I tried Taaruf, the Lebanese dating app, so you don’t have to

On my daily doom scroll, a Twitter user shared a screenshot of the new Lebanese dating app ‘Taaruf”. My first instinct? Immediate, full-body shudder. There was no way this app was going to be good. All I could think of were those stalls that used to exist in ABC Ashrafiyeh where you could buy T-shirts that proudly said, “Hi, keefak, cava?”. Lebanese-Millennial-core is a particular type of cringe, and thankfully, many of us got the last chopper out of ‘nam. However, this sub-core still exists in many corners of Lebanon. No one hates on the Lebanese quite like the Lebanese, and I’m usually first in line to dog on my people. All done in jest, of course, but I saw this as an opportunity to rinse.

I’ll start with this: the user experience is delightful. I could hear what the app was telling me to do. “Na2e ajmal soura elik”, the Beiruti accent at max volume through the phone. But we’re not done yet – then I was asked to input “Esmi hbb”.

After I filled my profile out with all the basics, “esme”, “emtan khli2it”, “mn wen”, once you’re done with all of that – that’s when the true Lebanese experience hits you. “Sorry 3al sou2al” -you’re asked to input your religion, which is a requirement for the app. It’s funny how self-aware this app is, though; it’s almost like a caricature of the average Lebanese person. Kind of made me homesick.

As an undercover journalist- I wanted to stay neutral, so my finger hovered past the giant cross and crescent moon to land on “Other”. You’re not getting me that easy, Taaruf.

Just when I thought I had escaped unscathed, right below ‘religion’ came ‘political affiliation.’ Of Course. I sent this screenshot to my group chat to be met with roaring laughter. They’ll cite this app as the starting point of the Second Civil War in history books.

At this point, I had to know—are we above this, or are people just cutting the BS and searching for ideological soulmates? Unsurprisingly, most people on the app chose not to disclose their political affiliation, only their religion and hometown, because if you have those two pieces of information, you can pretty much do the math – it’s an age-old tradition in Lebanon to sidestep the question by asking around for context clues.

I will say this, I was not very popular on the app. Sadly, I reek of expat energy because of my tattoos and hair. Most men on there were businessmen or way older than me. No creeps, no perverts (at least none that interacted with me). Many profiles highlighted the search for a serious relationship. No time wasters, no beating around the bush. Some bios included hints about a foreign passport, a sort of mating ritual to let you know: This one’s a keeper (ma3 passport almaneh).

While lighthearted, it’s important to address the elephant in the room. In typical Lebanese fashion, the app opens the door for sectarianism to rear its ugly head, turning it into something to be pandered to—and that, frankly, is a joke. After five years of crisis in Lebanon (everything went downhill in 2019), allowing sectarianism to be laughed off rather than condemned feels counterproductive. This divisive trope has shaped our lives for decades, and we only complain about it. I guess my question is, why does this app exist now and why does it need to lay out political affiliations in the way it does? It feels as though we’re regressing.

That said, if you’re ready to settle down with a nice Lebanese man whose “mama bet ello eno ajmal shab be lebnen”, try Taaruf.