For 12 days after Israel launched a war on Iran, skies were filled with drones, missiles, and sirens. But on the ground, beneath the roar of military escalation, it was not just soldiers who paid the price — it was ordinary people. People who were not on any battlefield, who never held power, and who never consented to war, but were nonetheless crushed under its weight.
War has a human face — and with each explosion, that face is erased, line by line.
Below are stories of civilian victims whose only mistake was living in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their lives, their work, and their dreams deserve to be remembered.
Niloufar Ghalehvand and Her Family — A Household Silenced (June 14, 2025)
Niloufar Ghalehvand, 32, was a well-known Pilates instructor in Tehran’s Niavaran neighborhood. For years she devoted herself to teaching movement and wellness, helping women rebuild strength and confidence. Her classes were more than exercise—they were community gatherings, full of laughter and encouragement.
She lived with her parents, Kamran and Fatemeh, in a quiet street near the Alborz foothills. On the morning of June 14, 2025, their home was hit by an Israeli missile. All three were killed instantly. Friends recall that Niloufar had been working on a plan to expand her training programs online, hoping to reach women who couldn’t attend in person. That dream—and the warmth she brought to her community—was gone in a moment.
Saleh Bayrami — The Designer Who Turned Pages into Stories (June 15, 2025)
At 35, Saleh Bayrami was a fixture of Iran’s cultural journalism scene. A gifted graphic designer, he shaped the look and feel of countless magazine covers and layouts, turning empty pages into visual narratives. His colleagues called him “the third eye” of the newsroom—a perfectionist who would work until midnight to make sure every detail was right.
On June 15, 2025, he was driving near Qods Square when a blast wave collapsed the roof of his car, killing him. Friends remember his quiet generosity and his habit of mentoring young designers in his spare time. Just hours before his death, he had been finalizing a music magazine cover, making small tweaks no one else would have noticed, but that mattered deeply to him.
Parnia Abbasi — The Poet Who Will Write No More (June 13, 2025)
Parnia Abbasi was just 23, a recent English graduate who filled yellow notebooks with poetry and her Instagram feed with lines from her favorite poets—Forough, Shamloo, and her own verses. She lived with her parents and younger brother Parham in Tehran’s Sattarkhan neighborhood, working as a private tutor while dreaming of publishing her first poetry collection.
In the early hours of June 13, 2025, an Israeli drone strike destroyed her apartment building, the “Orchidea” complex. All four members of her family were killed instantly. Just a day before, she had posted a photo of a Tehran sunset with the caption: “I always thought death belonged to others.” Friends called her the “sunlight girl,” remembering her bright smile and the way she could recite poetry from memory for hours.
Zahra Ebadi and Her Son Mehrad — A Mother’s Last Run (June 23, 2025)
Zahra Ebadi, 52, was a veteran social worker at Evin Prison. One morning, she returned early from leave to clear a backlog of cases. With childcare centers closed, she brought her five-year-old son, Mehrad, a boy with chestnut hair and a love for toy cars.
When the first explosion struck the prison’s administrative wing, Zahra left her desk and ran toward the visiting hall where her son had been playing. Security footage captured her sprinting down the corridor, seconds before the second blast collapsed the hallway. Both were buried under rubble. Rescue dogs found their bodies three days later. Colleagues remember her as a quiet but fierce advocate for prisoners’ families, always keeping chocolates in her desk for visiting children.
Akram Mohammad Salimi — The Social Worker Beneath the Rubble (June 23, 2025)
For over a decade, Akram served at Evin Prison as a bridge between inmates and their families, writing social assessments, arranging visits, and advocating for children whose parents were incarcerated. She was in the middle of drafting a custody report for a prisoner’s child when the first missile struck.
When rescue workers found her hours later, there was no trace of weapons or military equipment around her—only a broken pen, a blue notebook, and the list of names she had been working to help. Her story is a reminder that war erases not only lives but the acts of care that sustain communities.
Mehrangiz Imenpour — The Artist Caught in the Blast (June 23, 2025)
Mehrangiz Imenpour, a painter and art teacher, lived in a neighborhood near Evin Prison. On the day of the attack, she stepped out to run errands—buying bread, chatting with a neighbor—simple acts of daily life. She never returned. The shockwave from a nearby missile killed her.
Her ex-husband, writer and researcher Reza Khandan Mahabadi, said: “She was the beauty in my children’s lives. Two days ago, this war stole that beauty from them.” Friends from her art workshops remember her as someone who painted joy in bright colors, even when life was gray.
Hajar (Hasti) Mohammadi — “We’ll Be Done Soon” (June 23, 2025)
Hajar had gone to Evin Prison that day to follow up on the case of a detainee she was helping. She told her companion, “We’ll be done soon,” not knowing those would be her last words. The same blast that tore through the administrative wing claimed her life.
At her funeral, mourners carried her photo—a smiling woman in a floral scarf—through narrow streets. Her neighbors spoke of her kindness and her quiet way of standing up for what she believed in.
The Zeinali Family — A Father Holding His Children (June 26, 2025)
Alireza Zeinali was at home with his young daughters, Aida and Hida, when their building was struck. Their mother survived but with serious injuries. A photograph of the father cradling his girls has since become a symbol of generational loss—three lives erased in a single moment.
Sona Haqiqi and Her Son Soheil Katouli — A Corridor, Then Silence (June 14, 2025)
Sona was known among friends as thoughtful and prepared, always carrying extra snacks “just in case.” Her 11-year-old son, Soheil, loved toy cars and dreamed of visiting the seaside.
They were walking through the corridor of a residential complex when a drone strike hit killing both mother and son. Photos from their funeral at Behesht-e Zahra cemetery show Soheil’s classmates holding flowers, their faces etched with confusion and grief.
Ehsan Eshraqi and Daughter Baran — A Father’s Hand Forever Empty (June 14, 2025)
Ehsan, 48, was a bank employee, and his daughter Baran, 9, was a cheerful student who loved to draw. They lived in the Sarasaat Professors’ Building in Tehran. When a missile struck before dawn, both were killed.
Neighbors remember seeing Baran playing hopscotch in the courtyard days before. At the scene, rescuers found her small pink doll amid shattered glass—a relic of a childhood ended without warning.
Hojjat Rointan — The Janitor Who Stayed (Mid-June 2025)
Hojjat, 49, worked in the service department at Valiasr Hospital in Tehran. Known for his quiet generosity, he often took extra shifts so younger staff could rest. On the day of the strike, he had stayed at his post.
His wife, interviewed after his death, held his work uniform close: “He always set something aside for the children’s future.” Patients and staff remember him as the man who kept the wards spotless and greeted everyone with a warm nod, a silent presence that made the hospital feel more human.
These are just a few stories among hundreds of innocent civilians killed. Behind every casualty count is a teacher, a child, a nurse, a poet, a delivery worker, a father or mother. None of them started this war. None of them chose it. And yet, they were silenced by it.
This is what war looks like. Not triumph and parades, but death and destruction delivered by missile and drone, leaving shattered homes, broken dreams, and empty chairs at dinner tables. As long as we remain silent, the next war will already be waiting at someone else’s door.