From the rubble of February 6 earthquakes, a mother rises to become a chef

A simple pair of socks can save a life.

Of all the chaos and mayhem after the deadly earthquakes that hit Türkiye and Syria on February 6, 2023, that’s one of the most enduring memories that have stayed with Havva Karabay.

Karabay is from Antakya, a city in Hatay, a province that was the worst hit by the massive seismic jolts. So many people were killed there that authorities had to build graveyards on a hill to bury the dead. But on the fateful day, Karabay, a mother of 4, was on a holiday trip in Istanbul.

"I remember waking up to a flood of missed calls," she says. "I couldn’t reach my family. I didn’t know if my children, my husband, or my relatives were alive."

Hours later, her son managed to call. He was alive but shaken.

"He had borrowed someone’s phone, said he was okay but had to save battery for others. That was all he could say before the line was cut off."

Her husband and son were in the same building but lost each other in the chaos. "My husband held my son back from running outside. He said, ‘If I hadn’t held onto him, he might not have survived.’ The roof collapsed. Cars in the parking lot were crushed. My house—the place where I raised my children—was gone," she says.

Her voice breaks as she recalls the aftermath.

"My son told me, ‘Mum, someone gave me a pair of socks. I put them on my hands because it was freezing. That was the moment I realised how precious a single pair of socks could be.’"

The devastating series of earthquakes that struck southeastern Türkiye and Syria, marked the region’s deadliest seismic disaster in two decades and claimed over 53,000 lives. Two years have passed, yet the impact of the catastrophe remains deeply felt.

Many continue to mourn the loss of their loved ones and the destruction of their cities. The twin earthquakes, measuring magnitudes 7.7 and 7.6, caused widespread destruction in 11 provinces in Türkiye: Adana, Adiyaman, Diyarbakir, Elazig, Hatay, Gaziantep, Kahramanmaras, Kilis, Malatya, Osmaniye, and Sanliurfa.

For 51-year-old Karabay, the disaster did more than destroy buildings—it erased an entire way of life. "Before the earthquake, we were going swimming and having picnics with my friends. I can’t forget these memories," she recalls.

But from the rubbles of her previous life, Karabay dug out passion and strength to rebuild a life that she was destined to lead.

A Childhood in Antakya

Karabay's childhood was deeply rooted in Antakya’s vibrant community and the rich spiritual heritage of her parents.

Her father was from Antakya, and her mother was from Kirikhan, a town renowned for the tomb of Beyazit Bestami, the revered Sufi mystic whose legacy of divine love and self-purification continues to shape the region's cultural and spiritual identity.

She grew up in a household where food was more than sustenance—it was a way of life.

"I went to school until I was ten years old. After that, I spent my days with my grandmother and mother, learning how to cook in large cauldrons in the gardens. Anyone born in Hatay grows up surrounded by the richness of southeastern cuisine; for me, it was the same. I mastered cooking by preparing everything from scratch and using organic ingredients."

Her memories are filled with the scents and flavours of her homeland: the earthy aroma of freshly harvested olives, the sizzle of tepsi kebabi in the oven, the comforting warmth of asir, a traditional wheat and meat dish. "We didn’t have much, but we had each other. That was enough," she says.

Day the earth shook

The earthquakes claimed more than just buildings; they took lives, memories, and futures. "I lost count of how many people I lost," Karabay says.

"Cousins, friends, entire families. There were people trapped under the rubble sending messages: ‘We are 32 people here. Please come save us.’ But we couldn’t. By the time help arrived, they were gone."

“My house was severely damaged in the earthquake and collapsed.”

She speaks of a close friend who vanished that night. "A girl I knew sent a text to her aunt: ‘We’re here. We’re waiting.’ Then, silence."

In the weeks that followed, Karabay struggled to come to terms with the scale of the tragedy. "I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. I couldn’t stand being in a warm room while my people were suffering. Every bite of food felt like betrayal."

"For months, I felt like I was trapped in a dream, living inside an illusion. I would go outside, see the rubble, and realise the pain was beyond description. No words could ever explain it. My heart was burning."

"Friends kept visiting, and I would see people on the street who reminded me of my lost loved ones. I would mistake strangers for them, or maybe I just wanted to believe they were still alive. I kept thinking this was a nightmare and that one day I would wake up, and everything would go back to normal."

"But as time passed, I had to accept that this was not a dream. This was reality."

A new beginning

After losing her home, Karabay moved to Corlu district in Tekirdağ province to live with her daughter. "I did not want to go back to my hometown because I could not bear to see it that way. Every time I went, I could not stop myself from crying."

But soon, fate took another turn.

A Turkish businessman, moved by the stories of displaced families, built homes for earthquake survivors—including Karabay. "People thought of everything. They helped us so much. Even my neighbours bought me a potato peeler," she recalls with gratitude.

Though her husband’s pension provided some financial stability, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. "I decided to work," she says.

"When you live through such devastation, you forget how to smile. You stop eating, stop drinking, stop sleeping. But at some point, you have to stand up again."

“I became a chef in a dormitory, and cooking for young girls who are far from their families feels like therapy to me.”

In the face of such devastation, Karabay found solace in the one thing that had always brought her joy: cooking.

"I had always cooked for my family, but never for work," she says.

"After the earthquake, I started making Antakya dishes—tepsi kebabi, oruk (stuffed bulgur balls), asir. People loved them. They said, ‘Havva, you need to open a restaurant.’"

“And opening a restaurant is my dream.”

Her dishes became a way to preserve the memory of her homeland. "Food is not just food—it’s memory, history, identity. Every dish I make is a piece of home."

Though the pain lingers, Karabay is determined to move forward. "Working keeps me going. It helps me feel normal again. I want my children and grandchildren to see that you can lose everything and still rebuild."

Her voice carries both sorrow and resilience. "One day, I hope to return to Antakya. Even if it’s just a shadow of what it once was, it’s still home."

Until then, she finds solace in her kitchen, keeping the spirit of her city alive—one meal at a time.