The Bitter Taste of Impotency

From November 4th, 1979, until January 20th, 1981, the bitter taste of impotence coated my mouth as CBS’s Walter Cronkite counted, night after night, the mounting days that fifty-two American hostages were held captive in Tehran.

I remember those 444 days as if they were yesterday. I grieved for the blindfolded hostages—and for a nation that felt humiliated, diminished.

I kept asking myself: Would America ever answer this colossal slap in the face? Would justice ever come?

I watched effigies of Uncle Sam—draped in American flags and strung from long wooden poles—set ablaze to the cheers of protestors. As the red, white, and blue melted before my watery eyes, I heard the chants: “Death to America.” Those raised fists, those rhythmic cries, still echo in my ears.

I saw marchers carrying posters of their supreme leader, Ayatollah Khomeini—his gray beard and dark, heavy brows seared into my memory.

And I saw grotesque caricatures—white-faced, black-bearded figures—burning in the streets as crowds shouted, “Death to Israel.”

I remember, too, the crushing news that American helicopters had failed in the desert, swallowed by a sandstorm during the attempted rescue of the fifty-two hostages.

I blamed President Jimmy Carter for that failure and swore, “I will never vote for another Democrat.”
(I didn’t keep that promise.)

Now, as each day of the 2026 Israeli-American-Iranian war unfolds, I find myself reflecting on those memories. Time has a way of bending history toward reckoning.

If you live long enough, justice—however delayed—has a way of making an appearance, rinsing away even the most stubborn bitterness.

And thank G-d it does.