Atatürk’s House in Trabzon: A Nation’s Memory Between Walls and Trees

I left Batumi early in the morning, heading toward the Georgian-Turkish border—barely twenty kilometers away. On the Turkish side, a car was waiting for me, arranged thoughtfully by my brother and lifelong friend, Dr. Nasser Al-Mansouri, who spends his summers in the beautiful coastal city of Trabzon, nestled along the Black Sea and crowned by lush green hills.

The drive from the border to Trabzon stretched for 180 kilometers along a scenic highway. The sea accompanied us from the west, and the emerald mountains rose gracefully on the eastern side, dotted with cascading waterfalls and sleepy villages that whispered forgotten stories.

Dr. Nasser, an urban planning and road design expert who worked with me in the United Arab Emirates in the 1990s, knows my passion for urban history and memory-laden places well. On the way, he suggested we stop briefly in Erzincan to visit another house associated with Mustafa Kemal Atatürk—a detour I gratefully accepted.

A Brief Stop, Etched in Memory

In a quiet neighborhood in Erzincan, on a gentle hillside just off the highway, stood Atatürk’s modest house—humble from the outside but rich in symbolism. The two-story structure, built of stone and wood, was painted in soft white, its expansive windows opening onto the surrounding fields.

Inside, the house offered a sense of stepping into another era. The rooms were simple yet dignified, retaining original furnishings and rare photographs of Atatürk during his visits to Eastern Anatolia. In one corner, Ottoman books were carefully stacked beside an aged map of the Turkish Republic. An old wooden desk and a vintage typewriter hinted at the thoughtful presence of a leader drafting visions for a new nation.

Though the visit was brief, it left a deep impression. Even in a modest home like this, Atatürk’s legacy lingered in every corner and object.

On to Trabzon… Where Memory Finds Form

By evening, I arrived in Trabzon and made my way to Atatürk’s Pavilion (Atatürk Köşkü), perched on a verdant hill in the Boztepe district. The mansion overlooks the Black Sea, standing guard over a city that has witnessed profound transformations throughout the 20th century.

Built in 1890 by Konstantin Kabayanidis, an Ottoman subject of Greek or Armenian descent, the house was originally a summer retreat for his family. But history is merciless with permanence. In 1923, following the Treaty of Lausanne, Turkey and Greece undertook a massive population exchange, displacing hundreds of thousands of Orthodox Christians from Turkish lands and replacing them with Muslims from Greece. Thus, the mansion passed into state hands—its private story absorbed into the larger narrative of a reshaped nation.

Atatürk first visited the house on September 15, 1924, less than a year after founding the Republic. He saw in it a vision of the Turkey he wished to build: modern, rooted, balanced. On a return visit in 1930, he made a deeply symbolic gesture—donating all his personal property to the Turkish people.

After his death, the house was inherited by his sister, Makbule Hanım, until April 6, 1943, when the municipality of Trabzon acquired and restored it, transforming it into a museum bearing his name. Since then, it has welcomed all who seek to walk through history, not merely read it.

When Stones Speak

A sense of reverence wraps around you when you enter the mansion. The walls are adorned with delicate classical motifs. Crystal chandeliers hang from lofty ceilings—the hardwood floors gleam, softened by handwoven carpets echoing a bygone Ottoman elegance.

The rooms are carefully arranged, and many are still furnished with period pieces: marble-top tables, carved wooden chairs, gilded mirrors, and ticking wall clocks that seem to defy time. In a quiet corner, a desk believed to have belonged to Atatürk remains silent yet eloquent.

The house spans three floors, each telling its own story. The upper level contains Atatürk’s private bedroom—modest and serene. No lavish display, just a space for contemplation and quiet leadership.

And as I left the house, I whispered to myself:

How noble are the nations that preserve the homes of their leaders—not to glorify individuals, but to honor an idea, and to respect an era that shaped what followed.

Future generations are not required to agree with their historical figures, but they are duty-bound to protect the memory of those figures from erasure, simplification, or distortion.

For in every old house, behind every table, hallway, and clock, there is something deeper than wood and stone—there is the story of a nation.

Nations that erase the traces of their leaders with every shift in opinion, unknowingly erase fragments of their own identity.

Leaders pass away, but the homes they lived in continue to ask us:

Did you preserve what was? And did you understand why it was?