To Iran: From A Persian Jew In Diaspora
Amidst the fighting, an urgent plea from Tulane student Rachel Pournazarian.
by Rachel Pournazarian
It’s almost 2 a.m., and like most nights, I find myself scrolling through TikTok. It’s routine, mindless, even. But lately, I’ve been stopping more often. My feed is filled with Persian creators, not necessarily Jewish, just Iranian, sharing their fears, their grief, their longing for something better. And I keep watching. I dive into the comments, looking for something I can’t quite name. A thread of hope. A flash of connection. A sign that someone remembers us.
Lately, I’ve seen more Persian Jews commenting things like “Israel loves the Persian people” or “Israel is helping you.” And yes, it’s true. But behind those words is something deeper. A reaching. A quiet plea: See us. We’re still here.
To the non-Jewish people of Iran: We are your long-lost siblings. We speak your language. We grew up on your music, your jokes, and your food. Our grandparents shared your streets. Our parents sat beside yours in school. And still, you push us away. You reject us for being Jewish. For being Zionists. For finding safety in a land that welcomed us when our birthplace cast us out.
But we were never strangers. We helped build Iran. We were artists, doctors, craftsmen, and inventors. My grandfather brought chewing gum to your country. He founded Iran’s first gum factory, Tooti Neshan. He gave something sweet to generations of children, something playful, something joyful. That’s who we were. That’s who we are. We didn’t just live in Iran, we helped shape it.
And yet, we were forced to leave. And while you stayed, we scattered, carrying with us our Persian roots, our Jewish identity, and a longing to be remembered as more than just a footnote.
Israel is not a replacement for Iran. It is our home because it opened its doors when Iran closed hers. It’s where I’ve spent countless summers. It’s where I was bat mitzvahed. Where I went to school. It’s where my cousins live, where my friends laugh, where my family gathers. It is where I belong. And as I write this, I’ve just gotten a message that shattered something in me.
The apartment in Israel I lived in last summer, where I made memories, shared meals, and felt at peace, was destroyed tonight by an Iranian missile. My friend just texted me: “So our home is no longer in existence.”
And yet, Israel still exists. It always will. Because we, as Jews, are resilient. Strong. We carry more love in our hearts than the hate that comes at us. We build again. We protect each other. We sing, even under rockets. We pray, even when our prayers are interrupted by sirens. And we love, even when that love is never returned.
But it hurts. It hurts that even as we cry for peace in Iran, even as we hope for your freedom, we are not allowed to be part of your story. We’re erased. Unwelcome. Forgotten.
And still, we remember you. We remember Iran not as politics or war, but as culture. As childhood. As something we kept alive in exile. We Persian Jews in diaspora still set the haft-seen every Persian New Year. We still hit each other with scallions on Passover, laughing with our elders who remember doing the same in Tehran or Shiraz. We still cook gondi on Shabbat—a Persian Jewish dish that says everything about who we are: Iranian in flavor, Jewish in soul.
We made new lives for ourselves. But we never forgot where we came from. Why can’t that be enough?
Why can’t we exist together, like gondi itself? Made of Iran and Judaism, chickpeas and chicken, Sabbath and spice. We are not one or the other. We are both.
Lately, I feel like I’m stranded in the middle of the ocean. Waving a flash gun in every direction. Hoping someone sees the light and comes closer. But instead, I watch in disbelief as these self-proclaimed activists choose to amplify the very regime that sent my family running.
I see people commenting, “Iran has the right to defend itself.” That is insane. Defend itself from what, accountability? From the world seeing what it truly is? Israel is not launching terror, it’s dismantling it. Israel is doing what no other country has had the courage to do: standing up to Iran’s nuclear ambitions. Not just for itself, but for the safety of the world. While others hesitate, Israel acts.
How can you claim to fight oppression, then support the Islamic Republic?
You don’t know the Iran that used to exist, the one we lost. And yet, somehow, you celebrate what it has become. You chant for “liberation,” but ignore the millions of Iranians begging for freedom from a regime that imprisons, tortures, censors, and kills. And when I say I want the regime to fall—because I do—you call me the problem. Why?
Why do you get to defend a government that would exile you for your beliefs, just as it did us for ours?
Maybe I’m still hoping someone from Iran will read this and say, “We remember you. We want you back. We see you.” Not so we can return—we have our home now—but so we can stop feeling like strangers to our own history.
Because despite it all, I don’t hate you. I love you.
We are the same. We sing the same lullabies. We eat the same rice and stew. We mourn the same.
We look the same. You just don’t see it.
But I do. And I will keep writing. I will keep hoping. Hineni.
I’m still here.
– Rachel Pournazarian, A Persian Jew in Diaspora
The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed herein are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy, position, thoughts, or opinions of Our CampUs United (“OCU”), its affiliates, or any other individuals or entities associated with OCU.
You put into words what so many of us feel. Thank you. I hope we Persian Jews can set foot in Iran someday.
Beautifully written.