There is something quietly powerful about the dinner table.
Long before we debate ideas, define ourselves by politics, religion, nationality or background, we do something very human. We sit down. We eat. We pass plates. We share stories. We offer someone a little more.
In that moment, the distance between people can soften. Food has always had this ability. It does not demand agreement. It does not ask people to explain everything about who they are or where they come from. It simply creates an invitation.
Come in. Sit down. Try this.
For me, that invitation has always felt deeply personal.
I migrated to Australia from Iran in 2008. Like many migrants, I arrived with practical things packed in my suitcase, but also with invisible things: memories, language, traditions, family stories and the flavours that made me feel at home.
When you start again in a new country, food can become an anchor. It carries the smell of your childhood kitchen. It brings back the rhythm of family gatherings. It reminds you of who you are, even while you are trying to understand where you now belong.
But over time, I began to realise that food was not only a way of holding onto my own identity. It was also a way of sharing it.
When I cooked Iranian or Middle Eastern food for friends in Australia, something shifted. People who may have known very little about Iran, Persian culture or the region more broadly would become curious. They would ask about the spices, the ingredients, the names of dishes, the way things were served.
The food did not remove every difference between us. It did something more subtle and perhaps more important. It made those differences feel approachable.
The dinner table as common ground
Social cohesion can sound like a large and complicated idea. It belongs in policy papers, community programs and public conversations. But I think it also lives in much smaller places.
It lives in the moment a neighbour brings over a dish.
It lives in children tasting food from another culture for the first time.
It lives in someone asking, “How do you make this?”
It lives in the shared silence that happens when everyone is enjoying the same meal.
To me, social cohesion does not mean we all become the same. It means we can be different and still feel that we belong together. It means we can hold onto our cultures, languages, memories and traditions, while also making room for someone else’s.
Food gives us a practical way to do that.
A shared meal does not erase religious, cultural or political differences. But it can soften the atmosphere around them. It can help people meet as humans before they meet as opinions. It can remind us that behind every culture is a family, a kitchen, a recipe, a memory and a story.
Food as care, memory and ritual
In many cultures, and certainly in Iranian culture, food is one of the clearest expressions of care.
You feed people when they visit. You feed them when they are celebrating. You feed them when they are grieving. You send them home with leftovers. You insist they have more, even when they say they are full.
This is not just hospitality. It is emotional language.
Food says: I see you.
Food says: you are welcome here.
Food says: stay a little longer.
In this way, food is not only nourishment for the body. It is also a form of memory, comfort and connection.
The rituals around food matter too. Chopping herbs. Stirring a pot. Setting the table. Placing something in the centre for everyone to share. These are small acts, but they slow us down. They ask us to be present. They create a moment of pause in a world that often moves too quickly.
This is where I think food connects naturally to our sense of wellbeing. Not because every meal needs to be perfect, healthy or beautifully styled, but because the act of cooking and eating together can restore something in us.
It can bring us back to each other.
Making culture easier to approach
One of the reasons I started Exotic Bazaar was because I saw how curious Australians were about Middle Eastern food, but also how intimidating it could feel.
People would tell me they loved the flavours, but they did not know where to start. They were unsure about the spices. They worried about long ingredient lists. They worried about
getting it wrong.
I wanted to make that first step easier.
Exotic Bazaar was created to help everyday Australian home cooks experience Middle Eastern flavours in a way that feels accessible, practical and exciting. Not watered down. Not stripped of story. Just made easier to bring into a busy modern kitchen.
Because sometimes, the barrier between cultures is not unwillingness. Sometimes it is simply unfamiliarity.
If we can make the unfamiliar feel welcoming, we create space for curiosity. And curiosity is where connection often begins.
A small business with a bigger purpose
Of course, Exotic Bazaar is a food business. We make meal bases, spice blends and products designed to help people create beautiful Middle Eastern inspired meals at home.
But for me, it has always carried a deeper purpose.
Every time someone picks up one of our products, cooks something they have not tried before, and shares it with their family or friends, a small cultural exchange happens. It may
They are how cultures become less distant.
They are how children grow up seeing difference as normal.
They are how families discover new favourites.
They are how stories travel.
Seeing our products stocked in Coles has been incredibly meaningful for that reason. For a small, founder-led brand, it is a major business milestone. But it is also emotional. It means Middle Eastern flavours are sitting on everyday supermarket shelves, ready to be discovered by everyday Australian households.
That visibility matters.
It says these flavours belong here too.
Belonging begins in ordinary moments
When we talk about belonging, we often make it sound like something big and abstract. But belonging is usually built through ordinary moments.
Being invited in.
Being offered food.
Being asked about your story.
Hearing someone pronounce the name of a dish for the first time.
Watching a child enjoy a flavour their parents did not grow up with.
Seeing your culture represented not as something foreign or separate, but as part of the everyday fabric of Australian life.
These moments are small, but they accumulate. They shape how we see each other.
And perhaps that is why the dinner table matters so much. It gives us a place to practise connection. It gives us a place to slow down, listen, share and belong.
Not perfectly. Not always easily. But genuinely.
In a world that can feel increasingly divided, distracted and quick to judge, sharing food remains one of the simplest ways to begin again.
Maybe social cohesion does not always start in grand gestures.
Maybe it starts with a meal.
A table.
A story.
A little curiosity.
And the simple act of saying, “Taste this. It means something to me.”
By Gilava Pour Founder of Exotic Bazaar
