Heydar Sadeghi was seen almost every evening by the shattered remains of his grandson’s school in this southern Iranian city as the sun set, his face covered in tears.
A banner displayed around the rubble showed the faces of children and teachers killed there during an American airstrike on February 28, the first day of the war on Iran. Among those pictured are Sadeghi’s 11-year-old grandson Hami and Hami's mother, Neda Salehizadeh.
Sadeghi recounted rushing to the school moments after the explosions Monday evening, stating, “I searched the bodies for my kids, thinking maybe one would be among them.” He called out their names, saying, “‘Come with me! I’ve come to get you.’ They weren’t there,” while weeping.
The Shajareh Tayyebeh school has become a location where relatives confront grief and maintain memories of the deceased. Here, family members attempt to process the incomprehensible loss of around 120 children shortly after they were dropped off for classes.
An Associated Press investigation indicated at least one U.S. missile struck the school in Minab that morning, though no final accounting has been provided. Iranian state media reported that 168 people died in the strike, most of them children.
The Trump administration has not yet accepted direct blame or released findings from a Pentagon investigation into the bombing.
A grandfather grieves daily
For Sadeghi, the day of the strike began like any other school day.
He drove Hami and his 9-year-old sister Nila to school with their mother, his daughter-in-law Salehizadeh, who was a teacher. As usual, he planned to collect them at 1 p.m.
“But the bell was rung early — by Trump,” he said.
Sadeghi noted that Hami, a fifth grader who enjoyed soccer and biking, was so badly mangled in the blast that identification relied only on his clothing. Nila was pulled alive from the rubble.
“Thank God, she is physically fine,” Sadeghi stated. “But mentally, no.”
The girl and her father now live with Sadeghi and his wife. She becomes frightened by any sudden or minor noise. She often sleeps in her grandmother’s arms but remains awake for much of the night.
Sadeghi mentioned inviting Nila's friends to stay overnight, hoping their presence would distract her. He wishes to see Nila smile, so he grieves at the school away from her.
“I come here and cry,” he said. “Then I go home and dance in front of the girl.”
The site is evolving into a memorial for the dead
The school featured a girls’ school upstairs and a boys’ school and preschool on the ground floor. Some students were children of officers at a Revolutionary Guard base adjacent to the school; many others were local children from Minab, which is primarily populated by Iran’s Baluch ethnic minority.
The banner at the site listed 120 killed students—47 girls and 73 boys—along with 26 teachers and staff. Three additional children are presumed dead, but their bodies were never recovered.
The governor of Hormozgan province, where Minab is situated, has stated that the damaged building will be preserved to become a memorial and war museum.
Several dozen visitors were present Monday evening, including relatives of the deceased and out-of-town individuals who came to view the site.
During an evening mourning ceremony sponsored by the government, men and women—including one in Guards uniform—took turns at a microphone, sharing distressing stories about those who died and detailing the attack day with graphic descriptions. Some visitors wept during these accounts.
A separate area in Minab’s cemetery has been designated for those killed at the school. Every grave features a photo of the deceased, shaded overhead, and surrounded by artificial grass so families can sit near their loved ones. Some place flowers and prayer beads on the graves; others bring dishes of “shuleh-zard,” a saffron rice pudding served at funerals.
One teacher attempted to shield her students
At the cemetery, Fatemeh Barani sat beside the grave of her daughter, Nasim Neyestani, a second-grade teacher at the school. Barani visits several times weekly to be with her daughter.
She reflects on her daughter’s final hours, which school staff later recounted to her, contemplating how events might have differed.
Around 9 a.m., news arrived of airstrikes in Tehran that had hit Iran's supreme leader compound. At the time, they were unaware that these initial Israeli strikes killed Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and much of the top military leadership.
Neyestani became alarmed, fearing broader strikes, and urged the principal to cancel classes and call parents to collect their children, Barani said, according to other staff members. The principal did not deem this necessary. However, Neyestani began calling the parents of her 22 students herself, urging them to retrieve their children, Barani added.
Barani stated that fourteen of Neyestani’s students were picked up before the strike, but the parents of eight others arrived too late.
Neyestani took those eight children into the schoolyard, her mother reported. But the principal instructed her to move them into the school's prayer room, believing it would be safe.
The prayer room was hit. Barani said her daughter and all eight children with her were killed.
“My daughter’s classroom was mostly left intact,” she said. “Probably if she had been in that classroom, she would not have been killed.”
Details of Barani's account could not be verified independently, but it aligns with other reports. The AP's investigation into the strike found that several teachers called parents to collect their children before Iran’s government ordered nationwide school closures at 10:15 a.m. The first missile struck the school approximately an hour later. Accounts posted on banners at the school indicate three missiles hit. The principals of both the boys' and girls' schools were among those killed.
A teacher's mother struggles with grief
Following the strikes, Barani’s husband and sons went to the school; they later informed her that her daughter had been killed.
They found Neyestani’s bag, but Barani said her sons hid it from her because they feared seeing it would cause her further pain.
Parents of students who escaped because Neyestani called them visited the family to offer condolences, but Barani said she was so overwhelmed by grief that she does not recall any of their visits.
She also mentioned that she has been unable to enter her daughter’s bedroom.
She spoke about how her daughter, who remained unmarried, was rarely idle. She taught in the mornings and worked as a salesperson at a cosmetics store in the evenings. At home, she kept busy with her hobby of making handicrafts, particularly “minakari,” a traditional art of decorating objects with enamel. Barani said the enamel work relaxed her.
The enamels remain around the house as a reminder of her daughter.
“Every day, this grief feels fresh again,” Barani concluded.