The fact that we use the one German word and not the other suggests that English speakers are a peculiarly unsympathetic lot. Other European languages have their own words for the feeling: in Spanish it’s pena ajena (PEH-nah ackh-EYN-ah, where the ckh is pronounced at the back of the throat, like the Scottish loch); vergonha alheia (ver-GOHN-ya’al-EY-ya) in Portuguese; myötähäpeä (my-ER-ta-HAP-ey-a) in Finnish. They all mean more or less the same thing. Plaatsvervangende schaamte (PLAHTS-ver-VONG-EN-duh-SHAHM-tuh) in Dutch probably has the most helpful literal translation – ‘place-exchanging shame’. While in English, all we can do is shudder with embarrassment and wish for the ground to swallow us up.
To be fair, Fremdschämen only appeared in the German language within the last ten years, so the Germans aren’t that far ahead of us, but it still means that the Spanish, the Portuguese, the Finns and the Dutch are apparently instinctively more generous and sympathetic than English speakers. Here, then, is a word to help us express our better selves.
T’aarof
(Farsi)
The gentle verbal ping-pong between two people who both insist on paying and won’t back down
Picture the scene. Two friends are in a cafe, ordering at the counter and looking forward to a catch-up over some caffeine.
‘That’ll be £4.40, please,’ says the extortionist barista.
One of the friends dives into her purse to find some cash, which she attempts to hand over. The trouble is that the other friend is unwittingly schooled in t’aarof, and she holds out some cash, too. The result is that these two women, both of them with impeccable manners, squabble like schoolgirls, pushing each other’s hands aside over who is going to pay for both of them.
These ‘No, let me’ arguments over dinner bills, or rounds of drinks, or cinema tickets can be painful, and there is an alternative. You want to pay? Fine, you pay, and next time it will be my turn. It will all even up in the end, for God’s sake. But that’s the view of someone with no concept of t’aarof.
T’aarof (TAA-ruf) is the Farsi word for a system of etiquette that is central to social life in Iran. It involves an assumption of deference, with each party to a discussion insisting that the other is more worthy of consideration. So the most casual visitor to an Iranian home will be offered tea, or perhaps a piece of fruit, or a sweetmeat with yogurt or honey. By the rules of t’aarof, he will decline, and the host will repeat the offer more urgently. This can go on through several exchanges, just like the two women fighting over coffee, until one or the other weakens. (If you’re supposed to be trying to turn down the sweetmeats, it’s as well to make sure that you’re the one who weakens. They’re delicious.)
To outsiders – particularly Americans, who generally pride themselves on saying what they mean and meaning what they say – this can be confusing, but behind the courteous fencing is a genuine confusion that has to be eradicated. The host wants, above all, to be welcoming, and so offers the refreshment however inconvenient it may be. The guest, in turn, might like the drink or the food but, more than that, doesn’t want to inconvenience his host. And so the exchange starts, with each side looking for clues about what the other is really thinking.
The principle extends throughout various situations. If a guest compliments his host on any of his possessions – a piece of glassware or a picture – he may well be offered it as a gift, and the same dizzying circle of refusal and increasingly pressing offer will begin. A shopkeeper may insist that the item to be bought is really worthless, whereupon a sort of reverse haggling starts, with the purchaser insisting on its value and the shopkeeper talking it down; a group of businessmen may refuse to answer a question until it is clear which one is the most senior and he has given his opinion.
Visitors to Iran are sometimes warned that the expectation is that they should refuse any offer three times, but in reality t’aarof is less prescriptive and more subtle than this. Deep down, it’s about each party to the discussion wanting to show respect to the other. It’s a phenomenon that’s familiar enough in the English-speaking world and one which we ought to learn to deal with rather than squirm over. Perhaps if we had a word for it – like t’aarof – we might manage the embarrassment of it a little better.
Kummerspeck
(German)
The weight gained through overeating when grief-stricken
Occasionally, politicians have to make sacrifices for their country – perhaps even put themselves through near-torture in the interests of diplomacy. In the 1980s, it was Margaret Thatcher’s turn.
The Prime Minister was visiting the then German chancellor, Helmut Kohl, at his home near Ludwigshafen on the Rhine. National leaders always like to show off the culinary delicacies of their own country, and so Kohl invited her to lunch at a local tavern – not an environment in which the Iron Lady was at her most comfortable. Her idea of a good lunch was a nice piece of delicately grilled Dover sole, and she visibly blanched as her plate was piled high with Saumagen – stuffed pig’s stomach – with mounds of sauerkraut and potatoes to go with it. She did her best but was still picking rather primly at it as Chancellor Kohl, who was known to be a monumental trencherman, returned for his second helping. And then his third. Mrs Thatcher survived the experience with her dignity and her good humour intact – just.
The point is that, fairly or unfairly, the Germans have a reputation for being expansive about their food and drink. The British are known for their love of beer, but a nation that consumes its lager from one-litre steins is never likely to come second in a drinking contest. And German cookery, as Mr Kohl demonstrated, is better known for the generosity of its portions than for the delicacy of its preparation.
The Germans – at least according to reputation – have never needed an excuse to grow large and imposing. Again, Chancellor Kohl might be quoted as an example. So why does a nation like that need a word like Kummerspeck?
Kummerspeck (KOOM-ar-shpek, with the oo as in book) is the Germans’ ideal excuse for putting on unwanted weight. It means literally ‘grief-bacon’, and it refers to the extra weight gained as a result of overeating through grief. The ‘bacon’ part of the word (speck) doesn’t refer to the crispy slices of heaven that go with eggs for breakfast but to the unmovable deposits of fat that build up relentlessly under your skin. But it is the ‘grief’ part – kummer – that is the masterpiece of the word as an excuse.
Kummer means grief, sadness or general sorrow. You have only to say it and you have disarmed criticism at once – what sort of person is going to make someone who has just told them that they are grief-stricken, sorrowful and world-weary feel even worse by telling them they’re getting fat?
Kummerspeck acknowledges the fact that among the most popular items of self-medication for sadness and distress are tubs of ice cream, chocolate brownies and chips, and draws attention to their fairly obvious side effects. But why does a nation like Germany, whose recipe books and restaurants suggest that they need no excuses for eating and drinking with more enthusiasm than wisdom, need an excuse anyway?