Read about Jewish life under the Iranian regime and the extraordinary journey of a young woman who fled with her family from Iran to America.
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Persia—a land deeply intertwined with Jewish history—evokes stories of miracles, the survival of Mordechai and Esther, and the downfall of the wicked Haman. But in modern times, Iran became a place of fear for Jews, forcing many to flee for their lives.
Up until the late 20th century, Iran was home to a thriving Jewish community of over 100,000, including those in the historic city of Shushan Habira. Jewish life flourished, but in 1978, everything changed with the Iranian Islamic Revolution. The rise of Ayatollah Khomeini ushered in an extreme religious regime, putting non-Muslims in danger—especially Jews.
Recognizing the growing threat, many Jewish families sought refuge in Israel and America, while those who remained struggled to practice their faith under constant surveillance. The Iranian government frequently confiscated Jewish-owned properties under false accusations, and while Jewish schools officially existed, they were controlled by a Muslim administration. Jewish education was barely tolerated, and Jewish students faced hostility. They were forced to attend school on Shabbat, wear long clothing, and cover their heads with a hijab, just like devout Muslim girls.
Though some schools remained open after the revolution, Jewish life became increasingly difficult.
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My Life in Iran
By Kathy Orah Shahkoohi
I was born and raised in Tehran, the capital of Iran, where I lived with my devoted parents. I have one older brother, who is a year and a half older than me, and a younger sister, who is ten years younger. My parents moved from Shushan to Tehran before they were married, seeking better opportunities in the capital.
My paternal grandfather was a highly respected Kabbalist and scholar. He was a deeply pious man, known for his wisdom and devotion. He lived a comfortable life in Shushan Habira with my grandmother until the revolution forced them to relocate to Tehran. My grandfather had two wives simultaneously, a common practice in his time.
Growing up as a Jew in Iran, fear was a constant presence. Our Muslim neighbors viewed us with suspicion, and my mother often warned us:
“Don’t tell the neighbors what we do.”
“Don’t mention that we celebrate Jewish holidays.”
From an early age, I understood that we were different—and that being Jewish made us a target.
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School in a Muslim Environment
I attended a so-called Jewish school, but it was run by a Muslim administration. While we followed the Iranian government’s curriculum, Judaism was barely acknowledged. We were granted only one hour a week to study Jewish subjects, and even that was heavily monitored. Our teachers harbored deep resentment toward us, seeing every Jew as a Zionist enemy.
Every morning, we were forced to line up and chant:
“Death to America! Death to Israel!”—repeating it 200 times. They tried to strip away our Jewish identity, but the oppression only deepened our attachment to Israel. Some of us would try to subtly alter the words so we wouldn’t be fully cursing our own people, but if we were caught, the punishment was severe.
Despite these hardships, I had a rebellious streak. I despised wearing the hijab and would purposely leave a few strands of hair peeking out. My teachers often called my parents, complaining about my “misbehavior,” but my mother—strong-willed like me—would simply brush them off.
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Jewish Holidays in Hiding
Jewish holidays were celebrated in secret. On Purim, my grandparents, who had lived in Shushan, felt a deep connection to the holiday and would secretly travel to the graves of Mordechai and Esther to pray. However, there were no Purim feasts, no mishloach manot, and no public celebration.
Pesach was a time of great effort and quiet joy. Everything we ate was homemade, and the selection was limited. We did not eat dairy during Passover, and though potatoes existed in Iran, they were not commonly used for Pesach. I had never tasted kugel or used potato starch until we arrived in America, where I was introduced to Ashkenazi customs.
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A Dangerous Escape
From the moment the revolution took hold, my parents knew that staying in Iran was not an option. Thousands of Jewish families had already fled, and we longed to do the same. However, leaving legally was nearly impossible.
For six long years, my parents persistently applied for travel visas under the guise of taking a short vacation to Austria. Month after month, they were denied. Finally, after years of waiting, we received approval—but with strict conditions. We were only allowed to take minimal belongings, as we were expected to return.
My father remained behind to quietly sell his business and our home, hoping to salvage what he could before joining us. My older brother, who was 15 at the time, was not allowed to leave legally because he was of military age. He had to escape Iran illegally with the help of paid guides who smuggled him across the border. For weeks, we had no word from him. The uncertainty was agonizing—had he made it, or had he been caught and imprisoned? When we were finally reunited in Austria, the relief was indescribable.
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Freedom in Austria and America
In Austria, we were welcomed with open arms by the devoted members of Rabb Tov, an organization led by Rabbi Moshe David Niederman of Williamsburg. Their kindness was overwhelming. For four months, we lived in safety, among fellow Jews who genuinely cared about us. It was there that I first experienced the simple joy of walking outside without a hijab.
After what felt like an eternity, we received the miraculous news—we had been granted permission to immigrate to the United States. Many families waited over a year for approval, but we were fortunate to wait only four months.
Arriving in America was exhilarating. We landed in Newark, New Jersey, on a sweltering summer day. The first thing I noticed was a Black man—something I had never seen in Iran. For a moment, fear gripped me, but I quickly realized that this was a place of diversity, a place where I could finally be free.
Settling in New York was a challenge. I enrolled in Shaare Torah, a Syrian Jewish school, but as a Persian girl with limited English, I struggled to fit in. For six months, I studied privately with an English tutor, painstakingly learning the language. Slowly, I adapted. Though I always felt somewhat different, I made close friends and found my place.
Looking back, I realize that every hardship shaped me into the person I am today. The struggles of my childhood gave me the resilience to help others overcome their own challenges. I am deeply grateful for the journey that brought me here.
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A Life Rebuilt
Today, I am a psychotherapist, master hypnotherapist, and healer with a private practice in Great Neck and Brooklyn, New York. I graduated from Wurzweiler School of Social Work in 2008. I lead workshops on meditation and self-hypnosis across the country and facilitate cacao ceremonies, breathwork, and psychedelic integration therapy.
Despite the hardships of my youth, I have built a meaningful life dedicated to helping others. My journey from Tehran to America was not easy, but it was filled with purpose—and for that, I am forever grateful.