Do we ever fully appreciate the immigrant experience of so many who have come before us?

More than 40 years ago, when Ayatollah Khomeini came to power, over a thousand Jewish children were sent out of Iran. Alone. Sent to a strange land by parents who hoped for their safety and survival, but had no guarantees of either.

Once these rescue flights arrived on the American shore, any yeshivah that had dormitories took some of the boys.

The girls were another story. Cleveland took ten girls, and we were asked to host some of them. I still remember exactly how I felt when we said “Yes,” so please don’t pass out any gold stars. I did this for selfish reasons: I wanted someone to take in my children if I was ever in that situation. And that’s how Anhira and Farah, ages 19 and 20, landed at our house.

Anhira’s brother was one of the group of young boys to whom Telshe Yeshivah in Wickliffe had opened their doors. Farah had traveled with her sister, who was placed with another family.

The girls were originally from Tehran. In American terms, that’s midtown Manhattan. Arriving at the airport in Cleveland, Ohio, must have felt like the boondocks. Cleveland Heights? Think rural country, where they roll up the sidewalks at 7 p.m. — on a busy night.

Living on a continent where they had no relatives or friends meant no calls to ask how they were doing or what they needed. Living with us meant they stayed with us — through Shabbosim, Yamim Tovim, dates, vacations, and life cycle events. Living with us meant making decisions, both good and bad, and never being sure until days, weeks, months, or even years later, if these judgments had been sound. And as much as we wanted to help them, we, too, were unsure. It was the blind leading the blind.