Source: Bahá'í Library Online (bahai-library.com), curated by Jonah Winters. Used by permission of the curator. Original citation: Alice Tyler, Pilgrim Notes, bahai-library.com.
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Pilgrim Notes

Alice Tyler

1965-11-29

Pilgrim Notes of Alice Tyler

29 November 1965

Hi Dear,

Heavens, I have written so much -- and told so little about the pilgrimage.
And it has taken so long to do -- partially because there hasn't been the type
of undisturbed time that one needs for such things -- partially that when those
precious moments of quiet arrived and I would start, I would type a bit -- then
sit and dream a bit. It goes slower that way. Anyway -- for what it's worth
-- Part II enclosed. Undoubtedly it will be Easter before Part III, covering
the last portions of the trip, will be finished, but it will take you that long
to make it through the maize of errors encompassed in II -- so I guess it
doesn't matter much. And incidentally, if any of you don't feel in the mood
to hear anything about Baha'i -- forget it altogether. There was simply no
way to soft-peddle it this time. I laughed as I was typing away -- thinking
strongly of Rashomon -- with its different versions of the same story -- seen
through the different eyes. How funny it would be to compare my account of the
pilgrimage with Maury's or Elena's -- like three totally different places and
experiences, I'm sure. But somewhere along the line, hopefully, you will get
some glimpse of it.

The Pilgrimage

...how does one tell of it? It is unexplainable. A moment in time that
is a lifetime -- that is so much a dream that it is hard to believe as reality
and yet so much reality that ;all else seems dreamlike. Perhaps it is like a
fabled jewel, so precious that you never dared think you might see it -- and
suddenly it is handed to you and its each facet is more brilliant and colorful
than the last and the weight is heavy in your hand. And ever after that,
whenever you see color, it reminds you of that more brilliant hue that once
flashed up at you. Each weight in your hand is judged by that weight -- but
strangely, nothing is worse for the judgment, rather -- better. Spiced by it.
Made more exciting, more vivid. Or perhaps the pilgrimage is a kaleidoscope --
where familiar things take new and fascinating form and beauty beyond
imagination -- constantly changing -- yet still a different view of the same
things. Bits and pieces of odd common things suddenly forming a masterpiece
that shall never be recaptured except in memory. And from that moment on, you
can never see a bit of red brick or a flower petal without remembering that it
could be a part of a star.

And so, that first day of March, our taxi carried us on toward our dream.
As many times as we've heard of the pilgrimage -- as many pictures and maps as
we've studied -- it's amazing how imperfect our understanding was of what was
there. Mount Carmel. I can hear myself saying it, "The Baha'is own the
slope of Mt. Carmel." I had envisaged a neat and tidy high foothill ... with
clusters of houses and shops hemming its bottom, with the Baha'i gardens
sweeping up an entire side and the Queen of Carmel, the Shrine of the Bab, as
its crown and the Archives building close at hand. "That's Carmel," our drive
said! And we looked, our hearts skipping a beat. But we saw no clusters of
houses, no gardens, no Shrine. Just a mountain. We looked at each other in
disbelief and then tuned in on the voice of the driver as it drone on...
"We'll be coming to the Shrine in another twenty miles or so..." Carmel is a
range! Twenty-three miles long! As we drove on, we learned that there is not
only the hotel that we'd heard of on the top of "the Carmel" -- but an entire
village, "Upper Carmel." Only the hotel is visible from below and that's why,
I suppose, we'd not suspected it. The driver took us through Upper Carmel --
past the supermarkets, the apartment houses and banks, past the Dan Hotel,
around a curve -- and THERE IT WAS! That golden dome -- the emerald gardens
with the famed cypress trees now grown into tall sentinels. Surprisingly, the
gardens were on both sides of the broad curving street. We suddenly turned
through some gates into a drive and down a narrow lane and there, waiting for
us at the door of the pilgrim house was that dear familiar figure, that angel,
that Hand -- Mr. Faizi! His eyes shining with tears, his face radiant, he
embraced us and said, "Ah, I have been waiting for you for so long..." We were
home.

Almost immediately we were surrounded by members of our Baha'i family
whom we had not met before, whose names and faces we did not know, but whom we
had loved for a long time -- our fellow pilgrims. The Persians were first.
There was a tiny woman, old, beautiful, who had lived in Ishqabad, Russia.
Her husband, a teacher there, had been sent to prison for 7 years and she and
her daughter were banished to Iran, all because they were Baha'is. The
daughter had died of a broken heart because of her separation from her father
and when, at last, the husband was released and rejoined his wife, his health
had been so damaged that he, too, soon passed away. The little woman is now
pioneering in Kurdistan. And then there was the lovely young Persian girl --
smart, efficient -- returning to Shiraz after 2 years in England -- a
granddaughter of the famed Salman -- who received many of the messages in the
early days and would memorize them and then eat them -- lest they fall into
enemy hands and in some way be misused. Salman -- who, after a number of
messages, heroic deeds, immortal acts -- finally sent back a delightfully
human plea for "Shorter messages, thinner paper." This had always been one of
my favorite vignettes of the beginnings of the Faith, and now here we were,
wrapped in the arms of Salman's granddaughter! There was the darling little
stocky old woman, with grayed hair firmly drawn into a knot and bandana vainly
trying to cover it, who would take center stage on any occasion, standing with
feet firmly planted and launch into some hilarious and lengthy story. There was no need for
translation to make it funny -- the twinkle in her eyes and the drama of her
presentation did all that. Obviously a peasant woman of no schooling, she was
totally at home with her fellow pilgrims -- some of whom were renowned
professors, doctors and the like. And there were so many others. The young
couple presently living in Turkey, he, studying to be a doctor, she, to be a
singer. Old. Young. Plain people and sophisticated ones. All with an inner
beauty that shone forth constantly.

There were 14 "Easterners" and 7 of us from the West. We three; a
wonderful New England woman, a long-time Baha'i, Olive Schlessinger; Ida
Jurgenson from Los Angeles who defied her 70 plus years as she climbed the
hills and demonstrated in other ways perhaps the youngest spirit of us all; Ann
Constant and Phillip Hinton-Lever, a young couple soon to be married. They
were darlings, he, a Shakespearean actor from South Africa and she, a dancer
from London. They were barely out of their teens -- a handsome pair -- so gay
and yet so deep in their devotion to the Faith. Well, that was "the lot of
us."

There are two pilgrim houses, only yards apart. The larger one is for the
Eastern pilgrims -- with its bedrooms and the kitchen off three large central
rooms. the foyer, the dining room and the third that I will always think of as
the tea-room-- for it was there that we all gathered after meals for coffee and
tea and talking. A large square of a room it is with seating lining its walls,
a huge coffee table in the middle, a few pictures on the walls -- and that's
about it. We Westerners shared the smaller house which was simply 3 small
double bedrooms, one single, a bath-and-a-half and a middle hall, onto which
all the doors open. It was terribly relaxed -- much like a dorm at college --
with everyone bobbing in and out of the other's room at almost any moment to
share the story of some precious event -- or to show a treasure -- or just to
talk. Scheduling of the bathroom time became a merry event -- what with 7 of
us, one tub and our washing to do besides keeping our selves in order. Rumor
had it that it takes 14 days to get things back from the Israeli laundries so
none of us dared chance it. After the third day, we discovered a clothes-line
in the back yard so the bathroom decorations diminished somewhat. All the
pilgrims met together for meals, socializing after meals, afternoon tea and
before bed. Until about two years ago, the Western pilgrims stayed at the
bottom of Carmel. Although they were allow to come and go into the Shrines at
will, the distance was great and the climb terrific. There was little
togetherness with the Easterners then. It's wonderful this new way. We
wouldn't have missed getting to know those dear ones for anything. Somehow
language was no problem even when a translator wasn't present. We all knowe [sic]
what was most important in the other's life and shared the awe and deep
happiness of being in this heaven. Words are not always as important as we
think they are.

And so, on that beautiful March day, after we'd settled our belongings and
had had the intricacies of the plumbing, heating, etc. explained to us, we went
in to have tea with the friends. Margaret Chance, whom we had known for a long
time, nearly caved our ribs with her wonderful bear hug. She and Mrs. Hakim,
both wives of members of the Universal House of Justice, had come to bid us
welcome. Margaret explained that we wouldn't see any of the members of the
House until after we had met them as a body. They are constantly on guard to
see that personality doesn't get involved with the Baha'is thoughts of the
House -- that it is the institution that's important, not those who serve it.
It's not easy. Each one of them is a spiritual and intellectual giant. We
would have to be much more than human not to love and revere them. Soon Hand
of the Cause Paul Haney came in. Sweet Paul -- so tall and thin and beautiful.
His sandy hair is quite grey now. His collar frayed, his trousers patched, his
eyes aglow, his thoughts constantly on serving -- serving -- any and everyone.
Paul took us to the foyer and showed us where the keys to the Shrines are kept.
We were to go in any time we wished, day or night. And then he took one of
those huge keys -- perhaps 7 or 8 inches long -- and led us to the Shrine of
the Bab. I'm sure that you've all seen pictures of that magnificent
gold-domed building -- but perhaps you didn't know that it houses not only the
remains of the Bab but also, in another room, those of Abdu'l-Baha. But
this first time we would go only to the Shrine of the Bab. Only! How many
times we have heard pilgrims returning in the time of the Guardian telling of
how they had said to him, "Shoghi Effendi, how wonderful it is to be on the
Pilgrimage to see you." And he would look very stern and say, "The
pilgrimage is to the Holy Shrines!" And when you are there, in those most
sanctified spots, you know that this is true. Any portion of the rest would be
worth the trip -- but the rest is bonus.

We had heard a myriad stories of the reactions of those who had made this
visit. Some felt nothing, others were overwhelmed by the power -- even to the
point of being struck to their knees. Others wept. We did not know what to
expect. Paul carefully explained that there was no ritual to be observed.
That everyone is free to act and react in his own way -- and this was as it
must be. We were to take off our shoes before entering. Everyone does this,
even the tourists. As we walked the 200 or so yards from the Pilgrim houses
and through those lovely gardens, we recalled that the red stones on which we
trod had been hand-ground of used roof-tiles by the Guardian -- that each plant
and tree and urn and figure had been carefully selected by him with such love.
Mr. Haney spoke of some of the difficulty in the building of that overpowering
edifice -- done during the midst of the war when everyone had said it was
totally impossible to ship the marble from Italy. He spoke of the golden tiles
of the dome carefully selected in Holland -- that they were glazed, not gold
leaf as so many thought -- for the Guardian wished beauty, not costliness.
There is a rumor in Israel that under one of our buildings we have a swimming
pool that is filled with gold and that that is why we are able to make things
so beautiful. Heavens, how funny. If only they knew of the sacrifice that
went into putting it all in. Actually, the Shrine of the Bab is the first
building in the world to which members of every racial, national and religious
background in the world contributed. It gave us great satisfaction to know
that we were among those people.

We paused and looked across the Bay of Akka -- to that ancient and holy
"silver city" -- clearly visible beneath the blue skies. And suddenly, the key
was in the lock of the huge old white door and it slowly swung open. The room
was large, white, without furnishings but for two enormous classic white
alabaster urns that served as lamps. Under foot the floor was soft with layers
of Persian carpets, rich and lovely beyond compare. There was an archway,
thinly veiled, leading to another room. The threshold was laden with flowers
-- in vases and petals strewn across the length of it. Beyond, crowned with a
magnificent crystal chandelier, was the resting place of the Bab -- that
radiant Youth, that Herald, that Primal Point, that Martyr Prophet. I cannot
tell you exactly what was there. Vases, flowers, Persian rugs, things like
that. Strange that I cannot remember each detail. Or perhaps it is not
strange at all. For what was there was much more than the senses can account
for. But there was a scent. A special one, disassociated from the flowers --
as there was at each of the Holy Places that we visited. And here, a sound. A
strange reverberation that touched every atom of you when the prayers were read
or chanted. Even your own voice did not sound like yours here. It was almost
like your voice went out, became refined and was only then returned to your
ears. Only one more thing can I say about this experience. About the prayers.
One would think that in this place above all places it would be easy to pray.
But for me -- and I later discovered for Maury and Elena as well -- it was
difficult. Of course we said them -- but it seemed almost a mechanical thing.
Out of place. An interruption. Here was a place for just "being". Here was
total peace and happiness. In the gardens it was a different thing. There the
prayers came as naturally as breathing -- with joy and abandon -- impossible to
stop. Odd. Or was it just unexpected?

The time came for us to leave and Mr. Haney quietly led us out -- back to
the pilgrim house and to lunch. The meals were wonderful fun-times. We all
sat at one enormous table and were served family style -- quite appropriately.
The meals were excellent. A mixture of East and West and ingenuity, I imagine.
There were always the disks of absolutely delicious Arab bread, slabs of butter
and cheeses, crisp salads and some mysterious main dish followed, almost
always, by great golden oranges the size of grapefruit. California and Florida
can bow their heads in shame -- they are totally outdone by the size and flavor
of Israeli citrus! At lunch, we were always joined by at least one of the
Hands, Mr. Faizi or Mr. Haney. And afterward, as we retired for our coffee or
tea, they sat with us, answering the barrage of questions, reaching into the
depths of their knowledge to explain some obstruse facet or delighting us with
little-known stories of the Faith. At dinner, we were joined by one of the
Hands plus a member of the House -- a different one each night -- so that we
could get to know each one personally and they, us. The spirit was completely
as friends or family getting together, with not a tinge of "you are being
honored by the presence of..." They constantly repeated, "The pilgrims are the
lifes' blood of the Holy Land..." and responded to us as though we were
honoring them. And the laughter, my word, the laughter! Jokes flew about
constantly -- and in all languages. Some of the sack-cloth types I know
wouldn't have believed it. Fun and Holy Places don't traditionally go together
-- but what a combination they make!

After lunch that first day, Mr. Haney took us into the Shrine of
Abdu'l-Baha. It was much the same as that of the Bab -- and yet totally
different. It is smaller, warmer, comfortable -- as Abdu'l-Baha was -- with
majesty and yet modest. It had its own scent -- its own peace -- its own
beauty. As with the inner shrine of the Bab, there was enough simplicity of
structure to please the Westerner, enough ornateness in a few of the vases and
lamps to make the Easterner happy -- and a feel that cuts through all boundries
and satisfies everyone. We had prayers there -- and time for quiet --
something to feed on. Too soon it was time to leave and again Paul gently led
us out.

There was unscheduled time then so we went down into Haifa to buy some
needed things of the tooth-paste variety. We had a fine time browsing, getting
lost just enough to make it fun, taking the funicular up the hill, looking,
listening and pinching ourselves to be sure that we really were there.

When we returned, into the Pilgrim House there suddenly popped those two
pixies, Ethyl and Jessie Revel! What special people they are! Sisters --
probably in their sixties or seventies -- who, about 15 years ago had been
called to Haifa by the Guardian to help with secretarial work, and who have
been there ever since. Their love and devotion is legend. Tiny Jessie --
perhaps 4 1/2 feet tall, sweet round happy face that beams constantly -- eyes
a-twinkle -- with beautifully kept grey hair as her crown. Ethyl --
taller but stooped shouldered -- more severe of face and demeaner -- but
her eyes and wry sense of humor belie the role she assumes. And so there they
were -- hugging us -- bidding us welcome -- telling us how much they look
forward to the pilgrims' visits -- saying that they are being so selfish to
take so much of our precious time. We gave them the greetings of so many --
I'm sure everyone in their acquaintance feels that, even with a brief meeting,
they have gotten to know them intimately. We delivered gifts sent via us by a
long-time friend. And then we sat, for the first time of many, enthralled by
the priceless stories of their many years in the Holy Land -- of the Guardian
whom they all but worshipped -- the Hands -- the Universal House of Justice --
of the various pilgrims who had come through the years -- of great moments in
Baha'i history. And of Abdu'l-Baha. Oh, how they love Abdu'l-Baha!
But all too soon, it was dinner-time and they scooted home. Such cheery little
angels they are!

After dinner, Violetta Nakhjavani came to drive us to Number 7, Persian
Street. To a Baha'i, this address is magical as is Number 10, Downing, to a
Britisher. Much more, really. For this was the house of Abdu'l-Baha --
where he lived and where he died -- and after him, the Guardian had used it for
his home. Now Ruhiyyih Khanum, Hand of the Cause, widow of Shoghi Effendi,
lives there -- among all those memories. It cannot be easy for her.

Meeting Violetta was an experience in itself for she proved to be not only
a rare beauty but to have all those qualities that could be envied -- but are,
instead, most gratefully saluted for she wears them so unconsciously. Again a
small woman, perhaps out of her twenties but with the vitality of a teen-ager
and the dignity of a queen. Quiet in depth -- bubbly in humor -- a scholar --
a person of complete understanding -- a proud daughter (of Hand of the Cause
Mirza Banani) -- a proud mother (of two lovely children) -- and a proud wife
(of Ali Nakhjiavani, member of the Universal House of Justice). Happily, we
were to see more of Violetta.

And so it was that we went to "Number 7". It's a large house, inside a
courtyard, with a broad bank of steps leading to its wide portal. The door was
opened by a thin middle-aged Persian woman whose plain face, framed by a scarf
thrown over her head, was lighted from the inside by the warmth of her complete
devotion. Her demeanor was totally humble. Her clothing was rather ugly --
she limped a bit, I believe. She greeted us in Persian and bowed and gestured
us into the vast reception room. Square -- white -- simple -- with a huge
round table in its center and doors or curtained arches lining the walls. From
nowhere came a voice -- down-to-earth, not quite English-English, not quite
American. "Ah, you've finally come. Do come in and have some tea and we'll
talk." Maury murmered, as we walked, "What a lovely house!" A laugh
accompanied the quick response, "You're not an architect, are you?" The voice
belonged of course to Ruhiyyih Khanum. I'm not sure I would know how to even
begin to describe her. She is rather tall -- with long light-golden-brown hair
which is usually done up and covered. At times, she looks more tired and sad
than almost anyone -- at others, animated, interested, full of humor. The
transition sometimes takes but a moment -- a remark -- a thought. She is not
one you can -- or would want to -- dismiss from your mind. You remember her --
her face -- her voice -- her laugh -- her words. As most of you know, she was
Mary Maxwell, born in America of Canadian parents. The stories of her birth,
childhood, youth and of her marriage to the Guardian are fascinating. Everyone
who knew her then always managed to use the terms "full of the dickens" and
"high-spirited" about her. I think they are still appropriate. She is strong
in her beliefs -- sure of herself -- absolutely frank -- bored with sham --
impatient -- and with all, devoted and reverent but never in a phoney way. She
loves to be "just a person" but has lived so many lives in her half-a-lifetime
and is so many things to so many people that it is difficult for her to be
thought of that way. She led us through one of the vast curtained arches into
a charming and again large room. Its three sides were lined with a divan --
much like a long window-seat. We paused to look at some framed pictures. One,
particularly, burned itself into my memory. An enlarged copy of the head of
Shoghi Effendi as a tiny child. I'd not seen it before. A round sensitive
face completely dominated by enormous eyes -- so deep -- so knowing -- so
beautiful. And there was, too, a photo of the Guardian just before he died --
in 1957. A wonderful picture. She had just bought a new camera and was trying
it out, she explained. Usually, he refused to allow his picture to be taken as
he tried in every way to avoid having the Baha'is pay attention to his
person. But this time, he had just smiled and asked her if she had gotten a
good one. Indeed she had! A candid shot. Not the picture of an
internationally respected spiritual giant, Guardian of a Faith -- rather, a
snap-shot of a husband who loved and admired his wife. A sweet and special
thing to see.

There were just 5 of the Western Pilgrims and our hostess. Two of our
number, the young English couple, had had a delayed flight and arrived the next
morning. Mrs. Nakjiavani had disappeared as soon as we arrived and the little
servant came in and out, serving and then disappearing. Our conversation was
rather general. Ruhiyyih Khanum spoke of her recent trip to India -- of her
love for the Indian and African people -- of her hope to return to those
continents. She asked us about how the Faith was going in our various home
areas and expounded on a favorite theme -- her impatience with the Western mind
-- so brilliant and well-trained but used to make excuses, to rationalize and
organize instead of to act. She gave each of the women a small vial of attar
of roses -- that heavenly and penetrating scent. Ida, when she received hers,
asked if she might have another as a mainland friend has asked her to get him
one. Ruhiyyih Khanum said, "Good heavens, does he think this is a shop? I've
only enough for one around." Then we spoke of trivia -- laughed about the
various countries' driving "skills" and so on. She spoke at length about her
aversion to the Baha'i habit of embracing everyone in sight -- and then, as
we left, embraced us all. It was about midnight then. Ruhiyyih Khanum had
seemed really sorry that the time had come for us to go -- for she is a bit of
a night-owl -- but it was the fasting time and she had to get up before dawn.
Mr. Faizi had explained about the fast in relationship to the pilgrims when we
first arrived. We were not allowed to observe it while there -- for we were
all travelers and travelers may be exempt. But more than that, it was a
once-in-a-lifetime experience for almost everyone and the Guardian had said
that nothing should mar a pilgrimage -- that every moment must be experienced,
savored. Many who fast find that their minds are sometimes not as keen during
the mid-afternoon as they normally are -- or they may get headaches. Some find
certain food distasteful during the time. Many reasons. And so it was that at
every lunch the Hand who joined us sat with us and watched us eat. They always
joked about it -- turning their plates upside-down as one does with glasses
when beverages aren't wanted. And later, when we were asked to tea with
various people, they would fix us delicious goodies -- special things they
loved -- and could not join us in eating.

And so had passed the first day of the pilgrimage. So full it had been.
It was chilly and we filled our hot-water bottles and snuggled down into our
beds. We felt waves of extreme happiness and wonder at what had been and what
was to be.

Breakfast, we discovered, was an informal affair -- everyone arriving when
he liked (within reason) and serving themselves from the great bowls of
hard-cooked but hot eggs, of succulant stewed prunes. those marvelous oranges,
plates of Arab bread, the butter and cheese, preserves, boxes of dry cereal and
so on. It was gay and relaxed. The friends would slip in late -- or out early
-- to pay a quiet visit to the Shrines. As eight o'clock neared, on some
mornings, we would go out to photograph and visit with the members of the
Universal House of Justice who gather, three times weekly, for prayers at the
Shrines prior to their deliberations. On other mornings, if nothing was
scheduled, we would wander about the gardens or help with the guiding, or do
whatever else we liked. The Gardens and Shrines are open daily from 9 to noon
and a surprising number come. It is one of the top tourist attractions in
Israel and busloads come n a constant stream. As I had mentioned before, the
Baha'is do not teach in Israel -- but it is permissible to answer the
questions put by the tourists -- and then if they request it, they are given
addresses in their home-lands where they may investigate further. School
groups come too. And the children spill out of their busses yelling and
shouting as school children the world over will do -- but they quiet down
immediately as they enter the gardens -- and even to the tiniest, seem to
understand and are reverent. Neighborhood children come, too. Many come
repeatedly, regularly. They just come in and stand and are quiet for a long
time -- and then they leave. Margaret Chance told a darling story of two such
who often come. Brothers. One, perhaps 8 and the other only about 3. From
their clothing, it is evident that they aren't well-off. One day the tiny one
was wearing some new shoes -- fancy black and white ones with pointed toes --
too big -- but new. And he wanted to go into the Shrines but he didn't want to
take off his wonderful new shoes. The big brother pleaded with him, commanded
him, scolded him and received nothing but howls for his trouble. Finally, the
big brother gave a sigh and picked him up and carried him in. (Another Solomon
in the making?) Incidentally, guiding is the only way in which the pilgrims
are allowed to help while they are guests in the Holy Land. We were not even
allowed to clear the table. And so, for this opportunity to serve, we were
most grateful.

During the late morning of that second day, Paul Haney came to take us to
the Monument Gardens. When I say "us", it normally is just the Westerners --
because of the language thing it was only practical that we went in two groups.
Also, when there was transportation involved, it would have been most
difficult for all of us to go at once as there is a dearth of cars. And so
Paul led us to the upper gardens -- near the Archives building, to the lovely
monuments of Navab, wife of Baha'u'llah; of His young son who had died while
they were in prison and of the eldest daughter of Baha'u'llah, sister of
Abdu'l-Baha, whose title is the Greatest Holy Leaf and who is considered the
holiest woman of the Baha'i dispensation (as are Mary in the Christian and
Fatimih in the Islamic religions). Such lovely monuments -- prototypes of
classical beauty. They are slender white marble columns forming a circle and
surmounted by a simple shallow marble dome. In all they are, perhaps 12 feet
high and the circle is 4 feet in diameter. The only identification is, for
each, a small bronze placque that lays flat on the ground within the circle.
These were shown to us and something of the history of the persons buried there
reviewed. Then Paul explained some of the history of the gardens themselves --
how the land was acquired, how and when the gardens were planned by the
Guardian -- for whatever we saw, the Guardian had personally planned,
supervised and, often, physically done. We saw the place where Baha'u'llah
had pitched His tent (a fulfillment of prophecy) and a circle of cyprus where
He had stood when He instructed Abdu'l-Baha about building the Shrine of the
Bab. It was a glorious morning.

After our lunch -- with both Mr. Haney and Mr. Faizi present -- Harriet
Wolcott came to drive us to have tea with the Universal House of Justice. Dear
Harriet -- whom we had known so well for so many years. She and Charles had
been in Los Angeles when we were investigating the Faith -- had been so much a
part of our pre-Baha'i lives and our Baha'i baby-hood. What a different
life she is now living than that she had led as the wife of a successful
composer, conductor, arranger in Hollywood -- as the wife of the head of music
at MGM -- with the parties and premiers. And, except for her loneliness for
her children and grandchildren, she seemed completely happy. No regrets.

The Universal House of Justice is presently housed in Number 10, Persian
Street -- just across from Abdu'l-Baha's house. It had been the Western
Pilgrim House for many years -- but was now remodeled to make room for the
necessary council chambers, offices and the like. Again, we were led into a
vast reception room. This was one occasion, other than at the pilgrim houses,
when all of us were together. There were about 30 or so chairs arranged in a
large square. We were invited to sit down leaving chairs vacant here and
there. As soon as we were settled, the members of the Universal House filed
in. As they approached, that most memorable moment of the London Congress
leapt into my mind -- as it had so many times since that April day in 1963. On
that day, at that time, the members of the first Universal House of Justice
were announced -- and called to the stage. They stood there all in a row --
these same men who were now approaching us -- tears streaming from their eyes.
I don't recall anyone ever having looked so beautiful -- having evoked such
respect and confidence. If I believed in such things, I would swear that they
were surrounded by an aura of white light. All 6,000 of us there in the Royal
Albert Hall stood as one. There was total silence for a few moments . I don't
think anyone breathed. Then a roar of applause broke out -- and lasted for
fully 5 minutes. It was a long time before composure was regained and the
business at hand could be dealt with. And so -- now in the house at 10 Persian
Street -- there they were again. Walking around the group -- introducing
themselves as they went. I carefully inspected the familiar faces as they came
by -- and was relieved to see that they all looked extremely well and happy --
their two years of staggering work had not weighed them down. When they had
met everyone, they sat with us. Hugh Chance was to be the spokesman that day
with Hushmand Fataezaam translating. Hugh greeted us on behalf of the House
and explained its functioning. It has no officers. Each week they rotate
chairmanship -- on an alphabetical basis. Again, this is to retain the
importance of the House itself and to minimize the role played by those 9 men
serving it. All letters are sent out simply signed "The Universal House of
Justice" and sealed for authenticity. They normally meet for 3 days a week to
deliberate on the various things that fall their lot -- and indeed these things
are various. From personal problems of local believers (normally the function
of a local spiritual assembly) to physical management of the properties and
handling personnel, dealings with the government, making plans for the Baha'i
world, counciling and guiding the 69 National Assemblies throughout the world
and on and on. It is impossible to believe that 9 men could deal with such a
quantity and variety of things -- so efficiently -- so perfectly. But they do.
Or rather, the House does. The other three days (they allot themselves a day
of rest a week -- but often don't take it) they work on the various
"departments" -- investigating a phase, preparing synopsis, recommendations,
etc. to present on the days of consultation. It was explained that their
consultation is much the same s it is on any level -- more informed to be sure
-- but with the diverse opinions very freely expressed. It is only in the
decisions where the promised guidance comes. Much of what Hugh explained we
had known, much we had not. He then introduced their small staff --
translators, secretaries for various languages, etc. -- many of whom double in
brass several times over. And Fugita was introduced. Fugita -- a legend in
his own time. A tiny Japanese man -- in his nineties, I think -- one of the
first Japanese to accept the Faith -- whom Abdu'l-Baha had called to come
from America immediately after the first World War to help him in the gardens
-- who had remained all those years to serve. A wonderful figure he is -- all
1/2 feet of him, wrinkled, weather-beaten, smile-lines permanently etched into
that fascinating little face. He and the other members of the staff served us
tea and cookies. When he got to us, Maury said to me, "They look so good, I
don't know which to take." Fugita instantly rejoined -- "Why don't you take
them all?" And then he laughed and laughed. We were really taken aback -- for
somehow, he didn't look like he could speak English. But of course his was
perfect -- as was his Persian and Japanese. What a delightful man -- with so
many memories. The stories surrounding him are legion. He once asked the
Guardian if he couldn't do a part of the gardens "his way" and the Guardian
pointed to a spot at the top of the upper gardens -- and said that that could
be his to do with as he liked. Apparently the Guardian went to "Fugita's
garden" often to meditate -- and to survey the rest of the area.

After an hour or so of informal chatting -- with the members of the House
moving from one group to another -- we returned to the pilgrim houses to get
ready for dinner. That night Amoz Gibson joined us. Amoz, too, we had known
rather well before his election. He is a beautiful American negro -- a humble
school-teacher -- who had spent some years on an Indian reservation in Arizona
teaching -- who had been on the NSA of the United Sates for several years and
who had, with his family, attended the London Congress en route, he thought, to
pioneer in Africa. It was not quite such a transition for them other than the
awe of the new field of service. They had already uprooted themselves. But
for the others the election had meant great personal sacrifice -- giving up
homes, businesses, friends and family -- and with no idea how long they would
be living in Israel. The next election will be in the spring of 1968 -- and,
of course, no one knows who will be elected then. They are sustained but not
salaried. Food, housing, etc. are paid for -- and there is a living allowance
of well under a hundred American dollars a month. With prices as they are in
Israel, you can imagine how far that goes. Believe me, they are not living in
luxury! And so Amoz talked with us on that second night -- of the word just
received from his wife -- then, with their tiny daughter, on a teaching trip in
Africa -- and of his intended trip to South America. He planned to take his
two sons with him -- and how excited they were at the prospect! His wife,
incidentally, is a teacher too and teaches some of the children of the House
members and Hands at their informal summer school there.

During the after-dinner time, the Easterners always passed goodies that
they had brought with them -- deliciously fragrant and exotic candies, nuts and
the like. One night a Turkish woman disappeared into her room and returned
with a large bottle of cologne. She went to each person in turn, gestured for
us to hold out our hands, and proceeded to pour -- not a drop or two -- but a
whole handfull! It was quite a problem to know what to do with it -- but we
patted it on everything we decently could in mixed company and just let the
rest evaporate. You've never smelled such a fragrant bunch -- nor have you
seen anyone more pleased than that dear woman was!

The next morning, after breakfast, we were invited to join the members of
the House at their prayers in the Shrines. Again -- there is no way to
describe the experience. Various ones read or chanted prayers -- some were
standing, some sitting on the floor, some of the Persians were kneeling, their
foreheads touching the floor -- whatever was natural to them, this they did.
The girl who was studying opera chanted first -- and there was no doubt that
the voice is, indeed, the only perfect instrument. Then the familiar voice of
Charles Wolcott, firm, quiet; then the little peasant woman; then others.
Then a moment or two of silence before Ali Nakjiavani chanted the Tablet of
Visitation. I have mentioned the special sound that is there -- in the Shrine
of the Bab. Never was it so evident -- it seemed to surround you -- to
permeate every atom of your being, as though there were no barriers -- as
though sound were meant to be felt as well as heard.

As we left and walked down the pathway, little Jessie Revel linked her arm
through mine and I asked her if, when Ali chanted, it was not much as the
Guardian sounded. She replied that, except for Ruhiyyih Khanum and Ali
himself, everyone who had known Shoghi Effendi well thought that this was true.
This, of course, would not be surprising for Ali had grown up in the
Guardian's household -- had had his education supervised by him, had been close
to him for so long. What a person he is! Young, handsome, wise, humorous --
so many things. He and his wife, Violetta, were some of the first to teach in
Africa and I recall so well sitting in the Wolcott's home in Los Angeles some
10 or so years ago listening to a letter about some of their trips -- taken
under totally impossible conditions -- and of the victories that came from
them. The Africans had known that they were different. Until they came, no
white had come into their villages, into their huts and eaten with them from
their common pots -- full of stews made of things unmentionable to us. True,
the missionaries had come to Africa for years and years -- but had always built
their own places, cooked their own food -- and then invited the natives to come
to them. The Africans asked the beautiful young newly-wed couple why they had
come and the Nakjiavanis had simply said, "Because we love you." "But why do
you love us enough to eat with us?" And then the story was told to them -- and
the first tiny torches were lit.

After the visiot to the Shrines, the morning was unscheduled and we three
had a glorious time wandering through the gardens, climbing up, up, up to
Fugita's Garden. The hillside is very steep indeed -- and even to walk up the
paths is not easy. What it must have taken to lay out the paths with such
perfect symmetry! And then to carve these gardens out of the rock and the
rubble -- to plant them. And then, high, high up on the very top of them,
there is a broad flight of stairs and an iron gate that marks the end of the
now-developed ;area. Beyond that -- Fugita's garden. What a sweet contrast it
is. It is barely noticeable, really. The native trees have been pruned here
and there to perfect their line -- bolders have been cleared away but some
have been left and arranged as only a Japanese could. A tiny patch of flowers
planted here or there in perfect relationship to the things around it. Well
worth the climb! And how amazing to think that Fugita still scrabbles up there
to tend his garden! We sat on those high steps for a long time -- silent --
drinking in the scene that lay before us: The expanse of the emerald gardens,
the classic beauty of the Archives building, the sun reflecting like a beacon
from the dome of the Shrine, the "King's Highway" -- a tremendous flight of
stairs leading in a straight path from the Shrine of the Bab to the foot of
Mt. Carmel and joining a street that leads directly to the shore of the Bay.
Our eyes followed the line across the Bay -- to Akka.

And it was to Akka that we would go that afternoon!

After lunch with Mr. Haney, we all went to our rooms and packed -- for we
were to be gone for two nights. "Take just a few things -- and hot water
bottles," we had been told. Apparently there was no heating where we would be
staying and, whether we slept with the bottles or not, we would need the warm
water that remained in them in the morning -- to wash with. We giggled when we
heard this -- but we took them.

At about 3:30 we piled into the cars. Again Paul Haney was to go with us
-- to remain the first night and into the afternoon. Then Mr. Faizi would
come. We took the long drive around the Bay -- and past the ancient city of
Akka -- with its walls of yellow mud bricks. We would be back the next day to
see it. Several miles beyond, we saw the aquaduct -- first built by the Romans
and repaired and put into use again at Baha'u'llah's request -- thus ensuring
the water supply of the city. Suddenly to our right, we caught a glimpse of
the Mansion of Bahji -- and again, our hearts began to pound. We turned off
onto a side road -- and then turned again -- and then we were coming fast upon
another spiritual and physical oasis in a barren land. How had we not realized
that here, too, were vast gardens? Somehow we had expected the Mansion and the
Shrine to be just there in the middle of a few clumps of trees, a few flowers.
Not so. Rather, perhaps 2 acres of beautifully laid-out formal gardens with
the paths of crumbled stone, the low neatly trimmed hedges, the urns, obelisks,
eagles, the lamps with their fat round globes -- all manner and kind of plants
beautifully blended -- and again with the rows of cyprus sentinels. Far
beyond, it was explained, the Baha'i holdings extended -- but time and money
were not now available to develop them. Again, this is a prime tourist
attraction of the area. And at the heart of this beauty lay the Mansion and
the Shrine. For it was to this place that Baha'u'llah came and spent the
last years of His life. Although He was still under technical arrest, He was
at last allowed to leave the confines of that grim prison city of Akka -- after
not seeing verdure for some nine years -- after more than 30 years of exile and
prison. Here, in the very building where Baha'u'llah lived his last years,
we were to stay.

The Mansion is a large, gracious two-story building, the second story of
which is the living quarters. It is in a rectangular shape with mighty arches
forming the lower story wall and sheltering the walkway that surrounds the
building. The second story also has a walkway all around -- with smaller
archways supporting the red-tiled roof. The walls of the actual building have
simple and lovely restorations of the original panels painted above the
windows. They are done in the Persian tradition -- and blue seems to dominate
the color scheme. The Mansion had been built only a few years prior to
Baha'u'llah's occupancy -- but its owner had fled during an epidemic and
left it vacant. Abdu'l-Baha had been able to rent it for His Father for
practically nothing, and later it was purchased. Interestingly, the man who
built it had inscribed over the doorway the prophetic words, "Greetings and
Peace be upon this Mansion! Its beauty will increase down through the ages.
Within its walls wondrous and strange things will take place; things which all
the pens of the earth shall be powerless to describe."

Mr. Haney led us up the stairway and into the central hall -- now so
familiar a portion of the architecture of the area. A spacious room -- with
tables and pictures of historical events, with documents marking official
recognition of the Faith throughout the world -- with books in the numerous
languages lined in cases -- and so on. It is here, we were told, that the
Universal House of Justice comes when there are particularly momentous
decisions to be made -- to pray at the Shrine of Baha'u'llah -- the HOliest
spot in the world for the Baha'is -- to meditate -- to deliberate and to make
the decisions that will guide the Baha'i world.

Lining the ample hall are doors to the various rooms. Each one has a
theme -- the Esslemont room, the Queen Marie room, the Guardian's study, etc.
The history and tokens of these people are housed in each -- somewhat like the
rooms in a museum -- and yet not at all like that -- for the rooms are to be
used. It was in these rooms that we were to sleep for the two nights. There
were beds, dressers, chairs, desks. Bowls, vases and so on were sitting about
as they might be in any home -- but when one handled them -- and casually
examined them one might, as often as not, find a tidy bit of lettering on the
underside that read "original". These were the very things that Baha'u'llah
used! Only later would we really comprehend it all -- only in retrospect.
There was so much!

On the walls were some of the original writings of the Bab and
Baha'u'llah! And then -- there was Baha'u'llah's own room. It was on a
corner -- and so situated that from the windows, one can see across the Bay and
to Mt. Carmel. This was the room into which Edward Granville Browne was
ushered in 1890 -- an event which he has so beautifully chronicled for the
Western world. There was the low divan that lined the walls. There were some
of the personal effects of Baha'u'llah -- His taj -- His toilet articles and
so on. And on the floor, atop the Persian rugs, was His mattress -- just as it
was when He passed away. Such a tiny mattress -- all covered in white linen.
It is hard to think of this Person -- such a spiritual gargantuan -- as being
housed in such a small human frame. And beside the mattress were His slippers
-- a dark smooth cool leather -- with the back bent forward to make them
scuff-like -- so typical of the Persian manner, we were to discover. More than
anything else, the sight of those slippers remains etched in my memory. This
room was to be left open to us -- at night a lamp would be left burning there
-- so that we could go in at our leisure -- to linger as long as we liked. A
bit of so-called modernizing had been done in one small portion of the building
some years before. At the back entrance -- formerly the kitchen, I believe, a
sink had been installed -- of the shallow kitchen variety -- with but one
spigot -- for cold water, of course. There was a drain-board, basins, a rather
bad small mirror and hooks for towels. Off this were the two toilets in their
small stalls ... a Western one and an Eastern one. Another revelation -- I'd
not known that there was a difference. But indeed there is. The Easterners
think that we're quite unsanitary to use a chair-type device -- for theirs is
like a shaped hole in the floor -- foot-treads to the sides -- the whole unit
being made of porcelain in many cases. One squats. And no paper. But always
a pitcher of water. I did not ask about the intricacies of the whole procedure
-- but only drew my own conclusions. Later, when we went to Iran, we grew used
to all this -- but here, Mr. Haney mercifully assigned the Eastern section to
the men, the Western one to the women.

After our initial somewhat hurried introduction to the Mansion, we went
down to the gardens for awhile -- then it was time to pay our first visit to
the Shrine of Baha'u'llah. Again I am at a loss for words. We had so
recently toured the grandiose cathedrals of Europe. We had lived for two days
in the shadow of the richly beautified Shrine of the Bab. Here was the
holiest spot on earth to millions of people -- and would be to billions more.
Physically, what was it like? Actually, the Shrine itself is a simple
single-roomed building -- perhaps 20 feet or so square -- large sand-stone
coloured brick or cut stone -- with a red-tiled roof. But for the usual
Persian rugs, vases and lamps, it would appear empty. Joining it -- and
overlapping the corner of it by perhaps three feet -- is another building, more
accurately described, I imagine, as an indoor courtyard. This room is fairly
large, rectangular but for a raised antiroom at one end, white, and is totally
dominated by its central planting that leaves an expanse of only about a 4 or
5 foot carpeted area on all sides of it. This garden contains alabaster
vase-lamps, plants of different sorts and, on the corners of it, luxuriant
asparagus fern that climbs on wires nearly to the ceiling. Just under the high
ceiling and completely around the room is a triple row of foot-square windows
through which the sunshine pours -- giving such a feeling of lightness -- of
airiness, delicacy and true beauty. It is into this room that the Pilgrims
come. First through some lovely hand-carved doors, then into a short entrance
hall. One turns to the right then and sees, at the end of the semi-corridor
formed by the garden, the place where the building intersects the Shrine -- a
simple narrow door -- with a low flower-strewn threshold. The door is open and
only a thin veil of golden net separates you from that sanctified spot.

Here too, we had prayers, all of us together. But, as at the other Holy
Places, things seemed most right when I came alone -- or when just Maury and I
visited them. Here, at the Shrine of Baha'u'llah, the feelings that we had
had before were intensified many times over -- if that was possible. The peace
and serenity of the place was complete. Not thinking, not praying, not
meditating -- just "being". It seemed a most natural thing. As Maury and I
first went there -- just the two of us -- that a pair of birds found an
invisibly broken pane and flew in, to become wrapped in the joy of it with us.
They sang so beautifully -- and flew so freely -- as we were singing and
soaring inside.

There is nothing more that I can say about the Shrine of Baha'u'llah --
except that I think, perhaps, a tiny glimmer of understanding of what the next
world is made of was allowed, momentarily, to shine through my consciousness.

We had dinner that night with the caretakers of Bahji -- who had so
lovingly greeted us upon our arrival. They are the Wardes -- dears -- whom we
had also known on the mainland -- and met again as they journied through
Hawaii. Their quarters are attached to the above-mentioned building -- which,
in its turn is only a few hundred feet from the Mansion. It is humble, cheery
and ever so home-like. The dinner was again delicious -- and afterward we sat
about and chatted, heard stories and so on. Soon it was time to go to our
rooms for the night.

In the morning, after a hearty breakfast, we were taken to Akka -- first
to see the prison where Baha'u'llah had been kept. It is now a hospital for
the mentally ill -- but the cell where Baha'u'llah was incarcerated has been
given to the Baha'is and is so denoted by a small bronze plaque with which
we had by now become familiar "Baha'i Holy Place." The prison itself is the
one which stopped Napolean -- and the ancient cannon balls, still embedded in
the walls, give silent testimony to that bit of history. In more recent times,
it played a part in the making of the State of Israel. (Does anyone recall it
in the picture "Exodus"?) For the latter reason, the State intends to
gradually turn the entire building into a museum -- as they already have done
with the wing in which Baha'u'llah's cell is found. Mr. Haney cautioned us
not to talk with anyone as we went through the grounds -- lest we get involved
with the "trustees" who are allowed to roam at will within the walled confines.
So, silently, we went -- up the recently added outside iron steps to the
corner cell-block. At the top of the stairs we paused and looked around -- at
the even now sterile appearance of the surrounding "old city" -- with its
people doing many of the things that they had done in the same garb and the
same way that they had done them more than a half-century before. We entered
the building -- and looked at the tiny pair of cells that had housed the
combined number of 72 Baha'is -- under circumstances that were unbelievable
severe. Mr. Haney took a large key from his pocket and thrust it into the old
lock that kept us from entering Baha'u'llah's cell. It was so small. The
solid walls had been recently whitewashed. Bare. The one small window could
not be seen through well. It was through this window that Baha'u'llah waved
his handkerchief so that those early Pilgrims, who had walked for 6 months
coming from Iran, could see some sign of him from beyond the moats before they
turned around and made the arduous journey back home. It did not seem possible
that Baha'u'llah had survived His existence here for over two years.
Baha'u'llah -- born Mirza Husayn Ali -- Prince of Nur -- raised in luxury --
health already broken b his previous deprivations, from having been poisoned.
But survive He did. And from this miserable place, He wrote His letters of
command to the crowned heads of Europe!

We next visited the "sea-wall" where Baha'u'llah had been landed after
the stormy voyage across the sea in that tiny ship -- carefully selected
because there was little chance that it could withstand the voyage. (How
simple it would have been if the whole lot of them would have gone down!) Then
on we went through narrow little cobble-stone ;streets ;-- with barely inches
to spare on each side of the station-wagon -- seeing this house, that area,
that square -- all portions of the history of the Faith. We went to the little
garden, once an island in the river, that Abdu'l-Baha had rented for his
Father, and sat there on those quaint old benches and ate the luscious
tangerines that grow all about. We saw the small cottage where He had stayed
so many times, being loathe to leave the area of natural beauty after His years
of starvation for it. His bed was still there -- this time not a mattress on
the floor, rather a very high though small old-fashioned bed -- again dressed
in white linen. From the Ridvan Garden -- for it had been named that after the
Garden of Ridvan (Paradise) in Baghdad where He first publicly proclaimed His
message in 1863 -- we drove to the House of Abud, situated in the shadow of the
prison. It was to this house that Baha'u'llah had been moved following his
years of strict confinement. A fairly large house it was -- but certainly not
large enough for the numbers of people who were confined there. At first 13 of
His followers of both sexes were confined to one tiny room. Later more rooms
were made available to them. Here, too, was the place where Abdu'l-Baha
had been married. The landlords had taken pity on the newlyweds and broken
through a wall to the adjoined building to allow them a room to themselves.
The building was made of the usual mud-coloured brick and when we entered, we
first came into a large barren courtyard and went up some steep steps to the
living apartment. We were told that, although others were eventually allowed
to come and go at times, Baha'u'llah stayed in that upstairs apartment for
some 7 years! We had lunch in the central room of that remarkable house -- and
then went through it -- again having the history with which we were so familiar
live for us. Strange how one's mind's eyes conjure up images that are nothing
like reality -- how differently I had pictured this house. On our way back to
Bahji, we passed the "Crimson Hill" -- so named because in the springtime it
becomes a sea of scarlet anemonies.

Mr. Haney went back to Haifa then and Mr. Faizi was to come in time for
dinner and to stay with us for the remainder of our time there. Although Mr.
Haney had done a masterful job of explaining the various things to us, he had
so often used the rather stock phrase "ask Mr. Faizi about that". For indeed
Mr. Faizi is an historian of great note -- but not the dry kind in any way.
His stories of the past are liberally spiced with personal notes and tremendous
humor. Professionally he is an educator. He came from the city of Qum outside
of Tehran -- the seat of Muslim learning where all the great Mullas are
trained. His family had long been scholars of Islam -- and he and his brother
-- when they became Baha'is -- became objects of persecution as is the lot of
Baha'is there even today. Nearly anything you ask of him, he can immediately
pull from memory -- but always giving references "This is spoken of in
such-and-such a book or tablet -- or this was documented on my visit to
such-and-such". They make a joke of his knowledge quite often there in the
Holy Land. One of the first questions people ask when they see some Haifa
gardens laid out as 8-pointed starts is "What is the significance of the
eight-pointed star?" "Ask Faizi" is the quick reply. And Mr. Faizi's quick
reply is, "They're easy to make and they're pretty." When you ask him the
significance of prayer beads, he says, "Oh, they are toys." (And we found in
Iran that he is right. All the men there carry them -- and when they are
nervous, take them out and play with them -- fingering them, twirling them and
so on. Much like a rubbing stone, I suspect. Certainly better than biting
one's nails!) Mr. Faizi denies any special talents and explains that Persians'
memories are trained from childhood. By 8 or 10, the Muslim boys are expect to
know the entire Koran by heart -- as they feel that one cannot quote any one
passage -- rather must take their Bible as a whole. You will find that a story
told by one is told by another verbatem. Mr. Faizi explained that this was
also the manner of learning in the Jewish tradition and that that is why the
bible was enabled to come to us in such a pure form after so many many years of
being word-of-mouth.

There was a bit of free time to clean up when we returned -- to visit the
Shrine alone -- to walk in the gardens. I was doing just that when, suddenly,
from out of the back door of the caretaker's house came Ruhiyyih Khanum! What
a delightful surprise! She said, "I thought I'd just pull some weeds until
supper-time. I can't bear seeing weeds in the gardens." So she and I squatted
down and pulled weeds for about an hour. What a relief that was -- to do
something -- however small. I mentioned that and she laughed and said, "I
really think we should start a tradition for the pilgrims -- that they must
pull 19 weeds before they go into the Shrines to pray each time. I think their
prayers would get to heaven quicker. But of course, we can't do it because
some of the pilgrims are so blind with the joy of being here that they would
pull up all of the tiny new plants and leave the weeds." We chatted about this
and that but mostly went about our work in silence. Violetta Nakjiavani, who
had driven her and Faizi out, soon joined us. Then Mr. Faizi came around the
bend -- with Elena and Maury listening to some fascinating story or other that
he was telling. Ruhiyyih Khanum called out, "Come and join us." But Faizi
went right ahead with his story -- so she muttered to him, "I guess there will
always be those who work and those who tell stories." He laughed back at her
tease and said, "Ah, yes, Khanum, we all must use our particular talents."

Dinner was very informal and gay that night. Ruhiyyih Khanum told us
about this and that incident in her life there in the Holy Land, about the
Guardian -- and then asked us again about how had we first heard of the Faith
-- about how things were going at Program and Publicity Committee, I
inadvertently said, "We were just in the middle of planning such and such when
along came a rash of Holy Days..." She shrieked with laughter and she and
Violetta almost fell off their chairs. When she had recovered enough to talk,
she gasped, "Good heavens, it sounds like measles!" Later, as we were sitting
around having tea, she asked us how we liked her ear-rings. They were quite
long antique jet ones -- very attractive. We had noticed them, liked them and
told her so. She said, "Good. I bought them recently in Italy but hadn't worn
them. I knew I could get away with them with this group of pilgrims." We took
this as a great compliment -- she could relax with us. Apparently most of the
Persians, particularly, would be shocked if she was even the tiniest bit
frivolous with them -- they expect the widow of the Guardian, as they had the
wife, to be a great lady and always on "proper" behavior. I am sure that
during all those years, it has been most hard on her to be reserved and
dignified. She is such an alive person, full of mischief, a great tease.

After she and Violetta returned to Haifa, Mr. Faizi took us on another
tour of the Mansion -- and told us in detail about so many of the things here.
We kept him up for hours, asking for explanations of this and that. I had such
a feeling of being a little child again, sitting in grandma's lap and begging,
"Tell me another story." And as then, there was always another -- presented
with such tender love.

The next morning we discovered that his indulgence of us had cost him a
bit of health, that he had caught a dreadful cold. His health is not normally
good as he is a diabetic and has heart trouble. But through his sneezes, he
carried on. The only bright spot in it was that he now had to break the fast
and joined us in lunches. After breakfast, we packed up our belongings again,
bade the Warde's farewell and paid our last visit to the Shrine. Oh, how
difficult it was to leave that heaven! I have written so little of it --
probably because it meant so much. Only one thing softened the pain of the
departure -- and that was the deep knowledge that we could return again and
again in perfect memory. And the passage of time has proven this true. How
often, now, when in prayer, one is suddenly "there" or in one of the other Holy
places. As clearly as the first time. It is not ja picture consciously
conjured up. It just happens.

En route back to Haifa, we were to stop at Mazra'ih -- a short distance
from the Mansion and also outside the city walls. Baha'u'llah had stayed
here two years immediately prior to moving to Bahji. The Solimis live there
now -- a marvelous Baha'i family. He is in charge of overseeing the gardens
and many of the other physical things involved in the Holy Land. She helps any
and everywhere. The house itself was far from grand -- but so much better than
the previous one. Spacious by comparison -- and surrounded by informal gardens
and trees. There is a stream near by. We went into the house and the Solimis
had the table prepared for our luncheon. We talked for awhile before eating,
Mr. Faizi enthralling us with the typically delicious stories of the place.
Afterwards we were led up the steep stairs to Baha'u'llah's quarters. Here
were several rooms used by members of the family. Here again was a small and
simple bedroom with a few of Baha'u'llah's personal belongings; with the
small bed with white linen. And here, again a pair of those cool leather
slippers beside the bed -- but this time lovingly filled with violets by the
Solimis. We paused and looked and remembered and had prayers before going
downstairs again. Before we left, Mr. Solimi brought us each some of the
violets that had been in the shoes. What a sweet and precious gift.

Oh, quickly here I must insert that we had also visited, while at Bahji,
the room in which Abdu'l-Baha stayed when he visited his Father. How could
I have forgotten it? Such a warm and dear room it was! Full of the things
that he had used -- toilet water still on the dresser -- books worn with use --
so many little things. And this was the scene of a story told by the Nelsons.
They had had their children on pilgrimage with them and, while they were
visiting this room, their youngest became tired for it was her nap-time. Paul
Haney, who was with them, very unceremoniously tucked her into Abdu'l-Baha's
bed, saying, "Abdu'l-Baha loved children -- and he was very practical. He
would be pleased to have the little one nap here."

What a welcome we received upon our arrival back at the pilgrim house on
Carmel! The Persians greeted us with wild embrace and tears of joy streaming
down their cheeks! One would have thought that we had known each other from
childhood and had been apart for years! They kept trying to ask us what our
"pilgrimage within a pilgrimage" had been like and we could only say, "You must
wait and see..." for they were to leave two days later to experience what we
had. We knew how deeply we had been affected. How much more it would mean to
them -- for they knew the history so much better -- many of them having had
relatives who were connected with the places that we visited. They could read
for themselves many of the things that we had had to have translated. There
could be no way that we could tell them.

That night the strangest giddiness came over all of us at the dinner
table. What a transition! I don't think it mattered why, but it started with
dear Ida wanting to save the orange peels to use in candying as a treat for us
all. She started dictating just how we must peel the fruit to leave the peel
intact -- and it got funnier and funnier to us. We roared over nothing and the
Easterners watched us and tried to figure out what was happening -- tried to
meticulously deal with their oranges in the same way we were without knowing
why -- and, of course, that made it funnier yet. It was one of those times of
delightful insanity when everything was hilarious and we couldn't stop. We
finally got embarrassed and left the table and went outside -- only to have
Maury and Phillip break into a soft-shoe routine. We were uncontrollable, but
happily recalled that Abdu'l-Baha had called laughter the medicine for the
soul. So we enjoyed the medicine to its fullest until it had dont its good
deed and finally subsided. Once more this was to happen to us -- when we came
back from the Archives building several days later. And we found that the
Easterners felt it too when they returned from Bahji. We "asked Faizi" and he
said that it was very natural -- that we had been through terrific spiritual
experiences -- that it was a way of release.

Later that evening, the members of the Universal House of Justice and
their wives all came for prayers together -- and then for tea and goodies and
chatting. It was a lovely relaxed evening -- and we got to know some whom we
hadn't had an opportunity to really talk with before.

The next day was Saturday -- Shabot for the Jews -- and the day that the
members of the House are supposed to be at leisure. The Chances had asked if
we three would like to see some of the Christian Holy Places while we were
there and we did, to be sure. So they picked us up at 7:30 in the morning and
off we went. The first stop was at Megiddo -- where we resumed our avocation
of poking about in the ruins. It was here, you recall, that Solomon had
stabled the horses for his 1,400 chariots. A fascinating place -- with layers
of ancient history now being discovered -- actually seven cities, one on top of
another. There was a small museum there describing what they had done and were
now doing. Many of the things were well preserved -- a stone manger just as it
was so long ago; portions of the stable walls; a marvelous water system with
its great pipes made of brick -- so many things. But we couldn't see all that
we wanted for we had much ground to cover. We were to be back in Haifa by
lunch-time.

On toward the Sea of Galilee we went, seeing as we went the marvelous work
that the Israelies are doing as far as planting is concerned. There are infant
forests planted on nearly every vacant acre. The hills look green from it and
one knows that it will be a beautiful land one day. We saw many donkeys along
the road; surprisingly to us, Arabs in their native dress; often, in the
fields, the large black tents of the Bedoins; only once did we see a ;couple of
camels with their riders. We came upon the River Jordan, blue and wide in some
parts, often bordered closely with trees -- and then to the Sea of Galilee. We
stopped there and Maury ran down the steep pebbly bank to dip his hand in and
bring some sprinkles back to us. It seemed odd to see families casually
boating and swimming and fishing there. I recalled how I had, as a child,
treasured a small vial of that water, given to me by a visiting missionary, and
how, when it accidentally slipped out of my hand and broke, I had felt that I
had committed an unpardonable sin. We saw at a distance the Mt. of Olives and
later circled Mt. Tabor. Nazareth was our "big" stop and we wandered about as
long as time would allow. It is, today, much as it must have been in Jesus'
time. Tiny narrow cobbled streets -- no more than 4 or 5 feet wide -- with an
18-inch wide depression in the middle for the donkeys to use and for waste. It
was terribly crowded -- people and animals jostling each other to get through
-- many walking in the middle trough. It was very noisy as people hawked their
wares from the tiny open shops that lined the streets. There were shops for
brass and beans and sandles, squacking chickens and foodstuffs in a lovely
disarray. Great platters of deserts made of honey and nuts were liberally
displayed on the street and would have tempted us more had it not been for the
swarms of bees and flies that were helping themselves. The good and the foul
smells mingled together curiously. Perhaps the only things of great religious
import that we saw there was Mary's well -- and what a disappointment! It was
small and dirty and full of used kleenex and other litter. Such a shame that
a place that means so much to so many should be treated this way! We paused
briefly in one of the gift shops and bought some little carved animals for the
children and then were on our way.

We arrived back at Haifa a bit late for lunch, finished quickly and
prepared for another of the many memorable experiences that are a part of the
pilgrimage -- a visit to the Archives. Happily, Violetta Nakjiavani was to be
our guide. Most of you have seen pictures of the Archives building, I'm sure.
It is a replica of the Acropolis -- so perfectly proportioned and stately! The
huge bronze doors were swung open to reveal a single tremendous room with the
one window at the far end extending to the ceiling. It is made of stained
glass of simple design and rich hues of blues and purples -- and flooded the
room with coloured light. The building has enclosed stairways going up both
sides of the door end and the sides have narrow balconies. There are rich rugs
on the floors that are so dwarfed by the size of the room as to look like
scatter rugs. Lovely delicate cases -- many antique -- line the walls and are
carefully placed. These were being purchased in London by the Guardian when he
was struck ill and died. Many had told him that they were too small -- that
they wouldn't look well in that room -- but he insisted -- and, of course, he
was right. There were a few tables too and, other than these, only three
enormous and breathtaking crystal chandeliers.

Violetta took us from case to case explaining to us what we were seeing.
Again, it is completely impossible to tell of these things fully -- I can only
mention a few. There are articles of clothing worn by the Bab and
Baha'u'llah -- even a bit of the blood-stained and bullet-ridden shirt that
the Bab was wearing when He was martyred in Tabriz. There were pen cases,
books, jewelry and so on that had been Theirs. There were the portraits of the
Bab and Baha'u'llah and the photograph of Baha'u'llah that can only be
seen here -- for they are carefully guarded lest copies be made and, in later
years, the followers will forget the Message and concentrate on the Messenger.
We are constantly warned about this -- that superstitions can creep in so
easily. When I first became a Baha'i I wondered about the keeping of the
archives -- why it should have any importance. But being there -- seeing the
things, it is easy to understand. How much better one can understand the
history of the Faith when one sees these things. No word-picture, no telling,
can show so much. It's why we have museums instead of just libraries, I guess.
Most meaningful, most important of all the things displayed there were the
actual tablets of the Bab and Baha'u'llah! Imagine! There was one that
particularly startled us -- a letter written by the Bab to Baha'u'llah! One
Prophet of God writing to Another! It would be, but for the time element, as
though one were viewing a letter lovingly addressed by Moses to Christ. We
saw, too, the "Bab's Address to the Letters of the Living", the "Hidden
Words', so many of the Writings we have lived intimately with for so many
years. We wondered that there was so much original material -- and later
learned why. When Baha'u'llah wrote things, the originals often would be
kept and copies made, reviewed by Him, signed, sealed and sent. Another thing
of great interest to us was that Baha'u'llah's penmanship could not be forged
-- for the simple reason that, following the poisoning in Baghdad, His hand
shook for the rest of His life -- making his script impossible to copy. The
impact of all that we saw was tremendous. We were exhausted by it. Several
hours of total concentration, trying to remember this detail and that -- and
all things closely related to the thing we love most -- the Faith.

Mr. Faizi joined us for dinner again that night -- together with David
Hoffman -- member of the Universal House of Justice, British, scholar,
publisher of George Ronald books (Sears, Townshend, etc.). They stayed on for
tea as the dinner guests (hosts?) nearly always did -- to talk. Ida's candied
orange peel was made by then and she passed it proudly. It was delicious --
made even better, I'm sure, by the laughter it had engendered.

The next day the Easterners went to Bahji and it seemed particularly
quiet. We missed them. Little was scheduled for the day -- so we did our
chores, wandered about the gardens and then went into Haifa for a bit of
shopping and browsing. Again we witnessed the great respect shown for the
Baha'is there. We would ask to look at this or that momento of the Baha'i
gardens or Shrines and they would ask "Are you Baha'is?" And when we said
that we were, they would say, "Oh, then cut 25% from the prices you see -- the
Baha'is are fine people, we like them to come here. So many people come to
Israel to take -- but you have given us our greatest beauty." This attitude we
saw evidence of so often and in such unexpected places and ways.

In the afternoon we were invited to Charles and Harriet Wolcott's for tea.
How nice it was to be with them again -- just the four of us -- after so many
years. The furnishings were so familiar to us -- first from their home in
Hollywood, then from their apartment there -- then from the National
Administrative Headquarters in Wilmette where they moved when Charles had been
elected as secretary of the U.S. NSA -- and now here, half-way round the world.
It had been home each of those places -- and now it was home again. The
apartment was, to American standards, far from convenient or elegant -- but
considered very nice and modern there. And it did have one distinct advantage.
From the front balcony one could see all the Bay of Akka and, down the hill
and to the side a bit, the Shrine of the Bab! The grand piano was there and
Charles sat down and played for us. We asked Harriet if there was time for him
to do anything with his music -- and she said that there was not -- that he did
play for himself often to relax and they attend the symphony when they can --
but that is it. That saddened us though it did not surprise us. He has such
talent! We saw the latest pictures of their children and grandchildren --
heard some family tapes -- and, when the mail came, Harriet let out a "Yippee!"
She had gotten 5 letters -- the most, she said, in any day since they moved
there. Several were from people we knew and she shared them with us. One was
from their daughter, Sheila, and was full of plans for their visit to Haifa in
the summer. Charles and Harriet were looking forward to it so eagerly!
Pilgrimages are not arranged for the summer season -- to give the Holy Land a
bit of a rest -- and because of the excessive heat. And so that is the time
that the families of the residents come to visit. Much too soon, the afternoon
passed.

After dinner that night, the Chances and two other couples who work there
-- the Kents and the Kabans -- showed some marvelous and rare slides of the
Holy Places in Iran -- foreshadowing what was to come for us. The next
morning was at leisure again. At lunch, we were joined by Paul Haney and
Hushmand Fatheazaam. I had known Hushmand's brother, Shidan, quite well in
California some years before -- while he was a student there. How well I
recall the shock we all felt when the word reached us that Shidan's father, a
prominent physician, Chairman of the Assembly in Tehran, had been murdered
because of his service to the Faith. He had been called to a home supposedly
on a medical emergency one night late. They lay in wait for him at the front
door. Shortly after that, Shidan returned to Iran and then went on to Africa.
Hushmand served in India and became the secretary of their National Assembly.
We did not meet his wife until we got to Iran where she had been called because
of illness in her family. She is a most chic and talented person. Prior o
moving to Israel, she had had her own dress designing house in Delhi.
Hushmand is young (late thirties, I suspect) humble, loving and with such
capacity! Again, no aloofness there ;-- at first meeting, he is warm and
interested as a close friend. When Paul asked if he wanted to join us on our
afternoon excursion, he jumped at the chance to -- as he said -- play hookey.
We went to see the Temple property. What a spot! It is the promontory on the
end of Mt. Carmel -- from which one can see both the Bay and the Mediterranian.
It is a large plot of land -- much larger than we had imagined. There is
nothing there yet -- but a couple of abandoned bunkers. We counted over 13
varieties of wild flowers underfoot as we wandered about. The spring air was
heavy with their scent. The story behind the acquiring of the land is quite
interesting. It had belonged to the Catholic church from some hundreds of
years. The Guardian saw it and decided that that would be the perfect spot for
the House of Worship -- so he made a fair offer for it -- which was promptly
and flatly refused. Somehow the government got wind of it and went to the
Catholics, asking them to sell it to us. They said that the Catholics had had
it for hundreds of years -- and what had they done with it? Nothing. But the
Baha'is had had their properties for only a little time and had made them the
most beautiful in all of Israel -- perhaps in all of the Middle East. Rather
grudgingly, the sale was agreed upon. The Pope himself had had to sign the
bill of sale. Plans are being developed for the edifice that will be built
there.

We went then to the Cave of Elijah -- or at least one of them. There was
an old church built around it and a stairway down to the shallow cave -- just
under the alter. There are several Caves of Elijah close at hand, we were
told, and much controversy over which is the right one. Abdu'l-Baha said
that undoubtedly Elijah had stayed in all of them and more at one time or
another -- how foolish people were to fight over such a thing. From there we
drove along Panorama Drive -- seeing other Baha'i property and the view --
and on to the small Baha'i cemetery. We paused there to have prayers at the
graves of Millie Collins and Horace Holley. Some of the graves are very old --
those of the earliest believers.

After our "outing", we had tea with those dear Revel sisters. They shared
such precious stories of their experiences in the Faith -- and showed us many
pictures that we had not seen before -- of Abdu'l-Baha and the Guardian.
Again we were amazed by their vitality -- this pixie-pair -- and basked in the
warmth of their love.

That evening Ruhiyyih Khanum joined us at dinner -- and spent an hour or
so afterwards talking with us. Before she left, she came up to Ida and with a
great twinkle, handed her the second vial of attar of roses that Ida had asked
for -- "From my shop."

Again the next morning we had unscheduled time and the Chances asked if we
would like to join them on a short trip to Akka -- as they were to take
pictures for a friend. We jumped at the chance! What a reprieve! To be able
to see the prison, the House of Abud, Mazra'ih and Bahji again, even so
briefly! When we arrived at Bahji, the Persians were just leaving. They
hugged us -- but they were silent -- hearts much too full and too heavy for
conversation. We understood. Oh, how we understood!

During the drive back to Haifa, we recalled Baha'u'llah's prophecy that
this then desolate area would one day become a thriving metropolis -- that the
cities would grow and meet, circling the Bay. The prophecy is well on its way
to becoming a reality already. After lunch, we went again to Number 7,
Persian Street. This time, we were to visit the room of the Master --
Abdu'l-Baha -- the room in which he lived during the last portion of his
life and the room in which he had died. It is in a corner of the building --
and, as with his room at Bahji, it was warm and cozy -- full of homey reminders
of him; a dog-eared book about the California Redwoods by Muir -- that he
adored; binoculars through which he constantly watched the erection of the
original Shrine of the Bab; a bit of his favorite rock-candy. Stories again
flooded our memories as we looked ;about this friendly welcoming room. It was
not hard to picture him here.

Ruhiyyih Khanum had greeted us on the steps as we arrived -- dressed in a
peasant skirt and dress -- hair loose, down her back and partially covered with
a bandana. "Come in and make yourselves at home," she had said, "I'm terribly
busy because I'm having the Fatheazaam children to dinner and I'm all involved
in cooking. We all take turns, you know, when their mother is gone so they
won't be too lonesome. I'll be back as soon as you've visited the Master's
room." And then she had disappeared.

As we come from the Master's room, there she was again. "Oh, dear, I
wanted to have custard for them and I've never known how to make it." Ida
quickly volunteered to teach her and so we were all invited into the kitchen
while they went at it. Ruhiyyih Khanum proudly showed off the barn of a
kitchen that she had just done over herself. When Margaret Chance first came
to the Holy Land, she had been asked to look at it and to suggest what could be
done. Margaret told us that she had just gasped "Nothing! It's impossible!"
But Ruhiyyih Khanum had been determined and, doing nearly all the work herself,
including hammering, painting and wiring in a light fixture, had made it into a
most charming place. The once gargantuan, high ceilings, cold single room had
been divided into a pantry, kitchen and breakfast room -- old furniture and
odds and ends had been painted gay colours and it had turned into one of the
coziest places imaginable. While she and Ida addressed themselves to the
custard, we wandered out into the garden -- again a charming and relaxed place.
We suddenly heard a strange cry -- and low and behold, there was a pen of
peacocks! Ruhiyyih Khanum is a nut for animals of all kinds and, after the
death of the Guardian, began collecting anything she could get her hands on.
Once Leroy Ioas, I think it was, was her house guest and when he went to take a
bath, discovered an alligator in the tub! On her recent return from India,
Paul Haney, with others, met her at the airport and she asked Paul if hew would
carry a small box for her. He tucked it under his arm and, while he was
walking along, suddenly felt it move. He told us that he had let out a
blood-curdling yell and jumped a yard. "Oh never mind, Paul, it's just a
little mongoose," she said. There was a little cottage in the garden -- almost
like a doll's house -- that was Fugita's home. He came by while we were there
-- fairly being dragged along by his beautiful black cocker spaniel. We told
him that we had clammered up to his garden and he was terribly pleased -- and
chatted about it while before he continued on his way. Soon the custard was in
the oven and we gathered together in the sitting room once again for tea and
gaaz -- a marvelous Persian candy made of pistacio nuts. Conversation jumped
from one subject to another -- from eye exercises to archeology to eating
habits to deeply spiritual things to history and on. The time sped by and soon
we had to hurry back for dinner. But not before a quick trip to the kitchen
revealed that someone had turned on the broiler instead of the oven and the
custard had become a black-topped soupy mess! "Ah, well," our hostess said,
"it was a lovely afternoon anyway. They'll just have to be content with
cookies."

As this was our last official night of the pilgrimage, the Hands and many
others came after dinner to have prayers with us at the Shrines and to visit.
Quite late, the Chances spirited us off to their apartment to show us some
moves of their families, travels and the London Congress. The next morning we
went into Upper Carmel and, in spite of warnings, I went to the hairdresser.
You have never seen such a place! And this was the best in town! It was just
plain old-fashioned dirty. People wandered in and out -- the operators were in
house dresses or slacks and bedroom slippers. Combs and brushes weren't washed
between customers. I got hysterical. Over my protests, I got a bouffant "do"
which was profusely lacquered with something that obviously was intended for a
table-top or an alcohol-proof tray. Maury and Elena had wandered around the
town and had had a fine time. They had gone into a bank to cash a check and
somehow had found themselves being ushered into the president's office. He had
a question. When he asked the Jews about their Faith, they eagerly told him,
as did the Christians and he was at first incredulous (as I'm sure you-all
are), then understood and was impressed. He said that he loved the Baha'is
-- that their integrity was exemplary. Then Maury and Elena went to a coffee
shop to sit awhile over a cup. An older man, owner of the shop it turned out,
engaged them in conversation and, as soon as he heard that they were not
tourists but Baha'is, launched into a story of his coming there, penniless,
sleeping in parks, unable to get a job. One of the Baha'is there had lent
him enough money to get started on when his own people wouldn't. He would
never forget it. And so it is in Israel -- a constant reminder of the
importance of living the life.

Lunch that last day was with Mr. Faizi -- now almost recovered from his
cold -- and Dr. Hakim -- the only elderly member of the Universal House of
Justice. As I understand it, Dr. Hakim had been the one who attended
Abdu'l-Baha at the time of his passing -- had lived for years in the Holy
Land and served the Faith in many ways. We were to fly out that afternoon late
and so, upon advise, called to reconfirm our reservations for the third
time. Yes, we were booked on the flight. Could we reconfirm our
reservations out of Iran to India as well, we asked? Oh, the flight you are on
is not allowed to let passengers disembark in Iran -- you will have to go on to
India immediately, they said. We nearly panicked! Mr. Kent, who deals with
all such things for the pilgrims, was not at all surprised. This was typical,
he said. He went down into town and got it all straightened out. We would
leave on a later flight and everything would be all right. We got a cable off
to the Sabets immediately telling them of the change and, since we would be
arriving in Tehran at about 3:30 a.m., we would go directly to the hotel and
see them the next day. Some of the Iranian pilgrims were to be on the same
flight -- and insisted that they would see us safely to our hotel. Some who
were booked out earlier had said that they would stay at the airport for 5
hours to see that we were all right when we landed! It took much persuasion to
get them to abandon the idea. Can you imagine an American returning from a
long hard flight after an extended trip offering such a thing?

We had a bit of time with the Wolcotts again and then packed up, went to
the Shrines and, immediately after dinner, bid a tearful farewell to all those
who had gathered to see us off. Several of them pressed into our hands copies
of pictures we had admired, addresses, small gifts. It was hard to imagine
that we had been there only for such a short time -- at this place of our
dreams -- for it was more like a lifetime. So much had transpired. As we
climbed into our taxi, we wondered how many of these dear faces we would see
again -- but in wondering, we knew that we would never really leave each other
for we were bound together in a special way -- linked eternally through the
precious experience we had shared.

We were silent as our taxi lumbered on toward the airport.

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