Kutná Hora, Czech Republic | 2024

I recently visited the Sedlec Ossuary in the sleepy town of Kutná Hora, a fifty-five-minute train ride outside of Prague.

The ossuary sits beneath the quaint Church of All Saints, a vestige of the Middle Ages that is still in use today. Surrounding the church rests the modest Sedlec cemetery, which once ambitiously spread across nearly 8.5 acres and held nearly 60,000 people who perished from war, famine, and plagues. When space ran out from Kutná Hora’s expansion, the bodies were exhumed and stored in the lower chapel of the church – the ossuary.

In 1870, the aristocratic, powerful Schwarzenberg family commissioned woodcarver František Rint to spiff up the place with a facelift, or in this case, a bone lift. Now, the ossuary famously features a chandelier, a coat of arms, and four pyramid towers composed of -yes, that’s correct- bones.

As I stepped into the church’s cemetery, an eerie quiet settled throughout the grounds. Signs explicitly read in Czech and English that this remains an active cemetery so visitors must observe the area with respect. Wondering whether I should remove my hat, I reasoned that the dead would forgive me as I faced the unforgiving wind.

I strolled around the church, my feet crunching on the gravel. Peering down at the grave-markers, I noticed their simplistic design and how few, if any, include dates. Some displayed small black and white photographs, but none had phrases like “beloved father;” only names in different fonts chiseled in the granite.

Still, I could tell the graves belonged to people who remain loved. Many graves cradled lanterns, wreaths, and bouquets or pots of bright, cheerful flowers. Above one grave for a woman named Marislova, two full pots of orange marigolds laid helplessly on their side, likely from the wind. I reached down and set them upright, hoping the gesture would curry favor with the spirits. 

On the church’s west side, I walked down wide white steps to the entrance of the ossuary and scanned the QR code for my ticket, feeling amusement in using twenty-first century technology to pay to see medieval bones.

Upon entering the tall, wooden doors, the light dimmed. Inside, blackness sank into the ossuary’s lower recesses. A young woman running the welcome counter scanned my ticket and gently instructed not to take photos. 

Nodding to show I understood, I descended further into the chapel, joining the darkness and unfolding my trifold brochure to locate the ossuary’s main focal points. In the center hangs the ornate, complex chandelier, which comprises all of the major human bones. Underneath the light fixture lay crypts of wealthy locals.

Since photos weren’t allowed, here’s a postcard with a sketched depiction of inside the ossuary.

Unsure of how I felt seeing this, I gravitated to each of the hall’s four corners where tall pyramids layered with skulls staring back at me rested. My memory instantly traveled in time to my early twenties when I visited Cambodia’s Memorial Stupa at the Choeung Ek Genocide Center. The towering stupa holds 5,000 skulls of those killed by the Khmer Rouge. The skulls -gray, decaying, and varied in shape from blunt force- sit in rows behind layered glass. The stupa’s design wants visitors to confront the outcomes of the grisly genocide to ensure it is never forgotten- or repeated.

As you can imagine, the atmosphere at Choeung Ek feels forlorn. Unimaginable. But back here at the Sedlec Ossuary, I couldn’t readily identify the mood, nor understand the purpose of its design. Sure, the display is -uncomfortably- exquisite. Impressive. Each and every blanched, ivory bone is perfectly positioned to reflect the decorative Romantic-era aesthetic. 

But  also… I felt conflicted about using others’ remains for decoration. I read that many folks wanted to be buried in this area because in the 1200s, the Sedlec monastery’s abbot spread across the ground soil from the holy site where Jesus of Nazareth was crucified. Maybe the dead would be okay with this alternative? I suppose we’ll never know. 

Losing count of how many skulls made up the bottom base of each pyramid, I wondered: if the design’s purpose is to make death pretty, normalized, or make you ponder death, it certainly worked. I began reflecting on my own near encounters with dying, all of which occurred this past year. Not only did I get struck by a car in Cairo while joining the roster of folks diagnosed with cancer, a college friend passed away in June from cancer, a beloved aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer, my stepfather faces a brain aneurysm (a literal medical Damocles sword hovering above him), and several friends lost one of their parents this year. Even our family’s dog had mouth cancer. 

Intellectually, I understand that death will overcome us, as the ossuary perhaps suggests. Yet facing this reality when our love for our beloved runs so strong turns death into a cruel thief. Like the medieval church the ossuary sits beneath, we can try to outsmart death by changing things up and adapting to the times. But no pretty display of bones, I reason, can help us accept or forgive death. 

I moved slowly towards the east wall and main altar. There, the hall’s only window casts light on a life-sized Jesus pinned to a cross. Scanning the final page of my guide, I felt astonished as I came across the reason for the ossuary’s design. According to the brochure, the bones shouldn’t invoke hopelessness, nor admiration or even fear of death. Instead, the bones are about grappling with death’s triumph. 

“The message of the bone decorations,” read the guide, “is memento mori – remember that you will die.” 

By acknowledging life’s impermanence, we afford ourselves time to live more purposefully. The brochure continued on, linking the connection between death and resurrection. As mentioned in the Bible, in anticipation of everyone’s eventual resurrection and final judgment, we can see the dead and think of our own death with the hope of eternal life. These bones should then spur, to my surprise, hope. 

Now, like many present-day Czechs, I identify as a spiritualIst. I believe that loving kindness is essential and that, because my travels have exposed me to many delightful people practicing countless religions, there are many ways to reach grace, divinity, or whatever otherworldliness we humans so desperately seek and need. That said, the doctrine on final judgments and the like did not per se resonate with me. The message of hope and living more purposefully, however, upon facing death surely did. 

After my surgery this past August and receiving a clean bill of health, I quit my stress-inducing job in Cairo and began my sabbatical.  My plan involves reacquainting myself with living creatively through travel before I eventually move back to the US to live closer to family. Ironic though, I thought to myself, that my travel is about embracing life, but here I am visiting this ossuary contemplating life’s conjoined twin: death.

Signature to Catholic churches, a box of white votive candles lay atop the wooden railing bordering the altar. Behind them, rows of red glass candle holders sat empty, save for a few with lit candles clustered on the right side. Although small, the three candles’ flames glowed defiantly against the dark. 

I dropped 15 Czech crowns into the donation box, their clanking echoing across the chamber, then selected a candle. Carefully, I placed it inside a holder, but one on the far left, figuring that all sides need a little light and hope. 

I lit the lighter, waiting for the wick to catch the flame. 

One of my beloved aunts, who also reigns as a recent cancer survivor, told me before my sabbatical that my late father did this same practice: he lit candles in churches to feel comforted. To feel hope. Here I am, lighting candles in Cairo, Egypt, Santiago, Spain, and now the Czech Republic. 

Wondering where I’ll continue this ritual next and for how long, I turned towards the stairs, making my way towards the exit. Knowing that one day we’ll all end up just as pretty bones, my thoughts softly faded.

I entered the outside light.

Onward, I continued traveling.