I had just arrived to officially begin a new life for myself in the Sunshine State. I'd spent the previous week driving up from Western Sydney. I was born in Canterbury to Palestinian parents and for me, Queensland was a holiday destination filled with theme parks, beaches, hot weather, wildlife and fresh tropical fruits.

Now, as an adult, I had accepted a job offer and made the decision to move to regional Queensland. This was my opportunity to live in a warmer climate where I could swim all year round and avoid overpriced Sydney rent and the congestion of an increasingly densely populated urban jungle.

Bring. It. On. I thought.

Surprisingly, it was difficult to find a property to rent in Rockhampton before moving.

When I initially phoned as Ryan Al-Natour, a real estate agent told me "we don't want too many people living here". Ryan Smith phoned back and made an appointment to inspect the property. On another occasion, a real estate agent commented that I should be careful renting in Rockhampton as there were "feral Indigenous" people around. I withdrew my application.

Visitors to Rockhampton are welcomed by the sight of a bull statue as they travel north on the Bruce Highway. ( Flickr: Jack Zalium )

'We shouldn't cater for that!'

Rockhampton is known as the beef capital of Australia. After passing the "Welcome to Rockhampton" sign and numerous giant statues of bulls and cows, I noticed that it was 2pm. I had missed lunch. I googled "best steak in Rockhampton" and ended up at a random pub. The steak was served on a sizzling hot plate and it was delicious.

The waitress asked about my meal. We started chatting about other items on the menu like kangaroo, crocodile and emu. I wasn't used to seeing these items on a Western Sydney menu.

She then paused, looked away and told me that they kept halal meat in the kitchen. This information came out of nowhere. Her voice tone went from being "informative" about the menu to being "annoyed".

She must think I am Muslim, I thought. I informed her that if eating halal meat were a priority for me, I would have asked about it before finishing an entire steak.

The waitress then shared her thoughts. "We shouldn't have to keep halal meat. We shouldn't have to change the menu. We shouldn't cater for that!"

It struck me then. She wasn't opening up a can of halal worms with the intention of being educated about Muslims and protocol. The waitress wanted an argument.

I started to become annoyed. "Then don't keep halal meat. Then don't change the menu. It is not my restaurant, I don't care what you serve."

I had only been in Rockhampton for two hours. Was it arduous to be Arab-Australian in Rockhampton? Was racism a common day-to-day experience?

I'm proudly 'of Middle Eastern appearance'

My father's side of the family is fair-skinned. When my father and amo (uncle) sailed to Australia during the white Australia policy era, people often read their appearance as European.

Ryan Al-Natour as a toddler in Palestine. ( Supplied )

I am dark-skinned and proudly "of Middle Eastern appearance" — despite the media/policing abuse of this as a racialised descriptor. Unlike my uncles and some of my cousins, no-one would mistakenly think I am white.

The waitress didn't do anything unusual in assuming that I was Muslim. Perhaps it is common for non-Arabs to assume that all Arabs are Muslim — even though the majority of Arab-Australians are Christians.

I don't have a problem with being mistaken as Muslim. A sizable portion of Palestinians are Orthodox Christians and we are proudly a culturally Islamic society.

Avoiding stereotypes

Back to Rockhampton, where it had taken two hours for me — a Palestinian-Arab-Christian — to experience some form of Islamophobia in my new home. Surely this was a one-off incident? I was just unlucky? Right?

Wrong.

The next day a white man delivering my new fridge informed me that he knew I was a "wog" from my last name on the customer receipt. The day after, a white woman told me (yes, again — out of nowhere) that Australia was under threat from Middle Eastern men who were secretly working for Islamic State.

Ryan Al-Natour. ( Supplied )

Within my new workplace, things were not easier. Behind my back, colleagues identified me as "someone from overseas". One colleague told me that her husband was "like me" because he was an Indonesian. In passing, another person described me as a "really good-looking Indian".

Perhaps one of the most memorable instances was when a random white male talked about me — in front of me — to his friends as they walked past.

"Look at Raul over there!" he yelled as if this was an insult. Something within me snapped. I responded with rage. "MY NAME IS NOT RAUL!"

He looked scared. The crazy angry Arab male that he probably saw depicted on A Current Affair had just paid him a visit.

"Oh sorry, I thought it was."

"You think every person with a tan has the same name?" He ran away. His friends followed him.

Stereotype confirmed.

Cuisine survives

I wasn't the first Arab to set foot in Rockhampton. Anne Mansour is a Brisbane historian who has documented the presence of Lebanese across Queensland since the 1800s.

I spent Easter with a Lebanese family whose grandparents moved to Rocky in the 1850s. They did not speak a word of Arabic. They did not identify with their religion of origin.

Interestingly, one component of Arab culture that had managed to survive in Queensland was the cuisine. At this particular gathering I was stoked that there was Arabic food! There was malfoof (cabbage rolls stuffed with rice and meat), imjadereh (brown lentils, onions and rice) and rice pudding.

The Lebanese have a variation of the popular Arabic dish kibbeh (minced lamb or beef with bulghur, onion, spices and pine nuts), a raw version called kibbeh nayeh. This variation makes my stomach turn. It was served at this particular Easter gathering in Rockhampton.

Of all aspects of Lebanese culture that survived in a racist Queensland climate — kibbeh nayeh of all things!

Finding connections I wouldn't have at home

I will not say that all my interactions with people in Rockhampton were based on racism. I admired progressive local residents who had grown up in conservative, regional Queensland and were active on social justice issues. A local conservative politician created a big sign in the middle of town reading "We'll keep the boats out". It was graffitied and changed to "We'll keep the goats out".

When a sign about "stopping the boats" appeared in Rockhampton, it was quickly vandalised. ( Supplied )

Whenever there was anything about Arabs or Muslims sensationalised on the news, a work colleague would check in with me. On one occasion he told me that if I did experience any racism in Rockhampton he would be sorry and wanted me to know that he had my back.

This colleague was a gardening guru. He had a huge garden with a variety of herbs and vegetables. I used to get lost exploring his garden. He had a sophisticated system of creating compost and growing fresh produce.

Interestingly, he enabled me to culturally connect to Arab cuisine in ways that I had not while growing up in Western Sydney. The taste of the herbs and vegies that grew in his garden reminded me of the tastes of vegetables I had eaten in Palestine. It was an unexpected nostalgic outcome of moving to regional Queensland.

Unlike Western Sydney, Rockhampton does not have a smorgasbord of Arabic restaurants selling hummus, felafel and tabouli (unlike the previously mentioned dishes, I have a feeling that I might not need to explain these to readers). The convenience is all over Western Sydney and I realised that I had taken it for granted.

Living in regional Australia means you are deprived of this convenient access to your own mob's cuisine. There was no Arab bakery, butcher, grocer or restaurant in Rockhampton — and no, I will not recognise the doner kebab shops that offered pineapple as a filling.

In regional Australia you need to find someone who grows your produce or grow it yourself. It means that your lazy ass needs to take the initiative and make your ancestral food from scratch. With the advantage of fresh produce on my side, my life in Rockhampton encouraged me to have several Arab "aha" moments.

The only way to get "Lebanese zucchini" — which is different to Australian zucchini — in a town like Rockie is to grow it yourself. ( Supplied )

For the first time in my life I made labneh using a cheesecloth (I didn't even know what a cheesecloth was!) I mixed my own herbs to make za'atar. I mastered loubiyeh bil zeit (green beans with tomato, onion and garlic) after my first attempt.

I even made kibbeh (the oven-baked version) with the help of a 90-year-old amto (auntie) who skyped with me, inspected the bulghur through her phone and asked when I was going to get married and start giving her grandnieces/nephews. My amto had a typical Arab ability of passing on recipes with a side of guilt.

I called my amo in Mount Druitt, too — the one who notoriously makes the best hummus.

"Amo," I pleaded. "I have been trying to make my hummus really smooth. What's your secret?"

"When you come visit, I'll show you."

Darn it. In desperation I bought hummus from a supermarket. It had khal (vinegar) in it. I threw it out.

A recipe is history

A year after moving to Rockhampton, I visited Sydney. It alarmed me to realise how much I had changed as a person. I found the traffic unbearable. Giant buildings had appeared in my old stomping grounds. I loved showing all my old friends pictures of the kangaroos around my home, the two giant emus that chased me, the geckoes that lived in my kitchen, the possum that ate all my parsley, and giant crocodiles! I went to Mount Druitt and saw my amo. I had waited a whole year for the perfect hummus recipe he had promised to share. I turned up, eager to watch and learn.

Arab Australian Other: Stories on Race & Identity is out now. ( Supplied. )

My amo didn't show me how to make hummus as I'd expected. He told me his secret ingredient and the significance of blending certain ingredients in a particular order.

When I flew back home, I thought to myself: why couldn't he have told me this over the phone? Why did he have to wait until I visited him?

Then it clicked.

My amo didn't want to share this over a quick phone chat. Rather, he wanted to see how his nephew was doing up north. Arab cuisine is traditionally passed down from one generation by watching and learning. Recipes can be part of storytelling conversations — about life in the motherland, exploring Australia with my father, politics in Palestine, discussions about current affairs, how certain ingredients help you focus, and how certain foods are eaten at certain times of the year. This is all served with reminders that my amto has probably already picked out the names of my children.

A recipe is history. It's ancestry. It's culture. It's language. It's family. It's about surviving in the diaspora on Aboriginal land as Arab Australia.

I get it now.

By the way, no, I will not be sharing the secret ingredient for the perfect hummus.

This is an edited extract from Racism and Recipes by Ryan Al-Natour, published in Arab Australian Other: Stories on Race & Identity (Picador Australia).