Episode XXVI: After the Blood, Karbila

“Though your heart be aflame with His love, take heed lest any eye discover your inner agitation.”

That is how the next phase of this story begins. Not with cannon fire. Not with the crash of barricade walls. With discipline. With a command so demanding it might be harder than anything asked of the defenders at Tabarsí or Zanján: love God with everything you have, and let no one see it on your face.

Bahá’u’lláh spoke those words to a gathering of believers in the home of His brother, Áqáy-i-Kalím. It was the seventh day of Jamádiyu’l-Avval, 1306. On the second and fourth nights after His arrival, pilgrims from Sarvistán and Fárán, along with resident believers, were admitted into His presence. What He said to them would remain, in the memory of those who heard it, permanently engraved.

“Praise be to God,” He said, “that whatever is essential for the believers in this Revelation to be told has been revealed. Their duties have been clearly defined. Now is the time for them to arise and fulfil their duty. Let them translate into deeds the exhortations We have given them.”

Then the warning: “Let them beware lest the love they bear God, a love that glows so brightly in their hearts, cause them to transgress the bounds of moderation.” Though the soul surges like an ocean, the serenity of the countenance must not be disturbed. Though the lips have drunk from the wellsprings of faith and certitude, they must betray nothing of the wonder of that draught, to friend or stranger.

The community had been tempered by blood. But Bahá’u’lláh’s first burden was not consolation. It was restraint. Zeal without wisdom had cost them. And what was coming next would demand more than courage. It would demand control.

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From that gathering, He looked back across the whole course of the struggle.

He had never hidden. He had never concealed the Cause He was bidden to proclaim. Though He did not wear the garb of the learned, He had faced scholars of great reputation in both Núr and Mázindarán, reasoned with them, and persuaded them of the truth of this Revelation. To whomever He spoke, He found them receptive, ready to identify themselves with its precepts. But for the shameful behavior of certain followers, who sullied by their deeds the work He had accomplished, both provinces would have been entirely won to the Cause by now.

Then the memory of Tabarsí. He had resolved to leave Núr and join its defenders. He had intended to send ‘Abdu’l-Vahháb ahead to announce His approach. Though surrounded by the forces of the enemy, He had decided to throw in His lot with those steadfast companions and risk every danger with them.

This was not to be. The hand of Providence spared Him for another work.

While He was resting and taking tea, horsemen suddenly surrounded Him. They seized His belongings. They captured His horse. In exchange, He was given a poorly saddled animal He found extremely uncomfortable to ride. His companions were led away in handcuffs to Ámul. The governor, Mírzá Taqí, managed to release Him from the grasp of the ulamá and brought Him to his own house, where he extended the warmest hospitality. But the pressure from the clerics was relentless, and the governor sometimes yielded to it. Only when the Sardár returned from Mázindarán did anyone push back. The Sardár rebuked Mírzá Taqí for his weakness. “Of what importance are the denunciations of this ignorant people?” he demanded. “You should have been satisfied with preventing the party from reaching their destination and arranged for their safe and immediate return to Tihrán.”

In Sárí, the insults came in the open street. Though the notables of the town were, for the most part, His friends and had met Him previously in Tihrán, the townspeople recognized Him at once. Walking with Quddús through the streets, the cry followed them everywhere they went: “Bábí! Bábí!” They could not escape the bitter denunciations.

In Tihrán, two imprisonments. The first followed the murder of Mullá Taqíy-i-Qazvíní, when He rose to defend the innocent against a ruthless oppressor. The second, infinitely more severe, was precipitated by the irresponsible attempt on the life of the Sháh. That event led to His banishment to Baghdád.

Soon after arriving, He withdrew to the mountains of Kurdistán. He sought shelter on the summit of a remote peak, three days’ journey from the nearest human habitation. The comforts of life were completely absent. He lived in total isolation until a single man, a certain Shaykh Ismá’íl, discovered His refuge and brought Him food.

When He returned to Baghdád, He found the Cause of the Báb sorely neglected. Its influence had waned. Its very name had almost sunk into oblivion. So He arose to revive it. At a time when fear and perplexity had taken hold of His companions, He reasserted its essential verities with fearlessness and determination. He summoned back those who had become lukewarm. He sent His appeal outward to the peoples of the world.

He spoke of Adrianople, where government officials in Constantinople debated whether He and His companions should be thrown into the sea. The rumor reached Persia that they had actually suffered that fate. In Khurásán, the believers were greatly disturbed, until Mírzá Ahmad-i-Azghandí, hearing the report, declared that under no circumstances could he credit it. “The Revelation of the Báb,” he said, “must, if this be true, be regarded as utterly devoid of foundation.” When news of safe arrival at the prison-city of Akká came, it vindicated his faith and deepened the confidence of the believers throughout Khurásán.

From that prison, He addressed the rulers of the world. To the Sháh of Persia He sent Badí, who raised the Tablet aloft before the eyes of the multitude and, with uplifted voice, appealed to his sovereign to heed its words. To the Emperor of France He wrote: “Bid the high priest, O Monarch of France, to cease ringing his bells, for, lo! the Most Great Bell, which the hands of the will of the Lord thy God are ringing, is made manifest in the person of His chosen One.”

Then He closed His address with this: “Be thankful to God for having enabled you to recognise His Cause. Whoever has received this blessing must, prior to his acceptance, have performed some deed which, though he himself was unaware of its character, was ordained by God as a means whereby he has been guided to find and embrace the Truth.” And His final words: “The memory of this night will never be forgotten. May it never be effaced by the passage of time, and may its mention linger for ever on the lips of men.”

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Now fold back to the days after Zanján, to the road itself.

The seventh Naw-Rúz after the Declaration of the Báb fell on the sixteenth of Jamádiyu’l-Avval, 1267, a month and a half after the end of the struggle at Zanján. That same year, toward the end of spring, in the early days of Sha’bán, Bahá’u’lláh left the capital for Karbilá.

But the Cause was surviving not only in forts and at execution grounds. It was surviving in copied manuscripts, in trusted messengers, and on difficult roads.

At that time, Mírzá Ahmad, the Báb’s own amanuensis, had been ordered by Bahá’u’lláh to collect and transcribe all the sacred writings, the originals of which were largely in his possession. Finding him required a chain of contacts that reads like a spy network operating under persecution. From Zarand to Qum, on the pretext of visiting the shrine. From Qum to Káshán, on the advice of Hají Mírzá Músáy-i-Qumí, who said that only Azím, then living in Káshán, could reveal Mírzá Ahmad’s location. From Káshán back to Qum. There, a certain Siyyid Abu’l-Qásim, who had previously traveled with Mírzá Ahmad, agreed to give directions, but only at the city gate, and only to route the searcher through Hamadán. In Hamadán, Mírzá Muhammad-‘Alíy-i-Tabíb-i-Zanjání pointed the way to Kirmansháh and a merchant named Ghulám-Husayn-i-Shushtarí, who finally led to the house where Mírzá Ahmad was residing.

Every link in that chain was a person who could have been arrested. Every handoff was a risk. And the cargo they were protecting was not weapons. It was scripture.

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A few days after reaching Kirmansháh, Mírzá Ahmad revealed a task. While in Qum, he had taught the Cause to Íldírím Mírzá, brother of Khánlar Mírzá, a prince of the Qájár dynasty, then serving as governor of Khurram-Ábád in the province of Luristán, encamped with his army in the mountains of Khavih-Valishtar. Ahmad wished to present him a copy of the Dalá’il-i-Sab’ih. He needed a courier.

With a Kurdish guide, the journey crossed mountains and forests for six days and six nights. The trust was delivered. Íldírím Mírzá sent back a written message expressing appreciation and assuring devotion to the Cause.

But when that message was placed before Bahá’u’lláh, who had by now arrived in Kirmansháh, He read it once and saw through it immediately.

“The faith which a member of the Qájár dynasty professes cannot be depended upon,” He said. “His declarations are insincere. Expecting that the Bábís will one day assassinate the sovereign, he harbours in his heart the hope of being acclaimed by them the successor. The love he professes for the Báb is actuated by that motive.”

Within months, the judgment was confirmed. This same Íldírím Mírzá ordered the death of one of the most remarkable believers in the Cause.

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His name was Siyyid Básir-i-Hindí. He was blind.

Among the Báb’s earliest disciples was Shaykh Sa’íd-i-Hindí, one of the Letters of the Living, who had been sent to India to proclaim the new Revelation. In the town of Mooltan, Shaykh Sa’íd met Siyyid Básir, a man who, though he could not see, perceived immediately, with his inner eye, the significance of the message brought to him. His vast learning did not hinder him. It enabled him to grasp the Cause’s meaning and understand the greatness of its power. He cast behind him the trappings of leadership, severed himself from friends and kinsmen, and set out to serve.

He traveled first to Shíráz, hoping to meet the Báb. There he learned, to his grief, that the Báb had been banished to the mountains of Ádhirbayján. He went on to Tihrán, and from there to Núr, where he met Bahá’u’lláh. That meeting relieved his heart from the burden of sorrow. To everyone he met afterward, of whatever class or creed, he imparted the joy he had received, and was able to endow them with a measure of the power his time with Bahá’u’lláh had given him.

What followed became legendary among those who witnessed it. At the height of summer, in Qamsar, the hill retreat where the leading men of Káshán escaped the heat, Siyyid Básir engaged the leading ulamá day and night. With ability and insight, he discussed the subtleties of their own faith, expounded without fear the fundamental teachings of the Cause, and absolutely confuted their arguments. No one, however great his learning and experience, could reject the evidences he set forth. His adversaries concluded he must be a sorcerer.

Later, passing through Sultán-Ábád, he continued to astonish. No one could surpass his knowledge of the Qur’án and the traditions of Muhammad. When opponents questioned the accuracy of his quotations or denied the existence of the tradition he cited, he would establish the truth with unerring exactitude, referencing the text of the Usúl-i-Káfí and the Biháru’l-Anvár, producing the particular passage on the spot. A blind man. Pulling citations from memory that sighted scholars could not match.

From Sultán-Ábád, Siyyid Básir traveled to Luristán and visited the camp of Íldírím Mírzá, who received him with respect. But one day, in conversation, the siyyid, a man of great courage, referred to Muhammad Sháh in terms that aroused the prince’s fierce anger. Íldírím Mírzá ordered that his tongue be pulled out through the back of his neck.

Siyyid Básir endured the torture with extraordinary fortitude. He did not survive it.

That same week, a letter was discovered in which Íldírím Mírzá had abused his own brother, Khánlar Mírzá. Khánlar immediately obtained the sovereign’s consent to deal with him as he wished. He ordered the prince stripped of his clothes and conducted, naked and in chains, to Ardibíl, where he was imprisoned, and where, eventually, he died.

The man who had murdered for an insult to the Sháh was destroyed by an insult to his brother. The man who had torn out a believer’s tongue lost everything, rank, freedom, clothing, life.

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Before leaving Kirmansháh, Bahá’u’lláh summoned Mírzá Ahmad and gave instructions. He spent the entire month of Ramadán in that city. When they were ushered into His presence, they found Him reading the Qur’án, it being the month of fasting, and were blessed by hearing Him recite its verses aloud.

He took only two companions with Him to Karbilá: Shukru’lláh-i-Núrí, one of His kinsmen, and Mírzá Muhammad-i-Mázindarání, who had survived the struggle of Tabarsí.

But before departing, He gave final charges. Mírzá Ahmad was instructed to remain in Tihrán until Bahá’u’lláh returned. He was entrusted with a box of sweetmeats and a letter addressed to Áqáy-i-Kalím, who was to forward the gift to Mázindarán, where the Most Great Branch and His mother were residing.

A box of sweetmeats. A letter. Manuscripts being copied by hand. The Persian Bayán and the Dalá’il-i-Sab’ih, transcribed with painstaking enthusiasm in a caravanserai outside the gate of Naw through an entire winter. Two copies of the Dalá’il-i-Sab’ih entrusted to a young messenger to deliver on Mírzá Ahmad’s behalf. One recipient, Mustawfíyu’l-Mamálik-i-Ashtiyání, was so moved he was won entirely to the Faith.

The other, Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí, reacted differently. At a gathering where Áqáy-i-Kalím was present, he commented publicly: “This sect is still living. Its emissaries are hard at work, spreading the teachings of their leader. One of them, a youth, came to visit me the other day and presented me with a treatise which I regard as highly dangerous. Anyone from among the common people who shall read that book will surely be beguiled by its tone.”

Áqáy-i-Kalím understood immediately. He arranged for the messenger to return to Zarand, and for Mírzá Ahmad to leave at once for Qum. Both were exposed to great danger. The book was recovered. The men scattered. The work continued.

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One errand went wrong. Bahá’u’lláh had charged the messenger to meet Mírzá Yahyá immediately after arriving in Tihrán and to take him to the fort of Dhu’l-Faqár Khán, near Shahrud, where they were to remain until Bahá’u’lláh returned. Mírzá Yahyá refused. He would not leave Tihrán. Instead, he compelled the messenger to go to Qazvín and carry letters to certain of his own friends. The instructions of Bahá’u’lláh were set aside. The errand was replaced by a lesser one.

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The month of Shavvál, 1267, witnessed Bahá’u’lláh’s arrival at Karbilá.

On His way, He paused briefly in Baghdád, that place He would soon return to, and where His Cause was destined to mature and unfold itself to the world.

When He reached Karbilá, He found trouble. A number of its leading residents, among them Shaykh Sultán and Hají Siyyid Javád, had fallen under the influence of a certain Siyyid-i-‘Uluvv, who claimed to be the very incarnation of the Divine Spirit. They were immersed in his superstitions. Shaykh Sultán ranked among his most fervent disciples and regarded himself, next to his master, as the foremost leader of his countrymen.

Bahá’u’lláh did not denounce. He did not argue. He met Shaykh Sultán on several occasions and, by words of counsel and loving-kindness, purged his mind of its idle fancies and released him from the state of abject servitude into which he had sunk. He won him over completely to the Cause of the Báb and kindled in his heart the desire to spread the Faith.

The effect was immediate and cascading. The other disciples, witnessing the marvellous conversion of their leading figure, forsook their former allegiance one after another and embraced the Cause that Shaykh Sultán had now risen to champion.

Abandoned and despised by every follower he once commanded, the Siyyid-i-‘Uluvv himself was reduced to recognizing Bahá’u’lláh’s authority and acknowledging the superiority of His position. He expressed repentance. He pledged his word never again to advocate the claims with which he had identified himself.

Without confrontation. Without force. By counsel and kindness alone. A false leader’s entire following, dismantled.

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Then, in the streets of Karbilá, Bahá’u’lláh encountered Shaykh Hasan-i-Zunúzí.

He found him searching, eagerly, desperately, for the promised Husayn, to whom the Báb had so lovingly referred, and whom the Báb had promised Shaykh Hasan would meet in Karbilá. To him, Bahá’u’lláh confided a secret that would only later be openly declared in Baghdád.

From that day, Shaykh Hasan became magnetized by the charm of his newly found Master. Had it not been for the restraint he was urged to exercise, he would have proclaimed to the people of Karbilá the return of the One whose appearance they were all awaiting.

Others felt the same power. Mírzá Muhammad-‘Alíy-i-Tabíb-i-Zanjání received a seed planted in his heart, a faith of such tenacity that the fires of persecution would prove powerless to quench it. To his devotion, high-mindedness, and singleness of purpose Bahá’u’lláh Himself would later testify. That faith carried him to the field of martyrdom.

And Mírzá ‘Abdu’l-Vahháb-i-Shírází, son of Hají ‘Abdu’l-Majíd, who owned a shop in Karbilá and felt the impulse to abandon everything and follow. Bahá’u’lláh urged him to be patient. He advised him not to abandon his work but to continue earning his livelihood until summoned. He gave him money to extend the scope of his business. But Mírzá ‘Abdu’l-Vahháb could not concentrate on trade. He hastened to Tihrán, where he remained until he was thrown into the same dungeon as his Master, and there suffered martyrdom for His sake.

Shaykh ‘Alí-Mírzáy-i-Shírází was likewise drawn in, and remained to his last breath a staunch supporter of the Cause. To friend and stranger alike, he recounted the marvellous influence that Bahá’u’lláh’s presence had worked upon him.

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But before all of this, before the arrival in Karbilá, before the conversions and the secret confided in the street, there was the offer.

The Amír-Nizám, Grand Vazír of Persia, had summoned Bahá’u’lláh and spoken to Him with dangerous cordiality.

“I am well aware of the nature and influence of your activities,” the Amír-Nizám said, “and am firmly convinced that were it not for the support and assistance which you have been extending to Mullá Husayn and his companions, neither he nor his band of inexperienced students would have been capable of resisting for seven months the forces of the imperial government. The ability and skill with which you have managed to direct and encourage those efforts could not fail to excite my admiration.”

Then the hook: “The thought has come to me to suggest to you that you visit Karbilá in these days when the Sháh is contemplating a journey to Isfahán. It is my intention to be enabled, on his return, to confer upon you the position of Amír-Díván.”

Part compliment. Part accusation. Part attempt to absorb a spiritual movement into the machinery of the state. The man who had ordered the siege of Tabarsí and authorized the execution of the Seven Martyrs now offered Bahá’u’lláh a ministry.

Bahá’u’lláh protested vehemently against the accusations and refused the position outright. A few days later, He left Tihrán.

No office in the Qájár state could be allowed to blur the line between the kingdom it served and the work He had come to do.

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The road to Karbilá is not an interlude after the sieges and the martyrdoms.

It is the moment the story changes shape. The great struggle is no longer only at the barricade, the barracks wall, or the execution ground. It is now in discernment, in the reading of a prince’s letter and the immediate recognition of its insincerity. In revival, in the reassertion of essential truths at a time when fear had paralyzed the companions. In hidden preparation, in manuscripts copied through winter nights in a caravanserai outside Tihrán’s walls. In quiet authority, in the conversion of Shaykh Sultán, the dismantling of a false teacher’s hold, and the whispered confidence given to a man searching in the streets of Karbilá for a Promise he did not yet know stood before him.

The center of the story has already moved.

And the believers who sat in that room, hearing Bahá’u’lláh speak of restraint, of the ocean that must not show on the face, they were being prepared for what that shift would demand of them.

The axis has turned. What comes next will require everything.