Dr. Tongan pointed out a modern-looking machine in the corner. It was a CPAP, or continuous positive airway pressure machine — a lifesaving device for babies suffering from lung problems. With a shrug she said it had been donated by an aid organization but the clinic didn’t have the specialized oxygen hookup needed for it to work, so it sat limply in the corner, unused.

Yet mothers here had nowhere else to turn. This was the best care they could get in this war-torn nation.

Before we knew what was happening — just minutes after we arrived — Dr. Tongan and a nurse, Juma Lino, were hovering over a small baby as the child’s mother, Restina Boniface, looked on. It took us a moment to discern Dr. Tongan’s fingertips pressing into the infant’s chest in steady rhythm. The room was quiet. The baby had stopped breathing.

As journalists with more than two decades of experience between us, we were used to developing trust with a subject before filming intimate or harrowing scenes. Though we’d explained our intent and received permission from the mothers to chronicle them and their babies, we couldn’t help but feel unsure about whether to proceed, and we didn’t have an opportunity to ask.

When we fully realized what was happening, we both took a step back, allowing the doctor and mother room to move without getting in the way.

Restina paced, alternately hovering behind the doctor and moving to a metal chair a few feet away. She drew her hand to her neck and let out a short sigh that seemed to fill the room.