ANTAKYA, Turkey — They sleep wherever they can: on unlit street corners, in small grassy parks, next to an elementary school, on a hillside across from one of the houses. The world’s first Christian church.
Across Antakya, the ancient capital of Hatay province, the region hardest hit by Turkey’s worst earthquake in nearly a century, thousands of people are trying to make sense of the cataclysm that turned upside down. their lives and left many homeless and homeless. , has no memory and, for some, no future here.
Many are struggling with getting through another night. Cars are cold to sleep in and too small to accommodate most families. But they can be warmer than tents that are only a thin layer covering the utter devastation of those inside.
Either is still better than a tarp, stretched over a bus shelter or held up by poles. No matter how much firewood and garbage the Antakyans burn to keep their families warm, it’s still freezing cold.
“No electricity, no water, no toilet,” said Saba Yigit, 52, a nanny, with particular emphasis on the last item.
Thursday was the third day in a row she woke up, freezing cold, in the sheltered vegetable market, where she and her family took shelter after the early Monday morning earthquake damaged their home near the Mediterranean. “Awful.”
Some of the market’s blue metal stalls have been considered makeshift beds. Others were piled high with parsley, cabbage, scallions and cauliflower, now withered. The ashes of Miss Yigit’s small fire contained a few burnt peppers and a carrot, the only dish her family could make in this city of edible wonders, where dishes Mediterranean, Arabic and Anatolian eats have mix for centuries.
She says the vegetables come from aid groups – for most people this is the only food available in Antakya – not from bounties around her. Someday, she said, with more dreams than realism, its owner may still want to sell the product.
On Thursday, as the first meeting of the United Nations aid convoy rolling into opposition-controlled Syria, the death toll in Turkey surpassed the 17,600 mark, making it the deadliest earthquake there in more than 80 years. With 3,377 deaths so far in Syria, the death toll has surpassed 21,000.
Thursday will also be the fourth night that most of the people in the dilapidated house Antakya have slept outside. Many people lost their homes in the quake, while others feared that the slightest aftershock could cause the remaining houses and apartments to collapse. They were too scared to go inside to use some of the working restrooms.
Sabriye Karaoglan, 70, sitting on a green camp chair on a mountainside promenade overlooking the city, wrapped in a blanket that was too thin, said: “While we wait for the tents, we will die in our seats. here.
Beside her was a cage of parakeets rescued from her family’s home. In the road ahead are cars where family members take turns sleeping at night. Once upon a time, they used to drive it out to the beach when it was nice, she said, bringing the same blue chairs for picnics.
Founded in 300 BC by an old general of Alexander the Great, Antakya has survived long enough to be destroyed and rebuilt many times. The Greeks, Romans and Byzantines called it Antioch, and it was such a powerful trading center that it was once the third largest city of the Roman Empire.
The modern city is built on layer after layer of ruins of ancient civilizations. History is still alive in many places: an early Christian church was founded in a cave by Sts. Peter and Paul; ancient stone mosque in the oldest part of town; an exquisite strip of Byzantine mosaics discovered during the construction of a hotel.
But foresight does not bring comfort to those who receive calls every few hours informing them that another loved one has passed away, a description that applies to most people in Antakya this week. . And by Thursday, as they walked the streets, they could no longer hear the calls of those trapped under the rubble.
“No more Antakya,” said 41-year-old Kazim Kuseyri, owner of Antakya’s most venerable Savon hotel, who was sleeping in his car in the hotel courtyard with about 25 relatives, staff and people their relatives and friends.
“I have lost friends; I lost the buildings where I ate with friends. I have lost all my memories. I have no reason to live in Hatay anymore. Because there is nothing.”
No one is exempt from disaster, except perhaps the dogs who are still continuing their work. life. In some neighborhoods, every building is cracked or dilapidated. Even trees bear scars: People cut branches to burn.
The oldest part of the city, home to ancient mosques, churches, Alawite chapels and synagogues, all located a few blocks apart, has been almost completely destroyed. Its existence, residents say, is a testament to the many religions that co-exist in Antakya, although in the decades of the last century sectarian violence regularly plagued the city and most Jews. Thailand has long since left.
A city of more than 200,000 people, Antakya has also undergone a test of endurance over the past decade with the arrival of thousands of Syrian refugees.
Along Independence Street, the world’s first lighted street, shoppers, pedestrians and tourists flock to barbecue restaurants, spice shops, candy stores, tailors, and boutiques. drugs, hair salons, etc., all now cracked or destroyed.
Ahmet Gunes, 34, a Turkish Kurd who often comes to Antakya from his town, Sanliurfa, said: “It is heartbreaking to see Independence Road like this. “It was a perfect place. Instead, I wish this happened to my hometown.”
Opposite the luxurious Ottoman-era Liwan Hotel, three body bags lie on the sidewalk. The labels said one was holding a 19-year-old Syrian, the other a 10-year-old Turkish.
A Syrian man in socks and sandals staggered forward, clutching a list of six names written on a tattered piece of cardboard. They are his relatives, among them are his parents.
They were all dead, he said. He staggered away, covering his face.
With a friend, Isa Solmaz, 51, who grew up in the neighborhood before moving to Istanbul for work, is protecting an artist’s shop from looters. His brother had saved their mother from the ruins of the house, but everything else they had known as children – everything else their parents, and their parents’ parents before, had been proud of – disappeared.
The aroma of a fragrant flatbread emanating from the oven in the bakery down the street often made them run downstairs to buy some help. An elderly neighbor who had died once admitted them to his home when they were fleeing the scoldings of their mother.
“You sleep, you wake up and then you don’t remember your childhood anymore,” Mr. Solmaz said, predicting that most Antakyans will leave the city. “It is memory loss. It’s not a lost city here. It’s a whole history; it’s a civilization.”
Throughout the night, the sounds of disaster disrupted the sleep of the displaced. The sirens wail incessantly. Every few minutes, helicopters carrying aid cut across the sky.
When shops, kitchens and restaurants are closed or destroyed, the only food provided as humanitarian aid is usually lentils with pasta, canned tuna or packaged biscuits.
Another problem is keeping in touch with relatives and friends when there is not much electricity or cell service. Power outlets have disappeared along with homes and offices, and dozens of people have gathered around several electric mobile vans, plugging their cell phones into electrical strips that zigzag in every direction.
Relying on cars for energy is difficult, because fuel is scarce in Hatay province and the amount of gasoline people are allowed to buy is limited.
On top of that, everyone is cold.
Although aid groups have distributed some blankets and warm clothes, those sleeping outdoors must burn whatever they can find to stay warm. Mobile vans and volunteers provide hot tea and lentil soup in some places, and the sun helps cool freezing fingers. But when night falls, the struggle for warmth begins again.
A few days ago, the Antakyans would not have believed that they could live like this, or that they would call another place home. A few days later, they found themselves intending to leave.
“Hatay is over,” said Ibrahim Kaya, 55, who is also sheltering at the vegetable market with relatives.
All they are trying to save from home is a bag of pastries, a cheesecake. When a guest arrives, however, living off charity does not prevent them from showing hospitality. They poured tea and offered cakes; they smile, momentarily, in tears.
