Giant Furry Hamster and Catastrophic Earthquake

Not the headline I was expecting for my first award...

The event

When I woke up on Monday 06 February 2023, it was the day before my birthday, and my husband, who is an emergency services worker, had a rare day off. We’d planned a birthday lunch, and he had got up to bring me a cup of tea in bed (he’s a keeper). As he came back up the stairs clutching his pager and his phone in the absence of a mug, I could sense the change in the air.

Unbeknownst to me at that time (having remarkably not checked my phone on the instant of waking), there had been a catastrophic earthquake in Turkey and Syria overnight, and after years of training as an International Rescue worker, he was called away to go and support.

This was the real deal.

As someone with a background in crisis and disaster management myself, we immediately went into ‘prepare’ mode, and worked in unspoken synchronicity to get him packed, ready and off. Him fielding a torrent of phone calls whilst I made sure he had something to eat and drink, ticking his essential kit off the check list. The ‘ready bag’ that had sat pregnantly by the door for so long now thrust into delivery phase.

And then, he was gone.

The reality

The following week was extraordinary in so many ways - witnessing the horror unfolding on the news, trying to bury the worry that could not be assuaged - text messages understandably unanswered. Normal home life - parenting, GCSE revision, teenage stresses, crisp sandwiches for dinner - rumbling on on a parallel plane. And then when he did contact me, as well as the immense relief I felt, I received the most astonishing insight into the rescue operation, the heart of the local people, the extent of the devastation, the camaraderie of the international rescue teams, and the reality of existing within it.

In order to try and make sense of it - the extreme contrasts of what was happening to those families out there, how it was for him, how it was for me, juxtapositions too big for my brain. I did what I always do when my mind is overwhelmed - I decided to write. I wrote a short piece to express what I was experiencing as the wife of a rescue worker, and sent it to some friends. One friend showed it to her builder - and he passed it on to his friend who is a chocolatier for King Charles (!). I suddenly had visions of tea and crisp sandwiches with Camilla, however, I did not hear from the Palace...

I sent it to every newspaper I could think of - well not the Daily Mail obviously, but you know what I mean. I felt a desperate urge to communicate this unique perspective on the disaster and the humanity on an individual level. No response.

It is impossible to convey the enormity of their experience, and I myself have the barest of understanding, but these are a flavour of the images that were filtering through to me at home as I tried to make some vague sense of it through the pen.

Coming home

A few weeks later, when he was home and safe, and the news had moved on to ‘partygate’ or the cost of living crisis, barely remembering those whose lives and families had been utterly obliterated just a few short weeks before, I was back to my ‘day job’ of finishing my first book. Whilst looking at ways to boost my writing profile in advance of my first submission to publishers, I came across the ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards’ and the chance to enter a piece of writing in their narrative non-fiction category on the theme of ‘Hope’

I was drawn to this for so many reasons - partly because it is an Irish award, partly because of the resonance with the Ocean (that being the focus of my first book), but also because of the theme. Instead of submitting an excerpt from my book as initially planned, I knew that it would be the piece I wrote about the earthquake. Everything about it from the rescues to their emotional homecoming epitomised hope.

The award

I submitted my entry, and then didn’t hear anything (there is a theme). At the end of May when the winners were announced, I still hadn’t heard anything so I looked at the website out of interest to see who the winners were, and what they had written. I hoped to learn from seeing what it took to win a writing award. As I scrolled down, I saw my name amidst the list of finalists!!! I was elated!!! I had no idea I had even been shortlisted. And then as I scrolled down further, I saw my name as the winner!!!! I could not believe it. I literally screamed and jumped around the garden for joy. It meant everything.

As I excitedly waited for my piece to be published (titled ‘Rubble’ as the rules stated I could not use the word ‘Hope’ more than once and I needed it in the body text), I finally got the email to say it was out, under the headline ‘Giant Furry Hamster and Catastrophic Earthquake’. Now that’s a Daily Star top ten headline if ever I saw one, although it turns out the Giant Furry Hamster was the subject of the winning fiction piece alongside mine, rather than being a mutant rodent somehow involved in the events in Turkey. (My interview with the award organisers is on the link above).

As I reflect on this whole process, it is all still too much to comprehend - the conflicting pulls of emotion, the incomprehensible imagining of devastated lives, the minutiae of what we worry about when we have nothing to worry about - that is a whole future book in itself. But for now, here is my small slice of perspective written at that moment in time on the theme of ‘Hope’.

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Rubble - by Emma Simpson; Wild Atlantic Writer’s Award Winner 2023.

I ponder where we might go for my birthday lunch, anticipating the possibility of a cup of tea in bed.  I wonder if it’s in my favourite cup as he comes up the stairs. ‘I’m going to Turkey’, he says, empty handed, ‘there’s been an earthquake’. ‘Oh’, I muster. I haven’t seen the news.  An hour later he is gone.

I cancel his 11am dentist’s appointment.

I follow his location on our family app as direct communication dwindles. Two days after he leaves, I find myself in bed scrolling, scrolling, scrolling.  Six hours pass and I haven’t moved. Then a text message:‘feeling good’, alongside the grumpiest pic ever. ‘Tell your face, babe’. He sends pictures of rubble and rescues; I send screenshots of the rugby results.  I make myself go out for a run and find a café. I order a fishfinger sandwich. Simple, hot, fresh.  It burns my mouth.  I wonder when he will next eat something hot, whether they have tea. My Desert Island Discs luxury item would be tea.  One of my friends said theirs would be my husband.  Genius.

By day six, the fatigue at home, the suppressed worry and single parenting (which I cannot voice as it pales into insignificance alongside what’s happening out there) takes hold. Crisp sandwiches for dinner. This turns into a highly entertaining Facebook discussion as to the optimum crisp sandwich composition. (Overwhelmingly salt & vinegar, real butter and white bread).  I feel less lonely and afraid.

We finally get to speak – I want to know everything, all of it. We don’t talk about the bodies, the ‘almosts’. When I feel I’m losing him to the despairing sounds of silence, thoughts of cadaver dogs busy and frenzied whilst the rescue dogs find nothing, I bring him back to camp – ‘tell me about camp!’.

There’s a first aid tent for dogs - Colin the Collie receives treatment after injuring his paw on some rubble.  Every rescue team is exactly like his own, just from somewhere else. The professionalism, integrity and camaraderie bring the most life affirming moments, amidst the horror. The Finnish team have a sauna, the Italians a pasta maker, and won’t start the day until after coffee and a cigarette. The team from China have a cooking station with woks constantly on the go. I’ve entered a 70s British sitcom script. The Brits have ration packs and a hot tent shower. They swap food to break up the monotony – today he received a coffee waffle and frankfurter bun from the Dutch in exchange for ‘Biscuit Browns’. I can’t help but feel the Dutch have been short-changed.

Yesterday they rescued a young lad after 128 hours. He survived as he was trapped alongside a stocked fridge. They get a call - there is a possibility of rescuing seven more live casualties from the remains of a sports hall.  It has been over 170 hours, the odds are against them, but whilst the calls come in, there is still…hope.

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Thank you for reading this today,

Love & lemons 💕🍋

Em x