My kitchen is a war zone.
Every Friday night, Persians and Jews face off in a battle of spices—a clash I both dread and crave.
I set the Shabbat table: candles ready to be lit, grape juice waiting to be blessed. Tonight, I’m making roasted chicken—my way of honoring a tradition rooted as much in presence as in prayer.
I glance at the spices before me. In one bowl: saffron, turmeric, dried lime—the golden trio of Persian cooking. In the other: za’atar, paprika, garlic—the bold, earthy flavors of Jewish kitchens across the diaspora. My hands hesitate. I stand in their crossfire.
For years, I was caught in a tug-of-war. In Iran, being Jewish was dangerous. In America, being both is confusing. We blast Googoosh on the way to synagogue and speak Farsi beside lit menorahs. Each identity is celebrated, but rarely blended.
My roots tangle and restrain. Headlines cast Iran and Israel as enemies, a tension that burrows deep inside me. Online, strangers tell me I can’t be Persian if I’m Jewish, as if my existence were a contradiction. Even my name is split—my first from the Torah, my last from Persian ancestry. I felt like an inconclusive DNA test, carrying two identities the world insists are incompatible, though both live fully within me.
For so long, I believed I had to choose a side—slice half of myself and somehow make it whole. But tonight, as I prepare the Shabbat table, I realize that choice only fragments me—choice refuses to hold me in one piece.
I light the candles. They flicker softly beside crispy tahdig and braided challah. The herbaceous scent of ghormeh sabzi rises as my father reaches for the Siddur. We gather around the table, sipping steaming chai—a Persian comfort—as we recite Jewish prayers. An intense game of Hokm follows Kiddush. This table doesn’t ask me to choose.
Immersed in the warmth of food, voices, and memory, I witness harmony. I can’t imagine one without the other—prayer without chai, challah without ghormeh sabzi soaking into its crevices. Here, my Persian and Jewish worlds don’t just coexist; they belong together—inseparable and whole.
Back in the kitchen, it’s time to bring my dish to life.
I stare at the two bowls of spices. I scoop handfuls from each and pour them slowly over the chicken. With my hands, I smear the mixture as saffron, za’atar, turmeric, dried lime, garlic, and paprika dance into a mosaic of flavor—an aroma steeped in centuries of tradition, survival, and celebration. It carries the weight of exile and the warmth of home, the tension of duality and the comfort of belonging.
I watch the spices fuse: vibrant, bold, soulful, intertwined.
I’ve created a blend richer than either alone. The spices don’t overpower each other, they elevate one another. My cultures aren’t clashing forces—they’re threads, woven into one story: my story.
I slide the chicken into the oven. When it’s ready, I place it gently on my Shabbat table. It greets its old companions: ghormeh sabzi, challah, and tahdig. My table is complete.
I carry my well-seasoned chicken with pride—a personal favorite dish, a testament to every layered element of my being.
What once felt like a recipe I couldn’t follow is now mine to share. And through it, I bring something whole, rooted, and authentically me to every table I join.
My kitchen is no longer a war zone, but a place of surrender—not to the Persians or the Jews, but to me.
Author’s Note:
Watching the conflict between Iran and Israel unfold made me confront my tangled roots as a Persian Jew. This piece is my way of expressing how I navigate those tensions by blending the cultures I carry—through food, family, and tradition. Writing it allowed me to find peace in embracing all parts of myself, even when the world insists on division.
Leah Farzam | 16 | Santa Monic, CA | @leahfarzam on TikTok & @leahfarzam on Instagram
