Grief has something to do with air

Satellite images mean nothing to the human soul. They exist to distance you from me, my fellow kin.

They have deliberately killed hundreds of thousands of people by building weak structures. And now, you stand at a distance, looking at the damage nature has done. They want you to believe that nature is evil—that the earthquake is some unknown, dangerous thing, untimely and unpreventable. No one can survive it. It is our weakness, they would tell you. They will tell you to open your wallets, to look down, and to pray, pray, pray. No eye contact, please.

They show you the destruction—the evil earthquake, they say—and then they ask for your money.

You will not see anything under the rubble, as you shouldn’t. Stay at a distance, my fellow kin. As far away as you can.

"What is distance?" a child asks.

Breathe. Breathe.

Grief has something to do with air.

It has been two years since the earthquake struck Turkey and Syria—since people were killed not by nature, but by negligence, by the lack of care, attention, and responsibility from those who built these buildings. Fast and cheap. Simple as that. No need for theory or ideology. Simple as that. They killed people because they wanted more money in a short amount of time—perhaps fearing their own time was running out.

What was the rush? Someone, whisper in their ears.

They killed our fellow kin for money.They did not even attempt to save them—for money.Those who built fast, for money, took their time when it mattered most. They slowed down as much as they could. And so, thousands of people remained trapped beneath the rubble.

Those who stayed behind—you, me, and they—the survivors of grief, now ask each other: How did the time go by? It has been two full years. Has it? Did time really move forward? What is time, anyway, if we have been frozen since then—every now and then?

Those sudden freezing moments you cannot explain—perhaps they are tied to the grief you never let surface. In distant places, far from home, with no shoulder to cry on.

Come on, let’s not be too dramatic.

Maybe we can simply nod at each other and say, at the same time: The anger you carry is filled with grief, but you do not say it.

Never mind. Whisper.

Satellite images will feed the hungry men—hungry for concrete, money, construction. But grief has something to do with air. Concrete and dust fly over our heads. Inhale. Inhale. They suffocate the survivors.

Satellite images do not show your fellow kin—a human body, crushed under the rubble, in their sleep or in their escape. For a millisecond, you think: There must have been life in these now-deserted streets. But then, something else pulls your attention away. You never picture a woman pulling a tray out of the oven. You never smell freshly baked bread.

And why should you? You have things to do.

Satellite images are not for you anyway. They are for the real estate agents—here and there. Smaller parcels. Fewer people. Maybe some greenery.

This place—oh man, sorry for your loss. Give us a year.

Satellite images place you above the destruction. Are you feeling isolated? Maybe lucky? Are you a god now?

Send your money. Fix, fix, fix it.

Have you played The Sims?

Whatever.

How can one return to a place they have never left?