By Tabby Refael

Jewish Journal

A woman named Iran was born in 1918. At least, we think she was born in 1918. And yes, her name was Iran, though she was born in the country that, at the time, was still called Persia. Her parents, including her mother, Leah, were finally allowed to leave the confines of Tehran’s Jewish ghetto, making Iran and her siblings among the first in their Jewish family to have access to greater Iranian society and all that it entailed vocationally, educationally and culturally. Educated at one of the beloved “Alliance” schools (created and funded by French Jewish philanthropists across the Middle East and North Africa), Iran spoke French beautifully.

Her gondi and ab ghoost, or Iranian-Jewish meatballs and rich broth prepared for Shabbat, were something of legend, and the dish is said to have originated in her home town of Tehran. An extraordinary cook, the woman never met a jar of chicken fat she didn’t open. Ironically, she was as thin as a rail. 

She was the epitome of kindness. Like all of the women in her family, Iran most connected with her Jewish identity in the home. Every mezuzah was checked meticulously; every shochet, or kosher ritual slaughterer, questioned repeatedly over his technique. Iran was even known to take Passover cleaning to an extreme. She was more Jewish than Persian, because she hadn’t been exposed to the secularism of greater Persian society (that exposure would be reserved for her children).

But Persia (the country that, in 1935, became known as “Iran”) was deeply ingrained in her. Iran raised seven children there, one of whom, a little boy, was running through the house one day when he collided with a massive samovar, or tall, heavy metal container of boiling water. Iran was beside herself, until her son proved on the mend. With his burns healing, he arrived home, but suddenly fell ill. Iran was inconsolable when she learned that he had contracted pneumonia at the hospital. Her little boy perished a few days later.

She was never the same. And decades later, when the violence and antisemitism of post-revolutionary Iran forced Iran, the woman, to flee Iran, the country, she quickly visited her late son’s grave before secretly making aliyah to Israel. Iran never saw her homeland again. But the Jewish homeland redeemed her, and proved bountiful in chicken, turmeric and chickpea flour — everything she needed in her kitchen. Shortly before her death in 2011, while in her nineties and struggling with dementia, Iran nevertheless spoke an extraordinary combination of Persian, French and Hebrew. She never did give away the secret of her imitable gondi and ab ghoosht.

Iran was my maternal grandmother.

Mohtaram
The Iranian Jewish family of Mohtaram (meaning respectable) hailed from a picturesque town called Golpayegan, in the province of Isfahan. Whereas Iran (mentioned above) always smelled like raw onion and turmeric, Mohtaram always smelled like fried onion and cumin. And unlike Iran, she was, let’s say, lovably corpulent. In fact, to have been wrapped in her chunky arms and breathe in the scent of caramelized onions slow-cooked in cumin was nothing short of divine.

She loved to serve a Shabbat dinner over her massive Persian rug, and her grandchildren never understood how she and her husband, who were in their sixties, were able to comfortably sit cross-legged on that carpet and pass succulent foods to guests for hours. She felt Judaism deep in her bones because assimilation wasn’t even an option at the time.

Mohtaram never yelled, though her five sons sometimes gave her plenty to yell about, especially when they rough-housed. She raised her sons to be kind, responsible, even-tempered and wholly grateful for life. Mohtaram’s sons were the jewels of her eye, but she was overjoyed when her two eldest sons married and she became a grandmother to five little girls (and later, when her other sons married, a slew of boys). When her second-oldest son escaped post-revolutionary Iran amid the carnage of the Iran-Iraq War, Mohtaram was understanding, but heartbroken. Shortly after her son fled the country with his wife and two little girls, Mohtaram’s husband suddenly passed away. Mohtaram often wondered if he had died of a broken heart, given the pain of being separated from his loved ones. Suddenly a widow, Mohtaram was nevertheless supportive when her third and fourth sons (and their wives and children) told her of their plans to escape Iran a few years later. >>>