Persian and Jewish. American and Persian. Jewish and American.

On June 7, I was privileged to offer keynote remarks at the virtual graduation ceremony for the Maher Fellowship, a young leadership training program for Iranian American Jews, organized by 30 Years After. The following is an abridged version of those remarks. (I served as director of the fellowship in 2014, 2015 and 2019.) 

Let me begin by sharing words of gratitude I spoke to my parents last year, which they admitted they’d waited a lifetime to hear: “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, which I’ve seen or heard, but more importantly, thank you for all you’ve done for me of which I probably will never know.”

We may never know the tortured thoughts that lingered in our parents’ minds or the panic in their hearts as they spent their last moments on Iranian soil, and we may never have seen all the times they cried in helpless longing for their former country. This is precisely why I don’t reflect that our parents “escaped Iran.”

They escaped home. And there’s a crucial distinction between the two that I hope you will always recognize.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the current civil unrest in our country. Being American-born, you probably view freedoms of speech and assembly as inalienable rights; having been born in Iran, I still view these precious gifts as privileges. I know I’m wrong.

In Iran, Jews don’t protest in the streets because they know their Jewish identity will be a lethal liability should they be arrested, particularly during anti-government protests, and jailed, tortured or murdered on false charges of being “Zionist spies.” The only time Jews in Iran “protest” is when the regime parades them front and center at anti-Israel rallies.

Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, some young Persian Jews recently exercised their freedom to assemble or to write “Black Lives Matter” on the rear windows of their electric vehicles.

Had this been a graduation program in 1990, every speaker would have offered advice on how to survive now that we’re in America. Today, your generation knows much more about this country than your parents.

But there’s a challenge in having been born into the gloriously accommodating arms of American assimilation, and I call it the “or” dilemma: As young Iranian Americans, I suspect many of you don’t feel fully Persian or American. Perhaps you’re not sure when to be Jewish or when to be Persian; when to be American or when to be Jewish (the latter is always a dilemma when Coachella is scheduled during Passover).

I’d like to propose a new paradigm that replaces “or” with ”and.”

You are Persian and Jewish. American and Persian. Jewish and American.

The only challenge — and it’s a big one — is whether you know enough about any one of these identities that defines your heart (America), heritage (Iran) and soul (Judaism).

When you were young, it was your parents’ responsibility to teach Jewish, American and Persian values. They now are off the hook. If they share stories or photos, consider this a privilege, because you now are solely responsible for all of the information you want (or do not seek) about who you are.

But if you really want to know, ask your family questions. Ask until they beg you to leave them alone. Ask how they felt when the Six-Day War broke out 53 years ago or what Shabbat looked, smelled and tasted like in Tehran in 1979 or Beverly Hills in 1983.

A final thought: As you invest in your careers, don’t ignore your souls. Author Tzvi Freeman summarizes the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s thoughts on this matter with the following: “Every one of us must have two careers. Just as you must seek out a material career, so you must also seek out a spiritual one. But there is a difference: With a material career, you can only plow and sow and await the rains. With your spiritual career, you must provide the rain as well. It is up to you to fill your deeds with life.”

I’m proud to see the future of our community leaders in you. Congratulations!

Tabby Refael is a Los Angeles-based writer, speaker and activist.