Fatal Collapse

By: Elián Zidán

There are stories no journalist is ever truly prepared to cover. Images that stay with you long after you close your eyes. This was one of those moments.

What should have been a night of celebration during the traditional “Jet Set Monday” turned into a nightmare—more than 220 lives lost, dozens injured, entire families vanished. A tragedy that will leave an irreversible scar on the Dominican Republic.

The moment I arrived outside the nightclub, I knew—this wasn’t just another emergency. I saw dozens of people working tirelessly, clearing debris, searching for life where hope had all but faded. The silence was deafening, broken only by sirens and sobs. Music no longer poured from the main entrance—only stretchers with bodies shrouded in white sheets.

The scene shook me, but what truly broke me were the faces of those waiting for news. Entire families holding on to faith, refusing to let go. Felicita, sitting on a plastic chair beneath a makeshift tent, her gaze vacant, said something I’ll never forget: “I love my daughter. I don’t care if she has a broken leg or worse—just bring her to me alive.” The pain in her eyes left me speechless.

That night, life and death collided in a cruel twist of fate.

Rubby Pérez, the iconic merengue singer, wasn’t supposed to perform that Monday. He had changed his plans to be with his partner in the U.S. His daughter, still recovering from surgery, wasn’t there to sing as she often did. That simple decision saved her life.

Carwin Molleja, a Venezuelan percussionist, had performed on that stage many times—but that night, he was in the audience, accompanying his mother. They both lived to tell the tale.

Bryan, a merchant from Louisiana, had shown up at the wrong club by mistake. While charging his phone at the bar, he noticed dust and ceiling fragments falling—quietly swept up by staff. He even joked, “If this place collapses, this beam might save me.” When his phone powered on, he left. Minutes later, the building came down.

And in the chaos, heroes emerged—doctors in firefighter helmets, psychologists comforting survivors, volunteers handing out food and water.

One of those heroes was Rafael Rosario, a bodyguard who, upon realizing what was happening, didn’t hesitate. He rushed inside and saved 12 people. His bravery gave them another chance at life.

Now comes the investigation—and with it, an urgent demand for answers. There’s no explanation that can ease the grief of those who lost so much, but there must be accountability. This can never be allowed to happen again. Life is priceless—and as we saw here, as fragile as porcelain.

This tragedy didn’t discriminate. The victims were regulars, workers, business owners, artists, tourists. Human beings.

If you’re reading this—if you have someone you love nearby—hold them. Because nothing in this life is guaranteed. Everything can change in an instant.

I’m heading home. But I carry with me the memory of those 220 souls who never will. This has been one of the hardest assignments of my career. I witnessed lives shattered, dreams buried under rubble, and a silence heavier than any words.

I leave with my heart heavy—but with the conviction that telling these stories is also a form of justice. Because those who died are not statistics. Their lives were real. Their names, faces, and stories deserve to be remembered—and honored.