The Dawning Light
Episode XXII: Seven Who Would Not Bend
In Tihran, seven believers were led into a final public test, and their witness gave the city something it could not forget.
The Dawning Light
Episode XXII: Seven Who Would Not Bend
Seven men are brought before the Grand Vazír of Persia and told to recant. A single word will save each of them. Not one of them says it. Instead, they argue over who gets to die first.
That is the scene this episode moves toward. But it begins in silence.
In Chihríq, the Báb received the news from Tabarsí. Mullá Husayn was dead. Quddús was dead. The companions who had held the fort through siege and starvation and treachery were gone, massacred after a sworn oath of safe passage.
The blow was absolute.
His amanuensis, Siyyid Husayn-i-‘Azíz, later described what followed. “The Báb was heart-broken. He was crushed with grief, a grief that stilled His voice and silenced His pen. For nine days He refused to meet any of His friends. I myself, though His close and constant attendant, was refused admittance. Whatever meat or drink we offered Him, He was disinclined to touch. Tears rained continually from His eyes. I could hear Him, from behind the curtain, give vent to His feelings of sadness as He communed, in the privacy of His cell, with His Beloved.”
Nine days without food or company. Siyyid Husayn tried to write down the lamentations he heard through the curtain. The Báb suspected it and ordered him to destroy whatever he had recorded. Nothing survives of those words. For five months, the Báb languished in what His attendant called an ocean of despondency and sorrow.
Then Muharram came, the year 1266, and He picked up His pen again. The first page He wrote was dedicated to Mullá Husayn. In the visiting Tablet revealed in his honor, He extolled the fidelity with which Mullá Husayn had served Quddús throughout the siege. He lavished eulogies on Quddús. He wrote that He, too, would soon join those twin immortals. For one whole week He continued to write praises of the dead.
On the day of Ashura, He summoned Mullá Adi-Guzal, a believer from Marághih who had been acting as His attendant for two months. He gave him the name Sáyyah. He entrusted to his care the visiting Tablets He had revealed for the martyrs of Tabarsí and gave him instructions that have the weight of sacred commission:
“Arise, and with complete detachment proceed, in the guise of a traveller, to Mázindarán, and there visit, on My behalf, the spot which enshrines the bodies of those immortals who, with their blood, have sealed their faith in My Cause. As you approach the precincts of that hallowed ground, put off your shoes and, bowing your head in reverence to their memory, invoke their names and prayerfully make the circuit of their shrine. Bring back to Me, as a remembrance of your visit, a handful of that holy earth which covers the remains of My beloved ones, Quddús and Mullá Husayn.”
Then He added a line that carries its own shadow: “Strive to be back ere the day of Naw-Rúz, that you may celebrate with Me that festival, the only one I probably shall ever see again.”
Sáyyah went. He reached the site on the first of Rabí’u’l-Avval. By the ninth day of that same month, the first anniversary of Mullá Husayn’s death, he had completed his circuit and carried out every instruction.
From there he traveled to Tihrán.
Áqáy-i-Kalím, who received Sáyyah at the entrance of Bahá’u’lláh’s home, later recounted the scene. It was the depth of winter. Despite the cold and snow, Sáyyah arrived dressed as a dervish, poorly clad, barefooted, dishevelled. Mud covered his legs to the knees. His heart was set afire with the flame that pilgrimage had kindled.
Vahíd, Siyyid Yahyáy-i-Darábí, a man of high rank and scholarly distinction, then a guest in that home, was told of Sáyyah’s return from Tabarsí. He forgot every protocol his station demanded. He rushed forward and flung himself at the feet of the pilgrim. Holding those mud-covered legs in his arms, he kissed them.
The memory of Tabarsí had not cooled. It had become a living charge, carried in earth and in flesh.
While Sáyyah walked barefoot to a mass grave, a young shepherd from Zarand was walking into the Cause by a different road. His name was Yar-Muhammad, the man who would become Nabíl, the narrator of this history. A chance conversation overheard in a village mosque first brought him the name of the Báb. That rumor carried him through Qum, through Káshán, through Tihrán, where he found the Cause moving through copied texts, hidden teachers, private houses, and the quiet labor of believers who kept the flame alive after the fort had fallen.
He met Mírzá Ahmad, a scribe who spent his evenings copying the Persian Bayán and gave the copies as gifts to fellow-believers. He met Haji Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí, the Báb’s maternal uncle, who had recently returned from visiting his Nephew in Chihríq and was now staying in Tihrán. He was struck by the nobility of his features and the serenity of his countenance.
At one gathering, Áqáy-i-Kalím urged Haji Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí to leave the capital, which was in a state of great ferment. The uncle’s answer was calm and final: “Why fear for my safety? Would that I too could share in the banquet which the hand of Providence is spreading for His chosen ones!”
He would not have to wait long.
A treacherous siyyid from Káshán, living in the Madrisiy-i-Daru’sh-Shafa’, had won the trust of believers in Tihrán. He had been warned against, Mírzá Muhammad-Husayn-i-Kirmání, a well-known lecturer, had tried repeatedly to persuade Siyyid Muhammad, one of his pupils, to break off contact with the man. Siyyid Muhammad refused.
At the beginning of Rabí’u’th-Thání in the year 1266, the treacherous siyyid delivered into the hands of a certain Siyyid Husayn, one of the ‘ulamá of Káshán, the names and addresses of approximately fifty believers in Tihrán. That list went immediately to Mahmúd Khán-i-Kalántar, who ordered mass arrests.
Fourteen were seized. They were confined in the house of Mahmúd Khán from the first to the twenty-second of Rabí’u’th-Thání. Táhirih was held prisoner on the upper floor of that same house. Every kind of pressure was applied to extract information, to break resolve.
Among the captives was Muhammad-Husayn-i-Maraghiyí, who refused to utter a single word despite severe torture. His silence was so absolute that his captors believed him mute. They asked Haji Mullá Ismá’íl, who had converted him, whether the man could speak. “He is mute, but not dumb,” Ismá’íl replied. “He is fluent of speech and is free from any impediment.” He called Muhammad-Husayn by name, and the man answered at once, assuring him of his readiness to abide by his will.
He could speak. He chose not to give his captors a syllable.
The case was referred upward, from Mahmúd Khán to the Amír-Nizám, Mírzá Taqí Khán, Grand Vazír to Nasiri’d-Dín Sháh. The sovereign in those days left such matters entirely to his minister, who wielded unchecked authority. The Amír issued a peremptory order: whoever among the fourteen refused to recant would be executed.
Seven broke. They denied the Báb and were released.
Seven did not.
The first to face the Amír-Nizám was Haji Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí, the Báb’s own uncle, one of the leading merchants of Shíráz, a man whose ransom wealthy friends had already offered to pay. The Maliku’t-Tujjar himself had interceded.
The Grand Vazír laid out the terms. “The Chief Magistrate of this realm is loth to inflict the slightest injury upon the Prophet’s descendants. Eminent merchants of Shíráz and Tihrán are willing, nay eager, to pay your ransom. A word of recantation from you is sufficient to set you free and ensure your return, with honours, to your native city.”
The uncle answered without hesitation.
“Your Excellency, if others before me, who quaffed joyously the cup of martyrdom, have chosen to reject an appeal such as the one you now make to me, know of a certainty that I am no less eager to decline such a request. My repudiation of the truths enshrined in this Revelation would be tantamount to a rejection of all the Revelations that have preceded it. God knows that whatever I have heard and read concerning the sayings and doings of those Messengers, I have been privileged to witness the same from this Youth, this beloved Kinsman of mine, from His earliest boyhood to this, the thirtieth year of His life. I only request of you that you allow me to be the first to lay down my life in the path of my beloved Kinsman.”
The Amír was stupefied. Without a word, he motioned that the man be taken out and beheaded.
As Haji Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí was led to his death, he repeated the words of Háfiz: “Great is my gratitude to Thee, O my God, for having granted so bountifully all I have asked of Thee.”
Then he turned to the crowd.
“Hear me, O people. I have offered myself up as a willing sacrifice in the path of the Cause of God. For over a thousand years, you have prayed and prayed again that the promised Qá’im be made manifest. How often have you cried: ‘Hasten, O God, His coming; remove every barrier that stands in the way of His appearance!’ And now that He is come, you have driven Him to a hopeless exile in a remote corner of Ádhirbayján and have risen to exterminate His companions.”
His last words were not a curse. “Were I to invoke the malediction of God upon you, I am certain that His avenging wrath would grievously afflict you. Such is not, however, my prayer. With my last breath, I pray that the Almighty may wipe away the stain of your guilt and enable you to awaken from the sleep of heedlessness.”
These words broke his executioner. The man pretended his sword needed resharpening and walked away, determined never to return. “When I was appointed to this service,” he was heard to say, weeping, “they undertook to deliver into my hands only those who had been convicted of murder and highway robbery. I am now ordered to shed the blood of one no less holy than the Imám Músay-i-Kázim himself.”
He left Tihrán. He went to Khurásán and worked as a porter and a crier. To believers in that province, he told the story of what he had witnessed. Every time the name of Haji Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí was spoken, he wept.
The second man brought forward was Mírzá Qurbán-‘Alí, a dervish of such recognized holiness that officials had spent the entire previous night interceding for his life. He was a native of Barfurúsh, a figure of immense standing in the Ni’matu’lláhí community, a man whose piety had drawn followers from Mázindarán, Khurásán, and Tihrán. He had met Mullá Husayn and through him accepted the Báb’s Cause. Illness had kept him from the fort of Tabarsí, and the grief of that failure still burned.
The Amír tried a different approach. “Since last night I have been besieged by all classes of State officials who have vigorously interceded in your behalf. From what I learn of the position you occupy, you are not much inferior to the Siyyid-i-Báb Himself. Had you claimed for yourself the position of leadership, better would it have been than to declare your allegiance to one who is certainly inferior to you in knowledge.”
Qurbán-‘Alí answered: “Should this Youth, to whose transcendent power friend and foe alike testify, be false, every Prophet of God, from time immemorial down to the present day, should be denounced as the very embodiment of falsehood! I am assured of the unquestioning devotion of over a thousand admirers, and yet I am powerless to change the heart of the least among them. This Youth, however, has proved Himself capable of transmuting, through the elixir of His love, the souls of the most degraded among His fellow men.”
The Amír hesitated. “I am loth, whether your words be of God or not, to pronounce the sentence of death against the possessor of so exalted a station.”
“Why hesitate?” the dervish burst out. “Are you not aware that all names descend from Heaven? He whose name is ‘Alí, in whose path I am laying down my life, has from time immemorial inscribed my name, Qurbán-‘Alí, in the scroll of His chosen martyrs. This is indeed the day on which I celebrate the Qurbán festival. The sooner you strike off my head, the greater will be my gratitude to you.”
“Take him away from this place!” cried the Amír. “Another moment, and this dervish will have cast his spell over me!”
“You are proof against that magic,” Qurbán-‘Alí replied, “that can captivate only the pure in heart.”
The Amír rose from his seat, his whole frame shaking with anger. “Nothing but the edge of the sword can silence the voice of this deluded people! Whomever you are able to induce to recant his faith, release him; as for the rest, strike off their heads.”
As Qurbán-‘Alí approached the place of execution, he saw the headless body of Haji Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí on the ground. He flung himself upon it. “Hail the day of mutual rejoicing, the day of our reunion with our Beloved!” He held the body in his arms. “Approach,” he cried to the executioner, “and strike your blow, for my faithful comrade is unwilling to release himself from my embrace, and calls me to hasten together with him to the court of the Well-Beloved.”
A blow fell on the nape of his neck. A few moments later, his soul had passed. Cries of sorrow and lamentation rose from the crowd, a distress reminiscent of the grief with which every year the populace greets the day of Ashura.
Then came Haji Mullá Ismá’íl-i-Qumí. A native of Farahán who had studied at the feet of Siyyid Kázim in Karbilá. A man who had attended the conference of Badasht and there received the name Sirru’l-Vujud. Illness had kept him, too, from Tabarsí, and when that siege ended in massacre he had risen with redoubled determination to serve the Cause by any means left to him.
He was led to the block and saw the bodies of the two men who had gone before him, still entwined in each other’s embrace. He fixed his gaze on them and cried: “Well done, beloved companions! You have turned Tihrán into a paradise! Would that I had preceded you!”
He drew a coin from his pocket and handed it to the executioner. He asked him to buy something sweet. He took a little and gave the rest back. Then he said: “I have forgiven you your act. Approach and deal your blow. For thirty years I have yearned to witness this blessed day, and was fearful lest I should carry this wish with me unfulfilled to the grave.”
He turned his eyes to heaven. “Accept me, O my God, unworthy though I be, and deign to inscribe my name upon the scroll of those immortals who have laid down their lives on the altar of sacrifice.”
He was still praying when the executioner, at his request, cut short his prayer.
Fourth was Siyyid Husayn-i-Turshízí, a mujtahid, a man trained in the holy cities of Najaf and Karbilá, commissioned by his fellow-mujtahids to propagate their teachings in Khurásán. He had been converted to the Cause through Haji Muhammad-Taqíy-i-Kirmání and through Haji Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí, the man whose body already lay in the square.
He raised his voice before the crowd. “Hear me, O followers of Islám! My name is Husayn, and I am a descendant of the Siyyidu’sh-Shuhada. The mujtahids of the holy cities of Najaf and Karbilá have unanimously testified to my position as the authorised expounder of the law and teachings of their Faith. The mastery I have obtained over the intricacies of the Islámic teachings has enabled me to appreciate the value of the Message which the Siyyid-i-Báb has brought.”
He made a challenge. “I appeal to every one of you to call upon the ‘ulamá and mujtahids of this city and to convene a gathering, at which I will undertake in their presence to establish the truth of this Cause. If they be satisfied with the proofs which I shall adduce, let them desist from shedding the blood of the innocent; and if I fail, let them inflict upon me the punishment I deserve.”
The answer did not come from argument. An officer in the service of the Amír-Nizám stepped forward. “I carry with me your death-warrant signed and sealed by seven of the recognised mujtahids of Tihrán, who have in their own handwriting pronounced you an infidel.”
He drew his dagger and stabbed Siyyid Husayn with such force that the man fell dead at his feet.
No hearing. No disputation. A dagger and a warrant already signed.
Fifth was Haji Muhammad-Taqíy-i-Kirmání, a leading merchant of Kirmán and close friend of Haji Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí. It was through the Báb’s uncle that he had accepted the Cause, two years earlier in Shíráz. He had followed the uncle from Karbilá to Tihrán, and through him, Siyyid Husayn-i-Turshízí had also been converted.
Now Siyyid Husayn lay dead before him.
“Approach, you wretched and heartless tyrant,” he cried, “and hasten to slay me, for I am impatient to join my beloved Husayn. To live after him is a torture I cannot endure.”
Before the executioner could finish, Siyyid Murtadá, a noted merchant of Zanján, flung himself forward and threw his body over Haji Muhammad-Taqí. He pleaded that as a siyyid, his martyrdom would be more meritorious in the sight of God. As the executioner unsheathed his sword, Siyyid Murtadá invoked the memory of his own brother, Siyyid Kázim, who had fought and fallen beside Mullá Husayn at Tabarsí.
And then Muhammad-Husayn-i-Maraghiyí, the man who had refused to utter a word to his captors, the man they had thought was mute, rushed forward. His eyes fell on the body of Haji Mullá Ismá’íl-i-Qumí, the man who had converted him, the man who had vouched that he could speak. He threw himself upon that body and cried: “Never will I consent to separate myself from my dearly beloved friend, in whom I have reposed the utmost confidence and from whom I have received so many evidences of a sincere and deep-felt affection!”
Three men now pleaded with one another to die first. They argued with such fervor that eventually they were beheaded, all three, at one and the same moment.
Consider the arithmetic of that morning. The state held prisons, decrees, clerics, executioners, crowds, and swords. The condemned held nothing but certainty. Yet it was the captors who looked diminished. The Grand Vazír shaking with anger, the executioner fleeing in tears, an officer stabbing a man rather than answer his argument. And it was the dying who moved with freedom, choosing the order of their deaths, embracing the fallen, buying sweets for their last breath, forgiving the men who killed them.
Seven men. Not one would say the word.
The city compounded the crime after death. For three days and three nights, the bodies of the seven lay in the Sabzih-Maydán, which adjoined the imperial palace. Thousands of devout citizens gathered around the corpses and kicked them with their feet, spat upon their faces, pelted them with refuse, cursed them, mocked them. No voice was raised in protest. No hand was stretched to stay the arm of the oppressor.
When the fury finally exhausted itself, the bodies were buried outside the gate of the capital, in a place beyond the limits of the public cemetery, near the moat between the gates of Naw and Sháh ‘Abdu’l-‘Azím. They were laid together in the same grave, united in body as they had been in spirit.
The persecutors meant to disgrace them. They gave them instead a final communion.
The news reached Chihríq as another wound. In the Tablet the Báb revealed in their honor, He named them the “Seven Goats” spoken of in the traditions of Islám, those who on the Day of Judgment shall walk in front of the promised Qá’im. Their martyrdom, He explained, would precede that of the Qá’im Himself, who is their Shepherd.
Four months later, in Tabríz, the Shepherd followed.