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

After a routine business trip to the Far East, my father, on his way back to Iran, circled the globe to stop in Nashville, Tennessee, for a brief visit with my brother, his family, and me. It had been five years since we settled in Nashville, and the city had become our home base in America. I had recently graduated from Vanderbilt University and was at the beginning of my professional career while my brother, Farzin, seven years my senior, was more established in his business. It was mid-January 1979 and the drum of revolution in Iran was growing to a deafening beat.

Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, the shah of Iran, had reigned amidst widespread discontent starting in the mid-1970s. Several factors caused national unrest. Chief among them was the repressiveness of his regime and socioeconomic changes that had resulted in a wide gap between the ruling elite and the disaffected populace. The dictatorial rule of the shah frustrated the intellectuals who demanded democratic reforms. These vocal opponents also criticized the shah for his apparent subservience to the United States and for his violation of the Iranian Constitution that placed limits on royal power and provided for a representative government. Islamic leaders, particularly the exiled cleric, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, were able to focus this pervasive dissatisfaction into a populist ideology grafted to Islamic principles. The clergy also resented the shah because of his cultural reforms. His modernization of the country and its people came at the expense of religious orthodoxy. In no subtle terms, they called for the overthrow of the shah. Nationwide strikes, combined with massive street protests and riots, paralyzed the country. The ensuing chaos reached its crescendo right as my father’s plane touched down in Nashville.

Farzin and I greeted him at the airport and drove him through the rolling hills to my brother’s house. It had been over a year since his last visit, and we were overjoyed to be together again.

I eagerly waited to hear his version of the situation back home, but he was few in words and short on details. I think he sensed my anxiety and had no intention of adding to my fears. Besides, who knew what was really happening behind the scenes? One could surmise that he was as much in the dark as the rest of us, unable to forecast the trajectory of the growing storm. Quiet in character, he was as calm and unperturbed as I was nervous and worried. Naturally, he was concerned about the widespread chaos plaguing the country, yet he was remarkably serene. This was his nature. Growing up, I cannot think of a single occasion when I saw my father become visibly angry or agitated. He seemed always in control, never losing his composure.

It was a Tuesday. On January 16, 1979, I vividly remember history unfolding before our eyes. In those years, there were no cable networks or around-the-clock news programs. The only way we could follow the events in Iran was to watch Iranian television in real-time through a satellite receiver. One of our friends had installed a giant dish in his backyard just for this purpose. A number of us—over a dozen—gathered in his living room. We sat on chairs arranged in a horseshoe and stared at the screen. Breaking news: The shah of Iran was now a permanent exile. His departure was cloaked as a badly-needed vacation. We all knew better. It was much bigger than that.

My father sat in the last chair on the right side of the ring. He was reflective but did not say much. One of the teachings of the Baha’i Faith is its non-involvement in partisan politics. The logic behind this principle is that partisan politics is inherently divisive and, as such, it is contrary to the principal aim of the Baha’i Faith—to establish unity among people. Our family never discussed politics at home. Never! Even watching this tectonic event unfold before our eyes could not alter that principle. My father was neither pro-shah nor anti-shah. He wanted peace and tranquility for the Iranian people. He did not want to see instability, violence, or chaos, no matter who was in charge.

My father was scheduled to return to Tehran in a few short days. One evening at my brother’s house, I approached him after dinner. He stood at the window in the family room. Drinking his tea, he watched the dreary sky. It was gently raining and one could still see the fading rays of the sun over the horizon. My relationship with my father was much more formal than the relationship of today’s children toward their parents. I used to call him baba joon, meaning “dear dad.”

“Baba joon, you’re a well-known Baha’i and a prominent businessman,” I cautioned. “And, as such, you’re in grave danger. Why don’t you stay here for a few months and see what happens?” I respectfully pleaded with him to stay in Nashville until stability was restored in Iran. I argued that, with the shah out of the picture, no one could predict the future. Would the chaos lead to civil war? Massive bloodshed? Renewed persecution of the Baha’is? Anything was possible and none of the outcomes looked good.

His response, like him, was simple, direct, and unambiguous. It even proved to be providential. He said, “I don’t care much about my businesses and other belongings.” Then he gently tapped his index finger on my shoulder, “But if a new wave of persecution is unleashed upon the Baha’is, the rank-and-file members look to those of us in Tehran with some influence and wherewithal to assist them. If people like me flee the country, what are the Baha’i farmers, shopkeepers, and civil servants going to do? Who is going to plead their cases with the authorities?” Then he smiled dismissively and said words I will never forget. “Besides, if they’re going to start a massacre of the Baha’is, I don’t have the stomach to sit in America and watch it happen.” He paused and, looking into my eyes, said in a hushed tone, “Let me be the first they kill.”

What else could I say? After that, how could words have any meaning? His sense of honor, duty, and responsibility had steeled his will. He feared no one. He could face any adversity. Looking back, I realize that his approach was spiritual while mine was material. The only intersection of our two worlds was our love for one another. I paused, nodded, and walked away. I felt a lump in my throat but kept my emotions hidden. Like most men, I had built invisible walls, brick by brick, around myself to hide such vulnerabilities.

A few days later, I saw him off at the Nashville airport for the last time. After all these years, I can vividly remember the spot where we said our farewell. We embraced, he pressed me to his chest and lingered a bit longer than usual. Maybe, somehow, he knew it would be our last. His final words to me were, “Khoda hafez pesaram. Movaffagh bashee.” Meaning: “May God protect you, son. I wish you success.”

Driving home from the airport, my emotional walls collapsed. Alone, speeding in the winter rain, tears flowed from my eyes and dripped from my chin. I thought, perhaps these tears will help me dull the pain of separation.

They didn’t.