I wrote my first song at the age of four. My ambition at that time was nothing short of monumental: I was going to be the first ever Jewish Persian pop singer. My voice was going to get me on a stage in front of thousands of screaming fans. Little did I know that my voice, my very ability to express myself, was in itself a privilege I almost did not have. I had been born into one of the most repressive eras of modern time: post-revolution Iran.

The year was 1982. My parents—young, in love, and idealistic inTehran—believed they could wait out the revolution, and, unlike many of their family members and peers, did not race to leave the country. Their resilience was astounding. And then I was born—their first child, a daughter—and they became a little less idealistic. As a Jewish woman in post-revolution Islamic Iran, I would be targeted twice over. Women were to be covered in veils, silent, timid, inferior; Jews as a group were considered second-class citizens. My parents wanted me to be free, so they paid a smuggler, packed a single suitcase, and traveled through Pakistan and eventually into Israel with a child not even six months old. I struggled for months to regain my health, for the trek through the mountains proved almost too difficult for me to bear as an infant. But I had inherited my parents' resilience—and the world had yet to hear my voice.

I know I am lucky. With the recent emergence of works by Jewish Iranian women writers who grew up in Iran after the revolution, I am able to see what my life could have been. The Septembers of Shiraz, a semi-autobiographical novel by Dalia Sofer, and Journey from the Land of No, a memoir by Roya Hakakian, are two examples of works that capture life for Jews in Iran after the 1979 takeover.

Each page of these works is a vivid illustration of daily Jewish life during the years following the Islamic revolution, a life filled with confusion, oppression, fear, sacrifice, love, hope, and ultimately determination. Despite the gravest of circumstances, the characters in these books flourish, steadfast in their identities while bravely facing change, a hallmark of Jewish tradition. Dalia Sofer and Roya Hakakian have authored works to show the world their distinctive Jewish-Iranian identities. Whether it is through fictional characters or passionate prose, both of these women reveal their experiences following the revolution to create a record. Each has spoken candidly, proving that silence is not an option when one manages to escape such extreme oppression. They write, revealing the intricate beauties and poignant realities of Jewish life in a country with a centuries-old tradition that has sadly been tarnished at the hands of an extremist regime.

Dalia Sofer, who herself escaped Iran in 1982 when she was only ten years old, details the effects of the revolution through the story of the Amin family. Sofer often interweaves her own personal experiences into the lives of the fictional Amins, offering multiple perspectives on life for Jews in Islamic Iran (see below for review). But it is Hakakian's riveting first-hand account of life as a Jewish teenager in post-revolution Iranwhich most provides a vivid glimpse into the life I could easily have led and the strength I would hope to have if faced with such circumstances.

With the revolution, life as a Jew meant being targeted by the Islamic regime and fundamentalists at every turn: Jews were relegated to separate drinking fountains and toilets, were made to identify their businesses as non-Muslim, and encountered disturbing anti-Jewish graffiti such as swastikas. However, as Hakakian illustrates in Journey from the Land of No, her quest to forge her identity as a creative Jewish woman was never derailed, despite the government's acute efforts. Using intensely detailed imagery and lyrical language, Roya Hakakian crafts her memoir honestly, thoughtfully, and, above all, bravely. She details how Jewish life was about having the strength to start over, despite overcoming the greatest of obstacles, while never sacrificing one's voice or identity. Most importantly, Hakakian's voice is always optimistic, despite watching the Islamic Morality Guards whisk away friends who were never to return, or being detained by the police and searched, merely for being a Jew. The revolution provided the catalyst for Hakakian's own intellectual rebellion, and her voice is tremendously inspiring.

For me, the bitter taste of oppression, the threat of an imposed silence, is so deeply ingrained that every moment presents an opportunity to relinquish the albatross of post-revolution Iran. My identity, this fluid, ever-changing concept, is firmly rooted in the most fundamental aspects of who I am: a Persian Jewish woman. Despite escaping Iran at such a young age, the struggle is still in me. I consider my alternate existence, my life, had I remained in Iran. Would I still sing? Would I be studying to become an attorney? Would I be able to proclaim to the world that I am a Jew without fear of retaliation? Would I have the strength of Roya Hakakian to find my voice despite the obstacles? I see myself, and realize that my current identity is one premised on freedom, and that sadly, had I remained in Iran, the answers to most of my questions would be no. And so it is for her, this other woman, this woman that is not me, but represents so many Jewish women who remained in Iran after the revolution, each of whom could write their ownSeptembers of Shiraz or Journey from the Land of No, that I have this overwhelming compulsion to exist fully and freely, sharing my voice with the world.