Setting the scene: The following takes place on March 11, 2004. My brothers and I witnessed the destruction of that day. The trains that blew up were headed towards Madrid; the trains we were riding on were headed out of Madrid. All the trains are supposed to technically arrive at the train station at the same time.
It was a normal day like any other. We always seemed to be getting ready really late, meaning that our car pool had to wait for us; I felt so bad. We rushed downstairs, and found that once again, they were pulled up on the curb patiently sitting in the car waiting for us. We got into the car, apologized, uttered a groggy good morning, and were on our way to the train station a few minutes away. Once we got out of the car at El Pozo, we all seemed to wake up a bit. We stood on the platform. It was chilly, but it wasn’t what you would call cold. The train was right on time, 7:38. It was crowded, but there were a few empty seats available. The six of us spread out in search for a place to sit. I found an open seat by the door, and Daniel sat next to me. He pulled out his math and asked for my help. I sat there helping him while the others pulled out music or unfinished homework. Shortly after we got to the next station, the train stalled. Not unusual. It wasn’t a long stall, and not more than a minute later we were on the move again. We reached the next stop, Santa Eugenia, but something was wrong. The train didn’t pull up to the station, but stopped a little way out. This was unusual. Did the train stall again? Was there another train still in the station or worse? We had heard of stories where people would jump onto the tracks as a way to commit suicide. Was it that? Questions were running through my mind. Why were we stopped?
A few minutes passed and the conductor came into our car and directed us to make our way to the door and get off. We were told that we could either walk back to Vallecas, the station we had just come from, or walk around the back of the train, up to the station, and make our way orderdly outside. What was going on? This had never happened. They woudln’t even tell us the problem. Terror and inner panic started to take hold. Questions flooded my mind. The look of terror and doubt and a million unanswered questions were in the eyes of everyone around me. The six of us stayed huddled in a group, not wanting to get separated or lost in the mob of terrified and confused souls. We kept walking, but the train was blocking our view of the other line and people blocked our view of the station. We kept on going. The pace was as fast as could be expected in a huge crowd. As we came into view of the other lane, everyone around gasped and cried out. I was surrounded by shrieks, sobs, and hurried steps. My own tears wouldn’t come. I gasped, but no sound was coming out of my mouth. My steps sped up. I glanced over and saw a huge hole on the side of the train. The metal was bent back, ripped open. The inside of the gutted train was unrecognizable. Pieces of metal, insulation, seats, and wires were everywhere. The train had been disected, torn into a million little pieces. A column of black smoke rose up. A fire? A bomb? Everything was so mind-boggling. What was happening here? A woman behind me screamed and started sobbing. She was talking on her cell phone to someone and kept repeating “My son! My son! He was at El Pozo.” Slowly the pieces started coming together. Whatever had happened here had happened there as well. Where else?
The crowd pushed on along the platform. The train with the hole stood on one side, and on the other, the side where we were walking, right next to us, were hundreds of people, bleeding, crying, screaming. They were burned and cut and terribly injured. One by one, I looked up into their eyes; they had the look of fear, death, pain, and desperation. Their clothes were in shreds, their skin was burnt and bloody, their faces, tear-stained. I wanted to reach out and help them, help those who couldnt stand and those who were bleeding profusely. But I couldn’t. It was like I was frozen, incapable of doing anything but walk. I was in a trance. I just walked and walked, following the crowd in front and behind. I kept looking around, seeing more and more devastation with each glance. I looked down to the tracks and saw someone lying there, with a back pack over his head, dead. Other bodies and objects were strewn across the tracks or on the platform. The sound of sirens grew increasingly louder. All I could think was, “Thank you God. Thank you for saving my life.”
We were finally able to get outside. It was total chaos, just as it had been inside the station. As hundreds of people were trying to get through to family members, someone yelled, “Bomb!” Chaos exploded. We ran as fast and as far as we could. As we ran away from the train station, every car, every bus, every building looked like it could be the next bomb. We ran desperately, terrified of everything.
We later discovered that Santa Eugenia was not the only train station to be bombed. El Pozo, the one we had gotten on at, and Atocha had also been hit. We had missed the bomb at El Pozo by one minute. We got on our train at 7:38 and at 7:39, the train coming into the station blew up. We missed the one in Santa Eugenia by two or three minutes. If those trains had arrived when they were supposed to, my brothers, friends, and I would be severely injured or dead. I can’t thank God enough for late and stalled trains.
Today, the trains are just as crowded as they used to be, the ever-present fear that was once there is no longer emanating from each passenger on board. For those of us who witnessed the horrors of that day, there are still times when we stop at one of the stations and remember the events that transpired there. Though we have continued with life and all is “normal”, the memories remain, the scars persist. For those who were physically injured, yes, their wounds have healed, but the scars are an ever present memory of that day. The anniversary of that day is a solemn day. When one steps on the train, a wall of silence hits him. The silence is worse than any other time; its inpenetrable.
People are struck with the memory of that day, all they can do is think and remember what happened. We remember the events that played out before our eyes on TV or in person; we remember those who lived and those who died. It becomes like a train ride of silence out of respect and reverance for those who died in this terrorist attack.
I encourage you, take a minute to think about that day and those who died, pray for the unbelieving Spaniards that they may still come to know God, and pray that the people and Spain will one day heal from this act of terror.
written by Raquel, grade 12