One man's burp is another man's compliment
Tehran, looking north towards the Alborz mountain range (photo by Mehrshad Rajabi on Unsplash)
In the ongoing public debate about the ‘decolonisation’ of universities, curricula and public life, you could make a start much closer to home: observe differences and try to see things through the eyes of “others”.
Naples, 1986: An Italian penfriend picks me up from the railway station to drive me to my youth hostel. We stop at a red traffic light; the car behind, coming on at full speed, hits his bumper. Both drivers come out to inspect the damage, and the female driver, exasperated, protests, “Who in the name of God stops at a red traffic light?”
London, 1987: On my first day walking to UCL, I come upon a pedestrian crossing in Bloomsbury. White lines are painted on the tarmac, but instead of red/green traffic lights, a large amber bulb flashes on either side of the crossing. In Greece we only have red/green traffic lights, stop/go, it’s that simple. A car approaches and stops at the crossing. I look at the amber light, at the driver, he looks back at me. After a few seconds, he motions me to cross, which I do with trepidation
Tehran, 1989: I stand at a pavement. There is a red/green traffic light, but neither cars nor pedestrians seem to be heeding it. Cars continue to drive even if the light is red for them, and the same goes for pedestrians. I just stand there, mouth half-open, taking all this in. A few metres to my left, not at the crossing, a woman just steps into a lull in the traffic and walks briskly (in effect, jaywalking, had I been in America). The car approaching slows down; she motions the car in the middle lane to slow down too (which it does) and continues walking to the other side. I can do this. I hesitantly step onto the tarmac expecting the cars to stop, which they don’t. I freeze there, brakes screech inches away, the driver shouts at me, cars honk. Flustered, I rush back to the safety of the pavement. There is no way I can do this. Cars whizz past.
The Culture Smart! Essential Guide to Customs and Culture — Iran carries this warning: “…it takes some time to adapt to the aggressive Iranian driving style. Indeed, what passes for cautious, sensible driving in the West can be dangerous in Tehran as no-one expects people to drive like this.”
These vignettes illustrate the different ways that cultures regulate personal boundaries and movement in public spaces, one of the first things that hits newcomers (sometimes literally). But if you survive the collision, a new understanding awaits.
A couple of weeks ago Meera Dattani argued that we need to reverse our colonial gaze when travelling, and that the thoughtfulness of our “slower, greener, more sustainable” travels “should extend to our cultural and social gaze.” Attempting to see “other” parts of the world through the eyes of “others” can prove enlightening and liberating. She argues that
“[…r]eturning with an enhanced, refreshed world view is a giant step towards ‘decolonising travel’. Take counter images, read, ask questions of museums and tour companies. This is how travellers can do their bit, alongside travel companies, tourist boards, books, guides and publications, to present a more honest, ‘less colonial’ world view.”
But you can do that much closer to home, by observing, examining your own observations and judgments, and trying to see things from the perspective of the “other”, the “other” being a host nation, a colleague or your next-door neighbour. I use these anecdotes as an illustration of how this can happen in practice.
The thread running through them is that someone behaves in a way not expected by others; neither right nor wrong, just different. This is called salience in social psychology, defined by the Oxford Dictionary as “the quality of being particularly noticeable or important; prominence”– in other words, sticking out like a sore thumb. Therein lies the key to understanding.
Many of us take our national/cultural practices as the golden standard, measure the practices of others against this yardstick, and sometimes find them wanting. For example, when I was growing up in Greece, I was taught that as a pedestrian I needed to be vigilant of cars at any time, even if the light was green. My father always warned me to assume that everyone else was mad, and that the responsibility of care for my safety lies only with me. Even so, the vast majority of drivers stopped at red lights. In Naples I was shocked to discover that stopping at a red light was actually not expected. In Britain, I worked out that as a pedestrian I had the right to be safe, and that I was protected by regulations that drivers and I were obliged to follow. I got used to expecting that drivers would stop at traffic lights and zebra crossings. Fast forward a year and a half, in Tehran I worked out that not only would cars not stop to let me cross, but that I also needed to claim my own space against their competing space claims (which I still can’t do, and not only when driving).
All three drivers felt frustration and anger because someone did not behave as expected to. These are simple, everyday examples, but the principle holds. More serious dissonances can often lie at the root of ethnocentrism, and of much cultural and national stereotyping.
We are all guilty of making value judgements. Mine were that Italian and Iranian drivers were reckless and inconsiderate, but other dissonances can give rise to more serious items: uncivilised, uneducated, impolite and on and on. Once ingrained, such attitudes are hard to shift, which makes living or travelling in another country fraught with difficulties.
So, “Iranian drivers are reckless and inconsiderate”; this was my initial take. But later on, I was faced with having to apply it to my own loving and supportive husband. A re-calibration was in order to deal with the paradox. Was it possible, I wondered, that Iranians conceptualised driving practices differently? How about personal space? The regulation of movement? The need for a different understanding began to emerge. In other words, the observation of difference gave me a hint that there was more than met the eye. The decision to open the bonnet and look at the motor workings marks the beginning of my cross-cultural understanding — I repeat, the beginning, which should not be taken to imply that there is also an end.
I continued with my observations.
At the beginning of my cross-cultural journey, the Iranian driving scenario seemed paradoxical. The fact that I use the word “paradox” is telling of who I am: a Greek who has lived most of her adult life in Britain and has learned to follow rules and to be responsible in society in general. In the Iranian mind, there is no paradox in the driving practices: they are in keeping with a view of the world as populated by members of an in-group and an out-group. You owe consideration and respect to members of your in-group. You owe nothing to the members of the out-group, so there is no reason to give way to another driver. (Except of course that it may be unsafe; but this does not seem to be of particular worry because in large cities the traffic is so atrocious that cars can never build up enough speed.) Orhan Pamuk argues that in a country where many aspects of public life are heavily regulated, “the road is a place where [Iranians] can test the limits of their freedom, their imagination and their ingenuity.” Another equally valid way of looking at it.
Cultivating the willingness — the desire even — to lift the curtain and take a peek holds promise for our collective future. The development of a ‘less colonial’ worldview can happen in our everyday interactions and much closer to home, as we begin to understand that our commonalities are much more numerous than our differences. At the end of a meal, a Greek will say to the host “health to your hands”, a Chinese will burp, but both are grateful for the nourishment and appreciative of the cook’s time and effort.
And this is just the beginning.
