At the height of the July uprising, many hospitals turned their backs -- some out of fear, others silenced or forced into complicity. State forces roamed halls of healing, seizing CCTV footage, erasing patient records, and threatening doctors not to treat the wounded.
Elsewhere, hospitals shut their doors, fearing protesters couldn't pay.
Teenagers with gunshot wounds were refused entry, ambulances were stopped, and lives were lost -- not just to bullets, but to suppression and cowardice.
But in a quiet corner of North Jatrabari, across the police station and beside a Jubo League office, a different story unfolded.
Ten beds. Twenty-eight staff. One hospital -- Safa Marwa Hospital and Diagnostic Centre.
Founded four years ago by 15 friends, it runs on a Tk 2 lakh monthly rent, occupying the first three floors, and half of the fourth and fifth floors the building.
In the heart of Jatrabari -- one of the uprising's fiercest flashpoints -- Safa Marwa became a rare sanctuary.
Protests in the area began on July 15, aiming to block the Dhaka–Chattogram Highway. But after the police shot dead Rangpur's student protester Abu Sayed on July 16, the protests intensified across the country and Jatrabari was no exception.
Then from July 19 to August 6, with gunshots, stun grenades, and tear gas on one side, and protesters' chants and clashes on the other, Safa Marwa stood firm with its doors wide open.
Protesters and locals with bullet, pellet, or baton injuries poured in and received the same care, regardless of ability to pay.
Mohammad Sohrab Hossain, one of the owners of the hospital and its manager, recalled treating over 500 people. "We used money from our own hospital funds to ensure we had enough supplies for everyone.
"Many times, we couldn't even go home. After July 19, I wasn't able to return to my house in Nakhalpara for five days. I had to borrow money just to manage…. From early August, we ran the place non-stop for six days. All of us were exhausted."
At one point, eight beds were set up on the ground floor to speed up treatment. After bandaging, stitching, and stabilising patients, staff referred many to Dhaka Medical College Hospital or other facilities, even arranging transport when needed.
Robiul Islam, another staffer, said they treated 50–60 patients daily on those beds. "Doctors and nurses stitched wounds, gave painkillers, set up IVs -- all amid sounds of pain and despair."
At night, they slept on upper floors, with makeshift arrangements for food and supplies to keep the hospital running.
Sohrab admitted that like any private hospital, their usual goal is profit. "But during those days, we set everything aside for the sake of humanity. We spent lakhs from our own pockets on medicine, bandages, needles, and more.
"Most patients were protesting students and locals. Many said they'd return to pay their dues, but no one did. Still, we didn't take that to heart. And we haven't stopped providing services."
He said they never refused treatment. "We helped anyone who came. The police asked us to send medical teams too, and we did." Those who brought in the injured were also offered water and basic care.
Al Amin, a protester and owner of a general store next to the hospital, said he's run his business there for 11 years. "The hospital remained open throughout the protests, and I saw many wounded being treated there."
However, the upper floor of his shop used to be a Jubo League office and so, the hospital came under threat several times. "Protesters tried to set fire to the Jubo League office, but they didn't go through with it. They didn't want to risk damaging the hospital that was helping them."
On August 4, as demonstrators hurled stones at the Jubo League office from the Jatrabari flyover, the hospital did end up suffering some collateral damage as glass windows and doors on the second and third floors were shattered. Staff pulled the shutters down -- but left a gap wide enough so the injured could still be brought in.
The next day, August 5, was the bloodiest -- at least 52 were killed and countless more injured in police shootings in the area, according to a recent BBC report. The Jatrabari Police Station itself was set ablaze, reportedly killing around 10 officers. Gunfire, screams, and chaos engulfed the area. Still, hospital workers carried on with one aim: saving as many lives as possible.
Sohrab said, "Many of the injured were just 15 or 16. I saw my own sons in their faces. I kept thinking, 'These boys could've been mine.' That thought kept me going."
Robiul recalled a moment he still can't forget.
"Around 2:15pm, a man in his early 30s stumbled in, soaked in blood. He wore only jeans and sneakers -- he'd been hit with pellets at close range and hadn't eaten in three days. First, we gave him water. He drank almost eight glasses.
"While we were treating him, the TV showed a news scroll: 'Sheikh Hasina has fled Bangladesh by helicopter.' Hearing this, he begged to use my phone, called someone and said, 'Bou [wife], Sheikh Hasina's fled!'"
He then asked which way was west (pashchim), and fell into sijdah, praying. "After a long time, he sprung up, overjoyed, as if the pellets didn't hurt him anymore. Once we were done treating him, I gave him a shirt to wear, and he left after thanking us profusely."
Ayahs, cleaners -- everyone pitched in. All hands were on deck throughout those days, Sohrab said.
To this day, he says their greatest success wasn't financial. "It was moral. We kept going. Some thanked us. Others never came back. That didn't matter. We did our duty and we're proud of ourselves."
