Why Do Persians Mothers and Fathers Call Their Children..."Mother" and Father"?

Tabby Refael

One day, I was kissing our baby's cheeks as he sat in a shopping cart at the market, and a non-Persian woman overheard me squeal in his ear, "I love you, Mama!"

She seemed confused.

"Is that her name?" she asked, innocently enough. Clearly, this woman was new to West L.A., where there are more Persians than traffic.

Before I had a chance to tell her that our baby is a boy (I guess 'Mama' does sound like a girl's name) and why, in Persian culture, we call our children by the names they call us (unless that name is "Hey, you"), it was my turn at the register, and my saffron and rosewater ice cream wafer sandwich was dangerously close to melting.

About ten years ago, one of my non-Persian co-workers had seen the film, "Crash," one too many times and continued to call me "Baba Joon!" five or six times a day, for three years. Since he didn't know what he was saying, I wanted to stuff his mouth with Persian nougat (gaz) and tie a rope around it.

Why do Persians walk the face of the earth, calling their children "Baba" and "Maman," or "Baba joon" and "Maman joon," when the kids clearly have real names, such as Houman or Niloufar (in Iran), Amir or Shadi (in Toronto) or Jayden or Tiffany (in America)?

One doesn't see American mothers blowing raspberries into their babies' bellies and shouting, "You're so cute, Mommy!" or American fathers wiping tears off of their children's faces and asking, "What's wrong, Daddy?" Now THAT would sound strange.

It's hard to explain. And if it's hard to explain, that must mean that it has something to do with the Middle East.

I believe that perhaps Persian parents speak this way to their children because, as true terms of endearment and for better or worse, they don’t see a separation of identity between them and their children.

They are we and we are they.

At least, this is what Persians parents all told themselves when they were in Iran, before the evil clutches of  Western independence and rebellion took hold of their precious children like tentacles around an innocent lamb. That precious lamb, by the way, has two outstanding parking tickets on his record because he parked his BMW in a loading zone...twice.

Our children's pain is our pain. Our children's joy is our joy. Our children's debt is...not our debt, and they better find themselves a job, and fast.

When our toddler falls down, bruises his elbow, and begins to cry, my husband embraces him and asks, "Does it hurt, Baba?" In doing so, he's sending our son a message that his "boo-boo" is also his father's "boo-boo" and that, when you're Persian, family bonds are ingrained so deeply within you that you could be crying alone in an apartment in New York, and your mother will suddenly feel a chill down her spine from her home in Los Angeles.

I've heard other parents from the Middle East use this vernacular, including Israeli mothers who bend down to kiss their sons' scraped knees and agree with them when they cry out in pain, saying, "Ken, Imma" ("yes, mommy") to their sons as they hug them.

In the end, it's not something one can fully explain. We're Persian parents. No matter how hard you try, you'll never leave (read: escape) us. We are you and you are we. Just don't assume we'll pay off your debt, Maman joon.