Beneath a sky heavy with the promise of winter, Kars had arrived, not merely as a destination, but as a revelation. Angelic flakes danced beyond the train window, each a fleeting poet spinning verses of frost against the glass. The Islamic crescent of Türkiye, emblazoned like a sacred sigil upon the window, a quiet guardian watching over my pilgrimage. My eyes, restless and reverent, drank in the sacred mountainous vista, rugged peaks rising like ancient sages, their snow-draped shoulders whispering tales of time immemorial.
An Indian proverb flickered through my mind: Sometimes the wrong train takes you to the right place. And so it was. The Dogu Eastern Express, its iron heart chugging through the veins of the Turkish countryside, had carried me not just across landscapes but into the embrace of destiny. What was once the fleeting dream of a night owl, spun in the silent hours of starlit yearning, had now unfurled into reality.
In Turkish, Kars means snow, a fitting metaphor for a city cloaked in enigma, where history falls like a soft, relentless blizzard. The city of Kars itself, that ancient Caucasian stronghold of secrets, lay just beyond the horizon, a diamond in the rough, its facets glinting with secrets forged throughout the centuries. I traced my journey through the night, my fingers brushing the worn edges of a map from the nineteenth century. My satchel brimmed with an arsenal of such maps, as well as sharpened pencils, stacks of Turkish Lira, and a modest collection of books, their pages heavy with wisdom. Among them, Orhan Pamuk’s Snow reigned supreme, a tale of a wide-eyed writer, drawn to unravel the intricate mysteries of Kars. His words were a lantern in the dark, illuminating the city’s soul. In the iron embrace of the Dogu Eastern Express I pressed my forehead to the cold glass. The crescent emblem a quiet companion.
I had boarded the great oriental serpent back in Ankara, the so called monochromatic capital of Türkiye. Yet, as a foreigner with a heart open to wonder, I found vibrancy in its mosaic of life, bustling markets, breathtaking mosques, and an endless parade of purring street cats. But Ankara was not my x on the map. The crown jewel, gleaming in the distant east like a sapphire buried in snow, was Kars. Better men than I had braved this perilous region. The Russian poet Mikhail Lermontov, whose A Hero of Our Time captured the wild, untamed soul of the Caucasus. John Reed, the journalist and revolutionary scribe, had ventured further still, to the Azeri capital of Baku for the Congress of the People’s of the East. Reed’s flame burned briefly, extinguished by kidney failure, but not before he reunited with his beloved Louise Bryant in Moscow.
Their story a fleeting sonnet to the backdrop of revolution and civil war. As the literary locomotive surged forward, its wheels chanting a rhythmic hymn of iron and destiny, I sank deeper into the pages of Orhan Pamuk’s Snow. The book was a mirror held to my soul, its melancholic and tragic notes resonating. Yet, within its sorrow, I found fire. Pamuk’s protagonist, Ka, a young aspiring writer, stepped into Kars as I now did, not merely as a visitor, but as a pilgrim seeking the city’s hidden truths. Ka’s journey was a tapestry of articles scribbled in the dim glow of inspiration, of conversations with locals whose voices wove the intricate history of a place both blessed and cursed by its diversity. His courage, his curiosity, emboldened me. I saw myself in his wide-eyed gaze, his hunger to unravel the enigma of Kars. This city was no mere destination; it was where the soul could be forged anew. I was no Lermontov, no John Reed, yet I felt their spirits riding alongside me, urging me onward.
Through the ages, every empire from the sunlit East to the shadowed West had carved its mark upon Kars, where the clash of civilizations resounded like the clash of swords on a battlefield of time. Russia, with its brooding poets and iron-fisted tsars, had left its echoes here, as had the Seljuks, Byzantines, and Ottomans, their banners fluttering like pages torn from history’s unending manuscript.
My quest was to breathe in the viewpoints that swirled through this city like a winter wind, to let its contradictions and harmonies fill my lungs, while wielding my pen as an amateur journalist. A humble scribe chasing stories as elusive as snowflakes. Aboard the train, I shared tales with a Turk named Ozark, a man whose eyes gleamed with the fire of discovery. An exhumer of silver and antiquities, unearthing relics from the bones of ancient Anatolia. Over cups of steaming çay, he unveiled his treasures, glinting fragments of a forgotten world. Salvaged from the crumbling husks of abandoned buildings. Ozark’s gaze lingered on my map of Egypt, its papyrus-like fragility a call to his collector’s heart. A gift, he urged with a smile. In exchange he offered to show me these various places. I politely declined, in fact being quite taken with my maps. Moreover, I was already on my own quest, there was no time to dungeon dive.
The train delivered me to Kars in the black of night. A kind taxi driver named Muammar, his face etched with the quiet dignity of the region, drove me from the station to the Hotel Kent Ani. Its name a homage to the lost city of Ani, once a jewel of the Caucasus, now a ruin haunted by the winds of history. I awoke the next morning, my heart alight with adventurous literary intent. A light snowfall greeted me, cloaking the city in a mantle of mystery. Below my window, a bustling marketplace pulsed with life, vendors calling, spices perfuming the air, and vibrant flags and banners strung like prayer flags between buildings, weaving the community into a tapestry of shared existence. I resolved not to waste a single moment.
My destination was the beating heart of Kars, the Castle of Kars, perched atop a crag, its weathered ramparts gazing over the city. Beside it stood the cathedral, a chameleon of faith known as Kümbet Camii, its allegiance shifting nearly a dozen times through the centuries, from church to mosque to church and mosque anew, a sacred shape-shifter embodying the region’s turbulent soul. The snow fell softly, a chorus of whispers, and I walked toward the castle with Lermontov’s words echoing: What is the use of living if there is no passion? Under the watchful gaze of a sky dusted with snow, I was ushered into the ancient embrace of Kümbet Camii, the cathedral-mosque of Kars, by a Georgian man named Turgay, whose warm smile and lilting Russian tongue wove a tapestry of cultures as vibrant as the city itself. His words, a blend of Georgian cadence and Slavic resonance, were a testament to the soul of Kars.
A city that did not merely exist but breathed culture. Coming from the so-called cosmopolitan West, where the spirit is diluted by the relentless tide of consumerism, I found in Turgay a spark of authenticity that shouted, Vive la différence! A revolutionary cry for the preservation of identity against the march of modernity. Kars was no mere city, it was a living manifesto. A crossroads of civilizations where every society since the dawn of humanity had left their footprints, their songs, their swords. With a handful of lira, I paid homage at the millennia-old mosque, its weathered walls whispering of Ottomans who had knelt in reverence before me. The cobblestone path to Kars Castle beckoned. The castle, stood as a sentinel over the city. My mind turned to the Capture of Kars during the Crimean War, when Russian General Nikolai Muravyov stormed these very walls, claiming the city’s name as his own, reborn as Nikolai Karckii in a baptism of conquest. The Turks and Russians had clashed here through the centuries, their battles a symphony of steel and blood, each note echoing in the stones beneath my feet.
At the zenith, I stood atop the castle. In a moment of communion with the land, I knelt and gathered a handful of dirt and snow, its cold bite a sacrament. I pressed it to my face, the grit and frost a consecration, and whispered to the wind, I am Nik Karckii. Like Muravyov, I claimed the name of Kars, not as a conqueror but as a writer. A Hero of Our Time painted the Caucasus as a land of wild passion and untamed dreams, I felt the pulse of Kars as a call to action. Before departing the grounds, Turgay stepped out from the embrace of the ancient cathedral. Turgay, his eyes alight with the quiet fire of curiosity, waved me down, his silhouette framed against the fading gold of the Anatolian dusk. With a gesture both generous and intimate, he offered to take a few photographs and to share a final exchange of words. Young man those your age would rather party Rome or Madrid. Why have you come to Kars?
His question hung in the air, innocent yet laced with suspicion. I paused, my breath visible in the virgin winter, and answered. The history of Kars is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, there is so much culture here. I had to see it for myself. My words rippled through the silence. Turgay’s face softened, his eyes catching the last glimmers of sunlight like polished amber. A smile broke across his features, radiant with the joy of recognition, as though I had spoken a secret known only to the initiated. You’re right, he paused with shock and delight, You’re so right. Kars is singular, sacred, he turned around briefly and gazed at the castle, I hope more come. He turned back to face me, flustered he began taking several pictures for me, a small gift.
As I wandered the ancient streets of Kars, my pen and camera raised like banners of defiance against the blurring of history. Practicing amateur journalism, I captured the city’s soul in flickering video frames. Tales of empires clashing like titans, of Ottoman poets who spun love and valor into verses that perfumed the air with romanticism. I strode through the main streets, the Russian architecture expressing an elegant counterpoint to the city’s Ottoman heart, ornate balconies and sturdy facades standing shoulder to shoulder with minarets that sang of duty and faith. Local cats, those silent philosophers of the streets, wove through my steps. Their eyes glinting with secrets older than the city itself. At the Pushkin Café and Restaurant, I savored a lunch of Azeri meats and Turkish çay, a marvelous blend of the region expressed once again. I was already incredibly inspired by the city of Kars. My evenings were filled with writing, new pages for my works in progress and journaling about my travels. Kars turned out to be the dream I envisioned, and it was far from over.
The following morning, my hotel arranged an excursion that felt like a pilgrimage, a journey to sacred ground where history and myth danced together. Our first stop was a museum dedicated to Kars’ battles, its halls a shrine to the city’s defiant heart. Swords and banners hung like relics, each telling of Ottoman warriors who fought under crescent moons, their courage a poetry of sacrifice that echoed the romanticism of Yunus Emre’s verses, love for land and honor woven into every line. From there, we journeyed to the Ruins of Ani, a once-mighty city now a ghostly echo of its medieval glory. Nearly a millennium ago, this stronghold had stood as a beacon of a forgotten kingdom, its banners fluttering from the Black Sea’s shores to the sun-scorched wastes of Mesopotamia. I wandered among the crumbling arches, my heart aching for a city that refused to be forgotten.
The final stop was Lake Çıldır, a northern garnet in Kars’ crown, where I had hoped to find horse-drawn carriages gliding across a frozen expanse, a scene straight from a Turkish painting. Yet the lake, not yet bound by winter’s icy grip, greeted us with a frigid, shimmering vista, its surface a mirror reflecting the vastness of the sky. Standing here at the edge of the world, a solitary figure in a desolate yet sacred landscape, the calm that settled within me was profound. I was truly away from the problems of the past, and the mundanity of everyday working life.
Beneath the twilight glow, I savored the view of Lake Çıldır from a rustic restaurant. The freshly caught fish, grilled to perfection, was a sacrament of the land, its flavors a lyric of the earth’s generosity. Mingling with fellow travelers, I wove their stories into my own, tales of wanderlust and discovery. We spoke through the tour, until we arrived at a museum celebrating Kars’ millennia-old legacy, the birthplace of cheese. Here, in this city of eternal crossroads, the creamy legacy of kaşar was born, a testament to human ingenuity, as if the land itself had churned milk into poetry. As dusk painted the sky in hues of amber and indigo, I wandered Kars’ main streets once more, the city’s illuminated sign blazing. From a vendor’s cart, I purchased roasted walnuts, their warmth a small rebellion against the evening’s chill, their aroma mingling with the glow of holiday lights that strung the streets like garlands of stars.
Returning to the Hotel Kent Ani, I sank into my writing, channeling the passion of Yunus Emre, whose poetry sang of love as a divine fire. Kars was no mere city, it was a muse. The following days unfolded, I mingled with locals, their stories as rich with flavor as the foods in their markets.
At a mosque that once stood as a Russian Orthodox cathedral dedicated to Alexander Nevsky, I marveled at the transformation. Its great domes replaced by crescent-topped pillars. I walked its hallowed grounds in an old-fashioned black winter coat, its folds billowing like the cloak of a wandering figure from an Ottoman miniature. Two young women, their cheeks rosy as pomegranates, approached, their Turkish words a melody: You look like you’ve stepped from another time, a page of history. I smiled, feeling the weight of Kars’ timelessness settle upon me, a mantle of honor in this city of eternal renewal.
Kars was a haven of peace, its historic heart beating with good food, vibrant culture, and people whose warmth rivaled the hearths of their homes. I visited a millennia-old cathedral, its stones bearing the weight of a dozen faiths, each shift a testament to the city’s resilience. In a Russian themed restaurant, I savored Azerbaijani food, its flavors a symphony of the Caucasus served in a city that had cradled countless cultures. At a local museum, I stood before the shinbone of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, exhumed from Kars’ ancient soil, a relic that roared of a history deeper than empires, a reminder that this land had witnessed eons before the first human footfall.
On my final night, the Pushkin Café became my sanctuary, alive with the pulse of the Caucasus. Traditional dancers moved in a soldier’s rhythm, their steps a march of cultural defiance, each motion a declaration of love for the land. Tea flowed like a river, the music blared, an anthem that shook the rafters, and flaming arrows raced through the air. I joined the revelry, my soul alight with the city’s fire, my journal filling with its embers.
Kars was no fairy tale but a chapter etched in the epic of my life, a diamond in the rough that polished my spirit to a gleam. As I prepared to depart for Moscow to reunite with my wife, Lena, I carried the revolutionary engine of Kars within me, its literary fire stoked by the city’s timeless embrace. Unlike John Reed, whose journey ended in tragedy, mine would continue, emboldened by Kars’ lessons of resilience and love. İleriye, aşka!, Forward, to love! I whispered, stepping onto the next leg of my grand odyssey, Kars’ poetry forever woven into the fabric of my soul.
The Quest to Kars: By Nicholas Reed
Canadian Writer, Journalist and English Teacher. Writers are the engineers of the human soul.
https://nicholasreedwriter.com/