From our special correspondent in Gaziantep – Four days on from the catastrophic earthquake that killed more than 22,000 people in southern Turkey and Syria, funerals for the victims are taking place in the ravaged city of Gaziantep. The loss of life is such that one ceremony closely follows another.
In the courtyard of the Bahaeddin Nakiboglu mosque in the southern Turkish city of Gaziantep, men stood in a long row facing six coffins, some made of green metal, some made of wood. The coffins were lined up perfectly on a pristine white marble altar.
The imam recited the salat al-janaza, the prayer of the dead. Behind him, the men stood with their arms stretched and their palms facing upwards. “Allahu Akbar” (“God is the greatest”), they chanted. They prayed in chorus, in a low collective voice. They prayed the four takbir – the simplified Allahu Akbar prayer, without bowing or kneeling.
The prayer was necessarily brief, because of the sheer number of people to bury after the earthquake and its aftershock hit the region on February 6.
At the back or the side of the mosque, according to the Muslim funeral rite, the women cried, pressing against each other in their grief. Sometimes, a louder sob would ring through the mosque.
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As soon as the prayer finished, the coffins were lifted and put back in the same white vans that took them to the mosque. The earthquake claimed so many lives so suddenly that every minute counted: other families had been waiting for hours. It’s one funeral after another.
‘I lost my father, my uncle and my grandmother’
UK-based Can travelled from his home in London for his father’s funeral. Waiting outside the building for the ritual cleansing of the dead, he seemed numbed by pain. Can was working when he heard about the earthquake. “I tried to get through to my father; I rang again and again but he didn’t answer,” Can said. “He couldn’t answer.”
The young man took the first flight to Istanbul. The next day he finally arrived in his hometown of Nurdagi, right on the other side of Turkey. Can arrived to a heartbreaking sight: the place he grew up in transformed into ruins. “Everything collapsed – all the buildings, all the houses,” he recounted with haggard eyes. “I have no words.”
Can was silent for a few seconds. “I lost my father, my uncle and my grandmother. They tried to go outside but…” His voice trailed off.
“The rescue teams are still searching for survivors. Buildings are still collapsing,” he added. “People are living on the street; there is no water, no bread, no food. Nothing. People are just waiting for help. That’s all there is to it.”
The macabre procession of white vans continued. One after the other, they took down the coffins from the metal shelves in the back. The green stretchers rushed in, one after the other, for ritual cleansing process – to purify their bodies for the journey to the afterlife, according to Muslim belief. Then they were taken to the mosque for the funeral ceremony – before a final journey to Asri cemetery, a short walk away.
The cemetery is like a city within a city – with graves as far as the eye can see amid hills and pine trees. It was time for yet another burial. The coffin was placed on the ground right next to the grave. The imam said a final prayer. The white shroud was lifted out of the coffin so the latest victim of this calamity could be put in the final resting place.
This article was adapted from the original in French.
