My Life on the Line: Trapped in the Brussels Bombings Chaos
A firsthand account of the Brussels terrorist attacks on 22 March 2016
The morning of March 22, 2016, seemed like any other weekday. I woke up feeling a bit groggy, but the enticing aroma of coffee and toast drew me out of bed. Little did I know that the day ahead would be anything but ordinary.
It was already 7:58 a.m. I hurriedly got dressed and checked the time. Back then, I lived in Berchem-Sainte-Agathe, one of Brussels’ municipalities, and my daily commute involved taking the tram to Simonis subway station and from there straight to the European Quarter at the city center.
The sky seemed darker and gloomier than normal as I hurried out of my apartment.
I didn’t want to be late because we were about to submit a new project to the European Commission.
Walking briskly towards the tram stop, my mind was distracted with work matters. I wondered how I would manage to meet all my deadlines.
Still, all my worries would soon pale in comparison to what was about to happen.
As I stepped on the tram, I noticed a few passengers looking at their phones with puzzled expressions. One of them muttered something about an explosion at the airport. I didn’t pay much attention, assuming it was just another piece of news from some faraway place.
I was too focused on checking my emails.
The journey was uneventful, and I arrived at Simonis Station soon after. I hurriedly got off the tram and made my way toward the subway station.
It was a routine I had grown accustomed to over the years: take the tram to Simonis and then switch to the subway to reach my workplace at the European Quarter near the city center.
I sensed an odd unease in the air as I descended the steps to the subway platform. Others were cautiously looking around, and some were even whispering to one another. I dismissed it as my imagination playing games with me.
I had no idea I was about to skip a rendezvous with death at the heart of Brussels.
As I descended the flight of stairs, I remember feeling luck hadn’t run out on me.
I arrived on time for the subway.
However, it was a short-lived feeling. As I went onto the platform, I was confronted by a maelstrom of sounds and turmoil.
People were talking in hushed tones while frantically checking their phones. I overheard a group of passengers mumbling in French. They were speaking about explosions at Zaventem.
“Did you hear what happened?” one person asked. “Yeah, my brother works at the airport. He said it was chaos,” replied the other.
My heart sank as I listened to their conversation. This was no longer just another news story. This was happening right here, in my own city.
As the train arrived, I quickly hopped on board. Army training kicked in, and I instantly knew what I had to do and where I had to go inside the train.
I move to the back of the last car facing the exit. From here, I have a clear line of sight, and I have my back covered. The words of my special forces drill sergeant flickered in my mind.
I leaned into the back of the train, watching other passengers glued to their phones, as the news of the bombings spread like wildfire.
With each stop, more and more people boarded the train, their faces etched with worry and fear.
As we passed through Ribaucourt, Yser, and Rogier, the conversations grew louder.
“It’s a terrorist attack, for sure,” one person declared.
“Who could do something like this?” another asked.
As we pulled into Botanique, the train suddenly came to a halt. The conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom.
There was yet another issue in line 2, and we were stuck for an unknown amount of time. Nothing out of the ordinary in the Brussels subway.
The already tense atmosphere grew even more fraught, and people began to whisper and shuffle nervously in their seats.
I could feel my heart gallop inside my chest. I had to get to work, and yet I felt something terrible was about to happen.
A dreadful shadow was slowly engulfing Europe’s capital.
Finally, the train lurched forward, and we made our way toward Madou. As we approached my stop at Arts-Loi/Kunst-Wet, the clock showed 8:58.
Exiting the station, I ran up the escalator, trying to make up for the lost time. Little did I know, I had narrowly missed a deadly encounter.
The bustling city center was eerily quiet. Then the full weight of what had happened hit me. The airport bombing had taken place just minutes before I boarded the tram.
I could feel the weight of the tragedy bearing down on me as I walked down Avenue des Arts.
I go past the Turkish Embassy and Filigranes bookstore. I enter the building and decide to walk up the stairs, ignoring the elevator.
As I settle into my workstation at our NGO office, I’m completely unaware of the horrific events unfolding just minutes away.
The project manager arrives shortly after.
It’s now 9:11, and a suicide bomber has just detonated his explosives on line 5 of the Maalbeek subway station, just next to the European Parliament. Chaos and destruction reign as passengers flee for their lives.
Back at the office, my project manager greets me, she was on the same line as the bomber, but on another train.
“Hey, did you hear about the explosions at Zaventem?” the project manager asks as she greets me.
“Yes, I overheard people talking about it on the subway.”
Suddenly, the city center erupts in a shrill blare of sirens. We stare at each other, alarmed and astonished.
From our window across the street, we see police vehicles storming the area, heading toward Maalbeek.
“Something’s not right,” I say, standing up to get a better look.
“Did everything seem okay at the US Embassy across the street, when you arrived?” the project manager asks.
“Yeah, why?” I reply.
She nods, looking out the window. “Look, there’s a commotion at the Embassy gate. Something must have happened.”
We both ran to the window to get a better view. Across the street, our US neighbors seem fine. But police cars and several ambulances are speeding across Avenue des Arts.
“Could it be a terrorist attack?” she asks, her heart racing.
“We have to do something,” I say.
“Like what?”
“I need to help,” I say, already moving towards the door.
I rush down the stairs and out onto the hall, where chaos reigns.
“What happened?” I ask the receptionist.
“There’s been a bombing at the subway station,” he says, his voice urgent. “We need to lock down. It’s not safe.”
“We can help,” I say, trying to sound confident.
I am standing at the main entrance next to the Turkish Embassy. Security is on high alert. My trained eye notices they are carrying firearms under their jackets.
Meanwhile, the receptionist asks me to go back inside.
“We need to check what’s happening,” I reply.
He looks at me skeptically and nods. “Not a chance, I’m closing the main door.”
“Fine.”
I go back up to our office.
“Are you okay?” I ask the project manager, who looks shaken.
“I’m fine,” she mumbles. “We have to help however we can.”
“We cannot; we’re barricaded inside.”
The only thing we could do was watch it unravel from our office windows. As we watched, the scene outside changed. More police cars and armored vehicles arrived, blocking off the roads.
Our building is in the vicinity of the Royal Palace, and we were in front of the US Embassy and in the eye of the storm.
They’re probably beefing up security, I think to myself.
We stood there, glued to the window. I watched in silence, as the situation outside went from bad to worse.
The city seemed under siege, and we were trapped inside, unable to do anything but watch and wait for this day to end.
I left Brussels five years ago, but as I sit here today on March 22nd, 2023, seven years have passed since the Brussels bombings, and ill-fated memories still haunt me.
I recall returning home in the aftermath of the horror, soaking in the sights and scents of the city. The streets were strangely quiet, lacking the typical hustle and bustle that made Brussels such a lively place.
I feel uneasy as I walk to Arts-Loi. Two Belgian soldiers armed to the teeth stand in front of the Turkish Embassy. Army vehicles are stationed outside their US counterparts, and policemen patrol in front of the subway station.
I walk past a group huddled together, their grim faces etched with worry. Everyone was suffering from the morning’s events, and the sense of loss was clear.
Once I grasped how it could be me on that train, my heart plummeted.
As I continued downhill, I tried to distract myself from the overwhelming feelings by taking in the sights of the city.
The normally bustling streets were eerily quiet, and the city seemed to be in mourning.
I crossed the Brussels Canal and looked up at the National Basilica of the Sacred Heart in Koekelberg, its towering spires a symbol of hope and resilience in the face of tragedy.
As I made my way through Elizabeth Park, I reflected on the fragility of human life and the need to cherish every moment we have.
I was among those who made it home. However, the thought of the 32 people who did not still haunts me.
In hindsight, as I backtrack through these events, I am filled with a deep sense of sorrow. A melancholy fills my heart. I feel distressed by the loss of lives, the families shattered, and the community forever changed.
This story is a tribute to them, the brave souls who faced tragedy head-on.
Aeternum vale!
Thank heavens you survived my dear friend! However it’s sad that others died that day.🙏