Thessaloniki’s new metro is changing the way we move through the city—but the past is never far beneath the surface. At Venizelou station, ancient ruins sit side by side with modern transit. And just above, the Alkazar building—once a mosque, later a cinema—stands quietly, almost forgotten. As the metro reshapes the city, you can’t help but wonder: could the Alkazar be next?
Thessaloniki is a city that reveals itself in layers. At first glance, it feels like a vibrant, modern metropolis—busy streets, lively squares, and a cultural energy that never fades. But beneath the surface lies a city shaped by centuries of history. Hellenistic, Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman ruins exist just below its streets, often unnoticed by those walking by above.
Nowhere is this layered identity more visible than at the intersection of Egnatia and Venizelou streets, where two vastly different eras stand side by side. Below ground, the city’s long-awaited metro—delayed for over two decades due to archaeological discoveries, funding issues, and bureaucracy—is finally in motion.
Venizelou Station, Thessaloniki—where the metro meets history, showcasing a preserved Byzantine market street beneath the city. Image courtesy of Vasiliki Eleftheriou, Photoglobe.
At Venizelou Station, commuters walk through a space where the past and present coexist—an underground metro stop seamlessly integrated with the remains of a Byzantine-era market street, built over an ancient Roman road. Beneath glass panels, traces of daily life from centuries ago are preserved, a testament to Thessaloniki’s ability to adapt while honoring its past.
Riding the escalator up from Venizelou station, the Alkazar comes into view across the entrance. Image courtesy of Vasiliki Eleftheriou, Photoglobe.
Just above, another relic of the city’s history waits in silence. The Alkazar, once the Hamza Bey Mosque and later a beloved cinema, has faded into the urban landscape, its scaffolding-covered façade a reminder of both neglect and potential.
I didn’t grow up in Thessaloniki, so I have no childhood memories of the Alkazar as a cinema or landmark. However, even as an outsider, it’s impossible not to be intrigued by it. The first time I saw the building, I barely noticed it—hidden behind construction barriers, its exterior weathered by time. Only later did I learn that behind those walls stood one of Thessaloniki’s oldest Ottoman-era monuments.
The Hamza Bey Mosque in Thessaloniki before it was known as Alkazar, early 1900s.
Built in 1467-1468 by Hafsa Hatun, the daughter of an Ottoman commander, the Hamza Bey Mosque was once a religious and social hub. Unique among mosques in the Balkans, it featured a courtyard—an architectural element found mainly in Istanbul.
Alkazar’s advertisement from 1936.
By the early 20th century, Thessaloniki was changing. The Hamza Bey Mosque was repurposed in 1925, and by 1932, it had transformed into the Alkazar Cinema—one of the city’s most popular screening venues.
The cinema’s glow darkened under the Nazis. During the German occupation of Thessaloniki (1941-1944), the Alkazar was seized by the German administration and converted into a “Soldatenkino” (Soldiers’ Cinema), screening German films and wartime propaganda. A rare photograph from this period shows the building under its new role, with a poster advertising the 1939 German drama Mutterliebe.
The Alkazar Cinema during the German occupation (1941-1944), repurposed as a “Soldatenkino” (Soldiers’ Cinema) for German troops. Photo sourced from Athanasiios Efthymios Nikolopoulos on Facebook.
The same image reveals a barber shop next to the cinema, owned by Moïse (Samuel) Mordoch, a member of Thessaloniki’s once-thriving Jewish community. The shop was likely still in operation at the time the photo was taken. By 1943, nearly the entire Jewish population of the city—over 96%—was deported to Nazi concentration camps. Mordoch was among those who never returned.
After the war, the Alkazar returned to its role as a cinema, once again welcoming audiences in a city forever changed.
For a long time, the Alkazar was more than just a movie theater. It was one of Thessaloniki’s cinemas that featured first-run films (“κινηματογράφος πρώτης προβολής”) and provided an affordable escape for working-class audiences. In the post-war years, it became a gathering place for a mostly male crowd. Novelist Giorgos Ioannou described how builders, blacksmiths, chauffeurs, clerks, and soldiers would frequent the cinema after work.
Alkazar initially screened grand Hollywood epics, but its repertoire soon shifted. By the late 1940s, Indian and Egyptian melodramas dominated its program. Turkish films became more prominent in the early 1950s, before another wave of Indian productions arrived in the mid-1950s. By the 1960s, Greek melodramas took center stage.
The faded interior of the Alkazar Cinema in Thessaloniki, a once-glorious movie theater that declined in the 1970s, shifting from blockbuster screenings to adult films before closing.
As time passed, the Alkazar’s glow dimmed. Thessaloniki’s cinema culture was changing, and so was the Alkazar. No longer the grand venue of its heyday, it relied on low-budget productions, exploitation films, and cult cinema to attract dwindling audiences. As television became dominant, single-screen theaters across Greece struggled to survive. Like many others, the Alkazar transitioned into a grittier existence, screening adult films in its final years. Its deteriorating facade stood in stark contrast to its former prestige.
By the late 1970s, the Alkazar had ceased operations, its once-packed auditorium now empty. The building was repurposed for commercial use, while its worn exterior remained a silent remnant of a bygone era. The 1978 earthquake caused structural damage, hastening its decline.
Alkazar (Hamza Bey Mosque), Thessaloniki, 1972. Image courtesy of Machiel Kiel.
For decades, the Alkazar remained in limbo—too significant to demolish, yet seemingly forgotten. Now, after years of neglect, restoration efforts are finally underway. In May 2023, the Greek Ministry of Culture announced a €10.5 million project, funded by the Recovery and Resilience Fund, to restore the monument. The project focuses on conserving the Hamza Bey Mosque’s Ottoman architectural heritage and adapting it for cultural use.
The work is part of a broader initiative to protect Thessaloniki’s historical sites, including the Rotunda and Acheiropoietos Church. With the metro bringing new life to the area, the Alkazar’s long-overdue revival marks a new chapter in the city’s ongoing dialogue with its history.
That’s why the metro’s arrival feels symbolic. For years, it was little more than an empty promise, a project so delayed that many doubted it would ever be completed. Now, the sleek underground network is a reality, making travel across the city faster and more efficient.
Two scenes from Thessaloniki’s Venizelou Metro Station—commuters on escalators and a silhouette against a historical display. Image courtesy of Vasiliki Eleftheriou, Photoglobe.
Venizelou station, in particular, represents Thessaloniki’s approach to progress—not by erasing history, but by embracing it. Instead of demolishing the Byzantine ruins discovered during construction, the metro’s designers and archaeological authorities chose to integrate them into the station’s design, allowing commuters to witness history as part of their daily routine.
Above ground, the Alkazar remains a silent observer. Yet, with increased foot traffic and renewed interest in Thessaloniki’s historical landmarks, there’s hope that it too might find a second life. In recent years, discussions about restoring the building have resurfaced. The current restoration plan aims to transform it into a museum, showcasing artifacts discovered during the city’s subway construction and honoring its rich history.
Thessaloniki never leaves its history behind. Even as it modernizes, the past lingers—sometimes buried underground, sometimes standing in plain sight, waiting to be noticed again. The Alkazar is one of those places—a building that has changed identities but never lost its significance.
As someone who came to Thessaloniki in my early twenties, I’ve found that the more I learn about its past, the more connected I feel to the city. The metro’s opening is more than just a matter of convenience—it’s another chapter in Thessaloniki’s ongoing conversation with history. The same is true for the long-overdue restoration of the Alkazar. It is not just remembered; it is reclaimed, woven back into the fabric of the present.
Perhaps this is what it means to live in Thessaloniki—a place where every step forward is also a step deeper into the past.
This article was written by Vasiliki Eleftheriou, a professional photographer and educator based in Thessaloniki. As the founder of Photoglobe, a photography school offering courses and seminars both in person and online, she inspires many aspiring photographers to develop their skills and artistic vision. Passionate about capturing human stories, her work blends photojournalism with portraiture, and she has participated in documentary projects that highlight everyday life and social issues.