Editor’s note : The author expressed that names in the article are changed for security reasons and the story a true story
BM
As physicians, we swear to protect life, to honor the dignity of every human being, and to act according to our highest ethical standards, regardless of circumstance. We trust that the systems in which we serve will allow us to keep this sacred promise. But my experience at Kombolcha Level 3 Military Hospital in 2023 revealed a world far removed from that ideal.
Over more than a year, I witnessed the raw cruelty of a system that treated human life as expendable, where civilians, children, and even the most vulnerable were subjected to neglect, deprivation, and violence for the sake of political control. The very institutions meant to safeguard life became instruments of fear, prolonging suffering and silencing dissent. Patients were denied care, sometimes deliberately, not because resources were lacking, but because their lives were seen as secondary to the preservation of power. I saw young bodies, barely formed, crushed by forces they did not understand; I saw wounds ignored until infection threatened life; I saw the weight of a system willing to sacrifice humanity for authority.
This is not a distant abstraction, it is a daily reality, a theater of cruelty where medical ethics collide with political oppression, and where the value of life is measured not in human terms, but in allegiance and control. What I witnessed left indelible marks on my conscience and on the patients I was sworn to protect. These stories of children conscripted into war, of victims denied care, and of innocent lives caught in the crossfire are testimony not just to the conflict itself, but to the systemic inhumanity that has allowed it to persist.
It was a Tuesday morning. The journey from Dessie, where I lived, to my workplace in Kombolcha, normally a 25–30 minute drive, took me over three hours. Every few kilometers, soldiers conducted extensive searches. Anyone could be stopped, questioned, or detained for no reason at all. Maybe you looked suspicious, maybe you spoke in a way they didn’t like, or maybe their gut told them you were linked to Fano. The city itself felt like a war zone, but that had become the new norm lately. I had moved to different cities in the zone for work, yet nowhere felt truly safe. Fully armed soldiers patrolled every street, shouting at passersby, their boots clanging on asphalt, occasionally firing warning shots at young people. Moving through the city felt like navigating a minefield; at any moment, anyone could be the next target.
The minibus I boarded began the trip with fifteen passengers. By the time we reached Kombolcha, six of the men had been pulled off the bus at different checkpoints, and vanished into the hands of the soldiers. These were ordinary people, simply trying to go about their daily lives, labeled criminals or enemies without explanation. The pervasive sense of insecurity was suffocating. Every glance, every step outside your home carried the weight of potential danger.
By the afternoon, around 4:00 pm Ethiopian time, a peaceful civilian campaign that had begun in the streets of Kombolcha moved toward the Turk Camp ,the sprawling compound that housed the military hospital where I worked, Originally built in 2015 for the Yapu Merkez Turkish railway project, the camp had since been converted into a heavily fortified military base, its perimeter
lined with high walls and armed guards, a place where civilians were not supposed to enter. The protestors were unarmed, carrying banners and chanting slogans to raise awareness of the genocide and targeted violence against the Amhara people. Their voices, though steady and brave, trembled with the weight of desperation.
Suddenly, a rifle shot rang out. A young man, barely twenty, fell to the dusty ground, blood spreading across the earth like a dark flame. Screams pierced the air mothers cried, children panicked, and families scattered in all directions. My white coat clung to me as I instinctively ran toward the wounded, ready to save a life. But a guard stepped in front of me, pressing the cold steel of his rifle against my chest. “Move, and you die,” he warned, his voice low, deadly, unyielding. My hands shook, my heart raced, and all I could do was watch as the young man was dragged into the camp, his body limp and lifeless.
The metallic tang of blood hung in the air, mingling with dust and smoke, while the chaos of the fleeing crowd reverberated through the compound. I could see mothers clutching their children, brothers searching for one another, and the horror in everyone’s eyes. That boy was someone’s son, someone’s brother, yet there was nothing I could do. The proximity of a hospital,a place that should have been a sanctuary, offered no protection.
Standing there, I realized the full scale of the terror. The Turk Camp, the military hospital, and the streets themselves had become symbols of a system where ordinary civilians could be silenced in an instant, where the innocent could be taken or killed, and where even those dedicated to saving lives could only bear witness. Every sound,the shouts, the gunfire, the cries echoed in my mind long after that day. Every sight,the blood on the dusty ground, the chaos of the fleeing crowd, the imposing walls of the camp,reminded me of the fragility of life under the regime. The fear, the helplessness, and the injustice were imprinted on my memory, a visceral reminder of the human cost of the ongoing conflict in Amhara
That was just the beginning of the horror I witnessed in that camp-/hospital. This one night, I received Zertihun,a 19-year-old girl, barely conscious, trembling as if the world itself was crushing her. A bullet had pierced her right distal femur two weeks earlier, and the wound had festered, smelling sharply of infection, improperly dressed, a dark red and black canvas of neglect and cruelty. Every instinct screamed at me: she needed immediate surgical care, or she could die from sepsis. Yet as I prepared her for treatment, a gnawing fear tightened my chest.
Shi Aleka head of the referral wing, loomed over me like a shadow of judgment. From his eyes, Zertihun was not a human being; she was a Fano operative, a political enemy. He coldly informed me that she could not be referred to orthopedics and that her care was limited. The purpose of her being brought to the medical facility was not her survival, but to keep her barely alive until the military could interrogate her and extract information. Her life was no longer her own; it was a tool, a bargaining chip in a system designed to punish, control, and terrorize.
As I stabilized her,measuring her blood sugar, administering antibiotics, cleaning and dressing her wound,I asked myself over and over: Why was she not transported immediately to proper care? Who had bandaged her before this? How could anyone let her suffer for two weeks, deprived of food and medical attention? The smell of infection, the weak pulse beneath my hands, the faint groans escaping her lips every detail seared itself into my mind. It was a living nightmare: I was a physician, trained to save lives, yet the system itself demanded I watch, constrained, as cruelty dictated her fate.
Later, I learned that this was not an isolated case. Colleagues whispered of other patients, denied life-saving interventions simply because the military had labeled them “anti-peace” or enemies. International humanitarian law, medical ethics, and human decency were all subordinated to control and punishment. In that room, the stark duality was suffocating: to me, Zertihun was a fragile life clinging to survival; to Shi Aleka and the authorities, she was a symbol to be broken, a means to an end.
That night, the horror was not only in what I witnessed but in the helplessness I felt. Every second I tended to her, I was haunted by the thought that at any moment, the camp’s cruelty could snatch her life away, or punish me for daring to care. The air smelled of antiseptic and decay, punctuated by the faint sounds of distant shouting and metallic footsteps in the compound. In that claustrophobic space, the weight of human suffering, ethical betrayal, and the brutality of the military system pressed down on me like a physical force, leaving an indelible scar on my mind and soul.
In the military hospital, one of the most heartbreaking realities I confronted was the presence of child soldiers thrust into a war they could never comprehend. Among them was Abinet, only 14 years old, whose small frame already bore the weight of unimaginable suffering. When he arrived, his body was swollen with generalized edema; his limbs puffed unnaturally, a sign that his organs were struggling. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and the whites of his eyes were chalky, a reflection of severe anemia. He was short of breath, his chest rising and falling with effort, and his heartbeat produced extra sounds, signaling his heart’s desperate attempt to compensate for the lack of oxygen in his blood.
As I examined him, it was impossible not to notice how his young body had been betrayed by the very system that should have protected him. His bones were fragile, his muscles weak from malnutrition, his immune system compromised. Each labored breath, each small movement, was a testament to the body’s struggle to endure. When he spoke, his voice was soft, trembling with fear. He told me he had been promised a summer educational program and adequate care but instead he had been coerced into military service, sent to the frontlines without consent, and exposed to conditions no child should ever face.
I ordered urgent interventions: blood transfusions, stabilization, and immediate referral to Dessie Comprehensive Specialized Hospital. But the cruel reality of the system meant that despite our best efforts, the young boy’s body could not recover from the combined strain of starvation, anemia, and the harsh physical demands placed upon him. A few days later, I learned that Abinet had passed away.
This was not an isolated tragedy. The hospital regularly received children misled into combat, their bodies unable to withstand the rigors of war, their innocence stolen. Their pale eyes, trembling voices, and fragile frames spoke of a betrayal so profound that it left an indelible mark on anyone who witnessed it. Abinet’s story, and the countless children like him, revealed the full human cost of this conflict, the cost of a system that sacrificed its youngest and most vulnerable in the name of war.
Editor’s Note : Views in the article do not necessarily reflect the views of borkena.com
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