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BARBARA WAS ALONE. Her father, Dioscorus, had locked her in a tower. He wanted to keep her safe, or maybe he wanted control. She was young and curious. She looked out her window and saw a world she couldn’t touch. She prayed. She thought about freedom.
Then she found faith. Quiet, unshakable. It filled the cracks in her lonely days. When her father learned, he raged. He would not have a Christian for a daughter. She ran. Out of the tower. Across the fields.
The wheat rose behind her, tall and golden, as if the earth itself wanted to protect her. But she couldn’t outrun his soldiers. They found her. She faced her father and the men who would kill her. She didn’t beg. She didn’t cry. She held to her faith.
They called her a saint after that.
In Lebanon and beyond, they remember Barbara. Every year, they sing songs. Children wear costumes. They knock on doors, asking for sweets, pretending to be someone else for a while. They pay homage to the story of a girl who ran and a faith that didn’t falter.
But mostly, they cook.
They make Burbara. It’s wheat and spices, boiled and sweetened. Raisins, pomegranate seeds, almonds. The wheat is a symbol. It grows when you think you’re beaten. It feeds you when you think you’re empty.
They also make Ameh. Whole wheat berries, boiled until soft. Sweetened with sugar or honey, scented with rosewater. They add dried fruits, maybe nuts, maybe not. It depends on what’s in the kitchen. The song they sing mentions it: “Heshle Berbara wel ameh bel couara.” Barbara’s fields. Barbara’s wheat.
They bake Ka’ak and Ma’amoul. Butter and dates, soft but shaped with care. Circles of life. Cookies that crumble on the tongue but stay in the memory.
They fry dough — Mshabbak and Ouweymat. They pour syrup over it until it shines. It’s not fancy, but it’s good. Sweetness for the hard times.
In some places, they eat Qatayef. Pancakes folded over nuts and cream, crisp at the edges, soft in the middle. You bite into it, and it’s a celebration.
The food isn’t complicated. It doesn’t need to be. It tells the story better that way. Simple things — wheat, butter, sugar — turned into something bigger. A feast to remind you that running is hard, but stopping isn’t the answer.
Every December, the air smells of cinnamon and anise. Families gather. They eat, they sing. They remember a girl who wouldn’t bend.
They don’t call it fanciful. They call it faith.
