One month on: beneath the rubble of the Jet Set tragedy, grief’s echoes still resonate

Santo Domingo.- Just one month ago today, the Dominican Republic awoke to the unimaginable – the catastrophic collapse of the iconic Jet Set nightclub. What transpired that fateful night on April 8th has been seared into the nation’s soul, marking it as the worst non-natural disaster in recent memory, a wound that remains raw and deeply felt.

In the immediate aftermath, television screens and radio waves carried a single, haunting image: the anguished faces of families gathered outside the wreckage, the tireless dedication of rescuers digging through the debris, and the collective gaze of a world watching a country plunged into sudden, profound mourning. The vibrant heart of a city known for its rhythm and life had been abruptly silenced.

That night, what began as a celebration, a festive gathering under the roof of a beloved entertainment hub, descended into a horrifying scene of chaos and death. The concrete structure, meant to shield revelers, instead became a deadly tomb. The collapse, occurring shortly after midnight, claimed the lives of 233 souls and left 189 others wounded, their lives forever altered by the sudden, violent end of a night out.

Today, the stretch of Avenida Independencia where the Jet Set once stood buzzing and alive is transformed. The bright lights and posters are gone, replaced by a somber, makeshift memorial. Wilting flowers and faded photographs adorn the remaining walls, a poignant, collective altar to the lost – mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, friends. Among the faces is that of Rubby Pérez, “the highest voice of merengue,” the star performer that night, whose body was tragically recovered days later from the ruins.

The ripple effects of the disaster spread far beyond the immediate casualties. It is estimated that over 150 children were left orphaned, their childhoods irrevocably marked by the absence of a parent lost in the collapse. More than a thousand families have been directly or indirectly scarred, grappling with not only the loss of loved ones but also the physical and emotional trauma left behind.

While the crowds that initially flocked to the site have thinned, the pain has not dissipated; it has merely relocated. It resides now within the quiet walls of countless homes across the country, where empty chairs at dinner tables and silent phones serve as constant reminders of those who will never return. Families are left to navigate a new reality, learning the painful art of living with profound absence.

Yet, the skeletal remains of the club still stand, bearing silent witness. The walls that didn’t fall hold the scars of that night. Behind them, a haunting silence has replaced the joyous din. The collective memory of those who survived or were present holds the terrifying scene: the ominous water leaks from the ceiling, the soaked tarps, the ignored warnings, and then, the deafening, final roar of the collapse. It is a sound and an image that the Dominican Republic will carry for generations.