An Iranian Perspective
Dreaming of peaceful coexistence
Today, I have the privilege of posting this second piece from an ally of the Jewish community.
This guest post comes from Golrokh Alvandi, a wife, mother, and Toronto elementary school teacher for 20 years. She lives in Toronto, and originally comes from Iran. She has been passionate about Middle East politics, Israel, and Judaism since she was a teenager.
Childhood in the Islamic Republic
I was born and raised in Iran within a middle-class, secular family, living there until I was 18 years old. Consequently, I possess no memories of life prior to the 1979 revolution and the subsequent turmoil that ensued under the Islamic regime. Instead, my recollections are dominated by our weekend gatherings at my aunt's home, where laughter, abundant food, music, and spirited dancing filled the air.
In the fall of 1979, I was set to begin grade one. My mother had meticulously prepared my school uniform—a navy blue tunic, white socks, and black shoes. However, just one week before the school year began, my family was informed of a new requirement: we were to add a plain black scarf alongside the uniform. My father’s vehement objections echoed in my young ears, yet, as a six-year-old, I grasped little of the broader implications.
By grade two, the uniforms had transformed into an oppressive all-black attire: a loose-fitting tunic that fell a minimum of three inches below my knee, accompanied by loose black pants and a scarf that concealed every strand of hair. Nail polish and accessories were strictly prohibited.
By grade three, our reality grew increasingly oppressive. Keffiyeh-wearing revolutionary agents conducted searches of our bags and bodies before we were allowed entry to the school, hunting for contraband items such as lipsticks, cassette tapes, and romance novels. The situation felt reminiscent of The Handmaid’s Tale, yet this was my everyday existence. If even a single strand of hair escaped my scarf or wasn’t secured tightly enough, I would be pushed against the wall outside the school, branded an “anti-revolutionary whore.” My scarf would be tightened to the point of suffocation. Rest assured, at nine years old, I was neither anti-anything nor a whore.
For years, we were lined up in the schoolyard, coerced into chanting slogans like “Death to Israel” and “Death to America.” Those same agents ensured our voices were loud enough, threatening to send us to the principal’s office if we fell short, which would inevitably lead to our parents being called. High school presented its own formidable challenges, characterised by an absence of kindness, respect, or cultural understanding. We were instructed to perceive the world in stark binaries, led to believe that anything non-Muslim or foreign was inherently evil.
Fortunately, I was blessed with parents who nurtured a broader worldview. My father, though not formally educated, frequently asserted that Iran’s tribulations arose not from Western influence nor external foes but from our own governance. My mother reminisced fondly about the Iranian-Jewish community that enriched her early years, recounting how she learned to sew, knit, and prepare delightful dishes from her Jewish neighbours. “I learned how to be a decent wife and mother from them,” she would say. This cultivated a profound sense of confusion within me as I navigated my identity.
Move to Canada
When I reached the age of 19, I made the courageous decision to come to Canada as a refugee, armed with just $250 and a rudimentary grasp of English. Alone in an unfamiliar land, I resolved to master the language, pursue education, and carve out a meaningful existence. Simultaneously, I committed myself to uncovering the truth behind the narratives that portrayed Israel and the Jewish people as adversaries deserving of vilification. Through diligent research, conversations, and countless hours spent viewing documentaries, including testimonies from Holocaust survivors, I unravelled a reality that starkly contradicted the lies ingrained in me.
Now, having lived in Canada longer than in Iran, I embrace this country as my home, a sanctuary for my children as well.
As a teacher, I am deeply troubled by the trajectory of our education system. We seem to have deviated from fundamental literacy and numeracy, now fixating on race, identity, and religion. While these subjects hold undeniable significance, they should not overshadow the core tenets of education.
Our professional resources have devolved into a convoluted amalgamation of ideologies, where factual discourse is stifled for fear of causing offence. Growing up, my family and countless Iranians were forced to conceal their true beliefs out of fear of persecution and being labelled as "anti-revolutionaries." Now, in my capacity as a teacher, I am alarmed to see my Jewish colleagues reluctant to wear their Magen David or display name tags that reveal their identity, fearing they might be unjustly branded as "genocide supporters"—a term that is not only profoundly inaccurate but also an affront to their dignity and experiences.
My concern extends to the fabric of Canadian society. Under the guise of free expression, I am witnessing a troubling resurgence of antisemitism directed at our Jewish friends. The perpetrators of this antisemitism, often unaware of the privileges afforded to them, would likely struggle to endure a week in the Middle East, yet they are quick to criticize the very values that welcomed them to Canada. My personal experiences make it difficult for me to feel any sympathy for those who embrace extremist ideologies, such as those promoted by Hamas and Hezbollah, as they wear their keffiyehs like symbols of pride.
The emergence of the Islamic regime in Iran was not an isolated incident; it was birthed in the very corridors of universities and schools, beginning with protests, acts of arson, and the idolization of violence. The warning signs were evident, yet they were willfully ignored. As Martin Niemoller poignantly concluded in his 1946 poem First They Came, “Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak out for me.” The signs are undeniable: they are poised to attack both us and our fundamental values. If we do not take action, they will erode the very foundations of our democratic society. I implore you to be courageous and vocal. Do not turn a blind eye to the signs. Silence is complicity.
Recent trip to Israel
It has been a dream of mine to visit Israel for years. The horrific events of October 7, 2023, and the devastation that followed, affected me deeply, strengthening my urge to go. In March 2025, I had the opportunity to embark on this life-changing trip, facilitated by the UJA Federation of Greater Toronto, with a group of educators from diverse backgrounds to witness firsthand the impact of October 7.
It was an emotional journey filled with resilience, grief, and an unshakable spirit. Every corner and building in Israel stands as a testament to the horrors of that day. Yet, amidst all the pain, Israelis continue to live with joy, strength, and unity. Israeli society is diverse, loud, busy, welcoming, and full of life. I witnessed firsthand the country’s rich diversity and coexistence—without masks of hatred or destruction.
This experience left a deep imprint on my heart and soul, solidifying my love and belief in Israel, the Jewish people, and the importance of standing on the right side of history.
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I’m so sorry. Multitasking is a mistake. I responded to the wrong article but your article is moving, sad and courageous. Thank you so much for your allyship and sharing the truth.
Natasha Hausdorff is a lioness. I don’t know how she does it- facing down these despicable antisemites every day and not losing her cool. Thank you for the article and sharing her fabulous testimony.