The Untold Story From A Survivor Of The Church Bomb

I used to be excited for the holy week, until a few years ago. With every passing year, I get anxiously scared that any disaster might happen anywhere and pray to God that this day shall pass peacefully and no church is harmed. I always wished that if anything happens, to never become a survivor. Being a survivor to me is a nightmare. I can never tolerate helplessly witnessing the death of people around me. Oh God! What I have seen is carved in my memory that I can’t live.

I remember the church bells ringing not to celebrate but to announce the emergency. I remember my aunt next to me closing her eyes, her body shaking, tears falling and moving her tongue with all the prayers she can recall.

This is the last thing I saw before I lost the whereabouts of my whole family. Everyone trying to save not his soul, but cling to the last breath of humanity. “This couldn’t be happening again!” said everyone in mind. The silent hassle after the loud bang was deadly painful. No one could say a word, yet cries and screams were all over the church. A huge ball of flame covered the place that was already lit in the dark by the faith of people. Then I don’t know what happened. Whenever I moved my eye somewhere, I noticed a tragic story; our neighbor looking for his four-year-old daughter, a wife mourning her husband whom she only knew from the ring he is wearing. I struggled for too long, or this is how it seemed, to have kept my mind alive and my body functioning until I fainted …

The rescuers came after there was nothing to rescue, either dead bodies or worn out souls. Death has not only taken precious souls among us, but stole our happiness and celebration forever. And this is when I decided to always wear black for Palm Sunday when I only imagined myself in a survivor’s place.