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Amid the grapevines that once provided a steady income for her family, 56-year-old Palestinian farmer Theeba al-Sabaa spends much of her day guarding her home and farmland in the occupied West Bank from settlers.

From dusk till dawn, she works on her land in the town of Beit Ummar, north of Hebron, known by locals as “Jabal Sabaa”.

Theeba is engaged in a daily battle against the encroaching settler outposts that have emerged among the rolling hills that surround her, and which block access to sections of her land.

“By God, the land has taught me patience, and to cling to my right, for as long as I have a right, I must take it and never let it go,” she told Al Jazeera.

“I will never leave it because I worked hard on it, I toil and sweat on it, so I will not leave my toil and sweat, or the toil of my children and my husband, to go to someone else.”

Weaponising livestock

Since mid-2024, when settlers established new outposts on the nearby hills, every one of Theeba’s moves has been monitored.

Settlers frequently approach the perimeter of her home and deliberately release livestock into the cultivated fields.

“They enter with their sheep into our land after we plow and fix it, grazing in it, trampling the crops, and stomping on them with their sheep, leaving nothing,” Theeba said.

“As soon as they feel any movement or anyone entering the land, you find them attacking us immediately.”

This intimidation extends to the adjacent fields, where 59-year-old Anwar Sabarneh lives with his extended family of seven brothers.

Due to the repeated settler violations, two of his brothers have been forced to abandon their land.

Sabarneh, who supports a family of 14, owns several dunams of vineyards located just 300 metres (980 feet) from his home. With aggressive settlers around, reaching them has become a dangerous ordeal.

Military complicity

Sabarneh said that the Israeli army even demands permits from Palestinians to work on their own land.

“The army came with the settlers to ask me for a permit so I can work in my home, in front of my house’s door, and on my land where I am the rightful owner,” Sabarneh said.

Farmers are also barred from building anything on their land. Sabarneh’s sheep have also been locked in a barn for over eight months due to the dangers posed by settlers.

“If they see me taking the sheep out, the settlers chase me, kidnap them, and steal them,” he said.

When Sabarneh’s children have tried to retrieve their stolen sheep, Israeli soldiers have arrested and beaten them.

A forced exodus

Repeated pogroms by settlers against Palestinian farmers reflect a broader strategy targeting agriculture across the southern West Bank.

Settlers and the Israeli troops carried out 11,074 attacks in the West Bank during the first half of 2026, according to the Colonization and Wall Resistance Commission. This includes 3,488 carried out by settlers.

Hasan Breijieh, a settlement affairs expert and director at the commission, told Al Jazeera that continuous settlement expansionism, alongside restrictions on Palestinian movement, are the primary reasons that so many Palestinians have been forced to flee their farms.

“Military gates erected at the entrances of Palestinian communities have tightened control over…  access to their orchards and vineyards,” he said.

Bypass roads, built by Israel, have also hindered “connectivity between Palestinian communities”, Breijieh said.

Under such restrictions, Palestinian farmers have faced a fourth consecutive season without being able to harvest olives, grapes, or guava. Their lands have been “neither plowed nor pruned”, and have been forcibly abandoned.

In the face of such oppression, Palestinian women like Theeba al-Sabaa have continued to play a pivotal role in protecting their land, particularly when men have been killed or detained by Israeli forces.

“They continue to maintain their leadership role in preserving the family’s agricultural legacy today,” Breijieh said. “This land was historically the primary source of livelihood for families, and a Palestinian cannot leave it voluntarily, no matter the sacrifices.”

He recalled his own grandfather, who went to his fields to bid farewell before dying. “Goodbye, vineyard,” he said to his land.

Inclusion matters

The association uses its website, email lists, newsletters and neighbourhood flyers, and it enlists volunteers who walk around to make sure residents know about upcoming events. The association also has a welcome wagon to greet new neighbours and tell them what’s happening.

Kathi Eckert, a retired teacher who has lived in Hiltonia for more than 10 years, said personal contact still matters. Wearing a grey 250th-anniversary T-shirt and baseball hat, she chatted with people around the lawn before settling in with the group gathered along the street.

“We are so inundated with media, emails, ‘noise’ that it is hard to focus on what’s going on in our little world. A personal ‘reaching out’ to someone is so much more meaningful than just sticking a flyer in their screen door,” said Eckert, who informally lets neighbours know about upcoming events. “It’s not always possible, but we try.”

Even with those efforts, reaching people who are not already involved can be a challenge. Eckert said some neighbours may hesitate to attend because they assume the group is already well-established.

“We do tend to see a lot of the same people here, because I think we all have that same intent to keep community,” Eckert said. “But I have also heard that some people won’t come because they think we’re a clique. We’re not a clique unless we exclude people, and we don’t do that. We open this to everybody.”

The challenge is not only getting people through the door but creating the conditions for them to feel they belong once they arrive. For Reese, inclusivity means thinking beyond who is invited to how you’ve curated the space for the people who are there.

“If you are trying to host a gathering with the intent of getting a wide variety of people, some folks are going to have a question of, am I going to be safe there? And have you done your due diligence to make sure that I am?” she said. “These things don’t just happen, and I do think that we are in a moment where intentionality feels even more important.”

To create a space where people feel welcome and able to participate, Community Plate works to remove economic and other barriers. Guests can share a story or listen, bring a dish, buy something simple, or just come and eat. Organisers also encourage people to take leftovers home for themselves or neighbours who could use a meal. Their toolkit outlines ways to make community meals more accessible.

“We do our best to meet people where they are,” said Schatz.

But even the most intentional gatherings won’t work for everyone. Carter Florence, vice president of programmes at Meals on Wheels America, said there’s “no one silver bullet” when it comes to creating social ties. Through community dining and home-delivered meals, her organisation uses food as an entry point for social support, helping to build relationships and reduce isolation.

“For some people, the idea of eating with a group of people they may not know is actually really uncomfortable, and that wouldn’t be a very positive situation,” she said. “But the idea of someone that I’ve maybe seen periodically coming by and delivering a meal may be more beneficial.”

The individual nature of connection is what makes scaling these programmes complex. “You really want to be able to offer the type of connection that’s going to be most beneficial” for each person, Florence explained.

The idea has also made its way into policy. A report by the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development, published in July, highlighted how food-based activities are appearing in national and local strategies to strengthen social ties.

The report shows, for example, how Japan’s national loneliness plan includes community cafes and meal-delivery programmes. Seoul has introduced convenience stores where residents can prepare and share meals alongside accessing other forms of support. Several European countries have also backed communal-eating initiatives. The programmes differ, but they reflect a recognition that food can function not only as nutrition but also as a way to create social connections.

Back in Hiltonia, by early evening, people were folding up their chairs and packing the remains of their dishes to take home. The community’s next gathering was already planned for August: a National Night Out, where neighbours would block off the street and share another potluck.

Green and Kroon stayed until the end, helping clean up before leaving about 7pm. While at the event, their next-door neighbours introduced them to a couple who recently moved into the area. The two couples chatted about life in Hiltonia and the house the newcomers were moving into. Green and Kroon hope to get to know their new neighbours better and plan to visit them once they have finished unpacking.

It was a small example of what organisers hoped the potluck would accomplish: turning neighbours who might otherwise remain strangers into people with a reason to meet again.

While they are still building relationships in the area, Kroon said they have made some close friends here.

“It’s hard to start forming these things,” she said. “But if there’s already something established that you can show up to, it’s a lot easier.”

Gaza City — Whenever Mervat Radwan hears the community kitchen in her displacement camp will serve lunch that day, she breathes a sigh of relief.

She takes a cooking pot and walks to the community kitchen with her nephew, six-year-old Ubay.

The meal is rarely enough for the seven people in her household, so she has to supplement it with whatever else she can find. A can of tuna, beans or peas from an aid parcel can help make the meal stretch further.

“Sometimes they give us a cooked meal, but it isn’t enough for seven people, so I try to find something besides it,” she told Al Jazeera.

Community kitchens are a vital source of food for families with little or no income in Gaza, but their operations have fluctuated sharply in recent months.

The kitchen near Radwan’s displacement site was closed for almost two months before resuming services for just two days a week.

Daily production in Gaza fell from about 1.5 million meals via 165 kitchens in mid-March to 698,000 served by 102 kitchens by July, according to the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs.

This substantial reduction in the number of community kitchens operating in the Gaza Strip and the meals they serve has been attributed to severe funding shortages and rising operational costs, with charities facing difficulties securing sufficient food or cooking supplies.

Tinned food and charity

Radwan, 45, became the guardian of her three nephews when an Israeli air attack in northern Gaza on October 18, 2024, killed her 38-year-old brother Mohammad and his wife, Anwar, 33, and their one-year-old son, Yosuf.

Their three other children survived, but Nayef, now 14 years old, had shrapnel lodged in his head; Habib, 11, suffered burns to his body, while Ubay, who is now aged four, had also sustained severe burns.

For the past nine months, they have lived in a tent in Deir el-Balah with Radwan, her 70-year-old father, and her 40-year-old sister, Sanaa.

None of the carers has a regular source of income, so they are reliant on aid and charity to make it through to the next day.

The children have been left psychologically scarred by the loss of their parents, and their frail state is compounded by the family’s inability to source the basic necessities for existence, including food.

“It’s not just about taking them in; there is a lot of responsibility … food, drink, expenses, everything they need,” Radwan said.

When food is scarce, the adults skip meals so the children have enough to eat.

“My elderly father won’t eat until he knows his grandchildren have had enough … Maybe this is the most we can do in these difficult circumstances,” Radwan said.

Meat is an unaffordable luxury, and even fresh vegetables are difficult to find due to their scarcity and high costs. Some organisations operating in Gaza occasionally distribute vegetables, but their supply is sporadic.

For little Habib, his recovery relies on the food he eats, with a doctor telling Radwan that he must drink water frequently and eat foods with high water content, such as cucumbers, regularly.

But 1kg of cucumbers costs about 15 shekels ($4.50) and tomatoes cost 10 to 12 shekels ($3-3.60), prices the family can barely afford.

“If Ubay wants cucumbers, and the children like cucumbers, I buy three cucumbers, that’s it,” she says.

The World Food Programme said in July that even when there was food in markets, many households in Gaza struggled to source fresh vegetables, fruit and protein due to high prices.

About 77 percent of households in Gaza reported difficulties in this area, because their limited incomes were not enough to secure these costly staples.

The family’s limited diet is now affecting the children’s health. Habib has been suffering from kidney stones for about a year, which doctors said is due to his diet that is high in salt and almost completely based on canned goods.

Changing Habib’s diet is difficult when fresh food items are expensive and aid supplies, which the family relies on, consist mostly of tins of food.

For families like the Radwans, food assistance from charities helps them live another day, but a lack of diversity in their diets is costing them their health.

The United Nations General Assembly has voted to back a resolution spearheaded by several African countries to adopt a map that shows the continent as much bigger than it is on conventional world maps.

On Friday, the resolution aimed at “a more accurate representation” of continental landmasses on the globe was supported by 164 countries, while the United States voted against it and six other states abstained.

The new map – known as the Equal Earth cartographic projection – “is a relevant option for improving the accuracy of the cartographic representation of the world”, the resolution stated.

Foreign Minister Robert Dussey of Togo, which drove the resolution, said maps “guide education, nourish the imagination, and influence collective perceptions”.

“The resolution adopted today reaffirms African reality,” he added.

But how does the new map differ from the traditional version, and why did the US object?

What has the UN decided?

The UN has urged member states to adopt a new map in place of the centuries-old, traditional Mercator projection, which was designed for maritime navigation by Flemish cartographer Gerardus Mercator in 1569.

That projection focused on accurate depictions of the shapes and angles of land masses, but their relative sizes were often inaccurate – in part because of the challenge of rendering a three-dimensional globe onto a two-dimensional surface.

It inflated northern regions and compressed equatorial ones, making Europe and North America appear much larger, while shrinking Africa and South America.

How big are Africa, Latin America, South Asia and Oceania?

It does not look like it on the conventional Mercator map, but Africa is a giant among the world’s continents at about 30.3 million square kilometres (11.7 million square miles).

It is large enough to contain the US, China, India and most of Europe, yet on a Mercator map it looks roughly the same size as Greenland, which is actually about 14 times smaller than the continent.

Latin America covers roughly 20 million sq km (7.7 million sq miles), of which South America accounts for 17.8 million sq km (6.9 million sq miles).

Oceania spans about 8.5 million sq km (3.3 million sq miles), almost all of it Australia.

South Asia is the smallest of the four at about 5.1 million sq km (2 million sq miles), though it is home to about a quarter of the world’s population.

Combined, the four cover about 64 million sq km (24.7 million sq miles), more than 40 percent of the world’s land surface.

Europe, by comparison, is 10.2 million sq km (3.9 million sq miles).

What has the response to the change of maps been?

Largely positive.

France, which co-sponsored the resolution in support of the new map, announced on Friday that it would abandon the Mercator projection.

In that map, “the United States, Russia and China take on a disproportionate visual prominence compared to Africa, Latin America or Southeast Asia”, while “Greenland appears almost as big as Africa,” Foreign Minister Jean-Noel Barrot said.

“Changing maps obviously doesn’t change the world,” he added. “But correcting a distorted representation is already an act of truth.”

Only the US voted against it, while six other countries – Serbia, Estonia, Georgia, Lithuania, Moldova and Ukraine – abstained.

US representative Yaryna Ferencevych said before the vote that the resolution is “the reason this institution is losing its credibility”.

“Instead of focusing on genuine problems … this body is debating map projects from the 16th century,” she said.

What is Equal Earth?

Equal Earth was launched in 2018 by three cartographers – Bojan Savric of the Environmental Systems Research Institute, Tom Patterson of the US National Park Service, and Bernhard Jenny of Monash University.

“Equal Earth preserves the relative surface areas of continents and, as much as possible, shows their shapes as they appear on a globe,” Savric told the AFP news agency in 2025.

The UN resolution encourages governments and institutions worldwide to adopt the Equal Earth projection.

Will the world map actually change?

Friday’s resolution is not binding, but is intended to encourage changes to maps used by default around the world.

The UN said in its report that it is not banning the Mercator projection or imposing a replacement, but is merely encouraging the use of the Equal Earth projection.

Betting on the experience

Investors, however, are more bullish on the eatertainment model than they are on traditional restaurants, Camillo says.

“A padel [another racket sport rising in popularity] court or a bowling lane is a much more durable, less trend-driven revenue stream than a dining room seat, and it comes with better real estate economics. It’s not competing purely on per-seat turns. F&B just juices the model on top of that.”

Private equity isn’t just investing in dine-in pickleball concepts because the sport is popular among Americans. Landlords are eager to lease to pickleball concepts for multiple reasons. Large indoor pickleball facilities can absorb anywhere from 30,000sq ft (2,800sq metres) to 70,000sq ft (6,500sq metres), giving new leases of life to former sites of shuttered big-box retail stores, department stores and grocery stores. Look at where many of these pickleball venues are located on a map, and you’ll see that they frequently correlate with suburban developments needing traffic.

Pickleball is “a draw for strip centres and malls as well as it brings in traffic where people will shop and eat after they are finished”, says Jeff Lichtenstein, CEO and broker at Echo Commercial Properties. “In South Florida, there is a lot of demand for this, especially in the summertime or when it rains as the country clubs and other communities don’t have indoor facilities. People need AC to play in the summer.”

In other words, investors aren’t simply betting on pickleball remaining popular. They’re betting that these venues can generate recurring revenue while helping revive struggling retail corridors. The business appeals to landlords and investors for the same reason it appeals to customers: It keeps people in one place longer.

For consumers, that extra time translates into something that has become increasingly difficult to find in the restaurant industry: value. Indeed, when dinner is paired with a fun activity, patrons are happier to hand over their credit card: 21 percent of Americans said they were willing to pay more at an eatertainment venue than at a traditional restaurant, according to a 2019 study conducted by SevenRooms, a data-driven hospitality platform.

“These eatertainment venues, pickleball or otherwise, are very popular now as people look for greater value when dining out,” says Maeve Webster, president of the food industry consultancy Menu Matters.

“Restaurants have been struggling with prices, quality, consistency and, as a result, their value proposition,” Webster added. “Places like this offer guests more than just a meal, which makes for a far greater value proposition. And all of this is coming at a time when people are placing a far greater emphasis on experiences and human connections.”

Increasingly, meeting up has become about more than just eating and drinking; people want to do something together. OpenTable, an online platform for learning about restaurants and booking reservations, reports a 46 percent year-over-year rise in experiential dining from 2024 to 2025, with 37 percent of consumers saying they wanted more of it in 2026.

The Physical Activity Council, which conducts an annual study to establish levels of personal activity and identify key trends in sports, fitness and recreational participation in the US, estimates that since 2020, the number of “inactive” Americans has dropped by 13.6 million, or 18 percent.

Those changing habits have helped eatertainment concepts attract private equity interest. But these firms must ensure return on their investment, which has increasingly taken the form of private corporate events and membership models. Monthly membership fees at the nation’s most popular dine-in pickleball venues range from $75 to $149 a month but include perks like food and beverage discounts and dedicated court times.

“From a recurring revenue perspective, when you make it a subscription, the business can forecast revenue more accurately,” Bhasin says. “They’re not making margin off the superusers. The users who only come in every couple weeks are where they make their margin.”

We’ve seen the recurring membership model become standard at country clubs, golf courses and bowling leagues. The more successful these businesses become financially, the more exclusive they risk becoming socially.

Bhasin hopes pickleball club operators can find ways to preserve affordability.

“My request to private equity companies is: Can we find a way to offer deals?” Bhasin says. “It’s meant to be a ubiquitous experience, but the prices are a barrier to entry.”

Still, a dine-in pickleball venue membership is much more affordable for the average American than, say, a country club, where monthly dues can range from a few hundred dollars to $2,000 on top of a hefty initiation fee.

Electric Pickle offers free court reservations every day until 4pm from June through August. The promotion makes the experience more affordable, but it’s also smart business strategy. If most guests visit in the evening, free daytime court reservations may generate food and beverage sales that otherwise wouldn’t exist.

Islamabad, Pakistan – Staff nurse Razia Noreen was at a medicine cupboard on the nursery ward of the Pakistan Institute of Medical Sciences (PIMS), Islamabad’s largest public-sector hospital. She was two doors from the babies in her care, preparing the morning’s injections.

As she shut the cupboard door, she saw through the nursery’s glass panel a light too sharp and too red to be anything ordinary. She did not wait to understand what it was.

It was 6:38am on Wednesday, August 26. Elsewhere in the ward, her colleague, Sister Nasreen, was already running out, shouting for help.

At 56 seconds past 6:38am, according to security camera timestamps later logged by a government inquiry committee, Noreen rushed into the nursery.

Eight seconds later, she emerged carrying a baby. She tried to go back in. She could not. By 6:40am, the room was gone, swallowed by smoke so thick that the security cameras could no longer see through it.

Noreen was recalling this eight days later, in a plain office beside the hostel warden’s room at PIMS, dressed in a pale pink shalwar kameez, her dupatta loose over one shoulder.

“There was a proper blast,” she told Al Jazeera. “Everything turned to smoke.”

Fifteen newborns had been in that nursery. Fourteen died. The baby Noreen carried out was the only one who lived.

On Thursday, Noreen was given an award by Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif for her courage. But for the nurse, the trauma of that Wednesday morning was still raw.

Barely two hours after meeting the prime minister, she sat down and talked, at length, about what happened inside.

‘Save the babies’

Noreen had been on duty since 8pm the previous night, working a routine dawn medication round with Sister Nasreen, with less than two hours left before the end of her shift.

When she saw the light through the nursery glass, she says she did not stop to work out what it was.

“I just told my sister nurse, save the babies,” she told Al Jazeera. “I went in. I didn’t think about what would happen next.”

Noreen said the fire was coming out of the side of the air-conditioning unit facing her.

“The AC was right in front of me, and the fire was coming out of its side,” she said. “We don’t know what was happening behind it. That’s just what I saw.”

The government’s interim inquiry, submitted on August 28, states that the precise cause of the fire “is not yet conclusively established”, with evidence pointing variously to the air conditioner, an incubator or an electrical short circuit.

Inside the nursery, Noreen reached the nearest baby. There was no time to choose between 15. She carried the infant out and handed her to Dr Abdul Rehman, a doctor who had been inserting a feeding tube in the next room and emerged into the corridor moments after her. Then she turned back.

“I thought I’d get five, six, seven, eight more of them out,” she said. “But the fire was moving faster than I was.”

A second doctor, Dr Rimsha, who had been doing rounds nearby and saw the same light Noreen had, followed her in.

The two of them, and later Sister Nasreen, tried to crawl back through the smoke below the worst of the heat. A sudden loss of power plunged the room into darkness. They could not get through.

Noreen’s phone, left behind on the medication table when she ran in, sat inside the burned ward overnight. Hospital guards found it and returned it to her the next afternoon. Its case is still scorched and cracked.

Noreen, Dr Rimsha and Sister Nasreen instead moved to where a separate rescue team was lowering babies from an adjoining gynaecology ward. They stood there catching newborns and running them to the neonatal intensive care unit until the smoke became too thick to remain.

The government’s inquiry later found that the available evidence “does not support generalised allegations that front-line medical and nursing staff simply abandoned the newborns”.

Ask Noreen what a nurse is to a newborn separated from its mother, and she has one answer: its first mother.

“A mother who gives birth endures a pain no one else can stand in for,” she said. “But once a baby is in our hands, no one else is watching over it the way we are, checking their oxygen, their feeding, whether they’re breathing right, every two hours, whatever else is happening around us. That is why we are their first mother.”

‘I am very happy with the children’

Noreen, 38, has spent 21 years in government nursing, the last 17 of them at PIMS. She trained in Karachi right after school, at the age of 17, before a transfer brought her to PIMS in 2009. She has never married.

“Thank God, I am very happy with the children,” she said, when asked about it directly.

Born in Punjab’s city of Sahiwal, she was one of seven children. Her father, Victor John, was a pastor; he died when she was in the eighth grade. Two of her sisters have died; a third, also a nurse, lives in Lahore.

Her mother, 83, a retired government school teacher who is hard of hearing, lives in Lahore with one of Noreen’s brothers.

Noreen herself has lived in the PIMS staff hostel, across from the ward where she works, for most of the past two decades.

With her own phone trapped inside the burning ward, Noreen could not call her family herself.

Noreen’s niece happened to be staying with her that week. It was the niece the warden found, and who got word to the family in Lahore: Noreen was safe.

‘It’s always the two of us’

On the morning of the fire, Noreen and Sister Nasreen were the only two nurses on duty in a nursery holding 15 babies, backed by two doctors, one of them two rooms away. She says it was not an unusual night.

“Sometimes there are 20 babies, sometimes 25,” she said. “It’s always the two of us.”

Doctors on her ward work 36-hour shifts, she said, arriving at 8am and going off duty at 2pm the following day.

Handover between nursing shifts, checking each baby’s medication, feeding and vital signs, takes roughly 45 minutes given the numbers involved. The cost of drugs can also run to tens of thousands of Pakistani rupees per injection, all provided by PIMS to its patients.

“Sometimes we get a break, sometimes we don’t,” she said. “When the workload is heavy, even the water we carry with us goes back home untouched.”

No fire drill had been run in the nursery before August 26, not even after an earlier fire at a nearby PIMS hostel in July.

Asked what is required after an incident like this, she does not hesitate.

“We should all have proper drills. If a fire starts, everyone needs to already know what to do.”

She lists what should follow: extinguishers within reach, cross-ventilation to clear smoke, and a rehearsed evacuation route for babies who cannot walk or call out for help.

‘Golden letters in history’

Until the fire, almost nobody outside her own ward knew her name, Noreen says.

“I have almost no presence in the main hospital,” she said. “Nobody there knows who I am. I work in the nursery, in my own department. I never imagined that saving one baby would take me this far.”

She travelled on Thursday to meet the prime minister in a car the government sent.

During the meeting, Sharif called her “the nation’s daughter” and said her act would be remembered “in golden letters” in Pakistan’s history.

He confirmed Noreen will formally receive the country’s Sitara-i-Khidmat (Star of Service) award at a ceremony on March 23, and handed her a cheque for 10 million Pakistani rupees ($36,000).

She used the meeting to say what she had already told her own colleagues privately.

“My fellow nurses work with just as much dedication,” she said. “This was a very heartbreaking incident.”

‘I haven’t slept since that day’

Eight days on, Noreen is unwell. She has had a fever of 102 to 103 degrees Fahrenheit (38.9C to 39.4C) on and off, and a cough she says came from smoke she breathed in from the fire that morning — a morning she will never forget. She takes an antibiotic and sleeping tablets at night. Neither has worked as it should.

“I haven’t slept, not since that day,” she said. “I take the tablets, I drink the cough syrup, but sleep doesn’t come. I close my eyes, and I open them again.”

Asked whether the same dawn shift keeps replaying in her mind, she did not need the question finished.

“The whole incident. The same babies. The mothers’ screams, and the babies’ screams, how they must have screamed. Those are the things that don’t let me sleep.”

She was signed off on medical rest only the day before this interview. Colleagues have been steadying her since.

“I would just start crying, sitting there,” she said. “They supported me like I was a child.”

But the nights are still hers alone.

“It comes back to the same thing,” she said. “When I’m in the hostel, when I’m alone, it all comes back.”

‘That, I regret’

The baby Noreen carried out — she hasn’t been named yet, according to the nurse — remains in the neonatal intensive care unit a week on.

Born preterm at just over a kilogramme (2 pounds, 3 ounces), the baby was already unwell before the fire. She remains critical.

Noreen met the baby’s parents for the first time the day before the meeting with the prime minister.

“She [the baby’s mother Asifa] hugged me and thanked me, and cried, and I cried with her,” Noreen said, “because for the rest of the children, my heart is still exactly where it was.”

She has told the mother the same thing she tells herself.

“I said, look, your child survived such a huge storm, she will survive what comes next, too. You pray, and I will pray.”

Asked what she would tell other nurses, Noreen urged them to work with honesty and without conditions.

“When you work somewhere with honesty, the reward comes eventually,” she said. “It came to me after 21 years. Work with the same loyalty. That is our real strength.”

Then, unprompted, she returned to the 14 babies who died.

“I do regret it,” she said. “I could not save the rest of the children. That, I regret.”