On 23rd August 2000, our lives at Gulf Air changed forever. Although it was 22 years ago, looking at social media posts, it appears that every single person in Bahrain can recall the night GF072 en-route from Cairo to Bahrain, came down into the sea in Muharraq killing all 143 souls on board the aircraft.
On that fateful night, I vividly recall I was sitting with friends in our apartment when we were informed of the tragedy. We all froze in disbelief. We suspected loss of life, but hoped our fears were unfounded. I still remember us watching BBC World. None of us spoke, we just sat like robots staring at the TV screen. Suddenly, the phone rang. It was the office, instructing me to get into uniform and immediately go to the airport. During that short drive to the airport I felt confused, and mechanically got out and hurried through the gate. The full impact of the tragedy had not sunk in as yet. No sooner had I stepped in the airport than I was surrounded by distraught families of the passengers desperately seeking information about their loved ones. They grabbed at me from all directions, pleading for information about their families. Unfortunately, it was too early for any information and I was then instructed to go to headquarters. To remind my readers, this was before the days of WhatsApp and ubiquitous social media, so it was more challenging to get any news or speedily communicate with anyone.
Bahrain is a small and closely knit country and the sudden news of this frightful tragedy spread like wildfire and within a short time, the magnitude of the calamity was revealed. Were there any survivors? - a question on everyone's lips. We knew what might have happened but were hoping for a miracle. I reached our headquarters. Our thoughts and prayers were with everyone on board. It was a somber atmosphere. As I checked the crew list, my heart sank. God, I knew every single person from the flight deck (pilots) to the cabin crew. In fact, I had trained some of the girls - they were my students. I recalled those youngsters so eager and excited to fly. I remember I was desperately trying to control my emotions. We were then instructed to be at the Gulf Hotel the following morning as many family members were coming in on a special flight. By this time, we realized that there were no survivors and the authorities, with the support of local fishermen who knew the waters well, were removing bodies from the sea. The camaraderie was exceptional - everyone helped as much as they could.
We knew that we would have to appear in control of ourselves when we came face to face with the parents and families of the crew and passengers. Most of us had not experienced loss or grief until this moment. What made this more difficult is that we had lost friends and colleagues, de facto our extended families. In between drinking copious amounts of coffee, we wept in the bathrooms and retouched our make-up – we had to appear composed. Little did we know that we were totally unprepared to face what was about to unravel. The authorities had organised photo albums of victims for identification purposes. They had prepared as much as they could in a short time for this unprecedented tragedy. The hotel was ready with a set-up of tables, chairs and an area for the medical staff to be available on site. A dark, terrifying cloud of grief, shock and confusion hung over us as we waited in absolute silence.
What I describe was my first experience of facing the families of victims. I tried to remain composed and outwardly calm. I have no reservation in admitting my fear/dread/anxiety and sorrow caused me physical pain. As the families were escorted into the hall, all we could hear was wailing and sobbing - they were in inconsolable pain. How could anyone tell a parent that it was going to be okay? How would families be comforted? They had the heart-rending task of identifying their loved ones! Many of the victims were difficult to recognise, but we all did our best as this was the first step in accepting the reality of what had really occurred. My recollection is somewhat hazy, but I do know, we felt desperately lonely and helpless but somehow outwardly managed to appear composed.
The parents of some my students’ recognised me. They asked me to tell them stories of their daughters during the training – they knew a lot already but wanted to capture anything they might have missed. I believe these little narratives acted like healing balm. They thanked us all for the support - they were so kind even in their sorrow. There were periods of complete silence during our intervention with the families. We stared at each other with eyes full of tears - we did not need words. A lot of young lives were lost and families shattered forever! But,we had a duty to perform, console the bereaved relatives to the best of our ability. The situation demanded a procedure to identify the bodies so that the loved ones had a proper burial according to their faith. I particularly remember an elderly senior gentleman, a grandfather. He could not bear the shock of losing his family and collapsed - there was nothing anyone could do to console him. Many mothers were sedated while fathers tried their best to cope with the shock. At some point, one of my colleagues began to sob and scream – all we could do was take her aside and send her home. The procedure of supporting the families to identify their lost dear ones continued for a few days. All of us went home with a sad heart to face a nightmarish sleep only to come back to the tragic scene in the morning to face yet more grieving relatives. The country was in mourning, there was nothing to say – we were all in pain – we just worked in silence like automatons. One young man struck out – he just refused to accept the passing of his fiancée. He walked around with a conviction that she was alive and lost in Cairo airport. He insisted she had not boarded the flight. We tried to convince him with the photograph and even her name on the passenger list. Eventually, I sat with him and told him the painful truth. It took him a long time to comprehend that she was really gone – she was also my friend. I noticed the people were reacting to this catastrophe in many ways: incessant crying, restlessness, staring closely repeatedly to identify the family member, some became mute and did not show any emotion at all - stunned, a few were argumentative and disputed the pictures shown to them.
Months later, I started to suffer from nightmares. I could see the faces, the photographs floating across my eyes, the families and my colleagues all in pain – it was so vivid. Every night I would wake up with a sinking feeling and I found myself drenched in a cold sweat. At some point, I saw a doctor who prescribed me some sleeping tablets – but I am not sure these helped. That tragedy left invisible scars and every anniversary of the tragedy, many of us feel that same sense of loss.
After studying neuroscience and psychology, I now know that we all suffered a great deal more than we realise. I believe that those of us who were on-site suffered from anxiety, stress and hypersensitivity - all symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome (PTSD). I am convinced that my behaviour was affected for some years as was my outlook on life. That night taught us lessons we did not want, we were unprepared and as a result left with unresolved feelings of fear, abandonment and overwhelming grief. There was nothing we could have done differently, there was nothing more we could have done for the families or for ourselves. It’s been 22 years and we still feel sorrow.
That night on Wednesday 23rd August 2000, my world changed forever.
Ends.
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