Ideas - How the death of a friend inspired a fight for human rights and justice

Episode Date: June 27, 2024

In his Massey Lectures, Iranian-Canadian lawyer Payam Akhavan recounts the courage and spirit of his childhood friend, Mona Mahmudnizhad. Mona was executed for defying Iranian authorities and speaking out about religious freedom. Her example compelled Payam to make it his mission to fight for justice for people who have suffered at the hands of human rights abusers.

Hey there, I'm David Common. If you're like me, there are things you love about living in the GTA and things that drive you absolutely crazy. Every day on This Is Toronto, we connect you to what matters most about life in the GTA, the news you gotta know, and the conversations your friends will be talking about. Whether you listen on a run through your neighbourhood, or while sitting in the parking lot that is the 401, check out This Is Toronto, wherever you get your podcasts. This is a CBC Podcast. Welcome to Ideas. I'm Nala Ayyad.

In 2017, Payam Akhavan was a renowned human rights lawyer and a professor of international law at McGill University. It was a turbulent year globally. Human rights abuses, migration, discrimination, conflict, and political turmoil were making the world feel more unsafe and unstable. So 2017 was an apt year for Payam Akhavan to deliver the Massey Lectures. They were called In Search of a Better World, A Human Rights Odyssey, a survey of major human rights struggles, drawing on his own experiences as a despised religious minority in his native Iran, as a despised religious minority in his native Iran,

as a prosecutor at UN tribunals to bring the perpetrators of ethnic cleansing in Bosnia and genocide in Rwanda to justice, and as an investigator into atrocities committed by the Islamic State in Iraq. His lectures were also a celebration of human resilience in the face of cruelty and indifference, and a call to action to reject cynicism, despair, and empty posturing, and instead to get our hands dirty and do the real work of serving humanity. Tonight on Ideas, we're replaying the first of Payam Akhavan's 2017 Massey Lectures, which was delivered in Whitehorse. It's called The Knowledge of Suffering. Good evening and thank you for coming. It's a great honor to deliver the 2017 CBC Massey Lectures. I'm very pleased that for the first time the national tour begins here in Whitehorse in the majestic Canadian north. So this year we go not just coast to coast but

coast to coast to coast. Earlier this year we commemorated Canada's 150th anniversary. We have our challenges but there is much to celebrate. Instead of a narrow identity, we have constructed our sense of belonging on transcendent human rights ideals. The sanctity of human dignity is at the core of our self-conception. But do we really understand what it means? Do we really understand what it demands of us? On my way here, I read that the name Yukon is derived from an Athabascan word meaning big river. In the tradition of my Persian ancestors, it is said that silence is an ocean, speech is a river. In exploring human rights as the theme for this year's lectures,

in sharing my experiences as a human rights lawyer, I had to grapple with how speech could lead to a greater ocean of understanding. It's an immense challenge to convey through words realities that cannot be reduced to abstract theories, realities that cannot be detached from the enormous suffering in the one world that we all share. I've therefore chosen the medium of storytelling, weaved with wider ideas an offering of both intimate encounters with injustice as well as reflections and a call to action.

My hope is that the sharing of the lessons I've learned along the way will inspire greater empathy and greater engagement in our common search for a better world. I speak a little English. I like Canada. Nice to meet you. I had rehearsed those words carefully, repeating them like a sacred mantra. It was a long journey from Tehran to Toronto. At first, the hours went by quickly. Like all children flying in airplanes, I was in a euphoric trance. But I was growing impatient to arrive.

I needed to meet those foreigners called Canadians and practice the English phrases I had memorized. 30,000 feet is an ideal altitude to wander and dream. When explored from a safe distance, the world is an enchanting but deceptive place. The word exile was not yet part of my linguistic repertoire. The idea of religious persecution was still beyond my realm of experience. I didn't know at the time that I was about to enter the crucible of suffering that teaches us the true meaning of words. As the land of my birth slowly disappeared over the horizon, I glanced one last time at an innocent past. I had a vague premonition that I would never return to the home I once knew. When setting out on a journey, do not seek advice from someone who never left home. That was the timeless wisdom of Rumi, the mystical poet of ancient Persia, the land of my ancestors.

As children, we needed a safe home so our imagination could wander to distant places, unconstrained by fear. Adventures could be had effortlessly and endlessly, without expectations and calculations, until it was time to sleep. And even then, our dreams would sustain us until the light of morning. But one day, I would awaken to find myself in a strange place, far from home, desperately lost in the wilderness. In that place, I would struggle to find the words to explain where I had come from and why part of me was left behind. It seemed that nobody understood what I was trying to say.

Knowledge, I was told, was a theoretical abstraction and purpose a liberal platitude. There was no need to feel deeply, no need to be broken open. The fate of modern times, the German philosopher Max Weber wrote, is characterized by rationalization and intellectualization, and above all, by the disenchantment of the world. Emancipated from the mimicry of irrational traditions, the demystified mind was poised to conquer the truth, looking down from the commanding heights of utilitarian objectivity.

The man of the European Enlightenment was no longer part of the universe, he was on top of it. Henceforth, intellectual ideas would substitute intense experiences, and reason rather than reflection would discover reality through detached observation. By the 20th century, the unprecedented catastrophes of total war and genocide had exploded modernity's myth of progress. Just as the scientific mind had dispassionately discovered the secrets of the outward universe, the horrors of the Holocaust forced adjacent humanity to rediscover the mystical universe of the inner self. The cornerstone of the new post-war civilization was the idea of human rights, of a being with an intrinsically noble essence. In a secular world, it was a reminder of that which must remain sacred.

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights was adopted on December 10, 1948. The UN thereby proclaimed, without empirical verification, that all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. It professed as a self-evident truth that they are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood. In light of the appalling cruelty of our collective past, this would seem more a naive aspiration than a logical proposition. The 18th century English historian Edward Gibbon famously wrote,

history is indeed little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind. Yet human rights remains an idea at the core of our self-conception. Today, we demand justice for the oppressed. We no longer accept atrocities as the inescapable fate of the defenseless. We desire and we expect a better future. But when confronted with the enormity of injustice and what it demands of us, we retreat into the familiar ritual of intellectualization and moral posturing, recycling lofty liberal sentiments from a safe distance. We avoid the intimate knowledge of suffering without which we will never understand the imperative of human rights. The problem with the world is not a shortage of brilliant theories or feel-good slogans. The problem is that we confuse proliferation of

progressive terminology with empathy and engagement. We say the right things, but we fail to act on them because we want to feel virtuous without paying a price. There can be no meaningful change if we choose to look down at the arena of anguish from 30,000 feet. arena of anguish from 30,000 feet. Looking back at my journey from that fateful airplane voyage where I first learned about the pain of separation from that place we call home, to the lecture halls of the academy and the tribunals of the UN where I went in pursuit of justice, I've come to the conclusion that instead of a triumphant truth, human rights are a thousand humble stories. Suffering is not some big idea in the sky. It is a lived experience, a profound knowledge scattered across the many sites of sorrow that I've witnessed.

Feeling injustice is the only means of understanding justice. Stories, both enchanting and heartbreaking, are the only means of knowing why our dignity matters. This, then, is a story among stories, a glimpse of our shared longing to redeem irredeemable loss, a tale of how wounds open us to search in darkness for the dawn of a better world. I was nine years old when I was first told that we would soon leave Tehran. Our destination was an exotic place called Toronto. It was a strange name. It didn't sound English to me. I found it on my desktop globe on the other side of the world. It was a small empty circle above a blue lake called Ontario in a big country colored pink that stretched from the United States to the North Pole. There hadn't been much time to say goodbyes. In search of closure,

I reminisced about the world that I was about to leave behind, playing cops and robbers with my hyperactive brother in our backyard, adoring grandparents, affectionate aunts and uncles, generous and loyal family friends, irritating but indispensable cousins, an endless stream of guests and visitors, parties and celebrations filled with delicious meals and sweets, delightful gifts and games. It couldn't get any better. I especially missed the giant mulberry tree in our orchard. It danced in the wind, writing mysterious poems in the sky. I would sit on its mighty branches with my best friend, a girl named Sepideh. We would tell stories, our minds

wandering to distant places, unaware that soon our roots would be ripped out from this ancient land. that soon our roots would be ripped out from this ancient land. The Iran that I knew was a place of prosperity. I lived an enchanting life, sheltered from the world beyond the walls of my home. Ours was an ancient, complex, multi-layered country full of contradictions. My early childhood coincided with a period of profound transformation. In 1973, the Shah of Iran had persuaded the OPEC petroleum cartel to dramatically increase the

price of oil. The petrodollars were pouring in, transforming the country at a bewildering pace. The intense fusion of money and technology brought with it new unimaginable possibilities. For one thing, it dramatically improved the living standards of Iranians. There was a significant increase in literacy rates, public health, and life expectancy. My parents' generation had lived through a terrible famine during the Anglo-Soviet occupation of the Second World War. My paternal grandmother had had to sell her jewelry to feed her children. My father had lost half of his infant siblings to typhoid and other now curable diseases. Their lives had been suddenly thrust from survival to prosperity.

Another side of this rapid modernization was a profound transformation of cultural values. Amidst new riches, the affluent educated elites of Tehran developed a hedonistic lifestyle. The bustling city, replete with fashionable nightclubs and casinos, became known as the Paris of the East, or perhaps Paris was the Tehran of the West. It was a glamorous and happening place, frequented by the likes of Frank Sinatra and Tom Jones, a far cry from the image of the Middle East that we have today. Not everybody welcomed these changes. The privileged classes were so intoxicated with Western consumerism that one incensed intellectual coined the term Westoxication to describe their blind imitation of foreign cultures. There was increasing alienation among the traditional circles in both the bazaar and the mosque.

The historic Grand Bazaar in central Tehran was much more than a shopping mall. It was a meeting place where different social classes mingled, debating politics and exchanging gossip. The Islamic clerics, known as the ulama, had great influence among the traditional bazaars. This was an alliance that would become a central force in the overthrow of the Shah and the religious persecution that would push us into exile. My family belonged to the Baha'i religious minority. The Baha'i faith first emerged in 19th century Iran. Its vision of a world embracing all religions

and cultures, its teachings on the equality of men and women and social justice, and its ideal of democratizing spiritual knowledge free from control of meddling mystical middlemen attracted a significant following. The rapid spread of this revolutionary theology became an existential threat to the conservative clerical establishment. The ulama branded the Baha'is as apostates and incited ruthless massacres against them. By the time of my childhood in the 1970s, the Baha'is were tolerated by the monarchy, but being the traditional scapegoats in Iran, we knew that any political turmoil would not end well

for us. Like elsewhere in the Middle East, Iran was a highly complex ancient civilization with deeply rooted identities. My classmates were mostly Muslim, but they were also Armenian, Assyrian, Jewish, and Zoroastrian. In a tightly knit traditional society, we were defined first and foremost by our communal belonging. But as children, we had other priorities. Playing sports in the schoolyard, we hardly cared about the religion of our teammates. My first encounter with the idea of religious tolerance was learning ancient history at school. All Iranian children read about the first Persian emperor, Cyrus the Great, and the glorious civilization based in Perspolis that stretched from the Balkans to

Central Asia. The most celebrated symbol of this imperial past was the Cyrus Cylinder, a clay tablet from around 539 BC. It was arguably the first declaration of human rights in history. Having defeated the Babylonian king, Cyrus called for the repatriation of the Jewish and other enslaved peoples and the restoration of their temples. Although a Zoroastrian, he proclaimed that his new subjects could worship the god of their own choice rather than the god of their conqueror. This was revolutionary by the standards of antiquity. Such was its historical legacy that the Cyrus Cylinder influenced the American Declaration of Independence in 1776. Thomas Jefferson had studied it with admiration. Many years later in university, I would learn that human rights was only a Western idea, a unique product of the European Enlightenment.

From the 19th century onwards, amidst the historical transition to modernity, a constitutional movement had emerged in Iran. Democratic ideals began to take root in response to the excesses of absolutist monarchy. But foreign oil interests, acting in collusion with local reactionary forces conspired against democracy. In 1951, Iran's secular prime minister, Mohammad Mossadegh, a Swiss-educated scholar of international law, nationalized Anglo-Iranian oil company so the Iranian people could benefit from their natural resources. could benefit from their natural resources. By 1953, he was overthrown in the CIA's notorious Operation Ajax. The conservative Islamic clerics were happy to see Mossadegh go, as secular democracy was an existential threat to their power. Under the Pahlavi monarchy, a period of authoritarian rule and rapid modernization began.

A decade later, in 1963, the Shah announced the White Revolution, aimed at land reform, literacy, the right of women to vote, and the right of religious minorities to hold public office. The conservative clerics condemned social modernization One of them, by the name of Khomeini issued a declaration denouncing the white revolution as an attack on Islam He condemned the Shah as a puppet of the US and Israel He warned that the Jews were taking over the country and incited fanatical mobs to attack the Baha'is. By 1964, the Shah had exiled Khomeini to neighboring Iraq.

In 1967, the aging Mossadegh died in his modest home, where he had been under house arrest. By then, under the shadow of Anglo-American geopolitics and commercial interests, autocratic modernism imposed from above was on a collision course with reactionary fanaticism from below. In between these two opposing forces, secular democracy became the biggest casualty. forces, secular democracy became the biggest casualty. Without an open society, politics went underground. Western-educated nationalists and Marxists plotted to overthrow the monarchy. But most significant was the retreat of grassroots politics into the bazaars and mosques of Iran, where it would re-emerge in the 1979 revolution. Like elsewhere in the Middle East, the traditional masses understood the familiar language of Islam better than the foreign ideologies of Europe. An opportunity for Iran's progress and a better future for the Middle East had been squandered.

The cynical statesmanship and corporate greed of men a world away had changed the destiny of a nation and with it the course of many lives. The toxic mix of Western oil interests, corrupt dictatorships, and political use of religious extremism would have catastrophic consequences. As this poisonous brew fermented, the spread of war and terrorism, the mass exodus of refugees, the suffering of millions was only a matter of time. was only a matter of time. You're listening to human rights lawyer Payam Akhavan and the first of his 2017 Massey lectures, The Knowledge of Suffering. While he was in Whitehorse to deliver the lecture,

Payam met with students in the Social Justice Club at what is now named the St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Secondary School. The political and social environment of 2017 was very much on their minds. Here's part of their conversation. Well, we were talking about Trump's immigration ban earlier. People are claiming that immigrants aren't such a great thing because they bring problems. And definitely Syrian refugees, there have been people saying that they raise crime. How do you feel about letting refugees into countries or just immigration in

general? Well, refugees and immigrants are different because under international law, there's an obligation to accept refugees and refugees are people that are fleeing persecution, whereas immigrants may come in search of better economic opportunities. So that's a fundamental difference. And immigration, well, in the case of Canada, we are fundamentally an immigrant nation. And many would say that the reason why Canada is so prosperous is because it has opened its doors to immigration. And I think at a time when you have the rise of xenophobia and populism, the success of the Canadian model is that much more important to rebut all of these xenophobic anti-immigrant arguments. So the point is not necessarily to say that we must open our doors to absolutely

everyone, but the point is that we have migrated you know, open our doors to absolutely everyone. But the point is that we have migrated throughout history. The idea of borders are entirely artificial. You know, when you think about through most of history, we have all migrated. We've all migrated from one place to another. And no matter how high a wall you build, at the end of the day, No matter how high a wall you build, at the end of the day, if there are extremes of wealth and poverty, people will move. If people are being bombed in some city like Aleppo, they will risk the lives of their children in a rubber dinghy in the Mediterranean Sea and even drown to leave. So instead of thinking about immigration and refugee, we need to think about what creates those population flows why are people desperate to leave at any cost and once we begin to address those causes then we will solve the problems in a more intelligent and sustainable way

i just wanted to say that i really liked what you said about how like being a visionary now is isn't about being naive. It's about being realistic because a lot of people nowadays say that it's impossible for anyone to get along and for wars not to happen and stuff. So it's really nice to see someone that believes that we can all be united. Well, thank you. And a lot of people are surprised because I've seen a lot of ugly things. So most people would say, oh, he must be really cynical. And I'm not.

But as I said, it's really easy to be idealistic when we're just having a conversation. But when we go out there and you get hurt and wounded and disappointed, that is when being idealistic really, really matters. So, you know, in a sense, maybe it's a kind of, you know, tough love to some of my friends who are really depressed about what's happening in the world.

And I say, you know, what are you going to do about it? What are you going to do about it? Because it's easy. Despair and cynicism is effortless. It doesn't take anything to say, oh, I'm so depressed. The world is terrible. Well, get up and do something. I tell you, the biggest power that you can have is to know your own self, to know yourself in a deep way and not to be dependent on superficial validation.

Oh, I love what you're wearing and this and that. And, you know, that's great. We all need friends. We all need to be part of a community. But when you know yourself in a deep way, then that is the true source of power. And that's when you won't be easily discouraged and disappointed by the ups and downs of life. So don't be too afraid of going out there and getting disappointed. See your disappointments as, you know, what's going to really give you that motivation. Payam Akhavan, speaking with students in the Social Justice Club at what is now named the St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Secondary School in Whitehorse. That conversation was recorded when he was in Whitehorse to deliver the first of the 2017 Massey Lectures. and a broadcast heard on CBC Radio 1 in Canada,

on US Public Radio, across North America on Sirius XM, in Australia on ABC Radio National, and around the world at cbc.ca slash ideas. Find us on the CBC Listen app and wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Nala Ayyad. Hey there, I'm Kathleen Goldtar, and I have a confession to make.

I am a true crime fanatic. I devour books and films, and most of all, true crime podcasts. But sometimes, I just want to know more. I want to go deeper. And that's where my podcast, Crime Story, comes in. Every week, I go behind the scenes with the creators of the best in true crime.

I chat with the host of Scamanda, Teacher's Pet, Bone Valley, the list goes on. For the insider scoop, find Crime Story in your podcast app. The world was in upheaval when Payam Akhavan delivered the 2017 Massey Lectures. The first year of the Donald Trump presidency, the fallout of the Brexit vote, the continuing migration crisis, rising xenophobia, civil wars in the Middle East. Six years later, in October 2023, Payam Akhavan was part of the Massey at 60 series. He reflected on how the search for a better world was going on a planet that, if anything, seems to be in even more turmoil now.

We have no choice but to live together on one planet as one emerging civilization. I think we are headed to a period of unprecedented turbulence. And I would, instead of changing my position, dig down on some of what I said in 2017, that now is the time for visionary, principled leadership to say what needs to be said beyond the short-sighted political calculations. And if we don't rise to the occasion, then we will be forced to make these seismic shifts after yet unimaginable suffering. And that's the choice that we have. Will we realize this new global order through an act of volition

or after unimaginable suffering leaves us no choice. Now back to Knowledge of Suffering, the first of Payam Akhavan's 2017 Massey lectures delivered in Whitehorse. After a long and exhausting journey, our flight finally arrived in Toronto. Welcome to Canada, the sign at the airport declared. Bienvenue au Canada. My new home was fascinating. I was ecstatic that the television was in color. Prior to that, I had only seen John Wayne in black and white. I had no idea that in addition to Persian, he also spoke English. Upon arriving at Harrison Public School, I noticed that I was one of only two brown children.

I was visibly different. The Canada of the 1970s was not yet a multicultural society, at least as we understand the idea today. There were very few non-Europeans in those days. The mass exodus of Iranians, the emergence of Tehranto was still some time away. In those days, I was a genuinely exotic immigrant. My first day at school had been awkward. exotic immigrant. My first day at school had been awkward. During the recess, I approached a group of boys and asked if they wanted to play with me. At first, they looked at me with curiosity. Then they laughed at me, imitating my exaggerated accent. They said things I couldn't understand, but I knew they were being mean. This was not the welcome I had expected.

Soon they started calling me names and hitting me. Badly outnumbered, I fought back as best as I could with my fists and the few words that I knew. As blood flowed from my mouth, they were yelling, Paki, go home. I thought of that beautiful mulberry tree dancing in the wind in our orchard back in Iran. Go home, the boys yelled.

I wanted nothing more, but my home was gone. Exile is a longing to belong. It is an emotional space that we often confuse with a physical place. I was told that Canada is the promised land, but I pined for Iran. From the vantage point of schoolyard politics, I was a despised minority in Canada. I was not yet aware that I was a much more despised minority in Iran. There was seemingly no escape from this prison of identity. Confined by its oppressive walls, the best I could do was to retreat inside of myself

and find comfort in romanticized memories, a stubborn clinging to an increasingly perfect past. a stubborn clinging to an increasingly perfect past. As my school years came to a close, the all-purpose pejorative Paki label was giving way to a more sophisticated taxonomy of bigotry. Thanks to the simplistic soundbites and sensational images that passed as the evening news, Arabs and Iranians were emerging in the popular imagination as a barbaric race of crazy terrorists. It didn't matter that we were actually the biggest victims

of those same bearded fanatics. Whether in the schoolyard or in global politics, the clash of civilizations is a convenient escape from the visceral fear of embracing others. The bully and the bigot, the tyrant and the terrorist need to inflict pain on others to escape their own fear. Hatred is the cowardly way out of learning and growing. In these times of accelerating globalization, the extremists need each other more than ever. The white crusaders and the jihadists are inseparable dancing partners entangled in an awkward tango of mutual disgust. Whether they like it or not, amidst intensifying interdependence, parochial identities are giving way to a wider loyalty. The xenophobic hissy fit of identity warriors is futile avoidance

of a shared future. Multiculturalism, though, is a messy affair. It's much more than a celebration of colorful costumes and culinary pleasures. Transcending prejudice requires listening to the story of those that are foreign to us, but it also requires a shared humanity. The universality of human rights means that despite our differences, we all deserve to be treated with the same dignity. In celebrating diversity, we should not become apologists for those that abuse others in the name of tradition. Should we tolerate hatred, torture, and misogyny as worthy expressions of culture? That depends very much on whether we ask the victim or the perpetrator. In 1983, as tens of thousands were executed, an Iranian diplomat had deflected condemnation by

the UN Human Rights Commission by invoking religious exceptionalism. In his words, the Islamic Republic recognized no authority or power but that of Almighty God and no legal tradition apart from Islamic law. It was a cynical slate of hands, casually conflating Almighty God with the Almighty State. claimed, represented a secular understanding of the Judeo-Christian tradition that could not be implemented by Muslims and did not accord with the system of values recognized by the Islamic Republic of Iran. These philosophical musings were hardly about the subordination of the secular to the sacred or respect for cultural diversity. The hostility to human rights justified by allegedly incontestable interpretations of the sharia was sectarian subterfuge, a hijacking of the divine for diabolical ends. The sharia was whatever Iran's rulers wanted it to be so they could stay in power. The toxic fusion of theological obscurantism

and populist hatred was modern tyranny dressed in traditional clothes. But growing up as the immigrant child, I couldn't easily deconstruct the intricacies of political Islam for an audience that was at best indifferent and at worst openly hostile. Being the godless infidel in the East and the camel-driving terrorist in the West, I learned, was quite a predicament. This prison of identity was particularly ironic because the most important Baha'i principle I'd learned from my parents was the oneness of humankind. Our prophetic figure, Bahá'u'lláh, called for beholding the entire human race as one soul and one body. One of the first quotes that we memorized in Sunday school was,

The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens. My quest to become a full-fledged Canadian was progressing in fits and starts, but 1980 was a year of momentous significance. It was in that year that I found myself standing before a judge in my best suit and tie with a room full of strangers. In one voice, but diverse accents, we pledged allegiance to the British Queen and to the laws of Canada in that order. We were now officially citizens. The ceremony filled me with patriotic sentiments.

But just as I celebrated my new status, the home that I once knew was about to be destroyed. about to be destroyed. On February 1, 1979, an Air France 747 landed in Tehran's Mehrabad International Airport. It was carrying Khomeini on his triumphant return after 15 years of exile in Iraq. As the Ayatollah emerged from the airplane, millions of jubilant Iranians celebrated in the streets. They imagined his arrival as the advent of a just and democratic future. At first, the understanding among the broad revolutionary movement was that an inclusive political coalition would rule the Islamic Republic, while Khomeini would be a religious figurehead, a spiritual guide for the masses. But Khomeini had a different idea in mind.

Within days of his return, he began the first of what would become many thousands of summary executions before the notorious Islamic revolutionary courts. As Khomeini's totalitarian vision of political Islam was translated into reality, the executions ensnared an ever-widening circle of political groups that stood in his way, including his erstwhile revolutionary allies. In 1988, he ordered the mass execution of thousands of leftist prisoners. This revolution, like others, would devour its own children. My family's worst fears about the fate of our vulnerable community were beginning to come true. Khomeini had an obsessive hatred for the Baha'is. The chief justice of the revolutionary courts

had made clear that the punishment for apostasy was death. The religiously sanctioned murder of our loved ones was about to begin. This is how the world looked in 1980 when I'd just become a Canadian citizen. These heartbreaking events ripped me back to my country of origin, shattering innocent childhood memories of what was once an idyllic emotional space called Iran. But the Canadian response was something I will never forget. It was in July of that same year that the House of Commons became the first legislature in the world to adopt a resolution condemning Iran's persecution of the Baha'is. Canada also

became the first Western country to open its doors to Baha'i refugees. What was a trickle when we first arrived became a flood as thousands were forced to flee. Amidst the despair and helplessness, this outpouring of sympathy meant so much to our bereaved community. In the years that followed, whenever new waves of refugees would arrive from some conflict halfway around the world, I would always imagine what it felt for them to lose their country, how important it was for them to feel welcome in their new home. For us, this was a time of intense despair. We felt powerless to save our loved ones, but we had to do what little we could in the court of public opinion.

I would later learn from survivors of Iran's prisons that many more Baha'is would have been killed had it not been for concerned people clamoring for justice around the world. I would grow up understanding that speaking truth to power could be a matter of life and death. That bearing witness, even in the darkest moments, was fundamental to fighting tyranny. It was a matter of accepting individual responsibility. There can be no global outcry if we don't raise our voices. But just as I was inspired by this heroic resistance to oppression, things would go from bad to worse. to oppression, things would go from bad to worse. I would soon learn a brutal lesson about unspeakable suffering. On the surface, Mona Mahmoud Nejad was no different than any of my friends from Sunday

school back in Iran. We were of the same age, in the same community, in the same country. But there was a consequential difference between us. One of us moved to Canada, the other remained in Iran. One of us would live, the other would die. All those who knew Mona were enchanted by her beautiful presence. She was intensely thoughtful and immensely kind. She was an idealistic high school student. She volunteered her time at the local orphanage. After the expulsion of Bahá'í children from elementary schools, she took it upon herself to teach them at home.

But there was also a fiery side to this otherwise gentle soul. Mona was an outspoken defender of human rights. This in a country where speaking the truth carried grave consequences. On one occasion, her religious studies teacher had assigned a class essay. The topic was, the fruit of Islam is freedom of conscience and liberty. Like the other students, she was expected to deferentially repeat revolutionary polemics, glorifying Iran's rulers as just and wise. Instead, she had written a provocative essay on their hypocrisy.

Freedom, Mona wrote, is the most brilliant word. So why don't you let me be free? To say who I am and what I want. Why don't you give me freedom of speech so that I may write about my ideas? Yes, liberty is a divine gift, and this gift is also for us, but you don't let us have it. Why don't you push aside the thick veil from your eyes? In a Canadian high school, such words from a 16-year-old would have won the praise of her teachers. In Iran, it would cost Mona her life. of her teachers. In Iran, it would cost Mona her life. On October 23, 1982, at 7.30 p.m., while she was sitting on the couch studying for her English exam, the Revolutionary Guards raided Mona's home. They grabbed her and her father and took them to prison. Her mother begged them to stop. She's just a child, she said. Please don't

take her. They produced Mona's essay and retorted, the person who wrote this is not a child. For the next eight months, Mona was confined to a filthy prison cell. She endured repeated interrogations and brutal torture. Her tormentors did what they could to extract a confession for fabricated offenses such as misleading children and espionage for Israel, but they failed. Mona's only crime was that the Islamic Republic did not approve of her beliefs. The religious judge who interrogated the prisoners had given the Baha'is a stark choice, Islam or execution. It was an ultimatum to convert or face death.

Having endured so much torture and the execution of her father, Mona was no longer afraid of death. On the evening of June 18, 1983, the head of Adelabad prison in Shiraz called out the name of Mona and nine other Bahá'í women. Under cover of darkness, they were driven in a minibus to the same polo field where her father had been executed. The driver, devastated by what he saw, would later recount what transpired on that terrible, infamous night. The ten women were hanged one by one. Mona was the last one to be brought onto the scaffold. She had been forced to watch

the agonizing deaths of all her friends. And now, in her last moments, the merciless men that were about to snuff out her precious life were subjecting her to vicious insults. As Mona stood on the gallows in a final act of defiance, she smiled at her executioner. The following morning, on June 19, 1983, Mona's mother, Farkhunde,

came to retrieve the lifeless body of her daughter from the prison morgue. A prison guard wept and begged her for forgiveness. She comforted him like a child. When news of Mona's execution reached me, I became dazed and devastated. Here I was, a Canadian teenager, worried about popularity among my high school friends, while back in Iran, the youth were being killed for writing an essay. It became increasingly difficult to reconcile my mundane concerns with the enormity of what had happened. This was not an abstract victim in the evening news, soon to be forgotten. This was an intimate lived experience. It sliced through my complacency like a knife.

I'd arrived in Canada dreaming in the clouds. Now I found myself in the dark abyss of a recurring nightmare. I was a spectator watching helplessly as our loved ones were killed, as the innocent world I once knew was irretrievably shattered. Looking back from my place of exile, I felt an overwhelming surge of rage and sorrow. I became numb with inextinguishable pain. I felt an overwhelming surge of rage and sorrow. I became numb with inextinguishable pain. Mona's death changed everything. I would never be the same person again.

The horrors of the Islamic revolution steered within me, an all-consuming search for answers. I was desperate to understand why our loved ones had been killed, why the UN didn't stop this from happening. Above all, I wanted to understand how I could reconcile such suffering, such injustice, with my life of ease and comfort in Canada. My search for answers took me from the classrooms of Harrison Public School to the lecture halls of Harvard Law School. Studying human rights law was like a philosophical balm for my wounds. At Harvard, I encountered venerable mentors, brilliant intellects, and ambitious

students, including this tall, skinny kid called Barack Obama. But there was little knowledge of suffering to infuse brilliant ideas with a deeper meaning. I'd once struggled to write a sentence in English. Now I found myself at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. But as impressive as it was, I couldn't connect this self-contained world of overachievers with the grim reality of the oppressed. I knew it was important to sharpen the intellect, but reason was powerless against the enormity of felt experience. against the enormity of felt experience. The knowledge that mattered most, I realized, could only be found in the intimate trenches of human struggle,

not by observing the world at 30,000 feet. We set out in pursuit of justice, not because of some great intellectual idea, but because we are deeply touched by human suffering. We had come to Canada in search of freedom, but I wondered what purpose it would serve if I'd wasted my life on selfish mediocrity, ignoring the fire that was raging within me. I remembered Mona's last wish, that the youth should arise in service to humanity, that they should move the world. I realized that there was no turning back.

I was too far from home, from the innocence I once knew. The humbling immensity of Mona's soul had become my silent guide from beyond. As I finished my studies, I realized that fighting for human rights was much more than a career choice. For me, it was my only path of redemption. To this day, the Islamic Republic of Iran persecutes the Baha'is for their religious beliefs. In 2014, the historic cemetery in which the remains of Mona and 950 other Baha'is rested was excavated by the revolutionary guards to remove any trace of this heinous crime. When setting out on a journey, do not seek advice from someone who never left home.

I left home a long time ago, against my will. I didn't want the journey until I realized that I had no choice. I wandered, wounded and confused, on a wondrous path that would take me to extraordinary places and spaces. From the lofty summits of selfless love to the dark abyss of searing sorrow. If there is any advice I would humbly dispense, it is that the fountain of all knowledge is felt experience. If our heart is broken often enough, if we are patient in our times of loss, we will discover the astonishing resilience of the human spirit.

Without embracing pain, without breaking open, we will never start our journey to a better world. I speak a little English. I had rehearsed those words carefully on that fateful journey from Tehran to Toronto before the innocent world I once knew was forever destroyed. I speak better English now, before the innocent world I once knew was forever destroyed. I speak better English now, but I also know that if we listen carefully, we will hear a voice that is not in need of words.

Thank you. The full series of five lectures was called In Search of a Better World, A Human Rights Odyssey. This episode was produced by Chris Wadzkow, and the original Massey Lectures series was produced by Philip Coulter. Our technical producer is Danielle Duval. Our web producer is Lisa Ayuso. Acting senior producer, Lisa Godfrey. Greg Kelly is the executive producer of Ideas. And I'm Nala Ayuso. Acting Senior Producer, Lisa Godfrey. Greg Kelly is the Executive Producer of Ideas. And I'm Nala Ayyad. For more CBC Podcasts,

go to cbc.ca slash podcasts.