This Purim, as Israelis take refuge from Iranian drones and missiles, Sarah Sassoon sat with her dog and children in her Jerusalem shelter, dreaming of baking the traditional Iraqi Purim foods her grandmother would have made in Baghdad, such as ‘cheese sambusak’. By Purim of 1951, her grandparents had registered to leave for Israel. Read her Substack column:

In Iraq, Purim is called Id al-Megillah — the festival of the Scroll. As they signed their names and surrendered their citizenship, ending a 2,600-year Babylonian Jewish presence, did they think they are signing up for a new chapter in the same story?
Today, more than half of Israel’s population descends from the nearly one million Jewish refugees who fled Arab countries in the twentieth century — as my family did.
Now we sit in shelters and feel the reverberations of Iranian missiles exploding overhead, most intercepted by the Iron Dome. Purim parties are held underground. Mothers bring children dressed as princesses and superheroes, and a sweet baby lion. Many come alone; their husbands have been called up to serve. WhatsApp groups of soldiers’ mothers pulse with supportive messages — to stay strong together.
Our sons and daughters stand on the borders of Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Judea and Samaria. Each person protecting, in their own way, what they love.
Last night, between sirens, I hear the neighbors’ singing Hebrew songs, a violin threading through the cold night air.
Our flag bears the Shield of David.
Our miracle, like in Persia, is that we can defend ourselves.
When I walk to the corner shop — still open — to buy flour and mozzarella for my grandmother’s cheese sambusek, I know I am baking more than food.
I am baking memory.
I am baking exile and return.
I am baking the stubborn Jewish story that we live from generation to generation.
Am Yisrael Chai












