MINAB (Hormozgan province) - On February 28th, the sun shone on the small town of Minab, filling its streets with the usual bustle of schoolchildren, dressed in modest uniforms, carrying backpacks towards school.

Some of these girls, having reached religious maturity, may have promised their mothers they would fast the following day, and mothers prepared simple, heartfelt breakfasts for them.

As usual, the girls of the Shajareh Tayyebeh elementary school arrived in their classrooms, eager for the first bell. Little did anyone know it would be their final entry to the schoolyard, the last time they would write homework, and the last time the word “teacher” would leave their lips.

Inside the classrooms, the rustle of pages, the scratch of pencils on paper, and the hushed prayers of young fasters created an atmosphere of innocence. 

Around 9:00 a.m., the sky over Minab roared, and a bitter devastation struck. Missiles from the U.S. and Zionist regime of Israel, falsely claiming to target only military objectives, rained down on the most vulnerable civilians in Iran.

The school collapsed instantly, leaving a heap of rubble in its wake, obliterating classrooms, corridors, and the joyful schoolyard. Thick dust filled the air, and amidst smoke and fire, cries of terror echoed. 

Amidst the debris, unfinished homework assignments were discovered, pages filled with childish handwriting. One seemed to be titled: “My essay for tomorrow: If I could change the world...” The sentence remained incomplete.

Perhaps the little writer is now in another world, writing an essay on martyrdom: another notebook opened, with the last sentence potentially being: “God, give health to all children in the world.”

The hands that wrote those words are gone, but their words persist on the pages, a testament to their innocence.

Among the rubble of Shajareh Tayyebeh elementary school, hundreds of pens and pencils were found, some still with ink, others with sharp points, ready to write beautiful words. Some lay abandoned near the hands that could no longer hold them, a sad reminder of their owner’s absence.

One pencil had been chewed on, a habit, perhaps, of a child contemplating a math problem. Another lay nestled among textbooks, awaiting its owner to write, “Iran, I love you.”

The day after the tragedy, 168 benches stood empty. They seemed to still carry the scent of children, still holding the warmth of their presence. In the first grade, a white scarf, knotted with small bows, lay on one bench. In the third grade, an essay was open with an incomplete sentence: “Today I am fasting and...” The rest of the sentence was never written. Perhaps the child intended to say “and am happy,” or “and am closer to God,” the soil swallowing those words.

 DNA laboratories, the last hope for farewell

In the cold, desolate halls of hospitals in Minab and Bandar Abbas, scenes unfolded that will forever remain etched in the historical memory of this nation. Parents, with tearful eyes and heartbroken hearts, lined up for DNA testing, hoping to find fragments of their children among the 168 unmarked bodies. 

Some cried out upon seeing a piece of clothing: “This scarf belongs to my Zahra; I embroidered it myself.” Others recognized a schoolbag, untouched and still brightly colored, bought at the beginning of the year, a testament to their child’s existence. 

Mothers of Minab, patience beyond imagination

One mother, after identifying her daughter’s remains, brushed her hair and touched it for the last time. Another brought out her daughter’s Persian textbook, flipping through the pages, perhaps finding a crayon drawing of a house with a chimney, a yellow sun, and a mother standing by the door, with the inscription: “Mother, I love you.” She put the drawing to her chest and cried quietly.

The procession of 168 small coffins

On the day of the funeral procession, Iran stood united in mourning. People from across the country gathered, filling the streets as they carried small coffins. 

The coffins were so small that they could fit in one person’s arms. 

Each coffin bore a photograph of a child, with an innocent smile. Some of these pictures were from the beginning of the year, showing children in new clothes and new backpacks. Some fathers who carried the coffins, occasionally glanced at the pictures and broke down in tears.

Wounds that never heal

The surviving children, having lost close friends, now remember their school laughter, the adjacent desks, the front desks, the desks by the window, all empty. 

Friendships once intertwined, jokes exchanged, are now shattered. A friend, who once claimed a desk as their own, is now gone to the heavens. 

One girl might say, “Rihaneh always told me to wait or to go home together.” But Rihaneh is gone, and her words still echo in her friend’s ear.

Teachers who no longer teach

Teachers who survived the incident now whisper the names of the 168 students every time they enter a classroom.

One teacher, injured in the explosion, may still be hospitalized. She might call out the names of her students: “Rihaneh, did you finish your homework? Somayeh, why are you absent today?” 

The last bell

That day, the final bell was never rung. The children of Minab left school without saying goodbye, entering a school that seemed to have no grades or homework. Their books remained on the benches, notebooks stayed open, pencils rolled across the floor, and remained by the wall. 

Now, every year when Ramadan arrives and the call to prayer echoes in the streets, mothers of Minab remember the children they may have shared a last breakfast with, and never saw again;
168 broken pens, 168 empty backpacks, 168 notebooks, and 168 little girls now shine in the sky above Minab to endure forever in the historical memory of this nation.

AM