Three U.S. Tomahawk missiles forever changed the lives of dozens of families who, on a seemingly ordinary morning in late February, sent their children to the Shajarah Tayyebeh school in Minab, a city in southern Iran near the Persian Gulf. What followed was the deadliest attack of the war that, according to preliminary investigations, was conducted by the United States against the Tehran regime, killing 156 people, over 100 of them children. Two and a half months later, the wound remains open in Minab.
Last week, the Thursday market was bustling, but the trauma is palpable on every street. Minab remains plastered with banners commemorating the massacre. Ceremonies and events are being held throughout the city to keep the memory of the school victims alive. Across the country, Iranians have mourned the deaths of 3,469 people, according to the latest WHO figures, in a war that has strengthened national bonds and patriotic sentiment. Despite the ceasefire that has lasted for more than a month, nightly pro-government demonstrations continue in several cities, carrying a message of defiance against the “enemy.”
“In this war, women and children have been the target of systematic and targeted attacks… which constitutes a clear example of war crimes and crimes against humanity,” Iranian Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi declared at the BRICS summit in New Delhi. “The most catastrophic example was the two-phase attack on the school in the city of Minab.”
Mandana Salari, a 29-year-old teacher, learned of the outbreak of war on February 28, when she heard that the compound of the country’s supreme leader, Ali Khamenei, had been attacked. Her last conversation with her brother, Mostafa Salari, took place about 20 minutes before her death. “The probability of an attack there is zero,” Mostafa explained to Mandana when she told him she feared strikes against the city, located about 800 miles from Tehran and home to some 80,000 people. Mandana was concerned about Minab’s proximity to the Strait of Hormuz, where Iranian military installations are located and which has become the epicenter of the conflict, having been the departure point for a fifth of the world’s hydrocarbons before the war.
When Mostafa was told that Shajarah Tayyebeh School had been attacked, he couldn’t believe it. He arrived at the school after walking several miles and then driving for an hour to reach Minab. Mostafa had two lives to fear for: those of his sister Mandana and his niece Liana. When he arrived, Mostafa saw parents weeping uncontrollably, sifting through the rubble with their bare hands. On the ground, he saw pieces of children’s bodies. “There was a little hand there, I saw a round face next to a stone, which I didn’t dare pick up. It was horrifying. I felt dizzy,” he recalls now, two and a half months later.
The rubble remains where the school once stood. The place is still a jumble of metal bars, bricks, and chunks of cement. Hanging decorations and a few belongings of the children are displayed on the remaining walls.
Mandana’s body was found alongside four other corpses: students she had embraced until death. Some of the children were allowed to leave, but seven-year-old Liana didn’t. She told her cousin, also a classmate, that she would stay and then go home with her mother, Mandana. She was playing with her mother’s cell phone: her hand was clutching the device, her backpack was on, ready to go home.
Liana loved making videos of herself lip-syncing. She had a flamboyant personality and liked to wear flashy clothes. “Her favorite character was Kuromi from the anime My Melody & Kuromi,” says Mohana, her aunt. The little girl was also very good at making rhinestone embellishments for clothes. “We had a wedding in three weeks, in Isfahan, during the Eid holidays… and Liana was so excited,” Mostafa says, her voice breaking.
The residents of Minab are certain that the U.S. and Israel are primarily responsible for the devastating attack. “They had full information and knew perfectly well that it was a school, and they still did it. To say they didn’t know because it was in a military garrison is a colossal mistake. But we are also outraged that a school is located in an area like this,” says Mostafa.
The Iranian regime is aware of the danger posed by having military buildings next to civilian institutions and is considering relocating some of its defense facilities. The school in Minab is located next to a naval building belonging to the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. The first missile struck the schoolyard, and the children, gripped by panic, took refuge inside the building. The second and third missiles reduced part of the building to rubble.
The preliminary findings of a U.S. military investigation indicate that U.S. Tomahawk missiles likely struck the school. The coordinates used by the military may have been based on outdated information from the adjacent Iranian military base. Graphic evidence shows a Tomahawk missile falling on the school that day, and the U.S. is the only country involved in the conflict that possesses this type of missile. The final conclusions of the investigation will not be released for several months. U.S. President Donald Trump has blamed the Iranian regime for the attack. If confirmed, it would be “one of the deadliest attacks on civilians in decades,” according to Human Rights Watch, which considers it a potential war crime.
Safoora Pari Taghinejad rushed barefoot through the rubble of the school to try to save her two nephews and a cousin shortly after the missiles ripped through the schoolyard. Her nephews, Hani, 10, and Hamed, seven, had enjoyed a wonderful weekend. Just two days before they were killed, they had celebrated Hamed’s birthday.
On the morning of the attack, their 39-year-old aunt bathed them and dressed them in new clothes. The boys ran out of the house, full of excitement, without even saying goodbye to her. “Hani was a Real Madrid fan. He had bought them both Real Madrid jerseys,” explains his aunt, hesitant to speak because of the immense pain she carries inside. “He used to say, ‘I want to be a famous footballer,’” recalls Pari Taghinejad. Hamed’s body was found the night of the attack, but it took three days to recover Hani’s. “You weren’t just my nephews; you were the cut-short youth of the whole family,” she says, looking toward the graves.
“37, 38, 39, 40…” “Number 37, 37 is auntie!” shouted 23-year-old Mohammad Amir Fadavi, identifying Fatemeh Fadavi after agonizing minutes staring at the coroner’s projection screen. On the day of the bombings, Fatemeh, a beloved second-grade teacher, tucked her mother back into bed before leaving for work. “Sleep, mom, keep resting,” she said, stroking her head. The 41-year-old teacher, a staunch supporter of Ali Khamenei, was deeply distressed by the news of the attacks in Tehran. “I just got a phone call saying the Supreme Leader’s office has been attacked. Please keep me updated on his condition. I don’t have access to television here at the school,” Fatemeh sobbed to her siblings in what would be their last conversation.
Fatemeh’s older sister had seen the body at the morgue, but she didn’t want to believe it was her. “The screen showed images of fingers, a doll, gold jewelry, shoes, backpacks, and human remains. Fatemeh’s face was recognizable. There was some confusion between the numbers three and 37,” explains her sister, Tayyebeh. When the number 37 reappeared on the screen, they asked the operator to stop the image. The face on the screen was covered in blood. It had a broken nose, wounds around the eyes, and a swollen face. “There was only one other student in the classroom, and she also died in Fatemeh’s arms,” explains Tayyebeh.
Sign up for our weekly newsletter to get more English-language news coverage from EL PAÍS USA Edition
