Monologue about Baha'u'llah: Memories of Bahiyyih Khanum

Here's a shortened form of Memories of Bahiyyih Khanum, Adapted From The Chosen Highway
 

Adapted From The Chosen Highway:    Memories of Bahiyyih Khanum

(compiled/edited by Anne Perry--please use/revise as you'd like!) 

MC: Next we will ask _______ to share memories of Baha’u’llah from the point of view of Bahiyyih Khanum, the daughter of Bahá'u'lláh and sister of 'Abdu'l-Bahá, called by the Persian Bahá'ís "Varaqiyih 'Ulya (the Greatest Holy Leaf)" 

____:  I remember . . . very happy days with my beloved father and mother, and my brother Abbas, who was two years my senior. My father was Mirza Husayn-'Ali of Nur, who married my beautiful mother, Asiyih Khanum, when she was very young. She was the only daughter of a Persian Vizier, Mirza Ismaaik. He, as well as my paternal grandfather, possessed great wealth.  When the brother of my mother married my father's sister, the double alliance of the two noble families roused much interest. "It is adding wealth to wealth," the people said. [My mother’s] wedding treasures were extensive; forty mules were loaded with her possessions when she came to her husband's home.

For six months before the marriage a jeweller worked at her home, preparing jewelry—even the buttons of her garments were of gold, set with precious stones. (These buttons were destined to be exchanged for bread, on the terrible exile journey from Tihran to Baghdad.)  [She was] tall, slender, graceful, eyes of dark blue - a pearl, a flower amongst women. . . . her wisdom and intelligence were remarkable. [She was] queenly in her dignity and loveliness, full of consideration for everybody. . . .  

Even in the early years of their married life, my father and mother took part as little as possible in State functions, [they] preferred to occupy themselves in caring for the poor, and for all who were unhappy, or in trouble.  From our doors nobody was ever turned away. The people called my father "The Father of the Poor," they spoke of my mother as "The Mother of Consolation." So our peaceful days flowed on.  We used to go to our house in the country sometimes; my brother Abbas and I loved to play in the beautiful gardens. . . .  

One day I remember well, though I was only six years old at the time. It seems that an attempt had been made on the life of the Shah by a half-crazy young Babi. My father was away at his country house . . . Suddenly a servant came rushing in great distress to my mother.  "The master, the master, he is arrested - I have seen him! Oh, they have beaten him! They say he has suffered the torture of the bastinado! His feet are bleeding! He has no shoes on! His turban has gone! His clothes are torn! There are chains upon his neck!”

My poor mother's face grew whiter and whiter. We children were terribly frightened and could only weep bitterly. Immediately all our relations, and friends, and servants fled from our house in terror. . . . Our palace, and the smaller houses belonging to it were very soon stripped of everything; furniture, treasurers, all were stolen.

Mirza Musa, my father's brother, helped my mother and her three children to escape into hiding. She succeeded in saving some few of the marriage treasurers. These things were sold; with the money my mother was able to pay the [jailers] to take food to my father in the prison. . . .Oh, the terrible anxiety my beloved mother suffered at that time! Surely greater than any woman, about to become a mother (as I afterwards knew), could possibly have strength to bear.

The prison into which my father had been cast was a terrible place, seven steps below the ground; it was ankle-deep in filth, infested with horrible vermin, and of an indescribable loath-someness. Added to this, there was no glimmer of light. . . . Within its walls forty Babis were crowded; murderers and highway robbers were also imprisoned there. My noble father was hurled into this black hold, loaded with heavy chains; five other Babis were chained to him night and day, and here he remained for four months. . . .  Any movement caused the chains to cut deeper and deeper not only into the flesh of one, but of all who were chained together; sleep or rest of any kind was not possible. No food was provided, and it was with the utmost difficulty that my mother was able to arrange to get any food or drink taken into that ghastly prison.

Meanwhile, the spirit which upheld the Babis never quailed for a moment, even under these conditions. To be tortured to a death, which would be the Martyr's Crown of Life, was their aim and great desire.  They chanted prayers night and day.  Every morning one or more of these brave and devoted friends would be taken out to be tortured and killed in various ways of horror.  The fanatics became more and more infuriated when they failed to quench the amazing spirit of these fearless, devoted ones [and] crowded to these fearful scenes, [while] all through the fiendish work, a drum was loudly beaten.

How well I remember cowering in the dark, with my little brother, Mirza Mihdi, the Purest Branch, at that time two years old, in my arms, which were not very strong, as I was only six. I was shivering with terror, for I knew of some of the horrible things that were happening, and was aware that they might have seized even my mother [when she would go to find out if my father were still alive]. My brother `Abbas usually went with her on these sorrowful errands.

We listened eagerly to the accounts she gave to my uncle. This information came through the kindness of a sister of my grandfather, who was married to Mirza Yusif, a Russian subject, and a friend of the Russian Consul in Tihran. This gentleman, my great uncle by marriage, used to attend the courts to find out some particulars as to the victims chosen for execution day by day, and thus was able to relieve to some extent my mother's overwhelming anxiety as these appalling days passed over us.

It was Mirza Yusif, who was able to help my mother about getting food taken to my father, and who brought us to the two little rooms near the prison, where we stayed in close hiding. He had to be very careful in thus defying the authorities, although the danger in this case was mitigated by the fact of his being under the protection of the Russian Consulate, as a Russian subject.  Nobody at all, of all our friends and relations, dared to come to see my mother during these days of death, but the wife of Mirza Yusif. . . .  

One day the discovery was made by Mirza Yusif that our untiring enemies, the most fanatical of the mullas, were plotting the death of Mirza Husayn `Ali Nuri, my father. Mirza Yusif consulted the Russian Consul; that powerful friend determined that this plan should be at once frustrated. An amazing scene took place in the Court, where the sentences of death were passed. The Russian Consul rose and fearlessly addressed those in court:

"Hearken to me! I have words of importance to say to you" (his voice rang out, the president and officials were too amazed to reply). "Have you not taken enough cruel revenge? Have you not already murdered a large enough number of harmless people, because of this accusation, of the absurd falseness of which you are quite aware? Has there not been sufficient of this orgy of brutal torture to satisfy you? How is it possible that you can even pretend to think that this august prisoner planned that silly attempt to shoot the Shah?

"It is not unknown to you that the stupid gun, used by that poor youth, could not have killed a bird. Moreover, the boy was obviously insane. You know very well that this charge is not only untrue, but . . . ridiculous. "There must be an end to all this. "I have determined to extend the protection of Russia to this innocent nobleman; therefore beware! For if one hair of his head be hurt from this moment, rivers of blood shall flow in your town as punishment. You will do well to heed my warning, my country is behind me in this matter."

. . . Very soon afterwards we heard that, fearing to disregard the stern warning of the Russian Consul, the Governor gave orders that my father should be permitted to come forth from that prison with his life. It was also decreed that he and his family were banished. They were to leave Tihran for Baghdad. Ten days were allowed for preparation, as the beloved prisoner was very ill indeed. And so he came to our two little rooms. Oh, the joy of his presence!

. . . Jamal-i-Mubarak (a name given to my father, i.e., literally the Blessed Beauty) spoke very little of the terrible sufferings of that time! We, who saw the marks of what he had endured, where the chains had cut into the delicate skin, especially that of his neck, his wounded feet so long untended, evidence of the torture of the bastinado, how we wept with my dear mother. He, on his part, told of the steadfast faith of the friends, who had gone forth to meet their death at the hands of their torturers, with joy and gladness, to attain the crown of martyrdom. The glory had won so great a victory that the shame, and pain, and sorrow, and scorn were of comparatively no importance whatever!  Jamal-i-Mubarak had a marvelous divine experience whilst in that prison. We saw a new radiance seeming to enfold him like a shining vesture, its significance were to learn years later. At that time we were only aware of the wonder of it. . . .

My mother did her best to nurse our beloved, that he might have some strength to set out upon that journey on which we were to start in ten days' time. . . . This journey was filled with indescribable difficulties. My mother had no experience, no servants, no provisions, and very little money left. My father was extremely ill, not having recovered from the ordeals of the torture and the prison. No one of all of our friends and relations dared to come to our help, or even to say good-bye, but one old lady, the grandmother of Asiyih Khanum. Our faithful servant, Isfandiyar, and the one negro woman who did not fear to remain with us, did their best. But we three children were very young, my brother eight, and I six years old. Mirza Mihdi, the "Purest Branch," was very delicate, and my mother allowed herself to be persuaded to leave the little fellow, only two years old, with her grandmother. . . .

. . . we started on that fearful journey, which lasted about four weeks; the weather was bitterly cold, snow was upon the ground. On the way to Baghdad we sometimes encamped in wilderness places, but . . . we were not well prepared! My poor mother! How she suffered on this journey, riding in a takht-i-ravan, borne on a jolting mule! And this took place only six weeks before her youngest son was born! Never did she utter one word of complaint. She was always thinking of some kindness for somebody, and sympathy she gave unsparingly to all in their difficulties. . . . When we came to a city, my dear mother would take the clothes and wash them at the public baths; we also were able to have baths at those places. She would carry the cold, wet clothes away in her arms - drying them was an almost impossible task; her lovely hands, being unused to such coarse work, became very painful.

We sometimes stayed at a caravanserai - a sort of rough inn. Only one room was allowed for one family, and for one night - no longer. No light was permitted at night, and there were no beds. Sometimes we were able to have tea, or again a few eggs, a little cheese, and some coarse bread. My father was so ill that he could not eat the rough food - my mother was very distressed and tried to think of some way of getting different food, as he grew more weak through eating nothing. One day she had been able to get a little flour, and at night, when we arrived at the caravanserai she made a sweet cake for him. Alas! - the misfortune - being dark, she used salt instead of sugar. So the cake was uneatable!

The Governor of Tihran sent soldiers with us to the frontier, where Turkish soldiers met us and escorted us to Baghdad. When we first arrived there, we had a very little house, consisting of my father's room, and another one which was my mother's and in which were also my eldest brother, the baby, and myself. When Arab ladies came to see us, this was the only reception room. These ladies came because they had been taught by Tahirih, Qurratu'l-`Ayn, during her visit to Baghdad.

Asiyih Khanum, my dear mother, was in delicate health, her strength was diminished by the hardships she had undergone, but she always worked beyond her force. Sometimes my father himself helped in the cooking, as that hard work was too much for [her].

During this time the darling baby brother, born after our arrival in Baghdad, became seriously ill. Our guest would not allow a doctor, or even any neighbour to come to our help. My mother was heart-broken when the little one died; even then we were not allowed to have anybody to prepare him for burial. The sweet body of our beautiful baby was given to a man, who took it away, and we never knew even where he was laid. I remember so clearly the sorrow of those days.

Now our great anxiety was concerning the whereabouts of Jamal-i-Mubarak. All this time my mother and Mirza Musa made every possible inquiry. My brother's distress at the prolonged absence was pathetic. On one occasion he prayed the whole night a certain prayer with the one intention, that our father might be restored to us. The very next day, he and our uncle, Mirza Musa, overheard two people speaking of a marvelous one, living as a dervish in the wold mountain district of Sulaymaniyyih; they described him as "The Nameless One," who had magnetized the country-side with his love. And they immediately knew that this must be our Beloved.

Here at last was a clue! Without delay, Shaykh Sultan, our faithful friend, with one of the other disciples, set forth on their quest. Needless to say how our hearts went with them. . . .  

As these days of intensified waiting passed by, our faith [and] hope increased and grew. We knew that in the days that were very near at hand, our wanderer, our father, would be once more with us. My mother had made a coat for him out of some pieces of precious Persian stuff (Tirmih - red cloth),* which she had carefully kept for the purpose out of the remains of her marriage treasures. It was now ready for him to put on.  At last! As my mother, my brother, and I sat in a breathless state of expectancy, we heard a step. It was a dervish. Through the disguise we saw the light of our beloved one's presence! Our joy cannot be described as we clung to him.

I can see now my beloved mother, calm and gentle, and my brother holding his father's hand fast, as though never again could he let him go out of his sight, the lovely boy almost enfolded in the uncouth garment of the dervish disguise. I could never forget this scene, so touching and so happy.

Many . . .  incidents of that two years' sojourn in the wilderness . . . were told to us; we were never tired of listening. . . .One day, near a village in the mountains, Bahá'u'lláh saw a young boy weeping bitterly. My father, always compassionate for anyone in sorrow, especially if it were a child, said, "Little man, why art thou weeping?" The boy looked up at the one who spoke, and saw a dervish!

"Oh Sir!" and he fell to weeping afresh. "The schoolmaster has punished me for writing so badly. I cannot write, and now I have no copy! I dare not go back to school"

"Weep no longer. I will set a copy for thee, and show thee how to imitate it. And now thou canst take this; show it to thy schoolmaster.'

When the schoolmaster saw the writing which the boy had brought, he was astonished, for he recognized it as of the royal penmanship, this amazing script. "Who gave this to the?" said the master.

"He wrote it for me, the dervish on the mountain."

"He is no dervish the writer of this, but a royal personage," said the schoolmaster.

This story . . .  caused certain of the people to set out to find this one, of whom many wonderful things were said. So great was the throng which pressed in upon him, that he had to go further away; again and again, he moved from place to place, hiding himself from the crowds, in the caves of the mountains, and in the desert places of that desolate land.

One evening the Sufis of that country-side, assembled together, were discussing a mystical poem, when a dervish arose in their midst and gave so wonderful an interpretation of its meaning that awe fell upon the gathering. . . . [They] . . . entreated him to come again to teach them. But his time was not yet. When one said sorrowfully, "Oh Master! Shall we then see thee no more?"

"In a time to come, but not yet, go to the city of Baghdad, ask for the house of Mirza Musa Irani. There shalt thou hear tidings of me." the "Nameless One" replied.   He went out from their midst and again retreated. . . .

Many were the events of importance to the progress of the Cause that took place during the sojourn at Baghdad. . . . [While] at Baghdad many learned mullas and others came into the Holy Presence, several of whom became His devoted friends; one of those was Kayvan Mirza, grandson of Fath - `Ali Shah. This gentleman came and asked Mirza Muhit to obtain permission for an audience at some midnight in secret.

The reply was: "When I was in the wilderness of Kurdistan I composed this poem: If thou hast in thine heart one desire for thy life, then come not hither! But shouldst thou be prepared to sacrifice soul, and heart and life, come and bring others! Such is the path if thou desire to enter the Kingdom of Light, If thou art not of those able to walk this path-- Begone, and trouble us not!  Mirza Muhit conveyed this reply to Kayvan Mirza. He chose to "Begone," his heart failed him!

. . . Now followed a period when we might have had a little peace. The Governor had become a friend; the fanatics did not dare to show openly a very fierce hostility. Some of the proceeds of our property, which our friends had succeeded in rescuing and keeping for us, had begun to arrive from Persia. Several of the faithful the Babis, who had followed Bahá'u'lláh and his family into exile, had opened little shops, where their absolute honesty had begun to attract buyers.  Many learned and interesting people gathered round Bahá'u'lláh, appreciating his wisdom, and the helpful counsel he gave when different perplexing problems were laid before him: "Surely his knowledge must be from Heaven!" the people said. As he spoke to them of the "Most Great Peace" which will come to the world, and shewed his kindness to all who were in trouble and in want, and became known to the poor as "Our Father of Compassion," they understood how it was that for the teaching of true peace and brotherhood and loving-kindness he was driven into exile, and all his vast possessions taken from him. . . . more people came to him from all the surrounding country.

"There is something of another world in this Majestic Person," they said.  Accounts of what had taken place during his sojourn in the wilderness of Sulaymaniyyih were also told abroad.  As the people pondered on these things, many were amazed, and referenced the mysterious and majestic guest who tarried in their midst.

When his ever-watchful enemies, the most fanatical and bigoted of the mullas, became aware of the influence of his mere presence on all who came to him, and of the profound impression he had made in the land, they again set themselves to work against him.  The authorities at Constantinople were approached with . . . plausible tales of the harm that was being done by him to the religion of the people, and requests that he might be driven from Baghdad. At length the Governor came to Bahá'u'lláh in great distress, telling him that a decree had arrived from Constantinople. By this decree Bahá'u'lláh was commanded to leave Baghdad; He would be escorted by Turkish soldiers to an unknown destination.  Our peace was at an end!

. . . great was the consternation among the friends. We had to make preparation for a journey, we knew not how long, to a place we knew not where. The friends came weeping helplessly, "What shall we do? What is going to happen to our Beloved? What?" There was such turmoil that we could not proceed with our preparations.

At this juncture Najib Pasha, who had become a reverent admirer of Bahá'u'lláh, invited him to bring some of the friends, and come to stay in his garden, a short distance outside Baghdad. This relieved some of the turmoil, and we worked hard to make ready for the departure. * * *

It was during Bahá'u'lláh's stay in this garden that the declaration was made to His eldest son, `Abbas Effendi, and a few friends, that He was "Him Whom God shall make Manifest," and in commemoration of this event the [Festival] of Ridvan (meaning Paradise) was instituted, and continues to be observed annually by the Bahá'ís throughout the world.

During our sojourn in Adrianople, Bahá'u'lláh's custom was to walk only in the garden of the house, which was also His prison. Here the friends crowded, weeping and wailing, refusing to be comforted. They determined to resist the separation; great was the tumult. Many telegrams were sent to the Government at Constantinople. At length we all started together on the journey to Gallipoli, and in three days we arrived, having travelled in carts and wagons. Here the Governor announced that he had received orders for our separation. He came to see Bahá'u'lláh and the Master, and becoming friendly, he tried to help us in our distress. Again many telegrams were sent to Constantinople; we stayed for a week waiting for the replies. At last permission was given for us all to embark together in a Turkish boat. In this small boat we, seventy-two persons, were crowded together in unspeakable conditions, for eleven days of horror. . . There was an appalling smell in the boat, and most of us were very ill indeed.

At Adrianople were written some of the Epistles to the Kings and Queens of the earth, in which Bahá'u'lláh called upon them as "Servants of the Most High God and Guardians under Him of the people entrusted to their guidance," to join with Him, Bahá'u'lláh, to form an International Arbitration Council, that humanity should never again suffer the disgrace and misery of war. He proclaimed now more publicly that His authority was Divine, being directly given to Him by God-that He was the Chosen One, Whom, under various names, all the religions of the earth were awaiting. The . . . sacred influence radiating from Him reached a wider and still wider circle.

The fanatics, fearing anew this wonderful Personage, and foreseeing the loss of their prestige, . . . decided to renew their attacks upon Him. The result was the further exile to `Akka . . . , the penal convict city, where Turkey sent the most hardened criminals. The idea was that Bahá'u'lláh's influence could not radiate from that pestilential city, . . . also there was hope that He would not be able to live long in that place, where the air was so poisonous that "If a bird flies over 'Akka it dies!" became the proverb.

Therefore it was that the Great One, with the band of exiles who refused to be separated from Him, set forth on this fourth and last journey of banishment; they were. . . labeled as . . . sowers of sedition, hardened criminals, enemies of the pure religion of God. . . . The faithful were commanded to shun these outcasts. . . .The list of false charges was . . . directed to be read to the worshippers in the Mosques. . . . [This was] the atmosphere of hatred which awaited the "Followers of the Light" when they arrived at the prison fortress city of `Akka "by way of the sea beyond Jordan - the valley of Anchor, which should be given as a door of hope." Thus, the world unknowing, were the prophecies being daily fulfilled.

. . . Nabil, the historian, and another of the Bahá'ís, were in the prison near the port at Alexandria. In their chains they stood, gazing out of the small windows. To their amazement they saw Bahá'u'lláh and the Master standing amongst the friends on the deck of our boat. The prisoners succeeded in attracting the attention of one of our servants, who very cautiously went to them and heard them say: "We were brought here a week ago, we know not to what fate we are destined." Thence we proceeded to Haifa.

[There] we had to be carried ashore in chains [and] we remained for a few hours. Now we embarked again for the last bit of our sea journey. The heat of that month of July was overpowering. We were put into a sailing boat. There being no wind, and no shelter from the burning rays of the sun, we spent eight hours of positive misery, and at last we had reached `Akka, the end of our journey. The landing at this place was achieved with much difficulty; the ladies of our party were carried ashore.

All the townspeople had assembled to see the arrival of the prisoners. Having been told that we were infidels, criminals, and sowers of sedition, the attitude of the crowd was threatening. Their yelling of curses and execrations filled us with fresh misery. We were terrified of the unknown! We knew not what the fate of our party, the friends and ourselves would be.

We were taken to the old fortress of `Akka, where we were crowded together. There was no air; a small quantity of very bad coarse bread was provided; we were unable to get fresh water to drink; our sufferings were not diminished. Then an epidemic of typhoid broke out. Nearly all became ill.  The Master appealed to the Governor, but he was at first very little inclined to relax the strict rules, which he had been directed to enforce. . . . After a while the Governor was persuaded by the Master to allow a little money instead of the uneatable rations which had been allotted to us; he also permitted one of the servitors, Mirza Ja`far, to go into the town, accompanied by a soldier to buy food. By this our condition was considerably bettered.

Bahá'u'lláh and His family were imprisoned in three little rooms, up many steps, for two years. During this time Dr. Petro, a Greek, became a friend, and having been able to make investigations, he assured the Governor that these prisoners, far from being vile criminals were high-minded persons and innocent. . . . So closely were we watched that we had been in `Akka six or seven months without being able to get into touch with Mirza `Abdu'l-A-Ahad, a devoted Babi disciple, who had been sent by 'Abdu'l-Bahá to `Akka some time before our arrival and had opened a shop. . . . Having heard a rumour that the Beloved Ones had been sent to `Akka, a friend, Abu'l-Qasim Khan, and his wife, made that long and dangerous journey from Persia in order to find out the truth. Arrived in `Akka they met Mirza `Abdu'l-Ahad. He, fearing lest his secret should be disclosed, hurriedly hid the pair behind stacks of boxes at the back of his shop.

The news of their arrival was, with much difficulty, conveyed to Bahá'u'lláh. He sent them back to Persia, after a stay of only three days, so grave was the risk. . . . They had not even seen Bahá'u'lláh, but they were able to carry the news back to Persia that the Beloved Ones were really imprisoned in this desolate place.

. . .  Little by little the news of our whereabouts filtered through to the other friends in Persia. Shaykh Salman's self-constituted mission was to carry news from Bahá'u'lláh to Persia, and to bring back letter to Him. Many were the difficult and dangerous journeys made, mostly on foot.

Shaykh Salman . . ., bearing a most important supplication from a friend in Persia to Bahá'u'lláh, . . . was entrusted with the significant mission of bringing Munirih Khanum from Isfahan to `Akka, she [became] the wife of ['Abdu'l-Bahá] and my much loved sister.

When Nabil, the historian, came to `Akka he was unable to get into the city. He lived for some time in the cave of Elijah on Mount Carmel. . . . he used to walk (about ten miles) to a place beyond the wall of the fortress. From this point he could see the windows of those three little rooms of our prison; here he would wait and watch for the rare and much-coveted happiness of seeing the hand of Bahá'u'lláh waving from the small middle window.

Meanwhile the war between Russia and Turkey was in progress. More barrack room was required for the soldiers. By that time the Governor had become friendly and consented to allow the family to leave the fortress, and live in a little house which a Christian merchant had let to us.  How we rejoiced in our liberty, restricted though it was. . . .

"I never had any time for studies," [and I never married]. . . . [My] life was spent in prayer to God and service to [my] loved ones. [We weathered all of those days so that Baha’u’llah could be recognized in His true light—as the Glory of God sent for the benefit of all mankind.]