I remember one of my professors telling us in rabbinical school that, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember who came to her wedding. But she could tell us the names of everyone who attended her father’s funeral.
I reflect on this now because I am currently grieving alone. The Iranian people are fighting for their lives on a daily basis. There have been reports of rape, beatings and murder, but still the Jewish community has remained largely silent. It feels as though I’m standing at a funeral for my family members, yet no friends, no colleagues or anyone outside of my immediate family has bothered to attend. For almost 13 weeks now, I have been mourning the daily loss of life after life.
It’s a lonely experience.
It started with 22-year-old Mahsa Zhina Amini, a Kurdish Iranian woman who was arrested by the Islamic Republic of Iran’s Morality Police. Amini was beaten senselessly because a piece of her hair was sticking outside of her hijab, or heading covering. She instantly went into a coma and died three days later, on September 16, 2022. That’s when it all began.
The Iranian people took to the streets in outrage. Women were seen removing their hijabs in protest — an illegal act and one of defiance against the Islamic Republic regime that overthrew the Shah 43 years ago.
The Iranian people took to the streets in outrage. Women were seen removing their hijabs in protest — an illegal act and one of defiance against the Islamic Republic regime that overthrew the Shah 43 years ago. This is when my own family fled the country and came to the United States.
My parents were already in the United States when the 1979 Iranian Revolution broke out. Like many of their cousins and friends, they were in the U.S. to attend college. The plan was always to return to Iran after they received their degrees. But that never happened.
The rest of the family — my great aunts, uncles and grandparents — all escaped in different ways. Many escaped in the middle of the night, like thieves. They bribed who they could, and illegally left through Pakistan, or via Spain and Italy. Not everyone was as lucky.
Eventually they all came to Los Angeles, where I was raised and immersed in the Iranian Jewish community, affectionately known as “Tehrangeles.” My first language was Farsi, or Persian. That was intentional because on some level, I think my parents always thought that they would return to Iran at some point.
Those who witnessed the atrocities of the ‘79 Revolution, like my grandparents’ generation, never wanted to go back to Iran — not even for a visit.
But those who witnessed the atrocities of the ‘79 Revolution, like my grandparents’ generation, never wanted to go back to Iran — not even for a visit. At our Shabbat dinner conversations, this was always a point of contention between the two generations. I remember the time I took a bite of watermelon during dessert and declared how delicious it was. My mom retorted, “Ugh. This is nothing. Wait until you taste the watermelon in Iran.”
Such comments were endless and they always made me wonder about this place called Iran. It also left me with a semblance of sadness because it was obvious that for those in my parents’ generation, leaving Iran was a wound that was still open and therefore might never heal. They still looked back, longing for their homeland, while their own parents would never look back again. I think it’s because my parents never had an opportunity for closure or the chance to say goodbye to their homeland. They were already in the U.S. when it happened, and without witnessing the turmoil of the regime change firsthand, it was difficult to accept or understand the reality. Instead, they were left with the responsibility and burden of paving the way for their older parents to come and settle here while simultaneously having to figure out how to make a living for the next generation, us.
The trauma inflicted on both my parents’ and grandparents’ generations by these years is definitive, and a great deal of research has been done on this topic. But even as first-generation Americans, we internalized this trauma that was passed down and handed to us. In so many ways, we weren’t even given the chance to create our own identity, because being the children of immigrants is who we are. And even though we understand our culture, it is not a culture we experienced first-hand. It is something inherited. It’s like living in “The Truman Show.” Everyone else knows what’s going on but you only know a reality based on what others have told you.
And now, with every report of violence against innocent Iranians, those traumas are being relived for those who underwent them directly. And for us first generation Americans — we are finally understanding those traumas in full Kodak color with every photo, video, and tweet that’s posted from on the ground in Iran.
Every minute there is a social media post that captures the oil workers’ strikes, or a woman’s testimony of rape in prison, or pellets and gunshot wounds … It is impossible to turn away this time. Except that some, indeed, are turning away.
In that way, this is totally different from the Iranian Revolution of 1979. This time the world is bearing witness to it. Every minute there is a social media post that captures the oil workers’ strikes, a mother crying about the death of her 10-year-old son who was just shot senselessly, or a woman’s testimony of rape in prison. Our Instagram feeds are saturated with these images. It is impossible to turn away this time.
Except that some, indeed, are turning away.
For the High Holy Days this year, I expected to hear about it from the pulpit, especially since Amini’s death had taken place only weeks earlier. But nothing was said in the synagogue. One friend told me that at her Ashkenazi synagogue, there was a passing mention of Iran, in conjunction with a comment on Ukraine, discussing general “darkness” in the world.
I began to investigate whether any of my rabbinic colleagues had said anything substantive about the ongoings in Iran. I watched High Holy Day services that were streamed in various Ashkenazi synagogues in Los Angeles, especially ones with a large Iranian population. No rabbi had given a sermon about it that I could find.
I was signing on to social media daily, to find out what was happening in Iran. What began as a protest in solidarity with the death of Mahsa Amini had quickly morphed into a nationwide revolt. The Iranian people asked the world to refer to the uprising as a Revolution. Videos were uploaded of women being dragged on the ground by their hair, men being shot at for merely honking in their car during protests, unarmed students surrounded by armies of police, arrested, beaten and killed.
The world was silent.
Iranians in the diaspora were being asked, on the daily, to tag various news stations to put pressure on the BBC, on CNN, on FOX, on anyone to broadcast and let the world know of the Iranians’ fight and plight against this merciless regime. Eventually a few segments were broadcast here and there. But it was not enough.
Sick to my stomach, I learned that after their arrest, men and women were being raped in prison. There is a belief that virgins, when dead, will ascend to heaven, and so in prison, these tyrants in official clothing began to rape men as well as women to prevent this ascension from happening.
Despite fears of getting caught, the Iranian people continued to capture the atrocities done to them for the world to see on social media. They were risking their lives in capturing these events on video. Within hours and at most days, even artists and musicians who released songs or poetry, protesting from the confines of their home, were arrested.
This song, “Baraye,” has come to serve as the anthem for the Iranian uprising.
Some even disappeared for days with no one’s knowledge of their whereabouts. One such artist was Shervin Hajipour whose crime was creating a song out of a compilation of tweets by the Iranian people. The name of the song was “Baraye,” which means “For” or “Because,” and the lyrics of the song included the litany of reasons Iranians were against this regime: “For dancing in the street. For the girl who always wished she was a boy. For being in fear in the very moment of kissing. For women, life, freedom.” This song has come to serve as the anthem for the Iranian uprising.
It was a few weeks after this song was released that we came together as a coalition called Zan Zendegi Azadi, which means Woman, Life, Freedom, one of the taglines of the Iranian revolt. The coalition includes 30 Years After, Chaya, ELNET, HIAS, Iranian American Jewish Federation, Progressive Zionists of California, the Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles, JIMENA and myself. We were all Iranian representatives of these organizations, except for two. The coalition kept growing out of the need that something had to be done. Because while our social media posts were flooded with posts by people in Iran, risking their lives, there was still little to nothing on news channels about it. Within our Jewish communities, all we got was a solidarity statement from our synagogue communities—as if that was enough.
Why aren’t rabbis talking about Iran? And why aren’t my friends, most of whom are rabbis, posting about what’s happening in Iran on their social media accounts?
Why aren’t rabbis talking about Iran? And why aren’t my friends, most of whom are rabbis, posting about what’s happening in Iran on their social media accounts? Many friends messaged me privately to say things like: “Thank you for what you are saying about Iran. You are my only news source.” Thank you, I’d say, while thinking, why aren’t you posting about Iran? I began to wonder if they really cared. “Is it racism?” I asked one of my Ashkenazi friends. He said, “Sure, some people have prejudices about Iranians. Also, you know some people, they want to be politically correct. And the Iran Deal might have something to do with it too.”
Is this why I am grieving alone? Because of the Iran Deal?
I hope not. As the Iranian people have said repeatedly, they want nothing to do with this government and this regime. They do not represent the majority of Iranian citizens.
Is it because people doubt the authenticity of what they are seeing on social media?
If so, I would ask: Are videos and photos of women, men and children dying not credible enough to be posted? We should not need a CNN stamp before we can share these images on our social media.
Or does the lack of attention have to do with racism?
I see more posts about Ukraine than I do Iran. I’ve also been asked how what’s happening in Iran is a Jewish issue, as if our community can care about it only if it affects us directly. Does the phrase “Never Again” apply only to Jews? Is our concern for Ukraine predicated on Zelensky’s Jewishness? Or perhaps it is because there are more Jews in Ukraine than in Iran. But as Jews, aren’t we supposed to care about atrocities not only against Jews, but against all vulnerable peoples?
Perhaps now you might understand why I feel that I am invisible in your eyes. It’s as if no one came to the funeral or to the shivah. And now we are way past the sholoshim mark, and still nothing.
Like so many others, Iranian Jews have been born and raised in Los Angeles. We attended the same schools and live in the same communities. But after all of this time, since our families have been here since 1979, people still know very little about Iranian Jews, other than that we hit each other with green onions on Passover during the “Dayenu” song.
Conversely, we first-generation Iranian Jews who were raised here in LA know so much about our Jewish friends with Eastern European roots. We speak a bisl Yiddish. We daven and sing niggunim. We have always believed that when push comes to shove, you will show that you care about us. But your silence now is deafening.
You who could help us put pressure on the news media and politicians to help amplify the plight of the Iranian people, whose government is cutting off their electricity and shutting down their internet so that they don’t have access to the outside world, are instead doing nothing.
This past Sunday, the Zan Zendegi Azadi coalition and I put together a panel made up of activists, historians, and experts on what is happening in Iran. I discussed some of the horrendous events that have taken place in Iran and I also explained the important Jewish task of always asking questions.
This past Sunday, the Zan Zendegi Azadi coalition and I put together a panel made up of activists, historians, and experts on what is happening in Iran (ed: see sidebar). I discussed some of the horrendous events that have taken place in Iran and I also explained the important Jewish task of always asking questions. We ask questions at the Passover seder table and the margins of our Talmud are filled with questions written by rabbis over centuries. We are a people that questions the status quo.
This is a moment in time about asking questions. “Ask questions of your leaders,” I charged. “Ask questions of your biblical teachings and religion — whatever that religion may be. Ask questions of the news media that seems not to always get it right; and no, the morality police has not been dismantled by the way. Fake news,” I added. “But more importantly, ask questions about what is happening to the Iranian people on the ground. As for us, Iranian Americans, our hearts are bleeding too every day that we wake up to more horrifying news; so don’t forget to also ask us how we are doing and what you can do to help.”
Our goal was to bring Iranian and non-Iranian communities together for a night of solidarity and education on the current Iranian uprising. But as I look at the guest list of almost 400 people, fewer than ten percent are from the non-Iranian Jewish community.
No wonder my professor never forgot everyone who showed up to her father’s funeral. I think the point she was also intimating at was how she couldn’t help but notice the faces who failed to show up on that important day.
Jewish tradition holds that visiting a mourner’s house is a mitzvah during the shivah period.
Last week, I attended the funeral of the father of one of my students. I watched her greeting people. She was holding it together well, I thought. And when she saw my face, I watched as she burst into tears. I’m tearing up now thinking back to that moment because I think more than appreciating the fact that I made the effort to be there for her, in that instant, seeing me allowed her the space to feel her grief.
What we do as Jews is show up for one another. Because by showing up, we are declaring not only that we see you, that we see your pain, and that we support you during your pain, but that the pain that you are going through is valid. It’s an affirmation that you are not alone in this world.
There is a slogan that the Iranian people are chanting throughout the nation. It goes: “Natarseen! Natarseen! Mah hameh baham hasteem.” Which means: “Don’t be afraid! Don’t be afraid! We are all in this together.”
So now let me ask you a question: are you part of the “all”? If so, then why aren’t you talking about it?
Child Victims of the Iran Protest Crackdowns
At least 46 children have been killed by Iranian security forces since a new wave of public anger erupted following the September 16 death of Mahsa Amini.
Rabbi Tarlan Rabizadeh is the VP for Jewish Engagement at American Jewish University.