The 80-year-old clever man feels out of place as the world quickens around him. Sleep vanished after his downstairs neighbor hurled him from his home window to save him. More than a day has passed since that neighbor returned to strip clothes along with her friend after Zekiye was rescued. The house has collapsed, and yet Zekiye remains outside, while the neighbor is gone.
The neighbor has been dead for more than a day, but Zekiye cannot grasp the reality. He is stunned, displaced. The home where she spent so many years is gone, and her daughter and granddaughter load what remains into their car. The first impulse is to flee to Antioch Antakya, the city that suffered the most during the tremors that struck Turkey on Monday morning.
The second instinct is to survive. They whisper through shock and fear that grandma has lost more than most can imagine. The fiancé did not escape the house until Monday afternoon. A sigh of relief yet a fuse of terror remains. Antakya, once a living hub, is now a ruin. The neighborhood they called home has become a wasteland, and Meltem, Zekiye’s granddaughter, watches the scene through worn-out eyes.
Latest figures place the death toll at around five thousand, with twenty-five thousand injured across northern Syria and southern Turkey. In Antakya itself, roughly a thousand lives were lost, a city once known as a cradle of ancient Christian heritage. It is said that the Apostle Paul once preached within its caves near the town hall, now silent. The city’s architectural charm has been reduced to a pile of rubble, and even the grand title of the “Turkish Aleppo” feels hollow as more walls fall and windows shatter.
Homes vanish, and destinies collide a decade later as every house bears scars. Blank spaces where walls stood, shattered balconies, and broken glass blend into a landscape of loss. Antakya citizens are vanishing from memory, and the town seems emptied of life.
“This is unbelievable. We’ve waited for more than a day, yet no one arrives. We posted two bodies this morning, still on the ground, and no one comes to collect them,” a man from a nearby town laments. Iskenderun’s friends, a tight-knit network of neighbors rather than professional rescuers, push at the debris to uncover any sign of life.
Across Turkey, ten cities faced the quake’s wrath, and the disaster’s scale left many areas lacking emergency aid despite international relief and rescue missions from across Europe, including Spain.
“No one is coming here. We are waiting for the cemetery. Those with relatives inside know they are gone,” says a man, adding that conversations feel pointless. What is needed are machines, professionals, rescue teams, and heavy lifting gear. If help does not arrive with the right equipment and personnel, there is little anyone can do.
Sleep… where?
With lines down and internet nearly unusable, radio becomes the lifeline for information. In the February chill, nights bring frost and even snowfall in some provinces. A broadcast is shared region-wide, cautioning people not to re-enter damaged homes and naming public facilities that have become makeshift shelters. The message rings out across Antakya and the surrounding area, urging restraint and survival rather than risky searches for possessions.
In the center of town, the pace is furious. Ambulances race along highways, helicopters circle the airspace, and a steady stream of evacuees crowd the streets. Those fortunate enough to secure a room, a car, or a nearby shelter rest while others huddle around campfires or wait for a chance to sleep on spare beds in public spaces. The night is a test of endurance for many who cannot find safe refuge.
Escape
Meanwhile, Zekiye and her family work to stock up on what little remains in their stores. Gasoline appears scarce and expensive, and the fortunate few who can pay the inflated price plan to leave Antakya to find safety elsewhere. A grandmother clasps her grandson’s hand, whispering that she has bought a sweater from home and nothing more.
Tears spill as the family contemplates departure. The granddaughter Meltem notes how her grandmother cries not for the Kazakh heritage but for the memory of a forgotten home. The urgent cry is relief yet sorrow; keys forgotten and a future uncertain, they gather their belongings and step toward safety as the city they once knew slips further away.