Should TikTok’s bukhoor boom make Middle Easterners feel uncomfortable?

One of the more endearing parts of Arab culture, in my humble opinion, is tabkheer. To think that at all times around the world, there is a teta somewhere lighting a cone of incense and dropping it into a copper burner to purify her grandkids of any impending evil eye warms the heart of this third culture writer. Maybe it’s the Ramadan spirit getting into my eyes, but I dare say I’m not the only one. Across countless homes in the Middle East, the ritualistic burning of bukhoor has equated to feelings of warmth, spirituality, and cultural pride. It’s what you smell going into the fabric shop around the corner at home, and at khalto’s house during evening tea. It’s what stops me dead in my tracks every time I’m walking in a Western metropolis and get a whiff of its familiar woodiness, just to turn around and trace it back to an Arab shop owner. 

But if I’m being honest, a sense of unease has started creeping into these familiar spaces as global beauty trends embrace oud and bukhoor. White women on TikTok are suddenly learning how to make incense sticks at home, and luxury brands are pumping out new products for $40 a pop, raising complex questions about cultural commodification and appropriation.

“It really bothers me because I grew up with those types of scents and always liked them and would wear them a lot, actually, but I would get made fun of because the smell is too strong or it’s very ethnic scents. Now it’s become a trend and Oud has become more expensive than what it used to be before. The same exact scent that I’ve had for years is pushing $50+ vs when I bought it, it was less than $20,” one Reddit user commented on the issue. “I’m not going to lie, I would’ve much rather oud and bakhoor be gatekept instead.”

Historically, bukhoor, a scented woodchip or resin incense, has deep cultural and religious roots. Dating back centuries, its smoke is believed to cleanse spaces and souls, purifying homes during gatherings, religious ceremonies, weddings, and other significant events. Its aromatic presence transcends simple fragrance, symbolizing spiritual renewal and cultural continuity. 

Bukhoor is made up of three primary ingredients: botanical powders, Arabic gum, and water. By grinding lavender, heart woods, lemongrass, or anything else into a fine powder first, artisans then use Arabic gum as a binding agent and water to form their paste before shaping it into sticks or cones. Some recipes only use wood chips soaked in fragrant oils, and its history goes back to ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. 

In these cultures, incense was utilized in religious ceremonies, believed to purify spaces and facilitate communication with the divine. The smoke was thought to ward off negative energies and create a spiritually pristine environment. Later on in the Arabian Peninsula, the practice evolved into what is now known as bukhoor. Historically, it was used to scent homes, garments, and places of worship. The use of bakhoor extended to significant life events, including weddings and religious festivals, to mark auspicious occasions. 

Bukhoor’s significance is also deeply embedded in Islamic practice. It is mentioned in various Hadiths and Islamic texts, and burning bukhoor before praying is a common practice in the living space, believed to create a sanctified environment for worshippers.

To get an authentic sense of the incense’s history, I decided to pay a visit to one of Cairo’s most iconic shops: Al Ettara El Hendeya. No Instagram, no website, just bags upon bags of colorful herbs. As soon as I stepped in, my diaspora nostrils were hit with the sharp overwhelm of cardamom. When I looked up at the ceiling, I found a perfectly preserved puffer fish hanging from the ceiling. I knew I was in the right place. 

It was there that Tohamy, the branch owner, gave me the lowdown I came looking for. “People these days think bukhoor gives them asthma flare-ups. There was no such idea when I was growing up,” he began. “It is as natural as God intended, just like diffusing essential oils. Of course, it smells much more beautiful and much stronger, subhanallah. We’ve always known the purification powers of incense. That’s why we use it in our homes, on our bodies, in our hair during both happy and sorrowful occasions. Energy is real. During these holy days, this is why we purify our living rooms and play the Quran. Everyone does so.”

And so naturally, as international brands increasingly commodify bukhoor and oud, packaging them into high-priced luxury products, many Middle Easterners find themselves growing annoyed. Oud, in particular, has witnessed sharp price increases in recent years. In 2024, a report from Spate identified oud as one of the top-growing fragrance trends in the US, with 174% year-on-year growth.

We can’t talk about why that is without talking about Kayali Fragrances. The recently divorced sister arm of Huda Beauty is a perfume lab run by Mona Kattan, which has done wonders for exporting Middle Eastern fragrance notes to Western audiences. Take, for instance, the Oudgasm collection: oud vanilla, oud rose, you get the picture. Diluted for the white palate, it only took so long before American bloggers took to Instagram to rave about the new Kayali “Arabian-inspired oood collection.” Similarly, Mona has also shared her love of bukhoor and has even posted a tutorial on burning 101.

This rise in bukhoor’s popularity highlights a familiar paradox: practices once stigmatized as “ethnic” or “too strong” suddenly become desirable when endorsed by Western beauty influencers or luxury brands.

A similar transformation has occurred with other Eastern practices, notably yoga, which evolved from a countercultural movement opposing capitalism into a mainstream, commodified practice intertwined with consumerism. “Yoga transitioned from a countercultural practice into a mainstream phenomenon embedded within capitalist consumer culture, altering its original value and significance,” Constantine Gidaris at the University of Toronto Scarborough concluded.

Another study published by Danielle Thompson noted how yoga’s popularity in the West enhanced its cultural capital, reshaping its appeal to middle-class urban consumers by emphasizing physical performance and scientific benefits over traditional spiritual contexts.

But is this trend inherently problematic, or does it provide an opportunity for broader cultural appreciation? Cultural appropriation does exist and is defined as when someone outside of a culture forcibly takes or adopts a closed practice from said culture after it is established that the practice is closed. So why do cultures have closed practices?

A parallel can be drawn with similar cases, such as palo santo from Indigenous South American traditions, which experienced significant commercialization, leading to complex debates around authenticity and respectful cultural exchange. Palo santo, translating to “holy wood” in Spanish, is a sacred tree native to South America, particularly in countries like Ecuador and Peru. For centuries, Indigenous shamans and healers have utilized their aromatic wood in spiritual ceremonies to cleanse negative energies and promote healing.

In recent years, it has gained global popularity, especially within wellness and spiritual communities, leading to increased demand and commercialization. Moreover, the increased demand has led to environmental concerns. Unsustainable harvesting practices threaten the survival of palo santo trees, emphasizing the need for ethical sourcing and conservation efforts.

With that said, incense is not a closed practice like palo santo. It’s not even a practice shared exclusively in the Middle East, it stretches all the way to Indo-China.

“Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, and many indigenous traditions, among other religion,s have long used incense in different societies and religious ceremonies all around. Cultural appropriation is the exploitation of components of a culture carelessly, disrespectfully, or profitably by those from outside the culture. Generally speaking, using incense with knowledge, respect for its roots, and a suitable setting is fine,” said Pooja Paath Agarbatti, an Indian incense company.

Cultural appropriation involves taking elements from a culture without understanding, reducing deeply significant practices to mere trends or aesthetics. The key distinction lies in intention, knowledge, and respect. However, despite incense being an open practice, the discomfort remains valid. The emotional resonance comes not only from seeing a beloved tradition commercialized but also from the memory of past ridicule now sharply juxtaposed against its newfound status.

But where does the line between appropriation and appreciation blur? “The critical difference between appropriation and appreciation often comes down to cultural humility. Before engaging with something, it’s essential to be curious about its origins, learn as much as possible, and give the proper credit,” writer Tatyana Ymani Beck argued in Sahan Journal.

Addressing these mixed feelings means moving forward with intentionality and sensitivity. Consumers and companies need to seek deeper cultural education and support local businesses that preserve authenticity rather than reducing bukhoor to a fleeting trend of pseudo-spiritualism. Meaningful cultural exchange celebrates and elevates, but superficial adoption risks commodifying heritage, leaving communities with a lingering sense of loss, rather than pride.