Grief and pandemonium were present in equal measure at Cairo airport yesterday as relatives of the passengers on Egyptair Flight 990 tried to get information about the ill-fated aircraft from airline officials.
"There is no God but Allah," screamed Ms Samiha Ismail when she saw the name of her brother-in-law on the list of passengers on the plane, which was carrying 197 adult passengers, two children not occupying seats, 15 crew on duty and three off duty.
Such tragic scenes were repeated throughout the afternoon. Panicked and bewildered relatives began arriving at Terminal One of Cairo's international airport a little after 1 p.m. local time, following a televised announcement that the aircraft had gone missing over the Atlantic. In the absence of a hotline or any other special emergency measures to deal with the crash, the airport was the only place they could think of to find information.
They were shown into a large room on the first floor of the departure lounge, where rows of yellow plastic chairs faced a table at which sat three EgyptAir employees, each with a photocopy of the passenger manifest.
But beyond being told whether the names of their loved ones were on the manifest they were offered little more than water and, in some cases, some emergency medical care. Officials insisted they had no information other than the names on the list and at first were even refusing to admit that a crash had taken place.
"I want to know what happened, I want to know," Mr Magdi Abadi yelled at one of the men behind the table as he tried to get information about his sister, who was returning to Cairo on the ill-fated flight.
"What happened? It crashed didn't it? How can you not know if it crashed or not?" he cried, his voice breaking.
The official, Mr Hussein Abdel Ba'I, looked down at his papers. He himself was close to tears. "We have no official instructions, we just have the manifest," he admitted later. Eventually he and his colleagues began to take down the names and phone numbers of the relatives.
Adding to the ordeal of the families were the television cameras and journalists that swarmed around them as they had their worst nightmares confirmed. At least two cameramen were hit by hysterical family members and a photographer had his camera knocked to the floor.
"This is appalling," yelled one man at the reporters who crowded his hyper-ventilating brother. "Have you no shame?"
Amid the chaos, the bereaved were left to fend for themselves. Mr Subhy Muhammed was visiting a friend in hospital when he heard the news. "The only thing I could think of was to come to the airport," he said, his voice breaking.
Clearly in shock, he added: "I don't know how I got here. They tell me the plane crashed but I don't understand anything, I don't know. I don't know." His brother-in-law, a father of four, Mr Khilaw Abdel Alim, was among the flight's 217 passengers.
Mrs Gamalat Hussein's 22-year-old niece was returning from a two month holiday in the US. Swathed in black, tears streaming down her face, Mrs Hussein calmly talked to reporters, repeating the same complaints that the other families made.
"We heard about this on television," she said. "Nobody has told us anything. We don't know what's happening, we don't know anything except that she is on the list."
Like many other relatives she, her brother and her daughter sat quietly on the uncomfortable plastic chairs for the better part of an hour in the hope of learning more about the fate of their niece before giving up and going home to grieve in private.