War is threading through Iranian Americans’ daily lives this week, and Nowruz—normally a time of dance, music and spring feasts—has become another place where people measure fear against hope. With the U.S.-Israel war with Iran unfolding, Iranian Americans who are already trying to manage worry and optimism have also had to decide whether celebration itself feels appropriate, and what kind of gathering fits the moment.
For Kayvon Pourmirzaie, a Philadelphia resident who said he has lived his entire life in the United States, the holiday is tied to an image of home and the prospect of change. He and his wife, Behnaz Almazi, went from their home to Manhattan to attend a pop-up Persian dinner last weekend, framing the evening as a chance to reconnect with Iran while reflecting on what the conflict could bring. “Nowruz for me this year signifies a chance to see my beautiful homeland,” Pourmirzaie said. “Even more important, I’m excited for the world to see the beauty of Iran. Nobody wants war, but this is a very strong feeling for me.”
Other Iranian Americans describe the same conflict as something that produces emotional dissonance: joy for some at the possible toppling of what many opponents call a hated regime, fear for friends and family still living under it, anger at the conduct of the war, and guilt that their own lives remain comparatively calm. As the third week of the war ends, the rituals around Nowruz have brought those feelings into sharper focus because the holiday is among the highest of Iranian secular celebrations, centered on herb-heavy dishes such as kuku sabzi and on shared spring tables.
In parts of the United States, some Nowruz events have been canceled or reshaped into more somber affairs. Saeed Shafiyan Rad, president of the Iranian Association of Boston, said the group called off multiple events that they said typically draw thousands. “We want to respect the people,” Rad said. They said they just want “peace and prosperity for the Iranian people,” and the decision meant removing large gatherings from the calendar.
At the same time, Iranian American communities are not moving in one direction. Division within the diaspora is longstanding, but the war has amplified it and, for younger Iranian Americans who may never have been to Iran, it has also highlighted generational differences in what it means to be Iranian from afar. For Hedi Yousefi, who was born in Tehran and came to the U.S. 13 years ago, the question became whether celebrating would align with what people in Iran might want; she ultimately decided that honoring Nowruz was the point, even after she said she questioned the appropriateness and received threats from some who felt otherwise.
Yousefi said she hosted Norooz Bazaar, a new year-themed showcase of Iranian American foods and artists in New York City, for the second year. “For me, this is an act of resistance against the regime,” she said, adding that her grandfather “always said (the regime) would like nothing more than to stop Nowruz.” In her account, the holiday’s continuity is the response—keeping Nowruz alive is treated as a kind of refusal. “Cooking Persian food has become a way to reconnect with our culture,” Omid Afshar said, describing how he spent more time preparing Iranian recipes in the lead-up to Nowruz. Afshar said that, for a long time while growing up in America, he felt he had to make that part of himself “smaller so I could fit in with the rest of the world around me.”
Not everyone connects the holiday to hope through the war’s consequences. Persis Karim, a former director of the Center for Iranian Diaspora Studies at San Francisco State University, said she is struggling to feel the hope that Nowruz is supposed to represent. “I’m not comfortable celebrating a tradition I love because I’m so appalled by what is happening to my family in Iran,” Karim said. “Of course I wish for a change of regime. But it should come from within Iran, not from bombs from the United States.” Nasim Alikhani took a similar starting point—she considered canceling festivities at her Brooklyn Persian restaurant, Sofreh—but said she would not let the conflict break the tradition. “Iran has been invaded throughout history … And yet Iranians kept the tradition of Nowruz alive,” she said. “I will not allow this unjust war and this aggression to win. Instead of singing and dancing around the table, maybe we will pray for peace and hold hands with our guests. But the food will absolutely be there, because there is no gathering without food.”
For Persian restaurants and shops, Nowruz is typically the busiest season, but several people described business patterns shifting unevenly across neighborhoods. In communities where sentiment is strongly against the attacks, some said sales have been weaker, while in places with stronger support for the war effort—such as Los Angeles—people have kept coming out. Farinaz Pirshirazi, co-owner of Persian restaurant Toranj in Los Angeles, described spikes tied to key moments in the war. “When the war started, we had a spike. When the supreme leader of Iran was said to be dead, we had a spike,” she said. Pirshirazi said some customers arrived smiling while also crying, telling staff that they felt they needed to go out and have Persian food that night.
The war is also changing what certain food traditions mean. Pirshirazi said that when Iran’s government in January unleashed what she described as an unprecedented and deadly crackdown of protesters, many Iranian Americans prepared halva—an ingredient-forward sweet often served during times of mourning. When the war began and, in her telling, Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei was killed, some continued making it, which she described as a “sarcastic” way to share joy. “It was a sarcastic way of sharing the joy and happiness,” Pirshirazi said. “Usually halva is something that they do at funerals, when you’re sad. But in this particular situation, it was very sarcastic, because it was a sign of joy that they were making halva.”
Alongside the shifts in restaurant traffic and ritual symbolism, some organizers are using the holiday as a platform for community-building and fundraising. Anais Dersi, an organizer of a pop-up dinner Pourmirzaie attended, said the event featured dishes including a pasta riff on tahdig, a pan-crisped rice dish associated with Iran. She described holding a similar event in Brooklyn last month that sold out in hours and said she helped plan a second event to honor Nowruz while raising money for charities in Iran. “The idea was bringing the community together over something. Giving people a place to mourn, to feel distraught, or whatever they were feeling,” Dersi said. “As a first-generation American, food is a tether to my culture. I can’t always connect through politics or language, but the food feels like mine. And it feels like it belongs to others too. It’s a great unifier.”
J.M. Hirsch, a longtime food writer who was food editor of The Associated Press for nearly a decade until 2016, reported on how Iranian Americans are using Nowruz’s tables—whether canceled, subdued, or celebrated with added meaning—to navigate a holiday that now sits under the shadow of war.