Turkey’s Dams Bring Power and Heartbreak

YUSUFELI, Turkey—Standing on a hilltop overlooking the vast Kackar mountain range in Turkey’s northeastern Artvin province, residents of Yusufeli are slowly watching their town drown.

Each day, the water rises an estimated 3 feet, erasing gardens, graveyards, and streets; then come houses, historical churches, and old mosques. Lifetimes of memories are making way for one of Turkey’s biggest hydroelectric dams, meant to tap the fast-running Coruh River. Its construction is an impressive feat but comes at a cost. One of 13 planned or built hydropower facilities on the Coruh, this one has uprooted approximately 7,400 residents in Yusufeli alone, locals say, as well as more people in surrounding villages.

It is also uprooting the valley’s unique biodiversity—it’s home to 70 endemic plant species—and both residents and environmentalists have tried for years to fight the project, to no avail.

“We’ve now seen a nature museum destroyed,” said Nese Karahan, the head of the Green Artvin Association.

Ali Polat, 50, sorts through the last remains of his neighborhood in Yusufeli on April 1.

In a country that imports about three-quarters of its energy, according to the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs, more domestic resources are needed. Hydropower has for decades been a big part of the answer, and still is, with more than 700 hydroelectric facilities accounting for about 17 percent of Turkey’s total electricity generation. But the long turn to hydropower has two potential downsides (besides the drowned villages and lost history): Dams can spark tensions with downstream neighbors, and climate change likely points to lower precipitation and lower power output than expected, as happened in 2021.

Unlike with the bulk of Turkey’s big dams, which dot the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, the Yusufeli Dam perches on the Coruh, which has only a tiny downstream portion in Georgia. But many of Turkey’s other big dams have reduced water flow to already water-stressed countries such as Syria and Iraq.

What Yusufeli will do when it starts generating electricity next month will provide up to 558 megawatts of power, enough in theory to meet the demands of 2.5 million people. It should also improve the power output at some other hydropower facilities on the Coruh River.

Surrounded by steep mountains with the Coruh tearing through the narrow valley and Yusufeli sitting on its banks, the area had long been deemed a suitable location for a dam, with initial studies for a potential project dating back to the 1970s. The Coruh River hydropower development master plan was drawn up in the 1980s. Foundations for the dam were eventually laid in 2013. What was undermined was the foundation of village life in Yusufeli.

Residents of Yusufeli stand atop a hill to look down on the drowned remnants of their town on April 1.

Staring into the valley, the Yusufeli residents stand with their backs turned to what has, in recent days, become their new home: sets of brand-new, semi-high-rise buildings on a steep mountainside, a total of 2,620 apartment units spread out over four neighborhoods connected to one another by tunnels. There are playgrounds and shopping centers, new schools, and plenty of parking space. Residents say they will live rent-free for the next five years; for some lower-income families, the new arrangement is an improvement. Still, everything is sterile and monotone, a far cry from the now half-submerged town with its lush rice fields, green farmland, fruit trees, and a once bustling adventure tourism industry for rafting enthusiasts.

By midyear, the new town will sit on the banks of the currently rising lake. For now, it remains remote: The construction of the main viaduct spanning the valley has yet to be completed, and residents are using an extensive network of long tunnels and winding, partly unpaved mountain roads to connect to the province’s main highway.

Dila Yigit, a 21-year-old law student, stands in her family’s apartment on the ground floor of one of the housing blocks in the new town of Yusufeli on April 1.

Dila Yigit, a 21-year-old law student, says her family’s new apartment on the ground floor of one of the housing blocks feels like a prison. She pulls out a photo of a big, orange-painted house with a swimming pool by its side, surrounded by lush fields and trees—once her family’s, now history’s.

“It looks a bit like Venice these days. Soon, it will all be gone,” she said. Her family had loved their trees, so they planted a single thin sapling on a small patch of grass outside their new apartment, an endearing and desperate endeavor. “We didn’t want to move, and we didn’t want to see our family being torn apart, but the choice wasn’t ours to make,” Yigit said, explaining that a lottery system had randomly assigned apartments to each family. “We used to live with my grandma. Now she’s on the other side of town, and we barely see her. She’s lonely.”

As water levels are rising, a small yellow boat navigates through the already half-submerged homes, searching for left-behind dogs and cats. “It’s the municipality—they want to make sure the animals are safe,” Aziz Demirci said, standing on the construction site of the new viaduct that will eventually connect the valley’s two mountainsides. The area’s huge redevelopment project has provided a job for the 26-year-old—he’s part of a team working on completing the bridge—but not a happy one.

Ozkan Sahin, a resident of Yusufeli, goes through books in his apartment in the new town on April 1.

“It’s difficult to work on a project that I didn’t agree with in the first place. I’m angry and sad. I didn’t want the dam. I didn’t want to leave my house, my memories,” Demirci admitted. What he does want is to leave Turkey, he said. “Many young people want out. The economic situation is difficult, and there’s no future here. I have a job for now, but once the bridge is built, I might be unemployed again.”

While new construction is ongoing everywhere around Yusufeli, parts of the old town are still being destroyed: Excavators are tearing down houses, and residents are scrambling to salvage any last remains of their homes that will, in the coming weeks, lie at the bottom of the new reservoir.

Ali Polat, 50, is one of them. A cigarette in his mouth, he’s carrying off wood, pieces of steel, and anything worth saving. His former neighborhood lies in rubble, the ground littered with dried-out pomegranates, random pieces of clothing, and trash.

He explains that evictions had loomed over Yusufeli for the last decade, ever since the dam’s foundation was put down.

“You know, I was happy,” he suddenly burst out. “We had our neighbors, our culture, our social life. Farmers were working in the fields. Women were making fresh bread in the tandoor ovens. Men were drinking tea together on the streets. The move has ripped our social structures apart. A new town was built, but I’m not sure how we’ll be able to rebuild our memories.”