The terrible tragedy that struck Turkey and Syria last week has left us aghast at the scale of death and destruction. What does it feel like to have the ground move beneath your feet and buildings collapse around you?

The news jolted me back a few years to being caught up in a terrifying earthquake in Nepal. It was my first – but not my last – close encounter with nature’s fury. I still remember the thunderbolts of fear and panic rolling through my body as I struggled to stand my ground on an agitated Earth.

A 7.8-magnitude earthquake hit Nepal on April 25, 2015, killing 10,000 people and injuring thousands more. The impact of the natural disaster on the impoverished country, wedged between India and China, was huge.

Hundreds of Nepal’s ancient and dilapidated buildings crumpled like a house of cards. Landslides wiped out entire villages. Millions were left homeless.

I landed in Kathmandu on May 9 to report on the aftermath of the quake. The idea was that I would travel around and file stories on how people were coping after a natural disaster of that scale. But little did I know that I was running into another earthquake.

On the evening of May 12, I was filing a story from my room on the third floor of a modest hotel in the heart of Kathmandu. Suddenly, I felt my table and chair trembling. It started with a quiver but quickly turned into a shudder. I could feel the house moving as though someone had mounted the building on a swing.

Then it struck – a sudden jolt that rattled the entire structure. It was a second earthquake, this time of 7.3 magnitude. I grabbed my phone and laptop and lurched downstairs.

There was a torrent of people on the streets. Everyone was screaming and shouting from helplessness and panic. Then the ground beneath us shook again as two strong aftershocks hit. I let out a helpless screech, which was drowned out by the collective screams around me.

Buildings that withstood the first quake came crashing down. Dust and rubble covered the streets. People started clearing pieces of broken wood and concrete to pull out survivors. Some claimed to hear muffled cries from under a heap of concrete and wailing family members screamed for help. Stretchers and rescue workers sprang into action. It was a replay of the tragic events from two weeks earlier.

The Nepalese capital turned into a tent city overnight, as blue and yellow shelters sprang up everywhere. With a series of aftershocks continuing throughout the evening, it was clear that it was not safe for me to return to the hotel. As the night fell over the city, I found a spot in the compound of an official building, where hundreds of families had already camped out for the night.

Parks, playgrounds, footpaths, government buildings – every inch of open space was taken over as the whole city bent to the whims of nature. But the ordeal was not over.

I was fast asleep when I was awakened by a shrill howling from the trees above us. Until then, they had been standing gracefully quiet, providing a protective green canopy over our heads. Crows started cawing ceaselessly, shattering any semblance of a quiet night. I could hear a distant rumble coming closer, like a muffled roar underground.

Sleep-weary residents woke up in panic, clutching their families together. They had had enough. But the Earth was not done yet. It jolted again and again with pent-up fury, as though wanting to shake all humans off. No one slept that night. Staying awake was the only way to feel safe.

I wanted to jump on a plane and run to the safety of my home in Dubai. Instead, the journalist in me took a plane the next day to Lukla, the most dangerous airstrip in the world.

Lukla is a tiny Himalayan settlement almost 2,900 metres above the sea level, which acts as the most popular starting point for trekkers going to Mount Everest. The earthquake had triggered an avalanche on the world’s highest mountain, killing 18 climbers and leaving hundreds trapped under the ice and snow.

But the half-hour flight from Kathmandu to Lukla’s Tenzing-Hillary Airport is no less dangerous than summiting the world’s highest peak.

At just 526 metres, the airport runway is extremely short. It is also surrounded by high terrain to the north and a steep valley to the south. The weather is notoriously difficult to predict and there is no room for error. Only small aircraft or helicopters with highly skilled pilots can land in the high-altitude airport with low visibility. I made it after a nerve-racking touchdown at the stunningly picturesque village.

The streets and lodges that were once buzzing with trekkers looked deserted. The Sherpas who earned their livelihood working as guides for expedition groups were pushed to penury after the earthquake. I headed to a nearby Sherpa village to interview families who had to bear the economic brunt of the tragedy. But it was a different story that was waiting to be told.

I was standing in front of the little mud houses and chatting with some women when the majestic peaks around us gave out a thunderous roar. I looked up and could see large balls of loose rock rolling down straight at us. We were caught up in another series of aftershocks that rocked the valley.

People started running helter-skelter for cover. But there was none. We were surrounded by mountains and exposed to the torrent of rocks coming at us from all sides. Someone grabbed my hand and we ran, knowing there was nowhere to run. When the Earth turns hostile, there is no choice but surrender and plead for mercy. We laid down on the bare earth, pinning us to its bosom, praying it would stop. And it finally did.

When an earthquake strikes, it is not just the slipping of the tectonic plates that happen. It alters the life of people caught up in the seismic shift for years to come. People who have survived can carry the trauma for the rest of their lives. As 70-year-old Pasang Sherpa told me: “If you cannot trust Mother Earth, who else would you?”

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