Hero Nurse Razia Noreen: The Day She Saved One Baby from a Fiery Tragedy

It was just before dawn on August 26, 2026, when the quiet of the Pakistan Institute of Medical Sciences (PIMS) in Islamabad was ripped apart by a sudden, blinding flash of red light. Razia Noreen, a staff nurse, was standing two doors away from the neonatal ward, closing a medicine cupboard, when the glare cut through the glass and made her heart jump.

She didn’t have time to think, to wonder what the light meant. The next thing she heard was her colleague, Sister Nasreen, shouting, “Fire! Save the babies!” In a rush that felt like it lasted forever and only a heartbeat, Razia sprinted toward the nursery.

The security cameras, later examined by a government inquiry, recorded that she entered the ward at 6:38 a.m. and emerged with a baby in her arms at 6:38 a.m. and 8 seconds later. By the time she tried to step back inside, a wall of black smoke was already swallowing the room, and at 6:40 a.m. the cameras could see nothing at all.

Inside, the air‑conditioning unit was erupting in flames, the source of the searing heat that quickly turned the nursery into an inferno. Razia grabbed the nearest infant—there was no chance to choose among the fifteen newborns she was caring for. She handed the trembling baby to Dr. Abdul Rehman, who had just finished inserting a feeding tube in the adjacent room. The doctor’s quick hands took the infant to the neonatal intensive care unit, where a flicker of life survived the disaster.

All the other fourteen babies perished.

After the fire, Razia was invited to meet Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif. He handed her a medal for bravery, a gesture that felt both an honor and a painful reminder of the lives lost. “I could not save the rest,” she said, her voice cracking, “and that stays with me every day.”

In the days that followed, she recounted the chaotic moments: rescuers had to smash a concrete grill and a window just to get into the ward; the power cut out, plunging everything into darkness; and the smoke became so thick that even the bravest staff could not push forward. Her own mobile phone, left on the medication table, was found smoldering the next afternoon, its case blackened and cracked.

“A nurse is the first mother to a newborn when the real mother is not there,” Razia explained, pausing as if choosing her words carefully. “We watch their breathing, we check their oxygen, we feed them every few hours. If we’re not there, who else is?”

Razia’s story is also a personal one. She grew up in Sahiwal, Punjab, one of seven children. Her father, a pastor, died when she was in eighth grade; two of her sisters have also passed away. She entered nursing at seventeen, trained in Karachi, and moved to PIMS in 2009. She has spent 21 years in government nursing, most of it at the same hospital, and has never married. Her mother, now 83, lives in Lahore, hard of hearing but still a steady presence in her life.

During the fire, Razia’s niece was staying with her in the staff hostel. When the warden found the niece the next day, she was the one who relayed the news to the family in Lahore: “She’s safe, but there’s been a tragedy.” The niece’s presence turned a moment of isolation into a small, vital lifeline.

Later investigations by a joint committee concluded that the exact cause of the blaze was still uncertain—possible culprits included the air‑conditioning unit, an incubator, or an electrical short circuit. What was clear, however, was that the frontline staff did not abandon the babies; they fought as hard as they could against an impossible situation.

Razia now stands in a modest office beside the hostel warden’s room, still wearing the pale pink shalwar kameez she chose that morning, her dupatta draped loosely over one shoulder. “I’m very happy with the children I could save,” she says, a faint smile breaking through the grief. “But every night I think about the fourteen who didn’t make it. It’s a weight I carry.”

The tragedy has sparked a national conversation about hospital safety, electrical standards, and the emotional toll on healthcare workers. For Razia, the memory is a wound that may never fully heal, yet she continues to return to the neonatal ward every day, checking each tiny heartbeat as if to reassure herself that, at least this time, she can protect them.