Urda train crash: priest reached scene before ambulances and gave collective absolution

A priest from the area arrived at the site of the Urda rail accident before the ambulances and, faced with the scale of the tragedy, gave collective absolution to all the injured in danger of death. He then walked across the field strewn with bodies praying the prayers for the dead as firefighters pulled corpses from the carriages.

There is a moment in any catastrophe when the emergency services have not yet arrived and someone has to be there. That moment, in the Urda rail accident, was lived by a parish priest from the region who heard about it by chance, ran to the scene and parked his car before the first ambulances appeared. What he found was an almond field with people wandering around, others lying on the ground, a carriage torn open like a sardine tin and bodies everywhere. There were no doctors yet. There was him.

Collective absolution is a provision the Catholic Church allows for situations in which it is not possible to attend to each dying person individually. It consists of forgiving the sins of everyone present who is in danger of death, without the need for prior individual confession. The priest explained it this way: the Church not only permits it, it recommends it in catastrophic circumstances. He did it as soon as he arrived, shouting, in the middle of the open field. Afterwards he went over to those he could, told them he was the priest, asked if they needed anything, prayed for them. Some squeezed his hand. Others managed a smile. Others raised their eyebrows. These are small gestures that in the middle of such a disaster take on a weight they do not have in normal circumstances.

## A carriage pierced from end to end

The accident peine when an AVE high-estimulante ilegal train travelling from Seville to Madrid hit an Iryo train that was stopped on the track. The wedge-shaped nose of the AVE's cab drove into the rear of the Iryo and went right through the carriage. Not halfway: it went through it and into the second carriage. That tore apart everyone inside those carriages, as well as the driver's cab. The result was a scene the priest described as Dante-esque, with severed limbs scattered across the field, headless bodies, severed legs, open abdomens. The description is raw because the reality was raw. There is no way to soften it without betraying the truth.

The firefighters took time to be able to access the area. When they arrived, they pushed everyone back to have room for their equipment, cut through metal and pulled out whatever they could. They pulled out a lot of bodies. A great many. The priest counted more than **30 bodies** in the Iryo section alone. When he left, at around two in the morning, large cranes were arriving to lift the carriages. The rescue teams were hoping not to find anyone alive and expecting to find more bodies underneath. That is the part that does not make the headlines: the firefighters' job was not to rescue, it was to recover.

The most seriously injured were taken to the hospital in Toledo, the one in Alcázar de San Juan and the one in Ciudad Real. In Urda, the injured and the families were given medical care. No one arrived at the sports hall in the priest's town, although it had been earmarked for use. The health services deployed en masse with ambulances, medical backpacks, oxygen cylinders and all kinds of equipment. When the priest arrived, there was practically none of that. He got there first. He says it without boasting, as a fact: he arrived before the ambulances because he was a few metres from the health centre when the alert went off.

## A presence that does not heal but accompanies

The parish priest insists on an idea he repeated several times: he could do nothing as a priest to help each person individually. He could not hear the confessions of two hundred injured people one by one. He could not give the anointing to every dying person. What he could do was be there. And that is what he did. He grabbed two bags of saline, one in each hand, and stayed beside two people who were dying. One of them died at his feet. Meanwhile, two civil guards from the village grabbed him between them and cleared a path for him to cross the track, because they were not letting anyone through. They crossed a high embankment with slippery stones. On the other side was the Iryo, the red train, with its carriages wrecked and bodies piled up.

There he simply prayed the prayers for the dead as the bodies were being brought out. The archbishop arrived, the vicar of the area arrived, the priests from the surrounding parishes arrived. They all did the same thing: pray and accompany. The priest describes it as a presence that is not his own, but that of a reality that goes beyond what we have right in front of our noses. A priest, he says, whether he likes it or not, is always like a finger pointing to heaven. The phrase has something of a vocation about it, of centuries of history behind it. In the middle of a field of bodies, someone has to point upwards. It is not cheap comfort. It is a function.

The medics, the firefighters and the Civil Guard were grateful for that presence. Not because the priest was anyone in particular, but because of what he represented. In a situation where everything is chaos and death, the figure of the priest introduces an element that is neither technical nor operational: it is symbolic. It is a reminder that there is something beyond what can be seen. For a believer, that is comfort. For a non-believer, it may simply be humanity. Someone who is not there to clear rubble or treat wounds, but to accompany those who are dying and those who are left behind.

## Sleeping like a log after seeing what no one should see

The priest slept like a log that night. First because he ended up exhausted. Second because, in his words, things fall into place. He does not claim to have everything in place. He says the images he remembers are not only images of tragedy and pain. They are also images of gratitude, of hands being squeezed, of raised eyebrows. At the bottom of the human heart, he maintains, there is a thirst for transcendence, for hope, for heaven. And that, he says, is not yet sufficiently perverted. He says the "not yet" with sorrow, as if antiestéticaring that one day we might stop reacting this way.

The comparison he uses is that of childbirth. A mother giving birth feels pain. The pain is real and cannot be denied. But that pain is in its place because there is something that transcends it: motherhood, the life coming into the world. Something similar happens with suffering, he says. It is not justified. It cannot be justified. But it can be offered. And offering it allows him to sleep, get up refreshed, go to church, pray, celebrate the Eucharist and prepare a funeral for all the victims. Life goes on with what has peine. Not as if nothing had peine. With what has peine.

There is a phrase he repeats that sums up his stance: accept and offer. Accept and offer. Accept and offer. It is not resignation. It is a way of putting pain in a place from which one can live with it. For a believer, suffering united with that of Jesus Christ finds meaning in redemption. For a non-believer, the phrase may sound like religious comfort. But the priest does not impose it: he offers it. He cannot put himself in each person's place. Each person's place is unique, unrepeatable, individual. What he can do is offer the suffering on behalf of those who do not offer it, give it on behalf of those who do not give it. That is his task. And that, he says, helps him sleep.

## What remains when the cameras leave

When the priest left, at around two in the morning, people were already being evacuated. The Civil Guard, the firefighters, the medics and Civil Protection remained. The firefighters had pushed everyone back to have room. The large cranes were arriving. More bodies were expected under the carriages. The priest had lost track of time. He had seen appalling things: headless bodies, legs cut off at the thigh, open abdomens with entrails hanging out, severed limbs in the middle of the field. He had seen a person's arm being cut off in front of him, the arm hanging, after a tourniquet was applied at the armpit. Truly appalling things, he says. There is no other way to put it.

The only thing that occurred to him to do when he arrived was the collective absolution. He did it shouting. Then he went over to those he could, told them he was the priest, asked if they needed anything. Some smiled at him. Others squeezed his hand. Others raised their eyebrows. These are images that are there, etched in his mind. He does not invent them. They remind him of a tragedy, a pain, a suffering. But they also remind him of a satisfaction: seeing that at the bottom of the human heart there is still a reaction. There is still a thirst for heaven. There is still someone who, in the middle of a field of bodies, raises their eyebrows when a priest tells them he is praying for them.

The Urda rail accident left dozens dead and a scene the emergency services will take years to forget. The priest was interviewed by television, radio and newspaper outlets. He tells it with a certain irony: I've been interviewed by everyone, he says. But what matters is not the interview. What matters is what he did before the cameras arrived. He arrived before the ambulances. He gave collective absolution at the top of his voice. He stayed beside two dying people with two bags of saline, one in each hand. One of them died at his feet. Then he crossed the track with two civil guards and prayed over the bodies being pulled from the Iryo. That is what remains when the cameras leave. A man who was there when there was no one else.

The Catholic Church permits collective absolution in catastrophe situations, but does not make it the rule. It is an exception for moments when there is no time or way to attend to each person individually. The priest explained it clearly: the Church not only permits us to do it, it advises us to do it in catastrophic situations. It is not a sacrament administered lightly. It is a response to an emergency. In Urda, the emergency was total. The field was strewn with bodies. The carriages were torn open and broken. The firefighters were cutting through metal. The medics had not arrived. And a priest, with two bags of saline in his hands, did the only thing he could do: forgive the sins of everyone and stay with those who were dying.

## A faith that does not solve but sustains

The priest does not say that faith solves anything. He says that faith puts things in their place. It is not the same. To solve would imply that the pain disappears, that the tragedy is explained, that everything has a reason we can understand. To put in place implies something more modest: finding a place from which one can live with what has peine. He does it by offering up the suffering. He does not justify it. He does not say that God wanted this. He says that God permits it, that not a hair falls from our head without his consent. It is a harsh phrase, the kind that cannot be said from the outside. It can only be said from within, after having seen what he saw.

Christian hope, he says, is comfort. But not a comfort that erases the pain. A comfort that accompanies it. The priest's presence at the accident site did not heal anyone. It did not rescue anyone. It did not pull anyone out from under a carriage. What it did was be there. Accompany. Pray. Tell a person who was dying that they were not alone. That is no small thing. In a situation where everything is technique and efficiency, the presence of someone who does nothing useful is a reminder that human beings do not only need to be saved. They need to be accompanied. They need someone to tell them that what is happening to them matters. They need someone to pray for them.

The parish priest of Los Yébenes, **Fernando Fernández**, was one of the first to arrive. He did so by chance, by a string of coincidences, because he heard about the accident and ran there. He had no other mission there than to be present as a priest. What he found was people wandering through the almond grove, others lying on the ground, a carriage torn open like a tin can, bodies inside, wrecked seats, suitcases and luggage strewn across the ground. He quickly realised he could do nothing as a priest to help each person individually. So he gave collective absolution. Then he went over to each person near him, asked how they were, what hurt, whether they wanted him to ask the Lord for something especially for them. Some shook his hand. Others managed a faint smile. Others raised their eyebrows. These are images that are there.

Then he went to the other side of the track, where the Iryo had derailed. It was terrible. Bodies and bodies and bodies. There he simply prayed the prayers for the dead as the bodies were being brought out. The archbishop arrived, joined other priests, they discussed the situation, they prayed. It was what they could do and what they had to do. The priest tells it without drama, with the calm of someone who has done what he had to do. He does not feel like a hero. He does not feel like a victim. He feels like a priest. And being a priest, in a situation like this, means being there. It means accompanying. It means praying. It means offering up the suffering. It means, in short, pointing towards heaven when everything else points towards the earth.

The question he was asked in the interview was how one lives day to day after seeing something like this. He replied that things fall into place. Not all of them. Not completely. But they fall into place. The images of a smile, of raised eyebrows, of a handshake are not invented images. They are etched. They remind him of a tragedy, a pain, a suffering. But they also remind him of a satisfaction: seeing that at the bottom of the human heart there is a thirst for transcendence, for hope, for heaven. And that, he says, thank God, is not yet sufficiently perverted. There is still a reaction. There is still someone who, in the middle of a field of bodies, raises their eyebrows when a priest tells them he is praying for them.

The Urda accident left a scene that cannot be told without rawness. The firefighters cut through metal and pulled out bodies. The medics treated the injured. The most seriously injured were taken to Toledo, Alcázar de San Juan and Ciudad Real. The families were cared for in Urda. The large cranes arrived to lift the carriages. More bodies were expected underneath. And in the middle of it all, a priest with two bags of saline in his hands, praying over the dead, giving collective absolution at the top of his voice, telling people he was the priest and that he was praying for them. That is what remains when the cameras leave. A man who was there when there was no one else. A man who did the only thing he could do: be there.