It's hard to write about today. Very difficult.
Our route was actually "only" supposed to take us along the Turkish-Syrian border. Seeing a few interesting places here and there. And then, without really having planned it, we read about the next places we would be travelling through.
And yes, we knew that here, in south-east Turkey and northern Syria, a severe earthquake in February 2023 killed tens of thousands of people and caused hundreds of thousands of homes and houses to collapse. Of course we knew that. And yet somehow we didn't place it directly on our route. Are we careless, ignorant or even disinterested?
These questions are on our minds. As we drive past a kind of containerised settlement in the evening, we think that this is probably accommodation for refugees. I google and read that the many people who have literally lost everything in the earthquake can be accommodated here. Oh shit, suddenly we look at each other and ask ourselves the same question over and over again: "Should we drive through the destroyed cities, should we really look at this?" What effect will this have on people, will we be perceived as guests who perhaps even consume or buy something here and there to support the cause, or are we just disaster tourists?
We will not answer this question conclusively. And decide to drive to Antakya. We read that 100 % of the houses here have been destroyed and are uninhabitable. We don't feel comfortable with our foreign motorhome and would like to drive in a small, inconspicuous car with a Turkish licence plate.
The whole earthquake area is about the size of Germany, we drive for about two hours through an area with destroyed bumpy or brand-new smooth roads. We take detours with deep potholes and puddles of rain across the whole road and drive past kilometres of gravel and rubble. Only later do we realise that there were houses all over the place that had already been demolished and "distributed". Plot after plot was levelled.
For kilometres we drive past container and tent cities. At some point, when we can no longer see any difference between the countryside and the city, we seem to have arrived in the centre of Antakya.
It is said to be one of the oldest cities, was located on the trade route to Aleppo and was home to countless beautiful historical buildings and museums. The mosaics in the historical museum were among the most valuable still preserved.
Many of the roads recommended by our sat nav simply no longer exist. After repeated attempts, we finally manage to cross a bridge that is still intact.
Finding a parking space, on the other hand, is easy. Just pull over. There are hardly any houses left. And the ones that are there are empty. Broken, crooked and crooked. Torn curtains flutter from some of the empty windows, which look out at us like sad eyes.
So we park our Felix somewhere and decide to go on foot. Where to? No idea. We leave the camera in the car, it just doesn't feel right. Every now and then we pull out our mobile phones and furtively take photos of the tragedy.
And then, after we have dried our tears and recovered from the initial shock, we see them. The people. They smile at us, greet us. They look well-dressed, young women take selfies, young men sit together over tea. It seems to be a kind of everyday life that we are allowed to observe.
In a previous interview, we heard that everyone here has lost family members. That people are totally traumatised. That the help is minimal, but that it couldn't really be any greater.
We walk through the old bazaar, which somehow just keeps going. Soaps here, sweets there. A little further on copper pots, there a collapsed building, covered with a cloth, in front of it plastic toys and stands with colourful plush jogging bottoms.
The only remaining restaurant attracts us. The boss is pleased to see us and speaks good English. We order something. "What's the best?" we ask? He tells us, but we don't know what he means and simply order it. And he's right. It was wonderful.
It feels normal. Irritatingly normal. The people here have suffered and lost. But now it's everyday life. The shock is still very present for us, we feel our helplessness.
We walk a little further through the old streets and pass a collapsed mosque. A man speaks to us and wants to tell us something. We listen. He survived, he was lucky, he didn't run into the street, he stayed in his house. "On the street, in the narrow alleyways, that's where it was the worst," he says. That's where the walls of the houses collapsed onto the people.
Now he is only missing two fingers, which would be bearable. He received 10,000 lira from the state (around 300 to 400 euros at the beginning of 2023), which he used to renovate his house. He lives on a slope, so the earthquake was less severe. His mum still lives in Germany, he himself has been back here since the 90s. He is worried that she shouldn't come, she wouldn't be able to bear the sight.
We ask what it's like to be here now. "Well, something like everyday life. There's water, electricity, medicine and we help each other." Later we learn that there is hardly any work left, where is there? All the factories and businesses have been destroyed.
On the way to our Felix, we cross the long bazaar again, as it is called here. The men play backgammon, we sit down and drink tea. People are happy to see us. We seem to be the only visitors. Antakya used to be a tourist magnet.
We manage to have normal, simple conversations, we laugh, we learn the Turkish numbers up to 10 with the tea seller and slowly the traumatic feeling in my stomach dissipates.
In the end, Gerd buys me my birthday present. I have wanted a typical hammered copper coffee pot for a long time. The fact that my wish has now been fulfilled a month early: a gift. It feels good to spend the money here. Without trading. It just doesn't fit. Never really, but certainly not here.
At some point, we sit in the van and take a deep breath. Gerd takes me in his arms and says: "Let's drive. Let's bless the people. But let's drive."
Once again, we pass kilometres of rubble fields, tent and container settlements. The houses that are still standing are like crooked skeletons reminding me of the unimaginable. Tears run down my cheeks. And I just want to look away. I don't want to see it. I don't want to know either. It just hurts so much.
And yes, I'm ashamed to write that. But it's also a feeling that can't be changed.
My strength is just enough to find a place for us, please, just another 20 minutes, no more. We want peace and quiet. To finish our thoughts and grieve. With the families, with the people. Tonight we go to sleep sad.
Information is available here:
https://www.arte.tv/de/videos/111748-004-A/re-nach-dem-erdbeben/
Merci for "travelling with us
We are thinking about taking another break from travelling in the summer and visiting our families in Germany and Switzerland. One of the ideas is to organise a Lecture about our long journey to the Persian Gulf to prepare. If you would like to, what would interest you the most? We will also tell stories here that don't find a place here on the blog. We're thinking of the Bern and Berlin area - simply because we have family there. But other places are also conceivable. Feel free to write to us.
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Your tears are mine too. 😢
The world is full of traumatised people who have lost EVERYTHING.
Through disasters, through war, through violence from other people.
And here ?
I don't even want to think about the luxury we live in, about selfishness, greed, ruthlessness, zero decency, zero respect.
My list is long.
I have to slowly close my eyes,
otherwise I'll go crazy.
I'm happy to be as old as I am.
I don't want to see the world in 30 years.
Have a good journey.
And thank you from the bottom of our hearts for having the courage to go there, for getting out, visiting people and speaking. 👍
You have my respect and I give you a big hug.
Simply because you are who you are.
All the best
From the Racheli