Remembering the PS752 Victims: Alvand Sadeghi

Alvand, The Music of Words 

For Alvand Sadeghi, a PS752 Passenger

By Manzar Zarabi

On January 8, 2020, a Ukrainian Airlines passenger aircraft was shot down over Tehran by two missiles launched by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. The tragedy, which Iran still insists was the result of "human error", claimed the lives of all 176 people onboard and pitched their families and loved ones into a living nightmare - one they are still living through today.

Among the innocent civilians on Flight 752 were 82 Iranian citizens, 63 Canadians,11 Ukrainians, 10 Swedes, seven Afghans, three Britons and three Germans. They included doctors, students, athletes, activists and environmentalists: individuals pursuing their own dreams and ambitions both inside and outside Iran, and with bright futures ahead of them. 

An international investigation into the incident is underway, spearheaded by Canada, France and Ukraine. But in the meantime, the devastated families of the PS752 passengers are still in limbo. Bereft of either justice or accountability for the disaster that shattered their lives, some of these individuals are now being represented by the Association of Families of Flight PS752 Victims, which has published a series of heart-rending personal letters and testimonies to honor those who were killed on January 8. 

IranWire is supporting the Association's fight for justice by translating these final tributes into English and publishing them on our pages. We hope that through these efforts, the remarkable lives and aspirations of those aboard Flight 752 will not be forgotten.

He was the baby of the family, and was later than others in learning to stand upright on his own two feet. It took him longer than his brother and sister to learn to walk, too, but as soon as he walked, he danced like a ballerino.

He spoke late, as well, but before every word, he’d whisper child-like musical notes. His head was full of music and song. He played the tonbak from the age of seven, his little fingers touching the animal skin of the instrument, making tiny blows. That little drum now sits in a corner of his room, making no sound. The piano he played from the age of 12 is also gathering dust in another corner, reminding us of the Yalda night celebrations; of the day his brother, Alborz, said goodbye and left Iran; of the he put on his boots and answered the call for military service.

Alvand used to play. He’d play and others would sing along. On the night of his wedding, too, he played for his beautiful bride. They entered the hall hand in hand. His mind was on the piano, calling to him. He walked calmly toward it, fixed the back of his jacket so as to sit down properly, and then his delicate fingers went to the keys. In Kermanshah, he bought a sitar which he played and sang along to for many years. He’d play it for the Kurds of Rojava in Syria, and sing: “Ari va fadaye Balare Bar Azizam, Rojichavar jaar.” 

If a celebration was taking place, he’d bang on something and make everyone laugh. He knew all the local songs and others would join in.

When Sophie, his niece and co-traveler, was born, she became part of the world of Uncle Alvand’s instruments. In this world, you could sit behind the piano, you could have books read to you at midnight. He was the most patient uncle in the world, who explained images and notes alike for Sophie. His fingers would dance on the black and white keys, and their friendship would deepen every day. 

Alvand played football. He was good too. He was great at tennis. Knew how to boast. He laughed. He’d boast and he’d laugh. 

In high school, he majored in math. Then at university he went all the way up to a masters degree in industrial engineering. He spent a few years working for various companies but then he teamed up with his friend Pooria to start their own company, which offered IT, web design and software services. This was all before he decided to leave the country. 

In the spring of 2017, Alvand’s heart fluttered. He was in love. From the whispered conversations with his brother, Alborz, you could make out mention of a Negar: a beautiful Negar with a laughing face, a gorgeous voice and a love of dandelions. One year later, in the spring of 2018, he married this beautiful Negar. For her, he’d write in the words of Siavash Kasraee: “My Negar, new hope, my spring, open your lips and smile. Look how a flower turns the autumn of our gardens to spring.”

Less than a year later in early 2019, they moved to Canada. Just a few weeks after that he found work at an international IT Services company in Toronto and, according to the company’s website, was without exaggeration the best employee the company had ever had. 

Alvand used to study deep and wide. In the books he had read, many words were underlined and notes filled the margins. He’d give books as gifts and believed books to be the best gift. His books are also left on the shelves now, and no-one dares to pick up a book Alvand was in the middle of. A page without an inscription means he hadn’t got there yet. When we see his fingerprints on the words, our hearts shake. 

Alvand got on the plane with his Negar, and with Sahand, and her Sophie. On his Instagram, he had posted a sentence by Shabnam Azar: “And we... we die like birds; we look at the skies differently.” 

Translated by: Arash Azizi
Edited by: Hannah Somerville