Mohamadreza Delaram

Incident summary

It was Friday afternoon, the 19th of Dey. My son had a mathematics exam on Saturday, so we studied together. Saman said, “If tomorrow is declared a holiday, we’ll go to the protest tonight.” At sunset, it was announced that schools would be closed the next day. Before leaving, Saman signed Emad’s leg. Later, several members of our family had that signature tattooed on their bodies. At around 7:00 p.m., we left home and took the children to my father’s house. On the way, Saman said, “I’m not coming. I’ll stay with the children. You and your sister go.” But when we reached my father’s house, he changed his mind and said, “I’m coming too.” My sister, my brother-in-law, Saman, and I headed toward Edalat Square in Pardis. We were wearing face masks. There was nothing happening in Edalat Square, so we parked the car and walked toward Imam Khomeini Square. Near Baharan Shopping Center, the crowd grew larger, and we stayed there. The air was filled with tear gas. Saman was chanting slogans and throwing the tear gas canisters back toward the security forces. The palms of his hands were badly burned. He was helping the people around him. Just before he was shot, he hugged me and said, “I love you so much.” I was only one step away when he called my name: “Zeinab.” I turned around and saw him holding his mouth. I kept calling his name. Suddenly, blood burst from his mouth like a fountain. He did everything he could not to fall. His knees kept buckling, but he fought to stay on his feet. He looked at me with worry. Then, with those beautiful eyes still open and looking at me, he collapsed to the ground… and his life came to an end. With the help of the people around us and my brother-in-law, I carried him across the street to Mehrjerd Medical Clinic. As soon as we arrived, they told me he had already passed away. I held him in my arms and whispered into his ear, “Don’t be afraid, my love. Your life in this world has come to an end. Fly peacefully.” I closed his beautiful eyes with my own hands and kissed them one last time. I secretly took his body out of the clinic and brought him home. We kept him in our car for one day. The following day, we had no choice but to hand him over. On Monday, the 22nd of Dey, they returned my husband’s pure body to us. The dried blood was still on his face and body. My brother washed his body in Damavand. That same night, at 8:00 p.m., we buried Saman in my father’s village, Dashtban, opposite Cheshmeh A’la, in the presence of security officers. At every memorial ceremony, they forced us to sign written commitments and repeatedly harassed us. My Saman was buried with all of his unfinished dreams, and with him, my whole world became empty.