He graduated from Sharif University of Technology. One of those prodigies who, wherever he chooses, could be there. He could teach at the most prestigious universities in the world and live a comfortable life. He could raise his children across the borders and provide them with the best opportunities. Yet Isar’s heart remained here.

He studied mechanical engineering for his bachelor’s degree and, in 2007 (1386), was admitted to the PhD program in the same field with a focus on nuclear engineering at the country’s most prestigious university. Four years later, he graduated and after completing his studies, began working in the private sector. That is all most people know about Isar.

Friends and acquaintances only know that Isar was a board member of a private company in the food industry. No one knew that he had devoted his life to the country’s nuclear industry. His name appears nowhere — not even in articles or research. He was one of the country’s human capital assets, and for his protection, his connection to Iran’s nuclear program was never publicly revealed.

Children left alone

Isar is anxious and troubled. His mother had battled a serious illness for years, now requiring surgery. It’s midnight, and he cannot stop thinking about her. Sleep eludes him. He paces the house, uncertain what tomorrow will bring. Around dawn, he lays out his prayer mat.

He has lost track of how many hours he has spent awake with worry. He begins his night prayer, and when Mansoureh sits beside him, the morning call to prayer begins. Mansoureh spreads her mat nearby and repeatedly says, “Don’t worry…” Then they stand together, and as always, Mansoureh follows Isar in prayer.

I don’t know which rak‘ah they were in — perhaps they had already finished and were just sitting for a moment. Perhaps Mansoureh placed her hand on Isar’s shoulder and whispered, “…God is great.” Then, suddenly, a deafening explosion erupts; smoke and ash fill the air. Flames shoot up, and all that follows is the terrified cries of their ten-year-old son: “Mom… Dad…”

The boy stands framed by his room, calling repeatedly for Mansoureh and Isar. He cannot bring himself to move forward. He calls, but there is no answer. Parts of the ceiling and walls have collapsed. The living room is now a deep pit, while the four floors of bedrooms remain more or less intact, though the reception areas have turned to rubble.

Half the building vanished in seconds. Slowly, the boy finds his six-year-old sister, but there is still no sign of Isar and Mansoureh. Seyed Isar Tabatabai Qomsheh and his wife Mansoureh Haji-Salem were martyred. In the early hours of 21 June (31 Khordad), they were killed along with several neighbors in an Israeli drone terrorist attack.

Several children also perished, unaware of the world, at the hands of the child-killing regime, and some lost their parents forever. Isar and Mansoureh, with their prayer mats, were buried beneath the rubble. Their children, suffocated by dust and smoke, cried out for them in shock and despair.

Mansoureh did not only follow Isar in the morning prayer; she remained by her husband’s side until their last breath and the moment of martyrdom. Dr. Tabatabai could have gone anywhere in the world, ensuring comfort for himself and his family, but he stayed to uphold a part of his country’s strength and security.

The names of these two are inscribed not only on their gravestones but also on the historical memory of a nation that understands the future must be built under the shadow of love and awareness.