Aria Bahaderi was 9 years old. Third-grade student.
At 11:05 that morning, his mother, Marzieh Mansouri, received a call from his teacher, Mrs. Zamani. The teacher told her that Aria was fine, but because of the news of the attack, the school was closing early, and someone should come to take him home.
His mother followed the news on television, prayed silently, and tried to call relatives. When she reached near the school, she saw a dust-covered woman from the school staff walking away. She asked about Aria’s teacher and about the school but received no answer.
Aria’s father, Morteza Bahaderi, also rushed to the area, thinking perhaps a nearby building or even the hospital had been hit. On the way, he could think only of one thing: how frightened Aria must be.
But when he reached the school, he saw what no father is prepared to see. Aria’s classroom had been completely destroyed. Nothing remained. It had been leveled to the ground.
He stood on the rubble with others, trying to help. Later, he remembered a strange smell there. “Have you ever smelled the blood of many people gathered together?” He asked. “I did not know what that smell was. People said it was the smell of blood left on the ground.”
For hours, Aria’s father and other men searched through the debris, lifting stones and pieces of concrete together, hoping to find a child alive.
In the end, the family was told that Aria’s body was in the morgue. The grief was so heavy that his parents could not go for formal identification. His uncles went instead.
His name was Aria Bahaderi. He was nine years old. His father had gone to save a frightened child but found only the ruins of a classroom.