‘IT LOOKS LIKE WE'RE HEADING TO GYAROS’: THREE YEARS IN EXILE
‘IT LOOKS LIKE WE'RE HEADING TO GYAROS’: THREE YEARS IN EXILE
Περιγραφή
Three days before the coup of 1967, Andreas Markou, a member of the left-wing Lambrakis Youth movement, paints ‘Down with fascism’ on walls. With the imposition of the dictatorship, he is sent into internal exile on Gyaros, the barren island with the infamous prison that, today, is a symbol of commemoration.
Φίλτρα
Συντελεστές
Έρευνα
- Michalis Tsoutsas
Αφήγηση
- Andreas Markou
Συνέντευξη
- Fenia Chala
Σχεδιασμός Ήχου
- Dimitris Patsaros
Επεξεργασία Ήχου
- Spyros Lymperopoulos
Φωτογραφία
- Giorgos Kapsalis
Μετάφραση
- Eva Kesserling
Μεταγλώττιση
- Duncan Skinner
Three days before the Junta, we received a directive from EDA to write slogans like "Fascism won’t be tolerated, will not pass." I gathered the kids, now called the Lambrakis youth, and told them, "Guys, today we need to go out and write slogans on the walls." I remember this vividly because, strangely, none of the kids wanted to come. I don't know why, maybe they were scared. In the end, I said, "I'll go out alone." When I said that, one kid jumped up and said, "I'll come with you."
Back then, we didn't have spray paint; we used buckets and brushes. We went up this avenue, and I told my companion, "Look, no matter what, if something happens, we run. Don't let them catch us." We planned to write slogans on the walls, but I turned around and saw a guy about 50 meters away approaching. I ducked into an alley. As soon as I came out, there he was right in front of us—a plainclothes government agent named Sotirakis, who knew us and well as we knew him. He had drawn his pistol and said, "Let's go to the station." I started to put down the supplies. He said, "You'll come with the supplies." So, I took the bucket. There was a crossroads where we would head towards the station, and as we were going down, it was around 1:00 AM, an empty bus was passing by. As it approached, I turned and said to him, "Are we going this way?" And as soon as I turned, I threw the bucket in his face and ran. I heard three gunshots. Now, did he fire in the air? Was he aiming at us? Who knows? I ran like a rabbit. We disappeared. I went to a friend's house in Pangrati and stayed there.
That's also where I was when the junta broke: someone else’s house. The next day was Saint George's Day. My father and mother were named George and Georgia, respectively. I had a foolish thought and decided to go home—not to greet my family but because I had left so hurriedly the night before. I wanted to grab some underwear, some money, my essentials, and then leave again. Thinking it was a holiday and everything was closed, I took a taxi. As I was about to turn up the first narrow street on the left, I thought no one would be there. But there were four men outside my house. I spotted them, ducked into the back seat, but they must have clocked something. The taxi driver, whom I had asked to stop further up, asked, "Where should I stop?" I told him, "Drive on." But he saw the four men and they started running after the taxi. They had drawn their guns and were running. The driver asked, "What should I do?" I said, "Drive on." The poor man got scared, and they caught me.
As soon as I entered the station, seven of them started beating me. Then the deputy commander pulled me aside. He took me into a room. He pulled out his pistol and said, "If you try anything, I'll put it right here," indicating he was scared too. What could I do in there? He started beating me, trying to get me to reveal who was with me writing slogans that night, because the other guy had escaped. I said, "It was his first time, I don't know him." He kept beating me, asking who it was. In the end, since he couldn't get any information, they put me in a cell and called my mother to bring a blanket.
My mother came and asked, "Can I see him?" They brought her in. She saw me covered in blood but stayed calm. She was a smoker. "Do you need anything?" she asked. "A cigarette," I replied. She took out a pack, and as she handed me a cigarette, the officer guarding me outside took the pack, dropped it on the ground, and stomped on it with his heel. My mother walked away.
Then they said, "Take him to Bouboulinas Street." Lamprou, a well-known torturer, told me, "Mr. Markou, make a statement here and go home." I said, "Mr. Lamprou, you can’t just spring this on me, I need to think it over." Half a minute or a minute passed, and he asked, "Have you thought about it?" I said, "Mr. Lamprou, how can I decide something that will determine my future? You guys are here today and might be gone tomorrow. Then, what?” When he heard that, he became livid and yelled "Take him away!"
The next morning, they loaded at least three or four GMC trucks known as “Jimmies” from Bouboulinas street, and took us to Skaramangas, where a military transport ship was docked, was it a troop transporter? Or a tank carrier? Its lights flooding everything with huge spotlights. We disembarked, and for every four people, they gave one can of food and half a loaf of bread.
We got onto the tank transporter. It was jam-packed with people. I found some straw and settled there. At some point, a commotion started: "Where are they taking us? We need to find out where they're taking us!" There was this anxiety that they might throw us overboard. We were down below, but it was open on top, and we could see the stars. All around us were armed sailors. The sides of the ship were low. One guy said, "Let's see where they're taking us." So, one guy climbed onto another's back. The last one managed to stick his head out and see. Most of the older exiles had been to these islands before and knew them. So, we heard someone say, "Guys, I see they're taking us to Gyoura, to Gyaros."
We were getting closer, and dawn was breaking. The concern was who would be guarding us there. So, this guy looked again and said, "I see soldiers." Depression fell over everyone. "They're going to kill us now," one guy said. Another one said, "Take a really good look, tell us what you see." "I think I see gendarmes too." "Why didn’t you say so right away, that they're gendarmes." As we got closer, we saw that there were both soldiers and gendarmes.
When we arrived, the prisons were already occupied by the first arrivals. They took us to the coves. There was the first cove, the second cove, the third, and the fourth cove. We were taken to the fourth cove. There, they gave us tents, one for every four people. We set them up ourselves on the traces left where previous exiles had stayed. They gave us one tomato each, something like a can of spam and some bread. I kept my tomato for the next morning, but when I woke up, the rats had eaten it; there was no tomato left. These rats were huge, like cats. They would bite people, and they had to be taken away for rabies treatment. The rats usually bit the lips because they could smell if you had eaten something. They would bite the ears and the fingertips.
On the second day, suddenly, the gendarmerie came with shovels and pickaxes. I saw the shovels and pickaxes and thought, "Oh, they’re going to make us do forced labor." I said, "Guys, if they squeeze us into forced labor, let’s not do a thing." Then, some older guys said, "Guys, we have to dig." So, with the gendarme, they marked off an area, about thirty or forty meters long, a bit of flat ground, and we younger ones started digging. We dug a trench, just wide enough to fit through. Once we finished digging the whole trench, we threw the soil on top, the signal was given, and everyone went and did their business there. That's when I realized we were thousands of people there, and if everyone went taking a dump anywhere they wanted, we’d end up with diseases. So, we went there, and suddenly, you’d see fifty backsides lined up. Whoever finished would throw a bit of soil, and that’s how we managed there. We had no way to wash ourselves. There was no water. There was no soap. And even if there was soap, what good is it without water? A water tanker would come from Syros, but the water was brackish, just enough for drinking. There was no way to wash.
After ten days, the gendarmerie came again and said, "Those who want to go home, go to the beach." So, there was a rush to the beach. This meant, "those who want to sign a declaration, a release statement, go to the beach." A statement renouncing their political beliefs. There was chaos. Of the eight thousand people there, half went to the beach. In the tent next to ours was a young man, a nice guy, a surveyor. That’s how he introduced himself. We saw the surveyor head towards the beach. Pontikakis, who I slept next to, said, "We’ve lost him—he’s gone." A couple of minutes later, the surveyor came back. "I won’t sign a declaration, I’ll fight with you guys," he said. We hugged him, "Don’t worry." But then we saw he was still anxious, and he left again. Pontikakis said, "We’ve lost him—he’s got a problem..." Then the surveyor came back again. "No, I won’t do it," he said. We told him, "Good job, stay with us, we’ll fight." "Yeah, guys," he said. Finally, he left one last time and didn’t come back.
When the crowd thinned out, we went to the prison. When we say "dormitory," we mean 150 people in each. Imagine how large the dormitory was. There were no beds, nothing. You laid a blanket on the floor and covered yourself with another blanket. If you were lucky and had a pillow, you had a pillow. That’s where we stayed. We had kitchens below, where we did the cooking, and among the prisoners, there were cooks. We washed the cauldrons and all that. Later, they also took the women. Let me just tell you that, statistically, fewer women left after signing a declaration. Fewer women. Most of them stayed. They took them to Alikarnassos. And the prison was left to us. We didn’t stay long because the Red Cross deemed the place unsuitable. So, after four or five months, not more, they moved us to Leros. The conditions there were better.
I hear a lyra one day, a traditional Greek instrument. I turned and what did I see? There was a lyra player in the middle and about fifteen Pontians dancing around him. We had people from all walks of life there. They started playing and dancing. At some point, the gendarmerie came in, led by their commander. He took the lyra and smashed it on his knee, saying, “Musical instruments are forbidden.” The next day, I hear the lyra again. Now, instead of fifteen, there were thirty-five people dancing. The commander came in again, took the lyra, and smashed it. The next day, I hear the lyra again. I thought, “What is going on here?” I turned and saw the lyra player in the middle, now surrounded by five hundred people dancing; Or pretending to dance because many didn’t know the steps to the Pontian dances. The commander didn’t dare enter this time. That was the beginning. Some people inside managed to get a lyra, one made a baglamas, a small version of the bouzouki, another had a guitar. They eventually allowed us to have some musical instruments.
On one hand, I was happy we were leaving, but on the other, I was also upset. I was friends with Vasso Katraki, painter and engraver. We were together in Gyaros. My friends and I would go down to the beach in Gyaros, collect pebbles, and give them to Vasso, who would decorate and paint them. She would write “Gyaros '67” on the back. Our entire wealth was in a cardboard box. What did we have in it? Our underwear, our soap, and shaving supplies. That was it. I had another box filled with Vasso’s pebbles. When they moved us to Oropos, I took it with me. When we left Oropos and went back to Leros, I took it with me again. When the dictator Papadopoulos granted amnesty, we were all ecstatic, packing our things. I turned around, and what did I see? They had taken the box with all the pebbles.
I went through tough times even after that because the only person I could hang out with was my brother. My friends, if they hung out with me, would be summoned to the police station the next day. Okay, it made sense, they were only human... There was a certain isolation.
It’s not about what we suffered. No. It’s about what our families went through. My mother, my father, everyone’s relatives, others left their children behind. They had left their children. In Leros, visits were allowed, and someone’s wife was going to come on a visit, with their child in toe. He was overjoyed. He had left the child when it was one month old and would now see it at two years old. We all made some toys for him to give to his child, everyone gave something. The visits took place in a specific part of the prison, inside the building. He returned. He was heartbroken, crying. We asked, “What happened?” He said, “My child doesn’t want me.” The child didn’t know him. “I wanted to hold my child, and it shied away from me.” He was devastated by the sorrow. They had left families behind. They suffered too.