From Yesterday to Today, Anatolia’s Grapes, Wines, and Lost Heritage
06 June, 2024
“A cloud has passed; tears remain upon the grass—
Would one not drink rose-hued wine on such a day?”
So goes the verse by Omar Khayyam, featured in Mehmet Güreli’s song “Kimse Bilmez.” The quatrain continues: “Today this grass is ours; tomorrow, who knows who will walk upon the greenery of our land?” And indeed, here we stand amid the greenery of Anatolia—a region where the vine was first domesticated, where grapes were perhaps first harvested, and where the earliest wines were produced centuries later; a land that has housed a heritage spanning millennia. In these lands where we have been born, raised, and have breathed, grapes and wine have, for thousands of years, formed part of various states, cultures, religious beliefs, and stories. To some, they even gained symbolic meaning. Come, let us delve into the grapes, wines, and, to some extent, the lost heritage of Anatolia, from yesterday to today.
In European languages, words like wine, vino, and vin trace their origins back to the word “Viyana,” which appears in Hittite texts. The Hittites, who we know were producing wine some 3,500 years ago, regarded wine as more than just a drink; they used it as a sacred offering to the gods. Among the wines mentioned in Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey are the wines of Tenedos, today known as Bozcaada. If you travel to Manisa or Denizli these days, you’ll see vineyards stretching as far as the eye can see on both sides of the road—these lush expanses hint at an ancient city in the Bekilli region dedicated to Dionysus, the god of wine, underscoring how important grapes have always been in these lands.
Though, during its long reign, the Ottoman Empire prohibited wine production for Muslims, it granted non-Muslims permission to produce and sell wine. In doing so, it allowed this heritage to be passed down through generations. With the founding of the Republic of Turkey, alcohol production was placed under state monopoly in 1927; in the wake of war, population exchange, and migration, efforts were made to reclaim the lost knowledge and technical expertise. Following the liberalization of Turkey’s economy in the 1980s, new wine producers emerged; tourism, in turn, helped increase both the quality and value of wine. From the early 2000s until 2019, the number of wine producers surpassed 190, numerous local wines received international awards, and the formation of wine routes—such as those in Urla and Çal—began to foster the growth of wine tourism.
Among the most recognized wine grapes grown throughout Anatolia are Boğazkere, Kalecik Karası, Öküzgözü, Narince, and Sultaniye. Yet there are dozens of other varieties—such as Acıkara, Kınalı Yapıncak, Keten Gömlek, and Mezrona—that have only recently been discovered or are being reintroduced. Though relatively lesser-known, they produce outstanding wines. This rich potential in Anatolia signifies not just the revival of a historical legacy but also an economic opportunity. When we learn that exactly 120 years ago, the Ottoman Empire exported 340 million liters of wine during the phylloxera (vine louse) epidemic in Europe—and that a portion of the profits was used to pay the Empire’s foreign debts—or when we see that the loss of vineyard acreage in just the last four years equals the total vineyard area of New Zealand, it becomes clear that what’s at stake is not merely a cultural or traditional loss, but a significant economic one as well.
Recovering these lost opportunities seems possible through modern production techniques, supportive policies, and the boost of tourism. Consider Cappadocia, for instance—there are few places in the world that can rival its historical depth, tourist appeal, and suitability for wine production. Denizli, Urla, Antalya… the list goes on and on.
All in all, Anatolia’s abundant grape and wine heritage holds immense potential, both culturally and economically. In these lands—where history, nature, and human labor meet—the revival of grape and wine culture is not only about redeeming a lost inheritance but also about laying a cornerstone for the future of this region. Perhaps you wonder, “What could we possibly do to protect this ancient heritage?” Well, you’ve already taken a first step by reading this far. In a time when there are efforts to remove even the mention of wine from public spaces, the fact that something is being written, discussed, and even filmed about this important legacy is itself significant. Because if we do not write, if we do not speak of it, we cannot hope to raise awareness and reach a level of truly conscious appreciation.
Would one not drink rose-hued wine on such a day?”
So goes the verse by Omar Khayyam, featured in Mehmet Güreli’s song “Kimse Bilmez.” The quatrain continues: “Today this grass is ours; tomorrow, who knows who will walk upon the greenery of our land?” And indeed, here we stand amid the greenery of Anatolia—a region where the vine was first domesticated, where grapes were perhaps first harvested, and where the earliest wines were produced centuries later; a land that has housed a heritage spanning millennia. In these lands where we have been born, raised, and have breathed, grapes and wine have, for thousands of years, formed part of various states, cultures, religious beliefs, and stories. To some, they even gained symbolic meaning. Come, let us delve into the grapes, wines, and, to some extent, the lost heritage of Anatolia, from yesterday to today.
In European languages, words like wine, vino, and vin trace their origins back to the word “Viyana,” which appears in Hittite texts. The Hittites, who we know were producing wine some 3,500 years ago, regarded wine as more than just a drink; they used it as a sacred offering to the gods. Among the wines mentioned in Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey are the wines of Tenedos, today known as Bozcaada. If you travel to Manisa or Denizli these days, you’ll see vineyards stretching as far as the eye can see on both sides of the road—these lush expanses hint at an ancient city in the Bekilli region dedicated to Dionysus, the god of wine, underscoring how important grapes have always been in these lands.
Though, during its long reign, the Ottoman Empire prohibited wine production for Muslims, it granted non-Muslims permission to produce and sell wine. In doing so, it allowed this heritage to be passed down through generations. With the founding of the Republic of Turkey, alcohol production was placed under state monopoly in 1927; in the wake of war, population exchange, and migration, efforts were made to reclaim the lost knowledge and technical expertise. Following the liberalization of Turkey’s economy in the 1980s, new wine producers emerged; tourism, in turn, helped increase both the quality and value of wine. From the early 2000s until 2019, the number of wine producers surpassed 190, numerous local wines received international awards, and the formation of wine routes—such as those in Urla and Çal—began to foster the growth of wine tourism.
Among the most recognized wine grapes grown throughout Anatolia are Boğazkere, Kalecik Karası, Öküzgözü, Narince, and Sultaniye. Yet there are dozens of other varieties—such as Acıkara, Kınalı Yapıncak, Keten Gömlek, and Mezrona—that have only recently been discovered or are being reintroduced. Though relatively lesser-known, they produce outstanding wines. This rich potential in Anatolia signifies not just the revival of a historical legacy but also an economic opportunity. When we learn that exactly 120 years ago, the Ottoman Empire exported 340 million liters of wine during the phylloxera (vine louse) epidemic in Europe—and that a portion of the profits was used to pay the Empire’s foreign debts—or when we see that the loss of vineyard acreage in just the last four years equals the total vineyard area of New Zealand, it becomes clear that what’s at stake is not merely a cultural or traditional loss, but a significant economic one as well.
Recovering these lost opportunities seems possible through modern production techniques, supportive policies, and the boost of tourism. Consider Cappadocia, for instance—there are few places in the world that can rival its historical depth, tourist appeal, and suitability for wine production. Denizli, Urla, Antalya… the list goes on and on.
All in all, Anatolia’s abundant grape and wine heritage holds immense potential, both culturally and economically. In these lands—where history, nature, and human labor meet—the revival of grape and wine culture is not only about redeeming a lost inheritance but also about laying a cornerstone for the future of this region. Perhaps you wonder, “What could we possibly do to protect this ancient heritage?” Well, you’ve already taken a first step by reading this far. In a time when there are efforts to remove even the mention of wine from public spaces, the fact that something is being written, discussed, and even filmed about this important legacy is itself significant. Because if we do not write, if we do not speak of it, we cannot hope to raise awareness and reach a level of truly conscious appreciation.
