Nestled in northeastern Turkey near the borders of Armenia and Georgia, Kars is a city where empires have clashed, cultures have merged, and history has been rewritten countless times. Today, as global tensions rise—whether over migration, nationalism, or resource wars—Kars stands as a silent witness to the cyclical nature of human conflict. Its layered past offers lessons for a world grappling with identity, displacement, and the ghosts of unfinished wars.
Kars’ strategic location made it a prize for conquerors. The Urartians, Armenians, Byzantines, and Seljuks all left their mark. By the 16th century, it became a frontier fortress of the Ottoman Empire, guarding against Persian and Russian ambitions. The city’s iconic Kars Castle, perched atop a rocky hill, symbolizes this militarized legacy.
After the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–78, Kars fell under Russian control. The tsarist regime transformed the city with neoclassical architecture—wide boulevards and pastel-colored buildings that still define its aesthetic today. This period also saw an influx of Armenians, Russians, and Caucasus minorities, creating a fleeting multicultural experiment.
Kars was a flashpoint during the Armenian Genocide (1915–23). As Ottoman forces clashed with Armenian militias, the region became a killing field. Today, Turkey denies the genocide, while Armenia and its diaspora demand recognition. The ruins of Ani, the medieval Armenian capital near Kars, stand as a haunting metaphor for this unresolved trauma.
After World War I, Kars briefly became part of the short-lived Democratic Republic of Armenia before Turkish nationalist forces, led by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, reclaimed it in 1920. The Treaty of Kars (1921) solidified Turkey’s borders with the Soviet Union but left ethnic Armenians stranded on both sides. Modern tensions over Nagorno-Karabakh echo these unfinished territorial disputes.
Syria’s war brought waves of refugees to Turkey, including Kars. The city’s abandoned Russian barracks now house displaced families—a grim irony, given Kars’ own history of forced migrations. Meanwhile, Armenian activists accuse Turkey of erasing their heritage, while Ankara promotes "Turkic unity" with Azerbaijan.
Kars sits near the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline, a Western-backed project bypassing Russia. With Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, Turkey’s balancing act between NATO and Moscow grows precarious. Local rumors whisper of Russian spies in Kars’ smoky tea houses, a nod to its Cold War past as a listening post.
The Turkish government markets Kars as a "Winter Wonderland", capitalizing on its ski resorts and the romanticized setting of Orhan Pamuk’s novel Snow. Yet, few tourists visit the bullet-scarred churches of Ani or ask about the city’s Armenian past. This selective memory mirrors global trends where convenience trumps reconciliation.
In a dimly lit workshop near Kars’ old bazaar, an elderly silversmith (who asks to remain unnamed) still engraves Armenian motifs into jewelry. "My grandparents survived 1915," he says, "but our history didn’t." His craft is a quiet act of resistance against cultural erasure.
In the surrounding villages, Kurdish shepherds navigate militarized borders. Some smuggle goods across the Armenian frontier; others join the PKK, reigniting a conflict Turkey thought it had suppressed. The sheep, adorned with blue dye (a local tradition), graze oblivious to the landmines buried in the hills.
The city’s famed Kars gravyer cheese—a Swiss-inspired legacy of Russian rule—is now a nationalist symbol. Meanwhile, Armenian khorovats (barbecue) is served discreetly in backstreet eateries. In a world obsessed with gastronomic diplomacy, Kars’ kitchen tells a story of appropriation and survival.
With Armenia and Turkey tentatively reopening borders for diplomacy, Kars could become a bridge—or a battleground. As climate change dries up the Arpaçay River (a vital water source), tensions over resources may eclipse old ethnic grudges. The city’s fate, as always, hangs on the whims of empires far beyond its cobblestone streets.
For now, Kars remains a palimpsest. Its walls bear Ottoman calligraphy, Soviet murals, and Kurdish graffiti. The wind carries whispers in Turkish, Armenian, and Russian. And somewhere in the shadows, history watches, waiting to see if the world will listen.