Open Thread: From Flattery to Fatigue — What the Iranian Diaspora Can’t Admit

X.T.M · July 16, 2025 · 29 comments

On July 14, I wrote about Ta’arof ; the millennia-old Persian art of flattery, refusal, and ritualised courtesy. It’s often misunderstood in the West as “saying no three times,” but it’s really about emotional high-context negotiation, reading the room before the room speaks.

The next day, on July 15, Sharghzadeh posted a powerful video, calling it Iranian Diaspora Fatigue. A searing takedown of the Iranian Diaspora’s toxic racial insecurities, internalised Islamophobia, misogyny masked as modernity, and cultural denialism. He’s mostly right.

What he calls fatigue, I’d call poisoned flattery turned inward. Because Tehranglos are no longer performing Ta’arof to honour guests or elders. They’re doing it to whiteness itself. Hoping if they refuse our own identity long enough, maybe the West will say: “Yes, come in.”

That’s not assimilation. That’s exhaustion. And the worst part? Even the racism feels borrowed; against Arabs, against Afghans, against Iranians back home. It’s not even Iranian. This isn’t just about cringe TikToks or awkward panel guests. It’s about who gets to narrate Persian culture. And what gets flattened when tradition becomes product. I was stunned when Zachary Newman — one of the most prominent Persian-Jewish American chefs — endorsed Netanyahu’s strikes on Iran. That moment crystallised something.

Sharghzadeh and I are saying the same thing: Persian culture is being gentrified by its own children. What survives isn’t tradition. It’s content. It’s vibes. If Iran is an unreadable poem, diaspora is turning it into a slogan. If Iran is lived, diaspora is increasingly just captioned. And they wonder why they’re tired. Is the Persian diaspora preserving a culture, or just performing it for the algorithm?

Pakistaniat & Urdu from Qasim to Quaid

X.T.M · July 16, 2025 · 2 comments

UP’s very long shadow:

As I board my flight back to the UK after a brief but productive trip, I find myself reflecting on a language that continues to haunt and inspire me: Urdu.

It is a tongue caught between paradoxes. The language of courtesans and qawwals, of sacred supplication and sly seduction. It carries within it the scent of jasmine and blood, of Delhi’s dusk and Lahore’s lingering grief.

The Beloved Guardian of the Baha’i Faith once noted that while most Baha’i texts should be translated from English, Urdu alone is trusted for direct translation from Persian and Arabic. That proximity, that spiritual siblinghood with Persian, the language of kings, and Arabic, the language of God, renders Urdu magical.

Sanskrit, of course, is the language of gods, but Urdu, its stepdaughter of sorts, captures the longing of poet to partisan.

There’s a reason the Bahá’í prayer I share below is so piercing in Urdu. So here, before I cross back into another timezone, I offer this prayer—without commentary, without translation. Just Urdu, as it was meant to be heard.

And I wonder: perhaps this is what Pakistan truly is—a project in transcending the local. Not rooted in soil, but in sentiment. A place where Punjabis, Pathans, and Muhajirs are asked to shed skin and commune in Urdu. Where Pakistaniyat, for all its fractures, has succeeded in producing a common idiom: of piety, pride, and pain. Continue reading Pakistaniat & Urdu from Qasim to Quaid

Ta’arof & The Art of Flattery

X.T.M · July 14, 2025 · 7 comments
I recently saw a cringeworthy clip of Rainn Wilson, yes that Rainn Wilson, earnestly trying to explain Ta’arof (while not even being able to pronounce Tahdig). The famed Iranian art of polite refusal was reduced, predictably, to the idea of “saying no three times.” A charming simplification, perhaps, but a misleading one.
The Ritual of Misunderstanding
Ta’arof is a millennia-old Persian artform; rooted perhaps as far back as the Achaemenid Empire. It is centered on flattery, politeness, and ritualised courtesy and is not merely etiquette; it is the performance and ritualisation of it.

 

Because Tarof isn’t about numerical formulae. It’s not just “no means yes after the third try.” It’s not a knock-knock joke.

Onunchi, Ta’arof, and High-Context Societies

Tarof is best understood as high-context negotiation within deeply hierarchical and emotionally attuned societies; a kind of cultural Onunchi (옚눈ìč˜), for those familiar with Korean sociolinguistics. It’s the art of reading the room before the room speaks. More than etiquette, Tarof is a performance of dignity through flattery, deferral, and intuition.
And that’s precisely what’s being lost; not just in Rainn’s version, but in the Westernisation of diasporic Persian culture more broadly.

 

Read More Here

Visibility, Voice, and the Indian Muslim Dilemma

X.T.M · July 13, 2025 · 4 comments

In the aftermath of the extremely tragic plane crash in Ahmedabad (the photo features the late Ali family, may they rest in the Highest Heaven), one tiny detail stood out; not the cause of the disaster (still contested), but who was being heard. Many of the victims’ families interviewed by the BBC were of Muslim origin (it was also during the Eid Holiday break). And while that may seem incidental, it reveals a subtle, recurring pattern in India’s public discourse.

Three threads emerge:

Continue reading Visibility, Voice, and the Indian Muslim Dilemma

Was Partition Good for Muslims?

X.T.M · July 12, 2025 · 216 comments

Kabir:I will remind you of the Sachar Committee Report which stated that the condition of Indian Muslims was worse than that of Dalits. This was a report commissioned by the Congress government not by Pakistanis. India has never had a Muslim Prime Minister. I would be willing to bet that this is not going to happen in my lifetime. The Muslim League succeeded in getting the Muslim majority provinces a country of our own. This is a huge achievement.

Partition was sold as deliverance. In hindsight, it may have been the most sophisticated act of self-disinheritance in modern Muslim history. A century ago, Muslims on the subcontinent were a political force — deeply embedded, numerically significant, and intellectually diverse. Today, they are divided, disenfranchised, and disoriented. Three nations. No unity. No power. No clear path forward. Let’s take stock:

1. Divided into Three

Pakistan. Bangladesh. India. Three fractured expressions of one civilizational legacy — none of which fully represents or protects the totality of South Asia’s Muslims.

2. No Electorate Leverage

In India, Muslims lost their negotiating bloc overnight. From being a decisive vote in undivided India, they became a permanent minority — politically cautious, rhetorically silenced, and often viewed with suspicion. In Pakistan, Muslim identity became so hegemonic it erased internal plurality. In Bangladesh, it became suspect altogether.

3. Psychological Cleft

Two-thirds of Muslims had to unlearn India. Partition forced them to disown their history. The other third had to choose between being Muslim or becoming more Indian. This psychic wound — of being here, but not quite belonging — has never healed.

4. Urdu: From Bridge to Burden

Urdu, once the cultural glue of the Muslim elite, is now:

  • Enforced in Pakistan (to the resentment of Sindhis, Baloch, and Pashtuns)
  • Marginalized in India
  • Extinct in Bangladesh

A shared language was replaced by suspicion and statecraft.

5. Islam as a Spent Force

Partition Islam was meant to be political. It became performative. There is no robust Muslim political expression in the subcontinent today — only tokenism, sectarianism, or silence. It resembles post-revolution Iran: Islam was not discredited by the West, but by what its stewards did in its name. Partition didn’t solve the “Muslim Question.” It just made it unspeakable — in three different politicised idioms.

The Gratitude Trap: On Escaping Asia but Staying Captive

X.T.M · July 11, 2025 · 2 comments

In a recent video, a young Punjabi woman, likely Sikh, candidly shares her discomfort upon returning to India after living in Canada (this kind of echoes the Aussie influencer’s comments on chronic Indian inequality). The noise, the pollution, the density. Her frustration is raw, familiar, and deeply sincere.

But beneath her words lies something larger: the aesthetic asymmetry that defines the postcolonial condition. Wide roads, clean air, manicured parks; these are not just amenities. In the global South, they become symbols of escape, status, and salvation. And so, millions migrate. Or aspire to. Not just for jobs, but for dignity. For air that doesn’t burn. For order that doesn’t humiliate. For a feeling of being seen.

And when they do, when they arrive in Canada, the UK, Australia, something subtle happens: they become grateful. Not just for opportunity, but for escape. For the fact that the West “works.” That gratitude then curdles into deference.

They begin to believe that the world outside the West is meant to be chaotic, dirty, loud. That governance is a Western gift. That clean streets and quiet parks are civilizational rather than institutional. This is the gratitude trap; the soft power of asphalt, symmetry, and silence.

And it’s why postcolonial recovery is so difficult. Not because the global South lacks culture or potential, but because its own elites, shaped by extraction, not architecture, rarely build for elegance. Rarely build for pride. Rarely build for joy. What the West exported was not just railways or rule of law. It exported a built environment that still shames us. And until that is understood, until we take seriously the spatial dignity of our cities and the material form of our futures, the colonial spell will remain unbroken.

Why Pakistan Is a Colonial Project & India a Civilizational One

X.T.M · July 11, 2025 · 27 comments

Over the past few months, I’ve noticed a marked improvement in the quality of conversation on BP. A large part of this, I suspect, is due to eliminating trigger-response dynamics; as seen when I barred Q on a technicality. It created space: suddenly, the commentariat was thinking, not reacting. In that quiet, something became obvious.

Whenever Kabir invokes “neutral experts,” they always seem to be Western, usually venerably white, often from institutions directly involved in the colonial rape of India. And yet these same voices are elevated as if they were impartial or above it all. They aren’t. They are the architects, not the observers. This is the paradox at the heart of Pakistan. Continue reading Why Pakistan Is a Colonial Project & India a Civilizational One

Comments, Censorship, and the Cultivation of Voice

X.T.M · July 10, 2025 · 6 comments

Over the past 45 days, I’ve had far less time for BP than I’d have liked. But now that I’m back in the US, I finally have space to refocus on what matters most for BP: stewarding it as a platform for intelligent, plural, and principled discourse.

Updated Commentator Guidelines

We’re evolving how we manage our comment threads. Here’s the updated approach:

1. Authors moderate their own threads.

Each Author is free to shape the conversation under their posts. If you post it, you own the thread. Also to the commentariat, if you put a picture and capitalise your handle, it makes you more “human” and memorable (without having to trade in your anonymity, thank you Indosaurus).

2. Do not delete comments; void them.

Deletion removes our memory. If a comment crosses the line, Authors may void it (ideally only the offending items but I can understand the temptation to void it all), but we preserve it as part of the archive. Cultivating a robust commentariat is a core BP value.

3. Authors may never moderate another Author’s comment.

If an Author has a concern with another Author’s comment, they should reach out to me directly. I will arbitrate. No unilateral actions between Authors.

4. Want to avoid moderation? Become an Author.

If you’re serious about your voice, join us. Monthly posting is enough. I ask only for basic human decency; plural views are welcome, and I’m always happy to edit drafts to preserve your tone and intent.

5. Respect BP for what it is.

Brown Pundits isn’t just a site. It’s a conversation space. And like any serious space, it requires some light rules; not to control, but to protect. Let’s build something lasting where people from all sides of the divide can meaningfully engage with one another.

Borders, Blind Spots, and the Mirror Game of South Asia

X.T.M · July 10, 2025 · 20 comments

A recurring tension in South Asian discourse is the question of consistency: how states interpret borders, secession, and sovereignty; not in principle, but in practice.

Liberalstan’s case is that India acted selectively in 1947: Junagadh saw a plebiscite, Hyderabad faced military action, and Kashmir was referred to the UN. From this perspective, India chose whichever method suited its interests in each case. To Liberalstan, this isn’t pragmatism, it’s hypocrisy. The charge: if self-determination wasn’t good for Kashmir, why should it be for Balochistan? And what of Sikkim, Goa, Pondicherry, Khalistan, Nagaland, or the Naxalites?

Hindustan’s reply is rooted in realpolitik: decisions were shaped by demography, geography, and threats; not abstract norms. Q.E.A. Jinnah’s attempt to absorb Junagadh and court Jodhpur are seen as deliberate provocations, since Junagadh was Hindu-majority, non-contiguous, and largely symbolic (home to Somnath). After that, New Delhi abandoned any illusions of standard rules. From Hindustan’s view, Liberalstan’s moral framing is not only naïve but deeply asymmetrical; ignoring 1947, 1965, Kargil, Mumbai, and the long shadow of Pakistan’s own interventions.

When it comes to Balochistan, Hindustan notes its accession was closer to annexation, comparable to Nepal or Bhutan vanishing into India. Three major insurgencies since the 1960s complicate the narrative of “finality.” But here, Liberalstanflips the script: what is labeled a disputed territory in Kashmir is declared settled in Balochistan. This inversion doesn’t go unnoticed.

In truth, both sides are mirrors. Each demands flexibility for itself and finality for the other. Each invokes “consent”selectively; whether that of a prince, a people, or a state. The tragedy, perhaps, isn’t inconsistency but the absence of a shared regional framework for self-determination. One not held hostage by grievance, revenge, or exception.

Until then, accusations of hypocrisy will persist, each side fluent in the other’s blind spots.

“Between Scripts, Beyond Borders: What It Means to Be a Punjabi Hindu-Sikh Sufi Poet in Urdu”

Manav Sachdeva · July 10, 2025 · 11 comments

“Between Scripts, Beyond Borders: What It Means to Be a Punjabi Hindu-Sikh Sufi Poet in Urdu”
By Manav Sachdeva urf Maasoom Shah


What is my being as a Punjabi Hindu-Sikh writer of Sufi Poetry in Urdu while living between Ludhiana, New Delhi, and New York? What does it mean to me, mean for me, and mean to other people as they look at me with equal parts wonder and disdain as I embrace Farsi and Urdu as my own as did my ancestors prior to partition when Urdu was a language of our regions, as Javed Akhtar once said about language being of regions rather than religions?


To be a Punjabi Hindu-Sikh writing Sufi poetry in Urdu is to carry the weight of centuries in my breath and the burden of a border in my bones. It means returning to a home I never left—and was never allowed to fully claim.
It means that when I write in Nastaliq script or even Roman or Hindi script but in Urdu, or quote Hafiz or write in Naskh in Farsi, I am not converting, betraying, or straying. I am completing a circle. One my ancestors began long before Partition redrew maps and mistrust into the fabric of everyday language.
As Javed Akhtar once reminded us, “Languages belong to regions, not religions.” I write in Urdu not because I am Muslim though I don’t deny that label for myself either, but specifically, because I am Punjabi. Because I am from a land where Heer ran through the fields, where Bulleh Shah danced with defiance, where Shah Hussain stitched poetry into the shawls of the soul.


It means I am watched—sometimes with wonder, sometimes with suspicion. Some marvel at the fusion: the New York poet invoking Mir and Ghalib in Brooklyn cafĂ©s, speaking of ishq-e-haqiqi in the same breath as trauma therapy and diasporic longing. Others look on with narrowed eyes, asking—silently or aloud—“Whose side are you on?”


To that, I say: I am on the side of poetry. Of shared breath across centuries. Of the tongue that trembles with truth regardless of script. Of the language that fed my grandfather’s soul in Amritsar and now finds voice again in mine in Washington Square or Connaught Place.


It means I translate myself daily—between identities, continents, alphabets. Sometimes I write Mohabbat in Devnagari. Sometimes I whisper shukr where others expect dhanyavaad. I live between the ik onkar and the bismillah, between naan and bagel, between Sufi silences and the American chaos of self-invention.


And what does it mean for me? It means freedom. It means rebellion. It means healing.


It means to remember that before Urdu became politicized, it was loved. Before it was feared, it was sung. It was the shared heritage of Lahore and Ludhiana–the cities of my father’s and my birth, Delhi and Dera Ghazi Khan–cities of ancestry, further and present.


I do not ask permission to write in Urdu. I write to reclaim what was always mine.


And what might it mean to others?

Maybe discomfort. Maybe curiosity. Maybe a slow awakening to the lie that language must belong to creed. Maybe the beginning of a reckoning: that art refuses to stay in its box, that love poems don’t ask for passports, and that faith is sometimes just the belief that what was broken can be made whole.

So I will continue.

To write qawwalis and qasidas and sehras and ghazals and nazms in cafĂ©s. To quote Baba Farid beside Rumi. To live as a bridge—not between East and West, but between the false walls we’ve built within ourselves. And if some still look on with disdain, let them. I am writing in the voice of my ancestors.

And they are no longer silent.

Brown Pundits