Discussion
Tomorrow is the 50th anniversary of the Aberfan disaster. I was moved to tears last week listening to two survivors being interviewed about it on the radio. The sadness was palpable.
Here is a poignant report with contributions from survivors.
http://aberfan.walesonline.co.uk
Private letter from a reporter who reported on the disaster as her first appointment.
https://www.theguardian.com/media/greenslade/2016/...
RIP
Here is a poignant report with contributions from survivors.
http://aberfan.walesonline.co.uk
Private letter from a reporter who reported on the disaster as her first appointment.
https://www.theguardian.com/media/greenslade/2016/...
Guardian said:
Dear Mummy,
You probably noticed that I was in Aberfan this weekend. But you will have no possible idea of what hell it was. No newspaper could ever paint a picture terrible enough.
The first news reached the office at 11am, just that 50 children were trapped. I caught the midday train and met many other reporters from various newspapers also on it...
At Cardiff, the Express had hired cars waiting but we were told the only way to get through was by train. The roads were closed. Even then we assumed they were closed because the “landslide” had descended on them. We still didn’t know what had really happened.
We left the train at Merthyr Vale, the village before Aberfan, about two miles away, and walked. The roads were just like they were during the war, with many people in filthy clothes all plodding in the same direction.
These were the miners coming from the pits to join in the digging. In the village itself, women lined the streets and lorries and ambulances blocked every inch of the way. I think then we realised it was more serious than had first appeared on the news tapes.
But it wasn’t until we walked up the hill and turned the corner which gave us a view of what had once been a school, that we understood. And we stopped. Only a small portion was left but again, it wasn’t until I asked a policeman how many children had been in the school and he replied “about 200” that the full horror hit us.
Looking at that mess, that terrible black slag by this time sweating and sticky like tar, you knew it was impossible that anyone buried under it could possibly live. And of course, the last live person had been pulled out at 11.30 that morning, two hours after it happened and five hours before we arrived.
Looking down on that terrible mess of a school from behind on the mountain side with a blanket of slag on it, nothing of the inside of the building could be seen.
Wherever you looked, women stood waiting. You could tell which were the mothers; they weren’t crying, just huddling together. The fathers straight from the pit were digging. No-one had yet really given up hope, although logic told them it was useless.
Every now and again the organiser of the operation would yell through a loud hailer for quiet. That was the most terrible moment of all. Someone had seen an arm or a leg and everyone longed for the sound of a child crying.
The gigantic bulldozer, operating in such confined spaces and with such deafening noise, would stop. The noise of spade against spade and the murmur of orders would cease, the women would draw a little nearer and everyone would hope.
Then a body would be brought out gently, cleared quickly of a casing of slag which clung to the skin and clothing. A doctor would push his way through and everyone waited. Then the doctor would wrap the little body gently in a blanket and it would be carried into the building of corrugated iron which served as a mortuary.
This went on for hours... All through the night we worked, talking to people or trying to, because how can you talk reasonably to mothers who have just identified a dead child?...
At eight o’clock, I went to the school in the next village where the parents were meeting the chief constable. They were asked to fill in forms, listing the children who had been at school that day which was the only way of checking because class registers were still buried. And as the mothers sat down to write the names of their children, the tears came.
Back at the site, everyone was praying that the threatened rain would not come. Just down the road, people waited patiently outside the little chapel named the Miners’ Chapel until they were called to identify the dead children brought one by one from the mortuary.
All through the night it was the same. We were nearly dropping. And there was a terrible moment when all the copy to our respective papers had been put over and we had time to think about the situation as a whole.
[The following day, Alix returned to the village, to report for the Sunday Express]
The rain held off until teatime then started drizzling. By 7pm it was pelting down. One of the houses shattered by the avalanche was still burning. No-one had yet been found alive or dead from any of the ruined houses.
By this time, the slag had had time to corrode the skin of the children still buried and many brought out burned could only been identified by the clothing or things in their pockets. One little boy, whose father, a teacher at the school who had saved some of his son’s classmates, was identified by a slip of paper with his name on deep inside his wallet...
Men who had started digging at 9.30 the previous morning, were still digging, with shirts off and bodies sweating despite the cold.
I saw such dreadful things, Mummy. They brought out the deputy headmaster, still clutching five children, their bones so hardened that they first had to break his arms to get the children away then their arms to get them apart. And the mothers of two of them watched it happen.
I saw limbs brought out which bore no resemblance to human arm or leg, flesh burned away by this dreadful stuff, small children already beginning to decompose because there had been air-locks beneath the slag.
By Saturday, the anger had risen and if Lord Robens, chairman of the National [Coal] Board, had dared to set foot in that village, he would have been lynched. Sunday was dreadful too because the full realisation of what had happened had begun to hit home.
The church services were not beautiful. They were terrible. But the bravery of those people was incredible. I came home on Monday night having learned a great deal about life and death and finding it difficult to believe in anything at all.
Even now, I am trying hard not to feel, because once you feel, it will be too hard to bear.
You probably noticed that I was in Aberfan this weekend. But you will have no possible idea of what hell it was. No newspaper could ever paint a picture terrible enough.
The first news reached the office at 11am, just that 50 children were trapped. I caught the midday train and met many other reporters from various newspapers also on it...
At Cardiff, the Express had hired cars waiting but we were told the only way to get through was by train. The roads were closed. Even then we assumed they were closed because the “landslide” had descended on them. We still didn’t know what had really happened.
We left the train at Merthyr Vale, the village before Aberfan, about two miles away, and walked. The roads were just like they were during the war, with many people in filthy clothes all plodding in the same direction.
These were the miners coming from the pits to join in the digging. In the village itself, women lined the streets and lorries and ambulances blocked every inch of the way. I think then we realised it was more serious than had first appeared on the news tapes.
But it wasn’t until we walked up the hill and turned the corner which gave us a view of what had once been a school, that we understood. And we stopped. Only a small portion was left but again, it wasn’t until I asked a policeman how many children had been in the school and he replied “about 200” that the full horror hit us.
Looking at that mess, that terrible black slag by this time sweating and sticky like tar, you knew it was impossible that anyone buried under it could possibly live. And of course, the last live person had been pulled out at 11.30 that morning, two hours after it happened and five hours before we arrived.
Looking down on that terrible mess of a school from behind on the mountain side with a blanket of slag on it, nothing of the inside of the building could be seen.
Wherever you looked, women stood waiting. You could tell which were the mothers; they weren’t crying, just huddling together. The fathers straight from the pit were digging. No-one had yet really given up hope, although logic told them it was useless.
Every now and again the organiser of the operation would yell through a loud hailer for quiet. That was the most terrible moment of all. Someone had seen an arm or a leg and everyone longed for the sound of a child crying.
The gigantic bulldozer, operating in such confined spaces and with such deafening noise, would stop. The noise of spade against spade and the murmur of orders would cease, the women would draw a little nearer and everyone would hope.
Then a body would be brought out gently, cleared quickly of a casing of slag which clung to the skin and clothing. A doctor would push his way through and everyone waited. Then the doctor would wrap the little body gently in a blanket and it would be carried into the building of corrugated iron which served as a mortuary.
This went on for hours... All through the night we worked, talking to people or trying to, because how can you talk reasonably to mothers who have just identified a dead child?...
At eight o’clock, I went to the school in the next village where the parents were meeting the chief constable. They were asked to fill in forms, listing the children who had been at school that day which was the only way of checking because class registers were still buried. And as the mothers sat down to write the names of their children, the tears came.
Back at the site, everyone was praying that the threatened rain would not come. Just down the road, people waited patiently outside the little chapel named the Miners’ Chapel until they were called to identify the dead children brought one by one from the mortuary.
All through the night it was the same. We were nearly dropping. And there was a terrible moment when all the copy to our respective papers had been put over and we had time to think about the situation as a whole.
[The following day, Alix returned to the village, to report for the Sunday Express]
The rain held off until teatime then started drizzling. By 7pm it was pelting down. One of the houses shattered by the avalanche was still burning. No-one had yet been found alive or dead from any of the ruined houses.
By this time, the slag had had time to corrode the skin of the children still buried and many brought out burned could only been identified by the clothing or things in their pockets. One little boy, whose father, a teacher at the school who had saved some of his son’s classmates, was identified by a slip of paper with his name on deep inside his wallet...
Men who had started digging at 9.30 the previous morning, were still digging, with shirts off and bodies sweating despite the cold.
I saw such dreadful things, Mummy. They brought out the deputy headmaster, still clutching five children, their bones so hardened that they first had to break his arms to get the children away then their arms to get them apart. And the mothers of two of them watched it happen.
I saw limbs brought out which bore no resemblance to human arm or leg, flesh burned away by this dreadful stuff, small children already beginning to decompose because there had been air-locks beneath the slag.
By Saturday, the anger had risen and if Lord Robens, chairman of the National [Coal] Board, had dared to set foot in that village, he would have been lynched. Sunday was dreadful too because the full realisation of what had happened had begun to hit home.
The church services were not beautiful. They were terrible. But the bravery of those people was incredible. I came home on Monday night having learned a great deal about life and death and finding it difficult to believe in anything at all.
Even now, I am trying hard not to feel, because once you feel, it will be too hard to bear.
RIP
This disaster had a huge effect on people at the time. I was a child with family who all worked in the mines and danger was ever present, but no one really gave a toss about the spoil tips that were all around mining areas.
The disaster was avoidable but it was another world to those in power at the time, so long as coal was produced it mattered not the damage done elsewhere.
There was a large outcry, but if that was now, there would be a different approach. The NCB paid compensation, but how could money make up for such a loss, no one was jailed or lost their job for what they allowed to happen. If this was now social media 24 hour news would have shown the true horror, back then it was a sanitised report used.
It was shocking at the time and even now I remember those in South Yorkshire who lived in the shadows of spoil tips being afraid.
So sad
The disaster was avoidable but it was another world to those in power at the time, so long as coal was produced it mattered not the damage done elsewhere.
There was a large outcry, but if that was now, there would be a different approach. The NCB paid compensation, but how could money make up for such a loss, no one was jailed or lost their job for what they allowed to happen. If this was now social media 24 hour news would have shown the true horror, back then it was a sanitised report used.
It was shocking at the time and even now I remember those in South Yorkshire who lived in the shadows of spoil tips being afraid.
So sad
It really affected everyone, even in London. It seemed to be the only topic of conversation for days. There was a collection at my firm just afterwards and everyone was putting lots of money in. I know exactly where I was when I was told of the horror.
I remember seeing a chap who was standing watching the digging saying that his child was missing.
Heartrending.
I was 19 and cried for the first time as an adult.
It was not the time to have an active imagination.
I remember seeing a chap who was standing watching the digging saying that his child was missing.
Heartrending.
I was 19 and cried for the first time as an adult.
It was not the time to have an active imagination.
2 sMoKiN bArReLs said:
I was only 7 & I can't really remember much from that era (not even winning the World Cup), but I remember this graphically.
It was terrible, just terrible.
Same here. I think it affected us at home because our parents were so upset by the scenes being shown on TV.It was terrible, just terrible.
The thing is it was totally avoidable, instead sadly it resulted in one of the worst tragedies in the UKs modern history.
But then following the tragedy to make things so much worse was the diabolical stance of The Coal Authority/British Coal. Firstly trying to deny any streams existed when it had been reported to hem countless times & the risk it could result in. Then finally when they did accept responsibility the offer to the families for each death was a disgrace.
For the area an entire generation was wiped out, pretty much everyone had a relative in some way or another lost in the tragedy
But then following the tragedy to make things so much worse was the diabolical stance of The Coal Authority/British Coal. Firstly trying to deny any streams existed when it had been reported to hem countless times & the risk it could result in. Then finally when they did accept responsibility the offer to the families for each death was a disgrace.
For the area an entire generation was wiped out, pretty much everyone had a relative in some way or another lost in the tragedy
Welshbeef said:
... so much worse was the diabolical stance of The Coal Authority/British Coal. Firstly trying to deny any streams existed when it had been reported to hem countless times & the risk it could result in. Then finally when they did accept responsibility the offer to the families for each death was a disgrace.
I just happen to be reading about it in the new Bill Bryson book. He says the NCB offered families £500 but only if they proved they were "close to their children". WTF? Meanwhile they secretly appropriated £150,000 from the disaster fund to pay towards the cleanup.A documentary was on ITV the other week and apparently the amount of slurry that came down was 120,000 tonnes at the bare min. That's 6,000 dumper trucks to take it away.
They literally had minutes to save those who were trapped - but the working men were down the mines which meant that the women who had no suitable tools didn't stand a chance.
Watching these old videos and the documentaries are very emotional even now 50years later.
They literally had minutes to save those who were trapped - but the working men were down the mines which meant that the women who had no suitable tools didn't stand a chance.
Watching these old videos and the documentaries are very emotional even now 50years later.
Before my time, just, but I remember learning about it - I imagine at the 10th anniversary. Truly, truly awful and accounts of it such as those on the radio the other day move me to tears without fail.
The events, reporting, pictures and film feel like they belong to another era, another century, even, but they don't.
The behaviour of the NCB and the Wilson Government was simply reprehensible, though; a huge amount was raised for the families by public donation; it went to the Government and they actually went so far as to keep some of it back to pay for the clean-up, after first sitting on it for fear that such a flood of cash would destabilise the community.
The events, reporting, pictures and film feel like they belong to another era, another century, even, but they don't.
The behaviour of the NCB and the Wilson Government was simply reprehensible, though; a huge amount was raised for the families by public donation; it went to the Government and they actually went so far as to keep some of it back to pay for the clean-up, after first sitting on it for fear that such a flood of cash would destabilise the community.
The people of Aberfan are truly remarkable. There is nothing more to say that hasn't already been said.
I recommend that if you can, just go and visit that memorial garden. The old "puts things into perspective" phrase is a bit of a cliché, but it is absolutely the case when you spend a while in the garden and walk up through the cemetery to see the neat line of graves.
Rest in peace.
I recommend that if you can, just go and visit that memorial garden. The old "puts things into perspective" phrase is a bit of a cliché, but it is absolutely the case when you spend a while in the garden and walk up through the cemetery to see the neat line of graves.
Rest in peace.
Nimby said:
Welshbeef said:
... so much worse was the diabolical stance of The Coal Authority/British Coal. Firstly trying to deny any streams existed when it had been reported to hem countless times & the risk it could result in. Then finally when they did accept responsibility the offer to the families for each death was a disgrace.
I just happen to be reading about it in the new Bill Bryson book. He says the NCB offered families £500 but only if they proved they were "close to their children". WTF? Meanwhile they secretly appropriated £150,000 from the disaster fund to pay towards the cleanup.Gassing Station | News, Politics & Economics | Top of Page | What's New | My Stuff