On February 5, Davut Dilitali’s parents surprised him with a new computer. Excited by the gift, he planned on inviting his cousins and friends to come over and play video games on the new system. But he never got to extend that invite: hours later that night, a 7.8 magnitude earthquake hit South Turkey.
I spoke to Davut four days after the disaster. We started on WhatsApp. “Do you have time for a phone call?” I asked him. Since the earthquake, he said, he had nothing but time.
Davut Dilitali and his hometown Kahramanmaras after the earthquake
Davut is 21 years old. He studies English at Trakya University in Erdine and practices his foreign language skills by messaging with Polish students in his free time. Davut usually stays in the university dorms but last week he visited his parents in Kahramanmaras, just an hour outside of Gaziantep, the quake’s epicenter.
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As if subconsciously aware of an impending disaster, Davut’s mother woke the family up around 4 a.m., shouting takbir, a proclamation of the greatness of God.“Allahu Akbar.” It was just minutes before the shaking started.
The day before, Davut spoke to one of his mother’s coworkers and promised to see them. But natural disasters don’t care about promises made in passing. They destroy indiscriminately. Her coworker passed away in the earthquake, along with most of his mother’s supervisors at the tax office she worked at.
I stumbled for words, trying to grasp the weight of this tragedy.
It wasn’t Davut’s first time experiencing an earthquake, but this one felt like it went on for such a long time. In the moment, all he could think about was if and when it would ever end.
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After the shaking stopped, there were hours of frantic phone calls and messages. His phone alerted him to which family members were alive. And for the thousands of people stuck under the rubble, their phones allowed them to post their locations on Twitter, where rescuers would be able to find them. (Notably, Twitter access was restricted by the Turkish government just three days after the earthquake, before eventually being reinstated.)
I asked Davut if he had any photos or videos of the aftermath in his neighborhood. He said he was too focused on saving his battery to take any pictures; the only video he had was of his family members silently sitting at a shelter hours after reuniting. Like millions of people affected by this natural disaster, Davut has lost classmates, friends, neighbors, and distant relatives.
Though the universities are temporarily closed, Davut moved back into his dorm, in part because he “doesn’t want to be a burden to his family.” He says he’s currently feeling numb, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before he’s flooded with intense emotion. Until then, he waits.