How I Advocate for Human Rights Without Becoming Political

There is no shortage of tragedy in the world. Genocides, racism, gender-based violence, the persecution of religious and ethnic minorities—the list is long, and the weight of it can be extremely heavy. For many people, witnessing injustice ignites a burning desire to act, to speak, to demand better. As Baha’is, many of us also feel this desire, but can sometimes feel unsure of how to act, given our non-involvement in partisan politics. When I was getting my master’s degree in Public International Law and Human Rights, I came to realise that human rights is much broader than how it’s often discussed. We are not talking about a narrow political agenda. We are talking about the right to clean water, to a healthy environment, to food, to safety, to healthcare; the basic conditions that make a dignified human life possible. And what I noticed is that when you strip away the political noise and focus on the underlying right, you almost always find consensus. Very few people, across very different backgrounds and beliefs, will tell you that children should go hungry, or that communities should drink poisoned water, or that people should die from preventable illness. These rights tend to unite us. It’s the political prescriptions for how to achieve them that divide us, and that is precisely where, as a Baha’i, I have been learning how to tread a different path. I believe that the Baha’i Writings make clear that advocacy on behalf of the oppressed is not only permitted; it is expected. Abdu’l-Baha writes: “Therefore strive that your actions day by day may be beautiful prayers. Turn towards God, and seek always to do that which is right and noble. Enrich the poor, raise the fallen, comfort the sorrowful, bring healing to the sick, reassure the fearful, rescue the oppressed, bring hope to the hopeless, shelter the destitute! This is the work of a true Baha’i…” 1 “Rescue the oppressed.” That is not a passive instruction. But it also does not say: tear down the institutions that oppress them and replace them with ones of your choosing. That distinction, between speaking out against injustice and dictating the political means by which justice should be achieved, is where I have come to find my footing. From what I understand, I can say that a government is failing to protect the rights of its citizens. I can name the abuse, document it, raise it, and demand it be seen. What I cannot do is campaign for the fall of a government or align myself with a particular political faction as the answer. Whether change comes through the reform of existing institutions or through something entirely new is not mine to prescribe. What I believe I am called to do is contribute, right now, to the kind of world we believe in. A few years ago, when the death of a young woman sparked a global outcry over women’s rights and state violence, I helped organise a local solidarity march in Riga, Latvia, where I was living. We gathered, not under a party banner or a political slogan, but under the simple conviction that women’s lives matter and that governments have an obligation to protect rather than endanger the people they govern. That is a human rights position, not a partisan one. It asks nothing about who should hold power, only that whoever does must be held accountable to basic standards of human dignity. I have also witnessed quieter, but equally powerful forms of advocacy. About ten years ago, when I was living in the Czech Republic, a refugee crisis was unfolding across Europe. Just across the border in Austria, a group of Afghan families were living in temporary housing while they awaited word on where they would be permanently settled. A few Persian-speaking Baha’is in our community began driving across that border every weekend to offer their time, their warmth, and their fluency in a language close enough to Dari that real conversation was possible. What they gave those families was the chance to share a meal with people who could understand them, to laugh, to play with their children, to feel human in the middle of an experience that could otherwise feel profoundly dehumanising. Not all advocacy is loud. It can be, and sometimes needs to be. But it is also possible for advocacy to be softer; to be laughter bouncing off the walls of refugee housing, a shared pot of food, or a conversation between hearts. That too is the work of building a more just world. Baha’u’llah wrote that “all men have been created to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization.” 2 The statement implies that we are not here simply to patch what is broken, but to participate in the construction of something better. Speaking out about human rights abuses, naming them, documenting them, ensuring they are seen and understood, is part of that civilisational project. We are not merely treating symptoms of a broken world; we are laying foundations for a just one. Two remarkable examples of this in action come to my mind. First, Nazila Ghanea , who currently serves as the United Nations Special Rapporteur on Freedom of Religion or Belief. In her role, she is tasked with investigating global violations of religious freedom and advocating for the universal protection of thought, conscience, and religion. Second is Payam Akhavan , a human rights lawyer who, along with decades of other advocacy, served as a legal advisor to the international body prosecuting the people who committed genocide and crimes against humanity during the Yugoslav Wars. Both are Baha’is. Both demonstrate that it is entirely possible to operate with rigour, moral clarity, and real institutional impact while remaining principled rather than partisan. Both show how we can name abuses and hold governments accountable from a place of commitment to universal human rights standards rather than political allegiance. In their work, we see exactly the kind of dual effort the Faith calls us to: addressing present suffering while contributing to something larger and more enduring. Of course, most of us will never serve as a United Nations Special Rapporteur or argue cases before international tribunals. But human rights advocacy is not reserved for experts. It can begin in our own neighbourhoods and communities. We can volunteer with grassroots organisations whose work resonates with us, whether they support refugees, survivors of domestic violence, people experiencing homelessness, environmental protection, or access to education. We can organise donation drives, collect school supplies, raise funds for humanitarian relief efforts, or offer our professional skills to organisations working on behalf of vulnerable populations. We can create spaces for meaningful conversations, accompany those who feel isolated, mentor young people, and help build communities where every person is treated with dignity and respect. None of these actions require us to align ourselves with a political party or ideology. They simply require us to recognise the humanity in others and respond with service. The Baha’i Writings do not ask us to be silent in the face of suffering, nor neutral on questions of human dignity. They call us to act: to defend the vulnerable, uplift the oppressed, and help build a society rooted in justice and unity. Whether through advocacy, service, or simple acts of solidarity, each of us can play a role in responding to suffering in a way that brings people together rather than driving them apart. Abdu’l-Baha, Baha’i Sacred Writings Baha’u’llah, Gleanings of the Writings of Baha’u’llah