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The Greatest Fast-Food: Turkish Döner
Gyros, shawarmas, and al pastor tacos. Besides being delicious, what do they all have in common? They are all different variations of the same food: the Turkish döner kebab. The dish consists of seasoned meat in the form of beef/lamb mix or chicken, roasted on a vertical rotating spit device. Döner can be eaten as a sandwich or alongside rice. My parents both ate döners often as children when growing up in Turkey during the 80s and 90s, whether it was a cheap version from a shop off the streets, or a better quality and more expensive version in Turkish restaurants.
My Dad, pictured above in the year 1998 next to a döner device in a Turkish restaurant in Brooklyn, described döner as a “comfort food.” When they immigrated here in the late 1990s, döner became a bridge to Turkish culture for them despite being abroad. For me, growing up in NYC meant eating many different versions of döner: whether it was from an authentic Turkish restaurant in Astoria, a gyro from a Greek food cart, a Berlin-style döner with fresh vegetables and tasty sauces, or as a home-made Iskender kebab (a different Turkish dish with döner meat). All of these foods, while delicious to eat, provide a special connection to me through döner being a cross-cultural food, allowing me to connect my childhood and the döner I eat/ate here to what my parents ate in Turkey.
Kibbe Hamdah
Kibbe Hamdah, also known as Hamid has been a staple dish on my dinner table almost every Friday night for as long as I can remember. It is a Syrian-Jewish dish that my grandma taught my mom to make. The base of the dish is a lemony soup with chopped carrots and celery. Inside the soup there are meatballs stuffed with another type of meat inside. It is often served with white rice. This dish is a staple in almost everyone’s home in my Syrian-Jewish community, and some people even add potatoes or tomato sauce to their soup. It is customary to eat Kibbe Hamdah on the Jewish Sabbath, which begins on Friday, 18 minutes after sunset. Kibbe Hamdah is not just a type of food, it also represents culture and religion. The traditional recipes in my community are very sacred, and they represent who we are. Eating Kibbe Hamdah with my family every week helps me recognize how far my community has come, and appreciate our rich history and culture. When I’m cooking for my family in the future, I know that Kibbe Hamdah will be a weekly staple in my house as well. My mother will pass down the recipe to me, and I will carry out the traditions of my community with pride and excitement. It is very special that even with everyone’s unique recipes, you will almost always find Kibbe Hamdah on their dinner table for the Jewish Sabbath and holidays.
The Cross That Traveled With Us
When my mom left Lithuania to start a new life in New York City, she didn’t bring many belongings with her. But she did bring one small object: a beaded cross that now hangs from the rearview mirror in our family’s car. To anyone else, it might look like a simple decoration, but to us it represents protection, memory, and the feeling of being watched over.
My mom grew up surrounded by Catholic and Orthodox traditions, and this cross was something familiar she could hold onto when everything else felt uncertain. When she first arrived in New York, she didn’t know the language, the streets, or the people. Hanging the cross in her car became a quiet ritual that made her feel safer. Over time, it became part of our family’s daily life. Every time we drive, it swings gently with the movement of the car, reminding us of where we come from and the journey that brought us here.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized how much meaning is wrapped up in this small object. It carries my mom’s courage, her faith, and the hope she had when she left home. It also connects me to a larger story shared by many immigrant families who bring pieces of their past with them to feel grounded in a new place. This cross is more than an ornament, it is a symbol of protection, heritage, and the path my family took to build a life in America.
Uzbek Chapan
My object is a traditional Uzbek Chapan that has been in my family for almost one hundred
years. A Chapan looks like a long robe and people wear it as a top layer for warmth and
protection. It is made from cotton and covered with colorful patterns and detailed stitching. In
older Central Asian society, a man’s Chapan showed status. The more colorful and intricate it
looked, the more wealth and respect his family held. Today, people still wear chapans during
ceremonies and important celebrations. Wearing one during these events shows respect for
tradition and for family heritage.
I first learned about chapans during my first trip to Uzbekistan when I was twelve years old. After
returning home, I learned that my own family had one passed down through generations. The
men in my family wore it, most recently my grandfather and now it will pass down to me.
This Chapan matters to me because it connects me with my family’s past. Its patterns and
colors reflect the life my family lived in the old world before coming to America. When I look at it,
I think about my grandfather and the generations before him and learning about it helped me
feel more connected to my family history.
This object also tells a larger story. A Chapan shows family history and cultural identity in
Central Asian culture. Clothing like this represents respect, heritage, and social status. Objects
like this pass traditions from one generation to the next and keep family stories alive. My
Chapan also represents immigrant heritage in the United States and it shows how families keep
their traditions after moving across the world. Chapans have existed for centuries in Uzbekistan
and across Central Asia, connecting modern families to older societies and traditions.
Red Lees Duck
Red lees duck always means the same thing in the family: everyone is home. Whenever this dish appears on the table, it’s a signal of a family gathering. It’s enjoyed by everyone while we catch up on life.
Red lees, known as hongzao in Chinese, is a product of fermenting glutinous rice with red yeast rice to make red rice wine. The bright red paste has a slight sweet, savory flavor that pairs super well with rice. It’s a common well loved condiment in many Fujianese households.
At every big holiday, my grandma would make this dish. It’s a dish that she learned from her older sister back in China, long before our family ever imagined life in America. Now it has become almost automatic: Chinese New Year, reunions, birthdays; there’s always a pot of red lees duck simmering on the stove.
Through this dish, I get a glimpse into the life that my grandma left behind. When she came to the U.S. in 2015, she didn’t bring much with her, but she brought her recipes and culture. Red lees duck was one of them. My grandma is the main reason why I’m so in touch with my culture despite us having little to no relatives in the U.S.
Poncho
The object I picked of this story is named the poncho. The poncho is prominent in the countries
that reside in the Andes mountains; like from Venezuela all the way to the bottom tip of southern
America which is Argentina. In each country there are different renditions of it with some
prioritizing patterns and or colors etc. The main use of these garments is to protect oneself
against the harsh winds and cold weather of the regions near the Andes Mountains range, dating
back to B.C.E times were indigenous people lived across the large stretch of mountains. My
family and I each got our own ponchos, but I tend to be the one to use it the most. The poncho I
got in Chile, even though I am Ecuadorian marks an important part of my life. Before going to
Chile, I was at a low point of my life, and when my uncle told, me lets go meet some of my
family over there, I instantly said yes. Those 10 days were life changing; I never seen so many
different biomes and animals. My favorite thing to do over there was just staring towards at the
mountain through the car window, cramped in the car with my family. Although the poncho
signifies a changing point in my life, it also signifies my ancestral and family roots. As the only
out of my extended family to be born outside of Ecuador, I always felt like an outsider to my
culture and family, however when I put into my poncho, which is almost daily, I feel more
connected. A nice idea I thought of was the same way ponchos span across the many countries
that contain the Andes Mountains. No matter if we are in Ecuador, Chile, Colombia, and United
States whenever we put our ponchos we’re all connected as a family and to our roots.
Celebrating Christmas at Home and Across the Country
My family has always valued celebrating the holidays together. Every Christmas Eve, my whole family, including my cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws, and even plus ones, come together and have a big dinner followed by dessert and games and presents. Every year, a different family hosts. It rotates between my house and my two aunt’s houses. We start from dinnertime till late after midnight. Everyone spends the day cooking, baking, or working, then we all hangout together at night. By the end of the night, people are dropping like flies and falling asleep on any couch in sight. This tradition may have only started a few years ago, but it has quickly become something I look forward to every year. It’s a way for everyone to come together and create special memories during the holidays, which can be when you need company the most.
Not only am I lucky enough to spend Christmas with my family in the United States, but I also get to spend it with my family in the Philippines. My parents immigrated from the Philippines when they were young, and slowly all my father’s side came to America too, but minus my mother, her family is all still in the Philippines. Shortly before we started this holiday tradition, one of my family members sent us a traditional, star-shaped Filipino Christmas lantern called a parol. The lantern symbolizes hope, faith, and the triumph of light. Ever since we received this gift, we put it up in the windows, turn it on, and let it light up the house. Having this lantern makes it feel like my family in the Philippines is celebrating with us. Whether it’s in my house or from across the country, I will always feel my whole family’s love during the holidays.
– HC
Family Necklace
When I was born, my great-grandmother traveled from Argentina to New York City, where she gifted me and my twin sister necklaces. Each necklace had a silver charm of an angel, with a pearl for its head and gems lined up along its body. Similar to my sister and I, the necklaces were identical, except for one difference. The gems on my necklace were pink, while the gems on my sister’s necklace were blue. As my sister and I grew up, our favorite colors later became the same ones on each of our necklaces. Although the necklaces are such small objects, they always held a deeper meaning within our family. By gifting these necklaces to us, my great-grandmother created a connection between generations of our family. She passed away when I was young, leaving me with very faint memories of her, but my necklace still serves as a reminder of this connection and of my Argentinean heritage.
Refuge to Service
This Army Commendation Medal was awarded to my grandfather, Captain Murray Kohn, for his exceptional service as a dental officer at Fort Benning, Georgia, from 1970 to 1972. Born in the Bronx in 1943, Murray was the son of Jewish immigrants who had escaped the rising tide of antisemitism in Austria and Poland just years before his birth. His father, David, fled Austria in 1939, while his mother, Shirley, arrived at Ellis Island in 1926. Growing up in Washington Heights, Murray’s path to American identity was defined by education and service. During the Vietnam War, he entered the military through the “Berry Plan” as an obligatory volunteer, ensuring the health and readiness of soldiers heading to and returning from the front lines. This medal represents more than just military merit; it symbolizes the full circle of his family’s migration story. For a family that had fled state-sponsored persecution in Europe, Murray’s service as a commissioned officer and his receipt of this honor marked a profound transition from being outsiders seeking refuge to being integral protectors of the American nation. As the only dentist in his cohort to receive the medal, it stands as a testament to the “steady hands” and exactitude he inherited from a lineage of survivors. Today, this object serves as a bridge between his parents’ struggle to reach America and the civic legacy he built for our family.
Hamsa’s Hand
July 12th, the day of my birth and unbeknownst to me was that I shared this special day
with my great grandmother, in my lifetime I will never have gotten to meet her. But I did know my abuela, and she is the one who tied the red evil eye anklet around my foot. This would have significant meaning because of my great grandmother, the eye looked to not only protect me from ill-intentions from outsiders but also honor the most divine protector I have in my lineage. The evil eye travels continents, cultures, and across time–for it to have reached me goes to show how strenuous its passage has been throughout generations. As someone who is mixed, only my mother’s side upholds these beliefs, and as do I, I find this creates a dynamic connection as to how I relate to each side of my blood. I share my mother’s side’s big eyes, button-nose, and shortened height. One of the few attributes that make me unique to them, I was raised in a family-oriented household, where we were all dependent on one another somehow and this made our bond stronger. Food, of course, had its own hold on our way of preserving our culture, having fusions of food but also ensuring we have traditional dishes that keep us all around a table together, laughing and having a good time. Above our heads, the air held our beliefs and faith after we prayed over what we were to eat and while we didn’t have much, looking around the table, it was more than enough. Whenever I miss this feeling of home, I run my fingers over the woven red string, the steel hamsa hand, and colorful beads woven into the anklet. Its mostly used to guard one’s spirit, and used as much as needed, it will break once it has fulfilled its duties. I have gone through many anklets because of this, I feel safeguarded when I wear it, and because the tradition began with my abuela to honor my great-grandmother I feel prideful of our shared spiritual values. Though if I could speak to my anklet, I would like to ask how far it truly comes from, did the indigenous groups of my heritage also shared this bracelet or had they been the ones to begin its ripple effect that circled all the way back to me. One must know that you can’t obtain an evil eye for yourself, it must be gifted as if reversed you also recede its purpose. It’ll teach you that instead of carrying the anxiety of how others think or wish of you, you must leave it to what can hold it, as humans–we can only do so much. So in a way by wearing the anklet you are also saying baja con dios.
NYC Postcard
In terms of immigration or migration, I may be a citizen but that is only because of the stories that come from my parents before me. My mom immigrated from communist eastern Europe to the United States when she was just eighteen years old. She was born in 1970’s Hungary, during the cold war and occupation of several countries by the Soviet Union. Life during this time was far different from how it is now, with communism and socialism playing roles in my Mom’s life. In 1989 communist rule in eastern Europe collapsed with the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the transition from communist rule to a democratic system in Hungary. Two years later was when she first came to the United States all by herself. My mom was raised in a smaller town, so she was always amazed by the big American cities that were on TV, especially New York. More importantly, she also had a postcard displaying the big buildings in Manhattan. It served as another form of seeing what other parts of the world look like, and what her life could be or look like as well. That postcard she had was something that really helped to give that ambition to change her life trajectory by doing what not many can muster the confidence for in immigrating to NYC alone, and is a big part of why our family is here today.
From One Apartment to the Next
In the 1940s, my great-grandmother, Elza Weinman, and her family fled the Nazis in Belgium and eventually settled on the Upper West Side of New York City. They first lived at 145 West 86th Street, where many other Belgian Jewish families who had also escaped Europe began rebuilding their lives. A strong community quickly formed around shared history and culture. West 86th Street was an ideal place to start over because it connected residents all over Manhattan. The neighborhood was lively, filled with shops and businesses, and it was especially known for jewelers like her husband, Leon. While living there, she attended high school and soon after got married and moved just down the block to 98 Riverside Drive. When they were expecting their second child, they needed more space and moved again to 200 West 86th Street for the next 67 years. Those visits are the only memories I have of my great-grandmother, who passed away during my early childhood. I remember being ten years old when my mom would pick me up from school to go visit her. We took the elevator up to the 14th floor, and I remember this vividly because it was when I learned a 13th floor doesn’t exist. We spent the night playing games and watching the Giants vs. Redskins game. The following morning ended with the sweetest treat of all: Dunkin’ Donuts and the tightest, slightly painful, squeeze on the cheek. Although the apartment is gone now, its story lives on, because the journey that brought my great-grandmother to New York City eventually led to me growing up at 225 E 6th Street, a Jewish-built community as well.
“Habichuela con Dulce”
Have you ever eaten a dish that reminds you of your childhood? For me, it would be eating habichuela con dulce, a sweet bean dessert that reminds me of my ethnicity. It isn’t just a dish to eat; it represents the history, culture, and the strength it took to make it with a variety of infused cultures. This dish, originally from the Dominican Republic, is a part of who I am as a person. When I was younger, my mother always made habichuela con dulce during a specific time, which was Holy Week. The tradition that was introduced to me was that this dish had to specifically be eaten on Good Friday to give thanks for Jesus Christ sacrificing himself for us and also to bring blessings to the house. At first, I never believed in that tradition, but as I got older, I started to realize the true significance of this dish and also the happiness that it brings around. The specific recipe that my mom uses was passed down through generations, where she was taught by my great-grandmother. Every time this dish is made, it brings me great comfort because of the smell that enters my house, as well as joy because of the flavor. This dish often gathers my family, no matter what may be going on in their lives, because it’s tradition to eat together during Easter. It is a time to relax and enjoy the gift of life that is given to us.
The Megillah
This Megillah was a constant companion in my family’s journey across multiple countries, keeping them connected to their roots. A Megillah is a Hebrew scroll read every year on the holiday of Purim. This Megillah was made in the city of Tetouan, Morocco, where my family lived until the mid-20th century. In the 1950s, after Morocco’s independence, the Megillah took on a more meaningful role in my family. Tension rose between the Muslim and Jewish communities in Morocco. Families started to leave behind the only lives they knew in order to escape the pressure. My family moved to Israel, where they could freely practice their religion. Due to economic difficulties, my family migrated to New York City in 1982, their final destination. Despite various moves, the Megillah has remained a constant pillar and has become a symbol of their identity. Today, our family’s Megillah is read annually in my local synagogue on the holiday of Purim, a community tradition. This object represents the immigrant experience in America by blending personal experiences and community. NYC is a city built by generations of immigrants who have each brought their own unique culture. The Megillah is an example of how culture and tradition can be maintained while still being part of a broader American identity.
Family Cookbook
This is a photo of a page from a cookbook my mother has had all my life. The notebook is old and clearly well used, with wrinkled pages, faded ink, and small stains from ingredients that were probably spilled while cooking. My parents’ main language is Arabic, which makes sense for the recipes to be written in Arabic as well. Typically, Arabs don’t follow recipes. If you asked an Arab mother how to make a dish she would tell you, “Just add a little bit of this and all the spices you have in your cabinet” (safe to say Arab food is never under seasoned). But my mother made this cookbook specifically for desserts. She’s not much of a baker as it requires precise measurements, so to make it easier for herself she wrote the recipes down. If anyone can read Arabic, they can tell that this recipe isn’t exactly as specific as a recipe written in English, but it’s specific enough that any Arabic speaking person will understand it. This book is important because it carries the different desserts the represent the culture my parents left behind when they came to the United States from Palestine. It was a way for them to bring with them a piece of home where they started their new lives.
The Passover Spoon
From Silk Road trading tables to my family’s Passover seder in Queens, this gold-plated “Passover spoon” has carried nearly two centuries of movement across continents, holding a significance far greater than the meals it serves. Each year at our Passover seder, we share a bite of my grandmother’s Plov from this spoon, preserved since 1828. As a child, I was fascinated and repelled by how many mouths the spoon had touched, but now I see it as a witness to migration, trade, faith, and continuity. Family oral history suggests the spoon was acquired through trade, reflecting generations of interactions and shared meals among Muslims and Jews in Central Asia. My father’s side of the family are Bukharian (Mizrahi) Jews with roots in Iran, Afghanistan, and Syria, who worked as merchants along the Silk Road before settling in Tajikistan. They lived under Russian and Soviet rule until my father immigrated to New York in 1992. Earlier periods reflected coexistence and shared commerce between Muslims and Jews, but rising antisemitism and restrictive Soviet policies led to major waves of Jewish emigration in the 1970s and early 1990s. Religious holidays, meals, and language unify my family. We speak Russian, Bukharian (a dialect of Farsi), and English. This spoon brings these elements together in a single ritual. In Queens, one of the most ethnically diverse places in the world, our Passover table reflects the cultural coexistence that shaped my ancestors’ lives along the Silk Road.
A talking drum
On a shelf in my uncle’s reading room sits a small talking drum. You can easily recognize it by its wooden frame, which is surrounded by leather strings and fitted with two leather faces. The drum only ever leaves the shelf when someone asks about it, and when it does, it always ends up in my uncle’s hands. He is very fond of it and his arms tend to fold around it like wings closing over a nest.
Traditionally, the drum is used during celebrations and coronations for kings because it has the ability to mimic the tone of a person’s voice. However, in my family, it takes on a different role. When it comes out, we gather around whoever is playing and take turns trying to guess what the drum is saying. When it reaches my uncle, the drum settles into a playful rhythm that makes people want to dance. Its crisp, tight sound is what first attracted my uncle to it. That sound was harder for him to find after he moved to the United States in the 2000s, which prompted him to get a talking drum of his own. The sound of the drum celebrates my family’s life in the U.S, but like a heartbeat, it is also a reminder of home. We carry the sounds of home with us, and the talking drum is my family’s way of sharing that sound.
The Dao – An Exploration of Bangladeshi Culture and the Immigrant Experience – Tajrian Jahan
An icon of the Bengali kitchen, the dao, a sharp, machete-sized seated blade commonly used by rural housewives to cut vegetables and fish, is an important symbol of Bengali village culture and a part of Bangladesh that my parents did not leave behind when they arrived here some 20 years ago.
The dao is a long, curved iron blade seated on a flat plank of wood or short iron tripod, used by squatting behind it and driving meat or vegetables into the blade. Its use dates back nearly 1,300 years to the Pala Dynasty in Bengal, a Buddhist kingdom in which early Bengali culture emerged; since the dawn of Bengali culture, the dao has been associated with the woman’s role as the nourisher and sustainer of the household.
The dao is also evidence of the sacredness of the bare earth in early Bengali culture. Toiling behind a dao, sharing a meal, and sleeping were all practices performed on the ground because the Earth and its soil were sacred. With the arrival of British colonialists, furniture and stovetops began to gain popularity and we lifted ourselves off these sacred grounds; using a dao became a symbol of rural meekness against Western culture. My mother came from a riverside village in Sylhet, and I remember watching her cut the same hyacinth beans she had once watched her own mother cut; she embodied the motherly spirit of the dao, and brought the essence of Bangladesh to our small apartment in the Bronx.
The Tawa
The tawa is a flat metal pan found in kitchens of many Pakistani households. The pan can be completely flat or concave, and is typically made of cast iron, aluminum, or carbon steel. Its origins trace back to the Indus River Valley civilization, where flat clay discs were used to cook flatbreads over open fires. These early versions were designed to distribute heat evenly, cooking unleavened bread without burning it. As metallurgy advanced, clay gave way to metal. Cast iron tawas remain the most popular due to their improved heat retention, ideal for rotis and parathas, while carbon steel versions are lighter and more modern, suited for everyday cooking and quickly heating packaged flatbreads.
For my family, the tawa is how we hold onto our Pakistani culture. We own both a convex cast iron tawa and a flat carbon steel one. My mother uses the flat tawa to make rotis and parathas for my grandparents and I, while the convex one is reserved for frying puri and daal puri. The tawa instantly brings to mind Sunday morning breakfasts — daal puri or parathas with chickpea curry and a tall cup of chai. Our household makes many kinds of flatbread on it, including chapati, naan, roti, and dhalpuri. Less conventionally, my siblings and I also use it to fry eggs and make veggie omelets.
An archaeologist studying my family’s history would find the tawa invaluable: it is the foundational instrument behind the flatbreads that form the bedrock of Pakistani diet and culture.
The Power of Rice
Anyone who lives in an asian household probably uses this every day. My family as well. For almost every meal, we have white rice. Eating rice with miso soup on the side is an essential everyday part of Japanese food culture, and I believe it is important to stay connected to it even when I am not in Japan.
The versatility of rice is what makes it special. Of course, you can eat it directly, but there are many other dishes you can make from rice itself. For example, you can shape the rice into a ball and put ingredients of your preference inside, called onigiri (おにぎり). You can season it with furikake (ふりかけ) or pour Japanese curry over it and enjoy it as curry rice.
The most important time of year for making rice dishes is the New Year. The rice is hammered together until it becomes one big blob, which we all know as mochi (もち). You can enjoy the plain mochi’s stickiness, or, for those who want some flavor, you can add soy sauce or sugar. The mochi is also used in soups called o’zoni (おぞうに) and oshiruko (おしるこ), both of which are traditional New Year’s dishes. The food Japanese people eat on New Year’s is different from the food they eat daily. My family sets up an entire feast, and instead of eating white rice, we eat mochi and other traditional New Year’s delights.
