I met my precious Hoda, my rainbow, from the moment she opened her eyes to this world.
I am her maternal aunt. We lived in the same city: the city of Sari, where she was born in a clinic. I remember that at the time there was a virus or something similar, and the doctor recommended bringing the baby home until her mother, my sister, was discharged. I was about 14 years old and took care of Hoda. I stayed at their house, looked after her, changed her diapers, fed her… until her mother returned home.
I remember her expressive, beautiful eyes from a very young age — how she looked at the world. It was striking. She was so observant. I believe that even until her last moment in life, her eyes spoke for themselves.
Since she was a baby, she already showed a great ability to observe. Her eyes wandered everywhere. She loved to observe: colors, movements… She was only a few days old and would already turn to the left, watching everything with those beautiful eyes and smiling.
As her aunt, I can say that unfortunately, I didn’t have the pleasure of spending much time with her, because it was during the time of the Islamic Revolution, which was also very hard on her entire family. They had to emigrate and leave the country due to their Bahá’í Faith. They went from place to place, and I believe that marked the lives of Hoda, her sister, her mother, and her father very deeply.
Even so, despite the many very sad moments —the loss of loved ones in Iran— we had the joy of reuniting in England. There, aunt and beloved niece were together again. Hoda was a little girl, and her sister Neda had just been born. We played together. I tried to comfort them, because those were very difficult, painful times.
We are convinced that after every crisis comes victory. That’s something that happened to all of us in the family after leaving our country due to the Islamic Revolution.
I remember that one of my sisters, Oma —another aunt of Hoda’s— stayed in Iran to finish her midwifery studies. She graduated, got married, and while pregnant, she and her husband tragically died in an accident. We found out late, by phone. We were living in England at the time, in a house with Hoda and her parents. On the very day we received the news, they were bringing baby Neda home from the clinic. Hoda was still a little girl.
I often say —though not everyone likes when I do— that I’m the black sheep of the family. I had to show strength. I had to support my mother, my sister who had just given birth, care for a baby, and look after my younger siblings. It felt like the world had collapsed, and I had to be running around, cooking, cleaning…
We had a type of portable crib where I would place Hoda with her toys while I took care of the chores. One day I came back and saw something so beautiful, so artistic, that from that moment I knew she had artistic aspirations: she had removed her diaper (perhaps out of jealousy over her sister’s arrival), and expressed herself creatively with what she had around. Of course, I ran to clean her, bathe her, make sure she was okay, and then cleaned the house before her mother and sister arrived. These are beautiful memories, even though we didn’t spend much time together.
I can only repeat the words of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá:
She was truly a real Bahá’í.
She was endowed with every human virtue in potential: she spoke through her silence, was generous, kind, tolerant, and understanding. She had all the qualities that God places in each human being.
Sadly, we were separated again due to migration. If I had been closer to her during her childhood and adolescence, I would have told her: “Don’t suffer.” She suffered silently. She didn’t speak out, she didn’t scream. She kept everything inside. And that kind of suffering can make someone ill. I regret not being able to tell her: “Defend yourself. Don’t suffer.”
There is no need to say much more. Anyone who had any contact with Hoda —whether at work, in Bahá’í activities, the neighborhood, school, or university— felt her impact.
During her illness and at her funeral, I watched each soul who came to see her: everyone spoke of how she had touched their lives. Not with words, but through her actions. Whether coworkers, neighbors, friends, parents of Drazen’s classmates — all had been deeply marked by her.
Hoda was reserved in words and abundant in deeds.
She left behind a phrase that I believe represents her life perfectly:
“Live your life in such a way that those who laughed when you were born will cry when you die — and you will smile.”