The Unlikely Sanctuary: How a Hackney Cafe Became a Haven for Iranian-Iraqi Culture and Grief
There’s something profoundly moving about a queue that stretches down a street in east London, not for the latest tech gadget or a celebrity sighting, but for a sandwich. Yes, a sandwich. But this isn’t just any sandwich—it’s the kind that sells out within hours, the kind that has people lining up at noon on weekends, the kind that has turned Logma, a small Iranian-Iraqi cafe in Hackney, into a viral sensation. What makes this particularly fascinating is that these sandwiches, now the most popular item on the menu, were born out of necessity—a ‘mistake,’ as the owners call it, because they opened without plates or cutlery. It’s a detail that I find especially interesting, because it speaks to the improvisational spirit of the place, a spirit that feels deeply rooted in the cultures it represents.
Logma, run by couple Ziad Halub and Farsin Rabiee, opened its doors just days before protests erupted in Iran, a timing that Rabiee describes as ‘bittersweet.’ Personally, I think this juxtaposition—a celebration of culture amid turmoil—is what makes the cafe’s story so compelling. Here you have a space that was meant to be a culinary haven, a place to share the richness of Iranian and Iraqi traditions, suddenly becoming a refuge for grief and solidarity. It’s a reminder that food is never just about sustenance; it’s about identity, memory, and connection.
One thing that immediately stands out is how Logma has become more than a cafe. It’s a living room, as one regular puts it, especially for those in exile or far from home. In a time when Iran is grappling with violence, internet blackouts, and international tensions, the cafe has turned into a microcosm of resilience. The owners’ decision to offer free coffee and halva—a sweet traditionally served at funerals—to those affected by the situation is a gesture that goes beyond hospitality. It’s a way of saying, ‘We see you, we feel your pain, and we’re here.’
What many people don’t realize is how deeply food can anchor us to our roots, especially in times of crisis. Atoosa Sepehr, an author and nutritional therapist, captures this beautifully when she talks about how the smell of Persian ingredients takes her back home. Her story resonates with me because it highlights the dual nature of food: it’s both a source of comfort and a bridge to the past. In a world where geopolitical tensions often reduce cultures to headlines, places like Logma remind us of the humanity behind the news.
From my perspective, the communal table at Logma is more than just a design choice—it’s a metaphor. It’s where strangers become friends, where tears and laughter coexist, where stories are shared and cultures are celebrated. Halub’s observation that people ‘let their guard down’ here is telling. It’s not just about the food; it’s about the space it creates for vulnerability and connection. In a city as vast and often impersonal as London, that’s no small feat.
If you take a step back and think about it, Logma’s success isn’t just about its menu. It’s about timing, intention, and the universal need for community. The cafe opened during Yalda, an Iranian celebration of the winter solstice, a time traditionally marked by togetherness. Days later, as protests and violence unfolded, that sense of togetherness took on a new urgency. Rabiee’s reflection that promoting culture felt almost impossible amid mourning is a powerful reminder of the tension between joy and sorrow, between celebration and survival.
This raises a deeper question: What does it mean to preserve and share a culture in a time of crisis? Logma’s answer seems to be that it’s not just possible—it’s necessary. By showcasing the positive aspects of Persian culture, even in difficult times, the cafe becomes a form of resistance. It’s a way of saying, ‘We are still here, and we will not be erased.’
What this really suggests is that food is political, whether we intend it to be or not. Every dish served at Logma is a statement, a reminder of the richness and resilience of Iranian and Iraqi traditions. And yet, it’s also deeply personal. For every customer who walks in, there’s a story—of displacement, of longing, of hope. That’s what makes the cafe’s viral success so much more than a trend. It’s a testament to the power of small spaces to hold big emotions.
In my opinion, Logma’s story is a microcosm of a larger global narrative: the struggle to preserve identity in the face of upheaval. It’s a narrative that resonates far beyond Hackney, far beyond Iran or Iraq. It’s about all of us, and our search for belonging in an increasingly fragmented world. So, the next time you see a queue stretching down a street, take a moment to wonder what it’s really about. Because sometimes, it’s not just about the food—it’s about everything the food represents.
