The infants who died at the sound of bombs: Death without weeping

For the past nine days, Iran has endured relentless military aggression from Israel. More than 400 civilians have been killed and over 3,000 wounded, according to official figures. But beyond the numbers- beyond the blood-soaked sheets and overwhelmed emergency rooms- lies a deeper, quieter tragedy: children dying not from direct hits, but from fear. Newborns who arrive at hospitals with no vital signs. Children whose lives are cut short not by shrapnel, but by the sheer terror of war.

This is not speculation. It is the testimony of pediatric specialists, nurses, and emergency workers across Iran. One pediatrician told me plainly: “None of the newborns brought to us survived. If they weren’t dead on arrival, they succumbed within days due to severe trauma.” Another nurse described a child who died from seizures triggered by the deafening sound of missile strikes in Tehran. These are not battlefield casualties- they are the collateral damage of psychological warfare.

Injuries and deaths are not limited to those struck directly by Israeli missiles. Doctors across the country confirm that children are dying from anxiety-induced trauma- intense psychological stress causing respiratory failure, convulsions, and cardiac arrest. These deaths are no less real, no less violent, and no less criminal. And they are being documented every day, in hospitals that now resemble war zones.

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Hospitals under siege, doctors on the frontlines

Since the start of the attacks, the Iranian healthcare system has shifted into crisis mode. All non-emergency procedures have been cancelled. Staff leave has been revoked. Non-critical wards have been cleared to make room for the war-wounded. Yet the pressure is not merely logistical; it is existential. After news broke that Israel had bombed an Iranian hospital, many medical staff began working under the constant shadow of fear- fear that their workplace might become their grave.

Still, they remain. Nurses push wheelchairs with the urgency of battlefield medics. Surgeons perform back-to-back operations on children with shrapnel in their skulls. Emergency workers take no breaks, rotating between wards like runners in a relay race of despair.

In Shiraz, a nurse named Ramin told me: “We’ve been standing nonstop for days. We pray for peace, but we keep moving. Sometimes we crack a joke with the patients- just to break the tension. That’s all we can do for the psychological wounds.”

In Mazandaran- hundreds of kilometers from the bombing sites- nurses observe acute stress reactions in women who recently gave birth. One head nurse explained how maternal anxiety has led to suppressed lactation and postpartum depression: “Even where the bombs haven’t fallen, the war is in our blood pressure, our breath, our babies.”

The invisible wounds

Dr Sediqeh Yousefzadegan, a pediatric pulmonologist in Tehran, speaks quietly, but her words shake the room. “Every child brought to us in the last few days has died. Either on the way or shortly after. We see skull fractures, crushed limbs, and internal bleeding. But we also see panic. Breathing issues that have no physical cause. Terror that turns into asphyxiation.”

She says her team has shared personal phone numbers with families who’ve fled Tehran, offering remote consultations to ensure continuity of care. “We try to give something- anything- that feels like stability,” she says. But the toll is mounting. Not just physical exhaustion, but emotional fatigue. And as psychologists warn, these effects may haunt survivors for years. Post-traumatic stress (PTSD) is no longer a theory- it is the new baseline.

Social psychologist Alireza Sharifi Yazdi refers to these deaths as secondary war casualties. “The trauma of living through these attacks- especially for caregivers- has a ripple effect. It doesn’t end when the missile lands. It reverberates through memory, through children’s cries at night, through every quiet moment.”

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The city that stayed- and the one that fled

Tehran today is a tale of two cities. In the southern neighborhoods, life continues with defiant normalcy. Families gather outside juice bars. Religious youth hand out drinks while revolutionary anthems echo from makeshift speakers. “Nothing has happened. We are here,” one man says, clutching his prayer beads.

But head north and the streets fall silent. Shops are shuttered. Cafes once full of artists and students are empty. A few remain open, offering tea and apple pie as acts of quiet resistance. “We must keep the lights on,” says one café owner. His entire staff has left the city. He now bakes alone.

Many have fled, citing safety concerns, financial instability, or simple fear. Some call it cowardice; others call it survival. Sociologists say the difference lies in one’s relationship to place. “Tehran is not just a city- it’s part of people’s identity,” says urban scholar Iman Vaqefi. “To leave it is to feel amputated.”

One young woman named Kimia, a UX designer, says she stayed because she feels safer at home. “Here I can paint, play music. It’s my space. I understand why others left- but small towns can’t support all of us. Leaving also creates chaos.” She’s right. Many cities receiving evacuees lack basic infrastructure for food, fuel, or healthcare. As she puts it: “The war doesn’t just bomb cities. It reshapes them.”

A new kind of resistance

Mohammad Hossein, a 27-year-old digital economy worker, chose to stay, and resist in his own way. “I ride my motorbike through empty streets just to let people know the city still breathes. I joke with security patrols to show we’re still aware. This is my version of resistance.”

He believes many who left will return. “They need their city back. They need their lives back. Not out of nostalgia- but necessity.”

But for some, the exile is indefinite. Fatemeh, a mother of two now in northern Iran, says she feels homeless despite the roof over her head. “I want to return. I miss my neighbours, the bakery on the corner, my son’s school.”

Another evacuee, Abdullah, left affluent northern Tehran for a rural village near Abadan. “Only a fool would stay in Tehran,” he says. But his wife, a government worker, cannot be away much longer. Their family is already torn between duty and distance.

The war inside us

What this war has revealed is not only military aggression but human fragility-and resilience. From bomb-shelled hospitals to quiet cafés, from overworked doctors to shell-shocked children, this is a nation enduring something far deeper than damage. It is absorbing trauma, metabolising fear, and continuing to live.

The infants who died did not know politics. They did not understand missiles or maps. They died in confusion, in silence, in sound. That is the crime. That is the war.

And yet, amid all this, there is a stubborn thread of life. A nurse who cracks a joke. A baker who keeps making pie. A woman who plays the violin in her apartment while bombs fall miles away. These small acts are not trivial- they are the fabric of survival.

When this war ends- and it must end- we will count the dead. But we must also remember the living: those who stayed, those who fled, those who healed, and those who grieved. For in their choices, fears, and quiet courage, the soul of a people has been laid bare.

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The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.