Mehmet stands with scissors, glancing at the person beside him and admitting the day feels heavy. The quake left him scrambling to recover: to repair the store, to restore running water, to win back clients, and to earn a new income from scratch.
“It’s really hard. When rain comes, leaks appear, and fear rises again,” he says. He bought the store, lost it, and rebuilt his workplace with the hope that he could keep working for his children. A small line of young customers forms at the door, waiting for their turn in the faded light of the shop.
Exactly one year after the February 6 earthquake struck southeastern Türkiye, very few residents remain in Samandağ, Hatay Province. The quake claimed tens of thousands of lives overnight in Türkiye and Syria, leaving communities shattered and uncertain.
“They promised us help, but nothing arrived—no materials, no salvageable goods,” a shop owner notes. “They promised and did nothing. Now we fear we have been left to cope alone. Samandağ, Antakya, and the whole region of Hatay feel abandoned. If authorities had acted like in other provinces, we might not be in this mess. There is a bitter sense of being forgotten,” he adds, as he battles sleepless nights just behind the shop that once housed his trade.
Across the region, tens of thousands live in tents; nearly 700,000 more inhabit temporary container cities, according to emergency services. Local elections loom in Türkiye, scheduled for March 31, and the political clock is ticking as people search for a future amid the ruins.
An unfulfilled promise
A year ago, a few months after the quake, President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, amid his campaign, promised relief for those affected: 300,000 new homes would be ready by the first anniversary. The promise did not come true.
Current data show around 200,000 houses under construction, with about 40,000 nearing completion. Most are not in Hatay but in other affected areas where governance leans toward state control rather than local administration.
“To be fair, the government moved quickly in some places. They told us delivery would begin in May, and we hold onto that hope,” a neighbor from Kahramanmaraş explains. Erdoğan won in that province, reinforcing expectations for rapid rebuilding.
Fatma and her husband Mehmet, both in their forties, lost their home in the earthquake and now live in a cramped space that Mehmet had built for his family. Mehmet lived his whole life in the village, and he says, “We will have to move again if we can secure a flat. There is no other option for us,” speaking with a quiet resolve despite the hardship in a conservative, traditional town.
Once new housing is completed, residents who lost their homes will be moved to a newly designated area through a lottery. Those who win will enter apartments, while others will wait for more buildings to be finished. “We can’t wait. It will be a much better place than what we have now. We will be able to live more comfortably,” the man adds. Fatma nods, eager to leave as soon as possible.
Left behind
In the midst of the rebuilding frenzy, Antakya was left behind. Its historic center, once celebrated for its beauty and resemblance to other ancient cities, sits largely empty. The people who remain are trying to decide whether to stay or leave for better prospects elsewhere.
“There are few houses intact. Jobs are scarce, and many have lost almost everything. Hope for the future grows thin,” says a fruit and vegetable vendor in the city center. A growing crowd gathers around him as he speaks, reflecting a community trying to hold on while the landscape around them continues to shift.
“Everyone here has suffered a loss. One person has lost three children and two grandchildren, another has lost a father, some have lost a son or a mother. The stories are heavy, and many families face fear and fatigue every night. Yet some still try to find meaning day by day, hoping for stability to return,” notes a customer in the market.
A year later, people in Antakya struggle to see a path forward. “I don’t think about the distant future anymore,” says Aziza. “Before, I pictured my children thriving—now they are gone. All I can do is rise, work, and try to cover our needs. That has to be enough for today.”