By Shirin Yadegar
Fleeing Iran with my family was a decision born out of desperation, a leap into the unknown, grasping for safety amidst the rising tide of antisemitism. As a Jewish Iranian woman, my mother sought sanctuary for my brother and I in the United States. Becoming a mother of four daughters, I always thought my girls would always grow free from the shadows of hatred that had darkened my homeland. Yet, the events since October 7 have stirred the embers of old fears, igniting a flame of sorrow and anxiety that wakes me at night.
My eldest daughter, Eden Yadegar, a junior at Columbia University stood before Congress with a resolve that left me breathless. Her voice, strong and unwavering, testified to the surge of Jewish hate on college campuses. Watching her, my heart swelled with pride and trembled with fear. Pride in her bravery, her ability to stand tall against a wave of darkness; fear for the dangers she faces in her unyielding quest for justice. Should we bring her home for her safety? Hire security to shadow her? Transfer her to another school? Her voice was and continues to be a beacon, illuminating the terrifying reality that Jewish students face daily—a reality that my other daughters know all too well.
Bella, my freshman at USC, had her mezuzah torn off her dorm door. She was jolted from sleep by the haunting chants of “Intifada revolution” outside her window. These acts of hatred are not mere vandalism; they are wounds inflicted upon her soul, attempts to erase her identity and silence her spirit. Each incident echoes with the same venomous intent that drove us from Iran, reminding us that no place is immune to the scourge of antisemitism.
My middle schooler, Lily, came home one day with tears in her eyes, the image of swastikas graffitied on her school walls was etched into her mind. For a child her age, these images are a brutal assault on her innocence. Seeing her struggle to understand why such malice exists in the world breaks my heart and stirs a deep-seated rage within me. It is a stark reminder that the hatred we fled from can rear its ugly head anywhere, even in the supposed safety of American schools and culture.
Camille, my 11 year old who saw and heard the atrocities of October 7—babies burned alive, women raped and killed in front of their families. These horrors are too monstrous for any child to comprehend. She wrestles with nightmares of a world that seems both cruel and incomprehensible, while I grapple with shielding her from this harsh reality without hiding the truth. Her questions pierce my heart, each one a reminder of the innocence shattered by a world filled with hatred.
As a mother, my instinct is to shield my daughters, to envelop them in a cocoon of safety and love. Yet, as a journalist, I am driven to speak out, to shine a light on the darkness and give voice to those who are silenced. This balance has never been more precarious. The pain of seeing my children face the same hatred my family once fled is indescribable, but it fuels my resolve. I must be their pillar of strength, showing them that fear may grip us, but it cannot silence us.
Night after night, I wake in sweats, my mind plagued by the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring. The fear and uncertainty for Jews in America gnaws at my peace, leaving me restless. In these dark hours, I find strength in my daughters’ resilience and in my own voice. I stand on my platforms, not just as a mother, but as a warrior of words, amplifying the cries of our community, sharing the struggles of my daughters, and calling for justice and understanding. This is my daughters’ generations fight and I will be here to support and encourage their voices. We will not be silence.
My journey is one of pain and fear, but also of courage and hope. As a mother, I strive to protect my children from the world’s hatred while empowering them to stand tall and proud of their Jewish identity. Our story is a testament to the enduring spirit of those who, despite facing relentless adversity, continue to fight for their right to exist and thrive in peace. We are the voices that will not be silenced, the lights that refuse to dim.