In Turkish-controlled Northern Cyprus, Varosha was once a bustling holiday destination: in the shimmering decades of the 1960s and 1970s, it was a jet-set hangout, luring celebrities like Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor, and Brigitte Bardot with its splendid, luxurious hotels and pristine beaches. But today, the town is famed as a dark tourism destination.
Varosha was once the Mediterranean’s glitzy darling, where many writers, musicians, and artists lived, with all the glamour and pizzazz of a coastal paradise, buzzing with life, offering an upscale escape bathed in sunlight and servitude to indulgence.
But then came the seismic shift in 1974 when the Turkish military invaded Cyprus following a Greek-sponsored coup, which led to forcible evacuations. Hundreds of families fled, leaving behind homes that still hold personal relics untouched since that upheaval. After the residents left, the town was fenced off and locked in time.
Decades have passed, and Varosha has morphed into an icon of dark tourism, its once bustling streets now echoing a hurried exodus. Since sections reopened on October 8, 2020, to some controversy with the EU concerned that the move could “cause greater tensions and may complicate efforts for the resumption of Cyprus settlement talks,” visitors have flocked to witness firsthand the eerie, abandoned urban landscape: crumbling buildings whisper untold stories, cars rust in frozen traffic, and streets wear nature’s relentless reclaiming.
Today, Tourists arrive to wander through haunted avenues and engage in various experiences. Photographs capture the remnants of luxury—the towering hotels, the pristine beaches—wrapped in silence. Guided tours shed light on the complex geopolitics and human narratives, drawing visitors into the layered tragedy beyond the cracked pavements.
Being a dark tourist isn’t without its moral quandaries. Visitors might ponder: is it right to treat a site of suffering as a spectacle? Yet, through the throngs that come to see Varosha, awareness grows. The ethical balance sways underfoot, raising dialogues about respect, historical preservation, and voyeurism against dereliction.
While Varosha’s resurgence as a tourist haunt might bolster local economies, it brings challenges: increased foot traffic raises fears for its fragile ecosystem. Plants grow interwoven with concrete, vulnerable to the weight of indiscriminate treading. Cultural heritage risks trivialisation under the persistent glare of curiosity-seekers.
Nevertheless, the steady stream of visitors inflates prospects for conservation efforts. With the watchful eyes of the world, there’s hope for Varosha—not just as a museum of loss but as a phoenix poised for renewal, blending conservation with nostalgia for the streets lost in time.
