Several hours have now passed since the earthquake that shook Turkey and Syria. The death toll rises hour by hour, while estimating the damage to homes, infrastructure and cultural heritage is not even remotely possible. The city of Gaziantep knows this all too well — a densely populated Turkish city located just a few kilometres from the epicentre.

Yesterday was dominated by a state of collective shock that remains firmly in place, and which returned again during the night just passed. The many volunteers active in the city — present in Gaziantep because the city receives migrants every day from nearby Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan and beyond — found themselves overnight sharing a room with people who had lost nearly everything in a single night. A long, anxious night, lived in fear that the ground might begin to convulse again as it had just hours before.

Below we share the account of Virginia Pedretti, one of the volunteers at the Gaziantep Training and Youth Association.

We've been trying to sleep for hours. We've set up shifts. Some keep watch over a half-empty bottle of water, ready to wake the others the moment the water ripples (signalling new tremors ed.).

It's hard to trust people you've only just met, but we're all exhausted and tiredness eventually takes over. When someone coughs, or drops a fork, we all jump.

Karina and Alina are surely thinking back to last February, when they woke up in Kharkiv in the middle of the bombardments.

Abdul Selam and Mahir, upon waking, thought they were back in Idlib and Aleppo.

Those with past experience share ideas about where it would be best to take shelter, tips on how to sleep, what to think about.

Memik and Burak's mother cooked a Turkish soup for everyone, unperturbed. A couple with two young children joined our group in the kitchen. Nicolò and Lucas, meanwhile, gave up their rooms to two elderly ladies.

With wet feet in the snow, out in the street as well as in theatres, gyms and parks, we all wait nervously for one final tremor that we don't even know will ever come.

We've put all our pots outside to collect rainwater. We'll use it to wash the dishes or flush the out-of-order toilets.

Half asleep, I keep watching the famous bottle, because I no longer trust my own perceptions.

We're all a little drunk with tiredness, exhausted from the waiting and haunted by the memory of last night. I picture how the building might collapse, to work out where I should move to.

Then I think I'm overdoing it, and I roll over and try to sleep. I hold my breath and focus on the sounds, because the neighbours' dog has so far beaten the notifications from the digital apps.