Passover, Iran, and the Fragility of Freedom

At the Passover table, we will once again retell the story of liberation. We will speak of slavery and redemption, of Moses and Pharaoh, of a people who crossed from darkness into light.

I have vivid memories of my childhood Passovers in Iran. We hosted the Seders for extended family and for American and British expatriates living in Iran. My father, dressed in a three- piece suit, presided over the service and read from the Haggadah in a strong, commanding voice, retelling the story of the Israelites’ freedom from bondage in Egypt. Behind him, in the wall cabinet, was a framed photograph of Dad with the Shah, when His Royal Majesty visited his class at the university. A second photograph of my grandmother, Miriam, who lived in England with my maternal relatives, sat next to it.

Our Persian Passover seder was a unique blend of Jewish and Iranian traditions. Almost every year, the thirteen-day celebration of Nowruz, the Persian New Year, and the eight-day Passover holiday coincide at the same time. Preparations for the spring holidays began weeks in advance. Known as khaneh takani (shaking the house), this was a time during which we scrubbed every nook and cranny and dusted from top to bottom. We took down the curtains and brought them to the dry cleaner, and washed the windows until they sparkled. We bought new outfits and shoes, and were excited about having two weeks off from school. My main contribution was helping Mom with the desserts, replacing the pits in the large dates with walnuts.

The platters on the table presented a dizzying array of foods, including grape leaves stuffed with rice and ground beef; grilled fish; roasted eggplant; saffron rice with barberries, slivered pistachios, and almonds. Best of all was the crispy golden tahdig, the crust of rice left to scorch on the bottom of the pan. Mom would make a separate meal for herself because, unlike my father’s Sephardi custom, her Ashkenazi tradition prohibited eating rice on Passover; also, she could not stand the sour taste of the dried lemons in the chicken entrée.

We ate, laughed, and talked, and, most of all, celebrated our freedom— then, in history, and now, in my people’s home for the past 2,500 years. We declared, as we did every year, that in every generation, one must see oneself as if one personally left Egypt.

But I did not need imagination to understand that line.

I have lived in a country where freedom disappeared.

I was a high school senior when the Islamic Revolution transformed Iran almost overnight. After that, the gaping hole in the center of the shelf in our living room marked where a prized photograph had once been. The day the Shah personally visited my father’s classroom at the university. Now, we could not have any trace of such a picture in our home. Mom removed the cherished keepsake from its frame and tore it to pieces.

One day, there was music, color, and the possibility of a life I took for granted. Then, there were rules that stripped us of choice, dignity, and voice. Within the next few years, as a wife and mother of two, and forced to wear the hijab, I began to measure the consequences of my words and hid in the basement as Iraqi bombs fell over the city. A decade later, I left Iran with my husband and children, leaving behind relatives and everything we owned.

That is how freedom disappears. Not always with chains, but with fear.

At a moment when my birth country and my adopted country are in direct conflict, I listen to commentators choosing sides.

But rarely do they speak of the people.

Of the women who are still fighting for the right to choose how they dress. Of the young people who risk everything for freedom.

This year, my father and husband are no longer here to celebrate with my family as I sit at the Passover table with my American grandchildren. I will think not only of the Israelites who left Egypt, but of those who are still waiting for when speaking freely no longer carries risk.

The Passover story reminds us, “Now we are slaves; next year we will be free.”

For millions of Iranians, that is not a metaphor.

It is a hope.