Beyond Hamantaschen: How Purim is Celebrated in Iran

“I’m at the market. Do you need anything?”

For years, my mother has asked me this question a few times a week. Sometimes, pesky formalities such as “Hello” and “How are you?” are pushed to the side, so that when I pick up the phone, I hear my mother declare, “I’m at the market. Do you need anything?”

Last week, in anticipation of Purim, my five-year-old son overheard this question and squealed, “Can you ask Mamani to buy hamantaschen?”

“Let me speak with him,” my mother said. I handed my son the phone. “Hi, darling,” she said in a tone she never takes with me. “You want something from the market?”

“I want hamantaschen!” he cried.

“What?”

“Hamantaschen!”

“WHAT?”

Our son signed. “Mamani,” he said, exasperated, “Please buy hamantaschen!”

“He wants a hamam?” my mother asked confusedly, referring to the Persian word for a bath. “Tell him I’m at the market.”

“Nevermind!” our son shrieked and ran off to his room, his arms flailing about like an inflatable air dancer outside a used car dealership.

“Where did he go?” my mother asked, completely oblivious to the cultural and lingual misunderstanding. “I’ll give him a hamam, if he wants it that badly.”

Back in December, I admitted that I’d never even heard of Hanukkah staples like dreidels, latkes or gelt until I came to the United States as a child. But now, I can beat that. I’d never even heard of hamantashen until I was in my late 20s and attended a Purim baking class offered by Aish HaTorah in West Los Angeles. That’s probably because I attended public school in America and no teacher spoke a word about Purim once it rolled around. But my kids are enrolled at an early childhood program at a Jewish school. They identify Purim with one motto: Jews good. Haman bad. Everyone, eat hamantaschen.

But like gelt and latkes (and cholent and bagels and nearly every other Ashkenazi food that over half the Jewish world — the Sephardic and Mizrahi half — had never heard of until we arrived in America), hamantaschen became the epitome of Jewish food during a specific holiday — a holiday which, coincidentally, is markedly Persian.

Why would my mother (or I) have ever heard of hamantaschen? Don’t get me wrong. I love the stuff. But as an invention of European Jewry, why does it completely dominate the culinary journey of Purim, a story that only focuses on Persian Jews?

Speaking of Persian Jews, ever wonder what we actually consume on Purim? I’ll give you a hint: by the time you’re done making it, your arms hurt and you’ve broken all of your wooden spoons. It’s called halva, and it’s the ubiquitous Purim treat for Jews all over Iran — from Tehran (my hometown) to Shiraz. Persian halva (as opposed to other Middle Eastern versions that primarily consist of tahina) is made by combining flour, sugar, oil, rosewater, and spices in a heavy-bottom pan until they’re gloriously brown and thick. You can’t stop churning it, even for a minute, lest it burns. Come Purim, my maternal grandmother made three different types of halva because she was an overachiever.

There’s no particular symbolism about halva (unlike some Ashkenazi or Sephardic Purim cookies, some of which represent everything from Haman’s hat to his ears and eyes). Halva is generally associated with celebrations and renewal. Still, it’s not as if we’re symbolically slow-churning Haman’s insides. Given how Jews love to boo and curse Haman’s name during the megillah reading, I always found it ironic that in America, the consummate Purim food (Hamantaschen) is named after Haman, so that his name is repeated again and again, often with desirous glee (“Please, mom, just one more hamantaschen!”).

“Hamantaschen takes the spotlight in the West, but there’s so much more to Purim food traditions,” said Los Angeles food writer Tannaz Sassooni. “In Iran alone, there are plenty of other foods that are traditionally eaten at Purim: several varieties of halva, gooshfil (pastries that resemble Haman’s ears), filled cookies called koloocheh, and nan panjarehi (crisp, cookie-like fritters made with iron molds that are also found at Norooz celebrations).”

“Hamantaschen takes the spotlight in the West, but there’s so much more to Purim food traditions.”

And how’s this for an unbelievably authentic Purim experience: Back in Iran, thousands of Jews flock each Purim to the northwest city of Hamadan to sit on the floor of Esther and Mordechai’s tombs — yes, their tombs — and hear the megillah. You can’t get any better than that.

As for groggers, we didn’t have them. Even the name’s an Eastern European invention. In Iran, we filled bottles and cans with beans. My husband recalls how, in Shiraz, adults listened to the megillah in synagogue while kids played in the courtyard with… small fireworks. Now there’s a sound that’ll really get the ghost of Haman running. (And no, I’m not condoning fireworks in the hands of children.)

Since Queen Esther is believed to have eaten vegetarian food in King Ahaseurus’s unkosher palace, Iranian Jews typically eat pareve food on Purim, especially the deeply comforting noodle dish, Ash-e-Reshteh, which is made with lentils, kidney beans, half a dozen different herbs and thick noodles you can only find at Persian specialty shops (or on Amazon). If you’re not inclined to make Ash-e-Reshteh yourself, Kabob by Faraj, a local kosher Persian cafe on Pico Boulevard, makes it by giant potfuls — though, on Purim, you’ll have to get it early before it sells out to all the elderly Persian Jews who are less interested in hamantaschen and more invested in recreating Purim memories of their youth.

In Iran, barely anyone got drunk on Purim, especially after the 1979 Islamic Revolution, which banned alcohol (except for Jews on Shabbat, Passover and during other rituals; recreational Purim drinking didn’t count). And we didn’t exactly need to get drunk to not be able to tell the difference between the kindly Mordechai and the evil Haman. The hate around us was palpable, as we had our own perfectly lovely, anti-Semitic ayatollahs in every government seat in the country.

Adults and kids alike wore costumes, but this was the Middle East, so rather than dressing like a big teddy bear, grown men would dress up as the likes of Saddam Hussein, Muammar Qaddafi and yes, Yasser Arafat, because there was nothing funnier than a dark, hairy Iranian Jewish man named “Ebrahim” or “Moussa” (Arabic for “Moses”) dressed as a Middle Eastern despot. Little girls dressed as Esther (as they do all over the world, including America). Little boys, meanwhile, searched for firecrackers in the synagogue courtyard.

The Purim story is deeply personal for Iranian Jews. In fact, it’s downright empowering, especially for those who still remain in Iran. And the integrity demonstrated by Queen Esther in not turning her back against her Jewish identity is particularly moving for such a minority community in one of the most volatile regions of the world.

Next year, I’ll ask my children’s school if Persian halva can be offered alongside hamantaschen (you can’t find it easily in markets, but local kosher Persian caterers can make it). But my mother didn’t raise a fool. I don’t know a single child — even a Persian one — who would choose slow-churned flour over a cookie with raspberry jam in the middle.

I understand that Ashkenazim have developed a dominant strain of Judaism in America. That’s great. But I continue to believe that Jewish cultural learning should be a two-way street: I love to learn about Ashkenazi customs, but I’m still waiting for more American Ashkenazim to ask about Mizrahi and Sephardic traditions.

Still, there’s one Purim custom that’s ubiquitous in America that we didn’t really practice in Iran: giving Mishloach Manot baskets filled with treats to friends, neighbors and especially those in need. From Friends of the IDF to the Jewish Relief Agency to various Jewish Federations and synagogues all over the country, the organized Jewish world has perfected the art of using your own two hands to provide nourishment to those in need. It’s kindness, wrapped in a basket. Now that’s a taste that transcends every plate and palate.

Tabby Refael (on Twitter @RefaelTabby) is a Los Angeles based writer, speaker and activist.