ON TURKEY-ARMENIA BORDER, SLIGHT HOPE FOR CHANGE
Sophia Mizante
Eurasia Insight
ticles/eav083109.shtml
8/31/09
I’ve worked in the South Caucasus for many years, and have always been
curious to see how people live on either side of the Armenia-Turkey
border. I recently took a two-week trip to Turkey and Armenia to
find out.
The border has been closed since 1993. By now, the people who live
near it seem to see an open border as more of a symbolic act than
something they can imagine. There is no concrete idea about how an
open border would change their lives.
Maybe that is because the two sides have been shut off from each
other for so long.
In 1921, the Bolsheviks, who then controlled Armenia, signed the
Treaty of Kars that gave the Armenian towns of Kars, Igdir, and Artvin,
among others, to Turkey.
For the next 70 years, that new border became not only the border
between Armenia and Turkey, but also between the Soviet Union and
the West.
Still, strong connections between the two sides persist. Much of it
is based around the events of 1915, when thousands of Armenians were
massacred by Ottoman Turks. The Turks, for their part, say that they
suffered massacres, too, by Armenians.
Until recently, the history of the Armenians who lived in Turkey was
kept silent. But as Turkey tries to join the European Union that has
begun to change.
The local people with whom I talked on the Turkish side of the border
are fully aware that thousands of Armenians used to live here.
Two towns that used to be part of Armenia are, in fact, the area’s
main tourist attractions.
In the 10th century, the Armenian King Abas I established Kars,
which passed to Turkish control in 1921. The town has also been under
Georgian, Russian and Ottoman control.
Turkey’s ties with Armenia may not be good, but the official guide to
Kars clearly states the Armenian presence in the town and area. One
local tour guide said that he has plenty of Armenian tourists coming
to Kars via Georgia from Armenia.
Forty-two kilometers from Kars are the ruins of Ani, an ancient capital
of Armenia. Along with Mount Ararat, also in Turkey, Ani is one of
the most powerful symbols for Armenians of their lost territory. In
Armenia, you can see restaurants, shops and other places called
Ani. And Ararat is a popular name for Armenian men.
As you look at the photos, I am moving south toward Igdir, the site
of Mount Ararat.
In Igdir, I was surprised to see a park dedicated to Heydar Aliyev,
the late president of Azerbaijan.
It was because of Azerbaijan that Turkey closed its border with
Armenia, to show support for Azerbaijan in its war with Armenia over
the breakaway territory of Nagorno Karabakh.
This was the first time that I had seen this visual representation
of the Turkish-Azerbaijani alliance — an Azerbaijani flag above the
entrance and a Heydar Aliev bas-relief in the middle of the park.
Most Turks I spoke to, though, want to see the border reopen. Many
say that it is Russia whom they blame for the conflict between Turks
and Armenians. Not Armenians.
They talk about Turkey’s war with Russia in the early 20th century and
the Russian border guards who are stationed at the Armenian border
with Turkey. Turks see that and say that it is in Russia’s interest
to keep Armenians and Turks apart.
If the border were open here, it would take me about one hour to
drive to Armenia’s capital, Yerevan. But, instead, I had to go back
via Georgia, which added about 12 hours of travel time.
In Armenia, the issue of the border reopening is a very emotional one.
>>From generation to generation, Armenians have passed down stories
of how their ancestors fled from Ottoman Turkey during and after the
1915 massacre of ethnic Armenians there. These are stories of lost
family members and lost homes.
Those stories are important for Armenians in Yerevan, too, but the
Turkey border issue is less immediate for them than for villagers
living on the border.
People in Yerevan said that the border has been closed so long that
they have learned to live without it.
However, in the Armenian border villages, the situation is different.
Most of the villagers’ income comes from selling their fruit, but
since the border is closed, they do not have many options for earning
their living. So some go to Yerevan to sell their produce and some
travel about three and a half hours further north by train to Gyumri
to sell their fruit.
As the border is closed, there is not much traffic going through these
villages. We went to a cafe and were the first and probably the last
guests there that day.
Maybe that will change in the future, if the border with Turkey
reopens. But like so much else in these border areas, nothing is
known for sure.
Editor’s Note: Sophia Mizante is a freelance photographer based
in Tbilisi.