Inside the shattered village of Kafr El-Sanabsa, beyond the microbus crash

I hadn’t expected the call to draw much attention, but the response was overwhelming. When Eman Ouf, head of both the Women’s and Freedoms Committees at the Journalists Syndicate, called on fellow journalists to form a delegation to visit families of the victims in Kafr El-Sanabsa, Menoufiya to offer condolences and express solidarity, more than 25 journalists, mostly women, joined.

While the relatively high turnout may have been due to Ouf’s position in the syndicate, there was a strong sense of sisterhood. Of the 19 victims of the microbus crash, 18 were young women struggling to earn a living.

The journey from Cairo took two hours for a mere hundred kilometers. On the map, the village appears close to the capital. In reality, however, it felt like traveling decades back in time.

Frozen in time

What struck me first were the mud-brick houses—a building method long abandoned in most Egyptian villages, replaced by concrete and red brick. Signs of deep poverty were unmistakable.

Most workers from the village never made it to the Gulf or Libya, one local explained this to be the reason the mud-brick houses stood still, unlike neighboring towns transformed by migrant remittances. Even those who find work opportunities in Cairo barely scrape by.

The moment we stepped off the bus, we were met by the sound of Quran recitations wafting through the air. There was no need to ask for directions; the mourning mats laid before each home led the way. Grieving fathers greeted us, while some guided the women inside to offer condolences to the mothers.

The mourning rituals were simple—woven mats on the ground, scattered cushions, and a few plastic chairs. But the weight of grief was unmistakable in every glance and word.

Fathers of the fallen

Among those mourning was Yehia Khalil, father to 15-year-old Jana and 19-year-old Shaimaa, both victims of the horrifying crash.

“Around nine-thirty or ten in the morning, I got a call,” he recalled. “Someone said, ‘Bring a car and come collect the girls from the regional road.’ When I asked who was calling, they said, ‘Doesn’t matter, just come get them.’”

Upon arrival, Khalil found the vehicle they were in was reduced to scrap metal. “I was told everyone had died. They claimed the driver was either asleep or on drugs. But how could they know so quickly?”

Khalil’s voice faltered as he spoke of what came next. “I found out Jana and Shaimaa were dead, along with their cousin Malak. But they were in different hospitals. Who do I go to first?”

He clung to their memory through the smallest details, as if speaking of their lost future might bring them back. “Shaimaa had just gotten a suitor, a decent guy from the village,” he said. “She was taken before she could even consider it.”

She started working at 14, saving to help her dad build their house. She helped pay for windows, doors, plastering—all to finish the house she’d never live in.

“Jana was sharp and clever,” he said. “She scored 250 out of 280 in middle school. She wanted to join the military nursing school. She balanced work, school, and chores with ease.”

With visible pride, he pulled out his phone and showed us a poem Jana had written. “We found it under her pillow. She loved school. She was brilliant.”

When asked about compensation, he scoffed. “Compensation for what? Our daughters are gone. What could make up for that? Not the whole world.”

Call for accountability

As Khalil dismissed the notion of compensation, his brother Mohamed interjected.

“Compensation doesn’t absolve accountability,” Mohamed said. “Where is the labor broker? He disappeared. How does a vehicle meant for 14 people carry 20, sometimes 25 just to save money”.

Mohamed continued, “Where’s the labor office in all this? If they were doing their job, these girls wouldn’t have died.”

He described how the broker collected workers at 7 am, drove them out to distant farms, made them work 12-hour shifts for 130 Egyptian pounds (about $2.50), and pocketed the bulk of what the farms paid.

Saeed Abdel Ghani, grandfather of 16-year-old victim Hana Mostafa, echoed that anger over accountability. “They say the driver was on drugs. But there were two other accidents the same day. Were all the drivers high?”

He pointed to the road itself. “It’s not just the contractor. The road is part of the problem. Whoever built it is also responsible.”

The frustration was shared by the family of 16-year-old victim Toqa El-Gohary, who worked at a farm called Al-Saad. Her uncle said no one from the farm offered condolences. “They claimed the farm was closed that day. But others from the village worked that day too.”

“No one from the farm showed up to offer condolences. When they were mentioned, the owner said the farm was closed for the day. But others went to work there that same day. There were three vehicles—two made it, and the third crashed.”

He added, “The farm washes its hands of responsibility. They deal only with the broker. We don’t even know what he was paid. If anything happens, the farm says it’s not their problem.”

Grief runs deep

Despite the grief, the villagers’ words were laced with immense pride

“Our girls worked to help us live,” said Khalil. “They were well-mannered, educated, religious. They deserved better. We accept God’s will, but they didn’t deserve to die like this.”

Grandfather Saeed cited the village’s hardships as the main drive behind this perilous journey to earn a living.  “There’s no work here. That’s why people go to the farms or the desert. We need jobs, dairy and vegetable projects, anything. So people can work here,” he explained.

“We have only two elementary schools, each with more than 70 students per class. One middle school we built ourselves, and it’s still not enough. No Azhar institute. No functioning health clinic. No doctors. No sewage system. Empty youth center. It costs us a lot just to drain the sewage.”

He paused before adding, “This village is exhausted. Its daughters and sons run everywhere just for a bite to eat.”

As the day drew to a close, we boarded a rickety train back to Cairo—a ride that felt like an extension of the village itself. Cracked windows, worn seats, and dangerous gaps between cars.

As we moved through the train cars, it felt like we were still in Kafr El-Sanabsa. Teen girls looked like the victims, young men chatting about jobs in Cairo.

Two hours later, we reached Ramses Railway Station in Cairo. The journey was over, but the weight lingered.

As I walked along the platform, I watched a young man, clearly from the countryside, wearing city clothes but unable to mask his roots. I saw girls huddled together for safety, a middle-aged woman carrying her belongings in a plastic bag.

Even outside the station, I kept looking around. Not for anyone in particular. But for the people who survived the journey, the ones who made it out of their villages alive.