The Dawning Light
Episode XX: Judgment Before the Throne
At Tabriz, the Bab was summoned before princes and divines, and a public reckoning laid bare far more than His judges intended.
The Dawning Light
Episode XX: Judgment Before the Throne
They summoned Him to silence Him. Instead He named Himself before the Crown Prince, the senior clergy, and the assembled dignitaries of Ádhirbayján, and when they punished Him for it, they only gave Persia something larger to fear. This is the examination at Tabríz.
The Báb already knew what was coming. Before the order arrived that would drag Him to Tabríz, He had dispersed the disciples gathered around Him in Chihríq. He did not scramble. He did not organize a defense. He waited, with calm resignation, for the summons to His affliction.
His escort, when it came, was afraid of the road. The direct route ran through the town of Khúy, and the authorities knew what would happen if the Báb passed through, demonstrations, outcry, a public protest against the tyranny of the government. So they rerouted Him. They took Him by way of Urúmíyyih instead.
They thought that would be safer. They were wrong.
In Urúmíyyih, Malik Qásim Mírzá, the local prince, received the Báb with ceremony and extraordinary deference. He refused to permit the least disrespect from anyone allowed into His presence.
But the prince was curious. One Friday, as the Báb was going to the public bath, Malik Qásim Mírzá ordered his groom to bring forward one of his wildest horses. This was a test. The groom, alarmed, approached the Báb secretly and tried to persuade Him to refuse the mount, this horse had already thrown the bravest and most skilled horsemen in the city.
The Báb answered him plainly: “Fear not. Do as you have been bidden, and commit Us to the care of the Almighty.”
The inhabitants of Urúmíyyih had heard what the prince intended. They packed the public square, waiting to see what would happen.
The horse was brought. The Báb walked toward it quietly, took hold of the bridle the groom offered, and caressed the animal. He placed His foot in the stirrup and mounted. The horse stood still. Motionless. As though conscious of what held it.
The crowd saw this. To their minds it was something close to a miracle. They surged forward, pressing to kiss the stirrups, and the prince’s attendants had to force them back for fear the crush of people would harm Him. Malik Qásim Mírzá himself walked on foot beside his Guest as far as the entrance of the bath, where the Báb told him to return to his residence. Along the whole route, the prince’s footmen struggled to restrain the people pressing in from every side to catch a glimpse of Him.
At the bath, the Báb dismissed everyone who had accompanied Him except the prince’s private attendant and Siyyid Hasan, who waited in the antechamber and helped Him undress. On His return, He mounted the same horse and rode through the same crowd. The prince came out on foot again to meet Him and escort Him home.
Then came the water.
The moment the Báb left the bath, the people of Urúmíyyih rushed inside. They carried off every last drop of the water that had served for His ablutions. The excitement in the city was overwhelming.
The Báb watched all of this, the adoration, the fervor, the spontaneous declarations of allegiance, and He was not deceived. When He learned that the overwhelming majority of the people had arisen to proclaim their faith in His Cause, He answered with a question. A question drawn from the well-known tradition ascribed to the Imám ‘Alí, the Commander of the Faithful, a tradition that specifically mentioned Ádhirbayján. A tradition whose closing passages warned that the lake of Urúmíyyih itself would one day boil up and overrun its banks and flood the town.
He said: “Think men that when they say, ‘We believe,’ they shall be let alone and not be put to the proof?”
He already knew what would happen. When the news of His brutal treatment in Tabríz reached these same people, most of them would collapse. Hardly a handful of those who had proclaimed their faith so loudly would hold firm when the trial came.
Foremost among those few who did was Mullá Imám-Vardí, whose tenacity no one could surpass except Mullá Jalíl-i-Urúmí, a native of Urúmíyyih and one of the Letters of the Living. Adversity only deepened Mullá Imám-Vardí’s devotion. He later recognized Bahá’u’lláh, labored for the Faith with the same fevered earnestness he had shown from the beginning, received numerous Tablets in recognition of his long service, and continued that work past the age of eighty until he died.
But that steadfastness was rare. The crowd that kissed the stirrups and carried off the bathwater, most of them would not survive the proof.
Meanwhile, the stories spread. Tales of what people had witnessed in Urúmíyyih traveled from mouth to mouth across the entire country with bewildering speed. The wave of enthusiasm swept over Tihrán itself. And there it triggered alarm.
The ecclesiastical leaders of the realm trembled. They saw on every side increasing evidence of a faith and devotion they themselves had been powerless to inspire, a loyalty that struck at the root of the very fabric their own hands had built and all their resources had failed to undermine. If this movement ran its course, they felt certain it would engulf the institutions on which their authority, their very existence, depended.
Tabríz, in particular, was thrown into wild excitement. The news of the Báb’s impending arrival inflamed the imagination of the people and kindled the fiercest hostility in the hearts of the clerical establishment of Ádhirbayján. The clergy alone, of all the people of Tabríz, refused to join the demonstrations with which a grateful population hailed His return.
The authorities decided to house the Báb outside the city gates. Only those He wished to see were admitted. All others were turned away.
On the second night after His arrival, the Báb summoned Azím to His presence.
In the course of their conversation, the Báb asserted His claim directly: He was none other than the promised Qá’im. But Azím hesitated. He could not bring himself to acknowledge it unreservedly.
The Báb saw the agitation in him and said: “To-morrow I shall, in the presence of the Valí-‘Ahd, and in the midst of the assembled ‘ulamás and notables of the city, proclaim My Mission. Whoso may feel inclined to require from Me any other testimony besides the verses which I have revealed, let him seek satisfaction from the Qá’im of his idle fancy.”
Azím spent that night in turmoil. He remained awake, restless, until the hour of sunrise.
In his own words: “As soon as I had offered my morning prayer, I realized that a great change had come over me. A new door seemed to have been unlocked and set open before my face. The conviction soon dawned upon me that if I were loyal to my faith in Muhammad, the Apostle of God, I must needs also unreservedly acknowledge the claims advanced by the Báb, and must submit without fear or hesitation to whatever He might choose to decree.”
He rushed to the Báb and begged forgiveness. The Báb answered: “It is a further evidence of the greatness of this Cause that even Azím should have felt so exceedingly troubled and shaken by its power and the immensity of its claim.”
Then He added: “Rest assured, the grace of the Almighty shall enable you to fortify the faint in heart and to make firm the step of the waverer. So great shall be your faith that should the enemy mutilate and tear your body to pieces, in the hope of lessening by one jot or tittle the ardour of your love, he would fail to attain his object.”
And then He said something more: “You will, no doubt, in the days to come, meet face to face Him who is the Lord of all the worlds, and will partake of the joy of His presence.”
Azím testified that from that day onward, no trace of either fear or agitation ever again cast its shadow upon him.
But the detention outside the city gates failed to quiet Tabríz. Every precaution, every restriction the authorities imposed, only made things worse. The situation was already ominous. Hájí Mírzá Áqásí, the Grand Vazír, issued orders for the immediate convocation of the ecclesiastical dignitaries of Tabríz in the official residence of the governor of Ádhirbayján, for the express purpose of arraigning the Báb and finding the most effective means to destroy His influence.
Those who gathered included Hájí Mullá Mahmúd, entitled the Nizámu’l-‘Ulamá’, who served as tutor to the Crown Prince; Mullá Muhammad-i-Mamaqání, a prominent Shaykhí leader; Mírzá ‘Alí-Asghar, the Shaykhu’l-Islám of Tabríz; and a number of the most distinguished doctors of divinity in the city. Nasíri’d-Dín Mírzá, the Valí-‘Ahd himself, the Crown Prince who would one day become Sháh, attended the gathering.
The Nizámu’l-‘Ulamá’ presided. As soon as the proceedings began, he commissioned an officer of the army to bring the Báb.
Outside, a multitude had besieged the entrance of the hall. The crowd pressed forward in such numbers that a passage had to be forced through them for the Báb to enter.
He entered the hall. Every seat was occupied. Only one was empty, the seat reserved for the Valí-‘Ahd.
The Báb greeted those present. Then, without the slightest hesitation, He walked to that vacant seat and sat down.
The majesty of His bearing. The overpowering confidence written on His face. The spirit of power that radiated from His entire being. For a moment, it crushed something in the men assembled there. A deep, mysterious silence fell. Not one soul in that distinguished gathering dared breathe a word.
At last the Nizámu’l-‘Ulamá’ broke the silence. “Whom do you claim to be,” he asked, “and what is the message which you have brought?”
The Báb answered three times.
“I am,” He declared. “I am, I am, the promised One! I am the One whose name you have for a thousand years invoked, at whose mention you have risen, whose advent you have longed to witness, and the hour of whose Revelation you have prayed God to hasten. Verily I say, it is incumbent upon the peoples of both the East and the West to obey My word and to pledge allegiance to My person.”
No one spoke. Heads dropped. The pallor of their faces betrayed the agitation of their hearts.
No one ventured to reply except Mullá Muhammad-i-Mamaqání.
This was no minor figure. He had been a disciple of Siyyid Kázim himself, the very teacher who had prepared his followers to seek the Promised One. Siyyid Kázim had wept over this man’s character. He had spoken of Mullá Muhammad’s unfaithfulness, his insincerity, and the perversity of his nature with tears and condemnation. Shaykh Hasan-i-Zunúzí, who heard those criticisms firsthand, did not understand them at the time. He was puzzled by his master’s sorrow. Not until this day in Tabríz did the meaning become clear.
Shaykh Hasan-i-Zunúzí stood outside the hall with the crowd. He could hear every word spoken within. And what he heard was this:
Mullá Muhammad, one-eyed, white-bearded, was seated on the left hand of the Valí-‘Ahd. The Báb occupied a seat between them. The moment the Báb declared Himself, the assembly seized with awe, heads fell, faces went pale. And into that silence Mullá Muhammad spoke.
“You wretched and immature lad of Shíráz!” he said. “You have already convulsed and subverted ‘Iráq; do you now wish to arouse a like turmoil in Ádhirbayján?”
The Báb replied: “Your Honour, I have not come hither of My own accord. I have been summoned to this place.”
“Hold your peace,” Mullá Muhammad retorted, “you perverse and contemptible follower of Satan!”
“Your Honour,” the Báb answered, “I maintain what I have already declared.”
The Nizámu’l-‘Ulamá’ tried to steer the assembly back to substance. “The claim which you have advanced is a stupendous one,” he told the Báb. “It must needs be supported by the most incontrovertible evidence.”
The Báb answered: “The mightiest, the most convincing evidence of the truth of the Mission of the Prophet of God is admittedly His own Word. He Himself testifies to this truth: ‘Is it not enough for them that We have sent down to Thee the Book?’ The power to produce such evidence has been given to Me by God. Within the space of two days and two nights, I declare Myself able to reveal verses of such number as will equal the whole of the Qur’án.”
The Nizámu’l-‘Ulamá’ said: “Describe orally, if you speak the truth, the proceedings of this gathering in language that will resemble the phraseology of the verses of the Qur’án, so that the Valí-‘Ahd and the assembled divines may bear witness to the truth of your claim.”
The Báb accepted. He began: “In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate, praise be to Him who has created the heaven and the earth…”
And Mullá Muhammad-i-Mamaqání interrupted.
He seized on a point of grammar. “This self-appointed Qá’im of ours,” he cried in haughty scorn, “has at the very start of his address betrayed his ignorance of the most rudimentary rules of grammar!”
The Báb answered: “The Qur’án itself does in no wise accord with the rules and conventions current amongst men. The Word of God can never be subject to the limitations of His creatures. Nay, the rules and canons which men have adopted have been deduced from the text of the Word of God and are based upon it. These men have, in the very texts of that holy Book, discovered no less than three hundred instances of grammatical error, such as the one you now criticise. Inasmuch as it was the Word of God, they had no other alternative except to resign themselves to His will.”
He repeated the same words. Mullá Muhammad raised the same objection again. Then another person intervened with a different question: “To which tense does the word Ishtartanna belong?”
The Báb answered by quoting the Qur’án: “Far be the glory of thy Lord, the Lord of all greatness, from what they impute to Him, and peace be upon His Apostles! And praise be to God, the Lord of the worlds.”
Immediately after, He rose and left the gathering.
The Nizámu’l-‘Ulamá’ was furious, not at the Báb, but at the assembly. “How shameful,” he exclaimed afterward, “is the discourtesy of the people of Tabríz! What could possibly be the connection between these idle remarks and the consideration of such weighty, such momentous issues?”
A few others condemned the disgraceful way the Báb had been treated.
But Mullá Muhammad-i-Mamaqání would not relent. He warned: “If you allow this youth to pursue unhampered the course of his activities, the day will come when the entire population of Tabríz will have flocked to his standard. Should he, when that day arrives, signify his wish that all the ‘ulamás of Tabríz, that the Valí-‘Ahd himself, should be expelled from the city and that he should alone assume the reins of civil and ecclesiastical authority, no one of you, who now view with apathy his cause, will feel able to oppose him effectually. The entire city, nay the whole province of Ádhirbayján, will on that day unanimously support him.”
Fear works. The authorities took counsel. Some argued the Báb had shown marked disrespect to the Valí-‘Ahd by taking his seat without permission, and that He had left without the chairman’s consent, and therefore He should be summoned to another gathering and punished publicly. Nasíri’d-Dín Mírzá, the Crown Prince, refused this proposal.
In the end, they decided the Báb would be taken to the house of Mírzá ‘Alí-Asghar, the Shaykhu’l-Islám of Tabríz, who was also a siyyid, to receive punishment at the hands of the governor’s bodyguard.
The bodyguard refused. They would not involve themselves in what they regarded as the sole concern of the ‘ulamás.
So the Shaykhu’l-Islám did it himself. He summoned the Báb to his home and, with his own hand, applied the rods to the Báb’s feet. Eleven times.
That same year, this man was struck with paralysis. He endured excruciating pain and died a miserable death. His character, treacherous, avaricious, self-seeking, notoriously cruel and sordid, was universally recognized by the people of Tabríz, who had groaned under his authority and prayed for deliverance. The circumstances of his death reminded both his allies and his enemies of the punishment that must await those whom neither the fear of God nor the voice of conscience can restrain from such cruelty.
After his death, the office of Shaykhu’l-Islám was abolished in Tabríz. The very name of the institution he had served became abhorrent to the people.
The Báb was sent back to Chihríq. His persecutors had imagined that summoning Him before the assembled power of Ádhirbayján would break His will, that threats and intimidation would force Him to abandon His Mission. Instead, He had used that gathering to proclaim the distinguishing features of His claim before the most illustrious dignitaries of the province and to confute His adversaries in brief, convincing language.
The news of that declaration, and its consequences, spread rapidly throughout Persia. It reanimated the zeal of the believers, reinforced their position, and became the signal for the tremendous upheavals that would soon convulse the land.
And the Báb was not finished. No sooner had He returned to Chihríq than He wrote, in bold and moving language, a denunciation of the character and conduct of Hájí Mírzá Áqásí, the Grand Vazír who had engineered His persecution. The epistle opened with the words: “O thou who hast disbelieved in God and hast turned thy face away from His signs!” It was given the name the Khutbiy-i-Qahríyyih, and it was forwarded to Hujjat, Mullá Muhammad-‘Alíy-i-Zanjání, who was confined in Tihrán at the time, with instructions to deliver it in person to the Grand Vazír.
Hujjat delivered it. Then he came to visit Bahá’u’lláh, who was in the company of Mírzá Masíh-i-Núrí and other believers. There Hujjat recounted the circumstances of the delivery, and then recited the entire text of the Tablet from memory. The epistle was about three pages long, and he had committed every word.
Bahá’u’lláh, recounting this years later from the prison-city of Akká, spoke of Hujjat with evident admiration, his purity, the nobleness of his life, his undaunted courage, his indomitable will, his unworldliness, and his unwavering constancy.
They summoned Him to Tabríz to frighten Him into silence. He walked into the hall, took the seat of the Crown Prince, and told the most powerful men in Ádhirbayján that He was the One they had prayed for during a thousand years. They struck His feet with rods. They sent Him back to prison. And every road out of that city carried His claim deeper into a country that was already shaking.
The examination was supposed to end the movement. It became its announcement.