An evening that was meant to be a celebration turned into a tragedy for the Jara family. Mario’s last conversation with his parents was over the phone—he told them he hadn’t had time to eat and planned to grab a snack at the train’s cafeteria. No one could have imagined that the Alvia 2384 train, which was taking him home after taking an exam for an assistant position in the penitentiary service, would be his last journey.
His mother was waiting at home with a cake and lit candles—Mario had just turned 42. But instead of a celebration, the family was plunged into a nightmare that lasted more than two days. His parents, Charo and Miguel, spent sleepless nights clinging to hope for any news. Their Wednesday morning began with a trip to the Citizen Support Center in Córdoba, where families of the missing had gathered. Only after several hours did they receive the devastating news: their son’s DNA matched one of the bodies found in the twisted remains of the train cars.
Lost hopes
By the hour, the number of identified victims kept growing. By Wednesday morning, forensic experts from the Guardia Civil had confirmed the identities of 26 victims. But updates for the families came slowly, like drops of water in a desert. After leaving the center, Mario’s parents went to the anatomical institute. His mother couldn’t hold back her tears, while his father remembered how, on that fateful night, he was exercising when he heard of the crash. He immediately got behind the wheel and drove from Sevilla to Huelva, calling his son nonstop. The phone remained silent. With every passing minute, hope faded, giving way to fear and despair.
Mario was born in Córdoba, but has lived in Huelva since he was three. His father describes him as a kind, tall young man, but the words catch in his throat—it’s too painful to speak of someone who is gone.
Numbers and destinies
Official data is updated once a day. Thirty-seven victims remain hospitalized in Andalucía, including four children. The death toll has reached 42, after rescuers recovered three more bodies from the train cars. No new victims were found overnight. Yet for many families, the waiting is not over—they still hope their loved ones will be found alive, although with every passing hour that hope fades.
The atmosphere at the Civil Support Center in Córdoba is heavy. People who have lost contact with relatives wait for news within cold walls, clinging to any scrap of information they can find. For them, time has stopped, and every new day brings only pain and uncertainty.
Endless waiting
Nawal’s family is still hoping to learn the fate of Yamila, who was traveling in the eighth carriage of the Iryo train. She had spent the weekend in Málaga with her husband, who works there, while she lives in Madrid. That carriage was among those derailed and crushed by the oncoming locomotive. Every hour without news is torment for her family. They spend their nights in a hotel and their days at the center, waiting for any word.
When Nawel was told that all the wounded had already been identified, she fainted. For many families, this was the last hope that vanished in an instant. The waiting, filled with fear and despair, became the hardest part of this tragedy.
Psychological support
In moments like these, professional help is especially important. Mario’s mother thanks the Red Cross staff for their support, which helps her endure the unbearable. But no words can dull the pain of loss. Families continue to wait, to hope—and to fear hearing the worst.
The tragedy in Adamuz has been a test not only for the victims but for everyone waiting for news about their loved ones. Waiting is the cruelest torture, when every call can change your life forever.
