Habip Koçak

The southern regions of Turkey have witnessed one of the largest migration waves in recent decades. Thousands fled cities destroyed by war, crossing the border in search of safety. They carried little with them—perhaps a few belongings, a photograph, or a child’s toy. What they left behind were not only their homes, but their memories, families, and roots. 

Arriving in a new country was both salvation and struggle. Tent camps, makeshift shelters, crowded settlements—these became their new reality. “At least there is no fear of death,” many would say. That simple sentence reveals the deepest scar of war: survival itself becomes the only measure of hope. 

Life in the camps was a battle against every season. The searing heat of summer and the freezing cold of winter pierced easily through thin tent walls. Electricity was often absent. Water had to be carried long distances. Children played on dusty ground, sometimes surviving on just one meal a day. And yet, they laughed. Play became their greatest act of resistance. 

Men spent long hours working wherever they could—in construction, in fields, in markets. The wages were low, the labor harsh, but there was no alternative. Children needed food, medicines had to be bought. Women not only kept the home but also joined the labor force when needed, all while caring for the young.
 

Migration was not just a change of place—it was a test of identity. To be “a foreigner” in a country whose language and culture you did not know meant an even deeper loneliness. Many children were deprived of schooling; those who did attend often struggled with language barriers, leaving them at a disadvantage. 

Still, migrants found ways to hold on to life. Teapots boiling in front of tents, children turning plastic bottles into toys, mothers sewing clothes by hand—these were signs that life could be rebuilt. Communities formed their own networks of solidarity, helping each other when illness or hardship struck. 

Over time, some families left the camps and moved into towns. They rented run-down houses, worked as unskilled laborers. It was a step out of invisibility, an attempt to belong. But it also brought prejudice and discrimination. Children struggled in schools, women faced barriers to employment, men were forced to accept low pay. 

Migration did not only reshape the lives of those who fled; it also transformed the host society. In the streets of southern cities, Arabic signs appeared, new food aromas filled the air, and migrant-run shops became part of the landscape. Diversity enriched culture but also stirred tensions over shared resources. 

Today, thousands still live in tent camps. Some have been there for years, their lives frozen in a sense of impermanence. And yet they continue to live, to feed their children, to search for work, to hope. Hope may be the only thing left unbroken among the ruins of homes and shattered lives. 

The story of migrants is, in truth, the story of humanity. Any of us could one day become migrants—because of war, climate change, or economic collapse. The desire to belong, to put down roots, is universal. That is why we should see migrants not only as “foreigners” but as possible reflections of ourselves. In their children’s laughter we can recognize our own, in the fatigue of their mothers our own mothers, and in the darkness of their tents our own fears. Because the story of migrants is not theirs alone—it is the story of us all.