I had longed to visit Trabzon and Turkey’s eastern Black Sea region since reading Neal Ascherson’s marvellous “Black Sea: the Birthplace of Civilisation and Barbarism”. The historical significance of the Black Sea had barely registered in my education. That crucial trading hub, and the great civilisations that grew up around it. The Greek communities that thrived around the Black Sea for nearly three millennia until the onset of the nation state in the 19th and 20th centuries made their presence an anomaly and finally an impossibility. Medieval Trabzon, renowned for its wealth and splendour, derived from its position on the Silk Road, seemed impossibly enticing.
Today, the city and its surroundings are mainly remarkable for monuments from better days. Most notably, the cliff-hugging Sumela monastery, in the hills about an hour’s drive away from the town. Hastily abandoned by the monks following Greece’s defeat at the hands of the emerging Turkish republic after the First World War, the monastery, which had been left to decay for decades, is now being carefully restored as a museum. Seen from across the valley, it is a magnificent sight, nestled into the verdant cliff face. Inside the grotto where, in the fourth century AD, a Greek monk is said to have found an icon allegedly painted by St. Luke, following a revelation by the mother of God, the frescoes, many in good condition, appear to float on the cave walls and ceiling.
When I was there, almost all the other visitors were Muslim Turks, most of the women wrapped in head scarves. I wondered what they made of this magnificent example of the Greek, Christian heritage of the region? Like me, they marvelled at the frescoes. They took their photos. Perhaps for them, visiting the remains of a vanished civilisation in their country is akin to us admiring Roman remains in Western Europe; too far removed by time to be worrying today. While I was in Trabzon, there was a visiting party of Greek clergymen and nuns. Their visit must have been heavily tinged by regret for their loss. But their presence seemed uncontroversial, as Turkish waiters smilingly served them tea at a cafe next to Aya Sofia, a medieval Greek church in the outskirts of Trabzon.
Close to the sea, Aya Sofia has survived intact, thanks to having been for centuries a mosque, and despite having been for a while an ammunition depot. Now a museum, its frescoes uncovered, many of them still in good condition, Aya Sofia is a very beautiful example of a medieval Byzantine church. Less inspiring is the former cathedral in the centre of the old town, where Trebizond emperors were once crowned. Squat and unimpressive from the outside, the addition of a minaret did nothing for its harmony. Inside, its transformation into a mosque was hardly accompanied by any serious attempt at conversion, and it lacks the cool serenity one so often finds in Islamic art and architecture. Of greater interest is the Yeni Cuma Mosque, formerly the Church of St. Eugene, where Mehmet the Conqueror, who went on to capture Constantinople, offered his first Friday prayers after taking Trabzon.
Trabzon today is rather a sorry, dilapidated place. Its crumbling medieval city walls are surrounded by poor neighbourhoods of broken houses and rubble. Perhaps the mess will be cleared away. Indeed, a start appears to have been made, with pleasant gardens planted by one section of wall. Trabzon long ago lost its place as a key Black Sea port, and with the rise of Samsun, along the coast, it looks unlikely to regain it. After the fall of the Soviet Union, the city was flooded by traders from Russia, Ukraine and Moldova, and became known for its “Russian Market”, as well as for the profusion of ex-Soviet prostitutes, known locally as “Natashas”. Both appear to be on the wane now, perhaps due to the dire economic climate, which has affected Turkey too.
Trabzon has never made anything much of its position on the coast, except for its utilitarian value as a port. The old walled city is set back from the sea, on a plateau, with deep gullies around it. Nowadays, like other towns on Turkey’s eastern Black Sea coast, the coastal highway passes along the seashore, cutting it off from the city. Next to the highway, by the dolmuş station, is a grimy stretch of seedy hotels (some of them certainly used by the Natashas). There is no attempt at a seaside promenade (even allowing for the relative lack of interest in beaches in a conservatively Muslim town), no seaside cafes or restaurants. Rather, the life of the city is up the hill, away from the sea, notably at the large square, or “Meydan”, where, throughout the day men, and some women, sit and sip tea, and count their prayer beads.
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