I had one of those unexpectedly meaningful encounters this week.
My girlfriend and I were at Methodist Hospital. While I was with the doctor, she went downstairs for peanuts and came back saying, “There’s an Iranian lady in a café downstairs — let’s go.” By the time we got there, the woman had stepped out, but her husband, Saeed, was there. We began talking.
He turned out to be Mandaean — what in Iran is often called Sobhi (Sabian). That caught my attention immediately. When I was teaching at the Abadan Institute of Technology years ago, I had one or two Sobhi students. At the time they were simply another interesting minority group in Iran. I didn’t think much beyond that. I hadn’t had contact with the community since — until now, in San Antonio.
Mandaeans are one of the oldest surviving religious minorities in the Middle East. They are not Muslim, not Christian, not Jewish, though they share figures with all three traditions. Their religion, Mandaeism, is a surviving form of ancient Gnosticism. The word “Mandaean” comes from “manda,” meaning knowledge — spiritual, saving knowledge.
They revere John the Baptist as their greatest prophet. In fact, they see him as preserving the true path of light. Their view of Jesus is very different from Christianity — they regard him as someone who diverged from John’s teaching. Their scriptures — like the Ginza Rabba (“Great Treasure”) — describe a cosmic dualism between a World of Light and a world of darkness.
The human soul, in their theology, originates in the realm of light and is trapped in the material world. Salvation comes through knowledge and ritual purification.
Baptism in flowing water is central — not once in a lifetime, but repeatedly. It must be living water, a river. Historically they lived along the Tigris, Euphrates, and Karun rivers in southern Iraq and southwestern Iran. Without flowing water, their religion cannot properly function.
They have survived nearly two millennia in Mesopotamia — under Parthians, Sassanians, Islamic caliphates, Mongols, Ottomans, and modern nation states. Often tolerated, sometimes pressured, always small. Traditionally they did not farm or fight. Many became goldsmiths and jewelers — a portable, skilled trade that allowed them to survive as a minority. In Basra and Baghdad they were known for fine gold work.
Before 2003 there may have been 60,000–70,000 Mandaeans in Iraq. After the Iraq War, kidnappings, extortion, and forced conversions devastated the community. The population collapsed. Today only a few thousand remain in Iraq. Many fled to Australia, Sweden, Germany, Michigan — and Texas.
They do not accept converts. You must be born to two Mandaean parents. They marry within the community. Without priests, they cannot perform baptisms, marriages, or funerals.
Rebuilding priestly lines outside Iraq and Iran has been a serious challenge.
At one point in our conversation Saeed became very vocal — emotionally charged — about Muslim prophets and imams. It did not feel like calm theological disagreement. It felt like unloading. I simply said, “Yes, I’ve heard that,” and let him speak. Most of the conversation was in Persian; my girlfriend listened while I translated — straight, without softening.
What struck me was not the criticism itself. I have heard sectarian folklore before. What I sensed in Saeed was grievance layered over history — a small ancient community that survived empires, nearly extinguished in modern chaos, now running cafés and jewelry shops in Texas.
There was something quietly striking about the scene. My girlfriend wears a farvahar I gave her — the Zoroastrian winged symbol of ancient Persian identity. So there we were: a Zoroastrian symbol, a Mandaean gnostic minority, Persian language, Iraqi displacement — all in a hospital café in San Antonio.
It did not feel nostalgic. It felt like two separate chapters of my life brushing against each other — Abadan decades ago and Texas now.
Mostly, it left me curious. A simple conversation over peanuts connected rivers in Mesopotamia to a medical center in Texas — and reminded me how fragile and persistent small civilizations can be.
Edward Plaisance, Chestertown
