Exclusive Interview: “The regime has held the Jewish community in Iran hostage for decades,” says Daniel, a pseudonym for a candid Persian Jew

“The regime has held the Jewish community in Iran hostage for decades,” says Daniel, a pseudonym for a candid Persian Jew. A life marked by constant uncertainty and the looming threat of persecution. “Every word can be twisted. Any innocent conversation can lead to arrest or even the death of family members or friends. Daily life is governed by fear, self-censorship, and the suppression of your identity—just to survive. It’s understandable that the Jewish community in Iran remains silent and is even forced to publicly denounce Israel’s actions—for fear of repression.”

You fled the Islamic Republic of Iran in its early years, shortly after 1979. What prompted your escape?

Daniel: There were several reasons why I fled Iran. Once the revolution was complete, everything changed. Nothing was the same anymore. The sense of insecurity was overwhelming, especially if you belonged to a minority under a strict Islamic regime. Jews, Christians, and Bahá’ís were openly discriminated against.

The Bahá’ís were the first to suffer the full brunt of the regime. They were given the choice to convert. Those who refused were executed. Almost every street had someone with ties to the regime. There was no place you felt safe.

Jews no longer dared to practice their faith openly. The administration of the only Jewish school was replaced with Islamic officials appointed by the regime, who reported everything. Jewish children had to constantly be careful not to stand out. Those who did risked being beaten by gangs of youths.

In regular schools, you never dared show you were Jewish. Otherwise, you’d be beaten up after class. Friends from before withdrew; their parents had told them we were “unclean” and that they were no longer allowed to speak to us.

Then came the Iran–Iraq war (1980–1988). Minorities were sent to the front lines to walk across minefields so that Muslim soldiers could follow safely.

I had finished high school early—skipping two grades—and graduated at sixteen. That meant I was drafted, with almost no chance of returning alive. That’s when my parents decided that I had to flee, along with my 14-year-old brother.

Eventually, only your father remained in Iran. You were reunited 24 years later. That must have been an extremely risky reunion for you as a refugee. What was his life like after being separated from the family?

Daniel: My grandmother, my father’s mother, was still alive when we fled. Three years later, my mother and sister also escaped. Shortly after that, my father was arrested. He was falsely accused of human trafficking and spent one and a half years in prison, where he was systematically tortured by the regime. He never stopped asserting his innocence.

I only learned months later, through family in Iran, that he was imprisoned. At first, I was told he was “on vacation” and that it was unclear when he would return. Communication with Iran was always difficult, and phone calls were (and still are) monitored. We knew very little, and everything remained vague and worrisome. My father was under constant surveillance and repeatedly interrogated.

About ten years after we fled Iran, my grandmother died after a long illness. My father was harassed so often that he finally decided to pretend he had converted to Islam. He changed his first name, but no one in the Jewish community was allowed to know. It was the only way he could be left somewhat in peace.

My father endured unbearably painful years without his family. That knowledge breaks my heart.

The reunion, 24 years later, was overwhelming and emotional. It felt surreal to see him again. But it was also heartbreaking to hear what he had been through—how severely he had been tortured. I listened to him in tears. When he eventually showed me the scars on his leg, I felt utterly crushed.

The recent military confrontation between Iran and Israel—and later also the United States—has led to a new wave of arrests targeting “Israeli spies.” According to media reports, 24 Iranian Jews remain in prisons in Tehran and Shiraz as of Sunday, June 29, 2025. Would you say the regime is effectively holding the tiny Jewish community (about 10,000 members) hostage? What is your view on the complex triangle between the Islamic Republic, the Jewish minority, and the State of Israel? Journalist Peter Laskowski wrote in Jungle World on July 1, 2025: “The Jews in Iran remain silent. They know every syllable can be deadly.”

Daniel: The regime has been holding the Jewish community in Iran hostage for years. It began in the early years of the revolution. Jews couldn’t get passports and had limited rights over their own property and savings. It was even stated outright that we would be “needed” when the time came to attack Israel.

I can hardly express how terrified Iranian Jews must feel today—living constantly under threat and uncertainty. Every word can be misinterpreted. Any innocent chat can lead to arrest or the death of someone close.

It’s hard to imagine how anyone survives under such inhumane, degrading conditions. Daily life is dominated by fear, by suppressing your identity, by censoring your own words—just to stay alive.

In a moving essay for Tablet magazine (“The First Jew I Met in Iran”), Iranian-American political scientist Majid Rafizadeh wrote about a student with two names: Sara/Yaffa. On a thank-you note, she wrote: “My Hebrew name is Yaffa.” A double life as a Jew under a Shia theocracy. Is that familiar to you?

Daniel: As I mentioned, my father pretended to convert to Islam, even changing his name. It was a necessary survival strategy in a place where any deviation from the norm could be deadly.

It’s understandable that Jews in Iran remain silent and even feel compelled to publicly condemn Israel—for fear of repression. When you fear for your life and are confronted with discrimination every day, it’s almost inevitable that you try to blend in with your surroundings.

I attended both a Jewish school and a public school. I learned to read the Quran at a young age and could lead Islamic prayers fluently. Not because I had converted, but because I was desperately seeking acceptance.

Without that recognition, life becomes psychologically unbearable. If you’re constantly made to feel that being yourself is dangerous, you begin to hide—just to survive. Even if it means denying your true identity.

The standoff between Israel/the U.S. and the Islamic Republic has not (yet) resulted in regime change in Tehran. Is that a major disappointment or what you expected?

Daniel: Iran has changed profoundly over the years. According to estimates, around 80 percent of the population wants to see the regime fall and longs for freedom. But no one dares to stand up—out of fear. A curfew has been imposed, and protesters are arrested or even shot on the spot.

This is a huge disappointment—not only for me but for countless other Jewish and non-Jewish Iranians: ex-Muslims, Christians, Bahá’ís. On X (formerly Twitter), I follow a large discussion group of Iranians around the world. Information is shared there that often makes its way out of Iran via unofficial channels.

Many Iranians, inside and outside the country, were deeply disillusioned when President Trump pressured Israel to halt attacks on the regime. According to some, the regime was on the verge of collapse. Some still believe it’s teetering—but we all hold our breath: what if it doesn’t fall.

Why I Fled Iran – My Story

By Daniel

My escape from Iran wasn’t triggered by a single event—it was the result of years of oppression, fear, and systematic discrimination. After the Islamic Revolution, everything changed. Life became unsafe and dehumanizing for minorities like Jews, Christians, and Bahá’ís. The Bahá’í community was especially targeted: convert or be executed. Jews no longer dared to practice their faith. The few Jewish schools were placed under Islamic management, reporting directly to the regime.

I attended both a Jewish and a public school. On the streets, we Jewish children had to be constantly alert. At public schools, we could never reveal we were Jewish. We were insulted, beaten, and excluded. Former friends turned away, told by their parents that we were “impure.”

During the Iran–Iraq war, minorities were used as human shields. Boys were forced to walk over minefields so Muslim soldiers could attack safely behind them. I had skipped two grades and finished school at sixteen. That meant I was drafted for the front. My parents decided I had to flee, along with my 14-year-old brother.

My mother and sister fled three years later. Soon after, my father was arrested—falsely accused of human trafficking. He spent eighteen months in prison, where he was tortured but never confessed to something he hadn’t done. For a long time, I didn’t even know he was in prison. I was told he was “on vacation.” All calls were monitored, so communication was nearly impossible.

After his release, my father was under constant surveillance. To survive, he was forced to pose as a Muslim, even changing his name. Not even the Jewish community could know. The price he paid—a life of isolation, fear, and loss—is heartbreaking. When I finally saw him again, 24 years later, he showed me his scars and spoke of the torture. I was devastated.

When your life is at risk, you adapt. I learned to read the Quran and could lead prayers fluently—not because I had converted, but because I craved acceptance. Without it, life becomes unbearable. You learn to hide, to become invisible, to renounce your identity—just to exist.

The regime has held the Jewish community hostage for decades. After the revolution, Jews couldn’t apply for passports and lost control of their property and savings. It was explicitly said that we would be “needed” for the eventual attack on Israel. The fear among Iranian Jews today is beyond words. Every sentence can be fatal. Every word may lead to the arrest or death of a loved one. You live constantly on edge—your freedom, your faith, and your life are never guaranteed.

Despite everything, the Iranian people remain hopeful. About 80% want the regime gone and yearn for freedom. But no one dares rise up—not out of cowardice, but out of fear of brutal repression. There’s a curfew. Protesters disappear or are shot on sight. No one is safe—Jewish or not. Many Iranians, inside and outside the country, follow events closely. We share support and information via secret channels. But the disappointment that the regime still stands is profound.

I tell this story not just for myself, but for all those who lost their voices. For my father, my family, and everyone still suffering in silence under this cruel regime. And above all, for the hope of a future in which no one has to hide who they are.

Editor’s note: Daniel is a pseudonym. His identity is known to the editorial team.