The White Birds of Kirundo

By Alex Teller
Filmmaker and Field Observer

We arrived before six in the morning. It was around 5:45 am when the three of us, part of the Burundi I Know project, walked quietly toward the edge of the water. The sky was still pale and unfinished, holding that fragile light that exists only before the day fully begins. The air was cool and calm, and there was a silence that felt almost intentional, as if the landscape was waiting. We had been told that if we truly wanted to see the birds, we had to come early, before the noise of people, before movement, before the sun erased the softness of the hour.

At first, nothing seemed extraordinary. Then slowly the trees began to shift, not from wind, but from life. Above us were dozens of white birds resting on the branches. In Kirundo they are called inyange. Against the dark green leaves, their feathers appeared almost luminous, as if small fragments of cloud had decided to settle in the trees for the night. Some stood completely still, balanced with quiet precision. Others adjusted their wings or turned their heads with slow, deliberate movements. A few had already begun calling to one another, and their voices layered gently into the morning air.

We did not immediately reach for our cameras. Instead, we stood and listened. There was something about the sound that felt structured, not chaotic. One call would rise, then another would answer, and then a third would join, creating a rhythm that seemed older than our presence there. It did not feel like noise. It felt like continuity. A local guide who knows the area walked with us that morning and explained how some of these birds are migratory, traveling across borders and long distances before reaching this lake, while others are indigenous, rooted in this land, nesting here and returning season after season. The lake, often called Bird Lake, offers protection through its small islands and wetlands, giving them both safety and food. Many remain in Kirundo for more than eight months of the year. In that time, they are not visitors. They belong.

As the light strengthened, we began to see more details. The curve of their beaks. The careful way their bodies balanced on thin branches. The discipline in their stillness. Standing there, it became clear that this was not just a beautiful scene to document. It was part of the identity of the place. These birds are woven into the rhythm of Kirundo. If they disappear, something larger disappears with them. We do not only lose birds. We lose memory. We lose continuity. We lose a living reminder that nature is not background decoration but part of who we are.

That morning was not dramatic. There were no grand gestures. Just presence, light, and white wings against green trees. But sometimes the quietest moments are the ones that matter most.