A Classmates Narration of Martyr Zahra Haddad Adel

Faezeh Sassanikhah
Machine translation edited by Mandana Karimi

2026-7-20

On an autumn day in 1997, I entered the joint office of the Islamic Association and the Student Mobilization (Basij) Unit of the Sisters' Branch of the Faculty of Social Sciences of Allameh Tabatabaei University. There was a young girl sitting there whom I had never seen before. One of my friends introduced her: "This is Zahra Haddad Adel; the daughter of Dr. Haddad Adel." I knew Dr. Haddad Adel; he was a prominent and well-known professor at the university.

This was our first acquaintance. The courtyard and building of the faculty were small, and naturally, students saw each other a lot. Sometimes I would see Zahra Haddad Adel in the faculty courtyard, the prayer room, or the Basij office, but I would not approach her. I was sensitive to the behavior of those who are proud of their family status. That is why I observed her behavior from afar for a while. I saw her sitting and standing up with her friends and classmates like a normal student. Her closest friends were not just among the girls in the chador. She was more intimate with two of the girls who wore a cloak and a veil than with the others. Once, I witnessed her talking to a graduate of Farhang School who was a year younger than she was. They spoke very comfortably and intimately to each other. It was as if she was the daughter of the principal of that school. Contrary to my imagination, she was energetic, warm-hearted, friendly, and unassuming. She would quickly start a conversation. She would tell me about interesting events that happened to her. The sum of these behaviors changed my mindset about her.

A few months later, she married the son of the revolutionary leader [Ayatollah Seyyed Mojtaba Hosseini Khamenei]. She told us that she had only one ceremony and that everything was held in the utmost simplicity. Among what I saw of him during my student years, a few images remain in my mind the most; images that each made a part of his personality clearer to me.

Marriage and changing family status did not diminish his simplicity and intimacy. Neither did his relationship with his friends change, nor was there any sign of difference in his treatment of others. He always participated in conversations, expressed his opinion on various topics, and offered solutions to problems. I was never uncomfortable around him, but at the same time, there was a special calmness in his behavior that inspired respect.

I did not see simplicity only in his behavior; it was the same in his lifestyle. Once we were talking about shopping and we criticized ourselves for sometimes buying things we did not need along with the things we needed. He said, “I have a solution for this. Before leaving the house, I write down a list of the things I need on paper.” I saw this attitude in other aspects of her behavior. She was always neat and tidy, but she avoided waste. If a corner of her veil was torn, she would set it up and reuse it. These small behaviors showed that making good use of resources was part of her lifestyle.

One of my most lasting memories of her is from the day I was collecting money with a friend of mine to help a needy person. That day, Zahra was chatting with a few of her classmates in the yard. When we brought up the subject, she immediately took out her wallet, opened it, pointed at us, and said, “Take as much as you want.”

You could also see the independence of her vote and responsibility in her decisions. During the Assembly of Experts elections, I was undecided between several candidates. One day I asked him, “Who are you voting for?” He said, “My list is not yet complete.” I asked him in surprise, “Don’t you ask your wife who you should vote for?” He said, “My wife said you should choose the candidates yourself.”

His interest in art was evident from his early years. In the 1970s, at least in our faculty, playing music was not very common. In those days, I was active in the cultural department of the Academic Jihad. One day, I put on a tape of Alireza Eftekhari’s “Aman az Jodi” and turned up the volume a little so that it could be heard in the courtyard. A few minutes later, the glass door of the Jihad opened and Zahra Haddad Adel, accompanied by one of her classmates, entered the office smiling. We sat together for an hour and talked about art. He believed that many social and cultural issues could be expressed through the language of art. Above all, he loved theater and paid special attention to directing, stage design, and the way a play was performed. He said he inherited this interest from his martyred uncle [Majid Haddad Adel].

Our conversations about art and cultural issues continued until the end of his student days.

Our relationship was maintained long after graduation. Although our meetings were not as frequent as during our student days, our shared cultural and social concerns provided an excuse for us to meet and talk. Apart from these meetings, I met him twice by chance.

The first time was on Quds Day in 2009. After the march, I was looking for a place to pray on a street near Tehran University when I saw him. He was sitting next to the people in one of the prayer lines. I was very happy. I went forward and we exchanged greetings. Although it had been a long time since our last meeting, he said in his usual warm and familiar tone: “I remembered you a while ago. “The last time I saw him was on Quds Day in the late 1990s, before the coronavirus outbreak. I was walking towards Enqelab Street when I noticed him at a rally. He was pushing a stroller. I was walking on the right side and he was in the middle of the street, among the crowd. The railings separating the bus lane from private cars prevented me from reaching him and greeting him. I waved at him several times, but he did not understand. One of the guards walking a little behind saw me. I motioned for him to tell Zahra Khanum that I wanted to see her, but since he did not know me, he did not pass on my message.

When I think back to the years we knew each other, I see that his social and political status changed many times over the years. When I met him, his father was a prominent university professor. Then she became a member of parliament, then she assumed the presidency of the parliament, and years later she accepted the presidency of the Persian Language and Literature Academy. She herself became the bride of the revolutionary leader. Nevertheless, every time I saw her, I saw the same simplicity, sincerity, and serenity in her behavior. If she had changed at all, she had only become more mature and calm than before.

The day I heard the news of her martyrdom, I felt strange. I have never been short of martyrs in my family, relatives, and acquaintances, but until that day, I had no friend who had been martyred.

Every time I think about my student days, the Basij office, the Academic Jihad office, the prayer room, the college courtyard, and even our walks in Shariati Park come to mind one by one. The days when we talked, shared our heartaches, and laughed. In those days, I never imagined that I was sitting next to someone who would one day be martyred. In all those years, despite his changing social and political status, there was no distance between us, but now, a distance has arisen between us that will not be bridged by any meeting; a distance mixed with longing and envy!