It has been over 1 month since the disaster of the century in Turkey. Even at this late date the death toll continues to slowly creep up, standing at 47,975 today. The most striking thing about checking in on one of the hardest hit provinces is how little anything has changed in the last 36 days.
No one in Adıyaman is quite sure of the death toll just in the city, let alone the province itself. Every local has a theoretical number that is nowhere close to the official numbers. The official records still have Adıyaman 3,423; a number that hasn’t updated since the early days of the catastrophe, while the national total has steadily climbed.
“20,000!” says one local man. “It couldn’t possibly be less! I don’t know anyone in this town who either hasn’t lost someone or knows someone who hasn’t.”
“40-some thousand? Country-wide?” Another man asks. “Brother, there must be “40,000 dead here alone!”
No one is quite sure how many souls were lost in Adıyaman 36 days ago. On the early days of the earthquake, many dug out what remained of their loved ones and with no government services around, simply took them home and buried them. Death certificates issued only for some, which in the days preceding the earthquakes would have been a near impossibility to issue anyway, as the government was far more focused on rallying its forces and send aid for the living, rather than dwelling on the dead.
Our first stop is yet another temporary habitation zone: a tent city that houses thousands. It is all that is left of Adıyaman. The city is nothing more than a sea of tents in every neighborhood and rows of abandoned buildings interrupted by debris.
But some things have changed. The tent city is livelier then when we left it. For the first time there are playful laughter of children, running around the tents. A mobile library has arrived; a converted bus loaded with children’s books, ran mostly by volunteers. Children corral around the mobile library as the volunteers hand out books. Across from the library there is a closed off large tent where the children play ball. In front of the tent, a little bit of electrical power has finally arrived, though it only consists of 2 sets of multi-plug extension cords; only enough to charge a phone. A ripped garbage bag has been draped over the station to prevent it from short-circuiting as the wet season has finally arrived. Teens wait around the extension cords and periodically check if they have enough power to call a friend.
Perhaps the greatest change in Adıyaman is the promise of an upgrade to a slightly more comfortable temporary housing situation. The residents of tent cities are waiting for their government-issue container homes. They are just as cramped as tents but the big selling point is doors, electrical heating and indoor plumbing. The promise of waving farewell to communal toilets, showers and trying to stay warm by wood fire is more than enough.
Just outside of the city center lies the bus station and the city hospital. On our first visit, we saw heavy equipment laying the groundwork for a container town. 36 days later, there are about 500 containers ready and none are currently occupied. There is some work in the, but only about 20 workmen are on duty and no engineers or foremen are to be found. The work is puzzlingly slow. Most units are yet to be connected to the main water and sewage line.
There is a general sense of confusion among the workmen. None of them seem to know where the foremen are, how long they expect for the container home city to be operational or even how many units they will be installing.
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Finally an official form AFAD (Government Disaster Response Agency) walks by. He too is confused as to the location of anyone in charge. But he does know that they are planning on building 2,150 container units and the work is slow because the suppliers who are supposed to deliver the containers and infrastructure material can’t seem to get a hold of either.
But not all container towns are created equal. A brief conversation with a nearby workman reveals that he has lost his home in the earthquake but he has managed to relocate his family to a container. There is a partially completed container site across town. The drive across town is slow as ever with heavy equipment commanding the roads as more rubble is hauled out and away from town; clouds of noxious dust ever present in their wake.
Beyond the suspicious glares of the policemen posted at the entrance to the partially operational container town, finally some semblance of normalcy is revealed. If not for the rows of steel and plastic tiny homes, the container town could be mistaken for a regular street. Although, more for the absence of dread and despair in everyone’s faces.
A tent city is a dark place. Not necessarily for the lack of amenities but due to the fact that everyone who is forced to reside there is in sorrow. Moving into containers gives the residence some glimmer of hope that maybe things will improve somewhere down the line.
A man walking by has a smile on his face, a rare sight in Adıyaman. He walks with a spring in his step, as if all his cares melted away overnight. He reveals that he is so grateful to be indoors again. The little steel and plastic box that now serves as his home is such a godsend that he almost feels normal again. “Thank god for what we have” he says.
A coincidence strikes and the workman who revealed this container city walks by once again. He says that 1800 units are planned for this zone and about 800 units are now occupied. In contrast to the site we first met, work is proceeding at a break-neck pace there as construction equipment works into the night under the heavy rain. When asked why this site is well on its way to being finished and the other one has stalled, he smiles, shrugs and walks his way.
