Quintessential to the migrant journey, tales from our native soil are not the only things we carry when approaching new, unfamiliar settings. Lugging a suitcase to the foreign borders, a push on its stifled latches and one finds themselves laying out an olio of cultural relics, garments and documents. Beyond its hard shell, pictures of loved ones are coupled with gifted heirlooms, smothered between folded socks that hide freshly exchanged rolls of cash. Religious curio and scripture are protected by intricately patterned serapes, with healing ointments and pain relievers packed into plastic gusset bags, in case of spillage during the journey. A small compartment reveals a book or two – considered ‘forever reads’.
As items are lifted from the suitcase, an aroma carries itself into the vacant space – a smell of comfort and care. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and this familiar smell makes it weak with missing. A deep inhale stirs the memory of your mother in the kitchen boiling sprigs of mint, poured into a modest cup, the flavour complimented by a snap of cinnamon and citrus. She reminds you to eat a spoonful of honey before drinking. Her once possessive tone now becomes one of adoration. Lifting a layer reveals bags of dried mint, moringa and chamomile – herbal remedies known to calm the stomach, heart and mind.
Behind every weed, stalk and spice lies cultural roots, with migrancy strengthening bonds with folk pharmacology. The herbal remedies and rural practices my first-generation Turkish immigrant mother was brought up with had become commonplace in our London home. Seemingly personalised approaches to health care had been formed through cultural ancestry, generationally preserved and evolved in the turbulence of geographical relocation. In juvenescence, I reduced them to maternal guttural enforcement of odd pastes and decoctions, dubious of their efficacy. But through sickness, a violent yet enlightening shift would occur.
In December 2022, I was diagnosed with Stage 2 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. This health dilemma pushed for greater regard for diet, and the enforcement of herbal remedies. A notable blend included quince seeds soaked in water, forming mucilage with a taste reminiscent of a Bakewell tart. With Turkey recognised as a sizeable producer of quinces and my mother’s agricultural upbringing, these remedial purchases were no surprise. Surrendering to its favourable flavour – and my mother’s claims of its healing properties – the quince seeds became integrated into my treatment routine. Yet, discovering quince’s recognition for cancer treatment, the undefined nature of what cancer it targeted meant that its address of specific malignancies was debatable.
Skepticism was afoot. The bodily intake of chemotherapeutic drugs as my mother smuggled in gelatinous seeds and desiccated berries stirred the age-old contention between folk medicine and biomedicine. The unbroken debate of the true panacea for mankind’s afflictions. Defining these two healing practices allows for a greater distinction beyond its forms. Whilst folk medicine is seen to recognise the body’s entirety – with cultural beliefs and values attached – biomedicine differs, approaching healing procedures with a Cartesian mind-body dualism dedicated to specific bodily units.
Whilst the overriding notion appears to delegitimize the reliability, value or officiality of folk medicine, both health systems warrant equal degrees of scrutiny. Biomedicine-affiliated patient care is often reduced to an impersonal process which neglects pervasive influences to sickness. Patients are handed a diagnostic report but are rarely given insight into a sickness’ root causes. With lymphoma delineated as a ‘genetic mutation’, I could not help but feel that there had to be more to this hostile takeover. I sensed a rewardless chase, with leads that fail to point to a prime suspect. The offences of biomedicine can provoke trauma and we are left to wonder if an alternative treatment could have achieved the elimination or reduction of disease. Albeit, studies into folk pharmacology’s anticancer reactions show promise, the dismissal and discouragement by medical practitioners denies curated care.
Understanding these therapeutic forces is aggravated by globalised contemporary media – particularly its chokehold on our day-to-day realities. In an attempt to heal, we are attacked by a heavy cavalry of online information. The asserters of this information vary in degrees of expertise and direct personal experience – practitioners, researchers, patients, conspirators – distorted by informational inconsistency, provocation and fiscal incentive. The public expressions of advocacy and aversion to these health systems have led to regional-specific folk remedies becoming globally recognised, participating in the battlefield of cultural and medicinal debate. This new-found popularity pushes folk remedies into the hands of factories and global distributors, with mass-production warping our assertions on their successful cultivation and efficacy.
So, what relevance does this hold for stories of migrancy and the continued consumption of folk remedies against ongoing contention? Whether it meant cultivating, shipping or revisiting Turkey to obtain ingredients, sickness allowed me to understand my relatives, surpassing their knowledge and use of folk remedies. Sensitively taken and heavily researched, I reshaped the wicker basket to carry roots and shoots outside the Turkish folk pharmacopoeia. As I listened to my relatives’ response to my malignancy, I realised that the presence of folk remedies was not simply to preserve culture or tradition, but to practice care in response to scarcity of information, resources and control.
With decades passed since their arrival and achieving conversational fluency, moderate comprehension and use of the medical system, the responses of my relatives were evocative of recent migrancy – a barrier experience. Suggestions were made to head to Turkey, affirming that the system would offer prompt diagnosis and effective treatment. Yet even as a native English speaker, the confrontation with sickness, medical jargon, and the shifts in reality – it appeared that cancer presented a barrier experience of its own dissimilarity. The prospect of receiving treatment in a country where communication and navigation of the medical system relied heavily on others would have only achieved greater aggravation for all involved.
For the majority, curing sickness hands control to biomedicine’s methods. Folk medicine can become viewed as a source of reclamation. A practice of using what we know and have in the most effective way possible. Individuals stricken by illnesses such as cancer may not possess the information cultivation necessary, substantiated by patient experiences of being sat into the recliner shortly after diagnosis and thrown into survival mode. Making sense of the treatment we receive becomes difficult, its future implications and how it drastically alters our lives even more so. For my mother, myself and migrants in medical distress, folk remedies become key to creating a sense of control and contribution to survival. They may not only act as part of our practices of care in moments of informational scarcity but a potential aid to medical oncology. Consolidating this demands greater research, putting an end to falsities associated with folk medicine and a hopeful expansion to the systems of treating illness.
