Babak Khatti, MD, Journalist and Human Rights Activist
10:30 p.m., January 8, 2026
Parking garage of a residential complex in the city of “F”:
Gunfire echoes from every direction. The concrete floor is covered with the wounded. Dr. “S” is performing CPR on a young man, “H.M.,” who has been shot in the abdomen. Two of his colleagues and his wife are tending to the other injured.
A twenty‑year‑old woman named “F” lies wrapped in a blanket beside one of the pillars, stretched out on the ground in front of a parked car—her eyes still open, already succumbed to her wounds and surrendered to eternal sleep. Her father kneels over her, weeping, calling her name through broken sobs, begging her to come home with him.
So much blood has pooled on the ground that one of the residents is forced to hose down parts of the courtyard. Now the anguished cries of the girl’s mother—who has just arrived—fill the air.
Around ten other wounded people lie on the ground nearby, receiving IV fluids or painkillers. Two of them are completely alone. One is an elderly man, half‑sitting against the wall in a catatonic state—until Dr. “S” leans toward him and asks softly, “Haji, do you need anything?” The old man slowly shakes his head in silence.
For a moment, the rotating lights of a security patrol car flash across the courtyard. Instinctively, the murmurs fall silent. Terrified glances urge everyone to remain quiet. The mother of “F” is the last to swallow her cries.
The vehicle stops near the entrance. The sound of security agents speaking to each other drifts in. Breaths are held; hearts pound so loudly it feels as if everyone can hear their own. At least that is how Dr. “S” later describes it. Ninety seconds pass in a suffocating mix of dread and hope—until, finally, the agents move on. The flashing lights fade.
Three people lift the young woman’s body and place her in the back seat of a car. A daughter who will never again see her parents or her home. The CPR on the young man with the abdominal gunshot fails as well. Another life lost.
Recent protests in Iran began at the start of the new year. What initially appeared to be economically driven demonstrations quickly transformed into a nationwide uprising against the Islamic dictatorship—met with unprecedented levels of state violence. While the regime has a long history of brutal crackdowns, such extreme displays of mass killing were previously concentrated in regions it considers “marginal” or “minority”—such as Kurdish areas, the massacre of Baluch protesters on “Bloody Friday” in Zahedan (September 30, 2022), or the killings in the marshlands of Mahshahr (November 2019). This time, however, the bloodshed was nationwide, engulfing nearly every city.
Hospitals and medical centers soon became militarized zones. Wounded protesters were arrested upon arrival. Consequently, many injured people avoided hospitals, relying on trusted physicians in safe houses or receiving makeshift treatment in places like this parking garage. This inevitably deprived them of proper medical care and unquestionably increased the death toll.
Even in war, attacks on hospitals are prohibited. Under Articles 18 and 19 of the Fourth Geneva Convention, hospitals, patients, and medical staff must never be targeted. Article 8 of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (ICC) also defines “intentionally directing attacks against hospitals and medical facilities” as a war crime.
Despite this, the Iranian government repeatedly attacked hospitals, fired tear gas into wards, and arrested wounded patients from emergency rooms—acts amounting to enforced disappearances, a crime against humanity. There are even unconfirmed reports of point-blank summary executions of hospitalized protesters.
2:00 a.m., January 9, 2026
Dr. “A,” an emergency physician in the city of “K,” reports that since the previous night, 59 slain protesters have been brought to his hospital. Two were shot directly in the head; the rest were mostly shot in the chest and abdomen.
Under the watch of security agents, the bodies—many still in their clothes—were hurriedly placed into plastic body bags. Dr. “A” describes the haunting sound of mobile phones ringing from inside the sealed bags—families desperately calling loved ones who would never answer—while nurses and physicians stood by in tears.
The city’s only private surgical center received 50 more bodies, mostly killed by gunshots to the chest and abdomen. This pattern appears across all reports: security forces were ordered to aim deliberately at vital organs. The intent was not merely suppression—it was extermination.
UN Special Rapporteur, Ms. Mai Sato, stated on January 22 that at least 5,000—and possibly up to 20,000—people were killed, according to independent sources. With the internet shut down and triage protocols collapsing, various media estimate the death toll may reach tens of thousands.
A Tehran anesthesiologist, Dr. “J”, reports that the number of wounded was so overwhelming that major hospitals could not cope. The workload was so extreme that staff often had no time to remove chest tubes, tracheal tubes, or IV cannulas before placing bodies into morgue bags.
8:00 p.m., January 9
Dr. “M,” an emergency physician, reports around 60 cases of pellet injuries—nearly half involving the eyes, the rest affecting the chest and genital area.
Independent sources report that around 7,000 people with eye injuries sought treatment at the Noor Eye Hospital in Tehran. In Isfahan’s Feiz and Milad hospitals, around 700 pellet-shot eye injuries were recorded—over half involving both eyes.
Radiology images show pellets of types M30, M39, M60 (Lead) and F44, F56 (Iron/Steel)—ammunition typically used for hunting or in warfare. Fired at close range, they are designed for permanent incapacitation and to embed trauma in the collective psyche.
10:00 p.m., January 9, 2026
Dr. “V,” an orthopedic surgeon, has performed 28 surgeries since the previous night on patients shot with military rounds—mostly injuries to the femur and pelvis, with some shattering both the tibia and fibula. Security agents are visibly present even outside operating rooms.
Dr. “Sh” from a hospital in “T” reports a meeting where security forces instructed staff to provide lists of injured protesters. This plunged the medical staff into moral turmoil: protecting patients endangered their own families, yet revealing them violated their professional oath.
Despite this, numerous first‑hand accounts describe acts of resistance. An emergency physician in “M” treated wounded protesters without registration. Operating room staff at Al‑Zahra Hospital in Isfahan resisted disclosing identities whenever possible.
At least thirty medical professionals have been arrested. One faces the capital charge of moharebeh (“waging war against God”).
These actions constitute:
* Deliberate deprivation of medical care.
* Persecution of civilians and attacks on public institutions.
* Targeting a specific group based on their humanitarian role.
All fall under crimes against humanity (Article 7, Rome Statute).
What is happening is the declaration of the death of medical neutrality. Hospitals have become extensions of detention centers. This is a form of medical terrorism. When a wounded protester prefers surgery in a parking garage over a fully equipped operating room, the state has succeeded in destroying the concept of medical safety.
When medical compassion is met with charges of moharebeh, the health security of an entire nation is imperiled for generations. This is the most devastating legacy of the death of medical neutrality in Iran.