"My name is Serdar. It's a pleasure to meet all of you," the new teacher stated with a forced grin.
Mr. Serdar, the teacher assigned to our B1 and B2 classes, stood in stark contrast to our previous teacher, Mrs. Irem. He spoke sparingly, moving with a sluggish gait, which gave him an air of weariness. Despite his reserved demeanor, Mr. Serdar was one of the most well-traveled teachers I'd ever encountered. He had explored Egypt, Hungary, Albania, the United States, Macedonia, Serbia, and numerous other countries I can't recall. In addition to his Turkish roots, he was a polyglot, proficient in Hungarian and English. What set him apart, though, was his remarkable empathy and willingness to assist. Recognizing that we were international students far from home, he often provided transportation to the dormitory and took us to off-campus cafeterias for hot coffee and Turkish snacks, all to help us feel more at home.
The week Mr. Serdar began teaching us was marred by a series of unfortunate events. He confided that he had just gone through a painful breakup, which left him deeply melancholic. This explained his lackluster mood. We listened attentively, empathizing with his distress, and tried to conduct ourselves in a way that might brighten his spirits.
Then, disaster struck. A devastating earthquake shook Southern Turkey, an event etched vividly in my memory. I awoke to a WhatsApp message from a fellow Nigerian international student, inquiring about my well-being following the earthquake in Çorum, our city of residence. To my surprise, I had slept soundly and felt nothing. I queried my dormitory friends about the earthquake, and they confirmed experiencing it, with the tremors disrupting their sleep. Anxious and puzzled, I turned to Google for information. Fortunately, it reported a minor earthquake in a pastoral village on the outskirts of downtown Çorum, with no casualties. Relieved, I hurried to school, but neither Mr. Serdar nor most of my classmates had arrived. I checked the time, which revealed I was only two minutes late, leaving me bewildered. I verified the class group chat, but there was no mention of a cancellation. Browsing through WhatsApp statuses, I stumbled upon videos of buildings crumbling and people crying. Perplexed, I asked a friend about the events. He explained that a major earthquake had struck Kahramanmaraş, another city in Turkey, causing substantial damage and casualties. I rushed to Google for confirmation, and the news was grim, with reports of earthquakes in Hatay, Adana, Gaziantep, and other southern Turkish cities, resulting in thousands trapped and hundreds dead.
As my classmates and Mr. Serdar arrived at school, the death toll had risen significantly, and a second earthquake had occurred. Fear permeated the classroom, with everyone praying for safety. When our classroom walls subtly quivered, Mr. Serdar asked us to remain still. He explained that the tremors were aftershocks from the earthquakes in the south. It was then that the true extent of the disaster became clear.
Returning to the dormitory, everyone had a story to share, but I was too traumatized to listen. I remembered a Nigerian international student named Bimpe in Gaziantep, one of the affected cities. I called her, and thankfully, she had been relocated to a safer dormitory as her previous one was at risk of collapsing.
I hesitated to inform my parents, especially my mother, fearing her worry. So, I kept silent.
That night, sleep eluded me due to ongoing earthquake predictions. Eventually, exhaustion overcame my fear, and I drifted into slumber.
The days that followed were somber, marked by increasing casualties. By week's end, the death toll had surpassed 50,000. Schools closed indefinitely, and we were instructed to move to the girls' dormitory to accommodate earthquake victims. We packed our belongings, uncertain about the days ahead.