A Cup of Tea

by Candice Yono (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Iraq

Almost everything about this place was foreign, yet it felt like I was stepping into the home of an old friend or a distant family member. I had traveled across the world before, a few times in fact. Those new destinations across oceans or on different continents were always strikingly unfamiliar. Certainly, there were the recognizable facets — the food I had tried at home from a restaurant that was seemingly authentic, traditions I had learned from friends, and the euphoria of seeing a famed destination in person. Visiting Iraq, however, felt as though I were coming home. After a full day of touring mountain towns, green and lush from spring rain, the group with whom I was traveling stopped in the small town of Dehheh before our return journey to Alqosh. A local family welcomed us into their home, gladly allowing our group, strangers to them, to use their restroom. When I returned to the bus, I was surprised to see the wife walking up the aisle with a tray of tea cups, offering each person a glass. It was as though we were sitting in her home, as friends who had stopped for a visit. Smiling and persistent, she insisted that we try the handmade local sweet and savory pastries that she had also brought aboard the bus. Wherever I went in Iraq, I was met with this warmth. People welcomed me like an old friend, always with the ritualistic offer of tea. Tea, more commonly known as chai, is a staple in Iraqi households. It’s a harbinger of good will, a symbol of the host and hostess. Small glasses filled with heavily sugared tea greet you as soon as you walk into someone’s home, a hotel lobby, restaurant or even a simple shop. Tea is a gesture of welcome. As a shy child who grew up in the US, the ritual of offering and drinking chai was my nightmare. I dreaded the days when distant relatives would visit, since they expected a form of hospitality that I did not yet understand. My cousins and I would try to shirk chai duty, which involved carrying a tray laden with cups full of tea, a pot of sugar, and some milk to each guest, stopping in front of each one to make the hospitable offering. Guests in turn would briefly interrogate the tray bearer, in conversations I found incredibly awkward, eventually getting to the root question - whose son or daughter were you? Once the answer was had, they would turn triumphantly to their neighbor with a smug and indignant “I told you so” while their neighbor denied ever being wrong about your lineage. In Iraq, each time someone served me chai, I reflected back on those gatherings I had so dreaded. But now, instead of apprehension, I felt delight, understanding and warmth.Tea is the love language of the Iraqi host and hostess, and the basis of Iraqi hospitality. I finally understood a key part of the culture in which I had been raised.