Hawa Hassan’s “Setting a Place for Us”: A feast of historical resilience, reclamation, and existential reckoning

Recipes have long manifested as the memory keepers of a people, holding the weight of their survival, resilience, and untiring resolve, outlasting even centuries after borders are redrawn and the plunders of land, labour, and knowledge fight to inscribe themselves as victors. For Somali-American acclaimed author Hawa Hassan, colonisers may come and go, but their reach will forever fall short of the essence of a people. Even when severed from their roots, communal identity burns on in realms and spaces no conqueror’s reach can ever taint. It all starts in the intimate acts of the kitchen.

Born in Somalia in the late 80s as civil war tore through her homeland, Hawa’s earliest memories are shaped by upheaval. At age four, she and her family fled to a UN refugee camp in Kenya, where young Hawa lost herself in the liminal spaces of uncertainty. By seven, she was all alone in Seattle, lost in a foreign world and longing for her family and home.

Hawa’s young life has spanned continents, challenges, and hard-won triumphs—from living in squalid refugee camps to gracing international runways in New York City and later emerging as a celebrated chef, award-winning author, and entrepreneur — through every turn, Hawa has remained steadfast in her mission: to reconnect with her identity, however it redefines itself over the years, through the timeless comfort of home-coming cuisines that nurture the spirit and rekindle the palate. Her debut cookbook, In Bibi’s Kitchen (2020), co-authored with Julia Turshen, is a heartfelt homage to African grandmothers from eight nations bordering the Indian Ocean and the culinary legacies they’ve preserved. This work earned her the prestigious James Beard Award for Best International Cookbook in 2022.

Her foray into the culinary world began in 2015 with Basbaas Foods, a Somali condiment she introduced to the U.S. in pursuit of sauces that stirred the soul’s memory of home. It was much more than her first business, but a revolutionary reclamation of identity and a distillation of heritage into something tangible and shared. Each jar held a fragment of her Somali roots—a keeper of Ma’s stories, a bridge between fragmented borders, and an invitation for consumers to connect across distances, no matter how vast. That same hospitable ethos lies at the very heart of her forthcoming book, Setting a Place for Us. Scheduled for a May release, the culinary almanac delivers a groundbreaking collection of essays and recipes charting the culinary landscapes of eight countries shaped by conflict, including Afghanistan, Egypt, the DRC, Liberia and El Salvador.

Through emotionally vibrant accounts and a treasury of over 75 recipes, the Brooklyn-based storyteller reveals how food stands as a witnessing portal of memory’s dislocation and a subtle compass that tugs us back to the origins we once thought were lost to the winds of time—no matter how far we may have wandered.

In this exclusive interview, Dazed MENA sits down with Hawa Hassan, delving into her personal journey of displacement and belonging, her passion for preserving cultural traditions, and the deep empathy that drives her work. Her unfiltered confessions carve open the experiences of displaced peoples, immigrants, and the forgotten people still scattered in the wreckage of war. Through the taste of familiar spices, the feel of a home-cooked meal, and the memory of a mother’s hands in the kitchen — Hawa invites us to challenge the very idea of exclusion by redefining the existential notion of home. She contends the answer has little to do with where we’re “tolerated” to sit but with the tables where our time-honoured, culturally sacred meals are truly revered, moulding the living archives and indomitable human spirit behind them. It was only a fitting prelude to the wisdom and heart Hawa later shares in our conversation. 

As Hawa so powerfully reminds readers in the introduction to the book, food can never be divorced from politics, nor is it merely sustenance for the body. It is a fiercely unapologetic record and call back of who we are and all where we’ve treaded, even as the forces of displacement and diaspora try to pull us in every which direction. 

Discovery of such deep avenues for self-expression is seldom a straight line for those forced to leave everything behind, yet as Hawa makes clear, it is an active, conscious evolution. Such communities continue to carry a will forged from the very furnace of despair: the will to refuse convenient placation and the sanitising of one’s authenticity. And in a world that often rewards the fleeting and superficial, for Hawa Hassan, setting your own table is the emblem of generational grit in the face of unimaginable suffering.

When you first launched Basbaas Foods, did you envision this as a stepping stone to telling larger stories using food as a lens to explore the intersections of African culture and historical resilience, or did that realisation come later?

When I first conceived Basbaas Foods in 2014, I shared the idea with a friend whose business expertise I deeply admired. I had this vision of creating something like Heinz but with a mission to spark meaningful conversations about where I come from. He asked if I had a roadmap—a business plan—and that process made me think deeply about my strengths, weaknesses, and how far I could go with condiments if my goal was to truly “elongate the table.” I realised it wasn’t just about selling sauces but getting our stories on shelves, tables, and screens.

That original business plan included a vision beyond condiments: a cookbook highlighting the cuisines and stories of eight African countries along the Indian Ocean, told from the perspective of women. I wanted to show readers that we, too, have the Indian Ocean on our side, with flavours like cardamom, cumin, turmeric, and cinnamon that are both familiar and distinctly ours. Through food, I could demonstrate how we gather, how our grandmothers teach us, and how accessible our traditions are.

I knew it was just the beginning when In Bibi’s Kitchen came out. Setting a Place for Us was always meant to follow, expanding beyond Africa and weaving more of my story into the narrative. Each step—from condiments to cookbooks—has felt organic and perfectly timed. At every point, the work I’ve created has been something I felt called to do, grounded in who I am, and something that didn’t yet exist.

The title of your upcoming book, Setting a Place for Us, feels so profoundly fitting—not just in the context of cuisine and setting a table for the heritages that have long been excluded but also in its more profound, symbolic meanings. Can you pull on why you chose that title and what those words mean?

I wish I could take credit for the title. When I wrote Bibi’s Kitchen, I had a clear vision—it was about Swahili culture, grandmothers, and the Indian Ocean. But this book focused on displacement, war, and countries I’m less familiar with. It felt deeply personal and even painful, almost like writing a memoir. I found myself caught up in the details, sometimes doubting if I could really do these stories justice.

As we dug deeper and the narrative became clearer, my agent, Kari Stewart, suggested Setting a Place for Us. It immediately clicked for all of us. The title captures the heart of this book: displaced people don’t wait for permission to belong. We don’t need to be at tables where we’re not welcome. Immigrants, refugees and displaced people are incredibly good at starting over. They’re resilient. They’re resourceful. They’re often very joyful because they have so much perspective and gratitude. And so setting a place just felt right. It just came to us: here’s where we are and a space where we belong.

Displacement is not just geographical. Of course, it affects the sense of self and where they belong. How has being uprooted from Somalia at age five and later navigating life alone in Kenya and Seattle shaped how you see yourself—as a daughter, a sister, and a community member—and how has your sense of belonging evolved as you’ve grown?

I’ve been reflecting recently on how special it is for children to recite their family lineage, a tradition that’s always given me a deep sense of belonging. I’ve always been grounded in my Somali identity, being Khadija Usman’s daughter, and being connected to the women I come from. But over time, I’ve realised that while I’ve remained rooted in that foundation, how I’ve shown up in the world has often adjusted for survival.

For example, growing up in the 1990s in Seattle, I couldn’t fully embody being a young hijabi, the leader of my family, and the loud-mouthed girl – all qualities and roles I once held. I had to adapt—I became the basketball player, the trustworthy girl next door, the kid that parents would feel comfortable welcoming into their home. My identity shifted to fit the spaces I occupied, allowing me to navigate those environments in ways that felt… safer. Looking back, I’m not sure who it was safer for.

Now, however, I’ve moved far beyond just fighting to survive. I’m thriving, settled in who I am, and clear about my many identities. I am Hawa Hassan, Khadija Usman’s daughter, Kwame Apraku’s wife, and a Brooklyn girl—many things at once. I can move freely between worlds without clinging to one label, and that’s precisely what the book is about. Displaced people are so much more than the narrow identities imposed on them. We are multifaceted, resilient, and full of stories that defy confinement.

What’s the one dish you cooked over the years or consistently ate that made you feel like you were at home no matter where you were?

Oh, my God, I always say this: Suugo, a Somali pasta sauce. You know, the Italians colonised Somalia, in turn giving us spaghetti. I love pasta sauce. I love the earthiness, sweetness, and depth in our pasta sauce. And so that’s my comfort food. That’s what I cook when I’m missing home. And I actually just made it. We make it all the time here at home. 

In the intro to your book, you talk about the “clarity of abandonment” that resurfaced when you finally returned to Oslo in 2014 to reconnect the dots of your life, reuniting with your mother and siblings as an adult after leaving at age seven. How did that experience shape your vision for this book?

One of the things that I realised very early on is that this isn’t a singular experience. It’s not one that only Hawa Hassan is having. It’s universal—shared by so many across the globe. When I left home, I lost my belongings and a part of myself. That abandonment felt very isolating and shameful like I had been discarded. But over time, I realised it’s a symptom of displacement, not an actual reflection of who I am. It’s not personal; it’s collective. I’ve come to understand that others are working through it, and some of us—myself included—have seen it as just a part of our larger story of starting over. We’ve healed and moved forward; some have even made peace with it. Like, so what? It’s a part of our story. Everything turned out fine for me in the end.

What existential questions, if any, were you seeking to answer for yourself through the creation of this book?

In theory, I wanted to find out why food was such a great connector. I know that everybody has the same daily questions. What’s for dinner? How am I getting the kids to school? You know, is the house clean? Just the same daily desires and questions ruminating. But the one thing that I wanted an answer to is, what’s the definition of home? And I’m thinking about that now because I don’t want an answer, but I did ask everybody, you know, where’s home? And it’s exciting to hear and see how people define home when it’s not a physical place they can easily return to.

There were times in the research process that were incredibly emotional for you. Was there a moment, either in your travel or your interviews, when the power of food as a means of resistance or preservation truly hit home for you? 

That probably came for me in June of 2022 when I was in (DR) Congo. I was in Kinshasa, and it was exciting to see. I’ve seen this before in my own life and travels, but you don’t see food constantly being sold in America. If you want to see food being sold, you have to go to the supermarket. You go sit down at a restaurant. And the spectrum in which food was being sold from the side of the street to shacks, to markets, to people’s courtyards, to high-end restaurants in the streets of Congo; I was so shocked at the level at which food was being sold. And it was all around you. It was encompassing. You were in it. You couldn’t drive a minute without seeing another person with something of sale regarding food. That was eye-opening, and this is what home truly feels like.

I know displacement is often associated with loss and despair, but I’m wondering if there are any moments when you found unexpected grace, connection, or even joy because of it.

Oh, absolutely. One moment that stands out was when I travelled to Congo shortly after winning the Beard Award. We left JFK and landed in Paris, discovering I needed a visa to continue. It was a complete shock—no one had mentioned this. While scrambling to resolve it, I shared my situation on Instagram, and a complete stranger asked where I was headed in Congo. When I told him it was the capital, Kinshasa, he offered to help. By the next morning, he connected me with a lawyer, and I had my visa, albeit at quite a steep price—it felt like a hustle, but I was so grateful.

Later, once in Congo, I met incredible people through connections made by friends, including a woman named Lina and her family, who have since become like family to me. So even when things went wrong—like when our fixer disappeared—people always stepped in to support us. These experiences, though chaotic, affirmed that I was indeed on the right path. It reminded me that if there’s a will, there’s always a way and that unexpected grace and connection can emerge even in the most challenging moments.

That is a perfect transition to my next question, which is, has this book allowed you to experience any healing from some of the wounds caused by years of separation and upheaval?

Totally. When you’re doing work like this, and you’re, to some degree, doing it for yourself, but later on, it becomes public, and then it belongs to the outside world. A reckoning needs to happen so that you can move through it and show up down the road for yourself and others in a way that feels healthy. So, yes, there were and are many things that happened in the process of writing this book that brought me closer to myself, helped to answer some questions about my upbringing, and allowed for forgiveness. Definitely.

Can you share one of those experiences that allowed you to feel a sense of healing?

There were quiet moments, like when I was in Liberia, writing. Liberia’s on the Atlantic Ocean, and it’s terrific. We drove out to a beach town one day, and I had this moment while the photographer went to shoot with the fishermen. And, you know, it’s an overwhelming feeling of gratitude, on my end, that things turned out okay for me. And I’m so sad that it all happened. But collectively, it feels like, oh man, I’m so glad I can experience this. It shows how far I’ve come. 

In your early career, you were scouted as a model in New York, where you spent roughly two decades. I’m sure that opened many doors and allowed you to live in unique spaces that many only dream of. Have you ever felt like you had to compartmentalise your identities, being both American and Somali, a model, a storyteller, and a chef, to make sense of all your experiences, or do you see them as threads that weave together into one story?

These identities are all threads weaving into one larger story. There’s no blueprint for navigating what I went through, but I’m grateful to be in a position where I can tell stories and share mine in a way that feels authentic. Each experience ended up feeding into the others. My modelling career, for instance, gave me a unique familiarity with being on the road and adapting to being alone, which made it much easier for me to be resourceful and navigate new environments, such as the constant travel and time spent reporting on this book. Modelling also introduced me to people from so many different backgrounds, which has, in turn, been invaluable in journalism and during the interviews for my book.

Those moments during the interviews for this book weren’t about my story—I was there to listen. Often, I felt like one of their children or an old friend at their tables. And in a way, I think my Muslim identity has also shaped these interactions. There’s a generosity and gentleness in how I’ve been received and how I try to give back, and I hope that shows in my work. All these experiences—modelling, storytelling, cooking—don’t exist in silos. They’ve shaped and informed one another, creating something much bigger together.

You touched on this a little bit earlier, but I would say your sense of independence is a really strong skill to learn. I think you were kind of thrust into isolation right from a young age. Is that also a way for you to feel connected to your mom? 

Yeah, I think absolutely.  As I’m getting older, I am starting to realise that my mom is only human. She’s experiencing this life for the first time as well. And so I’ve tried really hard to humanise her more recently, as opposed to seeing her as this can-do-all and be strong. Instead, I’ve just tried to see her as a person who gave birth to me but is also trying to figure it out for herself too. But I definitely think that I got my entrepreneurial spirit from her. So, as I’m getting older, I’m giving myself room to relearn her as well. But yes, I think that a lot of who I am innately comes from who she is, and cooking is a way for me to feel connected to her after all those years of separation. 

In researching this book, did you notice any universal coping mechanisms or commonalities across any of the eight different countries regarding how food was used to process or cope with the trauma of maintaining a sense of identity and belonging to one’s native land?

The one thing that stood out to me in the places I travelled to and the people I spoke with was generosity. There’s a deep level of kindness and presence in everyone I met and even the photographers I worked with. I’ve been completely blown away by people’s capacity to welcome you into their homes, share their food, give you a cup of hot tea, and give you their time, an extended amount of time. I’m inspired, to say the least, and constantly thinking about how I, too, could be more present and more generous in the way many of the people in this book are.

So, to follow up on that, how do you see recipes, which can, of course, be altered based on scarcity and migration – How do you see recipes as a sort of bridge between the past, before violence and exile claims so many and a reflection of current and present realities?

My hope is that the recipes are a window into why you’d buy a book like this. Because food is my vehicle to tell bigger stories. And so my intention is to welcome you to the table. The recipes are supposed to be what you’re familiar with because people always open up cookbooks and write and tell their stories and cook from them. But what makes people stay? I say come for the recipes but wait for the stories. And so I’ve imagined this: the recipes are a window into the past, the present, and hopefully the future. And that the people who pick up this book see themselves in it, look at it, and create their own connection to these places and the people.

When you tell your story now, do you feel it belongs to you? Or do you think it belongs to the collective experience of all these displaced peoples and those living in the diaspora worldwide?

My story belongs to me, without romanticising what I went through. I can amplify other people’s stories, but I’m proud to have grown into somebody who’s so grounded in who she is and who’s worked hard to get to that place. And so, the many things that I am, it’s because I’ve had to become that, but it’s mine to tell, share, do with as I want, walk away from, walk into. But I hope other people in the diaspora can look at me and say, I see parts of myself in her.

We’ve seen, especially in the past year, an alarming rise in conflict and violence, particularly in Africa and the Middle East. How do you process these conflicts continuing to displace so many others today? Does it feel like your story is repeating itself in different forms worldwide?

I mention in the intro that there’s so much more war happening now than in 1991 when my family was displaced. And it’s a different kind of war now, right? There’s climate, there’s displacement, there’s violence on a scale that we’ve never seen before. And so I don’t know that the two experiences mirror one another. And I say this all the time to my husband, I’ve been removed from that time of my life, almost 31 or 32 years, and I would be remiss to not live a life that’s a reflection of all that’s possible for people like me and where we come from. And so my intention is to hopefully be a voice for the atrocities happening and to shine a light on them, like I’m doing in this cookbook, but also to give people hope, to provide them with the idea and the writing that says different is possible.

But without a doubt, we need to examine why violence happens so much in this part of the world in the first place. And I hope that the people who come for the recipes stay for the stories and then ask themselves, what’s my role in this thing happening, and why does it constantly happen to Africa and the Middle East? Who’s the hand that’s controlling this? What stories am I consuming that I’m not aware of? I hope that’s what my work can add to the conversation.

Conflict disrupts not only lives but also long-standing traditions. As you’ve shown, people find creative ways to preserve their customs, culture, and heritage. What role does food play in grounding people when everything else might feel uncertain?

Nourishment is the constant factor that people do almost daily if available. I’ve seen that it’s the communal aspect that people enjoy, which collectively grounds the group. Everywhere I went, I didn’t see anyone eating alone. It’s tradition and community; there are so many layers to it, but collectively, no matter what people are experiencing, eating meals is their time to be together. It’s akin to worshiping. Prayer and food were the two things I constantly saw.

You referenced Warsan Shire’s poignant quote in your introduction: “No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.” Do you feel that the “mouth of the shark” Shire spoke of is only growing larger in today’s world? And how do you personally keep that imagery from consuming your hope, especially when hope feels increasingly scarce for so many?

I think the shark’s mouth is growing larger—today’s world is so much more complex than it was in 1991, unfortunately. But what keeps me hopeful is the access to information and resources that people can now reach, even in the most challenging situations. What stands out most is the agency people show, even in despair. They’re telling their stories, picking up the phone, and sharing their perspectives directly from their homes and backyards, not leaving it to major or legacy news outlets to shape their narratives anymore. That resilience inspires me. And while it might seem naive, I hold on to the hope that a world where people live peacefully together is possible.

How do you think readers, especially those who have been overwhelmed by footage of violence and conflict over the past two years, can avoid becoming desensitised to stories of displacement? And how do you continue to hold space for empathy for others and yourself while listening to and sharing these deeply challenging accounts?

I use my lived experiences to see a fuller picture of what’s happening around me. Even now, living in a high-rise in Brooklyn, I remain deeply aware of the world in which I live and the realities unfolding beyond my immediate surroundings. But empathy doesn’t require you to experience something personally. Empathy is your capacity to witness someone else’s suffering, step into their shoes, and think, That could happen to me, or I feel for them because I see their pain. I hope anyone reading this book understands that empathy isn’t limited to people who look like you or share your story. It’s not reserved for special projects or causes. Empathy should be expansive and extended to anyone experiencing despair or discomfort. It’s a fundamental connection—recognising our shared humanity—that should weave through everything we do.

After writing this book and after your remarkable career, how would you describe home now? After collecting and sharing all these stories, has the idea of home changed for you, and how do you see home?

For a long time, I believed home was wherever my mother was, and to some extent, I still do. But now, being married and sharing a home with the person I love, I see home as wherever my husband is. He embodies comfort, warmth, abundant food, kindness, great conversation, and storytelling. That is home to me now—even if, on many days, it’s simply within these walls. Ultimately, it’s where he is.

Looking back with all that you now know, what would you say to her if you could speak to your seven-year-old self—the girl separated from her family and navigating a completely unfamiliar world in Seattle? And as a follow-up, what message would you want this book to give to every displaced individual still searching for their sense of identity?

The message would be the same for both. To my seven-year-old self, it gets better. Because it did, Alhamdulilah. And to every displaced individual searching for their sense of identity—whether within their country or far from it—I’d offer the same: it gets better. Fortune favours the brave. Keep going.