After an exhaustive assessment led by the president of Associated Fire Consultants, however, the blaze was determined to be intentional. The only person arrested, Delia Irene Botello Amante, was released in January 1st of this year with the excuse of not enough evidence. She was arrested in June 2011.
The June 5th Citizen's Movement for Justice, commonly referred to as the ABC Parents' Movement, formed shortly after the tragedy. They are still looking for answers and for justice to be served; at the same time, they are trying to pass a general law for regulating safety in day-care centres called the June 5th Law.
A close friend of one of my family members was the psychologist in charge of helping parents identify the bodies of their children. Five years later, she decided to share what she lived that day. They e-mailed the story to me; but you can find it published here (in Spanish).
It's a very long, graphic, and sad story. It's every parents' worst nightmare.
The Crunching of Teeth
That day I dressed up for work. My husband had asked me out to dinner afterwards with other couples. At noon I heard the news – a daycare is set ablaze – but I was in such a rush, I didn’t really stop to listen to the rest. Deep down I thought all the children would make it out.
I was in group therapy. One of my patients, a teacher, looked very sad; when I asked her what was wrong, she told me that sixteen children had already died. I was shocked, I didn’t think that would happen. Next thing I know my receptionist rushes in and tell me I’m being called from El Imparcial – where I collaborated as counsel – and tells me the Chief Editor needs to know NOW if I authorised being listed as the psychologist in charge of crisis intervention. I said yes, everything was happening so fast and there was no time to think. Soon enough my phone rings and Im told to go to the General Hospital, at around five in the afternoon, I arranged things at work and made my way there. My family had arranged a surprise party for my birthday and they told me everything was ready: balloons, flower arrangements, guests; I thanked them, telling them I needed to go to the hospital. But I had no idea what was waiting for me there.
There were many people at General Hospital when I got there. I was escorted in because my name was listed for access. Everything was calm. A psychiatry resident comes to me and says, “this is horrible. I had to take a tranquiliser. We were never trained to deal with this … there in that room is one of the children, their family went in to say their goodbyes. In those other rooms, someone just coded … ”
I was called again and told to go to C4, “here’s where the heavy stuff starts, we’re going to need a lot of help”. I was taken there. If Hell exists it was there, it was horrible and as the hours went by, it just got worse.
I never talked about this before with anyone I didn’t trust because it’s so complicated, I can’t elaborate on it because it’s so tough. But five years later I need to tell my story to honour those children, to honour my child and his future.
C4 is the morgue. It’s a small place where they gathered a handful of psychologists and we had the situation explained to us. Parents and family of the children started arriving after looking for them in every hospital and not finding them. It was the last place in Planet Earth where they wanted to be, but there they were after not finding their children. There was so many people that they had to block the area with security fences and guards outside so people wouldn’t jump them.
As the night went on more people, neighbours, family, everyone who knew those children, arrived. The forensic doctor identified a child, took its photograph, uploaded it to a computer, and then gave me the name so I would step beyond the fences to call their parents to identify the body. The walk there was several metres, people were praying. I was given a speaker so everyone could listen, there were so many people. When I walked down that corridor, I never thought that in all my clinical practice I would ever have to relay this kind of message.
It was noisy but when I got to the street, everyone would stop talking and there would be absolute silence. Then, the most horrible moment I’ve ever had to live through: I had to say out loud the name of the boy or girl that had been identified.
NO ONE, NO ONE, NO ONE wanted to hear their child’s name being called out. No one wanted me to say those names – I didn’t even want to say them. As soon as I did, we heard screaming. People would let the parents of the baby I’d just named through the fence; some of them couldn’t go through, couldn’t walk, some of them even fainted in the way. They kept asking me: “Is he dead?” They knew the answer, but wanted me to tell them something else … “Are you sure he’s dead? Are you sure it’s my child?” Mothers, with their work uniforms still on, were torn … they literally dragged themselves across the floor because they couldn’t walk, but wanted to get there. There was an ambulance at the scene, giving them oxygen on masks; sometimes it took them up to half an hour to walk those few metres. All you could do was lend them a hand, hold them, cry with them as if it had been your child. There is no therapy, no word, nothing you can do or say in those moments.
After arriving, the second part of the nightmare began. They were seated in front of a computer, TO SEE ALL THE PHOTOS OF THOSE CHILDREN, so they could corroborate that the child identified was their child. The parents were terrified. Personnel, receptionists, and everyone else was in shock. Some of the receptionists damped the records and forms with their tears and they’d have to do them again. No one could stand the situation. But after getting through and identifying them on photo, came the worst moment: the hallway.
We walked with them to identify the small bodies of their babies. The parents would stand in front of a glass wall across from the cold room; the forensic doctor would carry the body, their bodies were so small … and place it on the steel table. And there was their child! Their burnt baby! You could never imagine what was lived in there. It was the crunching of teeth, it was abyss, it was Hell. The absolute worst wasn’t the crying, it was the sound that the parents made, the howling – a scream dangling between pain and sobbing that I’ve never heard again. It was the sound of their bodies shaking; a holler that came from deep inside, watching this was unbearable.
Mothers and fathers would press against the glass, calling out for them, yelling “WAKE UP!” They kissed the glass, pleading, begging to be allowed to hold their children. Others started hitting things, they couldn’t even hold them. The children, with their little socks or small braids, their tiny clothes; some of them lied there as if asleep, with just a few burns on their small faces. But other children were completely burnt; you could only make out their little noses, their hands, you could tell it was them.
The parents held each other, they wanted to hold their children but they weren’t allowed. The parents in the waiting room heard the screams, the sobbing, the despair of the people inside and were shaken. They couldn’t imagine what was happening, and they were next. They were reactions I’d never seen in a human before this up close and personal. In the waiting room, the terror and dread had taken over the place. Parents only had a few moments to identify the bodies, I don’t think it lasted more than three minutes. There were so many people and parents desperate to identify them.
I remember there were two priests in the corner of the room. NO ONE wanted them to intervene. Most of the parents yelled at them, turned their backs on them; they were angry at God. The priests just wanted to offer a few words of comfort, like “they’re in God’s Holy Glory now”. Most of the parents didn’t even want to be near them in that moment; that God had this planned for those children, from the moment they were born, was unthinkable.
After they left, they would faint, scream, run; they'd rage against God, the government, themselves, everything. Some fathers hit cars, they hit themselves. I was allowed to talk to some of them, whoever wanted me to, in a small room. They told me how they felt. Mothers blamed themselves; they felt ambition and wanting to give their children better lives had led them straight to their deaths. Fathers asked why they never looked at the installations of the daycare. There was so much pain and guilt.
Some of them openly told me how they wanted to kill themselves, and I tried to remind them about their other children and how they were worth living for, or just to hold on forty eight more hours so they could bury their only child. Some of them wanted to say goodbye, they didn’t get the chance to tell them “darling, it was a pleasure having you with us; I wish I had been there to help you, when you were screaming, and drag you out myself … ” I would grab anything at hand – a purse, a blankie – and tell them to say goodbye, their children were there with them that moment … and what the parents said and did was so tough I can’t even write it down. They imagined their children were there, they would kiss them, they asked for forgiveness and their mouths would fill with sweet words. I kindly had to take the things from them so closure could be had. Miraculously, some of them calmed down and were able to release that. At the very least sanity would be restored for them for a few hours.
It was a cold process. Right after identifying the bodies, they had to show their identification and sit across a receptionist. They had to give out a statement, sign things they didn’t even read because just two minutes before, they had seen their child’s burnt body. I didn’t agree with this, no one did. The poor receptionist, she kept asking me for help – some parents, still in shock, obviously wouldn’t comply even after the process had been explained to them. I told them it was to protect their child’s body, so no mistakes would be made when they were released, and that everything was chaos but this would allow them to take their child quickly for their masses, ceremonies, and burials. It was impressive how quickly parents would show their identifications, as if there was still one more thing they could do for their babies: get them out of there as soon as possible, the one thing they wished they could do a few hours ago when tragedy struck. Once the cold process was done with, they went back beyond the fence to tell their family and friends the news and you could hear the crying and screams. The sadness and anguish was collective, it was a Hell everyone lived through.
I was given another name, then another, then another … I brought them a message no one wanted to hear, and repeated it over and over, on to the next parents, then the next. The last couple came in around three in the morning; it was late at night when everything had ended and everyone had left. The ones that remained where the children in the cold room, the children who’d woken up the previous morning; some of them didn't want to go to school, some of them excited. When would the parents think that would be the end of their day?
I looked at the dead children, burnt, victims of a horrible death. Later on I met with some paediatrician friends from Morelos Hospital and they told me that that death is slow and painful, the second most painful death anyone could have.
I will explain, later on, why my story is so graphic. This is not about satisfying morbid curiosities, or invading anyone’s privacy.
The contrast between that place and my home was harsh. The table was set, there were flower arrangements and balloons, the remains of a surprise party that wasn’t. My family had waited up for me but I couldn’t speak. I only managed to tell them, “if Hell exists, I was just there and I don’t think there is anything worse.” I hadn’t cried up until the moment I locked myself in my room and began crying, I wasn’t able to sleep … the bodies of those children and the reactions of their parents kept playing over in my head. I had to be up early the next day because, ironically, it was my nephew’s baptism at the archdiocese. I sat at the back and cried throughout mass, full of contradicting feelings. On one hand, I thanked God for my beautiful nephew; at the same time, I knew dozens of other masses were carried out elsewhere for the parents that I held last night, and their children who they were saying goodbye to forever. Thank God I didn’t know what a mother’s love was like then, because I wouldn’t have been able to stand last night’s scenes.
The next day I was assigned to Ignacio Chavez Hospital and the first thing I saw was a teacher at the door of a closed-off area; she had in her hand the attendance list for her class and kept asking the guard about the children. Her arm was badly burned and unattended to, and she was anxious. The only thing I could think of was, the teachers! They spend more time with those kids than their parents, some of those kids were there well after noon and they love them as if they were their own. That teacher wasn’t the only one going from hospital to hospital looking for her class, she even described them to the last detail like hairstyles. I gathered the teachers there – five, approximately – in a practice, because everyone was going their own way. It was interesting how their grief was so multiplied. They asked each other about this kid – I dragged him out, his parents picked him up – and that kid – he’s in the hospital – and the other kid – he died. Then they would start crying, like the parents had the previous night.
They talked about things I’m only just now daring to tell because what they said could have prevented this tragedy. For example: one of them asked what had caused the fire in the end, and someone would reply, “what we always told Civil Protection: it was the warehouse at the back. When they had us do a checklist of hazards we told them dozens of times about that warehouse, remember? We would go and inspect, we knew all those dangerous things made it a ticking time bomb.” They knew. A very overlooked part of this process was those teachers, I have not seen them featured in any documentary or declarations, when they were there for many of those children’s last breaths. They are heroines, I saw them torn apart over not only one but ALL those children, who were theirs from seven in the morning to four in the afternoon, Monday to Friday. In that session they exchanged important information; but they all were desperate, hurt, anguished souls gathering odds and ends of their little darlings. They were sometimes the first ones to witness their first step, potty-training them, feeding them solids for the first time …
Why am I writing this today?
Because I have carried this pain inside for many years, and I’ve witnessed sadly as people forget just how big the tragedy and the loss were. The ABC Movement mustn’t lose strength. In Mexico NOTHING was done to clear the air around the facts. In Japan, the president quit after a tsunami. In Korea, the vice-president quit after the ferry capsized and the owner of the vessel went to jail. But in Mexico no one lifts a finger because they claim it’s too complicated, the adult of no-one and everyone at once. The President should have quit over this, and anyone under him that for any reason didn’t do a proper job of protecting those children.
I write this because, with great sadness, I’ve heard and read very cold and unfortunate reactions. A very popular doctor in the region told me, “Thousands of children die all over the world daily; here was one place more where it happened. What’s the big deal?” I’m sure if it had been his child he wouldn’t have thought the same. Someone else told me that he thought it was stupid when a parent vandalised the Municipal Palace; why do it if it was useless and invalided the ABC Movement? I’ve also heard, “They should get over it, no one can live like that forever!” This is why I’ve been so graphic in the telling of this story, so these sceptics who say these sorts of things can have an idea of the pain that losing your child causes, even more painful when you lose your child to corruption and injustice, in a slow and agonising death.
I want to tell everyone who invalids the ABC Parents’ Movement that they have no idea of the pain that was lived there, the pain that followed the loss and injustice, and the children who lived but were injured. Vandalising a sidewalk is the LEAST a parent can do to canalise their anger at the injustice, and getting back at those who didn’t defend them when we pay millions every year so they can defend us. Believe me, it’s the least delinquent way of processing the image of their burnt children every time it comes up in their heads; and the fact that thousands of children die every day everywhere isn’t something we should get used to. On the contrary, it shows how backwards we’ve become, how our consumerism and the riches of many are built on the graves of those children, those who die because of injustice and economic disparity.
To those who say “get over it!”: let me laugh at you, in your face if possible. I’m sure that you say this out of frustration for minor things. It’s very different to face the loss of your child to illness, than to know your baby DID NOT NEED TO DIE, that he was KILLED, that he died because they didn’t receive medical attention, emergency exits, medicines, and the necessary equipment! It’s very difficult to overcome this and every parent has the right to process the enormity of their pain as they fucking wish.
To the parents, I want to say: you’re not alone, you’re not the only ones who remember those minutes. I too remember those scenes, I too was there with you. Life made me a witness to your pain and it wasn’t in vain. Many, many things in my life changed for the better after living through that with you. You are not alone. Maybe in this country authorities did leave you alone; but in developed countries, they would’ve never allowed something like this to happen. And if it had, believe me, they would go over backwards to make living with that pain and loss as easy as possible. Don’t lose perspective of what is right and wrong; you are right in what you demand, and it seems so little compared to the pain I saw you were put through and that you still live with.
I also want to tell you that I admire you for living on, for the compassion and strength to retake your daily activities. Don’t forget that there’s a heavenly promise that we will all meet again with our loved ones; and since that moment will come, we can live in hope.
“The spirit will never cease to be, there was no time that never was. Without birth, death, or change, the spirit remains eternal. Death does not touch it, even if it shows up at your door.”
To society, I want to ask that you don’t abandon those parents. The passing years shouldn¿’t make the ABC Movement weaker. On the contrary, we all lost when those children went to Heaven. Every human being is born with a GIFT, a blessing, a purpose, something only they can do and we make those gifts come to life. Maybe one of those children was meant to be the scientist who would cure cancer, or an extraordinary poet, someone who would change the world for better and not through their death. Those gifts rose with them to Heaven, they died with those children and will never again be repeated; and this is what this planet and Universe lost.
To parents that have their children in day-care: less than 10% of State-run day-cares comply fully with the necessary requirements to YOUR CHILD is safe from a tragedy like this. Have you found out if your child attends one of them? Do you know what these requirements are? Have you asked the day-care workers? Of course they’ll tell you everything is in order; but don’t settle, and truly be loyal to your child. Don’t be embarrassed to ask, to demand; we live in a country so corrupt, it means that not because this already happened it would never happen again. Do this for your child, it’s as important as loving them and tending to their every need.
To everyone: thank you for reading these words. This story is deep in the heart of me and changed my life. In the words of Kübler-Ross, death has become an old friend of mine, and I’ve seen its face many a time. But my spirit knows we’re here only in transit, and that birth means death, but after this life we spring to life eternal, governed by Jesus Christ …
I’m grateful to my mother, who has been a warrior, a beacon of faith and struggle; I’m grateful to my husband, who remained by my side at every moment, without judging, in solidarity with every manifestation of my pain.
by Olga Lizet González Domínguez, psychologist
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