Tarof
In Iranian culture, there is a custom called tarof. Among other things, its most amusing and alarming manifestation is a kind of competitive hospitality. Here’s how it works: if someone compliments you on something, you must insist that they take it from you to show your gratitude for their compliment. For example, I once complimented a beautiful Swarovski necklace that my grandmother was wearing (because praising your elders is also a valued Iranian custom), and she immediately took it off and pressed it into my hands. Of course, I refused to take it, so then there was an ensuing argument, and, well, you get the picture. My mother does it too; a favorite of hers is to insist I take any food out of her hands if I look at it with even a little bit of interest. The other day, she gave me an apple that she had only taken one bite of. In response to my protests, she only shook her head, saying, “I’ll wash another one for myself. I want you to have this one.”
I think many of us would acknowledge that there’s an element of absurdity to this custom. It’s almost a game of chicken – someone gives you kindness with their words, so you one up their kindness by making their words a reality for them. Some argue it’s all a façade, that Persians are actually doing it out of a self-serving need to demonstrate their superiority to everyone else constantly. And maybe that’s a little true. But I can’t help but read a bit of deep, debilitating generosity into it. What does my mother have to prove by taking an apple out of her own mouth to give me just because I eyed it with some hunger? Twenty-two years ago, she committed the ultimate act of hospitality for me. She sustained me with the sheer force of her own body and blood for nine months, and then she gave birth and did the same even as I roamed the earth outside of her. I didn’t even ask, and she gave me everything anyway.
In a way, I think the streak of vulnerability in the possible artificiality of tarof is really what matters. Maybe you and I both know that I’m offering you this whole house out of customary politeness because you commented on how nice it is, but if you were to say yes, I would give it up to you. All of it. It’s no wonder, then, that love became a game of chicken when I first encountered it. You told me, I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re smart. You wrapped your arms around me and pulled me in closer. You remembered everything. One time, I expressed surprise that you had remembered something that I had previously said I hated. I pay attention to everything you say, you told me. How could I not? These words, these things you said, these things you gave me freely. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. Unclasp me, I told you. Take it from me. Take all of me. What else could I have done?
Elaje López is a Californian and recent Columbia graduate.