This Ramadan, we’re sharing a personal reflection from Lina Salameh on family, tradition and staying connected across distance.
For many children and families around the world, separation, whether through conflict, migration or circumstance, can make moments of cultural tradition feel especially significant. At SOS Children’s Villages UK, we see how connection to family, memory and heritage helps children feel grounded, even when miles apart.
Lina's story
Ramadan has always meant closeness.
Closeness to family.
Closeness to memory.
Closeness to home.
In Ramallah (West Bank, Palestine), where my mother lives, Ramadan doesn’t arrive quietly. It comes alive in the streets, in the kitchens, in the homes that open their doors to one another. You hear it in the laughter that spills from open windows, in the sound of trays moving from house to house, and in the steady rhythm of hands shaping sweets late into the night.
Here in the UK, where I now live far, Ramadan feels different.
The days pass in silence.
No shared trays crossing doorsteps.
No cousins dropping in unannounced.
No late-night kitchens filled with stories and chatter.
And as Eid approaches, I feel that distance more deeply than at any other time of year. Because Ramadan was always our time — mine and my mother’s.
The time we stood side by side in the kitchen making ma’amoul.
When I was younger, I would watch her prepare the dough with quiet confidence, her hands moving without hesitation. She never needed to measure — she just knew.
I would wait patiently, hoping she would finally say, “Come, help me.”
And when she did, I felt like I had been trusted with something sacred.
Ramadan meant learning through her hands. It meant belonging.
This year, as the final days of Ramadan approached, I realised how much I missed not just the food — but the ritual.
The togetherness.
The feeling of being guided.
So this weekend, I called her.
Not just to say hello.
But to ask something simple.
“Mama… will you make ma’amoul with me?”
I set my phone against a jar of sugar and opened FaceTime.
Her kitchen in Ramallah appeared instantly — alive with movement. Someone walked past in the background. A cupboard opened. A familiar hum of life surrounded her.
My kitchen, by contrast, was still. But the moment she smiled through the screen, it didn’t feel empty anymore. “Let’s begin,” she said.
Across the miles between us, we started together. Her hands moved as they always had — calm, assured, steady.
Mine followed carefully.
She showed me how to rub the butter into the semolina, how to test the texture between my fingers, how to feel when it was ready rather than rely on a recipe. It felt less like cooking. And more like remembering.
As we worked, we talked. About the family gathering she was preparing for in Ramallah. About who would be visiting for Eid. About the neighbours she planned to share sweets with. And then, quietly, she said: “Ramadan isn’t the same without you here.”
I didn’t know how to answer. Because for me, Ramadan isn’t the same without her either. Without the noise. Without the warmth. Without the comfort of being close enough to reach across the counter.
While the dough rested, we rolled the date filling into small balls. Just as we used to.
The conversation flowed easily — part memory, part present, part longing. She spoke about how she wished she could see where I live now.
I spoke about how I wished I could step back into her kitchen, just for a moment.
Then came the shaping. We each picked up our wooden moulds. She pressed hers first. Then tapped it gently against her counter. The sound travelled through the phone. So I did the same.
And for a moment — through that shared rhythm — the distance between Ramallah and the UK felt smaller. Like we were standing side by side again.
Soon, the scent began to fill my kitchen.
Butter.
Dates.
Spices.
It was the smell of home. Not the home I live in now. But the home I carry.
When the cookies came out of the oven — pale and golden — I held one up to the screen. “One for you,” I said. She smiled softly. “And one for me.”
Ramadan still feels different here. I still miss her deeply — especially at this time of year. But that afternoon reminded me of something important.
Distance changes many things. But it cannot erase tradition. It cannot silence memory.
And it cannot stop a mother from guiding her daughter’s hands — even from across the sea and mountains.
Traditional little date cookies (Ma’amoul) recipe
These rich semolina shortbread cookies filled with date paste, warming spices and aromatic rose water are an essential part of the Palestinian Ramadan and Easter celebrations. For best results, use a ma’amoul mould, which makes it simple to craft the cookies into decorative shapes. They are also available online and make beautiful, dainty cookies. These will keep for up to 15 days in an airtight container.
Makes 25-30
Ingredients
For the Ma’amoul spice mix:
• 4 tbsp anise seeds
• 1 tsp ground mahlab
• 1 tsp ground mastic
Grind all the ingredients together in a mixer grinder.
Set aside to use later for both the dough and the date filling.
For the dough:
• 500g Semolina
• 2 tbsp of flour
• 2 tbsp of Ma’amoul spices
• 3 tbsp granulated sugar
• 200g unsalted butter melted and cooler
• 3 tbsp vegetable oil
• 2 tbsp rose water
• ¼ tsp of fine sea salt
• 1 cup of water
For the filling:
• 500g of Medjool dates, pitted, and roughly shopped. Or you can buy ready-made paste.
• 2 tbsp of Ma’amoul spices and add 1 tsp cinnamon
• 2 tbsp unsalted butter, semi-melted
For the finish:
• Icing sugar, to dust (optional)
Preparation
Day 1 – Prepare the dough
Begin by mixing the semolina and butter together, using your hands to rub in the butter until you get texture like breadcrumbs. Cover it and leave it to rest for the next day in a room temperature.
Day 2 – Finish the dough
Add the spices (anise, mastic and mahlab), sugar and salt and do the same process, rubbing the dough and spices to get a breadcrumb texture. Then add rose water and water and mix gently with your hand until a soft dough forms. Wrap in cling film and leave to rest for 30 mins.
Make the filling:
Place the chopped dates, spices and butter in a food processor and blitz until smooth.
If using date paste, add the butter and spices, mix with your hands to soften.
Divide the date mixture into 25-30 small balls
Preheat the oven to 200°C/fan 180°C/Gas 6 and line a large baking tray with baking parchment.
Shaping
Divide the dough into 25-30 balls. Pick up a ball and press your finger into the dough, creating a small indent. Place 1 teaspoon of date mixture into the hole, pinch the sides to enclose the filling, then roll it back into a ball.
If you have a ma’amoul mould, lightly press the ball into it, push it down and then tap the ball out on to the baking tray. Otherwise, just flatten the ball slightly into a thick disc and use the back of a fork to press a pattern into the top. Repeat to fill and shape the remaining cookies.
Bake for 30 minutes, or until golden on top. Cool on a wire rack before serving, dusted with a little icing sugar, if you like.
