SAEDNEWS: The small doll belonging to Baran, found abandoned on a street corner, became a poignant clue in locating her body. Baran always held it tightly close, and they never slept apart. Now that Sara was there, surely Baran lay nearby as well.
According to Saed News, Baran’s tiny doll was discovered on that black night, lying amid the ashes and shattered glass beyond the alley. The blast had left its hair disheveled and its small body wounded. Baran had named her “Sara,” hugging her tightly every night—they never slept apart. Now that Sara lay there, Baran’s body must lie nearby.
It was Thursday night, and everyone had gathered at Baran’s grandmother’s house—her aunts, their children, and Ehsan, Baran’s father, with his wife, Sayeh. It was late, but Baran refused to stop playing. Every few minutes, Ehsan called her, coaxing her gently to consent and go home. But as always, Baran answered sweetly: “Daddy, just five more minutes of play.”
“All right, Miss Baran,” he replied, “but remember you have swimming class tomorrow; you must wake up early!”
“I promise, Daddy… I promise I’ll wake up before anyone else tomorrow!”
Before morning could arrive, the explosion, the fire, and the missile struck. Baran awoke earlier than anyone—and Israel took her small, fragile life. Around 1 a.m., her parents returned home. Their eyes had barely closed when the house was torn apart by a deafening roar.
Sayeh, Baran’s mother and the sole survivor from that house, lies severely burned in hospital. She has undergone, and will undergo, multiple surgeries. More than that, she is not well; the scenes replay before her eyes, and her grief for Baran refreshes itself every instant. Marzieh, Baran’s aunt, has heard every detail of that night only once from her sister and now serves as our narrator.
Ehsan and Sayeh awoke to a violent shake and a thunderous blast. Time sped up—they didn’t realize what had happened before the house began to shift and stones rained down from the ceiling. When they came to themselves, they had been thrown several meters onto the elevator shaft wall. Their bodies bruised, they were alive. Only a narrow strip of the floor remained. Despite their battered, wounded bodies, Ehsan sprang up: “Baran, I’m coming to save you, don’t be afraid—Daddy is here.” Sayeh followed behind him. From that narrow ledge they stepped forward, removing and shifting each piece of rubble until they reached Baran’s room. The stones and bricks burned as if fresh from a kiln, scorching them to the bone, yet Ehsan and Sayeh, hearing the crackle of their own flesh, bore the pain and kept clearing the debris. The door to Baran’s room was closed. She must have been too scared to move on her bed, her words choked by fear. With each piece of metal or brick he lifted, Ehsan called: “My beautiful Baran, can you hear me? Daddy’s almost here, my strong girl…”
By the time they reached Baran’s room, their bodies were covered in blisters and burns. Flames were creeping upward from the lower floors. The narrow footing allowed only a single step; one slip on the hot, slick rubble would send them plummeting into the deep shaft leading to the ground floor. In that absolute darkness, only their love for Baran kept them upright and guided their way. Ehsan arrived first. His breath wheezing, utterly spent, he dragged himself to the door, threw his weight against the handle, and opened it.
Baran was nowhere to be seen—nothing remained but a scorched patch of carpet. The fire had consumed both her heart and her body. When Ehsan’s eyes fell on the devastation, the tiny spark of life he had been clinging to vanished. His knees gave way, he collapsed, foam at his mouth, and there before Sayeh he drew his last breath.
Sayeh still could not comprehend what had happened—that in an instant, twenty years of her life had turned to smoke, her husband had died before her eyes, her daughter was gone, and her own flesh sizzled like meat in a pan of hot oil. When rescue teams arrived, that horrific nightmare took shape: war—Israel had struck.
The aunts heard the news through media reports. Images of the building where Ehsan’s home stood circulated online. For a full day they searched—hospital to hospital, alley to alley, morgue to morgue—hoping the frightened child might have wandered, or that rescuers had found her first. Yet no trace emerged of a nameless girl in pink clothing. Sayeh forbade anyone to leave her side in the hospital, repeating only one line: “Find Baran… just find Baran.”
The aunts returned to the house, scouring the cold embers, but found nothing—until they saw Sara, Baran’s little doll, lying at the corner of the street among ashes and shards of glass, its hair scorched from the fire. Baran had always hugged her tightly—they never slept apart. Now that Sara was there, Baran must be near.
They found her beneath the garage rubble, hurled from the seventh floor and buried under debris. They brought word of her martyrdom to Sayeh, returning her belongings—her pink pillow, colored pencils, and books—gently dusted so that at least these mementos would remain.
In the days since, Israel’s cyber army tried to tarnish Baran’s family’s reputation—falsely linking them to high‑profile figures to erase the stain of a child’s killing. But the truth was clear: Ehsan was a simple bank clerk, Sayeh worked at Shahid Beheshti University, and Baran, like any child, harbored simple dreams. Whenever she saw her aunts, she’d raise her fingers and exclaim, “Auntie, I’ve counted—only nine years until I can get my license! I’ll take Dad’s car and come pick you up for a drive!”
She was her father’s little girl. More than her mother, she clung to Ehsan’s love. Whenever they planned an outing, she’d sweetly ask her mother, “Mama Sayeh, Daddy and I are going shopping—do you want anything?” Their father‑daughter days were many—twice as many as their days as martyrs.
Since Baran’s passing, her aunt Marzieh has forbidden anyone to bake her special halva in that home. The last time she did, Baran and her parents arrived unexpectedly. Baran took a spoonful and her eyes sparkled: “Auntie, promise me you’ll never ever make halva when I’m not here? I love your halva so much!” Marzieh gave a solemn child’s vow—and she honors that promise to this day.
