On Collapsing Buildings

Fall on me

At exactly 12:49 local time on April 23, a 6.2 magnitude earthquake hit Istanbul. I was on the top floor of my very old building, working on a piece about the UN and its uselessness. It was sudden and violent: The antique lighting fixture hanging from the ceiling swung back and forth, and furniture leapt off the floor. In most other earthquakes I’ve lived through, which in all but one case had been weaker than this one, I hadn’t known what was happening while it happened: I’d misconstrued the shaking for a big truck idling outside the house, or for cats jumping on the roof. This was different. I knew exactly what it was. Everyone in the city has been waiting for it and on edge about it. Scientists say the city is due for another major earthquake sometime before 2030. Two years ago, in eastern Turkey, twin earthquakes struck several hours apart, killing nearly 55,000 people. When this earthquake hit, I had the conscious thought: this might be the one we’ve all been dreading. For a few moments, I was terrified that the entire rickety edifice I was in was going to collapse in on itself. I instinctively felt the need to get out of the building – and down two very narrow flights of stairs – so that I wouldn’t be trapped inside if it fell. I don’t remember if the shaking had stopped or not, but I ran down the stairs into my bedroom to grab some sandals – in my panic, I’d forgotten that I had more appropriate shoes near the door to the apartment– and struggled to unlock the front door. By the time I got outside, the entire neighborhood was out on the street. Some people were crying; others were praying. Some people had their animals in pet carriers. The scene resembled images I’d only seen on television, pictures of war refugees or victims of disaster in densely populated cities very far away.