My late maternal grandmother, Iran (yes, that was her first name), must have stood at 4’11”. Few understood how she managed to stay so thin, given her proclivity for using chicken fat in nearly every dish she lovingly prepared. My grandmother was petite. But the woman had overworked arms of steel.
One needs arms of steel to constantly stir an enormous pot of stubbornly stiff Persian halva (not to be confused with other Middle Eastern and Turkish halva made primarily with sesame paste). Persian dessert halva is a Purim staple, and is gloriously unique: a smooth combination of flour, sugar, rosewater, butter/oil and saffron, slow-cooked and stirred over a low flame until the flour turns into a rich golden-brown sludge, and one’s arms, hands and neck are thoroughly sore.
In the years that I have written about the Jews of Iran and Arab or Muslim countries, I have highlighted the traditions of these ancient communities, especially because we often mistakenly believe that Jews only suffered in these countries.
But there were various “Golden Ages” for many Jewish communities throughout their millennia of dispersion in the Middle East. It wasn’t all fanatic interpretations of Islam or chronic persecution; there was family, community, ritual, unbreakable ties to ancient lands, and because they’re Sephardim and Mizrahim, really good food and parties.
With Purim around the corner, I want readers to learn a little about how Jews who lived in Arab and Muslim countries for millennia celebrated Purim. I use the past tense (“lived”) because except for a handful of countries such as Iran, Morocco, and Turkey, most of these states have fewer than a few dozen remaining Jews. Egypt, which boasted 80,000 Jews in 1948, was home to a whopping three Jewish women in 2022. No Jews remain in Libya, from a population of 40,000 before the Holocaust. Even Iran, which is home to the largest number of Jews in the Middle East after Israel, lost roughly 90% of its Jewish population after the 1979 Islamic Revolution.
Stories should be devoted to how these communities observed different Jewish holidays. For now, let’s focus on Purim, which, with its emphasis on human life and dignity, as well as giving to those less fortunate, rather than taking, should never be called “The Jewish Halloween.” That may be a tangent, but I have never been a fan of the comparison.
Purim isn’t only about Ashkenazi-inspired hamantaschen and American consumerist mishloach manot baskets. To truly appreciate Purim, one must travel back to the bedrock of its founding — the Middle East — if only through stories and photographs.
“The Megillah itself is documentation that Jewish Iranians are one of the most ancient Jewish communities in the world,” Yousef Setarehshenas, founder of the well-researched Iranian Jewish preservation website, 7dorim.com, told me. “They never assimilated, and texts such as the Book of [the prophet] Daniel Ha’Navi and the Megillah itself are part of our community’s documentation, though we were there even before the story of Esther.”
Iranian Purim customs, especially regarding halva, range from city to city. Setarehshenas, whose father hailed from Kashan, still remembers his paternal aunts’ halva, which they made with coriander seeds. “I loved it so much,” he recalled. “I still fondly remember the scents and tastes of my aunts’ halva.”
Iran is home to what many claim are the tombs of Esther and Mordechai, located in the city of Hamadan. Jews in Iran have made pilgrimages to the shrine since time immemorial (7dorim.com offers a free virtual tour of the building). The structure still stands today, though, sadly, after the revolution, it has been targeted by pro-regime fanatics, including arsonists. The Megillah is read in synagogues throughout Iran, but to hear it read inside the shrine of Esther and Mordechai should constitute a bucket-list item in the life of every proud Jew. Perhaps one day, in a free Iran.
Some Jews in Iran celebrated Purim more publicly, especially the ones who made effigies of Haman, and then set them on fire (Tunisian Jews had a similar practice). Jews in Yemen preferred to haul a Haman scarecrow through the streets. Some Yemeni Jews threw darts at cactus heads (10 heads symbolizing Haman’s 10 sons) until they leaked. The cactus heads would “cry” their milky tears, but, like Haman’s sons, they received no mercy.
When Penina Meghnagi Solomon, who escaped Libya with her family in 1967 and now resides in Los Angeles, told me about Libyan Purim customs, she began with the luscious food: there was debla (Libyan manicotti), burik bel luz (triangular pastries with hand-made dough and almond filling), magkrud (semolina dough filled with dates, cinnamon, allspice, and cloves), and abember (almond cookies). Women began baking very early in the month of Adar, because each Purim gift platter (a “sefra”) that was sent to relatives and neighbors reflected the family and, unlike American mishloach manot, was filled with fresh-baked treats.
Families sent the homemade sweets on a silver platter covered with a hand-embroidered linen napkin. I asked Meghnagi Solomon whether the valuable platters were returned. “Of course!” she said. “The recipient would reciprocate and fill your platter with their own treats for you and send it back. Each home baker wanted to shine.” Today, Meghnagi Solomon keeps this tradition alive by baking Libyan treats for Purim with her children and grandchildren.
Back in Libya, children wanted to deliver the platters because they often received small monetary tips. Libyan Jews broke the Fast of Esther with fresh lemonade and Turkish coffee in a demitasse with a drop of zhar (orange blossom water). Meghnagi Solomon recalled a beloved Jewish baker named Fajou who owned a small storefront in Tripoli, and who made Purim torrone (soft nougat). “He would have brilliant colors and different flavors of peppermint and pistachio, pink, green, and yellow,” she said. “They’re the memories of my childhood that I can still taste.” Today, she said, similar nougats may be found in Netanya, Israel.
A beloved baker in old Tripoli. The taste of an aunt’s sweet halva back in Iran. Truly, the heart of diverse Jewish experiences comes to life in the smallest details.
North African Jews broke the mold when it came to elaborate Purim gift platters (though Iraqi ones are also extraordinary), including ones with bottles of wine. Rabbi Daniel Bouskila described his Algerian mother’s mishloach manot as “resembling a more Middle Eastern platter, with dried fruits, nuts, and pastries, more like a Tu B’Shevat platter.”
In America, Bouskila, who was born in Los Angeles and whose father hailed from Morocco, also remembers other special Purim customs. “The Sephardic traditions that we celebrated Purim with were more particular tunes and things that we read on Shabbat Zachor (the Shabbat before Purim),” said Bouskila, who made aliyah last year and serves as the international director of the Sephardic Educational Center in the Old City of Jerusalem.
Sephardic Purim customs also sound beautifully different. “There’s a beautiful Sephardic poem by Yehuda HaLevi that Sephardim read, and there’s the [different] tune of Megillat Esther,” added Bouskila. I recommend that readers listen to “Megillat Esther Moroccan Complete” on YouTube for a sense of the soulful, old-world air of traditional Sephardic readings of the ancient text.
Indian Jews also have a special connection to Purim, as their country is mentioned by name in the very first line of the Megillah: “It happened in the days of Achashverosh, he who ruled from Hodu (India) to Cush (Ethiopia), over 127 provinces” (Esther 1:1). During Purim, the B’nai Israel (Jews) of India enjoy a sweet flatbread called puran poli, which is also heavily associated with the Hindu festival of Holi. In Mumbai, “Esther Ranichi Katha” (“The Tale of Queen Esther”) is accompanied by instruments such as dholak, harmonium, cymbals and bulbul tarang.
Many Mizrahim and Sephardim who escaped Arab and Muslim lands retained their Purim traditions in their new countries of refuge, especially as a means of creating (or recreating) communities. San Francisco Bay-based Jewish activist, blogger, and psychotherapist Rachel Wahba, an Iraqi Egyptian Jew who was born in India and grew up in Japan, showed me a photo from Kobe, Japan, in 1960 that depicts a Purim play at a Sephardic synagogue. The actors were nearly all Jewish children or teens who had been displaced from the Middle East, including Syria, Iraq, and Egypt.
The photo is a powerful reminder of the nearly one million Jews who were expelled or who fled from Arab and Muslim lands in the 20th century; to many, we are known as “The Forgotten Refugees,” which is also the name of a poignant 2005 documentary directed by Michael Grynszpan and produced by The David Project and IsraTV. In 2012, JIMENA (Jews Indigenous to the Middle East and North Africa) acquired rights to the film, and it should be viewed widely.
Will a taste of saffron-infused Persian halva ever replace the longing I held for my grandmothers — one, who escaped Iran and made aliyah, and the other, who stayed behind, and whom I never saw again after I left Iran? No. But the blessing that I make over halva in the memories of my grandmothers maintains a living connection to my own roots.
With the ethnic cleansing of Jews from Arab countries and Iran in the 20th century, Jewish communities were torn from lands that some had called home for nearly three millennia. Will a taste of saffron-infused Persian halva ever replace the longing I held for my grandmothers — one, who escaped Iran and made aliyah, and the other, who stayed behind, and whom I never saw again after I left Iran? No. But the blessing that I make over halva in the memories of my grandmothers maintains a living connection to my own roots.
I leave readers with an exchange between me and Penina Meghnagi Solomon, mentioned above, who fled Libya amid antisemitic pogroms during the Six Day War. I asked Solomon when her family left Tripoli.
“We didn’t leave,” she responded solemnly. “We were expelled. There is a very big difference.”
Purim Sameach.
Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and weekly columnist for The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles. Follow her on X and Instagram @TabbyRefael
