'Don't go out into the streets, Golshad,' the aunt said. 'They're killing people.' The aunt proceeded to describe a video, airing on exile television channels that are jammed in Iran, in which a young woman is shown bleeding to death as her companion calls out, 'Neda! Neda!' A dark premonition swept over Golshad, 25, who asked that her real name not be published. She began calling the cell phone and home numbers of her friend, Neda Agha-Soltan, who had gone to the chaotic demonstration with friends. Neda didn't answer. At midnight, as the city continued to smolder, Golshad drove to the Agha-Soltan residence in the eastern Tehran Pars section of the capital. As she heard the cries and wails and praising of God reverberating from the house, she knew that her worst fears were true. 'Neda! Neda!' Golshad cried out. 'What will I do?' Agha-Soltan, 26, was shot dead Saturday near the scene of clashes between pro-government militias and demonstrators who allege rampant vote-count fraud in the re-election of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. The jittery cell-phone footage of her bleeding on the street has turned Neda into an international symbol of the protest movement that ignited in the aftermath of the June 12 voting. 'She was a person full of joy,' said Hamid Panahi, her music teacher and close friend who was among the mourners at her family's home Sunday, awaiting word of her burial. 'She was a beam of light. I'm so sorry. I was so hopeful for this woman.' Security forces urged friends and family not to hold memorial services at a mosque and not to speak about her, said associates of the family. Authorities even asked the Agha-Soltan family to take down the black mourning banners in front of their house, aware of the potent symbol she has become. But some insisted on speaking out anyway, hoping to make sure the world would not forget her. Neda Agha-Soltan was born in Tehran, they said, to a father who worked for the government and a mother who was a housewife. They were a family of modest means, part of the country's emerging middle class who built their lives in rapidly developing neighborhoods on the eastern and western outskirts of the city. Like many in her neighborhood, Neda was loyal to the country's Islamic roots and traditional values, friends say, but also curious about the outside world, which is easily accessed through satellite television, the Internet and occasional trips abroad. The second of three children, she studied Islamic philosophy at a branch of Tehran's Azad University until deciding to pursue a career in the tourism industry. She took private classes to become a tour guide, including Turkish language courses, friends said, hoping to lead groups of Iranians on trips abroad. Travel was her passion, and with her friends she saved up enough money for package tours to Dubai, Turkey and Thailand. Two months ago, on a trip to Turkey, she relaxed along the beaches of Antalya on the Mediterranean Sea. She loved music, especially Persian pop, and was taking piano classes, according to Panahi and other friends. She was also an accomplished singer. But she was never an activist, and she attended the mass protests only because of a personal sense of outrage over the election results. Her parents and others told her it would be dangerous to go to Saturday's march, said Golshad. On Friday, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei in his weekly prayer sermon had warned that demonstrators would be responsible for any violence that broke out. Even Golshad stayed away. At 3:30 p.m., the two friends spoke. 'I told her, `Neda, don't go,' ' Golshad recalled. But Neda was as stubborn as she was honest, Golshad said, and she ended up going anyway. 'She said, `Don't worry. It's just one bullet and it's over.' ' 'She couldn't stand the injustice of it all,' Panahi said. 'All she wanted was the proper vote of the people to be counted.' Friends say Panahi, Neda and two others were stuck in traffic east of Tehran's Azadi Square, on their way to the demonstration sometime after 6:30 p.m. After stepping out of the car to get fresh air, Panahi heard a crack from the distance. He realized Neda had collapsed to the ground. 'We were stuck in traffic and we got out and stood to watch, and without her throwing a rock or anything they shot her,' he said. 'It was just one bullet.' Blood poured out of the right side of her chest and began bubbling out of her mouth and nose as her lungs filled up. 'I'm burning, I'm burning!' he recalled her saying -- her final words. Nearby protesters gathered around her. A doctor tried to help, Panahi said, telling him to put his palm over the wound and apply pressure. A driver coming from the other direction urged the crowd to put her into his car. A frantic search for a hospital followed. They took a wrong turn down a dead end and switched her limp body to another car. Along the way, protesters and bystanders screamed at drivers to clear a route in the snarled traffic. The medical staff rushed her to the operating room, but it was too late. She had died by the time they arrived at the emergency room of Shariati Hospital, Panahi said. 'This is a crime that's not in support of the government,' Panahi said. 'This is a crime against humanity.' Iranian authorities have denied that police were using lethal force to quell the protest. During tours of the riot scene before, during and after the melee, there were no signs of security officials using guns to quash the protest, which is considered illegal. The prosecutor's office has launched an investigation into the killing of 'several people' in Saturday's violence and arrested one 'armed terrorist,' the Web site of Iran's Press TV broadcaster announced. At least 13 people were killed in Saturday's rioting. 'Policemen are not authorized to use weapons against people,' said Tehran Police Chief Azizollah Rajabzadeh, according to Press TV. 'They are trained to only use anti-riot tools to keep the people out of harm's way.' The government has suggested that loyalists to the exiled and outlawed opposition group Mujahedin Khalq Organization might bear responsibility for the killings. But family members and friends suspect that zealous pro-government paramilitary groups, the Basijis or the Ansar-e-Hezbollah, might have been responsible. On Sunday at the Agha-Soltan residence, friends and relatives came in droves, weeping and clutching one another. A steady murmur of sobs and wails emanated from the apartment. Mascara streamed down cheeks of the women, some in black chadors and others in designer mini-coats and sunglasses. The men's eyes were sore and bloodshot. Two helped a distraught young man walk along the hallway, one of Neda's two brothers, someone said. 'She died full of love,' Golshad said. (Optional add end) The relatives and friends piled into minivans for the hour-long trek to Tehran's Beshesht Zahra cemetery, where Neda was buried. Her loved ones were outraged by the authorities' order not to eulogize her, not to loudly sing praises and mourn her loss. But they were too afraid and distraught to speak out, except for Panahi, who said he had nothing more to lose. 'They know me,' he said. 'They know where I am. They can come and get me whenever they want. My time has gone. We have to think about the young people.' Neda, he said, was smart and loving. She had a mischievous streak, gentling teasing her friends and causing them to laugh. She was passionate about life and meant no one any harm. In the election unrest, friends found her to be unexpectedly daring, willing to take risks for her beliefs. 'For pursuing her goals, she didn't use rocks or clubs,' said Panahi. 'She wanted to show with her presence that, `I'm here. I also voted. And my vote wasn't counted.' It was a very peaceful act of protest, without any violence.' 