Reading Megillah in Tehran: How Iranian Jews Celebrate Purim
As Jews around the world commemorate the rescue of Persian Jewry, how do those who live where the story took place mark the day?
The Iranian city of Hamadan is composed of a series of concentric circles punctuated by spokes that spin traffic out across town. The peculiar urban planning gives the impression of a shimmering pinwheel. Almost at the very center of the innermost circle lies the Tomb of Esther and Mordecai—a mausoleum traditionally thought to be the resting place of the Book of Esther’s two heroes—where Muslims, Christians, and Jews regularly pray. In late 2010, when tensions between the Islamic Republic and the Jewish state were particularly high, hundreds of Islamists protested outside the tomb on a small street fittingly called Esther Lane. Old World War II-era propaganda about Purim being a celebration of a Persian massacre reappeared in the Iranian media, and Western observers started talking seriously about Iran’s “War on Purim.” Meanwhile, the Simon Wiesenthal Center mobilized, lobbying UNESCO to protect the historic tomb. As it turned out, the threats to Jewish religious practice never materialized, and fears for the safety of Iran’s Jewish monuments, while well-intentioned, were largely misplaced. In all, it would seem that apart from creating unique traffic problems, Hamadan’s layout may have had the effect of unduly magnifying the relatively minor disturbances that took place in its center.
Iran’s Jewish community, the largest in the Middle East outside Israel, is currently preparing to celebrate Purim, as it does every year. The Book of Esther will be read aloud in synagogues small and large, gifts will be exchanged, charity will be distributed, and even in the officially “dry” Islamic Republic, wine will be imbibed. Barring traffic jams, the traditional seasonal pilgrimage from cities like Tehran to the mausoleum in Hamadan should run as scheduled. And yet, the events of a few years ago still raise interesting questions about what it means to observe a holiday that celebrates Jewish survival in the face of a Persian decree while still living in modern-day Persia—Iran.
The establishment of the Islamic Republic in 1979 and the subsequent Iran-Iraq war had the effect of quartering Iran’s Jewish population in short order; while there were some 80,000 to 90,000 Jews in Iran before 1979, today there are estimated to be around 25,000. A further consequence was that while prior to the revolution significant Jewish communities could be found across the country in places like Mashhad and Yazd, Jews are now mainly concentrated in Tehran, with smaller numbers in Shiraz and Isfahan. Many Iranian Jews—particularly those who left Iran immediately following the revolution—look back at the reign of the shah as the final, golden gasp of Iranian Jewry. And yet, many thousands of Jews continue to freely make their lives in the Islamic Republic, much to the bewilderment of Jews in the West and the government of Israel. Recent fieldwork done in Tehran’s Jewish community shows Jews publicly practicing their religion and living relatively full lives. Occasional anti-Semitic flare-ups notwithstanding, based on conversations I’ve had with people from the community, the Iranian Jewish experience, including Persian Purim celebrations, looks much the same as it did four decades ago under the shah.
I spoke with an Iranian rabbi who recently emigrated from Iran for economic reasons and for whom last Purim was the first he celebrated outside the Islamic Republic. After recounting his initial shock at the unbridled levity and even racy costumes that have become the norm in Purim celebrations in places like Israel and the United States (the custom to dress up on Purim is not native to Iranian Jewry, and Iran, which is a rather conservative place to begin with, has official modesty laws), the pious rabbi proceeded to tell me about the festive but relatively reserved atmosphere of Purim as it is celebrated in Iran today. Even Jews not generally punctilious about synagogue attendance make great efforts to attend Megillah readings. And for reasons of decorum, the booing at Haman’s name is limited as much as possible to the climactic section naming Haman’s 10 sons. When asked about disturbances and anti-Jewish propaganda in reaction to the holiday, the rabbi was entirely dismissive, claiming that this was the inconsequential chatter of a small minority of misinformed fanatics. Purim in Iran, he stressed, was celebrated with pride, dignity, and not a hint of shame.
Ever since Iran’s economy was modernized over the course of the 20th century and widespread crushing poverty became a memory, Iranian Jews have celebrated the sometimes costly holiday unhindered and often to great effect. Lavish food gifts are exchanged among friends and family, although in Iran it is engaged couples who devote the greatest effort preparing exquisite Purim platters. One elderly woman who left Isfahan after the fall of the shah related to me that she still remembers the delicious burn of dried-fruit liquor, which grooms would send to their brides to break the Fast of Esther on Purim eve. With Purim normally coming right before the first stirrings of spring, there’s a sweet, natural logic to Iranian Jewry’s romantic twist on mishloaḥ manot. Still, Purim in Iran looks on the whole like Purim anywhere else—if one ignores the significance of celebrating the holiday where the story took place.
While the biblical Book of Esther details the establishment of an annual celebration with feasting, gifting, and charity distribution, Purim as we recognize it today is in a basic sense a product of the Babylonian Talmud. The unique texture of the festival was formed only in late antiquity, when rabbis living in Babylonia fleshed out the various observances and, through pronouncements like the requirement to get so drunk that one cannot distinguish between Mordecai and Haman, effectively transformed Purim into something like a raucous Jewish Mardi Gras.
During the centuries when the Talmud was produced, two superpowers divided much of the civilized world. The Roman (and later, Byzantine) Empire reigned over the West, including the Land of Israel, while the Sasanian Iranian dynasty ruled the East, which included Babylonia. Iran was never far from the thoughts of late antique Jews, especially those within and alongside the Sasanian Empire’s borders. Interestingly, the Jews assumed a connection between the ruling Sasanians and the ancient Achaemenid kings Cyrus and Xerxes, who appear in the Bible. And like Jews living in the Islamic Republic today, these communities celebrated Purim in the shadow of a powerful if usually benevolent Iranian empire.
One passage in the Talmud hints at the implications some rabbis saw in celebrating Purim while still subjects of a Sasanian king. The discussion concerns the reason Jews do not recite the Hallel (“Praise”) prayer on Purim despite the fact that the holiday commemorates a salvation from a crisis even more dire than that of the bondage in Egypt. Rava, a prominent Talmudic sage who lived in close proximity to the corridors of Sasanian power, remarks: “Granted, Hallel is said with respect to the exodus from Egypt, for in Hallel it says: ‘Give praise, O servants of the Lord’ (Psalms 113:1)—servants of the Lord and not the servants of pharaoh. But can it be said here ‘Give praise, O servants of the Lord’ and not the servants of Ahasuerus? We are still the servants of Ahasuerus!” (Babylonian Talmud Megilla 14a). Rava felt that despite the great joy Jews experience on Purim, their celebration is somehow dampened by the cold facts of Realpolitik. Indeed, how could one give full-throated thanks for escaping Ahasuerus’ dangerous decree if centuries later they were still governed by his progeny?
Praying on the side with their chosen gender is a quiet political statement for some, and a personal milestone for others