“Thank you, Lithuanians, for this hill of crosses which testifies to the nations of Europe, and to the whole world, the faith of the people of this land.” Pope John Paul II, Hill of Crosses, Lithuania, September, 1993.
It did not really matter what religious denomination I was. In fact I doubt it even mattered whether I was a believer or not. I was at the Hill of Crosses, surrounded by a sea of crosses, the air resonating with piped chants of melodic prayers and hymns. With all the reading I had done, I could not help but be overwhelmed and consumed. This was more than a religious site. This was a land symbolic of a people’s resilience and resolve, of nationalistic fervor and faith. A faith that was deeply embedded in the history of Lithuania.
No one really knows when the Hill of Crosses really sprang up. Some date it back several centuries but the most common belief is that the first crosses were erected during the anti-Russian uprisings in 1831 and 1863 to commemorate loved ones who had gone missing. During the Soviet occupation of Lithuania between 1940 and 1991, the Hill of Crosses was bulldozed at least thrice by the Russians, reduced to rubble and scrap and the area littered with sewage and garbage…and yet each time the Hill of Crosses came back, bigger, stronger and more resilient. “The Hill of Crosses emerged from the smoking ruins of the socialist experiment as a robust and battle-hardened symbol, an enduring icon of Lithuania’s unconquerable national character.” In 1991, with the advent of Lithuanian independence, the Hill of Crosses became a national symbol of the fight for independence. In 1993, Pope John Paul II visited the Hill of Crosses, declaring it as a place for hope, peace, love and sacrifice.
An elderly Lithuanian woman who was delighted to finally have an entry from India in her keepsake diary of visitors to the Hill of Crosses.
As we walked around the meandering pathways, an elderly Lithuanian lady stopped us. Would we oblige her, she asked, with a message in her little keepsake diary? It was filled with notes from people across the world but she didn’t, as yet, have an Indian addition. And so we obliged her…and walked on, intrigued and mesmerized by the crosses that told stories of a world beyond just Lithuania.
Crosses in every material and size. One of the most iconic crosses is that of the sitting Christ (extreme right), symbolic of those who weren’t allowed to openly worship under the Russian regime. This Christ worships in secret under a covered roof ‘in His house’, a sorrowful expression on his face.
When first counted in 1900, the number of crosses at the Hill of Crosses stood at 133. In 1990 it grew to 50,000…in 2006 it reached 100,000 and estimates today are in the range of around 500,000. The hillock, as the Hill of Crosses really is, is covered with crosses of all size and material – from metal to plastic to wood to stone, even twigs – left by visitors from all over the world. There are crosses that tell stories of the people they commemorate, crosses that stand in silent testimony to the lives they enshrine. Crosses with photographs, crosses adorned with candles, crosses with bells and swaying rosaries that play their own little tunes in the gentle breeze. There are crosses that are plain and crosses that are intricately carved, a reminder that Lithuania has a rich history of Kryždirbystė or Lithuanian cross-crafting. In fact, Lithuanian cross-crafting has been listed by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.
Much like Armenia where the omnipresent Khachkar or medieval Armenian cross-stone has also been declared by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity…and where I had a spiritual experience of a very different kind.
The Armenia khachkar or cross-stone is intricately engraved with rosettes, interlaces and botanical motifs.
Inside the little chapel of St. Pokas, in which is the basin of a sacred spring and the site of a seep of miraculous healing oil from St Pokas’ buried relics.
The Chapel of St Pokas from the outside.
On the way to Noravank, a 13th century spectacular monastery, I was asked by the manager of the resort where I was staying, and who was accompanying me, whether I wanted to visit a little spring of water up in the mountains that was said to have miraculous healing properties. Intrigued by the story of the healing water, we parked our Russian Hunter en route and scampered up the mountain, through the shrubbery, to the Chapel of St Pokas in the middle of nowhere. It was all of 5′ x 5′ inside, with a little makeshift altar and a tiny 2′ x 2′ hole/well in the ground that had an eternal supply of the healing water. As I asked the manager what the message on the altar read, I distinctly heard a woman’s voice loud and clear cut through my question. It was in Armenian and so I didn’t understand what was being said. As we left the shrine, I looked around but could see no woman. I was intrigued and sheepishly asked the manager whether there was some kind of public address system inside the enclosure that broadcast messages periodically and he said there wasn’t. I then told him how strange it was that I had clearly heard a woman’s voice inside the shrine but that there had been no sign of any other woman in the vicinity. He was stunned and told me that legend had it that a woman’s voice would occasionally appear to select women (interestingly only women) in this little shrine and that it was a sign that the visitor has received a special blessing. This was the first time that my manager had been with a woman who had actually experienced this blessing – he could not believe it nor could I. A blessed silence descended on us. Up in the Noravank Monastery, we lit candles even as that woman’s voice kept reverberating in my head. A priest friend of my guide stopped to talk to us and blessed me but little did he know I had already been blessed by an ancient Armenian legend.
Constructed on the ledge of a narrow winding gorge and nestled against a mountain with deep blue skies looming over, the Noravank Monastery makes for a stunning setting. The complex has several surviving khachkars,
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