English Editing by Thaddeus Herman and Foaad Haghighi
Paintings Photographed by Glenn Egli, except for “Repetitious Insecurity”
Title “Our Story Is One” used with permission from the Bahá’í International Community
Printed and distributed by Bahá’í Distribution Service of Australia 173 Mona Vale Rd, Ingleside NSW 2101 bds@bahai.org.au www.bahaibooks.com.au
ISBN: 978-1-925320-63-3
Dedication
I dedicate this book to 11 of my mother’s friends who were executed 40 years ago in the city of Shiraz and my grandmother, mother, sister, and to all the brave and selfless women of Iran and the world who, with their perseverance and selflessness, have shaken the pillars of existence and transformed and continue to transform the world into a better place to live.
Year : 2022 | Medium : Oil on Linen | Dimension : 18” x 36”
In the Permanent Collection of Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, MA
Repetitious Insecurity
October 2019
In the early morning, amidst a tranquil stillness, a distant commotion resonates through the corridor, swiftly followed by the distinct sound of someone knocking at our house door. Startled from my slumber, I hastily awaken, only to be greeted by threatening silhouettes. With an unsettling certainty, I recognize them as intelligence agents. An overwhelming commotion of terror and shock engulfs our hearts at that moment. Despite being a Bahá’í and mentally prepared for such an encounter, it becomes evident that readiness is an elusive concept, as fear resists all attempts to be conquered. My heartbeat quickens with each passing moment, urging me to dress with haste, wash my face, and unlatch the door.
A group of men, faces covered by full beards and mustaches, with expressions contorted by anger and disdain, collectively invade our home. Their tone is coercive, their demeanor hostile, and their actions characterised by audacity and derision. Each one takes a position in a corner, commencing a thorough search. Books are unceremoniously ripped from their shelves and cast upon the table and floor. Clothes are forcefully yanked from closets and drawers and thrown carelessly across the room. Mobile phones and laptops are confiscated, and attempts are made to extract their passwords through degrading and intimidating methods.
Meanwhile, their efforts to intensify the oppressive atmosphere continue unabated. They operate with seriousness and wrath so tangible that we cannot help but believe we must have committed some transgression, some illegality. We are instructed not to move from our designated places. Even the slightest motion provokes their relentless shouts, punctuated by insults and curses. One refrain echoes repeatedly: “Why did you remain in Iran? Why haven’t you left this country? It does not belong to you! You are not Iranian!” We attempt to disregard their words, yet my heart smolders, without respite. They demand cardboard boxes and oversized plastic bags, accumulating a mountain of possessions on the floor, sealing them within the confines of the bags, and transporting them, one by one, to their awaiting vehicle. Within these piles lie items filled with a lifetime of memories; some are gifts bestowed by souls no longer among us. Yet, to them, their sentimental value matters not; everything is indiscriminately taken away.
Just as a faint glimmer of relief materializes as they seem to be leaving, it is abruptly shattered when they inform my husband that he must accompany them. It is as if an avalanche descends upon us all! They whisk him away in bewilderment and shock, leaving behind a messy, neglected, smelly house brimming with confusion, fury, and dread. And amidst this
chaos, I ponder: What should I do now? Where does one begin? How long must this endurance persist?
This traumatic incident has unfolded four times within two years, with my husband being arrested twice. He endures long days confined in solitary isolation and imprisonment. Through immense effort, he secures release on bail. However, each time this process is repeated, it propels us into a vortex of apprehension, anger, shock, fear, doubt, and anxiety, leaving an indelible impact. Even our loyal family dog succumbs to acute stress, manifest in lingering illness. Yet, is this the culmination of our tale? Regrettably, this is merely the prelude to a succession of courtroom proceedings, legal counsel, verdicts, restrictions, anxiety, and the impending cycle of imprisonment.
Excerpt adapted from the recollections of Noura Momtazian and Soroush Abadi.
Year : 2022 | Medium : Oil on Linen | Dimension : 20” x 24”
In the Permanent Collection of Crocker Art Museum, Sacramento, CA
Tears of Rose Water
9 May 2019
Once again, the resplendent spring had arrived. As always, I woke up in the early morning, captivated by the birds singing and the fascinating fragrance of blooming roses1 that permeated the air.
As a child, I was fond of this particular time of year, especially the ethereal scent of the roses. Over the years, our fathers have meticulously distilled these aromatic blossoms into rosewater, ensuring their captivating essence could be cherished in all seasons. I firmly believed that our labor was among the most delightful jobs.
However, in the afternoon, our tranquil existence was abruptly disrupted by the sudden arrival of a cobalt-hued pickup truck bringing numerous intelligence agents. They descended upon our humble village, launching an assault on our homes, rosewater production facilities, and warehouses, confiscating all we possessed. Everything was taken away, from the pots to the intricate machinery used to extract rosewater and even the precious gallons of freshly crafted rosewater. These agents sealed off our warehouses and workshops, warning us that we could no longer continue our craft and exercise our right to create rosewater.
Regrettably, this was not the first time we had endured such
persecution. At the outset of the Islamic revolution, the authorities forbade us from plucking the flowers, asserting that they utilize rosewater in Islamic religious ceremonies and as Bahá’ís, we are considered impure2 and unfit to partake in its production. The flowers languished upon the ground for several years, as we were unjustly prohibited from harvesting them.
Eventually, after relentless persistence, we were granted permission to collect the blossoms under a new condition: we were required to abstain from touching the dew on the rose petals with our “unclean” hands, so we waited to touch them until the moisture had evaporated entirely. Nevertheless, we found solace and joy in our ability to cultivate the most exquisite roses in the area. Alas, the tale of our rosewater prohibition recommenced a few months ago. A devout woman had lodged a grievance with the Imam of Friday Prayer3 in Qom, asserting that rosewater procured from Muslims was indistinguishable from distilled water, while the rosewater sourced from the Bahá’ís possessed a distinct aroma and unparalleled purity.
This incident led to the raiding of our workshops and the subsequent ban on our cherished work, all to prevent the positive impact of our
exceptional craftsmanship from reaching the public.
Instead of energy, delight, and a fragrant atmosphere, sorrow and anguish have now engulfed our surroundings.
Oh, how I yearn for someone to explain why our sincere and honest labor must serve as grounds for its suppression.
These recollections stem from the personal narrative of a Bahá’í residing in Ghamsar, Kashan.
1. Rosa damascene (Latin for damascene rose), more commonly known as the Damask rose. The flowers are renowned for their fine fragrance, and are commercially harvested for rose oil (either “rose otto” or “rose absolute”) used in perfumery, and to make rose water and “rose concrete”. (Wikipedia)
2. In Islamic law, najis means ritually unclean. According to Islam, there are two kinds of najis: the essential najis which cannot be cleaned and the unessential najis which become najis while in contact with another najis. Contact with najis things brings a Muslim into a state of ritual impurity (najāsa, in opposition to ahārah, ritual purity). Ritual purification is then required before religious duties such as regular prayers are performed. (Wikipedia)
3. The Imam of Friday Prayer, or Imam Jom’a (Jumu’ah), is the person who conducts the Friday prayer in Islam and preaches related sermons. (Wikipedia)
About Maryam’s Paintings
Maryam Safajoo’s paintings are tragic, seductive, original, poignant, and politically charged. She is of the Bahá’í Faith, one which has been treated with extreme brutality by the Iranian regime. Her process involves in-depth interviews with Bahá’í people who have experienced this brutality. She then painstakingly paints their moving stories. This is a brilliant and generous idea. She simultaneously charms us with her folksy, even faux naïve style and confronts us with the horrible reality of her subject matter. This strategy adds great power to her work and makes her art complex, layered and nuanced. Her work is difficult yet accessible, serious without being somber, beautiful without being decorative, politically charged without being just didactic. The work is both personal and universal. The personal experiences of her subjects speak of one of the crucial moral tragedies of our time. Her work is filled with anger but also with love, which makes it complex and compelling. Seldom have I encountered an artist so intensely and honestly involved in her vision. Her sincere urgency and her ambition make her a rare artist indeed.
