My name is Jana AlHaji; I’m 15 and originally from Idlib, Syria. I moved to Turkiye with my family when I was seven years old. We first moved to Reyhanli, then moved to Iskenderun.

Escape from Syria

I don’t remember a lot of details about our trip from Syria here. It’s a faded memory, but what I remember is that we were escaping through the mountains; the road was difficult and scary. It was a lot of dirt, rocks, and climbing. We left late at night and did not arrive until dawn. 

Settling in Reyhanli brought challenges—limited jobs and a sense of despair. Determined to improve, we moved to Iskenderun, where some of my siblings went to college.

The Syria-Turkiye Earthquake

The earthquake was a turning point; we had just moved to Iskenderun a few weeks before 
when the Syria-Turkiye Earthquake hit. We hadn’t even had the chance to unpack our stuff and settle in. The earthquake was slow at first, but it got intense in a couple of seconds. It woke me up in the middle of the night. Everything was disoriented, and I didn’t know what was happening. The world was shaking around me. I put whatever I could find over my head to cover my hair and rushed to the front door. When I opened it, there was dust everywhere. I couldn’t even see the mosque in front of our building.

When we realized what was happening, my family and I rushed across the street away from the building in case it collapsed. The second earthquake hit as soon as we got close to the mosque.

I looked up, and I could see the long minaret dancing right and left above. We were so afraid that it would come tumbling down on our heads. Right then and there, I started crying uncontrollably, and the panic attack started creeping in. I Couldn’t make sense of what was happening around me. My parents grabbed us and led us outside of the neighborhood. 

As soon as we stepped outside, we saw the true destruction; buildings had collapsed, rubble everywhere, sirens and ambulances driving back and forth, and a sense of panic in people around us. We kept walking until we reached a park away from the buildings. We sat in the park when it was pouring and thundering, and we barely had any clothes on. 

People all around us were crying and screaming. When things settled down a bit, we walked back home to grab a few more clothing items to cover up our heads and our bodies, and then my mother told us to go back to the mosque, which was relatively safer, being only one level.

Most of our neighbors were also in the mosque; we all slept there that first night. The first day after the earthquake, there was no water, no food, no electricity, no internet, nothing at all; it felt like we were disconnected from the world. 

I didn’t really sleep that night; I got up at sunrise and went out with my mother to look for water to drink. We walked to the end of the street, and I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. When I first saw Iskenderun when we moved here, it was very lively, with people and colors all around. But what I saw the day after the earthquake, there are truly no words to describe it. Dust was in every corner, the clouds were gray, and fire was everywhere. 

I walked with my mom on the median in case the building collapsed. The whole city in front of me seemed so sad, so broken. We reached the park to get water, but there was no water. We went back to the mosque. By then, my siblings had all woken up, so we decided to go out and look for bread to eat. We kept walking until we found a little store, which, to our surprise, was open. We looked around and saw that he had breadsticks, so we bought eight packs and went back.  

When we got back, my mother told us to go into the house really quickly to grab something to drink, and to our luck, we found eight bottles of water. We used one of them to make tea, then rushed back to the mosque. We stayed in that mosque for three whole days. I didn’t eat, drink, or do anything during these three days. I was just sitting, waiting for relief—or maybe an end.

There were so many families staying in the mosque, including families with babies and toddlers who were crying the whole time. I felt guilty for being there. A part of me wished I wasn’t so that the other families with their children would have more space. There was barely any fresh air inside.

Iskenderun is a city by the water, so because of the earthquake, there was a 60% chance of a tsunami, but because we were still disconnected from the world, we couldn’t hear the news or know what was going on. All we knew was that one street over was already flooded. Rain was pouring that night; it was like an open faucet.

A Glimmer of Hope

On the third day, my brother from Istanbul finally reached us. He urged us to leave Hatay and told us that Adana Airport was open and functioning.

The next morning, we each packed one outfit and pajamas and started making phone calls to taxis to see who could take us to the airport. It was so hard to find anyone because the roads were all blocked.

When we couldn’t find anyone, my mother told us just to start walking; maybe we would find someone. So we each held a bag in our hand and started walking. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I kept on walking, avoiding debris and things blocking my way.

We finally reached a place where we found a bus, and we asked him if he could drive us to Adana airport; he said yes. We hopped on the bus, which was the first time in three days that I felt slightly relieved. It took us an hour and a half to get to the airport. The tickets to Istanbul were free because we were victims of the earthquake.

We were so happy to make it to the airport, where there was water and food. The first time, the flight was delayed four hours; the second time, it was delayed two hours, and finally, we left later that night. To our surprise, the flight ride was very smooth, with no turbulence. We reached Istanbul, and it felt like I had just awakened from a nightmare.

Arrival in Istanbul

Reaching Istanbul was a relief, met by my brother and his friends with food and water at the airport. When we got home, we showered, we ate, and the minute I laid my head on the pillow, I slept like I’d never slept before. After two months in Istanbul, we returned home, grateful that our house had minimal damage.

This journey taught me to be resilient. From escaping Syria to surviving a natural disaster, my family’s story embodies hope and strength. It’s a reminder of the challenges faced by refugees and the power of solidarity in times of crisis.