Between Two Homelands: The Story of Iran’s Jews in Los Angeles

Under the bright lights of Beverly Hills, I steered my car south toward San Diego, California. It was a journey I had long dreamed of taking, though I never imagined it would be motivated by a meeting with a man whose face told a story of escape, and whose memory held a homeland he never truly left. This was not merely a road he had traveled between two countries, but a passage between two worlds: Iran, which he was forced to leave, and the United States, which reshaped his identity.

On a quiet street stands a jewelry store with an unusual name: Unicorn. The name, its owner explains, is no accident. Farid Nasseri, an Iranian Jew who emigrated to the United States at age 16, says, “The unicorn is a symbol of purity, magic and strength,” before beginning to recount a story about wounds that remain open despite years of stability.

“I grew up in an Iranian city where religious fundamentalism was deeply rooted,” Nasseri says. “As a Jewish child, some secular Muslims welcomed me, but others rejected me simply because I was Jewish.”

Behind his calm voice lies a memory of silent violence. Migration was not a search for a better life, but an escape from psychological pressure and daily persecution that followed his identity through the streets of Tehran.

After the Islamic Revolution in the late 1970s, everything changed. “They knew I was Jewish. I was harassed and beaten from a young age. I remember a winter day when they tore off the head covering my mother had made for me and beat me until I hit the wall. In that moment, I decided to leave,” Nasseri recalls.

The decision was not easy: family, home, memory. But freedom, he says, was worth more than all of it.

Iran’s Jews are not newcomers to the land. They are among the oldest Jewish communities in the world. Lawrence Sternfeld, a historian specializing in Persian Jewish history, said in an interview with Alhurra that their roots date back some 2,700 years, to the Babylonian exile. Their presence initially concentrated in Isfahan, before spreading to other regions.

Their relationship with Zoroastrian society was uneven, but it improved after the Islamic conquest, when Jews were granted the status of a “protected religious minority.” Over time, however, the Jewish experience was not uniform across Iran; conditions varied by region and era. Even so, Jews emerged as custodians of Iranian arts, language and music.

They are, Sternfeld notes, the only officially recognized religious minority that does not belong to a non-Persian ethnic group. Yet the adoption of Shiite Islam as the state religion imposed legal and social restrictions that diminished the status of Jews and other minorities.

Before the 1979 revolution, Iran’s Jewish population numbered about 100,000. After the revolution, it fell to roughly 23,000, more than half of whom live in Tehran, about 10 percent in Isfahan, and the rest in cities such as Shiraz and Hamadan. Despite the decline, the community continues to maintain schools, restaurants, and religious and social institutions—making Iran, paradoxically, the largest Jewish population in the Middle East after Israel.

Life after the revolution, however, changed fundamentally. According to Sternfeld, Jews were barred from senior positions in government and the military and faced restrictions in education, inheritance, and the management of private schools. They were also forced to draw a sharp line between their religious identity and Israel, amid official anti-Zionist rhetoric that directly affected their daily lives.

When I began researching the lives of Iranian Jews in Beverly Hills, I found that novelist Gina Nahai is nearly the only literary voice to have documented this experience. She herself fled Iran with her family because of their Jewish faith. I met Nahai in the heart of Beverly Hills, in a home that reflects both her identity and her comfortable standard of living. She explained what compelled her to write her novels: “I wanted to record the story of Iranian Jews in the United States, especially in Los Angeles. Forty years have passed, and what happened during that time is what truly shaped our identity.”

Nahai added, “Our children who were born here and have never seen Iran still feel a strong Iranian identity. They listen to old Persian songs, speak Persian, respect the culture and enjoy the food. What we feared losing after the revolution remained—and even grew stronger.”

The decision to emigrate was not planned. “We left our home in Tehran with our bedrooms and clothes still there. We thought we would return every summer. But we lost everything: our businesses and our house were confiscated,” she said.

The sense of betrayal, Nahai said, was not only religious but national. “I felt deeply betrayed as an Iranian. The regime turned against Jews and peddled antisemitic rhetoric. Returning to Tehran today could mean my arrest or death, especially since my novels expose the history of Jewish persecution.”

In the early months after the revolution, prominent Jewish businessman Habib Elghanian was executed. The verdict was not incidental, but a clear political message. The Jewish community understood it well: a place that had once been safe was no longer so.

Nasseri recalls that period vividly. “When the Islamic Republic came, if you were not a Shiite Muslim, you were not welcome. Many people were executed or imprisoned simply for being Jewish.”

His father stood trial before he could emigrate, and it took years to secure the departure of his mother and sister. “Today, the number of Jews in Iran is estimated at only 8,000 to 10,000, and they are under constant surveillance,” he said.

In the early 1980s, Los Angeles began receiving unprecedented numbers of Iranian immigrants. Iranian Jews settled in Westwood, Beverly Hills, and Santa Monica. They did not only survive; but they also managed to rebuild their economic influence and later their political presence.

In Beverly Hills, they are no longer a minority, but the most influential voting bloc. In 2007, Jamshid Delshad was elected mayor, becoming the first Iranian Jew to hold the post. It was more than an election—it was a declaration of transformation: yesterday’s refugees had become the leaders of one of the world’s wealthiest cities.

Today, Sharona Nazarian embodies that transformation. She arrived in the United States as a child immigrant. English is her third language, yet she rose to the mayorship of Beverly Hills.

“My heritage gave me a strong foundation,” Nazarian said. “We are looking for a place where we feel we belong. We preserve our culture while integrating into American society at the same time.”

In our meeting, Nazarian described how Beverly Hills became a stronghold of Persian values and how, in her leadership role, she balances her identity as an American with her loyalty to her roots that never really left her memory.

“I believe Iranian and Persian Jews are deeply patriotic and extremely grateful to live in this great nation—and I am as well. I am an immigrant, but I love living in this wonderful country. They preserve their culture by spending time with family and celebrating the Sabbath, gathering for dinner together. Not everyone is religious, but they continue to uphold family values while integrating into society. It’s wonderful to be able to respect and celebrate both cultures together.”

Behind the political influence lie deeper drivers: religion and culture. Synagogues were not merely places of worship, but fortresses protecting identity. Rabbi David Wolpe, senior rabbi of Sinai Temple in Los Angeles, explained that Jews in Iran faced “triple discrimination”: they were Jewish, Iranian, and people of color.

“My relationship with the Persian Jewish community has been extremely close, and it has been a mutual learning experience,” Wolpe said. “I remember when I first came to Sinai, an elderly Persian man approached me, put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Rabbi, you’re a very nice man, but you grew up in Philadelphia,’ meaning that our worlds were completely different. There was a lot for us to learn from each other.”

The symbolism of Sinai Temple, founded in 1906 as the region’s first Conservative synagogue, lies in its role as a bridge for Persian Jews. But behind its doors, assimilation was not easy; it was a confrontation between Tehran’s conservatism and America’s liberalism.

Wolpe recalled how the first generation resisted assimilation. But decades and intermarriage gradually reshaped the community. The result today is a hybrid identity—fluent in the language of power and wealth in California, while retaining the accent of ancestors in prayer.

“Iranian Jews who came to the United States faced three kinds of discrimination,” Wolpe said. “First, anyone who said they were from Iran, especially over the past 20 or 30 years, was automatically viewed negatively. Second, because they are people of color, which has a complex history in the United States. Third, because they are Jewish.”

Over time, that changed. “It’s truly remarkable to think about how much impact this small community has had on Los Angeles,” Wolpe said. “It’s extraordinary. We are very fortunate that they have enriched Jewish culture, Los Angeles culture, and American culture.”

In Los Angeles, traditions are preserved not only in books, but also in the kitchen. Food is the “home temple.” In Persian Jewish restaurants, preparing tahdig and gondi becomes an act of cultural resistance against assimilation.

“Food is what brings us together,” said Hooman Yadkarim, owner of a well-known kebab restaurant downtown. “It’s exactly like what our mothers and grandmothers used to make.”

The third generation carries a dual identity. “I have two identities: Jewish and Persian,” said Elias Yadkarim. “It’s a push and pull—but it’s a fortunate mix.” He added, “My mother’s family is from Shiraz. I’d love to see Shiraz. My father is from Tehran, but his parents and extended family are from Hamadan. I want to see those big cities. Isfahan—I’ve heard it’s very beautiful. There are so many places in Iran that I don’t think people know much about. Everyone hates it because of the media and war.”

While the lights of Beverly Hills shine brightly, another story is being written in Tehran, Isfahan, and Shiraz. There, a Jewish minority that chose to stay lives with a delicate balance between feeling of belongingness and constant caution.

From Iran to Los Angeles, migration was not merely a physical move, but a redefinition of identity. From a forced exile emerged an active political and cultural presence. And the dream of returning remains suspended—between memory and reality.

This article is translated from the original Arabic.