I was killed on June 30, 2008. He was twenty-eight years old, born on 19 September 1360.
I had a diploma in experimental sciences and in I was active in the field of music and design and played the dulcimer. In the evening of June 30, 2008, I turned off my phone and told my family that I am going to my friend's house in Shadman Street. I told them this because I wanted to ease their worries. The streets were very crowded, the conflict between the protesters and the suppression forces had escalated on the Revolution Street. There were five or six of us, we entered the Mastanieh and went towards Zanjan Street. I was walking in the middle of the street and my friend was a little ahead and on the side. We are standing. They had a gun, one of them pointed the gun to the ground and fired. I shouted, don't be afraid. Immediately after that, one of them, who was a little short and a little fat, bent his knees and with his gun, which was probably a Kalashnikov, folded his butt. He pointed at me and shot, the bullet hit my heart, I fell on my back and died. Since then, my brother was worried and came looking for me in the street, he saw a crowd lying on the ground and officers attacking them from behind and hitting them with punches, kicks and batons, the sound of screams and cries and moans. He was coming from the alley, he saw a number of people going to the hospital and the wounded were on their shoulders, he came to the hospital with concern and among the bloodied wounded, he recognized my hand from my ring and watch, when the doctor checked the vital signs, he told him that I died two or three minutes after the shot. According to the forensic certificate, my lung was punctured and the bullet entered my heart. My family took my body with a private car to my hometown in Wali Abad village in Zibakanar because my mother was afraid that they would take my body from her. It was only then that the security agencies intervened and arrested Milad along with the driver of the same car carrying my body. The incident was as painful for my family as the incident itself. Later, my parents came to Tehran from the village of Wali Abad because they were not safe there from the security agencies. When they arrived in Tehran, they saw a number of people and neighbors who knew me closely and wrote their messages of condolence and sympathy on black cloths and on the door. Our blood had been installed, some officers came to the house and asked my mother and father to remove all the cloths and messages of condolence from the front of the house. My father told them with a red face that he would never do this. They arrested my parents, but this did not stop them from remaining silent, and after my release, they went to the judicial authorities again and demanded the identification of my killer, these complaints ultimately went nowhere. My father could not bear all this pressure and it made him sick and died a year later. And the mother who is still demanding the unjustly shed blood is her child!
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