In western Bucharest, at the end of a long avenue bearing its name, Ghencea Cemetery stretches out as more than just a burial ground. It is a divided landscape of memory, split physically and symbolically into two distinct zones: Ghencea Civil and Ghencea Military.

The civil side is dense, disorganized, and chaotic. Narrow paths weave through a patchwork of graves—some modest, others ostentatious, with marble slabs, wrought-iron fences, and portraits etched in stone. There’s no clear layout, no symmetry. Many graves show signs of neglect: faded plastic flowers, leaning crosses, cracked tiles. It’s a cemetery still in use, still visited, but shaped more by routine than remembrance.

Next door, behind a guarded gate and a trimmed hedge, lies Ghencea Military Cemetery. It is the opposite in tone—strict, ordered, impersonal. Identical white crosses line up with military precision. The graves belong to career officers, Securitate personnel, and former regime officials. At its core are the graves of Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu—two simple tombstones, under permanent surveillance and occasional offerings.

The military side is quiet, cold, almost antiseptic. The civil side is messy, human, unresolved. Together, they form one of Bucharest’s most charged memorial spaces—not because of centuries-old history, but because of the unresolved legacy of the recent past.

In a city where cemeteries are often overlooked, Ghencea remains visible. Not just because of who is buried there, but because it forces a confrontation: between two ways of remembering, and two stories a society is still struggling to reconcile.

Photo: Wikipedia