Belgium, that charming little carbuncle on the face of Europe, has once again reminded us that it is a nation of master planners. Because nothing says ‘we have our priorities straight’ like a school minibus deciding to play chicken with an oncoming locomotive. Four dead. Four families shattered. Four more names to add to the ever-expanding ledger of mortifyingly avoidable tragedy.
It happened at a level crossing, because of course it did. Somewhere in the Flemish ether, a driver either misjudged the speed of the train or simply decided that the flashing lights and descending barriers were mere suggestions, like the use of deodorant on a crowded tram. The minibus, a modest vessel of youthful potential, was no match for several tons of steel hurtling along at the behest of Belgian rail scheduling. The result was a crumpled mess of metal and dreams, a tableau vivant of what happens when infrastructure meets incompetence.
Now, the usual suspects will gather. The flag will fly at half-mast. A minute of silence will be observed, punctuated only by the gentle weeping of politicians who will solemnly promise to ‘investigate’ and ‘improve safety’. And they will, until the next time someone forgets that trains do not, in fact, have brakes that can stop on a sixpence. It is the eternal dance of the bureaucrat and the corpse: one wrings hands, the other stiffens.
But let us not be too harsh on the deceased. They are, after all, the victims of a system that treats level crossings like the green light at a zebra crossing, only with more crunch. The minibus driver, presumably a human being with a brain, inexplicably ignored the most basic laws of physics. Or perhaps it was the gin. I blame the gin. Everything is better with gin, except, apparently, driving a minibus full of children across railway tracks.
What will come of this? A flurry of reports, a few upgraded barriers, and the inevitable resignation of a low-level official who will be sacrificed to the gods of public outrage. The rest of us will tut, share the article on social media, and move on to the next catastrophe. Because that is the modern condition: a perpetual cycle of horror and indifference, lubricated by a splash of tonic and a slice of lemon.
In the meantime, four people are dead. Their final moments were a deafening roar, a blinding light, and then nothing. Perhaps they thought of their mothers. Perhaps they thought of the unfinished schoolwork. Perhaps they thought, ‘I should have taken the bus.’ The irony is too bitter for even the most cynical of journalists to savour.
So raise a glass, if you must, to the fallen. But don’t spill it. There are more trains coming.
