In many months since Baha’ullah had been exiled to Palestine, many of his followers had tired to enter the city to visit Him
Mirza Mihdi was the younger brother of Abdul’l-baha. Baha’u’llah called him his Purest Branch. Mirza Mihdi grieved continuously over the lover of baha’u’llah who traveled a hundreds of miles to see their beloved in Akka. Always they were forced to leave without the glimpse of him. He knew how they felt. Tiny and frail, he had been left with his grandmother in Tehran 20 years ago. The rest of the family was exiled to Baghdad in the middle of winter. Seven years later, he was finally able to join them. He knew what joy those who might get their wish to pass beyond the gates of Akka. There they might enter he presence of the Ancient Beauty.
In Akka in 1870, Mirza Mihdi was 22 years old. For some time he had been able to fulfill his heart’s desire: to serve his father, his family, and his fellow exiles. He sat with them at their gatherings and read them their father’s words. From him they learned courtesy and patience, dignity and joyful submission to the will of God. Always in his thoughts were the unlucky ones at the gate.
One hot evening, Mirza Mihdi was feeling unwell. His beloved father suggested that he go to the rooftop of the prison barracks and walk as often as he did. There he could be breath deeply in the fresh salty air. He could listen to the gentle sweep of the cool waters of the Mediterranean Sea. Alone and quiet he would say his prayers in peace.
There was a open, unguarded skylight in that rooftop. He always counted his steps in the dark so he wouldn’t fall through the opening. He knew when to stop and turn, But this night, he made a mistake. He miscounted. He stepped into the space and fell in the room below. At the end of his horrible flight, he crashed onto a jagged wooden crate.
The noise and the horror of his fall brought those near by racing from their rooms. Kneeling over him, they tore of the cloths of his chest. They saw jagged points of wood sticking through his body. Blood poured from his wounds.
The Italian physician who attended the exiles did what he could to the terrible injury. But it was beyond the help of human hands.