For Bakeri, for Azerbaijan, and for all of Iran

How can one speak of a man whose every fragment is a chapter of wisdom?

How can one speak of Agha Mehdi without leaving out a single moment of his life?

Baqeri cannot be “described” — he must be written, moment by moment, with the heart; read with tears; felt with the soul.

When a fighter told him, “I don’t have time to read the Qur’an, nor to reach Nahj al‑Balagha,” Agha Mehdi was shaken.

He said, “We’ve gone bankrupt…” He was that precise — as if from Khorramshahr to Kheibar, he balanced the accounts of this world and the Hereafter together.

He would say: “Don’t eat into your capital… rebuild your savings of faith.”

How well he knew how to spend — he spent from the heart, from faith, from sincerity.

To speak of his sincerity, you must go back to the floods of Urmia. To that moment when an old woman said: “God bless you; I wish the mayor had a bit of your honor,” and he did not utter a word to reveal, “I am that mayor.”

Agha Mehdi never sought praise, never sought the spotlight. He knew how to serve silently, without leaving a trace.

One day, a young man came to the municipality saying, “I need work.” There was no budget, but Mehdi hired him anyway, halved his own salary, and gave the other half to the man.

When was the last time we cut our own share so that another would not stumble?

When did we do good without announcing it?

When did we pray for good deeds to fall into our hands, but have their credit written under someone else’s name?

One day, he personally took a military vehicle’s flat tire to be repaired. The repairman wasn’t available, the apprentice wanted to close up shop, saying, “I can’t…”

Agha Mehdi sat by the roadside, washing the shop’s dirty clothes himself so the man could fix the tire.

It wasn’t just his veins that carried honor; his hands, his heart, his dignity, even his pride were devoted to service.

Agha Mehdi was not only a division commander — he was the commander of hearts. He loved his men as much as he loved his own life.

Now imagine how much he loved his Hamid…

One of the soldiers recalled seeing, under a Red Crescent tent, Agha Mehdi with his hand under Hamid’s head, and Hamid’s hand under Agha Mehdi’s — asleep, side by side, like lovers.

And when Hamid was martyred, Agha Mehdi did not shed a tear, did not speak — he only said: “Line up Morteza for the front.”

When asked why he would not attend the funeral, he replied: “If my voice has gone, should I go too?”

And so, he left Hamid on the battlefield of Kheibar and said: “They are all Hamid… which one should I bring back?”

Mehdi Baqeri did not become great by letting go of Hamid; he became heavenly by letting go of himself.

At Badr, he reached a point where he no longer saw bullets — only Paradise.

This is how they made Martyr Baqeri — from broken hearts, sincerity to the very end, and boundless love.

If only we could learn:

Not to consume the capital of our faith…

And to give up part of our own share — for God.