I landed in Ankara with a plan: gather research material for my Ph.D. and return. Like most scholarly trips, I had mapped out a schedule centered around archival searches, mainly at the National Library of Türkiye and the newly built The Nation's Library of the Presidency.
What I hadn’t anticipated was how the absence of what I was looking for would redirect my journey, turning a narrowly focused research visit into a broader intellectual and emotional encounter with the city.
For a capital, Ankara doesn’t shout. It doesn’t blaze with the chaotic charm of Istanbul or the cinematic drama of other world capitals. But it speaks softly, with purpose. And in those quiet corners of its libraries, I found a different kind of richness.
The archival materials I had hoped to find weren’t there. Initially, it felt like a setback. But rather than pack my bags early, I stayed. I decided to explore what Ankara’s libraries had to offer beyond my research checklist. What I discovered reshaped how I see academic work, public space and even the meaning of a capital city.
I was staying near Kızılay – the bustling heart of Ankara. Friends from Istanbul had once warned me that Ankara would feel “boring” and “lonely.” But cities are experienced through the lens of intent, and mine had begun to shift. Instead of frustration, I found a rhythm in Ankara – steady, welcoming, reflective. It was, in fact, the perfect place for thinking, writing and observing.
My first stop was the National Library. As I stepped inside, it felt as though I had been transported back in time. The reading halls were named after some of Türkiye’s most celebrated intellectuals and leaders. There was a reverent stillness in the air, the kind that invites contemplation.
The archives, while not exactly aligned with my research needs, offered a glimpse into Türkiye’s historical and literary soul. The building itself carried an aura similar to Istanbul’s older libraries, though with a calm more typical of Ankara’s personality. Still, I sensed that this was only the beginning.
It was at the Presidential Library that everything changed.
To call it grand would be an understatement. From the scale of its architecture to the depth of its holdings, the place is a declaration of Türkiye’s intellectual ambition. The reading rooms feel like cathedrals of learning. The design fuses Ottoman aesthetics with modern sensibilities. But what struck me most wasn’t just the visual grandeur – it was the spirit.
This was not a library built for show. It was made for people.
With capacity for over 5,000 visitors, the library is accessible to all. Thoughtfully designed spaces exist for everyone – from children in the Nasreddin Hoca Library to students buried deep in academic work.
Every detail, from disability access to quiet corners, signals inclusion and foresight. There’s even a quiet mosque within the premises, encouraging both reflection and repose.
One of the most heartwarming features is the free soup and bread served twice daily, as well as complimentary tea, coffee and drinking water throughout the day. These may seem small, but they create a sense of care, dignity and community that few public institutions manage to achieve.
As a foreigner, I expected to blend into the background. Instead, I found myself welcomed at every step. A dedicated shuttle bus, operating hourly from hubs like AŞTI, made travel easy. Security checks were smooth and respectful.
Even the staff – especially the guards – left a quiet impression. Polite, professional and composed, they contributed to the sense that this was not just a building, but a vision.
Two temporary exhibitions on display during my visit – one on the Anatolian Seljuks and the other on the Kaaba – were excellent examples of how cultural memory is kept alive. The curation blended history and modern multimedia, making for an experience both scholarly and emotional.
Leaving the National Library was genuinely difficult. I had only a few days left, and every hour felt precious. I promised myself I would return – this time not just as a researcher but as a reader, a learner and an admirer.
Before discovering the National Library, I had already visited several other libraries across Ankara. Each offered something unique.
At the Adnan Ötüken Provincial Public Library, the sheer demand for seats – students queuing patiently – spoke volumes about the city’s thirst for learning. Watching high schoolers wait hours just to study stirred memories of my own academic journey.
Altın Mekan Kütüphanesi, nestled in Millet Bahçesi, stood out for its open architecture and nature-embracing design. Group discussions and quiet reading could coexist here, reflecting Ankara’s careful blend of tradition and modernity. The helpfulness of the staff only deepened my appreciation.
I even discovered the Öğrenci Çalışma Istasyonu (Student Study Station) near Maltepe Station – a small but brilliant idea executed well. Run by the city’s municipality, this student workstation opposite Ankara Gar felt like a fusion between a cafe and a library. It seats around 40 students, offers free tea and coffee, and provides a peaceful setting for those studying on the go.
Ankara does not dazzle in the way global capitals are expected to. But it doesn't try to. Instead, it radiates a quiet dignity. It is a city built for its citizens – for students, scholars and anyone who values time, space and the pursuit of knowledge.
What I found in Ankara wasn't just inspiration for my Ph.D. I found a deeper understanding of what public institutions can mean, how a capital city can serve its people without spectacle, and how libraries – those often overlooked civic spaces –can become symbols of a nation's soul.
In the end, I didn’t come away with the documents I had planned to collect. But I left with something far more lasting: a renewed sense of purpose, a heartfelt respect for Ankara and a desire to return, not just for research, but for the sheer joy of learning in a city that quietly nurtures it.
