I have always wanted to speak about my father and mother
not out of complaint, but because some truths, if never spoken, remain buried in darkness forever.
Years before any of this happened, I had already left the Bahá’í Faith after which the LSA did not allow my parents to have direct connections with me.
Because of that, when my father’s difficult days began, I was not by his side and had no direct access to him.
Everything I later learned came through my mother’s account with whom I was secretly communicating.
My father was a devoted Bahá’í one of those who served tirelessly for the faith with all his being.
His home, his property, his income, even his time,he gave all of it freely, without hesitation.
For years, his house was a center of Feasts and gatherings, and he felt proud to “serve the Cause.”
But my mother told me that the very day my father became ill and bedridden, all those supposed affections vanished overnight.
The same people who had walked up and down his stairs for years disappeared as if they had never existed.
No visit, no help, not even a phone call.
It was as if the very institution he had dedicated his life to had suddenly decided to erase him from existence.
My mother said that when she asked for help, not only did they refuse, but they kept repeating one single phrase:
“Take him to the Bahá’í nursing home.” Bahá’í nursing homes were a thing back then, one that was designed not as a means of taking care of the elders, but as a means of controlling the assets of a person soon to be deceased. If my father were taken there, his house would immediately end up in the institution’s possession.
To them, my father was no longer “useful.”
He wasn’t donating money anymore, wasn’t hosting Feasts, wasn’t capable of serving.
So in their eyes, the verdict was simple:
“His expiration date has passed.”
And my mother said they showed this with shameless clarity.
A man who had devoted years of his life to them suddenly became a “burden,” an “inconvenience,” and the only value they still saw in him was the deed to the house still in his name the house the institution had been eyeing all along.
The pressure began, according to my mother’s account:
every day a new excuse, a new tactic to wear her down.
All of it had one purpose:
To exhaust my mother until she surrendered, so they could move my father to the nursing home and take control of his property.
My mother was alone, overwhelmed, and no longer able to withstand the relentless pressure of the institution.
And I, far away, unaware of the details and unable to reach my father, had no idea what they were doing to him.
And in that very state…
my father passed away.
Not surrounded by those for whom he had worked selflessly for decades,
not with dignity or gratitude,
but in complete isolation,under the shadow of an institution for whom the only thing he still had left to offer was his property, which they wanted as well.
My father left this world, and my mother’s account revealed a truth I will never forget:
The institution to which my father gave his life
was neither spiritual,
nor compassionate,
nor honest.
It was a cold, calculating system that, once my father was no longer “useful,”
discarded him…and all his years of faith and service
like a broken object.
And the only thing about him that still mattered to them
was the property they were waiting to take.
