need to take time to start unpacking words such as ‘hospitality’ and ‘integration’ rather than presenting them as a fait accompli, because it seems we are not yet quite clear on how to go about it. What do we want hospitality and integration to look like on a small island like Malta? What shape and form should it take? These are all questions we need to work on answering together with asylum seekers and refugees in Malta.

This brings me to the word terroir, a French word that is not easily translated, but which captures the flavours of agricultural produce, specifically  those grown in that specific habitat; flavour that cannot be reproduced or replicated if that same plant is grown elsewhere.

The word conveys the beauty, specificity and uniqueness of the flavours and cultures associated with growing food, or wine, in that terroir, and the magic which that relationship creates for our taste buds.

It seems, that psychologically, we are craving for more terroir in an increasingly globalised and neo-liberal society. I’m using the word terroir here, not only in relation to agriculture and food, but to help us reflect on other spheres of cultural life. Looking at terroir critically, we can argue that glorifying such uniqueness may lead to isolation and exclusion; a destructive way of relating to anything we don’t know as foreign, alien, dangerous, invasive, and disruptive.

So how do we sustain our cultural terroir while still retaining the ability to remain hospitable? One of the elements that fascinates me about farmers is that they know who they are and can connect with the land they cultivate. For those living in urban settings, natural elements rarely form an integral part of our identity.

Gary Martin, one of the world’s top ethnobotanists, said: “It is thanks tothe arrival of migrants who are bringing in useful plants, and the knowledge of how to use them, prepare them and cultivate them, that we have many new options in our diet and in our medicine for the future.”

And this is how humans have always lived and evolved. Interestingly, it is not only people who migrate, they also bring with them the seeds of fruits, vegetables and herbs, enriching the agricultural and culinary heritage of the country where they settle in.

If we take a look at what we eat today, some of what we consider to be Maltese or Italian, may actually originate from Turkey, ancient Persia, or Latin America… basically planet Earth.

Over the past few years, okra became widely available on our island and today it can be purchased tinned or fresh. Eritreans, Ethiopians and Arabs cook it beautifully. I only ate it for the first time last year, during a meal cooked by Eritrean women.

If you like your vegetables, you will love it and it does wonders for your stomach and digestive system. While I cannot make any scientific claim on the introduction of okra in Malta, it seems it was the Habesha (people from Ethiopia and Eritrea) who created a demand for it in Malta.

Am I no longer Maltese because I enjoy eating okra, and am learning how to cook it? Should we banish growing okra on the Maltese Islands to remain faithful to our ħobż biż-żejt? Can we embrace both while still evolving?

Maybe it is within these settings thatwe can create the space to learnabout each other and exchange knowledge and friendship.

On World Refugee Day let us stop and think about how terroir could possibly offer the ground to discuss some of our questions: how will the future people of Malta look at us? What wisdom will we pass on? Do we want to construct an identity that is grounded in violence and exclusion? Or one that facilitates a peaceful coexistence?

Identities, like living gardens are never fixed, they are always changing, and rather than trying to fossilise our identity, we should learn how to play, and how to grow.

Mario Gerada chairs the National Hub for Ethnobotanical Research within the President’s Foundation for the Well-being of Society.