When the media rushed to the scene of the attack at Istanbul’s Ataturk airport, photographer Furkan Temir took a moment to mentally prepare before going in.
Temir was born and raised in Turkey and has become all too familiar with these catastrophic scenes of violence. He has been photographing the aftermath of terrorist attacks since he was a teenager.
“I feel the responsibility,” said the 21-year-old. “I would like to tell our story.”
At least 44 people were killed in the airport attack, and nearly 240 were wounded.
This is starting to become a grim reality for the people of Turkey, where there have already been at least seven other deadly attacks this year.
Some, like the airport bombings, have been linked to the ISIS militant group. Others have been linked to a Kurdish insurgency that the government has been fighting since July.
Temir spoke about this constant threat, saying many Turks are holding their breath, just waiting for the next attack.
“Right after these bombings,” he said, “the whole country is in shock. … Most of the time, people don’t go outside for the next few days because they are afraid.
“After one week, normal life is starting to (return), but after one month (people fear) another (attack) is coming and everything turns back again.”
Like many of his peers, he is well-equipped to tell these stories as he knows the context, history and cadence of daily life in Turkey. When breaking news hits close to home, he does not frantically dart into the fray of coverage; he thoughtfully approaches people, talks with them and earnestly asks how they are feeling before he raises his camera.
He arrived at the airport early Wednesday, hours after the attack began, and the premises were already being cleaned to reopen for business.
Some of the airport security, many of whom just lived through the traumatic experience, were asked to stay and continue working. One airport worker was heading home when she heard another blast. Temir witnessed her breakdown as she screamed and crumpled to the floor. “Enough!” she sobbed. “I just want to go home.”
Temir said the government temporarily blocked social media for security reasons. But this also inhibited people from being able to communicate.
“We were not allowed to use Facebook, and because of that we couldn’t easily get the news,” he said.
The next day, Temir went to two different funerals — one for taxi drivers who were killed and another for airport workers. Many of the airport employees left work for 30 minutes to attend the funeral.
Temir said the experience was emotional, as close to 500 people crowded next to one another shoulder to shoulder, tears streaming down their faces and palms turned upright in prayer as officials spoke and read passages from the Quran.
He can’t remember the last time he felt light and at peace out in the streets of Istanbul. He points back to a few years ago before the Gezi Park protests.
But even then, he says, it was not really freedom. “It’s complicated.”
And he is not worried about devout Muslims whose faith remains unshaken from the terrorists who try to twist it.
When asked what his hope was for Turkey and where people would go from here, Temir was silent for a moment and then drew breath slowly.
“At this moment, it’s really hard to say anything because we are almost sure that next month will be another suicide bombing,” he said.
“I don’t know how it will end, but hopefully it will end.”