On my way to the supply closet to get sutures, I saw them through the hallway window: a contingent of soldiers and their general, crossing the yard in formation. Alongside them ran a handful of men wearing the white armbands of the Kempeitai, the dreaded military police. The one who led the Kempeitai was taller and better fed than the others and wore his pride so palpably that I could feel it from where I stood.

There was a ruckus at the main door. Shouting and gunshots.

I heard Dr Oliviera yell, “This is a hospital! You have no business here!”

There was a gunshot, and screams.

There were boots on the stairs.

After that, I can’t tell you what I heard.

I heard nothing.

I heard everything.

I wasn’t there.

I am always there.

Men barked. I didn’t know the language but the epithets were racial.

Patients screamed.

I heard pleading and crying.

Grunts. Insults in another language.

Please no please sir please I’m a nurse please no please no no no no no no no no no no

I truly can’t hear and I can’t see. Not the sound of gunshots. Not the sound of wounded soldiers stabbed in their beds. Not the sound of doctors begging for their lives. Not the sound of nurses raped atop the dead and dying. Not the repetitive judder of hips, not the grunts, not the animal screams.

I look through a crack in the door. I see nothing. My retinas burn.

This is a fire that will never go out.