My grandfather spent a lot of time in the hospital in his later years. Though I visited him there frequently, I remember one trip vividly. I had just finished a shift at the local brewery, and on hearing this, my grandfather began telling me a story that astonished me.
His brother, he said, had been a brewer in Iraq, and in Jordan. He had worked for local breweries and international beer companies like Amstel. And he had been in the habit of throwing frequent parties, and generally making the most of his profession.
I knew my grandfather had started one of the first food packaging and distribution companies in Iraq. I knew that he, a scientist, had run it with his four brothers, each with their own specializations. I hadn’t known about his brother’s work, or that he had been recruited by my grandfather for his brewing experience. In the end, his brother helped the company produce juice concentrates and other products. But it was enough to know he had built his career in beer, at a time and place that I hadn’t thought possible.
My grandfather passed away a couple years later, and I was never able to ask him more about this fleeting revelation. But the knowledge that I had an ancestor who was a brewer, especially in a country like Iraq—which isn’t exactly known for its beer scene (or its alcohol consumption, full stop)—awakened my curiosity. As I researched my great-uncle Medhat Khedairi’s career, it became clear to me that there was a wide world of Middle Eastern brewing traditions I’d never encountered, and a vital network of breweries still active in the region today.
I wanted to learn more about my family’s history, and about this little-known corner of the beer world. And I wanted to find out why these stories weren’t getting told.
Most human-inhabited land has its history of beer production, and the Middle East is no exception. (Ancient Mesopotamia, located across what is now Iraq, Iran, Syria, and Turkey, is the source of some of the earliest records of brewing in existence.) But that’s still surprising to many, given that, in the current countries of the Middle East, over 90% of the population is Muslim—and for many devout Muslims, it is sacrilegious to drink alcohol.
Still, brewing was common in the region from the times of the ancient Sumerians and Egyptians through to pervasive British imperialistic rule, which only ended in the mid-20th century. Even the word “alcohol” has etymological roots in the Arabic word “al-kuḥl.” In more modern times, European influence made beer more everyday and accessible, aided by technological advancements and the state of a growing, globalized world.
Alcohol laws have long varied across the Middle East, as they do today. “Generally, religious law did not look kindly on drinking, but the enforcement of prohibition varied based upon demographics, time period, and the ruling regime's views on alcohol,” says Dr. Omar Foda, author of Egypt’s Beer: Stella, Identity, and the Modern State. Some prohibition laws have been in place since the 17th century, with their direct roots leading to the Ottoman Empire.
In places where alcohol consumption and production were forbidden, beer was still produced discreetly—both by locals and visitors. Most visibly, a particular subculture of homebrewing developed in the mid-20th century among expats living and working in these countries, including but not limited to Iran, Lebanon, Iraq, and the United Arab Emirates.
Evidence of early expat homebrewing can be found in a 1950s-era pamphlet issued by the Arabian-American Oil Company (ARAMCO) to its American employees who were living in Saudi Arabia. It was called “Perfected Techniques on the Ebullition of Sugar, Water & Suitable Catalyst to Form an Acceptable ARAMCO Assimilative Imbibable Potion Appropriate for Consumption,” and it purported to teach readers how to make their own beer, wine, and liquor.
Steve Hindy, chairman and co-founder of Brooklyn Brewery, had his own experience of illicit overseas brewing. Hindy worked as a foreign correspondent for the Associated Press in the Middle East from 1979–1984. His work began in Lebanon, and as he traveled and met other American diplomats, he learned that the limited beer options that were publicly available weren’t nearly as good as what he was tasting from his peers—despite the fact that homebrewing would have been difficult, and in some cases dangerous. He tells me in an email how they acquired ingredients during his time as a foreign correspondent. “They got pelletized hops in the diplomatic mail, and I recall malt extract being available in Saudi supermarkets,” he says.
In a piece for Vice, Hindy shared more detail about his story: “I'm the founder of The Brooklyn Brewery, but I owe my success in the beer business to an unlikely country, Saudi Arabia, where people have been publicly whipped and sometimes beheaded for producing and selling alcoholic beverages.” Though the piece has a heightened tenor that’s emblematic of the publication, Hindy is not wrong that in many countries, Saudia Arabia in particular, alcohol is either frowned upon, punishable by law, and in extreme cases, enough to earn a death sentence.
And still beer existed. And still it continues to exist in this part of the world. A growing craft beer scene continues today, led by many secular, Christian, Jewish, or non-religiously-affiliated independent breweries, as well as previously established macrobreweries. As Foda tells me, “Beer in the Middle East was linked to the colonization of the region. Yet, pretty quickly, people developed a distinct local beer culture.”
In my grandfather’s self-published book, From Baghdad to Boston, he writes that his brother began brewing for the Iraqi Beer Company in the late 1950s. He then moved to Zarqa, Jordan to become the brewmaster of an Amstel facility until the early 1960s. By 1958, three European breweries had franchised and were registered in Jordan, including Germany’s Löwenbräu, the Netherlands’ Oranjeboom Brewery, and Amstel. Soon, some neighboring countries began opening breweries and creating their own national beer brands. One example was Al-Chark, a Pale Lager created by Al Chark FMCG Company in 1954, and owned by the government of Syria.
Early in his career, Medhat lived on site at the brewery. Both social openness and production of beer flowered during this time in many countries, while developing breweries had access to high-quality equipment and ingredients. My grandfather writes, “In [Za'franiya] outside of Baghdad, he worked as an Assistant Brewer. The Master Brewer was British. The company gave him a house inside the brewery complex so that he [could] keep an eye on the different stages of the brewing process 24 hours a day.” He adds, “As a bachelor, my brother had many parties at his house.”
It was amusing to read this passage when I first discovered it. I grew up in a family that was strictly religious. His brother may have been a brewer, but I never witnessed my grandfather drink, and in my immediate family, beer and wine never entered the house until my mid 20s.
By the 1960s beer had become a “secular product” that was common in the Middle East, according to Foda. In Egypt’s Beer—dedicated to Stella, Egypt’s former national beer brand—he writes that, “Thanks to the work of both the Dutchmen and the Egyptian entrepreneurs that the Nasser-led regime would rally against, Stella beer had become the beverage of choice for young Egyptians looking for fun. It was in this period that Stella became the unquestioned cultural artifact that is so fondly remembered by a certain generation of Egyptians.”
In more recent decades, progressive momentum in some of these countries has slowed as religious conservatism and diverging ideological movements have swept through the region. As a result, beer has become less accessible, and many formerly booming breweries became inactive, switched to non-alcoholic production, or pivoted to meet a lower demand.
If European imperialism had the side effect of feeding the Middle Eastern beer scene in the 20th century, then 21st-century military conflict and engagements in the region have also had an impact on the way that beer is consumed locally.
The beer that soldiers and military personnel have access to during R&R tends to be from local vendors. Alandria Hatcher, who was deployed in Afghanistan for 18 months during 2007–2008, admits to expanding her local beer knowledge thanks to an unlikely source. [Author’s note: Afghanistan is not generally considered a part of the Middle East, but it has been implicated in the region’s military conflicts.] While on a Forward Operating Base (FOB), Hatcher says, “I had someone assigned to be my security named Karim. He would bring a local beer or brew that was dark, spicy—like cardamom-type spices—and thick. Almost like a Stout. It was homemade, so the strength varied, but that was my intro to dark beer.”
Distribution of international beers to larger bases also occurs. Jacob Alsing, chief operating officer of Mikkeller, served in the Danish Army for 19 years. Alsing recalls that beers were available in select bases that permitted alcohol. On German bases, he says that the stock included “Erdinger Weisse and a lot of macro Lager.” He notes that cultures and religions of host countries ought to be respected, and speaks against inebriation and weapon handling.
In some cases, local restrictions won out. While serving for the United States military in Najaf, Iraq in 2005, and in Afghanistan in 2010, Steve Gagner—now the co-founder of 14th Star Brewing Company in Vermont—recalls longing for cold beer. “I was stationed in pretty conservatively religious areas. We weren’t allowed to partake [in drinking] at all on our bases, and that had more to do with respecting the local prohibition on it. There are areas where we have soldiers that are deployed that alcohol isn’t taboo, so there are regulations such as a two-beer limit.”
Today, beer businesses can be found across the Middle East. Breweries such as Jordan’s Carakale Brewing Company and Palestine’s Taybeh Brewing Company are two such notables, and are trying to change the narrative surrounding beer in the region. These businesses exist sparsely and at various scales. In Arab Levant countries, including Jordan, Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, and Yemen, fewer than 10 craft breweries exist. Two are registered in Jordan, two in Palestinian territories, and three in Lebanon. Israel has nearly 20 breweries and brewpubs. Larger macrobreweries, such as Eastern Beer Company in Iraq and Amstel in Jordan, which employed my great uncle, are still active today.
Madees Khoury is a brewer and operator at the family-owned Taybeh, which started operations in 1994 as the first microbrewery in the region. Taybeh is named for its location, a Christian city in Palestine’s West Bank. “The people that enjoy our beer are people that want to enjoy the atmosphere, the environment, the conversation while drinking great beer,” she says. “A joke that we make, though, is that the amount of beer that we produce yearly can’t be consumed by the less than 1% of the population of Christian people left in Palestine. You do have Muslims that are liberal and open-minded, and that drink alcohol publicly. There are Muslims that drink privately, and there are Muslims that don’t drink at all. Then you have expats, Christians, tourists, and visitors coming into the country. There are only nine cities in Palestine that are Christian, and that is our primary market. There are some Palestinian Muslims that don’t drink our beer but still respect us, and are proud that we are a Palestinian brewery.”
Nadim Khoury, Madees’ father and the founder of Taybeh, admits to other challenges inherent to operating a brewery in this region. Taybeh has survived water restrictions due to regulations in the Oslo Accords, kegs and palletized beer halted at borders, power outages from conflict, and now, forced closures from COVID-19 mandates.
“That is one of the reasons why it is important that we export abroad,” Madees explains. “We are trying to change the perception that people may have of Palestine. Or even at a larger scale, Arabs. We are the first microbrewery in the Middle East. We have a female brewer. We have an Oktoberfest. People are surprised because what they see on the news is a completely different reality of what’s happening on a day-to-day basis.”
Yazan Karadsheh is the brewmaster and CEO of Carakale Brewing Company in Fuheis, Jordan. About 14 years ago, Karadsheh was in a bookstore looking through a “beers of the world” atlas, trying to find a specific Jordanian beer on the map. He had trouble locating it, further discovering it was actually owned by another company and franchised in Jordan. This encouraged him to found Carakale, with the mission to both create a beer culture in Jordan and to be recognized internationally as an authentically Jordanian beer.
“The soundbites that come out of the Middle East tend to be singular-toned, and sometimes grim,” he says. “It’s good to have a different message that comes out from our side of the world. There is a large population of young people who want to push the boundaries of whatever the older generation had set up for us. At the same time, we love our culture and want to preserve a part of that. That doesn’t mean that we can’t move forward, have fun, and drink beer if we’d like.”
Carakale has since collaborated with several American breweries. It made a Dead Sea salted Gose, Dead Sea-rious, with Arizona Wilderness Brewing Co.—which has since been released multiple times due to its success—as well as several collaborations with Against The Grain Brewery, including a fig and chamomile Pilsner and a za'atar-spiced Saison. Carakale sources local ingredients from a farmer in the Jordanian Valley, and has begun to experiment with wild yeast from the land. Aside from the education gained from collaborating—Karadsheh says he learned how to make Kettle Sours from these exchanges—showcasing Jordanian ingredients and his very place-specific brand makes him proud.
Those limited perspectives on the region aren’t just felt by brewers in the Middle East. People with Middle Eastern heritage working in the U.S. beer scene also confront these same stereotypes.
“The media and pop culture paints one type of picture of ‘us.’ People don’t realize there is more diversity not only in religion, but also ethnic groups in these countries,” says Shahin Khojastehzad of Novare Res Bier Cafe in Portland, Maine. Khojastehzad, who immigrated to the U.S. from Iran, began his career at Novare Res in 2008 as a bartender. Currently, he is the general manager and a co-owner of the venue, which is a 2020 James Beard Foundation Semifinalist in the Outstanding Bar Program category. Khojastehzad feels the paradox of celebrating beer culture from a region whose population overwhelmingly does not consume alcohol. “By design, we shouldn’t exist in this industry, but we do,” he says.
“It’s a great feeling to have my parents drink the beer that I have made,” says Haidar Hachem, a brewer at Lincoln’s Beard Brewing Company in Miami, Florida. As a Lebanese-American, Hachem admits that both his paternal and maternal grandparents abstained from alcohol during their lives. His parents, however, are more accepting, and Hachem even got married in the brewery’s taproom. Though he is not a practicing Muslim, he does keep some spiritual faith, one example of which is a Quranic verse tattooed on the side of his body. An avid runner, Hachem says that after a race, he was drinking a beer and got heckled by a stranger. “That’s Arabic, right? Aren’t you not supposed to drink beer?” he remembers the person saying.
“As a whole, I have been lucky that I haven’t faced that negativity in the industry,” says Hachem. “Or that people question me as a person, because I am loud and proud about being 100% Lebanese, and [proud of] my culture.” Recently, Hachem and his family held a donation drive for necessities for those affected by the 2020 Beirut explosion. When his mother returned from the trip to Lebanon, she brought back some local beers to share with her son.
Mony Bunni is a co-founder of Support Staff, an advocate group of community organizers working with mental health professionals to change the structure of the food service industry, and she has also worked as a bartender for over 16 years. “Through bartending I started incorporating more and more of my culture [with] the ingredients I used in my cocktails: cardamom, clove, tahini, anise, ceylon tea, sumac, ras el hanout, etc. When I started getting write-ups on my cocktails and competing in bartending competitions, that gave me a platform to start talking about my culture more,” she says.
But for Bunni, celebrating her heritage goes beyond ingredients. “That was also around the time that the hospitality industry started talking about and becoming more aware of social issues. Seeing my BIPOC peers become more and more open in discussing their cultural perspectives gave me a boost to start bringing out more of my cultural perspective. The more I did that, the more I started reconnecting to my roots. I'm incredibly proud of where I come from now in a way that I've never been before, and I wouldn't trade that for anything.”
Ideas can change, but existence cannot. For a while, I thought that if I remained anonymous in the beer world, I could perhaps avoid my own challenges of assimilation, expectations, and societal pressures. But that stance only prolonged an internal struggle. Ultimately, seeking out these voices has helped strengthen my own.
Sarah Bahbah, an artist of Palestinian descent, has used her creative work—most recently in her photography series, “3eib!”—to plumb the complexities of identity, and confront the stereotypes she encounters from outsiders. Part of that is examining what it means to be a Middle Eastern woman who drinks. “I think the alcohol acts as a definitive symbol to people trying to perceive me. A lot of outsiders are unaware of the nuanced identities and religions coming from the Arab world: we are all lumped into the umbrella of ‘Middle Eastern’ or ‘Muslim.’ And a lot of those from inside the community are devoted to really strict identity politics, gatekeeping what it means to be ‘truly’ brown,” she says.
“So when [the Arab community] see me partaking in alcohol culture,” she continues, “they frame me as a ‘white’ sort of brown girl, choosing themselves as to how brown I really am. My career traces an unveiling of myself to the world. I used to hold a lot of fear and shame, a product of my social conditioning from both the cultures I was wedged between, and from my own personal traumas. The point at which I started taking photos under my own name and not under my alias was my first step towards no longer hiding.”
I understand what Bahbah means. While researching and finding sources for this piece, I came to realize that I had not only just scratched the surface on the topic of brewing in the Middle East, but also on the nuances of place and identity.
I am an Iraqi-American. But I have never been to Iraq. I have equal respect for those who are religiously abstinent from beer as I do for those who are trying to carve out space and be recognized in the industry. When I first heard the story of my great uncle, I felt a visceral response that only substantiated my love for the beer world. That same feeling returned when I found Taybeh’s beer at a liquor store in Boston. And it came back again, after each call or email correspondence for this article.
“It can be lonely researching something that many people either don't know exists or refuse to believe does,” says Foda. “Even those who do know frequently dismiss it as trivial.” But for me, every one of these moments has helped me feel more connected to beer—and has given me a better understanding of an evolving beer culture that’s still little understood.
Words by Samer KhudairiIllustrations by Colette Holston
