BANDAR ABBAS – Social media had shown a disturbing, almost surreal scene at the Shahid Rajaee section of Bandar Abbas port. The photos and videos circulating from news sources on April 26th were hard to truly grasp. Five days later, seeing the wreckage in person was even more harrowing.

The drive from the city center took about an hour, and the oppressive heat and humidity typical of southern Iran seemed to intensify as we approached the coast.

Cars weren't allowed anywhere near the blast site. After a short walk, we were close enough to see the destruction. A local journalist pointed to a field roughly a kilometer away where cars had been parked. Even from that distance, the impact of the explosion was clear: roofs buckled inwards, windshields shattered into dust, interiors mangled. As we got closer, we saw a man sifting through the debris before pulling up a piece of a side window. He inspected it and said to someone nearby, "I think this is from my car." As we left the port, he was still searching, seemingly unable to find anything else recognizable.

The epicenter of the blast wasn't a point, but a zone: a 4000 square meter area ripped apart and burnt. Shipping containers lay scattered like discarded toys. Trucks were reduced to charred husks, and the storage areas were nothing but twisted metal frames. We pulled on our masks as we approached. While the smoke had mostly cleared compared to the images I’d seen online, the scene was no less horrifying. Firefighters and aid workers were only just beginning to take in the full extent of the damage, and by their own accounts, it was an almost incomprehensible tragedy.

"The firestorm after the blast was the worst our country has ever seen," said Mohammad Nazari, a firefighter who had been on the scene from the very beginning. "Globally, I'd say the scale probably ranks in the top five."

Nazari and his crew had been dispatched from the east side of Bandar Abbas to the western coast, arriving among the first responders. "I've been a firefighter for 13 years. I've seen a lot of terrible things in that time. But what I saw that day was unlike anything I'd ever experienced," he said. "When we arrived, we were met by a mass of traumatized people fleeing in terror and confusion. Some were unclothed as their garments had burned away. I saw a man hopping on one foot, having lost the other. Another had lost a hand. And there were people whose skin was hanging off from severe burns."

For the first few hours, local firefighters battled the blaze alone before reinforcements arrived from other provinces. Qodratollah Mohammadi, the nation's top fire official, personally took command. While military helicopters and planes assisted by dropping water and fire retardant, the brunt of the work still fell to the firefighters. Many shipping containers were smoldering internally, and while the aerial water drops helped to cool the area, firefighters had to painstakingly dig through each container to extinguish the remaining flames.

Nazari and his team had barely slept in the past 90 hours. Yet, looking at their faces inside the large makeshift resting tent, exhaustion wasn't the first thing I noticed. Instead, I saw a mix of weariness, resolve, and even a quiet sense of accomplishment. "I think the firefighters went above and beyond," another firefighter on the scene remarked. “We've been going flat out for days, doing all we could to get the situation under control as fast as possible. We couldn't save everyone, and that's something we'll carry with us. But we saved so many lives by acting fast. While the loss of life weighs heavy on us, we can honestly say we did everything in our power for our people."

‘Artesh sacrificed for the nation’

Managing a crisis like the one in Bandar Abbas requires a two-pronged approach. First, containment: ensuring the fire doesn't spread, extinguishing existing flames, and preventing further explosions. Second, rescue: doing absolutely everything possible to save those found alive in the affected area.

The exact number of fatalities from last Saturday's tragedy remains unknown. However, the number of injured is confirmed to be over 1,000.

Shortly after the fire erupted, teams from the Iranian Red Crescent Society began searching for survivors. Aid workers, along with ambulances from the city's hospitals, rushed the injured to medical care. The Seyed Al-Shohada Hospital, a medical facility run by Iran's Artesh (Army) Navy, became a primary center for immediate treatment.

As the closest hospital to the Shaheed Rajaee port, the Seyed Al-Shohada – a recently opened facility built with the latest technology and safety features – received around 280 patients that night, many suffering the most severe injuries.

I managed to visit the hospital six days after the incident, by which point the immediate crisis had passed. Inside a conference room, the hospital's chief was thanking the first responders for their tireless efforts. They'd gathered there, the people who had worked those critical first 48 hours to rescue the injured.

Dr. Ali Hossein Abafat was one of them. He'd retired two years earlier, after a 30-year career. But the night of the blast, he'd driven to the Seyed Al-Shohada, uncalled. "The instant I knew what happened, I didn't think twice," he told me later. "All that mattered was helping those who were hurt. The scenes that night... the only thing I can compare it to is the Bam earthquake, back in '03."

I found myself more emotionally affected at the hospital than I had been at the blast site. The doctors and nurses I spoke with were just as weary as the firefighters I'd met earlier. Their descriptions of the patients' conditions were stark and visceral, and they shared the same fierce determination as the firemen. But there was also a sense of relief about them, perhaps because their direct battle with the immediate crisis was over, while the firefighters were still actively working the scene.

Because the hospital was a military facility, everyone I spoke with held a military rank, despite lacking formal military training. But the way they spoke about their community and their sense of duty to alleviate the suffering resonated with the same dedication you'd expect from a soldier describing a mission.

"Every Arteshi (member of Iran's Army) is taught that the Artesh must sacrifice itself for the people. Everyone who worked here that night truly embodied that," said Dr. Ali Naseri, the hospital's ER doctor and pharmacist. "The first wave of patients arrived just 30 minutes after the incident. Our hospital has around 180 beds, but that night, we received far more. We utilized every single unit of the facility." He went on to explain the staffing situation that night. "Of course, we have a 'crisis code' that goes out in situations like this, calling all medical personnel to the hospital as quickly as possible. But that night, literally everyone was here. Even the hospital cooks helped move patients, and naval forces themselves came over to assist wherever they could.” Dr. Naseri told me he felt like he had completed the mission he had as a doctor. 

Marine units were also instrumental in maintaining order at the hospital, helping distraught family and friends locate their loved ones. A large area, roughly 200 square meters, was set up in the hospital's courtyard, providing chairs, rest areas, and food for those who had gathered there. The Navy even opened its dormitories to some of the families for overnight stays. All hospital and Navy services were provided to patients and their families free of charge, at the order of the Navy’s Commander, Rear Admiral Shahram Irani. 

"The words that come to mind are 'graceful' and 'honorable'," one patient told me. "Everything the hospital and the Navy did that night was done in a way that respected people's dignity." He had been in a building close to the blast site when the explosion occurred. An employee of an Iranian oil company, he had travelled to southern Iran from Tehran on assignment. His face and head were heavily bandaged. I chose not to disclose his name, as he explained that he hadn't told his family the full extent of his injuries.

The people’s response

When a tragedy strikes, as it did in Iran last week, everyday citizens aren't usually the ones responsible for picking up the pieces. Around the world, people might share social media posts and offer condolences – there's often a feeling that little else can be done. But in Iran, the last thing anyone could do was stand idly by.

During my hours at Seyed al-Shohada Hospital, I met a family of three – a man, a woman, and their young daughter. They'd come bearing gifts: clothes, underwear, shoes, and even carrot juice. They moved through the wards, handing out the items to patients and offering their phone number in case anyone needed anything else.

They explained that many of the patients were likely workers from distant provinces. Stranded hundreds of kilometers from their families, they lacked access to basic necessities. "It's important to be here, to talk to them, to show them we care. Being so far from their loved ones, they need emotional support just as much as practical help," the man said. I learned that this family was one of at least twenty others who had independently organized themselves to visit hospitals across Bandar Abbas, providing aid at their own expense.

Another example of Iranian unity and compassion was the surge in blood donations. Across the country, from Azerbaijan to Kurdistan, Tehran to Esfahan, Khorasan to Sistan and Baluchestan, blood donations jumped by 400% on the day of the explosion, according to Dr. Elham Charsi Zadeh, the technical director at Hormozgan's blood transfusion center.

"While people nationwide offered to donate blood for those affected, we actually didn't need to receive shipments from other provinces," she explained. "So many people visited our facility to donate that we collected more than enough blood." Because blood can only be stored for a maximum of 35 days, the center had to ask some donors to return at a later date, ensuring an adequate supply for patients needing blood during surgeries. "Thousands came to us that day. Of course, this wasn't new. Every time something like this happens – an explosion, a fire, an earthquake, any tragedy – people across the country rush to donate blood, often before we even have time to issue a public appeal."

The fire and explosion that ripped through Bandar Abbas was a brutal tragedy. It didn’t just claim lives, it shook a nation to its core. As I stood amid the wreckage and listened to survivors' stories, the weight of loss felt almost unbearable. Yet in that darkness, I witnessed something extraordinary: Everyone was exhausted, everyone was grieving - but no one stopped. In the face of unimaginable tragedy, Iran shows what unity and resilience truly look like.