TEHRAN – It was around 8:00 p.m. on a mild Monday evening, and people continued to arrive, drawn by a shared need to be present. Among them were artists, actors, filmmakers, and ordinary citizens, all gathering to pay tribute to those lost, to express solidarity, and, perhaps most notably, to show that fear of ongoing airstrikes had not confined them to their homes.

As the gathering gradually grew, the atmosphere at Bagh-e Ferdows in northern Tehran took on a quiet yet profound emotional weight. Their presence conveyed a quiet but unmistakable message: that bombs and missiles would neither empty the streets nor weaken their connection to their homeland.

At the entrance to the garden, just off the street, a symbolic classroom had been carefully arranged in memory of the children of Minab, some 165 students who were martyred in the early moments of the war. School desks stood in neat rows, some dusted and marked to suggest destruction. Backpacks lay scattered across the ground, evoking absence more than presence, and silence more than sound.

Visitors approached the space with a visible shift in appearance. Some paused, then sat briefly behind the desks, as if briefly stepping into lives that had been abruptly interrupted. Candles were lit, flowers gently placed, and people moved on in silence. It was among the most powerful scenes of the night, grief rendered visible, yet shared collectively, without the need for words.

I then spoke with a middle-aged woman placing a flower beside one of the desks. Her voice trembled slightly. “I am a mother,” she said quietly. “I cannot put into words what I felt.”

Her brief words seemed to capture the emotional core of the space, an attempt to grasp the magnitude of what had been lost.

Nearby, a retired teacher lit a candle after gently brushing dust from a bench. Speaking in measured tones, she reflected on accountability and the role of international institutions, expressing a quiet expectation that such tragedies should not be met with silence.

Inside the garden, next to a giant white edifice, where the core of the gathering take place, patriotic songs began to move gently through the crowd, one after another, each carrying themes of Iran, endurance, dignity, and collective memory.

What stood out most was the diversity of those gathered. People from different walks of life stood side by side, elderly men and women, young couples, and groups of teenagers.

Women appeared both with and without headscarves, some in black chadors, and others in more casual dress. In that shared space, visible differences seemed to retreat, giving way to a broader sense of belonging.

One of the most heart-stopping moments came with the collective singing of “Ey Iran”, when crowd joined in harmony, accompanied by the soft waving of flags, quiet tears, and hushed voices. Famously performed by the late Iranian vocalist Mohammad Nouri, the song has long stood as an expression of national attachment. Portions of its lyrics can be rendered in English as:

In my soul and my life, you shall remain, O my homeland.

The heart that does not tremble for you is destined to fall beneath the feet.

The story of this love cannot be contained in words.

For your noble love, the world itself is unworthy.

Not far from the memorial installation, a separate area was arranged for children, an intentional contrast that introduced a sense of continuity amid loss. Here, children were drawing, writing, and taking part in small activities centered on themes of unity and hope. Their presence added a forward-looking dimension to the evening, even as remembrance remained its central theme.

Among them was Ali, a boy of about ten, who smiled shyly before speaking. “I’m happy to be here… me and my mother, we are here for Iran…. because we love it very much,” he said. His simple words offered a moment of clarity, cutting through the heavier atmosphere of the night.

Later, documentary filmmaker Javad Moghui addressed the gathering, sharing his recent observations from the battlefields and the highly strategic Strait of Hormuz in particular. He

spoke of moments of confrontation, missile launches, and what he described as acts of courage by the Iranian soldiers. The audience listened attentively, absorbing his account in silence.

In another corner of the garden, a man in his sixties stood holding the Iranian flag. When I asked how he felt, his response was immediate: “Pride. Honor. Love for my country.” He spoke of standing with the nation’s defenders and voiced strong criticism of what he described as war crimes committed by the enemies.

The gathering, however, was not an isolated event. Since the outbreak of the war on February 28, similar scenes have unfolded across the country every night from Tehran to Tabriz, from Mashhad to Isfahan. Each has carried its own tone, yet all seem connected by a shared impulse: to remember, to endure, and to remain present.

Bagh-e Ferdows itself echoing the traditions of the UNESCO-registered Persian garden, with its greenery, symmetry, and softly lit pathways, was thoughtfully arranged into sections dedicated to remembrance. At its center stood the historical mansion, now home to the Cinema Museum of Iran, a place usually devoted to art and cultural memory. 

Standing there, surrounded by candlelight, voices, and a quiet but steady determination, it became clear that the gathering was not only about grief, nor solely about defiance. It was also about identity, about how individuals and communities understand themselves in moments of uncertainty and under the shadow of inhuman aggressors. 

AM