MY STORY Part 1

When someone asks me “How did you become a Bahá’í?” I usually say “Do you want the short story or the long one?” It depends how much time people have. Like many, I am sure the process of finding the Faith is not an “event” but a series of events, leading us to the recognition of Bahá’u’lláh as the Manifestation of God for the Day we are living in.

Short story – Whilst in my first year at Glasgow School of Art, I met a Bahá’í called Patrick McCunnie in a pub in Sauchiehall Street. He invited me to attend a fireside meeting at the home of Mrs Senobar Tahzib in Merrylee Road, in the south side of Glasgow. I liked what I heard very much and very quickly decided to become a Bahá’í. End of story?

I don’t think so. The longer story is more meaningful, I believe, and shows me that the series of events that led to me finding the Faith were not all under my control, or even within my own lifetime, but took place before I was born. It made me think that it is not we who find the Faith, but rather, Bahá’u’lláh finds us. And even after that life-changing experience, occasional events since that time re-affirmed my faith in the most wonderful way.

 

Beginnings

I was born Caroline McDonald, in Airdrie on 15 September 1955. My parents had married 9 years previously, and I was their only child. Their marriage had caused great upset within the family. The part of Scotland where I was born is blighted by a fierce religious bigotry between Catholics and Protestants. My father was Catholic, born in Coatbridge (with the highest percentage of Catholics in any town in Scotland), whilst my mother was from the neighbouring town, Airdrie, which was predominantly Protestant. The bigotry ran deep on both sides. I attended a “Protestant” school – it was actually a non-denominational school, but this binary view of the world permeated everything – you were either Catholic or Protestant. It dictated which football team you supported, which colours you would wear – green was a definite no-no, identified as “papish”, as was anything that could possibly be considered Catholic. This prejudice was so pervasive that it was not questioned. It just was. The fact that my father was a Catholic in this protestant-centric universe was an odd paradox. Statements such as “The only good Catholic is a dead Catholic”, which I grew up hearing all around, somehow did not apply to him.

My father’s story is worth telling. Daniel McDonald was born on 1st September 1909 into a poor Irish immigrant family, the eldest of three children. He showed promise at school, especially in maths, but any notion of an education was abruptly halted at the age of twelve, when his father was killed in a traffic accident. He became the main breadwinner. He earned money helping in a barber’s, and later worked in Stewarts and Lloyds steel tube factory in Coatbridge.  He was a loyal and good son, attending Mass every Sunday, and giving his mother his wages every week. The world turned upside down with the advent of the second world war, and my father, like millions of others, was conscripted to fight in a war that was not of his doing. His nature was peaceful, and I can think of nothing worse for him than to be expected to kill other human beings. My mother and father corresponded during the war, but had decided not to marry at that point because of the uncertainty of the future.

My mother, too, has an interesting story. She was born Caroline Dickson, on 17th June 1917, as the Great War continued to ravage the European continent. Her father was a baker and confectioner, a job which seemed to have exempted him from serving as a soldier. Still, he was frequently away from home, leaving his wife and family behind. My mother, the eldest of five, resented having to look after her younger siblings, especially as they had moved to a farm in New Cumnock, far away from the relatively more sophisticated delights of Airdrie. Her nature was quite rebellious, and she left school at the age of 14, in spite of her parents’ wishes for her to continue her education. She was working as a waitress in a hotel in the Isle of Man at the outbreak of war.

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On the 26 July 1946, the war being over, my parents Daniel and Caroline married. It was a Catholic ceremony, a fact which my mother would recollect. “It was in Latin. I did not know if I was getting married, baptised or buried!” There had to be a special interview with the Bishop, who had asked if there was a “reason” for the marriage, i.e. was my mother pregnant? My mother was very indignant that her honour was being brought into question, but the wedding went ahead, with the priests being instructed not to interfere with Miss Dickson’s opinions.

In spite of the upset the marriage had caused within both sides of the family, my mother and father had a relatively peaceful life. Years passed and my mother’s brother and sisters married and had children, and my parents fitted the role of favourite auntie and uncle. My father’s sister had a baby every year, some years two, totalling thirteen. My mother was ever ready to criticise, especially her brother-in-law, and the relationship between my mother and my father’s family was always very frosty.

They had to wait for nine years before my arrival, an event which they did not welcome. They had their own routine. My mother would speak of how carefree their life had been – fresh flowers every week, visits to nice restaurants, trips to the theatre. My father would be forty-six when the baby arrived, my mother was thirty-eight, a dangerous age to be having a first baby. In fact the prospect of having a baby so filled her with horror that she remained in denial for the first five months of the pregnancy.

When the doctor finally convinced her that the swelling in her belly was not a tumour but in fact a baby, she tried hard to ignore the fact, and continued to smoke up to and beyond the day of the birth. “Ignore it and it will go away” seemed to be her motto. She believed that neither she nor the baby was going to survive. She had a conversation with my father, asking him about how he would cope in the event of her dying. Anticipating that his response would be a very passionate declaration of his undying love and how meaningless life would be without her and so on, she was astounded at his reply. He quoted the words of a song that was popular at that time “Que Sera, Sera.” (What will be, will be). My mother was furious!

That exchange summed up my mother’s and father’s very different personalities. She – feisty, confrontational, passionate; he – contented, peaceful, honest. It was a known fact that my father would leave the room rather than be involved in an argument, whereas my mother to a certain extent seemed to thrive on confrontation. It was odd that her opinions were often formed by what she did not like – a sense of nationalism defined by a hatred of the English (although her sister’s husband was English and she regarded him as a fine man). Her religion was more about hating Catholics (although she married one). She disliked men, perhaps because they were responsible for making women pregnant. The fact that she married my father at all is almost a miracle, he being both a Catholic and a man.

Another almost miraculous event was my birth. Having unsuccessfully ignored the impending event, chain smoking her way through the pregnancy, my mother was up a ladder engaged in a spot of house decorating when the labour started. No nappies had been bought or matinee jackets and bootees knitted, as my mother was so convinced the baby was not happening. Her uncle, the Provost (mayor) of Airdrie and an influential man on the local council, had arranged for her to go to a special home to give birth, an offer she declined. Home births were not unusual in those days, but given her relatively advanced age to be having a baby, it would have been a worrying time, so I was born at home, two weeks early and weighing under 5 lbs 8oz.

Childhood

In spite of a shaky start, my childhood was happy and secure. No brothers or sisters were forthcoming (no surprise there) but I spent many happy times with my cousins. I was one of the last to arrive, so I was the baby of the family, and I think they were very protective of me. Those were the cousins on my mother’s side. I rarely saw my father’s nieces and nephews, visiting only occasionally. My father took me to see them when I was a baby. It was on one of those early visits to my father’s sister, undoubtedly without my mother, that I was baptised with Holy Water. Possibly on the same visit, my father was told, shockingly, that it would have been better if I had been stillborn, rather than not be brought up as a Catholic. I was too young to remember that episode, but heard the sentiment repeated often by my mother, whom my father must have told. It might have been better if he hadn’t told her; in this case honesty, or openness, was not the best policy. Mother used the story to fuel the hatred she felt for all Catholics. Future visits were limited to the numerous weddings that would take place, or more specifically the events leading up to them. The Show of Presents was an important occasion for all the women, who would gather in the home of the bride’s parents to eat salmon paste sandwiches and drink tea from the best tea set, while taking turns to admire the gifts that were laid out on the candlewick bedspread in the spare bedroom. No mention was ever made of any religious differences on such occasions.

I have no recollection of my baptism with holy water, but I do remember when I was six being christened under the auspices of the Church of Scotland, and receiving a pink-covered boxed edition of the New Testament. I attended Sunday school at the church across the road from the home of my aunt Ina, my mum’s sister, and my godmother. I was especially devout in the weeks prior to Christmas, more to ensure an invitation to the Christmas party than to any religious inclination!

Conscious acceptance of any religious faith came much later. Whilst the whole Protestant/Catholic issue never went away, as not just my family, but the entire community was divided by it, I learned to just ignore it, as far as was possible. Take people as you find them, I thought. Around the age of thirteen I attended one of the evangelical conventions courtesy of the Christian Union at Airdrie Academy; these were quite big events, and it was difficult not to get caught up in the excitement generated. My interest was fairly short-lived, although I did have a period of going to church every Sunday. It lost its shine after a while. I enjoyed singing hymns and being something of a novelty since young people were certainly a minority in the congregation. I think the main factor that turned me away from the church was not dissatisfaction with the answers – at that stage I was not asking questions – but the realisation that not all who professed their faith actually lived up to its standard. I saw individuals who were supposed pillars of the community behaving in ways that were anything but Christian. I was hypercritical, seeing things in a very black and white way, things were either right or wrong, and as far as I could see there was more wrong than right with the Church. I hope I have mellowed and am less judgmental in my outlook now – none of us is perfect, after all. My adolescent sense of justice could not tolerate the hypocrisy I was witnessing. I left organised religion and decided to not associate with any church, Protestant or Catholic.

 

Awakening 

Besides, life was getting interesting in other areas. My love for art, which had been present from the time I could hold a pencil, flourished and expanded under the tuition of an art teacher at Airdrie Academy, Alistair Mowat. Special exception had to be made to allow me to take art as a specialism, as the restrictions of the timetable would not allow it. For those not taking Latin, only commercial subjects, that is, secretarial skills such as shorthand, typing and bookkeeping, were available options for girls. Technical Drawing and Woodwork were for boys.  “Not everyone can be a Picasso, Mrs McDonald” the deputy head was said to have told my mother, banning me from taking art, at a parents’ evening. However, perseverance won the day. The deputy head was overruled and I was able to specialise in my favourite subject. I spent as much time as I could in the art department, and I delighted in working on my portfolio for art college. Even in other subjects I would spend my time daydreaming and doing extravagant drawings on my jotter margins and covers. My mother, at another parents’ evening, told my art teacher that I would continue to draw even if the house were on fire. “At least she’s got her priorities right,” Mr Mowat replied. My world was opening up, and I looked forward to going to art school.  

And so it happened. I got the qualifications I needed and my portfolio was accepted by Glasgow School of Art. I left school at 16 and went straight there, where I was the youngest in my year. I was also the first in my extended family ever to have been able to go into further education. It was a dream come true, although I was a bit scared. It had been my biggest ambition to get to this place, and now I was here! I was on course to become a real artist! Several weeks into the first term, an event happened which had not been part of my plan, and its effect was devastating. 

My father died of a coronary thrombosis in Glasgow Royal Infirmary. He had had several strokes in the months beforehand, although his death was unexpected. He was 63. I remember visiting him in hospital. It was a spur of the moment thing, not scheduled, just a visit on my way home from art school. He was very proud to tell another patient about his daughter who was studying at art school. I am so glad I made that visit. He died two days later. The months that followed were naturally a sad time for my mother and me. The excitement that greeted my entry into art school had faded, and I no longer felt joy as I produced art to meet project deadlines. The harshness of the grown up world too, made its entry into my consciousness, when I realised for the first time that not everyone had my interests at heart, as had been the case when I was still at school.  

My disillusionment with religion had not ceased, although I did encounter a number of outfits that were looking for souls amongst the first-year students. Some were sincere in their aims, some less so. The Scripture Union, the Communists, the Divine Light Mission, the Moonies, Hare Krishna and the Children of God were amongst the many -ologies and -isms that mushroomed in the seventies, as young people strove to “find” themselves. I joined the Film Society. None of them, even the well-meaning ones, seemed to be solving the problems that I saw in the world. I still believed in God, but did not want to subscribe to any of the groups I had seen. The questions that had not entered my head only a few months before now seemed to preoccupy me. What happens when we die? Is there a God? Why do we suffer? Why are there so many religions? What is the point – of anything? 

My feelings of confusion and depression were lifted somewhat by an encounter in one of the pubs frequented by art students at that time – not the sort of place where one expected to receive spiritual enlightenment! Someone called Patrick McCunnie would quote from a book called the Hidden Words. He had a light in his eye which did not seem to come from drinking alcohol. He invited me and my friend, Stella – another exile from Airdrie, tasting student life for the first time, even though she wasn’t even at university at that point – to go to a ‘fireside’ meeting. I was intrigued.

Enlightenment!

Mrs Senobar Tahzib’s house was reached by a short ride on the number 38 bus from the centre of Glasgow. Every Wednesday night was set aside for this special fireside meeting to which all were welcome. Mrs Tahzib seemed very fond of both Stella and me. She was loving towards all her guests, and I soon learned to appreciate Persian hospitality. She had only recently lost her husband, who had passed away exactly a month before my father. Many people who were just like me, came to the fireside, and a good many others who were not like me at all! Some eminent Bahá’ís were amongst occasional guests, people whom I would later learn were Hands of the Cause. I was a regular attendee. I drank in everything I heard. I loved the beauty of the teachings – There is one God, that all religions have the same source, that we should abandon all forms of prejudice, that we should be friends with people of all religions. I already believed these things to be true! The lessons I had been learning all my life had led me to this point, like it was preparation for me to recognise this great message as soon as I heard it! I cannot remember exactly how long it took me to declare my faith – in some ways it was instantaneous – or even a recognition that I had already been a Bahá’í in my heart all along. I had found what I was looking for. I just needed to hear these words to know in my heart that Bahá’u’lláh’s message was true, so “I” found “my” Faith at the age of seventeen. Perhaps it seemed that way to me then. Looking back I am more inclined to think it was Bahá’u’lláh Who found me, and I am eternally grateful that I was given this precious gift when still so young.

MY STORY Part 2

Life did not improve, if anything it got worse, as I struggled to practise my new found faith in an environment that was at best non-supportive, at worst hostile. Fellow students were suspicious, convinced I had allowed myself to be brainwashed by some cult. I was going against the hedonistic grain by trying to live a “chaste and holy” life. To make matters worse, I was in a department I really did not like, where insincerity and pretence seemed to be the main requirements to succeed. After two years I left Glasgow School of Art. It was a difficult decision to make. Wasn’t this where I had always wanted to be? I was conscious of letting a lot of people down – my mother and father, my art teacher, all those who had been so encouraging. I felt burnt out, like I would never be able to do anything creative ever again. I was nineteen.  

It was a curious thing that both Mrs Tahzib and my mother recalled sharing the news of my finding the Faith with their husbands, although I was sure that it was in the spring of the following year that I declared, five or six months after their passing. Mrs Tahzib would tell her husband when she visited him in hospital about the two girls coming to the fireside, me and Stella. My mother recalled me coming home one night in a very excited state, announcing “I’ve declared! I’ve declared!” before disappearing upstairs to my room. She recalls looking at my father, and him looking at her, shrugging their shoulders, shaking their heads and together sighing “Must be a phase.”  

It was only in recent years when I met with Stella, visiting from New Zealand, that I was able to confirm that it was indeed in the spring that we both declared, after my father and Mrs Tahzib’s husband had passed away. The effect of bereavement perhaps caused both women to mis-remember. I know my mother missed my father’s presence for a long time, describing the loss as like having had an amputation. It is entirely possible that her desire to speak with my father, to confide in her life-long companion, made the idea of such an exchange real. To a certain extent it was. It was an exchange of two souls. The fact that my becoming a Bahá’í and my father’s death seemed to happen at the same time is I think significant; many years later something happened that confirmed this spiritual connection.

 

Life and Death 

Years passed. I went back to art school, this time in Dundee, where I studied textile design at Duncan of Jordanstone College of Art and Design, and was very successful in my studies. I met and married Farhad. I became a teacher. We had two lovely babies, Roya and Adam. My faith was the one constant throughout all the changes life brought, and I served in whatever way I could in whatever community we were living in, Dundee, Fife or Perth. 

News of my mother’s diagnosis of cancer should not have come as a shock. She had smoked since she was fourteen, apart from the final two years. I lived only 70 miles from her but it might as well have been seven thousand. That year, Farhad was working and studying for his professional exam and living away from home during the week. I was at home with two babies and not then able to drive. Initially my mother lived with her sister in Burntisland, but soon came to stay with us in our tiny two-bedroomed house. It was hard but every day there was a reason to thank God. My mother enjoyed time with her grandchildren. There were opportunities to have those important conversations that are lost when someone dies unexpectedly.  

It had seemed to me that every major decision I had made in my life had been the wrong one as far as my mother was concerned. Choosing to study art without having the secretarial skills “to fall back on” was unwise; my artistically styled outfits were usually greeted by “You’re no’ going out looking like that, are you?” She wasn’t completely sure about Farhad, although she did give her consent for our marriage. Her doubts were evident when the two of us went on a shopping trip to Glasgow before the wedding. ”Aw hen,” she said “could ye no’ have married somebody English?” I was shocked, bearing in mind her dislike of English people. A case of the devil you know. Farhad was an unknown quantity. For the first time ever, as she was dying, my mother told me “I think you have done all right.” That meant a lot to me. Praise was something I wasn’t used to hearing. 

Although she did not express her fears about dying, I could tell that she was frightened. Whether it was denial or just trying to protect others from being saddened, the nearest she came to acknowledging the fact that she was dying was by stating “Ah’ve never been this no weel”. “Ignore it and it will go away” would have been as much use then as it was when she was pregnant with me. I remember her planning to buy a new washing machine, but looking at me knowingly, as if the plan would be for me to have the washing machine when she would no longer need it. On the occasion, near the end, when it seemed appropriate, I told her that I knew she was going to be with my father, which I hoped would be of some comfort.  

As the cancer took a greater hold, it became necessary for her to move to her own home to be closer to the hospital and palliative care. Aunt Ina and her husband came to take her. I remember the tearful departure knowing it was the last time she would be in my home. We visited as much as we could in the final six weeks. My aunties and my cousin Lana did a lot of the caring that she required, and made sure that there was plenty of love and laughter.

The similarities between birth and death really struck me during this period. Just as a pregnant woman will be asked “How long till your date?” the reply being perhaps three months, or as the date gets closer, three weeks, a similar countdown would take place when people enquired about my mother. The nature of the illness meant that predictions were made about how long my mother was likely to live. Months became weeks, and then the day came. I was at home in Perth when my cousin Lana called. I went on the bus to Airdrie with the kids. My mother had already passed before I arrived. I can remember feeling not sadness, but relief, knowing the pain and suffering were over, and that she was, at last, with my father again.

The weeks and months that followed were naturally a sad time. It was then that I found something that confirmed my Faith and the spiritual connection I had with my parents. I was going through papers after the house was emptied. Amongst them was a box of papers that were from my father, when he was a soldier during World War Two. The war had presented an opportunity for working class men to travel to different countries, and here was the evidence of my father’s journey. Photos and postcards of readily recognisable landmarks were there – the Pyramids, the Vatican in Rome, Christian holy places in The Holy Land, programmes from Italian Opera – my father was stationed there four years, spoke fluent Italian and loved opera all his life. The war wasn’t all bad!

One photograph in particular stood out, nothing famous to see. In fact it looked like a fairly humdrum town somewhere in the Middle East, identifiable by the flat-roofed buildings, but something made me look again. The outline of the hills in the distance, and the shape of the bay…. I suddenly recognised what this view was…. I found a picture I had purchased some years previously. It was a view from Mount Carmel, looking over the dome of the Shrine of the Báb towards Akka. The two photos were almost identical! The dome of the Shrine had not been built when the photo was taken, and I could not be sure if the Shrine was just outside the photo, but there was no doubt that my father had stood on that spot with his Box Brownie camera and decided to take the picture. Did he have any idea of the importance of that place? I felt the tears come into my eyes and I thanked God for this confirmation, this precious gift from my father, a sign that comforted me greatly in those sad days when I was missing my mother so much.

 

Part 3 – Further Confirmations 

The years rolled by. May 2001 arrived. I found myself with four other fellow Scots at the opening of the Terraces on Mount Carmel. It was a great honour to be amongst the 3,000 or so delegates from all around the world who participated in this historic occasion. On the evening before the opening, we were all gathered in a temporary open stadium at the foot of Mount Carmel. The sun was still shining, casting its rays on this cross section of humanity, many looking resplendent in their national costumes, truly flowers of one garden. I had arrived early so I was positioned at the top corner of the stadium, five storeys up. I could look over the side, and see the members of the Universal House of Justice with their wives, religious dignitaries and civic leaders all arriving for this special programme. Musicians and singers were housed in an apartment which was roughly eye level with where I was sitting. I could see and hear them preparing for their performance. Singers were warming up, practising scales and the like. Final cigarettes were being smoked, cups of tea drunk. The sun lowered in the sky. The lights lining the path to the Shrine of Báb came on, adding to the magnificence of the sight. As the sky darkened, the Shrine itself shone out. The scene was so glorious, I felt I had been transported to heaven. It was as if all worlds, past and present, everything that ever was and will be, had merged at this point, the Primal Point, the Báb, time and place had ceased to exist. As I contemplated this view and anticipated the performance we were about to witness, I recalled my father and his love of opera. “My dad would have loved this. I wish he was here,” I thought. At that instant I realised he was here – is here, indeed he had stood on Mount Carmel and overlooked this very spot. In this unique moment, when it seemed time and place had converged, producing a truly transcendental experience, I felt strongly connected to my parents, perhaps even more than when they were alive, and was overwhelmed with a sense of confirmation.  

From what I have written, you might think my life is a series of super-charged, meaningful spiritual events. Most of the time it is not like that, but just occasionally, it is as if Bahá’u’lláh lifts the veil just a little. I am grateful for these rare experiences.

 

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Carrie Varjavandi 

Dundee, April 2020

 

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Where are they now?

Adam and Roya left Scotland in July 2003 to go on their respective Years of Service.

Roya went to South Africa, after completing her degree in American Studies at the University of Dundee, to be part of the Bahá’í-inspired dance group, Beyond Words. She fell in love with Africa and decided to stay there after the dance project was finished. She studied music education, then Peace Studies and worked in South Africa. She married Ildo from Mozambique in September 2013. In 2017 they relocated to the Netherlands, so Ildo could study for his Masters in Jazz Performance. They currently live and serve the Faith in Rotterdam and Roya teaches at the Hague University.  

After finishing his fifth year at high school in Dundee, Adam left for China within two weeks of his sister, firstly to Macau, where he would gain experience working in a language school. The plan was that he would return to Scotland to start an architecture degree. An opportunity to visit mainland China changed all that. A Year of Service became two years, then a decade, now a life of service in that great country. He lives in Xi’an and married RongRong in April 2013. He teaches music to children. Their son, Andrew Li, was born in 2016. 

Farhad and I did not stay put either. After Farhad retired in October 2010 (working as a Civil Engineer in the local authority) we responded to a call for pioneers to China. With Adam already there it made sense for us to go and we would be helping fulfil a pioneering goal. We spent three and a half wonderful years in Xi’an (2011-2014). Roya joined us for 10 months in 2012-13 and worked as an English teacher, before returning to South Africa. We were together as a family again. We returned to Scotland in 2014 and have been living here since then.