Remaining in Iran, however, was just as impossible

Tehran, Iran 1978

When I was about 11 years old and my brother Yitzchok was 16, he and my father opened a small electronics repair shop. Yitzchok had worked as an apprentice in a similar shop before, and by age 16, he knew enough to be able to start a shop of his own.

Nowadays it’s probably strange to think that people would pay to have their CD player or hairdryer fixed, but back in the late 1970s, it was common practice. One day, a Muslim man from a nearby village showed up in the store.

“I’d like to fix a blow dryer and tape recorder,” the man told Yitzchok.

“Chohesh mikonam khubel nadoreh!” my brother told him. “With pleasure.”

Yitzchok repaired the items, and the man returned to the shop to claim them. As the man drew nearer, Yitzchok took in his faded clothing and torn cuffs. The man was clearly going through a rough time financially.

“How much do I owe you?” the man asked Yitzchok as he took the repaired items from him.

“Don’t worry about the price. It’s on me.”

Yitzchok’s response was typically Iranian. Iranians pride themselves on their good breeding and etiquette, and it’s considered bad manners to demand payment from someone who clearly lacks the means.