My trip from Washington to Los Angeles was not merely a journalistic assignment. It was a complete human experience—one that carried me from the cold, political climate of the capital to the warmth of a city that resembles a mosaic of cultures, wealth, and contradictions.
Six hours in the air, during which I organized my questions, thought about the faces I would meet, and tried to imagine the features of a city I had heard so much about but had never seen face to face.
We landed in Beverly Hills, a city open to stories. My colleague Marwan and I stepped off the plane carrying bags full of filming and lighting equipment and walked out into the sunlight. Warm air, a clear sky that makes you feel anything is possible.
On the drive from the airport, I looked out the car window at the wide streets, luxury cars, buildings, and neighborhoods whose homes overflowed with conspicuous wealth.
Filming was scheduled to take four days. Our first stop was “Tehrangeles”—the unofficial name of a Los Angeles neighborhood where the majority of residents are Iranian. I entered a small shop, and the owner immediately began asking questions: Where are you from? What are you doing in Los Angeles? Within minutes, I found myself explaining the documentary we were preparing about Iranian Jews in the city, my journey, and my work. In the end, she said to me, “Here, we are all strangers, but we learn how to be a family.” I walked out thinking about her sentence, which seemed to sum up the city perfectly.
“Tehrangeles” has a striking distinctiveness. Familiar American chain stores are largely absent, replaced by small grocery shops stocked with Iranian products. You hear a familiar language in the streets. You pass a mother and her daughter choosing vegetables displayed outside a shop—a simple, everyday scene, yet one that evokes memories whose depth is only understood by those who have lived them or seen them before in their own cities.
Suddenly, I felt as though I were in Beirut. I told myself: this isn’t just Los Angeles; it’s a piece of the East planted here. The way the vendor calls out to customers, the quick questions, the laugh that comes before the bill—all of it reminded me of Lebanon, in form and in spirit.
This account may sound somewhat romantic, and perhaps emotionally charged, but I believe any visitor to this city and these neighborhoods would leave with a similar impression. What I am trying to convey here is a set of observations that left a deep mark on me—so much so that I shared them repeatedly with colleagues, because their impact was exceptional compared to other work trips I’ve grown accustomed to approaching with far greater detachment.
In my first meetings with members of the Iranian community, I didn’t feel like I was in a professional interview. We sat down, drank coffee, and the conversation quickly turned into personal stories—where they came from, when they left Iran, who remained there, and who had left. I felt that I wasn’t just asking questions; I was opening doors to memory. Many times, I forgot about the camera entirely and listened with genuine personal interest, not merely as a journalist.
The homes of the Iranians I met in Los Angeles reminded me greatly of our Eastern homes. Every time I entered a house to film, I encountered the same insistence on hospitality: coffee, tea, food, and a long, friendly conversation before filming even began. I truly felt like a guest, not just a journalist on assignment. This generosity and intimacy shortened the distance between us and made me feel close to them, despite our different backgrounds.
The Iranians I met felt close to me in the small details: the insistence on hospitality, asking about family, trying to build a relationship before work. Even the city’s mayor, Sharona Nazarian, insisted that I taste a piece of Iranian sweets—gaz-e Kermani—and have a cup of coffee. She said to her assistant, with a smile tinged with firmness, “Even if they say they don’t want coffee, you must insist. We are Easterners—this is how we express hospitality.”
I kept thinking to myself: these people resemble us more than we imagine. Every time I left a home or a meeting, I felt I was leaving behind a story, not just an interview.
Even driving in Los Angeles became part of the story. Highways, long distances, hours spent behind the wheel as we moved from one area to another. In those moments, I thought a great deal about the people I had met, the stories I had heard, and about myself as well. Every road felt like a space for reflection, as though the city gives you time to examine yourself—while stealing your time at the same moment.
On another drive, as I cruised down a long highway, a song by Sayyid Darwish played: “Aho da elli sar” (“This Is What Happened”). We passed by a massive Hollywood sign, and I laughed inwardly. Sayyid Darwish in Hollywood? The scene was surreal. I felt that I carry my world with me wherever I go, and that this journey was not merely a change of place, but a confrontation between my memory and this place.
One of the most powerful moments of the trip was my first meeting with a Jewish rabbi, and my first visit to a synagogue. It was not an ordinary experience for me. I entered with curiosity, respect, and a sense of awe. I felt that I wasn’t just visiting a new place, but stepping into a long history and a collective memory filled with pain, survival, and self-rebuilding. It was a moment that made me think about how journalism can open doors to worlds we might never enter were it not for the camera.
Through all these details, I was also discovering something about myself. I felt that I was moving between two worlds—carrying the East in my heart while walking the streets of the West. Los Angeles was not merely a filming location for me. It was a mirror, a testing ground, a space that made me see exile differently: a network of people who decided to build a home, even while far from their first homes.
I returned from this trip knowing that I had not gathered footage alone. I collected faces, sentences, roads, sounds, and scenes that will stay with me for a long time. It was a journey to the City of Dreams—but also a journey into people’s stories… and into a story that resembles me more than I had expected.
A work trip, yes—but also a personal journey, about belonging, and about how a person can be far away… without feeling alone.
Randa Jebai
Randa Jebai is an award-winning journalist with more than 20 years of experience. She joined Alhurra TV’s investigative team in 2020, earning honors from the AIBs, New York Festivals, and the Telly Awards. She previously worked with major Lebanese outlets and holds master’s degrees in law and journalism.
