On the 27th of November 2024, the APPG FoRB launched its inaugural annual report on FoRB and human rights, highlighting contributions from stakeholders regarding recent developments and ongoing challenges in 20 countries of particular concern:
- Afghanistan
- Bangladesh
- Central African Republic
- China
- Democratic Republic of the Congo
- Egypt
- Eritrea
- India
- Indonesia
- Iran
- Iraq
- Myanmar
- Nigeria
- North Korea
- Pakistan
- Saudi Arabia
- Sudan
- Syria
- Türkiye
- Yemen
The report sheds light on the persistent challenges faced by individuals and communities worldwide and outlines opportunities for intervention. It also includes recommendations urging the UK Government to step forward once again as a global leader in defending and championing freedom of religion or belief.
Speakers at the report launch included Jim Shannon MP, Chair of the APPG FoRB; The Lord Alton of Liverpool, Vice Chair of the APPG FoRB; and Julie Jones, Director of the APPG FoRB. Joshua Bishop, an intern for the APPG FoRB, presented the report.
The report launch also included a keynote address from Iqan Shahidi – a PhD candidate in Intellectual History at the University of Cambridge – who recounted his own harrowing history of having been persecuted for his Baha’i faith while previously living in Iran. His remarks are reproduced below in full:
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My name is Iqan Shahidi, and it is both a privilege and an honor to address you today. I am a member of the Bahá’í community, the largest non-Muslim religious minority in Iran, which has faced persecution since its inception, and more systematically since 1979. The Bahá’í Faith is a global religion, established in nearly every country and many dependent territories around the world. Bahá’ís live in over 100,000 localities, representing approximately 2,100 indigenous tribes, races, and ethnic groups, reflecting the diversity and unity at the heart of its beliefs.
Imagine being a child and knowing that, simply because of your beliefs, you are seen as an outsider by your own government. Imagine living in a country where your home could be raided at any moment, your books confiscated, your education denied, and your future systematically erased. I didn’t have to imagine this—it was my reality.
I was born into this reality nearly a decade after the 1979 Revolution. From an early age, I witnessed the paradox that defined the lives of Bahá’ís in Iran: despite their profound love for their country and desire to serve fellow citizens, they were met with discrimination, hostility, and exclusion. Yet, I was raised with the conviction that hatred has no place in our actions.
My parents instilled in me the values of kindness, forgiveness, and the unwavering commitment to serving both our fellow citizens and humanity as a whole.
My own experiences with persecution began at an early age. In primary school, I was bullied by classmates and openly ridiculed by teachers who denigrated my faith. My parents faced challenges simply enrolling me in school, as many institutions refused to admit Bahá’í children. The first raid I remember happened when I was seven years old. It was 6 a.m., and I was asleep when many security agents entered our house. I saw them instructing my parents to sit while they collected all our belongings, including every book in the house—religious texts, family records, and even my cherished storybooks. They even took our cash. I was terrified, worried that they might hurt my parents. I cried all the way to school that morning, unsure if, when I returned, there would be anyone to open the door for me.
By the time I reached high school, I understood the near certainty of being denied access to university—a fate shared by countless Bahá’í students since the Revolution. My mother, who had been studying physics, was expelled from university solely because of her faith and was never allowed to return. My father, also barred from pursuing higher education, built his own business. Over the years, his assets were confiscated multiple times by the authorities, forcing him to start over repeatedly. Despite this grim reality, I dedicated myself to my studies, holding onto a faint hope that things might one day change.
At 18, I took the national university entrance exam and performed well, but my hopes were dashed when I, like thousands of other Bahá’ís, was denied entry. I should note here that education holds a central place in the Bahá’í Faith. It is regarded as essential for the moral, intellectual, and spiritual growth of individuals, enabling them to meaningfully contribute to the advancement of society. Bahá’u’lláh, the Founder of the Bahá’í Faith, emphasized the importance of acquiring knowledge to foster understanding and promote unity. This belief is reflected in the Bahá’í commitment to providing education for all, regardless of gender or social status, to empower individuals to actively participate in the betterment of humanity. However, in Iran, the Islamic regime systematically denies Bahá’í youth access to higher education as part of a broader campaign of religious repression. Authorities not only block Bahá’ís from entering universities but also target initiatives like the Bahá’í Institute for Higher Education (BIHE)—a peaceful, community-based effort to provide educational opportunities for excluded Bahá’í students. Those involved in establishing and running the BIHE are often sentenced to imprisonment, harassment, and confiscation of property solely for their dedication to education. This persecution starkly contrasts with the Bahá’í principles of nonviolence and service to humanity and underscores the regime’s deep intolerance toward Iran’s largest non-Muslim religious minority. In response to such systemic oppression, the Bahá’í community has adopted a strategy known as “constructive resilience.” This approach involves proactively building and sustaining community structures and initiatives that embody Bahá’í principles, even in the face of persecution. Rather than engaging in confrontational or adversarial tactics, Bahá’ís focus on constructive actions that contribute to societal well-being and reflect their commitment to peace and unity. The establishment of the BIHE is a prime example of this strategy, demonstrating how the community seeks to overcome injustice through positive and peaceful means.
Determined to assert my right to education, I sought every legal avenue—writing to government agencies, parliamentary commissions, and NGOs. The response was always the same: this was state policy. A 1991 memorandum signed by Iran’s Supreme Leader explicitly calls for blocking the social and economic progress of Bahá’ís, and the ban on higher education is just one manifestation of this policy.
My activism led to my arrest in 2010 when I was just 21 years old. My arrest resembled kidnapping; I was apprehended on the street while returning home in midnight, leaving my parents in anguish for nearly two weeks, unaware of my whereabouts or even if I was still alive.
During the interrogations, I was tortured both physically and psychologically. I was blindfolded and beaten daily with hands, boots, and other objects that I couldn’t see. I was repeatedly insulted, my beliefs ridiculed, and subjected to relentless profanity aimed at my family and friends. The interrogators—three to four voices I could hear around me—constantly threatened me with rape and execution if I refused to provide information about others. The more I resisted, the more the violence escalated.
On one occasion, while I was seated on a chair, they became enraged, kicked me backward, and struck me with the base of the chair. Another time, they poured cold water over me during winter. Wearing only thin clothing in the freezing weather and suffering from low blood pressure, I began to have seizures. The violent interrogation was briefly stopped, and I was taken to the Evin prison hospital.
While in solitary confinement, I was often denied access to a toilet for many hours, adding another layer of psychological and physical torment. Even during detention, after interrogations, when I had to be guided by prison guards back to our rooms because I couldn’t see due to the blindfolds, the guards refused to take my hands or allow me to place my hands on their shoulders for guidance. This was because, as Bahá’ís, I was considered najis or “unclean.” This brutal treatment, combined with solitary confinement, lasted for 72 days, during which I lost 11 kilograms of weight.
Following my release on bail, I was sentenced to five years in prison for being a Bahá’í and a human rights advocate. Despite appealing the verdict, my sentence was upheld. At that point, I had the opportunity to leave Iran, but I chose to stay. My love for my country and my sense of responsibility to serve it and its people compelled me to face imprisonment. In 2012, I began serving my sentence in Rajai Shahr prison near Tehran, fully aware of the challenges that lay ahead.
My five-years in prison were marked by both hardship and unexpected opportunities. The conditions were harrowing—sanitation was terrible, with mice and cockroaches infesting every corner of the prison. The food provided was barely edible, often containing insects, and for years, we were not allowed to prepare our own meals because we had no access to basic food supplies or materials to cook with. Additionally, we were required to clean the toilets and bathrooms ourselves and wash our clothes by hand. Access to fruits and vegetables was extremely limited—we were given a very small amount every six months, and only for a few days. These daily indignities underscored the harsh realities of our imprisonment.
I was isolated from my family and friends, completely cut off from the outside world. The prison experience was not just hard on us; it was even more devastating for our families, who had to cope with the loss of their loved ones for years and the emotional toll of these painful visits. My family, who lived on the other side of the country, endured grueling 20-hour journeys each way for a brief 20-minute weekly visit. These visits were conducted through a glass partition, forcing us to speak over a phone, where the sound was often unclear, making communication an additional challenge. Living alongside so many other prisoners, many of whom were under immense pressure due to the harsh prison environment, added yet another layer of difficulty for everyone involved.
Yet, amidst these challenges, I found moments of connection and dialogue. I was detained alongside political prisoners and prisoners of conscience— journalists, human rights defenders, and members of political movements. Many of them were unaware of the extent of the persecution faced by Bahá’ís in Iran: arrests and imprisonments, the demolition of cemeteries, confiscation of assets, denial of government employment, closure of businesses, and the systemic exclusion from higher education. The Baha’is in prison used this time to share the story of the Baha’i community and highlight the values that Bahá’ís uphold: the oneness of humanity, equality of women and men, the harmony of science and religion, and the elimination of prejudice in all its forms.
This time was also precious because we had the opportunity to engage in meaningful conversations about the future of Iran—a future where the principle of unity in diversity is embraced, where collaboration with other countries upholds human rights, and where the rights of minorities, various communities, ethnic groups, and all citizens are respected. These discussions gave us hope and reinforced our collective vision for a more just and equitable society. Many of us who shared those moments in prison remain in touch today, and we are doing our best to translate these ideas into practice. Whether from inside Iran or, like me, from outside the country, we are united in our efforts to contribute to a better future for Iran.
As my release day approached in early January 2017, instead of feeling joy, I found myself overwhelmed with a flood of emotions. I often cried for hours, grappling with the thought of leaving behind the prisoners I had shared so many years with—some of whom had become my closest friends. Many of them faced long sentences or even execution. The painful reality was that I might never see them again. How could I say goodbye to them? The most difficult day of my imprisonment was the last one—the moment I had to part ways with these people who had become like family to me.
After my release in 2017, I pursued my dream of higher education here in the UK. I am happy to say that I am now in the final stages of completing my PhD in intellectual history at the University of Cambridge.
However, even after my release, the pressure did not stop. Just a few weeks after I arrived in the UK for my studies, both my parents and one of my aunts were arrested. I have received threatening messages from the Iranian government in various ways, warning me to stop my human rights activities and raising awareness about the violations of human rights in Iran.
Later, another uncle of mine, a historian, was arrested—not for his academic work, which focuses on the Constitutional Revolution in Iran, but solely because of his belief in the Bahá’í Faith.
In the past seven years, many of my friends across various cities in Iran have also been arrested, adding to the constant stress and pressure I endure. My best friend from the time of prison was executed a few years ago based on false accusations, which inflicted another profound emotional wound and deepened the weight of my experiences. Whenever my parents visit me in the UK and return to Iran, they are interrogated at the airport, subjected to numerous questions about my activities and work here. This pattern has become a regular feature of the lives of our family.
What I have shared here is not unique to me—it is a pattern repeated for almost every member of the Bahá’í community in Iran. Hundreds of thousands of Bahá’ís face these challenges on a daily basis. I am not an exception; I am simply one example of countless individuals enduring systematic persecution, all while striving to uphold values of peace, justice, and service to society.
I cannot return to Iran because I know I would be arrested at the airport upon arrival. Even as a British citizen, it is risky for me to travel to countries close to Iran like Turkey to meet friends, as I have been warned by counter-terrorism police to avoid these regions. I have even been advised not to share my location on Instagram live sessions. The pressure continues for me as an Iranian-British Bahá’í, underscoring how deeply the regime’s persecution extends beyond its borders.
Imagine, then, what Bahá’ís still living in Iran face under such a regime. Yet despite this persecution, Bahá’ís in Iran and abroad strive to be active and constructive citizens, working for the betterment of their society. Their efforts are motivated by a deep commitment to principles of service and unity, even in the face of relentless oppression.
I have been fortunate to pursue my studies in the UK over the past several years. This journey has been filled with immense challenges, but it also stands as a testament to the power of resilience and the global support for justice and equality. It underscores the urgent need to continue advocating for those who remain oppressed and voiceless under regimes that deny fundamental human rights. Thank you for listening, and thank you for your commitment to advancing these values.
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