Λέρος μεσ’ την καρδιά, ω Λέρος, ένα κρύο μέρος…

Leros in my heart, a cold place

The song echoes through my mind as we wind through narrow rural roads, up the mountains and along the sea. I’ve grown up with this song, I’ve heard it hundreds of times. Dad wrote it for all those who were sent here, never to return home. 

Leros is a small Greek island of the Dodecanese, one of the twelve islands close to Turkey. Its dry, rugged mountains meet crystal blue waters. A few kilometres out from the village of Lakki, which was once the base for Italian Fascists during World War II, sits the former Leros Psychiatric Hospital. Its dilapidated exterior looms over the sea. I’m here on vacation, but I have to visit the hospital. 

As we pull up through the gates and drive down the winding roads, I imagine what it would be like to be living in such an isolated place. It was first opened as a psychiatric hospital in the late 1950s, and was officially named the Colony for Psychopaths. Psychiatric and handicapped individuals were sent here and forgotten by their families on the mainland. During the military dictatorship of 1967-1973, political dissidents were also exiled to this place. More recently though, the space directly in front of the hospital served as a hotspot for migrants during the 2015 so-called refugee crisis. 

We park the car and I step out, surrounded by silence except for the buzzing of cicadas in the summer heat. A warm breeze blows some forgotten sheets hanging from one of the windows of the hospital. It’s so quiet and empty, but somehow the weight of those who have passed through here still lingers. We walk up the steps to the entrance of the hospital and look down over the makeshift refugee camp before us. On the mountain directly above, the newly opened Closed Controlled Access Centre functions to keep recently arrived migrants even further isolated from locals and tourists. This place has been a prison for so many. 

Graffiti covers the walls both inside and out, in a mix of Greek, English and Arabic. On the concrete wall across from the main building, in faded spray paint, someone has written “Immigrants In - Fascists Out”.  

All along the grounds socks, shoes and other items of clothing litter the fences and steps. Who were these people that lived here? What remains of them? Over the years, people were confined within these walls, for different reasons, but it has always served as a sort of prison. 

I take a few moments to sit in the silence. In the distance, I can hear the hum of an electric scooter getting closer and closer. It sounds like it’s coming toward us. A man wearing a t-shirt that says “Security” rides up to us on the scooter. 

“What are you doing here? Don’t go inside, the building is not safe”, he says. 

We tell him we’re here to look around. I think he’s come to make sure we’re not journalists or squatters. Even though it’s abandoned, it’s still patrolled, still under surveillance. Not many people know about this place, not even those in Greece. Greece likes to hide their darkest parts of history from the national imaginary. 

“Fine, don’t stay too long though. You better not be here when I come back around in ten minutes”, he says with suspicion in his eyes. 

As soon as he drives off, I walk up the steps and take out the marker I have in my pocket. 

Λέρος μεσ’ την καρδιά

ένα κρύο μέρος

Δεν σας ξεχνάμε.

Leros in my heart

A cold place

We won’t forget you. 

Dad’s song brought me here. As I write on the wall, I am filled with emotion. For those who were brought and left here to be forgotten by those close to them, but also forgotten in history.