Firdeze & Mehdi, London, early 2000s
BUSY TRAIN STATIONS, gloomy yet humid summer skies, gentrified city town centres, and greasy chicken shops – this has been my norm for the past 26 years. Born in one of the most iconic cities on earth, a city I love to hate, and hate to say I love. However, my ancestral journey began in a different place – a reality I can’t seem to escape or wish to alter anymore. My life’s trajectory was and still is inherently connected to the decisions my parents made when they left Kosovo.
As a child of refugees, I did everything in my power to conceal my reality from others. I anglicised my name, refused to speak my mother tongue, and asked my parents to act in ways that came unnaturally to them. Reflecting on the insecure boy I once was fills me with great sadness. Society’s structures invaded my identity, casting shame upon my gaze where there should have been courage.
What I perceived with my eyes was a distorted image, an inaccurate portrayal of the refugee experience. It has taken personal introspection and time to remove the lens that clouded my perception in my naive youth. I now clearly see the power of my parents’ narrative – the sadness, wisdom, growth, determination, and all the intricacies of their lives.
I have become somewhat of an expert on my parents’ oral histories – from their childhood years to their experiences in the socialist Yugoslav system. I have dedicated much of my time to understanding their narratives, perhaps in an attempt to understand myself better. My parents have passed on many gifts to me – my mother’s hands, my father’s critical thinking, and their shared love for music. But the most precious gift of all is being entrusted as the keeper of their stories – narratives that carry great weight, embedding these intergenerational histories at the core of who I am today.
This piece documents some of their initial moments in this country, blend- ing a creative ethnographic style with personal narrative and illustrative language to underscore the significant experience of being a refugee in London. But also, this piece recounts the multigenerational continuity of refugee oral histories. My parents have given me their blessing to share only some of their stories; they still do not feel courageous enough to put everything into words on paper. Entrusted with this task, which I hold dear, I continue the Kosovar-Albanian tradition of remembrance, writing this piece after months of inter-personal conversations with my mother (Firdeze) and my father (Mehdi ‘Dini’).
Becoming Refugees
Firdeze and dini still vividly recall their first encounter with London. Its brisk yet enveloping winds stole their breath, replacing the stale air in their lungs with a newfound sense of freedom. They had left behind their homes, families, streets, and familiar sounds for a land entirely foreign to them. They transitioned from navigating the entirety of their native Prishtina within an hour, knowing every corner and shortcut, to being immersed in a city that never sleeps, with streets stretching endlessly.
Many believe that once refugees reach a safe country or are granted asylum status, their journey is complete. However, the reality is far different. Arriving in the UK was an unparalleled experience. My mother often recalls the physical trans- formation she underwent the moment her feet touched British soil, as her lungs adjusted to the air of this country.
My father reflects on the burden seemingly lifted from his shoulders as the plane’s wheels broke through the former Yugoslav fog and touched down on Heathrow’s tarmac, signalling their arrival. They were now ‘refugees’, according to the Western world’s interpretation. Victims clad in rags, lacking proper attire or presentation, portrayed as individuals devoid of agency, with tear-filled eyes and heads bowed, embodying a fragile demeanour.
My parents were somewhat taken aback by the British perception of what they were expected to embody. They fully embodied refugee status, encapsulat- ing the very essence of what this term entails. However, the external expectations thrust upon them, as people often invaded their personal space, desperate to uncover the intricacies of their stories, left them feeling confused. They needed breathing room - space to process and hold dear what had happened to them. They didn’t want to feel internally pressured to conform to a certain mould, living up to unethical expectations over which they had no control.
Understandably, my parents felt like they stuck out like sore thumbs, and indeed they probably did. They still recall how people watched them as if they were animals in a zoo, the label ‘refugee’ attached to them, combined with news coverage of the wars in the former Yugoslav region, turning my parents into a piti- ful spectacle. They were no longer seen as multifaceted human beings; they were simply ‘refugees’ – a term that failed to acknowledge that my parents were natural polyglots, fluent in over six languages between them. It didn’t acknowledge that my mother came from a diverse urban family line, with an incredible history of culinary traditions, a skill she carried with her at her fingertips. This term didn’t consider the talents my father possessed - he was a jack of all trades, always find- ing solutions to life’s problems. It failed to recognise that these two individuals had been thrust into an unusual situation but still encompassed the complexities of human life.
This refugee portrayal fostered a stark social division, perpetuating an ‘us’ versus ‘them’ narrative that created a gap between two groups of equal human beings. It seemed that the Britons my parents encountered in their initial moments here couldn’t fully grasp the challenges my parents were facing. However, my parents have made it clear to me that, like many Britons then and now, they too once lived in ignorant bliss, believing that something like this could never happen to them.
While I sincerely hope such circumstances never befall me or my loved ones again, society can undergo drastic changes almost overnight, leading those who currently believe ‘it will never happen to me’ to one day find themselves landing in a distant foreign country. Not for leisure or a quick getaway, but out of necessity. My parents emphasised the importance of recognising the fragility of our stability, not to instil fear in those reading this, but to cultivate the necessary compassion we should all extend to those arriving on our shores in desperation today.
Making of ‘Home’
My parents desired accommodation closer to someone they knew; my aunt had settled in London a year prior. Consequently, they arrived in the outer London borough of Barking and Dagenham. While not the most developed or aesthetically pleasing area, it offered my parents what they needed most: stability, a sense of safety, and a new place to call ‘home’.
Initially housed in a hostel for about a month, my parents felt deeply indebt- ed to this country and saw no grounds for complaint, despite the poor facilities. I can only imagine it was not the most pleasant environment, especially for my mother. Firdeze, whom I’ve always seen as a ‘wonder woman’, embodies the typi- cal Balkan woman – she values cleanliness, presentability, and expects her family to uphold similar standards. Being in a space where the kitchen bordered the toilet likely tested her patience. When I inquire about this time, her response is always, ‘Arber, please don’t ask me about that,’ prompting me to quickly change the subject.
But fortunately, it didn’t take them long. The council offered them a flat, and my parents accepted immediately. They described how it felt as if their new living room was just another stop on the district line, with their home bordering Barking Station. However, this three-bedroom, two-floor flat provided them with a new lease on life – a space to call their own, where they could simply be a family without worrying about the aftermath of demonstrations, politically sour neighbours, or Yugoslav police officers demanding money at their door.
Transitioning to a completely new system is complex for many reasons, from abiding by new laws to navigating the schooling system and learning how to prop- erly operate an oven. The tasks were numerous, often learned through trial and error. One of my parents’ initial goals was to integrate their daughters, Margareta and Teuta, into this new world. Teuta was just a baby and couldn’t recall much of what was happening around her. Margareta, on the other hand, felt the transition deeply. My mother’s eyes fill with tears every time she recalls how difficult it was for her eldest daughter, how Margareta would long for her grandmother, trying to recreate the family left behind in Kosovo within their new home.
A 4-year-old child should not have to experience such challenges during the most crucial developmental stages of life. However, my parents enrolled her in the local school, believing it was the best decision. In some ways, it was beneficial; Margareta could participate in a normal schooling environment and make friends her age. However, she immediately faced waves of xenophobia and discrimination. The English children at school had evidently absorbed the rhetoric of their parents regarding refugees fleeing the former Yugoslavia at the time. Margareta recalls being called a ‘dirty Bosnian’ on multiple occasions, despite not being Bosnian – to them, we were all the same. What’s worse, Bosnia was experiencing genocide at the
time, leading my parents to question how these ‘civilised’ English families could instil so much hate in their children towards those fleeing the murderous venom of fascism?
My parents grappled with internalised guilt as they watched their child defend decisions they had made. They observed how their child was labelled as ‘dumb’, thrown into the deep end of an educational system and had to learn a language from scratch. In response, my mother redirected her attention to what she could control. Despite yearning for the family, she left behind in Kosovo and having experienced so much, she still sought to make life for herself and her family as ‘normal’ as possible.
Culinary Confusion
One of the many skills my mother felt she could rely on was cooking, a trait inherit- ed from her historical matriarchs who were exceptionally gifted in preparing dishes passed down through generations in our family. When Firdeze arrived here, she brought with her a wealth of delicious recipes stored in her memory. She saw cook- ing as a way to provide comfort for her family, ensuring that each bite would evoke memories of joy, even as the grey filter of London overshadowed their new reality and the initial excitement of the city waned, revealing the harsh truth of their exile.
More importantly, my mother wanted to use food to remind her children that Kosovo still existed and that our culture endured, despite circumstances threatening the very existence of our ancestral homeland.
My mother’s connection to food is profound, a trait I now see in myself. Her desire to nourish her children extended beyond mere maternal instinct; she viewed these dishes as a means of cultural preservation, a way to embed Kosovo within a completely foreign context. However, this endeavour proved challenging. My mother assumed that finding similar products to those in Kosovo would be feasible in London, given its multicultural makeup. Unfortunately, this was not the case, especially during the 1990s. Following the advice of other refugees, my par- ents subsisted on a diet of white bread slices, butter, sausages, beans, and potatoes. This combination left them physically, emotionally, and mentally malnourished.
There was a prevailing narrative among many Kosovar-Albanian refugees that they needed to save as much money as possible. There was a deep-seated fear that the British government might one day change its policies and start deporting people. This narrative is something I still see my father projecting today, an insecurity that has taken root within him. It’s evident that this sense of instability, something all refugees can relate to, is almost universal and persists within a per- son even after they are granted citizenship.
As a result, not only were there limited ingredients available to make their traditional dishes, but my parents also refrained from buying foods that were typically more expensive. This lack of access to cultural foods and products led to significant suffering for my parents and our family. While they were relieved to no longer endure curfews, police harassment, human rights abuses, and daily intimidation, consuming foods that seemed to erase the cultural memory of their traditional dishes and homeland greatly impacted their well-being.
My parents are not ones to complain, as I mentioned earlier, and they are still deeply grateful to have anything to eat at all. However, this illustrates the chal- lenges that arise for refugees in a new country. Not knowing where to buy certain products or how to navigate a supermarket space may seem unimaginable to those of us living in the West. But for people accustomed to shopping in specific styles and spaces, it’s understandable that they would face profound challenges when transitioning to new societies, especially when the system fails to provide them with adequate support.
My parents are able to find humour in their experiences now, laughing while also feeling a sense of shame or pity for themselves back then – ‘Why didn’t we know better?’ While my parents may have been familiar with Britain, London, cer- tain aspects of British culture, and of course, the Beatles, actually living in London was a completely different experience, one they could not have prepared for.
As Muslims, my parents recall the many months they spent unknowingly eating pork. They came from a society where all the meat around them was Halal, naively believing that major supermarket chains in this country also offered those options in the 1990s. They recount a specific story that always brings my mother to fits of laughter. One day in late 1994, my parents visited their local supermarket, either a Tesco’s or Farm Foods. Firdeze, feeling inquisitive and somewhat fed up with the food she had been consuming, decided to ask the cashier what meat the sausages were made from. She expected chicken, turkey, or maybe a mixture of the two. However, the cashier explained that it was pork, puzzled by my parents’ confusion. My parents knew the word ‘pig’ but did not realise that pork referred to meat from a pig. In a somewhat disrespectful manner, the cashier then proceeded to oink at my parents, which they initially found offensive. However, the realisation finally dawned on them - they had been consuming meat that went against the very basis of their dietary requirements as Muslims. Expressing just how out of depth they were in this new society.
Community Bonds
They had their own home, with some family and friends close by, and they started building a community with their neighbours as life adjusted to a new ‘normal’.
My father, somewhat of an adventurer by nature, decided one day that he wanted to see what his new area offered him, and so he embarked on a prolonged walk. My mother warned him that he probably would not be able to get back home or properly manoeuvre the tube, but still, he insisted he would go out and see what was around. He thought to himself, if he could navigate the mountains of Kosovo, he could do this.
He initially came across the stunning exterior of the local Gurudwara, which reminded him of the Mosques back home. He noticed the men with white turbans, part of the Sikh faith, inviting him in for food and drink. My father, with what little English he had, declined, as he had just eaten. Nevertheless, he felt warmed by the fact that men he barely knew, part of a religion he had never even heard of before, wanted to feed him and provide him a place to rest.
He then stumbled upon Barking Park, a little oasis resembling the natural spaces of the village his family originally hailed from in Kosovo. He made a mental note of this space, as it would become a regular hotspot for my family in exile, who were unable to enjoy their summers in Kosovo or anywhere else for that matter due to restrictions on movement during asylum until citizenship was granted.
As he continued, he observed the landscape changing around him, from resi- dential houses to colourful shops. He could also hear music that sounded foreign yet familiar. During my parents’ early years in Yugoslavia, they would go on dates to the cinema and watch a variety of iconic Bollywood films. Here, my father found a sense of familiarity with a culture that was not his own but that he had experienced when he was once immersed in his native home.
As he drew closer, the colourful shops, fruit and vegetable stalls, and outdoor market spaces became more visually prominent. Filled with an array of colours, my father felt transported to another world, one that differed from Kosovo but also drew comparisons to it. Unknowingly, my father had made his way to Ilford Lane, a commercial area known for its South Asian communities and businesses. The dessert shops featuring a variety of South Asian sweets reminded my father of the Balkan dessert shops he had frequented in his youth.
He found a community much like his own, one that had come here under somewhat similar circumstances. They had built something for themselves, bring- ing their cultures to London and positioning themselves in the city they now called home. Dini also felt a sense of ease; a simple nod from man to man was an important indication of acceptance for him. Various shopkeepers would ask him his name, ‘Mehdi, but people call me Dini,’ he would reply. Instead of the usual struggle to pronounce his birth name, people here had heard of it before, saying it with relative ease. Dini even came across a halal butcher coincidentally named ‘Mehdi’.
My father discovered a world of foods and cuisine that further provided him with a sense of home. Fresh produce, halal meat shops, peppers, the right kind of flour, herbs, and spices were all here. While South Asian cuisine differs from Kosovar/Balkan cuisine, there were slight similarities in the basics needed to pro- duce our traditional dishes. The necessity for fresh produce is a continuous thread that appears significantly in both the South Asian and Balkan regions.
Dini, who had simply gone on a walk, desperately trying to familiarize himself with the new home he felt forced but grateful to be in, stumbled across a community of people who may have looked different from him, but their existence provided a sense of ease within him. They had established themselves here and continued their culture, something Dini thought would dwindle away.
These South Asian communities did not know much about us, our history, or experiences, and vice versa, but they opened up their culturally commercialised spaces to us. They invited my father in to buy what he needed to take back home to his family, where they could cook it up and immerse their new space in the aromas that reminded them of Kosovo, inducing a much-needed sense of spiritual ease.
Recounting his steps, Dini made his way back home. With several blue plas- tic bags in hand, he showed my mother what he had discovered here in London. Ecstatic at what they had found, a sense of relief finally kicked in, making this refugee experience a little bit easier.
This story resonated with me deeply when my parents told it to me because it spoke to the London I always knew. I grew up in the most diverse city, with people of all ethnic backgrounds. We were different but related to one another because of what brought us here. I believe my parents recounted this story to me as many times as they did because they knew the circumstances in which their children were being raised. They desperately desired that we move away from the ethnic and racial hierarchies that had forced them out of their homes in Kosovo.
The Importance of Remembering
These lived experiences reside within the memory of my parents, forming part of a box of treasures that display multidimensional narratives. Recounting these experi- ences and sharing them with all those reading this is significant for many reasons. Remembering collectively binds us to histories that require acknowledgment. Remembering allows us to reflect on and learn from what people have experienced in the past. Remembering can compel us to confront our current realities and con- sider whether we are still perpetuating problematic systems of the past.
Remembering has enabled me to highlight experiences that have long gone unnoticed, experiences of my Kosovar refugee parents that deserve to finally be heard. May we all continue to remember.
What I perceived with my eyes was a distorted image, an inaccurate portrayal of the refugee experience. It has taken personal introspection and time to remove the lens that clouded my perception in my naive youth. I now clearly see the power of my parents’ narrative – the sadness, wisdom, growth, determination, and all the intricacies of their lives.
I have become somewhat of an expert on my parents’ oral histories – from their childhood years to their experiences in the socialist Yugoslav system. I have dedicated much of my time to understanding their narratives, perhaps in an attempt to understand myself better. My parents have passed on many gifts to me – my mother’s hands, my father’s critical thinking, and their shared love for music. But the most precious gift of all is being entrusted as the keeper of their stories – narratives that carry great weight, embedding these intergenerational histories at the core of who I am today.
This piece documents some of their initial moments in this country, blend- ing a creative ethnographic style with personal narrative and illustrative language to underscore the significant experience of being a refugee in London. But also, this piece recounts the multigenerational continuity of refugee oral histories. My parents have given me their blessing to share only some of their stories; they still do not feel courageous enough to put everything into words on paper. Entrusted with this task, which I hold dear, I continue the Kosovar-Albanian tradition of remembrance, writing this piece after months of inter-personal conversations with my mother (Firdeze) and my father (Mehdi ‘Dini’).
Becoming Refugees
Firdeze and dini still vividly recall their first encounter with London. Its brisk yet enveloping winds stole their breath, replacing the stale air in their lungs with a newfound sense of freedom. They had left behind their homes, families, streets, and familiar sounds for a land entirely foreign to them. They transitioned from navigating the entirety of their native Prishtina within an hour, knowing every corner and shortcut, to being immersed in a city that never sleeps, with streets stretching endlessly.
Many believe that once refugees reach a safe country or are granted asylum status, their journey is complete. However, the reality is far different. Arriving in the UK was an unparalleled experience. My mother often recalls the physical trans- formation she underwent the moment her feet touched British soil, as her lungs adjusted to the air of this country.
My father reflects on the burden seemingly lifted from his shoulders as the plane’s wheels broke through the former Yugoslav fog and touched down on Heathrow’s tarmac, signalling their arrival. They were now ‘refugees’, according to the Western world’s interpretation. Victims clad in rags, lacking proper attire or presentation, portrayed as individuals devoid of agency, with tear-filled eyes and heads bowed, embodying a fragile demeanour.
My parents were somewhat taken aback by the British perception of what they were expected to embody. They fully embodied refugee status, encapsulat- ing the very essence of what this term entails. However, the external expectations thrust upon them, as people often invaded their personal space, desperate to uncover the intricacies of their stories, left them feeling confused. They needed breathing room - space to process and hold dear what had happened to them. They didn’t want to feel internally pressured to conform to a certain mould, living up to unethical expectations over which they had no control.
Understandably, my parents felt like they stuck out like sore thumbs, and indeed they probably did. They still recall how people watched them as if they were animals in a zoo, the label ‘refugee’ attached to them, combined with news coverage of the wars in the former Yugoslav region, turning my parents into a piti- ful spectacle. They were no longer seen as multifaceted human beings; they were simply ‘refugees’ – a term that failed to acknowledge that my parents were natural polyglots, fluent in over six languages between them. It didn’t acknowledge that my mother came from a diverse urban family line, with an incredible history of culinary traditions, a skill she carried with her at her fingertips. This term didn’t consider the talents my father possessed - he was a jack of all trades, always find- ing solutions to life’s problems. It failed to recognise that these two individuals had been thrust into an unusual situation but still encompassed the complexities of human life.
This refugee portrayal fostered a stark social division, perpetuating an ‘us’ versus ‘them’ narrative that created a gap between two groups of equal human beings. It seemed that the Britons my parents encountered in their initial moments here couldn’t fully grasp the challenges my parents were facing. However, my parents have made it clear to me that, like many Britons then and now, they too once lived in ignorant bliss, believing that something like this could never happen to them.
While I sincerely hope such circumstances never befall me or my loved ones again, society can undergo drastic changes almost overnight, leading those who currently believe ‘it will never happen to me’ to one day find themselves landing in a distant foreign country. Not for leisure or a quick getaway, but out of necessity. My parents emphasised the importance of recognising the fragility of our stability, not to instil fear in those reading this, but to cultivate the necessary compassion we should all extend to those arriving on our shores in desperation today.
Making of ‘Home’
My parents desired accommodation closer to someone they knew; my aunt had settled in London a year prior. Consequently, they arrived in the outer London borough of Barking and Dagenham. While not the most developed or aesthetically pleasing area, it offered my parents what they needed most: stability, a sense of safety, and a new place to call ‘home’.
Initially housed in a hostel for about a month, my parents felt deeply indebt- ed to this country and saw no grounds for complaint, despite the poor facilities. I can only imagine it was not the most pleasant environment, especially for my mother. Firdeze, whom I’ve always seen as a ‘wonder woman’, embodies the typi- cal Balkan woman – she values cleanliness, presentability, and expects her family to uphold similar standards. Being in a space where the kitchen bordered the toilet likely tested her patience. When I inquire about this time, her response is always, ‘Arber, please don’t ask me about that,’ prompting me to quickly change the subject.
But fortunately, it didn’t take them long. The council offered them a flat, and my parents accepted immediately. They described how it felt as if their new living room was just another stop on the district line, with their home bordering Barking Station. However, this three-bedroom, two-floor flat provided them with a new lease on life – a space to call their own, where they could simply be a family without worrying about the aftermath of demonstrations, politically sour neighbours, or Yugoslav police officers demanding money at their door.
Transitioning to a completely new system is complex for many reasons, from abiding by new laws to navigating the schooling system and learning how to prop- erly operate an oven. The tasks were numerous, often learned through trial and error. One of my parents’ initial goals was to integrate their daughters, Margareta and Teuta, into this new world. Teuta was just a baby and couldn’t recall much of what was happening around her. Margareta, on the other hand, felt the transition deeply. My mother’s eyes fill with tears every time she recalls how difficult it was for her eldest daughter, how Margareta would long for her grandmother, trying to recreate the family left behind in Kosovo within their new home.
A 4-year-old child should not have to experience such challenges during the most crucial developmental stages of life. However, my parents enrolled her in the local school, believing it was the best decision. In some ways, it was beneficial; Margareta could participate in a normal schooling environment and make friends her age. However, she immediately faced waves of xenophobia and discrimination. The English children at school had evidently absorbed the rhetoric of their parents regarding refugees fleeing the former Yugoslavia at the time. Margareta recalls being called a ‘dirty Bosnian’ on multiple occasions, despite not being Bosnian – to them, we were all the same. What’s worse, Bosnia was experiencing genocide at the
time, leading my parents to question how these ‘civilised’ English families could instil so much hate in their children towards those fleeing the murderous venom of fascism?
My parents grappled with internalised guilt as they watched their child defend decisions they had made. They observed how their child was labelled as ‘dumb’, thrown into the deep end of an educational system and had to learn a language from scratch. In response, my mother redirected her attention to what she could control. Despite yearning for the family, she left behind in Kosovo and having experienced so much, she still sought to make life for herself and her family as ‘normal’ as possible.
Culinary Confusion
One of the many skills my mother felt she could rely on was cooking, a trait inherit- ed from her historical matriarchs who were exceptionally gifted in preparing dishes passed down through generations in our family. When Firdeze arrived here, she brought with her a wealth of delicious recipes stored in her memory. She saw cook- ing as a way to provide comfort for her family, ensuring that each bite would evoke memories of joy, even as the grey filter of London overshadowed their new reality and the initial excitement of the city waned, revealing the harsh truth of their exile.
More importantly, my mother wanted to use food to remind her children that Kosovo still existed and that our culture endured, despite circumstances threatening the very existence of our ancestral homeland.
My mother’s connection to food is profound, a trait I now see in myself. Her desire to nourish her children extended beyond mere maternal instinct; she viewed these dishes as a means of cultural preservation, a way to embed Kosovo within a completely foreign context. However, this endeavour proved challenging. My mother assumed that finding similar products to those in Kosovo would be feasible in London, given its multicultural makeup. Unfortunately, this was not the case, especially during the 1990s. Following the advice of other refugees, my par- ents subsisted on a diet of white bread slices, butter, sausages, beans, and potatoes. This combination left them physically, emotionally, and mentally malnourished.
There was a prevailing narrative among many Kosovar-Albanian refugees that they needed to save as much money as possible. There was a deep-seated fear that the British government might one day change its policies and start deporting people. This narrative is something I still see my father projecting today, an insecurity that has taken root within him. It’s evident that this sense of instability, something all refugees can relate to, is almost universal and persists within a per- son even after they are granted citizenship.
As a result, not only were there limited ingredients available to make their traditional dishes, but my parents also refrained from buying foods that were typically more expensive. This lack of access to cultural foods and products led to significant suffering for my parents and our family. While they were relieved to no longer endure curfews, police harassment, human rights abuses, and daily intimidation, consuming foods that seemed to erase the cultural memory of their traditional dishes and homeland greatly impacted their well-being.
My parents are not ones to complain, as I mentioned earlier, and they are still deeply grateful to have anything to eat at all. However, this illustrates the chal- lenges that arise for refugees in a new country. Not knowing where to buy certain products or how to navigate a supermarket space may seem unimaginable to those of us living in the West. But for people accustomed to shopping in specific styles and spaces, it’s understandable that they would face profound challenges when transitioning to new societies, especially when the system fails to provide them with adequate support.
My parents are able to find humour in their experiences now, laughing while also feeling a sense of shame or pity for themselves back then – ‘Why didn’t we know better?’ While my parents may have been familiar with Britain, London, cer- tain aspects of British culture, and of course, the Beatles, actually living in London was a completely different experience, one they could not have prepared for.
As Muslims, my parents recall the many months they spent unknowingly eating pork. They came from a society where all the meat around them was Halal, naively believing that major supermarket chains in this country also offered those options in the 1990s. They recount a specific story that always brings my mother to fits of laughter. One day in late 1994, my parents visited their local supermarket, either a Tesco’s or Farm Foods. Firdeze, feeling inquisitive and somewhat fed up with the food she had been consuming, decided to ask the cashier what meat the sausages were made from. She expected chicken, turkey, or maybe a mixture of the two. However, the cashier explained that it was pork, puzzled by my parents’ confusion. My parents knew the word ‘pig’ but did not realise that pork referred to meat from a pig. In a somewhat disrespectful manner, the cashier then proceeded to oink at my parents, which they initially found offensive. However, the realisation finally dawned on them - they had been consuming meat that went against the very basis of their dietary requirements as Muslims. Expressing just how out of depth they were in this new society.
Community Bonds
They had their own home, with some family and friends close by, and they started building a community with their neighbours as life adjusted to a new ‘normal’.
My father, somewhat of an adventurer by nature, decided one day that he wanted to see what his new area offered him, and so he embarked on a prolonged walk. My mother warned him that he probably would not be able to get back home or properly manoeuvre the tube, but still, he insisted he would go out and see what was around. He thought to himself, if he could navigate the mountains of Kosovo, he could do this.
He initially came across the stunning exterior of the local Gurudwara, which reminded him of the Mosques back home. He noticed the men with white turbans, part of the Sikh faith, inviting him in for food and drink. My father, with what little English he had, declined, as he had just eaten. Nevertheless, he felt warmed by the fact that men he barely knew, part of a religion he had never even heard of before, wanted to feed him and provide him a place to rest.
He then stumbled upon Barking Park, a little oasis resembling the natural spaces of the village his family originally hailed from in Kosovo. He made a mental note of this space, as it would become a regular hotspot for my family in exile, who were unable to enjoy their summers in Kosovo or anywhere else for that matter due to restrictions on movement during asylum until citizenship was granted.
As he continued, he observed the landscape changing around him, from resi- dential houses to colourful shops. He could also hear music that sounded foreign yet familiar. During my parents’ early years in Yugoslavia, they would go on dates to the cinema and watch a variety of iconic Bollywood films. Here, my father found a sense of familiarity with a culture that was not his own but that he had experienced when he was once immersed in his native home.
As he drew closer, the colourful shops, fruit and vegetable stalls, and outdoor market spaces became more visually prominent. Filled with an array of colours, my father felt transported to another world, one that differed from Kosovo but also drew comparisons to it. Unknowingly, my father had made his way to Ilford Lane, a commercial area known for its South Asian communities and businesses. The dessert shops featuring a variety of South Asian sweets reminded my father of the Balkan dessert shops he had frequented in his youth.
He found a community much like his own, one that had come here under somewhat similar circumstances. They had built something for themselves, bring- ing their cultures to London and positioning themselves in the city they now called home. Dini also felt a sense of ease; a simple nod from man to man was an important indication of acceptance for him. Various shopkeepers would ask him his name, ‘Mehdi, but people call me Dini,’ he would reply. Instead of the usual struggle to pronounce his birth name, people here had heard of it before, saying it with relative ease. Dini even came across a halal butcher coincidentally named ‘Mehdi’.
My father discovered a world of foods and cuisine that further provided him with a sense of home. Fresh produce, halal meat shops, peppers, the right kind of flour, herbs, and spices were all here. While South Asian cuisine differs from Kosovar/Balkan cuisine, there were slight similarities in the basics needed to pro- duce our traditional dishes. The necessity for fresh produce is a continuous thread that appears significantly in both the South Asian and Balkan regions.
Dini, who had simply gone on a walk, desperately trying to familiarize himself with the new home he felt forced but grateful to be in, stumbled across a community of people who may have looked different from him, but their existence provided a sense of ease within him. They had established themselves here and continued their culture, something Dini thought would dwindle away.
These South Asian communities did not know much about us, our history, or experiences, and vice versa, but they opened up their culturally commercialised spaces to us. They invited my father in to buy what he needed to take back home to his family, where they could cook it up and immerse their new space in the aromas that reminded them of Kosovo, inducing a much-needed sense of spiritual ease.
Recounting his steps, Dini made his way back home. With several blue plas- tic bags in hand, he showed my mother what he had discovered here in London. Ecstatic at what they had found, a sense of relief finally kicked in, making this refugee experience a little bit easier.
This story resonated with me deeply when my parents told it to me because it spoke to the London I always knew. I grew up in the most diverse city, with people of all ethnic backgrounds. We were different but related to one another because of what brought us here. I believe my parents recounted this story to me as many times as they did because they knew the circumstances in which their children were being raised. They desperately desired that we move away from the ethnic and racial hierarchies that had forced them out of their homes in Kosovo.
The Importance of Remembering
These lived experiences reside within the memory of my parents, forming part of a box of treasures that display multidimensional narratives. Recounting these experi- ences and sharing them with all those reading this is significant for many reasons. Remembering collectively binds us to histories that require acknowledgment. Remembering allows us to reflect on and learn from what people have experienced in the past. Remembering can compel us to confront our current realities and con- sider whether we are still perpetuating problematic systems of the past.
Remembering has enabled me to highlight experiences that have long gone unnoticed, experiences of my Kosovar refugee parents that deserve to finally be heard. May we all continue to remember.
Arbër Qerka-Gashi is a London-based Writer, Curator and Researcher. He holds a BA in History from Goldsmiths, University of London, and a Master’s in Gender, Sexuality, and Culture from Birkbeck, University of London. Arber's written work focuses on a range of themes related to the Balkans, diaspora and refugee experiences, ecology and Kosovo’s cultural history.
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