When words don’t mean the same to everyone

The smell of cumin and garlic wafted through the narrow halls of the refugee camp. I knew someone was cooking stuffed zucchini again.

Several years ago, I lived in that camp. As a person with a legal background, I often found myself helping others with their asylum paperwork. It wasn’t formal, and it wasn’t paid, but it meant a lot to those around me. In return, many expressed their gratitude the only way they could: through food. The camp residents invited me to share whatever they had been able to prepare, and put their heart and soul into transforming simple ingredients into something special.

One week, zucchinis went on sale at the local shop, and nearly everyone in the camp used the zucchini in their own ways. The Syrians prepared “Sheikh al-Mahshi”, a dish of stuffed zucchini, that I thought I knew well. That week, I ate “Sheikh al-Mahshi” four times. And every time, it was completely different. Different spices. Different stuffing. Different hands. Same name, but not the same dish. At that camp in the distant north, far away from home, I learned more about the rich diversity of Syrian culinary traditions than I had ever learned in Syria itself. No two families at the camp could agree on the correct way to prepare stuffed zucchini, but each and every one of those families understood how to be generous and thoughtful, even in those dire circumstances.

Another time, while visiting Tunisia, a sweet young woman offered me “hout” for lunch. I accepted, surprised and very curious. In Syrian Arabic, “hout” means whale, so I imagined something huge and exotic, a meal that I had never tried or even heard of before. But when the plate arrived, it was a delicious dish of freshly fried sardines. In Tunisian dialect, I learned, “hout” just means “fish.”

Same word. Different world. And this is not even taking into account the most important layer of meaning - our lived experience. All my life I have struggled to convey to my friends how special and delicious the “Bahjanly” from Kobani is. The kind of cooking that can only develop over generations, from the intimate connection with the land and the ingredients that the land produces. You have to taste it yourself to understand.

Just because we use the same word doesn’t mean we mean the same thing. Every cook will have their own version of stuffed zucchini. And this isn’t just about food. It applies to rights, law, and dignity. Decisions on who is allowed to live, and who will die, who may speak, and who is brutally silenced. We often encounter powerful phrases like “freedom is guaranteed” or “rights are protected” in constitutions and legal texts. But what these words appear to mean on paper doesn’t always match how they’re understood or enforced in reality.

I remember a discussion I had with a member of parliament from one of the countries of our region. He proudly told me their new constitution guarantees freedom of religion and belief. I asked, “What about someone who’s an atheist?” He looked surprised and replied, “Of course not!” That man was sincere, educated, and cared deeply about human rights. But he was speaking from his own truth and understanding of rights in an ideal society. Words like “freedom”, “justice”, and “equality” can mean radically different things to different people. So just because a law uses those terms doesn’t mean everyone agrees on who they include or what they protect.

The gap between written law and lived reality in a society can be abysmal. This is because more than the words themselves, what actually matters is who defines them, who interprets them, and who is excluded. Protecting rights therefore takes more than ink on paper, photoshoots or lofty declarations to the press. It requires shared understanding, cultural humility, hard work, and the courage to apply those words fairly, even when doing so challenges our own truths.

Today, more than ever, these questions are urgent. As I am watching Swedish snow gently drifting outside my window, a discourse of “national unity” and “security” is yet again being wielded to destroy homes, life and hope. In the south, in the north, to the west and to the east, in the mountains and in the plains. Unless we want our lives to be reduced to a savage struggle for survival, we must learn this lesson: when words like "freedom" are understood differently, it’s not just a matter of linguistics. It can mean safety for one person and danger for another. Belonging for some - and exile for others. So maybe we should not be debating whether a law promises freedom, justice or security, but instead reflect on the questions that really matter: “Freedom and security for whom? Justice by whose definition?”

Words don’t travel empty. They carry history, power, and assumptions. If we want a future that is not defined by brute force, hate and destruction - a world where we can again enjoy Sheikh al-Mahshi in all its lovely variations - we need to ask not just what the law says, but what it really means. Maybe, before anything else, we simply need to learn to ask each other: "What does that word mean to you?" And then, be prepared to listen.

Chavia Ali

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