The Day the Mountain Fell: A Mother’s Story of Aberfan
A heart-wrenching first-person account of the Aberfan disaster, as told by a mother who lost her child. This powerful narrative brings to life the events of 21st October 1966, and their lasting impact.
The morning of 21st October 1966 started like any other in our little village of Aberfan. I woke early, as I always did, to prepare breakfast for my husband Thomas before he left for his shift at the colliery. Our daughter Sarah, just seven years old, was still fast asleep in her bed, her golden curls splayed across the pillow. I savoured these quiet moments before the day truly began, sipping my tea and watching the mist roll down the mountainside through the kitchen window.
As I packed Sarah’s lunch for school — a cheese sandwich, an apple, and a small chocolate biscuit as a Friday treat — I heard her stirring upstairs. Soon enough, she came bounding down in her neatly pressed school uniform, chattering excitedly about the upcoming half-term holiday. We’d promised to take her to the seaside if the weather held, a rare treat for a mining family like ours.
“Mam, can I wear my new hair ribbon today?” Sarah asked, her blue eyes shining. I smiled and nodded, helping her tie the pale blue satin into a neat bow. She looked so grown up, my little girl. It seemed like only yesterday I’d held her as a newborn, marvelling at her tiny fingers and toes.
As we walked hand-in-hand to Pantglas Junior School, Sarah skipping alongside me, I breathed in the crisp autumn air. The trees lining Moy Road were ablaze with red and gold leaves. Despite the gloomy weather that had plagued us for weeks, there was a sense of anticipation in the air — perhaps because of the upcoming holiday, or simply the promise of weekend respite from the daily grind.
We joined the steady stream of parents and children making their way to the school gates. I exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Evans from down the street, whose son David was in Sarah’s class. The children ran ahead, eager to see their friends before the bell rang.
At the school gates, I knelt down to give Sarah a quick hug and kiss. “Be good, cariad,” I said, smoothing her hair. “I’ll see you this afternoon. We can bake a cake for your dad if you like.”
Sarah’s face lit up at the prospect. “Chocolate?” she asked hopefully.
I laughed. “We’ll see. Now off you go, or you’ll be late.”
With a final wave, she disappeared into the schoolyard. I watched her golden head bobbing among her classmates until she vanished from sight. If I’d known it would be the last time I’d see her alive, would I have held her tighter? Memorised every freckle on her nose, every eyelash?
But of course, I didn’t know. None of us did.
I made my way back home, my mind already on the day’s chores. There was laundry to be done, floors to be scrubbed. Perhaps I’d pop round to my sister Mary’s for a cup of tea later. Such ordinary concerns, on what would become the most extraordinary and terrible day of our lives.
It was just after nine when I heard it. A low rumble at first, like distant thunder. But it grew louder, more ominous. The china rattled in the cupboards. The very foundations of our house seemed to tremble.
I rushed to the window, my heart pounding. What I saw will haunt me until my dying day. A great black wave of coal waste, like some monstrous creature, was pouring down the mountainside. Straight towards the school.
For a moment, I stood frozen in horror. Then instinct took over. I ran from the house, not even pausing to grab a coat. All around me, people were pouring into the streets, their faces masks of terror and disbelief.
The closer I got to the school, the worse the devastation became. Houses crushed like matchboxes. Cars tossed aside like toys. And the school… oh God, the school. Where once stood a proud brick building, there was now only a mountain of black slurry and debris.
The air was thick with dust and the screams of the injured and bereaved. Men from the colliery were already there, digging frantically with their bare hands. I joined them, clawing at the rubble, calling Sarah’s name until my throat was raw.
Hours passed in a blur of mud and tears and desperate hope. Every so often, a child would be pulled from the wreckage — some alive, many not. Each time, I held my breath, praying it would be Sarah. But as the day wore on, that hope began to fade.
It was nearly dark when they found her. One of the miners, a man I’d known since childhood, carried her out. Her pale blue ribbon was still perfectly tied in her hair, now matted with coal dust. Her eyes were closed, as if in sleep. But I knew. I knew the moment I saw her that my little girl was gone.
The days that followed passed in a haze of grief. The funerals — so many funerals. The quiet desperation of a community trying to make sense of the senseless. The anger, when we learned that our warnings about the tip had gone unheeded for years.
But mostly, I remember the silence. The terrible silence where once there had been the laughter and shouts of children playing. The silence in our home, where Sarah’s voice would never again ring out.
In time, we learned to live with our loss. We had to, for the sake of the survivors, for the sake of our community. But not a day goes by that I don’t think of Sarah, of the woman she might have become. Of the life she should have had.
They say time heals all wounds. But some wounds are too deep, too raw. The scars left by that terrible day will never fully fade. For those of us who lived through it, Aberfan is not just a place, or an event in history. It’s a wound in our very souls, a reminder of the fragility of life and the terrible price of negligence.
As I stand here today, looking out over the memorial garden where the school once stood, I can almost see Sarah running across the grass, her blue ribbon fluttering in the breeze. And I whisper a promise, as I have every day for the past 58 years: “We will never forget you, cariad. Never.”
Bob Lynn / 08-Sep-2024
