Life in the aftermath of Turkey's worst earthquake in decades

In the province of Gaziantep, a large man­u­fac­tur­ing dis­trict, lit­tle towns such as Nurdağı and Islahiye in the dis­as­ter zone are expect­ed to be rebuilt in slight­ly dif­fer­ent loca­tions in order to avoid future risks. It is still uncer­tain what will hap­pen to the set­tle­ments of vil­lagers, farm­ers and ranch­ers spread all over the area. As their iden­ti­ty is deeply root­ed in the land they have been liv­ing on their entire lives, pres­sure aris­es due to the pos­si­bil­i­ty of fac­ing eviction.

“For 20 years I’ve been col­lect­ing sav­ings to final­ly buy a house for my fam­i­ly. I wish I spent that mon­ey to pro­vide instead a bet­ter life for my sons and to pay for their stud­ies,” says Ali, a retired munic­i­pal­i­ty work­er. As the ground start­ed shak­ing on the night of the 6^th of Feb­ru­ary, Idil, Ali’s wife, for­got her glass­es while rush­ing down the stairs. By the time her hus­band recov­ered them from the build­ing, her view of the place where they had built their life togeth­er was com­plete­ly changed.

All around col­lapsed build­ings, their house still stands, car­ry­ing the X‑shaped cracks vis­i­ble from out­side. Their tent is placed just a few meters away in a small camp shared with oth­er 20 fam­i­lies. Ali’s old­er son, Ahmet, lives in a tent next to his par­ents with his fam­i­ly. The phar­ma­cy he was work­ing for, the only one near­by, col­lapsed dur­ing the first quake, leav­ing him job­less. He is now con­sid­er­ing farm­ing to sup­port his family.

The quakes also affect­ed sur­vivors’ lives in the long-term from an eco­nom­ic and demo­graph­ic per­spec­tive. Like Ahmet, many vil­lagers were made unem­ployed by the quake, and decid­ed to tem­porar­i­ly move to oth­er cities to seek job oppor­tu­ni­ties. For Ali and his wife Idil, the sense of com­mu­ni­ty that always char­ac­terised their vil­lage is the most pre­cious val­ue to live for. The per­spec­tive of their neigh­bours com­ing back after the emer­gency is what moti­vates them to stay, despite the dif­fi­cult circumstances.

“We don’t know what will hap­pen, some­times I think the future is just gone,” he says. ​“We were more than 4.000 peo­ple here, shar­ing resources and sup­port­ing each oth­er. We had every­thing we need­ed. I believe we will soon be forced to move some­where else. Even so, our cul­ture will not change”.

Mutu­al help in emer­gency is some­thing that Ali expe­ri­enced in 1999, when as a state work­er he sup­port­ed the res­cue team dur­ing the emer­gency of the earth­quake in Yalo­va. Now retired, he could nev­er have imag­ined that some­thing sim­i­lar could hap­pen to him and his family.

While con­cerned and left in uncer­tain­ty, Ali and Idil have con­tin­ued to sup­port the com­mu­ni­ty with the lit­tle they had left – a 30-year-old wash­ing machine was placed in their gar­den and made avail­able for the whole com­mu­ni­ty to use. When it broke a few weeks lat­er, a neigh­bour stepped in, bring­ing his wash­ing machine close to Ali’s and cre­at­ing a small com­mu­nal laundry.

Just 3km from the cen­tre of Nurdağı, in small hid­den vil­lages near­by, there is still hope for the land to give its fruits.

Roads were inac­ces­si­ble for days before res­cue teams could reach the land of farm­ers where Dor­du and Şerife live. The cou­ple is now afraid to enter their dam­aged house, where shat­tered glass on the kitchen floor remains untouched. Their new accom­mo­da­tion is a warm tent care­ful­ly tied up, where a small sofa recov­ered from the dam­aged house helps to resem­bles a feel­ing of home. What does not fit inside – a fridge, some big pans and kitchen items – is placed out­side just next to their car. Dor­du has been trav­el­ling in cities around Turkiye for 15 years, work­ing in tun­nel con­struc­tion fields and sav­ing six months of the year to cul­ti­vate the land with his wife and sons. 

“I feel sad for those who have now left our vil­lage and their olives trees, because our land is the most pre­cious thing we have,” says Şerife. ​“These gar­dens are the heart of the gen­uine goods of Ana­to­lia region. Toma­toes, egg­plants, olives, oil, we make every­thing on our own. We are not pro­duc­ing now, but we will start back again soon. Cul­ti­vat­ing the land is what gives mean­ing to our live.”

Behind their tent, the house Dor­du had built for his old­er son leans oblique­ly towards the olive trees. With the sec­ond shock, the rooms com­plete­ly col­lapsed in on them­selves. ​“I ded­i­cat­ed two years to build­ing a house for my son and his fam­i­ly, know­ing they would have lived close to us and that our nephews would have grown up in the same gar­den their father did,” Dor­du says. ​“Togeth­er we chose the fur­ni­ture and bought every­thing need­ed for the future. Instead, that night I had to exca­vate a tun­nel between the rub­bles to res­cue my fam­i­ly out of a nightmare.”

Loss and sor­row have hit on Dor­du and Şerife’s fam­i­ly in the past, when one of their four sons passed away in Syr­ia while serv­ing as a sol­dier in 2012. As the schools remain closed, their nephews con­tin­ue their edu­ca­tion 600km away in the city of Samsun.

Along the coun­try­side road from Nurdağı to Islahiye, few build­ings still stand. Scat­tered tents are placed next to gas sta­tions sur­round­ed by moun­tains and wide cul­ti­vat­ed fields.

In this area, tiny out­posts of vil­lagers estab­lished their com­mu­ni­ty on the hills, often in remote loca­tions, breed­ing sheep and goats and sell­ing their prod­ucts in near­by towns. As inhab­i­tants evac­u­at­ed the val­ley of Fevzipaşa after the quake, those who refuse to let go of their tra­di­tion of farm­ing remain on the peak of the hill.

“I lost every­thing, but I can’t leave. I feel like I can’t breathe in cities”, says Suleiman, a farmer and father of three. Cou­ples and fam­i­lies from oth­er vil­lages and cities used to come here over the week­ends to enjoy the view of the val­ley. All my beau­ti­ful mem­o­ries are in this cor­ner of the moun­tain, and if I can’t live in a beau­ti­ful place there is no point to life”.

Suleiman’s house col­lapsed on the night of the 6^th Feb­ru­ary. For hours the farmer tried to res­cue his wife Dilek and their 16-year-old daugh­ter Songül from the rub­ble. In front of the col­lapsed build­ing, wait­ing to know if their moth­er and sis­ter were still alive, were also Zeynep and Aysel. While Dilek and Songül sur­vived, noth­ing could be done for their neigh­bours, who lost their lives in the same night, leav­ing their daugh­ter Ayşe alone. Even though the 21-year-old now stays in a con­tain­er and Suleiman and Dilek’s fam­i­ly in a tent, the neigh­bours still live next to each oth­er as they used to.

Sit­ting in the tent with Songül, Zeynep and Aysel, Ayşe tries the ready-made yogurt and cheese. Shar­ing food, a com­mon ges­ture of kind­ness with­in the com­mu­ni­ty, is one of the few moments bring­ing glimpses of nor­mal­i­ty. How­ev­er, the sit­u­a­tion is still far from how it used to be. ​“We don’t have enough ani­mals for pro­duc­ing as much as before, with less cheese and yogurt to sell we will have to arrange our expens­es dif­fer­ent­ly,” says Suleiman. While in a rush to res­cue his wife and daugh­ter, his ani­mals were under the smashed stall and only 30 sheep out of 200 survived.

“The munic­i­pal­i­ty guar­an­tees that anoth­er house will be built for all of us, but we have no idea how long we will have to wait, and we don’t know where our new home will be,” says Dilek. ​“We don’t have dreams anymore.”

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