At the Grave of Esther and Mordechai

Or, a strange Purim custom of a bygone era.

Purim is a tough holiday for me this year; I’m exhausted from 18 months of tragedy and anxiety, and have little bandwidth to celebrate anything. Purim is supposed to be, after all, a day of celebration — much like every other holiday, a commemoration of a tragedy turned triumph, a literal expression of the Jewish maxim: they tried to kill us, they failed, let’s eat! But I don’t really feel like celebrating right now.

Purim is one of those strange Jewish connections I have with my mom (a non-Jew), who when she was a child, loved the book of Esther. Esther, of course, represents an empowered woman — who stands up to her enemies, who maintains her faith even in hard times, and who comes out the other side. No wonder my mom loved her. We live in a world of modern Esthers, of course — women like Agam Berger, who refused to violate Shabbat as a hostage, like Liri Albag, who manipulated her keepers and kept other hostages’ hopes up, and the other many women who survived Hamas. Because, is that not really what she means to us now? That 2000 years later, despite attempted destruction at the hands of Babylonians, Persians (according to Megillat Esther but there’s actually no evidence for it), Greeks and Romans, Crusaders and Russian Tsars and Nazis, the Jews are still here. And Jewish women still kick ass.

And for today, I just want to introduce you to a Purim tradition of a community that you may be unfamiliar with, one of the ancient Jews of Persia.

Some backstory: In the 6th century BCE, Cyrus the Great took over the former Babylonian empire, including its population of exiled Jews who had been languishing by its rivers, longing for Zion. These Jews were overjoyed at the giving of the Cyrus Cylinder, a declaration made by the new King that all exiles could return to their lands and reclaim their gods and temples.

Here’s the thing though: it had been seventy years since the exile, and the Jews in Babylon (now Persia) were doing pretty okay. They had created communities, planted gardens, had jobs and a life, and were not necessarily all inclined to pick up and return to a war-destroyed homeland that many had never seen. And when it came down to it, the vast majority chose to stay. Those who did return went back to Judea to rebuild their temple (apparently it was a pretty shoddy rebuild), and the Tanach describes the commandment to the Jews who chose to stay: they must support the returnees financially. In some ways, this describes the diaspora-Israeli relationship, even today.

For those who chose to stay, the Iraqi and Iranian Jewish communities became some of the most ancient Jewish diaspora communities, and every year, they commemorated Purim, a story of an ancient Persian plot to destroy the Jews. But unlike an Ashkenazi purim, complete with triangle-shaped cookies (Hamentashen, probably a riff on “montaschen,” German poppy seed cookies), really loud noise makers, and lots of alcohol, the Jews of medieval and early modern Persia did things … a bit differently.

In 1922, a Persian Jew who had showed up in the Yishuv in pre-state Palestine gave testimony about his peoples’ Purim traditions. He recounts that annually, the Jews of Persia gather in Hamedan (formerly Shushan) at the grave of Esther and Mordechai (first built in the 11th century CE). They would gather in this small mausoleum, read the Megillah, and dance around the graves to the beat of drums. Men would participate first (typical) and then women would join, with a big festive meal that had been prepared in advance. The people would then crowd onto the tombs of Esther and Mordechai, hoping to break their fast as close to these sacred relics (I can’t think of another word for it here) as possible. They then would seek to sleep in the tomb as well, for the dreams that one would have while sleeping there had a greater chance of coming true. (Original source here)

To say that this is a bit of a different Purim than one we might celebrate here in Canada, or in Israel, is an understatement. But is it any less valid, if a bit strange and somewhat cult-y sounding? One could perhaps argue that it is even more valid considering the consistency of the community, and these customs are specific to the place where the miracle happened? Of course, one cannot escape the fact that modern-day Persia is Iran, whose Islamic Republic is open in its hope of the destruction of Israel and all Jews; something made more interesting due to the fact that the Jewish community in Iran predates the Islamic one by a millennium. That community is pretty small now, though, with the majority of Iranian Jews fleeing after the Islamic revolution.

They celebrate Purim with Hamentashen now, but a Persian Purim has some pretty outstanding food. But my favourite is perhaps the Hadgi Badah, a cardamom-almond cookie that it’s hard to get enough of. But I’m a cardamom fan. They also speak to over 1000 years of shared Jewish-Islamic history in Persia: they’re also served for Ramadan.

If you want to make them, it’s a lot like other almond cookies.

Combine 2 cups almond flour and 2 cups AP flour with 1/2 tsp salt and 1/2 tsp baking powder.

In a separate bowl, cream 4 eggs with 1 1/2 cup sugar, 1 tsp lemon zest, and 1 1/2 tsp ground cardamom.

If you’re into almonds, press one into the centre.

Fold together gently, form 1-inch balls, and bake at 350 for 10 minutes, or until golden brown.

I wish you all a joyous Purim, and may next year’s be more full of an easy joy. And may Esther be a guiding light to all women everywhere, as a pillar of strength, a true woman of valor, who stays in the fight. We need those strong women now, more than ever.

Chag Sameach & Betayavon.