TEHRAN – The story of a mother and father who lost their nine-year-old daughter in the February 28, 2026 attack on Shajareh Tayyebeh School in Minab. Setayesh used to hold classes for her dolls and dreamed of one day standing in front of a classroom, teaching children of her own.

What follows is a telephone interview with the parents of Setayesh Ali Hosseini, a nine-year-old student at Shajareh Tayyebeh School in Minab, which was attacked on February 28, 2026.

I first met Setayesh's parents on November 2, 2026, at a ceremony held ahead of Iran's National Student Day, observed annually on November 4 (13 Aban). The occasion is traditionally marked by a gathering of students with the Leader of the Islamic Revolution. This year's observance

was held in memory of the martyred Leader, Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Khamenei, who had traditionally met with students on this occasion. Setayesh's parents had attended hoping to represent their daughter. I obtained their contact details at the ceremony, knowing that I wanted to hear their account of the child they had lost. Although I knew the conversation would be difficult, I felt it was important to give them an opportunity to share their memories of Setayesh.

The little teacher and her classroom of dolls

Setayesh was a fourth-grade student at Shajareh Tayyebeh School in Minab. Her classroom was named after Major General Amir Ali Hajizadeh. But to her mother, Setayesh was much more than a student in a particular classroom or a name on a school register. She was a gentle, kind-hearted girl whose presence had filled their home with life.

Her mother recalled a child whose kindness was reflected in her everyday behavior. Setayesh was devoted to the Ahl al-Bayt, particularly Hazrat Ruqayyah, and spoke enthusiastically about visiting holy sites in Karbala and the Imam Reza shrine. According to her mother, she had been fasting since the age of seven and would go to sleep after performing ablution.

For her mother, these were not simply expressions of her daughter's religious devotion. They were details of an ordinary childhood: a little girl growing up before her eyes, with so many years of life still ahead of her.

But among all the memories her mother shared, one image stood out: Setayesh playing with her dolls. She would arrange them in rows, hold classes for them, and take on the role of their teacher. Sometimes she would teach them lessons, turning her little world into a miniature school.
It was more than just a game. Setayesh wanted to become a teacher.

Still in fourth grade, she imagined her future through these simple childhood games. She may not yet have understood all the responsibilities of being a teacher, but she knew that she wanted to stand in front of a classroom one day, teach children, and help them learn.

She had other dreams, too. She wanted to visit the Imam Reza shrine and see the Leader of the Islamic Revolution in person. Her affection for Hazrat Ruqayyah and other religious figures cherished by her family was reflected in her words and actions.

As her mother recounted these memories, I kept thinking about what each detail must now mean to the family. Playing with dolls, talking about religious pilgrimages, fasting as a young child, and dreaming of becoming a teacher were all ordinary parts of a nine-year-old girl's life. A life that was supposed to continue.

A mother's search for her daughter

When the conversation turned to the day of the attack, her mother's tone changed. The memories were no longer just about Setayesh's interests and games. She returned to the moment she heard the news and realized that the school had been attacked.

She said her whole body began to tremble when she heard what had happened. The school and its students had been caught up in a disaster that no parent could ever prepare for. She rushed toward the school, overwhelmed with fear and anxiety, not yet knowing what awaited her there.

What she encountered was horrifyingly different from the school she had known. She recalled smoke, crowds, and traffic, as well as the destruction and the bodies of children caught in the devastation. She was searching for Setayesh, looking for any sign of her daughter in a place that should have been filled with children's lessons and games.

She later went to the hospital. Her mother spoke about seeing her daughter's clothes and body and the moment she identified her, when any remaining hope of Setayesh returning home disappeared.

Some experiences cannot be adequately conveyed in words, no matter how hard one tries. For a mother, going to a school in search of her child and then reaching a hospital to identify her is not an experience that can ever become an ordinary memory. It remains with a person, even as days and months pass.

The attack took place during the holy month of Ramadan. Setayesh had been fasting that day, her mother recalled. Even in the final hours of her life, she was a child observing the traditions she had grown up with, carrying on with the ordinary routines of her young life.

The embrace she can no longer give

Whenever Setayesh's mother spoke about her daughter, she returned to the affection they had shared and, particularly, to her daughter's hugs. She remembered how Setayesh would wrap her little arms around her neck and seek comfort in her embrace.

For someone who has never experienced such a loss, this may seem like just another tender image of the bond between a mother and her child. But for a mother who has lost her daughter, these smallest gestures can become the greatest sources of longing.

Grief is not always confined to major memories or special occasions. Sometimes it appears in an ordinary moment: looking at an empty chair, seeing another child of the same age, or encountering a familiar piece of clothing. Sometimes it is simply the longing to feel a daughter's arms around one's neck just once more.

That was the longing Setayesh's mother spoke about: missing a daughter she could no longer hold and the days they were supposed to spend together.

She had even found it difficult to attend the National Students' Day ceremony. Seeing schoolchildren in their uniforms and hearing their voices was painful because every child brought back memories of Setayesh. A school uniform, which for many families signals the beginning of another ordinary day, had become a reminder of her daughter's absence.

Perhaps this is one of the cruellest contradictions faced by bereaved families: the world continues to move forward for everyone else. Children still go to school, classroom bells still ring, and mothers still prepare meals for their children. But in another home, all these ordinary moments have become memories.

A mother's plea: Let schools remain places of learning

Despite the grief that was evident in her voice, the mother's words were not solely about her own daughter. She spoke about the safety of schools and children's right to live and receive an education.

Her message was clear: schools must remain places of learning. Children go there to study. They carry no weapons and should never be exposed to attacks. She called on international organizations and the global community to take action to prevent such tragedies from happening again and to ensure that schools and students are never targeted in wars.

This appeal extends beyond the borders of any one country. Every mother, wherever she lives, wants her child to leave home safely in the morning, reach school, learn something new, and return home in the afternoon. No mother should have to fear that the school where she entrusted her child will become the place where that child's life ends.

Setayesh will never return home, but her mother's appeal for children's safety is a plea on behalf of all children: those in Minab, Tehran, Gaza, Ukraine, and every other part of the world who have the right to learn and grow up without the fear of being attacked.

A father's message to those he holds responsible

After listening to the mother's account, I also spoke with Setayesh's father, Mostafa Ali Hosseini. His anger and grief were unmistakable in his words.

From the outset, he stressed that he wanted his statements translated into English and heard by Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu. He wanted his message to cross linguistic and geographical boundaries. He wanted those he held responsible for the attack to know what had happened to families whose children had been at school.

Setayesh's father spoke angrily about those responsible for the attack. His anger was not simply that of a citizen expressing protest. It was the anger of a father who had lost his daughter and could not accept that a child who had gone to school to learn would never return home.

He repeatedly emphasized one simple fact: their children were students. They had not gone to school to fight a war. They had gone there to learn, play, and build their futures.

During the conversation, he referred to the killing of 168 students and teachers and made claims concerning responsibility for the attack and the evidence surrounding it. These were his accounts and allegations about the incident. Yet throughout his remarks, one question stood out, emerging from the grief of a bereaved father: Why should a school and the children studying inside it ever become targets of an attack?

He wanted his voice to be heard, not only as Setayesh's father but as a parent who believes that no child should have to pay for war with their life.

Anger and grief were intertwined in his voice. At times, words seemed insufficient to express what had happened to his family. Perhaps no words can fill the space left by a child whose parents had expected her to spend many more years by their side.

The future Setayesh never got to live

After the conversation ended, I found myself thinking again about Setayesh: the little girl who brought her dolls to class and taught them lessons, who wanted to become a teacher and one day stand in a real classroom before students, each perhaps carrying a dream of their own.

I imagined what might have happened if her life had continued. Perhaps, a few years from now, her mother would have told me about her daughter's first day as a teacher. Perhaps Setayesh would have come home and described what had happened in her classroom and which student had asked an interesting question. Perhaps one day she would have remembered her childhood dolls and laughed as she told her mother that she had been practicing being a teacher all along.

But none of those days ever came.

At Shajareh Tayyebeh School, there are now empty places where students should have been growing up. They were children who might have become doctors, teachers, engineers, artists, or anything else they had dreamed of becoming. Some may still have been holding classes for their dolls. Others may just have been learning to read and write. Some may not yet have known what they wanted to become.

But they all shared one fundamental right: the right to live, learn, and return home.

To a mother, her daughter is never just a name on a school register. To a father, his child is never simply a number among the dead. Every child has an individual world, with a distinct voice, little habits, familiar games, simple interests, and a future their family has imagined for them.

Perhaps that is why Setayesh's story should not remain merely the account of an attack or the tragedy of one family. It is the story of a little girl who wanted to become a teacher, a mother who longs for her daughter's embrace, a father determined to make his voice heard around the world, and a right that no child should ever be denied.

Everywhere in the world, parents send their children to school with hope. They expect them to return with books and notebooks, unfinished homework, new stories, and little accounts of what happened in class.

No parent should ever have to return to a devastated school in search of their child. No mother should have to relive the memory of her daughter's embrace instead of hearing her voice. And no child should be deprived of the chance to build a future before they have even had the opportunity to live it.

Setayesh wanted to become a teacher. It is the simplest, and perhaps the most heartbreaking, summary of her short life.

She still had dreams. She could have grown up, laughed, learned, and taught others. But her dream was left unfinished.

Now, what remains of Setayesh for her family is the memory of a little girl who brought her dolls to class, a daughter whose embrace her mother still longs for, and a child whose father still wants the world to hear her voice and those of her classmates.

A classroom should be a place where children's names are called to mark their presence, not a place where families search through the devastation to identify them.