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Officials acknowledge that relocating quake-ravaged towns may make more sense than rebuilding them.
©Associated Press
© St. Petersburg Times, published August 30, 1999
ADAPAZARI, Turkey -- Once a bustling industrial center, this quake-flattened community more closely resembles a war zone than a cityscape: helicopters buzzing overhead, mountains of crumbled concrete, dazed-looking citizens wandering the rubble-strewn streets.
With three-quarters of Adapazari's buildings left uninhabitable by Turkey's devastating Aug. 17 earthquake, and with tens of thousands of its people camped out in tents and shelters, authorities are considering a radical solution: simply pulling up stakes and abandoning this northwestern city of 180,000 people.
Other ravaged Turkish towns -- such as the Sea of Marmara port of Golcuk, where a naval base that was the town's lifeblood was destroyed and won't be rebuilt -- may face the same fate: that of being literally wiped off the map by this earthquake.
In these towns, the destruction is so widespread and the danger from future quakes so great that officials are slowly acknowledging that relocation may make more sense than reconstruction.
"Maybe we just can't fix it," said Adapazari provincial Gov. Ahmet Vefik Tekerek, interviewed at the quake-damaged municipal offices, where jostling bread lines stretched just outside. "It's possible we will choose to leave this city."
Even if moving turns out to be the most pragmatic solution, the idea of mass displacement is a wrenching one for the people of Adapazari, a bitter new loss atop the death and damage caused by the quake.
"My house is ruined, but this city is my home, and it was my father's home," said vegetable vendor Heyrettin Heybet, 24. "If we all go to another place and call it Adapazari, how can it be the same?"
Almost no family in the city escaped the loss of life or property. The local death toll stands at 2,621 -- accounting for nearly one-fifth of the total toll of 14,095 -- but hundreds more bodies are believed still entombed in mountains of rubble so high they dwarf the heavy equipment only now beginning to clear them away.
Another 5,084 people were hurt in Adapazari, according to official figures, but unless their injuries were life-threatening, many simply treated themselves. All over the city, people limp and hobble along, with rags and bandages covering iodine-streaked wounds.
Dust and the smell of decomposing bodies still hang heavy in the air; women use their headscarves as face masks. Others wear the paper surgical masks passed out by aid groups. With warm clothing lost in their collapsed houses, people wear rain capes fashioned from black plastic garbage bags.
Adapazari, 100 miles east of Istanbul, lies directly along the North Anatolian fault line. Hundreds of aftershocks have shaken the town since the main earthquake, and on Friday evening it was hit by two new tremors, one of them with a magnitude of 4.1.
Some wonder whether it was a mistake to rebuild the town after it was nearly leveled by a powerful 7.2-magnitude quake in 1967.
"Adapazari was much smaller then, so maybe the idea of staying made sense at the time," said Murat Kilic, 27, whose apartment building collapsed in this quake. Part of his family lore is the destruction of his grandfather's house in the 1967 quake, and how the family lived for two months afterward in a tent.
"Now here we are again," he said, gesturing at the tents clustered around him on a muddy soccer field. "I think this city has a curse on it."
Many here fear that even if they themselves were prepared to live among ruins for months or years while the city was rebuilt, Adapazari might simply be unable to find its footing again.
People point to the chain reaction of lost commerce and services that could slowly drain away the city's ability to sustain itself. A quick move, they say, might be less painful than a slow death.
"My business is painting cars -- but look at that!" said Getin Ayli, a father of four, pointing to the nearby twisted wrecks of three automobiles. "See how many cars are completely smashed? People are grateful if they have something left to drive -- they don't care whether it needs a paint job! And for a long time, no one is going to have any money anyway. So I won't, either."
There are arguments for staying as well as going. The quake zone was so large that even moving miles away might be no guarantee of safety.
While much here is ruined, some can be salvaged. Even though an estimated 65,000 buildings were destroyed or so damaged as to be unusable, the city's infrastructure is not completely wrecked. The electricity grid is still functioning, although power has been cut off in the worst-hit districts because of fear of fire.
Water service is working, though sporadically. Some people camped outside their quake-damaged homes risk hurrying inside to use their bathrooms despite their fear of aftershocks.
Tilting buildings loom over the cracked sidewalks. Storm drains are clogged by quake debris, and rain that fell all last week turned thoroughfares into lakes.
Under a parliamentary measure passed last week, Turkey's government has sweeping powers of decree in such quake-related matters as mass relocation. But moving so many people would be expensive and complex, and after the government's slow, disorganized response to the earthquake, many wonder whether the authorities are up to such a task.
No decision has been made and no plans for sites have been publicly discussed.
What some in Adapazari most dread is living in limbo, inhabiting a ghost town while they wait to see if they -- and their city -- will wind up moving on.
"Most of my customers are dead, I think. I haven't seen a familiar face in days," said Orhan Koc, sitting listlessly on the stoop of his wrecked barbershop. Inside was a confusion of smashed mirrors, overturned barber's chairs and scattered scissors and combs.
"People used to come to my shop all the time just to talk and drink tea and pass the time, even if they didn't really need a haircut," he said. "But I don't think anyone is ever going to do that here again."