Felicity Lawrence - Not on the Label: What Really Goes Into the Food on Your Plate

In 1991 I came back to London after two years living in the Pakistani border town of Peshawar, working with refugees from Afghanistans endless wars. My return to Western civilization came via the supermarket, since in order to celebrate my homecoming friends were preparing a special dinner. Shopping for it, as for most meals in industrialized countries these days, began and ended with a drive to the nearest big retailer.

I remember that shopping trip clearly because it was both exciting and, in some way I couldnt put my finger on at the time, vaguely troubling. I had been isolated from British culture for two years and I was experiencing the peculiar sense of dislocation that comes with seeing everything that was once so familiar as if for the first time. I was briefly glimpsing our food system from the outside.

Food from home is one of the things you most look forward to when youre abroad. I was almost drooling with anticipated pleasure as we drove past the boarded-up shops and cheap fast-food outlets in our high street. I had dreamed of sizzling bacon, soft smelly cheeses, fine wine and English chocolate. I chatted with my friend about the astonishing number of good foods you could find in supermarkets now, everything imaginable available in a one-stop motorized shop. As we queued for what seemed an age to get into the car park, we talked about how convenient it all was compared with life in a war-zone. Then, as our turn to go through the barrier came, my friend accelerated into a parking space, narrowly beating another car approaching it from the opposite direction. In Pakistan parking to shop had merely entailed swinging a pick-up truck in at right angles to a market stall, so I was momentarily startled by this uncharacteristic display of traffic-induced aggression. But there was no time to think about it.

We charged through the sliding doors, grabbing a wonky trolley on the way, and got going in the fresh fruit and vegetable section. It was full of produce from all round the world, things I had not only not seen while I was away, but couldnt remember being there before I left either: wonderful fresh herbs, different varieties of potatoes, summer asparagus alongside winter roots, the quintessentially English next to the temptingly tropical. Dont suppose you got much of this while you were out there, my friend said. It was true that in the refugee camps there had been hunger, and malnutrition remains a semi-permanent spectre in some parts of Afghanistan. But in the relative safety of the border areas the problem was not lack of food but lack of money for it and lack of clean water. In fact we had been surrounded by plenty.