Their only (censored) communication with family was via airmail letters that they sent religiously and received very sporadically.

Farah and Anhira had interrupted precious schooling, family life, and more importantly, the social interactions that would help determine who and what they’d be and do in life. Routines and schedules would never be the same. Becoming part of a separate and self-contained class in Yavne Seminary and learning English as a second language at Cuyahoga Community College isn’t quite the same as attending the University of Iran and studying law.

It took a village to help us navigate the maze of paperwork and human emotions. It became our responsibility to help guide these young ladies with education, peer acceptance, and — most important — helping them choose sweaters that matched their lipstick. (It was, after all, the late ’70s…)

We tried our best to incorporate some of their customs into our home to help make them feel like they were part of the family. We flogged each other with scallions at the Seder, and when we heard the beautiful phrase, “May G-d accept your fast” after Yom Kippur, we said it to each other, and do it to this day, after every fast.

Even after they moved on, when she married a few years later, Farah asked us to accompany her to her chuppah. It was a moment I’ll never forget. By that time her parents had been allowed to emigrate to Israel, leaving with all of their worldly possessions condensed into one suitcase. Farah’s mother came to America for the wedding and the two of us escorted her to the chuppah; the groom was escorted by his Iranian rabbi and my husband.

We were among the few American outsiders attending this all-Iranian wedding and it was now my turn to be a “stranger in a strange land” surrounded by the sights and sounds of this beautiful, though very different, wedding experience. I watched with a broad smile, while all around was the euphoric “le — yalell” ululation that still rings in my ears.

Fast-forward a decade or three, and our grandson and Farah’s son were chavrusas together in yeshivah. To this day, when I light my Shabbos candles and pray for my children, I mention each of their names as well as their children’s names.

Looking back, I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been for all these young people — bereft of family, with limited language, and significant cultural differences.

Is that how our ancestor Yosef felt — alone and abandoned? — suddenly transported to a different country under painful and trying circumstances?

We think of Yosef as the prime minister — as the one who became the pride of his nation. I wonder if he felt that way.

Do we ever fully appreciate the immigrant experience of so many who have come before us? I’m humbled by those who have shown me, through their courage and strength, exactly what it means to live by the principles with which you were raised (starting with my own European parents). There is resilience born of experience, and the determination to stand tall for who and what you are.

And so each year, when we welcome Yosef into our succah, I’m reminded of those whose circumstance forced them to discover the royalty within themselves. Can I do the same?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 760)