Muse He says, that’s it, in the end one can get used to it, to all bodies, even if it is difficult, because they can be quickly removed and then continued working.
Others, mutilated bodies, detached, amputees: these are the ones that Moses, the voluntary savior, could not get used to. “When we pull out a mutilated corpse… It’s a little hot at noon, it smells very sharp. We are human, even if we try to resist. it affects me a lot. It’s not easy,” says Musa, with staccato sentences, too much stress, trying to get everything he sees and touches out of himself, because it burns him, erodes him: he has to say it.
embraced
“We have been in this building for three days. However, we managed to reach the place where the bodies were today. We think there are about 70 in there, and this morning we took a 60-65-year-old man out with his daughter. They were hugging. He had his guts out, his arm was dangling, it was worth it. It took a long time to get it out,” says Musa, a week ago in his previous life. construction worker in istanbul
However, his life, and especially of all Turks in the southeast, was changed by the earthquake that shook the south of the country and the northwest of Syria last Monday morning. The rapidly increasing numbers are alarming: 33,000 deaths between the two countries.
“Hopefully we can save someone from the inside alive. God willing, but in this era, we don’t have to wait long anymore,” explains the worker as he puts on the mask. The smell intensifies as you leave the workplace. After a week under the rubble, an intense smell of decay, decay, death. “Drop it! Get it down!” shouted a rescuer friend. The excavator then digs its claws into the rubble, presses it down, grabs it, and pulls it down. The rocks are speeding across the still rubble ground. A mountain of rubble like this is slowly coming down.
“We have no hope of anyone surviving any longer.”
“This is how we do it now. Now we have no hope that anyone will survive, so we use bulldozers. It’s a disaster, a disaster. I can’t say anything. At this point the words don’t reach me anymore. They’re not enough anymore,” he complains.
Almost a week after the earthquake, a significant portion of the ten Turkish provinces affected ended up with rescue packages. Diyarbakir, Sanliurfa, Kilis and Adana have completely or almost finished their rescue efforts.
Antioch
However, there are two unique regions of the disaster: Adıyaman and Antakya. On the last one, this Sunday, the sun shines for the first time this winter. The city center, once one of Turkey’s most characteristic and famous centers, sounds eerie. Men, especially men, are walking sadly among the rubble that has covered all or almost all of the streets.
From the characteristic streets of Antioquia synagogues, mosques and churches lived side by side.Now nothing remains but the stones lying on the ground, the dust, and the facades leaning against the pavement in front of him. Antioquia was the city with the most deaths ever. Antioch no longer exists.
“When people come to us, we really see a lot. very needyVolunteer Abdullah, who now delivers food in what used to be the center of the city, but what does it matter? All of his belongings, everything was under the rubble,” he adds.
“We lost everything at once. Antakya died”
families running away
Mehmet, in his sixties, falls into despair. Run, sweat, shout, ask, shout more. “Hey! Bring the kids! What are you still doing sitting there? I said come on!” ‘ the man shouts on the phone to his wife. He and his family of four nervously drive back and forth: the city’s bus station is in ruins, and it’s nearly impossible to know where that bus is going or which way anyone else is going. Mehmet asks, gets angry, begs. Leaving Antioquia is no easy task. “Yesterday we decided to leave. We have absolutely nothing left here. Our house collapsed,” says Mehmet hastily. “I don’t know, I hope he’s not dead, but Antioquia is dead, gone, and check our luggage,” he says, pointing to all of his family’s belongings: a black plastic bag, four half-liter bottles of water, and a few packets of lemon-flavored cookies. Nothing else.
“We lost everything at once. We slept at home on Sunday night like every other day. we woke up on monday with nothing. Now we will try to move to another city. That’s all we can do. We no longer have a place to stay, a place to live in our city. Our home, our home… it hurts to leave. We have nothing left. The only thing we take with us from here is our life,” says Mehmet.
Eventually, after begging and pushing, the family finds four tickets on a moving bus after a while. “Which seats, man?” Mehmet asks. 11, 12, 14 and 15. Numbers had never been more important to him: 11, 12, 14 and 15. Numbers had never hurt him more.