Fenjan Ahweh
The Morning Ritual of Arabic Coffee
By Lina Saad 22nd May 2025
There isn’t a single Lebanese home where the day doesn’t begin with the distinct aroma of Arabic coffee—ahweh—steeped in cardamom and tradition. Call it Turkish, Yemeni, or Lebanese—does it really matter? What matters is the pride with which Lebanese households have embraced it, brewed it, and made it their own, imprinting it with a cultural stamp as personal as a family name.
Growing up, my mornings were wrapped in the comforting smell of coffee slowly brewing in a rakweh on the stove. As early as 5:30 a.m., my maternal grandparents would sit together, sipping their first cups of the day, engaging in hushed conversations before my grandfather left for work. Not long after, uncles and aunties would trickle in for another round—another rakweh.
There’s something magical about waking up to that smell—earthy, spiced, rich. The coffee would be poured into tiny, handle-less cups—fenjan—each serving as both beverage and moment of pause. These weren’t just cups of coffee; they were vessels of connection, conversation, and even quiet confrontation.
My grandmother, like many women of her generation, read the coffee grounds left behind at the bottom of each cup. It was part mysticism, part wisdom, and occasionally a subtle form of discipline. If one of my aunts or uncles was falling behind in school, she might peer into the cup and say, “The road is open, but there’s a small closed door—you must work harder to open it.” No lecture needed. Just the language of the cup, layered with meaning.
In today’s world, coffee culture is booming. Walk into any city café and you’re met with a glowing menu of matcha lattes, cold brews, oat milk cappuccinos, and espresso shots with names as elaborate as their price tags. It’s an aesthetic experience—Instagrammable, stylish, and fleeting. You take a photo, sip your cup, and toss it away. The ritual ends there.
But in Lebanon—and across Arab households—fenjan ahweh is something else entirely. It’s not about trends or presentation. It’s about connection, comfort, and continuity. This tiny, handle-less cup of Arabic coffee, slowly brewed in a rakweh, flavored with cardamom, and served in silence or in song, is more than a morning pick-me-up. It’s a companion.
Unlike café coffee that demands a name written on a cup, fenjan ahweh knows yours already. It doesn’t ask for WiFi passwords or require playlists. It sits between grandparents at dawn, fuels the quiet wisdom of a mother, and welcomes the neighbor who walks in without knocking. It can be brewed again and again throughout the day—an ever-replenishing source of togetherness.
And within those refills, something magical happens: conversations unfold. Secrets are shared. Laughter fills the room, and sometimes, so do tears. For women especially, fenjan ahweh is a form of communal therapy. It’s where life’s burdens are lightened—over talk of children, husbands, work, and dreams that are still waiting. It’s healing without prescriptions. No session fee. Just coffee and presence.
Compare that to today’s sleek cafés, where we often sit across from someone scrolling endlessly, hardly making eye contact. The cup is consumed, the moment ends, and we move on. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that—but there’s a certain soul that’s missing.
Fenjan ahweh is soulful because it doesn’t just caffeinate; it binds. It carries with it stories, scents, family memory, and ancestral rhythm. It’s as alive in a Beirut kitchen as it is in a London flat, where Lebanese mothers abroad still brew it the same way, keeping tradition alive one sip at a time.
This national habit is simple, sacred, and deeply rooted—goes beyond caffeine. It’s about family, foresight, and the tender authority of a grandmother’s guidance hidden in the swirls of coffee grounds. It may not trend, but it transcends.
