By Brigadier (R) Sadiq Rahi, Sitara-e-Imtiaz (M)
We have heard since childhood that angels descend from the heavens
figures of light, wrapped in love and carrying blessings for those on earth.
But what happens when angels descend from the heavens with their wings burnt?
What happens when those who should have arrived as symbols of innocence, hope and new beginnings instead come to us as ashes?
That is the unbearable question Pakistan must confront after the tragic fire at the Pakistan Institute of Medical Sciences (PIMS) in Islamabad, where 14 newborns have reportedly died, with some initial reports putting the toll at 15. One infant was rescued. The exact death toll and cause of the fire remain subject to official investigation.
But beyond numbers and investigations lies a grief that words can barely contain.
What was the fault of these innocent babies?
They had just arrived in this world. Some were only days old. Many were already fighting for life and depended upon incubators, oxygen, medicines and constant professional care.
Their parents had brought them to a hospital because they believed that this was where life would be protected.
Instead, the place entrusted with saving them became the scene of unimaginable loss.
These were not merely patients.
They were someone’s entire world.
A mother’s long-awaited dream.
A father’s future.
A family’s first smile.
They were flowers that never got the chance to bloom.
Were these deaths preventable?
The preliminary reports point towards a malfunction involving an air-conditioning unit or compressor. If the investigation confirms this, we must ask questions far more profound than simply identifying the failed component.
When was the equipment last inspected?
When was it serviced?
Who was responsible for preventive maintenance?
Were any defects previously reported?
Were they rectified?
Who certified the equipment as safe?
A compressor can fail. Electrical equipment can malfunction. But professional institutions are built precisely to anticipate such failures and prevent them from becoming disasters.
This is the difference between merely having a system and having a working system.
A maintenance register may be complete. An inspection certificate may carry a signature. A file may contain every required document.
But when flames enter a nursery, paperwork cannot save a child.
A certificate cannot extinguish a fire. A signature cannot carry a newborn to safety.
Only functioning equipment, trained personnel, effective procedures and professional responsibility can.
Where was the emergency plan?
The response of the external fire and rescue services must be examined fairly, and if they reached the hospital promptly, that deserves recognition.
But another question remains:
What happened inside the nursery during those precious first minutes?
Was the alarm immediately activated?
Were trained staff available?
Were firefighting systems functional?
Were escape routes accessible?
Had doctors, nurses and support staff ever rehearsed the evacuation of newborns during a fire?
A neonatal ward is unlike any ordinary hospital room. A newborn cannot walk out. Many babies are attached to incubators, monitors, oxygen and intravenous lines.
Saving them requires preparation long before the emergency begins.
This is why responsibility cannot simply be passed from one department to another.
Doctors have responsibilities.
Nurses have responsibilities.
Technical staff have responsibilities.
Administrators have responsibilities.
And institutional leadership has the ultimate responsibility to ensure that all these responsibilities are being performed.
In a hospital, safety may be everyone’s responsibility
but accountability must belong to someone.
Burnt angels
Perhaps the most painful thought is that we have become accustomed to tragedies after they happen.
An inquiry is ordered.
A committee is formed.
Condolences are expressed.
Someone promises action.
And eventually, the file grows quiet.
This tragedy must not follow that familiar path.
The investigation must determine not only how the fire started, but why the system failed to stop a potentially manageable equipment failure from becoming a catastrophe.
Every hospital in Pakistan, particularly neonatal units, maternity wards, ICUs and operating theatres, should now undergo a genuine safety audit.
Not a paper exercise.
Not another certificate.
A real test of whether the system can protect life when seconds matter.
We often say that angels descend from heaven.
But today our hearts ask a more painful question:
Why did our angels come down with their wings burnt?
Perhaps the problem is not with heaven.
Perhaps we have allowed the skies above our institutions to fill with the smoke of negligence, indifference and forgotten responsibility.
These children cannot return.
Their parents will carry their absence forever.
But their deaths can still become a turning point.
We owe these little souls more than tears, condolences and inquiries.
They were flowers that never got the chance to bloom. The least we owe them is to ensure that their deaths become a turning point—that no other child is ever denied the chance to live, grow and bloom because someone failed to perform a responsibility that could have saved a life.
Otherwise, we may continue to watch angels descend from our skies
but with their wings burnt before they ever reach the earth.
