Musa says that well, that is what it is, that in the end, even if it is difficult, one can get used to it, to the whole bodies, because they can be removed quickly and one can then continue with the work. They are the others, the broken bodies, the separated, the amputated: these are the ones that Musa, a volunteer rescuer, cannot get used to. “When we remove a body with amputated parts… At noon it’s a little hot, it smells very strong. Although we try to resist, we are human beings. It affects me a lot. It is not easy & rdquor ;, says Musa, broken sentences, a lot of stress, trying to get everything he has seen and touched out of himself because it burns him, corrodes him: he needs to say it.
“We have been in this building for three days. Only today we have managed to get to where the bodies are. We think there are about 70 inside, and this morning we brought out a 60 or 65-year-old man with his daughter. They were hugging. He had his guts out, his arm dangling, it cost. He has had a hard time getting him out & rdquor ;, says Musa, that in his previous life, a week ago, he was construction worker in Istanbul.
But his life – and that of all Turks, especially those in the southeast – changed last Monday morning with the earthquake that shook the south of the country and northwestern Syria. The figures, skyrocketing, are frightening: 33,000 deaths between the two countries.
“God willing, we can rescue someone alive from inside. God willing, but at this time we don’t expect it too much anymore & rdquor ;, explains the worker while he puts on his mask. As you go up to the workplace, the smell increases. It is an intense smell, of rot, of decomposition, of death after a week under the rubble. “Put her down! Put it down! & rdquor ;, shouts a fellow rescuer. Then the excavator digs her claws into the rubble, presses down, grabs it, and pulls down. Rocks rush through the ground, which is also rubble. The mountain of debris, like this, slowly goes down.
“We no longer have any hope of anyone being left alive”
muse, volunteer
“Now we do it that way. We no longer have any hope of anyone being left alive, so we use the bulldozer. It’s a disaster, a disaster. I can not say anything. It is at this point that words no longer reach me. They are no longer enough & rdquor ;, she laments herself.
Almost a week after the earthquake, out of the ten affected Turkish provinces, a significant part have ended with the bailouts. Diyarbakir, Sanliurfa, Kilis and Adana have already finished – completely or almost – with the rescue tasks.
There are two regions, however, where the catastrophe has no equal: Adiyaman and Antioch. In the last one, this Sunday, the sun shines for the first time this winter. The city center, once one of the most characteristic and famous in Turkey, feels spooky. Men, especially men, walk sadly through the rubble, which has closed all or almost all the streets.
Of the characteristic streets of Antioquia, in which synagogues, mosques and churches lived side by side, now there is nothing left but stones lying on the ground, dust, and facades leaning against the sidewalk in front. Antioquia has been the city, by far, that has suffered the most deaths. Antioch has ceased to exist.
“When people come to us, we really see many very needy“, explains Abdullah, a volunteer who distributes food in what used to be the center of the city and now also but what does it matter. “All his belongings, all his things have been under the rubble & rdquor ;, he adds.
“We lost everything in a second. Antioch is dead”
Mehmet, neighbor
Mehmet, in his sixties, despairs. He runs, sweats, yells, asks, yells more. “Hey! Bring the kids! What are you still doing sitting there? I told you to come! & Rdquor ;, the man yells at his wife over the phone. He and his family of four go back and forth nervously: the city’s bus station is in ruins and it’s an almost impossible task to know where that bus is going, in which direction another one will go. Mehmet asks, gets angry, begs. Leaving Antioquia is not an easy task. “Yesterday we decided that we were leaving. Here we have absolutely nothing left. Our house has collapsed & rdquor ;, Mehmet says hastily. “I don’t know, I hope not, but Antioquia is dead, she’s gone, and look at our luggage,” she says, showing all her family’s belongings: a black plastic bag, four half-liter bottles of water, and several packages of cookies lemon flavored. Nothing else.
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“We lost everything in a second. On Sunday night we went to sleep like every day, at home. On Monday we woke up with nothing. Now we will try to move to another city. It’s the only thing that we can do. In our city we no longer have a place to stay, a place to live anymore. Our house, our home… it hurts to leave We dont have anything left. The only thing is that we take from here are our lives & rdquor ;, says Mehmet.
Finally, after begging and pushing, the family finds four tickets on a bus that leaves after a while. “What seats are they, friend?” Mehmet asks: 11, 12, 14 and 15. Numbers have never mattered so much to him: 11, 12, 14 and 15. Numbers have never hurt him so much.