Jean Wilkey

The Bluest Part of the Sky

by TANIN

I can see it now. Someone is walking her out, my sister, into the fresh air. How strange it must seem to her, under such circumstances, to feel the warmth of the sun’s rays for the first time in days. A man is pushing her up onto a wooden step. He is taking her blindfold off — maybe hoping she will catch the eye of some kind person in the crowd and change her mind. But she doesn’t look into the eyes of the crowd, only up at the sky. I wonder how she is feeling now — terrified, sad, filled with remorse, or even joy? Does she have doubts?

As children, my sister and I were taught about service. We learned that, as ‘Abdu’l-Bahá puts it, “Service to humanity is service to God.” But while I always had to remind myself of His words, my sister could not seem to forget them. Always, she seemed to be guided by a strange, almost excessive passion for her faith — can passion for a faith even be excessive? I don’t know, but I do know that it is what has brought her here.

I can’t remember exactly when she began to teach the children, but I do remember how much she enjoyed helping them with their homework. And it wasn’t just homework she helped them with. I would hear her talking to them about virtues, like kindness, respect, forgiveness, and justice. She had none of the tools a regular teacher has — no space you could call a classroom, not even a blackboard. Sometimes children came to our house and sometimes she went to theirs. She once said that whenever she was with them, she couldn’t stop thinking about what ‘Abdu’l-Bahá said about every child being potentially the light of the world. I believe she saw light in the eyes of every child she ever met.

One day, about a month ago, when we were at home having lunch with our parents, someone rang the doorbell. Our father went to open the door, then came back to the table with a worried look on his face. “Put on your hijab,” he told my sister. Seconds later, four men barged into the room — tall men, big men. We stood quietly and watched as they rifled through our things, throwing them out onto the floor. One even dumped our garbage on the floor! What could he be looking for?

Finally, they found them, our Bahá’í books, and loaded them into a sack; and if that weren’t enough, one of them took our picture of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá down from on the wall and yelled, his face red with anger, “Is he the one you respect most? You corrupt people!” Then he smashed the glass on the floor and broke the frame. I felt as if my heart broke then too. I’m sure my sister and parents felt the same. But none of us said a word.

I felt my whole body shaking, filled with anger and hatred. Then I remembered ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s words: “Let your heart burn with loving kindness for all who may cross your path.” But what does it mean, I asked myself, to love all who may cross your path? Should we love our enemies? How could I love this man? Suddenly, one of the men called my sister’s name and told her she needed to go with them — none of us knew where.

In Iran, where I live, being a Bahá’í is a crime, so the police were within their rights — they even thought it was a good thing they were doing, to detain my sister for her good deeds! After all, she was an infidel. I was able to visit her once when she was in the detention center, and she told me all that had happened. After a number of interrogation sessions, she was transferred to a prison. Day in, day out, she stared at the colorless walls of her cell and prayed, dreamed about our mother’s cooking, about the room we shared with its bright window, about the pomegranate tree in our yard — she always loved pomegranates and now they are in season.

The only thing she had to look at in her cell was a toilet shared by six women and a cement wall covered in graffiti put there by women in prison for murder, theft, and the like. My sister told me she learned a lot of things from those women, things she wished she did not know. It was just two days ago that we learned of the sentence — execution. For what? Helping children to live a good life?

I know it is happening today, and there is nothing I can do. She is in the square, and, in my mind, I am watching her, my sister, a girl of only twenty, climbing the stairs of the scaffold, looking around her, strangely calm, almost serene. The sun shines on her innocent face. She looks at the sun and takes a deep breath. I want to fall on the ground and wail, but I must be strong — for her. Yes, that is that my little sister. There is nothing in her eyes but kindness and peace. How can I cry when I see her face?

I see it all now: the executioner comes to put the rope around her neck. She looks at him with a smile. I hope she feels me praying for her. She closes her eyes and whispers a prayer. The executioner finishes his task. Now I see her flying high, like a bird, in the bluest part of the sky.