Manama: In these past few weeks, I have come to know Salmaniya Medical Complex all too well. It is the largest hospital in this troubled city, and the largest in this troubled island nation.

It is where the injured are brought for treatment, where staff work miracles, where doctors put the shattered back together again with grace and professionalism.

Whenever trouble occurs — and there has been a lot here — ambulances pour in, nurses run with trollies.

The reception area has been transformed into a triage centre, arriving patients are quickly assessed by a primary doctor who pins coloured coded cards on the chests of the injured and yells "trauma" or "surgery" or "emergency."

It is she — and the times I have been here is inevitably a woman — who takes this role, making split second judgements and treatment options then. Nurses then take the patient to the respective area for treatment.

Yesterday morning, I went through four checkpoints on the way to Salmaniya from the hotel that I also know too well here over these past few weeks.

Everywhere, soldiers clutching M16 automatic rifles stood guard, others in Humvees with machine guns trained stood guard, while police offices in blue fatigues carried tear gas dispensers, rubber bullet guns and shotguns.

Because traffic was so bad and my trusted driver knows my habits well enough, I got out in a traffic jam to walk to the entrance. He would pick me up later at an appointed time and place.

The main entrance gate was barred with a heavy security presence there. I tried to get through, flashing my passport and ID, but was rebuked at rifle point, and diverted to Gate 5. It was an extra 300 metres so I decided to walk. Looking down at the footpath, I noticed rubber bullet rounds and a turquoise spent shotgun cartridge, I picked that up.

When I had been to the hospital on Tuesday, there were triage tents, trolleys, anti-government protest tents covering near this area. All were gone.

Instead, there were two distinct groups — one of 30 or so men, mostly young, their hands tied with plastic binders, and the second of 20 or so women, also young, tied and detained.

Inside, I spoke at length to one doctor. I cannot name the doctor, but the doctor is one of the bravest people I have ever met in my 50 years of walking this earth. And the doctor is one of the few people that has brought me to tears in this job.

Comatose

I was shown one man, lying comatose in a bed, who was suffering from renal failure. If 25-year-old Hussain Nooh makes it through this day, he will never see another day. He is blind now in both eyes, having been hit by pellets.

I walk past the line of staff lining up to leave, making my way to the exit where the armed police are checking papers. I walk past but am summoned back and told to assume the frisking position — legs apart, arms held wide. The corporal checks everything. And then he finds it. That turquoise spent shotgun cartridge. (How stupid of me!)

I am brought to another officer. Questioned. "A souvenir," I say, not making much of an impression. I am pushed, my passport taken, pushed over to a police vehicle. A more senior officer inside questions me. "I picked it off the street," I answer.

"Why you want it?"

"A souvenir," I answer sheepishly, beginning to realise that this simple act could land me in serious trouble. "No souvenirs here," he says, finally releasing me.

He's right. My memories will be of Hussain Nooh who will never see again.