From Under the Staircase: A Martyr's Journey by Farsheed Ferdowsi 

In 1971, when I had just turned sixteen, the rapidly growing Saderat Bank announced a contest to expand its customer base. The newspaper advertisement simply said that anyone who would open a savings account in the next thirty days with a minimum of 500 tomans deposit (~$71) stood the chance of winning one hundred thousand tomans (~$14,285) at the end of the month through a random drawing. My father showed me the paper and said, “You should do this, where you can keep your savings in a safe place earning interest while having a shot at winning this contest.” It was a no-brainer. The next day I went to his office and from there we went to a nearby branch together and opened my first savings account. I walked into the bank with my bundle of cash and walked out with a blue savings passbook blazoned with the Bank Saderat Iran emblem.

One evening a month later, as my father read the newspaper, he called me over and said, “They have announced the winning account number. Bring your saving passbook.” I fetched the book from the desk drawer in my room and rushed into the den where he sat holding the paper. I read out the number. “Let me see it,” he said. I handed it over. He looked at the passbook and then the newspaper. Then he did it again. Suddenly, he burst into laughter, “You’re a lucky man…you’ve won the contest!”

It was pandemonium in the house. Everyone gathered to join the excitement. One hundred thousand tomans was a small fortune. One could purchase a modest house with it. I was thrilled about the prospects of being a rich teenager, dreaming of all that I could do with that money when I went to America.

The next day, my father and I went into the same branch where I had opened the account. We walked into the manager’s office, whom my father knew well, and presented the passbook grinning from ear to ear. The branch manager congratulated me enthusiastically and seemed to be genuinely happy that the winning account had been opened in his branch. “The prize will be deposited into your account within a week,” he said as he stretched his hand to shake mine.

A week went by and no deposit was made into my account. Once more, I accompanied my father to the branch manager’s office to inquire about the status of the prize money. This time his attitude had changed. He seemed evasive and vague. To my father’s direct question as to what seemed to be the problem, he said,

“Your son is not eighteen, and that seems to be a requirement to win this much money.”

“But that was not a condition when the contest was announced in the paper,” my father said calmly.

“That was an oversight,” he shrugged. “Besides, the headquarters has made this determination. It’s out of my control.”

My father stood and thanked the branch manager and said, “I will take it up with the president of Bank Saderat.”

I was quite disappointed but deep inside had confidence that my father would sort it out. Besides, he had major dealings with Bank Saderat and knew people at the top of its hierarchy. A few days later, in a private meeting at the Bank’s central office, a senior officer and old friend of my father informed him that I was not eligible to receive the prize money for three reasons:

First, the Bank wished for the prize to go to a deserving family with average or low income. Granting the prize to someone who was already well off would be a public relations disaster. 

Second, I was too young to receive that much prize money. And, even though the announcement did not include an age requirement, that was always the Bank’s policy and its omission from the announcement was a printing error.

And, third, they could not possibly award the prize to a Baha’i.

As my father explained his findings to me, I am sure my disappointment showed because he tried to appease my distress. Once again, he reminded me that I should not be attached to or be obsessed with money. That I didn’t really need the prize. That he could escalate the matter to the Finance Ministry, but it would not be worth the hassle and it would not be in the best interest of the Faith to engage in such an appeal process or even litigation. That I should just let it go.

And I did let it go, fully cognizant of what had taken place. For the first time in my young life, I felt the sting of religious persecution. True, I was not beaten or imprisoned or kicked out of school. But at the time I felt quite unhappy about being the subject of such blatant discrimination.