In honor of Birthright Israel’s 25th anniversary, we’re proud to spotlight 25 outstanding alumni and share their inspiring stories with you.

I was raised in Los Angeles in a proud, close-knit Iranian Jewish family. My father left Iran during the Revolution. My mother grew up in Israel and moved to the U.S. when she was seventeen. Most of my extended family lives in Israel — cousins my age, aunts, uncles. I always felt connected. But I didn’t know that one day I would be called to defend that connection.

At Tulane University, I studied finance, marketing, and real estate. I enrolled in an elective course called Race and Ethnicity in the Middle East because I wanted to explore my heritage as an Iranian American and deepen my understanding of the region. What happened in that class changed everything.

Our professor assigned a reading that glorified a terrorist responsible for bombing a bus full of Israeli children during the First Intifada. I was one of only two Jewish students in the class. The other stood up and said, “This isn’t an unbiased, objective source. It’s a one-sided narrative that disparages Israel and the Jewish people.” The professor got angry and even kicked him out of the classroom.

In that moment, I didn’t have the courage to speak up. That guilt stayed with me. It sparked something, and I resolved to act.

Eventually, I approached that student — Ben Bernstein — and together with our friend Zoë Silverberg, we founded the Movement to Address Antisemitism at Tulane. Our goal was to urge the university to include antisemitism in the same mandatory DEI training already in place for other forms of hate. We assumed this would be a simple request. We were wrong.

The administration was very resistant — pretty hostile, actually. They told us that, according to a survey done eight years ago, Jewish students were one of the most satisfied groups on campus. They said DEI education was for groups that come from “marginalized or oppressed communities,” and they didn’t think Jews counted.

So, we turned to our peers. We launched a petition that gathered support from over 15% of the undergraduate population. More than 20 campus organizations endorsed us, including groups that had never partnered with Jewish or pro-Israel students before. We kept organizing, documenting, and showing up to meetings.

And then came October 7. A week and a half later, our campus erupted.

At a violent anti-Israel rally at Tulane, I was physically chased across campus by a protester screaming, “F*** you, Jew.” I had to run for safety into the Jewish Studies building. That same day, several of my friends were assaulted — beaten with flagpoles, megaphones, fists and a belt. One was hospitalized. I watched university maintenance scrub his blood off the ground before he was put into the ambulance.

When I reported to the dean what the student who chased me had shouted at me, she said that “F*ck you Jew” was political speech and they offered me three free therapy sessions.

After that, we decided we needed to pivot our strategy. We reached out to Jewish donors and board members. Within 48 hours, we had a meeting with the president and provost. In that short time, we collected data from over 300 Jewish students. It showed that before October 7, about 16% of Jewish students had experienced or witnessed antisemitism on campus. After October 7, it rose to 87%.

Following our meeting, the president sent out an email claiming he was committed to making changes. But no action was taken. I followed up constantly — calls, emails, outreach to various departments — and they were unresponsive.

In February, I testified before the U.S. House of Representatives about the civil rights violations Jewish students were facing on our campus. Tulane is now one of over 40 universities under federal investigation for violating Title VI of the Civil Rights Act, which protects students from discrimination based on shared ancestry or national origin. When antisemitism becomes systemic — when institutions are notified and choose to do nothing — that’s a civil rights issue.

This is not theoretical. I’ve had students tell me they were asked to leave exam rooms because others were uncomfortable sitting next to a Jew. My friends have been spat on. By the time I graduated, I had met with university administration about antisemitism over 36 times.

It was during the most overwhelming, demoralizing period of my life that I was accepted to the Birthright Israel Excel fellowship. I can’t overstate what that meant. I know it sounds cliché, but it was the hug I didn’t know I needed. Simply put: Birthright Israel changed my life.

After feeling completely alone and hated on my own campus, I found myself surrounded by Jewish and Israeli peers who not only understood what I had been through, but were equally committed to affecting change. Excel showed us every corner of Israeli society: from wounded soldiers at Sheba Hospital, to executives at Blackstone, to IDF commanders — and we joined the effort to help Israel rebuild by volunteering at Kibbutz Re’im.

One of the most unforgettable moments came when I gave a seminar for the Excel Fellows about antisemitism on college campuses. Afterwards, one of the Israeli Fellows asked to speak with me privately. He told me that a few months earlier, he had personally rescued two hostages — Fernando and Louis — from Gaza. “We’re fighting the same war,” he said. “You and me. You’re my sister.” And we cried. That moment gave me the strength to reimagine my future.

I turned down a job offer in corporate finance. Instead, I decided to do something to recreate the feeling and support that Birthright Israel gave to me in my time of despair. I worked with business leader and human rights activist Mandana Dayani and her organization, The Calanet Foundation, to launch Our Campus United — a student-run organization that helps Jewish students fight antisemitism on campus. We built step-by-step resources: email templates, BDS response speeches, legal rights, and strategy guides. We hosted social events to foster allyship. We brought Jewish and non-Jewish students together over food and music. We created community.

Recently, we launched The OCU Chronicle, a global student-run publication on Substack. We did it because too many Jewish students have been silenced or slandered by their campus newspapers. The Chronicle gives students space to write op-eds, tell their stories, or just share a piece of who they are. In just one week, we had 70 contributors, over 3,000 subscribers, and hundreds of thousands of impressions across social media.

None of this would have happened without Birthright Israel. It showed me what I was fighting for. It showed me that young people my age are on the frontlines and that, as a Jewish woman in the Diaspora, I have a duty too. My fight is in hearts and minds.

I’ve stayed close with my Excel cohort. We’ve met up in L.A., in New York, in Tel Aviv. I’ve kept in touch with the Israeli Fellows — some of whom are still serving on the frontlines.

I truly believe Birthright Israel is the single most effective solution to what we’re seeing right now. There’s no better way to show young people what Israel is — and why it’s worth fighting for — than to take them there. To let them see it with their own eyes.

Brandeis University has shown that Birthright Israel participants become significantly more engaged in pro-Israel advocacy after their trip. I believe it. I lived it.

To every donor who makes Birthright Israel possible: you aren’t just sending a young Jewish person to Israel. You’re giving them their future. You’re giving them resilience. You’re giving them belonging. And sometimes, you’re helping them realize they’re a leader.

You never know who’s going to return from that trip ready to fight for our people. I did. And I always will.

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