Antioch Shaken

In the predawn darkness of February 6, 2023, an icy rain fell on Antakya, the ancient city of Antioch, in Turkey’s Hatay region, where the followers of Jesus were first called “Christians.”

Nearby residents were peacefully sleeping when a low rumble emanated from deep below. As the earth began to tremble, the people of Hatay were thrown from their beds. Terror gripped them in the darkness as many rushed in their pajamas for the exits and into the freezing night. Tens of thousands were still in their beds or crowding stairways as poorly built concrete walls began to crumble and collapse with deafening roars. The shaking lasted an agonizing 90 seconds before the ground stopped swaying and the dust began to settle.         

In the mayhem Mrs. Demir and her three nearly grown children rushed outside.

“Where’s Father?” 19-year-old Kerim screamed to his mother.

Mr. Demir was still in the apartment, fumbling in the darkness for his slippers. To their relief, he joined them after a moment, and they stood freezing and terrified alongside neighbors who had not been so fortunate.           

Hours passed. Kerim and his sisters stood barefoot in the slushy snow. Finally, as dawn broke, they were able to get a cell signal and received a call from a friend in a city several hundred miles away who invited them to shelter there. In shock and bewilderment the family found a ride and escaped the disaster zone, leaving behind all their earthly possessions and many of their loved ones.

Into the Rubble

In the city where the Demir family was headed, heavy snow was falling. Our missionary team, serving in this predominantly Muslim region of southern Turkey, followed the news, hearts grieving, prayers rising. In the afternoon, news came of a second record-breaking earthquake several miles north of the first. Helplessly we watched images of rescuers clawing through heavy rubble, pulling out dusty survivors. Every rescue was a poignant victory amid the horror.

“I have to do something,” Jacob said restlessly. “I have to go.”          

Our two teammate couples also wanted to go. Early the following morning they shoveled out of the snow and boarded a flight to a city a few hours from the epicenter, where the airport was still operating. They met a fellow worker there, and together they found a truck driver willing to drive them part of the way. After spending one night in the truck cab and another at a refugee camp, they finally found someone to drive them the last stretch over cracked roads to Antakya.          

For the next three days they worked night and day, stopping only for short rests at a military camp. Their efforts focused primarily on a collapsed building where, alongside an American team with rescue dogs, they tried to locate survivors who could be heard beneath the rubble. Two of our teammates stayed with them, translating for foreign aid workers. They all took turns climbing down into a hole beneath the remains of the five-story building, where they dug out broken pieces of debris from twisted rebar and compacted chunks of concrete. 

Occasional aftershocks shook the precarious remains overhead, forcing them to leap out for fear of being buried themselves. Sometimes the dogs seemed to pick up a scent, and desperate family members strained to hear signs of life.         

Rescuers and residents climbed over rubble or shivered by campfires throughout the city as machinery rumbled and generator-powered lights illuminated the night. Water and other supplies were trucked in, and food vendors generously shared bread and hot soup. The stench of death grew stronger each day.          

“Please, help me! Please help me get my mother’s body!” a middle-aged woman with a tear-streaked, grimy face and parched lips cried in the street as people hurried by, searching for survivors.        

Jacob took a break from the building in which they were working, and approached the woman. He put a strong arm around her, and she dissolved into him, sobbing. Someone gave him gloves and large plastic bags, and another man joined him for the grisly task. Mothers, babies, elderly individuals—all precious lives, frozen in a state of panicked escape—now lay as broken, decaying bodies. Jacob worked steadily, fighting the nauseating smell and paralyzing emotions.         

Every rescue was a poignant victory amid the horror.

“You call yourselves Muslims!” the woman yelled at others standing around. “But you don’t help me! Here, these gavur [infidels] are helping me!”

When Rescue Isn’t Enough          

Back in our village I communicated with rescuers and supporters. On Sabbath morning I knocked on neighborhood doors and invited the women to pray with me. Six women gathered in our worship space, and we lifted our voices on behalf of the earthquake victims and the rescuers.         

When Jacob and our teammates returned, we sat around the table late into the night, debriefing. 

“People were walking around like zombies, covered in the dust of the pulverized apartment buildings,” Jacob said. “It was like seeing a physical manifestation of what was happening spiritually, watching other groups give up and leave.

“As a last-ditch effort, Malachi went with another man deep into the building’s basement through another entry. He was down there for a long time, and I thought, If this building comes down, what am I going to tell his wife? If there were people down there, if there were survivors, we just couldn’t get to them. It was impossible. We just couldn’t get to the people.”         

Military personnel had tried to help, and a team of miners used thermal imaging to locate survivors. Occasionally someone thought they heard sounds. The thermal device gave inconsistent results, and at times they wondered if demonic presences were toying with them. When every loose piece of rubble had been removed, the miners had given up, and the dogs no longer indicated survivors, our team emerged from the rubble, defeated. Their strength was spent, and they were becoming ill. The family members waiting hopefully outside rushed at them in grief and rage.

Seeds Amid the Ruins          

The enemy pressed in with the powerful impression that this was like our overall ministry. Every moment of progress seemed to be followed by disappointment. As we labored to find souls buried beneath the rubble of sin, we seemed to find only death and apathy. Were we doing something wrong, or was it simply our privilege to plant seeds in a place with such great need that we would not know the impact until heaven?           

Twelve million people displaced by the earthquakes found their way to nearby areas. As we searched for ways to serve them in our city and distribute resources, we became acquainted with the Demir family. We gave them supplies and spent time getting to know them. Our relationship led to thoughtful conversations about faith. When they returned to a refugee camp in Hatay, we kept in touch and sent them resources to share with the people in need around them. Jacob sent Bibles and books, and they read them and asked sincere questions. When their son Kerim came to our region to visit doctors, he stayed with us, bringing piles of homemade delicacies from his mother.          

Today people from Hatay and nearby regions continue to experience grief and trauma from the devastating 2023 earthquake. Many believe the disaster was simply Allah’s will and an unavoidable fate, while others struggle with understandable doubts. For some the wave of help and compassion from the gavur of Western countries broke down prejudice and stirred curiosity. By God’s grace the doubts raised and the seeds planted during that time will bear fruit for the kingdom of heaven.