The Ayatollah Begs to Differ

by Hooman Majd

  Mahmoud Ahmadinejad had counted on my taxi driver’s definition of freedom, or really on the Iranian preoccupation with rights, or haq, which define that freedom, in his campaign for president in 2005. And later his history-challenged deputy foreign minister, at least in his encounter with me, seemed delighted in Iran’s apparent change of tact in international relations from an emphasis on ta’arouf to one on haq: from Khatami, the master of ta’arouf who had presented a benign image to the world, to Ahmadinejad, for whom ta’arouf cannot exist without a forceful, and unambiguous, defense of haq. Ta’arouf and the preoccupation with the issue of haq form two aspects of the Iranian character that are key to understanding Iran, but are often overlooked or misunderstood by non-Iranians. The concept of ta’arouf goes way back in Iranian history, and if it is true, as some historians maintain, that nations that fell to the Persian Empire were often happy collaborators with their conquerors, perhaps the Persians’ ta’arouf enhanced their reputation as benevolent rulers, as did their emphasis on rights (it was Cyrus the Great, after all, who had the world’s first declaration of human rights inscribed on a cylinder at Babylon).5 If Persia later succumbed militarily to the Greeks, the Mongols, and the Arabs, but did not lose its identity as a nation and in fact became home to conquering armies, perhaps ta’arouf played a role in Iranian defense of its culture. Ta’arouf, which can often be employed to catch an opponent off guard, momentarily lulling him into believing he’s in the company of a like-minded friend, has been used by Iranians with varying degrees of success ever since. “I’ve never felt as comfortable anywhere outside Iran as in America.”

  Western observers often define ta’arouf as extreme Iranian hospitality, or as a Persian form of elaborate etiquette, but since Westerners naturally engage in ta’arouf too (as everyone who has ever complimented a host or hostess on what was actually a bad meal knows), it’s easy to miss its true significance and its implications in Persian culture. The white lies that good manners dictate we tell in the West and general polite banter or gracious hospitality cannot begin to describe what for Iranians is a cultural imperative that is about manners, yes, but is also about gaining advantage, politically, socially, or economically, as much as anything else. One might be tempted to think of ta’arouf as passive-aggressive behavior with a peculiarly Persian hue, but although it can be, it cannot be defined solely so. American businesses and businessmen are known to succeed with brashness, determination, and sometimes even a certain amount of ruthlessness; Iranian businessmen succeed rather more quietly with a good dose of ta’arouf and in such a way that doors are opened before the ones opening the doors realize they have done so. A friend in Tehran once told me at a dinner, after a frustrating business deal had not yet reached fruition, that “all business in Iran is like first-time sex: first there are the promises, then a little foreplay, followed by more promises and perhaps a little petting.” He had a disgusted look on his face. “At that stage, things get complicated—you’re not sure who’s the boy and who’s the girl, but what you do know is that if you continue, you might get fucked.” Another guest standing next to him nodded in agreement. “So you decide to proceed cautiously, touching here and touching there, showering the other party with compliments, and whispering an undying commitment, and then maybe, just maybe, it will all end in coitus, but it is rarely as satisfying for one party as it is for the other.”

  Self-deprecation, a part of any businessman’s dance with another, is one aspect of ta’arouf, a central theme even, that fits nicely with Persians’ admiration of dervish asceticism and selflessness, but in common use is by nature linked with the Persian penchant for gholov, and very much an element in the power plays the two together incite. Purer self-deprecation, perhaps even its root in Persian culture, is evident in a tale told of the Sufi Farid od-Din Attar, one of Persia’s greatest poets, who lived in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and is reputed to have been killed during the Mongol invasion of Persia, specifically by a Mongol soldier who captured him and dragged him about the streets of his hometown of Nishapur. A common version of the story of his death tells us that as the Mongol was leading Attar through the streets, a man came up to him and offered him a bag of silver for the poet’s release.6 Attar advised his captor not to accept, telling him that the price was surely not right. The Mongol, following Attar’s advice and encouraged by the apparently high value of his prisoner, refused to sell him and continued on his way, dragging Attar behind him. Soon thereafter, another man approached. He offered the Mongol a bag of straw in return for Attar, who this time advised the Mongol to accept. “Sell me now,” legend tells us he said, “for this is the right price and it is what I am worth.” Furious, the Mongol beheaded Attar and left his body on the street, aware of neither the lesson of selflessness that Attar had given him nor the ta’arouf that often takes self-deprecation to heights outsiders might consider farcical and absurd. Sufis would undoubtedly disagree with me if I were to claim that Attar was merely engaging in ta’arouf, for his spirituality and mysticism (which by necessity demand extreme modesty) were obvious, but his story nonetheless illustrates that some aspects of ta’arouf, the single defining characteristic of a people that struggles daily with notions of its own superiority or inferiority, have philosophical and spiritual roots.

  The Persian form of self-deprecation, perhaps originally an acknowledgment of one’s irrelevance in the universe, may have spiritual roots (“Other than God, there was no One”), but it is more often used to flatter another with exaggeration than to make a philosophical point, and can also be a means to lower the guard of a rival or an opponent. It has its practical benefits too—in a country where manners and social intercourse still have a nineteenth-century air about them—when two people of the same class meet in the course of human interaction and ta’arouf requires that each make an effort to elevate the other’s rank at the expense of his own. “I am your servant,” one might say, and the other might reply, “I am your slave,” or “I’m your inferior,” both knowing full well that the exaggerations may be meaningless, but they bestow a level of respect on the recipient that may be the only kind of respect or acknowledgment he receives in the course of a day.

  Iran was a kingdom for over twenty-five hundred years before becoming a theocracy, which is in itself more akin to a monarchy than any other political system, and was ruled by kings who were happy to make the point whenever they could that every subject was their servant. If a nobleman who had to genuflect and demean himself in the presence of royalty met a fellow nobleman, what better way for them to wash away the bitter taste of their servile behavior in their king’s presence, even while seeking some political advantage over a peer, than to engage in a little ta’arouf with each other? If a merchant met a fellow merchant, what better way for them to alleviate the humiliation of daily reminders that they were servants of the nobility? And if two street toughs, laats who’d never know what it was to have a servant, met, how better for them to forget their lowly rank than to engage each other in the art of ta’arouf? In recent times, the laat of Iran injected a vulgarity into self-deprecating ta’arouf that in its waggish artfulness could put literate men to shame. In the back-and-forth banter of self-deprecating ta’arouf, the one who gets the last word wins, even though he has lowered himself the most. In a prime example of lower-class extreme ta’arouf, a laat somewhere, sometime, put an end to rounds of greater and greater expressions of humility by declaring to his companion, “Beshash sheerjeh beram!”—“Piss, and I’ll dive in!” Gotcha!

  Women, of course, also engage in ta’arouf, but theirs takes a slightly different form. Self-deprecation doesn’t descend to the depths that it does with men, but women’s same-sex banter also often involves expressions of extreme modesty and even unworthiness. Women outside the home, and they have been venturing outside the walls of their gardens for almost a century now, will engage in ta’arouf with men; however, they will generally not belittle themselves; rather, they may compliment the man and elevate his sta
tus, but not at their own expense. The ta’arouf that requires that someone providing goods or services always refuse payment at first—the implication, often stated explicitly, being that neither the goods nor the services are worthy—is practiced equally by men and women, as is the insistence by the purchaser that the payment is but a pittance and an unworthy sum for such grand goods or such superlative service. It makes even the trivial buying of a newspaper or a pack of gum a sometimes tiresome transaction when conducted in Farsi, but to Iranians such is the price of civilization.

  A traditional expression of ta’arouf, “pishkesh,” meaning “it’s yours” and uttered when one is complimented on items of clothing, household goods, or any material object for that matter, is also equally utilized by men and women. When my parents were diplomats in London in the 1950s, a time when few Iranians traveled abroad or understood Western culture, a story would be told to every new Iranian arrival as preparation for (and a warning of) the uncouth ways of foreigners. A senior Iranian diplomat and his wife, it seems, once threw a party for their British contemporaries, and at dinner the wife was complimented by an Englishwoman on her Persian silver flatware. She immediately (as would have been correct in Iran) made the offer of pishkesh, but perhaps a little too sincerely in her English translation. The next morning the wife was astonished to find the Englishwoman’s butler at her front door, ready to collect the flatware, which the Iranian, out of proper ta’arouf, had to have packaged up and handed to the fellow. The story is probably fictitious (although I remember my mother insisting that it was true), but pishkesh, like other forms of ta’arouf, is not merely about the appearance of generosity and graciousness: had the item being offered been less valuable, the gesture would have been as much about advantage as good manners, and depending on how good one was at ta’arouf, one might gain (in defeat) or lose (in victory) a bauble whose significance, and value, would only later come to light.

  While ta’arouf defines Persian social interaction outside the home (and is engaged in only with guests inside), by definition it cannot be employed in anonymity, which perhaps explains some contradictory Iranian behavior. Foreign observers of Iran have often remarked on how demonstrators in the streets, yelling at the top of their lungs about the evil nature of America or Britain, will, when confronted individually, rather sheepishly explain that they’re not really anti-American or anti-Western. But this is the essence of ta’arouf: as long as they were anonymous, they could say whatever they wished, insulting though it may have been, but when they are face-to-face with a person who might take offense, politeness takes over. “I have fond memories of America.”

  Any visitor to Iran will also describe Tehran traffic as perhaps the worst in the world with, paradoxically for people known for their extreme hospitality and good manners, the rudest drivers of any country. True, for someone behind the wheel of an automobile, man or woman, is anonymous. There is good reason why Iranian drivers avoid eye contact with other drivers and pedestrians, for if they make eye contact, their veil of anonymity has been lifted, the gates to the walls of their homes have been unlocked, and they must become social Iranians, which means that they must practice ta’arouf. Many a time as a pedestrian I have made every effort to make eye contact with a driver bearing down on me at full speed as I step off a curb, and when I manage to, the car inevitably stops and the driver, usually with a smile, gestures “you first” with his hands. Women drivers, I’ve found, and perhaps reasonably in a still-sexist society, are the hardest to make eye contact with, and they can be as ruthless as the men in denying a pedestrian the right-of-way or another driver even an inch to maneuver in, but on the occasion a woman’s eyes have locked onto mine, even if only for an instant, she has begrudgingly become a polite driver, all the while with her eyes then averted in case further ta’arouf becomes an unwelcome and exhausting necessity.

  Although Ahmadinejad, like all Iranians, is a keen practitioner of traditional ta’arouf, he almost invariably balances his more streetlike ta’arouf with assertions of haq. His deceptively blunt language has always been laced with ta’arouf, just as much as it has been an unequivocal defense of haq. Even though it may seem that in his provocative speeches at the UN he has always singled out the United States as an evil enemy, he in fact has not mentioned the United States (or any individual American) by name even once, classical ta’arouf that not only deems it impolite to insult directly (and he might have given a lesson on ta’arouf to his friend Hugo Chávez, at least in 2006, when Chávez labeled George Bush as Satan at the UN) but also can include an obvious, but easily retractable, accusation. When in 2007 Ahmadinejad, contrary to diplomatic norms for nations that do not recognize each other, sat and intently listened to George Bush’s speech at the UN (while the entire American delegation walked out on his), he was engaging in silent ta’arouf, a ta’arouf that sought to show the world that he was clearly the more reasonable man, and a lesson not lost on his audience back home. But while other Iranian leaders, silver-tongued and not, may have chosen to extend polite ta’arouf to even discussions of their nation’s rights, Ahmadinejad generally employed the darker and more subtle form on the international stage.

  When Ahmadinejad arrived in New York in 2006 to attend the UN General Assembly, because of his standing up for the haq of Muslims everywhere and because of the recent war in Lebanon, where Hezbollah, openly backed by Iran, had been able to claim a victory of sorts over the Israelis, his stature in the Muslim world, at least on the streets of the Muslim world, was at an all-time high. And he knew it: Ahmadinejad had a hubristic air about him every time I saw him, even while he enthusiastically engaged in ta’arouf that might come across merely as polite behavior to Americans but held greater meaning for Iranians. He had given an interview to Mike Wallace for 60 Minutes earlier in the summer, an interview where even in America opinion seemed to be that he had (again, thanks to his ta’arouf skills) outmaneuvered the at times frustrated-sounding master of the combative television interview, and according to people close to him he felt supremely confident that he could handle any question posed to him by the media during his brief stay in the United States. Ahmadinejad was, as he always is in public, quite charming. A very small man in stature, though, he is acutely aware of and uncomfortable about his height disadvantage, and he displayed a sense of image control during his television interview with NBC Nightly News (where I was present as a consultant to NBC, and not to the Iranians, as I had been on other occasions). Brian Williams and Ahmadinejad were to face each other in armchairs set up in a suite at the InterContinental hotel on Forty-eighth Street, and when I saw the chairs, I knew that the Iranian president would be displeased. Williams, a tall man, would overshadow Ahmadinejad, and indeed, when the president entered the room and sat down, he looked absurd in an Alice in Wonderland sort of way, reminding me very much of the music video for Tom Petty’s “Don’t Come Around Here No More”—all Ahmadinejad needed, I thought, was an oversized glass of water and a floppy top hat, and the image would be complete. Williams immediately saw the comical aspect and sensed the discomfort; he looked at me and, speaking slowly so the president could follow, as Americans are wont to do when confronted with a non–English speaker, suggested that perhaps different chairs should be brought in. Ahmadinejad confirmed to me in Farsi that the chair was a little too big, a ta’arouf-appropriate understatement, to be sure, for he had sunk in and could barely reach the arms or touch the floor with his feet, and the producers scurried about, finally settling on a pair of dining chairs that Ahmadinejad seemed to find agreeable. (He smiled throughout the whole process, almost apologetically, which only made the producers more intent on pleasing him.)

  The interview proceeded, and Ahmadinejad was his usual confident and ebullient self, his speech exoteric in contrast with his predecessors’ sometimes esoteric wanderings in their public comments. By far the most interesting revelation, though, was not any new explanation of his statements on the Holocaust or his opinion on Israel’s fate, but in the clue to hi
s personality, which revealed itself when Williams, in a lighthearted moment, asked the president if he’d like to see more of America, and the president’s response was a simple and nonchalant “Sure.” Pressed for details about what or where in particular he’d like to visit in America, and perhaps Williams was hoping to elicit an unexpected response such as “Disneyland,” Ahmadinejad stuck firmly to generalities, and finally said, “Albateh, esrary nadareem,” which was correctly translated as “Of course, we’re not insistent.” But the actual meaning, and nuance is difficult to translate from Persian, was much closer to “Of course, we don’t really care.” While Mahmoud Ahmadinejad thought that America might be interesting, it was apparently not that interesting, at least to him, but he found a way to say it that was politely insulting. And that remark spoke volumes about Ahmadinejad, a man who had never shown much interest in travel and who believed passionately that Iran had as much to recommend it as any other country, but also volumes about a generation of nationalistic Iranians who often winced at the onetime fawning, beyond-ta’arouf attitude of Iranian leaders, and many of their subjects, toward the West. It was also a classic illustration of the superiority/inferiority complexes that many Iranians suffer from, and it was a signal to his audience back home that he was not about to be seduced, as many of them have been or might be, by the glitter of the West, even though he was, naturally, civilized enough to respond graciously to a question.

  Ahmadinejad’s personality and image consciousness revealed themselves again when, in another attempt at lighthearted banter, Brian Williams asked him about his attire—a suit (and open-neck shirt) rather than his trademark Windbreaker—and the Iranian president replied, “Sheneedeem shoma kot-shalvaree hasteen; manam kot-shalvar poosheedam,” which was translated as “We knew you wear a suit, so I wore a suit.” But the phrase is actually much closer in meaning to “We’d heard you are a suit, so I wore a suit,” a sentiment much in keeping with his ordinary, “man of the people” image, as well as his, and many of his supporters’, disdain for symbols of class and wealth, but it was also another example of his employing the darker language of ta’arouf.