Me, the Foreign Girl

Iranians are absolute sweethearts—helpful, hospitable, and kind. But like everything else in the country, it’s not that straightforward.

Let me start with a story from my first few months in Tehran. My Russian classmate and I were heading to the university’s main office to sort out some paperwork. With her short stature, thick dark hair, and bold eyebrows, my friend could easily pass for a local Middle Easterner. Plus, she spoke pretty decent Persian. Her grandfather was of Tajik descent, which is why she was named Tamanna—a name with Indian origins but also used in Iran. Meanwhile, I stood out like a sore thumb—taller than average, pale as milk, light hair, and at the time, I could barely string a sentence together in Persian. It was obvious from a mile away that I was a foreigner, a khareji. But what does that really mean in practice?

We were patiently waiting our turn among mostly Afghan, Iraqi, and Chinese students, when I was suddenly called to the front of the line without any explanation. I was about to wave my friend over, but they gestured for me to forget it. I just blinked in confusion, but fiery Tamanna wasn’t having it and questioned them. “Our foreign guests get priority,” they said. What?! But she’s just as much of a foreigner here as I am. That didn’t matter. The labeling happened in an instant. She was suddenly the "provincial Iranian girl with a weird accent and Russian papers," and I was the "cute, blonde khareji with Hungarian papers who for some reason looks German."

But what exactly does the term khareji mean? Technically, it means "foreigner," and it’s used for both people and products. In practice, though, it carries a strong positive connotation and is almost exclusively reserved for Europeans and North Americans. Anything labeled khareji is automatically deemed top-notch. It’s practically on par with "Made in Germany." Khareji car, khareji clothes, khareji friend or girlfriend—that’s the way to go. It’s a label that positively discriminates, setting you apart from the crowd.

And what about Tamanna? Let’s just say she disappeared into the sea of "average Iranians," despite her best efforts. That’s the way this world works, unfortunately. In Iran, you don’t choose your labels—they get slapped on you, and once they’re there, changing them is incredibly difficult. Where you live, what car you drive, where you shop, where you vacation—these are important questions in most countries, but in Iran (and the Middle East), they can feel like matters of life and death. Friendships, romances, and work relationships often hinge on these external factors.

Of course, like everywhere else, the younger generation is increasingly trying to break free from this mindset, though the majority still follows these unwritten rules.

Clothing Bazaar in Tehran, October 2018

Now, before anyone gets too excited, thinking that in Iran we’ll be treated like royalty… remember, a person from far away can claim whatever they want about themselves. So, it’s important to prove there’s substance behind the image. In Europe, we’re used to achieving things mostly through our own efforts and personality. But not here! As an Iranian, my success would be credited to my family’s wealth, connections, or simply who they know. As a foreigner—since no one knows who you are or where you come from—your success is chalked up to your khareji status. Got good grades? Made cool friends? People are kind to you? Nope, it’s not because of your personality or hard work. It’s because you’re a khareji—or at least that’s what the average person here would think.

All of this naturally brings a mix of envy and a subtle sense of inferiority from the Iranians. Most people observe from a distance—they find us fascinating. They've heard plenty about Europe, maybe they've visited Paris, Rome, or London as tourists, or have relatives living there who’ve shared countless stories. But for many, this is their first real opportunity to befriend a khareji. Deep down, almost everyone dreams of leaving Iran, or at least they’ve entertained the thought. This longing is magnified by the fact that Iran is separated from Europe by a dozen Arab countries and Turkey—nations with whom they neither share a language nor a culture, and frankly, have no desire to. Ask 10 Iranians, and more than half will tell you that, because of their Aryan roots, they’re just as much a part of the West as, say, Germany—fate just hasn’t been on their side. So there you have it: you’re simultaneously positively discriminated against, envied, and imitated. Quite the paradox!

So, how do you handle yourself in an environment like this? Just be yourself. People will have all sorts of expectations of a khareji—how you dress, eat, think... But don’t worry if you disappoint them, because those expectations are built on assumptions. Just as Iranians can catch you off guard with the strangest and often very personal questions, you can equally surprise them with a "no" or an answer they didn’t see coming. And why is this great? Because these moments are perfect for a good laugh, and laughter is the best way to break the ice! :)