I used to think coffee was just a drink.
Something you grabbed to wake up or keep going.
But in my culture, coffee is never just about the drink.
It’s the pause we take in a busy day, the invitation to stop, even if only for a moment.
When someone offers you gahwa or sweet mint tea, they’re not just offering caffeine.
They’re offering a piece of themselves.
A gesture of respect.
A way to say: You belong here, even if just for this moment.
It’s a quiet language, passed cup to cup, hand to hand
a way to connect without having to say much.
I remember sitting with my family, the tray of tiny cups moving slowly from person to person.
No rush, no hurry, just presence.
The warmth of the cup in your hands, the strong, earthy taste of cardamom in the air.
And somewhere beneath all that, the feeling that you are part of something bigger.
In America, coffee often feels like a quick transaction.
You order, you wait, you drink, and you’re off.
Sometimes alone, sometimes distracted by a phone or a screen.
But in my world, refusing the cup isn’t just turning down a drink.
It’s almost like turning down the invitation to belong.
It’s a small act, but it carries weight.
I’ve watched families gather around the coffee tray, voices low, eyes soft, sharing stories, worries, laughter, without needing to raise their voices.
It’s not about the coffee itself, really.
It’s about the time spent together, the unspoken understanding that you are seen and accepted
even when words fail or feelings run deep.
Even when the cups are empty, the moment lingers.
Because the ritual is about the spaces between sips,
the quiet moments of connection,
the comfort of being part of something.
That’s why coffee in my culture is never just coffee.
It’s tradition.
It’s belonging.
It’s love, handed to you in a small, warm cup.
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