EASTERN ANATOLIA: WHERE PAST MEETS PRESENT
Ali Tahmizian
Al-Masry Al-Youm
Jan 31 2012
Egypt
A backwater border town, Kars is far off the grid of Turkish tourism.
But the setting of Orhan Pamuk’s novel Snow had captured my
imagination, and was the first destination on a tri-country backpacking
trip through Turkey, Georgia and Armenia. Hoping to catch a glimpse
of Pamuk’s subversive references to Kars’ past as a crossroads of
Caucasian culture, my fellow traveler and I arrived prepared for the
bleak, homogenous present, hardly expecting what we would find.
It was difficult to tell when our cab had arrived in downtown Kars,
which seemed to consist of a single street, dutifully named for
Ataturk. Cars were newish and women walked past with salon-styled
hair, but the atmosphere was hardly upbeat; the Soviet-looking city
felt run-down and isolated, far removed from Istanbul’s shimmer.
Medieval Kars, a flourishing Armenian capital, was impossible to
envision.
The time was 3 pm, and the sky was already dimming over the drab
buildings, their chimneys emitting light wisps of smoke in the frigid
air. As Yilmaz, our Couchsurfing host approached, we breathed a sigh
of relief. Without a local, Kars would be obscure at best.
Yilmaz led us to a sparse, but well heated apartment, shared with
three other students at the conservatory. The roommates were all
Kurds – a group that, according to our host, composes half the city’s
population. Yilmaz was intent on conveying government suppression of
their culture. The Kurdish language, banned in schools and discouraged
in public, makes the apartment a refuge.
But it is impossible to shut out big brother completely. When I
asked Yilmaz why I could not access their Internet, he explained that
residents are required to register laptops with the local authorities.
I used his, wondering if my activity was being monitored.
Dawn brought a feast of warm baguettes, fresh jam and bowls of honey,
for which Kars is famous. We set out with Yilmaz and his roommate
Firat in sub-zero weather for our destination: Ani.
The medieval Armenian capital succeeding Kars, Ani boasted a population
of over 100,000 inhabitants at its height, rivaling Constantinople,
Cairo and Baghdad. A commercial hub on the Silk Road, Ani traded
with the Arabs, Byzantines and Persians. Shifting trade routes,
Mongol raids in the 13th century and a destructive earthquake a
century later sent the city into decline. Today, Ani is a ghost city.
We entered through the towering Lion Gate, flanked by enormous walls,
which once encircled the city. Distant mountains create a dramatic
backdrop over the tundra-like winter landscape. The brick red and
black volcanic basalt stones unify the architecture of the scattered
buildings, which require three hours to explore. A sign describing
Ani’s history made no reference to its Armenian founders.
Ani’s present condition is both breathtaking and alarming; those
structures that survived earthquakes over the centuries have been
no less threatened in the modern age. Under Turkish authority, the
buildings have suffered vandalism, neglect and deliberate damage,
while recent blasting in neighboring Armenia further shook the city.
Lacking security guards or restrictive barriers, visitors are free
to scrawl as they please.
Nevertheless, Ani’s handful of enduring structures – with their
resilient stone masonry, detailed inscriptions and paintings – offer
a window to the former magnificence of the “City of 1,001 Churches.”
The Church of the Redeemer is an eerie edifice. From one vantage,
it appears a perfect rotunda; 90 degrees left or right, its jagged
profile is revealed – one-half collapsed during a storm in 1957. Its
murals have been whitewashed with a film of industrial paint, while
the fallen walls, whose inscriptions provide the keys to its past,
lie in rubble.
Situated on the ledge of the ravine dividing Turkey and Armenia, the
Church of Saint Gregory is easy to miss, but a must-see for its vivid,
floor-to-ceiling frescoes. Among the biblical scenes depicted, is a
small panel featuring four simurgh – the lion-headed bird of Persian
legend – a testament to Ani’s place at the crossroads of empires.
On opposite sides of the river below, abutments of a medieval bridge
remain. A mere stone’s throw from Armenia, a detour through Georgia
or Iran is required to reach the land of Ani’s builders.
Returning to Kars, about 45 km away, we stopped at the foot of the
looming Kars Castle, or citadel. With frozen toes, we skipped the hike,
observing the ancient fortifications from afar.
Instead, we circled the 10th century Holy Apostles Church, constructed
under Armenian rule. More fascinating than the relief carvings of
the apostles, is the church’s identity – converted from church to
mosque and back multiple times, it mirrors the centuries of political
tug-of-war over the city. Modern Turkey settled on its function as
a museum in the 1960s, but with the early nineties came war between
neighboring Armenia and Azerbaijan – the building, whether for politics
or prayer, once again became a mosque.
At the suggestion of entering, Firat – the Marxist of the bunch –
gave us a stern no with a flick of his eyes. Observing it was closed,
we followed our hosts to their prized eatery: Ka-Mer.
Ka-Mer (Women’s Center) is part of a nationwide organization,
whose mission is to help survivors of domestic abuse gain financial
independence through employment and training.
Simple, yet elegant, the single-room restaurant, which employs local
women, features a floor of ornate tiles and is cozily heated by an
antique wood-burning stove. The daily menu is written on a chalkboard,
and the modern kitchen is open to the dining area.
The boureg, an appetizer of cheese, delicately wrapped in thin dough,
was the best I have had. Our lentil and chicken soups were hearty and
steaming hot – the perfect antidote to the winter chill. Alongside
chai, Ka-Mer serves wine and beer.
Our last night in Kars warranted an outing with our hosts. At 9 pm
the streets were lifeless. We walked past the imposing Azerbaijani
Consulate and the house of its ambassador on our way to a cafe.
Seated among plasma TVs playing Turkish pop videos, we settled into a
game of backgammon, surrounded by tables of young women and men trying
to pass the time. It is easy to comprehend why classical music studies
thrive here – there is little else to do. Firat made a throat-slitting
gesture and warned us not to mention being Armenian in front of the
cafe’s Azeri owners. A seemingly sleepy and irrelevant city, Kars is
poisoned by regional disputes and ethnic tensions.
In 2011, a monument dedicated to Turkish-Armenian friendship was
torn down after visiting Prime Minister Erdogan dubbed the structure
a monstrosity. The former mayor, who commissioned the statue five
years earlier, collected 50,000 signatures in support of opening the
border with Armenia, closed since 1993 when Turkey backed Azerbaijan
in its conflict with Armenia. Not even potential tourism and trade
has tempered this political standoff.
Yet, behind seemingly intractable tensions are complex narratives,
and even artistic bridges. That evening, Yilmaz discussed his
collaborative project with fellow Turks and Armenians from Gyumri,
a city once connected to Kars by rail. It is a documentary about a
nearby Kurdish village and an orphan boy.
That boy was Armenian, his family either deported or killed as part
of a larger campaign against his people – the classification of which
remains hotly debated in Turkey. Devoid of politics, the villagers
took him in to be raised among them, preserving his life story through
song. Representing a small but significant piece of the past, his
life will be documented by Armenians, Kurds and Turks of the present,
a sign of progress in a region of open wounds.
A note to the traveler: It is advisable to visit Kars during the warm
summer, when the city is livelier and Ani’s fields are in full bloom.
To experience Pamuk’s raw portrayal, visit during the winter.