Survivors face slow recovery in northwestern Syria a year after devastating earthquake

Amna Nawaz:

One year ago today, a devastating earthquake laid waste to large parts of Southern Turkey and Northwestern Syria.

Tens of thousands of people were killed, and recovery has been slow and agonizing, especially in Syria, where more than a decade of civil war had already made life nearly unbearable.

Leila Molana-Allen reports on how Syrians on both sides of the border are struggling to survive.

Leila Molana-Allen:

In this small corner of Northwest Syria, more than 6,000 people died in last year's earthquakes, which struck in the middle of the night.

But with few resources and all access to the area controlled by Turkey and blocked by the Assad regime, there's been limited recovery. Half-destroyed buildings still loom. Overwhelmed and underfunded medical teams do what they can to help the injured rehabilitate.

Hamza Al-Ahmad lay pinned beneath the rubble of his home for 35 hours before local volunteer rescuers, known as the White Helmets, managed to dig him out alive. He was one of the lucky ones. With the border closed, rescuers had little equipment and no international assistance. So most Syrians who were buried under collapsed buildings died waiting for help.

It was too late for Hamza's parents and four brothers.

Hamza Al-Ahmad (Injured and Displaced in Earthquake) (through interpreter):

I lost my leg, and I was very sad. But my greatest sadness was when I learned that all my family had died. My life with my family was beautiful. I had a little brother. We used to do everything together. But he died.

Now, whenever I see small child in the road, I remember my little brother. I miss him so much.

Leila Molana-Allen:

Hamza lost his leg from the hip down and his arm is nearly paralyzed. Now he needs multiple surgeries he can't afford. At just 15, Hamza is learning to live with only half of his body fully functioning. He knows he's fortunate to have a prosthetic leg, which cost hundreds of dollars and which many others are still waiting for.

But the rudimentary model is incredibly painful to use.

Hamza Al-Ahmad (through interpreter):

Before my injuries, I used to play football. I loved it. Now, when I wake up in the morning, I can't fit the prosthetic rods. It's a prosthetic limb, and I'm not used to it. So I end up just using crutches. I'm trying to get used the limb, but it hurts.

Leila Molana-Allen:

Hamza's only surviving brother, Abdul Hadi, now cares for him. There's no work, but they have found a small room to stay in. The alternative is a life spent under a thin tarp, like their neighbors.

Much of the worst-hit area remains in ruins. With the economy already destroyed after 13 years of war, there's no money, and tight import controls mean scant materials to rebuild with; 800,000 people are still waiting to be rehoused. They live in filthy, disease-ridden camps, wading through freezing mud and breathing in a toxic smoke from burning whatever they can to stay warm.

This isn't the first time Nofa and Abdo's family has been displaced. They fled the Idlib countryside after her son was killed in a Russian airstrike. Since then, they have raised their three young grandchildren, Jinan, Ufran and Ibrahim, alone. The town of Jindires wasn't home, but at least they had a roof over their heads.

But when the earthquake hit, that new home collapsed.

Abdo Qutaish, Camp Resident (through interpreter):

Here in the camps, it is if we had moved from heaven to hell. Camp life, yes, is hell, but we have no options. Where do we go? Where should we escape?

Leila Molana-Allen:

Abdo recovered from his injuries, but Nofa still can't move her legs. They can barely afford to look after the kids, let alone pay for the specialist care he needs.

Nofa Qutaish, Camp Resident (through interpreter):

My husband helps me in our daily life in the tent and brings me everything I need, because I cannot walk. And if I want to move, I crawl on my hands and feet.

The children are deprived of many of their rights and want of clothes, food and heating. I wish they could live a better life.

Leila Molana-Allen:

Drinking water is scarce, while dirty rainwater floods the alleyways in the freezing weather, soaking everything inside the tent.

Even before the earthquake, most of the people living in this beleaguered enclave needed humanitarian aid to survive. The huge influx of donations and aid in the earthquake's aftermath soon dried up. The World Food Program is ending its main Syria assistance program later this year. And last year, the U.N.'s Syrian aid budget only got a third of the funds that it needed.

The family has had no help in months. They feel forgotten.

Abdo Qutaish (through interpreter):

International organizations should come and see how earthquake survivors are living in the camps, the conditions and needs we face. We only dream of a life in which we have a small portion of dignity.

Leila Molana-Allen:

Thousands of Syrian refugees who had been living in Southern Turkey before the earthquake fled back across the border in its wake. But conditions for those who stayed aren't much better.

Antakya in far Southern Turkey was leveled. There's little left of this proud, ancient city. Far more reconstruction has taken place on this side of the border, but there's next to no help available for Syrians. The dust from building debris here is so thick that it's very difficult to breathe. But just a few meters away, dozens of Syrian refugees are living in the middle of the rubble that used to be their homes.

When the earthquake struck Omar Barakat's rundown tower block, it fell within seconds. Omar tried to rescue his wife, Judy, and 2-year-old infant son, Taim, but couldn't lift the heavy ceilings labs that crushed them.

Omar Barakat, Syrian Refugee (through interpreter):

I tried to get them out, but couldn't. Taim stayed stuck that way for five days with the same rock on top of his head, and he didn't move at all. I stayed awake talking to them until 10:30 in the morning. I fell asleep and my wife was alive. I woke up and she was dead.

I started calling her name, but she didn't make a sound.

Leila Molana-Allen:

They died next to him, but his 3-year-old son, Ahmed, had disappeared. For weeks, Omar searched hospitals across Southern Turkey. His former home had been destroyed and the rubble cleared. But there was no sign of Ahmed.

As thousands of other families searched for missing loved ones, the Turkish forensics unit tested a DNA sample and said Ahmed's body hadn't been identified amongst those killed.

Omar Barakat (through interpreter):

They told me maybe he got picked up by the forklift that collects the rubble, and he was covered up by the rocks because he's only little. But I don't believe it. My heart believes that he's alive.

Leila Molana-Allen:

Omar is from Aleppo. Like many Syrians here, his permit to be in Turkey has now expired and the authorities have cracked down. But if Omar returns to Syria, he risks arrest, or worse.

Omar Barakat (through interpreter):

I'm very afraid, but if they want to deport me while my son is missing, they would have to kill me to get me to leave without him. What worse can they do to me now that I have lost my precious boy? My future is already long gone.

Leila Molana-Allen:

Shrouded in his grief, he spends his days visiting the site of his family's last moments, comforted by mementos of his former life, but against all odds, he's determined Ahmed is alive.

And so he waits, hiding in this tent bought on the black market, surrounded by street after street of crumbling masonry.

Omar Barakat (through interpreter):

I always wake up in the middle of the night. I go for a walk. I look at the destruction and think, my God, what happened? Why did this happen?

Leila Molana-Allen:

A shattered life, one among thousands. Living through yet another nightmare, Syrians on both sides of the border here fear suffering is all they have left.

For the "PBS NewsHour," I'm Leila Molana-Allen in Antakya, Southern Turkey.