Healing kitchens
Healing kitchens
In recent years it has become increasingly common to see street traders sitting on the dusty ground along the sides of roads in Sudan’s heaving markets with a sheet of plastic spread out next to them covered in piles, tubs, tubes and small bags of so-called traditional medicine. From cancer to AIDS, and high blood pressure to impotency, the self-appointed healers shout out their wares to attract passers-by with the promise of miraculous recoveries. And because of growing economic hardship, many weary people often pause in front of the traders to discuss or buy these treatments, marvelling at their affordability compared to the cost of pharmaceutical drugs or doctors’ consultations. Even if they are not totally convinced of their efficacy, they convince themselves that they were worth a try.
This latest commercial use of traditional herbs and potions is a far cry from how these treatments used to be dispensed and administered. Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen tied up in plastic bags nestled between jars of herbs at the back of the pantry, or beneath the slice of lime in the egg compartment of the fridge door. The knowledge of which herb, leaf, oil or smoke was necessary for dealing with which ailment was passed down from mother to daughter or among the neighbourhood’s womenfolk. During the 2019 pandemic many Sudanese resorted to burning garad pods (Acacia Arabic) as a form, they believed, of prevention and cure from the disease. This was based on the handed down wisdom that garad cured respiratory problems.
Traditional remedies are also distinct in the way they are patiently and caringly prepared and administrated which are an integral part of the whole recovery process. Thus, boiling the flowers of a hibiscus plant – warm for colds and flu, cold to lower blood pressure – or the leaves of a guava tree to stem diarrhoea, are prepared and given under the watchful eye of the mother until the child are recovers. This personalised treatment is nearly always the first resort when a child falls ill, with the opinions of doctors and hospital visits only being sought if the problem persists. Belief in the efficacy of these remedies plays an important part in the use of traditional medicines and together with the personal, caring way they are administered by mothers, it is no wonder this knowledge has endured.
Today, this knowledge of traditional medicines, that has been transmitted organically, is at risk of being lost. The mass displacement of people across Sudan means the networks of knowledge transfer may be disrupted. Furthermore, traditionally used herbs, leaves and oils may not be available in the places people have been forced to move to. However, what is certain is that the resilience of mothers means that wherever she finds herself, she will be able to adapt local natural ingredients as remedies for her children’s ailments.
In recent years it has become increasingly common to see street traders sitting on the dusty ground along the sides of roads in Sudan’s heaving markets with a sheet of plastic spread out next to them covered in piles, tubs, tubes and small bags of so-called traditional medicine. From cancer to AIDS, and high blood pressure to impotency, the self-appointed healers shout out their wares to attract passers-by with the promise of miraculous recoveries. And because of growing economic hardship, many weary people often pause in front of the traders to discuss or buy these treatments, marvelling at their affordability compared to the cost of pharmaceutical drugs or doctors’ consultations. Even if they are not totally convinced of their efficacy, they convince themselves that they were worth a try.
This latest commercial use of traditional herbs and potions is a far cry from how these treatments used to be dispensed and administered. Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen tied up in plastic bags nestled between jars of herbs at the back of the pantry, or beneath the slice of lime in the egg compartment of the fridge door. The knowledge of which herb, leaf, oil or smoke was necessary for dealing with which ailment was passed down from mother to daughter or among the neighbourhood’s womenfolk. During the 2019 pandemic many Sudanese resorted to burning garad pods (Acacia Arabic) as a form, they believed, of prevention and cure from the disease. This was based on the handed down wisdom that garad cured respiratory problems.
Traditional remedies are also distinct in the way they are patiently and caringly prepared and administrated which are an integral part of the whole recovery process. Thus, boiling the flowers of a hibiscus plant – warm for colds and flu, cold to lower blood pressure – or the leaves of a guava tree to stem diarrhoea, are prepared and given under the watchful eye of the mother until the child are recovers. This personalised treatment is nearly always the first resort when a child falls ill, with the opinions of doctors and hospital visits only being sought if the problem persists. Belief in the efficacy of these remedies plays an important part in the use of traditional medicines and together with the personal, caring way they are administered by mothers, it is no wonder this knowledge has endured.
Today, this knowledge of traditional medicines, that has been transmitted organically, is at risk of being lost. The mass displacement of people across Sudan means the networks of knowledge transfer may be disrupted. Furthermore, traditionally used herbs, leaves and oils may not be available in the places people have been forced to move to. However, what is certain is that the resilience of mothers means that wherever she finds herself, she will be able to adapt local natural ingredients as remedies for her children’s ailments.
In recent years it has become increasingly common to see street traders sitting on the dusty ground along the sides of roads in Sudan’s heaving markets with a sheet of plastic spread out next to them covered in piles, tubs, tubes and small bags of so-called traditional medicine. From cancer to AIDS, and high blood pressure to impotency, the self-appointed healers shout out their wares to attract passers-by with the promise of miraculous recoveries. And because of growing economic hardship, many weary people often pause in front of the traders to discuss or buy these treatments, marvelling at their affordability compared to the cost of pharmaceutical drugs or doctors’ consultations. Even if they are not totally convinced of their efficacy, they convince themselves that they were worth a try.
This latest commercial use of traditional herbs and potions is a far cry from how these treatments used to be dispensed and administered. Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen tied up in plastic bags nestled between jars of herbs at the back of the pantry, or beneath the slice of lime in the egg compartment of the fridge door. The knowledge of which herb, leaf, oil or smoke was necessary for dealing with which ailment was passed down from mother to daughter or among the neighbourhood’s womenfolk. During the 2019 pandemic many Sudanese resorted to burning garad pods (Acacia Arabic) as a form, they believed, of prevention and cure from the disease. This was based on the handed down wisdom that garad cured respiratory problems.
Traditional remedies are also distinct in the way they are patiently and caringly prepared and administrated which are an integral part of the whole recovery process. Thus, boiling the flowers of a hibiscus plant – warm for colds and flu, cold to lower blood pressure – or the leaves of a guava tree to stem diarrhoea, are prepared and given under the watchful eye of the mother until the child are recovers. This personalised treatment is nearly always the first resort when a child falls ill, with the opinions of doctors and hospital visits only being sought if the problem persists. Belief in the efficacy of these remedies plays an important part in the use of traditional medicines and together with the personal, caring way they are administered by mothers, it is no wonder this knowledge has endured.
Today, this knowledge of traditional medicines, that has been transmitted organically, is at risk of being lost. The mass displacement of people across Sudan means the networks of knowledge transfer may be disrupted. Furthermore, traditionally used herbs, leaves and oils may not be available in the places people have been forced to move to. However, what is certain is that the resilience of mothers means that wherever she finds herself, she will be able to adapt local natural ingredients as remedies for her children’s ailments.
A red nail polish
A red nail polish
On the back of a large, round, and weighty serving tray, typically reserved for important occasions, the owner's initials are inscribed in bold red nail polish, proudly claiming it as her own and making it easily indefinable if ownership is disputed by a neighbour or relative. Over time, she purchased five more trays, and together with her enormous collection of white serving dishes and bowls, she is prepared for all occasions and any large gatherings. Crafted from original china, these items of crockery are extremely resilient. Today the trays and china are being used for her cousin's daughter's wedding, arranged around the repurposed yard where each woman occupies her corner near her coal stove burner, enthusiastically preparing the dishes they claim mastery over. The young men, tasked with sourcing the cooking ingredients, often find themselves navigating the labyrinth of the chaotic scene, backward and forward, trying to get everything on the numerous lists.
Beyond her serving trays and crockery, the owner takes pride in the rest of the pots, pans and cooking utensils she has managed to buy through a cash savings initiative she has been part of for many years. The woman in the corner of the yard organised the cash saving scheme, with the view of saving for her own daughter's wedding. Known as the sandug (box) each woman puts a specified amount of money into a savings pot and each month one woman receives all the money for large items or expenses. Sometimes the money is used to buy communal items, necessary for neighbourhood occasions, which are stored in the local mosque's storeroom. For Sudanese women, this sense of saving and economising is like a sixth sense. They will scrimp and save whatever funds they have access to and will often give their unsolicited advice on ways to save for the future to everyone around them.
The sandug has proven invaluable, particularly during critical times when funds are needed urgently, to pay children’s university fees or for medical expenses for example. And while each woman knows roughly when it will be her turn to receive the cash, there is an understanding among the group that if the need arises, a woman will forgo her turn to help out another. This sense of solidarity among the women is the glue of their communities and animated tea-drinking sessions, where gossip and grievances are shared, is where this profound connection blossoms.
The tray owner, acting as the de facto household bank, is finely tuned to the market economy. In addition to the sandug she diligently puts aside any surplus money and invests it by, for example, buying gold at the Omdurman market, in order to preserve the money’s value for future use. The fat gold bracelet she carefully selected and purchased may appear to be an ostentatious show of wealth; however, it is in fact a valuable reserve, readily and hastily exchanged when a genuine need arises.
On the back of a large, round, and weighty serving tray, typically reserved for important occasions, the owner's initials are inscribed in bold red nail polish, proudly claiming it as her own and making it easily indefinable if ownership is disputed by a neighbour or relative. Over time, she purchased five more trays, and together with her enormous collection of white serving dishes and bowls, she is prepared for all occasions and any large gatherings. Crafted from original china, these items of crockery are extremely resilient. Today the trays and china are being used for her cousin's daughter's wedding, arranged around the repurposed yard where each woman occupies her corner near her coal stove burner, enthusiastically preparing the dishes they claim mastery over. The young men, tasked with sourcing the cooking ingredients, often find themselves navigating the labyrinth of the chaotic scene, backward and forward, trying to get everything on the numerous lists.
Beyond her serving trays and crockery, the owner takes pride in the rest of the pots, pans and cooking utensils she has managed to buy through a cash savings initiative she has been part of for many years. The woman in the corner of the yard organised the cash saving scheme, with the view of saving for her own daughter's wedding. Known as the sandug (box) each woman puts a specified amount of money into a savings pot and each month one woman receives all the money for large items or expenses. Sometimes the money is used to buy communal items, necessary for neighbourhood occasions, which are stored in the local mosque's storeroom. For Sudanese women, this sense of saving and economising is like a sixth sense. They will scrimp and save whatever funds they have access to and will often give their unsolicited advice on ways to save for the future to everyone around them.
The sandug has proven invaluable, particularly during critical times when funds are needed urgently, to pay children’s university fees or for medical expenses for example. And while each woman knows roughly when it will be her turn to receive the cash, there is an understanding among the group that if the need arises, a woman will forgo her turn to help out another. This sense of solidarity among the women is the glue of their communities and animated tea-drinking sessions, where gossip and grievances are shared, is where this profound connection blossoms.
The tray owner, acting as the de facto household bank, is finely tuned to the market economy. In addition to the sandug she diligently puts aside any surplus money and invests it by, for example, buying gold at the Omdurman market, in order to preserve the money’s value for future use. The fat gold bracelet she carefully selected and purchased may appear to be an ostentatious show of wealth; however, it is in fact a valuable reserve, readily and hastily exchanged when a genuine need arises.
On the back of a large, round, and weighty serving tray, typically reserved for important occasions, the owner's initials are inscribed in bold red nail polish, proudly claiming it as her own and making it easily indefinable if ownership is disputed by a neighbour or relative. Over time, she purchased five more trays, and together with her enormous collection of white serving dishes and bowls, she is prepared for all occasions and any large gatherings. Crafted from original china, these items of crockery are extremely resilient. Today the trays and china are being used for her cousin's daughter's wedding, arranged around the repurposed yard where each woman occupies her corner near her coal stove burner, enthusiastically preparing the dishes they claim mastery over. The young men, tasked with sourcing the cooking ingredients, often find themselves navigating the labyrinth of the chaotic scene, backward and forward, trying to get everything on the numerous lists.
Beyond her serving trays and crockery, the owner takes pride in the rest of the pots, pans and cooking utensils she has managed to buy through a cash savings initiative she has been part of for many years. The woman in the corner of the yard organised the cash saving scheme, with the view of saving for her own daughter's wedding. Known as the sandug (box) each woman puts a specified amount of money into a savings pot and each month one woman receives all the money for large items or expenses. Sometimes the money is used to buy communal items, necessary for neighbourhood occasions, which are stored in the local mosque's storeroom. For Sudanese women, this sense of saving and economising is like a sixth sense. They will scrimp and save whatever funds they have access to and will often give their unsolicited advice on ways to save for the future to everyone around them.
The sandug has proven invaluable, particularly during critical times when funds are needed urgently, to pay children’s university fees or for medical expenses for example. And while each woman knows roughly when it will be her turn to receive the cash, there is an understanding among the group that if the need arises, a woman will forgo her turn to help out another. This sense of solidarity among the women is the glue of their communities and animated tea-drinking sessions, where gossip and grievances are shared, is where this profound connection blossoms.
The tray owner, acting as the de facto household bank, is finely tuned to the market economy. In addition to the sandug she diligently puts aside any surplus money and invests it by, for example, buying gold at the Omdurman market, in order to preserve the money’s value for future use. The fat gold bracelet she carefully selected and purchased may appear to be an ostentatious show of wealth; however, it is in fact a valuable reserve, readily and hastily exchanged when a genuine need arises.