The Island of No Return
In the Old Testament, God spoke of them to Moses; in the New Testament, Jesus miraculously cured ten. In antiquity, many bizarre efforts – including bee stings – were attempted as cures. It was only relatively recently that an effective treatment was discovered for leprosy.
They inspired fear and revulsion and were obliged to warn of their approach by ringing a bell or shouting: “Unclean, unclean.” Forced to live apart, they were shunned, isolated and ostracised.
A visit to the Filipino island of Culion helps one understand the heartbreak felt by tens of thousands as the boat came into view of their destination. The natural beauty of the bay they crossed would have mattered little. They were arriving with sinking hearts at what was known as “The Island of No Return.”
Sympathy is easy; empathy far harder. How did it feel to be a leper when there was no cure and you were sent far away from family and friends? A visit to what was once the largest leper colony in the world opens a small window onto that nightmare.
Culion, a small sparsely populated island, was chosen as a leper colony for the entire archipelago in the early 1900s. The American administration – which had bought the Philippines from Spain for $20 million – passed a segregation law in 1906. Medical teams toured the country identifying those infected, who were then forcibly transported to the island by the coastguard.
It began with one American doctor, three French nuns, improvised buildings and no cure. Soon there were as many as seven thousand patients: men, women, young and old. Reminders of that unhappy past are everywhere. Many locals are connected to it: the rickshaw driver’s parents were lepers; so were the hotel owner’s father, the pharmacist’s mother, the museum caretaker’s father, and both parents of the evangelical pastor.
Buildings from the era remain. Part of the old sanatorium is now a hospital; another part a museum, with harrowing reminders of profound suffering.
Yet small lights shine through the darkness. The colony evolved into a functioning town where patients ran much of daily life. An elected council advised the governor; lepers served as police and firemen; the able-bodied built roads and buildings, ran the post office and communal kitchen, and enlivened Sundays with orchestral recitals, plays and dances.
For all that, isolation from the outside world – and even the obligation to use their own currency – was a constant reminder of their outcast status.
The town was divided into upper and lower sections. The upper housed lepers and medical staff; the lower those who supplied goods and services. Closed gates prevented physical interaction and a prison punished violators.
One major source of tension was the strict segregation of the sexes. Marriage was initially forbidden to limit contagion, causing immense psychological suffering. To protest, men once burned down the women’s dormitories. Marriage was eventually allowed, but newborn babies were immediately removed. Parents could see them only on Sundays, through a glass partition.
During World War II the Japanese ruled the area. Fearful of leprosy, they visited the island only once but shot anyone attempting to escape. Many died during this period, mostly from starvation, and were buried in mass graves. Otherwise, lepers were buried separately, in their own cemetery.
Those days are gone. A cure was found in the 1980s and the upper town expanded. Neat tin-roofed cottages known as tenements were built, housing hundreds of negativos (cured patients) and their families. Many still bear visible signs of the disease. The cottages surround a peaceful, tree-lined square where the theatre and bandstand once stood.
Once a melting pot of cultures and dialects from across the archipelago, the island has become more homogeneous. Many of the 20,000 residents arrived as the disease receded. Culion is now comfortably well-off: the bay – to some dismay – hosts a vast pearl farm, tourism is growing, and the surrounding sea is rich in fish.
The island has not yet been distorted by mass tourism. It offers heritage tours led by Pastor Hermie, whose grandparents were lepers, a 17th-century Spanish fort, a 19th-century church, mangroves and spectacular views. Above all, it has its people: relaxed, welcoming, and always ready to talk, often recalling the dramatic past. Culion is finally becoming what it long wished to be – an island like the others.
As I depart, I marvel at my luck compared to the tens of thousands who were never able to leave, their lives destroyed without ever understanding why. From the stern of the boat I look back one last time: at the statue of Christ the Redeemer on the hill, arms outstretched in compassion, and at the old cemetery overlooking the beautiful bay – a silent reminder of pain and blighted lives.
In the distance ‘The island of no Return’