Iran and Israel were once close allies. Iranian Israelis live in the tension of a divided identity

When Israel attacked Iran in June and Tehran immediately began firing rockets at Israeli cities, it was a psychological shock, especially for Persian Jews. Around 250,000 of them live in Israel, 60,000 in Los Angeles. Smaller communities can be found in other US cities and in Europe, such as Milan. In Iran itself, there are barely 10,000 people left. For all of them, the conflict became an inner struggle – between origin and homeland, between loyalty and survival, between memory and the present.

Persian or Iranian Judaism is one of the oldest diaspora communities in the world. The roots of Jewish life in Persia date back to the 6th century BC – to the beginning of the Babylonian captivity. The centuries in Persia were a predominantly happy time for the Jews there. This is also evidenced by the Jewish holiday of Purim, which commemorates the rescue of the Jews from their tormentors by the Persian king.

A completely separate chapter began in the 20th century under Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. He emphasized modernization and national unity and granted Jews certain civil rights. Jewish schools taught Hebrew and Farsi, and some graduates later worked as diplomats, lawyers, or university professors in the construction of a modern Iran. At the same time, Iran and Israel established close ties: Israel assisted with military construction and irrigation projects in the Persian Gulf, while Iranian oil was exported to Israel. Research exchange in nuclear technology and satellite development also cemented a latent strategic alliance.

This era ended abruptly with the Islamic Revolution of 1979. Ayatollah Khomeini declared Israel a "Zionist entity" that had to be eliminated. The destruction of Israel was one of the ideological foundations of his radical extremist policies. Jews who had cooperated with the Shah, whom Khomeini hated, came under intense pressure: synagogues were controlled, Jewish schools closed, and many representatives were arrested or forced to leave the country. Tens of thousands of Jews fled to Western countries via Pakistan or Turkey; some even made it on the last flights of the Israeli airline El Al from Tehran directly to Tel Aviv.

Iranian Jews differ from other Jewish communities in that they have preserved their traditions across generations. Whether it's Persian cuisine with its rice dishes or the Farsi language, which even the third or fourth generation still speaks: many Iranian Jews hold on to the memory of their former homeland. They draw a very clear distinction between the country and its culture and the mullah regime, which, with its hatred of Jews and anti-Zionism, has become the greatest threat to the Jewish world, but especially to the State of Israel.

For Israel, the immigration of Persian Jews was a blessing, especially in the field of intelligence. Iranian Jews, with their language skills, were urgently needed in the intelligence agencies Aman and Mossad to uncover the plans and actions of the regime in Tehran. Beni Sabti is one of them. His father was abducted by the regime because he was Jewish, but he was fortunate enough to be released. The family decided to flee to Israel via Pakistan when Beni was fifteen.

Even during his time in the army, Sabti analyzed information and news from his native country. Today, he works as an Iran expert at the renowned INSS think tank at Tel Aviv University. During the war, he became an overnight media star, explaining the mullahs' thinking and actions night after night on Israeli television in Hebrew with a Persian accent.

Sabti has no doubt that the June war of aggression was necessary to save Israel from catastrophe: "Iran was sick, it needed an operation. And the only surgeon available was Israel," he explains laconically. Even though he has long considered himself an Israeli, it wasn't easy for him to watch the Israeli bombings, because with his family background, "you could leave Iran, but Iran never leaves you."

This dilemma is particularly familiar to those who were born in Iran, such as Orly Noy, chairwoman of the Israeli human rights organization Betselem. She abandoned her Persian first name, Moygan, when she came to Israel as a young girl. Like Beni Sabti, she considers herself a "100 percent Israeli." She is extremely critical of Israel's policies, speaking of an "apartheid state" and a "genocide" in Gaza.

Noy maintains a close connection to the culture of her native country, translating Persian literature into Hebrew to bring the literary treasures of the enemy state closer to her fellow Israelis and thus foster an understanding of the distant land. When Israeli bombs struck Tehran and Isfahan, she felt great pain: "Many Israelis don't realize that a centuries-old, wonderful culture is under attack." Her fear was twofold throughout the war.

Orly Noy's fear was twofold throughout the war. She and her family sat anxiously in the bunker room of their Jerusalem apartment every time there was a rocket alert, while simultaneously worrying about her relatives in Iran. Like many Persian Jews in Israel and elsewhere, Noy still has relatives in the Islamic Republic. She didn't know whether they were still alive: "I can't call them. A call from Israel? That would be far too dangerous for them," says Noy.

The danger the few remaining Jews in Iran still face became clear immediately after the end of the war. The regime in Tehran immediately began arresting leading figures in Iran's Jewish community as potential "Zionist agents." Noy continues to fear for her family.

Between loyalty and betrayal, between pride in their own heritage and the need to protect their current Israeli homeland, Iranian Israelis find themselves caught in a field of tension that allows no easy answers. The war has exposed this inner conflict, this divided identity. It is a dilemma that many Holocaust survivors from Eastern Europe, for example, are unfamiliar with. Their countries of origin were already a place of anti-Semitism before the Shoah. They mourn the loss of their murdered families, but the countries that spat them out, such as Poland, Hungary, or Ukraine, are no longer places of longing for them.

There are Iranian Jews, however, who can relate to this. Navid Toobian, once editor-in-chief of the Israeli Farsi radio station, now works in Tel Aviv at the Middle East Media Research Institute, an NGO that analyzes Islamic media. He and his family had repeated anti-Semitic experiences in the mullahs' Iran. Israel's airstrikes did not trigger any ambivalent feelings in him: "Today's Iran is no longer my country," explains the staunch Israeli. "I didn't feel like my home was being bombed."

And yet, amidst all the destruction and hostility, a faint glimmer of hope remains: Iranian Jews, of all people—a community so deeply rooted in both cultures—could one day become bridge-builders between Israel and Iran. Their biographies carry the language, the stories, the values of both worlds. They are aware of both the beauty and the pain of Persian culture, yet at the same time, they have put down new roots in Israel. Who, if not they, could break through the hostile narratives of both sides and remember a shared past in which coexistence was possible?

Iranian Jews are a living testament to the fact that identity doesn't have to be exclusive—that one can feel connected to a country, even if one has had to leave it. Perhaps it will be precisely their ability to translate culture, their emotional anchoring on both sides, that will one day enable dialogue where today only silence or threats prevail. Those who live between two fronts suffer twice—but also have the potential to build bridges where others see only borders.