BAHIA BAKARI, ONLY SURVIVOR OF COMOROS PLANE CRASH, 2009
Bahia was born and raised in Paris by parents who were originally from the Comoro Islands. Her native tongue is French. She was 12 when the plane crashed. She could barely swim. Nowadays she works in real estate and still lives in Paris. Her father, Kassim, wasn’t on the plane and took care of her in the years after the crash. Her mother, Aziza, died on the plane. She has two younger brothers, Badru and Badavi, and a younger sister, Badyan. They were not on the plane.
(Phone rings. Pick up.)
Hello?
(Caller says hello. Or not.)
What’s your name?
(Caller says their name. Or not.)
I’m Bahia.
I’ve told my story… So many times.
First, just after it happened.
Then again, for all of the journalists.
In a book.
In court.
I think they thought it would make me less lonely.
I think they thought sharing would help me cope.
And it did.
A little bit.
Have you ever felt better by sharing something?
(Wait for reaction.)
(If reaction: discuss. If no reaction: continue.)
Something that happened to you. A story. An emotion.
(Pick up from here after discussion.)
I shared something that was so unique… That they couldn’t get enough of it.
Here’s my story.
It was a small plane.
There were flies inside, and it smelled like a bathroom.
We were on our way to my granddad’s wedding.
We traveled from France, me and my mom.
Changed planes in Yemen, then on our way for the last leg of the trip.
To Moroni. Comoro Islands. Granddad.
I was excited. And tired.
I was twelve.
We started our descent.
I pressed my forehead against the small window, next to my seat.
Tried to see the islands.
But it was nighttime. Dark.
I didn’t see anything.
I was thinking about granddad. How happy he’d be to see us. How he’d tell me that I’d grown. How he would hug me and smile and tell me about all of the fun stuff he’d planned for us.
And then I fell.
I felt something like an electric shock go through my body.
I thought I had just tumbled down.
I thought I had fallen out of the airplane, by pressing my forehead too hard against the window.
I was sure my mom would scold me for not wearing my seatbelt.
There I was, in the water.
I thought it was just me.
But then I heard the voices.
I didn’t see anyone.
It was just as dark as it had seemed from the window of the plane.
I held on to something, didn’t know what, just that it kept me safe.
I had a strange taste in my mouth, like jet fuel.
And I heard voices, in the distance.
They were shouting, faintly. I think it was in Comorian.
I tried to shout back, but I didn’t know who I was answering to, or what they said.
Pitch black.
Eventually I fell asleep.
When I woke up, the voices were gone.
I could finally see.
Water.
Plane debris.
And a coastline, somewhere, but the water was choppy and I couldn’t really make it out.
I tried to climb on the largest piece of metal I saw, but I couldn’t.
I just had to hold on.
My hip and my collarbone were broken, and I had some burns.
But otherwise I was fine, the doctor said.
I asked after my mother.
After the other passengers.
I thought everyone had arrived safely.
That I was the only one who fell.
Tumbled through the window of the plane, just because I’d been too eager to look outside.
That it had just been me.
Just me.
(Pause for potential reaction by caller.)
(If reaction: discuss.)
(If no reaction: continue, new tone of voice.)
I’m flying again.
I didn’t want the accident keeping me from my future.
So one day, I just boarded a plane again.
I wasn’t scared.
Are you afraid of flying?
(Wait for reaction.)
(If yes:)
I get it.
It’s easy for me.
I don’t have to be afraid any more.
I survived.
Maybe next time, I don’t.
Anything can happen.
I know that now.
(If no:)
Good.
You shouldn’t.
Being scared doesn’t solve anything.
It just makes you feel more lonely.
Different.
And I don’t want to feel different any more.
(If never flown:)
(Ask why, if caller feels talkative.)
(Then:)
They asked me if I regretted boarding the plane.
But how could I.
I was twelve.
I was with my mom.
It was a celebration.
A family trip.
There is nothing to regret, when you’re twelve.
(Continuing, different tone of voice.)
People treat you differently, you know.
They can’t help it.
They mean well.
But I don’t want to be different any more.
I just want to be me. Bahia.
Not ‘the only girl who survived’.
Not ‘the miracle girl’.
Not any more.
Nobody asked me what my hobbies are. What makes me smile. What makes me dance.
What makes you dance?
(If answer, discuss. Note: caller might ask for your hobbies, smiles or dances. Potential answers: her younger brothers and sisters, photos of her grandfather, traveling, Twarab music – Maalesh is a well-known artist – a pain au chocolat that’s still warm.)
(After discussion, if caller has talked a lot:)
Thank you for sharing your story with me.
It’s comforting to hear other people’s stories.
I know people have found comfort in mine.
And that’s okay.
(After discussion, if caller has not talked a lot:)
I know people have found comfort in my story.
And that’s okay.
(Continuing:)
I’ve not done anything special.
What happened to me, was pure bad luck, that somehow turned into good luck.
But sometimes those are the things you need to hang on to.
Stories of wonder, that help you through the day.
I’m fine with that.
I guess I’ll always stay ‘the miracle girl’ for some people.
I should accept that.
As long as I’m also just Bahia for others.
Just a girl, pressing her head against a window, to look at all the beauty that’s out there.
This is the end of our call.
Thank you, again.
Please stay a while, and contemplate, if you want.
We have a mailbox, the mailbox of solace.
In it, you can put your own personal note.
Give it a try.
Thank you (use name if mentioned).
(Pause for potential reaction, then hang up.)