As a Jew in Manhattan, Something Has Changed

I walk down the streets of Manhattan, where I had my first job, where I attended graduate school and where I went on the first date with my husband, and I am terrified. I pass by the graffiti of a swastika on the side of The Second Avenue Deli and tuck in the necklace I am wearing with the Hebrew names of my children.

I send a quick text to my daughter who is a student at a city school and tell her to tuck in her Star of David. She sends me a curt “No”. I smile at her love for her Jewishness, her passion for Israel, and the pride she feels for our people. She got that from me and her father.

But these days, I am scared.

The Manhattan I fell in love with over 30 years ago is not the same. Thirty years ago, I was an Iranian refugee and my head spun at the height of the buildings, the colorful people and characters and my mouth melted when I tasted my first New York style pizza. Today I quicken my steps and my eyes are constantly on the lookout.

Being a Jew now feels like a bag of mixed emotions, filled with fear, sadness, and outrage, sprinkled with feelings of pride at our unity.

In Iran, I never told anyone I was Jewish if I could help it. My family tried to hide our identity as best as we could, but teachers and neighbors always knew. We were the lone Jewish family on our cul-de-sac, and we kept quiet, interacting with our Muslim neighbors only when absolutely needed. We celebrated our holidays quietly and tried to not draw attention to ourselves in schools or markets.

Once a teacher pointed to me and said to group first graders, “That Jew is a Zionist.” They all looked at me, aghast. I went home and asked my mother what a Zionist was, feeling that it was something terrible. The stories in our school books about the plight of the Palestinian people who longed to returned to their homeland confused me. Wasn’t Israel my ultimate homeland?

But my parents warned me not to speak up, so I said nothing. I shrank a little more into the wooden bench of my second-grade class, hoping no one would point out the fact I was Jewish. By this time, I considered myself a Zionist, even though I never spoke the words. I knew what the punishment would be for such a declaration.

I can still hear the angry chants of “Death to Israel”, thousands of miles away and some 30 years later.

On my way to school I’d pass by murals depicting Israel and United Stated as the enemy of Islam, slogans of “Death to Israel and America” everywhere. On days of celebrations, or commemoration of deaths of Imams, flags of Israel and America were burned side by side. I can still hear the angry chants of “Death to Israel”, thousands of miles away and some 30 years later. Those words sent a chill down my spine. As a little girl I learned that there are people would want me dead because I am Jewish and love Israel.

Little did I know that Hamas terrorists with the backing of Iran, would do just that years later, not in Iran, but on the land of the Jewish people. A land where I grew up believing would be a safe haven for all of us. Little did I realize their hate would drive them to commit the worst horrific massacre towards Jews since the Holocaust, shaking the nerve of every Jew around the world.

Walking the streets of Manhattan today, I am reminded of the fear I felt growing up in Iran. When I moved to the United States, I never thought I would have to hide who I am, or be afraid to be Jewish. But history has a way of repeating itself.

In Iran, when passing by the police or a rally, I would pull my head cover around me a little tighter, hoping to be invisible. Now in Manhattan, I hide my Hebrew necklace, feeling guilty to be afraid.

I wonder: Is this how the Jews felt before the Holocaust happened? Is this how my grandfather and father felt walking the streets of Shiraz as angry mobs attacked the ghetto?

Jews are quite familiar with an existential threat. It’s embedded into our genes, and tattooed on our souls like the numbers the Nazis tattooed on their prisoners. Israel is engaged in an existential war, a war that affects all Jews around the world.

The other day my daughter and her friend put up countless flyers about the kidnapped victims of the Hamas terror, demanding their release. Today she calls me, her voice shivering, to tell me they’ve all been taken down. She found some of them ripped up and thrown into trashcans around campus. I am heartbroken for my daughter and for all Jewish students who have to face the reality of hatred towards Jews.

My experience with antisemitism in Iran was not one I ever thought my children would feel in the land of the free. But something amazing has transpired too. These days, my daughters and her friends are attending many rallies, wearing their Jewishness with more pride than ever before. We feel united with Israel, in pain and pride. We are strong and our voices will not be muffled.