There's no escaping taarof

Even in English class

One of my favorite classes in grad school was related to cultural issues that arise in the ESL classroom. We discussed a host of things that needed to be considered whether you were teaching in the US with students from all over the world or teaching in another country with a more homogeneous group.

I loved teaching in the US, and it certainly gave me a wealth of experience in this regard. But one of the things I loved about teaching in Iran was how it helped me deepen my own connection with the language and culture. Certain habits are so ingrained in our culture that they’re almost impossible to stop. And in no place is this better seen than in relation to taarof, a complex system of formalities and social behavior that is the foundation of Iranian culture.

These are some ways taarof and the Persian language have pushed their way into my English and American culture classes.

Photo by Abolfazl Ranjbar on Unsplash

Virtual taarofing

Pre-COVID, when classes were in-person, my students and I would take a short break to have tea. They’d be chugging boiling hot tea while telling me, “Pontia joon, châitun yakh kard!” (Your tea froze!) That word choice of yakh kard is very indicative of the general attitude toward tea. Two food-related things that Iranians are sensitive about are bread being too khamir (“doughy”) and tea being yakh/sard (frozen/cold). Tea must be lab suz (lip-burning). Any temperature below that is too cold, and the tea must immediately be discarded and a fresh cup poured. To admit that I’m still an âb-sardi kind of gal (meaning that I top my hot tea off with cold water- something that’s only done for kids) is laughable.

Classes moved online during/after COVID. Instead of taking a break to share that cup of tea, we each had our glass next to our screen. Not quite as enjoyable, but we do what we can. The first time it happened, I thought it was the cutest thing. Before my student took a sip, she raised her glass toward the camera and laughed. “Befarmâin.” I had to laugh too. “Nush-e jân,” I said and showed her I also had my tea. She smiled and only then did she start drinking. I thought it may have just been that particular student, but it turned out to be a lot of them, doing it half jokingly, half because it feels wrong not to do it.

Because no matter if it’s a stranger sitting next to you on the train or the taxi driver on your way to work, if you want to eat something, you offer it to the person next to you first. When I taught at a language institute, if a student left in the middle of class to get water, they would no doubt return with a glass for me too. “Teacher, âb-e natalabide morâd ast,” they would say. “Water that you haven’t asked for grants your wish.” You take it as fâl-e nik (a good omen).

That taarof is such a integral part of this culture is clear, but this was my first experience seeing that even when it’s physically impossible to give someone tea, Iranians will make an effort anyway.

How do you say jây-e shomâ khâli?

You may be familiar with this phrase that literally means “your place is/was empty.” It’s kind of like saying “wish you were here,” but Iranians often use it as a taarof so that it doesn’t sound like they’re rubbing it in the person’s face when they talk about somewhere they went and what a great time they had. That would be impolite. They’ll sometimes even start their stories with it. “Jây-e shomâ khâli, raftim shomâl.” (Your place was empty, we went to the north.) It may very well be sincere, but in a lot of cases, it’s just a formality. Your relationship with the person and context will make it clear.

When my students tell me about a trip they took or an event they went to, I’ll ask them follow-up questions for the sake of getting them to expand and talk more. They know they are welcome to lie as long as they lie in English. My classes are a fuzuli-free zone. But at the end of their stories, there’s inevitably a pause. “Pontia joon, how do you say jâye shomâ khâli?” It’s sweet, don’t get me wrong, but unless they really wanted to be hanging out with their teacher, I doubt that my place was empty. So I explain that it’s not necessary to say anything. “Really? Americans don’t say anything?” Not really, I tell them. No one will be offended that you didn’t say jâye shomâ khâli. Tell your story. As long as you enjoyed your time, that’s all that matters.

I personally find it hard to say jây-e shomâ khâli if I don’t mean it. I have that mentality of “if it’s insincere taarof, why bother?” When I do say it, it’s because I geuinely mean it, but then I can sense Iranians thinking it’s just taarof. Oh well, what can you do?

Photo by Erik-Jan Leusink on Unsplash

English seriously needs to adopt khaste nabâshin

Khaste nabâshin is a phrase you hear and use every single day in Iran. It can be a greeting or a goodbye. Literally “don’t be tired,” this is a phrase used to recognize a person’s effort and hard work. And arguably one of the most frequently asked questions I get is, “How do you say khaste nabâshin in English?”

I’ve had students who used the literal English translation. Funny. There were others who consistently told me “good job” at the end of class. It was really sweet, but a little unusual. I felt like I needed to pat myself on the back.

There’s simply no English equivalent. This is a cultural thing that can’t be translated. My students get frustrated and ask, “But what do American students say to their teachers?” Nothing, really, I tell them. Maybe just a “thank you.”

Iranians feel the need to tell their instructors something, though, and this one I truly get. How can you not say khaste nabâshin? I had an incident of reverse culture shock with this one. I said a mere “hi” to some workers in my sister’s building. I then went into the apartment and kept thinking if that was enough or if it was rude. Shouldn’t I have said something else? Like khaste nabâshin? But, wait, that doesn’t exist in English. It really is strange.

My students have collectively decided that the best option is to stick with the Persian. “Have a good day, teacher. Khaste nabâshin.” To which I reply, “Shomâm khaste nabâshin.” (Same to you.) I’d agree it’s the best choice.

(I should mention here that some prefer to use khodâ ghovat (may God give you strength) because khaste nabâshin implies that you are tired and is therefore somewhat negative. Khodâ ghovat has the same meaning but is more positive. In fact, when I used to go walking at the health club, there was a gentleman who’d jog around the track giving a hearty khodâ ghovat! to every person he passed. It was super sweet.)

Idioms and proverbs

Persian uses a lot of idioms and proverbs. Much more than English I’d say. Entire conversations are often made up of them. Notice this the next time you watch an Iranian movie or series. Problems are commonly solved with a short phrase. And if it’s not an idiom or a proverb, it’s a line of poetry.

I think this is why I’ve noticed that Iranian students not only try to use more idioms and proverbs but are also more interested in learning them. I get the sense that some learners feel a bit of pride and excitement for knowing a certain expression in English. The funny thing is that these types of expressions are often more familiar to me in Persian. A lot of times my mind goes blank when they ask for the English. And if I’m being really honest, there have been a couple of times when I nodded at the English idiom, a giant question mark hovering above my head and a fake smile plastered across my face. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the idiom that’s obscure or outdated? Or is it because growing up, we spoke Persian at home and that somehow gave me less exposure to English? All I know is that it’s times like these that I express enormous gratitude for online classes so I can secretly ask Google.

Pleasure (or pleasantries) before business

In Iran, I had a friend who was not Iranian, and one of the things that always annoyed him was the never-ending exchange of greetings and pleasantries. “Someone calls you and says, ‘Salâm, chetori, khubi, che khabar?’ (Hi, how are you, are you well, what’s new?) You talk, hang up, and they call you back 5 seconds later because they forgot something, and again it’s, ‘Salâm, chetori, khubi, che khabar?’ Why do they do that!? We just talked on the phone!”

Yes, it’s only polite to have this brief exchange, even if you’ve just spoken. It’s why goodbyes take so long in our culture, too. Any time there was a mehmooni when we were kids and our parents told us it was time to go home, we knew we had a solid 30 minutes to keep playing while the adults said their goodbyes.

This cultural norm trickled into my online group classes as well. For certain activities, I’d figure about 10 minutes for discussion in breakout rooms. I’d set the timer and click from room to room and listen in to see how things were going only to notice that the first few minutes were spent saying “hello, how are you, etc” to all the group members. They wouldn’t go straight for the discussion part without exchanging a few pleasantries first, which, in turn, caused them to be short on time. And every time, I’d forget to add an extra few minutes to allow for this small talk. Eventually, though, I got into the habit of adding a bunch of extra time and ending the rooms early if necessary. It turned out to be the best strategy.

What’s New:

1. As I love teaching, I’ve started a YouTube channel for Persian speakers interested in improving their English pronunciation. I would be so grateful if you subscribed and shared it with anyone who may be interested: Pronunciation with Pontia

2. A new Persian lesson is up on My Persian Corner: