I am racking my brain trying to remember the veahavta and, while I struggle to perform, I wonder if the man in front can see my beating heart working its way up my throat. It's an absurd scene.

I am in Tehran, visiting the Jewish National Committee, on Palestine Street, and the man at the desk shows little emotion as his eyes wander between my ID and my flustered face.

"Recite the Shema prayer," he said, and though I passed the test with little dignity it changed the mood in the stuffy, second-floor room. His name is Yoram Haroonian and he runs the show, heading both the Jewish central committee and the Abrishami Synagogue down the street. My translator is standing to the side, watching the interaction with some amusement, and I wonder what the lanky Muslim man thinks of his unexpected foray into the Jewish world.

It is my second day in Iran and I have barely got my bearings, having come here alone to learn what Jewish life is like inside a totalitarian, Islamic state. Persian Jewry dates back over 2,500 years, as far as the Persian Empire in 539 BCE, when Cyrus the Great captured Babylon, yet for political reasons this ancient tribe remains largely cloaked in mystery.

At its height, the Jewish community in Iran consisted of approximately 80,000 individuals but with the birth of the Islamic Revolution came a mass emigration reducing the community to a tenth of its original size.

At this point, Tehran is the Jewish centre of the country, housing a deeply traditional and religious community with its own schools, restaurants and religious institutions and a Jewish parliamentarian chosen to represent the group's interests in the Iranian Majlis.

As I enter the large Tehran shul, I am struck by how recognisable Jewish life is, even in the most remote of places. The tunes are the same as they always were, and the gossipy chatter from the women's section feels comfortingly familiar.

Yoram is there, and he waves at me, smiling now, directing me to his mother in the front row. Within minutes, she has ascertained my marital status and arranged shidduchim in the hope I will stick around. As amused as I was by her interest, it was hard to disregard my Iranian "handler", sitting watchfully on my right-hand side.

The Abrishami Synagogue is packed with at least 200 people, ranging from babies to grandparents and, even with the chilly weather, the heat inside makes me squirm in my red-leather seat.

I can feel all eyes on me, being a 5ft 9in, blue-eyed oddity and, as soon as I meet their gaze, I get smiles and mouthed thank-yous from this family I have never met.

Their gratitude unnerves me. I'm unsure whether I feel moved or sad, and I smile back with a lump in my throat forming and my eyes beginning to tear.

The shape of the Jewish community in post-revolution Iran was to a large extent defined by the May 1979 meeting that took place between Jewish leaders from Tehran and Ayatollah Khomeini to discuss the situation of Iranian Jewry amid the escalating animosity after the overthrow of the Shah. The meeting was hailed as a success, and it resulted in the following statement from Khomeini:

"We are against the Zionists because they are not Jews but politicians. As for the Jewish community and the rest of the minority communities in Iran, they are members of this nation. Islam will treat them in the same manner as it does with all other layers of society."

This sentiment was echoed by the Chief Rabbi of Iran, Mashallah Golestani-Nejad, as I sat down to ask about the communities he represents. "We do not follow politics,'' he said, ''we only follow Torah. The issues of the state, whether it is Israel or Iran, are not our focus". This view kept coming back to me, from both Jews and Muslims, throughout the week, separating the Jew from Israel and the faith from the land.

This distant view of Israel is a tough one for the tribesmen of the Persian Empire but - as always in the Middle East - there are lines beyond the official ones, and the Jews of Iran have had ample time to develop their ingenuity.

When I ask a fellow synagogue-goer what the biggest misconception is about Jews in Iran he tells me without hesitation that it is the myth of them not being able to visit relatives in Israel. "Nothing is impossible; it can be done. We just do it with delicacy and discretion".

These words describe much of what I saw in Iran, and it may sum up the strange alloy forged between new regime and ancient minority.

As Jews, we are used to being outsiders - "the other" - to society, but this is true on many more levels in a country so closed off from the rest of the world. The Jews of Iran are fiercely loyal to the regime, and this loyalty goes far beyond a weekly prayer for the state or a discreet flag behind the bimah.

Jewish traditions have mixed with corresponding Muslim ones and Jewish legal issues are dealt with within the framework of Muslim Sharia law, rather than through a traditional Beth Din. The Jews of Iran are a recognised minority and, as such, they are allowed "special privileges" such as the ability to buy and drink alcohol as part of their religious ceremonies. But that title also involves being set aside in a separate-but-equal system, reflected in everyday life.

Thirty seven years after the revolution, the Jews of Iran have developed a culture unlike any in the rest of the Jewish world. With negligible assimilation - no doubt partially due to the ramifications of intermarriage under Sharia law - the Jews of Iran are highly religious and intensely Jewish in the heart of an Islamic state. It is a careful life within a closed and oppressive system and it creates a version of coexistence based on need rather than want. This breeds suspicion, as shown by my entry-level test upon arrival. Rumours of infiltration swirl around the community and, much like life in the Soviet Union, people have to be able to tell friend from foe in order to operate within this treacherous system.

As we walk from synagogue to the Shabbat dinner, my host and I hang back and, in a moment of solitude, she asks me if I've been to Paris.

I tell her I have and she asks about other cities and countries I have been to - her almond eyes lighting up and then quickly darkening. "I wish I could travel like you do," she says. "I wish I knew what it's like."

The rest of the group catches up and the subjects change, but her curiosity and longing linger.

I think of Egypt and of flight as we slowly make our way through the crowded Tehran Street and the woman with the dreams ushers her children along. She wishes she could know what it is like to travel but she can't and she's learned to live that life, as there is no other.

A bird in a gilded cage, she is a symbol for an entity much larger than herself and though that is not persecution it is also far from freedom.

Annika Hernroth-Rothstein is a political adviser and writer on the Middle East. Follow her on Twitter:@truthandfiction