Braga, Portugal and and San Marcos, Ca. (Special to Informed Comment; Feature) – In the final days of Israel’s eleven-day war with Iran, the targeted strikes reached deep into the heart of Tehran. Israeli fighter jets and cruise missiles bombed military headquarters, government ministries, communication infrastructure, and even the national TV broadcaster, IRIB. Yet among all the targets, one site stood out—not for its strategic significance, but for the symbolism and tragedy it carries: Evin Prison.
On the morning of Monday, June 9, Israel launched a strike on Evin’s bande zendaniān-e amniyati—the ward for security-related detainees—and the prison’s front administrative compound. This attack took place at the precise time weekly family visits are scheduled, a ritual that occurs only on Monday mornings. Several inmates were killed, along with prison guards and at least a dozen civilians. Among the dead were fathers, mothers, and children—people who had come simply to see a loved one for fifteen minutes through a pane of glass.
The Israeli attack on Evin resulted in several casualties beyond the intended targets. Among the dead were young soldiers performing their compulsory military service, employees of the prison and the adjoining criminal court office, and multiple visitors who had come for the Monday morning family visitation—a weekly window that holds deep emotional meaning for incarcerated individuals and their loved ones. The victims included Atefe Ba’aj Zadeh, who had only recently moved to Tehran from Khuzestan; Hajar (Hasti) Mohammadi, a philanthropist known for her work helping release prisoners convicted of financial crimes; and Ali Hajali, a nurse providing essential medical care to inmates.
Leila’s last visit
One of the victims was Leila Jafarzadeh, a young mother of two. Leila had gone to the administrative office to finalize the paperwork for her husband’s release after months in detention. She never returned home. Her family searched for her for three days before being informed that she had died in the attack. Her story has become a lightning rod for Iranian public opinion—a symbol of what many see as a senseless and deeply immoral act of war.
Across Iran, public outrage has grown in response to the Evin strike. Many Iranians, regardless of their political views, regard prisoners as among the most defenseless members of society—people already enduring loneliness, anxiety, and profound uncertainty. For these individuals, the highlight of the week is a brief visit with a spouse, a child, or a parent. To attack them in this moment, when they are at their most human and most vulnerable, is seen by many as beyond justification.
Israel’s justification
Israel, however, offered a radically different narrative. Its officials claimed the strike on Evin was not aimed at civilians or ordinary prisoners but at the core of the Islamic Republic’s repression machine. They argued that the security detaineeward houses many of the regime’s enemies—political dissidents, intelligence operatives, and even defectors from within the security services. In this framing, the attack was a bold effort to spark internal collapse by setting free potential revolutionaries, not a strike against civilians.
Some Israeli sources went even further, explicitly linking the attack to regime change. If the fall of the Islamic Republic is the goal, they argue, it must come from within. Releasing political prisoners, they contend, would inject new energy into the opposition movement, potentially catalyzing mass unrest. From this perspective, Evin was not a prison—it was a battlefield.
“Evin,” Digital, Dream / Dreamland v3 / ChatGPT, 2025
Iranian Narrative
Inside Iran, however, the motivations behind the attack are the subject of intense speculation. One theory gaining traction among Iranian military experts connects the strike to the mysterious case of a downed Israeli aircraft—allegedly an F-35—which Iran claims to have damaged and forced to land. Rumors abound that the Israeli pilot was captured and hidden in Evin. Since downed stealth aircraft are difficult to detect and prove, the only undeniable evidence would be an interview with the pilot. In such a scenario, Israel’s logic would be clear: prevent that interview at all costs—either by rescue or by erasure.
Another, perhaps more grounded explanation has also emerged in Iran. This view suggests that the attack targeted not dissidents, but covert operatives—Iranian and Afghan agents accused of carrying out sabotage operations and targeted assassinations on behalf of Israel. If Israel feared these individuals might expose its operational networks or Mossad’s hidden infrastructure inside Iran, then striking the prison may have been a desperate act of damage control.
Whatever the true intent—whether to release political prisoners, silence captured agents, or eliminate liabilities—the result remains the same: the death of unarmed civilians and incarcerated individuals who had no power to defend themselves.
Conclusion
There are rules in war, however fragile they may be. Attacking a prison—especially during civilian visitation hours—crosses a moral threshold. Evin may be infamous, and some of its inmates may be guilty of serious crimes. But many others are not. And none deserved to be caught in the crosshairs of a precision missile strike. The justification, whether strategic or symbolic, falls apart when weighed against the lives lost.
Even in war, some lines should not be crossed. The attack on Evin wasn’t just a military decision—it was a moral failure. It will not be remembered for regime change or revolution. It will be remembered for Leila Jafarzadeh, for the child who waited at home, and for a visit that never happened.
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