NEW YORK (AP) — War is rippling through their ancestral land — and being waged with the country where they live. This week, Iranian Americans already trying to navigate a push-pull of worry and hope unleashed by this month's conflict have been wrestling with a new concern: how — or even whether — to celebrate Nowruz, the Iranian new year.
Kayvon Pourmirzaie and his wife, Behnaz Almazi, settled on celebrating — in part by coming up from their home in Philadelphia
to attend a pop-up Persian dinner in Manhattan last weekend. Pourmirzaie has lived his entire life in the United States; his parents moved here before the Islamic revolution in 1979. At the dinner, he and Almazi dreamed about what the war could bring.
“Nowruz for me this year signifies a chance to see my beautiful homeland,” said Pourmirzaie. “Even more important, I’m excited for the world to see the beauty of Iran. Nobody wants war, but this is a very strong feeling for me.”
For Iranian Americans, the U.S.-Israel war with Iran is a case study in emotional dissonance: joy at the possible toppling of a hated regime; fear for friends and family still at its mercy; anger at a conflict even many supporters see as ill-planned and clumsily executed; even guilt at the relative calm of their own lives.
As the third week of the war ends, Nowruz — one of the highest of Iranian secular holidays — puts that struggle in fresh focus. The celebration Friday typically is a day of dance, music and feasts focused around herb-heavy dishes such as the frittata-like kuku sabzi — foods symbolic of spring, hope and fresh starts.
Around the United States, numerous Nowruz celebrations were canceled or recast as somber affairs. “We want to respect the people,” said Saeed Shafiyan Rad, president of the Iranian Association of Boston. They typically host multiple events drawing thousands. They called off all of them. “We just want peace and prosperity for the Iranian people.”
Division within the Iranian diaspora is not new, but the backdrop of war has amplified it while the coming of Nowruz has a spotlight on it. And for young Iranian Americans — many of whom never have been to Iran — it is highlighting generational divides, too, prompting reflections on what it means to be Iranian from afar.
This is the second year that Hedi Yousefi has hosted Norooz Bazaar, a new year-themed showcase of Iranian American foods and artists in New York City. Though she questioned whether it was appropriate — and says she received threats from some who felt it was not — she ultimately decided honoring Nowruz was what the people of Iran would want.
“For me, this is an act of resistance against the regime,” said Yousefi, who was born in Tehran and came to the U.S. 13 years ago. “My grandfather always said (the regime) would like nothing more than to stop Nowruz.”
Persian American social media influencer Omid Afshar has found himself spending more time in the kitchen trying his hand at Iranian recipes in the leadup to Nowruz. “Cooking Persian food has become a way to reconnect with our culture,” said Afshar, who profiles Persian restaurants on Instagram at @omidafshar. “For a long time growing up in America, I felt like I had to make that part of myself smaller so I could fit in with the rest of the world around me.”
Nowruz and its feasts should be a source of continuity and stability in uncertain times, said Persis Karim, former director of the Center for Iranian Diaspora Studies at San Francisco State University. Still, this year she is struggling to feel the hope it represents.
“I’m not comfortable celebrating a tradition I love because I’m so appalled by what is happening to my family in Iran,” Karim said. “Of course I wish for a change of regime. But it should come from within Iran, not from bombs from the United States.”
With similar concerns, Nasim Alikhani came to a different conclusion. She’d considered canceling Nowruz festivities at her Brooklyn Persian restaurant, Sofreh, but like Yousefi decided that misses the point.
“Iran has been invaded throughout history … And yet Iranians kept the tradition of Nowruz alive,” she said. “I will not allow this unjust war and this aggression to win. Instead of singing and dancing around the table, maybe we will pray for peace and hold hands with our guests. But the food will absolutely be there, because there is no gathering without food.”
Nowruz typically marks the busiest month for Persian restaurants and shops. But this year, business is off in communities where popular sentiment opposes the attacks. Meanwhile, in communities where support is strong, such as Los Angeles — where the Iranian community is so large it has the nickname Tehrangeles — business pops with the news cycle.
“When the war started, we had a spike. When the supreme leader of Iran was said to be dead, we had a spike,” said Farinaz Pirshirazi, co-owner of Persian restaurant Toranj in Los Angeles. “Whoever came in had the biggest smile on their face, and they were crying a little bit out of joy. They were all telling us, ‘We have to go out tonight, and we have to have Persian food.’”
The tension also is turning some traditions on their heads. When the Iranian government in January unleashed an unprecedented and deadly crackdown of protesters, many Iranian Americans prepared halva, a paste-like sweet often served during times of mourning. When the war began and Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei was killed, they kept making it.
“It was a sarcastic way of sharing the joy and happiness,” Pirshirazi said. “Usually halva is something that they do at funerals, when you’re sad. But in this particular situation, it was very sarcastic, because it was a sign of joy that they were making halva.”
Anais Dersi was one of the organizers of the pop-up dinner Pourmirzaie attended, where foods included a pasta riff on tahdig, Iran’s classic dish of pan-crisped rice. She held a similar event in Brooklyn last month; it sold out in hours. They decided to honor Nowruz by hosting a second event, both of them raising money for charities in Iran.
“The idea was bringing the community together over something. Giving people a place to mourn, to feel distraught, or whatever they were feeling,” she said. “As a first-generation American, food is a tether to my culture. I can’t always connect through politics or language, but the food feels like mine. And it feels like it belongs to others too. It’s a great unifier.”
___
J.M. Hirsch is a longtime food writer who was food editor of The Associated Press for nearly a decade until 2016.
