Caspian Sea beach, 1970s

I’m 16 in this photo. Our parents promised me and my 11-year-old sister that if we got good grades we could go to Israel with them. Our relatives there were some of the first Iranians to emigrate to Israel, journeying on donkeys and living in shacks for years, just to be part of a place where they felt they belonged. We had so many family members and friends there that we traveled all over the country and never spent one night in a hotel.

Little kids would point at us and shout “Parsi!” – that’s what they called Persians. My hairdryer was a big attraction; most girls there had never seen one. Every day girls would queue up to get their hair done or try on our jeans or clothes.

The Iranian boys living there were always excited to meet Iranian girls visiting, so I always got lots of attention. I would walk the beach while my father would walk silently behind me, with his belly, or my brother, who always wore suits everywhere, even on the beach. I met a boy I even thought I loved, but it didn’t last. I loved Tel Aviv. Boys and girls were free, and didn’t have to hide like they did in Iran.