There is a prevalent debate, particularly among philosophical international travelers and impassioned college students afire with the belief that we can change the world, and that is the much dreaded “universalism vs. cultural relativism” conversation.
It’s easy at first to think of yourself as a staunch universalist or relativist, though I think it really changes when you're bombarded with the issue constantly, as when abroad. My personal standpoint is: confused. It may seem clear to you, but take these philosophies from the lofty heights of issues like world hunger and repression, and move down to the daily level of confrontation, over things like toilet paper vs. water hoses, and whether outfits of black, yellow, and sparkle actually look good together, and the world seems much more muddled.
On a given day though, I’ll usually make an argument for what some of my friends angrily charge as relativism. I’m ok with this though, because, universal values or not (whatever they may be), I’d still say there are some things that can’t and don’t need to be shared by everyone. For example, baby posters. Yes, baby posters.
Did you ever think plastering your walls with pictures of some random baby that is not yours, with the words, “Honey cute, I’d eat you” written on the bottom was a good idea? Me neither. But such posters exist here, in abundance. In fact there seems to be a thriving Syrian baby poster industry, and try as I might to understand, I cannot help but be totally, completely, weirded out. Suddenly, the universalist inside my head takes a swing, “These people are completely sick! Someone needs to tell them it is in no way appropriate to hang posters of a random baby climbing out of a sunflower on their wall!” Then the relativist pipes up, “It’s clearly something that Syrians do not find strange. In contrast, they might find the idea that teenage guys regularly hang posters of scantily clad females in their bedrooms at home slightly disturbing.” The universalist regretfully rejoins by presenting some disturbing evidence, “Remember those Anne Geddes babies…?” (If you don't know what I'm talking about, go here . )
Sometimes, when I’m eating dinner at my friend Fatima’s house, I ponder the laughing baby posters wedged in among cheery Hassan Nasrallahs and smiling Assad portraits--striking, but strangely appropriate. And I think about asking her about this disturbing phenomenon. But I can’t bring myself to do it, without seeming like a huge jerk. Basically, my only point in the ensuing conversation would be—because that’s freakin’ weird!
Here’s another one that’s hard for me to get over. The abundance of grave-oriented idioms… One of the most common expressions of endearment here is “tu’burny!” which basically means “you put me in my grave!” As far as I can tell, you can tack that on to the end of almost any statement. It is also the staple of every basic sentence format in a Syrian soap opera. Another one is “to’bshny”, meaning exactly the same thing. There’s also the playful affirmative response to a request, when you say “ ‘ala ‘ainy wa rasy wa tashakly aasy”—“on my eye and on my head, and you look like my ‘aas’." Ignore how weird the eye and head thing probably sounds to you, and stick with me on the ‘aas’ part. An ‘aas’ is a plant (not sure what the name is in English) that Arab Muslims use to decorate their loved one’s graves. So it’s something like—"I’m so happy to do this for you, you are like the plant I hope my grave will be decorated with" …I think...
I try to reason the creepiness of such phrases away, reminding myself that most idioms sound ridiculous when you translate them word for word (As my sister pointed out…"cat got your tongue”—can anyone actually explain that one?). But there’s only so much I can do.
Lest you think these moments of disgust or shock only go one way, I’ll share one that happened between me and a Syrian friend just the other day. It started when my friend was helping me with my homework—watching an episode of a Syrian soap opera “Resistant Tears”, a surprisingly interesting soap that sheds light on women’s issues in the country. She was trying to explain to me a common phrase (derived from Islam) that people use when one neighbor thanks another for assistance. The person thanked will usually respond, “The prophet advises seven neighbors”, which is supposed to mean, figuratively, that you should help and respect your neighbors both near and far. The context in the soap opera was that one woman—who works as a respectable Damascus judge, thanks her downstairs neighbor, a homemaker, for watching her infant son for the day. The neighbor waves her off and says, “the prophet advises seven neighbors!”
I elbowed my friend after she explained the phrase and joked—“I’m sure the babysitting fee helps too.”
“But of course--she didn’t get paid,” my friend exclaimed, somewhat surprised.
“So it was just a one-time thing?” I asked.
My friend looked confused, “No, what gives you that idea?”
“Well she doesn’t asked to get paid?? That’s one friendly neighbor!”
After realizing we had stumbled upon a cultural difference, my friend explained to me that this is common, that neighbors will watch another woman’s child, for free, if she has no close relatives who can take the child for her while she is at work.
“Every day!?” I shouted skeptically, almost accusingly. I was flabbergasted. My friend looked equally shocked, not to mention completely taken aback by my cynicism. The idea that someone would get paid to watch their neighbor’s child everyday seemed just as surprising to her. We eyed each other bemusedly, waiting for an explanation of this strange, unnatural custom, but none came, so we just dropped it. (Note: Right before I put up this post, I overheard a friend having a conversation about at an upcoming birthday party at a restaurant. She kept saying they would do it "Amrikiyya." Noticing my confusion, she later explained "American style"--which, it turns out, means everyone pays for themselves. "Because we're selfish?" I joked. "No, no!" she said, worried, "...But maybe just a little cheap.")
Here’s another moment of cultural revelation. My friend Noor informing her friends that when she made a trip to Europe, the people only used toilet paper in the bathroom! (i.e, they didn’t have the water hose that every Arab toilet has next to it.) This statement was followed with a resounding, collective gasp, as all heads turned toward me. I bit my tongue, remembering a conversation I held with my former roommate from Pakistan, Rabia, four years earlier--she scathingly mocked my people’s barbaric custom of using only toilet paper, and not water as well, to clean their bottoms. (She may not know this, but for weeks I tried to bring myself to embrace this bizarre bathroom rite, but to no avail.)
“Erika—is this true? Is it this way in America!?" I’d been afraid of getting dragged into this…
The shock and disgust with which we greet each other’s customs is entertaining because you can sometimes never predict what is going to disturb someone. These may seem like little, unimportant tidbits—and you’re right. They are. But it is often these small differences that me and my fellow expats, not to mention our Syrian hosts, first face and try to reason with, when we confront a new culture. Should I judge this culture based on a baby poster fetish? Can they determine how generous mine is based on child care norms? Probably not, but we judge anyway, and we can’t help it. How does one get around it--do we assume they’re the strange ones, an aberration of human judgment and taste? Do we struggle to comprehend differences that sometimes can’t really be explained? I’m not really sure, but I have to tell you…some of my friends do love that water hose…and I just can’t stop saying tu’burny!
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