It was the last Friday of Ramazan and two days before the Eid holidays when Karachi witnessed an atrocious accident that scarred many families for a lifetime. The festive mood suddenly turned into an unfaltering moment of despair and utter helplessness, until life returned for one family. This is the story of that one family, mine.

Already in the midst of grappling with the pandemic, Pakistan had begun domestic flight operations after almost two months of shutdown, to enable passengers to meet their families.

Excited to celebrate Eid after months of being separated by distance, and a desire to make the last day of Ramazan memorable, families and loved ones boarded flight PK8303 to make their journey from Lahore to the city of lights.

Eid was going to be a lot different this year. Our annual family Eid lunch was not going to be possible because of the ongoing pandemic, but Zooming was still an option. My mother’s closest cousin, Zafar Masud, whom I call my mamoon (maternal uncle), was returning from Lahore after a two-week-long professional trip. I waited anxiously to meet him.

Although our plans for Eid were different this time round, catching up with each other on Zoom, with all of us decked up for Eid, was going to be a memorable highlight.

The niece of one of the two miraculous survivors of the air crash in Karachi recalls the terrifying moments while his family followed the news

Until the devasting news broke — the flight scheduled to land in Karachi at 2.30pm on May 24 had reportedly crashed.

I was out buying provisions with my mother when she frantically began receiving messages on her phone. The expression on her face, full of disbelief and horror, was an image that will be etched into my mind for a long time. She seemed to have gone completely numb, unable to breathe.

Horrified to the core, I asked her what had happened, but she didn’t say a word. She struggled to make sense of who to call to check if her cousin was on the same flight that crashed — hoping against hope that he had somehow switched flights last minute due to work.

But nothing came up.

I could tell she knew very well he was on that flight. She tried to make a vain effort to remain calm, while tears welled up in her eyes.

All the while, I kept asking her what had happened, to which she finally replied with a deep breath.

“Mamoon sahib was coming back from Lahore, his plane has crashed near the airport.”

For a moment, I felt time stand still. She went on to say that there was no information yet if anyone survived.

As I tried to make sense of what she just told me, my mamoon’s face kept flashing before my eyes, in my mind. My heart sank at the thought of losing him.

His phone was not responding, and my mother felt weaker and weaker with the thought of calling his mother or anyone else, not knowing if they had even heard the news or not. Every passing minute, every fleeting second felt heavy on the heart.

Eid was going to be a lot different this year. Our annual family Eid lunch was not going to be possible because of the ongoing pandemic, but Zooming was still an option. My mother’s closest cousin, Zafar Masud, whom I call my mamoon (maternal uncle), was returning from Lahore after a two-week professional trip. I waited anxiously to meet him.

I needed to know if my mamoon had survived or not.

The next call on my mother’s phone seemed to pull us back into reality again as my nani, broken but relieved, relayed the news that my mamoon was safe, had sustained injuries but was alive and breathing.

He was saved.

As more information about the story unwrapped, images of the incident became clearer. The plane had hit the ground in the centre of the houses in Model Colony. My mamoon had lost consciousness but had somehow remained belted to his seat. The seat had ejected out of the roof after the aircraft had split from the impact, and bounced off of the rooftop of a three-storied building, eventually landing on top of a car.

Fortunately, the local residents of the area and rescuers had gathered around, discovering him stuck on the bonnet of the car, and immediately pulled him out at the first signs of life. As they had rushed him out of the narrow, constricted street, there was a deafening sound of an explosion — the fuel tank of the plane had exploded.

It was unfathomable for me to imagine what my mamoon had gone through.

Keeping myself from bursting into tears of mixed feelings of joy and horror, I muttered repeatedly to myself, “My mamoon survived. My mamoon survived.”

I gently squeezed my mother’s hand, letting her know how lucky we were that day to know he was alive and well, and that it was all going to be okay now.

I recalled memories of the familiar face gifting me my first set of encyclopedias. The mamoon who loved his nieces like children of his own, a mamoon who, despite being a busy bee, always made ample time for his family and friends. An uncle an immensely lucky niece like me would be proud to have. I remembered him being the first reader of my first short story as a published writer, and the very first to have my name autographed on his copy. A man known to many as having a heart of gold.

I couldn’t picture him as the same man in the footage of the wreckage of the plane crash I saw on numerous media channels, being picked up from underneath burnt debris, placed on a stretcher and whisked away in an ambulance. I couldn’t listen to the terror-inducing narrations of the plane crashing and its passengers screaming for help but to no avail. I couldn’t see him in excruciating pain like this.

I later found out that, minutes after he was rescued by the residents at the site of the plane crash, my mamoon, seized in pain at the hospital, managed to have a nurse inform his parents via a phone call that he was in a stable condition, saving them, his friends and family from ensuing panic.

The word ‘miraculous’ perfectly fits what this incident came out to be for us. Kindness, indeed goes a long, long way. Long enough to save a life who looked after many.

The story of my mamoon being one of the only two survivors of the horrific plane crash was picked up by many local and international news agencies, with headlines everywhere bearing the word ‘miracle,’ turning it into a tale proving miracles do happen.

I can’t definitively say what one needs to make these miracles come about. I pondered about the 97 lives that were robbed of the chance to see their loved ones. I pondered about those who weren’t as lucky as I was, as my family was, and it grieved me deeply. I wished for something, anything, to save them from anguish. I wished for another miracle.

Karachi will forever mourn the innocent lives lost on PK8303, the Eid that was never celebrated, the wishes left unfulfilled, the final fast, and the final journey.

A miracle happened that day for my family that left me stupefied. My beloved mamoon was given life once again.I wish there had been more miracles.

Nida Zehra is a freelance writer and works for a local digital media portal

Published in Dawn, EOS, June 7th, 2020