An eyewitness account from a veteran nurse in Rasht describes how two crisis-filled nights turned a shortage of blood into a treatment deadlock, a colleague lost her eye, a teenager fought for life, and a clinic burned — all while medical teams upheld their oath to save every human life.
Amid nationwide unrest in Iran, the events of 8–9 January, when rioters and terrorist elements were present in the streets of some cities and turned them into scenes of violence, unfolded in the northern city of Rasht as one of the most painful and defining moments of those days.
Two Nights When the City Changed
At a time when the memory of two particular nights is still spoken of, when rioters and terrorist elements turned the streets of several cities across the country into scenes of violence, this real story takes shape in northern Iran — in Rasht, a city long known for rain, greenery, and everyday life.
But in the late hours of Thursday, January 8, Rasht suddenly entered a space that felt far more like a battlefield than a living city.
The narrator of this account is Sara Naseri, born in the 1980s, a nurse at one of Rasht’s main hospitals. She recounts not only her own experience, but also that of her colleagues. A woman who has spent more than 20 years working in trauma and emergency care, she says that what she witnessed over those two nights was new, heavy, and unforgettable — even for her.
When she speaks about those nights, her voice is calm yet weighted, as if each word is pulled out from smoke, blood, and screams.
“We Have No Blood” — When Treatment Reached a Dead End
Sara begins with the hours before dawn on Friday, when the city took on the color of catastrophe. Phone lines were cut, communication systems had collapsed, and the number of wounded rose so sharply that even the hospital’s blood reserves could no longer meet demand.
Negative blood types became critically scarce. Surgeries were carried out under conditions where treatment could stop at any moment for one simple and devastating reason: “We have no blood.”
But why?
The answer was even more bitter. City routes had become unsafe, and ambulances could not reach the blood transfusion center. The distance between the hospital and Rasht’s blood center was only five minutes — yet those five minutes had turned into an impassable route when it came to saving human lives.
Eventually, security forces volunteered to risk their own lives to escort blood supplies to the hospital. The image Sara carries from that night resembles a war front rather than a northern Iranian city.
A Nurse Who Lost Her Eye
After a brief pause, she refers to one of the most painful scenes.
One of her colleagues, while on her way, was targeted and attacked by a rioter. A direct strike to her right eye with a weapon forced doctors to surgically remove the eye.
Sara rewinds the story several hours, to the moment when the injured were brought into the emergency department one by one. This time, the wounds were unlike those seen in street fights or traffic accidents.
“Bodies no longer looked like bodies,” she says. “The injuries were deep, brutal, and deliberate — knives, machetes, bullets. Some shots were fired from such close range that we knew they were intentional.”
She adds, “I work in a trauma center. I’ve seen all kinds of injuries. But these were different. These were war wounds, not street clashes.”
A Child Between Life and Death
Her voice trembles slightly as she continues.
“Among the wounded, there were children. A 14-year-old boy was shot in the abdomen and suffered brain damage. He was still in the ICU, struggling between life and death.”
It took hours before the critical situation eased enough for people to safely transfer the wounded. For some, it was already too late.
A Morning Filled with Mourning
That morning, the dominant sound in the hospital was grief.
Mothers mourned children they had lost overnight. Wives arrived hoping to find their loved ones alive, only to face lifeless bodies. Sara says that some patients who had been hospitalized during the night were no longer breathing by morning.
She speaks of a man who had left home only to buy medicine for his daughter — who became a victim of the violent shooting carried out by rioters. He survived. Many others did not.
“These scenes placed the heaviest psychological burden on the healthcare staff,” she says.
When the Hospital Became Home
Here, Sara’s account becomes the collective voice of healthcare workers across more than ten hospitals in Rasht.
“No one went home. We stayed in the hospital for two full nights. There were no shifts anymore. Doctors who weren’t scheduled came voluntarily. Surgeons who weren’t on call rushed in. Nurses worked with red eyes from sleeplessness and hands that still smelled of blood.”
Hospital guards and service staff did everything they could — carrying stretchers, cleaning blood from floors and walls. Sara remembers one guard saying, “My hands are so covered in blood that no matter how much I wash them, the smell won’t go away.”
A City That No Longer Looked Like Itself
What shattered her image of Rasht most came on Friday morning.
Before sunrise, she stepped outside with her mother. A thick fog covered the city, but within it, destruction was visible: shattered glass, torn concrete, traffic signs lying in the streets. Roads no longer looked like roads.
“I felt like I was inside a horror game,” she says. “I missed my city.”
Some shops were burned. Others were closed. Firefighters were battling multiple fires across the city at the same time.
Death in the Line of Duty
They had planned to go to prayer that day, but the mosque they intended to visit had been set on fire. People stood still, watching.
Perhaps the most painful part of Sara’s account is the story of Imam Sajjad Clinic, a multi-story medical facility near the hospital that included a polyclinic, a pharmacy, and specialty units.
That night, it was targeted and attacked by rioters.
One of Sara’s colleagues, Marzieh Nabaviniya, was on duty there — administering IV fluids, treating patients, working as she always did. When the fire spread, there was no safe escape route. She moved to higher floors, but emergency services could not reach the building in time due to simultaneous unrest across the city.
She died there, in the line of service.
Sara passes that building every day and still cannot believe that someone she had seen only hours earlier lost her life there.
“Every time I pass by,” she says, “I feel like an angel ascended to God from that place.”
Rasht Still Standing
Sara emphasizes that Rasht suffered some of the heaviest damage during those two days — a city once known as a travel destination now marked by ash and violence.
Beyond physical destruction, what remains is a deep psychological trauma shared by the people of the city. Many feel as though they have woken up from a nightmare.
Yet amid all this bitterness, one principle never changed for the medical staff: a human being must be saved — regardless of identity, uniform, belief, or social role.
She states firmly:
“It makes no difference who the patient is — police, civilian, anyone. We have sworn an oath to save human life. I studied with public resources; my duty is to serve. Even if I am not in the hospital and someone is injured beside me, it is my responsibility to help.”
Two Nights, Two Open Wounds
The nights of January 8 and 9 remain two open wounds on the body of Rasht — nights when parts of the city were stripped of security and everyone was reminded that security is like air: when it exists, it is unseen; when it is gone, everything collapses.
Sara Naseri’s account is not only the story of a nurse. It is the story of a city that experienced violence in its streets, yet stood again through the trembling hands of nurses, the tears of doctors, and the endurance of its people.
On January 22, the people of Rasht took to the streets, displaying their outrage toward the rioters and once again declaring their stance, reaffirming their resolve and unity.
From: Fars