With Mehmed it is hard to return to his city. Antakya, to the old street, to the place where he last saw his daughter’s husband, to the spot where, according to the young man, everything ended. Mehmed knows but does not know for certain; nine months pass with little doubt: his daughter Meral is gone in the February 6 earthquake that struck southeastern Türkiye. Meral is officially missing because the body was never confirmed by DNA and the condition of the remains was inconclusive.
When it happened, they felt that they had lost everything. They lost their home and their livelihood. They lost him too. Meral accepted the fact, and everyone knew that DNA identification would be extremely challenging, says the short, white-bearded Mehmed, his gaze fixed on the ground.
The struggle did not start with bureaucratic hurdles alone. Mehmed and his wife dragged sample after sample from their daughter’s hair, seeking any clue for months. The provincial government, the Parliament, the Ministry of Justice, the Ministry of Health, emergency services, even a television program, all became part of a long search. The prosecutor kept the hair sample; Mehmed later learned that the sample was lost. He keeps searching for Meral, even as hope wanes with each new delay.
“We wanted to pursue the case, but we lost everything. I can’t pay the bills because of the earthquake, and I can’t give my daughter a dignified burial. I asked the government for answers, but no one spoke to me. The state abandoned us from day one. Every one of us”, Mehmed recalls, looking back. Behind him lies a field of rubble where the once nine-story building now lies in ruins. Nine months ago this neighborhood was full of similar homes.
There is a quiet memorial attached to the tragedy: a photo captioned by a footer that reads Destruction in Antakya, photograph credited to Adrià Rocha Cutiller.
Today there is almost nothing left but a wandering dog, rumbling trucks at the street’s edge, and a heavy veil of dust. Autumn has passed, yet heat and sun still linger in Antakya, the city many called the second ancient city after the world. In times long past, nearby cities like Jerusalem were centers for early Christianity. Now Antakya’s walls, churches, synagogues and centuries-old mosques stand in ruins; some mosques remain, but their minarets have been removed.
Another caption reiterates the scene: The epicenter of the earthquake, marked by EPC.
fear of breathing
Life is incredibly hard for Mehmed’s family. They have lived in a makeshift tent for nine months, yet every day they must go to the market to work while their children try to study. The city center’s vegetable stalls struggle for customers as fear of leaving home grows among the displaced. Rumors about stray dogs, and the belief that dogs bite for hunger, spread quickly. The air is thick with dust, always there, everywhere. The half-destroyed city wears a gray-orange haze that makes escape feel impossible. People fear the weather and what it brings with it.
To overcome trauma, a return to routine, security, and a sense of comfort is essential, explains Nilgün Yeniocak, a psychologist. It is about offering space for those traumatized to process what happened. In a single emergency moment, that space was not available. The collective trauma is so deep that healing remains elusive, and the state did not provide a favorable environment for recovery.
Yeniocak notes that the destruction many witnessed that night is visible every day, every minute, and re-traumatizes people who fear the weather and their living conditions. “Speaking now, my throat burns from the dust. There is fear that asbestos from demolitions may cause cancer in a few years. Although the government denies it, air quality remains very poor. The slightest problem can trigger memories of the morning’s screams under the rubble,” she adds.
among the rubble
Down there, a voice cries out, asking for more help behind the rocks. A group of men works while the sun hides behind a dust cloud. A digger pushes through what used to be a commercial center, uncovering a basement and a motorcycle, a few cars, and other relics of daily life. A scrap dealer’s president notes that metal salvage helps, though it offers little solace. Women survey the landscape, a family passes by in a horse-drawn carriage loaded with metal, and a lame dog watches nearby.
Finally, the cry of victory rings out as they reach an electronics store. The oldest worker orders the crew to descend into the hole. The search reveals laptops destroyed, routers still usable, discs and video games perhaps survivors, headphones, memory cards, cables, and a computer chair—everything available for sale. Months of effort go into this work; the foreman explains that with no support and no other jobs, he and a few young workers have become a rubble-recovery team. The absence of bodies among their discoveries is as telling as what is found.
People in the city feel trapped by uncertainty and a lack of prospects. The psychologist Yeniocak notes that some patients voice thoughts of death because life has lost its sense. Yet healing requires community and care, and the current situation leaves many feeling abandoned and ignored. If nothing changes, more people will share this ache with a heavy sense that no one seems to care but those who witness it day after day.
Numbers on gravestones
On the city’s outskirts, away from the clamor of demolition, dozens walk among wooden graves marked only with black numbers. The Narlıca cemetery is a quiet, stark reminder that death arrived on February 6, 2023, for many residents. More than a hundred graves are anonymous, each lacking names or surnames. Workers in the field labor to uncover DNA samples that will identify the dead. The Turkish government has pledged to finish the work by the first anniversary of the quake.
Mehmed visits often. It hurts, yet he keeps coming because he would feel guilty if he stayed away. He was told his daughter’s grave bore the number 854, and though he tends to her grave and keeps it neat, not knowing haunts him. He cannot help but wonder how long it will take to find clarity.
“Every time I come here, the memories of that night and morning return with force. Since then I have asked everywhere, but no one answers. He has not been there for nine months. How many more months will pass? There are thousands of people in similar situations, officially listed as missing relatives.” Yeniocak explains that the government’s rate of identification remains surprisingly low. For those left behind, time becomes a prison, and hope that their loved one is alive flickers and fades with each passing day. The truth remains painful and unresolved, a constant test of endurance for families.
Mehmed faces the stark reality: he cannot know if the person in the grave is his daughter. He longs for a place to rest, a spot to visit and speak to her. Yet the state seems to have vanished, like a soap bubble slipping through fingers. The ache is simple in thought, devastating in effect: a chance to belong somewhere again, to speak to a loved one in a grave of their own and to feel a life that can still be lived. The cost of losing a child is measured not only in absence but in the inability to find a quiet place for memory and healing, something Mehmed hopes to one day find.