Zohreh Shahriari was a second-grade teacher. Zohreh was a patient, and faithful wife. Her husband says: “Our life together began from the very first days with her undemanding nature. She had no wish that I could not fulfill. She had deep religious beliefs. I remember when I proposed her, she asked Fatima Zahra to have a special look at our lives. Despite all these work responsibilities, there was no disruption in the balance of our family life. She was very kind and always smiling. Many of the obstacles in life were resolved with Zohreh’s patience and kindness, and I never had any problems with our life together.”
Sometimes at night, students or their parents called or texted. Although Zohreh was tired, she patiently and enthusiastically explained the subject to each student who needed it, and she never left a call unanswered.
She was six months pregnant. According to her husband, the days before her martyrdom, she was happier every day than the day before. We were expecting our son, she wanted to name him Muhammad. We had thousands of dreams for the future of our lives.
Although she was six months pregnant, on the day of the bombing, she did not leave her students alone. Until the last moment she stayed at school to hand over children to their parents.
One parent of a martyred student remembers her last call. Mrs. Shahriari called, her voice trembling but steady. She introduced herself, explained the situation at the school, and told the parents to come quickly and take the child home.
She was still speaking when a terrible sound came through the phone. A short scream followed.
Then silence.
That silence has remained in the ear of the parent who heard it. It was the silence of a call cut off by war, the silence of a teacher who stayed with her students until the last breath.
Zohreh’s husband says: “Two days had passed since the crime, and because we could not find Zohreh’s body, they took me to the morgue for identification. You would not believe it; many pieces of bodies had been placed together in one place. Among the pieces, my eyes fell on our wedding ring, on a severed hand. From that ring, I understood that the hand belonged to my wife. Of the entire body of my wife, and of her six-month-old unborn child, only one hand remained.”