Oh, Joy!

Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar‘s commentaries on Patanjali Yoga Sutras state that one of the rules of yoga is Santosha – cultivating the practice of being happy. According to the Patanjali Yoga Sutra Knowledge Sheet 73, Santosha, meaning contentment or happiness, is the second niyama. 

 

 

 

The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, particularly Sutra 1.33, emphasizes the importance of cultivating positive emotions and interactions, which naturally lead to joy and a state of serenity. Sutra 1.33 specifically mentions mudita, which translates to delight or joy, as one of the four keys to overcoming negativity and achieving peace. Yogapradipika also highlights that when one experiences joy and happiness, they are contagious, influencing others and promoting serenity all around.  After Satchidananda’s translation, Sutras 1.33 and 136-137 of the Yoga Sutras emphasize the contagious nature of positive emotions like joy and serenity. If someone smiles or demonstrates joy, it often inspires a similar response in others.

 

This is what I have been wondering in the last few days following a visit to the Bulgarian Embassy in London, where we have our passports renewed. For the upteenth time in my life, I heard the Embassy officials instruct my fellow countrymen to keep a serious face whilst having their passport photo taken. My daughter, who grew up in the UK, asked me about that, so I had to explain cultural relativism and how in Bulgaria, a serious demeanour at all times earns you respect, whereas laughing and smiling with your mouth open is seen as a sign of frivolity, even weakness. This explanation brought back a flood of memories, which I decided to share here as an example of how the cultural differences in perception of the same phenomenon can have vast consequences for the entire population practising them. In my case, it meant growing up in a very stern, limiting, often rude and generally unpleasant social milieu, until I emigrated. It also meant eye-opening personal transformation once I got used to my new Western way of life, as well as many a culture shock every time I have to deal with my native culture. This post is about joy and the freedom we grant ourselves to experience it, to show it and to share it.

 

 

If you’re expecting a blog post on the tractates of the Buddha discussing Joie de vivre and contentment, you’re in for a disappointment. I’m limiting this post to strictly a reflection on smiling in passport photographs. My musings on the subject have nothing to do with the teachings of the founders of yoga and everything to do with cultural relativity – so if this is of interest, read on.

 

It all started in 1985 when I was 6 years old and posed for my first passport photo – see below in black and white. Needless to say, anyone’s first international trip is cause for nerves, but in my case, it was triply more so: one, because I was about to leave Bulgaria – a country then dubbed “the closest Russian satellite”; two, because the only thing I knew about my travel destination came from my father – one of very few Bulgarians who then travelled outside the Iron Curtain and knew anything at all about the wider world; and last, but not least – because I wasn’t allowed to smile for my passport.

 

Looking at my passport photo from 1986, I see a terrified little girl with a choppy fringe and pouty mouth resigned in utter helplessness. What I remember is my mother running a comb through my hair one last time before pushing me to step towards the elderly photographer. He was a tall, willowy man dressed in dark clothes and wearing the superior, unshakable confidence typical of the “chichovtsi” of my generation.

 

Standing against the black partition, I suddenly felt very alone and very exposed. I glanced at my mother, but her expression was the opposite of reassuring. Her lips pursed tight, I could tell that, to her, this was a test she couldn’t wait to get over with and all she was asking of me was to stand still for 120 long seconds. And by no means to smile.

 

Not that I had any urges to do so. I remember feeling so afraid of the photographer, his big black box of a camera that was supposed to seal my fate by either granting me passage into the country where my father was waiting for us, or deny us entrance, forever banishing us to the Bulgaria I knew and didn’t much like. Bulgaria, where smiling was forbidden and you had to be careful not to look too happy, lest your neighbours thought you’d won the fridge lottery or had an immigrant uncle sending your secret packages full of stuff that only dollars could buy.

 

 

Exactly twenty years later I found myself back at the same Sofia Office of the Ministry of the Interior, posing for a photo for the renewal of my Bulgarian ID. I’d just returned to my country of origin after 7 years of studying and working in Connecticut, USA. The last time I’d been back home was four years ago. The culture shock was intense, but I was working hard to suppress the daily disappointments of seeing my country through the lens of someone who had had her eyes opened to a more enlightened, more tolerant way of living and relating to others.

 

Standing there in the queue to submit the form I’d just filled out by hand, having taken a day off work for my ID renewal, I was one of very few white women in a crowd of the clearly unemployed native Roma population. There were two predominant questions running through my head: why couldn’t this procedure be digitised, the way it was in America, and how were the other professionals like myself getting their passport renewals done if not in person.

 

In 2025, I still don’t have answers to these questions, as the process is exactly the same as it was in 2007, but this story isn’t about the evolution of Bulgarian bureaucracy or lack thereof. It’s about smiling, or rather – how some countries forbid it in official photography. It’s always seemed self-evident to me that smiling, even when passing a stranger in the street, even in photographs – was not only a sign of good intentions, but also a way to spread joy and peace – two things that Bulgaria is in dire need of to this day.

 

 

Back in 2007, when my turn finally came, I was so relieved at the taste of impending freedom from the grip of the queue that I literally grinned. The stereotypical dark chichko photographer then snapped his fingers at me from behind his camera and said in a threatening alto, No smiling!

 

 

I was stunned. Why?, I dared ask. He looked at me with pure disgust. What do you mean? It’s your passport! You want to look your most natural in your photo, so officials can easily recognise it’s you. But my most natural expression isn’t neutral, I countered. I’ve a naturally happy disposition and I often smile for no reason. OK, he said, but you can’t be smiling like this in your passport photo. You’re showing your teeth like a dog and you can’t do that. But why, I wanted to know. These are my teeth and they’re unique – won’t they make me even more recognisable to the passport control officials? The photographer made a thoughtful pause. Let me see here, he said after studying my paperwork. It says here that you have an American address, is that right? Yes, I said, I live there most of the year with my husband and child. Well, that explains why you’re so pushy then! He was shouting now. You come back after some time abroad, thinking you can do whatever you want here. Well, this is Bulgaria. We have different rules. You have to respect them if you want a Bulgarian passport. The most important rule is, you’re not allowed to smile in your passport photograph. Is that clear?

 

 

It was. So loud and clear that when my 18-year old daughter was applying for her first Bulgarian ID last week, I didn’t flinch whilst the photographer was coaching her to be careful not to smile when posing to have her passport picture taken. But why, she asked him, just as I had. He had no answer, so she turned to me. Why aren’t you allowed to express emotion in photographs, when Bulgarians are generally such emotional people? I had to agree.

 

 

In 2025, Bulgarians still boast the emotional, blunt, even explosive culture that I know and sometimes love. But we are also a deeply superstitious nation, used to hiding our accomplishments and our personal reasons to be cheerful, in case our neighbours envy us and do us harm. Back when I was a child, it was very easy to get trouble with the Socialist State if word got out that you were enjoying yourself more than the rest of the population. For example, one easily got reported to the Communist Party for owning foreign objects or listening to Western music, or having an immigrant relative sending them luxury goods from abroad. Showing off your access to foreign ways of life was strictly forbidden. You basically risked becoming a political prisoner if you displayed any form of superiority to your fellow socialist citizens. As smiling betrayed success and happiness, it was considered offensive in a society built on equality in deprivation of life’s comforts and advancements.

 

Today, demonstrating joy in public is still either discouraged, or Bulgarians think that they’re too cool to smile in photos.