Mohammad Hesam Raeisi

Mohammad Hesam Raeisi was ten years old and a fourth-grade student.

His sister, Asena Raeisi, was twelve years old and in the sixth grade.

Mohammad Hesam loved riding motorcycles — his father had taught him and his sister together — and, encouraged by her, he read more than most children his age. The two of them were members of the Minab public library, and once it called their mother to say that, among all its members, Asena and her brother had borrowed the most books.

But his true devotion was to football, and to one team above all: Esteghlal F.C.. His clothes, his headband, his ball — everything he owned was in the club’s colors, even the cup he drank from, a gift from an Esteghlal-themed restaurant.

“He always said, ‘Mom, one day I’ll become a famous footballer, and I’ll shine — not just in Iran, in the world,’” his mother, Fatemeh Mohammadi-Rad, remembers. “My son did not get to shine through football and talent. He shone with his own blood, before the whole world.”

He had little interest in English class, but went anyway — hoping, in his own words, to become a “legionnaire” player one day, like Mehdi Taremi.

Along with his sister, Mohammad Hesam attended taekwondo and wushu classes. Their days were always full, and both liked to be first at everything. At home, he was the independent one, waking himself for school each morning without being told.

On what would be their last morning, he had not yet brushed his teeth when Asena, already dressed, told him: “Go brush your teeth.” As he put on his shoes, she added, “Comb your hair, and put on some perfume, too.” Then they put on their shoes, and did not come back.

Their mother, Fatemeh, was home that morning with her husband and their youngest son, Arsam, when an explosion tore through the neighborhood around 11:23 a.m., shattering the windows of their house, which stood close to the school. She began screaming that the school had been hit; her husband, not wanting to believe it, insisted they had struck somewhere across the street. She threw on her chador and ran toward the school without even stopping for shoes. Only part of the school’s office building was still standing, black smoke and fire pouring from its windows, and all around lay pieces of severed hands, feet, and other limbs. Around noon, the school was struck a second time, though this time there were few further casualties; afterward, families were moved away from the site while rescue teams and volunteers searched for the bodies.

The day turned to night, and the night passed with the children still not found. It was not until the following morning, a Sunday, that Asena and her brother were found in the city’s morgue — though no one told their mother right away, fearing she would faint again. “I kept hoping they were alive, or at least just injured,” she says, “until my husband came and told me their bodies had been found. Both of them were whole, but I did not look — I wanted to keep in my mind the faces from that morning, when they said goodbye to me.” Asena’s body, like her brother’s, was found intact — she was still wearing her prayer chador, as though she had been praying in the school’s prayer room when the missile struck.