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Survivors described a sound “like thunder exploding inside the train.” Others said it felt as if the ground vanished beneath them. Floors tilted at impossible angles. Luggage flew. People were thrown from their seats, crashing into walls, into each other, into anything within reach. In some carriages, passengers found themselves suddenly upside down, disoriented and bleeding, struggling to understand whether they were alive or dead.
Children cried for their parents. Parents screamed their children’s names. In the pitch black, people reached out blindly, grabbing hands, arms, clothing—anything human. Some were pinned by collapsed metal and seats, unable to move. Others crawled through shattered glass, cutting their hands and knees as they searched for exits or familiar voices.
Rescue teams worked through the night under floodlights, cutting through steel with hydraulic tools, prying open compartments inch by inch. Firefighters described crawling into spaces barely wide enough to breathe, listening for the faintest sounds that might indicate someone was still alive. In some cases, they were forced to remove the dead to reach survivors trapped beneath them, a grim but necessary reality in mass-casualty disasters.
“At times, you had to choose,” one rescuer said. “You knew there were people alive somewhere, but the only way to reach them was through what was left of others.” The physical exhaustion was extreme, but the emotional toll was heavier. Every scream answered, every voice found, came with the knowledge that others would not be.
By morning, the scale of the tragedy was clear. At least 39 people had been confirmed dead, with dozens more seriously injured and more than a hundred requiring medical treatment. Hospitals across the region went into emergency mode, clearing wards, calling in extra staff, and preparing for a wave of patients suffering from fractures, internal injuries, burns, and severe trauma.
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