Last year's snap election in Ukraine has reinforced the country’s ongoing struggle between shrugging off its Soviet past and looking westward, with potential EU membership a key issue. Prime Minister Yulia Tymoshenko and President Viktor Yushchenko gained the ‘Orange Bloc majority’. The colour was adopted as a symbol of the 2004/05 (mostly) peaceful revolution which overturned a ‘less than free and fair’ election.
The hub of the EU-leaning party is the capital Kiev, which has been looking in recent years to attract more foreign investment and tourism. The city’s Independence Square, focal point of the protests 3 years ago and rallying centre of the latest election, is still a powerful symbol of Ukraine’s various struggles over the centuries against corruption and oppression.
Another, more idiosyncratic, symbol is the Pechersk Lavra, or Monastery of the Caves, which I discovered on a recent visit to the capital.
A Greek Orthodox monk, Anthony, had arrived in Kiev in the 11th century to advocate a simple life of abstinence and seclusion. He set up his mission in a cave on a hill overlooking the Dnipro river. As his adherents grew in number, further catacombs were constructed to house them all. Eventually a whole labyrinth of corridors and chapels had been dug out of the soft sandstone.
Churches and other buildings were constructed overground to accommodate the ever-increasing brethren. With the death of Anthony in 1073, the caves became the monks’ burial ground for the next 700 years, and were only otherwise occupied by those in complete seclusion. The underground monks’ sole contact with the outside world was an anonymous hand passing them an occasional basket of bread through a window.
Pechersk Lavra soon gained a reputation not only as a major religious centre, but also a cultural one. Books were translated and illuminated, and mosaics and frescoes commissioned. Members of the local nobility became important benefactors.
Pilgrims came from all over the Orthodox world, not least to pay respects to the relics of the deceased monks, whose bodies were placed in caskets in the catacombs. The belief was that if a monk was saintly, his body wouldn’t decompose. To this day, the mummified remains are visible, with brown wizened hands poking out of their robes. Science has come up with a more secular reason for this, of course, attributing the lack of decomposition to the caves’ unique micro-climate.
The monuments multiplied above the caves, and, despite damage from various wars, restoration work has preserved their splendour. The gold-domed churches and attractive courtyards alone make the trip worthwhile.
The entire site has survived raids (the Tatars, twice between the 13th and 15th centuries), Russification (18th century), bombings during Nazi occupation, and subsequent secularisation by the Soviets. Religious buildings were converted into storehouses and atheist propaganda museums. After each raid or repression, the monks painstakingly repaired the damage, and constructed more catacombs as a refuge, and as an ever-expanding mausoleum. It was not until after Ukrainian independence that the monastery fully regained its religious status.
Now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Pechersk Lavra still attracts pilgrims. The visit starts with a wander round the overground chapels and courtyards. Monks pass by, as this is still a functioning monastery. The tour, on my visit, was in Ukrainian only, so unless you’re a native speaker, some previous research is advisable. Whatever one’s views about English increasingly becoming the world’s ‘lingua franca’, this is symptomatic of the transitional nature of Ukraine’s ‘move’ westward. The infrastructure is there (good air links, public transport and hotels), but unlike, say, the Baltic republics, the capital (let alone the rest of the country) hasn’t quite geared itself up for multi-lingual tourism.
The entry ticket for visitors is a candle, its flickering light guiding you along the labyrinthine passageways. As the only foreigner in the group, I was observing the rituals of the locals. Silent prayers were said in the tiny underground chapels, then we wended our way past the caskets. The caves are not for the claustrophobic – the stone corridors are not much more than 1m wide and 2m high. Little alcoves in the white-painted walls help you on your way with icons and candles. Each glass-topped casket, with its colourfully-robed mummified occupant, was reverentially kissed and the sign of the cross made. A lady in front of me pressed a photograph of a (presumably sick) child to the glass for the monks’ blessing.
The silence, apart from slowly-shuffling feet, was welcome after the rattling journey here on Kiev’s cavernous, Soviet-built, metro. The monasterial atmosphere was only momentarily interrupted by a little boy who had an unfortunate fit of sneezing during the kissing process. But even that couldn’t detract from the serenity of this intriguing slice of Ukrainian history.
