From our special correspondent in Turkey – Search and rescue teams are still at work amid an apocalyptic landscape in Nurdagi, a southeastern Turkish town near the epicentre of the January 6 earthquakes. But at this point they are looking for the remains of the dead, not survivors.
Nazle had been waiting day and night, sitting on a plastic chair, as gigantic construction machines turned over the debris of a collapsed building in the small town of Nurdagi. The dust and the noise were overwhelming.
“I’ve been here since shortly after the earthquake,” the 40-year-old said, her voice breaking. “I’m waiting for my brother and the elderly members of my family. “I was in Kahramanmaras [a sprawling southeastern Turkish city near the quake’s epicentre] when the disaster happened. I came here for my family.”
“There are six people left under the rubble and they’re all family members,” she said. “There’s a 17-year-old girl; there’s my 65-year-old aunt,” Nazle continued, showing pictures of her loved ones. She knows they are dead; she just wants to bury them. And nothing will make her leave – not even the all-pervading smell of earth and dust.
“Everyone is dead. They’re all dead. Dead. It’s very important to have their remains. This is our family; these are my elders. We had a very strong bond. So I’m waiting for them,” Nazle said, speaking slowly, her eyes glazed over.
How can we confront the deaths of our dear ones if we can’t mourn, if we can’t pay our last respects? It’s not possible.
Dozens of people were waiting alongside Nazle in front of that huge field of ruins. An atmosphere of pulsating anxiety reigned. The sight of the construction machinery lifting concrete slabs caused further alarm. The families refused to allow the remains of their loved ones to be damaged – but that was a challenge for the construction teams trying to clear the site as soon as possible.
‘Everyone is running away’
“Every day we bury two or three people, and we’ve already buried 60 or 70,” Nazle said, her voice growing hoarse. “It’s too much; I’m tired. I can’t feel anything anymore. I can’t even cry anymore. I can’t sleep anymore. No more sleep. No more hope. It’s over.”
Nazle’s daughter had taken the first flight from her home in Istanbul to join her family. Without saying a word, she sat down beside her mother. The rest of the family are scattered across Turkey.
Nazle refused to go home, even though her building was not damaged. She said she will leave Kahramanmaras; the earthquake made her feel afraid of the prospect of staying in southeastern Turkey.
“Everyone is running away,” she put it. “We’ll go to Istanbul. But for now, I’m not thinking about it.”
Nazle will only start her mourning process once she has buried her loved ones – then she can leave this ghost town.
“I’ll be waiting,” she said. “It’s so important to me. There are still tremors – I can feel them but there’s nothing I can do about it. You have to carry on helping us; helping everybody who needs it. I don’t want them to stop what they’re doing here.”
And so she will still be there, no matter how long it takes – sitting waiting day and night on her plastic chair.
This article was translated from the original in French.
