Landing in Brussels, minutes after blasts: A first-hand experience

Jitendra Mudhol March 25, 2016, DHNS:

For me, Paris attacks’ prime suspect Salah Abdeslam’s arrest was not just end of a manhunt, but an end to a search for answers. How naive!

The difference was a 60-minute delay at the Newark International Airport, thanks to the extra baggage. My flight 999 landed at Brussels but was not allowed to taxi its way to the terminal.

The pilot then announced: “Owing to security reasons, we are not allowed to approach a gate at the moment.”  

This sounded a bit ominous. I had by now turned on my mobile phone and when I checked the BBC app, it showed a breaking news item: Explosions in Brussels airport.  

Soon, the pilot confirmed the news. The aircraft then taxiied slowly and stopped near four other planes but far away from the gates. We could see a lot of activity near the buildings, smoke billowing, police vans going back and forth and all the ground staff  lined up. 

We all looked at each other. If fear and doubt cast their shadow over this motley crowd huddled and put together by circumstance, it passed quickly. A slow but positive murmur went around as people started sharing their experiences and feelings. Twenty minutes later, nearly two hours after landing, we were put into buses and moved to a hangar. 

The hangar was enormous, the giant doors blocking the cold, giving warmth to an assortment of humanity, of all races and age, in the middle of all the chaos that was being unleashed a few metres away.  

For the next few hours, this was our home. Home to a couple on their way to Budapest, a strapping lad waiting to meet his mother who lived near Brussels, an African researcher collaborating with scientists in Belgium to discover vaccines, we were all there.

A barrage of questions rained on the yellow-jacketed folks from harried passengers, but frankly they did a magnificent job. They were consistent in their answers, humane in response and helpful in spirit and action. I wondered if their fortitude was from culture or training or both. It seemed so far from merely “doing their duty”.  

Soon, buses started lining up to escort people, who could arrange transport facility, out of the airport. By now all public transport was off and the only way to get to my folks was by reaching a point from where they could pick me up.

I got into one of the buses, which meandered its way through airport lanes, giving us a glimpse of the Sheraton and the damaged airport entrance. We alighted at the Zaventem train station, in a kind and considerate manner, not making any loud and obvious conversations, muted and low, not fearful but solemn.

A policeman advised me to walk towards the Church of Zaventem, a majestic tall spire rising among the cluster of buildings which were mostly small complexes, apartments and shops, and the location from where my colleagues can pick me.

Friends indeed
 I then noticed a lady standing a few feet away, she had a distraught look, a look that reflected pain. I greeted her and she hesitantly nodded back. I asked if she was at the airport, she said, “Yes, I work there.”

It hit me. She probably went through the horror. This woman was two floors right above the main blast spot when it ripped through the main entrance. But 12 minutes earlier, she was right at the blast spot to meet a colleague! 

I asked if her colleague made it, she slowly shook her head. She started crying, unsure of how to console, I just gave her a hug.  

A minute later, she got into a car, gave an unexpected smile and that was all. A couple of minutes later, my colleagues picked me up. We hugged and I expressed my gratitude. As I got into the car, my eye caught the eye of the policeman. He merely nodded. I did manage to land safely in the midst of that chaos and am lucky to be safe.