On a bright night illuminated by Eid al-Ghadir, the family had gathered together—from the laughter of children to the lighthearted jokes with their little ones, who had yet to spread their wings. Just five minutes to midnight, the sky trembled and a house in the Narmak neighborhood collapsed—a home that had been the sanctuary of seven hearts.

Fatemeh Moghimi, a survivor of this celestial family, recounts the night when her mother, father, sister, nieces, and even her brother-in-law were all taken in a single instant. She describes that bitter night:

“On Eid al-Ghadir, we were all gathered at the house of Martyr Mostafa Sadati’s mother. It was a day of gathering and celebration. Seyed Mostafa was telling his friends about how and where they had been martyred during the Friday dawn attack in Chahraman Town. We joked with him, saying: ‘Seyed Mostafa, you won’t be martyred!’ He replied: ‘This is war. It has just begun, and the path is still open.’

In the evening, Seyed Mostafa went to work, and my sister and her children came to my father’s house. Around 10 PM, I spoke to my mother for the last time. Less than two hours later, their house became the target of an Israeli airstrike. Apparently, all seven members of the family were on the first floor.”

A Loving Flight to Paradise

Fatemeh recalls the first body pulled from the rubble:

“It was my mother. Just as familiar as ever, with her scarf in place, as she always observed modesty in front of her sons-in-law. The next day, at the Meraaj-e Shohada, we were informed that my father had been found, but his face was unrecognizable; they identified him by his rings. They handed the rings to my brother in front of the house. His name was written on his body, but at Meraaj or Kahrizak, there was no trace of him. Later, my husband recognized one of the bodies by the corner of his lip and the line of his mustache. But what confirmed it was the tattoo of the letter ‘A’ on his hand—a memento from the Iran-Iraq war.

My father had marked it to indicate his blood type in case he was injured. That mark became the key to identifying him in this unequal, twelve-day war. After my father, it was Seyed Mostafa and Reyhaneh-Sadat whose bodies were found next. Reyhaneh, my little angel, was identified by her earrings. A week passed, and there was still no news of my sister Fahimeh, Fatemeh-Sadat, and Seyed Ali. Their absence was agonizing, but by the second week, all the family members were reunited again—in Meraaj-e Shohada, on the way to paradise. Holding my loved ones for a final farewell, each became a mystery: Why was Seyed Ali’s shroud heavier than his body? Why did my Fatemeh-Sadat appear taller than before?”

Despite the profound grief, Fatemeh declares:

“For my leader, for the Islamic Republic, for the homeland, I try to stand firm. With all the wounds and longing in my heart, I proudly say that if needed, I will sacrifice myself, my children, and my family again for this path.”

The Battlefield’s Versatile Hand

Fatemeh speaks of her father’s service during the Sacred Defense:

“My father was the army’s jack-of-all-trades mechanic—from tanks to vehicles and heavy equipment. Anything that broke, his hands would set right. The fighters jokingly called him ‘the Swiss Army wrench of the battlefield.'”

She continues with a choked voice:

“He lived many years with a sense of regret. During Muharram nights or Fatimiyya, he would sit silently watching TV, tears falling. Sometimes, in a husky voice, he would say: ‘I wish I had been martyred like Hassan (my brother)… I missed my chance. If they asked me now to defend Gaza or Syria, I would give my life.’ His lungs were still affected from that era, and he would occasionally suffer painful blisters. Yet, he never sought military pension or benefits, believing we still owe our country. He was generous. If a young person wanted to start a business or needed help, he would offer his hand without expecting anything in return. He used to say: ‘If we don’t help young people, how will we build this country?'”

A Mother from the Lineage of Patience

Calling Martyr Rababe Azizi a mountain of patience is no exaggeration. Her life was full of loss and sorrow—from her husband and brother to her mother and other loved ones, all in a short span. Yet she never complained.

Fatemeh recalls:

“With minimal formal education, she taught us life’s greatest lessons. Without attending parenting classes or reading psychology books, her motherly instincts and pure nature made her the best model for upbringing and living. Her heart was always with us. She cared about everything: gathering us together, laughing, learning, living in harmony. Our parents’ home was not just a house—it was a sanctuary, a place for dialogue, learning, and experiencing love and respect.”