When I came to Wisconsin in January to testify at the State Capitol in support of a proposed bill to adopt the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) definition of antisemitism, I came with one intention: to share my personal story as a survivor of antisemitic violence.
On October 7, 2023, I was at the Nova music festival in Israel when Hamas terrorists carried out a massacre and other unspeakable atrocities with one goal – to murder and brutalize as many Jews as possible just because they were Jews. That day was not witnessed by me through a screen. I lived it.
“I ran for my life for hours,” I told to the assembled lawmakers. “I watched Hamas killers shoot people right in front of me. Over 1,200 individuals were slaughtered that day.”
When we hear chants calling for “another October 7th” and when Hamas is glorified or there are calls to “globalize the intifada,” this is not political speech. These hateful words have meaning as calls for the mass slaughter of Jews once again.
Definitions matter. Were Wisconsin to adopt the IHRA definition and set it as the standard for evaluating discriminatory intent and enhanced criminal penalties, it would send a message that calling for or justifying the killing or harming of Jews is antisemitism – and such incitement would carry legal consequences.
“I’m here,” I concluded, “not as an activist reading talking points. But as a survivor speaking from firsthand experience.”
While there was no expectation of all those present to completely agree with my testimony, what faced me was far worse than a difference of opinion – it was erasure.
My testimony began with a simple introduction: “My name is Natalie Sanandaji and I am a Persian American Jew born to Iranian and Israeli parents.” That background matters to me. My family’s Jewish roots in Persia go back over 2,000 years. Persian Jews survived exile, empire, and revolution. We have a history and we have a name.”
When I sat back down to listen quietly to the testimony of others, it was clear that many of them opposed embracing this internationally-recognized definition of antisemitism. Though we disagreed, there was no reason not to show them the respect owed in a civic forum.
Not long after, a speaker approached the microphone and used her limited time not to address the legislation, but to single me out. “Those who refer to themselves as Persian should say Iranian,” she said. “Persia does not exist,” she insisted while staring right at me.
In that moment, my testimony – my survival, my experience of antisemitism, my reason for being there – was sidelined. Instead of engaging with a different perspective on policy, the room was invited to scrutinize my identity, my truth.
Had the rules allowed, I would have shared with this speaker that “Iranian” refers to nationality. I was not born in Iran. I am Persian – an ethnic identity shared by millions, including Jews whose presence predates the modern Iranian state by centuries. Persians make up about 50-60 percent of the population, followed by Azerbaijanians, Kurds, and a handful of others. Persian Jews are proud of our history, a history so central that it is commemorated every year on Purim, when a Persian Jewish queen saved her people from annihilation.
To falsely claim “Persia does not exist” to score political points with her side was not a neutral geography lesson. It was an attempt at delegitimization in a public forum and before lawmakers tasked with a serious policy decision in front of them. Later, another speaker repeated the
rhetorical attack: “To the Iranian survivor who spoke…” The emphasis was on the word
“Iranian.” After her testimony, as she passed by my seat, I quietly corrected her. While I did not raise my voice nor disrupt the hearing, her response was to shout back at me so loudly that security had to intervene.
What was most striking is that at no point did my side challenge anyone else’s identity. No one should presume to explain to a Palestinian woman who she is or where she comes from. Yet in that room, while discussing antisemitism, it was deemed acceptable to publicly redefine a Jewish survivor’s identity.
At a moment in history when Jews in Israel, Jews in Iran, and Jews throughout the Diaspora are targeted by the same extremist regime and its proxies, my pride in my identity as a Persian American Jew only has grown.
My heritage and my own name are not up for debate.
Civic spaces must be places where survivors are heard, not corrected. Where testimony is met with engagement, not humiliation. You can oppose a bill without erasing a person who supports a different policy position.
The fact that a victim of October 7th spoke at the Wisconsin State Capitol and others chose to debate her ethnicity instead of engaging on the substance of the bill revealed far more than any definition ever could.
The Chronicle publishes a variety of opinion articles, including this one, which are not necessarily representative of the views of this newspaper or its publisher.
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About the author
Natalie Sanandaji is a survivor of the Nova music festival massacre and Public Affairs Officer at the Combat Antisemitism Movement.
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