I am a surgeon in Iran, and I have witnessed a horror that words can barely capture. The anti-regime protests that began in December 2026 spread across the country, and by January 8th, the situation took a dark turn. Reports emerged of at least 45 lives lost at the hands of security forces, but the true extent of the tragedy was yet to unfold.
As I arrived at the hospital in Tehran on that fateful Thursday night, the city's atmosphere had transformed. What started as pellet wounds and survivable injuries escalated into something far more sinister. At 8 p.m., the internet and communication channels went silent, and moments later, the night was pierced by the sound of gunfire.
The patients who arrived at the hospital that night were not victims of pellets; they bore the marks of live ammunition, war bullets designed to inflict maximum damage. The operating rooms filled with critical injuries to the chest, abdomen, and pelvis. It was a scene of sheer chaos and desperation.
The hospital became a battleground, overwhelmed by the sheer number of casualties. We lacked everything - surgeons, nurses, anesthesiologists, operating rooms, and even blood products. Time was our most precious resource, and it was slipping away. Patients poured in faster than we could treat them, and the exhaustion was all-encompassing, both physically and mentally.
I have worked through earthquakes and witnessed mass casualties, but this night was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The scale of the violence was unprecedented. In a matter of hours, we performed 18 emergency surgeries, a number that would typically be spread over several days, if not weeks. The next night brought more of the same, with hundreds of gunshot wounds and severe traumas flooding our doors.
As I worked, I heard the sounds of heavy weaponry that had no place in a city. The DShK machine guns echoed through the streets, mounted on pickup trucks. The atmosphere was that of a war zone, not a policing operation. The contradiction of saving lives while knowing that these injuries were inflicted by one's own government weighed heavily on my mind.
The true extent of the casualties was impossible to ascertain. Hospitals, staff, and infrastructure were overwhelmed, and many injured chose to stay away, fearing the consequences of seeking medical care. The hospital, a place of healing, had become a source of fear and apprehension.
The destruction, the sheer volume of injuries, and the silence imposed by communication blackouts left an indelible mark. It felt as though something fundamental, something essential to our humanity, had been shattered.
My words can only scratch the surface of the horror I witnessed. The public has been told very little about what truly transpired during those dark days. The official death toll remains unknown, but estimates suggest a staggering number of lives lost - over 5,000, according to the US-based Human Rights Activists News Agency. In a city of 2 million, I believe the death toll may have exceeded 1,000 in a single night, and across Iran, the estimate is over 20,000.
This is a story of a nation's pain, a story that deserves to be heard and understood. It is a reminder that, in the darkness, even the most basic rights can be shattered.
