Here’s a version rewritten in the style of a New York Times reportage, in English, keeping the narrative structure and journalistic tone:
A Year After the Pulse Club Fire, Kocani Still Mourns
Exactly one year ago, 63 innocent lives were extinguished. That night, they went out to celebrate, unaware they would never return home.
Balkanview presents parts of a reportage from the respected Swiss newspaper Neue Zürcher Zeitung, originally published after a similar tragedy struck on New Year’s Eve in Crans-Montana, Switzerland.
***
For the youth of Kocani, finally, there is something to do again. On ordinary nights, they ride their tuned-up scooters through the city’s pothole-ridden streets, sit for hours in cafes that still allow smoking, and amuse themselves by giving whimsical names to the countless stray dogs. But on this spring night, hundreds of them are heading to Club Pulse on the outskirts of the 25,000-inhabitant town. DNA, a popular North Macedonian rap duo, is performing. Not everyone makes it inside—the club is packed. Later, townspeople would say: “They were all pushed into the furnace.”
A cellphone video captures the moments before the fire consumes everything. Sparks from small pyrotechnics rise higher and higher. Suddenly, a blinding orange patch appears on the ceiling, shifting, growing, consuming. The camera does not look away. Minutes later, 62 people are dead—burned, poisoned, or trampled. Another 193 are seriously injured.
Nearly ten months have passed since that fateful night on March 16, 2025, marking the deadliest fire in North Macedonia’s history. In this small Balkan country, the tragedy remains raw—and now the harrowing images from Switzerland resurface, the New Year’s inferno in Crans-Montana forcing people to relive their own grief.
In Kocani’s bleak industrial outskirts, it is as if that night never ended. March 16 has been carved out of time and preserved. The club’s charred logo still hangs above the entrance; umbrellas sway in the icy January wind. From a nearby hill, the devastation is clear: the collapsed roof with coal-black beams, remnants of scorched insulation, burned-standing tables, and bathroom windows barred with metal grids.
Dejan Nikolov, an auto mechanic, lives and works beside the club. “Shortly after 2:30 a.m., I heard the first screams,” he recalls in his work overalls. By cutting through window bars, he says he saved the lives of many young people.
On the plaza before the club, a stray dog curls up. No one is allowed near the ruins; a policeman stands guard, sternly confronting anyone who tries to enter. “Crans-Montana is Kocani,” Nikolov says. “Same horror, all over again.”
Two tragedies never perfectly overlap. North Macedonia groans under corruption; healthcare is poor; trust in politics and institutions is low. Unlike Le Constellation in Valais, Club Pulse had operated for years without a license. Yet the incidents are strikingly similar: hundreds of young people, the youngest victims just 14, pyrotechnics, combustible foam ceilings, and a fire that spread explosively. Exits were blocked, inspections absent, the owner detained, and an intense debate about safety ensued.
Horror at Hand
Strong coffee, cigarettes one after another, the first beer later. In central Kocani on a Thursday morning, three men sit together in a café. They are fathers who lost their children on March 16. Without hesitation, they scroll through videos on their phones—footage as if from a final vacation.
The videos are harrowing: dozens of lifeless bodies lying in the club’s foyer, relatives searching frantically among the corpses. Brightly lit hospital corridors, charred remains, the chaos of the first hours. “Like animals,” one father comments. Who filmed these shocking images? “We did,” they say, flipping through the clips as if to prove to the world what happened that night.
Three Lost Children, Three Broken Fathers
They recount how they were awakened by horrifying messages, how they ran to the club, or how, after more than twelve hours of searching, they found their children dead on hospital beds. One father, Aleksandar Naunov, patiently tells his story, though he knows the details by heart. Naunov leads the families of the victims. That night, he and his wife rushed to the club.
“Part of the fire had already been extinguished by the firefighters. Women were held outside, men allowed in, so I went in,” he recalls. Just steps inside, he saw her—his daughter Nadica. “I recognized her by her clothes, a light pink top she wore that night. She was lying on her stomach. I flipped her over. She hadn’t burned at all, she looked like always. I couldn’t understand it. I carried her out to the hospital.”
Seventeen-year-old Nadica had already died. Autopsy reports, sent weeks later, confirmed smoke inhalation and carbon monoxide poisoning. Questions remain whether cyanide from the melted foam ceiling contributed—a material similar to that used in Valais.
A Trial with Dozens Accused
An hour’s drive from Kocani, in Skopje’s brutalist judicial district, 35 people are charged: the club owner, security firms, inspectors, even former mayors who signed permits. Families have not received a single denar in compensation. The trial began in November, with survivors and relatives testifying. Some criticize the high number of defendants as unnecessary, driven by public anger rather than legal grounds.
At home in Kocani, Naunov’s daughter’s room remains unchanged. Over her bed, a lamp burns—it will not be extinguished until March 16, 2026. “It must stay lit for a year, tradition demands it,” Naunov says. On justice, he adds simply: “This was not fate. It was negligence, greed, and a corrupt system failing its youth.”
Among the Graves
How does a community mourn such a catastrophe? And for how long? In Kocani, the cemetery has transformed from a makeshift mass grave to a permanent “Angel’s Alley,” with 23 graves in a row, nine more in family plots. Marble stones display portraits, AI-generated images with angel wings, plush toys, and favorite drinks—energy drinks for teens, beer or soda for adults.
Light snow begins to fall over Kocani’s flat, rice-growing plains. The cold wind blows across the rows of graves. A stray dog curls up on a stone slab. A mother hands out coconut sweets labeled “Happy.” The scent of burning incense drifts through the air.
Parents are not the only visitors; teenagers come alone or in groups, sometimes laughing, sometimes drinking lightly—life, as it was before the tragedy, continues. Except for the friends, siblings, and classmates who were taken.
Naunov stands at his daughter’s grave, pointing to a selfie: “See? This is from the day she died. I told you about the pink top.” His voice breaks. The man who holds the families together is overcome by grief. No words remain, only tears at Nadica’s grave.
The Reporter Who Wrote No Words
The catastrophe shattered lives, scarred families, and reshaped a nation. Investigative journalist Goran Lefkov, who lost his 17-year-old granddaughter that night, has written nothing himself. Walking through Skopje, he says the tragedy transformed the country, igniting anger at corrupt politicians. If the club owner and his son are not held accountable, Lefkov warns, unrest could follow.
Meanwhile, the disaster has sparked broader debates about safety, from nightlife to traffic, firearms, and the protection of youth.
Kocani shows the long road to understanding loss. Aleksandar Naunov visits Angel’s Alley every day. Maria Petrushova continues to send messages that will never be read. Grief persists, long after the fire has gone cold.