Iftar at NITOR: How critically injured patients from July Uprising are coping
Since August last year, we have been following two patients at Nitor who had suffered critical gunshot wounds during the July Uprising. This week, we visited them for Iftar
Last Tuesday, two women gathered on a floor mat between two hospital beds. Legs folded and one boti pulled out from under the bed, they began slicing and dicing vegetables that went in a plastic bowl to make "chhola-muri makha" — an Iftar staple.
One of them was clearly the host in the small gathering. Dalia is the attendant to a patient at Ward B at the capital's National Institute of Traumatology and Orthopaedic Rehabilitation (Nitor) hospital. She is the sister of a protester injured in the July Uprising. They have been residents at the hospital for about eight months with a brief interval of a hospital discharge.
Maghrib prayer time was nearing.
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Another brother of Dalia's put down his phone and took on the responsibility of mixing the chhola-muri makha.
The children, one was Dalia's, were frolicking around and sometimes getting in Dalia's way.
Ward B had several vacant beds. "They are not vacant per se. The occupants are just outside at the moment," reassured Dalia. "The ward is actually full."
Dalia's brother, Mehedi, with a gunshot wound on one leg, was already in Mohammadpur to attend an Iftar event for injured protesters of the July Uprising.
Hospital staff pushed a trolley cart through. The women gathered around for their share of some puffed rice, banana, milk, etc.
Iftar food is rationed for the patient. But the attendants improvise, evident from a look under the bed where a makeshift kitchen is tucked in. "We cook many things now," Dalia said, pointing to a portable electric pot. "It is very expensive to buy food for three meals a day." She is the primary attendant for her brother while other family members visit from time to time.
"I brought my daughter over. Her school is closed for the Eid holidays," she said with a smile. She misses her children dearly, something Dalia stressed multiple times in the last few months.
Little cockroaches ventured out from time to time, scurrying around almost every time a sack or pot was moved from under the bed. No one paid any heed to them though.
A man came by. He held a bucket. "Do you want some eggs [to buy]?," he asked Dalia, to which she replied, "No, not today."
There is a sense of community, a world within the ward. Perhaps inevitable if one is to spend so many months together.
The call for Maghrib prayers rang in the air. The women spotted someone in the ward, a visitor. "Who is she, making a list?"
"A list, again?" another asked.
Dalia's guest went and called the stranger to sit with them for Iftar. The woman obliged. The three women on the mat, cozied up, began passing around the bowl of chhola as everyone took turns to scoop up some of it in their palms.
"I am not making a list, per se," the visitor said. She introduced herself as part of a team who came by earlier in the day and distributed bags of essential commodities. She pointed to a tote bag with the words "Jatiyo Nagorik Samaj" already under Mehedi's bed.
Dalia offered a small container with potato chops. "Have these, they are good. The apa at the end of the ward made these today."
The visitor left. Dalia asked to be excused for Maghrib prayers. "We made a makeshift prayer room in the balcony with clothes hung as a partition."
Shortly after, Mehedi arrived. "I don't actually know who invited us [to the Iftar event]," he chuckled. "Others rushed us, and I just went along. I think it was hosted by someone related to the Jamaat-e-Islami party; I am not sure."
Dalia spoke about the Iftar they had recently attended, hosted by the Bangladesh Army. "They served kacchi, many of us couldn't finish it — we didn't expect it, that's all."
The pots and the food got packed away while she spoke. Soon, we were sitting on the empty floor mat.
Mehedi leaned forward, held a tiny torque wrench, and tightened the bolts in the external fixator on his left leg. His last operation was in late February — nearing about 20 since August. "I lost two inches. My leg is two inches shorter," he said. But his smile was radiant as ever.
"We are looking at more months [here]," said Dalia. The skin on Mehedi's leg looked like it had been pulled together in the middle and sewn together.
These wards serve as a time capsule of the atrocities inflicted during July-August last year. Many inhabitants look to have recovered well and some move with ease with the help of their respective Ilizarov apparatus (the steel device used to mend broken bones in legs, often referred to as an external fixator).
At the same time, a lot has changed. These patients have protested from time to time, demanding faster and fairer treatment. Additionally, many have taken on 'leadership' roles and many have been seen in other political rallies across the capital.
"Everyone is a 'leader' now. I am one, you are one, too," Dalia said, cracking a smile for the second time.
Recently, Tk5,000 was disbursed to each ward patient by the BNP, the women confirmed.
The women also spoke of "fraud cases" which were revealed after investigations, in some cases, by other patients. "Remember a young couple here," Dalia asked, "it turned out, he had a bike accident and got admitted here." There have been other similar cases in the ward.
Ward A
Upstairs in Ward A, Monir sat on his wheelchair. His young son, wife and father-in-law were around him. They were done with their Iftar.
"He is the only one here [in the ward] who still cannot stand," said Fatema, Monir's wife. "I have been listed in Category A by the July Foundation [the category designated for the most critical patients]," added Monir.
Two lumps stuck out from both his legs while only one leg required the external fixator. "The doctors took skin and flesh from other parts of my body, to fix the legs," he said, pointing to his calves and thighs.
"I lost three inches," he added.
Under Monir's bed, the markings of a makeshift life is also evident. "BNP people sent us commodities like rice, lentils, etc for Eid," said Monir, adding, "we are also crowdfunding Eid Salami for the hospital staff. Whatever we can manage."
According to Monir, also a Nitor resident for about eight months with a brief period of discharge and operations nearing 20, there are 120 patients in these two wards.
And recently, six have been sent abroad for treatment. "I might get on the next list, let's see," he said. What about the foreign doctors who visit Nitor? "They give a thumbs up, the doctors here give a thumbs up," Monir replied, cracking a smile.
In this ward, many scrolled on their phones as they lay on their beds. The problem with a discharge is, "it is not like it is here, we don't get the daily medical attention. Also our houses are so small, with visitors coming in constantly, it just does not bode well for our healing," said Monir, explaining why several opt to stay in.
"I remember my stay at home. My legs got badly infected," he said, adding, "[also], many have been waiting to get hold of the health card [issued by the government after verification which guarantees lifelong free healthcare in the country]."
There might be a sense of acceptance in the air. But for critical patients like Monir and Mehedi, future possibilities remain poor.
Have there been any rehabilitation efforts from the government? "No, we received cash assistance of Tk5 lakh in instalments [depending on the category designated], well Tk2 lakh is still pending but what happens afterwards, I don't know," explained Monir.
The family of three will spend their Eid in Nitor. Dalia will leave with Mehedi to visit their hometown for a few days for Eid despite the ambulance cost. "My mother is all alone and weeps," she said. "We have to go."
