Points of Transition. Ovoo and the Ritual Remaking of ...

Études mongoles et sibériennes,centrasiatiques et tibétaines

52 | 2021Points of Transition. Ovoo and the Ritual Remakingof Religious, Ecological, and Historical Politics inInner Asia, followed by VariaPoints of Transition. Ovoo and the Ritual Remaking of Religious, Ecological, andHistorical Politics in Inner Asia, suivi de Varia

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Points of Transition. Ovoo and the Ritual Remaking of Religious, Ecological,and Historical Politics in Inner Asia

IntroductionIsabelle Charleux and Marissa J. Smith

Sacred geography, origin of ovoos, ovoos and Buddhism

Ovoo-cairns and ancient funerary mounds in the Mongolian landscape. Piling up amonumental tradition?Cecilia Dal Zovo

Sacred heights in the topography of flatlands. Ovaa kurgans in the Kalmyk BuddhistlandscapeValeria Gazizova

Geography and politics, appropriation of the land, minority groups

“They call out to their dead devils!” Erküüt and the Rejection of Communal Rituals in aMongol BannerSam H. Bass

Ovoos on late Qing dynasty Mongol banner maps (late 19th-early 20th centuries)Isabelle Charleux

Community, faith and politics. The ovoos of the Shinehen Buryats throughout the20th century Aurore Dumont

Relation to the nutag, attachment, how to deal with uncertainty

Being skillful. Wisely navigating an intensely heterogeneous cosmos in MongoliaGrégory Delaplace and Laurent Legrain

On offering and forgiveness at Altan Ovoo’s national TahilgaJessica Madison Pískatá

Environment, heritage, conflict, contemporary Mine-golia

With each pass, another stone. Ovoo at the heart of heritage, environment, and conflictK. G. Hutchins

Études mongoles et sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines, 52 | 2021

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The middle of the story. Ovoos and the ecological imagination in Mongolian conservationRebecca Watters

Varia

“Easy to learn” (rTogs par sla ba) (1737) as a source for the study of Tibetan-Mongolianlexicographic relationsBurnee Dorjsuren

When sacred turns out commodified. The property inventories of the 19th century Buddhistmonasteries in BuryatiaEkaterina Sobkovyak

The first generation of dGe lugs evangelists in Amdo. The case of ’Dan ma Tshul khrims rgyamtsho (1578-1663/65)Brenton Sullivan

A preliminary note on the successive renovations of Samye MonasteryLobsang Tenpa

Miss Tibet. Representing Tibet and Tibetan culture on the global stagePema Choedon

Comptes rendus

Vandenabeele Valérie, La société d’après. Politique sino-tibétaine et écologie auYunnanParis, Presses universitaires de Paris Nanterre, 2019, 432 pages, ISBN 978-2-84016-315-2Pascale-Marie Milan

Sneath David, Mongolia remade. Post-socialist National Culture, Political Economy,and CosmopoliticsAmsterdam, Amsterdam University Press, North East Asian Studies, 2018, 226 pages, 9 illustrations n&b,ISBN 9789462989566Isabelle Charleux

Bumochir Dulam, The State, Popular Mobilization and Gold Mining in Mongolia.Shaping “Neoliberal” PoliciesLondon, UCL Press, 2020, 232 pages, ISBN 978-1-78735-184-4 Sandagsuren Undargaa

Tsultemin Uranchimeg, A Monastery on the Move. Art and Politics in Later BuddhistMongoliaHonolulu, University of Hawai‘i Press, 2020, xx+283 pages, ISBN 9780824878306Isabelle Charleux

Čuluun Sampildondovyn (dir.), Sar’dagijn hijd. Öndör gegeen Zanabazaryn büteelijnhüree [Monastère de Sar’dag. Monastère et lieu de création d’Öndör gegeen Zanabazar]Ulaanbaatar, Tüüh-arheologijn sudalgaa, 2019, 488 pages, 523 photographies couleur, ISBN 978-99199-550-0-7Isabelle Charleux


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Résumé de thèse

Xénia de Heering, Des mots qui sonnent juste. Publication, circulations et réceptions de Joies et peines de l’enfant Naktsang, un témoignage inédit sur les années 1950 dans l’estdu Tibet (2007-2019)


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Isabelle Charleux and Marissa Smith (dir.)

Points of Transition. Ovoo and theRitual Remaking of Religious,Ecological, and Historical Politics inInner Asia


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IntroductionIntroduction

Isabelle Charleux and Marissa J. Smith

1 Many Mongolists have encountered the “ovoo phenomenon” in the course of their

research and fieldwork. This special issue of EMSCAT takes an interdisciplinary

perspective on ovoos, with contributions from historians, anthropologists,

environmental scientists, archeologists, Buddhologists, and art historians. This project

was made possible thanks to the “Mongolia Initiative”, especially by the Initiative’s

director Caverlee Cary, at the Institute of East Asian Studies at UC Berkeley, and the

France-Berkeley Fund, allowing us to organize a workshop and a conference in

Berkeley in February 2019. The editors also solicited articles from contributors beyond

the original conference, making the project grow, in ovoo-fashion.

2 On the one hand, the term ovoo refers to stone or earth heaps, sometimes with a central

pole, a tuft, flagpoles or arrows, or tree trunks arranged in conical shape. On the other

hand, the term also often refers to features of height on the landscape, “mountains”,

both in the geological sense but in the cosmological one which also includes “masters”

(Mo. ezed) with whom humans are in active relations. While this issue focuses on ovoos,

which are found ubiquitously on the landscape of Mongolia, Inner Mongolia, Buryatia,

Kalmykia, Tuva, and Eastern Tibet/Qinghai, the topic is of interest beyond the field of

Mongolian Studies. First of all, ovoos are clearly related to Tibetan cairns called lab tse1,

but are also related to stupas and often found among, alongside, and hybridized with,

monumental structures including stupas. At the same time, cairns and relationships

with mountains are present all over the world and ovoos are an interesting focus for

comparative regional analyses. Finally, the “transitional” qualities of ovoos that we

draw attention to in this issue are of interest to specialists and students of ritual,

frontier studies, territorial administration, engagement with landscape, and history as

accumulation in any region.

3 As expressed by Benedikte Lindskog,

The word ovoo means “heap” or “pile” (Evans & Humphrey 2003, p. 196). Ovoolohmeans to “heap up” and carries positive connotations linked to central conceptualvalues among Mongols, that of concentration or centring (tövlöj), “containing”(aguulaj) and the hierarchical superiority of that which is above (deed). The word


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tarah, meaning “to scatter”, can be seen as the antithesis of obooloh, and isassociated with loss and dispersal […]. The “centripetal” (Da Col & Humphrey 2012)ritual process involved during an ovoo offering is manifested through acts wherein“fortune” (hishig) is “tied” to objects and receives its force through accumulation,encircling and centering. (Lindskog 2016)

4 Conversely, Humphrey suggests a linguistic link between the word ovoo and ovoohoi,

which means refuge, or shelter. According to her, this is because ovoo rituals enact a

kind of “closing up and binding in” (Humphrey 1995, p. 148).

5 While some ovoos are built in architectural, structured, forms with connections to

Buddhist stupas (Mo. suvraga) and mandalas (Mo. mandal), they are also never to be

completed. As Tim Ingold writes, “unlike the long forgotten object possibly deposited

inside it, the mound is still mounding” (Ingold 2010, p. 258). For Davaa-Ochir, the act of

adding stones symbolizes “the participation of worshippers to the continuous creation

of the sanctuary dedicated to the master spirits” (Davaa Ochir 2008, p. 53). As also

emphasized in a number of contributions to this volume, the act of adding stones is also

an act of engagement with the landscape and its denizens, and their proper ordering

(see the article by Delaplace and Legrain in this issue for discussion of related practices

with this function). As Jessica Madison Pískatá writes, the relationship between ovoos

and components of ovoos is “a process of accretion (Smith 2015) by which energy,

fortune and value are collected, consolidated, and redistributed via a system of

intensifying exchange in which the material is collected (as stones, sand, wood, etc.)

and the immaterial is redistributed (as fortune, destiny, energy, value, etc.)”.

6 Travelers in Mongolia are generally introduced to and participate in the process of

physically adding stones or objects to “roadside ovoos”. But ovoo also refers to many

mountains themselves, for example the “Golden Mountain” (Mo. Altan Ovoo) of the

Dariganga region of south-east Mongolia, in Sühbaatar Province (Madison Pískatá, this

issue), or the “Treasure Mountain” (Mo. Erdenetiin Ovoo) between the Selenge and

Orhon Rivers in north central Mongolia (Smith 2015; also Charleux, this issue;

Tamirjavyn 2017a, b). Ovoos have a mimetic relationship with the mountain: “the

monuments do not break with the natural topography. Basically, it seems that the

mounds were built with the twofold purpose of being seen and appearing as natural

features in the landscape […], thereby enhancing their symbolic and visual connection

with the mountains” (Dal Zovo 2015, p. 140). Ovoos and stupas “were probably intended

to incorporate the substance of Mongolian mountains, through the construction

materials, the stones, the location pattern and architectonic shape” (ibid., p. 140). But

then again, as elaborated on in this issue by Watters, there is also a connection between

ovoos and hearths (Mo. otgon) as focal points of sociability.

7 The great scalar range on which the ovoo concept operates also relates to the slippage

between everyday, individual acts at “roadside ovoos” on the one end of the spectrum,

and the highly coordinated “state ovoo” ceremonies (Mo. tahilga) performed by the

president of Mongolia that are organized since the beginning of the 1990s on the other.

Using de la Cadena’s (2010) concept of “cosmopolitics”, David Sneath highlights the

highly political character of collective ovoo rituals that are an occasion for displaying

the hierarchical social statuses of the participants and thus reenacting socio-political

hierarchies (Sneath 2014). The ovoo has been defined as a “key aspect of traditional

culture,” registered on the UNESCO Cultural Heritage list2. An ovoo has even been built

in the courtyard of the Mongolian Embassy in France. In accordance with their function

of ordering and the political character of such ordering, there are often, ideally at least,


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restrictions on whom may interact with which ovoos under what conditions, leading

some to occasionally claim or attempt to assert that ovoos are categorically only built

and otherwise interacted with by persons of particular genders, religions, or ethno-

territorial identities. However, intrinsic to their form and nature is that ovoos may

potentially be built anywhere, of anything, by anyone, composed of and composing any

set of relations (including with other ovoos).

8 But again, “transitioning” between these extremes, there are also more local “cult

ovoos”, that are in fact not local so much as scalar, situating their participants in

relation to “higher levels” in both territorial-administrative terms as well as

cosmological ones. Reasons to build ovoos are many and they carry different meanings:

while their main function is to serve as altars to propitiate the master-spirits of the

land with seasonal sacrifices, ovoos are also built to appease roaming souls (Hutchins’s

article in this issue), to commemorate historical events or historical figures (Dumont,

this issue), and also function as landmarks to orientate oneself. In the case discussed by

Sam H. Bass, an absence of ovoo ritual correlates with the unusual position of the Erküüt

vis-à-vis others in their banner community. Jessica Madison Pískatá writes of the

disruption of a local ovoo ceremony due to weather, related to the improper presence of

people from the national capital (both too many polluting vehicles from the polluted

Ulaanbaatar, and the postponement of national-level ceremonies by the state). Aurore

Dumont describes with great ethnographic and historical detail how it has been with

local ovoo ceremony that Buryats who migrated from Russia to northeastern China in

the 1920s have maintained a distinct group identity in the course of many categorical

erasures by the national administration and built ovoos to secure their appropriation of

a territory3. Isabelle Charleux’s survey of manuscript maps from the late Qing

(1644-1911) shows the variability present among particular documents that were

created to adhere to a strict form dictated by the imperial administration – “boundary

ovoos” too are highly and multiply “transitional”. Ovoos are not considered as being

“architecture”4. They are periodically rebuilt (and were massively rebuilt5, sometimes

at different places, after their almost complete destructions in socialist Mongolia,

Buryatia and Inner Mongolia). As noted in Valeria Gazizova in this issue, and elsewhere

by Tamirjavyn (2017a, b), Charlier (2015, 2016), and Empson (2011), single stones as well

as mountains can also move and be moved, at least in the form of ovoos and components

of ovoos.

9 As foci of historical periodization, ovoos are still also omnipresent, often as

“transitional”. Ninth century thaumaturgist Padmasambhava is sometimes credited as

having performed the first ovoo ritual. Ovoos are nowadays depicted on Mongolian

stamps picturing the Xiongnu (3rd century BC to the late 1st century AD) and on the

cover of books on the Mongolian empire (such as May 2018). While ovoos are not

attested in written sources from the medieval period, mountain cults are attested (see

Chinggis Khaan’s propitiation of Burkhan Khaldun in The Secret History of the Mongols).

Archaeologist Cecilia Dal Zovo has documented ritual practices at stone cairns and

prehistoric mounds of the Bronze and Iron Ages and explored their relation to tombs6.

Her article in this collection, along with Valeria Gazizova’s, also describe and analyze

contemporary connections made between ovoos and burials (especially the

Mo. hirigsüür).

10 Given their continuous presence, ovoos unsurprisingly figure prominently in

contemporary processes of social and wider environmental upheaval. As expresses K. G.


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Hutchins in his article, “ovoo worship is tied to a discrete set of social relationships

between particular people, mountains, spirits, and animals”. The articles in this special

issue take seriously ovoo-related practices that combine Buddhism, shamanism and

popular religion, lie between private and public religious practices, are influenced as

well by global New Age trends and shamanism, and involve recent reinvention and re-

archaization of ovoo rituals (see especially the articles by Gazizova and Hutchins). The

volume also attends to the utilization of ovoos in the highly secular and economic:

issues of ownership of land, the mining industry, ecological conservation and natural

resource management. Rebecca Watters’ article on environmental conservation shows

how Mongols have to negotiate the boundaries between foreign expectations linked to

an alternative understanding of landscape, and Mongolian ideals.

11 While aware of the impossibility of covering all aspects of ovoos and their worship, our

objective is rather that of providing a series of insights into a few relevant topics

concerning sacred geography and the origin of ovoos, their various meanings and

political function, humans’ engagement with ovoos and their relation to the land,

environment, and heritage.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Tamirjavyn, B. 2017a Some remarks on ovoo worship among the Dariganga Mongols, paper

presented at the International Conference “Mongolian Buddhism in Practice,” Eötvös Loránd

University (ELTE) (May 24th-25th, 2017, Budapest, Hungary).

2017b Some remarks on ovoo worship among the Dariganga Mongols, Rocznik

Orientalistyczny 70(2), pp. 261-273.

Cadena, M. de la 2010. Indigenous cosmopolitics in the Andes. Conceptual reflections beyond

‘politics’’, Cultural Anthropology 25(2), Mo. 334-370.

Charlier, B. 2015 Faces of the Wolf. Managing the Human, Non-human Boundary in Mongolia (Leiden,

Brill).

2016 Actions rituelles, mobilité et attachement au “pays natal” parmi des éleveurs nomades de

Mongolie, Études mongoles et sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines 47, https://doi.org/10.4000/

emscat.2779.

Da Col, G. & C. Humphrey 2012 Introduction. Subjects of luck – contingency, morality, and the

anticipation of everyday Life, Social Analysis 56(2), pp. 1-18.

Dal Zovo, C. 2015 Archaeology of a Sacred Mountain. Mounds, Water, Mobility, and Cosmologies

of Ikh Bogd Uul, Eastern Altain Mountains, Mongolia. PhD dissertation (Santiago de Compostela,

Universidade de Santiago de Compostela).

Davaa-Ochir, G. 2008 Oboo Worship. The Worship of Earth and Water Divinities in Mongolia. M.A.

thesis (Oslo, University of Oslo).

Diemberger, H. 2003 Festivals and their leaders. The management of tradition in the Tibetan/

Mongolian Borderlands, in U. Bulag & H. Diemberger (eds), The Tibet-Mongolia Interface. Opening

New Research Terrains in Inner Asia (Leiden, Brill), pp. 109-134.


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https://doi.org/10.4000/emscat.2779


Dumont, A. 2017 “Oboo” sacred monuments in Hulun Buir. Their narratives and contemporary

worship, Cross Currents: East Asian History and Culture Review 24 [online, URL: https://cross-

currents.berkeley.edu/e-journal/issue-24/Dumont, accessed 13 December 2021].

Empson, R. 2011 Harnessing Fortune. Personhood, Memory and Place in Mongolia (Oxford, Clarendon

Press).

Evans, C. & C. Humphrey 2003 History, timelessness and the monumental. The oboos of the

Mergen environs, Inner Mongolia, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 13(2), pp. 195-211.

Humphrey, C. 1995 Chiefly and shamanist landscapes in Mongolia, in E. Hirsch &

M. O’Hanlon (eds), The Anthropology of Landscape. Perspectives on Place and Space (Oxford, Clarendon

Press), pp. 135-162.

Ingold, T. 2010 The round mound is not a monument, in J. Leary, T. Darvill & D. Field (eds), Round

Mounds and Monumentality in the British Neolithic and Beyond (Oxford, Oxbow Books), pp. 253-260.

Lindskog, B. V. 2016 Ritual offerings to ovoos among nomadic Halh herders of west-central

Mongolia, Études mongoles et sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines 47, https://doi.org/10.4000/

emscat.2740.

Maidar, D. [1970] 1972 Mongolyn arhitektur ba hot baiguulalt. Toim [Architecture and construction of

cities in Mongolia. Overview], translated from Russian (Ulaanbaatar, no editor mentioned).

May, T. M. 2018 The Mongol Empire (Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press).

Smith, M. J. 2015 Treasure Underfoot and Far Away. Mining, Foreignness, and Friendship in

Contemporary Mongolia. PhD dissertation (Princeton, Princeton University).

Sneath, D. 2014 Nationalising civilisational resources. Sacred mountains and cosmopolitical ritual

in Mongolia, Asian Ethnicity 15(4), pp. 458-472.

NOTES

1. Written in Tibetan lab tse, lab rtse, lab btsas, la btsas, or la rdzas. As noted by Diemberger (2003),

the equivalence between lab tse and ovoo deserves more study.

2. In 2006, China included ovoo worship in its own list of intangible cultural heritage and created

the concept of “ovoo culture” (Ch. aobao wenhua 敖包文化).

3. As expressed Caroline Humphrey (1995, p. 146), ovoos are a way of saying “We are here”.

4. Classical books on Mongolian architecture such as Maidar ([1970] 1972) present the yurt,

Buddhist temples and stupas, modern 20th century architecture as well as ruins of cities and deer

stone, but not ovoos.

5. Huge amounts of money are “invested” in construction and rituals (see for example Dumont

2017, p. 208).

6. Ovoos are not tombs but are not unrelated to ancestors whose tombs are also located near

mountain summits. Though ovoos are generally not places of human burial, they may house relics

of ancestors (Evans & Humphrey 2003; Dal Zovo 2015; Dumont 2017).


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AUTHORS

ISABELLE CHARLEUX

Isabelle Charleux is Director of researches at GSRL (National Centre for Scientific Research –

Group Societies, Religions, Laicities, EPHE/PSL, Paris). Her research interests focus on Mongolian

material culture and religion. She published Nomads on Pilgrimage. Mongols on Wutaishan (China),

1800-1940 (Brill, 2015) and Temples et monastères de Mongolie-Intérieure (INHA/CTHS, 2006).

[email protected]

MARISSA J. SMITH

Marissa J. Smith is a sociocultural anthropologist specializing in the anthropology of science and

technology, political economy, and postsocialism. In particular, her work is concerned with the

cosmopolitan projects people of diverse backgrounds undertake in places remote from

metropoles, especially as these combine, on the one hand, science, technology, and engineering

and, on the other, knowledge practices framed as local, national, traditional or in other ways

particular. Since completing her PhD work in 2015 she has collaborated with the “Mongolia

Initiative” at UC-Berkeley and the Emerging Subjects of the New Economy project at University

College London.


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mailto:[email protected]

Points of Transition. Ovoo and the Ritual Remaking of Religious,Ecological, and Historical Politics in Inner Asia

Sacred geography, origin of ovoos,ovoos and Buddhism


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Ovoo-cairns and ancient funerarymounds in the Mongolianlandscape. Piling up a monumentaltradition?Les cairns-ovoo et les anciens monticules funéraires du paysage mongol.

Accumuler une tradition monumentale ?

Cecilia Dal Zovo

Introduction: discussing the origins of the ovoomonumental phenomenon

1 The cairns called “ovoo”1 that are so ubiquitous in the Mongolian landscape are

generally linked to the propagation Tibetan Buddhism in the 16th and 17th century A.D.

(Atwood 2004, pp. 414-416; Charleux 2015, p. 26; Sneath 2014, p. 464). However, their

transversal distribution and their widespread associated rituality might be difficult to

understand univocally as a consequence of an imported Buddhist practice2. The

presence of ovoos in the pastoral and sacred geographies of Mongolia could have been

driven by other factors, among which the influence of previous materialities and beliefs

possibly played a prominent role. This paper particularly investigates whether any

spatial and typological aspects of the ovoos could be connected with the Turkic and

Mongol periods and even deeper in time, with the Late Prehistory (Bronze and Iron

Age, ca. 1500-250 B.C.).

2 While the combined and syncretic nature of the religions of Mongolia has been

extensively illustrated (Heissig 1980), the origins of the ovoo have been unfortunately

neglected, particularly by archaeology, the discipline that should be best suited to

approach the early stages of this extensive material phenomenon. Although ovoos are

conceptually and symbolically related to the very idea of origins, as Brian Baumann

(2019) acutely pointed out, their chronological development is hard to identify. Due to


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the lack of archaeological data and direct information in the historical sources, their

material genealogy is far less understood3. In this context, I propose to investigate

them as a specific materialisation of agency in the landscape, which potentially

connects with other aspects of the local monumentality. To do so, I will consider the

information collected in the area of the Ih Bogd Mountain, and mainly in Bogd District,

Bayanhongor Province, southern Mongolia (fig. 1), during my one-month fieldwork in

2006, 2009, 2010, and 2011.

Figure 1. Map of Mongolia with localisation of Ulaanbaatar (star) and the research area (pentagon)centred on the Ih Bogd Mountain-Orog Lake complex

© Cecilia Dal Zovo (Inkscape) after NordNordWest’s Map using United States National Imagery andMapping Agency data and World Data Base II Data, CC BY-SA 3.0 (See license terms at https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4542726)

An archaeology of the ovoos

3 I propose to introduce an alternative perspective to delineate the “ovoo phenomenon”

beyond its rapid and expansive spread in Mongolia (Lindhal 2010; Sneath 2007). Based

on field research and the analysis of anthropological, historical, and linguistic sources,

I investigate the specific features of materialities that could contribute to the

progressive accumulation of cultural influences in the local monumental tradition

(Rowan 2012). In particular, I explore from a long-term perspective the changing

features of the ovoos in comparison with the Late Prehistoric mounds that can be often

observed in the Mongolian landscape. This can contribute to reframing the issues

related to the apparent lack of references to ovoos in early written sources.

4 Here, I examine the material and spatial dimension of the ovoos on the Ih Bogd

Mountain (fig. 1), where they share the same ground of numerous Late Prehistoric

funerary mounds (Dal Zovo 2016). This analysis does not rely, however, on common

archaeological techniques, such as excavation, which have been seldom applied to ovoos

in Mongolia and neighbouring regions so far (Davis-Kimball 2000; Evans & Humphrey

2003). Indeed, the destructive character of archaeological excavation can be a critical

aspect of studying living ritual sites like ovoo-cairns. In the Mongol cosmology, the

unnecessary perturbation of the earth surface, water sources, and sacred places can be

seen as a polluting action that may alter the ecological balance and disturb the “master


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spirits of the place” (Mo. gazryn ezed) that are associated with the ovoos (Erdenetuya

2005; Humphrey et al. 1993; Tatár 1984)4.

5 This study, based on landscape archaeology, survey, and surface observations, rather

aims to answer to the ethical and methodological challenges posed when working on

(past) materiality so closely connected with local rituals and heritage-making practices

(see Gazin-Schwartz & Holtorf 1999; Smith 1999; Porr & Bell 2012). In this way, I can

explore the intersection of material, spatial, and symbolic elements potentially

accumulating at ovoo sites, which can be compared with relevant written sources and

linguistic insights, as well as the results of my fieldwork observations and the

conversations with the local herders. Through this interdisciplinary approach, I aim to

delve into the multi-dimensional character and the potential ancient roots of these

Mongol cairns. While a formal architectonic definition of the ovoo might have critically

consolidated in the 16th and 17 th centuries, during the second Buddhist wave, I

hypothesise that some essential traits of these structures could be rooted in a much

more distant past.

Ovoos and written sources

6 One of the most cogent arguments in favour of a relatively recent development of the

ovoos is their apparent absence in the early written sources (Atwood 2004, pp. 414-416).

In The Secret History of the Mongols, the word ovoo (Cl. Mo. oboγa or its variants, oboo, obo,

oboγaya) seems to be unaccounted for5. Leaving aside the well-known issues about the

origin, interpolations, and translation of this text6, it is interesting to note that it

features no direct correspondence to words such as shrine, altar, or heap of stones, nor

reference to the typical action of piling stones or circumambulating around cairns or

other stone objects. The same crux apparently applies to the records by foreign

travellers who were in the area during the Mongols’ rule, or shortly after. Yet, such a

vacuum in the sources might not directly imply the material absence of ovoos in the

local landscape. Whilst missing in those accounts, cairns could have been so widespread

and perhaps so similar to analogous monuments across central Eurasia that they did

not deserve a specific description. On the other side, ovoos are presently so tightly

embedded in the sacred and pastoral geographies of Mongolia and neighbouring

regions that it is difficult to explain why, if already in existence, they could be omitted

in those vivid narratives. According to Atwood (2004, p. 415), heaps could be

occasionally mentioned, but “only as markers”. Marking the landscape for orientation

purposes, however, is one of the primary functions of the ovoos (Humphrey 1995,

p. 146). They essentially relate to the movement across the landscape, which takes

place within the complex system of spatial knowledge of the local mobile and semi-

mobile communities (Beffa & Hamayon 1983; Baumann 2008, p. 338; Davaa-Ochir 2008;

Glavatskaia 2011; Humphrey 1995; Lavrillier 2006; Kristensen 2004; Halemba 2006;

Hamayon 2020; Pedersen 2009). At the same time, they interweave social and ecological

values, ritual practices, and beliefs (Davaa-Ochir 2008; Erdenetuya 2005; Purzycki &

Arakchaa 2013; Wallace 2015), as confirmed also by 18th-century sources (Endicott 2012,

pp. 59, 78). The interconnection between the secular marking function of the ovoos and

their symbolical values reveals, in my view, their multi-dimensional character, which I

will explore in the next sections7.


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Composition and special stones in The Secret Historyof the Mongols

7 First and foremost, the composition of ovoos is worthy of careful examination. As they

are mainly made of stones, these cairns constitute strong and durable references in a

dynamic landscape of movement. Stone, indeed, is a sturdy and long-lasting material,

which symbolises strength and stability in the Mongol tradition8. While references to

piled stones might be elusive in early written sources, in The Secret History of the Mongols

we can trace several descriptions of individual rocks that are imbued with some special

quality or magical power. Stones can be shining (Onon 2001, p. 74), have specific

colours (ibid., pp. 71, 126), and sometimes be used to bring rains and storms (ibid.,

pp. 120-121). They can be also part of some supernatural event, like the huge white

rock that fell from the sky and blocked Chinggis’ way out from a thicket, thus

protecting him from his enemies (ibid., p. 71).

8 The importance of individual rocks can be documented also in modern and present

times, namely in the case of Eezh Had, or “Mother Rock”, in Central Mongolia (Gohen

2007; Humphrey 1993)9. Significantly, this sacred rock is locally assimilated to an ovoo

and attracts comparable ritual practices, such as circumambulation and devotional

offerings (Lindskog 2016, 2019). Likewise, conspicuous rocks are often considered the

residence of master spirits of the place in central and northern Asia (Burkanov &

Tsydenova 2014; Rozwadowski 2017, pp. 419-420)10.

9 In The Secret History of the Mongols, there seems to be no mention of a specific ritual

behaviour related to rocks, neither in the form of individual boulders, nor in the shape

of piled-up stones. On the other side, in the same text, there are several references to

the ritual practices associated with the cult of mountains (the earth) and the waters,

which will appear closely related to the ovoos in later epochs (Bawden 1958; Djakonova

1977; Lindahl 2010; Davaa-Ochir 2008; Tatár 1976). Moreover, a triple circular

movement around a sacred mountain is described in the passage narrating the escape

of Temüjin from his enemy: “they went three times round Burqan Qaldun, but they

could not find him” (Onon 2001, p. 82). This episode appears especially intriguing in

light of the common practice of performing a triple circular movement around ovoos,

rocks, trees, and mountains or other elements alluding to verticality in the Mongol

tradition (Charleux 2015, pp. 23-26; Pedersen 2006, p. 97; Tamirjavyn 2017).

10 Precisely after this event, the future Chinggis Khan instituted the cult of the Burhan

Haldun Mountain to show his gratitude to the mountain for protecting him. On that

occasion, Chinggis Khan performed kneeling, prayers, and food offerings to the

mountain (Onon 2001, p. 82), as if it represented a monumental natural shrine. It is

worth noting that food offerings, particularly meat and dairy products, are

traditionally present in many ovoo rituals (Birtalan 2003; Lindskog 2016; Marchina et al.

2017). Likewise, burnt bones and animal remains have been also widely documented in

the satellite stone circles that are usually located around the Late Bronze and Iron Age

burial mounds and in funerary and ritual contexts of the Xiongnu and Turkic epochs

(Broderick et al. 2014; Fitzhugh 2009; Miller et al. 2018; Turbat 2011)11.


15

Heaps of bones in Marco Polo’s travels

11 Bones and animal remains bring us to the analysis of a significant passage in Il Milione,

the manuscript by the Venetian merchant Marco Polo, who travelled to the east and

lived at the Mongol court of Khubilai Khan during his reign (1260-1294)12. In the region

of the Pamir Mountains (between modern Tajikistan, Afghanistan, and China), Polo

observed cairns, used as markers, which were made of bones. In fact, there was “such

an incredible abundance of animals, especially of male mountain sheep […], [that] their

bones and horns are used to build big heaps along the roads to point the way to

wayfarers when it snows”13. A few centuries later, at the end of the 19th century, Curzon

(1896, p. 59) too could count many cairns in the region, but they were made of stones.

12 Could we consider Marco Polo’s observation as an early attestation of the presence of

ovoo-like structures like in Central Asia? Could those piles of bones be genealogically

connected with the cairns that can be presently recognised in Mongolia? The

materiality of the ancient Pamir’s heaps (It. monti: heaps, piles, mounds, mountains)

certainly differs from the typical composition of the ovoos – stones, earth, and wood

branches. Even though, according to the text, these heaps of bones correlate with the

abundance of animals killed by wolves – a peculiar reasoning even for Marco Polo’s

account – this would not essentially alter their shape and function in the landscape.

Bones and horns are piled up to form a conical heap, as it happens for the ovoos.

Likewise, their orientation purpose is clearly underlined. In this sense, the monti or

heaps of bones observed by Polo in the Pamir Mountains could be defined, like the

ovoos, as piled up features, rising on the terrain and becoming reference points in the

landscape.

Cairns, bones, and mountains: an ancestralconnection

13 It is worth noting that bones are especially important also in the architecture and

rituals associated with the ovoo. They can be placed over or inside the cairn as ritual

offerings. The skull of an argali (Ovis ammon) was arranged on the ovoo at the entrance

of Ovtyn Am, an inner valley that brings to the high pastures of the Ih Bogd Mountain

(fig. 2). The integration of skeletal parts of the Mongolian wild sheep, horse, or yak in

the rituality and materiality of the ovoo has been documented elsewhere in Mongolia

and Central Asia (Birtalan 2003; Djakonova 1977). Early Buddhist manuals list animal

horns (namely of Tibetan antelope) as indispensable items for ovoo foundation rituals.

The skull and jaws of a sheep, as well as mutton meat and bones, are considered

essential offerings in many ovoo rituals (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 61, 72; Dumont 2017).

14 In other cases, a clean horse skull is placed on the ovoo located on a hilltop, where the

sky is closer (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 110). The horse, in fact, is viewed as a divine animal

linked to the sky, but in the Altai Mountains it was also symbolically associated with

the liminal world since at least the first millennium B.C. (Argent 2013). Presently, the

deposition of a horse skull at an ovoo site has been interpreted as a sign of respect

towards the master spirits of the place and the horse itself, and, at the same time, as an

intentional appropriation of the landscape by the local herders (Marchina et al. 2017)14.


16

Figure 2. Ovoo with an argali skull, blue ritual scarves, and other offerings (steering wheel, cigarettebox, etc.) at the entrance of the Ovtiin Am Valley

View to the east, with Orog Lake in the background on the left and foothills of Ih Bogd Mountain on theright

© Cecilia Dal Zovo, August 2011

15 In the examples above, the bones seem to participate of the symbolic and ritual

connection that ovoo-cairns and other mound-like structures maintain with elevation,

in terms of mountain mimesis, localisation, and symbolism15. In the local cosmology,

mountains are the essential features of the landscape and are often compared to or

identified through bones, as bones are structural elements of the body. In Central

Mongolia, skeletal or bone metaphors appear to dominate the mountain terminology

(Humphrey 1995, p. 144).

16 Moreover, in some languages of Mongolia and northern Asia, the word for bone (yasun)

also indicates the patrilineal kinship, thus revealing its significance in the local

conceptualisation of social identity (Atwood 2006, p. 629; Birtalan 2003; Golman 2006)16.

Likewise, mountains may encompass the genealogy of an individual or family, while

being associated, at the same time, with the spirits of the ancestors (Davaa-Ochir 2008,

pp. 13, 31). As bones can allude to lineage, mountains and mountain ovoos can be used

to link the family or the community to significant features of the local landscape,

contributing to the territorial definition of a homeland and common past (Anikeeva

2006; Humphrey 1995, p. 148). Mountain ovoos are particularly important in terms of

identity-building and heritage-making processes, both at the individual and

community level (Namsaraeva 2012; Pedersen 2006; Tamirjavyn 2017)17.

Etymology and pastoral land

17 Besides composition, other aspects, especially the action of piling objects and the

affinity to verticality, can concur to the core definition of the ovoos. According to

Clauson (1972, p. 5), the word obo, which is widely attested in Turkic languages, is


17

originally Mongolian, especially with the meaning of “heap of stones, grave mound”18.

In Tuvan, the verbal form oboyi- could be translated as “to form a conical pile or bump,

rise in the shape of a cone” and could be connected to the verb opay- “to rise, to go up”,

said also of objects such as haystacks (Khabtagaeva 2009, p. 139). Notably, the essential

meaning conveyed here does not include a specification on the materials to be used to

form such a pile. Also in Classical Mongolian, the semantic attestations relate more to

the conic shape than the composition of the cairn (Khabtagaeva 2009, pp. 48, 184). Both

in the Turkic and Mongolic languages, moreover, pastoral and funerary semantics

associated with the word ovoo could be interpreted as a reference to a localised

conception of ancestral land19. In particular, a western Turkic derivation of the word

ovoo, oba, can indicate a plain, a tent, or a pasture area, but also a clan or small social or

family unit (Clauson 1972, p. 5).

18 The semantic value of the word ovoo and its relationship with seasonal occupation and

pastoral mobility seems particularly relevant in the light of the role of kinship as a

mechanism of regulation of the land. In Mongolia, the usage of certain resources such

as water springs, pastures, or camping areas is traditionally articulated through

periodical occupation, legitimised by a systematic reference to a certain family or

group identity (Fernández-Giménez 1999). It might be something more than a

coincidence that the distribution of ovoos seems deeply intertwined with critical

sections of the pastoral mobility such as mountain passes, crossroads, or fords (Davaa-

Ochir 2008, p. 48). Likewise, many ritual practices performed at ovoo sites take place

according to the seasonal displacements or periodical festivities of local pastoral

communities or family units of herders (Hamayon 2020)20.

19 The interconnection between seasonal mobility, periodical rituals, kinship, and access

rights diversely stands today (Ahearn 2016; Sneath 2001), but it is probably rooted

much deeper in time. In the Old Turkic and early Mongolian sources, land rights, like

political power, are legitimised through the reference to royal or divine ancestors

(Anikeeva 2006; Szynkiewicz 1989; Sinor 1993). Likewise, the seasonal mobility of the

herders is negotiated with the master spirits of the place and the ancestors presiding

over ovoo sites with both a pastoral and ritual significance (Ahearn 2016; Delaplace

2008; Hürelbaatar 2006, p. 215 and footnote 16; Kazato 2005; Kristensen 2004; Pedersen

2009; Vitebsky 2005)21. The circumambulations and rituals performed by local herders

at the ovoo located on a mountain pass, for example, can be interpreted as a declaration

to the local deities, informing on the arrival to a new pasture and asking for permission

and protection of the family and livestock (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 54)22.

20 In this sense, it seems reasonable to assume that the systematic incorporation of ovoos

as territorial markers since the 19th century23 could have relied upon older pastoral,

territorial, and social values that were rooted in the local history. The possible

attestation of the word ovoo in the Pre-Classical Mongolian that I will discuss in the

next section could be interpreted as a supportive element for the hypothesis that the

materiality and rituality associated with those cairns might pre-date the Buddhist

integration of the ovoos since the 16th-17th century24.


18

Piled stones and funerary sites: a contextual relationalhypothesis

21 The semantic values of the word ovoo might be connected with an early ritual and

funerary sphere. As we have seen above, ovoo can be also translated as “grave mound”

(Clauson 1972). But how can we interpret this translation? Which could the funerary

value of the ovoo be and when did it start? To answer these questions, the

interpretation of an Old Turkic inscription of the 7th century as a very early attestation

of the word ovoo can be particularly noteworthy (Tadinova 2006, p. 316). In this

transcription, the form opa has been translated as “heap of sacrificial stones”. This

interpretation, although uncertain, is especially relevant in the light of the hypothesis

of an early origin of the ovoos and their potential connection with ancient funerary

rituals and/or the ancestors. Moreover, several Turkic languages apparently

incorporated the root *oba to designate a burial (stone) or sacrificial mounds for the

mountain spirits (Tadinova 2006, p. 315). This is also particularly relevant, if we

consider that in modern Mongolian, the word ovoo designates a heap of stones

specifically “built as a landmark or monuments in honour of the genius loci” (Lessing

1960, p. 598).

22 The semantic proximity of the word ovoo with both ancestral entities and ancient

funerary practices seems to mirror the ambivalent nature of the master spirits of the

place (gazryn ezed) themselves: they can be linked to specific sacred places in the local

landscape but also to the world of the dead (Roux 1971). Significantly, the cult of

mountains and waters that is celebrated at the ovoo sites has been interpreted as a form

of the cult of ancestors (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 13; Tátar 1976)25. In the local cosmology,

ancestors are often much more than an abstract concept, they are predecessors of the

family and the clan. The images of the immediate deceased relatives usually occupy an

important place in the family shrine of every house, where they receive daily offerings,

while they are periodically celebrated at ovoo sites (Davaa-Ochir 2008; Dumont 2017;

Empson 2007, pp. 64-65; Namsaraeva 2012; Ozheredov & Ozheredova 2015; Pedersen

2001; Purzycki 2010). Like family pictures, the ovoos dedicated to the ancestors and

master spirits of the place can be therefore interpreted as powerful tools of memory

and identity (Hamayon 2020). Significantly enough, an analogous interpretation has

been proposed for the monumental Late Prehistoric funerary mounds that attracted

ritual practices over several centuries, possibly in the frame of a cult of the ancestors

(Burnakov & Tsydenova 2014; Johannesson 2019; Miller et al. 2018). Similarly, the Old

Turkic and Pre-Classical Mongolian written sources seem to confirm the importance of

the cult of the ancestors in the first and second millennium AC (Belli 2003; Bemmann &

Brosseder 2017; Evans & Humphrey 2003; Osawa 2012; Roux 1963).

23 One could wonder, therefore, whether the monumental materiality of ancient stone

mounds and the associated funerary and ritual values could have percolated in the

local cosmology and architectonical tradition. Davaa-Ochir (2008, p. 13) suggests that

the origin of mountain master spirits could be connected with the practice of burying

shamans, group leaders, and elders on elevated mountain spots.

24 Heissig (1953, p. 501; 1980, p. 103) describes in detail the legend of the shaman of the

Red Cliffs according to a manuscript possibly dating to the 17th century. In this

narrative, a powerful man, who was an expert in ancient rituals, asked his son to bury

him on a high mountaintop and be worshipped with specific rites after his death. With


19

the compliance of the son, he thus became a powerful master spirit, who protected and

helped his shaman son and all his clan. In this legend, we can observe exemplified the

potential genealogical connection between ancestors and master spirits of the place,

but also an important reflection about the localisation of ovoos and burials in high

mountain areas. Heissig (1980, p. 103) argued that the practice of burying high-ranking

persons on mountain heights resonates with the principles of a local sacred geography

hierarchically organised and controlled by ancestral spirits26. More importantly, he

compared the funerary ritual of the shaman with the ancient elite burials of northern

China, which were generally located at panoramic and elevated places (Heissig 1953,

footnote 147). In this sense, ancient mounds, ancestors, and master spirits of the place

could be considered in the frame of a long-term comprehensive cosmology. Perhaps,

certain cosmological aspects associated with those ancient funerary and ritual mounds

could be progressively incorporated into the ovoos that monumentally vertebrate the

Mongolian landscape.

Monumentality: ovoos, stupas, and ancient mounds

25 The idea that ovoos could be rooted in the monumental and funerary tradition that

possibly intensified in Mongolia and central Eurasia around the second millennium B.C.

(Evans & Humphrey 2003; Honeychurch 2015) certainly deserves further investigation.

However, the potential integration of different monumentalities has been already

considered with regards to the Buddhist stupa27. In Mongolia, the stupas are often

investigated in the frame of a Buddhist interaction with the materiality and rituality of

the ovoos (Birtalan 1998). They may alternate or even merge in the local sacred

geographies (Charleux 2006, p. 48; Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 49)28. This process sometimes

culminates in an architectonic syncretism that, on the Ih Bogd Mountain, is perfectly

exemplified by the case of Gegeenii Ovoo. Locally understood and named as an ovoo, its

square, three-layered stone structure is much closer to the architectonic principles of

stupas than to the conical shape of piled stone cairns (see fig. 3 and compare with

fig. 4). The material and architectonic interaction between the two types of structures,

however, is certainly facilitated by their original similarities. Like ovoos, Buddhist

stupas display a close affinity to verticality and the symbolism of a sacred mountain or

world tree. Moreover, stupas have a strong funerary value (Snodgrass 1985). They have

been archaeologically investigated in relation to the Late Prehistoric burial mounds of

northern India and the Himalaya (Coningham et al. 2013).

26 The ancient origin of the ovoos, possibly in the Neolithic period, was first suggested by

the Buryat Scholar D. Banzarov in the 19th century (Atwood 2004, p. 414) and often

reiterated elsewhere (Birtalan 1998; Chuluu & Stuart 1995; Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 49;

Evans & Humphrey 2003; Heissig 1980, pp. 101-110; Tatár 1976). However, while “some

intriguing elements that seem to link current oboos to monuments of the distant past”

(Evans & Humphrey 2003, p. 199) have been often recognised, the precise position of

the ovoo in the Central Asian monumental tradition has been never examined in detail

through archaeology.

27 The hypothesis of a correlation between the ovoo phenomenon and ancient burial

mounds is attractive, especially in the light of the persistence of certain monuments

and ritual practices as early as the second millennium B.C. when ancient funerary

mounds remained in use for several centuries or even longer (Davis-Kimball 2000;


20

Fitzhugh 2017; Johannesson 2011; Miller et al. 2018; Turbat 2011; Wright 2014; Zaitseva

2004). Unfortunately, however, ovoos and ancient mounds are generally considered

from different disciplinary and methodological perspectives. In this sense, the

excavation of an ovoo built over an ancient mound in western Mongolia by Jeannine

Davis-Kimball (2000) is especially important: not only it provides a unique

archaeological examination, but it also documents the long-term ritual practices

associated with the site.

28 The structure contained various elements, including 4 000 votive-type artefacts

distributed across the excavated levels. These were interpreted as a significant

indication of a long-term – although possibly segmented – sacralisation of the same

structure and spatial context from the Late Bronze Age until the 18th-19th century or

even later (Davis-Kimball 2000, pp. 92, 93). As I will further illustrate, the material

reinterpretation of ancient mounds, adapted or transformed into ovoos, can be

documented elsewhere in Mongolia, and specifically in the research area of the Ih Bogd

Mountain (see fig. 3 and compare with fig. 4). Moreover, ancient mounds have been

actively reinterpreted as ovoos elsewhere in western Eurasia, such as in the interesting

case of Kalmykia described by Valeria Gazizova (in this issue).

Figure 3. Gegeenii Ovoo, a monument showing a clear Buddhist influence in the high-pasture areaof the Ih Bogd Mountain

View to the north-west and the Valley of Lakes

© Cecilia Dal Zovo, picture taken on the occasion of a trip on the mountain with people from Bogdvillage, August 2011


21

Figure 4. Stupa at the entrance of Bogd village

Small rocks are placed on the stupa basement, as if it attracted an ovoo-like ritual


Round monuments within the landscape: ontologicalintersections

29 The ontology and phenomenology of the ovoos could be similarly understood as a

gradual long-term process, rather than the product of a single foundational event in

the past. At ovoo sites, stones are added to the cairn over and over by travellers and

devotees and the structure continues to grow over time. In this sense, the ovoo cairns,

like the persistent ancient mounds, can be considered as “round monuments”: ever-

evolving structures that cannot be defined by a fixed initial and final chronology of use

(Ingold 2010, p. 258).

30 The process of creation of round monuments involves a co-agency of natural and

cultural aspects. Both conical, cairn-like structures made of stones, earth, and wood are

produced by a human agency but, at the same time, they are also powerfully shaped by

the forces of nature, such as gravity and the weather (Ingold 2010). Round monuments

can also encompass significant aspects of natural mimesis (Bradley 2000). Like

mountains, they look immutable, but, at the same time, they grow in size and meaning

and are continuously re-signified (Ingold 2010). Like mountains, they can be used as

orientation devices or territorial markers, but they also attract local rituals.

31 In this sense, the spatial and symbolical connection that the ovoos maintain with the

cult of the mountains appears particularly meaningful (Bawden 1958; Birtalan 1998;

Heissig 1980, pp. 102-105; Lindahl 2010; Tatár 1976). It is also noteworthy that the

ambivalence of mountains, which, as we have seen above, can be sometimes

conceptualised as bones but are made of rocks, seems to resonate with the diversity of

materials used to build both ovoos and ancient mounds. The first are built using stones,


22

wood, and animal bones (Birtalan 1998, p. 199), while ancient mounds are made of

stones, but contain the human remains of the deceased, as well as animal bones related

to the ancient rituality.

Ovoos and ancient mounds: a comparative perspective

32 Before considering the details of their peculiar material intersection in the research

area of the Ih Bogd Mountain, we can further compare the characteristics of Late

Prehistoric mounds and ovoos. The latter can be usually found in proximity to

significant natural features, such as commanding heights, mountain passes, springs,

and river banks (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 49). Late Prehistoric burial mounds display

comparable localisation patterns, especially in the case of those locally known as

hirigsüür. These big individual mounds are made of rocks and earth piled over the tomb

and have often a circular or quadrangular stone fence around the central mound, as

well as many diverse satellite features (Wright 2007). They can be often documented in

high and panoramic areas or near to mountain passes and springs, but also in large

funerary clusters located at valley mouths or on lower mountain slopes, such as in the

case of the necropolis between the Ih Bogd Mountain and the western shore of the Orog

Lake (Dal Zovo 2016; see Houle & Erdenebaatar 2009 for comparison)29.

33 Besides localisation, ancient burial mounds and ovoos share other essential

characteristics. The mountain mimesis that has been mentioned above is equally

reiterated in the architecture of both monuments, as well as in their emplacement at

high or panoramic spots. Moreover, both structures have a central pile of stones, which

are abundant and available in most areas of Mongolia, but also have important

symbolic qualities (Burnakov & Tsydenova 2014; Rozwadowski 2017). Their vertical

shape and elevation on the ground could be seen as a cosmological approximation to

the sky (tenger), which is symbolically relevant both in the local beliefs and in several

Old Turkic and Pre-Classical Mongolian sources (Baumann 2013; Heissig 1980, pp. 49-59;

Pelliot 1944; Roux 1984). Similarly, the combination of ancient mounds and standing

stone stelae (Fitzhugh 2009) could be compared with the usage of wooden poles on the

ovoos and the ritualisation of trees with ovoo-like functions (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 17;

Lindskog 2019; Smith 2015, pp. 67-69). These aspects could be additionally interpreted

in relation to the alternation of a World Mountain or a World Tree as the central axis of

the universe in many central Eurasian mythologies (Marazzi 1984, 2005; Chuluu 1996).

34 Furthermore, ancient burial mounds, like the ovoos, could be more accurately defined

as ritual structures. Besides their primary funerary function, in fact, these monuments

often display a long-term record of ritual practices spanning several hundreds of years

(Fitzhugh 2009; Johannesson 2011; Miller et al. 2018). Likewise, the ovoo can be

understood as a monument in the making, owing its growth to the stone deposition by

worshippers and travellers who can perform periodical rituals, food offerings, and even

re-foundation rituals over a considerable lapse of time. Moreover, as mentioned above,

the animal sacrifices and/or bones and food offerings at ovoo sites seem to evoke the

consumption and ritual use of certain animals, particularly of horses, archaeologically

documented at Late Prehistoric mounds and Turkic funerary sites (Batsaikhan et al.

1996; Crubezy et al. 1996; Turbat 2011).


23

Ovoos and ancient mounds on the Ih Bogd Mountain

35 The most intriguing point of analysing the potential connection between ovoos and

ancient mounds perhaps is its effective materialisation in the local landscape. In the

sacred and pastoral landscape of the Ih Bogd Mountain, Late Prehistoric mounds and

ovoos sometimes share the same spatial and material context, especially in prominent

localisations, like mountain passes, as it has been observed in the case of the Beiram

mound, in the western Altai Mountains (Davis-Kimball 2000). In a research area

covering more than 6 000 km2, I could document more than one thousand ancient

burial mounds and other material structures and events, which have been inserted into

a broad database (Dal Zovo 2016). This includes information derived from the analysis

of historical cartography, satellite imagery, as well as from the fieldwork undertaken

together with local referents, who supported the documentation process with their

accurate knowledge of the mountain, local place-names, and ritual practices. On the

Ih Bogd Mountain, I could also trace several living examples of interaction between

ancient hirigsüür mounds and ovoos. In this context, the re-interpretation of ancient

burial mounds as ovoos can be substantiated not only by material or architectonic

action, but also expressed through the local micro-toponymy or the local narratives

and practices associated with the monument. All these aspects are especially significant

in the three case-studies that I will now illustrate.

Puntsag Ovoo

36 The most relevant example in terms of monumentality and complexity is certainly the

site of Puntsag Ovoo, which has been previously explored with regards to

archaeological palimpsests and archaeoastronomy (Dal Zovo et al. 2014; Dal Zovo 2019).

The Puntsag Ovoo Hill (ca. 2 600 m. above sea level) provides a panoramic view over the

high pastures of the Ih Bogd Mountain, and, in particular, over the pass that is most

frequently used to cross the mountain in the north/south direction (see fig. 5). On the

top of the hill, there is a characteristic and well-conserved large Late Bronze Age

hirigsüür mound with a line of standing stones of the same epoch (see Fitzhugh 2009

and Wright 2007 for comparison). At the western foot of the hill lies also a row of fifty-

four small cairns, locally called “the path of the spirits”, next to a cluster of boulders

with ancient rock art engravings (Dal Zovo & González García 2018). The hirigsüür

consists of a big stone mound, surrounded by a circular spoked stone fence that has a

diameter of ca. 60 m.


24

Figure 5. Map of Puntsag Ovoo and Tsagaan Ovoo and the area of the mountain pass and elevatedpastures of the Ih Bogd Mountain

Bronze Age mounds (yellow dot); rock art cluster (star); pastoral campsite (square). The red lineindicates the main path crossing the mountain. The orange line indicates the GPS track of the detourmade by Battogoo to show the funerary place of his grandmother

© map realised by Anxo Rodríguez-Paz, César Parcero-Oubiña, and Cecilia Dal Zovo (Autocad andArcGIS) – using ESRI Base Maps, Mongolia 1:100000 Topographic Maps and own data

37 The site has been possibly re-arranged in the Turkic epoch, but other traces of past

agencies have been accumulating over time (Dal Zovo 2019). As for the present analysis,

one of the most significant aspects of the site is certainly the transformation of the Late

Prehistoric mound into an ovoo. As the place-name itself suggests, both the mound and

the hilltop are locally defined as ovoo30. Moreover, rocks of different shapes and colours

(including white quartz that does not seem so abundant in the surroundings) are

distinctly piled in the form of an ovoo over the ancient mound, which is instead

composed of smaller and homogeneous black stones (fig. 6). The cairn appears to

benefit from the emplacement, composition, and monumentality of the ancient mound

and, in time, this possibly influenced the rituality and symbolism associated with such

a commanding site.


25

Figure 6. Site view (top), with a general (middle) and detailed (bottom) picture of the cairn built athe Bronze Age mound (hirigsüür) on Puntsag Ovoo Hill


38 The place-name of Puntsag Ovoo is particularly interesting in the frame of a persistent

local sacred geography. As noted by Tatár (1976, pp. 2-3), certain aspects of the

Mongolian micro-toponymy could be connected with the long-term sacralisation of

outstanding sites and natural features. Here, the first part of the toponym consists of a

personal name of Tibetan origin (< Tib. Phun tshogs), which was often adopted by

monks at the time of the active Buddhicisation of the Mongolian landscape (Cuevas

2003, pp. 303-311). Following a narrative widely applied elsewhere, and particularly in

Tibet, it can be conjectured that this name might belong to one of those legendary

lamas that could tame ancestral mountain spirits, especially those linked to ancient

funerary and ritual places (Bawden 1958; Birtalan 1998; Bellezza 2005; Pedersen 2007;

Torri 2015). Puntsag lama could have contributed to “purify” the hill, the Late

Prehistoric funerary and ritual site, and the whole Ih Bogd Mountain from old entities

and beliefs while establishing the material and cultic feature of the ovoo31.

39 The stone structures on the hilltop of Puntsag Ovoo seem to be quite significant to the

local inhabitants. In 2011, on the occasion of my third visit to the place, I could observe

an adult man, who deposited a yellow silk scarf around one of the little stone cairns at

the foot of the proper mound/ovoo (fig. 7). Although the community ovoo of Bogd

District is officially Gegeenii Ovoo, the three-layered squared monument located a few

kilometres north-west (fig. 3), this private worship did not seem to surprise Baatar32,

the expert herder that was my guide on the mountain, nor the notables from the village

that happened to be with us at the time. The local devotion to Puntsag Ovoo is evident

in many other aspects. Back to Bogd Village, I once met a boy named Puntsag among a

group of young men. When he introduced himself, he proudly explained his name in


26

relation to the Puntsag Ovoo Hill. This hilltop is also where visitors and guests of Bogd

are usually driven to enjoy the magnificent views of the Ih Bogd Mountain, the Orog

Lake, and the Valley of Lakes.

Figure 7. Puntsag Ovoo funerary mound and stone fence, with a modern stone altar and a “modern”yellow ritual scarf in the foreground

© Cecilia Dal Zovo, September 2011

40 In 2009, Baatar told me that the lines of stones I observed on the ground at the north-

western foot of Puntsag Ovoo Hill simply defined the square area for the wrestling

competition of a local festival (Mo. naadam, “three manly games”) that was celebrated

there the year before. Interestingly, this festival is usually an important part of the

mountain cults seasonally performed at the main banner ovoo to amuse the ancestral

spirits of the place (Lacaze 2010; Marazzi 2005, p. 4; Tatár 1976). As the naadam games of

Bogd are usually devoted to Gegenii Ovoo and celebrated in the broad valley at the foot

of the mountain33, the record of such a celebration held in the high-pastures area at the

foot of the Puntsag Ovoo Hill is, in my view, quite remarkable.

Tsagaan Ovoo

41 Tsagaan Ovoo is a Late Prehistoric hirigsüür mound located north-west of Puntsag Ovoo

Hill, from where is clearly visible (fig. 8). Like Puntsag Ovoo, the mound is surrounded

by a circular stone fence that is almost 60 metres wide and has four radial lines that are

cardinally oriented, with a small twist of approximately 15-19° (Dal Zovo et al. 2014).

Although the ancient mound seemed to bear no evidence of material adaptation nor

traces of ovoo rituals, such as silk scarves, bones, glasses, etc., Baatar said that the site is

locally known as Tsagaan Ovoo, which means “white cairn”. It is worth noting that

white is an auspicious colour in Mongolia (Hamayon 1978). This encompasses white

ritual tools and white food offerings in many ovoo rituals, especially on Tsagaan Sar,

literally “White Moon/Month”, the lunar New Year festival (Davaa-Ochir 2008, pp. 123,


27

125). Moreover, white is frequently attested in the toponymical characterisation of

mountains and hills, especially in the steppe and in the Gobi Desert region (Myagmar

2009). In this sense, this colour could have indicated a particularly holy aspect

associated with the place, otherwise marked by the Late Prehistoric mound.

Figure 8. Top: Tsagaan Ovoo mound (red arrow), viewed from the top of Puntsag Ovoo Hill. Bottom:on-site view of Tsagaan Ovoo hirigsüür with Puntsag Ovoo Hill in the background (red arrow)


42 Here, the integration of the ancient mound into a local and Buddhist sacred geography

may appear subtler, relying simply on the transformation of the place name and the

identification of the conic shape of the stone mound as an ovoo. Yet the redefinition of

this particular mound expressed by the place name seems congruent within the typical

localisation pattern of the ovoos, especially with regards to the emplacement and spatial

proximity to significant natural features. Like Puntsag Ovoo, Tsagaan Ovoo (2 485 m)

lies in proximity to the same mountain pass that allows crossing the Ih Bogd Mountain

in a longitudinal direction, either by car or on horseback. Moreover, the paths that go

west of Tsagaan Ovoo lead to the core of the elevated pastures of the mountain and to

Gegeenii Ovoo, which represents the main community ovoo of the district of Bogd. The

mound is also close to a freshwater source that could be particularly appreciated by the

herders occupying the high-mountain pastures in summer and early autumn (fig. 5).

43 Moreover, according to Davaa-Ochir (2008, pp. 53-54), mountain passes are especially

significant in the local cosmology. Reaching and crossing a mountain pass during a

seasonal displacement not only represents a geographic shift but also a symbolic

transfer from one state to another. I wonder whether this aspect could be related to the

concept of liminality and funerary transition associated with natural places explored

elsewhere in central Eurasia or western Europe (Argent 2013; Aubrey 2019; Bradley


28

2000; Lymer 2010; Rozwadowski 2017; Vandkilde 2014). Significantly, in several Turkic

and Mongolian languages, the funerary transition is linked to an ascension to the sky or

to high mountain pastures (Ragagnin 2013). It may or may not have been a pure

coincidence that Baatar, while visiting together the site of Tsagaan Ovoo, mentioned

that the funerary place of his grandmother and other people from the village was

located nearby. Indeed, Tsagaan Ovoo is very close to the hollow hidden valley where

he offered to drive shortly after. This modern funerary place in the middle of the

elevated pastures is also close, yet hidden from view, to an area of summer campsites

(see the track of the elongated deviation from the main path in fig. 5).

44 Another important spatial element is that Tsagaan Ovoo, like Puntsag Ovoo, is located

on the watershed of the Ih Bogd Mountain, which presently constitutes the border

between Bogd and Bayangov’ Provinces. This is particularly interesting both in terms of

territorial and pastoral boundaries as well as of the emplacement of the ovoos. The

allocation of grazing areas traditionally followed the watershed line of the mountains,

as observed by Owen Lattimore in the early 20th century (in Lindskog 2010, p. 56). On

the other side, the practice of building ovoos on territorial borders flourished in the

19th century, precisely in connection with the administrative effort of defining and

controlling the pasturelands of Mongolia by the Qing power (Pratte 2019).

45 It might be difficult to verify whether the transformation of the ancient mounds at

Puntsag Ovoo and Tsagaan Ovoo could be directly connected also with that historical

phase, but it is interesting to note how the present administrative division of the

Ih Bogd Mountain between the territories of Bogd and Bayangov’ could, at least to some

extent, reflect previous practices of control and shared use of the elevated pastures of

the mountain. The area of elevated pastures marked by Puntsag Ovoo and Tsagaan

Ovoo possibly attracted herders from both Bogd District, located north of the Ih Bogd

Mountain, and Bayangov’ in the south. Once I met two young herders from Bayangov’

with their herds of goats and sheep grazing on the eastern slope of Puntsag Ovoo Hill

(fig. 9). On the other side, Baatar, who is from Bogd, reported that his family used to

camp in that area too. That had been the reason why, as I mentioned above, his

grandmother’s funerary place was located nearby.

46 Considering the accumulation of monumental features and the outstanding

characteristics of the landscape, both Tsagaan Ovoo and Puntsag Ovoo might have

constituted a convergence point of pastoral interests of different groups also in the

past. This could contribute to explain the adaptation and stratification of ancient and

more recent funerary and ritual features in a high mountain environment that also is a

persistent node of the local pastoral mobility.


29

Figure 9. Young herders from Bayangov’ with their herd of cashmere goats on the southern slope ofPuntsag Ovoo Hill, late August 2011


Ovoo-mound at the entrance of the Ih Bogd MountainNatural Park

47 The Buddhist resignification of the area around Puntsag Ovoo and Tsagaan Ovoo could

be further understood in the frame of the persistent sacralisation of the mountain as a

whole. Significantly, “Ih Bogd Uul” could be translated as the “Great Sacred Mountain”,

but also “Great Buddha Mountain” (Laufer 1916, p. 394). As I mentioned above, in

Mongolia, many mountains are considered intrinsically sacred and essentially function

as identity elements, both at community and national level (Sneath 2014). They are

seen as inhabited by master spirits of the place and ancestors, which are often

worshipped at ovoo sites. This feature, attested elsewhere in central Eurasia, such as in

Himalaya and Tibet, possibly has an early origin that might have been equally

incorporated into the Buddhist sacred cosmology (Charleux 2015; McKay 2015). Since

the 18th century, remarkable sacred mountains of Mongolia were progressively

protected in the local legislation (Chimedsengee et al. 2009). In 2007, the Ih Bogd

Mountain became a Regional Natural Park and was classified as a natural sacred site

(Schmidt 2006). This status guarantees environmental conservation but also recognises

the local spiritual and religious understanding of the mountain as a sacred entity.

48 In 2011, I documented an ovoo with recent traces of ritual exactly at the valley mouth

that demarcates one of the main northern “gates” to the Ih Bogd Mountain Natural

Park (fig. 10). The peculiarity of this cairn is that it has been built, like Puntsag Ovoo,

directly over an ancient funerary mound. The designation of the pile of stones as an

ovoo is provided by a peculiar column-like reshaping of stones with an upside-down

bottle of vodka and fragments of glass. The ancient mound below does not belong to

the category of large hirigsüür mounds with wide stone fences. It is a small mound ca.


30

3 m in size, which is likely connected with the large clusters of Late Prehistoric burials

located between the northern slope of the Ih Bogd Mountain and the Orog Lake (Dal

Zovo 2016). In this case, the localisation does not offer a particularly panoramic view,

as it lies at the foothills of the mountain. However, similarly to the ovoo-mound sites

analysed above, its emplacement is particularly significant for the local and regional

mobility. Not only this place marks the entrance to a narrow inner valley that gives

access to the elevated pastures of the Ih Bogd Mountain, but it is also set close to the

road that cuts through the middle slope of the mountain in an east-west direction,

providing the most suitable route to cross the whole Valley of Lakes.

Figure 10. Ancient mound with an ovoo-like rearrangement and offerings (bottle of vodka) at thenorthern entrance of the Ih Bogd Mountain Natural Park

© Cecilia Dal Zovo, September 2011

49 It is worth noting that the offering of vodka is often employed in practices of mountain

worship and private prayers for the protection of livestock. Although leaving empty

bottles or fragments of glass on the land has been recently defined as a polluting and

inauspicious action by the Buddhist clergy in Ulaanbaatar, this idea seems not so

common in the countryside (Wallace 2015, p. 232). It is possible, therefore, that the

ancient mound at the entrance of the valley could have been transformed into an ovoo

in the frame of a popular, non-institutional ritual practice. This was possibly linked to

the daily or seasonal rituals of the local herders, rather than a major Buddhist

adaptation and administrative re-organisation of the landscape such as the one that

might have involved the Puntsag Ovoo and Tsagaan Ovoo case studies I examined

above.

Conclusion

50 Through an analysis of archaeological, historical, and linguistic sources, in this essay I

explored the hypothesis that the ovoos could have had early roots, particularly in


31

relation to the ancient monumental tradition of piling (stone) mounds documented in

central Eurasia since the Late Prehistory. Specifically, I combined the examination of

written sources such as The Secret History of the Mongols and the travel account by Marco

Polo, with a linguistic exploration of the etymology and semantics of the word ovoo and

the field documentation of the local materiality. The potential intersection between

ovoos and ancient funerary and ritual monumentality has been considered not only in a

theoretical perspective but also through the analysis of specific case studies: three Late

Prehistoric mounds transformed into ovoos in the research area of the Ih Bogd

Mountain. As there is no absolute chronology available for the ovoos, the analysis of this

syncretic materiality might provide, in my view, a useful model for an alternative

approach to the study of the ovoo phenomenon, bypassing the poor references in the

early written sources.

51 As elsewhere in Mongolia, the entanglement of these cairns within the local

monumental tradition is possibly connected with the Buddhist-inspired transformation

of sacred geographies (late 16th-17th century) and the cultural and material

intensification of the ovoo materiality for political and administrative purposes in the

Qing epoch. However, had ovoos actually appeared in Mongolia only at that time, their

colonisation of the landscape would have been unusually fast and pervasive. I argue

that this process possibly succeeded thanks to an active and systematic adaptation of

more ancient materiality, rituality, and symbolism. In particular, I suggest that the

multidimensional character of the ovoo, encompassing land, mountains, pastures, and

ritual practices, could have been modelled after the much older symbolical and

material correlations over time. Such interconnections become then embedded in the

local sacred landscape, especially at outstanding elevations and persistent nodes of the

local pastoral mobility: mountain passes, crossroads, water springs, etc. Accordingly,

these features of the landscape continuously concentrated both pastoral

conspicuousness and funerary and ritual significance, which could be reflected in the

accumulation of materiality and meaning over time. This may contribute to explain

why certain structures accumulate at the same site and several architectonic aspects,

localisation patterns, and ritual practices, namely the use of stones and bones, can be

documented for both ovoos and ancient mounds.

52 It is worth noting, however, that similarities or even analogies between ancient

mounds and ovoo cannot be simply understood in causative and chronological terms.

Approaching the ovoos as a direct evolution of ancient funerary burials and beliefs

would be far too simplistic. While they could be used to actively reinterpret and

sacralise (or exorcise) strategic pastoral areas and old ritual sites, and such as ancient

tombs, they would have materialised and legitimised a new religious or political

context not only at an institutional but also at a local, popular level. In this sense, the

ovoos represent an exciting opportunity to analyse how the local communities

progressively engage(d) with their past and how this relationship was and is negotiated

in the local landscape over time.

Acknowledgements

53 This work has been funded by the (2011) Programme for Archaeological Research

Abroad of the Spanish Institute of Heritage–Ministry of Culture, and by (2017) Xunta de

Galicia-GAIN Postdoctoral Programme. The fieldwork has been conducted in the frame


32

of the agreement between the Irpi-CNR(Institute of Applied Geology, Padova, Italy) and

the Mongolian Academy of Science and the research project directed by Bruno

Marcolongo in the Gobi-Altai Mountains. This work would not have been possible

without the generous collaboration and support of many individuals (particularly

Baatar) and the local administration in the area of Ih Bogd Mountain. I am grateful to

Giovanna Fuggetta, Bruno Marcolongo (Irpi-CNR, Italy), and Yolanda Seoane Veiga

(Incipit-CSIC), for their professional support in the field. Thanks are due to Elisabetta

Ragagnin (University of Venice) for her precious hint on monti and bone cairns in the

travel account by Marco Polo. I would like to sincerely thank the two anonymous

reviewers, who contributed to improve this essay with their comments and inspiring

observations. I would also like to thank the editors of this special issue, Isabelle

Charleux and Marissa Smith for their insights, encouragement, and the opportunity to

join this valuable initiative.

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NOTES

1. In this paper, I use this word to refer to those structures that have been described by Davaa-

Ochir (2008, p. 48) in the following terms: “The central features of sacred landscapes in Mongolia

are the oboos constructed to mark the sacred ritual place. The oboo functions as a shrine for

territorial divinities and as a sacrificial altar on which to make offerings. Some places with oboos

indicate that they are gathering places for divinities of the mountains and waters. Oboos are built

on mountain peaks and at mountain passes, as well as at the source of springs, at the shores of

rivers and lakes, and by solitary rocks and trees. Construction materials depend on the locality:

stones are widely used, while oboos constructed of trees can be found in forested areas. One can

find hut shaped wooden cairns in the northern Mongolian forests. Snow oboos can also be

erected during the Mongolian New Year, which celebrates the new spring according to the lunar

calendar. […] Oboos are not regarded merely as heaps of stones or trees among Inner Asian

people. Their belief in the spirits of ancestors (elders, shamans and ancient warriors) who

transformed into local protective deities and in these deities enshrined in oboos engenders the

‘sacredness’ in these heaps of stones. Thus an oboo is a landmark of the sacredness and a mark

that distinguishes the ‘sacred’ from the ‘mundane’”.

2. See for instance the case of the Buddhist rituals associated with the Tibetan cairns called la

btas, whose chronology is, similarly, not very well understood.

3. Evans and Humphrey’s (2003) pioneering study laterally explores the chronology and

historical development of the ovoos associated with a Buddhist monastery in Inner Mongolia.

Likewise, the excavation of an ovoo by Davis-Kimball (2000) at Beiram Pass, in western Mongolia,

is tangential to the investigation of the Late Prehistoric burial underneath. The considerations

regarding the ovoo are often speculative precisely because of the lack of systematic

archaeological studies

4. Altering the local ecological balance can be in contrast with the rituality practised at ovoo sites

to ensure the harmony of all local forces in the landscape (Lindskog 2016, p. 3).

5. Based on the comparison between the translated versions by Cleaves (1982), Rachewiltz (2004),

and Onon (2001).

6. See introduction and notes by Rachewiltz (2004).

7. On the variability of secular and sacred characters in the mountain landscapes of central

Eurasia, see for comparison Ramble (1995).

8. Chinggis Khan’s toughness was related to the fact that he had “an iron-like father and a solid

stone-like mother” (Onon 2001, p. 30). These qualities were relevant also for the construction of

ovoos in later times. Davaa-Ochir (2008, p. 57), citing Bawden (1994, p. 8) reports that the

instructions by Mergen Diyanchi Lama (1717-1766), recommended stone for the construction of

ovoos as a sign of longevity, being stones the embodiment of strength.

9. Significantly, in the case study illustrated by Lindskog (2016 and 2019), the Lhachin Bavuu

Dorjee Ovoo equally designates a single individual rock that is ritualised as an ovoo, as the name

itself suggests.

10. On the concept of ovoo as a possible abode or meeting point for the local master spirits of the

place, see the exhaustive description by Davaa-Ochir (2008, pp. 27-28) and a recent interesting

discussion by Tamirjyavyn (2017, p. 263). Rozwadowski (2017) equally provides a summary of the

Russian ethnographic sources that explore sacred stones in the traditional rituality and

cosmology of western and eastern Siberia. Burnakov and Tsydenova (2014) illustrate ritual

behaviours linked to individual rocks and stone cairns in the Republic of Khakassia, Russia.

11. On the practice of burning food offerings in the ground, especially for the ancestors, as

recorded in The Secret History of the Mongols, see Mostaert (1950, pp. 300-302).


41

12. For this reference, I am deeply indebted to Professor Elisabetta Ragagnin (August 2019), who,

at the time of our conversation, was completing the translation of the Rasmusian version of Il

Milione to Mongolian (Bat-Uchral et al. 2019).

13. This is my tentative translation of the text from the ancient Italian used by Rasmusius. For an

original version of the text, see volume 1, book 28, 6th paragraph (I/28 [6]), which is available

online on the web page of the project “Digital Marco Polo” of the University of Venice: http://

virgo.unive.it/ecf-workflow/books/Ramusio/commenti/R_I_28-main.html [accessed 15 July

2020].

14. Interestingly, according to Davaa-Ochir (2008, p. 111) “an oboo is called ‘horse fortune oboo’

(aduunii buyan khishigtei obo) if the horse is a favourite animal of the oboo deity, or ‘yak fortune

oboo’ (arlagiin buyan khishigtei obo) if yaks are preferred by the deity”. Thus, the variability of

animal sacrifices would account for the preference of the local spirits themselves. More

significantly, the same author suggests there might be a sort of correlation between the number

of certain animals in a specific area and the preferences of the local deities (Davaa-Ochir 2008,

p. 211; see also Hürelbaatar 2006, p. 214).

15. The connection between mountains and ovoos is well documented not only in the ritual

practice but also in the local cosmology (Bawden 1958; Tatár 1976). In particular, the idea of a

world mountain and the association between ovoos and the mythical Mount Meru are often to be

found in the Buddhist sources relative to the ovoo rituality (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 72).

16. For an anthropological analysis of bones, and, in particular, sheep tibiae, and their symbolism

in terms of family genealogy and kinship, see also Szynkiewicz (1989).

17. Similar rituals are associated with mountain ovoos and are linked to fundamental clanic and

ancestral values that can be equally traced in the Old Turkic world (Anikeeva 2006, pp. 20-21).

18. Interestingly, according to Basu (2012) the semantic values associated with the Gaelic word

cairn, which later entered the English language, encompass equally natural and cultural

landscape features, meaning both “rocky hill or mountain” and a “heap of stones”. As a cultural

form, Scottish cairns have been raised as a boundary way or summit markers, but also as grave

markers and memorials (Basu 2012, p. 118).

19. See also the study of the term obok in Golman 2006.

20. In the Mongolian landscape, for example, the patrilineal ovoos are located where ancestors

lived and their worship is generally restricted to the members of the same patrilineal or family

(Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 51). Significantly, these cairns are located on the hills and mountains near

to the winter and summer camps where these communities say they have pastured their herds

for generations. Similarly, the same ovoos are worshipped by people using “the same water

source” (neg gol usnyhan) (Davaa-Ochir 2008). For a vivid narrative about an ovoo ritual at a family

level, see also Ahearn (2016).

21. Similarly, in other anthropological accounts from neighbouring areas from northern Siberia,

we can see that the connection between identity, landscape, and ancestors is materialised and

perpetuated in the daily and seasonal practices of small pastoral communities (Haakanson &

Jordan 2011). On their seasonal migration routes, Nenets perform animal sacrifices and offerings

at the sacred sites that are the burial grounds of their clan, and in doing so, they consider that

they follow their ancestors’ footsteps within the local pastoral and sacred geography

(Haakanson & Jordan 2011, p. 216).

22. The localisation of ovoos in proximity to water sources and high mountain pastures might

contribute to indicate their importance in the local ecology also in modern times. Davaa-Ochir

(2008, p. 14) argues that the cosmological values associated with the ovoo have been presently

reframed in relation to the safeguard of local resources, such as in the case of cairns built at

mining sites (High Mette 2017).


42

http://virgo.unive.it/ecf-workflow/books/Ramusio/commenti/R_I_28-main.html




23. The massive construction of new ovoos for territorial and administrative purposes in the Qing

period has been confirmed by the preliminary results of Pratte’s (2019) investigation and ovoo

mapping, particularly in the 19th century (see also Charleux’ article, this issue).

24. Compare with the analogous discussion on the Buddhicisation of the Tibetan cairns (la btsas/

la btse) found in a mountain environment – and likely equivalent to Mongol ovoos – by Wang

Xinxian in Blondeau (1997, p. 14). On Tibetan cairns, see also Bellezza (1997, pp. 141-142 and 149)

and G.yu ’brug & Stuart (2012, pp. 109-111). According to Bialek (2018, p. 478), la btsas would be

semantically associated with the concept of bringing forth, bearing, or fare. Perhaps this idea

could fit in a potential ritual environment where offerings are presented to the local master

spirits.

25. In the local animated ecology, the conceptualisation of an “inherited landscape”, which

would be the result of a practical ancestral agency (of deceased family or community members)

applies to the pastoral landscape and winter campsites, as recorded by the Japanese

anthropologist Mari Kazato (2005, p. 244): “People told me that it takes 50 or even 100 years to

create the dung heat-insulating soil (buuts) and that their ancestors originally created it. The

buuts is formed when people repeatedly take their animals to a certain place and use it as a

campsite for many years, building corrals to protect the livestock from the wind, snow and

erosion […]. According to one herdsman, the buuts is a sign of the lives of our predecessors, which

their domestic animals printed on the ground and although it can be revived, it cannot be

created in a single day. The buuts is historic stock because people share the memories of those

who revived and took care of it”.

26. For another analysis and interpretation of the same legend, see also Roux (1963, p. 97).

27. Interestingly, the etymology of the word stupa can be also compared with the original

meaning of the word ovoo. It possibly derives from the root stup, which means “to accumulate, to

gather together” (Snodgrass 1985, p. 156). Stupa may be synonymous with the world caitya,

which derives from ci, “to pile up, to accumulate” and applied to the piling up of a fire altar or a

funerary pyre (Snodgrass 1985). Likewise, stupas originally incorporated a strong funerary value:

they functioned as tombs and reliquaries of the physical remains of Buddha (Snodgrass 1985,

p. 353) and often contained the relics of important Buddhist figures. This burial constituent

seems reiterated also at the Buddhicised ovoos, whose foundational rituals begin with making a

hole in the ground to house the copper vase with an image of Buddha (Wallace 2015, p. 231).

28. To understand the complexity of potential syncretism and interaction of diverse Central and

South Asian traditions, it could be useful to compare the ovoo phenomenon with the

incorporation of ancient Brahmanical deities or Christian materiality in the iconography and

architecture of Xinjiang and Inner Mongolia (see Halbertsma 2008; Lo Muzio 2019).

29. As we have seen above, ovoo cairns can be equally documented in proximity to important

nodes of the local mobility or water sources. In the future, it would be interesting to compare the

localisation pattern of ancient mounds with the traditional hierarchical organisation of ovoo

according to the mountain levels studied by Sneath (2007).

30. Tamirjavyn (2017, p. 263) highlights that mountain ovoos can be conceived as identical to the

mountain or the place itself. Thus, the same name may indicate the cairn, the mountain spirit, or,

by extension, the whole elevation, as significantly happens in Tibet (G.yu ’brug & Stuart 2012,

p. 193).

31. Both this interpretation and chronological attribution could be compared with the

information derived by the excavation of the ovoo associated with a Late Prehistoric burial

mound (Davis-Kimball 2000). At the bottom of the cairn, the archaeologists found in situ a

“Manchu” wooden box that also contained a bamboo piece with an inscription (Davis-Kimball

2000, fig. 9). This may help to determine a specific chronological frame for the deposition of the

box and the construction of the ovoo over the mound. This specific inscription was developed


43

from the ca. 1648 A.D. by Naihaizhamtsan, a Buddhist lama born in 1599 in western Mongolia

(Davis-Kimball 2000, p. 92).

32. A pseudonym is used to protect his privacy.

33. I owe this information to Kate Moore, who published an excellent description of the event on

her travel blog (Moore 2011).

ABSTRACTS

The so-called ovoo-cairns of Mongolia display a variety and pervasiveness that stimulated a rich

anthropological analysis. However, their ancient history remains a challenging and scarcely

frequented research topic. This paper introduces an archaeological focus combined with

linguistic, historical, anthropological considerations to provide an alternative approach to the

genealogy of the ovoos. Their multi-dimensional nature and persistent temporal aspects are

investigated through the analysis of early written sources, local narratives, and the

archaeological landscape. This is to substantiate the hypothesis that the origin of ovoos could lie

far deeper in time than the Buddhist intensification of the 16th and 17 th centuries. It could be

connected with the ancient monumental tradition of piling (stone) objects in significant places of

the sacred and pastoral landscapes of Mongolia. In particular, the possible intersection between

present cairns and ancient funerary monumentality is investigated, taking into account three

specific case studies of Late Prehistoric mounds that have been locally transformed into ovoos in

the area of the Ih Bogd Mountain, in southern Mongolia (Bayanhongor Province). The “ovoo

phenomenon” emerges as an exciting opportunity to analyse how people materially engage with

and negotiate the local past within the landscape both in ancient and present times.

La variété et l’omniprésence des cairns mongols appelés « ovoo » ont stimulé de riches analyses

anthropologiques. Cependant, leur histoire ancienne reste un sujet de recherche délicat et

rarement abordé. Cet article présente une perspective archéologique combinée à des

considérations linguistiques, historiques et anthropologiques pour fournir une approche

alternative à la généalogie des ovoo. Je propose d’étudier leur nature multidimensionnelle et leurs

occurrences persistantes dans des sources écrites, dans les discours locaux et dans le paysage

archéologique. Il s’agit d’étayer l’hypothèse selon laquelle l’origine des ovoo pourrait être bien

plus ancienne que l’époque d’expansion du bouddhisme aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles, et pourrait être

liée à l’ancienne tradition monumentale d’empiler des objets (en pierre) dans des sites

importants du paysage sacré et pastoral de Mongolie. En particulier, j’analyse l’intersection

possible entre les cairns actuels et la monumentalité funéraire ancienne, à partir de trois études

de cas spécifiques de tumuli anciens transformés en cairns dans la région de la montagne

Ih Bogd, dans le sud de la Mongolie (province Bayanhongor). Le « phénomène ovoo » est ainsi

l'occasion d’analyser comment les Mongols ont interagi matériellement avec le paysage local et

ses monuments anciens, à la fois dans les temps anciens et présents.

INDEX

Keywords: landscape, archaeology, mobility, reinterpretation, ancestors, agency, Mongolia

Mots-clés: archéologie, paysage, mobilité, réinterprétation, ancêtres, agentivité, Mongolie


44

AUTHOR

CECILIA DAL ZOVO

Cecilia Dal Zovo is a collaborating researcher of the Institute of Heritage Sciences (Spanish

National Research Council) in Santiago de Compostela. Her research interests encompass

heritage-making practices, pastoral mobility, funerary rituals, sacred geographies and

cosmologies, ecological sustainability, and long-distance interconnections in Mongolia and

Central and Eastern Eurasia. She is presently working on her first monograph, Archaeology of a

Sacred Mountain. Her recent publications include: “Prehistoric funerary monuments, Old Turkic

sources, and persistent sacred geographies in Mongolia”, in G. Orofino, A. Drocco, L. Galli,

C. Letizia & C. Simioli (eds), Wind Horses. Tibetan, Himalayan and Mongolian Studies (Università degli

Studi di Napoli/ISMEO, 2019) and (with A. César González-García), “The path of the spirits: a

preliminary approximation to oriented rows of stone cairns in the Altai Mountains” (Journal of

Mediterranean Archaeology and Archaeometry, 2018).

[email protected]


45


Sacred heights in the topography offlatlands. Ovaa kurgans in theKalmyk Buddhist landscapeHauteurs sacrées dans la topographie des plaines. Les kurgans ovaa dans le

paysage bouddhique kalmouk

Valeria Gazizova

Introduction

1 The cult of mountains and heights has been historically intrinsic to the religious and

political life of the Kalmyks and widely obtains today, which may seem like a paradox if

we think about their present-day location. While Tibet, traditionally regarded as the

Buddhist motherland of the Kalmyks, is well-known for its verticality, being

surrounded by the highest mountain ranges in the world, Kalmykia appears as its

complete opposite in topographical terms. The republic of Kalmykia is situated in the

low-lying steppe region in the southwest of Russia. Most of its territory (around

75 000 km2) comprises flatlands of the Caspian Depression, a below sea level region

encompassing the northern part of the Caspian Sea. To the west lies the Kuma-Manych

Depression, another low-lying area. Formerly a channel of the straight that connected

the Caspian and Black Seas, it is defined (at least in Russian geography) as the natural

boundary between Europe and Asia.

2 The Kalmyks are historically newcomers to these lands as their direct ancestors, Oirat

Mongols, migrated to the northern Caspian region in the 17th century from the area

roughly encompassing what today is the northern half of Xinjiang, western Mongolia

and eastern Kazakhstan. The westernmost Mongol people and the only followers of

Buddhism in the North Caucasus, not to mention their current geographical location

between Europe and Asia in the most literal sense, the Kalmyks conceive of themselves

as embodying the truly Eurasian ideals. The paradox of maintaining the worship of

mountains in the topography of their absence is perhaps another dimension of their


46

historical, geographical, political and cultural situatedness “in-between”. As a Kalmyk

artist and sculptor, Vladimir Vaskin, proudly exclaimed during our conversation:

We, Kalmyks, are not merely steppe dwellers. We are people of the mountains !

3 This topographical self-definition is simultaneously puzzling and integral to the

Kalmyk understanding of their ethnic history and identity. Although they have been

living in their present-day territory for almost four centuries1, they still regard

themselves as somewhat “alien” (Rus. prishlye) to this locale. Their self-identification

with and reverence for mountains is foremost connected with the Oirat period of

Kalmyk history, reflecting their historical and cultural memories of the “ancestral

homeland” in the vicinity of the mountain ranges of Altai, Hangai and Tianshan. The

concept of “Altai” appears particularly significant in this regard. Regional scholars

emphasize that in Kalmyk contemporary representations of history, “Altai” is not

simply a geographical notion, but (sic) “the sacred marker, the ethnic code, and a

mythologically and ideologically charged geopolitical image of the motherland”

(Bicheev 2005, p. 33).

4 It comes as no surprise that there should be an abundance of sacred mountains in Altai,

Mongolia or the Himalayas. The cult of heights in Inner Asia has received an extensive

coverage in anthropological literature (e.g. Snelling 1983; Macdonald 1997; Huber 1999;

Charleux 2015; McKay 2015). But what would come of such notions in the antithetical

topography of flatlands, where even more or less prominent hills with distinct summits

are virtually non-existent? Yet, there cannot be absolutely featureless landscapes, and

to describe the Kalmyk steppe as such would be more than unfair. Among its vivid

attributes is the abundance of barrows of earth scattered throughout the pristine

steppe against the background of endless horizon – either standing separately on their

own or arranged in groups from three to twelve, to even more. While some of these

mounds are hardly visible, others can reach a height of up to 10 m. Resembling hills,

somewhat roundish in shape, with a low-pitched roof and the outlines perhaps too

symmetrical for a natural landform, these are ancient tumuli disguised as hills under

earth and stones. Although similar burial structures are found throughout Eurasia, in

the boundless and barren ambience of the Kalmyk landscape these ancient monuments

become particularly conspicuous. In the context of Eastern Europe and Central Asia,

they are generally defined by the term “kurgan”; presumably a word of Turkic origin, it

was popularized by its use in Soviet archaeology. To estimate the exact number of

kurgans in Kalmykia is highly problematic, if at all possible. While some sources insist

on as great a number as 200 000, others suggest several tens of thousands dating back

to different historical eras – from the early Bronze Age (from ca. 3000 BC) to the decline

of the Golden Horde. Kalmykia is therefore touted as “a paradise for archaeologists”,

with kurgans receiving great archaeological attention since the late 1920s (Kol’tsova &

Mandzhiev 2016). However, this article is not devoted to archaeology or historical

geography of the Caspian Depression, being rather an anthropological discussion of

multiple conceptions and present-day discourses constructing burial mounds as

geographical representations of the sacred geography and cosmology in the Kalmyk

Buddhist landscape.

5 Before I proceed, the concept of “landscape” requires a closer attention as I need to

explain what I mean by it, especially when this term is used with attributes such as

“ritual” and “Buddhist”, and how it relates to what I refer to as “cosmology”. Although

the spatial dimension of the social world has been a major part of anthropological and


47

sociological research, the word “landscape” has been used by scholars as a type of

umbrella term for numerous forms of socially constructed spaces and spatial

perceptions. What is often meant by “landscape” in social sciences comprises

meanings, interpretations and values attributed by local people to their physical

surroundings (e.g. Hirsch 1995; Humphrey 2001, p. 55; Filippucci 2016). Eric Hirsch

begins his introduction to one of the first edited volumes scrutinizing the notion from

anthropological perspectives with distinguishing between two routine ways in which

“landscape” has been deployed by social scientists: as a “framing convention” depicting

the background of one’s study and as something which is “produced through local

practice”, both physically and conceptually (1995, pp. 1-2). Indeed, the role of practices

as living activities has become instrumental in analysing landscapes in anthropological

debates. Here I recall the insights of Tim Ingold when he, adopting what he calls a

“dwelling perspective”, defines landscape as being constituted in the very process of

living within it by the patterns of practices of its inhabitants, or what he terms

“taskscapes” (1993, p. 153; 1995). Modifying space, for Ingold, is inseparable from

existing in it, with landscapes emerging as embodied and emplaced practices of living.

Rejecting the binary oppositions between man and nature, mind and matter, or the

inner world of mental images and the outer world of physical objects, he describes the

landscape as an interactivity, or a process of mutual transformation; while being

shaped through the incorporation of activities conducted in it, the landscape becomes

an integral part of those who dwell therein and shapes them as well. Furthermore, the

landscape producing practices cannot be confined to the activities of people, since

animals, birds, insects, plants and other forces of the natural world continuously

partake in the process of dwelling (Ingold 1993, p. 169). The landscape, which appears

as a sort of conglomerate of lives within it, itself becomes an important actor in human

lives and social relationships. In the context of Kalmyk cosmology, this idea of other

than human multivocal agencies in the landscape receives particular significance,

albeit with a twist, as Kalmyk “ritual geography” explicitly acknowledges landforms as

much more than merely objects that humans act upon (an important issue to which I

shall return).

6 The processual approach to landscape has received further theoretical development.

Hirsch (1995, pp. 4-5), for instance, has redefined the concept as a “cultural process”

relating “the two poles of the notion of landscape”, i.e. the foreground and the

background, which correspond to what he calls “the two poles of experience in any

cultural context”, or the foreground actuality of everyday life and the background

potentiality of social existence. The landscape therefore has a transformative and

contextual nature, being a realization of background potentialities (culturally specific

ideals and shared conceptions of what should be) in the foreground of social reality

(Hirsch 1995, p. 22). What appears particularly important in this approach for

understanding the Kalmyk landscape is that the “purest” and hence the most effective

form of potentiality, according to Hirsch, is “emptiness itself” (Hirsch 1995, p. 4). I

suggest understanding “emptiness” here in its most literal sense – as a place marked by

the absence of something, with the notion of “absence” being the defining component

of “emptiness”. It may sound like a paradox, but manifest absences are in fact latent

potentialities that can be effectively actualized in the social process of landscape

making, particularly in case of sacred or ritual landscapes which are projections of

cosmological orders. In this sense, maintaining the cult of mountains for centuries in

the topography of their absence, as is the case with the Kalmyks, no longer seems


48

absurd or paradoxical. Absences can be filled in with all kinds of alternatives and

representations. If we, following Peter Gow (1995, p. 44), define “representation” as

“something which stands for something else in its absence”, it becomes apparent that

representations require absences as for there to be a representation, the direct

perception of things has to be denied. Besides the absence of the object represented, a

representation entails, according to Gow, “a mode of fabrication and an element of

fantasy”, and these are highly contextual and implicated in socio-cultural relations

(Gow 1995, p. 44).

7 Being a social construct with culturally variable contents, the landscape is neither

homogeneous nor static. It may have multiple varieties even within the same territory

as different groups may attribute different meanings and values to the same

surroundings, which has led Barbara Bender to argue that landscapes “are always

subjective”, since the engagements with landscapes are “historically particular,

imbricated in social relations and deeply political” (Bender 2002, p. 104). For this

reason, a landscape can be a nexus, as well as a means, of competing claims and

contestations. Studies have shown that there may be various configurations of a

coexistence of different landscapes in the same country, in the same territory and even

among the same cultural and ethnic group; such distinct but coexisting landscapes can

overlap and complement one another, can be in confrontation or even mutually

excluding, or one landscape can encapsulate another. Analysing radically different

perceptions of their environment and contrasting ideas about landscape of the Buryats

and Russians, who nevertheless have to coexist in the same country, Caroline

Humphrey (2015), adopting the insights of the geographer Augustin Berque and the

anthropologist Philippe Descola, argues that “landscape” results from the interaction

of two distinct planes – the plane of geo-physical reality and that of human perception

imputed with “a particular signification and affect”. The necessary integration of the

two planes in order to produce a landscape happens by means of certain “perceptual

models” of cultural representation that can be linked to physical objects. Accordingly,

on the one hand, “landscape” is the result of a subjective and culturally specific

experience of social perception, whether the subject is individual or collective, but on

the other hand, it is inseparable from a given physical site. Humphrey suggests that it is

“absence”, by which she means “a switch to another ‘optic’” resulting in a specific non-

recognition or non-perception, that enables a coexistence of alternative, if not

mutually excluding, landscapes. To apply this insight to the Kalmyk context – where an

indifferent onlooker driving through the steppe would see a barely noticeable hill, an

archaeologist would spot an ancient kurgan that can be excavated and explored, a

devout Kalmyk Buddhist would venerate a sacred mount that should be left untouched.

According to the perceptual mode of the latter, a mound transforms into an “excluded

space” in the sense proposed by Nancy Munn (1996) – it is defined by prohibitions

restricting one’s presence at that particular locale and is therefore also marked by the

absence. In this sense, the Kalmyk ritual landscape deploys the potentiality of absences

to create cosmologically significant sites, or in terms of Munn “negative spaces”.

However, switching optical modes does not preclude from severe collisions and

political contestations between alternative landscapes, as was the case in Soviet

Kalmykia, another central issue of this article. Furthermore, for Humphrey (2015),

landscapes not only involve specific perceptual schemas (which are definitely far from

being limited to pictorial images and may mobilize other senses), but also represent


49

entire cosmologies “made up of political/military preoccupations, aesthetics and

religious convictions”.

8 In what follows, I shall illustrate roles and agencies of burial mounds in the making of

the Kalmyk Buddhist landscape, and by the latter I mean – taking into consideration

the theoretical insights presented above – a conceptual and ritual modification of

physical surroundings by means of actualizing the latent potentialities of “absences” in

order to represent, or more correctly to re-enact, the cosmological order. Not

intending to follow the process of integration of prehistoric burial grounds into Kalmyk

ritual life diachronically, I shall focus on the post-Soviet context of religious and ethno-

cultural renewal. The material introduced here is largely based on the field research

conducted in the summer and autumn of 2018 and is centred on two “sacred kurgans”

that have received great publicity in the republic.

Terminological variance: ovaa, tolga, ovoo and ovaa kurgan

9 The ritually significant mounds came to be known in regional ethnographic literature

and ritual practice under the compound and rather contested term ovaa kurgans. The

word ovaa, which is the Kalmyk variant of the Mongol ovoo2, denotes a heap of stones,

wood or soil erected in ritually significant places, such as on heights or at cross-roads,

with a similar tradition of constructing ritual cairns widespread throughout Inner Asia.

Besides “heap” or “pile”, the word ovaa also means “frontier” or “borderline” (Muniev

1977, p. 391). The two dictionary meanings point to the two major functions of these

constructions. Although their role is more complex, scholars tend to emphasize the

political and sacred aspects of these cairn-like edifices (Birtalan 1998; Sneath 2007;

Davaa-Ochir 2008). While marking the territorial divisions of society, they are erected

across Inner Asia foremost as sites for sacrifices to different categories of deities,

including those perceived as abiding in various landforms which they protect

(Kalm. ezen, Tib. sa bdag).

10 The construction of ovoos is undoubtedly connected with the cult of mountains and

heights, being its manifestation and enactment (Heissig 1980, pp. 101-109; Lindahl 2010;

Humphrey & Ujeed 2013, pp. 185-222). Usually conical in shape, the ovoo is meant to

represent the summit of a mountain and substitute for it in certain ritual settings

(Kværne 2015, pp. 172-173), for example, when the mountain peak is off limits,

prohibited from reaching or absent altogether. The latter seems to be relevant for the

Kalmyk case. In the context of the north Caspian flatlands, the significance of

mountains historically attributed among the Mongols and the functions of the ritual

heaps – an indispensable feature of the Inner Asian landscape – have been transmitted

in Kalmykia to the steppe kurgans. Similarly to the Inner Asian sacred cairns, burial

mounds dating from the periods much earlier than the Oirat migration to the Volga

flatlands have come to be perceived as smaller copies and representations of

mountains, being the highest points on the Kalmyk steppe and resembling natural

heights in shape (Bakaeva 2009, p. 98; Sharaeva 2017, p. 45).

11 Kalmyks also use the word “head” (Kalm. tolga), to refer to the mounds3. Just as the

head is the uppermost paramount part of the human body, kurgans are the uppermost

landscape entities in Kalmyk settlements, both in terms of their spatial dimensions and


50

the politico-ritual meanings ascribed to them among the Kalmyks. Representing

ancestral mountains, some mounds became the powerful foci of Kalmyk patrilineal

territories. Before the Soviet period, every Kalmyk district, associated with one or

several patrilineages, had its own sacred mound. It served as a marker of the clan

territory and an important ritual site where calendar offerings were made. As the head

lama of Orgakin Hurul, Baatr Elistaev, explained:

Tolga is a kurgan. It is a mound in the steppe. But ovaa is what is placed on its top,for example, a heap of stones or wood. (September 2018)

12 Ovaa as a ritual cairn, as opposed to a kurgan as a landform, serves as an indicator of

that which is to be worshipped and protected. Ovaa kurgans, or ovaa tolga, are

consequently those mounds that have been delineated as sacred sites and objects of

regular veneration. There is also a widespread opinion in contemporary Kalmykia that

the terms ovaa and tolga refer only to the mounds of earth and cannot be applied to the

cairns of stone or wood, or ovoo, the latter being perceived as not historically typical of

Kalmykia. As expressed by a local historian and ethnologist, Bemb Shantaev, in

personal communication:

Kalmyks say ovaa to name kurgans, because kurgans have always performed thefunctions of ovaa here. The classical stone heaps like in Mongolia have never beenspread in Kalmykia. It is only now that so-called professional Kalmyks begin tobuild them here. The absence of the stone cairns can be explained by the fact thatthere are no stones on the steppe. Since childhood, I have thought that ovaa is amound, but not a cairn of stones. Neither do I remember it made of wood or treebranches. We do not have forests like in Buryatia; it is a different type of region.(November 2018)

13 Accordingly, the ovaa and ovoo are interpreted in this case as two distinct words

denoting two different traditions, i.e. uniquely Kalmyk and a broader Mongol,

respectively. Moreover, as is evident form the quotation, there is a growing

controversy between those religious and political activists who try to promote the

building of stone heaps in Kalmykia as a vivid pan-Mongol tradition and those who

reject it as a non-Kalmyk post-Soviet imposition from Mongolia and Buryatia. Yet, such

a sharp divide, at least between the terms, would appear to be unfounded, as the

situation looks more complicated. On the one hand, ovaa and ovoo/oboγa are alternative

transliterations of the same term, which – as pointed out by scholars (Humphrey 1995,

p. 146) – is polysemantic and can denote a ritual cairn, the venerated landform or site

at which this cairn is placed and also the deities associated with the worshipped site

marked by the cairn. This seems to be precisely the case with the Kalmyk terminology.

On the other hand, despite the terminological genealogy and significant overlaps in

ritual functions, I would still suggest making a distinction, at least for heuristic

purposes, between ovaa/ovoo as a ritual cairn and ovaa kurgan as a worshipped landform

which is simultaneously a tumulus and hence a man-made ritual construction.

The ovaa kurgan as a microcosm: the universal centreand its invisible inhabitants

14 While some of the ritually significant mounds are physically distinguished by some sort

of permanent structure, in other cases the ritual delineation of worshipped kurgans

seems to be seasonal. Regional scholars describe a pre-revolutionary tradition of

erecting wooden poles decorated with reeds and scarves on the barrows that


51

functioned as ancestral mounts of a given locale (Erdniev 1985, p. 230; Bakaeva 2009,

p. 100). It was done during the annual ceremony of “sacrifice to the kurgan”

(Kalm. ovaa täklgn, tolga täklgn), which involved making offerings at the site of a barrow.

The practice of erecting wooden poles on kurgans still pertains among the Torghut

Kalmyks living in Astrakhan Oblast; about 1 m in height and 15 cm in diameter, the pole

must be made of coniferous wood, which is said to represent a tree and implies the idea

of longevity and regeneration. After the worship, the pole remains on the mound. It is

either redecorated or replaced with a new pole every year. It has been emphasized by

my interlocutors that even locals of non-Kalmyk origin, e.g. Kazakhs, Tatars or

Russians, know that a mound with a pole is a “special place” and usually do not go

there (conversation with Bemb Shantaev, November 2018).

15 A vertical pole is indeed an indispensable element of the Inner Asian ritual cairns of

different types – whether made of rocks, wood or earth, they are built around a central

pole in the middle or have one in their vicinity (Humphrey 1995, p. 146). A charismatic

Kalmyk lama from Tsagan Aman, Balji Nima, compared the pole of the ovaa with the

“tree of life” (Tib. srog shing) – a central wooden pole covered by Buddhist texts – inside

a stupa. According to his explanation, just as the “life force” (Tib. srog) of the stupa is

concentrated in the “tree of life” representing the central channel in the body, the

vitality and power of the ovaa is contained in its pole (cf. Wallace 2015, p. 231). He also

emphasized that both the stupa and ovaa, and hence any given ovaa kurgan, represent

Mount Meru, the centre of the universe in Buddhist cosmology4. Significantly, the

notion of “centre” in this context implies the ideas of verticality and connection.

Envisioned as a vertical pole or a pillar, the centre makes a link between earth and sky,

establishing connection between distinct and perhaps otherwise separated

cosmological realms (cf. Humphrey 1995, p. 142). Ritual actions performed at the site of

ovaa are also aimed at recreating the “centre”, or axis mundi, and thereby re-enacting

the joining of earth to sky. This joining is considered a prerequisite of ritual efficacy

and cosmological fortune. As Lama Balji Nima meticulously explained:

At the ovaa, we make offerings to spirits. The ovaa connects us with the spirits ofthe earth and water, the fire and the sky, and with the spirits of our ancestors. Igive them food by means of smoke and vapour from the ritual fire because spiritsand deities feed on vapours. The smoke that rises from the fire is also a pillar. Ipour melted butter or milk in the fire, some part of it evaporates – it goes up withthe vapours, smoke and smell. Some part of it seeps into the earth – it goes down. Aconnection between the upper and the lower is thus being established, and it isimportant to achieve this balance. You see ? We pour milk in the fire so that thevapours feed the spirits, and then the spirits absorb and carry the mantras we arereciting. In this way, the realms are also connected through the mantras. Only afterthis balance is established, I can ask the spirits to do something for me in return.Only then, they can help us. (interview, August 2012)

16 In this way, a mound is transformed into a sacred mount connecting the cosmological

realms. Furthermore, the ritually modified kurgan itself becomes envisaged as a

microcosm, a smaller bounded copy of the universe, and is also described in Kalmyk

popular Buddhist discourse in terms of the tripartite cosmology: its top as the upper

realm, the flanks as the middle and the foot as the underworld5. Each substratum of the

cosmos is perceived as inhabited or visited by corresponding categories of visible and,

importantly, invisible entities.

17 Constructing the landscape as swarming with innumerable non-physical beings who

are guardian deities of a particular territory is integral to Kalmyk, Mongol or Tibetan


52

cosmologies – if it makes sense to make this distinction at this point – and is common

throughout South and Central Asia. As I was told by Geshe Dugda, a now deceased

Tibetan monk who lived and worked in Kalmykia, every square metre of the land and

water is inhabited by some deity who protects his or her domain. Different

classifications of territorial gods are known in Tibet and Mongolia (Samuel 1993,

pp. 161-163; Wallace 2015). In Kalmykia, they have been roughly subdivided into the

“owners of the earth” (Kalm. hazrin ezen, sadak ) and the “owners of the water”

(Kalm. usn ezen, lu). Both categories of beings are perceived as able to cause illness and

calamities to those who pollute or intrude in their territory, while also granting well-

being and prosperity if propitiated by means of proper behaviour and offerings. It is

these entities that are said to have the power over rain and therefore perceived as able

to provide water for pastures, which makes them important recipients of the offerings

made at the site of kurgans. Asking for rain during hot seasons and for fecundity in

general, including childbearing, has been among the principal meanings of the

“sacrifice to the mound” (Kalm. ovaa täklgn), with kurgans functioning as central ritual

sites in Kalmyk fertility cults.

18 The top of the ovaa kurgan represents the upper realm(s) of heavenly beings. Virtually

equated with the summit of a sacred mountain, it is the area charged with holiness, to

which even Tantric deities and Buddhas are said to be descending. Significantly, as will

be shown later in the article, the height and dimensions of mounds do not seem to be of

primary importance in the Kalmyk context, with sometimes hardly visible barrows

serving as sacred heights. Women are traditionally prohibited from going up the

kurgans, even up the lowest ones, and must perform all ritual actions at the foot. One

common explanation for this taboo is that women are conceived of as closely connected

with the underworld and tied to the earth because of their fertility and reproductive

functions, being conventionally constructed as “impure”6. Numerous other taboos and

ritual prescriptions govern daily behaviour and structuralize the space at the site of

ovaa kurgans, an important question that I shall return to later. At this point, I should

mention that not all Kalmyk groups strictly observe taboos for women, one example

being a seasonal worship documented among Kalmyks living in what today is

Astrakhan Obslast (personal communication, February 2020). Furthermore, local

scholars (e.g. Sharaeva 2017, p. 45) describe the allegedly traditional Kalmyk ritual

dance, called “libation” (Kalm. tsatsal), that was performed on kurgans by both young

men and women; it involved numerous circumambulations and making libations of

milk on the top of a mound, which explains its name7.

19 The main season for making offerings at the site of kurgans is the summer festival of

Ürs Sar, which starts on the day of the full moon of the first summer month and lasts

for a month8. In the nomad context, it indicated the movement from spring to summer

pastures, with its annual celebrations aimed at procuring fertility and wealth. This

season coincides with Vesak, the central Buddhist festival marking the Buddha’s birth,

enlightenment and entering parinirvāṇa. While the annual festival of Ürs Sar is a

recurrent period of intersection of diverse religious meanings, an ovaa kurgan becomes

a socio-spatial nexus connecting the cosmological realms and representing the

hierarchical structure of the universe. Rites conducted at its site are addressed to the

entities of all realms, from the underground dragons to the heavenly gods, including

those who in Buddhist terms have left the cycle of rebirth altogether.


53

Network of sacred heights: Mount Bogdo andBuddhicization of the mounds

20 I would like now to address a question of what one may term “ontological masterhood”

in relation to the sacred mounds – i.e. who actually “owns” ovaa kurgans or “controls”

them in terms of Kalmyk cosmology, or rather cosmopolitics. Adopting de la Cadena’s

approach, I use the concept of “cosmopolitics” to refer to power relations and practices

that “include nonhumans as actors in the political arena” (Cadena 2010). The idea of

nonhumans in this context encompasses all aforementioned categories of invisible

deities and entities conceived of as either abiding in the Kalmyk landscape, or perhaps

occasionally visiting it. Negotiating the legitimate use of the local environment through

establishing proper relations with the agents considered masters of the land, foremost

by making offerings at kurgans, has been among the important cosmopolitical practices

in Kalmykia (see Sneath 2014 for parallels in Mongolia). Yet, the question of ownership

of the Kalmyk ritual landscape seems to present a certain degree of ambiguity among

the local devotees and religious specialists, especially if we keep in mind the Mongol

approach that a territory cannot have more than one sovereign (Humphrey & Ujeed

2013, p. 214).

21 One widely obtained opinion, also reiterated in the regional ethnographic literature

(Bakaeva 2009), is that the owner of all mounds and the Caspian steppe in general is the

White Old Man, or Tsagan Aava in Kalmyk (Cl. Mo. Čaγan Ebügen; Cyr. Mo. Tsagan

Ӧvgön), worshipped among the Mongols as a deity of long life and protector of nature

and herds9. In pre-revolutionary Kalmykia, an essential element of seasonal rituals at

the kurgans was a dough effigy of the White Old Man placed on the mound next to the

wooden pole (Erdniev 1985, p. 230). This ritual element can be still observed in some

areas. Although perceived as the master of the mounds, the main abode of the White

Old Man in Kalmyk traditional imaginary is not the highest ovaa kurgan, as one may

think, but Big Bogdo (in Kalmyk Bogd Uul, or “sacred mountain”), which is located 21 m

below the sea level near Lake Baskunchak in Ahtubinsk region, now in Astrakhan

Oblast10. It is the highest point and the only mountain – or more correctly, hill – in the

Caspian Depression region; its height above the sea level is about 150 m, while its foot is

situated 20 m below the sea level. It is also known as Singing Mountain due to natural

sound effects created by the wind almost constantly blowing through numerous caves

and sockets. Resembling huge honeycombs, these are located on the southwestern side

of Bogdo, the largest cave being around 1,5 km long. The White Old Man is said to abide

in one of these caves, having been basically assimilated with the hill. The site of the hill

and the lake has traditionally been an important pilgrimage destination for the

Kalmyks, particularly during Ürs Sar. Stones brought from Bogdo supposedly possess

curative power and are used in ritual medicine for diagnosing, healing and making

protective amulets. A spreading popular practice is to travel to the site of Bogdo on

horseback in groups, as well as to organize meditational retreats in its “singing caves”.

22 According to a well-known Kalmyk myth, Mount Bogdo was brought from the

“ancestral land” of the Kalmyks, with some variants specifying the Ural River and some

indicating Tianshan mountains in Xinjiang as its origin. One popular version of this

myth narrates that two monks were carrying it on their shoulders and when they

almost reached their destination, one monk under the influence of a demon began to

think lusty thoughts and therefore lost his ability to carry the holy hill, which became


54

too heavy and crushed him. The monk died and his blood coloured one side of the hill

red; for this reason, the northern side of Bogdo is red, while the southern side is white.

The legend continues, revealing the origin of Lake Baskunchak. During one of his trips,

the Dalai Lama decided to take a short rest near the hill Bogdo; having dined, he poured

the leftovers of his soup on the ground, and in this way the salty lake Baskunchak was

created (Basaev 2007, p. 205)11. This proximity of a sacred hill and a sacred lake may

remind one of the trope of a landscape couple constituted by a mountain and a water

source. Although common in Tibet and Mongolia (Humphrey & Ujeed 2013, p. 208;

Kværne 2015; Charleux 2015, p. 55), I have not heard such interpretations in relation to

Bogdo and Baskunchak. Another tale relates that Mount Bogdo was formed or (sic)

“grew” from a stone brought from Tianshan by Oirats at the time of their migration to

the northern Caspian region, while an alternative version of this story states that the

stone was brought by Kalmyk pilgrims from Tibet. In geological terms, the hill does

increase in height at least by 1 mm every year, its top being a dome of salt, and

therefore can perhaps be described as “growing”.

23 The stories attached to the hill Bogdo, while intended foremost to explain how it came

into being, portray the Kalmyk sacred Mount not as something static and invariable,

but as volatile and highly active. It is singing, growing, talking, moving and being

moved, and its current presence in Astrakhan is not necessarily permanent. The

motives of mountains moving and flying through space, or transported from one place

to another, are not rare in landscape myths of Mongolia (Empson 2011, pp. 31-33), with

similar ideas found in Tibet, China and Japan (Buffetrille 1996). The Kalmyks have had a

practice of bringing stones and earth from numinous sites, including worshipped

mountains outside Kalmykia, to new pastures, thereby empowering new territories by

connecting them to historically sacred sites (Bakaeva 2003, p. 207). The narratives

centred on Mount Bogdo reflect the creative interface between the Kalmyks and their

current physical surroundings. The position of Bogdo, the only hill amid the low-lying

flatlands, can be treated as an allegory of the Kalmyk ethnic distinction from the

neighbouring peoples of the North Caucasus and the Volga Region, and their historical,

cultural and linguistic belonging to Inner Asia. However, there is surely more to the

issue than this. I suggest that the stories attached to the hillock Bogdo tell us about the

construction of a specific Kalmyk Buddhist landscape by subjugating an untamed space.

Conceived of as a sacred mountain transported from the ancestral territories, Mount

Bogdo is defined by contemporary religious experts as having a “special connection”

with the mountain ranges of Siberia and Central Asia, and ultimately with the

Himalayas and Tibet. Although portrayed in legends as volatile and mutable, Bogdo is

said to be functioning as a structuralizing and stabilizing pillar of not only the Volga

steppes, but (sic) of “the entire North Caucasus”, including its mountain system. This is

how Lama Balji Nima describes the position and nature of the hillock:

I go to Bogdo every year to make offerings to the deities and spirits there, becauseit is the main mountain. It is the main energy centre that is holding the entireNorth Caucasus and it is cosmologically, and via its energy information[Rus. energeticheski-informatsionno], connected with all sacred mountains of CentralAsia, Altai and Tibet. The thing is that Bogdo is very powerful and has a very angryprotective master. It is red. Remember, Valeria, if a mountain is red, it has a verywrathful deity. If a deity is wrathful, then all rituals must be done with precision, nomistakes can be made because if he does not like something, he will hit you hard.You know, people disappeared there. Many people disappeared there or were founddead !


55

24 To continue this line of thought, each ovaa kurgan on the Kalmyk steppe is part of a

network of interconnected sacred heights with Mount Bogdo as its powerful focus, or

“centre”. Again, the centre in this case does not imply being in the middle, since Bogdo

is situated at the periphery of the Kalmyk region (which is no longer in the republic),

but involves the idea of the principal structuralizing power in the landscape. It is its

perceived connection with the sacred mountains of Altai and Tibet, as well as its highly

wrathful and even aggressive disposition as is clear from the lama’s explanation, that

enables it to keep the entire extensive region under control, despite its small size in

comparison with the mountains of the North Caucasus. Similarly to the Kalmyk

tradition of consecrating new pastures with stones and earth brought from distant

sacred sites, the placing of the hillock Bogdo on the Volga steppe and its contact with

the new ground enables a transmission of power and transforms the entire area into a

specific ritual space. In this way, the low-lying flatlands are empowered and

transformed into a system of ritual heights linked through the agency of its “energy

centre” to the sacred geographies of Mongolia, Altai and Tibet (fig. 1). The idea of

numinous sites forming one interconnected system that extends over great distances is

typical of Mongolia, which is reflected in prayers recited at ovoo rituals ( Evans &

Humphrey 2003) and continues to receive additional interpretations in new religious

discourses (Charleux 2015, pp. 53-54). What we have here is a case of landscape creation

in the Tibetan Buddhist mode of an aggressive subjugation of the ground (Gyatso 1989;

Schrempf 1994).

Figure 1. Mount Bogdo and Lake Baskunchak in the painting “Enlightenment” by V. Terehov, 2014

© Valeria Gazizova, September 2018, the Golden Temple of Buddha Śākyamuni, Elista; oral permissionhas been given


56

25 According to another interpretation, the owner of the Kalmyk land and all mounds is

Zunkva Gegän, or Tsongkhapa (Tib. Tsong kha pa), the 14th century Tibetan monk

Lobsang Drakpa (Tib. Blo bzang grags pa, 1357-1419) on whose teachings the Gelugpa

order of Tibetan Buddhism was founded. Here the degree of Buddhicization, or

institutionalization, of the landscape intensifies. The White Old Man functions in this

interpretation only as the master of water and the lord of dragons (Kalm. Usn lu haani

ezen), his sphere of influence having been reduced to the subterranean and aquatic, i.e.

to the underworld. It seems hardly surprising that the ownership of the Kalmyk

kurgans can be ascribed to Tsongkhapa, as Gelug has historically been the prevailing

Buddhist order among the Kalmyks. I suggest, nevertheless, that both interpretations –

whether it is Tsongkhapa or Tsagan Aava who is foregrounded as the sovereign of the

mounds – reflect the process of Buddhicization or “taming”, if to use the Buddhist

parlance, of the northern Caspian steppe. Although generally believed in Kalmykia to

be a deity of an older pre-Buddhist origin and sometimes even positioned as opposed to

Buddhism in certain religious groups (Gazizova 2018), the White Old Man has been a

legitimate figure, albeit not enlightened, of the Buddhist pantheon among the Mongols

at least since the 17th century (Heissig 1980, p. 79). Making offerings to Tsagan Aava at

the site of kurgans is therefore part and parcel of the Kalmyk Buddhist tradition. My

field research also suggests that it is Buddhist ritual specialists that usually preside

over the ovaa rituals in Kalmykia.

26 The question of the origin of the ritual cairns of Inner Asia and the extent to which

their proliferation has been influenced by the intensification of Tibetan Buddhism

among the Mongols beginning from the second half of the 16th century is frequently

addressed, but is largely unanswered. Although often interpreted by regional activists

as a much older tradition that with the establishment of Buddhism was integrated into

the new religion (e.g. Sneath 2014, p. 460), scholars nevertheless tend to suggest that

the cairn worship was less significant before the advent of Buddhism, if not absent at

all (Atwood 2004, pp. 414-415; Lindahl 2010, p. 245; Charleux 2015, p. 26)12. While the

origin of the ovoo remains unknown, the history of individual ovaa kurgans in Kalmykia

or rather the history of their incorporation into the ritual landscape and sacred

geography of the Kalmyks is often contained and passed on in legendary terms. I was

told the following tale about the allegedly first ovaa ritual in Kalmykia:

Once Tsagan Därk and Nogan Därk13 were travelling from Shambhala, the landwhere gods and enlightened beings live, to the Dalai Lama’s palace in Tibet. In themiddle of their journey, they took a short rest. After they left, a stream of freshwater welled up from the dry sandy earth near the kurgan to which they haddescended, and tall trees grew around it in a single night. Monks from a nearbymonastery conducted “worship” [Kalm. ovaa täklgn] there in honour of Tsagan Därkand Nogan Därk. This place received the name Ovaata, which means “having anovaa”. The distance between the Potala Palace and Ovaata is the same as betweenOvaata and Shambhala, only in the opposite direction. A footprint of one of them, adeep hollow in the ground, has survived to this day.

27 This legend connects the ovaa veneration and its origin, at least in the Kalmyk

landscape, with Buddhism as the first ovaa worship is said to have been conducted by

Buddhist monks in honour of White and Green Tārās, i.e. the central female figures of

the Buddhist pantheon, on the mound which they had visited. It also reiterates the

universal motive of gods or rulers of celestial origin (in our case female bodhisattvas)

descending on top of a mountain (Kværne 2015, p. 167), but in the Kalmyk context on a

mound as a substitute for a mountain. Moreover, the story reinforces the idea of the


57

ovaa kurgans representing a cosmological reference point or centre, this time being

situated in the exact middle between Potala Mountain, i.e. the abode of Avalokiteśvara

in the south, and the spatially opposed to it legendary Kingdom of Shambhala (Tib. bDe

’byung) in the north. In Buddhist cosmology, these are two of the five key sites, or

“Great Five Empowered Places” (Tib. gnas chen lnga), of the terrestrial continent on

which humans live. However, the area in the vicinity of the village Ovaata is famous not

for its mounds, but foremost for its medicinal springs that are said to have appeared

from the footprint of one of the Tārās mentioned in the legend. Miraculous footprints

on rocks or on other features of the landscape is also an indication of the taming

powers of enlightened beings in Tibetan Buddhist tradition (Schrempf 1994, p. 109).

The water from the springs near Ovaata reportedly heals female infertility, and the

gulch formed from the goddess’s footprint is considered a particularly powerful place

in which to ask for children. Communal worships were annually conducted at the

springs until this tradition was interrupted in the 1930s. A stupa, known as Ovata

Suburgan, was built there in the 1990s in honour of the Tārās.

Ovaa Kurgans as ancient tombs: abodes of the originallandlords of the steppe

28 There is another set of meanings attached to the ovaa kurgans in Kalmykia that

distinguishes them as a type of monument from the ritual heaps of Inner Asia and may

seem contradictory to the previous section of this article as it provides a totally

different answer to the cosmopolitical question of “masterhood” with regard to the

mounds. This set of conceptions, involving additional taboos, is connected with the

initial “direct” function of the mounds as tumuli containing graves of peoples who

lived in this area hundreds and even thousands of years before the Oirat westward

migration.

29 Scholars tend to agree that the Inner Asian ovoo, as distinguished from the Kalmyk ovaa

kurgans, are usually not sites of human burial, even though they do sometimes contain

relics of important ancestors (Evans & Humphrey 2003, p. 199) and in certain contexts

even signify the actual places of burial, one example being the Daur tombstone ovoos.

To what extent the Kalmyks used the mound tombs of their predecessors on the

Caspian steppe as their own mortuary sites remains to be investigated. Regional

historians mention that occasional burials at the foot of kurgans were practised in

Kalmykia until the 1930s (Sharaeva 2017, p. 46), although the role of pre-historic

mounds in Kalmyk life-cycle rites demands further research. In certain cases, kurgans

were reportedly used as the sites of cremation of Kalmyk nobles. Khan Donduk Dashi

(1741-1761) is said to have been cremated on a mound in the southeast of the Caspian

Depression, known as Chinderta Tolga, from “to be cremated” (Kalm. chindrlh)14. The

khan’s ashes were supposedly buried on the kurgan, although this type of burial was

not typical of the Kalmyks as the ashes left after the cremation of khans were usually

taken to Tibet to be used for making special statuettes (Bakaeva 2009, p. 99). The

mound Chinderta Tolga, also called Donduk Dashi Kurgan, has never ceased to be an

important site of worship, not even during the Soviet period. Perceived as regularly

visited by Buddhas and other enlightened beings, the earth from this mound and its

close proximity is said to have medicinal properties, being used during epizootics


58

(Tserenov 2009). In the 1990s, a stupa (Donduk Dashi Suburgan) was erected on the

mound in the memory of the khan.

30 With the advent of archaeological works in Kalmykia in the late 1920s15, it became a

matter of common knowledge that the mounds are ancient tombs containing various

historical objects, such as weapons, pottery, tools, jewellery and, importantly, human

remains that may date as far back as the Bronze Age. This understanding, largely based

on modern archaeological research, has received significance in Kalmyk cosmopolitics

and ritual life, being simultaneously presented as something historically known to the

Kalmyks, or rather the Oirats, since the time of their arrival to the Caspian lowlands.

The historicity of this knowledge cannot be rejected outright as a contemporary

“construct”, as burial mounds have been historically present throughout Inner Asia.

Thus, Tibetan kings of the pre-Imperial era were buried in huge earth mound tombs,

referred to as “mountains”, which were identified with the kings buried there and also

associated with mountains (Huber 1994b, p. 26); while dominating the Yarlung valley,

similar monumental mortuary structures are scattered throughout other areas of Tibet

(Kværne 2015, pp. 167-168)16. Nevertheless, whether the Oirats initially knew that these

barrows were graves of former inhabitants of this area and therefore wished to

propitiate them – especially if we keep in mind the Mongol notion that territorial

spirits are often souls of deceased people – or whether their importance has been

foremost connected with the cult of heights, the mounds often being the highest points

in the landscape, is another important topic that demands further research. One is

inclined to think that the origins of the cult of mounds in Kalmykia encompassed a

combination of multiple factors. While the complex issue of historicity of this

knowledge is beyond this article, I shall focus on some of its implications in

contemporary religious discourses and practice.

31 The ancient buried in the mounds have become regarded as another category of beings,

or powerful forces, with whom a proper relationship based on reciprocity must be

established and maintained. Whereas the Kalmyks are historically migrants to their

present-day locale in the northern Caspian lowlands, those buried in kurgans came to

embody the image of the original inhabitants and rulers of this land. Remaining in the

ground for centuries and even thousands of years, with their continued presence being

conspicuous in the mounds, they are the ancient protectors of the territory. In this

sense, a migrant as a newcomer must receive a sort of authorization to be allowed to

live in a new place. I shall give a short example to illustrate this aspect of the local

cosmopolitics. During my first visit to Tsagan Aman in the summer of 2012, Lama Balji

Nima was proud to show me a recently consecrated ovaa kurgan, a low mound on the

steppe just outside the village. A heap of stones piled around a tall pole in the form of a

long spear or a flagpole was erected on it. Inserted in the middle of the heap was also a

birch tree with ribbons and scarves of different colours tied to its branches, this

correlating with the aforementioned Torghut custom of erecting wooden poles on

kurgans. It received the name Ijil Golyn Ovaa (the “ovaa of the Volga river”), being

dedicated to the Torghut Kalmyks who died during the exodus from the Volga to

Jungaria in 1771, another grave page of Kalmyk history (fig. 2). Not only that

approximately 100 000 people out of the 169,000 who had departed for Jungaria that

year died, but it also led to the abolition of the Kalmyk Khanate by the tsarist

government. At the foot of the mound, there is a black marble monument in the form


59

of a small nomad tent (Kalm. ger) with a dedication verse to the victims of the exodus

(fig. 3).

Figure 2. Ijil Golyn Ovaa

© Valeria Gazizova, August 2012


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Figure 3. The monument dedicated to the victims of the 1771 Torghut exodus

© Valeria Gazizova, August 2012

32 The day after the ovaa consecration ceremony, Balji Nima had a vision, in which he saw

“a Sarmatian shamaness sleeping in a foetal position with a smile on her face under Ijil

Golyn Ovaa. Nine vases with precious offerings were placed around her.” He was very

content to have had this vision and interpreted it as a sign of approval from the ancient

protectors of this land. Balji Nima did not explain how he knew that the woman was

Sarmatian. The pre-historic inhabitants of the northern Caspian are popularly

conceptualized in Kalmykia as “Scythians” and “Sarmatians”17. What the lama did

explain was that by means of this vision the “ancient owners of the land” showed that

they had accepted the ovaa cairn and other offerings made at the kurgan and,

importantly, that they allow for this site to commemorate the Torghuts who died in

1771. In order to erect an edifice commemorating a certain part of Kalmyk history and

thereby inscribing Kalmyk history on the north Caspian steppe, a permission from

“Sarmatian predecessors” is envisaged as necessary in terms of Kalmyk cosmopolitics.

In this way, Ijil Golyn Ovaa through the ritual agency of a Buddhist lama has become a

point of convergence between what one can term the “history of the territory” (the

Volga steppe and all its previous inhabitants) and the “history of the people” (i.e. the

Kalmyks who descend from the Oirat migrants to these lands)18. Consequently, by

worshipping the mounds and thereby ritually appealing to the ancient protectors of

the steppe, the Kalmyks materialize their legitimacy not only of the land use, but also

of their very presence in the given locale. Literally understood as abodes of the lords of

the land housing bodies of the ancient, the ovaa kurgans function as spatiotemporal

power spots that not only establish connection between distinct cosmological realms

(i.e. the spatial aspect of axis mundi), but also serve as centres of interaction between

different times, or distant historical epochs. This brings us to the crucial question of

the temporality of ovaa kurgans, the issue I turn to next.


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Ovaa Kermen Tolga: archaeological excavations andactive sacred nature

33 Perhaps the biggest, and definitely among the most well-known, kurgan in present-day

Kalmykia is situated about 12 km southeast of Elista (the capital of Kalmykia), in the

Iki-Burul district near the village of Orgakin. It is the steppe-desert zone of the

southern part of the Ergeni Upland. At present, this kurgan is about 8 m in height and

80 m in diameter (fig. 4). Before the start of archaeological works in the late 1960s, its

dimensions were reported to have been greater19. Mounds of various size are located

around it, with a chain of smaller barrows stretching for several kilometres to the east.

Since the pre-Soviet era, this mound has been worshipped as the ancestral locus of the

Orgakin clan (Rus. rod)20 and is commonly known in Kalmykia by the name Kermen

Tolga. Later, the entire necropolis to the east of the kurgan came to be referred to in

archaeological literature as Kermen Tolga after its biggest barrow. Various popular

narratives accounting for its name circulate in Kalmykia. One legend relates that the

mound was called Kermen after the name of the girl allegedly buried inside it. Since

Kermen is a widespread Kalmyk name (meaning “squirrel”, from the noun kermn), this

account implies the Kalmyk origin of the woman buried in the kurgan. The head lama

of Orgakin Hurul, Baatr Elistaev, translated the name of the mound as “ship”,

connecting it with the noun kerm. He argues that the mound received this name

because of its great size and specific shape reminiscent of a sailing vessel.

Figure 4. Ovaa Kermen Tolga

© Valeria Gazizova, September 2012

34 Besides “ship”, the word kerm also denotes “fortress” or “citadel”. This accounts for

another narrative, according to which the kurgan Kermen Tolga was the fortress in the

capital of the South Scythian kingdom that allegedly existed in this territory at the turn


62

of the first millennium AD. Stories circulated among the locals relate that it concealed

Scythian gold, silver and precious jewellery. Most importantly, it is said to have housed

bones – and in some versions even (sic) “bodies” – of Scythian and Sarmatian nobles

until they were excavated and removed by Soviet archaeologists. Archaeological

research in fact attests that the Sarmatians inhabited the Ergeni Upland, being

particularly densely situated in the region of the necropolis. However, the origins of

the mound Kermen Tolga itself have been assigned by archaeologists to a much earlier

period.

35 Archaeological excavations of the burial ground were first conducted from 1968 until

1970, then again in 1977 and several times during the 1980s (Kol’tsova & Mandzhiev

2016). The kurgan Kermen Tolga was researched for the first time in 1968, which was

part of the archaeological survey conducted by a joint expedition of the Kalmyk

Research Institute of Language, Literature and History21, the Kalmyk Republican

Museum of Regional Studies (the present-day National Museum of Kalmykia) and the

Saratov State University. The works were directed by a Kalmyk historian, Uriubdzhur

Erdniev, and a Russian archaeologist, Ivan Sinitsyn. The excavations of 1968-1970

revealed that the kurgan Kermen Tolga consisted of four separate mounds built next to

one another (Erdniev 1982, p. 56). One may suppose that the kurgan was constructed in

several stages, which possibly stretched through centuries, if not longer. Inside the

kurgan, eleven burial chambers were discovered, six of which contained skeletons of

children. While most of the burials inside the mound have been assigned to the

Catacomb culture, i.e. the second half of the 3rd millennium BC, several could not be

dated as the skeletons inside these chambers had been severely destroyed either by

Soviet bulldozers during the excavations or looters supposedly of earlier historical

eras. Archaeologists do not reject the idea that these undated burials may belong to the

earlier Pit Grave culture (i.e. the Eneolithic to early Bronze Age, ca. 3300-2600 BC) as

the catacomb burials were often introduced in mounds built by earlier inhabitants. All

graves containing skeletons of children were attributed to the Catacomb period.

Besides human burials, four altar complexes discovered inside the kurgan contained

skulls and tubulars bones of sacrificial animals (mostly cattle, but also sheep), as well as

incense burners and clay vessels of different size and colour (mostly dark-grey, red and

ochre) (Erdniev 1982, pp. 53-56; Kekeev 2019). None of the burials in the biggest kurgan

have so far been attributed to the Sarmatian period, although this territory is

documented to have been an important Sarmatian centre, and mounds belonging to

Sarmatian culture have also been identified in its vicinity22.

36 Accordingly, one burial ground can comprise mounds dating from different historical

eras, a vivid example being the entire necropolis of Kermen Tolga as it houses mounds

identified as belonging to the Eneolithic Age, the Bronze Age, the Scythio-Sarmatian

period, and the Golden Horde23. Moreover, one and the same mound can include burials

of different historical periods, as is the case with the kurgan Kermen Tolga. What seems

to be particularly intriguing about this mound, and also correlates with Kalmyk

cosmological meanings attributed to the ovaa kurgans, is the case of its largest burial

chamber situated in the centre. It was identified by archaeologists as the main burial of

the kurgan, with the central position supposedly attesting to the social importance of

the person buried there. By the time of the excavations in the late 1960s, it had been

completely destroyed and plundered. Although it remains problematic to identify

precisely as to what era it dates from, one assumption is that it belongs to the Bronze


63

Age, as is the case with the majority of the burials inside this barrow. However, a small

axe (of a socketed type) was found inside it, as well as fragments of a horse skull with

runic inscriptions. While the axe was identified by researchers as belonging to the

Sarmatian period, the inscriptions on the skull were assigned to the epoch of the

Khazar Khaganate, i.e. the 7th-10th centuries AD. On this basis, Erdniev (1982, p. 104)

argues that the Sarmatian axe had been stolen from a different mound, one belonging

to Sarmatian culture, and left inside this grave of presumably the middle Bronze Age by

looters living in the Khazar Khaganate. In this sense, ovaa kurgans and the mound

Kermen Tolga in particular are indeed points of intersection of distant and entirely

distinct historical epochs.

37 It sounds like another paradox, but the Soviet archaeological research seems to

somewhat echo Kalmyk Buddhist cosmology by describing the steppe kurgans as joints

between distinct realms and eras. The central burial of Kermen Tolga presents an

illustrative case – a Sarmatian tool left in a Bronze Age burial by looters from the

Khazar Khaganate, with all this discovered and described in the Soviet period (one can

perhaps continue this line of time-lapse vision). In this interplay of temporalities, the

ovaa kurgans function as agents of both history and timelessness. By timelessness in

this case, I understand not so much the impossibility to define the concrete historical

origin of a monument in question (cf. Evans & Humphrey 2003), but rather the

multiplicity and non-linear coexistence of numerous temporalities in one particular

spatial context.

38 At the beginning of this article I have referred to several anthropological approaches

treating “landscape” as an ongoing process, or as a perpetual interactivity of

transforming and becoming, of shaping and being shaped (e.g. Ingold 1993; Hirsch 1995;

Bender 2002). Being in process, landscape is not only temporal, but also develops a

specific relationship with time – or more correctly it manifests a specific temporality,

which is akin to that of a narrative. Continuously incorporating or enfolding the lives,

activities, values and times of all its previous inhabitants, the landscape is

simultaneously unfolding to its current inhabitant or observer as a story, or rather as a

corpus of heterogeneous narratives – myths, legends, historical accounts or individual

life-histories attached to it. Bender (2002, p. 103), for instance, argues that landscape

manifests the materialization of time: “Landscape is time materialized. Or, better,

Landscape is time materializing”. The temporality of the landscape is therefore highly

complex as it encompasses the relationships between the endless temporalities of all its

inhabitants, previous and current; it is constituted by the cycles of all human and non-

human life and subsistence that have existed therein and have been incorporated in the

landscape (see also Ingold 1993). In this sense, the landscape has a temporal depth,

being history-laden and also memory-laden. Landscapes emerge not only through ways

of life, but also in the process of remembering, and for this reason they can play a

pivotal role in making histories and, consequently, making and unmaking identities.

“To perceive the landscape”, according to Ingold (1993, pp. 152-153), is “to carry out an

act of remembrance, and remembering is not so much a matter of calling up an internal

image, stored in the mind, as to engage perceptually with an environment that is itself

pregnant with the past”. I suggest seeing this type of engagement with the landscape as

creative remembering as it is creative of local pasts and identities. Remembering in this

case can be virtually equated with constructing histories and inventing traditions by


64

means of attributing meanings and interpretations to the perceived traces of the past,

or rather multiple pasts, in the physical surrounding (cf. Hobsbawm 1983, pp. 1-14).

39 Such interaction with the landscape through creative remembering is significant to the

practical and conceptual engagement of Kalmyks with the steppe burial mounds,

particularly in the post-Soviet era of ethno-cultural renewal. As discussed in the

previous sections of this article, the ovaa kurgans can be regarded as the quintessential

points of the Kalmyk Buddhist landscape, conceived of in the local idiom as copies of

the entire cosmos. Being material supports set in the landscape that connect numerous

historical periods and comprise a complex superimposition of temporalities, the

kurgans simultaneously function as important media of perceived knowledge about the

past through which histories are produced and related. The past or, more correctly,

multiple, heterogenous and seemingly unconnected pasts speak to a current observer

in the present through the kurgans and engagement with them. This experience of the

pasts in the present activates historical consciousness and enables a retrieval of

knowledge (and/or imaginaries) about the past from the land, depending on the

observer’s perspective. In the following sections, I shall continue demonstrating how

mounds can enable a retrieval of knowledge about the past, what periods of Kalmyk

history, as well as of Central Asian Buddhist history and a broader history of the

Caspian Depression, are brought into connection in the post-Soviet time and how it

works in the contemporary Kalmyk Buddhist cosmopolitics.

Conflicting landscapes and ambivalent agencies ofkurgans

40 While certain archaeological findings may surprisingly support Kalmyk cosmological

views, there is a severe ontological collision between archaeological science and the

Kalmyk ritual code in relation to the excavations of mounds. Numerous taboos with

regard to kurgans, including prohibitions from climbing and driving up them, or

grazing cattle there, are foremost connected with them being sites of human graves.

The idea of danger emanating from the dead and hence from human remains and burial

places is widespread in Mongolia, Altai, Tuva or Buryatia (Humphrey 2001, p. 63;

Halemba 2008, p. 284; Broz 2018). In Altai, for instance, dead bodies are considered

highly dangerous for the living as they are held to be connected with the “souls” of the

dead, or ghosts, that are highly protective of their bodily remains; the dead are said to

be particularly attached and therefore harmful to their kin, with a wide range of rituals

aimed at destroying the link between the deceased and their relatives known in Altai

(Anokhin 1924, pp. 19-32). Similarly to other Inner Asian societies, the Kalmyks believe

that the dead should not be disturbed – let alone removed from their graves –

otherwise they can harm the living by causing all types of misfortune, including severe

illness and even death. Burial grounds are generally considered “impure” and

dangerous, and unlike Russians, the Kalmyks do not have a tradition of

commemorating dead relatives by going to a cemetery every year.

41 The kurgans, however, are not simply regarded as ordinary burial sites, but – as already

explained – have come to be treated in Kalmykia as the abodes of the ancient masters of

the territory. Damaging mounds therefore can reportedly lead to even more serious

consequences than destruction of cemeteries. Stories about people being punished for

disturbing kurgans, such as accounts of boisterous chaps racing up a mound on a


65

motorcycle and breaking their legs, or even dying, are retold. Consequently, ovaa

kurgans, historically venerated by the Kalmyks as ancestral mounts, are governed by

ritual prohibitions in connection with them being both burial grounds of the ancient

and sacred heights of those living there today. It comes as no surprise that numerous

narratives of transgression and subsequent retribution, should be connected with

Kermen Tolga, the biggest ovaa kurgan in Kalmykia. To give an example: grazing cattle

on its top or even at the foot is considered a taboo, and it is also believed that if a cow

walks up on its top, a war will begin. In the summer of 1941, just before WWII, a cow is

said to have been seen on Kermen Tolga. In this way, through the medium of signs and

taboos, the kurgan communicates with humans.

42 A complicated multidimensional interface of polysemous agencies is apparent. On the

one hand, kurgans are conceptualized as abodes and meeting points of numerous

categories of non-human agents (nagas, the White Old Man, Tantric deities,

Tsongkhapa, Scythian and Sarmatian nobles, etc.), each category being more than

benevolent or even indifferent to humans and therefore demanding proper ritual

relationships. On the other hand, as if changing the degree of optical depth, ovaa

kurgans in their entirety are also seen as not merely passive geophysical objects, but as

active and agentic, i.e. they are recognized as intentional and able to act at their own

discretion. This acknowledgement can be hardly surprising if we remember that the

steppe burial mounds have been transformed into sacred mounts in the Kalmyk ritual

landscape and are therefore treated as wilful deities. Furthermore, the agency of ovaa

kurgans is highly ambivalent. Kurgans unite family clans, provide fertility to living

beings and prosperity to humans, warn people by giving signs and avert disasters, heal

the sick, grant wishes and even reveal treasures, the topic I shall return to later.

However, they can also punish for intrusion on their territory and breaking taboos

against actions regarded as polluting. Illnesses, disasters, road accidents, crimes,

untimely deaths and even wars are said to happen because mounds and hence all

entities abiding or meeting at their site have been mistreated. Ambivalent agencies

permeate the entire Kalmyk landscape as it is “cosmopolitical” in the sense suggested

by de la Cadena (2010) or Stengers (2005), i.e. recognizing the powers and intentions of

non-human elements dwelling in it – in this way people, animals, spirits, deities,

Buddhas, etc. all partake in the process of constituting and transforming the Kalmyk

landscape24.

43 Locals of the Iki-Burul district still frequently express their great dismay at the

archaeological research – or in their words “archaeological destruction” – of Kermen

Tolga. After the excavations in the late 1960s, the site of the mound is said to have

become highly inauspicious and allegedly provoking numerous car accidents in its

vicinity. This was interpreted by the locals as an inevitable retaliation for having

opened the sacred mound, as well as other barrows around it, and removed the bones

and objects that had been concealed there for several thousand years. This Kalmyk

controversy reminds us of the conflicts in relation to the so-called Ukok Princess, a

2500-year-old female mummy discovered in 1993 by Russian archaeologists in a mound

on the Ukok Plateau in the Republic of Altai (Halemba 2008). While the locals in Altai

attribute the earthquakes and other disasters in the area to the wrath of the excavated

“princess” and insist that she should be reburied, the scientists see the well-preserved

mummy foremost as a highly significant archaeological find that can lead to further

scientific discoveries. With the mummy officially recognized as part of the national


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heritage of the Russian Federation, the Altaian requests for its reburial have been

systematically denied (Halemba 2008; Broz 2009; Plets et al. 2013)25.

44 As is the case with the Ukok Princess, the human remains and objects removed from

Kermen Tolga cannot be reburied in the mound, even though this is held to be the best

way to restore the proper relations between the mound and people in terms of Kalmyk

cosmopolitics. In both cases (whether in Kalmykia or Altai), we have a situation of

collision between two conflicting and simultaneously interpenetrating systems and

their corresponding “landscapes”, i.e. that of the Soviet/post-Soviet state and that of

“cosmopolitical geography” of the local population. While the latter constructs the

mounds with the ancient dead buried inside as special places of “exclusion” marked

and protected by strict ritual taboos, the former is aimed at penetration, centralization

and conquest of the land, its resources and its history. Nevertheless, the desecration of

Kermen Tolga had to be ritually rectified; first and foremost, it had to be done in order

to stop frequent road accidents in the area. It was considered the duty of local lamas to

appease the wrathful agencies of the landscape and to purify the site by rebuilding the

destroyed kurgan, re-consecrating it and restoring it as a place of worship. Re-

consecration of mounds, particularly those that have been looted or destroyed by

excavations, is an important Kalmyk cosmopolitical means of improving relationship

with the landscape.

45 In the mid-2000s, Kermen Tolga was restored as a place of worship largely through the

efforts of Orgakin Hurul. The Kalmyk term hurul is currently used for both a Buddhist

monastery and temple, and can denote both a community of fully-ordained monks and

that of non-celibate Buddhist professionals. The present-day Orgakin Hurul consists of

so-called “lay lamas” with the vows of genin (Tib. dge bsnyen). Positioned as the sacred

locus of the Orgakin clan, Kermen Tolga is viewed as historically connected with

Orgakin Hurul, also having a spatial interrelationship with the restored temple. Among

the most well-known post-Soviet Kalmyk Buddhist organizations, thanks to the efforts

of its devoted head lama Lopon Gombo Dorje (Baatr Elistaev), the present-day Orgakin

Hurul defines itself as a successor of one of the largest and most hallowed pre-

revolutionary Kalmyk monasteries, Rashi Lhunpo (Tib. bKra shis lhun po), or – to use

the full Kalmyk name – Ik Bogdo Dalai Lamin Rashi Lhunpo. It is said to have been

founded in Tibet by the fifth Dalai Lama, Ngawang Lobsang Gyatso (Tib. Ngag dbang Blo

bzang rGya mtsho), and brought to the Volga steppes in 1681 as a gift to Aiuka Khan,

the ruler of the Kalmyk Khanate from 1672 until 1724 (interview with Baatr Elistaev,

October 2018)26. Pre-revolutionary monasteries were usually associated with particular

patrilineages, with Rashi Lhunpo belonging to five Kalmyk clans, including that of

Orgakin. In 1856, it was abolished by the Russian government, but nevertheless

continued functioning “secretly” as unofficial prayer yurts were set up by monks from

the former Rashi Lhunpo soon after its dissolution. Orgakin monks established their

“secret” monastery in the late 1850s in the same place where the post-Soviet Orgakin

Hurul was built in the 2000s27. Accordingly, a patrilineal descent and spatial

relationship function in the given case as the ground for being acknowledged as a

legitimate successor of a pre-revolutionary monastery and/or Buddhist lineage.

46 The consecration of Kermen Tolga was attended by over 100 people from different

districts of Kalmykia (interview with Baatr Elistaev, October 2018). Being the biggest

restored ovaa kurgan, its present-day veneration does not seem to be limited to the

Orgakins. Lamas from Mongolia were also invited for the rituals. During the worship, a


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heap of stones around a high central pole was erected on the top of the kurgan by all

men present at the ceremony. While women were circumambulating the mound and

offering libations of milk at the foot, men went up the barrow and each added a stone

to the cairn on its top. The stones had been brought from elsewhere and placed at the

foot of the mound before the ceremony. The poles, covered in prayer flags, around the

stone cairn reportedly denote the ten directions in Buddhist cosmology28. These

attributes reiterate the idea that the ovaa kurgan represents the entire cosmos.

47 New stones are regularly added to the cairn on Kermen Tolga (exclusively by men) as

offerings to the mound and its seasonal renewal during Ürs Sar. Other usual offerings

to ovaa kurgans include coins, sweets, pastry, and libations of milk, tea and vodka. In

the pre-Soviet era, travellers would also leave their cut off fingernails, and even

toenails, at the foot of the mounds, especially if they had nothing else to offer. There

does not seem to be one particular explanation of why nails were offered to kurgans.

Since nails traditionally function among the Kalmyks as a substitute for the entire

human body and also represent the life-force of a person, one may suppose that it was

another case of reciprocal exchange, involving self-offering for the sake of protection

and good fortune, between a sacred height and humans. While offering one’s life-force

to the kurgan, the person not only showed respect to the invisible beings residing in it,

but also intensified the life-force of the mound and thus increased his or her own well-

being29. At present, ribbons (Kalm. ölgtsy) of different colours, ritual scarves

(Kalm. hadak, Tib. kha btags) and prayer flags (Kalm. ki mörn, Tib. rlung rta) are tied to

the trees in the vicinity of Kermen Tolga, while the prayer flags covering the poles on

the top are renewed annually. During the seasonal rituals of “sacrifice to the ovaa”, dry

incense, grain, offering cakes made of dough or paper (Kalm. balin, Tib. gtor ma) and

certain parts of a sacrificial ram burnt in the fire are usually offered. Another type of

offering is known as setrlh, when a sheep or goat is consecrated to the kurgan and the

deities associated with it30. Distinguished by a ribbon, the consecrated animal is

considered ritually protected and cannot be slaughtered for food. In general, one may

conclude that ritual practices and actions at the Kalmyk ovaa kurgans largely overlap

with those conducted at the ovoo elsewhere in Mongol areas, such as inserting a pole on

its top, laying offerings before it, consecrating animals, making offerings of libations,

circumambulating it clockwise, making wishes, to name just a few (cf. Davaa-Ochir

2008; Lindskog 2016).

A mound reveals “treasure”: the Shatta discovery

48 In the spring of 2016, a pre-revolutionary collection of Buddhist images and ritual

objects was found in a mound between the villages Shatta and Altsynhuta in the

Ketchenerovskii district, the so-called “heart of Kalmykia” due to its central location. It

was discovered by a Kalmyk electrician in his mid-fifties living in Shatta. According to

his own account, he was helping his nephew with herds on a bright May day when he

saw a small bronze statuette on a mound on the steppe near his nephew’s livestock

farm. As he was told later, it was an image of an arhat from an iconographical

composition comprising the Buddha and his two close students. The image was badly

damaged and had no arms. Fascinated, he brought it home and showed it to his wife,

who insisted that he should go back and find the arms as keeping damaged images of

deities is believed to be highly inauspicious. The following morning, with a shovel in his


68

hands, he came back to the mound. While looking for the lost arms, he found more

statues, all reportedly buried half a metre in the mound (interview with Nikolai Ivanov,

October 2018). Monks from the Central Hurul of Kalmykia, the Golden Temple of

Buddha Śākyamuni (Kalm. Burhn Bagshin Altn Süm), were soon invited to identify the

objects and possibly help with further discoveries (fig. 5).

Figure 5. The head monk of the Central Hurul, Anja Gelüng, reciting prayers on the mound where theShatta collection was found

© B. Shantaev, August 2016; oral permission has been given

49 Unlike Kermen Tolga, the mound where the images were found does not seem to have

any particular name, being not bigger than 2 m in height and 20 m in diameter.

According to my interlocutors, it has not been excavated by archaeologists. Although

popularly referred to as a “Scythian kurgan”, archaeological research conducted in the

northernmost reaches of the Caspian Depression, including the area between Shatta

and Altsynhuta, reveals that most kurgans there date from the middle Bronze Age and

may contain human burials of different historical eras. The only excavated mound in

the vicinity of Altsyhuta had one burial belonging to the epoch of the Golden Horde

(Kol’tsov & Dremov 2011, pp. 27-39; Kol’tsova & Mandzhiev 2016, p. 105).

50 All in all, over twenty items have been unearthed from the same mound, among which

are ten statuettes of Buddhist figures, including images of Buddha Śākyamuni,

Amitāyus, Avalokiteśvara, the lion-headed ḍākinī Siṃhamukhā, the bear-headed

Ṛkṣavaktra, and a bronze triptych of the Buddha and his disciples. Several of these have

been identified by the monks from the Central Hurul as having been brought from

Tibet, but could not be dated precisely. Besides the statues, a thangka (Tib. thang ka), a

traditional Buddhist depiction on fabric, and Tibetan texts had been concealed, but

they crumbled as soon as they were unearthed, with only small fragments remaining.

The other objects have been repaired as far as possible, and now they belong to the


69

permanent collection of the Museum of the History of Buddhism in the Central Hurul in

Elista. The head lama of Kalmykia (Shadjin Lama) Telo Tulku Rinpoche blessed the

discovery, acknowledging its historical and religious importance, and named it “the

Shatta collection”.

51 The discovery and events around it received much attention in the local media31. The

unearthed images are popularly accorded numinous powers and even revelatory status,

being perceived as having revealed themselves – or “returned” – at the time of the

ongoing religious and ethno-cultural reconstitution. “Buddhas are coming out from the

ground”, runs the heading of an article in a local newspaper, its conclusion effectively

summarizing the local reverence towards the find:

The Kalmyk land is keeping many secrets. Many sacred relics, so dear for us, arestill waiting for their turn. Buddhas cannot stay forever in the darkness, they arereaching out for the light. (Koneev 2016)

52 One is reminded of the Tibetan “treasure”, or terma (Tib. gter ma), tradition of a

revelation of texts and objects of religious significance that are believed to have been

hidden away in various places (e.g. statues, trees, landforms and even one’s mind)32 by

adepts in the past in order to be recovered at an appropriate time in the future (e.g.

Gyatso 1996). This particular discovery in the kurgan comes closest to the category

known as “earth treasure” (Tib. sa gter), which refers to physical objects revealed from

the ground, rocks and so on. The opposition and alternation of “darkness” and “light”,

as is evident from the quotation, with Buddhas having to go underground and stay in

darkness during the painful Soviet period, are the tropes that Tibetan terma literature

(Gayley 2007) and Kalmyk narratives centred on the recently unearthed images seem to

share.

53 However, the Shatta collection has not been officially recognized as terma by the

Kalmyk Buddhist establishment. Technically, the “treasure revelation” is a much more

complex process based on visionary experience of treasure discoverers, or tertön (Tib.

gter ston), and includes a number of obligatory stages (Thondup 1990). For the found

items to be recognized as “treasures”, their discoverer must first be identified as a

reincarnation of an earlier treasure concealer or that of his students (Gyatso 1996).

Moreover, the Kalmyk Central Hurul, which supervised the restoration and ritual

works in connection with the Shatta find, view the terma tradition as not historically

typical of Kalmykia (interview with Anja Gelüng, November 2018). Although not

recognized as terma, the unearthed Shatta images are nevertheless treated as “sacred

relics” and regarded as discovered treasure objects in a broader sense. Exploring

treasure discoveries in Greece, particularly those belonging to prophetic traditions and

accorded religious significance, Stewart defines treasures as “traces of the past in the

present” (2003, p. 487), arguing that their very value consists in that they benefit the

present and also the future by revealing the past. In this sense, treasures are not only

bound up with history, but they also have a potential to produce and re-evaluate

history. The images found in the Shatta mound serve to inspire faith among devotees,

strengthen the on-going religious renewal and, most crucially, promote Buddhism as

the historical religion of the Kalmyks.

54 Although nobody in Kalmykia has ever referred to the electrician from Shatta as a

tertön, it has been emphasized not only by older locals, but also by the Kalmyk Buddhist

establishment and regional media that it was not a mere coincidence that it was this

particular man who found the hidden objects. In the Buddhist idiom, such discoveries


70

are made neither by chance nor by any random person. The Shatta discovery is

attributed to the “karmic mission” of the man who found it because his granduncle was

Gavva Saperov, a revered Buddhist monk and the Shadjn Lama of Kalmykia in the early

1920s. Some locals go as far as saying that he is a rebirth of his renown granduncle.

Born in 1884, Gavva Saperov studied for sixteen years in Tibet and received the degree

of geshe (Tib. dge bshes). Returning to Kalmykia in 1917, he taught Buddhist philosophy

at Tsannid Chöra (Tib. mtshan nyid chos grwa) Hurul, the main educational centre for

Kalmyk monks established in 1907. He was elected the Lama of the Kalmyk Buddhists in

1920, but had to renounce this post after four years due to poor health. In 1931, he was

accused of counterrevolutionary activity according to Article 58 in the Soviet Criminal

Code, standard charges for clergy in the 1930s, and sentenced to seven years of forced

labour in corrective camps (Dordzhieva 2014, p. 43). What seems to be particularly

important for our case is that Lama Saperov is remembered in Kalmykia foremost for

his healing and visionary talents, or siddhi – the Indic concept routinely translated as

“magic powers” – attributed to him. Oral histories relate that he cured alcoholism by

means of a special whip that he had inscribed with magic formulae (Kalm. tärni;

Skt. dhāraṇī)33. It is popularly believed that the old lama bequeathed some part of his

visionary talents to his grandnephew, which enabled the latter to make the discovery.

Mounds as “agents” of concealment and mnemonicdevices

55 While no one in Kalmykia seems to have doubts as to who found the Shatta collection,

different opinions have been expressed with regard to who might have concealed it. All

versions, nevertheless, relate to the Soviet period, when Buddhism, having been

defined as “counterrevolutionary”, went underground, including in the literal sense.

Not only did it become an unofficial activity conducted in secret to avoid government

punishment, but as was the case during periods of the persecution of Buddhism in

Tibetan areas (McGranahan 2010) and in Mongolia (Lindskog 2016), Kalmyks also buried

Buddhist texts, images and ritual objects in the ground, particularly in the 1930s and

the early 1940s, the decades of severe anti-Buddhist repressions and subsequent

deportation of the Kalmyks. When the Kalmyks were allowed to return to the Volga

steppes in the late 1950s, some of these Buddhist items were unearthed and kept at

homes, being used in covert rituals. In this movement of concealment, mounds were

often chosen as the sites for deposition. As has been explained to me, one reason was

their salience – as mounds are relatively prominent and easy to identify, people hoped

they would know where to look for the hidden objects upon return. Paradoxically, the

most salient features of the landscape functioned as sites of concealment of then

compromising Buddhist paraphernalia. Furthermore, envisioned as abodes of deities

and therefore ritually protected sites, the ovaa kurgans were regarded as safer and

more appropriate places for depositing Buddhist images and texts, i.e. objects

perceived as holding the Buddha presence. This period of severe persecution of religion

can be nevertheless described as another wave of the Buddhicization of the Volga

steppe, albeit in a different and quite literal sense. Hidden in the ground, Buddhist

images and texts transmit the sacred presence they are conceived of as holding to the

ground through the contact with it and thereby empower the land. Consequently,

mounds received another important meaning in the Soviet era, that of protectors of the


71

Dharma during the time of Buddhist suppression. It is therefore not surprising that

mounds are important places where Buddhist “treasures” can be found34.

56 People living in Shatta are convinced that it was somebody from their village who hid

the images in December 1943, when the entire Kalmyk population was to be deported,

having been accused of treason against the Soviet Union. However, monks from the

Central Hurul insist that the collection must have belonged to a monastery. They base

their opinion on the fact that the ḍākinī images 35 found among the items have never

been typical of Kalmyk lay practices (fig. 6). The head monk of the Central Hurul, Anja

Gelüng, suggests that the collection must have been evacuated from the temples that

used to be situated in about 6 km from the mound where it was found36. Indeed, a

monastery complex is documented to have existed on the territory of the present-day

Altsynhuta village until the late 1920s (Borisenko 1994, ills). Its construction is

connected with the year 1817 as this number is inscribed in the Tibetan script on a

sheep shoulder blade discovered in the foundation of one of the destroyed temples. The

inscription on the scapula is considered the year marking the building of the first

stationary temple there. The place of the former monastery and its environs, including

the mounds, is held to be sacred, with legends and prophecies attached to it. Locals

relate other occasions when Buddhist images and ritual paraphernalia were found in

the kurgans in its vicinity, including stories of looting and subsequent punishments

from the mounds.

Figure 6. The image of Siṃhamukhā found in the mound

© Valeria Gazizova, November 2018; oral permission has been given

57 In Soviet Kalmykia, mounds functioned not only as hiding-places for “illegal” Buddhist

objects, but also as sites of covert worship. Although Buddhism and local forms of folk

healing remained illegal in Kalmykia until 1988, underground religious centres were

functioning during these decades around dissident monastics who had received a

Buddhist education before the persecution of religion and survived years in corrective


72

labour camps. The vast repertoire of rituals conducted by returnee Buddhists included

seasonal worships at kurgans, with virtually every village having a particular mound

where annual offerings were covertly made. “Covertly” in this case rather means

“unofficially” as the local administration usually turned a blind eye to these events.

While some of these ritual loci were the kurgans traditionally venerated by definite

patrilineages, others are closely associated with ritual practices of certain

“underground lamas” of late socialism. An example of the latter is a low mound near

the village of Yashkul in the southeast of Kalmykia, known as Ürlin Tolga, after the

name of Ürlia Badgaev (1896-1980), a Buddhist monk and doctor of Tibetan Buddhist

medicine (Kalm. emchi) who secretly conducted rituals in the 1960 and 1970s. In the

mid-2010s, a small altar room was built on the mound (fig. 7). People from Yashkul

continue making offerings there for the sake of timely rains twice a year (interviews,

October 2018).

Figure 7. Ürlin Tolga

© Valeria Gazizova, October 2018

58 Among the well-known centres of religious practice during the time of “underground

Buddhism” was in fact the village of Altsynhuta, where Namka Kichikov (1901-1985), a

Kalmyk doctor of Tibetan Buddhist medicine and a former monk, lived. The entire area

in the vicinity of the village, including the kurgans, is linked to his name. Almost every

person older than thirty that I met during field research had an amazing story to tell

either about their own visits to Namka or him saving their relatives, or helping

someone they knew. In the 1990s, a temple was built in his memory in Altsynhuta, and

in 2014, a stupa in his honour was erected in the village (fig. 8). It is at the site of the

mound where the Shatta collection was discovered that Namka, usually in a small

group of other returnee monastics, is said to have conducted seasonal worship

throughout the 1960s and 1970s. Older inhabitants of that area remember that Namka


73

would ask them not to go up this mound or sit and eat there, or smoke on its top, while

shepherds were strictly prohibited from grazing livestock near it. Locals, particularly

the older generation, usually throw coins when passing this site as offerings to the

sacred kurgan. Besides other meanings attributed to kurgans in Kalmykia, this special

attitude of reverence is locally explained foremost by the fact that the old lamas knew

that statues and texts, or “treasures”, had been hidden there. In the words of the

Kalmyk researcher Bemb Shantaev:

Three well-known former gelüng37, who secretly practised during the Soviet time,gathered at this place to recite prayers. It was Namka, Zodva38 and… I cannot recallthe name of the third lama. They gathered at the very place where the Shattacollection has been found. It means they knew that something important had beenburied there, they knew it was a sacred place. (October 2018)

59 Family descendants of Namka Kichikov insist that it was none other than Namka

himself who buried the discovered Shatta Buddhas in the mound. During my visit to

Altsynhuta in the autumn of 2018, Namka’s eldest son explained that that particular

stretch of land in the vicinity of the former monastery, including the mound, has

historically been the “ancestral territory” of their clan (Rus. rodovoe mesto), and it is at

the site of that particular mound that their extended family gathers twice a year for

seasonal worship. All these different versions accounting for the origin of the Shatta

collection seem equally plausible, with still more tales circulating. Amidst this plethora

of narratives, the mound functions not only as the site where the Kalmyk Buddhist past

is unfolding, but itself appears as the key agent of concealment and revelation of

“treasures” of the local – in this particular case, of Kalmyk Buddhist – history.

Retrieving and reconstructing the relatively recent Soviet past is another important

role, and another type of agency, that has been attributed to the steppe mounds with

the advent of the postsocialist era.


74

Figure 8. The stupa in the memory of Namka Kichikov in Altsynhuta

© Valeria Gazizova, October 2018

60 In the context of Kalmyk Buddhist history during the Soviet period, the kurgans came

to be closely connected with the idea and practice of “secrecy”, by which I mean

concealment in a general sense. In the Buddhist tradition of the Tibetans and Mongols,

the notion of “secrecy” when applied to the landscape is foremost associated with caves

as they literally represent hidden void spaces inside another landscape entity. One is

immediately reminded of meditation caves, secret cave temples, tunnel caves or womb

caves that have historically constituted important pilgrimage places in Buddhist

cultures (Charleux 2015). In the Kalmyk landscape, however, this function has been

attributed to the most conspicuous landforms in the given topography. As shown

above, during the Soviet state persecution of religion kurgans functioned

simultaneously as cashes of Buddhist images, as sites of “illegal” covert worship and

were often associated with underground dissident lamas and healers who secretly

conducted rituals during this time. Furthermore, if we keep in mind the initial function

of the burial mounds, we can view them as a type of “secret box” structures, with the

kurgans being graves disguised as natural hills and, in this way, initially conceived of as

containing much more than it may seem at first glance. In this sense, it seems no longer

surprising that kurgans became important media through which relationships

involving secrecy can be transposed.

61 However, secrecy is not limited to the process of concealment, but rather operates

through the alternating and interrelated strategies of “concealment and revelation,

exclusion and inclusion” (Jones 2014, p. 54). The paradox of secrecy is that it is a form

of social agency that is inseparable from at least partial revelation of what it is meant

to conceal (Herzfeld 2009, pp. 135-137; Urban 2017 p. 22). While routinely defined as

opposed to “publicity”, secrecy – as aptly coined by Herzfeld (2009, p. 135) – “must


75

itself be performed in a public fashion in order to be understood to exist”. Regarding

the secrecy of Kalmyk kurgans, the revelation mechanism in this case operates by

means of both material discoveries or “treasures” in the land, such as the Shatta

collection, and what I have referred to earlier as “creative remembering”. Kurgans act

as powerful mnemonic devices set in the landscape, allowing for storage and retrieval

of social memories and perceived knowledge about the past. Firstly, ovaa kurgans are

traditionally connected to particular Kalmyk patrilineages and clan territories, which

are constitutive of contemporary Kalmyk ethnic identities. Secondly, mounds are also

often associated with certain pre-revolutionary Buddhist monasteries and

personalities, this connection being highly significant for reconstitution of Kalmyk

religious identities. Furthermore, as my material shows, any given kurgan may serve

simultaneously as an index to numerous other historical and mythological events,

charismatic Buddhist adepts and healers of the past, half-legendary khans and war

heroes, miraculous recoveries and prophetic visions. Hence, kurgans are not merely

static reminders (or mementoes bound up with one particular personality, monastery

or clan) encoded in the landscape, but the sites where the pasts are being endlessly

concealed and revealed, and recreated and revalued.

Conclusion

62 In the context of the northern Caspian flatlands, the burial mounds of pre-historic

inhabitants of this territory have been incorporated in the religious and political life of

the Kalmyks. What came to be referred to in Kalmykia by the compound term ovaa

kurgan/ovaa tolga constitutes a specific interstitial category of ritual sites which

combines the significance of sacred mountains traditionally attributed among the

Mongols with the functions of the Inner Asian ovoo. This article has described some of

the complex semantics imputed to the steppe mounds within the framework of

cosmopolitical geography of the Kalmyks. While conceptualized as reference points of

the sacred geography and cosmology projected onto the physical world, the kurgans

have also been instrumental in the process of Buddhicization of the northern Caspian

region, i.e. in the making of the Kalmyk Buddhist landscape. As my material shows, the

Caspian Depression emerges in contemporary Kalmyk Buddhist discourse and ritual

practice as an empowered special zone, not to say paranormal, largely situated below

the sea level and consisting of a complicated network of innumerable ancient tumuli.

This conceptually constructed system of “interconnected sacred mounts”, albeit in the

topography of flatlands situated below the sea level, is also perceived as having been

ritually connected – and thereby structuralized – to the mountain ranges of Central

Asia, Altai and the Himalayas, being therefore conceived of as part of the sacred

geographies of Mongolia, Altai and Tibet.

63 Any given ovaa kurgan appears as a representation – and also an excerpt – of the entire

cosmos applied to the physical world which encompasses a vast number of different

categories of non-human actors (deities, spirits, dragons, etc.) with whom proper

relations are to be established and maintained, including foremost by means of

offerings and rituals taboos at the site of mounds. In this sense, the kurgans function as

powerful places of exclusion limiting one’s presence and structuring one’s conduct at

their site. It is precisely for this reason, because they function as powerful “negative

spaces” in the Kalmyk landscape, that the kurgans often become the foci of competing


76

claims and collision between conflicting systems, e.g. between the Soviet state and the

Kalmyk Buddhist establishment, or between archaeological research and Inner Asian

cosmopolitical geographies.

64 Of central importance is the attributed role of kurgans as powerful binding forces

which function not only as a socio-spatial nexus of Kalmyk cosmology, establishing

connections between distinct universal realms, but also as points of intersection of

different historical epochs. Ritual actions performed at the site of kurgans are also

aimed foremost at recreating the mound as a universal centre and thereby re-enacting

the joining of earth to sky. It is this role of a powerful connecting focus that can

account for the multiplicity of meanings attributed to the ovaa kurgans among the

Kalmyks. As my material indicates, the mounds have come to function as the loci of

patrilineal territories creating a shared feeling of belonging to both a certain family/

clan and a particular place, as the key sites in fertility rites in which to ask for children

and influence one’s general well-being, as abodes of the pre-historic protectors of the

steppe and therefore dangerous spaces of exclusion, as the domain of the White Old

Man and the Buddhist pantheon visited by enlightened beings, as landforms of secrecy

concealing Buddhist images and rituals during the persecution of religion, and also as

vivid agents of religious and ethno-cultural renewal. Most crucially, however, kurgans

act as powerful loci of history making by means of creative remembering, or

interpretation of the traces of the past in the physical lived-in surroundings. The ovaa

kurgans are indeed landscape entities with a narrative potency as they at once

generate memories of the past (in the form of legends, oral histories, miracle stories,

individual life-histories, etc.) and also produce new discourses, for example concerning

archaeological excavations, Buddhist cosmological conceptions or questions of Kalmyk

cosmopolitics. As this process is never complete and never ending, the mounds

themselves appear as whirlpools of heterogenous narratives, manifesting a process of

constant and largely chaotic creative remembering and producing multiple histories.

Acknowledgements

65 I would like thank Isabelle Charleux, Marissa Smith, Gregory Delaplace and two

anonymous EMSCAT reviewers for reading earlier versions of this article and offering

insightful comments and suggestions. A draft of this paper was presented at the CEMS/

GSRL research seminar in March 2020, where I also benefitted from important

feedback.

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NOTES

1. In Kalmyk history books, August 1609 is marked as the official entry of the Oirats into Russia,

when the first charter between the Russian Tsar, Vasilii Shuiskii, and the Oirat Khans, Ho-Orliuk

and Dalai-Baatyr, was signed.


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2. Ovoo is the transliteration of the Mongolian term in its current Cyrillic version. To render its

spelling in the classical script, it is written as oboγa or obo. Here, I use ovaa because it is the

transliteration of the Kalmyk word and also renders its current phonetic form.

3. In Mongolian, tolgoi, “head”, may refer to any distinctive height that rises above everything

else, such as a hill standing separately or a prominent summit in a mountain range (e.g.

Humphrey 1995, p. 144).

4. Interview with Eduard Shavinov, August 2012. For the meanings of the stupa, see Snodgrass

(1985). Kalmyks often draw parallels between stupas and ritual cairns with regard to their

meanings and certain structural elements.

5. The major layers in this tripartite cosmology are not homogenous, being further subdivided

into numerous strata, such as subterranean layers of the underground and ethereal realms of the

sky.

6. This perception of women is typical of the Mongol and Tibetan contexts (Humphrey 1993;

Huber 1994a). Another explanation for female “impurity” is that in the exogamous clan society of

the Mongols wives come from outside groups; being outsiders, they are excluded from the

ancestral territories of their husbands’ patrilineages (Humphrey 2001, p. 62).

7. As elsewhere in Mongolia, tsatsal refers to a ritual sprinkling with milk, tea, vodka or other

liquids as offerings to deities, and also denotes a wooden instrument used for libations (Muniev

(ed.) 1977, p. 627).

8. According to the Kalmyk lunar calendar, the first summer month corresponds to late May and

the first half of June.

9. This deity is definitely a key figure of Kalmyk religious life, with a number of new religious

groups having developed whose practice is centred on his cult (Gazizova 2018, 2019).

10. Before the abolition of the Kalmyk ASSR in 1943, some part of what today is Astrakhan Oblast,

including the region of the lake Baskunchak, belonged to Kalmykia. Even after the official

restoration of the republic in 1958, this territory remained in Astrakhan.

11. The legend does not specify which Dalai Lama it was, referring rather to the idea of the

worldly emanation of Avalokiteśvara (Tib. sPyan ras gzigs; Kalm. Aryabala), the bodhisattva of

compassion.

12. Texts were compiled by Buddhist monastics prescribing the construction, classification and

worship of the sacred cairns (Davaa-Ochir 2008), among the widely known being the 18th century

composition by the Third Mergen Gegeen, Luvsan Dambi Jalsan (Tib. bLo bzang bstan pa’i rgyal

mtshan, 1717-1766) (Bawden 1958; Heissig 1980, pp. 104-105; Sneath 2007).

13. White Tārā and Green Tārā.

14. There is an opinion that the mound received this name long before the cremation of Donduk

Dashi (Tserenov 2009).

15. The year 1929 is usually indicated as the official beginning of the Soviet archaeological

research in Kalmykia.

16. For a systematic description of the early Tibetan earth tombs, see Tucci (1950).

17. The Scythians and Sarmatians were ancient nomadic peoples of Iranian origin that inhabited

the southern Eurasian steppes from around the 7th century BC until the 4th century AD.

18. For a discussion of “history of peoples” versus “history of territories” in the context of Altai,

see Broz (2009).

19. According to Erdniev (1982, p. 53), its diameter at the foot was 130 m while its top was 40 m in

diameter; the barrow was surrounded by a trench that was 20 m wide and 12,5 m deep.

20. The Orgakin patrilineages constituted the Orgakin aimak of the Manych ulus.

21. Its current name is the Kalmyk Scientific Centre of the Russian Academy of Science.

22. Most Sarmatian burials are reported to have been looted. For a complete archaeological

description of the necropolis Kermen Tolga, see Erdniev (1982, pp. 53-84).


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23. The latest burial mounds on the Kalmyk steppe are dated as of the 14th century AD, with the

practice of constructing round earth tombs in the south of Russia documented to have stopped in

the 15th century (Erdniev 1982, p. 108).

24. See Wallace (2015) for the “agency” of sacred sites in Mongolia and Humphrey (2015) for the

“cosmopolitical geography” of the Buryats in Russia.

25. In 2012, the so-called Ukok Princess was repatriated to Altai. The mummy is kept in a tomb-

like structure in the National Museum of the Republic of Altai (e.g. Plets et al. 2013).

26. As was the case with the other Kalmyk monasteries of that epoch, it was of a mobile nomadic

type. The first stationary temple was built in 1798 by Orchi Lama, the head of the Lamrimlin

(Tib. Lam rim gling).

27. The new temple is registered under the name Orgakinskii Hurul “Bogdo Dalai Lamin Rashi

Lunpo”.

28. These are the four cardinal directions (north, east, south and west), the four intermediate

directions (northeast, southeast, southwest, northwest), the zenith and the nadir. According to

another explanation, ten poles represent ten patrilineages that participated in the consecration

worship.

29. Drawing parallels with Tibetans, an anonymous reviewer suggested that it could be perceived

as a safe way to dispose of one’s nails that avoids the risk of people stepping on them.

30. Setr (Mo. seter; Tib. tshe thar) means “consecrated animal”. Instead of being killed, the animal

is set free as an offering to a mountain or mound.

31. E.g. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDSWYKIxGYI (last accessed March 2020).

32. The latter type is known as “mind treasures” (Tib. dgongs gter), conceived of as concealed and

discovered in the mind. For “mind treasures” in Kalmykia, see Gazizova (2019).

33. Saperov was a supporter of the Renovationist movement, also known as the Buddhist reform

movement, initiated among the Russian Buddhists by Agvan Dorzhiev (e.g. Sablin 2019). Saperov

therefore advocated a strict observance of the Vinaya vows for monks and a so-called “pure life”

among the laity, the latter involving abstinence from alcohol.

34. Analysing treasure discoveries in post-Soviet Buryatia, Bernstein (2011, pp. 640-644) notes

that it is often in the ruins of former monasteries where Buddhist images are found. In Kalmykia,

this role has been largely transmitted to the mounds, as even the ruins of former monasteries are

virtually non-existent.

35. The ḍākinī (Tib. mkha’ ’gro ma) are a class of female divinities in Tibetan Buddhism, often

linked to certain Tantric practices.

36. Interviews with Bemb Shantaev, Anja Gelüng and Elena Mandzhieva, September-October

2018; see also https://vesti-kalmykia.ru/news/item/istoriya-shattinskoj-kollekcii-poluchila-

prodolzhenie (last accessed March 2020).

37. Gelüng is the Kalmyk variant of the Tibetan dge slong, which denotes a fully ordained Buddhist

monk. Although both Namka and Zodva had to renounce their monastic vows, they are still

locally referred to as gelüng.

38. Zodva Natyrov (1896-1994) was a former Buddhist monk and astrologer. He is particularly

remembered for giving the mantra and initiations into practices of the White Old Man during

late socialism.


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ABSTRACTS

Since their migration to the northern Caspian, the Kalmyks have attributed the ritual, political

and functional roles of the sacred cairns (Mo. ovoo, Kalm. ovaa) of Inner Asia to steppe kurgans, or

ancient burial mounds that abound throughout the North Caucasus and Caspian Depression, the

oldest dating from the early Bronze Age. This study is concerned with Kalmyk terminology,

certain ritual practices and contemporary discourses constructing burial mounds as reference

points of Kalmyk Buddhist cosmology and history. Focusing on two examples of particular

mounds, I present popular narratives, some archaeological findings and recent public events in

connection with the chosen sites in order to explore how these landscape entities are

conceptualized as powerful agents of Kalmyk religious and ethno-cultural renewal. Whether ovaa

kurgans can be situated within the category of the Inner Asian ovoos or whether they present a

separate type of ritual structure is another set of questions the article raises.

Depuis leur migration vers la Caspienne septentrionale, les Kalmouks ont attribué les rôles

rituels, politiques et fonctionnels des cairns sacrés (mo. ovoo, kalm. ovaa) d’Asie intérieure aux

kurgans des steppes, anciens tumuli funéraires qui abondent dans tout le Caucase du Nord et la

dépression Caspienne, les plus anciens datant du début de l’âge du bronze. Cette étude porte sur

la terminologie kalmouke, sur certaines pratiques rituelles et sur les discours contemporains qui

font des tumuli des points de référence de la cosmologie et de l’histoire bouddhiques kalmoukes.

En me concentrant sur deux exemples de kurgans particuliers, je présente des récits populaires,

des découvertes archéologiques et des événements publics récents en relation avec les sites

particuliers, afin d’explorer comment ces entités du paysage sont conceptualisées comme des

agents puissants du renouveau religieux et ethnoculturel kalmouk. Cet article soulève encore la

question de savoir si les ovaa kurgans peuvent être placés dans la catégorie des ovoo d’Asie

intérieure ou s’ils présentent un type distinct de structure rituelle.

INDEX

Keywords: kurgan, ovoo, burial mound, landscape, Kalmyk, Buddhism, treasure, agency,

memory, cosmopolitics

Mots-clés: kurgan, ovoo, tumulus, paysage, bouddhisme, kalmouk, trésor, agentivité, mémoire,

cosmopolitique

AUTHOR

VALERIA GAZIZOVA

Valeria Gazizova is a postdoctoral fellow at the South Asia Institute (the Department of Cultural

and Religious History of South Asia) of Heidelberg University. She received an MPhil in Tibetan

Studies and a PhD in History of Religion (Mongol religions and culture) from the University of

Oslo, the Department of Culture Studies and Oriental Languages. The research and writing-up of

this paper was assisted by The Robert H. N. Ho Family Foundation Program in Buddhist Studies

and undertaken during her postdoctoral fellowship at the Department of Social Anthropology

(Mongolia and Inner Asia Studies Unit) of the University of Cambridge.

[email protected]


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Geography and politics,appropriation of the land, minoritygroups


85

“They call out to their dead devils!”Erküüt and the Rejection ofCommunal Rituals in a MongolBanner« Ils ont appelé leurs diables morts ! ». Les Erküüt et le rejet des rituels

communautaires dans une bannière mongole

Sam H. Bass

Introduction: banner communities

1 In a recent essay on the continuity of administrative structures in Mongol history,

Christopher Atwood proposed that the basic unit of social organization in Mongol

history since the medieval imperial period has been the appanage community, which

he characterizes as:

a defined territory and people assigned to the hereditary jurisdiction of a particularnobleman and his descendants, as a unit of local government […] [comprised of] agroup of people who maintain a perpetuity of rights and membership in appanageresources, who limit these privileges to insiders; and who are discouraged fromactive contact with outsiders. (Atwood 2013, p. 2)

2 He also provides for under- or over-sized units that “borrow much of the symbolic

equipment of the appanage to mark out a more manageable slice of territory and

membership as community” (ibid.). In the period of Qing rule in Inner Mongolia being

in 1636 and into the early 20th century, the limit of the Mongol appanage community

was the “banner” (qosiγu). Aside from material resource, rituals bound appanage or

banner members together, as “religious communities having common banner Buddhist

temples and cairns (oboo) where ceremonies were performed in the summer for the

luu/dragons , both financed on a subscription basis” (ibid., p. 5). The fiscal

responsibilities of banner members included the maintenance of ritual sites as well as

providing ritual paraphernalia (Serruys 1972, pp. 602-603). These community


86

sponsored rituals, officiated by lamas, government officials, and representatives of

Chinggis Khan’s lineage among the eastern Mongols of the Qing, functioned to create “a

very strong sense of connection between the banner land, the banner members, and

the Chinggisid ancestors of the banner nobility” (Atwood 2002, p. 30). Thus, material or

financial interests intersect with ritual at the banner level, the appanage community

with an aristocratic center, through communal support of rituals consecrating land and

the people identified with that land.

3 The appanage community model is an ideal type, which is to say that it is supposed to

align with most cases in the historical Mongol ecumene but not intended to be a totally

accurate representation of Mongol social organization in all cases for all time. The

appanage community model emerged from questions about the nature of Mongol

territorial administration, land inheritance, and how the people that inhabited those

territories managed their interests in material resources. It challenges previous

scholarship that attributed Mongol socio-political organization to “tribalism” or other

ill-defined concepts of descent and lineage and situates aristocracy and their privilege

as a central conceit of identity allegiance (cf. also Sneath 2007, passim). Atwood deems

sub-banner communities – citing the examples of Mergen vang Banner in Qalqa and the

Qatagin in Ordos – exceptions that prove the rule: Mergen vang Banner’s matri-lines

were protecting material interests through descent, only through the female instead of

the male line, and therefore did not deviate from the model of banner protection of

resources (Atwood 2013, p. 12). The matri-line simply replaced the aristocratic line that

defined the appanage, while the material interests of the community stayed the same.

Put another way, in previous scholarship, anthropologists focusing on kinship, i.e.

patrilineal versus matrilineal descent, obscured the underlying logic of the banner

community which was rooted in heritable access to and protection of pasture and

water resources (cf. Potanski & Szynkiewicz 1993, pp. 97-101). The Qatagin, on the

other hand, were a sectarian group defined by themselves and by banner members as

internal outsiders; they were known as a cultic group based around the worship of the

“Thirteen jealous gods” (arban γurban ataγa tngri), and only initiated others into the

group via marriage, bilaterally via sons and daughters in law (Qurčabaγatur 1987,

pp. 84-86; Bawden 1977, passim). Atwood argues that their marginalization in Ordos

society was due to them forming a society around a secretive religious practice, strict

rules of descent, and a legend of migration from outside Ordos. Therefore, the Qatagin’s

relatively small community membership – about one hundred households or the size of

a smaller sub-banner administrative division, a sumu or baγ – shows that they were

exceptions that prove the rule to appanage communities. Atwood adds that these sub-

banners were “not recognized juridically and were always liable to reversal by strong

banner leadership” (Atwood 2013, p. 12).

4 The usefulness of counter-examples that serve as “exceptions that prove a rule”

diminishes as more of these counter-examples are explored. My purpose here is not to

disprove Atwood’s main thesis about appanage communities, rather it is to suggest that

counter-examples – sub-banner, non-normative communities defined by themselves

and others as community outsiders and outside the law – are more significant when we

consider community inclusion defined through rites instead of by descent. To be clear:

Atwood’s goal was to disprove the long-held scholarly assertion that descent and

lineage were the central organizing principle of Mongol society by offering a different

model that corresponded with what Mongol sources actually say. Ritually defined


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groups, including the Qatagin but also other groups in Ordos such the Erküüt and

Darqad, monastic banners in Qalqa, the ecclesiastical estates of the Jebcündamba

qutuγtus and Gobi Noyan qutuγtus, the various groups that rejected Buddhism along

the Qing-Russian border, and other non-normative communities, present alternatives

of community identity dynamics based on cultic practice, allegiance to a particular

figure, direction or scope of ritual intent, and so on. In some cases, such as the Erküüt

of Ordos, the community subverts the “symbolic equipment of the appanage” by

rejecting Chinggis Khan and Borjigid supremacy and offering blood sacrifices in

Buddhist rituals. Atwood’s focus on material interests such as pasture borders, above-

ground resources, and taxes is born out of period specific Mongol-language sources, the

most richly documented period being the Qing (1644-1911) and more specifically the

period after about 1850, for which there is the most variety of accessible primary

documents pertaining to details of routine banner administration (Atwood 2013, p. 2).

Among those sources and historical ethnographic works about Inner Mongolia more

generally, Ordos is disproportionately represented (Bulag 2002, passim; Elverskog

2006b, p. 118, n. 34). Chief among the works on Ordos sources cited in Atwood’s essay

are works by the eminent Mongolist Antoine Mostaert, and so it seems appropriate to

begin a critique from within Ordos with an ethnographic report written by Mostaert

about a sub-banner community – the Erküüt.

The Erküüt of Ordos

5 In 1934, Mostaert wrote the only detailed account of the Erküüt community in Ordos

based on an interview with an Erküüt man Mostaert met in Beijing1. Erküüt people

were of particular interest to Antoine Mostaert because he believed they were

descendants of a Yuan-era Oriental (probably Syriac) Orthodox community that served

the Mongol court, and therefore represented a forgotten Christian past of the region in

which Mostaert was a Christian missionary (Mostaert 1934a, p. 3). Later members of the

mission maintained interest but conducted no further research into the Erküüt

community specifically. Joseph Van Hecken commented, somewhat misleadingly, that

Mostaert’s report described a group of Ordos Mongols practicing “Nestorianism, which

could have remained alive in Ordos”, taking Mostaert’s Christian hypothesis further

than Mostaert himself (Van Hecken 1949, p. 200). Owen Lattimore, in his introduction

to Louis Schram’s study of Mongour social history, referred to the Erküüt as “crypto-

Christians”, noting the etymological possibility that Erküüt derives from the word for

Christian clergy in Mongol, erke’ün (Lattimore 1954, p. 8). He advances a hypothesis that

a community he came across in Barköl, Xinjiang also derived their group name from

the medieval erke’ün plus the common northwest Chinese diminutive zi to arrive at

erhunzi. He asked the locals the meaning of the word and they said it meant “bastards”

or “half-breeds”, Lattimore suggests this is an incorrect folk etymology and erhunzi was

actually a Sinified form of erke’ün (ibid., pp. 8-9, n. 21). Other scholars have been more

circumspect in drawing these conclusions; Altanzaya, for example, concludes that

despite superficial similarities between ethnonyms or family names that resemble

erke’ün or erke’üd across Mongol and Oirat sources, the names are not related to one

another (Altanzaya 2001, p. 6).

6 Aside from these inferences about the Erküüt, there are many other instances of

scholars finding scattered remains of Christian and seemingly Christian survivals and


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monuments in Inner Asia, and the Erküüt are little more than a footnote in the history

of western scholars’ search for Christianity in Mongolia. In general, discoveries of this

kind serve more as a “mirror interpreting the interpreter”, as one scholar put it, and

highlight “the importance of understanding the author’s background and, indeed,

motivations” (Halbertsma 2015, p. 286). Despite that, Mostaert’s report about the

Erküüt is the only such document available for this group, and despite its brevity is

invaluable for the study of recent Inner Asian society and history.

7 As for Mostaert his credentials as a careful researcher are well established; his

publications include several authoritative works in the field, and he spent about twenty

years residing in Ordos as a missionary during which time he was also an active scholar

of Mongol language, texts, and history. He was and continues to exert an influence in

the fields of Mongol history and linguistics and commanded the respect of his

colleagues (Rachewiltz 1999, p. 93). From what remains of the interview, it is clear that

Mostaert asked his interlocutor, Garma (Γarma) Bansar, several questions about

religious symbolism and practices, but he does not overinterpret Garma’s answers in a

misleading way. Most importantly to establishing the credibility of his report and

ensuring that by the missionizing motive did not distort too much is the inclusion of

much information that seems to contradict Mostaert’s own thesis about the

Christianity of the Erküüt. By the end of the report, it is only the etymology of the

name Erküüt which gives credence to the Christian survival hypothesis; Mostaert

concedes that “as a result of their prolonged contact with the shamanists and Lamaists,

they seem to have preserved only very vague reminiscences of their ancient

Christianity […] the very name they give to their god is […] that of a Lamaist divinity,

and many of their religious practices are very close to certain practices found among

the Lamaists” (Mostaert 1934a, p. 16).

8 The report itself is a brief seventeen pages and based on Mostaert’s interviews with

Garma. Garma was an illiterate forty-five-year-old man, and uncle to the banner prince

of Üüsin in Ordos. His expertise as a witness is derived from a life spent participating,

observing, and administering affairs near Erküüt territory. On the subject of religion,

which is what interests Mostaert the most, Garma confesses ignorance because the

formal aspects of Erküüt religion are kept secret to all but the clergy (Mostaert 1934a,

pp. 6, 16). The report consists primarily of descriptions of life customs, public rituals

such as burial and marriage, and some administrative particularities. Mostaert drew

out the particular features of Erküüt life which contrasted with other Ordos Mongols. It

is in Mostaert’s apparent preoccupation with the community’s religious life and their

association with death that his motivation in creating the report is most obvious; it also

provides us with a snapshot of a community which maintained a very distinct ritual life

from the rest of the banner of which they were a part.

9 Mostaert summarizes the main points of difference between the Erküüt and Ordos

Mongols by stating what the Erküüt refrain from:

[…] in front of their door, one does not see the raising of the k’ī mori [kei mori] (apole with banners covered with prayers), they do not visit the temples of lamas […]and have no respect for them; they do not practice divination, ignore the worshipof fire, ovoo […] springs, etc. For them, Chinggis is a national hero and nothingmore. They do not consecrate livestock […] to the gods, do not worry aboutauspicious or inauspicious days, do not sacrifice at tombs, and have no fear of thedead. The many impurities and defilements so much feared by the lamaists do notexist for the Erküüt. They do not believe in transmigration. (ibid., p. 6)


89

10 The Erküüt lived in southern Ordos, split into two main groups between the Üüsin and

Otoγ Banners. Although they previously lived further to the south, in an adjacent

territory within the administration of Shaanxi province, they were pushed into Ordos

by the steady encroachment of Chinese agriculturalists into their territory (ibid., p. 4).

Mostaert posited that the Erküüt “probably came with the other Mongols who, in the

second half of the 15th century, settled in the loop of the Yellow River” and were

organized by the Qing empire as Ordos league in the 17th century (ibid., p. 17). This

conception of the origins of the Ordos Mongols derives from the importance of the

Chinggis Khan cult; the Ordos Mongols – sometimes part and sometimes all – are said to

be descended from the group that was appointed as early as the time of Khubilai Khan

to preserve the cult, and were told to move to Ordos to protect the cult and its

paraphernalia from the ravages of the Qalqa-Oirat wars (Bulag 2010, p. 58). The Qatagin

shared in this myth as well, with some people connecting the worship of the thirteen

ataγa tngri with the Chinggis Khan cult itself, and others saying that the thirteen ataγa

tngri were invited “from the north” (Qurčabaγatur 1987, pp. 84-86, 91, n. 1). Ataγa tngri

is an appelation of the heavenly diety or dieties associated with Köke möngke tngri or

Eternal Blue Heaven and offered sacrifices for the benefit of cattle herds and protection

of horses, especially among Buryats (Heissig 1980, pp. 49-59). The Qatagin included

themselves in the myth of ataγa tngri’s migration from the north by retelling their own

real or imagined history of immigration, but they and the Erküüt were not non-Mongol,

and banner members did not accuse them of being banner outsiders in any legal sense

with material repercussions. For example, the banner administration did not charge

them the surtaxes that normally accompanied such a status (Atwood 2013, p. 5, 2002,

pp. 78-80, 210-211). Instead, their social stigmatization as outsiders was defined by

their ritual divergence from the other banner members (cf. Atwood 2013, p. 13).

11 Mostaert recorded several slanderous phrases uttered by banner Mongols about the

Erküüt, but none are related to their relationship to territorial issues of the banner.

They include the idiom “an honest person doesn’t approach an Erküüt; a person with a

clean deel doesn’t approach soot”, and less poetic turns of phrase such as “bad Erküüt”,

“black-boned Erküüt”, and “the heretical Erküüt” (Mostaert 1934a, p. 6)2. The former

idiomatic expression was also recorded as “an honest person doesn’t approach a Čaqar”

but referred to the Čaqar sub-banner division known in Ordos as qariya (En. subject[ed],

in other parts of Mongolia usually called sumu or baγ), which also served as a surname

for people from the Čaqar qariya (Mostaert [1941] 1968, pp. 180a, 516b; Mostaert 1934b,

p. 24). One group of the Erküüt, moreover, lived in the Čaqar qariya (Mostaert 1934a,

p. 4). The Čaqar of Ordos, like most Ordos Mongols, traced their history in the region to

the cataclysmic events of the 17th century, when they were pressed westward by the

Manchu army and settled as a military unit after the defeat of Ligdan khan, but in their

rituals they invoke Aru qangγai and Altan tebsi, connecting them to the general origin

myths of Ordos Mongols (Chiodo 1999, pp. 233-234, 241).

12 The phrase “black-boned Erküüt”, on the other hand, could be seen as referencing the

proximity of the Erküüt to the Chinese; in Ordos “black-boned” referred specifically to

Chinese people, and not Mongol commoners (i.e. non-nobility) per se, although many

scholars maintain that black-bonedness marked off base status among Mongols

(Mostaert 1968, p. 336b)3. The term qaraču, related to blackness and denoting a common

or base status, also did not apply to the Erküüt; Mostaert points out the Erküüt “do not

depend on a taiži [tayiǰi] (descendant of Tšingis khan [Chinggis Khan]) like the other


90

ordinary people (xara’tši k’un [qaraču kümün]) among the Ordos. Each group of Erküt has

their own priest, whom they call BaĢši [baγsi] ‘master’” (Mostaert 1934a, p. 5). One

consequence of this was not being liable to perform duties (alba) or pay taxes of any

kind, in Ordos a privilege usually associated with the officiators of the Chinggis Khan

cult, the Darqad (ibid.).

The Qatagin of Ordos

13 Erküüt social categories did not match the rest of Ordos – even the commoners were

not properly qaraču because allegiance to a noble ( tayiǰi) was a non-starter in a

community for which “Chinggis is a national hero and nothing more” (ibid., p. 6). The

Qatagin, on the other hand, did define themselves as qaraču despite not having nobles

in their community, for example in this poem written by the Qatagin Ts.

Damdinsürüng:

Qalqa Mongol’s shepherd,Qatagin clan’s nomads,Damdinsürüng of qaraču roots,

dwelling in a foreign land. (Qurčabaγatur 1987, pp. 95-96)4

14 The Qatagin maintained secrecy about their genealogy, allegedly recorded in their

Secret teachings (Niγuča sudur), but they did not include nobles among their ranks in

Ordos (ibid., pp. 84-96)5. Like the Erküüt, the community leader of the Qatagin was also

their religious leader, among the Qatagin called the “black master” (qara baγsi) (ibid.,

p. 153, n. 1). Thus, neither group was territorially defined by the jurisdiction of

hereditary noblemen, the primary feature of an appanage community. Rather, the

social authority of both groups was thus based on their ritual or religious practice, and

that is what estranged them from banner Mongols; as one slur put it, the Erküüt were

heretical. On the other hand, the Qatagin, while they were socially marginalized for

their secret religion, obeisance to their black master, and careful maintenance of their

lineage, were not called heretical by other banner Mongols (at least it is not recorded in

sources known to me).

15 The difference lay in the intention of ritual; the Qatagin performed rituals for the

benefits of all Mongols, even if those rituals were secretive, while the Erküüt performed

rituals for their community alone. The Qatagin rituals invoked the Thirteen ataγa tngri

for the benefit of all Mongols, and manuscripts invoking ataγa tngri were circulated far

outside the Qatagin community (Bawden 1977; Rintchen 1975, §§26-27). Generally, ataγa

tngri was associated with thunder and lightning, and warded off disasters such as

famine or devastating weather phenomena (ǰud) for all Mongols, as in the following

passage taken from a prayer to the five ataγa tngris, “to Qan Ataγa tngri, highest of all,

spreading his dear great voice and spreading his mercies over the whole Mongol

people, pacifier of the times, removing snow and starvation” (Bawden 1977,

pp. 200-201). A Qatagin offering prayer similarly opens with this stanza:

My ataγa tngri khan,with your booming voice of thunder,echoing in the valleys of rocky gorges,

unifier of all Mongols’ apprehension. (Qurčabaγatur 1987, p. 74)

16 The Qatagin are associated with the worship of Heaven or the sky (tngri); a tradition

connected to pre-Buddhist or supra-Buddhist, pan-Mongol rituals; when other Mongols


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read prayers for ataγa tngri, they invoked the name Qatagin in them as well (ibid.,

pp. 1-81; Rintchen 1975, §§26-27).

Red Damǰin and Erküüt rituals

17 The Erküüt’s offerings, sacrifices, and worship were secret and only the name of the

deity to whom they sacrificed, ulaγan Damǰin (Red Damǰin6), was widely known. Though

no one saw the statue of Red Damǰin, which remained bound in red cloth at all times,

Garma described Red Damǰin as a blacksmith riding a goat who lived in a mountain

(Mostaert 1934a, pp. 6-7). Mostaert notes that the Erküüt’s Red Damǰin might have been

connected to one of the five protector gods known as Damǰin, who were popular

throughout Mongolia. He is almost certainly correct to make this connection; in the

Tümed and Köke-qota (modern Höhhot) area of Inner Mongolia, not far from Ordos,

there were several temples associated with the primary protector god Nayičung

(Tib. Pe har rgyal po), for whom Dorǰi legba (Tib. rDo rje legs pa) was a companion in

Mongol iconography. One of Dorǰi legba’s emanations was Damǰin garbanaγbuu

(Tib. Dam can mGar ba nag po7), the god of blacksmiths, always portrayed wielding a

hammer and riding a goat (Charleux 2018, pp. 210-211, 227-229). The blacksmith

protector Damǰin was prominent in the region because of the prevalence of mining and

smithing: tin, copper, and iron artifacts are found in the region dating back to the

17th century. This identification of the Erküüt deity could also have doctrinal

significance, because Damǰin garbanaγbuu was worshipped primarily by Nyingmapas,

and his temple is associated with that school (ibid., 234). The Erküüt were most likely a

community of devotees to Damǰin garbanaγbuu, following a Nyingmapa school; to what

degree sectarian differences caused friction is unclear though. Visible and practical

differences in ritual and custom were more important than theoretical doctrinal

discrepancies.

18 At the commencement of the triannual beckoning fortune ritual (dalalγa), the Erküüt

religious specialist or master (baγsi) invoked Red Damǰin by saying “with teeth giant

and white, with three eyes (as brilliant as) Venus” (Mostaert 1934a, p. 9)8. It was

forbidden for lay Erküüt to memorize or recite the master’s prayers, so Garma only

recalled the common phrase uttered in times of danger, “guardian Damǰin, save [us]”,

and “free me from hell for 500 years (ibid., pp. 11-15)”9. The sacrifice of the beckoning

fortune ritual consisted of goats, their hearts offered to Red Damǰin, and their boiled

flesh consumed by the attendees (ibid., pp. 8-9). In the ritual sacrifice and consumption

of goat flesh, the Erküüt dalalγa resembled normative banner beckoning fortune rituals,

with an important exception. The sacrifice and offering of a goat was not unheard of in

Mongol rituals but was generally a replacement for a preferred animal or considered

archaic (Chabros 1992, p. 39). Chabros identifies the Erküüt practice of goat sacrifice

with Mostaert’s Christian origins hypothesis, arguing that they “were less strongly

influenced by Lamaism […] and may have preserved a pre-lamaist custom” (ibid.,

p. 103). However, offering a heart and consuming flesh in front of the shrouded statue

of Red Damǰin also suggests a “red offering” ritual, a controversial practice in Tibetan-

rite Buddhism because of its similarity to blood sacrifices, criticized as heterodoxy by

contemporaries (Dalton 2011, pp. 149-50). The flesh offering was a subversion of

appanage community rituals; the controversial practice distinguished the Erküüt


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community from the banner and confirmed the Ordos slur that the Erküüt were

“heretics”.

19 Mongols perform beckoning fortune rituals (dalalγa) on many occasions, but they are

associated closely with ovoo ceremonies (Humphrey & Ujeed 2013, p. 194; Chabros 1992,

p. 120 et passim). Mongol texts describing ovoo ceremonies include the beckoning

fortune ritual followed by ablutions and circumambulations of ovoos, the completion of

which was supposed to bring the following benefits:

[…] the extermination of the jedker-demons concerned with life and with pastureland, the blossoming of sons and grandchildren, multiplication of flocks and herdsand possessions, eradication of sinister evil portents, relief from all misfortunes;relief from the three hundred and sixty ada-demons, from the four hundred andfour diseases, and from the eighty thousand todqar demons which are met withsuddenly, likewise the accession of good fortune, and protection on the part of thepowerful great local deities who have been rendered happy [and so on…]. (Bawden1958, pp. 39-40)

20 The Erküüt neither erected nor maintained ovoos, so they held the beckoning fortune

ritual at the Erküüt temple and buried the remains of the sacrifice next to it. The

Erküüt master also performed a new year’s sacrifice which the lay Erküüt could not

attend; they knew of it because the master would leave three holes containing the

sacrifice of meat, flour, and juniper and trace a swastika in the ground between the

holes (Mostaert 1934a, pp. 8-9). The swastika was the symbol of Red Damǰin and was

taboo to display or draw; the only other place it appeared was in the bottom of graves

prior to interment, and all Erküüt were buried (ibid., pp. 6-8, 14). The Erküüt dalalγa

rituals paralleled banner beckoning fortune rituals but did not complement them as

the Qatagin rituals did by praying for all Mongols or venerating widely recognized

deities. The difference between modelling and subverting rituals thus depends on

context and content: the Erküüt rituals were not symbolic models of banner versions of

the same ritual, they were distinguished in particular ways that marked off the

community members and their territory from the banner, in ways that were contrary

to norms and standards of the banner.

The Darqad of Ordos

21 The rites of the Darqad of Ordos – the official keepers of the Chinggis Khan cult who

maintained the shrines of the Eight White Tents (čaγan naiman ger) and the rituals

associated the worship of Chinggis Khan – is a case of a sub-banner community whose

rituals benefited the whole banner in spite of their unique status (Yu 1989, passim).

They enjoyed special privileges in Ordos because of that status – unlike banner Mongols

they were not obligated to perform duties such as manning post-roads and garrisons,

and they did not have to pay taxes. They were not subject to banner authority, did not

wear Qing imperial insignia, and had no seal with which to wield political authority or

have it removed (Yu 1989; Serruys 1970, pp. 46-47). In these and other ways, the Darqad

were like the Erküüt; there priesthood was hereditary and distinct from the Buddhist

clergy (Mostaert 1934a, pp. 7-8). Unlike the Erküüt, the Darqad maintained monasteries

and Darqad boys could also be monks (Serruys 1970, p. 46). There were many rituals

and festivals associated with the Chinggis Khan shrine in Ordos, but the Darqad

reportedly saw three of them as the most significant: the annual sacrifices at Eǰen

qoyira and Sülde, and the ovoo festival at He-ji-tu in ǰasaγ Banner (Serruys 1970, p. 47)10.


93

In a book of rites directing the Darqad how to officiate the blessing of “the white herd”

(čaγan süreg), meaning the family of Chinggis Khan, and the type of rite that they

conducted at major festivals, blessings to the state and “all the people” included in it

are found throughout, as in the following passage:

Grant happiness to the Lord-qaγan of an impeccable beautiful government, to the

qatun, and to all your people […] You have become a support for Ögedei qaγan, youhave become a force for the vast Mongol people (Serruys 1984, p. 40 et passim).

22 When the Darqad conducted rites, even those in secret, the neighboring banner

Mongols knew that it was in the service of not only the banner but of all Mongols.

Ordos Mongols associate their history in Ordos with the protection of the Chinggis

Khan shrine; the Darqad of Ordos were the official keepers of the shrine, but banner

members in Ordos shared in the sense of a historical mission to maintain the Chinggis

Khan cult as well as other imperial leaders and cultural figures (Bulag 2010, pp. xiii, 58).

Rituals which bound present-day people to place through the constant re-constitution

of ritual sites maintained the continuity of local history, creating a sense of

timelessness in the ritual acts themselves (Humphrey & Evans 2003, p. 206). The Üüsin

Banner lama Lubsangčoyiraγ, for example, incorporated the Ordos literatus, author of

the “Precious Record” (Erdeni-yin tobči) Saγang sečen, into a hierarchy of protective

deities beginning with Chinggis Khan, thus blending together the Chinggis Khan cult

with the local fame Saγang sečen in a tantric text (Elverskog 2006a, pp. 157-158; Serruys

1985, pp. 26, 28). Officials in Üüsin Banner would gather at the tomb of Saγang sečen,

located in Üüsin Banner near Erküüt territory, to perform sacrifices dedicated to the

Saγang sečen and Chinggis Khan (Mostaert 1957, pp. 534, 538). This blending of

ancestry brought two banners together as well; the tomb of Saγang sečen was located

in Üüsin – near Erküüt territory – but the eight white tents of Chinggis Khan in Eǰen

qoriya was located in Vang Banner. The ancestor cults were significant to the ritual life

of Ordos League, extending beyond the banner boundaries. The Erküüt, on the hand,

did not attach religious significance to Chinggis Khan or any ancestor. They mocked the

other Ordos Mongols’ ancestor worship and mourning rituals by saying, “they call out

to their dead devils; they serve tea to their dead devils!” (Mostaert 1934a, p. 15)11. The

derision was more than just name-calling; the Erküüt maintained an aversion to the

Darqad – the hereditary keepers of the Chinggis Khan shrine in Eǰen qoriya whose

symbolic dark clothes, round roofed houses, and lack of buttons on their hats

symbolized their continuous and eternal mourning for Chinggis Khan – forbidding

them to step foot inside an Erküüt dwelling (ibid., p. 6; Serruys 1970, p. 48).

Mourning rituals

23 The disdain for the Darqad’s mourning of Chinggis Khan extended to all obligatory

mourning rituals. In theory, the number of days people were supposed to mourn was

equal to the number of days the deceased person’s essence remained in the state of

existence between death and rebirth (bar do) (Mostaert 1957, p. 565). In practice, the

number of days of mourning afforded to a person depended on their administrative

rank, occupation, and then it varied for individual mourners depending on their

relationship with the deceased (Van Oost 1932, p. 131). Qing administrators expected

the dependents of nobles (tayiǰi), in some cases, to mourn for a hundred days – the

longest mourning period normally reserved for the death of an emperor or a parent


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(Mostaert 1960, p. 153). Mourning for administrative officials was communal; people

wore black or dark clothes, men and women could not wear jewelry, the right shoulder

button of clothes was left unfastened, and men would not shave their heads for seven

days (Van Oost 1932, p. 130). People made salutations with a silent bow instead of the

normal “amur sayin-uu?” (ibid., p. 131; Kler 1936, p. 30). Regulations prohibited

entertaining guests during mourning (Van Oost 1932, p. 131; Mostaert 1960, p. 152).

Officials had to remove their buttons and insignia that marked their rank, with the

notable exception of the border guards (Mostaert 1961, p. 144; Serruys 1977, p. 581). On

the special occasion of the Emperor and Empress’ deaths in 1908, the Mongol

administration changed the mourning rituals. Imperial decree changed the color of

mourning to white, modeled after the mourning customs of the Qalqa Mongols. In

Ordos the nobles who were appointed to attend the thirteen major ovoos of Ordos had

to go to their respective ovoos simultaneously to mourn (Mostaert 1960, pp. 163, 165).

Horses were prohibited from galloping, wind-horses were to be removed from the

fronts of dwellings, and monasteries had to be avoided (Van Oost 1932, p. 131).

24 These changes in mourning rites in Mongolia were the subject of imperial edicts and

local crackdowns. The Erküüt, however, did not participate in the mourning at all. This

may have been on religious grounds; they did not believe in transmigration and

presumably rejected the idea of bar do and mourning periods related to it. Or it could

have been a broader rejection of the legitimacy of the banner. There are reports from

Ordos of people fighting over insufficient respect shown to the families of the recently

deceased, specifically for not bringing gifts (ibid.). Rejection of banner customs,

moreover, was a rejection of the state. Mourning rituals across the Qing empire,

including Mongolia, were increasingly bureaucratized beginning from the 17th century

in a process of imperial legitimation of Manchu rule (Kutcher 1999, pp. 120-152). The

role of Mongols in the shifting mourning policies was assumed to be one of compliance

to so-called traditional Manchu conceptions of loyalty – that was obviously not the case

considering the number of edicts needed to correct Mongol mourning – so violations of

mourning were challenges to imperial authority (ibid., pp. 178-179 et passim). Mourning

avoidance therefore amounted a rejection of Qing imperial ritual as well as banner

ritual and law.

Judicial distinctiveness

25 Even more striking is Garma’s claim that the Erküüt maintained their own judicial

system separate from the banner (Mostaert 1934a, p. 5). The legal system of Mongolia,

at least up to 1910s, was a nested hierarchy of appeals courts; in principle all banner

land – including Erküüt territory – was subject to banner and league judicial authority,

and they were subject to the Lifanyuan in Beijing (Bawden 1969, passim). On the other

hand, considering “the inextricability of the legal and Buddhist systems of thought and

practice in Mongolia prior to the Communist revolution”, the Erküüt’s rejection of

Buddhism may have pushed them outside the fold of banner legal operations (Wallace

2014, p. 332). Whatever the reasons, the Erküüt masters judged criminal and civil cases,

and the banner prince of Üüsin recognized their decisions. The masters arranged trials,

could torture suspects, and mete out punishments. Death sentences were handed out

without repercussions from the banner prince; Garma witnessed the executions of two

unrepentant repeat-offender thieves. After the execution the master would report to


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the banner prince the reason for the execution and the method. The method in all cases

was live burial, because the Erküüt had a taboo about shedding blood (Mostaert 1934a,

p. 5). This detail is particularly surprising because death sentences in Mongol lands all

required imperial approval before the execution was carried out – banner princes could

not authorize them alone. In matters of administrative jurisdiction and law, there were

sub-banner communities that were independent from banner authority or subverted

banner authority – symbolically or practically – by exercising their own legal power. In

terms of the appanage community model, this means that sub-banner communities

were not simply fractal models of larger banners, but they could ignore the banners

and develop their own legal models with unique and unorthodox punishments.

26 As suggested by the live burial executions, the Erküüt community’s way of dealing with

death also ran against banner norms. In Ordos there were three usual ways to deal with

corpses: interment, cremation, and exposure. Ideally, a lama would decide which

method was appropriate and in the case of interment would select the spot for burial.

In southern Ordos, funerals were common and coffins were even used sometimes, but

not with a grave marker. Corpses were also left next to sand dunes and the sands would

be disturbed to create a trickle of sand that would eventually cover the body (Van Oost

1932, pp. 128-129; Kler 1936, p. 30). Exposure of adult corpses was not practiced by the

Erküüt at all, but infant corpses less than one month old were left outside where wild

animals would consume them. Garma reported that “a baby under one month is not

much of a human being”; similar practices existed elsewhere in Ordos, but usually the

corpses of children (under ten years old) were placed in a sack and left on a busy road

so that a passerby would open the sack and “give the little one a chance to fly to better

worlds” (Mostaert 1934a, p. 14; Kler 1936, p. 31). The Erküüt had a joke about the

banner Mongols’ practice of exposing the dead: “when you die, you flesh is red; after a

while, your bones are white” (Mostaert 1934a, pp. 6, 14)12.

27 The Erküüt only buried their dead in marked graves in graveyards. Prior to the Muslim

Rebellion of 1860-1870s, the Erküüt lived south of the Great Wall in a part of Üüsin that

Shaanxi later annexed called Brown Millet Hill (Qonoγ-un boro toloγai) where they

maintained a large community graveyard. In the graveyard was a millet grinding stone

with graves lined up around it, marked with stones inscribed with the deceased’s name

and short biographies. According to Garma, the Erküüt abandoned the settlement and

rented their land to Chinese agriculturalists and entrusted the cemetery to a Chinese

caretaker for “the protection of the bodies of their ancestors” (ibid., pp. 4-5). In Üüsin,

the newer Erküüt grave markers were painted red because of red’s auspicious

association with Red Damǰin, but red was a prohibited during mourning rituals for the

Ordos Mongols (Mostaert 1960, p. 150). The Erküüt did not employ lamas to determine

burial method or site; they prohibited divination in the community and the family

members were left to decide the burial site (Mostaert 1934a, p. 6). Since the main

occupations of lamas included divination and burials rites, these prohibitions

effectively kept the Erküüt from several of the most salient features of Buddhist life in

Ordos, and Garma reported the Erküüt simply did not respect lamas (ibid.).

Kinship

28 Despite these socially isolating practices of the Erküüt community, they were also

strictly exogamous, and parents sought sons- and daughters-in-law from the banner


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Mongols. Due to the banner Mongols dislike of Erküüt, banner Mongol parents were not

eager to marry their daughters to an Erküüt groom and expected a higher bride-wealth

in return for their daughters. After marriage, Erküüt families expected new brides from

the banner to denounce Buddhism and pledge themselves to Red Damǰin (ibid.,

pp. 9-11). Banner Mongols, on the other hand, did not require Erküüt brides to

renounce their religion when they married into a banner, but they did have to live in

the banner. Adopted children had to follow similar rules, for example when an Erküüt

family adopted a banner boy, he could marry the daughter of an Erküüt, but they would

have to live outside of Erküüt territory (ibid., p. 11). Lawrence Krader described them as

“the maximal exogamic unit among the Mongols”, due to their strict bilateral exogamy

(Krader 1963, pp. 43-44). The strict exogamy of the Erküüt was not, as Krader intimates,

a vestige of medieval Mongol society, it was another feature of a community which

distinguished itself from the surrounding banner community through rituals and social

organization.

Conclusion: rejection of banner rituals

29 The rejection of banner rituals set the Erküüt against the banner by denying

participation and imitation of form of the ritual. Banner members both funded and

participated in communal ovoo ceremonies, temple fairs, and other rites (Mostaert

1934a, p. 11). There were several groups that were exempt from obligatory duties

including subscriptions to rituals, but they either participated in the rituals or, in the

case of the Darqad, officiated them. Whether the Buddhist prayer halls of the

ecclesiastical estates of incarnate lamas or the divination rites of the Chinggis Khan

cult practitioners, the words uttered and actions performed in communal rituals

created the reality of space and time for participants and observers. In Mary Douglas’

words:

The sacrifice is a self-referencing enactment. In structuring the community’s self-perception it structures its future behavior […] the version of the world that hasbeen adopted itself affects the world. (Douglas 1992, pp. 250-251)

30 Rejection of the symbolic world created by members of the banner included a rejection

of the secular order embodied by the banner authority as well – banner officials were

often present and even officiated ovoo ritual, for example – and in the Erküüt this is

vividly seen in the parallel judicial apparatus of the Erküüt described above

(Humphrey & Ujeed 2013, p. 197 et passim; Mostaert 1961, pp. 143-145). Rejection of

ritual and subversion of banner officialdom was not a borrowing of appanage

community symbols and rites, as Atwood proposed, but in the case of the Erküüt was a

separated ritual community at a sub- and trans-banner level of organization.

31 The appanage community model is good for thinking about Mongol social organization

from the perspective of local material interests and their relation to Inner Asian

political structures. It is a necessary intervention in a field which has a history of

relying on abstract concepts such as “the way of life of the nomads” or cyclical impact

theories to explain the formation of administrative politics. The model is important

because it centers Mongol social and political agency in Mongolia simultaneously at the

level of the community and local power-holders. However, sub-banner and trans-

banner communities such as the Erküüt demonstrate a deficiency of Atwood’s

appanage community model. The maintenance of subversive ritual and administrative


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communities in and between banners means that a theoretical reckoning of Mongol

social organization must account for significant variation and alternatives. That point

may be obvious, but the significance of certain “outsider” groups outweighs their

apparent minority status, particularly communities formed in Buddhist ecclesiastical

estates. The potential for this type of study lies not only in understanding the roles of

small cultic communities like the Erküüt or the Qatagin in banner life, but also large

groups that formed alternative or parallel conceptions of community and authority.

Better documented groups like the ecclesiastical estates of the Jebcündamba qutuγtus

created a parallel administrative system in the Qing empire whose moral vision of

authority based on ritual practices specific both to a Buddhist and Mongol state, and

one that eventually supplanted the Qing empire.

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NOTES

1. Mostaert uses his idiosyncratic transcription of Ordos dialect throughout the essay, so I have

transcribed his Ordos dialect renderings into Classical Mongolian.

2. Respectively: sayin sanaγatai kümün Erkegüd-ün dergedü bitegei oyirata, sayin debel-tei

kümün kö deregedü bitegei oyirata; maγu Erkegüd; qara yasutai Erkegüd; Erkegüd ters bayina.

3. There is, to my knowledge, no contemporary evidence from historical sources that “black

bone” was used to describe commoners in opposition to “white bones”.

4. I am not a skilled enough translator to maintain the original rhyme, which reads: Qalqa

Mongγol-un malčin, Qatagin oboγ-un negüdelčin, qaraču iǰaγurtu Damdinsürüng, qari γaǰar

saγuqu-daγan.

5. Specifically, the legend relates that the Qatagin progenitor, Bayanqara, was not awarded noble

(tayiǰi) status even though it was owed to him.

6. Damǰin < Tib. dam can, [the one] bound by an oath.

7. Tib. nag po means “black”, and Damǰin garbanaγbuu is represented as black in iconography

whereas Red Damǰin is red but otherwise identical in appearance.

8. Čul čaγan sidü-tei, čolmon γurban nidü-tei.

9. Respectively, Damǰan sakiγusu abura; namayi tabun ǰaγun on tamu-yin orun-ača keltürigül.

10. He-ji-tu (or in Wade-Giles Ho-chi-t’u) is certainly the Chinese transcription of a Mongolian

toponym, but I did not find the corresponding name.

11. Ükügsen čidkür-iyer daγudaǰu; ükügsen čidkür-iyer čai budaγa kiǰü bayina.

12. Ükübesü miqa-tani ulaγan, udabasu yasu-tani čaγan.


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ABSTRACTS

Definitions and models of nomadic-pastoral social structure are foundational to our

understanding of historical processes in Mongolian society and between Mongols and

neighboring polities. Recently, scholars have criticized older models with new anthropological

models and historical evidence, and for the period of Qing rule in Inner Mongolia (1636-1911),

identify the banner as the basic unit of social organization. This paper contributes to this

scholarship by examining the significance of subversive and alternative rituals in small-scale

communities alienated from larger banner communities. The Erküüt (Erkegüd), a small

community in Ordos, rejected the religious life of the banner, including ritual forms such as ovoo

worship, and were thus excluded from, and stigmatized within, the banner community. Exclusive

religious and social practices are found in other communities as well, for example the Qatagin

and Darqad of Ordos; however, those groups maintained ritual significance within the banner

community because they upheld rituals for the benefit of all Mongols. The significance of ritual

in defining communities, particularly sub-banner communities, must be considered an

alternative form of community formation and maintenance.

Les définitions et les modèles de structures sociales nomades-pastorales jouent un rôle important

dans le domaine des études mongoles : ces modèles sont fondamentaux pour notre

compréhension de la dynamique des processus historiques au sein de la société et entre les

Mongols et les entités politiques voisines. Récemment, les chercheurs ont critiqué les modèles

précédents en apportant de nouveaux modèles anthropologiques et des preuves historiques, et

pour la période de l’administration de la Mongolie-Intérieure par les Qing (1636-1911), ont

identifié la bannière comme l’unité de base de l’organisation sociale. Cet article contribue à ce

domaine d’étude en examinant l’importance de rituels subversifs et alternatifs dans des

communautés de petite taille à l’écart des grandes communautés de bannière. Les Erküüt

(Erkegüd), une petite communauté des Ordos, ont rejeté la vie religieuse des bannières, y compris

le culte des ovoo, et ont donc été exclus et, dans une certaine mesure, stigmatisés au sein de la

communauté des bannières. On retrouve également des pratiques religieuses et sociales au

caractère exclusif au sein d’autres communautés, par exemple les Qatagin et Darqad des Ordos ;

toutefois, ces groupes ont maintenu une signification rituelle au sein de la communauté des

bannières, parce qu’ils organisaient des rituels pour le bénéfice de tous les Mongols.

L’importance du rituel dans la définition des communautés, en particulier les communautés au

sein des bannières, doit être considérée comme une forme alternative de formation et de

maintien de la communauté.

INDEX

Keywords: Erküüt, ritual, religion, Ordos, community, banner, rejection

Mots-clés: Erküüt, rituel, religion, Ordos, communauté, bannière, rejet

AUTHOR

SAM H. BASS

Sam H. Bass is a PhD candidate in the Departments of History and Central Eurasian Studies at

Indiana University, Bloomington. His research interests include the social history, religions, and


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cultures of early modern Inner Asia and China. Currently, he is finishing a dissertation about

slavery, households, and their relationship to Qing fiscal policies in early modern Mongolia.

[email protected]


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Ovoos on late Qing dynasty Mongolbanner maps (late 19th-early20th centuries)Les ovoo sur les cartes de bannières mongoles de la fin des Qing (fin XIXe-début

XXe siècles)

Isabelle Charleux

Introduction

1 The maps of the banners1 of Inner and Outer Mongolia2 drawn to be sent to the central

Qing (1644-1911) administration – more precisely, the Lifanyuan 理藩院 (Board of

Government of the Outer Regions) – in the late Qing period contain a great number of

names and drawings of ovoos (Cl. Mo. oboγa3), and certain mountains are also called

“ovoo”: more than a fifth4 of the toponyms have “ovoo” (written oboγa or more

phonetically oboo or obo) in their name. What do these banner maps tell us about ovoos?

2 The maps under discussion are the 182 maps in the collection of the Berlin State

Library (Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Orientabteilung)5. Thanks to their online

availability in a high definition, it is possible to study them and read most of their texts

(in Mongolian and/or Chinese, and Manchu for some of them)6.

3 This paper examines the naming of ovoos, their representation by various symbols, and

their location on late 19th and early 20th century maps of the banners of Inner and Outer

Mongolia7. It first introduces the corpus of banner maps, their conventions and texts,

and the regional groups that can be identified in the Berlin collection. In the late Qing

period, two main types of ovoos structures were usually distinguished: “boundary-

marking ovoos” that punctuated the boundaries with the neighboring banners and the

border of the northern Qing frontier, and ovoos on mountain tops that I choose to call

“cult ovoos”; in addition, many mountains are called “ovoo”. Do all banner maps make

a clear distinction between these two types of ovoos, and which kinds of symbols are

used to differentiate them? The following section focuses on the boundary-marking


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ovoos. In the late 19th century, the Qing government was primarily preoccupied by the

precise localization of the banners’ boundaries. But were boundary-marking ovoos

systematically named and located on banner maps, and were their location on maps

precise enough to fix the boundaries between banners? Besides, boundary-marking

ovoos were generally viewed as simple “border devices” used by the Qing government

to delimit the territories of Inner (southern) and Outer Mongolia (Kollmar-Paulenz

2006, p. 368). I will ask whether they may also have had a religious function, and

whether cult ovoos located on a banner’s boundary may also have served as boundary-

marking ovoos. This would confirm Caroline Humphrey’s concept on “edge-based

centricity” – a sacred mountain marking the border and at the same time linking

different communities – in Buryatia (2016).

4 The third part aims at understanding the place of mountain cult ovoos in the

representations of a territory. The banner maps were produced by the banner’s central

administration on the Lifanyuan’s order, but the list of requirements did not mention

cult ovoos. Why did mapmakers choose to depict and name cult ovoos? Does the drawing

of cult ovoos on maps mark the main sacred mountains of a banner? Is a hierarchy of

cult ovoos made visible on banner maps, and are “banner ovoos” depicted in proximity

to the seat of the banner administration? Are there fewer or no ovoos in the Inner

Mongol banners where agriculture was intensively practiced?

5 In the last part, I will question the permanence of main cult ovoos marking sacred

mountains by comparing two maps of Inner Mongol banners with modern maps drawn

a century later. Through discussing the depiction of ovoos, the present paper hopes to

contribute to the debate on whether banner maps depict an ideal situation or a

concrete geography.

The Mongol banner maps: emic documents made onimperial order

6 In the Qing period, by imperial decree, every Mongol banner prince (ǰasaγ) was required

to submit a map of the banner he ruled, accompanied by a written report8 that

precisely indicated its boundaries. The great majority of them represent a single

banner, but a few maps portray a group of banners, an ayimaγ (the largest Qalqa

administrative division), a series of relay-stations (örtege, Ch. tai 台) connected by a

road, or border-posts (qaraγul, ger qaraγul, Ch. kalun 卡倫, < Ma. karun) and ovoos along a

buffer zone of the Qing-Russian border9. These maps are therefore political documents

produced by the province for the centralized government, and thus allowed symbolical

possession and military control of a territory: as expressed by David Harvey, “command

over space is a fundamental and all-pervasive source of social power” (1989, p. 226).

They were not public and have not been printed.

7 Except for a few maps produced before the 19th century10, the first banner maps were

made between 1803 and 1805. The great majority of them date from the late 19th and

early 20th centuries11, a period of great transformations and economic crisis, when

Mongol lands were no longer considered as grazing pastures and a buffer region

between the Qing and Russian empires, but as an area to develop and exploit. Industrial

mining was legalized, ruling princes sold or mortgaged land to Chinese agriculturalists

for profit, “and the banner system was failing to address the economic and political


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challenges of the 19th century” (High & Schlesinger 2010, pp. 293-294). Following the

Boxer Uprising, the Qing undertook a series of reforms known as the “New Policy”

(Xinzheng 新政, 1901-1911) that aimed at transforming the Qing empire into a modern

nation-state. The New Policy fundamentally changed the status of Mongol lands since it

officially opened Inner Mongolia to Chinese colonization in order to finance its

modernizing programs as well as to stabilize the frontier (yimin shibian 移民實邊) and

consolidate Qing control12. Inner and Outer Mongolia’s place in the empire had

changed: they were no longer protected territories untainted by foreign influences. The

Inner Mongol territory was transformed by Chinese immigration, agriculture, and the

formation of villages, increased exploitation of natural resources, and ethnic tensions

between Mongols and Chinese13. The Qing authorities requested information on the

following topics: agriculture, forestry, grazing, wildlife, leather, wool, railways,

minerals, fishing, salt, army, schools, border-posts, relay-stations and trade (Kamimura

2005, pp. 14-15).

8 In order to nationalize the Mongol land, the state organized cadastral surveys to draw

new maps:

The primary tasks of the Administration were surveying and accepting (kanshou 勘收) the lands, and measuring and releasing them for sale (zhangfang 丈放). Uponreceiving the stamped documents from the jasagh’s office declaring the lands forcultivation, the Administration would dispatch functionaries to measure andevaluate the lands on site. The standard unit of measurement was gong 弓, with 1gong equivalent to 1.667 meter, and 240 square gong equivalent to 1 mu (667 squaremeters) [note on the variation of the mu]. The survey was typically undertaken bythree or four measurers using a 40-gong-long hemp rope and two marking flags.Upon completion of measuring one locality, its location, four boundaries, and areawere to be reported to the Administration along with a sketched map. (Wang 2019,pp. 289-290)

9 The new maps delimited clear borders between the Qing and Russian empires, between

Mongol pasturelands and agricultural fields, and located roads, relay-stations and

exploitable resources such as mines and forests; they were therefore indispensable

tools of the New Policy.

Map-making and conventions

10 The banner maps were drawn in the banner’s administrative center (Ch. yamen 衙門,

Cl. Mo. yamun) and painted with pigments. Interestingly, the banner administrations

apparently did not receive any training in mapmaking, triangulation or geometry, or

help of skilled mapmakers: the mapmakers were inexperienced local Mongols, which

guaranteed local perspective (Pratte 2021, chapter 4). When finished, the banner

prince(s) (ǰasaγ[s]) added his (their) seals. The maps were then copied so a double was

kept in the yamen (and perhaps a second copy in the seat of the league), serving as a

model for later maps. Then, the maps along with the reports (čese) were sent to the

Lifanyuan in Beijing, where all the inscriptions were translated or transcribed into

Chinese (written directly on the map or on small papers pasted near or upon the

Mongolian inscriptions, preventing the reader from reading the original content). Some

maps were entirely copied and translated into Chinese (Heissig & Sagaster 1961,

pp. 337-342)14. The preserved maps show the different steps in their production, from

the initial unpainted drawing to the Chinese copies. Most of them have been preserved

without their accompanying report.


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11 The late 19th and early 20 th century banner maps had to follow specific rules15. They

were based on mathematical measurements and topographic surveys, with a fixed

scale, and were supposed to 1) indicate the boundaries by ovoos; 2) indicate the four

cardinal points and be north-oriented; 3) use the following measurement units: γaǰar (=

Ch. li 里), qubi and alda16; 4) use a grid of vertical and horizontal lines facilitating the

measure of distances and surfaces17; 5) and (to some extent) use standardized

conventions (Kamimura 2005, p. 16; Futaki 2005, p. 29; Chagdarsurung 1975). But these

rules were not always respected, and many of the maps, as we will see, neither even use

a grid nor depict boundary-marking ovoos.

12 The banner maps adopt conventions similar to that of Chinese maps of the same

period18, using varying scales, but also have many distinctive features such as multiple

viewpoints19. The maps usually combine pictorial elements and abstract symbols20.

Buildings and mountains are seen from the front or in axonometric perspective21 while

lakes and streams are seen from above (i.e. projected orthogonally). The size of the

political, administrative and religious centers of some ovoos or of a mountain or spring

as shown on a map may be proportional to its importance in the life of the inhabitants

and not to its real size, enlargements also making it possible to show a greater level of

detail. Banner maps allow us to locate a great number of monasteries, but some

important objects have not been represented while others may seem negligible

according to our point of view22. Because of the conveyed emic conceptions of space,

the pictorial elements, the practice of variable scale, variable perspective, and use of

multiple viewpoints, some authors, following Harvey (1980), prefer using the term

“picture-maps”23. However, Mongol banner maps can be contrasted with much more

pictorial maps, such as paintings of the pilgrimage destinations of Tibet and China, that

use representations of living beings (men, camel caravans, wild animals), and

apparitions of buddhas in clouds (Charleux 2015, pp. 170-177).

13 Pratte (2021) argues that pictographic maps focusing on the landscape without showing

clear boundaries represent an emic viewpoint and an earlier stage of map making. In

the Berlin collection of maps, regional differences are many, and show that the

majority of banners obviously resisted state attempts of standardization and ignored

the new instructions of 1864 and 189024. We can identify about eleven more or less

homogeneous regional groups:

Eǰin γool and the Old Torγuud of Xinjiang/Ili (cat. 673-674);

Qobdo and Uriyangqai (cat. 677-687), and two maps of Xinjiang (cat. 675-676)25

Qalqa ǰasaγtu qan and Sayin noyan qan ayimaγs (cat. 688-706);

Qalqa Tüsiyetü qan ayimaγ (cat. 707-729);

Qalqa Sečen qan ayimaγ (cat. 733-779); and, in Inner Mongolia, the leagues of

J̌irim (cat. 781-790),

J̌osoto (cat. 791-796),

J̌oo-uda (cat. 797-806),

Sili-yin γool (cat. 807-828),

Ulaγančab and the Alašan banner (cat. 829-832, 672), and

Ordos (Yeke ǰuu League, cat. 833-853).

14 From west to east26 in Outer Mongolia we notice a trend from the non or partial respect

of the above-mentioned rules (no grid [cat. 672-685] and very few or no boundary-

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.


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marking ovoos depicted in Qobdo and Uriyangqai) to a stricter respect, with the use of a

grid and numbered ovoos that are equally distributed all along the boundaries (on maps

of the Sečen qan ayimaγ) (Appendix). The maps of the banners of Qobdo Uriyangqai,

J̌asaγtu qan, Sayin noyan qan and Tüsiyetü qan pay particular attention to their

boundaries; often, the interior of the map only indicates a few landscape features and

the location of the banner prince’s or reincarnated lama’s encampment (fig. 1a, b). The

maps of the banners of Sečen qan ayimaγ include more drawings of natural landscapes

and buildings, and numbered boundary-marking ovoos. The maps of Inner Mongol

banners, although they were supposed to follow the same regulations as the maps of

Outer Mongolia, rarely use the grid (except for eight maps of banners of Sili-yin γool27),

pay much less importance to the delimitation of their boundaries (many have few or no

boundary-marking ovoos ), and are more pictorial. They show an overabundance of

details, human presence being marked by the depiction of walled cities, villages,

settlements, roads, monasteries, Chinese temples and churches, shrines to Chinggis

Khan, stupas (Skt. stūpas), bridges, tombs, wells, ovoos and so on, especially in the

banners of J̌irim, J̌osoto and J̌oo-uda which were more densely populated and relatively

more urbanized than the western leagues. Maps of the banners of J̌osoto and J̌oo-uda

are painted in Chinese landscape style (fig. 1c). These eleven regional “families”

obviously result of a great work of coordination between the different banner princes

and the chief of the ayimaγ or league (čiγulγan): the latter played an important role in

standardizing the maps of the different banners of their ayimaγ or čiγulγan28.

Figure 1. Three examples of banner maps

a. cat. 693 (Hs. Or. 251), map of Čedengdorǰi Banner, J ̌asaγtu qan, Outer Mongolia (no date)

© STAATSBIBLIOTHEK ZU BERLIN – Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Orientabteilung


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b. cat. 728 (Hs. Or. 248), map of Lubsangqayidub Banner, Tüsiyetü qan, Outer Mongolia, 1907


c. cat. 800 (Hs. Or. 62), map of Ongniγud Right Banner, J ̌oo-uda, Inner Mongolia, 1907


15 The texts of the banner maps usually give the title of the map, the date, title and rank

of the banner prince or reincarnated lama, the cardinal points, a description of the

banner, as well as descriptions of boundaries with the adjacent banners, and a number

of toponyms. Texts are written vertically, or radiating from the center outside of the

boundary line, or following different directions, necessitating that a viewer rotate the

map to be able to see and read, or circle around it. Most of the scholars who worked on

these maps were interested in toponyms: 13 785 Mongolian place names on the

“German” maps were listed29. In average, there are seventy-five toponyms (not


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counting the additional texts) per map, and maps with one hundred to two hundred

place names are not uncommon.

16 The way in which banner maps (and reports) list names of mountains, rivers, springs

and ovoos, along with precise descriptions of a banner’s boundaries, could be compared

to Mongol literary genres that glorify the homeland (nutuγ), such as songs, oral

prayers, and fumigation ritual (sang) texts dedicated to spirit-masters of the land. Some

fumigation texts (in Tibetan language, less frequently in Mongolian) mention hundreds

of names of sacred places30.

Preliminary remarks on the depiction of ovoos onbanner maps

17 On banner maps, ovoos are named only (written in Cl. Mo. oboγa, oboo, or obo31), named

and represented, or represented but not named. In Chinese transcription, oboγa is

written ebo 鄂博, more rarely ebo 鄂伯 (cat. 673) – today transcribed aobao 敖包 –, and

in maps of Ordos, it is sometimes translated into Chinese fengdui 封堆32 or dui 堆.

18 According to the conventions used in studies of cartography,

Symbols may be classified along a continuum, with pictorial (also referred to asmimetic or replicative) symbols at one end of the continuum and abstract (orgeometric) symbols at the other (Robinson et al. 1995, p. 479). Pictorial symbolsclosely resemble the real-world features that they represent (e.g., an icon of a tentto represent a campground), and are often self-explanatory in the absence of a maplegend. In contrast, abstract symbols bear little resemblance to the feature thatthey represent (e.g., a circle to represent a city). Whether the symbol is pictorial orabstract, the goal of all symbols is the same: for map users to decode the symbolsuccessfully into the real-world feature, process, or event that it represents.(Kostelnick et al. 2008)

19 The illustrations of this article show many different ways of representing ovoos, from

more pictorial to more abstract symbols, even on the same banner map. We may ask in

some cases whether depictions of ovoos are “naturalistic drawings” that represent the

real shape of specific ovoos instead of a generic, conventional drawing of ovoo (fig. 2a) –

but this can only be confirmed when we have old photographs or documentation of

their appearance. It is usually safer to speak of “replicative or mimetic symbols” when

drawings resembling real-life objects are repeated identically throughout the same

map. Replicative or mimetic symbols are usually drawn in a simplified, schematic

manner: a cone, a mound (fig. 11b), a hemispheric shape, a triangle of piled stones

(fig. 22b) or a square, which can be topped with a pole (sometimes ending with a finial),

with one or several flags (fig. 2e, f), and/or with a tuft (fig. 2c, d). Drawings of big tufts,

arrows or flags are also placed directly on mountain summits without a rock pile. These

drawings seem to reflect the great variety of ovoos: in the Mongol countryside, they are

usually made of piled stones forming a cone, often with a central pole; they could also

have a round or square base built of stones, and tufts or a bush, one or several poles, a

pole with a finial (fig. 3c), long arrows (fig. 3a), and/or flags (fig. 3d), as shown on early

20th century photographs and paintings. Others were simple earth mounds (figs 3b, 7a).

On maps of the same banner, mountains can be crowned by different types of ovoos, for

instance a mound topped with a tuft and pole, and a simple cairn (cat. 814, Qaγučid

Right Banner).


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20 Some ovoos were made of wood; on banner maps in most cases wooden ovoos are

distinguished by their name only (Modon oboγa)33 but depicted not differently from

stone cairns (fig. 4a). The vertical tufts on mountain tops of cat. 818 (fig. 4b), and the

branch-like triangular Altan neretü oboγa which is bigger than the nearby monastery

(Bandida blama-yin süme) on cat. 847 might be wooden ovoos (fig. 4c).

21 At the other extremity of the continuum, abstract, geometrical signs include dots,

round marks (fig. 5d), ovoid or almond-like shapes (figs 8, 12, 31b), orange triangles

topped with a circle, pointed triangles (fig. 21a), rectangles (for boundary-marking

ovoos only, fig. 6)34, and so on. Discrete triangles (fig. 18), dots, or one or two dashes

crowning mountains (fig. 5b, c) and pointed summits evoking a pole35, as well as,

perhaps, big boulders (figs 5a, 21b, 27a) may indicate ovoos or the main peak of a

mountain. As we will see, the depiction of boundary-marking ovoos is often more

abstract, while cult ovoos are depicted in more pictorial forms.

Figure 2. Example of cult ovoos

a. cat. 674 (Hs. Or. 49), map of the Old Torγuud, Xinjiang, 1919, detail



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b. cat. 834 (Hs. Or. 16), map of Dalad Banner, Ordos, 1910, detail


c. cat. 805 (Hs. Or. 60), map of Aru qorčin Banner, J ̌oo-uda, 1908, detail



111

d. cat. 818 (Hs. Or. 54), map of Abaγanar Right Banner, Sili-yin γool, 1901, detail


e. cat. 806 (Hs. Or. 106), map of J̌arud Left and Right Banners, J ̌oo-uda, 1919 (after a map dated1907), detail, rotated 90 degrees clockwise



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f. cat. 802 (Hs. Or. 24), map of Kesigten Banner, J̌oo-uda, 1908, detail



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Figure 3. Various shapes of ovoos in Mongolia

a. ovoo of Blama-yin küriye (Buyan čuγlaraγuluγči süme), Üǰümüčin Right Banner (now in ÜǰümüčinLeft Banner), before the Cultural Revolution

© Anonymous author 1959, fig. 77)

b. ovoo mostly made of stones and branches, in the Qorčin region, 1930s

© Paul Lieberentz, 1927 (SMVK & Sven Hedin Foundation)


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c. ovoos of Bandida gegen süme, now in Sili-yin qota/Xilinhot, before the Cultural Revolution

© Anonymous author 1959, fig. 78

d. ovoo, detail of the painting by B. Sharav (1869-1938), “Daily events” (also known as “One day inMongolia”), 1911 or 1912, mineral pigments on cotton, 136x169 cm

© Zanabazar Fine Art Museum, Ulaanbaatar


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Figure 4. “Wooden ovoo”

a. map of cat. 816 (Hs. Or. 52), Abaγa and left Abaγanar Banners, 1901, detail: Modon oboγa


b. cat. 818 (Hs. Or. 54), map of Abaγanar Right banner, Sili-yin γool, 1901, detail: Lhari aγula



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c. cat. 847 (Hs. Or. 14), map of Üüsin Banner, Ordos, 1910, detail


Figure 5. Mountains topped by big boulders, dots or dashes

a. cat. 735 (Hs. Or. 153), map of the banner of Navangsikür, Sečen qan, 1910, detail: the great Kengteiqan (with an inscription specifying its height)



117

b. cat. 750 (Hs. Or. 158), map of the banner of Lhamu, Sečen qan (no date), detail


c. cat. 763 (Hs. Or. 151), map of the banner of Sangvang čerindorǰi, Sečen qan, 1907, detail



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d. cat. 826 (Hs. Or. 133), map of Sünid Right Banner, Sili-yin γool, 1901, detail: mountain ovoo (right)and mountain marking a boundary (left)


22 Many mountains (with or without a drawing of ovoo on their summit) are also called

“ovoo”36: about 11% of the toponyms having ovoo in their names are mountains

(estimations from Haltod 1966) (fig. 23b). One of the most worshiped mountains of

present-day Mongolia is the Altan oboγa of the Darigγanγa37. Therefore, ovoo could be

synonymous with a “mountain” and more particularly, a “sacred mountain”. A large

number of ovoos are depicted and/or named on mountain and hills’ summits; when

their name ends with “oboγa” it can be either the name of the mountain or the name of

the ovoo, or both.

23 A minority of ovoos (both boundary-marking ovoos and cult ovoos) are named ovoos of

mountain-passes38, rivers39, lakes40, springs and wells41, or “water” ovoos42. These are

depicted on a mountain top or on a pass (fig. 6) or near a water body43.


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Figure 6. Boundary-ovoo on a mountain pass: cat. 675 (Hs. Or. 124), map of the banner of the NewTorγuud, Xinjiang, 1920, detail: “Γalčan (or Γalǰan) dabaγa”, rotated 180 degrees


Boundaries, borders and boundary-marking ovoos

24 The main reason for the central government to commission maps after 1864 was to

document boundaries between neighboring banners. The Qing had tried to implement

the banner system with delimitation of boundaries immediately after the incorporation

of Inner Mongols (in 1636) and Qalqa (in 1691) into the empire. According to Qing

regulations,

Pastures near mountains and rivers should use these mountains and rivers asboundaries. If there are no mountains or rivers, set up ebos [ovoos] as boundarymarkers. (Yuntao (comp.), Qianlong’s Da Qing huidian 大清會典, 619: fol. 735b)44

25 Mongols were forbidden to trespass their banner’s boundaries and incurred severe

penalties if they were caught outside of their banner without a permit. All who were

found to have crossed a boundary were interrogated by banner authorities and brought

back to their banner for further punishment45. Yet, Anne-Sophie Pratte (2021) argues

that it is only after the promulgation of new regulations of 1864 that the Qing

administration succeeded to draw clear boundary lines between banners46. Before that

date, although several edicts had ordered the construction and annual inspection of

boundary-marking ovoos (Constant 2010, p. 76), the banners’ boundaries were not

precisely marked and the interdiction of crossing them was probably on paper only,

except when ovoos were especially built to mark the borders after the resolution of a

conflict47. The oldest maps depict very few or no boundary-ovoos. For instance, the 1780

map of Sečen qan ayimaγ (National Library of Mongolia; Pratte 2021, chapter 2) and a


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map of Γomboǰab Banner in Sečen qan ayimaγ dated between 1793 and 1805 (Futaki &

Kamimura 2005, map M012) do not show boundary-marking ovoos48.

26 After 1864, boundary-marking ovoos were more systematically built, which impacted

land-use and migrations in the Qalqa banners (Pratte 2021). Their location was marked

on banner maps together with precise descriptions of the boundaries, and distances to

places of the neighboring banners. The banner officials were required to check

annually that the ovoos were in place and rebuild them 49, and to check that their

location corresponded to their location on the banner maps. Ovoos could collapse

(especially when built in other materials than stones) or be purposefully destroyed

during territorial conflicts and rebuilt at another place50. It was sometimes necessary to

appoint an official to guard them (Van Hecken 1960, p. 301). The location and names of

the boundary-marking ovoos then became the most important elements for the

knowledge of banner boundaries.

27 Boundary-marking ovoos were called “temdeg/temdegtü obo γa” (marker-ovoo)51, or

“nutuγ-un ǰiqa-yin oboγa” (ovoo [marking] a territory’s boundary). According to Davaa-

Ochir, they “consisted with three ovoos. Two lateral oboos are called khyazgaariin oboo

[Cl. Mo. kiǰaγar-un oboγa] (frontier oboo) marking the boundaries of two territories,

while the central ovoo is called khaich oboo [Cl. Mo. qayiči oboγa] (junction oboo)”52. They

usually were stone cairns but could occasionally also be made of wood, of small stones,

sand or earth (fig. 7a, b)53. Their name was inscribed on a stele54 or on the central

wooden pole of the stone ovoo (fig. 7c). A photo of a boundary-marking ovoo shows a

high stone or earth mound with no poles or arrows; it is not called “ovoo” but “düise”

(Mongolized transcription of duizi 堆子, “pile, heap”) (Van Hecken 1960, p. 277)

(fig. 7a). The boundary could also be marked by an inscription of a stone stele or a

wooden post (payiǰa-yin oboγa) with or without an ovoo55 (fig. 7b, c).

Figure 7. Boundary-marking ovoos

a. “After the erection of the Nayiraltu-yin oroi boundary-marker: the delegates of Batu qaγalγa, Otoγ,Üüšin and the Catholic mission, with a detachment of Mongol cavalry, near the boundary-marker, onSeptember 26th, 1935

© photo VH 1935, in Van Hecken 1960, photo 8, on the left side of p. 305, by courtesy of theMonumenta Serica Institute


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b. “Two Obos marking hoshun boundary near S.W. corner of Lake Durru”, 1913

© photo by Lieut. G. C. Binsteed, no. 89862, reproduced in Chuluun & Byrne 2019, p. 251

c. “Boundary-pillar between Barga and San Beisa Hoshun”, 1913

© photo by Lieut. G. C. Binsteed, no. 89848, reproduced in Chuluun & Byrne 2019, p. 242


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Maps drawn to solve conflicts

28 A main task of the banner administration was to adjudicate lawsuits caused by land

disputes deriving from ambiguous banner boundaries56. Frédéric Constant argued that

the banner maps were not just documents destined for the central government. Maps

could serve or were sometimes made to solve a conflict on a banner’s boundaries, and

“the drawing of the maps became a priority for the authorities of the central

administration only when precise knowledge of boundaries was a public policy issue”,

for instance when the Yellow River forming a boundary changed its course (Constant

2010, p. 78)57. When a conflict was reported to the central administration, the latter

first checked if maps were produced earlier and preserved in the archives of the

Lifanyuan (Constant 2010, p. 79)58. The banner maps were then a proof of the state of

the boundary at a given moment. In other cases, the dispute was solved by the drawing

of a map (or maps) and the laying of boundary-marking ovoos. For instance, to solve a

conflict between the Tümed and Dalad Banners, the central administration asked each

party to draw a map and then checked the correspondences of the toponyms of the two

maps (Constant 2010, p. 78)59. The banner princes then affixed their seals upon the texts

specifying the boundaries of the banner, signifying that they had validated this

essential information of the map. Maps can include annotations indicating the

existence of boundary conflicts (Kamimura 2005, p. 5, M004). Some reports also evoke

conflicts about the boundaries with adjacent banners60.

29 For Charles Bawden (1979, pp. 580-581), the maps were not precise enough to allow the

resolution of major boundary conflicts. Quoting a document that indicates pasture

allocations, he concludes that “in itself the map and survey system would seem to have

been insufficiently developed to cover all disputes which may arise”: the map actually

represented an ideal, formal situation. Conversely, Constant argues that the map (and

the report accompanying it) was one of the evidences used to settle disputes. The

officials undertook “an investigation close to the criminal investigation” to check the

adequacy of boundaries to their layout on the map and determine the membership of

the populations concerned, but in the end, they usually had to acknowledge an existing

situation61. The banner maps were therefore the result of a process of negotiation

between the central authority, the reigning local prince, the chief of the league, and the

Mongol herders.

Did boundary-ovoos also have a religious function?

30 Boundary-ovoos also served as assembly points for local authorities to discuss political

and administrative issues. Did they also have a religious function, or were they only

administrative devices? According to A. S. Pratte,

the memorials do not mention any kind of ceremony that would be held for thecreation of the ovoos. This suggests that boundary ovoos did not have any religiousor ritual signification and had a purely administrative function in the Qing. Thispoint is reinforced by the use of the phrase temdeg ovoo (marker-ovoo) to designatethe administrative ovoos. (Pratte 2019)

31 But Van Hecken (1960, p. 192) mentions a ceremony of inauguration of a boundary-

marking ovoo consisting in tasting white [dairy] drink/food (čaγan idege) to seal the

agreement on a boundary line. According to Davaa-Ochir,


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The officials from the adjoining banners collaborately worshiped their boundary-oboos. Monks from the main monastery of a banner in pre-revolutionary Mongoliaused to make a tour along the border of the banner with Kanjur, the collections of108 volumes of the Buddha Sakyamuni’s teachings, in order to convey the blessingof the Buddha’s teachings to the supernatural and natural inhabitants of theirterritory. Oboos were erected on the hills and mountains along the KanjurCircumambulation route. Today this ceremony is held by local monks in manyplaces along the present borders of the district (sum). (Davaa-Ochir 2008, pp. 52-53,quoting Sühbat & Luvsan Darjaa 2004)

32 The territory of the banners was therefore circumambulated and sanctified by these

processions, which typically were undertaken in case of epidemics. Hence, the

boundaries of the banners acquired a concrete status, delimiting a recognized entity in

people’s mind. Anthropologist B. Lindskog (2016) recently observed in Mongolia

(Arhangai Province) that the circumambulation of the boundary of the homeland

(nutuγ) marked the end of the ovoo offering: a truck loaded with sutras drove around

the homeland to purify it against natural catastrophes such as devastating weather

phenomena (ǰud). In Qing times, a sentence for criminals consisted in

circumambulating the territory of the banner with irons. The boundary-marking ovoos

“closed” the territory, with the function of encompassing, containing (fortune) and

protecting the homeland (nutuγ) against evil influences62; they formed a symbolic belt

like the stupas, stone images and prayer-wheels on the circumambulation path that

circled monasteries63. Hence, individually these boundary-marking ovoos may not have

a religious function, but collectively they delimited a homogeneous territory that was

recognized as such by people who inhabited it. The centralized administration of the

banner with the banner’s office (yamen), prince’s residence, banner monastery64 and

banner ovoo, as well as boundaries marked by ovoos fostered a sentiment of common

belonging to one’s banner as one’s homeland (nutuγ). As Johan Elverskog argued in his

book Our Great Qing, in the late-19th century, the Mongol banners defined by the Qing

became sources of local identity, and this “banner localization” supplanted the pan-

Mongol identity based on the imperial heritage (2006, p. 127). Although such sentiment

of common belonging was non-existent in some banners, as Samuel Bass argues (this

volume), this does not appear on banner maps, that show an ideal situation from the

viewpoint of the banner administration.

Boundary-marking ovoos and mountain-pass ovoos

33 We have little information on boundary-marking ovoos, which have theoretically

disappeared with the administrative reorganization and the suppression of banners in

20th century-Mongolia65. In mountainous territories, were they built on mountain

summits (or slopes) or on mountain-passes? Both locations are depicted on banner

maps, where boundary-marking ovoos are often called “peak ovoo” (oroi-yin oboγa) or

“mountain-pass ovoo” (dabaγa-yin oboγa). On the one hand, it would be logical to build

them on elevated spots visible from afar; on the other hand, if erected at mountain-

passes, they were immediately visible for those who crossed the boundary. It is possible

that some ovoos which nowadays are located on mountain-passes, at the entrance of a

valley and on roads and tracks (dabaγan-u oboγa and ǰam-un oboγa) were former

boundary-marking ovoos. When the herders seasonally move from one pasture to

another, they usually circumambulate mountain-pass ovoos that delimit their seasonal

pastures and mark the entrance to a different territory, and deposit offerings on them.


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This ritual is an act of declaring to the local deities that they are coming to a new

pasture and asking protection for their family and livestock (Davaa-Ochir 2008,

pp. 53-54). Because of climate and altitude, mountain-passes are dangerous to cross in

winter66; it is also believed that they are places of circulation of angry souls and ghosts

of people who died of violent death67. Like stupas, ovoos are built on these dangerous

spots of mandatory passages to calm down angry spirits68. Mountain-pass ovoos thus

mark places at the edge of different geographic and symbolic worlds. Their localisation

pattern is also related to a discourse of regulating access to pastures and other land

rights. It is therefore logical that the Qing chose this object to delimit banners’

boundaries.

34 To sum up, the meaning of boundary-marking ovoos was, at least theoretically,

fundamentally different from that of cult ovoos, but also had the religious function of

protecting the territory of the banner and served as meeting points of the tangible and

supernatural realms. Do banner maps always make a clear distinction between the two

types of ovoos?

Boundary-marking ovoos on banner maps

35 Boundary-marking ovoos are represented by very different kinds of symbols, but their

name is always written near the symbol or attached to it by a dotted line. They

sometimes have long descriptive names indicating elements of the boundary or

explaining their location on a mountain, such as “summit obo located on the north side

of a mountain”69. In addition, precise indications are written near the boundary line

such as the names of the adjacent banners, “bordered by the territory of” (nutuγ-luγa

ǰiqa neyilümüi), and the directions and distances to places of the neighboring banners.

The accompanying report (čese) also details the names of the boundary-marking ovoos

and other elements of the boundaries, and the distances and directions separating each

of the ovoos70. Of course, the same boundary-marking ovoos are supposed to be depicted

on the map of a banner and of those of its neighboring banners, which is confirmed by

the comparison between maps of the same year71.

36 Boundary-marking ovoos not only marked the boundaries between banners’ territories

but also the boundaries of the pastures of the relay-stations inside banners, as well as

imperial hunting grounds and other “reserved” or “prohibited areas”72. Border-posts

and ovoos delimited buffer zones to guard the external border of the empire with

Russia, as well as some specific pastures. Let us examine how these different types of

ovoos are represented on maps.

Ovoos delimiting a banner’s boundaries with neighboring banners in Outer

Mongolia

37 The main concern of the maps of Outer Mongolia is the clear delimitation of

boundaries, to the point that some maps are reduced to a boundary line with symbols

and names of ovoos, and are almost empty inside (see for example cat. 727)73. On many

banner maps, mountain ranges, lakes and rivers form parts of the boundaries; these

natural landmarks can be connected by a black dotted line or a continuous red or black

line. Some maps do not show any boundary line but have isolated landmarks.


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38 The most remarkable maps with boundary-marking ovoos are those of the banners of

two of the four Qalqa ayimaγs, Tüsiyetü qan and Sečen qan, on which almost all the

boundary-markers are ovoos (from twelve to one hundred and twenty)74. The great map

of Sečen qan ayimaγ (cat. 733) has about three hundred boundary-marking ovoos. On

the banner maps of this ayimaγ, the ovoos are all numbered, starting from the bottom or

from the left, in the clockwise direction (or sun direction, nara ǰöb, like the way of

circumambulation of temples and stupas), as are border-posts (on their maps, the

Chinese number the border points in the other direction) (fig. 8)75. On the maps of the

banners of Tüsiyetü qan ayimaγ, ovoos are not numbered 76, but on six out of twenty-

three maps, the banner is surrounded by a circle indicating the twenty-four directions77

(the directions were all identified by the names of the twelve animals of the zodiac to

locate ovoos in relation to one another; the number and directions of the boundary-

marking ovoos rarely correspond to that of the circle) (fig. 1b). On twelve other maps,

there is no circle but the texts are radiating from the center, as if there was one. Maps

of the same banner drawn at different dates usually have the same ovoos at the same

location, but later maps can add new boundary-marking ovoos78.

Figure 8. Boundary-ovoos numbered in the clockwise direction according to the sexagenary system,from the first to the twenty-sixth. Cat. 750 (Hs. Or. 158), map of the banner of Lhamu, Sečen qan(no date), detail: numbered ovoos depicted as red flames on the boundary line


39 Boundary-marking ovoos are depicted as small abstract symbols on the boundary line:

small dashes or black or red dots, red circles, small rectangles, or small triangles with

their name written near the symbol79. On several maps of the banners of Sečen qan

ayimaγ, their depictions are more pictorial: as small circles on top of a triangular shape

symbolizing a mountain or as green mounds with a black outline resembling the

mountains inside the banner as shown in fig. 9. Another of the abstract symbol for


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boundary-marking ovoos resembles a red flame or an almond-like shape located on the

bordering mountains (fig. 20).

Figure 9. Cat. 770 (Hs. Or. 143), map of the banner of Düdten, Sečen qan, 1910, detail: numberedboundary-ovoos


40 On the maps of banners of J̌asaγtu qan ayimaγ, Sayin noyan qan ayimaγ, Qobdo and

Uriyangqai, as well as two maps of banners of Xinjiang, only a few boundary-marking

ovoos are named and depicted, and large portions of the dotted lined boundary have no

ovoos80. The boundary-marking ovoos of the maps of the banners of J̌asaγtu qan and

Sayin noyan qan ayimaγs’ banners are located only on the borders with other ayimaγs

or with the Qobdo frontier; often there are only two or three ovoos up to as much as

thirteen81. An explanation of the small number of ovoos may be the mountainous

character of these western regions, with several mountain ranges (the Altai, the

Qangγai), which may have made boundary-ovoos less necessary than in the open steppe

and semi-desert regions of the Sečen qan ayimaγ. These boundary-marking ovoos are

depicted as two elongated rectangles of different sizes, drawn directly on the boundary

line or on a mountain or a pass82 (figs 6, 10). These two rectangles possibly represent

two steles (fig. 7c)83.


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Figure 10. Boundary-ovoos depicted as two rectangles of the north-western frontier

a. cat. 679 (Hs. Or. 45), map of Mingγad, Qobdo Uriyangqai, 1907, detail


b. same map as fig. 10a, detail (rotated 90 degrees counter-clockwise)



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c. cat. 676 (Hs. Or. 123), map of the Left and Right banners of Altai Uriyangqai (Xinjiang), 1920, detail


d. cat. 689 (Hs. Or. 232), map of the banner of Manibaǰar, J ̌asaγtu qan (no date), detail



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e. cat. 685 (Hs. Or. 117), map of Tangnu, Qobdo Uriyangqai (no date), detail


Ovoos delimiting a banner’s boundaries with neighboring banners in Inner

Mongolia

41 On maps of Inner Mongol banners, the banner often occupies the whole rectangular

frame or the greatest part of it, as if the territory had a rectangular shape, and often,

no boundary-marking ovoos nor lines are represented (fig. 1c). Mountain ranges, lakes

and rivers, the Great Wall and palisades form parts of the boundaries. Maps of the

banners of eastern Inner Mongolia have many place names marking their boundaries

but few of them are names of ovoos. A map of Aru qorčin Banner (cat. 805) has two

drawings of brown mounds with tufts named “oboγa” (fig. 11a) on its north-east, north

and east boundaries which are similar to the drawings of cult ovoos with tufts inside the

banner 84, as well as eight small brown mounds without a tuft, also named “oboγa”, on

points of the boundary (fig. 11b)85. These depictions of tuft-less mounds might be

abstract symbols of boundary-markers, or rather drawings of big earth mounds like the

boundary-marking ovoo on a photograph of south Ordos (fig. 7a). Besides, trees also

seem to function as boundary-markers on fig. 11b.


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Figure 11. cat. 805 (Hs. Or. 60), map of Aru qorčin Banner, J̌oo-uda, 1908

a. detail: upper right corner, brown mound with tuft called oboγa


b. detail: lower right corner, brown mound called oboγa near trees forming parts of the boundary


42 Most of the other maps of Inner Mongol banners make no visual distinction between

boundary-marking and cult ovoos, and use various degrees of abstraction. Naturalist

drawings and mimetic symbols are common (figs 12b, 13b)86. Big boulders on mountain

summits may represent ovoos or main mountain peaks (fig. 12c)87. Sometimes there are


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only names of ovoos and no drawing88. Maps of the banners of J̌irim have no drawing or

name of boundary-marking ovoos, but eight red circles or “flames” crowning mountains

on cat. 782 and cat. 783 could symbolize boundary-marking ovoos (fig. 12a)89.

Figure 12. Boundary-ovoos linked by a boundary line in Inner Mongolia

a. cat. 782 (Hs. Or. 58), map of J̌alayid Banner, J̌irim, 1907, detail


b. cat. 832 (Hs. Or. 35), map of the three banners of Urad, Ulaγančab (no date), detail



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c. cat. 826 (Hs. Or. 133), map of Sünid Right Banner, Sili-yin γool, 1901, detail


Figure 13. Boundary-ovoos of Ordos linked by a boundary line (their symbol is the same as that ofcult ovoos)

a. cat. 834 (Hs. Or. 16), map of Dalad Banner, 1910, detail



133

b. cat. 840 (Hs. Or. 692), map of Vang Banner, 1909, detail


c. cat. 844 (Hs. Or. 125), map of J ̌asaγ Banner, 1910, detail



134

d. cat. 841 (Hs. Or. 15), map of Vang Banner, 1911, detail


43 A map of Eǰin γool (cat. 673) has two ovoos depicted as small tufts atop mountains on its

border with Sayin noyan qan ayimaγ; between them are two mounds topped by two

rectangles (possibly steles)90, named Ulaγan čongyi(?) and Barlarqai čongyi(?)91

(fig. 14a).


135

Figure 14. Cat. 673 (Hs. Or. 50), map of Eǰin γool Banner (no date), details

a. two ovoos on mountain summits and two čongyi(?) on the border with the Sayin noyan qan ayimaγ,and a cult ovoo (upside down): Boro oboγa, on the lake’s shore


b. three boundary-ovoos on mountain summits near the border with Alašan, rotated 90 degreescounter-clockwise



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Ovoos and border-posts of the northern frontier

44 The system of border guard-posts (qaraγul)92 was established following the Treaty of

Kiakhta with Russia, to control the Qing-Russian frontier. On maps of the northern

frontier of the empire, border-posts are usually marked by an abstract symbol – a

cross – with their name written next to it (figs 15b, 16)93. Some maps focus on the

frontier buffer zone guarded by border-posts between the Qing and Russian empires94.

The general map of the J̌asaγtu qan ayimaγ (cat. 688) shows the buffer zone between

the Qing and Tangnu Uriyangqai, with seven crosses indicating border-posts linked by

a dotted line (fig. 16)95. Four other crosses indicate border-posts on its southern part,

and fifty-two-rectangle signs symbolize boundary-marking ovoo on its other borders.

45 Devon Dear (2019) writes that there were no ovoos at border-posts but border-posts

alternating with ovoos along the border96. This is obvious on the south border of cat. 685

(four banners of Tangnu) with Qobdo-Dörbed Left and Right Banners, where eighteen

crosses written “qaraγul” (border-post) alternate with twenty-seven single-rectangle

symbols (possibly representing a stele) called “ovoo”; this line of border-posts and ovoos

(along with two relay-stations) crosses the southern part of the banner (fig. 15b). Its

northern border with Russia is marked with thirteen two-rectangle ovoos; its eastern

border with the Darqad monastic estate (Šabi)97 of the J̌ebčündamba qutuγtu has

neither ovoo nor border-post 98. On a map of the banner of Čedengdorǰi (J̌asaγtu qan,

cat. 693), two crosses symbolize two border-posts that delimit a buffer zone with the

Köbsgöl frontier (fig. 1a, top left of the map).

46 Another abstract symbol can represent both boundary-marking ovoos and border-posts:

two rectangles of different sizes (maps of Qobdo and Uriyangqai, and two maps of

Xinjiang)99. Cat. 687 (Uriyangqai of Köbsgöl Lake) has thirteen two-rectangle boundary-

marking ovoos circling its borders (including the border with Russia) 100 and nine two-

rectangle border-posts on two lines that cross the banner (fig. 15a). A banner map of

Altai Uriyangqai (cat. 676, dated 1920) highlights new and older borders with Russia

following two territorial transfers with Russia in 1869 and 1883 which are explained in

the Mongolian and Chinese inscriptions. The new borders are marked by a red line

(western border, 1869) and a red dotted line (1883 northern border); the twelve active

border-posts and ovoos are marked by two-rectangle symbols painted in white101, while

the eleven former border-posts of the older borders are painted in blue (Heissig &

Sagaster 1961, p. 348) (fig. 10c).


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Figure 15. Qaraγuls and ovoos

a. cat. 687 (Hs. Or. 29), map of Köbsgöl naγur Uriyangqai, Qobdo Uriyangqai (no date), detail: ovoos(two rectangles on mountain tops) and qaraγuls (a cross and two rectangles linked by a red line)



138

b. cat. 685 (Hs. Or. 117), map of Tangnu, Qobdo Uriyangqai (no date), detail: border-posts (crosses)alternating with ovoos (rectangles) along the southern border on the banner


Figure 16. Cat. 688 (Hs. Or. 162): map of the J̌asaγtu qan ayimaγ, 1908, detail showing the bufferzone with Tangnu Uriyangqai, with crosses indicating border-posts


Ovoos marking boundaries of special territories inside banners

47 Ovoos also demarcated special territories inside banners. First, they marked the

boundaries of the territory of the relay-stations (örtege). Relay-stations were especially

numerous on the road linking Qobdo to Uliyasutai and Yeke küriye/Urga; trade


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caravans followed the same roads102. Two maps of the Berlin collection represent a line

of relay-stations inside banners; ovoos mark their boundaries (cat. 731: from Yeke

küriye103 to Kiakhta, cat. 732: part of the route to Kalgan); each relay-station has eight

to twelve ovoos around its territory 104. But the scale of maps depicting banners and

groups of banners was too small to depict the territory of relay-stations105, that were

usually symbolized by triangular signs connected by a dotted line (similar to that of the

banner’s boundaries) on maps of Qobdo-Uriyangqai and the Qalqa ayimaγs106.

48 A second kind of special territory inside banners is the imperial hunting ground.

Imperial hunting grounds belong to the category of forbidden territories (qoriγ,

čaγaǰalaγsan or čaγajilaγsan γaǰar)107. Čaγaǰalaγsan or čaγaǰilaγsan γaǰar, more specifically,

designates a “territory of unique imperial importance, such as the imperial hunting

grounds and the lands rich with sable on the border with Russia”; they were patrolled

by imperial guards (High & Schlesinger 2010, p. 7). Henry Serruys translates an excerpt

from the Lifanyuan zeli 理藩院則例 (Tuojin & Yue Xi (comp.), code published in 1817,

cited in the 1895 edition, 10.43a):

Boundary marks [fengdui, i.e. ovoos] to be set up (around) reserved pasture lands:every Mongol Banner shall dig (holes) and erect landmarks [fengdui] on theboundaries of reserved pasture lands and draw up a book stamped with the

(Banner) seal to be kept in the files. The (Banner) ǰasay concerned shall inspectthem personally once a year and add his final observations (on the book) andforward it to the (Li-Fan) Yiüan. (Serruys 1974, p. 83)108

49 On a map of Üǰümüčin Left Banner (cat. 807) in Sili-yin γool league (Inner Mongolia),

the eastern part of the banner has the shape of a large forested mountain named

“Soyolǰi uula [aγula]”, topped with a small mound-like symbol evoking an ovoo. This

triangular shaped territory actually does not belong to the banner: it is an imperial

hunting ground which is delimited by twelve red circles containing the word obo

connected by a red line on its two “slopes”, and eight other red circles containing the

word qaraγul, border-post (fig. 17a). It is as if the whole territory was the mountain (see

also fig. 17b, a later map of the same banner).


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Figure 17. Ovoos (depicted as red circles on the two “slopes”) and qaraγuls (depicted as red circlesalong the bottom line) delimiting an imperial hunting ground

a. cat. 807 (Hs. Or. 55), map of Üǰümüčin Left Banner, Sili-yin γool, 1901, detail, rotated 90 degreescounter-clockwise


b. cat. 809 (Hs. Or. 86), map of Üǰümüčin Left Banner, Sili-yin γool, 1907, detail, rotated 90 degreescounter-clockwise


50 During the Zunghar (J̌egün γar) conflict (1687-1757), around 1689, the Lifanyuan

ordered to erect border-posts to allocate new pastures to Qalqa refugees in the Urad

banners (Ulaγančab, Inner Mongolia) (Bello 2015, p. 129). In the process of negotiation

between Mongol herders, Han cultivators and the Qing government, border-posts were

also erected to delimit land north of the Great Wall which was rented or allocated to

Chinese migrants in Ordos (Otoγ, Üüsin, J̌asaγ, Vang, Jungγar banners)109. Agricultural

lands are visible on a few banner maps but are not demarcated with ovoos110.

51 To sum up, there are two different visual modes of representing boundary-marking

ovoos, either as an abstract symbol such as a red mark, flame, or rectangles, which, as

will be shown, clearly differentiate them from cult ovoos, or as a pictorial mimetic

symbol which often does not differ from the depiction of cult ovoos. Their exact


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locations and their names, along with additional information such as distances between

them, appear as one of the most important pieces of information on banner maps.

Cult ovoos

52 The banner maps also depict and name a number of ovoos on mountain summits inside

the banners. Ovoos to worship water spirits (luus-un takilγa-tai oboγa) near rivers (γool-un

oboγa) and springs (rasiyan-u oboγa, bulaγ-un oboγa)111, near lone or oddly shaped trees,

special rocks and so on, are much less often depicted than mountain ovoos. We may

assume that the mountain ovoos were cult ovoos serving as altars or seats (saγudal) to

worship master-spirits of the land: all over Mongolia in the modern period,

communities were generally based around a sacred mountain dominating the valleys,

and propitiated local deities with seasonal sacrifices at an ovoo erected on its summit or

highest slopes. The ritual aimed at obtaining the favors of the ambivalent local deities –

primarily, rain for pastures and fertility for flocks and herds –, and at asking them not

to cause calamities. These territorial cults were central to the life and social and

political organization of Mongol communities. However, it is not clear whether all

these ovoos were actually worshiped, or if some of them just functioned as specific

landmarks rather than religiously important monuments.

53 Mountain cult ovoos are depicted with many different symbols upon mountains; they

are often mimetic drawings that can be reduced to a cone or a tuft112; they can also be

abstract symbols marking a mountain, such as dots, dashes, or poles, but the symbols of

two rectangles or abstract symbols without a mountain are never used for cult ovoos

(figs 2, 3, 5).

54 Banner ovoos (the main, officially worshiped ovoo of a banner) and many other ovoos

often consisted of thirteen ovoos with twelve cairns forming a cross according to the

four cardinal points with the bigger ovoo in the middle, or twelve cairns in a line with a

bigger one in the middle113. But they were not depicted or named as such: banner maps

only depict one (sometimes three) ovoos per mountain (see also fig. 30 that depicts the

many ovoos of Bandida gegen süme [fig. 3c] as one ovoo).

Mountains and cult ovoos

55 Mountains (ovoos) are important elements of banner maps114. While on the same map,

the majority of mountains seem to be depicted with the same conventional, mimetic

drawing (sometimes with variations in height and color)115, some are depicted

according to their real shape, sometimes with distinctive features116. Map painters were

influenced by Buddhist painting and treatises of geomancy in the depiction of

landscape (Pratte 2021, pp. 267-276). A curious mountain of the Qaračin Left Banner has

a human face (J̌osoto, cat. 794)117.

56 The mountains of a few maps of Sečen qan are distinguished by their size, the pointed

or flat shape of their summit (cat. 740, cat. 741, cat. 753) and the presence or absence of

snow (cat. 761, cat. 762). In the middle of two maps of the banner of

Navangsikür (cat. 734 and cat. 735) is a remarkable white (snowy?) mountain topped

with a circle resembling a boulder marking its top, while other mountains are green: it

is the great Kengtei qan aγula118, the highest mountain of the banner (fig. 5a).


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Outstanding mountains are often surmounted by one or more ovoos, and are depicted as

higher than the others; they are usually qualified by the terms boγda, “holy, sacred”,

and qayiraqan, “sacred, merciful, beloved”119. Flat-topped mountains were particularly

venerated in Mongolia because they represented the perfect altar; they were called

“sirege”, “throne, altar” or “dösi”, “anvil”120 (fig. 18).

57 The great majority of banner maps of the Tüsiyetü qan and Sečen qan indicate a

number in the measurement units γaǰar and qubi following a mountain’s name and the

word for “high” (öndör). These figures obviously do not indicate mountain’s elevation

above sea level because they are usually too big if we consider that 1 γaǰar is equivalent

to 576 m (figs 18b, 22b). For instance, Mount Kengtei qan is 2 800 m above sea level, but

the maps cat. 734 and cat. 735 write “Kengtei qan aγula öndör 15 γaǰars”: the “height”

of Mount (Hentii) is “15 γaǰars” (i.e. around 8 640 m) (fig. 5a). I suggest that these

numbers give the approximate distance that needs to be covered for one to actually

reach the peak. On maps having a great number of ovoos, it appears that these

inscriptions usually mark the highest mountains (in Mongolia, height does often

determine which peaks are considered “more” holy). For instance, on cat. 767 and

cat. 768, all the mountains for which the “height” is specified are crowned by a red tuft,

the highest one, Bayanmöngke aγula, being 4 γaǰar “high”; five of the twelve other

mountains with an ovoo are 3 γaǰar “high” (fig. 19). On cat. 761 and cat. 762 (banner of

Γombosurun), the highest mountains are marked by a tuft or a yellow dot. Often, ovoos

therefore seem to mark the highest mountains of a banner.

Figure 18. Flat-topped mountains with an ovoo

a. cat. 820 (Hs. Or. 130), map of Abaγa Right Banner, Sili-yin γool, 1901, detail: “Boγda ula [aγula]”



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b. cat. 768 (Hs. Or. 141), map of the banner of Dorǰiǰab, Sečen qan, 1910, detail: “Bayanmöngke aγula,4 γaǰar high”


Number of cult ovoos in banner maps

58 According to the region, the number of cult ovoos that are depicted varies significantly

from one map to the other. The maps of western Mongolia, J̌asaγtu qan and Sayin

noyan qan do not depict ovoos inside banners, but many mountains are called

“oboγa” (cat. 711 for instance). Conversely, mountain ovoos are especially numerous on

the maps of Sečen qan ayimaγ: a fourth to half of their mountain summits are topped

with an ovoo. On cat. 768 (banner of Dorǰiǰab; see also cat. 767), nineteen mountains

have an ovoo on their top, that is, almost all the mountains (fig. 19)121. Cult ovoos are also

particularly numerous in J̌oo-uda, Sili-yin γool and Ordos leagues122. Maps that also

have a large number of monasteries superimpose the two sacred geographies, the

number and size of ovoos and monasteries being comparable123 (fig. 32b). Different maps

of the same banner can show very different numbers of cult ovoos124.

59 Half of the maps of banners of J̌irim League, where many Qorčin Mongols practiced

agriculture, depict relatively naturalistic ovoos: Mongol farmers probably continued to

worship their ovoos. Vreeland (1962, p. 180) wrote about the difficulty of moving ovoos

when Mongols of the Čaqar banners were pushed to the north by Chinese farmers:

“family ovoo could be moved, but it was a costly business, and people preferred to make

long trips into Chinese territory to visit their ovoo rather than to move the ovoo into

Mongol territory”. Banner maps of J̌osoto (Inner Mongolia) have very few or no cult

ovoos, perhaps because in this league where Chinese immigrants were numerous, parts

of the land were used for Chinese farming (of course the absence of representation of

ovoos does not mean there were not ovoos in a banner).


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Figure 19. Cat. 768 (Hs. Or. 141), map of the banner of Γadan, Sečen qan, 1910, detail


Cult ovoos located on a banner’s boundaries

60 On most of the maps of Inner Mongol banners, the same symbol is used for both

boundary marking and cult ovoos125, hence it is not always clear whether ovoos marked

along a border are boundary-marking ovoos, cult ovoos, or both. Conversely, maps of the

banners of Sečen qan ayimaγ make a distinction between boundary-marking ovoos and

cult ovoos, either by using a different symbol or by a detail marking a difference. For

instance, on cat. 773 (banner of Sangsarayidorǰi), the boundary-marking ovoos are

depicted as small mountains or mounds topped with a red dash symbol while

mountains inside the banner are crowned by a black dash or a triangle. On a map of the

Čeringnima Banner in Sečen qan (cat. 778), a red almond crowned by a kind of tuft

suggesting an ovoo is depicted on Qan aγula, the highest mountain inside the banner126

(fig. 20b). Along the boundary, boundary-marking ovoos numbered from one to thirty

are depicted as red flames127. Another ovoo depicted as a red circle topped by a tuft

crowns a bigger mountain located right on the border with Kölön Buir League. This

mountain, Soyolǰi aγula, is clearly distinct from boundary-marking ovoos; its ovoo has no

number, it certainly is a cult ovoo (fig. 20a). On its left slope are two uncolored

almonds – the left one being the first numbered boundary-marking ovoo –, and on its

right slope, a red flame is the thirtiest boundary-marking ovoo . Therefore, this

mountain had its own cult ovoo but also marks the border with Kölön Buir: it is the

starting point of the numbering of border-markers (fig. 20a)128. The big tuft

differentiates cult ovoos from boundary-marking ovoos.

61 On cat. 686 (Darqad monastic estate [šabi] of the J̌ebčündamba qutuγtu in Qobdo

Uriyangqai), boundary-marking ovoos are symbolized by yellow pointed triangles129. On

the north-west boundary, an outstanding blue mountain called in Chinese “Alagahada”

has a yellow pointed triangle on its top, which is identified as the “twelfth Alagahada


145

ebo”: it belongs to boundary-marking ovoos but also seems to be a sacred mountain

(fig. 21a).

62 On two maps of J̌aqačin Banner (Qobdo, cat. 677 and cat. 678), a mountain called

“Qoyitu sengkir-yin oboo” topped with a big boulder is located just outside the north-

west boundary: it may be a cult ovoo used as a major landmark (fig. 21b). A mark

suggesting an ovoo (big red dot, high pole) crowns a liminal mountain of two maps of

Qorčin J̌asaγtu qan and Tüsiyetü qan Banners in J̌irim League (cat. 785, cat. 787). All

these cases might be examples of a cult ovoo located on a high mountain that is also

used as a boundary-marking ovoo, recalling the ovoos built on outstanding mountains at

the edges of Buryat pasturelands (nutuγ) described by Caroline Humphrey (2016) in

Buryatia.

Figure 20. Cat. 778 (Hs. Or. 156), map of the banner of Čeringnima, Sečen qan, 1910, details

a. Mount Soyolǰi aγula surrounded by boundary-ovoos on the border with Kölön Buir League



146

b. “Mount Qan aγula, 3 γaǰar high”


Figure 21

a. cat. 686 (Hs. Or. 39), map of Darqad monastic estate (šabi) of the J̌ebčündamba qutuγtu, QobdoUriyangqai, 1907, detail: the name of the ovoo (“twelfth Alagahada ebo”) is written from right to left;the name of the mountain (“Alagahada, 3 fen high”), from left to right



147

b. cat. 677 (Hs. Or. 47), map of J̌aqačin Banner, Qobdo Uriyangqai, 1907, detail: Qoyitu sengkir-yinoboo


The banner’s main sacred mountain and banner ovoo

63 Mountain-cult ovoos can be classified according to their territorial and communal

importance, from private ovoos of family groups and small communities (such as ovoos

of patrilineal clans [otoγ oboγ-un oboγa] in Buryatia) located on their winter pastures,

near the tombs of their ancestors, to ovoos worshiped by larger communities, such as

banner ovoos in Qing Mongolia, ovoos of monasteries, Qan (“king”) ovoos in Buryatia130,

and official ovoos of the sacred mountains of the Qalqa that received a state official

cult131.

64 In the Qing period, every banner had a main sacred mountain (qosiγun-u takilγa-tai

aγula) with an ovoo called “banner ovoo” (qosiγun-u oboγa) on one of its highest peaks:

the banner was an autonomous entity fixed on a particular territory with its own

sacred landscape (nutuγ). This ovoo represented the banner as a whole. The ruling

prince (ǰasaγ) presided over the banner ovoo ritual that gathered the banner’s central

administration and its subunits132. This ritual was an important occasion for the

reaffirmation of his political power133. It was generally held in conjunction with a

banner assembly at which important affairs were resolved (Bulag 2010, p. 175). The

monks of the “banner monastery” officiated during the ovoo ritual, which was generally

followed by a festival (naγadum, “three manly games”) to entertain the local deities.

The banner ovoo was built and repaired by members of the banner as part of their

corvée civil obligations (Vreeland 1962, p. 180). It was called “the spirit-ovoo of the

banner” (qosiγun-u sülde oboγa) (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 15):


148

For example, the Shinechuudiin Ovoo at the Avzaga Khairkhan Mountain was themain oboo of Bishrelt Gün Banner of Tusheet Khan Aimag […]. The main obooworshipped by the inhabitants of a whole banner was considered the spirit of thebanner and the main shrine of the people. The main oboos in the banner were

therefore called altan oboo [altan oboγa] (‘golden oboo’) or suld oboo [sülde oboγa](‘spirit oboo’). (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 50)134

65 On the banner maps of the Berlin collection, Haltod (1966) recorded only three

occurrences of ovoos called “banner ovoo” 135, and eight occurrences of “Altan obo/

oboγa”136.

66 Some maps have one prominent mountain, topped with an ovoo: we can assume that it

is the banner’s sacred mountain with the banner ovoo; sometimes it is the only

mountain-cum-ovoo shown on a map. On a map of the Old Torγuud of Xinjiang (cat. 674)

which has a disproportionally big ovoo, we may ask why this particular mountain has

been chosen while other mountains are more imposing (fig. 2a). On other maps, the

highest mountain with the biggest ovoo stands among many others mountains-cum-

ovoos. In some cases, what seems to be the most prominent mountain-cum-ovoo is

located in the center of the banner: the mountain named Ölǰeitu aγula crowned by a

piled rock ovoo, south of the banner prince’s residence on cat. 759 and cat. 760 (fig. 22);

the highest, blue mountain with a big ovoo of cat. 847 (Üüsin) (fig. 23) and the

J̌ibqulangtu čaγan oboγa of cat. 837 (J̌üngγar, in the middle of the map) (fig. 24). On a

map of Eǰin γool (cat. 673), there is an ovoo on an outstanding vertical central mountain,

Bayan ǰirüke (fig. 26), and a second one, Boro oboγa north of Lake Sub naγur137 (fig. 14a).

Cat. 810 and cat. 811 (Üǰümüčin Right Banner) have a big mountain (Ölǰitü [Ölǰeitü] uru

oboγa) crowned by an ovoo depicted as a mound topped with a tuft and pole, located

near the center of the map, just north of the banner prince’s encampment, while other

mountains called “ovoo” (“oboγa” or “oboγatu”) are topped with a big boulder

(fig. 25a). Evans and Humphrey write that the site of the banner oboo “was presumably

chosen for being central in the Banner’s territory” (2003, p. 203). The main sacred

mountain and its ovoo may also be depicted near the center on the map to construct a

more auspicious narrative.


149

Figure 22

a. cat. 759 (Hs. Or. 12), map of the banner of Lubsangčoyidubaγvangpelǰeyidasičerin, Sečen qan, 1907


b. detail of the same map: Ölǰeitü aγula, 4 γaǰar high (with an ovoo of piled stones); above, the doublesquare indicates the residence of the banner prince (ǰasaγ)



150

Figure 23

a. cat. 847 (Hs. Or. 14), map of Üüsin Banner, Ordos, 1910



151

b. detail of the same map: Delger quraqu (Mount Delger) crowned by an ovoo (bottom) and the threetents of the banner prince’s encampment



152

Figure 24

a. cat. 837 (Hs. Or. 18), map of J̌üngγar Banner, Ordos, s.d.


b. detail of the same map: J ̌ibqulangtu čaγan oboγa (just above the seal) and residence of the bannerprince with trees (top left)



153

Figure 25

a. cat. 810 (Hs. Or. 135), map of Üǰümüčin Right Banner, Sili-yin γool, 1890



154

b. detail of the same map: Ölǰitü uru oboγa (top) and inscription identifying the banner prince’sencampment (bottom, written in black ink under/inside the seal)



155

Figure 26

a. cat. 673 (Hs. Or. 50), map of Eǰin γool Banner (no date)


b. detail of the same map: Mount Bayan ǰirüke



156

67 On several banner maps, prominent mountains located near the center of the banner

are crowned by a big round boulder that may designate the main sacred peak or the

main ovoo of the banner (or both). For instance, a map of the banner of Navangsikür,

Sečen qan (cat. 735) with the Kengtei qan Mountain (fig. 5a); a map of Tümed Banner in

J̌osoto (cat. 793138); a map of Ongniγud Left Banner (cat. 801: Bayan oboo139) and a map

of Čoqor Qalqa Banner in J̌oo-uda (cat. 797: Dalu-yin aγula); a map of Sünid Right

Banner (cat. 826 and cat. 828: Bayan oboγa; nearby is an inscription indicating the

settlement [nutuγlal] of the banner prince [ǰasaγ vang]) (fig. 27).

Figure 27

a. cat. 797 (Hs. Or. 25), map of Čoqor Qalqa Banner, J̌oo-uda, 1907, detail: mountain topped with ablue boulder (bottom) and residence of the banner prince (top)



157

b. cat. 793 (Hs. Or. 23), map of Tümed Banner, J̌osoto, 1907, detail


68 One of the most important element of banner maps is the palace or encampment and

banner administration (yamen) of the banner prince, or, for monastic banners, of the

reincarnated lama140. It is not clear which seasonal location of the encampment is

depicted when the residence was mobile. On banner maps, the prince’s palace or

encampment is often located in or near the center of the map, not far from the

banner’s monastery, symbolizing the union of politics and religion (qoyar yosu, “two

laws” or “two systems”). Kollmar-Paulenz (2006, pp. 371-372) partially attributes the

map’s centrality of administrative and religious establishments to Chinese cultural

influence onto Mongol cartography. Although some banners may have had a centrally

located banner prince’s seat or monastery, in other cases, the political seat may have

been moved to the map’s center for auspicious reasons.

69 In some cases, when we can identify the main sacred mountain, the residence of the

banner prince is located in its proximity (figs 22- 25, 27a). It can also be backed by a

smaller mountain (geomantical rules prescribe that palaces and temples should be built

at the foot or on the southern slope of a mountain). On a map of J̌arud (cat. 806, J̌oo-

uda), three buildings of the residence of the Imperial prince of the second rank (ǰasaγtörö-yin giyün vang) stand at the foot of a mountain with a big ovoo, Erdeni čoγca aγula

(fig. 28a). On cat. 814 (Qaγučid Right Banner), the name of the palace of the banner

prince (not depicted) is written at the foot of a great mountain with an ovoo, in the

center-right part of the map (fig. 28b). On cat. 830 (Qalqa Banner, Ulaγančab) a

mountain topped with an oval-shaped ovoo towers above the inscription indicating the

banner prince’s palace and temple141.

70 More sources are needed to document how the location of a banner ovoo and a main

sacred mountain were chosen, and if spatial proximity to the banner ovoo was one of


158

the criteria for choosing the location of the banner prince’s palace or encampment. The

communal worship of a major sacred mountain was primarily related to issues of land

worship and physical features of a mountain, and the choice of a banner ovoo was

certainly linked to the degree of “sacredness” of a given mountain (regardless of its

location), but we cannot exclude that in some cases, the administrative divisions did

influence the status of certain sacred mountains and the designation of “the” banner

ovoo, preferably near the center of the banner. An example is given by Tamirjavyn

(2017): when the imperial pastures of Darigγanγa were established in 1696, their

leaders built the administrative center in Yeke bulaγ Valley and chose to worship the

highest peak in the vicinity area, Dasilüng Mountain (Cyr. Mo. Dashlün), as the main

sacred mountain. They ordered to erect a great altar complex consisting of thirteen big

stone ovoos on Dasilüng Mountain. The local herders had to carry stones over a distance

of 10 km and opposed to the construction; they lodged a complaint to the governor of

Kalgan and eventually won, obtaining that their “traditional” sacred mountain, Dari

oboγa, be worshiped as the main sacred mountain of the Darigγanγa pastures. Caroline

Humphrey also writes that the banner ovoo “could be moved from place to place to

accommodate to the political situation” (2019, p. 181).

Figure 28

a. cat. 806 (Hs. Or. 106), map of J ̌arud Left and Right Banners, J ̌oo-uda, 1919 (drawn after a mapdated 1907) (rotated 90 degrees clockwise), detail: residence of the ǰasaγ törö-yin giyün vang at thefoot of Mount Erdeni čoγca aγula



159

b. cat. 814 (Hs. Or. 128), map of Qaγučid Right Banner, Sili-yin γool, 1901, detail: seal and textindicating the location of the residence of the banner prince at the foot of a great mountain


Ovoos of monasteries

71 Before building a monastery, lamas travelled over the mountains and through the

valleys to find the ideal place according to geomantic prescriptions and pragmatic

considerations (near a river, with southern exposure, sheltered from the

northern winds, etc.). A typical auspicious location was the southern slope of a

mountain or hill (Charleux 2006, pp.155-159). The monastery then erected an ovoo to

worship the genii loci of the mountain or hill. Monasteries’ ovoos are depicted on many

maps (figs 29-30). On cat. 816 and cat. 817 (Abaγa Left and Abaγanar Left Banners), the

Sayin-i erkilegči süme (Ch. Chongshansi 崇善寺), i.e. the great Bandida gegen süme/

Beizimiao 貝子廟 is backed by the Erdeni oboγa (fig. 30; see fig. 3c), and the Soyol-i

badaraγuluγči süme, by the Delger oboγa142. On cat. 720 (banner of Pungčuγčering,

Tüsiyetü qan ayimaγ), a red marked spot crowns Qan aγula, i.e. Mount Boγda qan143,

south of J̌ibǰündamba (J̌ebčündamba) qutuγtu’s Yeke küriye/Urga (fig. 31). This red spot

probably is the Čeče güng Peak144 with the Čeče güng-ün qural, a small temple

dedicated to the worship of mountain gods and Chinggisid ancestors145 (Teleki 2011,

pp. 258-261)146.


160

Figure 29. Monasteries backed a mountain or hill with ovoo

a. cat. 775 (Hs. Or. 13), map of the banner of Dorǰipalmu, Sečen qan, 1907, detail


b. cat. 768 (Hs. Or. 141), map of the banner of Dorǰiǰab, Sečen qan, 1910, detail



161

c. cat. 737 (Hs. Or. 90), map of the banner of Tungγalaγ, Sečen qan, 1910, detail


d. cat. 821 (Hs. Or. 116), map of Abaγanar Right Banner, Sili-yin γool, 1907, detail



162

Figure 30. cat. 817 (Hs. Or. 53), map of Abaγanar Left Banner, Sili-yin γool, 1907, detail: Erdenioboγa and Sayin-i erkilegči süme or Chongshansi (=Bandida gegen süme/Beizimiao)



163

Figure 31

a. cat. 720 (Hs. Or. 80), map of the banner of Pungčuγčering, Tüsiyetü qan, 1907


b. detail of the same map: J ̌ibǰündamba (J̌ebčündamba) qutuγtu’s Yeke küriye/Urga (central redsquare), and Qan aγula (Mount Boγda qan, bottom)



164

Ovoos on historical and modern maps of InnerMongolia

72 When comparing old banner maps with modern maps, it appears that the great

majority of place names have changed, as well as many landmarks, especially in Inner

Mongolia because of 20th century Chinese immigration: many new settlements, villages

and cities with Chinese names were built, the courses of rivers have been diverted

because of irrigation, lakes and rivers have dried, even mountain summits have

sometimes been levelled by mineral exploitation147. Yet, we still observe a great number

of names ending with “ovoo” on modern maps, even in Inner Mongolia where many

toponyms were sinicized or recently invented.

73 Besides, like ancient Chinese maps, banner maps tend to depict hills and small

mountains as high peaks. The two lakes and rivers of the banner of the Torγuud of Eǰinγool are major recognizable landmarks, but I could not identify the great Bayan ǰirüke

Mountain and other place names of the banner map cat. 673 (fig. 26). Bayan ǰirüke is

probably one of the many examples of minor elevations depicted as a high peak.

Similarly, the central peak of J̌üngγar Banner, J̌ibqulangtu čaγan obo, the thirteen other

cult ovoos, five boundary-marking ovoos and sixteen monasteries depicted on cat. 335,

cat. 336, and cat. 837 (fig. 24a) have left no trace on modern maps except for the only

preserved monastery (the banner monastery), Satrubdarǰayiling ǰuu, popularly known

as J̌üngγar ǰuu (Ch. Zhungeerzhao 準格爾召).

74 Because modern local gazetteers sometimes precisely locate destroyed monasteries, for

some banners they appear to be the most reliable landmarks148. I could locate on

modern maps seventeen of the twenty-three monasteries that are named on a map of

Aru qorčin Banner149 (cat. 805) which also shows eleven ovoos inside the banner and ten

boundary-marking ovoos (fig. 32). The banner stretches along a roughly south-east/

north-west axis with most of the ovoos on cat. 805 concentrated in the north-western

mountainous area (the highest peak on modern maps is Batai oboγa, 1 540 m above sea

level). But except for Sira öndör (which is represented north of its present location) and

Boγda aγula, the names of mountains and ovoos given by the 1908 banner map are not

found on modern maps. Yet having precisely located Γanǰuur süme and Γabču(?)-yin

süme, I could approximately locate the Yeke qayiraqan/Da Hai-le-qin Mountain and the

other mountains-cum-ovoos north of the banner. The present-day most worshiped ovoo

is that of Mount Γuγustai aγula, also called Qan aγula, a National Park and main tourist

area. Another main ovoo worshiped in the banner, is the Qabutu Qasar 150 oboγa on

Boγda aγula, just north of Kundu Village (Ch. Kundu 坤都镇), the small city founded on

the ruins of the Bayasqulang čiγulγuči süme and the banner prince’s palace (now in Xin

Baolige gacha新包力格嘎查). This was probably the banner ovoo: cat. 805 depicts it just

behind the monastery, in the center of the map (fig. 32)151.

75 A second example is a map of Kesigten Banner152 (cat. 802, J̌oo-uda league), with three

ovoos in its center (Bayan ǰirüke obo γa, Bayan čaγan oboγa, and the ovoo of a

monastery), and one on each of its south and north boundaries (on Sayiqan aγula and

on Qongγor oboγa). The highest peak (Kesigten aγulan-u nutuγlaγsan(?) Kirbis qada) of

the historical map, located “behind” the prince’s palace (now Biraγu qota, Ch. Jinpeng

金棚 City), has no ovoo (fig. 33: this peak may not be a steep massif but a minor


165

mountain153). Again, except for the main monasteries that are precisely located in local

gazetters, most of the landmarks have changed. The Qongγor oboγa of the banner map

may be identified with Mount Qongγu-yin dabaγa, the highest summit of the banner,

that culminates at 2 029 m154. The present-day banner ovoo, known as Bayan oboγa

(Ch. Furaoshan 富饶山)155, it is located at 1 498 m above sea level on a plateau (Γongγor

steppe 贡格尔草原) surrounded by forests.

Figure 32

a. Map of Aru qorčin Banner, J̌oo-uda. The monasteries are located according to Zhongguo renminzhengzhi xieshang huiyi (ed.) 1987, pp. 225-235

© Isabelle Charleux, from “Öbör Mongγol-un öbertegen ǰasaqu oron-u γaǰar-un ǰiruγ-un emkidkel”(comp.) 2007, pp. 192-193 and Anonymous author 1989, pp. 25-26


166

b. cat. 805 (Hs. Or. 60), map of Aru qorčin Banner, 1908. Inside the circles: banner prince’s residence(modern Kundu) and banner monastery backed by Boγda aγula, and Yeke qayiraqan Mountain. Thecircles show the correspondences between the two maps. 1. Sayin-i erdeni bolγaγči süme/Baoshansi 寶善寺 (Balčirud süme/Balaqirudemiao) 2. Rasidečinling/Lashendajili(?)kemiao; 3. Boro qosiu süme/Boluo hushuomiao; 4. Soyol-i erkilegči süme/Chonghuasi 崇化寺; 5. Kesig-i badaragulugči süme/Guang’ensi 廣恩寺; 6. Engke tököm-ün süme/Pingyingsi 平盈寺; 7. Illegible, =? Pushansi 普善寺; 8.Qabirγa süme/Habilegamiao, Hufasi 護法寺; 9. J ̌igasutai süme/Jihasutaimiao, Xingfasi 興法寺; 10.Tögürig tala-yin süme/Tuo(?)guliketanmiao, Qijiusi 奇救寺; 11. Buyan-i delgeregülügči süme/Fuxingsi 福興寺; 12. Qoladakin-i toquniγuluγči süme, Čabuγan süme/Chengdasi 成達寺; 13. Uridu tabun toloγaisüme/Qian tabentuoluogaimiao, Pujiusi 普救寺; 14. Qoyitu tabun toloγai süme/ Houtabentuoluogaimiao, Fushousi 福壽寺; 15. Egüride ölǰeitü süme/Changshousi 長壽寺; 16. Amuγulangtedgügči süme/Longansi 隆安寺; 17. Bayasqulang čiγuluγči süme, Noyan süme/Jiqingsi 集慶寺; 18.Rasigempi süme/Lashengenpimiao, Guang’ensi 廣恩寺, Guangyousi 廣佑寺; 19. Rasise süme/Lashensi; 20. J ̌arliγ-iyar Kesig-i situgči süme, Qan süme/ Cheng’ensi 誠恩寺, Hanmiao 罕廟; 21.Γanǰuur süme/Ganzhuermiao, Xinghuasi 興化寺; 22. Gabču(?)-yin süme/Gabuchumiao, Xingfusi 興福寺; 23. Mingγan ayusi-yin süme/Qianfosi 千佛寺



167

Figure 33

a. Modern map of Kesigten Banner, Chifeng Municipality

© Isabelle Charleux, from “Öbör Mongγol-un öbertegen ǰasaqu oron-u γaǰar-un ǰiruγ-un emkidkel”(comp.) 2007, pp. 192-193 and Anonymous 1989, pp. 29-30

b. cat. 802 (Hs. Or. 24), map of Kesigten Banner, J̌oo-uda, 1908. Inside the circles, Jinpeng (Biraγuqota)/Kirbis qada, and Qongγu-yin dabaγa/Qongγor oboγa. The space of the banner map only coverspart of the old banner, which had a more vertical shape and extended to the south and north. Thecircles show the correspondences between the two maps.



168

Conclusion

76 Maps are cultural productions that construct an image of the visible world which favors

specific interests, and “culturalize the natural through processes of denomination and

identification, of categorization and inclusion” (Smith 1998, p. 57). As for Chinese maps,

the attention paid to the high accuracy of representation on Mongol maps is

remarkable, yet it contrasts with the tendency to deform the spatial distribution of

objects in order to construct a more auspicious visual narrative: they mix concrete and

idealized geographies. The banner maps sometimes depict places that one thinks they

are or would like them to be – for instance, a hill can be depicted as a high mountain,

landscape features can be arranged to correct a “geomantic defect” (such as the

absence of watercourse or a mountain to the south)156, and the banner prince’s

residence and the main sacred mountain and banner ovoo can be relocated in the

center157.

77 These maps were part of the Qing project: they were made on Qing order and were

supposed to follow precise conventions. Although the map-makers were Mongol

officials, their maps belong to the Chinese cartographic tradition (using variable

perspective, importance of the text, relative size of objects according to their

importance, drawings of buildings and landscape elements). Nevertheless, these maps

can be considered as emic documents and reflect a Mongol worldview, with the

adoption of multiple viewpoints and a circular composition necessitating rotational

viewership for some of them, hierarchization of space, abundance and distinction of

specific natural elements and notably, mountains, ovoos as well as decorative details.

They show how the banner princes themselves represented their own banner and

resisted cartographic standardization. As expressed by Kollmar-Paulenz (2006, p. 38),

“The Mongols, besides bending to Qing administrative prescriptions, used cartography

as a visual means to confirm their own concepts of space which were dependent on

their traditional world-view”. As argues Pratte (2021), local cartographic aesthetics was

never completely erased, even of more abstract maps.

78 This paper tried to shed new light on details of the various modes of the ovoos’ presence

in Mongolian cartographic representations of space158. Ovoos were ancient human

marking tools in the open steppe, which the Qing appropriated to mark the border with

Russia and internal boundaries inside Mongolia. The maps inform us on how the

borders were conceptualized, and it was precisely one of their main functions. But why

depict cult ovoos on banner maps if this information was not specifically asked by the

Lifanyuan? The indication of the most sacred mountains of a banner (such as Kengtei

qan) may have been obvious information for map-makers. Cult ovoos were territorial

indicators for the supernatural realm considered no less important than the physical

one. The local administrations’ worship of mountain deities at banner ovoos was a major

religious and political ritual. Main ovoos were probably also used as landmarks

(including rivers’, wells’ and springs’ ovoos). Still today, some ovoos are major

landmarks, markers visible from afar, and useful for orientation, such as the Binder

ovoo in Hentii Province (Mongolia).

79 The number, symbols and types of ovoos per banner vary a lot. Boundary-marking ovoos

are often depicted as abstract, geometric symbols such as one or two rectangles, a dot,

a circle, or a kind of red flame. Conversely, cult ovoos are generally depicted as mimetic

drawings. When boundary-marking ovoos are depicted as mimetic drawings, the most


169

common symbol is a triangular mound resembling a small mountain, without a central

pole or tufts, while cult ovoos are depicted as triangular mounds with a tuft, a pole,

and/or flags: this may reflect the real structures of these ovoos (fig. 7a). Yet the two

categories of boundary-marking ovoos and cult ovoos were sometimes indistinguishable

on maps of the Inner Mongol banners. Besides, some cult ovoos on frontier mountains

were used as boundary markers.

80 The fact that boundary-marking ovoos are not always represented on banner maps of

Inner Mongolia does not mean that they were absent from the landscape itself. It is

possible that ovoos were built to mark the boundaries but they are not depicted and

their place names do not include the term oboγa; they were rather called by the name of

a mountain or a particular landmark. It is also possible that the territories of some

Inner Mongol banners were more stable over a long period than those in Outer Mongol

banners, and also had more coherent geographical boundaries. In Sili-yin γool for

instance, the banners had elongated shapes allowing access to the southern Chinese

markets of the Great Wall. The number of banners in Inner Mongolia was fixed to forty-

nine in the early Qing period and did not change, so the Inner Mongol groups were

relatively stable on their territory since the beginning of the Qing period, while in

Outer Mongolia, land was redistributed to the Qalqa after the Zunghar wars, the Oirad

were relocated west of them, and a new ayimaγ was created (Sayin noyan qan, in 1725).

This does not mean that there were less boundary conflicts in Inner Mongolia (see the

above-mentioned conflict in the Ordos)159.

Acknowledgements

81 I would like to thank the two anonymous reviewers for their helpful and constructive

comments; their perceptive feedback proved indispensable for the revision of the

manuscript.

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APPENDIXES

Number and depiction of boundary-marking ovoos and cult ovoos in

the different leagues and banners on the maps of the

Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin

Alašan and Eǰin γool Torγuud (cat 672, 673): 2 maps, 2 banners depicted/total of 2 banners

General

characteristicsNo grid, no line delimitating their boundaries

Boundary-ovoos cat. 673: 2 boundary-ovoo?; cat. 672: no ovoo

Cult ovoos cat. 673: 7 ovoos (tufted square on mountain); cat. 672: no ovoo

Xinjiang (cat. 674-676): 3 maps, 3 banners depicted/total of 3 banners

General

characteristics

No grid

cat. 674: no boundary line; cat. 675 and cat. 676: boundary=dotted line


175

Boundary-ovoos

Cat. 675: 7 boundary-ovoos (2 rectangles of different sizes)+2 boundary-ovoos

(inner boundary); cat. 676: 11 blue two-rectangle qaraγul and 12 white ones (of

which 5 are called qaraγul, 6 have no name and one is called obo)

No boundary-ovoo: cat. 674

Cult ovoos Cat. 674: 11 ovoos (tufts); cat. 675: no ovoo

Outer Mongolia

Qobdo and Uriyangqai (cat. 677-687): 11 maps; 7 banners depicted/total of 7 banners

General

characteristics

No grid (except for cat. 686 and cat. 687); boundary or portions of the boundary

drawn as a dotted line.

ExceptionCat. 686: use of the grid, the boundary is a continuous red line, and boundary-

ovoos are numbered

Depiction of

boundary-ovoos

two elongated triangles of different sizes on the boundary line (cat. 678) or on a

mountain (or pass), upon or near the boundary line (cat. 679, cat. 680, cat. 685,

cat. 687); cat. 686: small yellow peaked triangle

Number of

boundary-ovoos

Cat. 679, cat. 680: 4 ovoos; cat. 677 and cat. 678: 8 ovoos, cat. 683 and cat. 684: 6

ovoos; cat. 685: 12 ovoos, cat. 687: 13 ovoos, cat. 686: 24 ovoos (numbered), cat. 685:

40 ovoos. Cat. 681 and cat. 682 have no boundary-ovoo.

Border posts

(qaraγul)

two elongated triangles of different sizes on the boundary line. Cat. 683 and cat.

684: 9 qaraγuls, cat. 685: 18 qaraγuls, cat. 687: 9 qaraγuls

Roads with

örteges

Cat. 675, cat. 681 and cat. 682: 3 örtege triangles; cat. 677 and 678 have 6; cat. 685

has 13; also cat. 679, cat. 680, cat. 683, cat. 684.

Cult ovoos Cult ovoos are not depicted.

Qalqa J ̌asaγtu qan (cat. 688-701) and Qalqa Sayin noyan qan (cat. 702-706): 20 maps, 17

banners depicted/total of 55 banners

Cat. 688 General map of the J̌asaγtu qan ayimaγ: 44 ovoos on the boundary+11 inside the ayimaγ

General

characteristics

use of the grid, banners delimited by a continuous red or black line, boundary-

ovoos only on the boundaries with other ayimaγs

Depiction of

boundary-ovoostwo elongated triangles of different sizes

Number of

boundary-ovoos

- cat. 701: 1 ovoo; cat. 694 and cat. 690: 2 ovoos (parts of the boundary of cat.

690 are delimitated by 3 örtege triangles); cat. 695, cat. 696: 3 ovoos (plus one

boundary-ovoo with no symbol on cat. 696); cat. 691: 4 two-rectangle ovoos plus

one one-rectangle ovoo on the western part of the boundary); cat. 703: 7 ovoos;

cat. 689: 6 ovoos; cat. 705: 9 ovoos on the eastern and southern boundary; cat. 704:

13 ovoos on the eastern boundary

- cat. 692: no boundary-ovoo because no boundary with another ayimaγ


176

Location of

boundary-ovoos

- Ovoos on the boundary between J̌asaγtu qan and the Qobdo frontier: cat. 689: 2

ovoos; cat. 691: 5 ovoos

- Ovoos on the boundary between J̌asaγqu qan and Sayin noyan qan: cat. 690, cat.

693, cat. 694, cat. 695, cat. 696, cat. 699)

- Ovoos on the boundary between Sayin noyan qan and Tüsiyetü qan (cat. 704: 13

ovoos, cat. 705: 9 ovoos, cat. 706: 2 ovoos) or with the Gobi (cat. 701)

- Ovoos on the boundary with the Gobi: cat. 701

Roads with

örteges

Cat. 688: 25 örteges on 4 roads; cat. 690: 3 örtege triangles delimitating the

boundary and 5 others on a road crossing the banner. Other örteges: cat. 690, cat.

696, cat. 697.

Cult ovoos Cult ovoos are not depicted but a few mountains are called obova

Tüsiyetü qan ayimaγ (cat. 707-729): 23 maps, 20 banners depicted/total of 20 banners

General

characteristics

Use of the grid, banners delimited by a continuous red or black line.

Ovoos mark the boundaries with the adjacent banners, and almost all the

boundary-markers are ovoos. They are not numbered. On 6 maps the banner is

surrounded by a circle indicating the 24 directions (cat. 717, cat. 721, cat. 724,

cat. 727, cat. 728, cat. 729). Most of the maps give the height of mountains

Depiction of

boundary-ovoos

- small dashes or small black or red dots: cat. 709, cat. 712, cat. 716, cat. 722

- larger red dots: cat. 715, cat. 726

- small empty red circles: cat. 721, cat. 729, cat. 733

- small rectangles: cat. 710, cat. 725, cat. 727, cat. 728

- small triangles: cat. 711

Number of

boundary-ovoos

cat. 719: 12 ovoos, cat. 717 and cat. 718: 18 ovoos, cat. 721: 21(?) ovoos, cat. 728: 24

ovoos; cat. 722 and cat. 727: 25 ovoos, cat. 723: 27(?) ovoos, cat. 710: 28 ovoos, cat.

711: 34 ovoos, cat. 714: 36 ovoos, cat. 707: 39 ovoos, cat. 724: about 40 ovoos, cat.

725 and cat. 729: 43 ovoos, cat. 729: 43 or 44 ovoos, cat. 715: 46 ovoos, cat. 720: 48

ovoos, cat. 716: 89 ovoos, cat. 726: 97 ovoos

Cult ovoosCult ovoos are not depicted but occasionally named (cat. 708) and a few

mountains are called ovoo

Sečen qan ayimaγ (cat. 733-779): 47 maps, 23 banners depicted/total of 23 banners

Cat. 733: the general map of the ayimaγ has about 300 ovoos

General

characteristics

Use of the grid (except for cat. 766 and cat. 770), banners delimited by a

continuous red or black line.

Ovoos mark the boundaries with the adjacent banners and almost all the

boundary-markers are ovoos. Boundary-ovoos are all numbered (except for cat.

771 and 772). Most of the maps give the height of mountains


177

Depiction of

boundary-ovoos

- small black or red dots or dashes: cat. 744, cat. 751, cat. 771, cat. 772, cat. 774,

cat. 775

- larger red dots: cat. 715, cat. 726, cat. 743, cat. 746

- small red empty circles: cat. 733, cat. 736, cat. 747, cat. 748, cat. 761, cat. 808

- large empty red circles: cat. 734, cat. 735, cat. 768

- small triangles: cat. 686, cat. 741

- small mounds with a red dash: cat. 773

- small circle on a triangle symbolizing a mountain: cat. 776

- small green mountains/mounds: cat. 769, cat. 770

- red flame or almond: cat. 749, cat. 750

- central blue mountain flanked by two lower red mountains, crowned by a red

peak of flame: cat. 778, cat. 779

Number of

boundary-ovoos

cat. 744 and cat. 745: 18 ovoos, cat. 771 and cat. 772: 22 ovoos, cat. 686: 24 ovoos,

cat. 749 and cat. 750: 26 ovoos, cat. 734, cat. 735, cat. 763, cat. 764, cat. 769 and

cat. 770: 28 ovoos, cat. 765 and cat. 766: 29 ovoos, cat. 774, cat. 775 and cat. 778: 30

ovoos, cat. 777 and cat. 778: 30 ovoos, cat. 747 and cat. 748: 32 ovoos, cat. 753 and

cat. 754: 35 ovoos, cat. 738 and cat. 739: 39 ovoos, cat. 751, cat. 752, cat. 767 and

cat. 768: 40 ovoos, cat. 742 and cat. 743: 44 ovoos, cat. 773 and 774: 56 ovoos, cat.

746: 60 ovoos, cat. 759, cat. 760: 63 ovoos, cat. 736 and cat. 737: 64 ovoos, cat. 757:

65 ovoos, cat. 758), at. 761 and cat. 762: 69 ovoos, cat. 740 and cat. 741: 73 ovoos,

cat. 755 and cat. 756: 120 ovoos.

Cult ovoos

Cat. 736 and cat. 737: ovoos on 6 out of about a hundred mountains; cat. 738:

ovoos on 6 out of about 30; cat. 742: ovoos on 9 out of 24 mountains; cat. 761 and

cat. 762: ovoos on about 10 out of 23 mountains; cat. 765 and cat. 766: ovoos on 7

out of 25 mountains (on the highest mountains); cat. 768 and cat. 767: 19

mountains have ovoos

Depiction of cult

ovoos

- red dots or tuft

- ovoid or almond-like shapes: cat. 761, cat. 762

- square or hemispheric shape with a tuft on a mountain summit: cat. 742, cat.

743, cat. 743, cat. 765, cat. 766, cat. 777, cat. 778 and cat. 779

- piled rocks: cat. 759, cat. 760: in the center of the map

- small triangles or dots on a mountain top (cat. 749)

- 2 dashes mountain top and pointed summits (cat. 763, cat. 765, cat. 769)

- central blue mountain flanked by two lower red mountains, crowned by a red

peak of flame: cat. 778, cat. 779

Ovoo on a peak

behind a

monastery

cat. 737, cat. 767, cat. 768 (mountain topped by a tuft), cat. 773, cat 775 and cat.

776


178

Inner Mongolia

J̌irim (cat 781-790), 10 maps, 5 banners depicted/total of 7 banners

General

characteristics

Most maps do not use the grid.

- boundary indicated by mountains connected by a red line: cat. 782 and cat.

783, cat. 787; by a black line: cat. 788,

- by isolated landmarks forming the boundary: cat. 784, cat. 785 and cat. 786.

- boundaries=rectangular frame of the map with black line: cat. 789 and cat. 790

- palisade with gates: cat. 788, cat. 789 and cat. 790

Boundary-ovoos

- cat. 782 and cat. 783 (8 red marks: ovoos? on mountains not called ovoo except

for one: Pai-yin oboγa)

- cat. 784 and cat. 785 (one big mountain topped by an ovoo or a big boulder on

the northern boundary), cat. 787 (mountain topped by a red dot: Qongγor

oboγa), cat. 788 (3 boundary mountains crowned by a big tuft, not named ovoo)

- No boundary-ovoo named or depicted: cat. 789 and cat. 790

Number of cult

ovoos

cat. 784: 2 ovoo, cat. 785 and cat. 786: 1 ovoo, cat. 789 and cat. 790: 1 ovoo

Big boulder (ovoo?): 2 on cat. 784, cat. 785, cat. 786

Depiction of cult

ovoos

- mound with a pole: cat. 784, cat. 785 and cat. 786

- ovoo of piled rocks: cat. 789 (Qara buqa-yin oboγa, near a stūpa)

- mound with a hummock and a kind of square window: cat. 790

- small dot or pole on a mountain: cat. 788

J̌osoto (cat. 791-796): 6 maps, 6 banners depicted/total of 7 banners

General

characteristics

No grid.

- Natural boundaries: cat. 784, cat. 785 and cat. 786, cat. 793, cat. 795

- black line surrounding the banner: cat. 791 (no boundary landmark)

- rectangular frame of the map: cat. 794

- palisade with gates: cat. 793, cat. 794

Boundary-ovoos No boundary-ovoo named or depicted

Cult ovoosNo cult ovoos. Cat. 793 has a big boulder on 2 mountains: Ung-yin aγula, almost

in the center of the map, another one on the mountain behind the Huixiangsi.

J̌oo-uda (cat. 797-806): 10 maps, 12 banners depicted/total of 12 banners


179

General

characteristics

No grid.

- natural boundaries: cat. 798, cat. 800, cat. 805, cat. 806

- boundary=rectangular frame of the map: cat. 797, cat. 799 (with a black line),

cat. 802, cat. 803, cat. 805, cat. 806

- black line surrounding the banner: cat. 801 (no landmark)

Boundary-ovoos

- cat. 799: names of 2 ovoos on the south-east boundary (no drawing); cat. 806: 2

ovoos on the western boundary; cat. 798: name of 1 ovoo written near the Looqa

γool/Liaohe River; cat. 800: 4 ovoos depicted on high mountains on the northern

boundary (not named ovoo); cat 802: 2 drawings of ovoos on Sayiqan aγula

(bottom) and on Qongγor oboγa (top); cat. 803: high flat mountains with 3 ovoos

on the western boundary and a mountain with ovoo on its northern boundary,

and 3 big ovoos on the shore of the Sira mören River

- cat. 805 (Aruqorčin): 1 ovoo (name and drawn) on the north-east boundary with

J̌arud; 6 red dots on mountains in the south-west (not called ovoo); small

triangular brown mounds without a tuft on points of the boundary (4 of them

are called “northern ovoos” (Ch. Beifang ebo) on the north-west boundary)

- No boundary-ovoo named or depicted: cat. 797, cat. 798, cat. 801

Number of cult

ovoos

cat. 799: 1 ovoo, cat. 801: 1 ovoo, cat. 802: 5 ovoos (including ovoos on the

boundary), cat. 803: 11 ovoos (including 2 high flat mountains with 3 ovoos each,

one of them on a boundary; cat. 804 of the same banner shows the same

mountains, monasteries, pagoda, trees and bridge but no ovoo), cat. 805: 16 ovoos

(some of them are not on mountain summits but near the river), cat. 806 has

about 18 ovoos (some other ovoos are not depicted, only named)

Depiction of cult

ovoos

- Hemispheric or square shape with tufts and flags on mountain summits: cat.

802, cat. 803, cat. 805, cat. 806

- as a small house topped with flags: cat. 801

Sili-yin γool (cat. 807-828): 22 maps, 10 banners depicted/total of 10 banners

General

characteristics

9 maps use the grid; for most of them, the boundary is the rectangular frame of

the map. The boundary can be materialized by a black continuous line (cat. 807,

cat. 809, cat. 818, cat. 820, cat. 821, cat. 823, cat. 824, cat. 826) or formed by

isolated mountains (cat. 811, cat. 812, cat. 813, cat. 817, cat. 825, cat. 827, cat.

828). Cat. 822 (dated 1889) is in the style of Sečen qan ayimaγ

Boundary-ovoos

Drawings of ovoos: cat. 807, cat. 808 and cat. 809 (12 red circles+1 mountain

named ovoo), cat. 810: 5 ovoos (big boulder), cat. 811: 1 ovoo (big boulder), cat.

814: 1 ovoo (square with pole topped by a finial), cat. 815: 2 ovoos, cat. 816 and

cat. 817: 2 ovoos (square with a pole, same as cult ovoos), cat. 818: 1 ovoo, cat. 826,

cat. 827 and cat. 828 (mountains called qada, mangqa (long sandy hill), oboγa,

toloγai, with 1 to 3 rounds or kinds of boulders on their summits. Many

mountains named obova.

No boundary-ovoo: cat. 812, cat. 813, cat. 820 and cat. 821


180

Number of cult

ovoos

cat. 807: 5 ovoos, cat. 809: 18 ovoos, cat. 810: 3 mountains with ovoo; cat. 811: 2

ovoos; cat. 812: 1 ovoo; cat. 814: 6 ovoos, cat. 815: 7 ovoos, cat. 816: 18 ovoos, cat.

817: around 13 ovoos, cat. 818: 8 ovoos, cat. 820: 10 ovoos, cat. 821: 9 ovoos; cat. 826,

cat. 827 and cat. 828: 1 ovoo

No ovoo: cat. 813, cat. 823, cat. 824, cat. 825

Depiction of cult

ovoos

- tuft on mountain: cat. 807

- vertical tuft (wooden ovoo): cat. 818

- square with pole: cat. 816

- mound with tuft and flags on a mountain: cat. 810

- square with pole and a finial: cat. 811, cat. 814

- simple cairn: cat. 814

- big boulder: cat. 810, cat. 811, cat. 826, cat. 828

- small dash on a mountain: cat. 807

- round mark: cat. 807

- square topped by 2 rectangles: cat. 812

- triangular mound: cat. 820, cat. 821

- small dots on mountains: cat. 815

Ulaγancab (cat. 829-832): 4 maps, 6 banners depicted/total of 6 banners

General

characteristics

No grid, banners delimited by mountains, connected or not by a continuous or

spotted line

Number of

boundary-ovooscat. 829, cat. 830, cat. 831: 4 ovoos, cat. 832: 12 boundary-ovoos

Number of cult

ovooscat. 829: 10 ovoos, cat. 830: 12 ovoos

Depiction of cult

and boundary-

ovoos

- boulder-like ovoo on mountains: cat. 829, cat. 830

- round or oval shape on mountain tops (ovoos?): cat. 831

- mound topped by a flag on a mountain: cat. 832

Ordos (cat. 833-853): 20 maps, 7 banners depicted/total of 7 banners

General

characteristicsNo grid, banners delimited by a red continuous line

Number of

boundary-ovoos

Cat. 834 and cat. 835: 2 ovoo, cat. 840: 4 ovoos, cat. 841: 5 ovoos, cat. 842: 3 ovoos,

cat. 843 and cat. 844: 5 ovoos, cat. 845: 1 ovoo, cat. 851: 18 names of “fengdui” (2

are depicted), cat. 836 and cat. 837: 3 ovoos

Mountains called

oboγa or oboγatu

Cat. 838: one mountain called Qara oboγa on the western boundary, cat. 134, cat.

135: Qan oboγa


181

Depiction of cult

and boundary-

ovoos

- ovoid mound with hair-like dashes on mountains: cat. 834, cat. 852

- mountain with a tuft: cat. 838

- blue tufts on mountains with or without a flag (cat. 836

- square with a tuft on mountain summits: cat. 837, cat. 845, cat. 847, cat. 849,

cat. 850

- triangular piles of stones (with or without a small tuft): cat. 837, cat. 840

- orange triangle topped by a circle: cat. 842

- circle or almond-shape: cat. 842, cat. 843

- pointed triangle: cat. 842

- pointed almond shape on a mountain: cat. 844

- double yellow mound with a pole: cat. 835

- branch-like triangular shape: cat. 847

Number of cult

ovoos

cat. 834, cat. 843: 2 ovoos, cat. 851: 3 ovoos, cat. 842, cat. 848, cat. 849 and cat. 850:

4 ovoos, cat. 835, cat. 836, cat. 840 and cat. 841: 5 ovoos, cat. 844 and cat. 845: 6

ovoos, cat. 837: 7 ovoos, cat. 835 and cat. 836: 6 or 7 ovoo, cat. 847 has 8 ritual

ovoos, cat. 846: 9 ovoos

NOTES

1. Cl. Mo. qosiγun-u nutuγ-un ǰiruγ (map of the territory of a banner); Ch. youmutu 游牧圖 (map/

image of pastures).

2. The Mongol banners (qosiγu) were geographical divisions organized by the Qing, ruled by a

hereditary prince (ǰasaγ) enfeoffed to the Manchu dynasty. As expressed by Kamimura (2005,

p. 13), “The Emperor had the right of ownership, the ruling ǰasaγ had the right of possession, and

the herdsmen had the right of use” of land. The Qing administration of its frontier regions

adopted a system of indirect rule based on the co-optation of local elites. The banner princes

kept a political and judicial authority (supervision of the census, collection of taxes, adjudication

of the lower crimes, and regulation of trade). For notions of rights over land, “ownership”, and

allocation of pastures inside banners: Sneath 2001.

3. Mongolian words are transcribed from Classical Uyghur Mongolian, except for place names of

the Republic of Mongolia that are transcribed from Cyrillic Mongolian. The only exception here is

Cyr. Mo. ovoo, to be consistent with the other articles of this special issue. I here use “ovoo” to

designate artificial structures (stone or earth heaps, sometimes with a central pole, a tuft,

flagpoles or long arrows, or tree trunks arranged in conical shape), and I specify when a

mountain is called “ovoo”.

4. About 22% of the toponyms M. Haltod listed from the 182 German maps of the Berlin collection

are names of ovoo structures or of mountains called “ovoo” (estimations from Haltod 1966).

5. They were collected by Walther Heissig and Hermann Consten and were previously preserved

in the Westdeutsche Bibliothek, Marburg. They cover most of the Mongol Qing territories except

for Sayin noyan qan ayimaγ (only 5 maps) and the banners that were under direct administration

of Beijing (the Tümed of Kökeqota [Hohhot], the Čaqar banners and imperial pastures, the

banners of Kölön Buir). See Heissig 1944, Heissig’s introduction to Haltod 1966 and Kollmar-

Paulenz 2006 for a presentation of Mongol banner maps. They are available at: https://


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https://themen.crossasia.org/mongolische-karten/


themen.crossasia.org/mongolische-karten/. I would like to thank the Oriental Department of the

Preussischer Kulturbesitz for granting me the permission to reproduce the maps of their

collection and supply me with better quality images than the ones available online.

6. About a thousand banner maps are preserved in Japan, Mongolia, China and Europe. The dates

and styles of the majority of the 44 maps of the Tenri Central Library in Japan are close to that of

the Berlin collection (Wuyunbilige 2014).

7. There were forty-nine Mongol autonomous banners (qosiγu) in Inner Mongolia grouped into

six “leagues” (čiγulγan), to which were added two banners of Western Mongols (Alašan and Eǰinγool), two Tümed banners, eight banners and four imperial pastures (sürüg) of the Čaqar, and the

imperial pastures of the Dariγangγa. The New and Old Barγu in Kölön Buir and the Daγur in

Butha were settled under a Manchu eight banners system. In the late Qing period, Outer

Mongolia consisted of the four Qalqa ayimaγs (administrative divisions) subdivided into eighty-

six banners and fourteen monastic territories ruled by a reincarnated lama. After the Qing

conquest of Zungharia and the Kukunor area, the Western Mongol territories were reshaped as

the Qobdo frontier, the Köbsgöl frontier, the Tangnu (Tannu) Uriyangqai, the Torγuud and

Uriyangqai banners of Xinjiang, and the twenty-nine Qošuud banners of Kukunor. The term

“Outer Mongolia” then included the four Qalqa ayimaγs along with Qobdo, Köbsgöl and Tangnu

Uriyangqai.

8. These written reports are called in Mongolian “nutuγa čese” (report on a territory), “ögöled

čese” (report– čese < Manchu, itself derived from Chinese cezi 册子, document), or nutuγa ǰiruγa

ögölel” (article and map of a territory). It seems that it was only at the beginning of the

19th century that the Lifanyuan required that the report shall be systematically illustrated by a

map; the texts were therefore partially transferred on the maps. These reports are handwritten

texts comprising between four and twenty sheets. Pratte (2021, p. 122) translates čese as “legend”

as they are essential records that explained how to read the map.

9. Before the Mongolian People’s Republic, there was no complete map of North (Outer)

Mongolia.

10. See Heissig (1944, pp. 125-130) and Pratte (2021) for early Qing maps and orders to draw

maps.

11. Dated maps of the Berlin corpus were drawn between 1889 and 1920; among them, seventy-

five are dated 1907, and twenty-six are dated 1910. Fifty-five have no date. Although I here focus

on the late Qing period, I include in my corpus a few maps dated 1919 and 1920. During the

Autonomous Boγda qaγan period in Mongolia (1912-1921) banner maps continued to be produced

on the same model as the Qing’s banner maps. Of course, new maps were created for the new

administrative units established after 1911 (Kamimura 2005, pp. 15, 17; Futaki 2005, pp. 28, 31).

The maps of Alašan (cat. 672, 1919), of the Torγuud of Xinjiang (cat. 674, 1919 and cat. 675, 1920),

and of Altai Uriyangqai (cat. 676, 1920) are similar to the maps of the Qing corpus. “Cat. xxx” here

refers to the numbering of the Berlin maps, which were previously catalogued as “Hs. Or. xxx”

(see Heissig & Sagaster’s catalogue 1961, pp. 335-446).

12. Wang (2021) studies the nationalization of pasturelands, the creation of new administrative

districts and the legalization of Han migrants’ presence in Inner Mongolia and more specifically

in Ordos.

13. The increasing pressure of Chinese immigration was the main cause of the numerous Mongol

uprisings against aggressive Chinese colonization from 1891 to 1930. These uprisings took place

in most of the Inner Mongol leagues (Heissig 1972). Mongol rebels obstructed land surveys,

plundered Chinese local governments, killed officials, which provoked military campaigns in

response, especially in eastern Inner Mongolia after the 1891 Jindandao rebellion (Lan 1999,

pp. 49-50). This ultimately led Outer Mongolia to declare independence.

14. Toponyms were usually transcribed into Chinese while the other texts were translated. Some

maps were also translated into Manchu.


183



15. Regulations for drawing banner maps were promulgated in 1805, 1864, and 1890 (Futaki 2005,

p. 28; Kamimura 2005, p. 16 and fig. 1; Pratte 2021). The 1890 rules aimed at producing an atlas of

the Qing state, hence they were the same rules for all the provinces of the empire: a banner was

considered to be the equivalent to a sheng 省 (Chinese province). This article focuses on maps

drawn after 1890 (all the maps in the Berlin collection but one were drawn after 1890). On banner

maps anterior to the 1890 regulations, see Pratte (2021), who details the different purposes of the

three successive mapping policies: military information in 1802, fixing of boundaries and borders

to document the strategic and geopolitically sensitive frontiers in 1864, and obtaining

information on natural resources in 1890 in addition to producing maps for the Qing atlas.

16. 1 γaǰar=360 alda, 576 m, 1 qubi=0,1 γaǰar, 1 alda=160 cm.

17. The grid made it easier to copy the map.

18. Chinese maps were influenced by the European cartography introduced by the Jesuits in

China in the 17th century, but the “mathematization of space” would not be generalized until the

late 19th century (Cams 2017).

19. Pratte (2021) speaks of “shifting worm’s eye view”: a view from the ground on the center of

the map and multiple perspectives.

20. A few of them are very abstract, devoid of drawings, and accompanied by captions (see

cat. 780, dated 1907).

21. A three-dimensional object is represented by a drawing having all axes drawn to exact scale:

all lines remain parallel instead of receding to a common vanishing point.

22. For similar remarks about Chinese maps of the end of the empire: Smith 1998, p. 60; Hearn

2011, p. 96.

23. On maps as “pictures”, see and Kollmar-Paulenz 2006, pp. 357-358.

24. Pratte (2021) highlights the profound transformation of maps of Sečen qan ayimaγ after the

promulgation of the 1805, 1864, and 1890 regulations: pre-1864 maps showed a local perspective

with multiple viewpoints and a pictographic depiction of landscape. After 1864-1865, maps of

Sečen qan ayimaγ’s banners adopted a single bird’s eye perspective; the focus was no more on the

landscape but on the boundary-ovoos that had to correspond to their actual location. Banners

were represented with straight lines on their contour, a grid, a scale, color codes (all boundary

ovoos had to be marked in red), red labels to indicate each boundary-marking ovoo that were

numbered and named, following the 24-direction or the sexagenary cycle system. Geographical

features shrank in relation to boundary markers and became more abstract. After 1891, maps

tended to become abstract and disembedded territorial representations. However, this evolution

which is clear for banner maps of Sečen qan ayimaγ that complied to new Qing standards, is not

observed for other leagues and ayimaγs. The Berlin collection shows that various pictographic

traditions focusing on the landscape without showing clear boundaries continued to be followed

after 1890, especially in Inner Mongolia, revealing the failure of the process of homogeneization.

25. The two maps of Xinjiang, cat. 675 and cat. 676, belong to the Qobdo and Uriyangqai family

(although dated 1919-1920, they are not different from Qing banner maps).

26. The Berlin catalogue numbers the maps of the northern Mongol lands from west (Qobdo

Uriyangqai) to east (Qalqa Sečen qan ayimaγ).

27. Cat. 807, 809, 810, 812, 813, 814, 820, 822.

28. Pratte (2021, p. 334) highlights for Sečen qan ayimaγ the work of the league heads as

intermediate between Beijing and Mongol banner princes: they cross-examined the banner maps

of neighboring banners to check the consistencies by comparing their boundary segments and

ovoos. The task of mapping involved the coordinated action of a number of local officials.

29. Haltod (1966) listed 13 644 Mongol place names in the first volume of Mongolische Ortsnamen

(there are many mistakes in transcriptions; and he did not record the Chinese place names). In

the third volume, Sh. Rasidondug added 141 names to Haltod’s list (Heissig 1981, pp. 199-202).

Ravdan published a glossary and a study of toponyms of maps preserved in Mongolia (2004a,


184

2004b). Futaki & Kamimura (2005) listed 1 700 toponyms and captions on sixteen maps preserved

in the Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, Japan. On the toponyms, see also several articles in

the volume edited by Futaki et al. 2012.

30. In fumigation texts, the Mongol landscape is equated with mountains of Tibet and ancient

India. See for instance a sang text for ovoo worship by Bičiyeči čorǰi Aγvangdorǰi studied by

Bawden (1970), who tried to identify the names of the local topographical features where master-

spirits of the land were worshiped, and a ritual text of the Matad qan Mountain in eastern

Mongolia dedicated to sixty-one sacred places analyzed by Tatár (1976).

31. Many phonetic spellings and “misspellings” of toponyms appear in banner maps, such as

baying for bayan, ölǰitü for ölǰeitü, kisig for kesig, nuur for naγur, genitive forms that do not respect

the rules and so on.

32. Dui means “pile, heap”. Fengdui is the official term according to imperial edicts of the

Daoguang era (1820-1850) (Constant 2010, p. 76). Cat. 851 (Qanggin Banner) uses fengdui and

cat. 852 (same banner), ebo; both are dated 1909.

33. Haltod (1966, p. 110) reads on the Berlin maps many occurrences of ovoos called Modon

oboγa/obo, Modon oboγatu-yin oboγa (“Mountain of the wooden ovoo”), Sara-yin modon oboγa,

etc. designating either cairns or mountains.

34. As we will see, rectangles might actually represent steles; then they would not be abstract

symbols.

35. On cat. 773, almost all the mountains have a pointed summit, which is not the case of cat. 764

of the same banner.

36. Here are some examples: Qoyitu sengkir-yin oboo (cat. 677 and cat. 678) in Qobdo Uriyangqai,

Boro γučin oboγa, Batusγur oboγa, and Buyantu oboγa (cat. 711) in Tüsiyetü qan; oboγa aγula

(cat. 734), Čaγan oboγa (cat. 757-760), Bayang [Bayan] oboγa (cat. 761, cat. 762), Bayangčaγan

[Bayančaγan] oboγa, Delger oboγa, Ölǰeitü oboγa, Takilγatu oboγa, Toγol oboγa, Čaγan oboγa

(cat. 767-768); Čaγan oboγa, Delger oboγa, Urtu-yin čaγan oboγa (cat. 769-770) in Sečen qan;

Bayan ǰirüke oboγa, Bayan čaγan oboγa (cat. 802) in J̌oo-uda; Čaγan oboγa (cat. 814), Qara oboγa

(cat. 818, cat. 819) in Sili-yin γool, etc. On a map of J̌arud Banner (J̌oo-uda), ten of the mountains

with a drawing of ovoo on their summit have a name ending with “oboγa” (cat. 806); on maps of

the Üǰümüčin Right Banner (Sili-yin γool), eleven mountains are called “oboγa” (cat. 810-811) and

on maps of the Sünid Left Banner (Sili-yin γool), nine mountains are called “oboγa” (cat. 823-824).

37. Cyr. Mo. Altan ovoo, in present-day Sühbaatar Province (see Jessica Madison Pískatá’s article

in this issue). Tamirjavyn (2017) argues that the Darigγanγa call “ovoo” a) supernatural entities,

b) sacred mountains, and c) altars (cairns).

38. Ongγočatu-yin eki kösiγe-yin dabaγan-u oboγa (cat. 726), Ataγan-yin dabaγan[-u] oboγa

(cat. 721, cat. 722).

39. Onon γool-un oboγa (cat. 722), Γool oboγa (cat. 713), Γool-un kebtege-yin oboγa (cat. 716,

cat. 725).

40. Čaγan nuur-yin oboγa (cat. 719, cat. 835).

41. Qudduγ-un oboγa, Bulaγ-yin [-un] oboγa (cat. 777-cat. 779), Aγuyitu bulaγ-un oboγa (cat. 751-

cat. 752), Bayangbulaγ [Bayanbulaγ]-un oboγa (cat. 715, cat. 757-cat. 758), Aman-u qudduγ-un/yin

oboγa (cat. 733, cat. 746, cat. 748)

42. Aman-u usun-u oboγa (cat. 708), Aru uγtaγal-yin usun-u oboγa (cat. 716).

43. Ovoos depicted near rivers: cat. 675, cat. 798, cat. 803, cat. 805. On cat. 778 (fig. 20), boundary-

marking ovoos are all located on mountain tops except for a few ones (numbered 5th, 8th, 12th, 17th,

23th, 28th) which are situated directly on the boundary line. Some of their names indicate that

they are ovoos of springs (bulaγ) or wells (qudduγ). The second ovoo, although being named dabaγa-

u oboγa (mountain-pass ovoo), is depicted on a peak.

44. 凡游牧近山河者以山河為界無山河者設鄂博為界.


185

45. Fines were in livestock with rates according to social rank (Bello 2015, p. 120).

46. Constant (2010, p. 75, note 66) quotes a memoir addressed to the Grand Council (Junjichu 軍

機處) dated 1862 – two years before the new regulations – about the difficulty of controlling

illegal crossings due to the non-existence of a clear delimitation of the border between Mongolia

and Russia. The Russian emissary proposed to draw new maps on which the borders would be

materialized by red dots.

47. From historical documents preserved in the National Archives of Mongolia, Cholmongerel

studied conflicts about Qalqa banners’ boundaries from the Qianlong period (1736-1796) to the

19th century. He showed that conflicts during the reign of Qianlong resulted in the order that

boundaries of the pasture land should be defined and a map should be made and submitted

(Chomongguriru 2014, p. 87 – I thank A. S. Pratte for having sent me this article). About two

conflicts between Inner Mongol banners in 1831 and 1832, see Constant 2010, p. 78.

48. The “Kotwicz IV” map of the Tüsiyetü qan ayimaγ dated 1805, studied by Inoue (2012,

pp. 221-226) has a few mounds called “ovoo” on the red lines marking the boundaries between

banners and the southern border of the ayimaγ with Inner Mongolia. A map of Doloγan naγur

studied by Heissig (1944, pl. XII) based on a map dated 1742 has eight ovoos on its boundaries;

since they are depicted the same way as the many cult ovoos inside the map, it is not clear if all of

them are boundary-markers.

49. Heissig 1944, pp. 130-131; Constant 2010, pp. 76, 79.

50. See Chomongguriru 2014, pp. 102-103. Van Hecken (1960) recounts a century of territorial

conflicts (1827-1937) between the Otoγ and Üüsin Banners of Ordos and the attempts of

mediation by the Scheut Catholic missionaries of Boro balγasu, but does not mention maps.

During this conflict starting with Üüsin invading the south-east part of Otoγ, the ten boundary-

marking ovoos of the 120 km-long boundary were “moved” (destroyed and rebuilt) several times.

Serruys (1977, pp. 492-493) mentions Mongol herders organized in “circles” (duγuilang) altering

or destroying ovoo landmarks, and rebuilding them at new places to move a boundary with other

banners or with the land given out to the Chinese.

51. This term is found in the Qianlong period: Heissig 1944, p. 130. Also: kiǰaγar neyilegsen γaǰar-tu

bayiγuluγsan temdegtü oboγa (marker-ovoo built on a bordering place), qayičin oboγa (junction ovoo),

kili oboγa (border ovoo).

52. Davaa-Ochir 2008, pp. 52-53, quoting Sühbat & Luvsan Darjaa 2004. According to B. Tseden-

Ish: “Any dispute arising between Halhs and Bargas was discussed and settled by meeting of

representatives of two sides. Each two Halh neighboring posts set up “hiach” [typo] or “scissors”

ovoos in the midway to their respective ovoos, where they could meet and communicate with

each other and exchange information” (Tseden-Ish 2003, p. 23). Gerelbadrah (2006, p. 40) writes

that according to sources, the boundary-marking ovoos consisted of series of three ovoos: the

scissors ovoos (haichiin ovoo [qayičin-u oboγa]) of the Mongol-Russian border, and the border-

marking ovoos of the two countries. A knotty piece of wood was pulled by a line of horses to mark

a precise line between the ovoos. I thank the second anonymous reviewer for these two

references. It was at the ovoo between border-posts that patrolling soldiers from one border-post

exchanged information with patrols from the other border-post; “[t]his was called khaich yavakh,

scissor-walking, a metaphor implying that the soldiers were cutting the borderline like scissors,

making a radical partition” (Bulag 2012, p. 41).

53. These had to be periodically rebuilt because they collapsed easily (Heissig 1944, p. 130).

54. Chagdarsurung (1975, p. 365) translates an inscription on a “boundary stake” (Cl. Mo. qosiγun

nutuγ-un degesü (“rope/measure of a banner’s territory”) “on a rock”.

55. The Iledkel šastir mentions the erection of marker pole/wooden post (temdeg modon) to mark

the boundaries of the new Alašan Banner in 1686 (quoted by Heissig 1944, p. 128). In his

travelogue written between 1899 to 1902, Gombojab Tsybikov (1992, p. 29) describes a 1,50 m-


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high granite stele marking the southern border of Alašan; it was inscribed in Chinese with the

date 1849 and the names of the people who were present at its erection, and in Mongolian,

“boundary of the territory of the Prince of the First Rank of Alašan”, and “Stone stele of the Red

Ravine”.

56. In addition to conflicts between banner princes, land conflicts with Chinese farmers

multiplied in 19th century Inner Mongolia and were often mediated by Christian missionaries in

Ordos. Wang (2019, 2021) studies conflicts that developed when the Qing administration land

surveys only took into account net arable land, “leaving out rivers, canals, roads, tamarisk

bushes, sandy and saline areas as nonproductive ‘wasteland’”, while local Mongols “regarded all

lands as part of a continuous topographical landscape” (Wang 2019, p. 290).

57. Bello (2015, chapter 3) studies cases of boundary modifications and reallocation of pastures

following ecological change.

58. The legislation of the Qing state progressively evolved from a right based on the person to a

right based on territoriality (Constant 2010, p. 79).

59. In 1739, a meeting that gathered an imperial emissary, the head of the confederation and the

banner princes of the seven banners of Ordos aimed at delimiting the boundaries of the banners

after a dispute; a map was drawn and each of the seven banner princes affixed his seal to signify

his approval. The map was then sent to the Lifanyuan in Beijing (Mostaert & Cleaves 1956,

pp. 85-86 and fig. 1). A map kept in the National Archives of Mongolia was drawn under the

supervision of the chief of the Sečen qan ayimaγ in order to fix boundaries and boundary-

marking ovoos, and represents only the boundaries between two banners (X.460, D.1, XH.24) (I

thank A. S. Pratte for having sent me a photo of this map).

60. In one report, some sections of a boundary have not been clarified at the time the document

was issued (Futaki 2005, p. 31).

61. “The rights conferred by a map could be called into question by a de facto situation. […] The

rights on a territory, though recognized by a map bearing the seal of the court of the ǰasaγ, were

de facto legitimate only when they were accepted by the people living in that territory” (Constant

2010, p. 80).

62. The word nutuγ, “homeland”, designated both a family’s seasonal pasturelands and the

banner to which she belonged (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 50).

63. During the Mayidari/Maitreya festival in Mongolia, the procession of the Maitreya statue

around the monastery’s precinct has the function of protecting and purifying the monastery and

renewing the pact with the territorial deities and the Buddhicization of the land.

64. The banner monastery (qosiγun-u küriye) was the main and biggest monastery of the banner

and had jurisdiction over the other monasteries and temples of the banner.

65. Banners were maintained in several parts of Inner Mongolia that were not turned into

municipalities (shi 市) and districts (xian 县).

66. Dabaγa, “mountain-pass”, also means “difficulty, obstacle”. When crossing mountain-passes,

Tibetans use to cry “the gods are victorious!” As explained by Davaa-Ochir (2008, pp. 53-54), “a

pass represents a geographic change, and ovoo rituals on the pass symbolise a passage or transfer

from one state to another. A pass is the highest point along the travel route, where ‘the

ascending joins the descending’ and a passage stands for the change of the season and the

migrations of nomads, according to the seasonal changes”.

67. Quoting Dorémieux (2002), Hamayon (2020) contrasts “public” ovoos of mountain-passes,

boundaries and other dangerous, liminal places, and “private” ovoos belonging to a pastoral

community, located on mountain tops. The first are dedicated to roaming souls, especially souls

of deceased who had a cruel death; every passer-by should make circumambulations and

individual offerings. As for the second, they are dedicated to local deities (and, in Buryatia,

ancestors), and are worshiped collectively. They often are of a difficult access and legitimize


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territorial rights on winter pastures. This clear dichotomy might function for Buryatia but the

categorization of ovoos is not so clear in Mongolia.

68. On ovoos built to suppress bad influences, notably at the “mouth” of rivers and valley, on

narrow mountain-passes (kötöl) or on “incomplete lands” (keltegei γaǰar): Humphrey 2001, p. 66. A

narrow mountain-pass ovoo (kötöl-ün oboγa )“is meant to suppress ‘bad influences’ coming up and

down the defile” (ibid.).

69. Alaγ a γula-yin qoyitu degere oboγa (cat. 709); Baraγun emüneki tala-du ǰiqa-yin oboγa

(cat. 732); Asaγatu aγula-yin oroi-yin oboγa (cat. 735).

70. Chagdarsurung (1975, pp. 31-59) translated and published a report (čese); Soninbayar

transcribed a list of one hundred and twenty ovoos with distances between them (2012, pp. 77-81),

and Futaki (2005) presents twenty-eight Qalqa boundary reports from the 1920s, which in

addition to the list of boundary-ovoos also give information on pastures, banner history, and

geographical features.

71. This is very clear on maps of the banners of Sečen qan, for instance the same names of

boundary-ovoos but with a different numbering are found on the eastern boundary of cat. 734 and

the western boundary of cat. 736 (both dated 1907). In Ordos, one can also compare cat. 851 or

852 (Qanggin Banner, see also Heissig 1944, p. 138 and pl. XIII), and cat. 840 (Vang Banner, see

also Heissig 1944, p. 149 and pl. XIV).

72. In Qing Inner and Outer Mongolia, adjacent to – or included in – Mongol princely (ǰasaγ) and

monastic banners, there were different kinds of land ownership such as imperial hunting

grounds and pastures, Eight Banner pastures and relay station lands, as well as soldiers’

livelihood plots. For Pratte (2021, p. 301), “contrarily to what the state would have hoped, the

pastures at the postal stations were not strictly separated from banner land or the ecclesiastical

estate”.

73. The 1890 mapping instructions required that the scale of maps was so small that it was

necessary to remove most topographic elements (Pratte 2021, chapter 5).

74. Sometimes with intermediary annotations; for instance, another symbol on the boundary is a

Y-shaped mark, which is accompanied by a description of natural features and place-names

forming the boundary (cat. 725). Boundary landmarks other than ovoos are called “temdeg”

“mark, sign, symbol” on cat. 775.

75. According to the 1864 regulations, this system following the sexagenary cycle was supposed

to replace the 24-directions system; in some cases, it forced mapmakers to place the southern

direction on top of the map (Pratte 2021, chapter 4).

76. With the exception of a map of the banner of Namsarai (Tüsiyetü qan, cat. 729), and a map of

the banner of J̌onon ǰasaγtu in Tüsiyetü qan (National Archives of Mongolia, X.460, D.1, XH.65)

which also number their ovoos.

77. On the astrological system of twenty-four or forty-eight directions combined with eight

colors, of both Indo-Tibetan and Chinese origin, and the compass rose (qubiyari), see

Gonchigdorzh 1970, pp. 56-61; Chagdarsurung 1975, pp. 347-350; Shagdarsüren 2003, pp. 15-28;

Kamimura 2005, p. 18; Kollmar-Paulenz 2006, pp. 369-371.

78. Cat. 722 dated 1907, in Chinese only, has twenty-five ovoos but on cat. 723 of the same banner

[no date], two ovoos were added.

79. On older maps of the Sečen qan aimaγ (dated between 1843 and 1860) preserved in the

National Archives of Mongolia, boundary-marking ovoos are depicted as two small pointed red

triangles or a pile of three round stones, and a few cult ovoos are represented atop mountains

inside the banner (X.460, D.1, XH.10; XH.14; XH.5; XH.12; XH.16, photos communicated by A. S.

Pratte).

80. For instance, a map of the three banners of the New Torγuud (cat. 675) has seven boundary-

marking ovoos marking its circumference, and two ovoos delimiting boundaries between the three

banners.


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81. One map has no boundary-marking ovoo. When many papers with toponyms written in

Chinese are pasted on the map, it is not easy to count the number of ovoos.

82. Two maps depict some ovoos as a round mound topped by two rectangles with two adjacent

round summits, other ovoos of the same maps being depicted as two rectangles on high peaks

(cat. 679, cat. 680, fig. 10b). A new symbol for boundary markers on a map of the first year of the

People’s Republic of Mongolia is a pole crowned by a round (map of Baγatur ǰasaγ Banner, Sayin

noyan qan ayimaγ, 1921, National Archives of Mongolia, X.460, D.2, XH.313). I thank A. S. Pratte

for having sent me a photo of this map.

83. On an old drawing of the town of Kiakhta facing Maimaicheng studied by Dear (2019), two

stele-like vertical rectangles are drawn between the two towns.

84. The eastern ovoo marking the boundary with Aru qorčin and J̌arud Banners is guarded by a

border-post (qaraγul). Another ovoo of the eastern boundary is indicated by a Chinese inscription

without a drawing.

85. Four of them are called in Chinese “northern ovoos” (Ch. Ch. Beifang ebo 北方鄂博) on the

north-west boundary; four others are located near the southern river. In addition, six red dots on

mountains on the south-west boundary might symbolize boundary-marking ovoos, even though

they are not called “oboγa”.

86. Fig. 12b shows each of the twelve boundary-marking ovoos as a mound topped with a flag

located on a mountain, all connected by a dotted line (no other ovoos are depicted). Seven of the

ten maps of J̌oo-uda have one, two to seven ovoos that are named and/or depicted with

naturalistic drawings on bordering mountains or near bordering rivers, but it is not clear

whether they are boundary-marking ovoos or cult ovoos (fig. 33). Cat. 840 (Vang Banner) has five

boundary-marking ovoos depicted as cairns with a small tuft; fourteen other cairns without a tuft

punctuate the boundary and are not called “ovoos” but “hill” (toloγai), “hill, low mountain”

(tegeg) or “peak” (oroi) (see also cat. 841 of the same banner) (fig. 13b).

87. On cat. 831 (Maγu mingγan), mountains are also topped by boulders but the four cardinal

directions are marked by more naturalistic depictions of ovoos topped by a multicolored tuft.

88. On maps of the banners of Sili-yin γool and Ulaγančab, there are many landmarks but few of

them are ovoos (one to five ovoos on bordering mountains).

89. One mountain is called Pai-yin oboγa; the others have names of mountains and cliffs (aγula,

qada).

90. Tseden-Ish ([1997] 2003, pp. 303-309) provides reproductions of images showing examples of

various border points from different historical periods. Some of them include artificial, cubical

mounts topped with steles. I thank the second anonymous reviewer for this reference.

91. On the map, čongyi(?) is translated in Chinese by tan 潭, “pool, depression”. The second

anonymous reviewer suggests that čongyi may be a variant of čongigiyal, which gives in modern

Cyr. Mo. tsunhial dangerous pool, or tsonhiol, deep, clear water of a river according to Süld-Erdene

(2013).

92. By 1765, a total of 73 frontier border-posts had been set up along the Qalqa-Russian border.

Each border-post was manned by 30 to 40 soldiers from the Manchu garrisons who “patrolled

along the border every day to the oboo between karuns”, they were also inspected once a month

by Manchu garrison generals who reported to the Lifanyuan, and occasionally, by officials from

the Lifanyuan (Bulag 2012, pp. 40-41). Some of them included a temple. About the administration

and organization of the border-posts: Baoyinchaoketu 2005, pp. 151-153; Constant 2010, p. 75;

Chuluun 2014, p. 124; Dear 2019; Wang 2021.

93. On maps of the Sečen qan ayimaγ of the first half of the 19th century, the line of border-posts

is doubled by a line of ovoos (A. S. Pratte, personal communication).

94. A map reproduced by Chuluun (2014, pp. 116-117) represents the buffer zone between

Tüsiyetü qan ayimaγ and Russia. The territories of Tangnu Uriyangqai and the Köbsgöl frontier

were located outside the buffer zone of border-posts (cf. Chuluun 2014, pp. 116-117).


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95. This map represents nineteen princely (ǰasaγ) banners and three monastic banners; the

southern banners of the ayimaγ in the Gobi desert are not represented. According to the second

anonymous reviewer of this article, “Zh. Gerelbadrah calls this area ‘ger haruulyn nutag’

[territory of border-posts] on the map of his 2016 book. It is marked as a narrow stretch of land

spanning along the northern border of the three ayimaγs from the Qobdo frontier to Sine Barγu

and separating them from the Köbsgöl frontier and Uriyangqai. This stretch of land is marked by

qaraγuls in rather even distances (their frequency increasing towards the east), all of them

named. Starting from the west these are marked as: [in Cyr. Mo.] Bayanbulag, Hachig, Zaigul,

Shavar, Agar, Tsagaan bulan, Beltes bulan, which matches those on cat. 688” (Bayangbulaγ[Bayanbulaγ], Qačin (or Qačiγ), J̌ayiγul, Sabar, Aγar, Čaγangbulung [Čaγanbulung] and Beltes or

Biltas, Bildas).

96. For S. Chuluun, ovoos were also built at border-posts (2014, p. 117).

97. Šabis were lay families of serfs who belong to the estate of a reincarnated lama (qutuγtu) “with

a seal”. The J̌ebčündamba qutuγtu had the largesy estate, known as the Yeke Šabi.

98. See another map of Tuva: Chuluun 2014, p. 103.

99. A map of the Dörbed left and right banners of Qobdo (cat. 683) has six two-rectangle white

symbols called “obo” on the boundaries with other banners of Qobdo and J̌asaγtu qan, four or five

white two-rectangles called “qaraγul” on its northern border with Tangnu Uriyangqai, seven

crosses named “qaraγul” on a parallel northern border with Tangnu Uriyangqai (delimiting a

buffer zone: these may be the border-posts of Tangnu), and four blue two-rectangle named

“qaraγul” outside of its western border with the Russia (see also the uncolored map cat. 684).

Texts explain that in 1869 the border with Russia north of the Γalutu Lake was moved to the

south, and the former border-posts are painted blue. The general map of Sayin noyan qan

(cat. 702) has thirty-six boundary-marking ovoos (depicted as two rectangles) on its

circumference, except in its south-western part where five border-posts (depicted as crosses)

form what seems to be a buffer zone (border with J̌asaγtu qan).

100. On the border with Russia the inscriptions read: “Oros man-u Uriyangqai ene(?) ǰiqa kiǰaγar

neyilegsen gür[…?] dabaγa-u [dabaγan-u] oboγa” (“ovoo of the Gür[…?] pass delimiting the border

bewteen our Uriyangqai and Russia”); “Γadaγadu Oros ulus. man-u Uriyangqai ǰiqa kiǰaγar

Nüngtü neyilegsen dabaγa-u [dabaγan-u] oboγa” (“ovoo of the pass delimiting Nüngtü, the border

between Outer Russia and our Uriyangqai”), and so on.

101. Five are called “qaraγul”, six have no name and one is called “obo”.

102. Relay-stations were located about 30 km from each other. Travelling on post roads was easy

and fast as the travellers got fresh horses at the relay-station, and could spend the night there.

The Urga-Kalgan-Beijing post road connected with the Uliyasutai-Kalgan post road at the station

of Sayir Usu (in present-day Dundgov’ Province, Ölziit District, Mongolia).

103. Yeke küriye, known to the Russians as Urga, Cl. Mo. < Örgöge, ‘residence’ [of the pontiff]),

was the monastery-palace of the J̌ebčündamba qutuγtu. It became modern Ulaanbaatar.

104. Relay-stations were manned by conscripts and their family; thirty-five were operated by the

Qaračin and twenty by the Qalqa. Some of them had a temple. On their organization,

maintenance, and station duties: Pozdneyev 2006, pp. 12, 124, 181, 258, 280. According to

Pozdneyev, the stations of the Kalgan-Uliyasutai post road moved south every year for the winter

to a distance of about 40 km.

105. This is not the case of a map of Vang Banner in Ordos (cat. 841): the territory of a relay-

station is delimited by a line inside the banner but no ovoos are depicted.

106. On older maps, relay-stations are symbolized by rectangles (see map M002 dated 1892, kept

in Japan, Kamimura 2005, p. 3). On the maps of the banners of Sečen qan and of Inner Mongolia,

relay-stations are named but have no specific symbols (cat. 782), or are represented as a simple

house symbol (cat. 785, cat. 787), and are not connected to each other.


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107. Qoriγ designates territories where it was forbidden to hunt, cut trees, graze herds, cultivate

the land and even penetrate. These areas included grounds of monasteries and princely

residences, sacred mountains, gold mines, cemeteries, and imperial reservations.

108. The original text writes: 蒙古各旗封禁牧場,各於界址處挖立封堆,造具印冊存案。該札薩克

每歲親查一次，加結報院。如有私開侵占者，照例治罪。109. Wang (2019, 2021) studies the Chinese colonization of Ordos: a first boundary was set up by

the Lifanyuan to separate grazing from farming in south Ordos after the banner prince of OtoγBanner had petitioned the Lifanyuan in 1719, at 15 km north of the Great Wall, marked by

mounds of soil or wooden signs. “As the migrants continued to advance northward, in 1743, a

new border was delineated 25 km north of the Great Wall, which was known as ‘50-li Boundary’”.

It was marked by ovoos (paijie 牌界, or paizha 牌柵) “at an interval of 1.5 to 2.5 km in between,

beyond which line no cultivation was permitted […]. In the end, what was intended as a buffer

zone was to become a pioneer belt and indeed, a launching board for Han migrants” (Wang 2019,

p. 135).

110. Enclosed areas opened to Chinese cultivation (identified by an inscription) are visible on

maps of Vang Banner in Ordos (cat. 839 and 840, both dated 1909) (see Heissig 1944, pp. 148-149).

111. They are worshiped by people from the same area using the same water source (Davaa-Ochir

2008, p. 51).

112. Two maps of the Qorčin Bingtü vang Banner have a curious ovoo (cat. 789: pagoda-like stack

of rocks and cat. 790: mound with a hummock and a kind of square window); it is the only ovoo of

the banner.

113. Such as the thirteen ovoos of the Altai and the thirteen ovoos of the Torγuud in western

Mongolia, the thirteen ovoos of the Qatigin in eastern Mongolia, and the thirteen ovoos of the

Darqad in northern Mongolia (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 62; Gerasimova 1981). Humphrey (2001, p. 62)

describes a banner ovoo of the Urad in Inner Mongolia with thirteen cairns in a line, “Threaded

among the stones of the main cairn is a long rope of strips of ox-skin, which symbolizes the belt

holding together the scattered people of Urad”.

114. As mentioned above, in many cases “ovoo” can designate “mountain”.

115. In some cases, it is difficult to know if the alternately rounded or pointed shape of

mountains is decorative (cat. 725 and cat. 726, Tüsiyetü qan) or if it is supposed to reflect the

actual shape or type of a mountain. Red-brown and blue colors, with snow-capped peaks on some

of them, are alternatively used for marking mountains on cat. 677.

116. According to Qing regulations, all the mountains must be represented from the south (as in

Chinese cartography). But Kamimura showed that some are seen from another direction to

emphasize their particular shape (2005, p. 19 and fig. 3).

117. As expressed by Caroline Humphrey: “for Buryats like other Mongolic people have an acute

awareness of the inherent capacity for meaning of mountains, cliffs, rivers, or prominent rocks

or trees – their shapes, orientation, reflection of sunlight, and likeness to human or animal

images (2016, p. 108, see also Humphrey 1995, pp. 144-145; Humphrey & Onon 1996, pp. 86-88).

118. Cyr. Mo. Hentii han Mountain in present-day Hentii Province, Mongolia.

119. Although sacred mountains were usually called “qayiraqan” because it was forbidden to

pronounce their names, no such taboo apparently existed for writing them.

120. For instance, a mountain of Qaγučid Left Banner with a flat top is called “Dösi aγula”, “anvil

mountain” (cat. 812). They are sometimes called “anvil” because it is said that Chinggis Khan or

another great giant hero used it as an anvil to forge supernatural weapons: the mountain used to

be peaked, but because of the smiting of the sword it became flat (Birtalan 2005, p. 303).

121. Three of these mountains are called “ovoo”: Čaγan oboγa, Delger oboγa and Tuγul oboγa.

122. Cat. 806 (J̌arud Right and Left Banners) and cat. 805 (Aru qorčin) have respectively eighteen

and eleven ovoos that are both depicted and named (fig. 32). On cat. 816 (Abaγa Left and Abaγanar

Left Banners), out of about seventy mountains or mountain ranges, twenty-one have an ovoo


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depicted on their summit. On cat. 829 (Dörben keüked) and cat. 830 (Qalqa, Ulaγančab)

respectively ten and twelve mountains inside the banner are topped by an oval-shaped ovoo: in

both cases, it is the large majority of depicted mountains. On maps of banners of Ordos, each

banner has one to nine ovoos on mountain summits; there is such a profusion of place names and

drawings that it is sometimes difficult to count ovoos. On cat. 846 and cat. 847 (Üüsin Banner,

Ordos), most of the blue mountains are topped with an ovoo (the other mountains are of a yellow

brown color) (fig. 23).

123. Three maps of Otoγ Banner (Ordos: cat. 848, cat. 849 and cat. 850) show four cult ovoos, six

monasteries and a stupa: the twin ovoos named Qoyar erketü oboγa are in the center of the map.

Cat. 335, cat. 336 and cat. 837 (J̌üngγar Banner) depict fourteen cult ovoos and sixteen

monasteries. Cat. 847 shows eight cult ovoos and seventeen monasteries.

124. While cat. 803 (Baγarin Right and Left Banners, 1907) depicts eleven ovoos, cat. 804 drawn a

year later shows the same mountains, monasteries, pagoda, trees and bridge but only one ovoo. A

map of Üǰümüčin Left Banner (cat. 809, 1907) shows about eighteen mountains with a tuft on top,

but two other maps of the same banner show fewer ovoos (cat. 807, 1901, cat. 808, no date). While

cat. 818 (Abaγanar Right Banner, Sili-yin γool) depicts nine ovoos on mountain summits (out of a

total of twenty-one mountains inside the banner, and twelve mountains on the boundaries),

cat. 819 of the same banner depicts only three. This is not explained by the date or the language

of the map.

125. An exception is the depiction of ovoos and border-posts (qaraγul) as red circles that delimit

an imperial hunting ground on three maps of Üǰümüčin Left Banner (cat. 807, cat. 808 and

cat. 809, see above).

126. On cat. 779 (same banner, in Chinese only, no date), the distinction between boundary-

marking ovoos and tufted ovoos is less clear; perhaps the Chinese who copied the map did not

understand this distinction. On cat. 777 (dated 1907) and 779, two ovoos without number are

added on the south boundary (they do not appear on cat. 778 dated 1910).

127. The mountains and cliffs of these maps are represented by a mimetic symbol: a central blue

mountain flanked by two lower red mountains.

128. See also cat. 777 and cat. 779.

129. Cat. 686 belongs to the family of banner maps of Sečen qan ayimaγ (use of a grid, numbered

ovoos and indication of distances between the ovoos).

130. In Buryatia, after having worshiped their private ovoo, the men of all the related lineages

would join together and go to the highest mountain of the vicinity, called “Qan”, for a common

sacrifice. Being so high, the highest mountains are difficult to access, and they are located on the

edges, bordering the territories of different communities (Humphrey 2016).

131. An official Qing “state” cult to the four mountains circling Yeke küriye (Urga) started in the

late 18th century; it was extended to other great mountains and rivers (such as the Orqon), which

were honored as kings and granted titles and ranks, levies, allowances, and herds. This state cult

continued in the Boγda qaγan period.

132. The banner’s subunits also worshiped their specific ovoo. Banner and banner’ subunits’ ovoos

are comparable to present-day ovoos of districts (sumu, which is more or less equivalent to a

banner in Qing period Qalqa Mongolia) and sub-districts (baγ) levels.

133. Vreeland 1962, p. 127 (Čaqar Taibas/Taipusi pastures); Evans & Humphrey 2003, p. 201

(Urad, Ulaγančab); Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 15 (Qalqa Mongolia); Bulag 2010, p. 175 (Darqan beyile

Banner, Ulaγančab).

134. On the ritual at the three banner ovoos on the three summits of the Muna mountain range,

by the rulers of the three Urad Banners: Humphrey & Ujeed 2013, pp. 76, 195-196, 322-323.

135. Qosiγun oboγa near the banner monastery (cat. 807), Qosiu-yin oboγa (cat. 757, cat. 758);

Qosiun obo (cat. 851, cat. 852, cat. 853).


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136. In Ordos: cat. 842-845, cat. 847, 851-cat. 853.

137. Boro oboγa, Grey/Brown ovoo might be the name of the mountain, which is brown colored,

thus producing a more isomorphic symbol for the mountain.

138. In the lower left part of the map there is another mountain with a smaller boulder on its

peak, behind a monastery, Γayiqamsiγ (?) süme/Huibao(?)si 會保寺.

139. The same map has an ovoo depicted in a more naturalistic way.

140. A few Chinese-style palaces were preserved in both Mongolia and Inner Mongolia. For a

description of a banner’s administrative office: Pozdneyev 2006, pp. 10-11.

141. See also a map in the banner of Qurča vang in Sečen qan ayimaγ dated 1913, with the

residence of the banner prince in the center, and below it, a mountain with ovoo named “Altan

oboo”, National Archives of Mongolia, X.460, D.2, XH.3).

142. On cat. 816, the mountains-cum-ovoo are depicted but the monasteries are just named.

143. Cyr. Mo. Bogd han Mountain, south of Ulaanbaatar.

144. Cyr. Mo. Tsetse gün.

145. Boγda qan was the most important of the four mountains protecting Yeke küriye. On the

map, south of the great massif of Boγda qan is the Buyan ǰalbaraγči süme, a monastery which was

located on one of its slopes. The Čeče güng-ün qural was a separate establishment, independent

from this monastery visible on the map on its south.

146. Other examples include, in Qalqa Mongolia: cat. 775 and 776 (Dorǰipalmu, Sečen qan: three

monasteries backed by a mountain-cum-ovoo in the center of the banner), cat. 737 (Tungγalaγ,

Sečen qan). In J̌oo-uda, cat. 802 (Kesigten Banner: Qotala belgetü süme, fig. 33); cat. 803 (Baγarin

Left and Right Banners: Bayasqulang amuγulang süme and Qotala belgetü süme dominated by a

high peak with three ovoos); cat. 805 (Aru qorčin: J̌igergentei oboγa of the Sayin-i erdeni bolγaγči

süme and an ovoo on the Boγda aγula behind the Bayasqulang čiγulγuči süme); cat. 806 (J̌arud:

two ovoos on the mountain range [Moγai-tu qada] “behind” Örösiyel-i badaraγuluγči süme); in

Sili-yin γool: cat. 821 (Abaγa Right Banner: Sangdu oboγa “behind” Kisig-i degdelegči süme),

cat. 807 (Üǰümüčin Left Banner: Bükü örösiyeltü süme).

147. The present-day seats of the banners usually preserve archives, local gazetteers and, often, a

small local museum that keep ancient maps and place names.

148. In the two examples below, the great majority of the monasteries has been destroyed.

149. Ch. Alukeerqin Banner 阿魯科爾沁旗, Chifeng Municipality 赤峰市.

150. Joči, alias Qabutu Qasar, Chinggis Khan’s elder brother, is the ancestor of the Qorčin

aristocracy.

151. The ovoo was rebuilt in 2003 and every year, a day of the sixth month of the lunar calendar is

chosen for the ovoo sacrifice. Both ovoos are in the official list of seventy-two ovoos of the People’s

Republic of China: Anonymous 2017.

152. Ch. Kesheketeng Banner克什克騰旗, Chifeng Municipality.

153. The official Chinese name of the Bayasqulang amuγulang süme, now located in the banner

center (Jinpeng), is Qingningsi 慶寧寺 (the banner map writes “Qing’ansi” 慶安寺; Chinese

characters 安 and 寧 are synonymous). It was popularly called Qosiγun küriye (banner

monastery). According to Kashiwabara & Hamada (1919 vol. xia, p. 700), there were about fifty

ovoos on the mountain behind the monastery.

154. The banner is now well-known for its “Global Geopark”, a protected area covering some

exceptional geological features (ancient volcanoes, “Granite forest”, Quaternary glacial remnant,

Grand Canyon).

155. It is worshiped on the thirteenth day of the fifth Chinese lunar month (Lonely Planet 2018,

p. 216).

156. On geomantic defects: Charleux 2006, pp.155-159. The same is observed for Chinese maps

(Yee 1994, p. 154 and fig. 6.25).


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157. We can also assume that in some cases, ruling princes have tried to depreciate their

territory so not to attract the attention of the central government (on valuable natural resources

for instance).

158. More research needs to be done. Hopefully maps from the collections of Mongolia will be

digitalized in the future and we will be able to work on bigger corpuses.

159. The Inner Mongol banners do not include the Čaqar and Kölön Buir, which saw important

forced migrations of populations in the Qing period.

ABSTRACTS

The maps of the banners of Inner and Outer Mongolia, drawn on the Qing government’s order in

the 19th and early 20th century, contain a great number of names and drawings of ovoos (stone or

earth heaps, sometimes with a central pole, a tuft, flagpoles or arrows, or tree trunks arranged in

conical shape). Many of them distinguish two types of ovoos: cult ovoos and boundary-marker

ovoos; in addition, many mountains are called “ovoo”. This paper raises questions about the

naming of ovoos, their representation by mimetic drawings or abstract symbols, the type and

hierarchy of ovoos, and the accuracy of their location. By focusing on examples of maps preserved

in the Staatsbibliothek, Berlin, this paper aims at understanding the role of ovoos in the

representation of a territory.

Les cartes des bannières de Mongolie-Intérieure et Extérieure, dessinées sur ordre du

gouvernement central des Qing au XIXe et début du XXe siècle, contiennent un grand nombre de

noms et de dessins représentant des ovoo (cairns de pierre ou monticules de terre avec un poteau

central, des branchages, des drapeaux ou des flèches, ou troncs d’arbres disposés en forme de

cône). Nombre de ces cartes distinguent deux types d’ovoo : les ovoo cultuels et les ovoo marqueurs

de frontière ; de plus, nombre de montagnes sont nommées « ovoo ». Cet article soulève des

questions sur la dénomination des ovoo, leur représentation par des dessins mimétiques ou des

symboles abstraits, le type et la hiérarchie des ovoo et la précision de leur localisation. En se

concentrant sur quelques exemples de cartes conservées dans la Staatsbibliothek de Berlin, cet

article vise à comprendre le rôle des ovoo dans la représentation d’un territoire.

INDEX

Mots-clés: Mongolie-Extérieure, Mongolie-Intérieure, ovoo, frontière, montagne, géographie,

carte, bannière, cartographie

Keywords: Outer Mongolia, Inner Mongolia, ovoo, border, mountain, geography, map, banner,

cartography

AUTHOR

ISABELLE CHARLEUX

Isabelle Charleux is Director of researches at GSRL (National Centre for Scientific Research –

Group Societies, Religions, Laicities, EPHE/PSL, Paris). Her research interests focus on Mongolian


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material culture and religion. She published Nomads on Pilgrimage. Mongols on Wutaishan (China),

1800-1940 (Brill, 2015) and Temples et monastères de Mongolie-Intérieure (INHA/CTHS, 2006).

[email protected]


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Community, faith and politics. The ovoos of the Shinehen Buryatsthroughout the 20th century Communauté, croyance et politique. Les ovoo des Bouriates de Shinehen au

XXe siècle

Aurore Dumont

Introduction

1 The Buryats are a transborder people who live in three states – Russia, Mongolia and

China – where they constitute minorities1. In the People’s Republic of China, they

number around eight thousand people scattered over the Shinehen area2 in the Evenki

Autonomous Banner (Ch. Ewenke zizhiqi 鄂温克自治旗) of the Hulun Buir municipality

(Mo. Hölön Buir hota; Hulunbei’er shi 呼伦贝尔市)3, where they settled from Russia

after the October Revolution.

2 Situated on the Russo-Mongolian border in the north-eastern corner of the Inner

Mongolia Autonomous Region, Hulun Buir is also home to various Tungus and Mongol

groups officially labelled as “ethnic minority groups” (Ch. shaoshu minzu 少数民族4).

The south-western steppe areas of the region provide these different groups (Solon,

Khamnigan, Daur, and Barga) with pastures for their livestock. Despite the decline of

the pastures over the last two decades, many Buryats are still engaged in pastoralism,

as are their Tungus and Mongol neighbours. The Buryats do not constitute a separate

entity in the Chinese ethnic classification system because they were merged into the

“Mongol ethnic group” (Ch. Menggu zu 蒙古族), a group of almost six million people, in

the 1950s. The Buryats are nonetheless recognized locally as a distinct, identifiable

community by the Han Chinese, the other Mongols and Tungus groups and the local

authorities. Ask anyone in the steppe and urban areas of Hulun Buir about the Buryats,

and he or she will immediately mention the Buryats’ distinct clothing, herding

techniques, tasty food5, numerous lamas and ovoo rituals. However, the recognition of


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the Buryats as an identifiable community is not only related to such distinctive

features, promoted today as “ethnic cultural heritage” by the Chinese authorities. The

identification and later recognition of the Buryats on Chinese territory was a

tumultuous political process. It started in the early 1920s, when the Buryats

constructed their own ovoos after being allotted pasturelands and a banner by the local

administrative office (Ch. yamen 衙门) 6 of Hulun Buir. Gradually, following waves of

migration into Hulun Buir, the Buryats erected several ovoo cairns that reflected both

their new territorial administrative groupings and political allegiance to the Hulun

Buir authorities.

3 The present paper explores the relationship between the construction of ovoo cairns

and the political recognition of the Buryats throughout the 20th century. Considering

the ovoo cairn as a support for local and oral history, I will show how previous and

contemporary ovoo construction and worship may link territory, politics and identity in

Inner Mongolia’s most multi-ethnic area. The ovoo cairn was not only a territorial

marker that connected a group of people to its collective territory and legitimatized

the use of pastureland. It was also an essential symbolic monument for the recognition

of the Buryats as legitimate citizens of Hulun Buir.

4 In order to understand this double process of appropriation and recognition, I have

combined ethnographic research with written sources. I first met Buryats in the winter

of 2010 when I was on the way to conduct fieldwork among the Solon people, a Tungus

group. This fortunate encounter was the beginning of new fieldwork research among

the Shinehen Buryat community conducted during multiple visits between 2010 and

2019. I did not prioritize any locality or social group to the detriment of another.

Instead, I followed my informants in their everyday life, going from the urban centre of

Hailar (the capital city of Hulun Buir) to the gachaa7, attending diverse festivities and

interviewing various people from the Buryat community: lamas, herders and

employees of the Shinehen local government.

5 I was taken for the first time to Buryat ovoo rituals in the summer of 2011. Ovoo rituals

are believed to be auspicious occasions for gathering and highlight for the Buryats the

importance of worshipping their territorial deities. As well as attending several Buryat

ovoo rituals each year, I have also participated in a dozen ovoo rituals among the Solon,

Daur and Barga peoples. Each community maintains a privileged relationship with its

cairn, as it is considered to host powerful spirits. By attending rituals, I have also

learned that behind every ovoo, there is always a story to tell. The numerous oral

histories demonstrate how people feel they belong to a territory. Therefore, I took oral

histories connected to ovoos as the starting point of this research, hoping to better

understand the Buryat sense of belonging to Hulun Buir. As the anthropologist Micaela

Di Leonardo has pointed out, ethnographic oral history may give historical value to

narrated life experiences (Di Leonardo 1987, p. 4). These oral stories are based on

people’s memory about their own experience and second-hand histories told by elders

and others within the community. I was thus interested in recording the construction

of a historical past shared by the whole Buryat community. Alongside oral histories

recounted by different people from the Buryat community, I have also used available

written local materials. Like narratives, these sources, and especially Buryat chronicles,

are necessarily biased. Indeed, they tend to present an official version of the Buryat

migration validated by the Chinese state. Although they are not necessarily based on

historical reality, this “official history” may have been taken up by the Buryats as


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“their history”. My aim was not to search for the truth but rather to juxtapose emic

narratives with official history in order to present the various perceptions the Buryats

may have of their own history.

6 By analyzing the construction of ovoos and their connected ritual ceremonies, I seek to

explore how the Buryat people have found a way to legitimize themselves in their host

country. What happens when a group of people crosses a border to settle in a territory

where they become a minority group among other minority groups? And how can

crossing borders produce innovative practices in a new homeland?

7 When the issue of minority groups in China is addressed, the official category of

“ethnic group” (Ch. minzu) is never far away. The ethnic diversity of Hulun Buir and

close interactions between diverse “ethnic minority groups” provide adequate terrain

for anthropological research on ethnic groups. Without discounting the importance of

such a political concept in contemporary China, my paper does not deal directly with it:

it does not discuss the ethnicity classification, the political discourse or the social

reality driven by this concept. Rather, it investigates the way Buryats perceive their

community and situate themselves on what they now consider to be their territory.

8 Organized in a chronological structure, the first section of the paper offers a glimpse

into the ethnic and political situation of early 20th-century Hulun Buir and shows how

the construction of ovoo cairns followed the yamen’s political recognition of the

Buryats. The second section first analyses how the displacement, destruction and

reconstruction of these sacred cairns may reflect the way Buryat society has

reorganized its social structure in a new homeland (nutag in Mongolian and Buryat). It

then shows how the Shinehen local authorities play today an important role in shaping

the Buryat community through ovoo rituals in contemporary Hulun Buir.

From clan ovoos in Russia to administrative grouping ovoos in Republican China

9 The steppes of Hulun Buir consist of flat and undulating high plains and hills rising up

to 750 m. Today, the Buryats worship six ovoos on the top of these hills in the Evenki

Autonomous Banner of Hulun Buir. They are called Bayan Han, Erdeni Uul, Uitehen,

Han Uul, Shibog, and Tarbagan. These six sacred cairns correspond broadly to the

territorial organization of the Buryat community, divided into two sums: the Shinehen

West sum and the Shinehen East sum subdivided into twelve gachaas over a territory of

about 9 035 km2 where the Buryats represent 85% of the total population (Jinba &

Baolidao 2017, p. 79). Every year, the Buryats attend rituals at the ovoo located closest

to their place of residence. Ovoo cairns have had distinct functions, varying from one

era to another in different parts of Inner Asia. Their commonest function is to serve as

a site of rituals devoted to various water/dragon divinities (Mo. luus) and master spirits

of the land (Mo. gazaryn ezen). Under the Qing, a category of ovoos also served as

boundary markers for demarcating administrative units such as banners (Pratte 2019,

p. 6; Charleux, this volume) and pasturelands. In this paper, I discuss the Buryat ovoo as

a sacred site for conducting ceremonies and as a concrete manifestation of the

interconnection between a territory and the group of people who inhabit it.


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Figure 1. Map of Hulun Buir

© drawn by Yola Gloaguen, 2021

10 While the dates of the construction of the six different Buryat ovoos remain unclear to

most Buryats, their hierarchy is well known. For the Buryats, the hierarchy is

understood as the order of importance of a given ovoo, which is defined by its size,

location, the power of deities and by the number of lamas and participants attending

the annual worship ceremony. The larger the ovoo, the more numerous are the

worshippers and the higher the ovoo is placed in the hierarchy. The Buryats agree that

their most eminent cairn is the Bayan Han Ovoo. No matter where they live, all Buryats

of Hulun Buir attend the annual ritual of the Bayan Han Ovoo. It was to the Bayan Han

Ovoo that I was taken for the first time in 2011. My Buryat informants told me that

Bayan Han is a prestigious Buryat sacred site whose existence is acknowledged among

other ethnic groups of the Evenki Autonomous Banner.


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Figure 2. A view of the Bayan Han Ovoo before the annual worship ceremony, Evenki AutonomousBanner, Hulun Buir, June 2018

© Aurore Dumont

11 Many Buryats do not have a clear explanation for the illustrious character of this cairn

and the obligation to attend the ritual. It is only articulated as a rule that everyone

follows for the well-being of the community and the fertility of the herds. It echoes

what Lindskog has found among the herders of Mongolia: the performance of an ovoo

ritual is privileged over understanding it (Lindskog 2016, p. 2). Indeed, what matters for

worshippers is how they practice their ritual to gain the spirits’ protection. However,

for some elders and high-ranking lamas, the significance of the Bayan Han Ovoo is

related to its geographical position (it faces the Amban Ovoo, the most powerful ovoo in

Hulun Buir, as we will see later) and, more importantly, to the fact that, according to

numerous oral histories passed down among the Buryat intelligentsia, it was the first

ovoo erected in the 1920s after Buryat settlement in Chinese territory. While, as

Christopher Evans and Caroline Humphrey have pointed out, ovoos are encoded “[…] in

a timeless or abstract relation with political hierarchy” (Evans & Humphrey 2003,

p. 200), I will show that, under certain circumstances, they may also be inscribed into a

defined space-time continuum with the political order.

The Buryats in Russia: a former homeland

12 As a newly formed territorial group of Buryats in exile in the 1920s, the Shinehen

Buryats consist of representatives from various territorial groups (i.e. Khori Buryats,

Ekhirit, etc.) and lineages from the Cis-Baikal and Transbaikal regions in Russia.

However, the majority of the Shinehen Buryats came from the Aga-Onon steppe area

next to the border with China. Although an official border was established in the

18th century between the expanding Russian and Chinese empires, the borders between


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Russia, Mongolia, and China often remained fluid (Chakars 2014, p. 26). Indeed, until

the 1920s, the Buryats frequently crossed the borders with their herds, moving their

encampments in accordance with the seasons (Baldano 2012, p. 184).

13 Some Buryat sources recently published in the People’s Republic of China indicate that

before moving to Russia, the Buryats lived in Hulun Buir, “which should thus be

considered their ancestral homeland” (Xu et al. 2009, pp. 23-24; Tubuxinnima & Abida

2013). By promoting the view that China was, at some point, the homeland of the

Buryats, these official sources serve to promote the integration of the Buryats into the

Chinese multi-ethnic nation-state. As the anthropologist Ralph A. Litzinger has pointed

out among the Yao, these official histories are constituted as part of the history of an

ethnic group and thus of the People’s Republic of China (Litzinger 1995, p. 122).

However, for many Buryats, their ancestors have their roots in Russia. As one of my

informants explained to me: “You see, we Buryats come from Russia, my grandmother

was born there”. As a matter of fact, many Buryats have an interest in Russia, especially

the Republic of Buryatia where their kin still live.

14 When they lived in Russia, the Buryats mainly engaged in “five muzzles” (cattle, sheep,

goat, horse and camel) herding. By the early 1900s, under the influence of the Russians,

they started using horse-drawn haymaking, milk separator machines, portable stoves

and other herding technologies later introduced into Hulun Buir and adopted by other

Mongol and Tungus pastoralists. The Buryats were organized into eleven Khori

exogamous clans; each clan was ruled by a chief (Mo. darga), designated according to

hereditary and clan seniority. Pastureland rights and political decisions lay in the

hands of the clan. In the 1820s, under the new system of native Siberian administration,

the Buryats’ clans were grouped into twelve steppe dumas, a kind of autonomous

administrative organ composed of clan chiefs elected by their peers (Atwood 2004,

pp. 4, 64). The elected clan chief henceforth served as an intermediary between Russian

local officials and their subjects (Atwood 2004, p. 64). Furthermore, the Buryats were in

a close relationship with the Khamnigan, a neighbouring Tungus ethnic group8 closely

related to the Buryats through marriage alliances. They would eventually flee to China

together with the Buryats.

15 In the 19th century, Buddhism developed rapidly in the Aga-Onon region, and the

Buryats converted to Buddhism. “Within years from 1801, nine monasteries were built

along the Onon and Aga rivers. Aga and Tsugol monasteries together had 1400 lamas”

(Atwood 2004, p. 4). Besides Buddhist practices, every local section of a Buryat clan

worshipped several ovoos where rituals were conducted by lamas (Humphrey & Onon

1996, p. 129). As well as being a territorial marker and a site of sacrifice to the local

deities, the ovoo also possessed additional social functions, such as the symbolic

reproduction of the clan. Humphrey and Onon (1996) have underlined the connection

between the ovoo ritual and the reinforcement of patrilineal social structures: “the

permanence and solidity of the mountain was an analogy for the ‘eternal clan’, and the

‘renewal’ of the mountain by adding stones to the cairn paralleled the renewal of the

clan by new male births” (Humphrey & Onon 1996, p. 152). The Buryat clan ovoo

ceremonies were also times when the clan chief could maintain and reinforce his

authority over the community.

16 Buddhism also strongly influenced the laity: in the early 20th century, as well as having

a great number of lamas and renowned intellectuals such as Tuguldur Toboev9

(1795-1880), many of the Buryats of Aga-Onon area were literate10 After the


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construction of the Trans-Siberian railway between 1891 and 1916, the Buryat area

developed dynamically, resulting in the emergence of wealthy herders (Xu et al. 2009,

p. 27). During the October Revolution, attacks intensified against the Buryats, whose

pastures and herds were destroyed: some young people were forcibly conscripted into

the Red Army (Xu et al. 2009, p. 28). In order to escape Soviet repression, many rich

Buryat herders and lamas11 started crossing the border with their livestock in 1918 to

settle in Mongolia12 and China. They became Russian refugees in Chinese territory,

where they would be later recognized as Chinese citizens and known under the new

appellation of “Shinehen Buryats”.

Ethnic rivalries, political power and clan ovoos in early 20th-century

Hulun Buir

17 In 1916, a Buryat delegation from Russia, including the two leading figures Bazarin

Namdag and Baldanov, as well as other nobles, went to the Hulun Buir yamen to apply

for permission to migrate to Hulun Buir (Xu et al. 2009, p. 28). They dealt with two other

major Daur political figures of that time, Gui Fu 贵福 (1862-1941) and Cheng De 成德(1875-1932), the local court’s assistant military governor (Ma. amban)13 and the director

of the east department of the Hulun Buir yamen, respectively. The Daur14, a Mongol

people, form a numerically small group practicing farming and herding in northeast

China. They were organized into Manchu banners, where they played an important role

in border defense. At the beginning of the 20th century, the Daur controlled the Hulun

Buir yamen, rising to a position of dominance in the area during the republican period

(Atwood 2005, p. 13).

18 In 1918, following another meeting between the Daur and Buryat parties which

concluded with an official agreement for permanent settlement, the Buryats and the

Khamnigan started moving south across the Chinese border and reached various areas

of Hulun Buir.

19 The new refugees found themselves in a cosmopolitan frontier area where religious

pluralism (the two major faiths were Buddhism and Shamanism), ethnic rivalries and

political turmoil were intertwined. At the beginning of the 20th century, “Hulun Buir

was inhabited by a diverse native population whose unity could not be underwritten by

common history or ethnic markers such as language” (Atwood 2005, p. 6). These

included the Mongolian-speaking Barga, Ölöt and Daur peoples, as well as the Solon and

Orochen Tungus peoples: they all competed for territory, especially pasturelands. This

ethic configuration was also the result of Manchu military policies. During the Qing era,

most of these pastoralists had been integrated into the Manchu Eight Banners (Ch. baqi

八旗), in which they took on various military functions as bannermen. In the

mid-18th century, in order to prevent Russian incursion into their territory, the

Manchu rulers established the Hulun Buir banner garrisons and relocated thousands of

Mongol (Barga, Ölöt and Daur) and Tungus (Solon, Orochen) groups to these well-

watered pasture areas. As Kim has demonstrated, the institution of the Hulun Buir

garrison changed not only the region’s military geography but also its demographics

(Kim 2019, p. 119).

20 Waves of migration were punctuated by the construction of new ovoo cairns, thus

linking groups of people to their new territory and in turn legitimizing their right to

use pasturelands. Local sources and the oral histories I gathered during my fieldwork


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among the Tungus and Mongol descendants of the bannermen recall how their

ancestors erected ovoos upon their arrival in the Hulun Buir steppe between the

mid-18th and the beginning of the 19th centuries (Dumont 2017, p. 205). Clans, territorial

organization, political position and pasture boundaries were thus carefully marked out

by hundreds of ovoos throughout Hulun Buir. Furthermore, the ovoos were structured

according to a well-known political hierarchy that stretched from the top banner and

military ovoos to the clan-based ovoos. On the one hand, top ovoos – representing the

yamen’s political power – were few in number and were built in visible areas next to the

administrative center of Hailar City. The Bayan Hoshuu and Amban Ovoos were among

the highest ranking ovoos and were worshipped by high officials. Soon after the Solon

were organized into the four Solon banners in 1732, the Qing government established

the Hulun Buir military local office, together with two commanders: they established a

banner ovoo known as the Bayan Hoshuu Ovoo 39 km from Hailar, where military

officers, local politicians and herdsmen gathered annually for worship (Batudelige’er

2014, pp. 45-46). The Amban Ovoo overlooked (and still overlooks) Hailar City: it is one

of the only ovoo situated in an urban area. An oral history known by all the different

local communities today states that this ovoo was especially created by the Daur Amban

Gui Fu at the beginning of the 20th century. As Hulun Buir’s most prestigious ovoo in

terms of political hierarchy, it was worshipped on the third day of the fifth lunar

month of the Lunar calendar; after this, other ovoo celebrations could start. The top

ovoos followed the establishment of the political structure; the great sacrifices

dedicated to the cairns were a continuation of political power and a way to increase its

significance. Ovoo rituals were major public rituals where the different social spheres of

Hulun Buir society could show up and demonstrate authority, respect or allegiance

according to their rank in the hierarchy.

21 On the other hand, the steppe had hundreds of small clan ovoos worshipped by the

former Solon, Ölöt, Barga and Daur bannermen15. If these ovoo rituals were less

imposing, they nonetheless strengthened the consolidation of the clan and its

territorial position whilst also reflecting Hulun Buir’s ethnic and clan configuration.

For instance, all the ovoos worshipped by Daur clans were positioned near Hailar City,

the political and economic heart of Hulun Buir. This strategic location displayed the

Daur clans’ prestigious status in the previous Qing Manchu administration.

22 This was the ethnic and political configuration of Hulun Buir when the Buryats arrived

in the early 1920s. After the October Revolution, the Buryats continued to arrive in

Hulun Buir in waves. While they were allowed by the Hulun Buir yamen to stay

permanently, they were not yet formally recognized as citizens. This would be

accomplished in 1922, when the Hulun Buir yamen agreed to the creation of the Buryat

banner and its adjacent Bayan Han Ovoo in the Shinehen area. The dedicated

administrative unit for the Buryats was established alongside their identification as

official citizens of the Republic of China. In a report of 1921 intended for the Ministry of

Foreign Affairs, Gui Fu wrote: “It is clear that Hulun Buir is an old homeland for the

Buryats, since they are of the same tribe and clans as the people of all banners who are

subjects of Hulun Buir” (Hürelbaatar 2000, p. 75). For the Daur officials, the Buryats

were considered kin coming back to their ancestral homeland and thus could be easily

associated with the Mongol Barga in terms of language, religion and domestic pastoral

economy. This political recognition by the Daur high officials also has to be understood

within the context of the political instability in the area. After the fall of the Qing

dynasty in 1911, Hulun Buir became a leading location for pan-Mongol ideas. The


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independence movement in Outer Mongolia found an echo in Hulun Buir under the

Daur, who promoted cultural and political identification with the Mongols (Bulag 2002,

p. 149). By recognizing the Buryats as citizens of Hulun Buir, the Daur officials may

have supported the idea that Hulun Buir should be treated as a distinct ethnic territory.

Erecting Buryat administrative grouping ovoos on the territory of

other ethnic groups

23 In 1922, with the creation of the Buryat Banner, “the Buryats were allotted 1 000 m2 of

pastureland for fifty years on a territory once occupied by the Ölöt [and the Solon], who

were less numerous due to the [Manchurian] plague [epidemic]16 that had occurred in

1910” (NZEY & HEY 2007, p. 174). According to the historian Marina Baldano, the

territory allotted to the Buryats in the 1920s was also infected by anthrax, and the

refugees had to burn pastures repeatedly to disinfect them (Baldano 2012, p. 186).

Anthropologist Konagaya Yuki adds that after a Buddhist lama performed a purification

ceremony on the infected land, the Buryats were relieved (Konagaya 2016, p. 149).

Whatever actually occurred, it is clear that the Buryats did not arrive in an unoccupied

land: they “appropriated” pastures once used by other pastoralists. However, as Sneath

has shown, the Mongol pastoralists did not own pastures as such but had customary

use-rights under the jurisdiction of a local political authority (Sneath 2001, p. 44).

When the Buryats arrived in Hulun Buir, they erected new ovoos that made physically

manifest the legitimacy of their usage of the land, under the patronage of the Hulun

Buir yamen. Traces of this former occupation by other groups are still clear throughout

the sacred landscape. One day, while we were going by car from Hailar City to a gachaa,

my Buryat informants opened the window to make some milk offerings towards a

mountain. I asked them about the meaning of making offerings to this particular

mountain. They replied that these offerings were dedicated to the Bogoo Ovoo on the

top of this mountain. Today, Bogoo Ovoo is a name place known among all the Buryats.

Some say that this site was once a clan ovoo worshipped by the Ölöt, while others claim

that it was worshipped by the Solon and their clan shaman. This same ovoo was then

worshipped by the Buryats as their own sacred site. Over time, the cairn disappeared

and the Bogoo Ovoo became a Buryat burial ground, where everyone who passes still

makes a small offering. The spatial and temporal dynamics of Bogoo Ovoo worship

show that even after their physical disappearance, ovoos are often remembered and

worshipped as important sacred sites in the landscape.

24 Buryats and their livestock became the constituent subjects of a socio-economic order

ruled by Hulun Buir yamen. After the creation of the Buryat banner in 1922, one

hundred sixty households comprising of seven hundred Buryat people settled in their

new territory.


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Figure 3. Young Buryats in Hulun Buir in the early 1930s

© Yonaiyama 1938, p. 239

25 The banner was administrated by a chief and organized into four sums, each ruled by a

zangi, a Manchu term meaning a chief or an administrator of a sum (Xu et al. 2009,

pp. 28-29). The previous duma that had ruled the Buryat clan organization in Russia was

to be replaced by the former Qing banner and sum system in Hulun Buir. In his detailed

work on the history of the Shinehen Buryats, the anthropologist A. Hürelbaatar has

shown that when the Buryats settled in Hulun Buir, “people of the same clan were

organized into different administrative units [sums] in order of their arrival rather than

by clans” (Hürelbaatar 2000, p. 84). This new social organization had a direct impact on

the way people constructed and worshiped their ovoo cairns in their new homeland.

Having crossed the border to settle in Chinese territory, the Buryats actually “lost” the

clan ovoos they once worshipped in Russia in exchange for the administrative grouping

ovoos in China. This means that new Buryat ovoos in China were no longer worshipped

by people in accordance with clan and lineage; rather, they were now worshipped by

people linked by a common administrative territory. In the same manner, these ovoos

reflected this significant social and territorial change.

26 People believe that the first administrative grouping ovoo built in Shinehen territory

was the Bayan Han Ovoo. Its construction probably occurred alongside the big naadam

or the “three manly games”, a sporting celebration consisting of horse-racing,

wrestling and archery organized in 1924 to celebrate the two-year anniversary of the

foundation of the Buryat banner. The Daur high officials Gui Fu and Cheng De attended

the festivities, where they received ceremonial scarfs (Mo. hadag) and a silver saddle

from the Buryats.


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Figure 4. Oil painting representing the Buryats offering ceremonial scarfs (hadag) to Daur highofficials during a naadam in the 1920s

Author and date unknown. Museum of Hulun Buir local court, Hailar, Hulun Buir

© Aurore Dumont

27 This naadam, together with the erection of the Bayan Han Ovoo, symbolically marked

the political recognition of the Buryats by the Hulun Buir yamen and the loyalty of the

newcomers to the administrative and political system. The concept of switching

loyalties among transborder Buryats has been discussed by the anthropologist Sayana

Namsaraeva. The author shows that Buryats’ multiple allegiances to different states

and regimes during the 20th century were made possible by different combinations of

identities and identifications (Namsaraeva 2017, pp. 407-408).

28 We should pay attention to the strategic geographical position of the Bayan Han Ovoo.

It was erected in a place that allows one to see the prestigious Amban Ovoo. However,

while the Bayan Han Ovoo became important for the Buryat community, this is not just

because it was the first sacred cairn erected in their new homeland. It is also because it

is the sole ovoo to be worshipped on a fixed date, the thirteen day of the fifth month.

Mizhid Dorzh, who has been a lama within the Buryat community for more than thirty

years, offered me an explanation of this particular date. This was the precise date on

which the Ninth Panchen Lama Thubten Chökyi Nyima (Tib. Thub bstan chos kyi nyi

ma, 1883-1937) is believed to have conducted a ceremony in the newly built Buryat

Shinehen Monastery (Mo. Shinehen süme) when he visited Hulun Buir between the late

1920s and the early 1930s17. The Ninth Panchen Lama was the second highest-ranking

lama in the Tibeto-Mongol Buddhist hierarchy and was invited by Mongol princes to

hold rituals that would attract thousands of people seeking his protection (Bulag 2010,

p. 74). For the newly established Buryats, the Panchen Lama also played a significant

role, especially in terms of recognizing them as a lawful Buddhist community in Hulun

Buir18. According to Bei and Amin, the Buryats carefully prepared for the arrival of the

Panchen Lama in the Shinehen Monastery. When they settled in Hulun Buir, the

Buryats adopted an old monastery that had once belonged to the Ölöt and created a

new place for religious activities (Bei & Amin 2013, pp. 235-236). In 1927, after receiving


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official assent from the Hulun Buir yamen and from the head of the Ölöt Banner, the

Buryats restored the monastery and organized a big naadam to celebrate the creation of

the Buryat Shinehen Monastery (Xu et al. 2009, p. 257). The Buryats collected money

and invited the Ninth Panchen Lama, who finally conducted a ceremony in the

Shinehen Monastery in 1931 (Bei & Amin 2013, pp. 235-236). Further oral testimonies

indicate that the Panchen Lama may have also conducted a ritual at the Bayan Han

Ovoo on the thirteen day of the fifth month of that year. According to most Buryat

lamas officiating at the Shinehen Monastery today, the supposed visit of the Panchen

Lama to the Buryat community bestowed prestige on their religious sites.

29 For many years, the Buryat population grew and adapted to its new territory. The

Buryats became rapidly well known for their modern equipment and livestock

technology (such as haymaking machines and cattle selection) brought from Russia

(Namsaraeva 2012b, p. 233) and introduced to the neighboring pastoralists of Hulun

Buir. As the Buryat community increased, more ovoos were progressively constructed.

The Han Uul Ovoo is one of them. According to my informants, it is believed to have

been built in Hulun Buir in the 1920s by rich Buryat herders who once worshipped five

clan ovoos in Russia. The appellations of these five clan ovoos all ended with “Han Uul”.

After their arrival in Shinehen, the newcomers “lost” their clan ovoo and built one in its

place administrative grouping ovoos on the top of the mountain near their new sum. In

memory of their homeland, but also to “appropriate” the new territory, they gave the

name “Han Uul” to the mountain on which the cairn was erected19.

30 In 1929, four more sums were added to the Buryat banner, whose population reached

three thousand people (Xu et al. 2009, p. 29). Very soon after creating their different

ovoos, the Buryats started taking part in the Bayan Hoshuu Ovoo ritual, one of the most

prominent banner ovoo of the time. As two Chinese observers noted in the 1920s: “Every

three years in May, a big ovoo ritual was held in Hailar on the top of the mountain on

the north side of the river. All the small and high officials took part in this ritual, where

a lama gave prayers” (Zhang & Cheng 2012, p. 199). Between 1929 and 1932, the Anglo-

Swedish anthropologist Ethel J. Lindgren conducted fieldwork among the different

Tungus and Mongol groups of Hulun Buir. Together with the Norwegian photographer

Oscar Mamen, they took pictures and filmed short sequences of people’s everyday life20.

One of these short movies was dedicated to the Bayan Hoshuu Ovoo ritual of 1932.

Attending the ritual, Lindgren noticed the highly politicized character of the ritual and

the growing influence of the Buryats in the area:

After the [Buddhist] service, the amban and his officials collect at the obo to takepart in a solemn ceremony […]. Officials, lamas and populace then join in aprocession around the obo, scattering papers stamped with Buddhist symbols. […].A few days later, the rumor spreads that a new obo is to be founded by theTransbaikal Buriats”. (Lindgren 1932)

31 Within a decade, the status of the Buryats had changed from foreign refugees to fully

recognized citizens of Republican China. The construction of Buryat ovoo cairns and the

participation of the Buryats in Bayan Hoshuu Ovoo ceremonies demonstrate their

integration into the Hulun Buir ethnic and political landscape. However, as the ovoos

may be understood as a symbolic exemplification of political and religious recognition,

they may also offer significant clues for understanding how a society transforms a new

territory into its homeland by using different skills and practices.


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Moving, destroying and rebuilding ovoos to create anew homeland in China

32 Situated at the intersection of Russia and Mongolia, Hulun Buir has been, throughout

the 20th century, a strategic frontier area where different political powers have

competed to establish their legitimacy. This resulted in successive waves of migration

through the porous borders of Northern Asia. Once again, ovoo cairns may offer an

insight into transborder migrations and how people experience these movements and

relocations. Indeed, every ovoo possesses its own story, revealing the historical or

political circumstances under which a group of people settled in a given locality and

marked it as its own. An ovoo may cease to exist or it may be rebuilt in its original place

or another location in accordance with migration waves and (re)settlement (Dumont

2017, pp. 202-203). Numerous oral stories tell how ovoos were destroyed during the

Japanese occupation (1931-1945) and the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976) and then

rebuilt elsewhere. How did the (re)construction of Buryat ovoos happen on Chinese

territory? How did Buryat newcomers transfer their understanding of sacred landscape

from one border to another? And how did the Buryat community experience and

worship their “transplanted” holy monuments in the political turmoil of the last

century?

Transporting pieces of the sacred

33 According to Baldano, the relocation of the Buryats on the other side of the border led

to the reestablishment of sociality and the new establishment of social and economic

structures (Baldano 2012, p. 186). This is also true for religious activities, as we have

seen with the (re)construction of ovoos and the renovation of a Buddhist monastery.

This raises the question of how people reorganize the topography of their sacred sites

and deal with the related deities when they move to a new territory. As Humphrey has

noted, “ovoo cairns are believed to be the seat of the spirits who may come and go, but

have their main abode on the mountain” (Humphrey 2016, p. 108). People would pay

respect to these master spirits of the land21 in exchange for their protection and thus

create a symbolic tie between people and their sacred homeland. When the Buryat

people (re)built their ovoo cairns in China, they had to find an appropriate location

while also managing to keep it sacred and welcoming to spirits.

34 Rebuilding an ovoo, whether in a new territory or in its original place, requires the

building process to start from scratch: one needs to find a suitable location on high

ground which is free of other buildings and is sanctioned by a lama (or a shaman); then

one piles up certain stones with the assistance of willows22. However, one interesting

point is that rebuilt ovoos very often contain a piece of sacred material that belonged to

the former ovoo.

35 Let us return to Buryat narratives recalling how pieces of the sacred ovoo were carried

from place to place. As we have seen earlier in this paper, the Bayan Han Ovoo stands

high in the sacred topography of Shinehen Buryats. The prestigious position of the

Bayan Han Ovoo cairn is also connected with the special power conveyed by a piece of

the sacred. According to oral stories gathered by Hürelbaatar in the late 1990s among

the Shinehen elders, when the Buryats crossed the border in 1918, they brought a

vessel (Mo. bumba) with nine jewels from the Aga region that was placed under the


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rebuilt ovoo23 (Hürelbaatar 2002, p. 71). “It is said that the spirit of the Bayan Khan was a

wrathful hero who holds a bow and an arrow” (Hürelbaatar 2000, pp. 109-110). The

Buryat elders I interviewed in the 2010s remember from their childhood (or from their

parents’ experience) the destruction of the Bayan Han Ovoo during the Japanese

occupation. The ovoo was demolished by the Japanese soldiers, who dug trenches on the

ovoo site. The Buryats rebuilt the ovoo 20 kilometres away with new stones and willows

and carefully moved the vessel that was placed under the rebuilt cairn. This process

was repeated each time the ovoo cairn was destroyed, moved and rebuilt after the civil

war and before and after the Cultural Revolution. This suggests that the ovoo’s sacred

power was extended to a new place through the holy vessel that once belonged to the

previous ovoo in Russia. This piece of sacred material, believed to be a favourable

dwelling place for local spirits during rituals, was transferred to the base of the new

cairn: this allowed the local spirits to resettle, thus maintaining and reinforcing the

link between people, spirits and the new territory.

36 Being interested in the narratives of other ethnic groups of Hulun Buir about their ovoo

cairns, I gathered the story of the Bayan Delger Ovoo from various members of the

Khamnigan ethnic group, who crossed the border from Russia to China together with

the Buryats. Like the Buryats, the Khamnigan were organized by the Hulun Buir yamen

into administrative sum groupings. They also “lost” the various clan ovoos they

previously worshipped in Russia which were replaced by the Bayan Delger

administrative grouping Ovoo in Chinese territory. The grandson of Pashka, the first

Khamnigan zangi in Hulun Buir, recounted to me how the cairn was displaced several

times over the decades. After crossing the border in the early 1920s, Pashka, a rich

herdsman, became the zangi of a place called Teni and founded an ovoo. Some years

later, due to the growing number of Khamnigan in the new territory, Pashka decided to

settle his community in a locality called Honghur, where the ovoo was rebuilt on an

even larger scale. Finally, in the 1950s, the Bayan Delger Ovoo was again rebuilt into the

“Evenki sum” by the new communist regime. I then met the daughter of the renowned

Khamnigan shaman Seregma, who officiated from the 1930s to the mid-1960s. She

added useful details to the story of the Bayan Delger Ovoo. Pashka and his clan

members crossed the border with some stones taken from their clan ovoo in Russia.

These stones were then used to build Bayan Delger Ovoo in China. Each time the ovoo

was moved, the stones were carefully transported to the new location: after being

placed on the site, they were covered with new stones from the local area. Apart from

conducting the annual ceremony of ovoo worship, the shaman Seregma was also in

charge of moving the sacred stones every time it was necessary to displace the ovoo.

She was asked to perform this duty by the clan members because, as a ritual specialist,

she was considered as the most suitable and powerful person to deal with sacred

entities. The sacred entities contained in an ovoo, in the material forms of vessels and

stones, had to be kept intact so that they could be reactivated elsewhere and allow the

group to exist in their new sacred homeland. The process of moving sacred pieces

described in these two stories resonates with the ritual of “incense division”

(Ch. fenxiang 分香) known in Chinese religion. Sinologist Kristofer Schipper (1990) has

analyzed how the “incense division” ritual allows new branches of a cult to worship a

common deity outside of the mother temple. When a new temple is built, its incense

burner is filled with the ashes and coals used in an old temple. In doing so, worshippers

ultimately worship the same deity. By similar reasoning, Buryat refugees have thought


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of a way to perpetuate the connection with spirits that govern prosperity, abundance

and green pastures on the community’s new homeland.

37 Namsaraeva (2012a) has furthermore brought to light the pastoral techniques used by

the Buryats in exile to create a home in a new location. In order to gain approval for

settling in a new territory, people make a ritual donation to the local spirits. One of the

techniques used to get the spirits’ consent is to fill and bury a vessel with valuable

items before building a house. “After this moment the site was considered occupied and

it belonged to the family, with the right to pass it on down the patrilineal line”

(Namsaraeva 2012a, p. 146). In the same manner, the anthropologist Manduhai

Buyandelger has shown that the Buryats living in Mongolia remember their past

through shamanic practices that are intimately linked to their experience of

displacement and marginalization (Buyandelger 2013, p. 62). Transporting pieces of the

sacred across borders fits with what the anthropologists Marianne Holm Pedersen and

Mikkel Rytter have called “rituals of migration” (Holm Pedersen & Rytter 2018). By

doing so, the Buryats sought to sustain and recreate ritual practices from their places

of origin. The newly built ovoo cairns were worshipped regularly until the 1950s. These

rituals not only constituted a central dimension in the Buryat process of settlement and

place making in their new living territory, but also supported Buryat social

organization in new administrative areas.

38 Soon after the establishment of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, the Communist

state created a new ethnic and territorial framework in Hulun Buir in order to satisfy

its political agenda. On the conclusion of the “Ethnic Classification Project” (Ch. Minzu

shibie 民族识别 ), launched in the 1950s to classify the country’s population into

various ethnic groups, the Daur became a single “ethnic group”, the Solon and the

Khamnigan were merged together with another group of reindeer herders into the

“Evenki ethnic group”. The Buryats, a few thousand strong, were dissolved into the

much larger “Mongol ethnic group” in 1957, while their Buryat banner was abolished.

The “Evenki Autonomous Banner” was founded in 1958, and divided into sums and

gachaas: the Buryats were dispersed among two sums. However, besides a few

exceptions, the new territorial framework did not bring much change.

39 The Cultural Revolution put a violent end to religious activities. Thousands of people,

especially lamas, were persecuted and arrested while the monasteries and ovoos were

destroyed across the whole territory of Hulun Buir. Some people managed to hide their

sacred objects quickly enough to avoid destruction. This was the case for the shaman

Seregma who buried her shamanic costume in a virgin area of the steppe, as her

daughter recounted to me. When she passed away in the early 1980s, her body was

disposed of near her costume and a shaman burial site (Evk. sindang) was built nearby.

Many oral stories describe how the Red Guards were struck by sudden death or severe

injuries after destroying ovoos and shamanic costumes: it was believed that the anger of

the deities was the reason for these incidents. While the ovoo rituals were banned, the

naadam were carefully adapted to the new political ideology, producing heroes who

distinguished themselves in various national competitions for the new socialist “multi-

ethnic Chinese nation”. Even today, the political dimension of sport remains

institutionalized. For example, in 2012, sports events were held to honor the eighteenth

Congress of the Chinese Communist Party: equally in 2017, games were used to mark

the seventieth anniversary of the foundation of the Inner Mongolia Autonomous

Region.


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40 However, the systematic destruction of ovoo cairns during the Cultural Revolution did

not end the Buryat and other groups’ sense of belonging to what had become their

homeland. After the reforms launched in the late 1970s, religious activities slowly

became tolerated, and the ovoo cairns were gradually rebuilt. Before rebuilding, people

still tried to find the exact sites where their sacred cairns were located before the

Cultural Revolution. Unsurprisingly, when the Buryats started to reconstruct their

cairns in the mid-1980s, the first to be rebuilt was the Bayan Han Ovoo.

Ovoo rituals and politics in contemporary Hulun Buir

41 Over the past three decades, ovoo worship ceremonies and naadam games have been

central ritual celebrations that structure the summer season in Hulun Buir from the

end of May to early July. They are actively promoted by the Hulun Buir authorities at

every level of the administrative structure as part of the “Open up the West”24 policy

and cultural heritage policy, the aim of which is to develop tourism. As such, “ovoo

rituals” were inscribed in 2006 on the Chinese national list of Intangible Cultural

Heritage under the category of “folk custom” (Ch. minsu 民俗): the term “religion”

cannot be used to describe any item of the Chinese list. According to Sneath, in the

Mongolian cultural world of today, “Just as cosmopolitical ceremonial has been re-

contextualised as national heritage, so, new forms of cosmopolitics have become

possible and are bound up with notions of indigeneity and national heritage” (Sneath

2014, p. 468).

42 For their part, the local societies of Hulun Buir also took an active part in this process

of ritual reactivation. The revival of ovoo rituals began in the mid-1980s, when the

Hulun Buir government started the reconstruction of banner ovoos. In the late 1980s,

Sneath attended a revived clan ovoo ceremony among the Mongol Barga of Hulun Buir.

He noted that local people started performing their rituals again only after the

authorities took the initiative of conducting a revived banner ovoo ritual. Sneath argues

that this is a classic example of the Chinese system of “leading from the top”, where the

authorities first implement a rule at the centre and then show how peripheral areas

should follow (Sneath 1991, p. 58). Coincidentally, the Chinese political view matches

the ovoo ranking, which is defined by a political hierarchy. In Hulun Buir, it is broadly

structured as follows: the top ovoos such as banner ovoos and the Amban Ovoo

worshipped by higher political organs (Hulun Buir municipality and banners); the sum

ovoo worshipped by administrative groupings, such as the Buryats; and the clan ovoos

worshipped by a given clan.

43 What about the Buryat ovoos among the myriad of cairns spread over Hulun Buir? Apart

from their six ovoos, which are scattered over the Shinehen West sum and the Shinehen

East sum of the Evenki Autonomous Banner, the Buryats also worship the Amban and

the Bayan Hoshuu Ovoos since both are on Buryat territory. It is interesting to note

that the Buryats consider their ovoos as “top ovoos”: they are supposedly more elaborate

and larger than the “small clan ovoos” worshipped by their Daur, Barga and Solon

neighbors. From an administrative point of view, the Buryat ovoos fall into the

categories of “sum ovoo” and “gachaa ovoo”, cairns worshipped by a people living in a

common sum or gachaa and financed by these two units. In most cases, sum and gachaa

ovoos are worshipped by people from the same administrative unit, regardless of their

ethnic category. However, the Buryat ovoos are an exception to this rule: while they are


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administrative grouping ovoos, they are worshipped exclusively by the Buryats

(although one is also worshipped by the Khamnigan).

44 The Buryats still enforce a rigorous hierarchy of importance on their six ovoos, which is

manifested in the way the Shinehen Buryat local authorities organize their annual

rituals. In contrast to the clan ovoo annual worship ceremonies, the arrangement and

expenses of which are exclusively supported by clan members25 under the supervision

of the ovoo chief (Mo. ovoo darga)26, the Buryat ovoo rituals are organized and financially

supported by the Shinehen local government. The latter is structured into two sums,

the Shinehen West sum divided into four gachaas and the Shinehen East sum divided

into eight gachaas: each unit is administrated by a Buryat leader. The political

importance of the authorities involved in the ovoo ritual is proportional to the rank

assigned to the ovoo. Based on the same logic, the money spent on the festivities, the

number of lamas and the nature of the prizes awarded depend upon the importance of

the sacred cairn. The Bayan Han Ovoo ritual is organized every year alternately by the

two sums, the highest administrative unit of the Buryats.

Figure 5. Worshippers are making offerings to Bayan Han Ovoo, Evenki Autonomous Banner, HulunBuir, June 2017

© Aurore Dumont

45 Alongside a large number of Buryat worshippers, the political leaders of the two sums,

the twelve gachaas and the high-ranking Buryat lamas participate in the Bayan Han

Ovoo festivities. According to what the Buryat sum leader told me, in 2017, a total of

80 000 yuan (approximately US$ 11 200) was allotted to the worship ceremonies of the

Bayan Han Ovoo, which is a significant amount of money at the local level. The money

comes from a special fund dedicated to ovoo rituals and naadam games. In order of rank,

the five other Buryat ovoos are worshipped as follows: the three other “big ovoo” rituals


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are administered by one gachaa out of four or six every year, while the two “small ovoo”

rituals are organized annually by the same gachaa. Members of the Shinehen local

authorities play a crucial role in the organization of ovoo worship. Before the ritual,

they collect extra money from those who wish to donate, bring the principal offering (a

sheep’s head) to the ovoo site and clean the location after the ritual. During ovoo rituals,

members of the local authorities sit in the yurt built for the lamas who read prayers.

Officially, there is no ovoo chief among the Buryats (in contrast to clan ovoos), since,

according to Chinese local law, no member of any government body has the right to

hold an official position relating to “superstitious activities”.

46 Every year, Buryat people attend the ritual nearest to their place of residence and in

accordance with their administrative grouping. The Bayan Han and Erdeni Uul Ovoos

are exceptions, since the entire community gathers at these two rituals. Everybody

assumes that, as well as being large and important ovoos, the Bayan Han and the Erdeni

Uul cairns both possess special ritual efficiency. The deities worshipped at the Bayan

Han Ovoo are supposed to convey power to people while those worshipped at Erdeni

Uul bless people with wealth. It is said that Buryats are wealthier than other people

because they have the Erdeni Uul Ovoo (Hürelbaatar 2000, p. 110).

47 Ovoo rituals always follow the same process during which people activate ordered ritual

techniques and behavior in order to enter into contact with the spirits of the land. I will

give below a brief description of a Buryat ovoo ritual according to my observations.

48 On the day of the ritual, brightly dressed in their Buryat traditional costumes,

worshippers gather at the ovoo site early in the morning. Both men and women from

the same nuclear family arrive by car or motorcycle27 at the bottom of the mountain.

They take their offerings (candies, milk, cakes, and alcohol, mainly the Chinese liquor

baijiu 白酒, etc.) and climb up to the ovoo site, where they start circumambulating

clockwise three times around the cairn while “feeding” the spirits with milk or liquor.

The ovoo is meanwhile renovated by men who reach the upper part of the cairn and

replace the old willow branches with freshly cut ones. Just as nature goes through a

cycle of renewal, producing green grass, calves and milk, the ovoo is renewed by ritual

actions of men that symbolically ensure the perpetuation of the male-based group. In

traditional Mongol society, women are not allowed to ascend to the ovoo cairn nor

attend the ritual. Furthermore, they rarely compete in the naadam, the “three manly

games”. Mountain worship and its related games are indeed dedicated to the

celebration of male power. Apart from lacking strength, another reason given by locals

to explain the exclusion of women is their “impurity”. The mountain and adjacent

source of water should remain clean of any pollution (i.e. blood). According to my

informants, since the revival of ovoo rituals in the 1980s, the presence of women is less

or more tolerated, depending on the ovoo and the community. Among the Buryats, the

Han Uul Ovoo and the Shibog Ovoo, both situated on high hills, are forbidden to

women. They must stay at the bottom of the hill to make their circumambulation. The

four other ovoos are not forbidden to women. However, while they are allowed climb

the hill, women are never allowed to reach the upper part of the cairn, as men do.

49 When the ovoo is ready with offerings, lamas, numbering from two to more than ten for

“big” ovoo, start reading prayers for at least two hours. Throughout the ritual,

worshippers may keep feeding the deities and sit, talking with each other. Indeed, ovoo

rituals are also gatherings for people who rarely meet. Worship usually ends with the

gathering of worshippers: under the supervision of the lamas, worshippers take their


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offerings in their hands and make a circular movement, saying “hurai hurai”, which

means “to reach, to collect [fortune]”28. When the ritual ends, people gather to share

food at the bottom of the mountain where the naadam games will take place.

Figure 6. Worshippers are listening to lama’s prayers during Erdeni Uul Ovoo ritual, EvenkiAutonomous Banner, Hulun Buir, June 2018

© Aurore Dumont


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Figure 7. Buryat lama after reading prayers during Uitehen Ovoo ritual, Evenki Autonomous Banner,Hulun Buir, June 2019

© Aurore Dumont

50 In the early afternoon, the naadam games, consisting of horse racing, archery and

wrestling, are held at the bottom of the ovoo cairn. The winners are granted different

awards, ranging from sheep to money, all funded by the Shinehen local government.

The naadam and the ovoo worship both aim to establish reciprocity with the deities in

order to obtain community welfare, good pastures, abundant rain, and herd fertility.

51 The Buryats’ existence and identity are activated annually by the Shinehen local

government when the ovoo cairns are renewed. As Sneath has stated for Mongolia,

“ceremony and public ritual continue to play an important role in projects to

reconstruct tradition, assert collective identity and deploy concepts of belonging”

(Sneath 2010, p. 261). In Hulun Buir, the ovoo ritual remains a means for recognizing the

existence of a group which does not appear in the official Chinese ethnic classification.

Although they are officially Mongols (as recorded on ID cards, driving licenses, and all

other official documents), the Buryats consider themselves a different group. As in

Russia, where the Buryats function socially and politically as a people distinct from the

Mongols despite their acknowledged Mongol origin and affinity (Atwood 2004, p. 61), in

Hulun Buir, they are differentiated from other Mongolian-speaking groups (Barga,

Daur, Ölöt and nowadays Horchin29) by their dialect, preference for intermarriage

within their community and their ability to keep their various “traditions” (clothes,

marriage, and celebrations that follow a strict set of rules with a minimum of Chinese

influence) alive. For example, wearing the Buryat deel, which is very different from the

deel of other Mongol groups, is an implicit norm for anyone taking part in ovoo worship

and other significant celebrations, such as marriages, sports or visits to monasteries. In

addition, traditional dress represents an ethnic marker between groups living in Hulun


215

Buir: each has an identifiable costume with its own fabric, form and way of tying the

belt.

Figure 8. Buryat men after an ovoo ritual

Men on the left and right side wear the tshobo, a Buryat traditional clothe made of felt. The cone-shaped hat, also made of felt, is called a yodang, Evenki Autonomous Banner, Hulun Buir, June 2017

© Aurore Dumont

52 Although everybody can, in principle, take part in ovoo worship, attendance at Buryat

ovoo celebrations is restricted according to ethnic belonging (Solon, Khamnigan, Daur,

etc.). Breaking this rule may be interpreted as an act of defiance, especially in areas

where ethnic tensions are high (Dumont 2017, p. 208)30, despite the political

proclamation of “harmony between ethnic nationalities”. However, under certain

circumstances, people from other ethnic groups31 are allowed to attend. In June 2019,

for example, several Barga archers attended the ovoo ritual in order to take part in the

archery competition held in the afternoon.

53 It is worth mentioning that Hulun Buir today has as many ovoos as clans and ethnic

groups. By mapping the geographical distribution of ovoos in the area, one receives an

accurate overview of the territorial, ethnic and clan configuration of local societies that

differs from the official ethnic composition given by the Chinese classification system.

In this respect, the Buryat ovoo provides a meaningful perspective on the way the

Buryat community is integrated within the most multi-ethnic area of the Inner

Mongolia autonomous region.


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Concluding remarks

54 The present paper aimed to show how sacred ovoo cairns and their annual rituals have

served as powerful symbols for Buryat identification and self-identification throughout

the 20th century. After the Russian Revolution, the Buryats left their homeland of Aga

and crossed the boundaries with their herds to settle in China. There, they established

themselves in an unknown territory that gradually became their new homeland. The

link connecting the Buryats to their new territory was and is still made manifest by the

gradual construction of ovoo cairns. These sacred cairns can be understood as supports

for local and religious history since they offer a glimpse into the way local societies

have organized their territory and sacred landscape over decades. As Humphrey has

suggested, “the mountains, the boundary shrines […] are points of concentrated

memory and emotion to which people relate their everyday lives” (Humphrey 2016,

p. 116). My aim was to show that ovoos are more than simple religious cairns built by a

community of worshippers. Narratives about ovoos and the way they have been built,

moved and worshipped throughout the 20th century are also discursive roots for

people’s perception of their local history and experience within the North Asian

borderlands. Equally, the ovoos are also at the intersection of several perspectives

connecting territory, identity and politics. The construction of Buryat ovoo cairns

reveals parallel processes that occurred throughout the 20th century: the political

recognition of the Buryats by the local court and the appropriation and transformation

of an unknown territory into a Buryat sacred homeland.

55 Ovoo rituals are also powerful vectors for the Buryats’ attachment to a distinct

community. As we have seen, under the political leadership of the Buryat local

government, the ovoo rituals promote the Buryats as being a visible community in the

Hulun Buir landscape despite their lack of official recognition in the Chinese

bureaucratic system. I would follow Baldano’s idea of “autonomous ethnolocal identity”

(Baldano 2012, p. 187) to define Shinehen Buryats’ awareness of belonging to a special

community. The Buryat are now well-established citizens among the Mongolian-

speaking community of Hulun Buir. They feel rooted in the Hulun Buir grasslands and

view their ovoos and related rituals as an integral part of their heritage and culture. At

the same time, Russia, as the ancestral homeland, is still part of the Buryats’ collective

memory: the recently opened borderlands between Russia and China have allowed

Buryat people to meet again. Over the last fifteen years, some Shinehen Buryats have

“gone back” to Russia, especially in Ulan-Ude in Buryatia, where they have tried to

reconnect with their Buryat peers. Many Buryats from Russia also come to Hulun Buir

where they have connections with their counterparts, renowned for having kept intact

their “traditions”. Some Buryats say that soon clan ovoos will reappear in Hulun Buir,

making them an ever more numerous feature of the sacred landscape.

Acknowledgements

56 This research is funded by the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation

programme under the Marie Skłodowska-Curie grant agreement No. 893394.

57 I would like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their useful comments. I am also

grateful to the editors of this special issue, especially Isabelle Charleux, for their

valuable advices. I also thank the Shinehen Buryats and all the people from this


217

community who offered me some of their precious time and shared their history and

daily experiences.

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NOTES

1. According to the 2010 Russian national census, the Buryats number around four hundred sixty

thousand people. In Mongolia, they are approximately forty-five thousand. In China, they

number around eight thousand people, although there are no official statistics because they are

part of the “Mongol ethnic group”.

2. Shinehen is the main river of the area allotted to the Buryat refugees when they settled in

China. The river and its adjacent area later became known as the territory of the Buryats. Indeed,

when Buryats from China meet Buryats from Russia or Mongolia, they often introduce

themselves as “Shinehen Buryats”.

3. Although called a “municipality”, a large part of Hulun Buir remains rural. Hulun Buir was

governed as a league (Mo. aimag; Ch. meng 盟) until 2001.


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4. The People’s Republic of China officially recognizes fifty-six “ethnic groups” or “nationalities”

(Ch. minzu 民族): the Han Chinese make up more than 90% of the total population, while the

other fifty-five are “ethnic minority groups” mainly living in peripheral areas of the country.

5. In traditional Buryat food, a multi-layered cake filled with jam (Bu. nagamal) and Buryat

dumplings (Mo., Bu. Buriyad buuz; Ch. Buliyate baozi 布里亚特包子 ) are well-known delicacies.

They are homemade and are sold in small Buryat shops and restaurants. In this paper, I use a

phonetic transliteration close to the pronunciation of the local dialect.

6. Yamen was a generic term referring to central and local government offices in imperial China,

including ministries. In this paper, yamen will explicitly designate the Hulun Buir government

office during the Republican era (1912-1949).

7. The gachaa (Mongolian term) is the smallest administrative unit of the modern Inner Mongolia

Autonomous Region and corresponds to residential and pastoral areas.

8. In the People’s Republic of China, the Khamnigan are today part of the “Evenki ethnic group”

(Ch. Ewenke minzu 鄂温克民族). They number around two thousand people.

9. Tuguldur Toboev is the author of the “Past history of Khori and Aga Buryats”, the most well-

known chronicle of Khori and Aga history compiled in 1863 (see Toboev 1996).

10. Many Buryat families used to send one of their sons to monasteries to become lamas.

Although the Tibetan language was privileged for its religious value, the Buryat monasteries

were also crucial institutions for expanding the use of the Mongolian script (Chakars 2014, p. 31).

11. According to one lama of the Shinehen Monastery, two hundred to three hundred lamas are

believed to have crossed the border.

12. Between 1900 and 1925, many Khori and Aga Buryat families fled to the northeastern

provinces of Hentii and Dornod in order to escape Russia’s ongoing wars (Buyandelger 2013,

p. 59).

13. Known in the collective memory as the most prestigious Daur Amban, Gui Fu was in reality

the vice-governor of Hulun Buir in 1919 and then its governor in 1920.

14. The “Daur ethnic group” (Ch. Dawo’er minzu 达斡尔民族) today form one of the fifty-five

“ethnic minority groups” recognized by the People’s Republic of China. They number around

132 000 people according to the last Chinese census (2010).

15. The anthropologist David Sneath notes that the groups which were incorporated into the

Manchu banner system have generally retained clans. Rather than imposing an aristocracy

whose members all belonged to the same clan, the Manchu banner system institutionalized the

existing clan units by making them part of the banner administration (Sneath 2000, p. 204).

16. The great Manchurian pneumonic plague of 1910–1911 was a disease transmitted to man by

the tarbagan (Marmota sibirica), a marmot found in northeast China, Mongolia and Transbaikal

Siberia. In China, the plague first appeared in the border town of Manzhouli 满洲里, which is

situated approximately 200 km from Hailar City. The animal was hunted by the Mongols, the

Tungus, the Cossacks and Chinese workers from Shandong province for its fur, fat and flesh in

order to satisfy the growing demand of the fur market at the beginning of the 20th century

(Farrar 1912, p. 4). The great Manchurian plague was the most devastating human epidemic in

modern Chinese history causing 60 000 deaths (Lynteris 2013, p. 305).

17. The Ninth Panchen Lama travelled extensively in Inner Mongolia, where he conducted

various religious ceremonies. In the fall of 1929, the Panchen Lama was in the different sums of

Hulun Buir. In 1931, he was appointed a member of the Nanjing government, received a subsidy

of 0,5 million dollars and went to Hailar City (Kuzmin 2015, pp. 130-131).

18. After the Sino-Soviet conflict of 1929, some Buryat families moved to what is today Shiliin Gol

League under the leadership of Rinchindorzh, a local leader. Rinchindorzh asked for protection

from the Panchen Lama. The latter agreed to help; and thanks to his religious authority, the

Buryats were given access to pasturelands in Shiliin Gol by the local nobles (Konagaya 2016,

p. 150).


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19. Another version of the ovoo story collected by A. Hürelbaatar says that the Han Uul Ovoo was

offered by the reincarnated lama Tangrin Gegen of the Shinehen Monastery (Hürelbaatar 2000,

p. 110).

20. The pictures and movie are kept in the Lindgren Collection at the Museum of Archaeology

and Anthropology, Cambridge, United Kingdom.

21. The master spirits of the land may be ancestor spirits or mountain/water divinities, etc.,

depending on the area and local people. Among the Buryats, the master spirits of the land may be

both, as noted by Humphrey: “Deceased shamans ‘become cliffs’ (xada). A xada is also said to be

the son or daughter of a sky. How a spirit can be both a deceased human and a child of a sky is

not explained […] landscapes are not coherent and invariant structures applicable on all

occasions, but ways of thinking and speaking in particular contexts” (Humphrey 1995, p. 151).

22. The features of and the material used for ovoo construction are diverse. I refer here to the

ovoos of Hulun Buir, which are mainly made of cairns and willow branches.

23. This practice of burying a sacred object bears similarity to the Tibetan sa chog, a Buddhist

ritual performed before the construction of a temple or a house. In the Tibetan ritual, a treasure

vase is inserted into the ground and covered with soil (Gardner 2006).

24. The “Open up the West” policy was launched in 2001 to encourage economic growth in the

peripheral and ethnic minorities regions of the country.

25. Clan members are asked to contribute within their financial means in the form of money

and/or sheep.

26. The ovoo chief is often a respected and knowledgeable male member of the clan. Unless he is

retired, someone working in the government is not allowed to hold this function.

27. Many people remember that some ten to fifteen years ago, everyone arrived on horseback.

28. This is the “act of calling the essence of the fortune called dallaga” (Davaa-Ochir 2008, p. 53).

29. In contrast to other Mongols, most of the Horchin arrived in Hulun Buir in the 1960s.

30. These tensions mainly revolve around pasturelands. Furthermore, ethnic rebellions that

pitched various groups against each other in the 1930s and afterwards are still remembered,

especially among the Buryats and the Solon.

31. Foreigners are usually welcomed. They are asked to follow the rules. So, a female researcher

working on ovoo rituals is not allowed to climb to the ovoo, as with the local women.

ABSTRACTS

This article explores the relationship between ovoo construction and the parallel political

recognition of Buryat refugees in Hulun Buir (Inner Mongolia). More precisely, it analyses how

these sacred cairns and their annual rituals have served as symbols of Buryat territorial

appropriation throughout the 20th century. Considering the ovoo as a support for local history,

the article illustrates the way ovoo construction links territory, politics and identity in this multi-

ethnic area.

Cet article explore la relation entre la construction d’ovoo et la reconnaissance politique parallèle

des réfugiés bouriates à Hulun Buir (Mongolie-Intérieure). Plus précisément, il analyse comment

ces cairns sacrés et leurs rituels annuels ont servi de symboles dans l’appropriation territoriale

des Bouriates au cours du XXe siècle. Envisageant les ovoo comme un support de l’histoire locale,


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cet article illustre la façon dont la construction d’ovoo lie territoire, politique et identité dans

cette région multi-ethnique.

INDEX

Keywords: Inner Mongolia, Buryat, territory, identity, migration, politics, sacred site

Mots-clés: Mongolie-Intérieure, Bouriate, territoire, identité, migration, politique, site sacré

AUTHOR

AURORE DUMONT

Aurore Dumont’s PhD thesis in anthropology (École Pratique des Hautes Études, 2014) explored

the contemporary pastoral practices of Evenki people in the People’s Republic of China. Her

current research focuses on ritual practices among the Tungus and Mongol societies of

northeastern China from the Late Qing up to the present. She is currently a Marie Skłodowska-

Curie fellow at the GSRL in Paris.

Her recent publications include: “You aobao kan Dongbeiya huanjing wenti: cao dizhu wei de

shengtai zhishi, zhengzhi biaoshu ji yishi shijian” 由敖包看东北亚环境问题：草地主位的生态知识、政治表述及仪式实践 [What do oboo cairns tell us about environmental issues in Northern

Asia? Emic knowledge, political discourse and ritual actions in the grasslands] (Beibingyang yanjiu

北冰洋研究 [Arctic Studies], 2020) and “Dangdai Hulunbei’er caoyuan de aobao jisi” 当代呼伦贝尔草原的敖包祭祀[Contemporary oboo rituals in Hulun Buir grasslands] (Hulunbei’er xueyuan

xuebao 呼伦贝尔学院学报 [Journal of Hulun Buir University], 2019).

[email protected]


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Relation to the nutag, attachment,how to deal with uncertainty


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Being skillful. Wisely navigating anintensely heterogeneous cosmos inMongoliaÊtre habile. Circuler avec sagesse dans un cosmos intensément hétérogène en

Mongolie

Grégory Delaplace and Laurent Legrain

1 In the beginning of July 2008, just a few days after riots had been sparked by allegations

of electoral fraud, an explosive atmosphere held sway in Ulaanbaatar. Military tanks

took to the streets – not a whole lot of them, but it was said to be the first time this

happened in Mongolia. When the yearly celebrations of the National festival of naadam

started, newspapers emphasized the high standard of the manly games1, they described

at length the flight of the arrow that President Nambaryn Enhbayar (2005-2009) had

shot in the opening ceremony, and reported his wish: “may the state policies be

mergen” (töriin bodlogo mergen baih boltugai), that is “wise” or “skillful” – as skillful

indeed as an arrow that reaches its aim. Some journalists wrote that, judging from the

quality of the manly games held all over the country, Mongol people could hope to

experience auspicious conditions up until the next naadam. This kind of assertion could

just be made out as an instrumental political reaction to the event and, of course, this is

partly what it was. The key fact here is that even the political opposition, although

ablaze after the recent events, stood still; they too seemed to endorse the same

interpretation and bestow the same importance on the way naadam had been

performed, and among other matters on the “skillfulness” with which the archers’

arrows had been shot. Compared to the previous days, the change of atmosphere was

palpable. On each side, for a time, the claimed success of summerly celebrations

seemed to lower the political temperature: the focus of public attention had partly

shifted to the proper display of a particular virtue, “wisdom” or “skillfulness” (mergen),

and to the “fortune” (hishig) it was supposed to bring to the entire community.

2 In this paper, we want to unpack this particular notion of wisdom-as-skillfulness,

showing the implications in Mongolia of being mergen. We discuss how skillfulness, as a


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virtue, may come to be relied on collectively, as the ability of some key characters to

take action and make a difference at crucial points of transition like naadam festivals

and ovoo rituals (the two main occasions when manly games are being held). Being

skillful like an archer (mergen) or like a diviner (mergech, mergen hün ) seems to be

treated as a particular brand of prominence, which makes for a crucial resource when a

local community beckons fortune in Mongolia2.

Outlining the perimeter of a virtue

3 If being mergen is a virtue, it is not in the sense of a moral rectitude, but rather in that

of the embodiment of a force or ability, the actualization of which generates benefits

that reflect on the entire community. Before probing into our ethnographic data, we

will delineate broadly the scope of what being mergen entails. An aphorism is used in

Mongolia when a child throws a tantrum or an adult is overwhelmed by anger:

“Knowledge comes from angering wise people, folly comes from angering foolish

people” (mergediig horsgovol erdem garah, mungiig horsgovol balag garah). A lot of lessons

could be drawn from such a saying. It plays on an opposition between “wise people”

(merged) and “stupid” ones (munag). While wise people always strive to make the reason

of their discontent understood, idiots turn into a rage that can only add to the

confusion of an already muddled situation. Wise people depart themselves from the

idiots not so much by their display of a measured attitude – although it is important

too – but primarily by their understanding of the chain of consequences which might

have led to the confusing situation at hand. Wise people know how to learn from the

unsettling events they are faced with and eventually how to find their way out of it. In

other words – those with which we will propose to interpret what “wisdom” is actually

about in Mongolia – they are able to get a grip on the imbalance of operating forces

that shape the world they inhabit alongside other, and potentially less wise, people.

4 Let us delve somehow deeper into this particular form of “wisdom” that is displayed by

people who are said to be mergen in Mongolian, by considering the implications of yet

another well-known expression: the “wise word” (mergen üg). Wise words are said to

“hit” their addressee (onozh helsen üg). Everyone tries to keep these words in mind

because listening to them means first and foremost “taking advice” (zövlöögöö avah).

Wise words are telling people what to do and how to do it in a particular circumstance,

i.e. the “correct” (zöv) procedure to follow and the “correct” behavior to display. In

1988, three years before the demise of the socialist state, a book called “Words of the

wise People” (Mergen ardyn üg) was published. Many forms pertaining to the Mongolian

oral literature were subsumed under this encompassing category of “wise words”:

proverbs (zuir tsetsen üg), riddles (on’sogo), songs (duu), tales (ülger), legends (domog),

mockery (hoshin shog). From the perspective of the author, Ch. Zhachin, the common

ground for this disparate collection of oral pieces, dating back from the 19th and the

beginning of the 20th century, lay in the fact that all these words shared the same basic

function. All of them indicated to Mongol people how to behave in reaction to the

oppressive rules of the Sino-Manchu Qing empire (1644-1911), how to make the attitude

of the oppressors an object of ridicule, how to uncover their plots, how to use tricks to

retrieve the wealth they extorted from people. As a first approximation, therefore,

being mergen includes both an ability to see clearly the configuration of multifarious

parameters shaping a given situation, and how to build on it to find potentialities for


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action3. When people speak about the bearers of this virtue, they say that mergen people

are “people who know and can” (meddeg chaddag hün). Skillfulness seems to point to an

ability to absorb the variables of a particular context, to metabolize them and to seize

the potential of this new assemblage to set a community on the tone of behavior

adapted to a particular situation. It is the enactment of this virtue that turns skillful

people into figures of prominence, primarily because everyone thinks that their actions

will benefit to everybody.

5 The anthropologist Morten Pedersen introduced the notion of “figure of prominence”

in the field of Mongolian ethnography in the course of his PhD research. It was in a

certain way a continuation of Caroline Humphrey’s work on two contrastive figures:

the shaman and the elder (Humphrey with Onon 1996). But Pedersen also drew on

Marilyn Strathern’s argument on the personification of power in Melanesia (1991,

p. 197), whereby to be prominent in a social group meant to appear to other people as

“an epitome or a concentration of valued attributes that made visible what other

people could be or could have been”. To put it another way, prominence is the attribute

thanks to which a person (or an object) is perceived to stand out from the rest of the

group (Pedersen 2002, p. 13). Yet to stand out is an action and therefore to distinguish

oneself from others though skillfulness is a process. As for us, the elucidation of the

mechanisms of this process and his impact in the life of a community set a kind of

working area to put in dialogue our ethnographic data on two connected practices –

archery and divination – with the aim of figuring out what skillfulness is about in

Mongolia as well as how and why skillful people are important figures at turning points

in the life of a community.

Shooting arrows to beckon fortune

6 There is an intricate web of relations connecting manly games, rituals of “fortune

beckoning” (dallaga), rituals performed around ovoos, arrows, and the spirits “master of

the land” (gazryn ezed): listing them may be a good starting point to explore the terms

of the archer’s prominence as a “skillful” person.

7 a) According to Caroline Humphrey, dallaga denotes “the gesture of beckoning, a

circular waving of the arms which draws in the blessing” (Humphrey with Onon 1996,

p. 149). It is performed during ovoo rituals, at least those led by Buddhist monks – that

is, mostly, rituals involving the population of an administrative unit like a district or a

sub-district (Lindskog 2019, p. 9). In the anthropological literature, one also finds

descriptions of individual dallaga performances at ovoos in crucial periods of the year,

such as the first day (shinii negen ödör) of the new-year celebrations (Tsagaan sar) (see

for example Ruhlmann 2019, p. 201 et sqq.). As reported by Krystyna Chabros (1992),

dallaga are performed on a wide variety of private occasions – there are spring bird and

camel dallaga, dallaga for hunting, slaughtering, dallaga for healing, etc. As Bulcsu Siklós

mentioned in his review of Chabros’ book, the feature that stands out in dallaga rituals

is their pervasiveness and their simplicity. A dallaga consists of performing a circular

gesture with or without an arrow or an arrow substitute, uttering the word hurai and

thereby beckoning for oneself the benefits desired (Siklós 1994, p. 411)4.

8 b) It is commonly observed that ovoo rituals tend to be coupled with the “three manly

games” (eriin gurvan naadam) (Hamayon 2016, pp. 132-142), which include wrestling

(most of the time), horse racing (often) and archery (occasionally, but the practice of


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archery seems to be given less importance and attention now than right after the

Revolution, cf. Otgonbayar 2008).

9 c) These “manly games” (called thus despite the participation of women to archery

contests since the 1960s, cf. Lacaze 2000) seem to be associated with the coming into

being of fortune (hishig) for the year to come. Describing the manly games held during

the summer naadam festival, the Polish ethnographer Iwona Kabzinska-Stawarz wrote

in her 1991 book Games of Mongolian Shepherds:

The shepherds believed that the evil spirits frightened by the loud shout uuhai5

would not come back till the next naadam, when the repetition of all the magicalprocedure would be necessary […]. The cheerful shout was heard not only by peoplebut it also reached the oboo, Heaven and all the good spirits to please them andmake them rejoice that so many excellent shooters gathered at naadam and thatthey displayed weapon and archery skill. Lus sabdag [lus savdag], the lord of thenature was also happy. The shepherds believed that the shout uuhai could wake himup, if he happened to be asleep. (Kabzinska-Stawarz 1991, p. 104)

10 Kabzinska-Stawarz concluded with a quotation from one of her informants, stating that

“when Lus wakes up, it will be rain and all abundance but there is nothing when he is

asleep” (1991, p. 104). Despite what Kabzinska-Stawarz seems to imply when she claims

that the cry of uuhai reached the ovoo, we do not think that ovoos are always and

necessarily considered in Mongolia as the abode of land masters. Rather, following

Benedikte Lindskog (2016), we think it is more accurate to see them as “a physical

construction in the land where to the gazryn ezen can be summoned”. We have never

heard the kind of exegesis that Kabzinska-Stawarz mentions concerning the “cheerful

shout” of the archer, uuhai, and the awakening of the land master but, as mentioned in

the introduction of this article, it is still usual for people today to regard the successful

and smooth delivery of the manly games as an auspicious sign for the year to come.

11 d) It is well-known also that the dallaga circular gesture at the ovoo ritual, or in other

occasions, was sometimes performed with an arrow (dallagany sum) in one’s hand6. In

addition, Humphrey remarked that a dallaga “denotes not only the gesture of

beckoning but also the sacralized meat in the pot to be shared by all those present”

(Humphrey with Onon 1996, p. 149). A dallaga therefore involves, Humphrey continued,

“the transfer of blessings, usually through an arrow, into the content of sacred

container”7 (Humphrey with Onon 1996, p. 149).

12 e) A praise to the naadam’s archer, transcribed by Mongolian ethnographer

Sampildendev at the end of the socialist period, went like this:

Harvahad mergenHanilahad eyeldegDaind baatar Dallagand hishigtei Barildhad baatar Iim saihan eriig Mahiitel tatai bai gemeezh n' Daraagar shar numny colyg olson amui.When you give [the bow] to draw,To a virile man,Heroic in wrestlingFull of grace in his beckoning gestureHeroic in the battle Affectionate with his friend


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Skillful when he shoots [his arrow]This bow then receives the title of yellow bow8.

13 The praise is not performed anymore. The verse that is related to our topic is the one

which links up a good archer and a person who is “full of grace in his beckoning

gesture” (dallagand hishigtei).

Being mergen as an archer

14 What can we draw from this web of connections if we approach the question of what is

at stake in an ovoo ritual from the standpoint of prominence? What kind of attributes or

what kind of enactment is required from whom, in order to get the attention of spirits

and maintain the more or less fragile relationship with land masters? In a recent

article, Benedikte Lindskog (2019) highlighted the general requirements needed to put

hope in the potential efficacy of ovoo rituals: the knowledge of the person – generally a

lama – who conducts the ritual, the reading of the right sutra, the respect of a

particular order for ritual sequences, and a proper behavior. The question we want to

ask in this article is a bit different. Indeed, what the praise to the archer translated

above seems to indicate is that all men are not equal in their ability to perform a dallaga

efficiently. Some of them do it better, and because of this, they become prominent in

the sense that Marilyn Strathern, and Morten Pedersen after her, gave to the notion.

Why, then, are archers regarded as the primary bearers of this particular prominence?

What is it they do better than others, which makes them more suited to the efficacious

performance of a dallaga? How is it, in other words, that their particular virtue is more

closely associated to “fortune” than any other within the manly games performed

around ovoos in Mongolia?

15 To try and answer this, we will draw on data collected by Laurent Legrain in

Ulaanbaatar, in the course of two periods of fieldwork amounting to six months of

observation and instruction in archery in the springs and summers of 2013 and 2014,

during the preparation of the yearly naadam. These years, a crucial matter of concern

among male archers, and perhaps especially among the members of the executive

bureau of the Mongolian Archery Association, was what they conceived of as a general

loss of strength in Mongolian archery. A scripture engraved on a famous stele found in

the valley of Harhiraa, dating back to the 13th century, stated that an archer had hit his

target from a distance of more than 500 m9. Obviously, this feat seemed impossible to

achieve nowadays with a Mongolian bow, and archers saw two options to account for

what was therefore considered a decline in the practice of their discipline: it was either

bows or men that were not as strong as they used to be at the time of the Mongol great

empire. One can understand how worrisome this latter alternative might be for a

Mongol man.

16 However, when Laurent Legrain reported this to a very famous female archer, and

when he alluded to the usual conception that archery was on the wane because of the

increasing feminization of the practice, she scolded him for giving an idiot’s words too

much importance. Archery, she argued, was not a matter of strength but rather a

matter of fitting things together, or even of piecing things together. She used the

Mongolian verb evlüüleh to express this: this term, according to Charles R. Bawden

(1997), could be translated as “to put together”, “to fit together”, “to assemble”, “to get

together”, or “to piece together”. From his past research on music, Laurent Legrain


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knew very well the stem used for the formation of this verb: ev means “peace”,

“concord”, “amity”10. In the course of his past research, he had learned the high value

given to concord in the moral life of the Mongols. Another saying he had often heard

people refer to when they spoke about Mongol pre-revolutionary outstanding singers

was that they could master the “nine manly skills” (er hünii yösön erdem also translated

as the nine manly “abilities” or “arts”), the highest of which was precisely “concord”

(ev).

Erdmiin dee – evEldev uilend uranDalai deer üschDain deer baatarNom deer günNoyond zusargüiÜgend (shalamgai) setsenHar’d hatuuHarvaldval mergenThe higher ability – concordElegant in many actionsIn the ocean, he swimsIn the war, he is a heroDeep in [the knowledge] of bookWithout obsequiousness in front of the princeWise in the use of languageHarsh with the strangerIf he shoots, he hits11.

17 Each piece of this puzzle seems to converge in pointing to a deeper connection between

“skillfulness” and “concord”. As we started seeing in the introductory discussion of the

term, being mergen implies the ability to assemble “things” (yum) harmoniously, that is

in an ev manner. Conversely, fitting “things” together accurately tends to make you a

mergen person. As Laurent Legrain’s conversation with the female archer was

interrupted by the resumption of the tournament, he was left wondering what these

“things” were, that needed be fitted together in order to be mergen – and therefore to

receive this official title as a victor in the tournament.

18 The specificity of Mongolian bows is a source of pride among archers. All the materials

used in the making of a bow are described as having a “natural origin” (baigaliin

garaltai) or as “being in strong connection with nature” (baigal’taigaa büh yum uyaldazh

baina). We will not expand further on the fabrication process of a multilayered

composite bow, which is in itself an assemblage between two different species of tree,

horn, horse tendons immersed in water for days, glue that is ideally made from animal

leather and hooves, animal bones, and today, fishing wire to strengthen the solidity of

the assemblage and to maximize the strength of the bow. There are two crucial

remarks that can be drawn from the evocation of this long and difficult process of

assemblage. First, this crafting process is regarded by archers and Mongolian

intellectuals who wrote about archery as an achievement of the human wisdom and

intelligence (sod mergen uhaan) that has enabled Mongolians as a population to “write

an important page of the world history” (mongolchuud bid negen tsagt eh delhiin tüühiig

bichiiltsezh) (Otgonbayar 2008, p. 3). So, a mergen kind of wisdom enables people to piece

together some elements of the environment and find the potentialities of this new

assemblage to open new prospects for their community. There is a second point that is

stressed in every discussion Laurent Legrain could have with archers. They insisted on


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the sensitivity of the bow to any variation in temperature, humidity, and air pressure.

Even the amount of sunlight might increase the draw weight and therefore the way the

bow should be handled. This strong insistence on making the sensitivity of the bow

central in their discussion can also contribute to understanding what being mergen

means.

19 In our view, such emphasis points to the fact that the trick of the trade for archers is

their faculty to feel the influence of these fluctuating forces and adjust their aim

accordingly. Archers usually draw a line with a pen on their left hand and use it as a

sight. If the draw weight rises, they must release the arrow a bit lower. Other forces

must be taken into account: the force of the wind, as well as the coming of the rain, or

even hail, etc. – the list composing this assemblage of technical and environmental

conditions is actually endless. In an archery tournament lasting for hours on end, each

archer has to shoot forty arrows successively, from a distance of 75 m for men and 65 m

for women. In each round of the tournament, archers enter the game facing three

other opponents: after they shoot their first arrow, they have to wait for the other

three to shoot their own, which means there is always a delay in-between their

shooting of one arrow and the next. After four arrows have been shot, the round ends

and the outgoing archers make room for the next incoming group. Between each

round, the waiting period may last from a few minutes to a few hours, depending on

the number of competing archers. These two kinds of hold periods, when archers wait

for their opponents to shoot and when they wait for another round to start, are

actually rather difficult to deal with. Archers have to keep calm, to temper their

enthusiasm, and to moderate their appetite for victory. Moreover, during these hold

periods, they have to rely on a kind of nerve and muscle memory in order to keep track

of the right gesture. If their last arrow flew over the target or missed it, they will take

some time to ponder about what should be corrected. As the contest goes along,

archers strive against pressure and combat fatigue. Referees also have a role to play in

what could become a successful shot. From time to time archers become referees: they

stand near the target and through a set of codified and elegant gestures, they indicate

to the shooting archers where exactly their arrows have just landed. At a distance of

75 m, it is indeed difficult to see clearly the flight course of one’s arrow, so this code is

meant to facilitate the adjusting of one’s aim in-between successive attempts.

20 Although many other aspects in the complex practice of archery could be mentioned,

this short description should suffice to emphasize what kind of forces, energies, inner

state, or coded signs must be fitted together in order for archers to hit their target each

time at each attempt (and not only once in a while). All these heterogeneous

components of the environment must be felt, assembled, and on the basis of this

delicate assemblage, the right, beautiful and efficient gesture needs to be performed.

21 In a conference in 1934, Marcel Mauss has famously proposed the notion of “techniques

of the body” to grasp in a comparative manner “the way in which from society to

society men know how to use their body” in an “effective” and “traditional” manner –

which means it has both to be transmitted and to achieve something (Mauss 1936). As a

technique of the body, archery surely meets these two criteria of “tradition” and

“efficacy”. First, archery is indeed undoubtedly oriented toward the completion of a

particular purpose – the arrow has to hit the target. This is a visible, tangible,

perceptible result of the archer mastery and, as Sandrine Ruhlmann (2019) stressed in

her book on the production, consumption and sharing of food in Mongolia, every single


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action that implies a technique is linked to “fortune” (hishig) – not only that of people

who actually performs this action but also, and by extension, that of their family and

their community. Everything that has to be done, must be done “well”, that is correctly

(zöv), and the result of the archer’s action enables anyone to assess its efficiency.

Second, of course, archery is transmitted. Archers are acutely aware of being the

bearers of age-old know-how. In the process of learning how to handle a bow, they

slowly come to embody a virtue, in other words, they have to learn to be skillful and

wise12. The particular forms of wisdom that may qualify one as mergen are not

considered as innate senses, rather they entail an apprenticeship, which leads to a form

of “cleverness or wisdom rooted in experience” (turshlagaar ündeslesen ih uhaan bilegetei)

as the Mongolian linguist Tsevel defined the notion in his comprehensive dictionary

(1966, p. 356).

22 In his introduction to the book that compiles some of the most famous articles of

Marcel Mauss, Claude Lévi-Strauss had this comment to make on the notion of a

technique of the body: “Every technique, every mode of behavior, learned and

transmitted by tradition, is founded on certain nervous and muscular synergies which

constitute veritable systems bound up with a whole sociological context” (Lévi-Strauss

1987, p. 7). What is it exactly that makes the sociological context of archery, when

understood as a “technique of the body”? More broadly, what components of the world

do archers have to harness in order to accurately bend their bow and hit their target?

These include the competing archers, the people that have gathered to watch the

event, the more or less strong relations of archers to their masters, or to their bow

makers. These elements concern the social dimension of the archers’ world. But their

matters of concern are also the wind, the rain, the sun, the variations in temperature,

humidity and air pressure, and, last but not least, perhaps somewhere in the

background, a fortune that is hoped for and a fortune-providing agency that can be

called “land master” or other comparable names. What Lévi-Strauss called the

“sociological context” indeed needs to be enlarged to really encompass what world do

archers deploy their bodily technique into. Hitting a target means being attuned with

other people and other forces or energies that compose a heterogeneous cosmos, in

order to go along with it in a “right” or “correct” manner. Hitting a target each and

every time one shoots (or at least a satisfying number of successive times) is clear

evidence of one’s mastery of a kind of agency that is called mergen and that has

something to do with the ability to harmonize heterogeneous forces and influences,

which gives its bearer prominence while he or she bestows fortune on everyone else.

Astrological and divinatory skills

23 Obtaining “fortune” (hishig) at an ovoo, most of all during seasonal rituals where

archers have to showcase their skill, relies on the talent of yet another prominent

character, whom we could call the master of ceremony in these celebrations. This

character makes sure everything goes right in the unfolding of events, but also, he

ensures (he usually is a “he”, in contrast with archers who may often be women

nowadays) that the astrological configuration of the situation remains propitious all

along. For instance: which “prayers” (nom) should be recited, who should or should not

attend, to whom the offerings should be addressed, how, and most crucially when

exactly should the ceremony take place? Establishing this also supposes an ability to


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assemble heterogeneous conditions and to wrap them up, as it were, into a single

efficient gesture. The person who is relied upon to show this kind of talent is the

diviner; he is the specialist in charge of operations involving the handling of

astrological calculations commonly referred to in Mongolian as mereg tölög13.

24 This specialist might be a Buddhist monk of any given rank (all religious specialists

affiliated to a monastery tend to be called indiscriminately lam in Mongolian), but he

can also be a layman, either an “elder”, what the Daur call a bagchi (Humphrey with

Onon 1996, p. 30), or just a person renowned for his handling of astrological manuals.

Whatever his credentials, this character is expected to be “skillful” – or rather, being a

“skillful person” (mergen hün) is the fundamental quality that distinguishes someone

qualified for conducting astrological operations. These operations range from the

choosing of the appropriate time for any given daily activity to the most crucial steps of

certain life-cycle rituals, and the more or less delicate operations of “reparation” (zasal)

meant to fix small and big unbalances and mismatches in an ailing person’s

environment. As Charles R. Bawden (1994a) has shown in his review of manuscripts

devoted to astrological practices surrounding “sickness” and “death”, most problems

anyone might face, up until one’s own demise, tend to be attributed to the breaking of

what he calls an “astrological taboo”, yet what could be considered more broadly as a

lack of judgment as to the proper usage of the world.

25 Treatises of divination such as those referred to by Bawden, but also more or less any

ritual of “reparation” carried out in the daily life of contemporary Mongolians,

wherever they live or whatever activity they are engaged in, tend to represent the

cosmos as a vast set of components, each imbued with a more or less stable quality. One

needs to know, therefore, the possible and impossible associations between these

components of the world in order to navigate it safely. This may translate into the

impossibility of making use of a particular category of artefacts that are associated with

a certain “element”, due to the “seat” (suudal) one is “sitting on” in this particular year

(the list of possibilities and impossibilities one is faced with can be requested from

astrologers each year around Tsagaan Sar nowadays). More generally speaking, any

place, person or item is imbued with a fluctuating quality that will make associations

between them more or less suitable – and therefore a potential source of personal

misfortune (see Delaplace 2019)14. The presence or dispositions of “demons” (chötgör),

or “land masters” (gazryn ezed) is but one of the variables that have to be considered in

order to make the right decision and perform the right action at any particular time.

Being “skillful”, in this context, is precisely being able to answer with a “correct” (zöv)

gesture to any particular situation, that is to see through the qualities of all the

components of the world, at any given moment, in order to combine them wisely.

26 One only has to browse through a 19th century manual of astrology and divination to

realize how complicated this can get. The one collected in 1919 in the Ordos region by

Antoine Mostaert (1969), and translated into English by Brian Baumann in 2008, is a

case in point. Astrology appears in this manual as a vast enterprise of extensive

denomination and classification of the cosmos, and one of mapping out of patterns of

its propitious and unpropitious combinations – astrology, in Mongolia and elsewhere, is

indeed first and foremost an exercise in qualification. Here the categories, distinctions

and lists tend to proliferate however, and the point of such a manual as the one

translated and commented by Mostaert and Baumann is probably not only to figure out

the possible matches between elements of the world but also to check how lists and


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categories might overlap with each other. There is indeed rarely one way only in which

the quality of a particular component of the cosmos is determined; manuals such as

this one offer a succession of tables and lists, which operate distinctions in various

aspects and dimensions of the cosmos.

27 Classically, and as any Mongolian person just a little versed in astrology would know,

twelve animals are used to mark cycles of twelve years, as well as the twelve months of

the year, cycles of twelve days in a month and of twelve hours in a day. Each of these

animals (and each combination of them at any particular time of the year, month and

day) correspond to good or bad “influences”, and thus to things that can be done or

should be avoided). More technically, each one of the twenty-eight “lunar mansions”

(called na𝛾šadar after Sanskrit) corresponds to a particular “constellation” and is

named after it: one can do things and must avoid others when “under” any given

constellation. There are also twelve “zodiac signs”, called “houses” (ger) – it is not clear

how they are used – as well as thirty-eight symbols, some more auspicious than others,

which might be applied to the thirty days of a month. Also, when each of the seven

“planets” (the sun, the moon, Mars, Venus, Mercury, Jupiter, Saturn) are “ascending”,

some things are advisable to do while others are “bad”. And of course, the four

elements (fire, water, earth and air) might determine some of these components, some

essentially, other more punctually: celestial bodies have at their essence one of these

elements, while periods of time are alternatively weighted by each of them, thus

creating yet broader cycles of time.

28 This could be the end of it, but each lunar month also has a distinctive color, although

the way this comes into play is not really specified in the manual. Each month is yet

again associated with a lunar mansion, and each day is associated with one of twelve

“lords” (called by a Chinese name) on the top of being paired with one of thirty-eight

symbols. To complicate the matter even further, there are “special days” each month

(like the 6th, the 16th and the 26th, or the 9th, the 19th and the 29th) as well as particular

hours each day, that are marked as more or less “black”, i.e. inauspicious, or when gods

or demons are supposed to congregate or battle amongst each other. A few synoptic

tables are provided in the manual to help readers figure out how the matching of some

of these elements might work out (for example, how propitious the association between

planets and lunar mansions might be) but for the most part, the job of computing these

series of variables – and of choosing among them – is left to the person perusing it.

29 Therefore, “divination” (mereg tölög), as the concrete application of astrological

principles to a particular problem, speaks to a distinctive ability to navigate through

the changing qualities of the cosmos: to perform the right calculations with the

relevant variables in order to respond correctly to the particular assemblage that

characterizes each particular situation. In other words, making the “right” (zöv)

decision or “repairing” (zasah) the “wrong” (buruu) ones. Of course, this is very

complicated, and not everybody is able to do this. Not everyone, in other words, is

equally “skillful” or “wise” in this respect. Throughout Mongolia’s recent history, as we

already suggested earlier, there has been a wide range of specialists, some with a more

encompassing skill than others, who were available for consultation. Roughly, and

based on what Grégory Delaplace could see during his fieldwork with people identifying

as Dörvöd in Northwestern Mongolia (Uvs Province) throughout the 2000s, the most

“skillful” astrologists in Mongolia were the ordinated “lamas” (lam), as their knowledge

of the Buddhist scripture was supposed to give them access to more esoteric “books”


234

(nom), and therefore to a higher domain of astrology15. The term lam hün, however,

tended to lump together a variety of specialists more or less officially associated with

the Gelugpa clergy, when they were not downright exterior to it – as were common

astrologers (zurhaich), for example, or members of one of the Buddhist schools “of the

Red” (ulaany shashin). Beside these, an even more composite set of people were relied

upon locally in Mongolia for the less complicated matters. They could be heirs to a

lineage of prominent lay diviners, but they could also well be trusted elders with no

other pedigree than their own reputation, as virtually anybody could try themselves at

the basics of divination through astrological calendars (tsag toony bichig) or even, more

expertly, through techniques of stone or coin sorting16 that run through some family

lines or which can be learnt from peer to peer. Typically, the holder of the Manual

collected by Antoine Mostaert was a local administrator who was really an amateur

astrologist, whom people used to consult when they needed to figure out a wedding

day, what the cause was to some of their ailments or even how to deal with their dead

(Mostaert 1969, p. 1).

Divinatory skills in practice

30 Being skillful, therefore, is first and foremost being able to calculate, and divination is

indeed, as Baumann has stressed in his commentary to the Manual, a matter of

mathematics. As such, being mergen, skillful, means also being judicious. Divination

indeed requires not a small amount of interpretation and transposition; the generic

recommendations provided in astrology manuals or calendars need to be applied to the

particular problem one is confronted with. This is especially true in the context of card,

stone or rosary divination where, as Katherine Swancutt (2006) has convincingly

showed, interpretations sometimes need to take the form of “conjectures” akin to the

“intervallic” leaps that Morten Pedersen (2007, p. 323) has put at the center of

interspecific perspectival traffic in Mongolia. But it is also true for seemingly more

straightforward applications of astrological apparatuses, like when a “lama” or a

“skillful person” needs to direct the appropriate performance of a ritual using an

astrology manual or applying apparently an apparently univocal set of association

rules. As already suggested earlier, astrology only provides people with a general

framework for the action to be achieved, or with hints to be interpreted in order to

become relevant to a specific situation. This is probably never clearer than in the

organization of funerals. One crucial part of any given funeral is the choosing of how

and where the body will be “placed” (orshuulah). In Uvs Province in the 2000s, this was

actually done in two main stages, by two different specialists. First a “lama”, preferably

a professional one from within a monastery (but failing that at least an established

zurhaich) would have to “open the golden vessel” (altan sav neeh), that is to settle the

general conditions of the funerals according to the general situation of the person’s

death17. Reading from a particular book (the “Golden Vessel”, precisely), and

computing the time of birth, the time of death, planets and the rest, the specialist

would establish the cause of the death – or more exactly the “problem” (gai), that

precipitated it, usually an astrological incompatibility. Considering this “cause” and the

rest of the variables, he would prescribe the exact form the ritual had to take: how the

dead person’s body should be treated (buried in the ground or laid over it, incinerated

or else), when the “placing” should be performed, who should “carry the bones” (yas

barih), what color should the shroud be, what item should be designated as the “refuge


235

thing” (horgodoson yum, that is the thing in which the soul of the deceased might take

refuge and which should be discarded or “placed” with him or her), what prayers

should be read thereafter, and possibly, who the dead person shall be reborn as.

31 It is important to understand that the “Golden Vessel” gives more or less specific

indications which translate into hints given by the specialist to the family. Most often

too, the prescriptions provided by the “Golden Vessel” have to be adapted to the

particular situation at hand. Thus, for example, the bone-carrier will be chosen among

the men of a particular year, that has been established as compatible with that of the

deceased and the general situation. But if such a person is not available, then the

astrologer has to figure out a solution, and most often, he will come up with a “fix” that

will enable someone from another year to do it anyway. That is what being “skillful”

actually means: not only calculating wisely but also coming up with the appropriate

practical solution to the odd astrological dead end. Very much like in archery, all the

variables are not set in advance, and possessing skill means being able to compose not

only with what is already expected, but also with what comes up unexpectedly.

32 Being skillful is also a matter of adapting the array of possible options to the political

situation one is faced with, and this is also particularly striking in relation to modes of

burial. There has been throughout Mongolian recent history a staggering variety of

ways to treat the dead – and this has created moral panics at certain periods of history.

Nowadays, dead people might be buried in the ground within the limits of a cemetery

(legally) or outside of them (illegally), laid on the ground within designated areas

(legally) or outside of them (illegally), and finally incinerated, the ashes being kept in a

stupa or dealt with differently. Up until 1992, burial in designated cemeteries was the

only legal option, as the Socialist regime wanted to end what it held to be an undue

distinction between commoners (laid on the ground), aristocrats (buried), and high-

ranking lamas (incinerated). The situation was much more complex than that however,

given that at the turn of the century, it was apparently possible, according to Alexei

Pozdneyev (1978), to deal with the dead in five different ways, each of them

corresponding to a particular “element”. According to him, therefore, a dead body

could be delivered to earth, by being buried, to fire by being cremated, to wood by

being put “in the hollow of a tree trunk”, to air by being put in a sort of swing, or to

water by being thrown into a river – “such prescriptions were always most strictly

followed in the days of yore”, and “all that is observed formally at present too”

(Pozdneyev [1887] 1978: 606).

33 Father Huc, however, who travelled through Mongol lands in the middle of the

19th century, found Mongol funerals to be less systematic than what Pozdneyev

described a few decades later. He simply states that “the way of burying the dead

among Tartars is not uniform” (1850, p. 59), and proceeds to give a glimpse of the

variety of ways in which dead people may be treated, even reporting that in the vicinity

of the Great Wall, “where Mongols have mingled with Chinese people”, the Chinese way

of burying the dead generally applies. More surprisingly though, and as Isabelle

Charleux (2015, pp. 245-255) has ascertained in her own work, some families went to

great pains around that time to take the remains of their dead parents (sometimes on

their own back) to the holy mountain of Wutaishan, in the Shanxi province. The variety

of Mongol funerary options was indeed so rich in the 19th century, that it even included

the possibility to perform second funerals.


236

34 One could regard this flexibility in ways of dealing with the dead as mere indifference

for the funerary treatment of the dead. Such is not the case of course. Different

political and religious situations, on the contrary, saw the expansion or the shrinking

of practical solutions to treat the dead in an astrologically relevant way. Indeed, each

new funerary option seemed to offer a fresh possibility to answer with an appropriate

action to a particular – and particularly complex – astrological situation. Pozdneyev

gives a telling example of how this required a great amount of skill, as there was always

a reason why the most obviously fitting option was actually not an option.

One can ask what the use of so many instructions is, and why the deceased shouldnot always be buried in the most fortunate direction, if one believes in any kind ofmisfortune. The fact of the matter is that the calculations about carrying the corpseout and burying it are influenced not only by these rules but by numerous othercircumstances. When I was living in the Chahar nomadic lands in the winter of1877, a nephew of my tenant Dabaan jalang died at eleven years of age. He had beenborn in 1866, the Male Fire Tiger year, and died at the Hare hour in the morning.According to the rules, he had to be carried out of the yurt at the Hen hour, and thebest way to bury him would have been to the east, since he was born in the Tigeryear. But the Hen hour, which corresponds to 6 or 7 p.m. happened to be one whenthe deceased’s unlucky star, Venus, was shining and moving westward. Had thedeceased been carried out to the east at that time, he would have had to movetowards his unlucky star. Thus the lamas had to choose the middling direction tothe north. As regards the mode of burying the deceased, the best would have beento cast his body into water, and the middling way, to put it in wood; but we saw thefire element was part of that boy’s birth year, and the fire element is completelyopposed to the water and wood elements; hence, only the worst burial could bechosen for the poor lad, i.e., his body was delivered up to fire, and he was in factburned. (Pozdneyev 1978, p. 609)

35 The multiplication of funerary options therefore amounts to the possibility of an

increased accuracy in the matching of particular funerals with particular problems: in

fine, it almost offers the promise of a tailor-made solution for each and every one of

them (which in the particular situation described by Pozdneyev could have avoided the

choice of the worst astrological option for the poor boy).

36 Such a narrow fine-tuning appears in another stage of the preparation of the funeral:

the choice of a particular location to lay or bury the dead, which is subject to a protocol

known as “taking the place” (gazar avah) or “requesting the place” (gazar guih). Rather

than a “lama” associated with a particular monastery, it is usually a local “skillful

person” who is in charge of this part. People say that the reason why it is so is that it is

cheaper, but we would tend to think it is not the only one. It is very important indeed

for the successful completion of this part of the procedure that the specialist would

know both the place and the person very well. The diviner’s skill, in this context, is to

figure out what place can be associated with the particular person, and what ritual

actions should be performed in order for the process to be auspicious. Or rather, for it

not to be inauspicious, as the risk associated with any funeral is to completely ruin the

family’s fortune, to the point of causing other people’s deaths as a follow up to this one.

37 The way “skillful people” are able to do that is unclear, just as how archers are able to

reach their target several times in a row is difficult to put into words. They just do, and

that is why they can be trusted. It is very much embodied knowledge: knowing from

the “Golden Vessel” in which general direction the body should be taken from the

house, the “skilled person” will ride with a few other men until he finds what he holds

to be a suitable place, that is, one that does not clash with any of the dead person’s


237

qualities, and one that will be well situated within the particular configuration of the

cosmos on this particular spot at that particular time. One could even add to this that

the embodiment of “skill” in this context is not confined to the body of the specialist

but extended to that of his horse. It is indeed a well-known story (cf. Bawden 1994b,

p. 260) that when a broad area has been picked by the man in charge of “taking the

place”, everybody will step down from their horses and wait for one of these to urinate.

The exact spot where a horse has urinated will be circled with an antelope horn and

“taken” by the skilled person with appropriate offerings to the land masters. Astrology

and divination thus rely as much on a calculating power, on the specialist’s knowledge

of the rules, as on a practical ability; a sense of navigating the complexity of the cosmos

and an embodied knowledge as to the proper way of assembling its heterogeneous

components. Astrological knowledge is indeed a practical one. As we mentioned in our

introduction “skillful people” are often described as “people who know and can”

(meddeg chaddag hün) – as if knowledge had to go hand in hand with practical ability for

a person to be genuinely qualified as a diviner.

Conclusion

38 We may seem to have drifted a bit far away from the main theme of this special issue.

Yet we feel that this detour we have proposed to take through “skillfulness”, as a virtue

embodied both by archers and diviners, is useful to understand better what is at stake

in ovoo worship – as actually in most Mongolian rituals, to a varying degree. The

association of archery contests to ovoo festivals might be felt to make better sense now

as the display of a skillfulness that is indexical of “fortune” for the community, just as

the odd fact that arrows often come to be featured in rituals of “beckoning fortune”

(dallaga) might be easier to account for. In a nutshell, in the summer celebrations of

naadam in Mongolia archers give the public a way of perceiving the world as it is

constituted, i.e. a compound of fluctuating forces and moving energies. And at the

exact same time, as everyone is made to attest that the archer’s arrows hit their target,

the world comes to be shown as a reality within which key characters are able to

harmonize these forces. In other words, archers exemplify in reality the theoretical

possibility of circulating auspiciously within the intense heterogeneity of the cosmos.

What we mean is that what archers do during the yearly naadam is not simply a

metaphor of what diviners have to do all year long in order to guarantee the

community’s prosperity, day in and day out. What we are saying instead is that archers

achieve the same thing with their bow and arrows as the diviners with their astrology

manuals and their divinatory techniques. Both of them ensure the success of the

ceremony, and therefore of the year to come, through the exhibition of their way of

being mergen.

39 Both of them offer a contribution to the obtaining of fortune, yet each does it through a

different path: while diviners prevent any misfortune by monitoring the general

conduct of the ritual (and the “harmony” of the associations it relies on), archers

effectuate it by having their arrows reach their target. Both activities indeed contribute

to position a community rightly within the complexity of the cosmos, skillfully

avoiding any mismatch and skillfully wrapping up contradictory variables into a

“correct” (zöv), that is “harmonious” (ev), resolution.


238

40 Of course, the archer and the diviner are not the only depositaries of “skillfulness”

within an ovoo celebration, or in any other ritual circumstance in Mongolia. Mergen also

is the one who will respond to any complicated situation with appropriate words,

either “wise” (tsetsen üg) or propitiatory (yerööl) ones. Saying the “right” words (in the

right order) at the “right” time, to put it rather mundanely, is also the sign of a virtue

that is encouraged in everybody, but prominently embodied by certain people:

respected elders, sometimes official “wish-sayers” (yeröölch), or more or less

professional singers. During the Manchu period, quite a lot of renowned singers were

also recognized to be mergen people; some, but not all, were even archers as well. One

could venture to say that if they too could pride themselves on being mergen, it is also

because singing at a ceremony contributes to turn the gathering of people – each one

with their own origin, agenda, social trajectory, emotional tonality or something else –

into a harmonious whole for a while.

41 It is perhaps not by chance that all these skillful people are made to converge and

collaborate around ovoos, precisely. In the same way that ovoos tend to become more

than just heaps of stones as a result of their proper consecration, the collective that

gathers around it with (or perhaps behind) archers, diviners and singers tend to

become more than a collection of ill-assorted elements by virtue of their intervention.

The fact that a collective comes to constitute a community around the ovoo that marks

the core of a given “homeland” (nutag) – and most of all the fact that it will continue to

do so for the year to come, in harmony with the nutag itself – is not something that is

granted a priori; it is the result of some harmonizing work, and as hinted in the opening

vignette to this paper, it is one of the expected outcomes of the yearly naadam

celebrations. Ovoo festivals indeed appear as “points of transition”, points in both a

geographical and temporal sense, whereby the community’s fortune comes to depend

on its proper and harmonious composition and positioning within the intense and

intensely changing complexity of the cosmos.

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NOTES

1. Yearly celebrations of naadam are held at the beginning of the month of July in Mongolia, at all

the administrative levels of the country (uls, aimag, sum, i.e nation, province, district), over a

total period of ten days or so. The national naadam festival is always held on three days, starting

on the anniversary of Mongolia’s 1921 revolution on the 11th of July, and features most

prominently the “three manly games” (eriin gurvan naadam): horse races, wrestling and

sometimes archery. Anklebone shooting is also performed during national-level and provincial-

level festivals, but it is less highly regarded as the other three, and not customarily included

within the manly games of Mongolian naadam.

2. This paper is based on the episodic fieldwork that both Grégory Delaplace and Laurent Legrain

have carried out in Mongolia since the end of the 1990s, in the far northwestern province of Uvs

(G. Delaplace), in the northern province of Hövsgöl (L. Legrain) and in the capital city Ulaanbatar

(both G. Delaplace and L. Legrain).

3. Perhaps it is in this sense, therefore, that during the socialist period, Lenin was officially called

the “wise teacher” (mergen bagsh) and his followers were said to “lead the party wisely” (namyg

mergen zholoodoh).

4. Bulcsu Siklós’ review is quite harsh. He criticizes Chabros for her attempt to “disentangle

Lamaism from native Mongol religion” (1994, p. 413). “The question of early Mongol cultural or

religious contacts is often an obscure one, but this does not mean that an assumption of

unadulterated Mongolianness can be made for any unlamaized Mongol ritual or text. In any case

there is much natural overlap between a) Indian tantric conceptions, b) Tibetan folk or Bon

conceptions and c) Mongol folk or Shamanist ones” (Siklós 1994, p. 411). The discussions about


241

dallaga that Laurent Legrain has had with Isabelle Henrion-Dourcy, who carried out extensive

fieldwork in Tibet in the beginning of the 2000, tend to confirm that the ritual was vivid among

Tibetans in rural central Tibet at the time of her fieldwork.

5. Some archers Laurent met saw a direct connection between the shout hurai uttered during the

dallaga and their own shout uuhai, the latter being a kind of derivation from the former.

6. See Jagchid & Hyer (1983, pp. 89-90), Hamayon (1990, p. 315), Heissig (1980, p. 47) and Lham &

Yeröölt (2010, p. 12) for mentions of this in rituals dating back from the Qing period or from the

beginning of the 20th century and Humphrey with Onon (1996) for a contemporary ritual.

7. To the best of our knowledge, the liveliest description of a dallaga ritual involving the transfer

of blessings can be found in the biography of the Kanjurwa Kutughtu (1914-1980) edited by

Sechin Jagchid and Paul Hyer (1983, pp. 89-90).

8. First translated in French by Gaëlle Lacaze (1999-2000, p. 119). We have slightly modified

Lacaze’s translation on the verse Dallagand hishigtei.

9. The documentary film “Wisdom of Mongolian bow makers” (Norov 2017) starts with a speech

of the general secretary of Mongolian Archery Association standing near the replica of the stele

that sits just in front of the National History Museum. “This stele should be revered by all

Mongols. The stone inscription of Chinggis Khan was engraved in 1226. The inscription says that

Esungge, a grandson of Chinggis Khan hit a target at 335 alds (536 m) when Mongolian gathered

at a place of Bukh Sochikai. There is no archer today, in the entire world, who can hit a target at

this distance” (see also Lhagvasüren http://www.atarn.org/mongolian/mongol_1.htm, accessed

16 June 2020). The story is reproduced in every publication on archery (see for example

Otgonbayar 2008).

10. The Mongolian linguist Tsevel (1966, p. 865) defined the word ev as “the agreement / concord

between people” (hün amtny hoorondyn nair niilemzh).

11. There is an interesting sequence in the Mongolian movie Tsogt Taizh (from the name of a

noble man living at the end of the 16th and the beginning of the 17th century). One can see Tsogt

Taizh participate in an archery contest. One of his opponents calls him out and asks “Tsogt Taizh,

aren’t you trusting your luck (az) a bit too much?”. Tsogt Taizh’s answer is worth noting: “Luck is

blind. Only idiots trust it. Whereas mergen people… [then Tsogt Taizh releases his arrow that hit

the target and people utter the uuhai] praise their own ability” (mergen hün bol…chadal erdemdee

shütdeg yum). The person who uploaded the sequence on YouTube wrote the following sentence

on the screen “let us live like true human” (hün shig am’dar’ya).

12. Another and very different argument has been proposed by Katherine Swancutt (2007), in the

context of game playing among the Deed Mongols of Qinghai, that envisages learning as a matter

of perspective-taking between “novice” players and “virtuosi”. Although the notion of virtuosity

lends itself to an analysis of some people’s prominence in their display of a particular talent, we

have preferred to stick to a vocabulary that does not so much evoke the exceptional and rare

ability of some outstanding individuals, as the prominence of some kinds of people that are relied

upon for their distinctive cultivation of a particular virtue. Similar reasons led us to steer away

from a conception of prominent bearers of skillfulness as “exemplars” (sensu Humphrey 1997):

what we are trying to get at is less the emulation of charismatic individuals than the delegation

of particular concerns to a category of persons deemed more able than the rest to tackle them. In

this sense, skillful people are envisaged here less as “exemplars” than “examples” of

“skillfulness” (Højer & Bandak 2015).

13. Etymology is always a perilous exercise for people who lack the distinctive talent that makes

philologists prominent within the field of humanities and within that of Mongolian studies in

particular. One can go so far, however, as to risk saying on the basis of contemporary classical

script that mereg, within the lexical pair mereg tölög, “divination”, shares the same root as mergen,

“skillful”, and that the latter indeed looks like the adjectival derivation of the former (to be

skillful is to have mereg). As tölög may be more easily translated as a “count” (tölö-, “to count” + -g,


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http://www.atarn.org/mongolian/mongol_1.htm

http://www.atarn.org/mongolian/mongol_1.htm

a suffix denoting the material result of the action described by the verb), “divination”, in

Mongolian, seems to be conceived of as the overlap between counting as a finite process and

skillfulness as a quality.

14. Of course, this kind of problem comes up retrospectively rather than prospectively.

Classically, people who feel unable to “finish a job” (azhil bütehgüi) or who feel surrounded with

more serious trouble (a series of deaths in their close family for example) will consult a diviner

who will try and figure out with them what kind of astrological mismatch might have caused this

misfortune for them.

15. Thus, each monastery of importance in prerevolutionary Mongolia included a faculty (datsan)

of astrology (Charleux 2006). A prominent faculty of astrology is found today at the monastery of

Gandan in Ulaanbaatar.

16. Bernard Charlier (2018) gives a description of a divination séance performed with an

astrological calendar in the process of a wolf hunt in the mountain in Uvs province. He also

reported the way one of his informant “reads” the stones on that occasion. See also Katherine

Swancutt (2006) for a comprehensive analysis of several divinatory techniques employed by

Buryat people in Dornod to figure out the origin of possible “curses” (haraal).

17. The “opening of the golden vessel” is widely mentioned by authors studying rituals of death

in Mongolia (e.g. Humphrey 2002). In Uvs Province, it was alternatively called “to open the

inquiry” (shinzhee neeh).

ABSTRACTS

This paper proposes to explore how being “skillful” (mergen) plays out and is relied upon in

Mongolia within two different contexts, archery and divination, both linked to “cairns” (ovoo) in

more than one way. In these contexts, skillful people are expected to embody a virtue that any

Mongolian man or woman is supposed to exhibit daily in a less spectacular and consequential

manner. As prominent bearers of skillfulness, archers and diviners are indeed relied upon to

respond with accuracy to a complex set of potentially clashing variables, and thus to ensure each

in their own way the proper and fortunate positioning of people within an intensely

heterogeneous cosmos.

Cet article examine les voies par lesquelles l’habileté se donne à voir et joue un rôle majeur dans

deux pratiques – l’archerie et la divination – qui entretiennent des liens étroits avec les

cérémonies aux « cairns » (ovoo). Dans ces contextes, une grande importance est accordée au fait

d’être « habile » (mergen). On attend de personnes habiles qu’elles incarnent une vertu dont tout

homme ou femme est supposé faire montre quotidiennement. Si lors de certains moments clés on

sollicite tant les archers que les devins, c’est pour harmoniser un ensemble complexe de

variables potentiellement contradictoires ; on espère ainsi qu’ils pourront, chacun selon sa

manière propre, permettre à tous de se positionner avec justesse et bonheur dans un cosmos

hétérogène.


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INDEX

Keywords: Mongolia, archery, divination, funerary rituals, prominence

Mots-clés: Mongolie, archerie, divination, rites funéraires, éminence

AUTHORS

GRÉGORY DELAPLACE

Grégory Delaplace is anthropologist, professor at the École Pratique des Hautes Études. He is a

member of the GSRL (UMR 8682) and the Institut universitaire de France (2017-2022). His

research in north-west Mongolia and in Ulaanbaatar led him to concern himself with funerary

rituals, apparitions of ghosts and with the various ways in which Mongol people deem it possible

to inhabit the places where they dwell. He is the author of L’invention des morts. Sépultures,

fantômes et photographie en Mongolie contemporaine (CEMS, 2008).

[email protected]

LAURENT LEGRAIN

Laurent Legrain is anthropologist, associate professor at the Université Toulouse Jean-Jaurès and

a member of the Laboratoire Interdisciplinaire Solidarités, Sociétés, Territoires (UMR 5193). He

has carried out his research on a variety of topics in Mongolia, such as singing, lying, archery or

the memory of the Socialist period. He is the author, among others, of Chanter, s’attacher et

transmettre chez les Darhad de Mongolie (CEMS, 2014).

[email protected]


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On offering and forgiveness at AltanOvoo’s national TahilgaOffrandes et pardon au Tahilga national d’Altan Ovoo

Jessica Madison Pískatá

Figure 1. Altan Ovoo enjoys a night concert

© Jessica Madison Pískatá, 2018

1 In the summer of 2018, on the grassland steppe of Mongolia near the eastern border

with China, the district of Dar’ganga played host to the quadrennial national offering

ceremony (tahilga)1 for the state-worshipped mountain 2 (töriin tahilgatai uul) Altan


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Ovoo3. Altan Ovoo anchors the north end of the Dar’ganga territory: a lush volcanic

grassland situated in the southeast of Sühbaatar Province. Dar’ganga is the ancestral

territory (nutag) of the Dar’ganga sub-ethnic group and also contains the holy

mountain Shiliin Bogd, a memorial to legendary horse thief and folk hero Toroi bandi4,

Ganga Lake and Orgiliin Spring, Neolithic stone men monuments, a yearly swan

migration, and a smattering of lesser ovoos, ice caves, and sand dunes. Though it sits

north of the Gobi desert, its climate is markedly different, and the high acidity of its

volcanic soil nurtures the lush grassland, which once fed the imperial herds of the Qing

empire (1644-1911). However, the increasing frequency of drought and poor grazing

conditions, coupled with the appearance of shadowy foreign mining interests and the

recent availability of internet5 access in the town center has brought together local

worries about desertification and discourses on global climate change, circulating with

increasing intensity as the nearby Gobi encroaches. In August of 2018, these discourses

centered on Altan Ovoo.

2 The 2018 offering national ceremony marked the 105th anniversary of Altan Ovoo’s

relationship with the Mongolian State (Bogd Haan period, 1911-1921). In 1913, just

prior to the socialist era, Mongolia’s theocratic ruler, the Eighth Zhavzandamba Hutagt

or Bogd Haan (1869-1924)6 domesticated the former shamanic site known as Har Uul,

and declared Altan Ovoo a venerated mountain of the Mongolian State. A version of this

decree is currently reproduced in law, as Altan Ovoo became one of ten worshipped

mountains protected by Presidential Decree (E.O. No. 32)7 in 20098.

3 However, the figure of the mountain venerated in law belies the complexity of its

being. There is contention among scholars, religious practitioners, and lay worshippers

about what exactly sets Altan Ovoo apart from other mountains in the region, and even

what the name “Altan Ovoo” refers to. In this paper, I operate on a definition that hews

closest to the understanding my friends, coworkers, and interlocutors in Dar’ganga

have explained to me.

4 The name “Altan Ovoo” refers to three seemingly distinct, but phenomenologically

integrated things: 1) the material form of the mountain itself; 2) the stone ovoo and the

mandala structure (fig. 3) constructed at its summit; and 3) the ineffable being that

makes the mountain fit for worship, what would be called a lus9, “spirit of locality”

(savdag), or master or sovereign of a locality (gazaryn ezen) in most parts of Mongolia,

but in Dar’ganga is called “sky, heavens” (tenger) or more commonly just Altan Ovoo. I

argue that calling the mountain by its name10, often in moments of panic or surprise, is

an act of familiarity that illustrates Altan Ovoo’s place in spaces and scales far more

intimate than the State offering.

5 My frame for discussing the nature of relations between human worshippers and a

mountain worthy of worship draws on the concept of geosociality, which describes how

non-living mineral forms (volcanoes, isotopes, mudslides, and so on) are included in

social life. This concept emerged from discussions held within the Aarhus University

Research on the Anthropocene (AURA) working group, which I attended in early 2017.

These discussions revealed two gaps in the global Anthropocene conversation:

attention to non-secular or supernatural agencies (Bubandt 2018), and attention to

geology and non-living landscapes. While a great amount of research in environmental

anthropology has focused on multispecies ethnography (Kirksey & Helmreich 2010) and

biosociality, work in geosociality takes this sensibility further by highlighting the

“comingling of the geologic and the social” (Palsson & Swanson 2016). This might


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include the cosmopolitics of revered mountains (Cadena 2015), regimes of power in

extracted landscapes (Povinelli 2016), or volcanic eruption as an agent of change (Dove

2008).

6 This article engages with the geosociality of Altan Ovoo on three distinct but integrated

levels: First, I will give a brief ethnographic recounting of the uncertainties that

emerged during the 2018 national offering ceremony at Altan Ovoo. Second, I will draw

on the local imaginaries of Altan Ovoo and the Dar’ganga area, gathered from three

years of discussions (2011-2013 and 2017-2018), informal interviews, and walks around

the mountain with local worshippers in Dar’ganga and greater Sühbaatar Province. I

will also draw on the mountain’s presence in literature by members of the Gal (“Fire”)

group, a 20th century Dar’ganga poetic movement. I use these sources to argue that

Altan Ovoo maintains an enchanted intimacy with humans that exists as a result of a

pre-existing collaborative relationship between humans and geological bodies. Altan

Ovoo is like an ovoo on a greater scale – similar to the distinct rock piles that dot

mountain summits and roadsides across the Mongolian landscape. Like a stone cairn,

Altan Ovoo was created through a process of accretion driven by an integrated

amalgamation of geological volcanic forces and human desire to engage intimately with

stone. This collaborative relationship expands on understanding the Mongolian

landscape as populated by beings with varying abilities (Humphrey 1995) and argues

that part of the social ecology of Dar’ganga is comprised of humans, mountains, and

others working together, flouting imagined boundaries between nature, culture, and

supernature. Third and finally, I will illustrate that maintenance of this vital

relationship is predicated on repeated acts of devotion, injury, sacrifice, and

forgiveness that include the national offering ceremony. As discourses around the

scope of human agency and responsibility in the context of global climate change

circulate, and as Altan Ovoo sustains more and greater local injuries, anxiety around

the health of this vital human/geo relation proliferates. The 2018 national offering

ceremony, held in the context of mining scandals, political corruption, and generalized

climate anxiety, became a center point for discussions about what might happen if this

relationship reached its end. I then end the paper with a provocation: what happens

when forgiveness is expected but not granted? What happens when relations with

something as steadfast as a mountain break down for good?

The national offering ceremony


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Figure 2. A crowd gathers at dawn around the foot of Altan Ovoo


7 Altan Ovoo’s national offering ceremony began at dawn the morning of August 27th,

2018. The previous night had seen the population of the Dar’ganga District center

explode, and a volunteer policeman I spoke to while he was directing traffic

commented that it “was basically the same as UB11 right now”. The air was full of dust

and tents lined the grassy shores of Holboo and Ganga Lakes. Concerns about what

these masses of city folk might do preceded the actual event by over a year. Even so,

the concerns were never leveled at the character of Ulaanbaatar residents themselves,

as so many of them had relatives in Dar’ganga, or even lived there part time. Worries

revolved more around Ulaanbaatar as a point of human amassment: the problem was

not that a person might litter or wash their car in the lake. On a small scale these

foibles could be smoothed over. Rather, the issue was that thousands would. Signs were

erected at the entrance to the Dar’ganga town center encouraging visitors to pick up

their trash and mind their vehicles.

8 Preparations for the 2018 Altan Ovoo’s national offering ceremony represented a

tipping point in that they were the first to directly engage with discussions of

conservation and global climate change. Conservation-focused billboards encouraged

attendees to protect the purity of their homeland, and announcements were made

reminding everyone to pick up their trash, to be mindful of car-wash runoff, and to not

leave offerings such as dairy and prayer flags (hadag)12 outside of designated collection

areas. For months prior to the national offering ceremony, locals in Dar’ganga and in

Sühbaatar generally had been openly worrying about the impact the large crowds

would have on their environment. Despite anecdotal reports that suggested that the

crowds of visitors had had less environmental impact, the lack of the appearance of

rain in the wake of the National Offering Ceremony, signaling that the offering was


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successful, suggested something larger, a confirmation of anxieties that went beyond

litter, but looped into greater discourses about climate change in the longue durée.

9 At dawn on the morning of the 27th, the “first stage of the national offering ceremony”

commenced, “dedicated to the sun and the reading of holy texts”13. The paved area at

the foot of Altan Ovoo was sparsely populated, but gained strength as the sun rose,

ringing in the second stage, “dedicated to Altan Dar’ Ovoo’s Divine Kingdom of

Heaven”14. Shortly after sunrise, groups of harried women began moving plastic folding

tables up to the front of the crowd, each adorned with a printed-out sheet of paper

designating them to each district: Bayandelger, Halzan, Asgat, and so on. Once they had

been properly set up, volunteers began stacking them with piles of candy, cartons of

milk, biscuits and cookies, and other offerings to the mountain. Sühbaatar-born Prime

Minister Hürelsüh joined the ritual, as well as the province governor, other local

politicians, and soldiers bussed in from Ulaanbaatar in full regalia. These soldiers stood

beside an enormous thangka depiction of White Tārā, the “Dar’ Eh” of Altan Dar’ Ovoo,

and of Dar’ganga. From the foot of the thangka, a long red carpet stretched to the end

of the concrete platform at the foot of the mountain, roped off from the crowd by

stanchions connected with plastic chains. Along the top edge of the carpet sat the

lamas, reciting prayers in Tibetan from texts laid out on short tables in front of them.

The crowd listened to the lamas recite sutras for half an hour or so before groups of

men began to walk off to the right and women to the left. The men started their climb

up Toroi bandi’s path to the two structures at the summit: a mandala construction and

a stone cairn while the women began our clockwise circumambulations and

conversation around the mountain15. Though I couldn’t see it, I had heard that a white

horsehair standard16 had been brought all the way from the Government House in

Ulaanbaatar, though with the caveat that it was “one of the smaller ones” or “probably

a fake” according to a man who had been standing behind me in the crown moments

earlier. An older woman in a pollution air mask paused to watch the silhouettes of the

men ascend in a line up the side of the mountain. “Isn’t that nice to see!” , she

commented. Over the course of the 90-minutes it takes to circle the mountain, we

passed each other a handful of times and made small talk. She paused occasionally on

the path to pick up little pieces of trash. “So many tourists and their litter!”, she

muttered. “We didn’t use to have to do this. They’re going to ruin the lake with all this

trash”, she sighed. “Ulaanbaatar people”. She untangled a silvery Lotte Choco Pie

wrapper from a patch of grass and followed the gesture by flinging a handful of millet

as an offering to soothe the insult.

10 That night, I went with my hosts to see the festival (naadam, three manly games) “night

concert”. Walking along towards the stage that had been set up at the base of Altan

Ovoo, I heard the sound system before I saw it – piping out arcs of careening operatic

voices that bounced off the mountain and blasted out into the darkening steppe. The

concert for the first night of naadam was to celebrate the success of the national

offering ceremony’s work (azhil) that had been done that morning. There was a self-

congratulatory speech by the province governor and Hürelsüh, and the night

culminated in a performance by a dance troupe from the province’s Zhahan Sharga

theater. The performance reached its zenith when a group of male dancers pulled

together in the center of the stage, clasping their hands, bowing their heads, and

twisting their bodies together until they formed the recognizable curve of Altan Ovoo –

which appeared to me like a human tableau against the grassy backdrop of the

mountain cloaked in darkness. The night closed with a public dance party to ABBA’s


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greatest hits, held on the newly constructed concrete square at the foot of the

mountain. I hung out on the edge of the revelry with Ganaa and Hulan, my hosts in

Dar’ganga, and their teenage children. “Do you think Altan Ovoo likes ABBA?” I half-

jokingly asked Hulan as she distributed grilled meat (shorlog) among the small crowd.

“Of course!”, she replied, “Altan Ovoo loves music, and people!”

11 The next morning, a hot fog rolled into Dar’ganga. Precipitation and heat are not

uncommon during summer in the region, but they rarely come together. This was not a

recognizable cold white fog that accompanied summer rain. Instead it was thin, dingy

and stiflingly hot and sticky. Even stranger than the sudden presence of the fog was the

absence of rain – the signal of a successful ceremony. Talk around town that began as

mild disturbance only intensified as the heat increased and no rain came, even as it was

promised and expected: by drivers, shopkeepers, my hosts and their visiting family.

“It’s going to rain tomorrow”. No rain. “It will definitely rain by Friday”. Still none. By

the time I left Dar’ganga, there was still no rain and there would not be for many weeks

to come.

More-than-ovoo

Figure 3. Young men from Sühbaatar at the foot of the Altan Ovoo’s mandala

The mandala is a replica of small three-dimensional mandalas on which devotees offer grains andother offerings, but also evokes a stupa

© Nyambayar Bat-Ölzii, 2018

12 The power of ovoos at large and their forceful assemblage of spirits of the land and sky

ranges from that of nationally worshipped mountains to simple, common ovoos. This

force can be harnessed (Empson 2011) through the management and mediation of a


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web of connections: between the human and non-human actors it encounters, between

realms of existence, between ancestors and descendants, etc. This connective power is

generated via the process of being and having been “piled up” (ovoolson). This refers to

a process of accretion (Smith 2015) by which energy, fortune and value are collected,

consolidated, and redistributed via a system of intensifying exchange in which the

material is collected (as stones, sand, wood, etc.) and the immaterial is redistributed (as

fortune, destiny, energy, value, etc.).

13 Altan Ovoo, despite having been formed up by ancient eruptions of a volcanic field

rather than shaped by human hands, has nevertheless still undergone a process of

accretion through exchange and interaction with humans. Throughout my discussions

about landscape with my interlocutors, I was encouraged to read the work of Dar’ganga

poets. Jantanhorlo, a literature teacher in Baruun-Urt, explained to me: “In order to

understand the Dar’ganga idea of nature on a philosophical level, you would do well to

read some Dar’ganga poets”. Specifically, he handed me an essay entitled “I discovered

my motherland/My discovered motherland” (Minii neesen eh oron) in which Dar’ganga

poet17 O. Dashbalbar (1983) describes the mountain’s origins:

Altan Ovoo truly is a living mountain. People have loved and worshiped thismountain for centuries, and over many years the thoughts of hundreds ofthousands of people have become a single point – concentrated on this mountain.Saturated with everyone’s faith and desire, it was thus transformed from a simplemountain into the love of the motherland. Well, my ancestors did not worship thismountain in vain! […] This symbol of eternal love must come to us: it is Dar’ganga’sAltan Ovoo! (Dashbalbar 1983, p. 234, my translation)

14 Tamirjavyn argued that in Dar’ganga, the term ovoo that signifies the material body of

the mountain and the ovoo that refers to the supernatural entity or sky (tenger), should

be thought of as separate bodies, separate entities (Tamirjavyn 2017, p. 265). However,

among my lay interlocutors the material mountain and its immaterial affects are fully

integrated. Altan Ovoo is fully material, but it manages to sometimes behave in

immaterial ways. Its multiple and overlapping cosmological affiliations coexist without

conflict because it is first and foremost a mountain. Much like its human worshippers it

is comfortable with multiplicity, able to participate in both cosmology and politics

without succumbing to the prison of belief or dogmatic party affiliations.

15 Altan Ovoo, like the public assembled in Dar’ganga last summer, participates in the

offering ceremony cosmopolitically (Sneath 2014). However, I want to caution against

defaulting to animism as an explanation for non-human personhood or the political

agency of non-living beings. In this, I keep with many scholars within Mongolian and

Siberian Studies, who challenge animism as being an etic academic discourse that is

prone to flattening the network of power relations between humans and non-humans

in relations of coexistence on the landscape (Buyandelger 2013; High 2017; Pedersen

2011; Willerslev 2013). I also follow Elizabeth Povinelli’s assertion that challenging the

categories of life and non-life by declaring everything alive holds a similar danger of

flattening (2016). This is both complicated and underlined by conversations with my

interlocutors in Dar’ganga and elsewhere, who will refer to Altan Ovoo and other non-

living geological bodies as “alive” in English but not in Mongolian, instead using terms

like “energetic”, “magnetic”, or “loving”. This follows Caroline Humphrey’s (1995)

assertion that the steppe landscape is made up of interacting energies of varying

abilities – not necessarily alive but able to interact with one another in such a way as to

make measurable “results”.


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16 Davaasüren (Davaa), an English teacher who lives in the Sühbaatar Province capital of

Baruun-Urt, traces her family’s relationship with Altan Ovoo back to before socialism –

at least four generations. Her mother’s ancestors, she explained to me, were once very

poor, but nevertheless, they sacrificed much of what little they had to the mountain.

Over the years, they became wealthy. Now she feels her destiny is likewise bound up in

her relationship with Altan Ovoo, just as it is bound up with other networks of relation

with persons who shape her life.

17 The night before I set out for Dar’ganga to see the offering ceremony, I asked Davaa if

she could remember the first time she visited the mountain. She could – it was 2008 and

she had just graduated university. She went to ask for her first job. Out of this memory

spilled many more, and she lamented not being able to visit the last few years:

[Altan Ovoo is] a very wishful mountain. It’s so very magnetic. For example, Ihaven’t visited Altan Ovoo for three years since that time we visited when I waspregnant. So now these latest days I have missed Altan Ovoo so much. I dreamedabout Altan Ovoo – not every day but maybe a single time once a week or once amonth. I mentioned to you about my dream – that’s very religious in Mongolia. Ifyou dream about Altan Ovoo the Altan Ovoo misses you and they call you. They calltheir children or they – you know. That’s what we think. And then I went to themonastery in autumn. Last autumn. I talked about these dreams to the lama – he’s agood lama – and he said “You should visit Altan Ovoo or you should pray to AltanOvoo and you should give away some nice things – you know like top cream layer offresh milk [deezh] and candy [chiher]. At least you should do this because Altan Ovoomisses you and that’s the thing. That’s the thing. At least you should do this”.

18 Davaa describes the pull of Altan Ovoo as magnetism, pulling in its “children” both

human and non-human. Horses are said to gain energy from the mountain and are

brought up to the summit before big races. Likewise, the black volcanic rocks that

scatter the land around the base of the mountain, if removed, only desire to return

home and can bring bad luck to the person who removed them. Davaa also tells the

story of a relative of her mother who suffered misfortune after taking home a small

black volcanic rock from the base of the mountain. “Children want to be with their

mother” she said. The stone was returned and peace once again settled on the

household.

19 Altan Ovoo is known as a gentle (zöölön) mountain, and usually does not demonstrate

the wrathfulness of another subordinate worshipped mountain in the province. The

most salient example is Halzan Ovoo, which murdered two successive governors and

burned down the district’s government building in 2012 (Tamirjavyn 2017, p. 265). It is

difficult to imagine Altan Ovoo ever becoming wrathful (hilegneh) with its children,

which is why the lack of rain after the 2018 offering ceremony was so broadly alarming.

The intimate pull between the worshipped mountain and its humans is highly

particularized, embodied, and affective. Many Sühbaatar residents imagine their

unfolding destinies as entangled with their personal history with Altan Ovoo.

“We will not forgive”


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Figure 4. A fog rolls in


20 By the end of the offering ceremony’s festival (tahilga naadam), an uncanny element had

transformed the atmosphere, both meteorological and discursive. Walking through the

center of Dar’ganga, one could catch snippets of conversation between passersby as

they walked down the street:

This weather must be smog from all those Ulaanbaatar people’s cars.I hear them say it would rain tomorrow.Maybe somebody made a mistake reading those books.It still hasn’t rained.Aren’t you hot? I’m so hot!

21 Tired of sweating, I decided to skip the last day of the festival’s horse races and instead

head back to Baruun-Urt a day early in order to spend some time visiting with Sarnai,

the owner of a nightclub in the province center. Pulling into town around midnight, I

first noticed the clear absence of humidity, and second the familiar smell of Baruun Urt

at night: the edge of a rusty knife – the smell of processing ore that occasionally drifted

over from the zinc mine upwind.

22 For a long time, the mining economy of Sühbaatar had mostly centered on Tömörtiin

Ovoo zinc mine, an enterprise owned by the Chinese company Tsairt LLC. This company

was one of the province’s primary employers since 2004, and by 2013 the zinc mine had

provided Sühbaatar, once one of the country’s poorest provinces, with a stretch of

prosperity and a burst of local development. During the two years I had spent living in

Baruun Urt (2011-2013), the mine drew no more controversary than any other foreign-

owned mine in Mongolia. In fact, Tsairt LLC was one of the premier sponsors of both

the 2018 and 2013 National Tahilga.


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23 In recent years, rumors have been swirling around the exploration of a new uranium

vein near Altan Ovoo, including one that suggested that the offering ceremony itself

had been pushed back a year18 to distract from the work being done by foreign

geological teams. The idea that mineral extraction is not only capable of immeasurable

acceleration but also that it is being done outside of the rule of law has led to an

analogous intensification of political and environmental contestation that no longer

sees foreign extractive interests as having appetites that can be managed, but rather as

destructive and ecologically apocalyptic forces19. Prior to a few Buddhist-led protests in

Sühbaatar District in 2017 that remained mostly locally reported, anti-mining

sentiment in Sühbaatar remained sporadic or marginal at most.

24 Before the offering national ceremony, I had read this ambivalence as having to do with

managing economic risk or perhaps holding a non-binary view of Nature and Culture –

challenging the assumptions of western European landscape philosophy that paints

the natural environment as sacred and human intervention as profane. However, after

observing the anxieties that emerged in the aftermath of the offering ceremony, it

became apparent that rather than (or in addition to) pragmatism, the attitudes of

Dar’ganga and Sühbaatar residents towards the landscape had much more to do with a

unique sort of relationality. This relationality between humans and their geological

landscape is based on a frank and honest understanding of intimacy as necessarily

containing not only a capacity for both harm and reconciliation, but that these

affective cycles are inherent to the existence of relationality itself.

25 Contained within every relationship is the possibility that things may fall apart. Earlier

in this paper, I described an example of how relations between Altan Ovoo and what

Davaa calls its human “children” are built on cycles of harm, repair, and forgiveness

that sometimes play out for centuries – ebbing and flowing along ancestral lines. There

are also newer relationships, some less than a decade old, that nevertheless become

part of the vast relational web between human beings and the mountain. A few years

ago, on a phone call between Mongolia and the United States, Davaa asked me if I had

been missing and remembering Altan Ovoo. I answered that I had, but that I was so far

away I doubt it made a difference. “It makes a difference!” she replied, “You were

introduced to Altan Ovoo, and even if you are gone for so many years, Altan Ovoo will

always remember your face”.

26 This memory is not static, however. The primary affective quality of the relationships

between Altan Ovoo and what Davaa and others call its “children” is that of an intimate

push and pull. Over time, which for some can be over many generations and for others,

such as myself, might only stretch over decade or so, there are inevitably slights and

harms committed.

27 This is not a relation of even reciprocity as between two equals, but a relation in the

register of filial hierarchy. When I asked Sarnai, a local nightclub owner in Baruun-Urt,

about what it what might feel like to disappoint Altan Ovoo, she replied with a laugh

“It’s a bad feeling, but not dangerous. It’s like a child who disappoints their parents by

attending the wrong university. Of course, they’re angry, and you’ll have to make it up

to them, but they still love you”. In the era of global climate change, human harm to

the landscape is as inevitable as a child disappointing their parents, and as human

intervention is inevitable, ameliorating rituals must proliferate. These harms can range

from taking a stone from the mountain without permission to failing to provide for its

proper care to industrial mining. Regardless, the harm must be made right, especially


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since the expectation of forgiveness is contained in this act of repair, especially with a

mountain as gentle as Altan Ovoo.

28 These acts of repair are best described with the Mongolian term argadah, meaning “to

sooth”, “coax”, or “make it up to”. This term is not only useful in the geosocial sphere,

to describe the practice of reading sutras to the land after it has been broken, but also

in human/human relations (such as bringing a dozen roses to a lover after a fight) and

human/animal relations (such as convincing a mother camel to nurse a rejected baby).

This is similar to the rituals used to sooth the spirits and ancestors who reside on the

landscape and on ovoo in general.

29 In this article, I suggest that the offering ceremony is likewise an act of sooth, coax, or

make it up to, only done on a national scale. The nation engages in an act of worship in

order to receive confirmation from the mountain that despite any wrongs that have

been committed, the relationship is maintained. The offering here is not so much a

giving up as a giving in – a willingness to have stakes in a relationship with a non-

human geological being, not necessarily alive but enlivened through historical cycles of

intimate relationality. Davaa, as well as others in Dar’ganga and Sühbaatar narrate

their personal and family histories with Altan Ovoo as being full of harm and

forgiveness, desire, faithfulness, reward, conflict and soothing – just as with any

relationship between enlivened things: humans or non-humans.

30 In discussing Altan Ovoo’s capacity for intimate relationality with humans, I do not

presume to suggest any of us humans are able to reliably read the intention or

character of an inscrutable stone form that is thousands of years old. Rather I suggest

that this is an understanding of the nature of the “relationship” between Altan Ovoo

and its children, including its capacity to withstand and be strengthened through these

cycles of harm, sacrifice, forgiveness, repair and recovery.

31 Govindrajan discusses the comingling and codependence of love, violence, and sacrifice

in recounting stories of women who had been “taken” (sexually abducted) by bears.

While initially thinking these were stories about rape, upon greater discussion it

became clear that these were stories reflecting certain truths about marriage and “the

ambiguous nature of the violence that inflected [the encounter between woman and

bear or husband and wife]” (Govindrajan 2018 p. 153). Likewise, violence is sedimented

into the relationship between humans and the mountains they relate with. Worshipped

mountains have always had the potential for retributive anger, even gentle ones like

Altan Ovoo. Not every mountain is Halzan Ovoo, murdering its human relations for

petty corruption; however, even the most gentle and permissive relationships have a

breaking point. In my years of discussing the attitudes of community members towards

their own relationships with the environment, I have found that the idea that things

could really and truly break down forever is fairly recent, and marks a new and

pervasive anxiety that is more intense from the known uncertainties that are contained

within the framework of religious cosmology or rules of relation with non-human

persons. As the discourse of global climate change entered Dar’ganga’s community

consciousness, so did the notion of total breakdown. In addition to all the socio-

political uncertainties of post-socialism and neoliberalism (Buyandelger 2013), now

there is the added uncertainty of climate change, which makes things almost

unbearable.

32 Shortly after I left Mongolia that summer, demonstrations were being held in

Ulaanbaatar’s Sühbaatar Square calling for the resignation of parliamentary speaker


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Enhbold Miyegombo. Protestors gathered in the square, carrying signs that read “We

do not forgive” (Bid Uchlaagüi). These protests, brought on by the twin crises of a

corruption scandal and terrible urban air pollution, signaled a total loss of trust in the

parliamentary government. In an article for Jacobin magazine, Sanchir Jargalsaihan

(Sorace & Jargalsaihan 2019) compares the Mongolian citizenry’s loss of the capacity to

forgive as an example of what Berlant calls “Crisis Ordinariness”. Acts that were

previously considered “business as usual” from political corruption to a successful

offering ceremony, are no longer sustainable. The confluence of the 2018 protests with

the emergent anxiety of a possibly unsuccessful national offering ceremony illustrate

the ways in which the traumas of corruption, air pollution, and unchecked extraction

have transformed the relational capacity of Mongolian publics, both human and non-

human, who find themselves in the midst of a collective and historic moment of

reckoning.

33 The engine of global climate change runs on the rending and transforming of long-

established relations between humans and others, and the global reach of its various

structures of alienation go far beyond the frame that once contained the human

potential for sin. If relations between humans and landscape could be severed on a

global scale, of course they could be severed in Dar’ganga – as the poet G. Mend-Ooyo

(1993) writes, Altan Ovoo is “the world on a reduced scale”. Here then lies the question:

where is the place that the relation can break? What new forms of making relations will

emerge in the aftermath of these crises? In the context of anthropogenic climate

change, where the relation between humans and the environment has accelerated and

intensified repeating cycles of violation and harm, where does the onus of not-

forgiveness lie? In Dar’ganga, it lies with Altan Ovoo.

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of environmental change, More-than-human Aura Working Papers 3, p. 2-14.

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pp. 135-162.

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University of California Santa Cruz).

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NY, Cornell University Press).

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Contemporary Mongolia. Ph.D. dissertation (Princeton, Princeton University).

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Orientalistyczny/Yearbook of Oriental Studies 2, pp. 261-273.

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Society 4(1), pp. 41-57.

NOTES

1. There are many possible translations in English of tahilga, none of which are sufficient. For the

purpose of this article I have chosen the term “sacrifice”, and I use the term tahilga to refer both

to the national ceremony and as a general term for other ceremonies like it. For an extensive

discussion on issues in Mongolian to English translation, please see my forthcoming dissertation

(Madison Piskata 2021).


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https://jacobinmag.com/2019/01/mongolia-protests-corruption-pollution




https://www.legalinfo.mn/annex/details/53?lawid=725

https://www.legalinfo.mn/annex/details/53?lawid=725

2. I use the term “worshipped mountain” rather than the commonly used “sacred mountain”

here for a number of reasons: first, I feel it to be a better translation of the Mongolian word

tahilgatai. Second, I use it to distinguish Altan Ovoo from other “sacred mountains” (for example

Halzan Ovoo) in the region as being connected to the state in a particular way. Third, I wish to

avoid terms that may allow for false equivocations with other human/mountain relations in

other parts of the world. Marisol de la Cadena (2015) cautions against these kinds of

equivocations, specifically around the subject of mountains. Just as the imperfect term “Earth

Beings” is particular to her discussion of Andean ayllu and cannot be applied to different

mountain contexts, so the Mongolian “state-worshipped mountain” is an imperfect translation

particular to present-day Mongolia.

3. Also known as Altan-Dar’ Ovoo or Dar’ Ovoo, forming the center of the Dar’ganga region along

with Ganga Lake. In this case, the term ovoo refers to both the mountain itself as well as the two

structures at the summit: a stone and a mandala, the latter being a hybrid stone/stupa structure.

The golden spire (ganjir) adorning the mandala is rumored to be how the mountain got its name.

4. The “Mongolian Robin Hood”, Toroi bandi is legendary for raiding the cattle and horse stocks

of wealthy landowners and Qing tax collectors in the Dar’ganga region under the Qing, most

likely in the mid-19th century. He became beloved by the local population by redistributing the

bulk of the wealth he collected on his raids (hence his comparison with Robin Hood). Toroi bandi

was arrested repeatedly, but always managed to escape or avoid capture by fleeing to secret

hiding places in the Dar’ganga landscape. There is a statue in his honor tucked into the crest of a

mountain near Ganga Nuur (lake), and it is a regular pilgrimage site for visitors to the region.

5. The local primary school has provided free Wi-Fi to residents during the school year since

2013, and another semi-reliable Wi-Fi hotspot was recently installed in the town Culture Center.

6. The Zhavzandamba Hutagt served as Mongolia’s preeminent reincarnated lama, third in the

ecclesiastical hierarchy, after the Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama.

7. This includes Altai Tavan Bogd, Altan Höhii Mountain, Bogd Hairhan Mountain, Burhan

Haldun Mountain, Altan Ovoo, Gov’ Gurvan Saihan, Han Höhii, Otgontenger Hairhan, and Sütai

Hairhan Mountain.

8. President P. Ochirbat issued the initial decree protecting Bogd Hairhan, Han Hentii, and

Otgontenger Hairhan in 1995, to be added to in later years.

9. A local nature spirit, often found in water. Sometimes defined as a “nymph” or “naiad” or

described as a dragon or snake.

10. As Altan Ovoo is known to be a particularly gentle mountain with whom people feel

intimately connected, it is not called by the euphemistic hairhan, a term used when referring to

more ferocious/wrathful mountains to avoid offense.

11. Ulaanbaatar, the capital city of Mongolia and home to nearly half the country’s population.

12. The terme hadag commonly designates a “ceremonial scarf”. However, since in this case they

were being used in the context of a state ceremony and were being affixed to an object in order

to flap in the wind, I have chosen to use the term flags.

13. Lam huvaraguud narny tahilga üidezh, altan dar’, ovoony san, tahilgyn nom hurna.

14. Altan dar’ ovoony tengeriig taih töriin tahilgyn yoslolyn üil azhillaga ehlene.

15. The space of Altan Ovoo is gendered in the way of many Mongolian revered mountains, in

which men are allowed to ascend to the ovoo on the summit and women are either restricted to

the foot of the mountain (as with Altan Ovoo) or to another cairn midway up the mountainside

(as with Han Bayanzürh in Sainshand, Dornogov’ Province). There are some mountains that are

open to all genders (such as Shiliin Bogd in Dar’ganga or Bogd Han outside Ulaanbaatar). There

are also a few mountain summits that are open to women and forbidden to men, mostly in

northwestern Daur areas (Atwood 2004, p. 136). There is no single theory explaining the origin of

this practice, but laypeople usually cite one of two concerns: 1) that the immaterial beings

populating the summit pose a danger to female reproductive capacity (especially if pregnant), or


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2) that the character of the mountain is not amenable to rule-breaking or pollution and will

punish the interloper and surrounding community for the indiscretion. This theory hues closely

to warnings against cluttering the mountain with litter or engaging in unclean or corrupt

political behavior in the mountain’s name (see the reaction of Halzan Mountain later in this

paper). This restriction was abolished as part of the modernization efforts during the socialist era

(see also Rofel 1999 on the connection between women’s rights and modernity in China).

16. One of the peacetime banners used by the Chinggisid rulers but produced in the 1990s.

17. In 2018, the controversial political life of Dashbalbar the man has taken a back seat in the

Dar’ganga imagination to the image of Dashbalbar the ancestor. Very little is said among

Dar’ganga locals of his nationalist or anti-feminist policies, and he has become a bit of a trickster

figure, somewhat in the vein of legendary Dar’ganga horse thief Toroi bandi or Gobi Saint Fifth

Noyon hutagt Dulduityn Danzanravzhaa (1803-1856). Nowadays, he is mostly brought up in his

capacity as a poet or a populist, usually by telling the story of how he commuted to work at the

Parliament in Ulaanbaatar by city bus. His political machinations are usually limited to his being

broadly anti-extractivist, especially in discussions of the Oyu Tolgoi mining project.

18. Adhering to the mandated schedule of a holding the offering national ceremony at Altan

Ovoo every four years would have seen the celebration held in 2017.

19. See the environmental post-apocalyptic music video “Homeland” by Ulaanbaatar rapper Big

Gee ft. Jonon, where bands of wanderers in rags sift through the dust of an apocalyptic and

desertified landscape to find photographs of the landscape as it once was (https://

www.youtube.com/watch?v=0qulmJ4Cqh8, accessed 24 March 2020).

ABSTRACTS

In 2018, on the grassland steppe of eastern Mongolia, the district of Dar’ganga played host to the

national “sacrifice” ceremony (tahilga) for the “worshipped mountain” Altan Ovoo. This paper

engages with the geosociality of Altan Ovoo and Dar’ganga to ask what happens when relations

between humans and geological bodies that are characterized by longstanding exchanges of

affect, sacrifice, desire, and forgiveness break down in the face of accelerated anthropogenic

degradation.

En 2018, dans la steppe de l’est de la Mongolie, le district de Dar’ganga a accueilli la cérémonie de

« sacrifice » (tahilga) national pour la « montagne vénérée » Altan Ovoo. Cet article aborde la

géosocialité d’Altan Ovoo et du district de Dar’ganga pour comprendre ce qui se passe lorsque les

relations entre les humains et les corps géologiques, caractérisées par des échanges sur le long

terme d’affect, de sacrifices, de désirs et de pardons, s’effondrent devant une dégradation

anthropique accélérée.

INDEX

Keywords: Mongolia, post-socialism, anthropology, extraction, religion, climate change,

environmental humanities, poetry, post-humanism

Mots-clés: Mongolie, post-socialisme, anthropologie, extraction, religion, changement

climatique, humanités environnementales, poésie, post-humanisme


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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0qulmJ4Cqh8




AUTHOR

JESSICA MADISON PÍSKATÁ

Jessica Madison Pískatá is a Doctoral Candidate in Cultural Anthropology at the University of

California at Santa Cruz. She also holds a Master of Fine Arts in Poetry from the New School in

New York City. She has been conducting fieldwork research in Mongolia since 2011, when she

served as a volunteer with the United States Peace Corps. This research project was funded by

the American Center for Mongolian Studies, the Association for Asian Studies, the University of

California Santa Cruz Graduate Division, AURA (Aarhus University Research on the

Anthropocene) and the University of California Humanities Research Initiative.

[email protected]


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Environment, heritage, conflict,contemporary Mine-golia


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With each pass, another stone. Ovooat the heart of heritage,environment, and conflictÀ chaque passage, une autre pierre. L’ovoo au cœur du patrimoine, de

l’environnement et des conflits

K. G. Hutchins

Introduction

1 There is a legend that has come up countless times in my interviews with Mongolian

heritage bearers that says that long in the past, people would unknowingly encamp

near wrathful mountains1. The mountains, offended by the humans’ careless trespass,

would bring down calamities upon them. So, the people put up ovoos, spiritually

significant piles of stone, to identify these mountains and let others know the rules for

engaging with them. I bring up this story not to assert a claim to origins, but to

highlight the role of ovoos as advocates on behalf of humans. These ritually significant

structures translate the wills, needs, and behaviors of people and mountains to one-

another and thereby mitigate conflicts between the two.

2 Ovoos are sacred heaps, usually made from piles of stone or collections of branches tied

together by ritual scarves. Throughout Mongolia many spiritually significant areas,

especially mountains and major water features, are marked by ovoos of various sizes. A

common form of worship at ovoos is to walk clockwise around the structure three times,

picking up stones from the ground and tossing them on the pile as you make your silent

circumambulation. Through this act, worshipping the mountain becomes a process of

building the ovoo itself.

3 The ovoo works through accruing new stones, along with a variety of offerings.

Common offerings include teacups, Buddhist icons, horse skulls, and scarves. A

comprehensive list of potential offerings is impossible, as people give offerings that

represent their own personal needs. Ovoos also vary widely in terms of spiritual


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purpose, with specialized offerings to match. Furthermore, ongoing debates of what are

and are not appropriate offerings are themselves part of the ovoo tradition. Food

offerings of milk, candy, or rice are especially contentious as they draw non-human

scavengers to the ovoo. Not all offerings are immediately physically evident, as musical

performances are also common forms of ovoo worship.

4 Ovoos are constantly growing structures that bring together the wills of humans, sacred

landscapes, and animals and plants. Humans source the material to create and expand

ovoos from local nonhumans: trees, stones, and occasionally livestock. While people use

the ovoo to commune with and ask for protection from mountains and lakes, animals

like small rodents and birds make their homes in and atop the pile.

5 In 2017, ovoo worship, included in a broad set of Mongolian land veneration traditions,

was added to UNESCO’s list of “Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent

Safeguarding” (UNESCO 2017). Ovoos also figure prominently in the files detailing the

cultural and spiritual importance of natural heritage inscribed on UNESCO’s World

Heritage List, such as the “Orhon Valley cultural landscape” (UNESCO 2004) and the

“Great Burhan Haldun mountain and its surrounding sacred landscape” (UNESCO

2015a). These inclusions implicate ovoos in an international politics of heritage

management and preservation. Though above I have presented generalized examples

of the proper care and management of ovoos, in practice people have different ideas

about their meanings and use.

6 Furthermore, the inclusion of ovoo worship on an international list of heritage opens up

the practice to scrutiny from an international community of heritage administrators

and enthusiasts. Handler argues that heritage researchers objectify cultural processes

through reporting on them (Handler 1988, p. 15), placing me, an American

anthropologist, as part of this community of Mongolian heritage consumers. Local and

international conflicts between humans over ovoos are further complicated by the

material conditions and desires of the nonhumans involved.

7 In this article I ask what there is to learn about heritage from thinking through the

multispecies engagements that play out the maintenance of ovoos. I draw on

participant-observation and semi-structured interviews which I carried out over the

course of twenty months between 2016-2018 in central Mongolia, in association with

the American Center for Mongolian Studies and the Mongolian State University of Arts

and Culture. In this article I will draw on the perspectives of “heritage bearers”, people

for whom the practices recognized as cultural heritage by UNESCO listed above (either

long-song, traditional land veneration, or both) are central to their personal and/or

professional lives. In keeping with the ethical agreement under which I conducted my

research, I will protect the identities of the people who appear in these stories by

referring to them with pseudonyms. First, I detail the experiences of a heritage bearer

and hunting guide, who I will refer to as Bayar, to explore a case in which contestation

on how best to maintain an ovoo in an environmentally and spiritually sustainable way

opens up a space for negotiations of eco-spiritual practice. Then I turn to the stories of

two musicians involved in the heritage music industry in Ulaanbaatar, a “horse-fiddle”

(morin huur) player I will refer to as Tüvshee and a singer I will call Zulaa, examining

how they use ovoos to spiritually mitigate financial instability and avoid health crises.

Finally, this chapter returns to Bayar to examine how ovoos spring up simultaneously as

memorials of violence and caretakers of nonhumans in the form of ghosts and birds in

the ruins of a monastery.


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Natural, tangible, and intangible heritage

8 UNESCO maintains distinct lists for identifying heritage, originally dividing the concept

into “natural heritage”, socially significant and unique environmental zones, and

“cultural heritage”, architectural monuments of social and historical significance

(UNESCO 1972). Throughout the 1980s and 1990s UNESCO’s approach to cultural

heritage underwent what Bortolotto describes as an increasing shift toward thinking of

culture in terms of ongoing processes rather than fixed objects (Bortolotto 2006, p. 21).

As a result of this shift, in the early 2000s UNESCO broke down the category of cultural

heritage into two further subcategories: “tangible” heritage, in the form of culturally

significant artifacts and architectural sites, and “intangible” heritage, referring to

practices, beliefs, and knowledge maintained through oral history (UNESCO 2003).

9 UNESCO further breaks down the category of intangible cultural heritage, maintaining

two distinct lists: the “Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of

Humanity” and the “List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent

Safeguarding” (UNESCO 2017). The Representative List serves to increase the global

visibility of local practices that demonstrate the diversity of human culture. Meanwhile

the “List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent Safeguarding” identifies

those cultural practices which are in immediate danger of disappearing due to external

factors. In practical terms, inclusion in the latter list also includes measures to aid local

people in the performance and transmission of their heritage. As many Mongolian

traditional practices are closely tied to nomadic pastoralism, which is threatened both

by environmental degradation due to climate change and the neoliberalization of

Mongolia’s economy, most of the cultural practices I describe in this dissertation are

covered under the “List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent

Safeguarding”.

10 Anthropologists have questioned the validity of separating “natural” from “cultural”

phenomena generally (Strathern 1980; Descola 2013). The elements on the natural

heritage list have value as heritage by virtue of human interactions with the

environment and efforts to imbue it with meaning (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 2004, p. 60;

Cleere 2001, pp. 26-27). Tangible heritage consists of objects that have no inherent

meaning or cultural value outside of the intangible heritage to which they are

connected (Byrne 2009, p. 230). By the same token, the intangible aspects of social lives

are inextricably embodied through and constrained by the material reality of heritage

bearers’ lives (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 2004, p. 60).

11 The interdependence of natural, intangible, and tangible heritage is especially clear in

Mongolia, where places like Great Burhan Haldun mountain are added to the “World

Natural Heritage List” because of their role in mountain worship, with ovoos listed as

the site’s culturally significant architecture (UNESCO 2015a). Ovoos highlight how

permeable and interrelated these categories truly are. They are artifacts of tangible

heritage that accrue more artifacts in the form of offerings of ritual scarves, ceramic

icons, horse skulls and the like. They mark areas of ecological and cultural significance

such as sacred mountains and lakes that are home to spirits, where social and

environmental prominence are inextricably intertwined.


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Heritage and conflict

12 There is a large body of scholarship that frames the designation of a place, object, or

practice as heritage and the consequent mobilization of that label in terms of conflict.

Heritage can be used by the state to ratify national boundaries and diminish affective

attachments that challenge its authority, thereby disempowering minority ethnic and

political voices and creating a nationalistic sense of xenophobia (Handler 1988; Bulag

1998; Collins 2011). Conversely, heritage also forms the core of counter-hegemonic

histories that oppressed people can use to appeal to the international community and

subvert elite and nationalistic narratives (Graham 2002; De Cesari 2010; Camal 2016). On

a more fundamental level, designation and consumption of heritage is described as a

measure to combat the social effects of anthropogenic forces like neoliberalism, as

people transform lifeways that are incompatible with global capitalism into

consumable aspects of a tourist economy (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1995; Lowenthal 1996).

13 Each of these arguments foregrounds human contestations and nationalist politics

involved in heritage-making. However, a variety of other entities are also central to

discourses on heritage within Mongolia, from the living plants and wildlife of natural

heritage zones to the mountains and spirits that populate culturally significant places

and practices. Following a recent turn in anthropological literature that considers the

sociality of nonhumans (Van Dooren & Bird Rose 2012; Tsing 2013; Posthumus 2018)

and their role in negotiations of power (Povinelli 2016; Govindrajan 2018), I take

nonhumans as actors in contestations over heritage. I am drawn to wonder what role

animals, spirits, and landscape features have in these conflicts.

14 This chapter explores three sites of conflict over the practice and administration of

heritage in which ovoos play central roles, as their presence and growth create, prevent,

or resolve disharmony. Ovoos are non-human agents that further act as catalysts of

other non-human agencies, capable of bringing humans, animals, mountains, and

spirits into a shared frame in which their worlds are mutually intelligible. By taking a

multispecies approach to my examination of ovoo practices, I highlight the full range of

actors involved in the shaping of heritage, including those nonhumans left ignored by

readings of heritage that focus solely on conflict between humans. I argue that the role

that ovoos play in these conflicts demonstrates that collaborations with a broad,

interconnected field of nonhumans is central to how people mobilize heritage, and will

be a vital part of its preservation whether or not this relationship is intentionally

fostered at the institutional level.

Tour guide pilgrimages

15 Towards the end of fall 2017, I sat down in a coffee shop near my apartment in

Ulaanbaatar for a casual interview with Bayar, a storyteller, self-identified shamanist,

and ethnographic filmmaker. He was one of many people to tell me some version of the

story that started this chapter. He expanded on the legend, adding,

each mountain has different rules for how to interact with it. So people put up ovoosat different parts of the mountain to make those rules known. An ovoo teaches youhow to interact with the mountain. One might be set up to mean “adults only pastthis point”, or another might indicate “men go up this path and women around tothat path”. But they always tell you “approach with reverence”.


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16 As part of his explanation of the history and folklore of ovoos, Bayar mentioned that

ovoo worship is central to his spiritual practice. He told me that he worships nature in a

way that he referred to as “sort of shamanic”. As he put it: “my grandmother and great-

grandfather were shamans, and they taught me all about worshipping nature. They

taught me how to respect the land”. He clarified quickly that he did not consider

himself a shaman, but that he sees things in a shamanic way based on veneration of the

sky, the land, and animals.

17 When I asked him to elaborate on what seeing in a shamanic way meant, he responded,

See, shamanism is empirical. You see it, you believe it. Religion requires too muchimagination. You white people are very imaginative. When you look up, you lookbeyond the sky, and imagine a god out there in a whole other world. When I look atthe sky, I just see the sky.

18 Bayar was proud of his ability to read the land and the behaviors of wild animals, skills

he attributed to the knowledge passed down from his shaman grandmother and his

subsistence hunter grandfather respectively. However, he made it clear that he cannot

commune with those nonhumans directly. He makes his prayers silently to himself as

he passes around an ovoo, using it as an intermediary that will pass his prayers on to

the sky, the mountain, and the animals.

19 At the time of this interview, Bayar had just returned from a summer spent working as

a tour guide for westerners looking for a rural adventure. Bayar is a sought-after guide,

especially with big game hunters. This is due in part to his skills with English and

experience with Americans, but also because of his role as a heritage bearer along with

his intimate knowledge of Mongolian landscapes and wild animals.

20 Cultural geographer Brian Graham argues that heritage, in both its tangible and

intangible forms is the single most important resource for the international tourism

industry because tourism operates within a knowledge-based economy (Graham 2002,

p. 1007). Bayar’s role as an intangible heritage bearer affords him both social and

economy capital within the rapidly expanding tourism industry in Mongolia. Tourism,

especially trophy hunting, offers him opportunities to pursue lucrative side-gigs

throughout the summer. However, he reported ambivalent feelings about this line of

work. “On the one hand”, he told me, “it is pretty ridiculous that people come to

Mongolia just to kill a ram”. Bayar mentioned that some hunters from the United States

and Europe even spend tens of thousands of dollars on permits to try to shoot

endangered endemic Mongolian animals. “They don’t even pay by the animal, just by

the bullet. One shot, if they miss it’s over”2.

21 UNESCO identifies the presence of threatened or endangered animals as a major

element of natural heritage (UNESCO 1976). If endangered game animals like the argali

ram (argal’) constitute a fundamental resource for Mongolia’s natural heritage areas,

then international trophy hunting is a form of natural heritage consumption. This

corner of the heritage industry is especially troubling for Bayar, having been raised in a

subsistence hunting family whose spiritual practice involves veneration for sacred

game. Still, he decided that if he is part of the hunt, he can keep the damage the

hunters make to the environment and to the wild flocks to a minimum. As he put it, “I

lead the hunters to old or sick animals, never to mothers. And I make the necessary

prayers”.

22 Bayar explained that he travels around the country as a tour and hunting guide to

natural sacred spaces and that he uses the opportunity to tend to them as a form of


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spiritual work. As Bayar described, both international and domestic tourism put

physical and spiritual burdens on the landscape. He said that foreign trophy hunters

cause obvious problem for wild animals, disrupting the social structures of their flocks

by carelessly targeting according to size and accessibility rather than hunting in an

informed, ecologically beneficial manner. He pointed out that even supposedly

nonviolent eco-tourism disturbs wild animals and plant life, as people trample wild

forage and leave plastic litter behind.

23 Bayar reported feeling like he is continually faced with the question of how to address

those damages and furthermore mitigate the spiritual impact of his role in it. He came

to the conclusion that he could mitigate the physical and spiritual damage to wild

flocks by directing hunters to appropriate game and making his prayers via local ovoos.

As he described them, his prayers often involve cleaning away litter from on or around

the ovoo as well. For Bayar, the act of cleaning the area around an ovoo has a spiritual

purpose similar to leaving offerings.

24 The spiritual practices Bayar described involved some socially risky behaviors. “Not

everyone agrees on my definition of litter”, he explained. Some of the things he clears

away are widely accepted to be litter, things like cigarette butts or plastic water bottles.

However, he also clears the food offerings off of ovoos and cuts the ritual scarves from

saplings to allow them freedom to grow. I asked if the spirits of the land might be

offended by his removal of their offerings. He told me that practicing his religion

means he must keep the ovoos and the ecosystem healthy.

25 “The food draws rodents”, Bayar explained, “who live inside the ovoos, and infest it

with their nests”. The rodents would then take these offerings as their own, gnawing

away at the innards of the ovoos. He described in great detail how rodents knock over

the carefully placed ceramic offerings and disperse piles of burning incense with their

crawling bodies. These rodents have their own relationships with the ovoos in which

they dwell. It protects them and provides them with food and shelter. However, their

patronage of the ovoos is at odds with Bayar’s, undermining its structural integrity and

bodily purity.

26 Even though he means well, Bayar admitted that this practice occasionally gets him in

trouble with local people. On his most recent trip through the Hangai Mountains his

ovoo maintenance activities drew the ire of a local herder, who caught Bayar removing

offerings. “I was throwing away rice and candy that had been left on the ovoo and I

heard this guy shouting at me!”. He laughed as he told this story of how he found

himself involved in a three-way struggle between himself, the herder, and a colony of

mice. Bayar and this herder, whose name he never mentioned, argued over this issue

for some time. Bayar acted out the confrontation, “the herder said, ‘what are you doing

with my offerings? Don’t you respect the ovoo?’ I told him, I respect the ovoo, that’s why

I’m doing this!”. As he told the story, he, became louder, his gestures more animated,

drawing attention from the other coffee shop patrons. He smiled and sheepishly added,

“see? Troublemaker”.

27 Though the argument started contentiously, their shared goal of creating and

maintaining a healthy spiritual landscape through proper care of its ovoos allowed for

them to end the conversation amicably. Bayar continued his story quietly,

I let him explain his viewpoint to me, and then I explained to him how I see theworld. I told the guy that we have to adapt our thinking because the environment is


267

being destroyed too fast these days and we have to be really careful with how wemanage these sacred landscapes.

28 In the end they compromised. The herder conceded that Bayar might have some

insight from his experiences in a wide variety of sacred spaces, while Bayar admitted

that he should show more humility toward local custodians of the land. The herder

agreed to let Bayar finish clearing off the ovoo so long as he made an offering of his

own, in his own way. He set up a wooden post to adorn with the ritual scarves he had

cut from nearby saplings. The foreign tourists that Bayar was working for at the time

sat awkwardly in the van, with no knowledge of the Mongolian language and thus, not

privy to the conversation.

29 Working as a tour guide presented Bayar with an internal conundrum. He balanced his

displeasure at participating in a tourism industry that exploits the landscapes he holds

sacred against the idea that this line of work might be the best opportunity to mitigate

the spiritual and ecological damage that industry creates. He resolved this dilemma

through his maintenance of the ovoos he finds around tourist destinations. Ovoos offer

him an opportunity for some spiritual and cultural resiliency within the broader

apparatus of tourism that heritage creates. However, his strategies for tending them

have brought him into external conflicts with local people and animals.

Music for the mountain

30 The designation of ovoos as Mongolian cultural heritage opens local people’s

interactions up to critical consumption by outsiders, particularly Western cultural

tourists. In this section, I present cases where Mongolian artists use traditional music

as a spiritual practice dedicated to ovoos. I further examine how the designation of ovoos

as heritage leads to pushback on Mongolian musicians’ personal religious practices

from Western observers.

31 I spent most of winter 2017 conducting interviews with horse-fiddle performers,

singers, and traditional music instructors in Ulaanbaatar on the uses of heritage music.

For my first interview of the season, I started with Tüvshee, a fiddler specializing in

“long-song” (urtyn duu). Based on a body of literature that takes heritage as the

transformation of pre-modern lifeways into commodifiable goods (Kirshenblatt-

Gimblett 1995; Lowenthal 1996), my interview questions focused on the economic use of

intangible cultural heritage.

32 Early in the interview after a few of these economically-focused questions, Tüvshee

stopped me, saying “you cannot really make a living selling traditional music, not in

Ulaanbaatar”. He crossed his arms over his chest and continued, “I mean think about it,

in Mongolia we only have a population of three million people. Even if every person in

the country was my fan I would have a hard time making ends meet just selling

albums”. In fact, though he is a professional horse-fiddle performer, composer, and

professor, his main source of income is an electronics business which he runs on the

side. Many of the traditional musicians and artists I interviewed that winter were in a

similar situation, balancing an unstable and underpaying career in the arts with other

business pursuits that offer more financial security.

33 Tüvshee finished his explanation of the grim realities of the Mongolian traditional

music industry with this concession, “playing the fiddle does help me make money


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though, in a way”. When he has a financial concern, he said that he bundles up his

horse-fiddle, hikes up to one of the sacred mountains that rings the city, and plays

long-song to the ovoos there as a way of asking the tutelary spirits of the mountain

(savdag) and of the rivers (lus) to help him in business.

34 Ulaanbaatar sits in a bowl formed by four holy mountains: Bogd Han, Chingeltei

Hairhan, Bayanzürh, and Songino Hairhan. Most prominent among them is Bogd Han,

which sits at the south end of town. It is one of those under-represented places in the

history of natural heritage management, established by the Qing emperor as a

protected natural area in 1778 (Atwood 2004, p. 166; UNESCO 2015b) predating the 1872

formation of Yellowstone Park by nearly a century. Protection for wild game and

prohibition on logging have been major parts of natural preservation laws of the site

since the 18th century (Atwood 2004, p. 166).

35 In addition to being a national park, Bogd Han, along with the other three mountains

that ring the city, is a major part of the spiritual character of Ulaanbaatar. As with

other natural heritage areas throughout Mongolia, communities of animals make up

the spiritual landscape of Ulaanbaatar’s holy mountains. Bogd Han in particular is

known for its elk, which wander into the city on occasion.

Figure 1. View of Ulaanbaatar from Zaisan Monument, the entry point to Bogd Han, July 2015

© K. G. Hutchins

36 Tüvshee broke down the way he prays to these mountains for me, explaining that the

wood and rosin that go into the performance of the fiddle create a sympathetic

relationship between the music of the fiddle and the spirits of landscape. The horsehair

from the instrument’s strings bring the animals who live on the mountain into this

relationship as well. He said that he taps into that connection to communicate his

needs and his feelings to the otherwise unreachable mountain. In this ritual, the horse-


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fiddle and ovoo are his interpreters. “This is the primary way I practice my religion”, he

explained.

37 Unlike Bayar, Tüvshee did not describe himself as shamanic, nor did he describe

himself as worshipping nature. He is a devout, practicing Buddhist. I bring this fact up

only to highlight that ovoo practices are not necessarily tied to one religion or

philosophy in the Mongolian context. Rather ovoo worship is tied to a discrete set of

social relationships between particular people, mountains, spirits, and animals.

38 Using musical performance as a form of worship or veneration of mountains and water

features is a widely documented as a part of rural spirituality in Mongolia (Pegg 2001;

Post 2007), as well as throughout nomadic Inner Asia (Levin & Süzükei 2006). Bogd Han

mountain is one of the few sacred natural spaces in Mongolia to have a centuries-long

history as a fixture of a major city, seeing the rise of Hüree and its transformation into

Ulaanbaatar (Atwood 2004, p. 565). Tüvshee’s interaction with Bogd Han as a protector

takes a distinctly urban form. In addition to asking for financial stability, he told me

that he conducts this ritual at the beginning of winter to protect him from air pollution

related illness and car accidents, two major physical dangers of Ulaanbaatar life.

39 Tüvshee’s comments about the close connection between long-song, ovoo, and urban

life stuck with me throughout the rest of that winter. A few weeks later, over coffee

with a group of friends I asked Zulaa, a professional long-song singer, what she thought

about the relationship between music and Ulaanbaatar’s sacred mountains. She told me

she goes up Bogd Han mountain once a week in the winter. Hiking is important for her

lungs and voice, especially during this season when air pollution is at its worst. Born

and raised in Ulaanbaatar, she finds the clear air of Bogd Han a relief.

40 Though Zulaa usually likes the company of the hiking groups, on the days leading up to

a major performance she said that she goes up alone. She has a ritual for those

occasions, in which she lugs a massive backpack up the mountain trail. Upon reaching a

flat peak ringed by ovoos of different sizes and ages she stops and sets down her pack.

Carefully, meaningfully, she removes a bundle, which she unrolls into a performance

costume (deel) and set of horn-style hair plaits. She sings to the Bogd Han in full

performance dress, to ask the mountain to help her in her upcoming performances and

send some financial opportunities her way. With New Year’s celebrations and the

threat of family hospital bills, winter is always a difficult time of year financially for

Ulaanbaatarites.

41 Zulaa makes her living as a professional singer, and is a card-carrying member of the

Mongolian National Long-Song Association, but at the time of this conversation she did

not have a consistent appointment in an orchestra or ensemble. She mentioned that

she had a featured performance soon. She would visit Bogd Han soon and perform the

songs she was planning to sing for it, to ask for her concert to go well and lead to more

consistent employment, or even to a record deal.

42 As she recounted this story, one of our mutual friends was steaming. Carl, a European

expatriate, long-term Ulaanbaatar resident, and self-styled expert on Mongolian

traditional music reacted to Zulaa’s story hotly. Rolling his eyes, he berated her,

“asking for money? This is a perversion of the traditional way”. Carl has positioned

Zulaa within what Trouillot refers to as the “Savage slot”, the ever-shifting category of

non-Western people which the Western capitalist imagination self-defines against


270

(2002). In Carl’s imaginary, Zulaa as an Asian traditional musician, should occupy a

utopia that is entirely outside of capitalism and modernity.

43 Both long-song and ritual practices of worship at ovoo are part of Mongolia’s

internationally recognized intangible cultural heritage. Zulaa’s appeal to ovoos and

private mobilization of intangible cultural heritage practices to meet financial needs

offended Carl’s sensibilities. Based on conventional western ideas about authenticity in

intangible heritage, he argued that ovoos should not be used with material ends in

mind. In response to Carl’s outburst Zulaa put up her hands. She pointed out that,

though tradition is fine, “no one can survive trying to live an ancient life in the modern

day”.

44 As a singer and instrumentalist respectively, Zulaa and Tüvshee use long-song to

appeal to mountains, via their ovoos. Mountains then intervene on their behalf, helping

them navigate the inherently cosmopolitan calamities of Ulaanbaatar life, from

financial insecurity to increasingly severe climate disasters and their consequent

health crises. In this ritual, the ovoos act as interpreters of agency as they carry Tüvshee

and Zulaa’s offerings to the mountain and direct the mountain’s power back in turn.

45 Though both Zulaa and Tüvshee were very open about the fact that they perform music

at ovoos as a way of venerating local mountains, they kept many details about these

performances private. They declined to specify what songs they chose or how they

chose them and what aesthetic choices informed their performances. In both cases the

idea of me coming along for one of these performances was out of the question. Though

neither said as much, I inferred that they were only comfortable with opening some

aspects of ovoo worship to outside scrutiny. Their usage of a heritage music and

mountain-worshipping rituals, both of which have been designated intangible cultural

heritage by UNESCO, to resolve distinctly modern, urban issues leads to a secondary

conflict. The inscription of these concepts as heritage creates a cosmopolitan consumer

base, who bring with them western notions of what is an appropriate approach to

traditional spiritual practices. The ovoo for better or worse, with its premodern history

and ancient appearance, was the centerpiece on Carl’s reprobation of Zulaa. It was the

fulcrum around which broader conflicts of colonialism, race, and gender played out

between friends at a coffee shop downtown.

Monastery ruins

46 At the end of spring, I joined up with Bayar again. The tourist season was about to pick

back up, so he wanted to revisit some spots in the Gobi province of Dundgov’,

monasteries mostly, to scope them out for future tours. I went with him, taking this as

an opportunity to see the back-end of the tourism industry.

47 We started our journey in the typical way for those leaving Ulaanbaatar and heading

into the country: with an offering to a “drivers’ ovoo” (zholoochny ovoo). Bayar took his

time clearing off food and drink offerings. He showed me a bottle of vodka that he had

pulled off the ovoo before tossing it in the trash can. Grimacing, he shook his head and

we took to the road.

48 Of the monasteries we visited throughout the Gobi, one stood out in particular for the

“more-than-human network” (Tsing 2013) it brought together. Sum Höh Bürd is both

the ruin of an ancient monastery and an oasis that gives migrating birds a place to rest.


271

The small wetland surrounding Höh Bürd was breathtaking, cut as a band of greenish-

blue water and tall waving yellow reeds against the red and brown backdrop of the

semi-arid steppe.

49 As the length and severity of droughts in the region become worse in response to

climate change, water features like this one are becoming more vital to the birds who

migrate through. Not far away in this same province I had seen a lake used by herders

to water their livestock dry up each year since I started working in the region in 2010.

By 2015 it had disappeared completely, driving herders away from that pasture.

Approaching Höh Bürd, both Bayar and I were shocked to see flocks of ducks and

seagulls. Just under the shadow of the nearby ovoos, a nesting pair of demoiselle cranes

pranced in the shallow, slowly-coursing water.

Figure 2. Sum Höh Bürd and its surrounding wetland, May 2018

© K. G. Hutchins

50 Before entering the monastery, we visited the ovoo on the overlooking hill. From this

vantage point, we could clearly see ruins poking up from behind the reeds. Bayar

directed my attention to a single swan siting regally among the rushes in the heart of

the marsh, flanked by a dozen seagulls, a few ducks, and two cranes. He told me the

swan is a sign that the ovoos around the wetlands are doing good work, indicating that

some of their duties are to maintain the health of the wetland enough that birds can

continue to use it as a place to rest.

51 The area around the monastery was fenced off, having been renovated by the

Mongolian government in 2016. The gate was flanked by two buildings: a park ranger

station on one side and the central office for a tourist camp on the other. The presence

of these stations highlighted the multiplicity of ways that “heritage” is consumed at

places like Sum Höh Bürd. The ranger station indicates the wetland surrounding the

ruins as a protected natural zone. Meanwhile the tourist camp, with yurts for rent set


272

up within the fenced off area, uses the ruins’ status as an artifact of Mongolia’s tangible

cultural heritage as a source of value for the domestic tourism industry.

52 Both buildings were empty, and the gate was open hanging open, so we let ourselves in.

We followed a stone path that winds around the marsh to the ruins. At the end of the

path, a complex of crumbled rooms faced a stage, purportedly first constructed by the

Buddhist luminary, Fifth Noyon Hutagt Dulduityn Danzanravzhaa (1803-1856) for

performances of his plays. Just past the stage there was another new structure, a

museum dedicated to the history of the monastery. Like the ranger station and tourist

camp, this museum was empty. Looking through the windows we noticed that it had

not yet been filled with exhibits.

53 There was very little of the monastery itself left standing. What was once a cohesive

structure was now a maze of freestanding walls and piles of stones. The roofs of the

structure had all fallen in. Even the walls that were still standing sported massive holes.

Bayar seemed off-put. Gazing through one of these holes he remarked that the walls

looked like they had been blown apart by dynamite.

54 Kestrels soared about the ruins using those holes as resting spots. They treated the

crumbling, pitted walls as kestrels in other parts of the Gobi treat natural cliffs. I stood

on the stage, rebuilt as part of the Mongolian government’s 2016 rehabilitation effort,

and tried to imagine what it would have been like to perform here when the monastery

was still active. Behind me I heard Bayar say, “this is a place of tragedy”. When I turned

to ask him what he meant, he pointed out an ovoo that had been constructed bearing

fresh silk scarf offerings deep in a collapsed room.

55 The ruins are populated by a handful of small ovoos like this one. Several more dot the

ridgeline. Just outside the front gate there is a large ovoo in the state-constructed style

with wooden supports and an even, geometric shape presumably built-up when the site

was rehabilitated as an ecologically protected area.

56 Bayar explained that ovoos pop up around abandoned or ruined monasteries “like

mushrooms after the rains”. Quietly, he added that some people build them and

worship at them to assuage the spirits of monks who were killed during the Stalinist

purge during the late 1930s. Even though this monastery was ancient and appeared to

have fallen out of use before the socialist era, it bore markers of that period’s state

violence.

57 As we retraced our steps back out of the ruins, Bayar asked if I believe in ghosts.

Nodding back over the water to the amphitheater he continued, “people say the ghosts

of monks get trapped in these monasteries. Some people even come out to places like

this at night looking for lights”. As we departed a group of people, well dressed in the

traditional style, had found a way into the ruins through the back and were carefully

adorning its ovoos with ritual scarves. Bayar insisted that we pay respects to that large,

seemingly state-constructed ovoo before we leave, to help maintain the wetland’s

ecosystem.

58 At this monastery natural heritage, cultural heritage, and the “negative heritage” of

commemorated violence intersect (Meskell 2002). The heritage of this site operates on

a nonlinear moral temporality. The ovoos here stand as bulwarks against a future which

promises desertification and climate change on behalf of a wetland and the birds who

rely on it. The very same ovoos work as reminders of the violence of Soviet pseudo-

colonialism and Stalinist purges and as offerings to the spirits of the dead at a


273

monastery that likely fell to ruin long before the socialist period began. The ovoos

operate as witnesses to the ghosts of monks that are said to haunt the monastery and

play out the deaths of other monks who would be killed centuries after them on a stage

for an audience of ghost-hunting humans and migrating birds.

Conclusion

59 To return to the legend at the start of this article, it is notable that mountain-spirits

and people in the story occupy the same environment but are unable to understand

each another without the intervention of ovoos. Their worlds overlap just enough to

create discord. In each of the above examples, ovoos act as brokers for agency,

connecting the wills and needs of animals, mountains, and ghosts with humans and

broader structures of transnational consumption. To frame heritage as either a quest

for state hegemony or a form of political subversion for oppressed groups misses the

non-human actors engaging with, constituting, and shaping heritage sites and

practices.

60 Bayar, Zulaa, and Tüvshee engaged in what they describe as mutual preservation with

ovoos and the multispecies networks that those ovoos represent. In their own ways they

each tied their spiritual, financial, and physical health to the health of these ovoos. They

have all been faced with difficult situations arising from transnational structures, and

they work through ovoos to find solutions that mobilize a more-than-human web of

social relations.

61 However, in resolving their first conflict they are invariably led to a second. Bayar’s

solution to the environmental and spiritual degradation that come with tourism puts

him into conflict with local people and animals in the areas he tries to restore. Tüvshee

and Zulaa’s solution to concerns of health and financial stability is subject to the ire of

western consumers, who use the inscription of spiritual practices and spaces as

internationally valuable heritage to stake claims on the musicians’ right to mobilize

their own cultural resources. As the first pass around the ovoo is never enough to

complete a ritual, these three continue to work through ovoos to find further solutions

to these conflicts. With each pass, another stone is added, creating artifacts that grow

and spread in number in commemoration of these struggles.

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Tumurtogoo, A. & J. Pearson. 2019 Donald Trump Jr. went to Mongolia, got special treatment

from the government and killed an endangered sheep, ProPublica December 11th.


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UNESCO 1972 Convention concerning the protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage,

17th Session of the General Convention (Paris, France) [online, URL: http://whc.unesco.org/

archive/convention-en.pdf, accessed 24 March 2020].

2003 Convention for the safeguarding of the intangible cultural heritage, 32nd session of the

general convention (Paris, France) [online, URL: https://ich.unesco.org/doc/src/

2003_Convention_Basic_Texts-_2018_version-EN.pdf, accessed 24 March 2020].

2004 Orkhon valley cultural landscape nomination file [online, URL: https://whc.unesco.org/

uploads/nominations/1081rev.pdf, accessed 24 March 2020]..

2015a Great Burkhan Khaldun mountain and its surrounding sacred landscape nomination file

[online, URL: https://whc.unesco.org/uploads/nominations/1440.pdf, accessed 24 March 2020]..

2015b Sacred mountains of Mongolia nomination file [online, URL: https://whc.unesco.org/en/

tentativelists/6068/, accessed 24 March 2020].

2017 Convention for the safeguarding of the intangible cultural heritage 12th session (Jeju Island,

Republic of Korea) [online, URL: https://ich.unesco.org/en/12com, accessed 24 March 2020].

Van Dooren, T. & D. Bird Rose 2012 Storied-places in a multispecies city, Humanimalia 3(2),

pp. 1-27.

NOTES

1. “Wrathful” (hilegneh). Occasionally “hard” (hatuu) or “fierce” (dogshin).

2. In their 2019 article on Donald Trump Jr’s trophy hunting scandal, Anand Tumurtogoo and

Jake Pearson estimate that western trophy hunters spend $20 000-50 000 apiece on permits to go

on hunting tours in Mongolia, targeting endangered wild game like argali rams.

ABSTRACTS

As environmentally-sourced artifacts that grow in size with each interaction with humans, ovoos

in Mongolia delineate both space and time in ecologically and politically charged ways. Their

presence and power as spiritual beings and historical markers is derived from and enacted upon

the ecological and social landscapes which they oversee. This paper explores how ovoos instigate,

mediate, and commemorate conflict in ways that entangle environmental and cultural heritage.

Drawing on the experiences of three heritage bearers who interact with ovoos as part of their

livelihood, I argue that ovoos allow for people to access more-than-human networks as part of

their heritage preservation.

En tant qu’artéfacts d’origine environnementale dont la taille croît à chaque interaction avec les

humains, les ovoo, en Mongolie, délimitent l’espace et le temps de manière écologiquement et

politiquement chargée. Leur présence et leur pouvoir en tant qu’êtres spirituels et marqueurs

historiques sont dérivés des paysages écologiques et sociaux qu’ils supervisent. Cet article

explore comment les ovoo suscitent, arbitrent et commémorent les conflits mêlant patrimoines

environnemental et culturel. Sur la base des expériences de trois porteurs de patrimoine qui

interagissent avec les ovoo dans leur vie quotidienne, je soutiens que les ovoo leur permettent

d’accéder à des réseaux dépassant l’humain dans leur préservation du patrimoine.


276

http://whc.unesco.org/archive/convention-en.pdf




https://ich.unesco.org/doc/src/2003_Convention_Basic_Texts-_2018_version-EN.pdf




https://whc.unesco.org/uploads/nominations/1440.pdf

https://whc.unesco.org/uploads/nominations/1440.pdf

https://whc.unesco.org/en/tentativelists/6068/




https://ich.unesco.org/en/12com

https://ich.unesco.org/en/12com

INDEX

Keywords: Mongolia, anthropology, religion, landscape, heritage, posthumanism, music, ritual,

spirits, ovoo, mountain

Mots-clés: Mongolie, anthropologie, religion, paysage, patrimoine, posthumanisme, musique,

rituel, esprits, ovoo, montagne

AUTHOR

K. G. HUTCHINS

K. G. Hutchins is a Visiting Assistant Professor in Anthropology, East Asian Studies, and

Environment Studies and Mellon Postdoctoral Fellow at Oberlin College. His dissertation, “On

wooden horses: music, animals, and heritage in post-socialist Mongolia” examines musical

interactions between humans and nonhumans in contemporary Mongolia. This study was

conducted in association with the Mongolian State University of Arts and Culture and was funded

by the Fulbright-Hays Doctoral Dissertation Research Abroad Fellowship and the American

Center for Mongolian Studies Cultural Heritage Fellowship.

[email protected]


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The middle of the story. Ovoos andthe ecological imagination inMongolian conservationLe milieu de l’histoire. Ovoo et imagination écologique dans la protection de

l’environnement en Mongolie

Rebecca Watters

Introduction

1 Conservation as an international endeavor has been heavily critiqued as being

culturally and epistemologically imperialistic, particularly with reference to the

formation of protected areas (West et al. 2006). Often, however, such critiques ignore

the existence of local ethics of and efforts towards conservation. In Mongolia, a strong

conservation ethic predates contact with Western1 conservation efforts (Humphrey

et al. 1993). This Mongolian conservation ethic has motivated the formation of

protected areas, both traditional and modern (Reading 2006), and has the potential to

serve as the foundation for conservation efforts that incorporate both Mongolian

traditional ecological knowledge and Western science. In particular, ovoo sites have

proven to be productive spaces of dialogue and integration of different understandings

of conservation in the author’s twenty years of working on wildlife research in

Mongolia.

2 This paper briefly explores foundational understandings of “nature” in Mongolian and

Western conservation contexts, and then examines ovoo practices at two locations. The

first is Harhorin in Övörhangai Province in central Mongolia, the site of the ancient

Mongol imperial capital (Karakorum). Harhorin was a locus of encounters with foreign

influences during the 13th and 14th centuries. It is also the site of the country’s oldest

extant Buddhist monastery, Erdene Zuu, built in the late 16th century, and is one of the

major tourism sites for travelers to Mongolia since the end of the socialist era. It

embodies the essence of the cosmopolitan steppe, a place open to and embracing of


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diverse influences. The second site is the Darhad Valley in northern Mongolia, a remote

region where communities have widely rejected Buddhism and embraced shamanism.

This resource-rich region has been important at various times as a source of minerals

and forest products (Pedersen 2011) and was the location of outposts of the Manchu

Qing empire (1644-1911), but has never served as the sort of cultural crossroads and

center of governance that Harhorin has. Since the end of the socialist era, gold and jade

rushes, the formation of national protected areas, and the arrival of Western

conservation projects have brought further entanglements with “outsider” influence to

the Darhad. Ovoos in both locations have served as sites of discussion, instruction, and

ultimately incorporation into appropriate social relationships with the landscape. It is

the social nature of these relationships that illuminates both the differences between

Western and Mongolian conservation approaches, and also the potential for a meeting

ground between different epistemological and ontological assumptions in the

generation of conservation knowledge and practice.

Nature and baigal’

3 Ovoo practices in Mongolia have been explored in numerous publications, most of

which focus on the political significance of highly organized community rituals (see for

example Sneath 2010), the different aspects and gradations of fortune in Mongolia

(Humphrey & Ujeed 2012), and/or on how ovoos intersect with shamanism and

Buddhism (Pedersen 2011). Interactions with ovoo, however, may also be individualistic

and personal, and may encompass narratives about relationships with the landscape

and other features of the environment. As Lindskog (2016, p 2) points out, in

conducting such personal rituals at an ovoo, “the doing of ritual is privileged over the

understanding of ritual”. Lindskog argues that this characteristic highlights the

essentially social features of these interactions, which are not about maintaining a

prescribed set of practices or even beliefs, but rather focus on the interaction between

the human individual and the non-human landscape entity. In this context, particularly

for conservation practitioners, ovoos become focal points for understanding human-

nature relationships.

4 Nature, of course, is a concept that requires further elucidation in the context of

Mongolian and English-speaking encounters. The Mongolian word baigal’, which is

commonly translated into English as “nature”, is related to the verb baih, “to be”.

Baigal’ – roughly, “everything that is” – is, in many respects, broader and more

encompassing than the English word “nature”, which has narrowed to include only

things that exist independent of human artifice or interference. By contrast, humans

(and livestock) are seen as “natural” in Mongolia, as evidenced by statements such as

“humans are nature’s animals” and “argali [Ovis ammon] and ibex [Capra siberica] are the

livestock of the mountain ezed [owners of the land, sing. ezen]” (Batbold, personal

friend, personal communication 2014). The tension between humans and nature, the

nature/culture divide that underpins the Western conservation narrative, is largely

absent in Mongolia. Anthropology as an academic field has started to question this

divide (see, for example, Humphrey 1995), but Western conservation practitioners still

primarily operate in the positivist tradition and perceive nature as something outside

of and essentially separate from humans.


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5 This difference in definition creates a foundational misunderstanding between

Mongolian and Western conservationists. Western conservation, relying on a narrative

of opposition between people and nature, posits separation of humans and the

environment, and a return of natural systems to a state of primordial wildness, as the

main solution to conservation problems. In Mongolia, by contrast, environmental

problems are seen as the result of being in a bad state of relationship with the

environment and its constituent entities, such as the ezed that are tied to specific

mountains, rivers, or other natural features. Improving one’s relationship with the

landscape is frequently the best option for remedying an environmental problem. In

some cases this may even involve intensifying the relationship in ways that Western

conservation would view as destructive, as when, for example, humans must hunt

depredating wolves in order to rebalance relationships with the mountains (Charlier

2015). For many Mongolians, severing the nature-human relationship is seen as a

source of disharmony and an abandonment of obligation, rather than a potential

solution to any environmental issue. Environmental values are held more strongly by

rural Mongolians than urban Mongolians (Kaczensky 2007), and most Mongolians

attribute this division to the fact that urban Mongolians no longer make a living off the

land and have essentially abandoned their connection to the landscape. This scenario

contrasts strongly with the Western environmentalist assumption that living on the

land is inherently destructive, and that wealthy professional urban and suburban

constituents form the best base for environmental advocacy because they no longer

directly depend on exploitation of resources such as wildlife for survival or

entertainment.

6 Likewise alien in Mongolia but rampant in Western conservation dialogue is a

hierarchical caretaking assumption that places humans outside of, above, and in

control of the environment. This hierarchical assumption is found among diverse

Western conservation proponents, from those advocating for the human-environment

connection that comes through so-called working landscapes – where people exploiting

resources see themselves as stewards and improvers of the environment – to

environmental advocates who advocate for “taking care of the planet” through

protective environmental policies. In these narratives, humans always have greater

power, either as extractors of value from the landscape, as benevolent guardians of

environmental integrity, or both. Mongolian relationships with the natural world, on

the other hand, are generally seen as reciprocal (Lindskog 2016), with mutual

exchange, mutual responsibility, and mutual possibility of both depredation and

benefit. Humans are embedded within the landscape and ecosystem and are engaged in

a constant set of negotiations that include the possibility of obtaining, at least

momentarily, some degree of mastery and power for their own benefit, but the natural

world ultimately has a greater store of power.

7 Personal ovoo practices are often expressions of a desire to enhance and intensify

relationships with the landscape and environment, in ways that reflect both a desire

for personal benefit, and also a desire to return something to the landscape – whether

the skull of a prized horse, an offering of food, or simply admiration for a beautiful

location. It is the maintenance of the relationship, however, that seems to be the

ultimate objective, and expanding this set of relationships to include new individuals,

including outsiders engaged in conservation work, may allow for better outcomes in

the conservation field in Mongolia.


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Hangai Ovoo

8 In 2000, Hangai Ovoo, at the top of a peak overlooking the town of Harhorin

(Övörhangai Province) and the place where the Orhon River spills from the Hangai

Mountains onto the steppe, was a conical structure of poles erected above a circular

stone platform and adorned with ritual scarves (Mo. hadag) and wind-horse-printed

prayer flags. Smaller satellite piles of stone radiated from that central structure. Prayer

flags stretched from the center pile to these smaller piles, where small offerings were

interspersed with the rocks. Inside the structure of the ovoo, an altar held offerings of

tea and incense, and a few butter lamps. The skulls of ibex and argali and the pelts of

lynx and wolves dangled from the poles amid a thicket of ritual scarves. Behind the

ritual scarves on the east side of the ovoo, the skin from the head of a snow leopard

hung like a mask.

9 The first time I visited the ovoo, in fall of 2000, as a newly-arrived Peace Corps

volunteer, I was ostensibly having a horseback riding lesson, but since my Mongolian

instructor, an older local man, had learned to ride as a toddler, he didn’t have much

systematic direction to impart, aside from “hold on”. We meandered up into the

mountains and arrived at the ovoo. He hopped off his horse and started to perform

circumambulation. During my Peace Corps training, I’d been told that women were not

supposed to be at these high mountain ovoo sites, so I asked if I could join him, and

whether it was okay that I was there. My Mongolian at that point was still rudimentary,

but I am sure I conveyed my meaning. He looked at me as if astonished by the question,

and said, “It’s okay!” (Mo. Zügeer, zügeer!). Aside from that exchange, I no longer

remember the particulars of the conversation, but his attitude was clear: he was happy

to show me the ovoo, he had brought me up there for that reason, and he didn’t have a

problem with women being there. He picked up three stones, made sure I did the same,

and together we paid our respects.


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Figure 1. Hangai Ovoo, Harhorin, Ovorhangai, 2010

© Rebecca Watters

10 This visit was the start of a long relationship with Hangai Ovoo, one which entailed

weekly visits over the course of the next two years. Not knowing exactly what an ovoo

was, but enchanted by the solitude, the views, and a sense of unseen presences

imparted partly by the offerings (made by what hand? And when? I never saw anyone

up there) and partly by the eerie, watchful skulls, I walked the 3 km up the mountain

from town in all seasons and all weather. I started to ask my new Mongolian friends

questions: What exactly were people worshipping when they went to the ovoo? Was it a

kind of nature worship? What were the spirits I had heard about, and were they really

“spirits” as we in the Western world seem to conceptualize such entities? How did

these ovoo practices relate to Buddhism?

11 I had not come to Mongolia as an anthropologist, although I had just finished an

undergraduate degree in anthropology. I was there as a Peace Corps2 environmental

volunteer, assigned to teach ecology to students and to train biology teachers in

ecological science. The question of environmental protection was therefore also on my

mind when I was first introduced to Hangai Ovoo. Among the very first conversations I

had when I arrived in Harhorin were two that touched on my role as a foreign ecologist

and teacher. In the first instance, my counterpart, a teacher in her forties, challenged

my presence, asking why I had come to Mongolia to teach about environmentalism

when Mongolians had a longer tradition of environmental protection than Americans

did. The second was a discussion with three of the teachers from my school in which

they clearly laid out the rules concerning how I was and was not to interact with the

Orhon River and the mountains: no fishing, because the fish were animals sacred to the

river protectors (Mo. lusyn am’tan), and killing them would anger the water protectors

(Mo. lus). No urine or milk or blood in the river. No behaving in ways that would

disrespect the mountains. Their anxiety about how I might transgress these boundaries

indicated their priorities in fitting me into their community for the coming two years.


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Ensuring my ability to be appropriately social with the landscape was as basic as

ascertaining that I knew how to be social with people in a yurt (Mo. ger).

12 One of my key questions, then, was whether ovoos, as places where people apparently

left the domestic sphere to connect with “nature”, were a potential focal point for

conservation actions. In particular, were they places where we could hold useful

conversations about the intersections of Mongolia’s long history of what might be

loosely termed traditional environmental protection practices, as described by the

teacher who questioned me about my presence in Mongolia – reverence for landscape

and wildlife, forbidding of hunting during certain seasons, worship and formal legal

protection of particular mountains, stories that teach about ethical relationships

between human and nature – with what might be termed foreign, modern, scientific,

democratic, and/or capitalist modes of environmental protection?

13 Soon most of the people in town knew that I regularly went up to the ovoo. People were

interested in my interest, and gave varying explanations about what an ovoo was. It was

a place for ceremonies of fortune. It was a place where men went to ask for success in

hunting as they went into the mountains; the skulls and the pelts were there as a thank

you for that success, and as an offering for future success. During the Lunar New Year

(Tsagaan Sar), friends who knew of my ovoo interest would point out the similarities

between ovoos and the mountainous arrangements of biscuits (Mo. yeven) and dried

cheese (Mo. aaruul) that stood at the center of the Lunar New Year celebrations. Erdene

Zuu Monastery, the oldest Buddhist monastery in Mongolia and the centerpiece of

Harhorin’s religious life and its tourism industry, held an annual ceremony in which

town residents carried volumes of the Buddhist sacred scriptures (Mo. Kanjuur; Tib. bKa’

gyur) around the monastery. My closest friend, Oyuna, an English teacher then in her

late twenties, pointed out that the procession mirrored the circumambulation of an

ovoo, with a similar outcome: the achievement of good fortune (Mo. buyan hishig) for the

coming year.

14 The most well-known of the local shamans, meanwhile, said that ovoos were places

where people connected with the power of the natural world. During an initial

conversation with him in October of 2000, he talked for a long time, unfortunately

before my Mongolian was good enough to follow everything he said, about places of

power on the landscape, how geography affected the human mind, and how ovoos were

focal places for this connection and power.

15 Stories of connections between people, ovoos and what I thought of as nature abounded,

but a clear and concise explanation of what an ovoo was, what people did there, what

entities they engaged with, and how it reflected human-nature relationships, failed to

emerge by the time I finished my Peace Corps service in 2002.

16 By 2009, when I returned to Harhorin after a seven-year absence to begin work on a

wolverine (Gulo gulo; Mo. nohoi zeeh) research project, the skulls and pelts were gone

from the ovoo, as were most of the hundreds of ritual scarves that had formerly hung

from the inside of the wooden structure. Otherwise, it seemed unchanged, but the

absence of the wildlife parts seemed significant.

17 The monks from Erdene Zuu, meanwhile, had built an Ecology Temple (Mo. Ekologiin

hiid)3 on a small ridge on the outskirts of town, across the river from and facing the

valley that led up to Hangai Ovoo. This temple was dedicated to Buddhist

environmental protection practices, with a main temple space hung with thangkas of

various lus savdag (a Buddhist term for the landscape protectors colloquially referred to


283

as ezed) and fierce protectors of the dharma. Two small classrooms were covered in

educational posters of wildlife, plants, food webs, the water cycle, and other ecological

concepts. A small ovoo stood behind the temple, along with a much older Bronze Age

stone monument (Mo. hirigsüür) and a row of prayer wheels. The space was used for

both the monastery school and for local schools’ ecology clubs, and combined Buddhist

teachings with Western scientific instruction. The temple was also used for more

conventional Buddhist practices; I spent an evening making butter lamps with Oyuna

and her family after her mother passed away, and we took them the next day to offer at

the Ecology Temple. The temple functioned across three realms: general Buddhist rites,

specific Buddhist land protection practices, and scientific education.

Figure 2. Ecology Temple (Mo. Lusyn hiid) affiliated with Erdene Zuu Monastery, Harhorin,Ovorhangai, 2010

© Rebecca Watters

18 Several years later, in 2011, on another trip up to Hangai Ovoo, I encountered a

swastika (has)-shaped rock monument, in the middle of which was a pole bearing the

black horsetail battle standard of Chinggis Khan. Someone had tied a wolverine pelt

around the middle of this pole. At the base of the monument were several pieces of

metal painted with admonishments not to enter the Hangai Nuruu National Park with

bad intentions, lest the “fierce” (Mo. dogshin) ezed and protectors of the region strike

the individuals down. Dogshin, maybe coincidentally, is one of the most frequent words

that people use, in general conversation and in formal interviews, to describe the

character of the wolverine, along with other species deemed fierce, elusive, or rare and

self-sufficient. In Harhorin and other Mongolian places with strong Buddhist traditions,

this word is frequently applied to the fierce manifestations of bodhisattvas, such as

Mahākāla or Vajrayoginī. Humphrey and Ujeed elaborate upon the ways in which

worship of these fierce deities is central to certain Mongolian Buddhist traditions,

where their ferociousness and propensity for destruction is harnessed for


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“counteracting and destroying not only external impediments but also the inner

defilements of the person” (2013, p. 56).

Figure 3. A black horsetail battle standard of Chinggis Khan in the middle of a swastika-shapedstone monument, with a wolverine pelt tied to the pole, Harhorin, Ovorhangai, July 2011

© Rebecca Watters

19 The use of the wolverine pelt seemed to draw a direct line among mountain ezed

characterized as dogshin, mountain wildlife characterized as dogshin, and dogshin

Buddhist protectors whose images are seen at significant sites throughout town and

who are evoked to destroy internal polluting thoughts and passions. Protection against

these internal defilements in turn protects the landscape from defilement. The

monument tied together wildlife, shamanism, and Buddhism by evoking this tripled

application of dogshin. It was clearly not an ovoo, however. Both the prominent local

shaman and the head monk at Erdene Zuu, H. Baasansüren, denied that shamans or

monks had had anything to do with this structure, which they defined as having been

done “wrong” (Mo. buruu) – particularly the wolverine pelt. Both asserted that people

who believed they were shamans but hadn’t had the right training might have built it.

It was seen as a personal expression of spiritual conviction, but one that did not fit with

various official or authoritative interpretations of landscape protection.

20 At some point between 2002 and 2009, then, people in positions of spiritual power in

Harhorin seem to have reached a consensus that wildlife parts should not be used in

ovoo settings. The headquarters for the Orhon Valley World Heritage Site were built in

Harhorin during that interval, and Mongolia’s laws against poaching had become

stricter and more strongly enforced nationwide, although rangers for Hangai Nuruu

National Park, headquartered in Tsetserleg District in Arhangai Province, seemed no

more visible or active than when I’d been there as a Peace Corps volunteer. The head


285

monk at Erdene Zuu, when I talked to him about the Ecology Temple and his work to

boost a Buddhist environmental ethic, told me that the skulls and pelts had been

removed from Hangai Ovoo because such decorations were not in keeping with wildlife

protection4. He had been part of a group of monks who had worked with an American

organization, the Tributary Fund, that existed to promote religious leadership on

environmental issues. He had traveled to the US several times to participate in

workshops on environmental advocacy, law enforcement, and education. In one such

workshop, an American FBI agent discussed law enforcement against poachers, and

showed slide after slide of confiscated wildlife parts, with a clear message that such

parts were indicative of criminal activity against nature. What role these different

currents of foreign, local, and national-level discourse played in the shift away from

wildlife parts at the ovoo is unclear, and the local decline of some wildlife populations

may also have played a role in the transition. But the absence was notable for someone

who had spent time at the ovoo earlier and grown accustomed to the staring skulls and

the multi-textured experience of ritual scarves, pelts, wood, rock, bone, and horn.

21 It was in 2009, too, that I first heard from my friend Oyuna that the local lus were

reputed to like outsiders (Mo. gadaad) – by which she meant people who were not from

Harhorin, whether Mongolian or international. This perception came from the fact that

a man from another region of Mongolia had come and set up a business and had

success. Jokingly, my friend speculated that maybe the local lus were female and had

taken a liking to him because he was good-looking. She also speculated that these lus

were why I had felt compelled to return to Harhorin after seven years. Lus are

equivalent to Sanskrit nāgas, loosely classed as lower-order land-protectors within the

Buddhist spiritual hierarchy. But the Harhorin lus seemed unmoored from a strictly

Buddhist context, at least in the stories of my friends and fellow-teachers. These were

the same beings who would grow angry with me if I misbehaved around the river, the

same beings who were reputed to have sent floods after a group of high school students

celebrating graduation on the banks of the Orhon had slaughtered a sheep and gotten

blood in the water a few years before I first arrived, and the same beings who,

according to the shaman, sent the colorful and rare birds that I saw when I was

conducting bird-count transects.

22 When I pressed Oyuna during that 2009 conversation for more details about why

Harhorin’s particular lus might like foreigners, we had an exchange that we’d had, in

one version or another, many times in the past:

You always ask these kinds of questions. You’re always interested in this kind ofthing. But it’s not like there are answers to this question the way you think. It’s justin your head. Whatever a person thinks, that’s what happens. With ovoos, with lus – it’s in your head. If you pay attention, then those things will pay attention to you.But if you don’t pay attention, then they won’t pay attention back.

23 Oyuna’s insistence on a personal interpretation of the behavior of ovoos and the entities

associated with them seemed to contrast with notions of strongly codified behavior

around ovoos, as described in much of the Western scholarly literature on the topic.

Badamgarav Dovchin, a Mongolian scholar doing her PhD in the US on the topic of

community-based rangeland management, during a rambling conversation about ovoos

and Buddhism, defined Buddhism as categorically foreign. Beneath Buddhist influence

was, allegedly, a more original, authentic, and local set of spiritual practices that

encompassed both shamanism and ovoo worship. The implication from both of these

conversations was that the only real appeal to a “correct” form of ovoo practice could


286

be made on the basis of dismantling notions that there was a correct form of ovoo

practice. Authentic ovoo practices, insofar as they actually exist, are personally and

locally defined. In Badamgarav’s PhD student’s summary, these personal and local

practices are the root of an ecocultural relationship that sustains, in her words, “a

biophilia and topophilia that are essentially Mongolian”.

24 Hangai Ovoo, between 2000 and 2011, had been a site of various mediations between the

landscape, local custom, and crossing currents of outside influence. In the disparate

views on ovoo above, the interpretation of how to connect people and the landscape

through ovoos, wildlife parts, and ritual practice incorporate both scientific, western

ideas of protection, which largely set aside and keep wildlife and landscape separate

from humans, and notions of protection that draw more strongly on integration of

beings across these boundaries. Authority and individual action co-exist and mingle in

the same landscape to create practices that seek to guard the landscape, and the people

within it, in various ways.

The Darhad valley

25 A very different arrangement of local and outsider inputs exists in the second region of

Mongolia in which I work and interact with ovoos. In 2010, I began doing wildlife

research in the Darhad Valley, a vast, mountain-encircled depression in Hövsgöl

Province. The Darhad is part of the same rifting system that formed both Lake Baikal

and Lake Hövsgöl, and is accessible only via high mountain passes, lending the remote

region an aura of separation from the rest of the country. This separation is a

characteristic prized by many of the inhabitants. Darhad, Buryat, Halh, and Duha (also

known as Tsaatan) peoples share the valley and its surrounding mountains, and the

dialect and local toponyms contain an array of words that baffle even proficient Halh

speakers – other Mongolians and Americans alike. Darhad and Duha shamans are

reputed to be the most powerful in Mongolia, and this power is attributed to both the

wild natural environment, and to the lack of interference from Buddhism. Despite (or

because of) the fact that the region was a Buddhist monastic estate for several

centuries, Buddhist lamas are not generally welcome in the Darhad. In addition to (and

sometimes instead of) Buddhist-inflected lus, local stories often revolve around “half-

people” (Mo. badagshin) who can bring benefit or cause mischief, depending on the

behavior of individual people (Pedersen 2007). Numerous people told me that lamas

were chased out when they tried to reestablish a Buddhist temple in the valley in the

1990s, and said that any lama who tried to return would be chased out again.

Temporary visits seemed acceptable, though; in summer of 2018, as we drove by a

group of lamas encamped near a spring, my driver shrugged off their presence,

explaining that monks came to meditate at that spring every year. This contrasted with

a conversation with a ranger, Bold, as we did pika (Ochotona daurica) surveys amidst the

remains of the enormous monastery that had been destroyed in the 1930s. Although he

didn’t think that the destruction and murder had been good or necessary, Bold said

that Buddhism had been bad for the region, and that ovoos were the original religion.

When pressed about the region’s ovoos, though, he spoke about loss of that tradition

and uncertainty in reestablishing it:

Each region [of the Darhad] has an ovoo. Our ovoo is Mungarag, but if you herd inanother part of the valley, you worship at that ovoo. The local families in that regiontake charge of worshipping the ovoo. There are four… maybe five? That’s what I


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think, anyway. But no one really remembers clearly any more what ovoo you’resupposed to worship or exactly how. For seventy years all the traditions werebroken. People still worshipped, but not the right way. They did it secretly. Nowwe’re reinventing everything.

26 The rejection of foreign or outsider influence was also integral to the story of the

formation of two of the three protected areas that surround the valley. In 2010, when I

first traveled to the Darhad, only one of these protected areas existed. Horidol Sar’dag

SPA (Strictly Protected Area) was created in 1997, in large part to protect the country’s

northernmost herd of argali sheep, which had dwindled to around thirty individuals. I

was initially interested in the Darhad region because it was the largest section of

modeled wolverine habitat in Mongolia, but when I first arrived, much of that habitat

was inaccessible due to the presence of “dangerous” gold miners in Ulaan Taiga, the

range to the west of the valley. These independent miners had shown up after the

community had objected to the licensing of the mountains to foreign exploration

companies, and had chased out a number of geologists who had shown up with

excavators (Zhal, personal communication, 2018). But a gold rush followed, and soon

hundreds of artisanal miners were digging in the headwaters of the Nogoon River and

wreaking social and economic havoc on local districts (sum), where demands for goods

drove up prices, and where various local inhabitants, including reindeer herders, were

roped into the mining endeavor, either as suppliers of goods and services, or as miners

themselves. This unsettling situation in the taiga, characterized at the time and

subsequently as an invasion of outsiders, leant strength to petitions to form two new

protected areas, Ulaan Taiga SPA and Tengis Shishged National Park. The granting of

protected status by Parliament requires 70% support among the local population.

According to Tömörsüh Zhal, the current director of the parks, a man born and raised

in the Darhad, and the originator of the petitions, the support was easy to obtain. In

2012, the parks were formed, and immediately thereafter, a sweep of the Nogoon River

Valley scattered the miners and destroyed their camps. The three protected areas were

placed under a single office, the Ulaan Taiga Strictly Protected Areas Administration,

which employs thirty-four rangers and five staff and operates out of a small

headquarters in Ulaan Uul District.

27 With the outsiders gone, however, local community members faced the sudden

realization that the restrictions on resource use also applied to them. This was a less

palatable reality than reclaiming Ulaan Taiga from outsiders. Although some people

wanted to resume gold mining, the greater concern revolved around the loss of hunting

rights, rights to the gathering of plants, and accessibility of some sites that were now in

off-limit core zones (ongon bus) of the SPAs. In conversation, these losses were

sometimes framed as economic or resource losses, but often they were described as

throwing relationships out of balance, or severing those relationships entirely. In 2015,

Tömörsüh related a claim from the Duha that with Duha hunting rights restricted in

Tengis Shishged NP, the sable (Martes zibellina) population had grown too large, and

packs of sable had taken to attacking reindeer. This seems unlikely based on what we

understand about sable biology, and Tömörsüh said the claim was a waste of his

rangers’ time, but it points to a frustration that a particular type of human-wildlife

relationship had been outlawed, with consequences for human-livestock relationships.

In other words, throwing one relationship out of balance through unnatural, new,

human laws disordered other relationships and turned them unnatural as well.


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28 For the rangers of the Ulaan Taiga Strictly Protected Areas Administration, who

represent both the traditions of their Darhad “homeland” (Mo. nutag) and the authority

of the protected areas, relationship with the land they were tasked with protecting was

sometimes expressed through ovoo building. On two occasions, rangers showed me

ovoos that they had built. In one case, a ranger called Ölzii built an ovoo on a high ridge

in a remote valley close to the Russian border while I set up a camera trap for snow

leopards. Few people visited that particular area, as it was off limits by order of the

national border patrol, which requires permits for anyone traveling within a certain

distance of the border, and refuses permits to certain regions. Ölzii’s was the only ovoo

that I saw in that valley. He explained that he had been moved to build it by the beauty

and the power of the place, the commanding view of the area from the ridge, and the

thought that someone else might someday come up that ridge and want to honor that

place by placing stones on the ovoo.

29 The second ovoo was in a less remote but still largely untraveled location, a narrow

notch that led through the sheer, nearly impassable western front of the Horidol

Sar’dag Range and up into the high country. It was a frequent travel route for ibex, elk

(Cervus elaphas), and boar (Sus scrofa). The ranger, Byambaa, regularly patrolled the pass

to look for poachers and keep tabs on the wildlife. He first led a group of American

students up to the notch to set a camera while I set up a camera in a different location

with a different group of students, so I did not see him explain the ovoo, and I did not

see the ovoo itself until later. But the students returned to our base camp enthusing

about the ovoo and about how Byambaa had built it for reasons similar to those that

Ölzii described to me: it was a high place with a spectacular view, a place to which

Byambaa felt a connection, and a place where others might share his acknowledgement

by building the ovoo higher. The ovoo itself was small, a knee-high pile of rocks, to

which we all faithfully added stones when we later visited to switch out the camera

cards. The students were enthusiastic participants in circumambulation at other ovoos

that we encountered during high elevation field research trips, and accompanying

rangers approved of their facility at these sites. Many of the students, in a post-

program evaluation, talked about how the experience of Byamba sharing the ovoo had

changed their perceptions about the possible ways that people could relate to the

environment.

Figure 4. Huzuuvch landscape, Darhad, 2018

© Rebecca Watters


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30 One day, in November of 2018, I drove with Tömörsüh to the provincial capital to deal

with some banking business. We drove out over Eliin Davaa, where an enormous ovoo

overlooks the gateway to the Darhad. The central ovoo is flanked by twelve smaller

ovoos, one for each of the Asian zodiac years; travelers are encouraged to find the ovoo

bearing the plaque with their zodiac animal carved on it and leave an offering5. There

are also several signs welcoming visitors to the protected areas, in both Mongolian and

English; a billboard with photos of flagship wildlife species like snow leopard; poetic

odes to the Blue Valley of the Darhad carved on granite; and stone sculptures and

carved relief images of wildlife including marmots, otters, and elk. A stop at these ovoos

is mandatory when entering or leaving the Darhad. When we stopped on this trip, I

asked Tömörsüh whether ovoos were places where nature was protected, and whether

they were part of an ethic that he wanted to reinforce. He said yes, but when I asked

how they functioned to protect nature, his response seemed counterintuitive to

American concepts of conservation. Ovoos, he said, were places where people made

requests for good fortune in various endeavors.

31 To me as an American, even after eighteen years of working in Mongolia and talking

about ovoos, the concept of taking from the natural world – requesting a successful

hunt, for example, or even success in other parts of life – did not seem entirely

compatible or strictly aligned with protecting nature. In directing the protected areas,

Tömörsüh was adept at negotiating the boundaries between foreign expectations and

Mongolian ideals, and had multiple ties to international NGOs, including mine, as well

as a sister relationship with Yosemite National Park in the US. But as in so many prior

conversations with other Mongolians, I felt like I couldn’t entirely clarify what I was

trying to ask, and that he didn’t fully understand the connotations of “protection” to

the American mind. It was a divide, not unbridgeable, but one that required conscious

and deliberate reflection about what it meant to “do conservation” as an American

scientist in Mongolia, and as a Mongolian working with American scientists.

The ovoo as hearth, the mountain as home

32 So where do ovoos fit in to the encounter between Western and Mongolian value

systems around ecology and human-nature relationships? Numerous international

projects import Western ideas about conservation, ecology, science, and nature

protection into their work with Mongolian institutions and communities. These

Mongolian institutions and communities are in turn inflected by seven decades of

technocratic socialist rule and a long history of adapting outside ideas and technologies

to Mongolian purposes. Positing some form of pure traditional nature worship among

Mongolians would be naïve, and yet there is no doubt that there is some relationship

with nature that is different from the nature protection practices that have arisen in

the West over the past several centuries. Where do ovoos serve as a bridge among these

varied understandings?

33 Those early conversations in which my fellow teachers in Harhorin simultaneously and

urgently tested my understanding of customs for visiting both yurts (Mo. ger) and the

landscape suggest that ovoos serve as a basis for social interactions with the natural

world. The spatial and gift-giving interactions with the ovoo mirror and parallel the

spatial and gift-giving interactions of a visit to a yurt. Pedersen (2009) has written

about ovoos as “a home away from home” for the Duha reindeer herders of the Darhad,


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but his work is concerned primarily with the spatial arrangements of nomadic

societies, rather than the specific social nature of human-nature relationships.

Humphrey (1995) draw parallels between the spatial arrangements inside the yurt, and

the terminology used to describe different parts of the mountain. Here, though, I am

interested in the ways that sociality is carried out in parallel ways around the yurt’s

hearth and the mountain’s ovoo. The bringing of a gift to the host, and the clockwise

movement around the hearth, are similar to the bringing of a gift to and the clockwise

movement around the ovoo. The host in the case of the mountain is the invisible

“owner” or “master” (Mo. ezen), and while ezed are not characterized in anything like

human terms, they nevertheless have the power to feed and shelter welcomed guests in

the same way that the owners of a yurt feed and shelter guests. An embedded ethic of

reciprocity exists in both instances as well. Mongolian friends always explain the vast

hospitality of the steppes as an insurance system against future hardship: you welcome

a guest because next time you might be in need of food and shelter. This ethic is, I

think, the key to that gap in understanding in discussions about nature protection like

the one I had with Tömörsüh at Eliin Davaa. When you take shelter and food from a

family in a yurt, that action contains an implicit contract for mutual assistance. This is

also the case when a human visits the ovoo – the mountain’s hearth – and accepts the

gifts of fortune and resources from the landscape. To take is to accept a reciprocal role

as giver, which is how beckoning fortune at ovoos, for life or the hunt, constitutes an act

of nature protection. Where Western practices of conservation often seek to set aside

areas of wilderness – by definition, places absent of human presence – and to keep

nature remote, Mongolian practices seek to become closer and more intimate, more

social, and more at-home-with the natural, wild, non-domestic world. Nevertheless,

this wild and non-domestic space is seen as the natural habitat of people as well as

wildlife, and something to which humans are subject, rather than something over

which humans have mastery.

34 By establishing ovoos in remote locations that they are tasked with protecting, the

rangers of Ulaan Taiga are, in some sense, constructing sites where these social

contracts of reciprocity with the mountains may be enacted and affirmed, by

themselves and by future visitors. These personal ovoos are not sites of communal ritual

or reinforcement of hierarchy; they are individual expressions of connection that are

unlikely to ever serve a wider political or human social purpose through elaborate

communal ceremonies. Instead, the ease and willingness with which many Mongolian

men have welcomed both me and my companions to ovoo sites may be seen as a mirror

to the way that their wives have welcomed us into their yurts. This is not to say that

the gendered lines between the human home and the mountain-as-home are as strict as

they are sometimes portrayed – not once in a field situation, except at Otgontenger, has

anyone ever brought up with me the idea that women are not permitted at ovoos or on

mountain peaks – but that these sorts of social visiting customs cross contexts and

indicate a particular type of relationship with the natural world that is very different

from the American or European concept.

35 Rebecca Empson (2012, pp. 11-12), in her exploration of fortune as a fluid force in

nomadic life, discusses the way in which aesthetic objects can serve as arbiters of

relationships, and the way that relationships themselves can be considered aesthetic

creations that can then be judged as moral or immoral. Ovoos are aesthetic objects,

constructed by many hands over many years, and are often alive with colors, textures,

scents, compositions, and perspectives that are sensory and that guide a sense of


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relationship all at once. The formation of these relationships with mountains allows

humans to harness fortune, but, as Empson points out, this harnessing is not the same

as the giving of a set amount of fortune by some all-powerful entity in return for a

particular ritual act. The giver is never clearly defined, but the relationship must be

renewed and maintained to keep it in balance and to ensure a flow of fortune to the

person involved. The relationship itself is the generator of the fortune. The

relationship keeps fortune flowing in both directions, both the gathering-too and the

scattering-from, and humans may give as well as take.

36 Most of Western conservation practice is grounded in Western and capitalist

philosophical and economic ideas that assume transactional relationships, whether

between humans, or between humans and the non-human natural world – see, for

example, the idea of “ecosystem services” that is a key conservation tool in Western

capitalist countries (for example, Brown et al. 2007). Ongoing reciprocal relationships

may be valued in these conservation strategies as “cultural values” or as “traditional

knowledge”; outside of literature by indigenous scholars, they are seldom framed as a

modern, immediate, scientifically or economically relevant conservation practice or

ethic. Conservation practice, particularly as driven by larger international

organizations and funders, focuses ever more heavily on creating quantifiable

transactional metrics to assess success. There is therefore often a mismatch of

assumptions and objectives in international conservation projects when they come into

Mongolia. A greater effort to understand the basis and nature of human-nature

relationships in Mongolia has the potential to benefit Western conservation and

science by reframing the potential for different kind of relationships with the natural

world.

37 Humphrey and Ujeed (2013, p. 50), in their work on Buddhism in Inner Mongolia, note

that Mongolian spiritual practices often incorporate “transmutable keys”, concepts

that can be interpreted or practiced at multiple levels, beyond orthodox religious

definitions, to accommodate different individual perspectives and experiences. Ovoos,

in the context of both spiritual and conservation practices, may be seen as another type

of transmutable key. At one level, ovoos are political and social organizing tools for

Mongolians, and the ceremonies surrounding them have implications for how human

social and political relationships are managed (see Smith 2015; Madison Pískatá, this

volume). But ovoos also function in diverse personal and individual modes. For

individual rangers, the construction or ritual interactions with ovoos may provide a way

to express reciprocal agreements of sociality and caretaking with the mountains and

passes of the parks that they patrol.

38 Ovoos are also transmutable in that they permit a cross-referenced definition of

conservation practice for Mongolians and Westerners. For Mongolian rangers,

socializing Western conservation visitors with the landscape is important, as it creates

relationships – and their potential fortune-bringing effects – between Mongolians and

Westerners and between Westerners and the landscape. For Western scientists and

conservationists, ovoos affirm that a conservation ethic exists in Mongolia and that at

some level, Mongolians and Westerners are operating with a shared set of values when

they undertake conservation projects together. If those values are not always precisely

defined, the lack of definition often allows for stronger alliances, and, from the

Mongolian perspective, a way of situating not only the landscape, but also foreign

attitudes towards nature, within a set of familiar domestic interactions. The long


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history of dialogue and spiritual encounter at ovoos between Buddhist and indigenous

Mongolian mountain practices has been documented (for example, see Sneath 2010,

2018); similarly, ovoos are places where encounters and dialogues between Mongolian

and Western science also occur.

39 Ovoo stories and practices serve specific functions at higher levels of social organization

and politics, but are flexible at the individual level, as indicated by the repeated

injunctions to remember that whatever meaning I tried to assign to ovoos, meaning

itself was “in your head”. As I recounted this story to Badamgarav, my PhD student

friend, and talked frankly about how difficult it may be for Westerners to let go of a

search for absolute and authoritative meaning, she explained it in the following terms:

That’s true, you can’t say that there’s a start and an end to a story when you askabout things like that. In general, Mongolians are going to tell you the middle of thestory. And then whatever’s in the middle, you make the start and the end. It’s up toyou.

40 Whatever role ovoo practices serve in ongoing conservation narratives as the encounter

between Western conservation and Mongolian conservation continues, it seems that

the meaning itself circles the ovoo, keeping it at the center, as the individuals

concerned add their stories, one by one.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Brown, T., J. Bergstrom & J. Loomis 2007 Defining, valuing, and providing ecosystem services,

Natural Resources 47, pp. 329-379.

Charlier, B. 2015 Faces of the Wolf. Managing the Human-Non-human Boundary in Mongolia (Leiden/

Boston, Brill).

Empson, R. 2012 The dangers of excess, Social Analysis 56(1), pp. 1-16.

Gerasimova, K. M. 1981 De la signification du nombre 13 dans le culte des obo, translated by

R. Hamayon & A. Popova, Études mongoles et sibériennes 12, pp. 163-175.

Humphrey, C. 1995 Chiefly and shamanist landscapes in Mongolia, in E. Hirsch &

M. O’Hanlon (eds), The Anthropology of Landscapes. Perspectives on Place and Space (Oxford, Oxford

University Press), pp. 135-162.

Humphrey, C. & H. Ujeed. 2012 Fortune in the wind. An impersonal subjectivity, The International

Journal of Anthropology 56(2), pp. 152-167.

2013 A Monastery in Time (Chicago, The University of Chicago Press).

Humphrey, C., M. Mongush & B. Telengid 1993 Attitudes to nature in Mongolia and Tuva. A

preliminary report, Nomadic Peoples 33, pp. 51-61.

Kaczensky, P. 2007 Wildlife value orientations of rural Mongolians, Human Dimensions of

Wildlife 12, pp. 317-329.

Kennedy, J. F. 1961 Executive Order 10924 of March 1, 1961, Establishment and Administration of

the Peace Corps, Federal Register 26 FR 1789, Thursday, March 2, 1961.


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Lindskog, B. 2016 Ritual offerings to ovoos among nomadic Halh herders of west-central

Mongolia, Études mongoles & sibériennes, centrasiatiques & tibétaines 47, pp. 1-20, https://doi.org/

10.4000/emscat.2740.

Pedersen, M. 2007 Multiplicity without myth. Theorizing Darhad perspectivism, in special issue

Perspectivism, Inner Asia 9(2), pp. 311-328.

2009 At home away from homes. Navigating the taiga in Northern Mongolia, in P. W. Kirby (ed.),

Boundless Worlds. An Anthropological Approach to Movement (New York, Berghahn Books),

pp. 135-152.

2011. Not Quite Shamans. Spirit Worlds and Political Lives in Northern Mongolia (Ithaca, NY, Cornell

University Press).

Reading, R. 2006 Conserving biodiversity on Mongolian rangelands. Implications for protected

area development and pastoral uses, Rangelands of Central Asia, USDA Forest Service Proceedings

RMRS, p. 39.


Contemporary Mongolia. PhD dissertation (Princeton, Princeton University) [online, URL: http://

arks.princeton.edu/ark:/88435/dsp01z603r0748, accessed 5 October 2019].

Sneath, D. 2010 Political mobilization and the construction of collective identity in Mongolia,

Central Asian Survey 29(3), pp. 251-267.

[2014] 2018 Nationalizing civilizational resources. Sacred mountains and cosmopolitical ritual in

Mongolia, in Mongolia Remade. Post-socialist National Culture, Political Economy, and Cosmopolitics

(Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press), pp. 175-192.

West, P, J. Igoe & D. Brockington 2006. Parks and peoples. The social impact of protected areas,

Annual Review of Anthropology 35, pp. 251-277.

NOTES

1. By “Western” conservation, I reference the schools of thought and practice that have grown

out of the work of conservationists such as Henry David Thoreau, John Muir, and Aldo Leopold –

that is, men who inherited the legacy of a colonized environment in which the scarce remnants

of an “original” (pre-colonial) natural state had to be fought for and protected. The primary

means of protection was the exclusion of people, including and perhaps especially the indigenous

inhabitants of the land. These thinkers, in turn, influenced men such as Michael Soule,

E. O. Wilson, and others whose scientific theories have largely guided the way that international

conservation practice is enacted. I do not include the socialist-era practices of Russian or

Mongolian conservationists in the “Western conservation” definition because that approach has

a distinctly different line of descent.

2. The Peace Corps is an American volunteer organization established by executive order of

President John F. Kennedy in 1961: “The Peace Corps shall be responsible for the training and

service abroad of men and women of the United States in new programs of assistance to nations

and areas of the world, and in conjunction with or in support of existing economic assistance

programs of the United States and of the United Nations and other international organizations”

(Kennedy 1961).

3. The temple was also known as Lusyn hiid, or “Temple of the Lus”.

4. Unfortunately I did not ask how or when these removals were initiated.

5. The ovoos on Eliin Davaa are explicitly associated with the zodiac, but the number thirteen is

significant to ovoo worship in other contexts. See, for example, Gerasimova 1981.


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http://arks.princeton.edu/ark:/88435/dsp01z603r0748




ABSTRACTS

This paper explores ovoo and landscape practices in two regions of Mongolia, Harhorin, and the

way that these places deal with local and outsider inputs in constructing dialogues about

conservation. While much has been written about formal ovoo practices, their origins, and their

historical and contemporary role in local and national politics, this paper focuses on individual

experiences with and definitions of ovoos, how those intersect with more formal practices, and

what ovoos may indicate for conservation.

Cet article explore les pratiques concernant les ovoo et le paysage dans deux régions de Mongolie,

Harhorin dans la province Övörhangai et la vallée Darhad dans la province Hövsgöl, et la manière

dont se forment en ces lieux des discours sur la conservation à partir d’apports locaux et

extérieurs. Bien que les pratiques formelles concernant les ovoo, leurs origines et leur rôle

historique et contemporain dans la politique locale et nationale aient été abondamment traités

dans la littérature académique, cet article se concentre sur les expériences individuelles avec les

ovoo et les définitions que l’on peut en donner, sur la manière dont celles-ci recoupent des

pratiques plus formelles, et sur ce qu’elles nous apprennent sur la conservation.

INDEX

Mots-clés: ovoo, conservation, faune sauvage, bouddhisme, Mongolie, glouton, carcajou

Keywords: ovoo, conservation, wildlife, Buddhism, Mongolia, wolverine

AUTHOR

REBECCA WATTERS

Rebecca Watters is a wildlife biologist working primarily on wolverines and cultural relationships

with wildlife in Mongolia and the Greater Yellowstone region United States. She is the executive

director of the Wolverine Foundation and is based in Ulaan Uul, Mongolia and Bozeman,

Montana.

[email protected]


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VariaVaria


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“Easy to learn” (rTogs par sla ba)(1737) as a source for the study ofTibetan-Mongolian lexicographicrelations« Facile à apprendre » (rTogs par sla ba) (1737) comme source pour l’étude des

relations lexicographiques tibéto-mongoles

Burnee Dorjsuren

Introduction

Mongolia and Tibet shared religious and cultural ties for centuries. Particularly in the

17th-19th century, Tibetan language and cultural influence increased with the spread of

Tibetan Buddhism in Mongolia and a wide range of literary works from the “five major

and five minor sciences” (Tib. Rig gnas che ba lnga dang chung ba lnga) were translated

from Tibetan into Mongolian. This spread influenced the style of the Mongolian literary

language and formed the norm the of sutra language style (Shagdarsüren 2017, р. 65).

Meanwhile, Tibetan supplanted Mongolian as the main language, pushing it into a place

of secondary importance (Vladimirtsov 2005, р. 27).

While translating Buddhist literature, Mongols also wrote many works in Tibetan on

different areas of Buddhist literature. As a result, the number of literary works written

by Mongolian and Tibetan authors on similar topics increased. It also made them an

important source for the study of the relationship between Tibetan and Mongolian

literature. This study examines issues related to tradition and innovation in the

interrelation of Mongolian dictionaries with Tibetan lexicography, then with Sanskrit,

using examples from the “Easy to learn” (mGonbo skyabs et al. 2015) dictionary.

In the history of Mongolian lexicography, there are many bilingual Tibetan-Mongolian

dictionaries (Dorzh 1962; Burnee 2007). The earliest dictionary that has survived until

today is the Tibetan-Mongolian dictionary “Sunlight” (Nyi ma’i ’od) compiled by


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Günγaǰamčo (Tib. Kun dga’ rgya mtsho) in 1718, and the next is Гomboǰab’s dictionary

“Easy to learn”, which forms the subject of this article. Dictionaries that came out after

Гomboǰab’s differ in size and structure, as well as in translation and interpretation1.

Among them, the dictionaries of Girdi Ananda (Girti Ananda), Rolbidorǰi (Rol pa’i rdo

rje), published in the 18th century, and other dictionaries compiled in the 19th century

by Aγvandandar, Girdibaǰar, Гalsangǰamba, and Lubsangrinčin have become

widespread. Famous Mongolian lexicographers used Гomboǰab’s dictionary. For

example, Easy to learn was used as one of the sources in the dictionaries “Moonlight”

(Zla ba’i ’od snang) by Aγvangdandar (Bürnee 1983), Three-cleared (gSum gsal) by

Girdibaǰar, and “Darkness-dispelling Lamp” (Mun sel sgron me) by Lubsangrinčin

(Bürnee 2002; Sárközi 2010).

“Easy to learn” was compiled by Duke Гomboǰab (17th-18th) and others in 1737.

According to Čoyiǰi, Гomboǰab was born before 1680 and passed away shortly after 1750

(Γomboǰab 1999, р. 14). He was from the Üjümüčin Banner, Inner Mongolia, and was

granted the title of “earl” (Mo. güng). In addition to his native Mongolian language, he

wrote several works in Sanskrit, Tibetan, Chinese, and Manchu, such as “Current of the

Ganges” (Mo. Γanγa-yin urusqal) in Mongolian and “History of Buddhism in China”

(Tib. rGya nag chos ’byung) in Tibetan (Pučkovski 1960; Bira 1964, pp. 81-81; De Jong 1968;

Vostrikov 1970; Uspenskii 1985; Γomboǰab 1999, рp. 2-14; Mala 2006, pp. 145-169).

Гomboǰab also compiled other works on history and traditional medicine. One of his

accomplishments includes his contribution to the compilation of the famous Tibetan-

Mongolian dictionary “The source of the wise men” (Tib. Dag yig mkhas pa’i ’byung gnas)

and his participation in the translation of the Tanjur (Tib. bsTan ’gyur) from Tibetan as

well as the translations of some historical works from Chinese.

This article examines the word order, the principles of headword selection, and the

principles for distinguishing the meaning of the words in “Easy to learn” in comparison

with other dictionaries used in its compilation, and also in adopting the method of

translation such as “A Basket” (Za ma tog), “Lamp of speech” (Ngag sgron), “Pavilion of

cloves” (Li shi gur khang) and the Tibetan-Mongolian dictionary “Sunlight”. This

comparison traces the degree of tradition and innovation in the Tibetan and Tibetan-

Mongolian lexicographies, and identifies the contribution of the Mongols to the

improvement of Tibetan lexicography.

Ts. Dorzh (1962, p. 100), who made a preliminary report on the structure, the

xylograph, and the authors of “Easy to learn”, notes that the dictionary was composed

due to the need for a quick publication, and provides a list of some of the dictionaries

that were possibly used in compiling it. His conclusion was based on the dictionary’s

colophon data. We assume that only a 70-sheet Mongolian xylograph printed in the

form of a Tibetan stylebook was at Dorzh’s disposal, and he therefore did not mention

the preface, which is in the Chinese xylograph style.

Sečenbilig, based on his analysis of the Chinese xylograph style, argues that ǰanǰiy-a

Aγvangčoyidan (1642-1714) (Tib. lCang skya Ngag dbang chos ldan) contributed to the

compilation of the dictionary “Easy to learn” (Sečenbilig 1989, p. 82). He notes that only

ǰanǰiy-a Aγvangčoyidan’s work on the grammar of the Tibetan language was included in

the preface and introduction to the dictionary. Further, Sečenbilig points out that there

is a mismatch in the time frame between ǰanǰiy-a Aγvangčoyidan’s death in 1714 and

the period in which the dictionary was composed in 1736, dismissing the opinions of

previous scholars who regarded ǰanǰiy-a Aγvangčoyidan as the compiler. According to


298

Sečenbilig, “Easy to learn” was compiled in 1736 and it was edited and published in

1737.

European scholars J. Schmidt (1841) and J. Kowalewski (1844) used this dictionary when

compiling their own dictionaries. Vladimir L. Uspenskii (1986) studied three prints of

the Chinese xylograph of “Easy to learn”, currently kept in the library of the Eastern

Faculty of Saint Petersburg University in Russia. He numbers the three prints in Cyrillic

alphabetical order, A, Б, and В, and assumes that version Б is most likely to be the

original print due to its legibility, bigger paper size, and the lack of an appendix. He

bases his analysis on the colophon of the dictionary, which says that Yunli, the

seventeenth son of Emperor Kangxi (1661-1722), was the initiator of the first edition of

this dictionary (Uspenskii 1986, p. 111) and headed the Lifanyuan 理藩院from 1723 to

1729. He further describes the structure of this dictionary – the preface, the main part

that contains several parts, and an appendix – and notes that such a соmplex structure

could have been the reason for the long preparation for publication. Uspenskii also

reports on a variant of this dictionary, which contains lists of words from Manchu and

Chinese in addition to the list of Tibetan-Mongolian words (Uspenskii 1997, p. 34). As

for the authors of the dictionary, Uspenskii considered ǰanǰiy-a Aγvangčoyidan to be

one of a number of people involved in drafting the dictionary. Moreover, based on the

colophon data, Uspenskii suggests that in 1737 three translators who worked on the

edition of the “Easy to learn” supplemented the dictionary with additional parts and

published it in the same year (Uspenskii 1999, pp. 421-422). Iahontova mentions the

existence of Beijing and Buriat xylographs of “Easy to learn”, as well as a manuscript

stored in the Institute of Oriental Manuscripts (IOM), Saint Petersburg (Iahontova 2015,

p. 215). In 2015, the Beijing xylograph of “Easy to learn” was published in Köke Qota,

China as a photocopy, and it was included in the third volume of “Monuments of

Mongolian Linguistics Series” (mGonbo skyabs et al. 2015, pp. 251-630).

The National Library of Mongolia holds the Chinese and Mongolian xylographs, as well

as a manuscript2 of this dictionary (Bürnee & Bayarlah 2017, p. 47). Based on the fact

that the Mongolian xylograph is stored only in that library, and not included in the

catalogs of Mongolian books published abroad, we can assume that the Mongolian

xylograph of “Easy to learn” has been distributed in Mongolia. This is also explained by

the fact that Buddhist books were mostly published in Mongolia in Tibetan longbook

(dpe cha) format (Shagdarsüren 2001, р. 279). Since the Mongolian xylograph does not

contain a preface of 22 pages or parts of the colophon, we consider the Beijing

xylograph as the original and full text of “Easy to learn”, and the Mongolian as a copy3.

The focus here is on the Chinese xylograph.

The present article consists of two parts. First, it undertakes a comparative analysis of

the macrostructure of “Easy to learn” and the dictionaries used in its compilation. Here

the review of dictionaries used in compiling it is followed by the comparison of their

macrostructures. Second, it compares the microstructure of the work with that of the

dictionaries used in its compilation. The microstructure compares 1) the arrangement

of entries, 2) the vocabulary, 3) the meaning of words, and 4) the translation.


299

Comparative analysis of the macrostructure of “Easyto learn” and the dictionaries used in its compilation

The title of the dictionary “Easy to learn” is written in Tibetan and Mongolian on the

front cover.

Figure 1. The title of the dictionary “Easy to learn”

© mGonbo skyabs et al. 2015, p. 251 (permission to reprint is granted)


300

Figure 2. One sheet from the introduction part of the dictionary “Easy to learn”


Figure 3. One sheet from the main part of the dictionary “Easy to learn”



301

The Tibetan name of the dictionary is written vertically from top to bottom along the

lines of Mongolian letters. The full name is “Tibetan textbook for easy learning, edited

three times”4. The dictionary consists of 380 sheets, four lines each, with a paper size of

19,5x35 cm (mGonbo skyabs et al. 2015, p. 249). Vladimir L. Uspenskii notes about the

copies which are kept in the library of St. Petersburg University under the code Plg. 98,

Plg. 104, Plg. 106 that they were printed from the same wood-blocks; in some cases they

have different title labels on their covers. The dictionary under the code Plg. 106

consists of three parts, each part of which has a separate pagination. The first part is

the main part; it includes the introduction and the dictionary itself; the other two parts

are supplements (Uspenskii 1999, pp. 421-422; Kara 2000, pp. 142-143). The dictionary

that we used in our research does not have pagination. The first part is an introduction,

the second part is a list of words in alphabetical order, the third part is a list of old and

new words, the fourth part is a list of synonyms, and the fifth part consists of two

supplements. The colophon is located after the first, second, fourth and fifth parts. The

colophon of the introductory part says that it was written by ǰanǰiy-a Aγvangčoyidan

(mGonbo skyabs et al. 2015, pp. 294-295).

The second part, which consists of a list of words written in a Tibetan alphabet order,

contains 4074 words, while the total amount of words is 5524. The third part (mGonbo

skyabs et al. 2015, pp. 539-562) contains 206 old and new words, the fourth part (ibid.,

pp. 563-594) has 411 synonyms. The fifth part (ibid., pp. 599-628) consist of 833 words.

At the end of the fifth part, the authors of the “Easy to learn” wrote in Tibetan about

the eight basic and ten applied knowledges necessary to be mastered by the translators

of Buddhist literature (ibid., pp. 628-630).

The colophon in the fourth part reports on the compiler and the source used (mGonbo

skyabs et al. 2015, pp. 594-598). For example,

His lordship, reincarnation Kuvang Ting Phu Zan Kuvang Chi Dha Ku shi VagindaraSudi Siri Bhadra [Tib. Ngag dbang blo bzang chos ldan dpal bzang po], master andruler, the sun of religion by the edict of the superior saint Shenzu huangdi 神祖黃帝, and taking His Holiness’ pleasure and also appeal of ǰasaγ da-a blam-a [Tib. ja sagTA bla ma] Damba Gelong [Tib. Dam pa dge slong], composed this book. Theassistance was provided by the Tibetan school teacher Minister mGonbo skyabs

[Tib. mGon po skyabs], assistant teacher head monk Bstan ’ǰin čosdar [Tib. bsTan

’dzin chos dar], Blobsang čering [Tib. Blo bzang tshe ring], Ngag dbang pun čoγs[Tib. Ngag dbang phun tshogs], as well as an official of the third rank Abita.Using such old and new dictionaries as “A basket” [Za ma tog], “Lamp of speech” [Ngag sgron], “Ornament of speech” [sMra rgyan], “Sunlight” [Nyi ’od], “Pavilion ofcloves” [Li shi gur khang], and “Treasure of words” [Tshig gter], we have compiled adictionary that is easy to understand. We apologize to the Lama and the guardian deity for any of the three [categories] ofmistakes we may have made – defects , omissions and errors5.

From the colophon, it becomes clear to us that ǰanǰiy-a Aγvangčoyidan received a

decree from the Manchu ruler who gave the order to ǰasag da-a lama Damba Gelong.

Based on Janǰiy-a Aγvangčoyidan’s order, teachers at a Tibetan school – the head

teacher Гomboǰab and assistant teachers Bstan ’ǰin čosdar, Blobsang čering, Ngag dbang

punčoγs together with the third ranking official Abita composed the dictionary.


302

https://chinese.yabla.com/chinese-english-pinyin-dictionary.php?define=%E7%A5%9E

https://chinese.yabla.com/chinese-english-pinyin-dictionary.php?define=%E7%A5%96

Review of dictionaries used in compiling “Easy to learn”

The dictionaries that were used as the main sources are named as 1. “A basket”,

2. “Lamp of speech”, 3. “Ornament of speech”, 4. “Sunlight”, 5. “Pavilion of cloves”, and

6. “Treasure of words”. The aim of this work, as can be seen from the colophon, was to

produce a clear and easy-to-understand manual. Information on the publication and

edition is omitted in the Urga edition. This omitted part or colophon in the fifth part

states that Kengse or Yunli (24 March 1697-21 March 1738), the seventeenth son of the

Kangxi Emperor, sponsored the printing, and a teacher of the Tibetan school, translator

Bilig-ün Dalai (Tib. Shes rab rgya mtsho) from banner Urad (Ujeed Uranchimeg 2011,

pp. 265-277, 2014, pp. 95-115), translator Blo bsang bsod pa (Tib. Blo bzang bzod pa)

from Qalqa, and teachers of the Mongolian school of the Ministry of Guozijian 國子監,

Lam-a Blo bsang čoi apel (Tib. Blo bzang chos ’phel), Čoi bstan pa (Tib. Chos bstan pa),

Blo bsang damba (Tib. Blo bzang dam pa) and others added the missing words and

edited the text and printed it in the second year of Qiánlóng’s reign (1735-1796), 1737

(mGonbo skyabs et al. 2015, pp. 620-622)6.

We will briefly describe some of the dictionaries used in the compilation of “Easy to

learn”, such as “Ornament of speech”, “A basket”, “Lamp of speech”, “Sunlight”,

“Pavilion of cloves”, “Treasure of immortality”, the “Treasure of words”, and “Rosary

of pearl”.

The compiler of “Ornament of speech” is Byams gling pa bSod nams rnam rgyal

(1401-1475) or Byams gling paṇ chen bSod nams rnam rgyal. The full title of this

dictionary is “Clearly highlighting the differences of characters, classification of words,

called the ornament of speech”7 (Byams gling pa bSod nams rnam rgyal, 15th century).

It consists of three parts in 42 sheets, written in 6 lines, sheet size 51,8x8,6 cm. This

dictionary was one of the sources for “A basket” and “Lamp of speech”.

The full title of the next dictionary, “A basket”, is “A clearly-explained Śāstra of Tibetan

terms, the so-called precious basket”8. The dictionary has 29 sheets bearing six lines

each. Sheet size is 53,3x10,1 cm. The author is Rin chen Chos skyong bzang po

(1444-1527). There are many manuscripts and editions of this dictionary (Burnee 2007,

p. 372). It is based on Sanskrit lexicography and contains explanations for 223 words

(Rin chen Chos skyong bzang po 1586). It is one of the most widely-used sources for

Mongolian and Tibetan lexicographers. Thus, on the initiative of the first Qalqa Boγda

Öndör Gegegen Zanabazar (1635-1723), a group of Mongol monks led by Blam-a-yin

Gegegen Lubsangdanǰanǰancan (1639-1704) translated this work from Tibetan into

Mongolian (Bürnee 2010, pp. 61-65). There are manuscripts with intercalated

Mongolian translation, as well as separate translations. The number of words in the

dictionary is 2180, and it is therefore rather small in size. It was used by Mongol

lexicographers such as Girdi Ananda, Aγvangdandar, Girdibaǰar, and Rolbidorǰi(1717-1786) (lCang skya qutuγtu) in their works.

The full name of the “Lamp of speech” is “Śāstra called light of speech of the sages

defining the differences of Tibetan words, grouping the words”9. dPal khang Ngag

dbang chos kyi rgya mtsho compiled the dictionary in 1538 in three main parts. The

dictionary is based on Sanskrit lexicography and written in verse. In some places, the

Sanskrit equivalents are written below the Tibetan words. The Tibetan manuscript,

from the collection of the author of this paper, has 31 sheets of six lines each. Sheet size

is 54,1x9,5 cm. (dPal khang Ngag dbang chos kyi rgya mtsho 1538). The total number of


303

headwords is 3779. A few dictionaries have been composed to explain the headwords of

the dictionary “Lamp of speech”. The National Library of Mongolia has two

manuscripts of the Mongolian translation of this dictionary; however, the name of the

translator is not mentioned (Bürnee 2018, pp. 14-15).

The next dictionary is “Sunlight”. Its full name is “Little dictionary entitled ‘Light-rays

of a thousand suns for dispelling darkness from the hearts of students’”10. It was

compiled by Günγaǰamčo and included in the third volume of his four volumes of

grammar and lexicographic works. It is a Tibetan-Mongolian dictionary, with a preface

and a colophon, consisting of 104 sheets. The National Library of Mongolia keeps nine

copies of this dictionary published in Beijing. Iahontova provides a detailed description

of the differences between the two prints and the one imprint (Iahontova 2014a, p. 233,

2014b, pp. 402-434) of this dictionary. The dictionary contains more than 10 000 words

in Tibetan alphabetical order. In the preface, Günγaǰamčo mentions that the dictionary

is a continuation of the previous dictionary compiled by him under the name “Big sun”

(Tib. Nyi ma chen po). In “Big sun”, Günγaǰamčo did not identify polysemy of the

headwords, but instead mainly included narrative, interrogative and negative

sentences as examples for the headwords, resulting in a fewer number of headwords.

Thus, Günγaǰamčo intended to prepare “Sunlight” to describe the polysemy and the

direct and indirect meanings of the headwords. Günγaǰamčo was the first scholar to

arrange the headwords in alphabetical order and to apply a method of separating them

in Tibetan lexicography – a technique which Гomboǰab also applied in his dictionary11. I

shall discuss this in detail below.

The next is the “Pavilion of cloves” dictionary; its full title is “A clear explanation

entitled ‘Pavilion of cloves’ that presents the distinctions between new and old terms in

the Tibetan language”12. It was compiled in 1536 by sKyogs ston Rin chen bkra shis, the

disciple of Zha lu rin chen chos skyong bzang po. Sanskrit equivalents are provided for

some Tibetan headwords, and the words are not arranged alphabetically. The author

used the works of bCom ldan rig ral, dBus pa blo gsal, Lo chen Rin chen bzang po

(958-1055) as the main sources for his dictionary. In terms of the dictionary’s structure,

it first presents the main list of old and new words, and then it includes a few words

and expressions with Sanskrit, Chinese and Mongolian origins. The author clarified

some words which were previously interpreted by other lexicographers as old Tibetan

terms, and identified them correctly as borrowings from other languages. The

dictionary was used by lexicographers such as Rolbidorǰi and Lubsangrinčin. The

comparison of translations of old words from the “Easy to learn” dictionary with their

translations in the “Pavilion of cloves” made by Bilig-ün Dalai in 1742 shows stylistic

and semantic differences (Skyogs baγsi 1742). Based on the “Pavilion of cloves” ǰanǰiy-a

Rolbidorǰi wrote “the old and new part of the dictionary” (Mo. Sin-e qaγučin dokiyan-u

ayimaγ) in his work “The source of the wise men”. B. Ya. Vladimirtsov wrote an article

about the structure of the “Pavilion of cloves” dictionary and some specific features of

the Mongolian translation (2005, pp. 138-141).

It is believed that the dictionary of synonyms entitled “Treasure of immortality”13 was

compiled by the Indian lexicographer Amarasimha between the 6th and the 8th century.

In the 13th century, it was translated into Tibetan by Kirtichandra and Grags pa rgyal

mtshan, and was edited first by Chos skyong bzang po (1441-1528) then later by gTsug

lag chos kyi snang ba or Situ Panchen (1699-1779). Amarasimha’s dictionary was


304

translated into Tibetan verse from the Sanskrit original. Volume 205 of the Mongolian

Tanjur contains the translation of this dictionary by Gelegǰalčan.

The “Treasure of immortality” dictionary consists of three parts. The first part has ten

chapters containing words that refer to the sky, the directions, time, sound, dance, hell,

or water. The second part also consists of ten chapters and includes the names of the

earth, cities, trees, plants, animals, men, and the names of the four castes of humans.

The third part consists of five chapters and includes nouns, paronyms, miscellaneous

words, indeclinable words, and words declined by gender (Vogel 1979, p. 311; Iahontova

2010, pp. 20-21).

The “Treasure of words” is possibly a reference to “A clear interpretation of the Śāstra,

called the treasure of words”14 composed by Sakya Pandita (Sa skya paṇḍita Kun dga’

rgyal mtshan, 1182-1251). This dictionary is written in verses of seven-syllables and

consists of two chapters. The first chapter contains words belonging to the higher

world (Tib. mtho ris), while the second chapter presents words related to the

underworld (Tib. sa ’og gi sde). Sakya Pandita compiled this dictionary drawing on

Amarasimha’s dictionary, extracting words used in the Tibetan language (Sa skya

paṇḍita Kun dga’ rgyal mtshan 2007).

The next source is the work included in volume 221 of Mongolian Tanjur. The title of

this work in Sanskrit is Viśvalocana or Muktavali15. The colophon mentions the

compiler’s name – an Indian known as paṇḍita Sridharasena. This dictionary is thought

to have been composed in the first half of the 13th century (Vogel 1979, p. 349). It was

translated from Sanskrit into Tibetan by Chos kyi grags pa ye shes dpal bzang po

(1453-1524), the fourth Karmapa. It consists of two divisions and 14 chapters, as well as

several subchapters. The first part presents the names of heaven and the lower world

while the second part contains the names of the earth, cities, mountains, plants,

animals, and the names of the four varṇas. The order of names is similar to that of the

“Treasure of immortality”, that presents the names of the Buddhist deities before the

names of the Hindu deities. The number of synonyms (Tib. mngon brjod ming) is greater

than that in other dictionaries. Tshe ring dbang rgyal (1697-1763) used this dictionary

when compiling his Tibetan-Sanskrit dictionary called “Wonderful precious

necklace”16 (Vogel 1979, p. 350).

Comparison of the structure of dictionaries

The analysis of the structure of the dictionaries used in the preparation of “Easy to

learn” shows that they all consist of several parts. One similarity is that the dictionaries

of Mongolian lexicographers, as well as the “Ornament of speech”, “A basket”, and the

“Lamp of speech” dictionaries compiled by Tibetan authors include a brief explanation

of Tibetan grammar at the beginning17 and at the end18.

Table 1. Comparison of structure

Dictionary title Structure


305

“Easy to learn”

Consists of five parts:

1. Alphabet of written Tibetan, short grammar of Tibetan in the form of

introduction to the dictionary (in Mongolian)

2. Main part or Tibetan-Mongolian list of words arranged by the

traditional Tibetan lexicography

3. List of Tibetan-Mongolian old-new words

4. List of Tibetan-Mongolian synonyms (mngon brjod ming)

5. Two supplements of Tibetan-Mongolian words

“Ornament of Speech”

A spelling dictionary of

Tibetan language

(There is a Mongolian

translation)

Consists of three parts:

1. “The perfect recognition of compatibility of words” (yi ge’i sbyor ba

rnam par dbye ba)

2. “Purification of misunderstandings in combination of words” (sbyor

ba la ’khrul pa spong ba)

3. “The spelling of cases and particles” (rnam dbye dang phrad sbyor)

“A basket”


Tibetan language


translation)

Consists of the following seven parts:

1. Words without prefix

2. Words with prefix Ba

3. Words with prefix “Ga”, “Dа”

4. Words with prefix “А”

5. Words with prefix “Ма”

6. Words with superscribed letters

7. “Rules for writing subsequent words, depending on the spelling of

the previous” (sNga ma’i ming shugs kyis phyi ma ji ltar thob tshul)

“Lamp of speech”


Tibetan language


translation)

Consists of the following three parts:

1. “Detailed explanation of writing of words with prefix” (sNgon ’jug sogs

yi ge’i sbyor ba rgyas par bshad pa)

2. “Interpretation of cases and particles” (rNam dbye dang phrad sogs

bshad pa)

3. “Clearing of errors in writing of letters” (Yi ge’i sbyor ba la ’khrul pa

spong ba bshad pa)

“Sunlight”

Tibetan-Mongolian

translation dictionary

Consists of the following two parts:

1. List of Tibetan-Mongolian words

2. On the spelling of the Tibetan language

A comparison of the structure shows that “Easy to learn” consists of five parts which

are closely related to one another. This dictionary, which was compiled to teach the

Tibetan language to the Mongols, begins with a brief outline of Tibetan grammar. The

vocabulary contains words widely used in the Tibetan language, old and new words and

synonyms that are found in Tibetan Buddhist texts. The complex structure of the

dictionary can be explained by the fact that, in general, the dictionary was designed to

teach reading and translation, and for learning the Tibetan language and Tibetan

literature.


306

Comparative analysis of the microstructure of “Easy tolearn” and the source dictionaries

The Traditional Sanskrit dictionaries ’Chi med mdzod (Skt. Amarokośa) and Mu tig phreng

pa (Skt. Viśvalocana) are not alphabetical, but ideographic. The headwords are arranged

by a certain number of syllables in the form of a verse in each line. This method of

arrangement was also adopted in the Tibetan and Mongolian lexicography. For

example, the verses in which the text of the dictionary is composed have either seven

syllables (“Ornament of speech”, “A basket”, “Lamp of speech”) or nine syllables (“Easy

to learn”). This verse arrangement of words is similar to that in Sanskrit lexicography,

from which it may have been borrowed. To equalize the number of syllables in the

Tibetan text, conjunctions such as dang (Mo. ba, kiged) are introduced, as well as words

and phrases in the middle and the end of lines. The headwords are arranged in the

following order: 1) words comprising simple radical letters (rkyang), 2) words with

prefixed letters (sngon ’jug can), and 3) words with superscribed letters (mgo can). In

some dictionaries (e.g. “A basket”) headwords do not begin with the words from the

simple radical letters (rkyang) but directly from the words with the subscribed letters.

For example, the list of words headed by the radical letter Ba begins with subscribed

letters (e.g. “A Basket”). The number of words in Tibetan dictionaries is two to five

words in one line, whereas the “Easy to learn” contains three to nine words. When

comparing the order of words in dictionaries, this study finds that in “A basket”

headwords are organised not only by the order of radical letters, but also separately by

the order of prefixes. Therefore, to find words with prefixed letters, it is necessary to

search the separate part of the dictionary where the words with prefixed letters are

listed. By arranging words with prefixed letters, lexicographers did not prioritize the

alphabetical order but followed the traditional method of classification of Tibetan

letters by gender, described in the grammar of Tomi Sambodha, such as Ba - masculine

(pho), Ga, Da - neuter (ma ning), ’A - feminine (mo), Ma - very feminine (shin tu mo) (Tshe

tan zhabs drung 1994, p. 210).

“A basket” does not include radical letters such as Nga, Na, Dza, Ya, La, Ha, A, while

dictionaries by Mongolian lexicographers such as “Sunlight” and “Easy to learn”

contain headwords that are all listed by simple radical letters. In “Lamp of speech” we

can find the shortened version of the extensive structure of “A basket”. For example,

six chapters from “A basket” are arranged in one chapter, presenting contents on

spelling issues in the next two chapters. Consequently, words with simple and stacked

letters (subscripts and superscripts) are not listed in separate chapters but within one

definite head letter, arranging words with prefix letters alphabetically. This method

was more convenient for locating words in comparison with the previous dictionary.

The main difference between “A basket” and “Lamp of speech” was that the latter made

the dictionary easier to use. Tibetan words consist of one to four or more syllables.

Usually in Tibetan dictionaries, words are listed under the radical letter of the first

syllable. One syllable can consist of several letters including prefix, radical, superscript

letter, vowel, subscript letter, and suffix. The composition of the syllables is taken into

account in the arrangement of words in dictionaries.


307

Arrangement of headwords

In the second part of the “Easy to learn” dictionary, words are arranged in the

following order:

a. syllables containing only simple radical letters: ka ra, ka ba

b. syllables containing radical letters with vowels: ku shu, ku ya

c. syllables containing radical letters with vowels and affixes: keng rus

d. syllables containing radical letters with a subscript letter and an affix

[words with subscript letter ya as d.1, words with subscript letter ra as d.2, words with

subscript letter la as d.3. For example, kyal ka (d.1), krab krab (d.2), klad pa (d.3)]

e. syllables containing a prefix, a radical letter (simple letter and subscript letter) and

an affix: dkar, dkyus, dkris

f. syllables containing a radical letter with a superscript letter (with vowel and affix):

rka, rkang, rkub, and

g. syllables containing radical letter with subscript and superscript letter: skya rengs,

skya ka.

This study compares below how this order is observed in Tibetan dictionaries.

Table 2. Comparison of Word Order by Letters in Syllables

Dictionaries

Word order“Easy to

learn”

“Ornament of

speech”

“A

basket”

“Lamp of

speech”

The order of words with simple

radical and subscript lettersаbcd bаcbd аbcabcd cdadadab

The order of words with subscribed

lettersd.1, d.2, d.3

d.1, d.2, d.1, d.2, d.

3

d.2, d.1, d.

3d.3, d.2, d.1

Table 2 shows that in “Easy to learn” the word order by syllable formation is more

consistent throughout the dictionary than in “Ornament of speech”, “A basket”, or

“Lamp of speech”. The similarity between the Tibetan and Mongolian dictionaries is

that the headwords are presented within a verse. On the other hand, they differ in that

the Tibetan lexicographers considered phrases and particles as parts of the word-

combinations, thus counting them as headwords, while “Easy to learn” lists headwords

within phrases separately as independent headwords. Therefore, phrases in Tibetan

authors’ dictionaries are highlighted as headwords, and then only within them are the

actual words or particles distinguished. This procedure is most likely intended to

demonstrate the structure of Tibetan words, and to present the polysemy and the

meanings of terms through the use of phrases. The following table shows the location

of headwords in the dictionaries.

Table 3. Comparison of location of headwords

Dictionaries


308

Letters“Ornament of

speech” “A basket” “Lamp of speech” “Easy to learn”

Ka

1.1 ka lan ta ka’i

tshal bzhugs shing

(Kalandaka’s park

is existing)

2.1 glang chen

thal kar yungs

kar za

(White

elephant is

eating white

mustard)

3.1 sgron ka dpyid

ka gnyis ka’i dus

(Autumn spring of

both times)

4.1 kar yol kar chag kan

rtsa kun mkhyen kun

(Porcelain index pulse

under the finger the

Omniscient One all)

kra

1.2 krog krog ’gro

dang krab krab

’krab

(Go giving sound

tog tog and sound

of stamping)

2.2 krog krog

sgra skad

lham krad

dang

(Sound of tog

tog shoe’s sole)

3.2 dka’ ’grel dkrigs

phrag dkan gzar po

(Explaining difficult

points a number

with 17 zero’s steep

place)

4.2 dkyu sar dkyus dang

dkyel che dkrugs dkrogs

dkrong

(Race track extend wide

smashed yielded

execute)

kya

1.3 mgo bo kyog

kyog bsgyur ba

dang

(To tilt a head

and)

2.3 ’on kyang

khyod kyis

lcags kyus

btab

(But only you

to catch with a

hook)

3.3 mdog dkar dkyel

che spyan skyus

ring

(White colour wide

oval eyes)

4.3 krab krab krong

krong krog krog kla klo

kyu

(Sound of stamping

through and through

gives singing sound of

wind barbarian hook)

Number of

headwords4 5 7 14

Table 3 illustrates the fact that dictionaries by Tibetan lexicographers do not present

headwords separately in columns as in modern dictionaries, but instead provide the

headwords inside phrases and sentences. In one line, headwords separated by a vertical

line (shad) are at the beginning (1.1) and in the middle (1.3) of sentences. Moreover, it is

not only simple words but also particles (2.1- kar, 2.3- kyang, 3.1- ka) that are selected as

headwords. If Tibetan dictionaries have one to three words in one line, “Easy to learn”

has four to six words choosing words and phrases as headwords. That is, the number of

headwords in one line is superior to those in Tibetan dictionaries. This corresponds to

the method of modern dictionaries, which values the placement of a large amount of

information in a small space.

This study compared words under the letter nya as an example to illustrate the ratio of

words and phrases in each dictionary. “Easy to learn” has 237 headwords, 49 of which

are phrases (20,6%) and 188 are words (79,4%). Similarly, “Sunlight” has 306 headwords

under the letter nya, of which 119 are phrases (39%), indicating the predominance of

words over phrases.

In contrast, “A basket” and “Lamp of speech” have more phrases than words. This

difference is related to the purpose of compiling dictionaries. Introducing new words

with relevant phrases together with their translations is the core in teaching a foreign

language. Thus, the dictionaries of Tibetan authors are educational dictionaries


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compiled for Tibetans, while the dictionaries of Mongolian compilers are designed to

teach the Mongols the Tibetan language.

This study presents further improvement of the Sanskrit and Tibetan method of

headword arrangement in “Easy to learn” compared to “Sunlight”. The supplements of

the “Easy to learn” dictionary include 833 words that are separated from one another

by a vertical line (shad). This method of word arrangement was first used by a

Mongolian lexicographer, Günγaǰamčo, and differs from the traditional Tibetan

lexicographic method of word arrangement. Günγaǰamčo first arranged headwords in

alphabetical order as in modern dictionaries, and also emphasized words and phrases

by separating them with a vertical stroke (shad) in order to facilitate the search of

Tibetan words.

On page 98а of the colophon he writes:

Although there are many dictionaries compiled by the sages and they cover a vastnumber of words, because they are difficult for finding words modern stupid peoplelike me find them difficult to use, and this was the reason for me to write the thirdwork19.

This quote states that dictionaries published before 1718 were difficult to use, and that

Günγaǰamčo accordingly aimed to simplify the word search. Consequently, he placed

headwords with prefixed letters before words with vowels, after the words with

subscribed and superscribed letters, then finally placed words with the second affix at

the end, in contrast to what was done in the previous dictionaries. This method of

arranging simple and stacked letters was not adopted by the compilers of “Easy to

learn”. They preferred the method of Tibetan lexicographers, who arranged the words

with prefixes before the words with superscribed letters – a method later embraced by

Mongolian lexicographers.

M. Viehbeck considers the Tibetan-Tibetan dictionary entitled Ming tshig gsal ba (1949),

composed by the Mongolian Lama Čoyidaγ, to be the first alphabetical Tibetan

dictionary (Viehbeck 2016, pp. 469-489). Also, the preface to this dictionary, published

in 1981 with Chinese interlinear translation, mentions that it is the first dictionary of

the modern type (Chos kyi grags pa 1981, p. 3). It shows that Čoyidaγ composed his

dictionary on the basis of traditional Tibetan and Mongolian lexicography (Burnee

2019b, p. 203). We think that the practice of highlighting the headwords and separating

headwords from the other words arranged in a given line of verse was adopted from

previous Tibetan and Mongolian lexicographers. However, the placement of the

headwords in columns on a new line was perhaps the impact of western lexicographers

(Viehbeck 2016).

Vocabulary

The third part of “Easy to learn”20 presents old and new words and synonyms.

Concerning their choice of old and new words, the compilers wrote that these words

were “selected and written in an accessible form from the collected dictionaries of

new-archaic words” (Mo. dokiyan-u bičig sine qaγučin olan-i neyilegülüged tegüǰü medeküi-

tür kimda bolγan bičigsen). The main source for this section was the “Pavilion of cloves”

dictionary, which contains predominantly old and new words followed by some

borrowings from the Sanskrit, Chinese, and Mongolian, as well as concepts from the

Bon religion. Although the “Pavilion of cloves” dictionary is called “the dictionary of


310

new and old words”, the headwords are sometimes archaic terms, to which equivalent

new words are assigned. This dictionary was translated from the Tibetan language by

Bilig-ün Dalai and published in 174221. The following excerpt shows that the dictionary

was translated based on the demands of the time:

In accordance with repeated requests to translate by the intelligent gelong Blobzang chos ’phel, [this dictionary] which provides understanding of old and newwords [occurring] in the old and new translations of the Victorious [Buddha’s]sermons, was translated into Mongolian by an undistinguished gelong from the

Urad [ayimaγ] Bilig-ün Dalai, the Da lama of the Songzhusi Monastery, whoconsulted many wise men. (Bürnee 2018, pp. 15-16)

Consequently, the “Pavilion of cloves” has been used by the Mongols as a bilingual

Tibetan-Mongolian dictionary. Thus, this study examines lexicographical features of

this dictionary. The headwords are highlighted by the particle ni, which is translated

into Mongolian as anu, inu. Other examples include “only is merely” (Tib. sha dag ni sha

stag; Mo. onča anu imaγta) and “action is work” (Tib. phyang yar ni ’phrin las; Mo. üiles inu

üile). The headwords are explained by two or more synonyms. For example, “side is

corner and back” (Tib. snam logs ni zur dang rgyab; Mo. qoyitu eteged inü öncög ba aru)

(Skyogs baγsi 1742, p. 6а), “oblique is side and across and upside down, in the Ten

Stages Sūtra22 is explained as being without order” (Tib. snrel ni logs sam ’phred dam ’chol

pa mdo sde sa bcu par bshad go rim du mi gnas pa – Mo. köndelen inü qaǰiγu ba köndelen ba

soliqu arban γaǰar tai yin sudur-a nomlaǰuqui ǰerge ber ülü orosiqu) (Skyogs baγsi 1742, p. 6b)

and so on.

The compilers of “Easy to learn” chose over two hundred commonly-used words from

around a thousand main words in the “Pavilion of cloves” dictionary. Then, following

the Sanskrit and Tibetan lexicographic principle, the authors placed these words in

lines of seven-syllable verse. For example, the sentence yod do cog dang ’gyur ro cog lta

bu’i cog ni mtha’ dag gi don from the “Pavilion of cloves” dictionary is divided into two

lines, “the word cog means existing all” (Tib. yod do cog gi cog yig ni; Mo. bui ele kemekü

yin ele üsüg ni), “means everything all as much as there” (Tib. ci yod mtha’ dag zhes pa’i

don; Mo. ker bükü bügüde čöm kemegsen-ü sanaγ-a). Here, the expression “and as all

translations” (Tib. dang ’gyur ro cog lta bu’i) is excluded and the expressions “as much as

there is” (Tib. ci yod), “so called” (Tib. zhes pa’i) are added. From the expression Bsgo ba

rnar gzon ā dzṇya bi ti tha na pa ni bsgo ba la mi nyan pa excluded interline Sanskrit

expression ā dzṇya bi ti tha na pa, and reduced in “unpleasant to the ear is not hear”

(Tib. rnar gzon pa ni mi nyan pa; Mo. čikin-ü ulig kemekü inü čingnaqu), “hide is to keep

secret, conceal” (Tib. ’chab pa gsang ba ’am sped pa ste; Mo. daldalaqu inu niγuqu buyu

daruqu).

Over sixty headwords are transliterated, and the rest are translated. The equivalent

Mongolian expressions are matched to the old and new Tibetan words, such as “to say

is to tell” (Tib. bgro ba glang; Mo. kelelekü inü kelekü). Based on historical Mongolian

grammar, the expression kelelekü is an older expression than kelekü, where the suffix -le

is omitted in the modern language, cf. gol–golloh, gal–gallah, bal–ballah.

The fourth part of the “Easy to learn” dictionary includes “clear explanation of words”

(iletü ögülekü ner-e) or synonyms. This term is a translation of the Tibetan expression

mngon brjod ming, which in turn is a translation of the Sanskrit expression abhidhāna.

These are the names of inanimate objects and phenomena, as well as the proper names


311

of the heavens and deities, which are given based on their external features of

structure, form and content.

Since they are different names of the same object or phenomenon, they are effectively

synomyms. They are the subject of one of the five minor sciences, the “science of clear

interpretation”. Since these names are widely used in Buddhist literature, especially in

poetics and astrology, the compilers of “Easy to learn” found it necessary to include

them in their dictionary. They write that they “chose the most widely used

expressions” (aldarsiγsan-i tobči-yin tedüi quriyaγsan deb deger-e yeke keregtei) (mGonbo

skyabs et al. 2015, p. 587). The authors refer to other dictionaries such as “Treasure of

words”, “Treasure of immortality” and “Rosary of pearl” for those who wish to know

more.

In “Easy to learn”, more than 360 expressions for the names of over ninety objects and

phenomena were selected and translated and presented in seven-syllable verse.

Whereas the Sanskrit dictionaries begin by listing the names of the heavens, the

Tibetan dictionaries first give the names of buddhas and bodhisattvas, and only then

the names of the heavens. The order of names in “Easy to learn” is as follows – the

names of buddhas and bodhisattvas, the names of heavens and asuri, names associated

with humans – with the body, senses, types of jewelry – as well as animals and plants,

the numbers from one to twelve and the names of the sixty-year cycle. Although the

compilers do not mention it, the “Decoration of the sage’s ears” (Tib. mKhas pa’i rna

rgyan) dictionary, compiled in 1521 by Rin spungs pa Ngag dbang ’jig rten dbang phyug

grags pa, was used for this section in “Easy to learn”. For example, the comparison of

the twelve names of the Buddha in the later dictionaries shows that the “Decoration of

the sage’s ears” dictionary is most likely to be the source used by the authors (Rin

spungs pa Ngag dbang ’jig rten dbang phyug 1999, p. 6).

Table 4. Twelve names of Buddhas in the dictionaries

No. “Easy to learn”“Treasure of

immortality”

“String of

pearls”

“Treasure of

word”

“Decoration of the

sage’s ears”

1

“The Leader”

(Tib. rnam ’dren;

Mo. teyin uduriduγči)

+ + _ +

2

“Well-departed”

(Tib. bder gshegs;

Mo. sayibar oduγsan)

+ + + +

3

“Thus come”

(Tib. de bzhin gshegs;

Mo. tegünčilen

iregsen)

+ + + +

4

“Great ubadini”

(Tib. dge sbyong chen

po;

Mo. yeke ubadini)

_ _ _ +


312

5

“God of gods”

(Tib. lha’i lha;

Mo. tngri yin tngri)

_ _ _ +

6

“King of the

teaching”

(Tib. chos rgyal,

Mo. nom un qaγan)

+ + + +

7

“Omniscient”

(Tib. thams cad

mkhyen;

Mo. qamuγ-i

ayiladuγči)

+ + + +

8

“Good for all”

(Tib. kun bzang;

Mo. qamuγ-a sayin)

+ + + +

9

“Victoriuos”

(Tib. rgyal ba;

Mo. ilaγuγsan)

+ + + +

10

“The victorious one,

Bhagavan”

(Tib. bcom ldan ‘’das;

Mo. ilaǰu tegüs

nogčigsen)

+ + + +

11

“The lord of sages”

(Tib. thub dbang,

Mo. čidaγči yin erketü)

+ + + +

12

“A teacher”

(Tib. ston pa,

Mo. üǰegülügči baγsi)

+ + _ +

Table 4 shows that the epithets of the Buddha, dGe sbyong chen po and lHa’i lha appear

only in the “Decoration of the sage’s ears” dictionary23. Authors of the “Easy to learn”

don’t follow the opinion of the author of “Decoration of the sage’s ears”, so they regard

these expressions as common epithet of the Buddha. Perhaps in this case they adhere

to the dictionary “Mahāvyutpatti”, in which the epithets of Buddha and Buddha

Śākyamuni are not separated, but are considered in the same list (Sárközi 1995,

pp. 3-7).

“Easy to learn” and “Treasure of words” both have one of the synonyms of Buddha

“Omniscient” (thams cad mkhyen), which indicates their similarity. In the “Easy to

learn”, the synonym of Maitreya is listed before the synonym of Mañjuśrī, which is

dissimilar to the dictionary “Decoration of the sage’s ears”.

In “Easy to learn”, the name of the deities is associated with a human such as father,

mother, beautiful wife, and names of the senses appear. Probably here the authors


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considered the location of the human among the “six categories of living beings”

(Tib. ’gro ba rigs drug) after deities and asuras.

Some synonyms are not present in other dictionaries, such as “holy teaching” (Tib. dam

pa’i cho;, Mo. degedü yin nom), “to be ordained, to be consecrated” (Tib. bsnyen par rdzogs

pa; Mo. ayaγ-a tekimlig boloγsan), and “upper monk or lama” (Tib. bla ma; Mo. degedü

baγsi). The synonyms in the “Decoration of the sage’s ears” are most similar to “Easy to

learn”, compared with the dictionaries of synonyms, such as “Treasure of immortality”

(Amarasimha, 18th century, p. 255) and “String of Pearls” (Sridharasena, 18th century,

pp. 142-143).

Highlighting the meaning of a word

This section examines how lexicographers distinguished the meanings of the

headwords. In the “Lamp of speech”, along with the headword “all, entire” (Tib. kun),

there are expressions “from every place, wholly” (Tib. kun nas), “in all, everywhere”

(Tib. kun tu), which are located separately from the headword and are at the end of the

list of simple graphemes. In contrast, in “Easy to learn”, multiple meanings of the

headword “all, entire” (Tib. kun), such as “a general rising, conception, idea” (Tib. kun

slong; Mo. edügülbüri, sanaγan-u čig), “sin, that which binds all” (Tib. kun dkris; Mo. nigül,

bükün-eče oriyaγdaγsan) are located in one line.

The dictionary “A basket” lists an expression “asafoetida is medicine” (Tib. shing kun

sman yin) where the word kun does not have an independent meaning, but plays the

role of a word-forming prefix. In addition, kun’s main meaning is presented only in the

expression “plural name for kun” (mang tshig kun). However, here, this kun headword is

not listed in the beginning but at the end.

The word “copious, abundant” (klas) is found in dictionaries “A basket” and “Lamp of

speech” as part of the composition of the phrases “limitless” (’byams klas), “unlimited”

(mtha’ klas), whereas in “Easy to learn” it is present in the form of the headword listed

separately. Moreover, in “Easy to learn” these expressions are arranged in alphabetical

order of the first syllable, that is, mtha’ klas is under the letter Tha and is a phrase-

polysemy to the title word “the end, edge” (mtha’); the expression ’byams klas is under

the letter Ba, and is also a polysemy to the title word “flow” (byams), which is dictated

in order to identify the main meaning of the headword.

In “A basket”, the word “body” (sku, resp. for lus) appears in the following four phrases:

(1) “birth of great man” (sku bltams), (2) “relics, remains” (sku gdung), (3) “person’s

body” (lus kyi sku), and (4) “Tathāgata’s body” (de bzhin gshegs pa sku). The capital words

in these phrases are arranged on the basis of the main radical letter under the

following letters: bltams (1)- Ta, gdung (2)- Da, sku (3), (4)- Ka. In the supplementary part,

words with prefixes Ba (bltams) and Ga (gdung) are in a separate list of words with

prefixes; that is, the headwords are arranged in three separate parts. From the above-

mentioned example, the word sku in four phrases is seen as the respectful term for the

body. “Easy to learn” gives the following examples with the headword sku: “body” (sku),

“image” (Tib. sku ’dra; Mo. körög), “a sacrificial ceremony” (Tib. sku rim; Mo. gürim),

“refresh a body” (Tib. sku khams seng; Mo. bey-e sergegekü), “master, sir” (Tib. sku gzhogs;

Mo. gegen-ü dergede), “in front of the saint” (Tib. sku mdun; Mo. gegen-ü emün-e), “saint’s

robe” (Tib. sku chos; Mo. gegen-ü nom tu debel), and “saint’s relative” (Tib. sku nye;

Mo. gegen-ü töröl).


314

In the supplement to the headword, sku is given three new meanings as “image”, “a

sacrificial ceremony”, “saint” and five phrases as “refresh a body”, “master, sir”, “in

front of the saint”, “saint’s robe”, and “saint’s relative”, which clarify the main

meaning of the word. The authors of the dictionary took into account that the division

of words into meanings and defining word meanings through phrases plays an

important role in the teaching of Tibetan vocabulary and grammar as well as serving in

making translations from Tibetan. When denoting polysemy in “Easy to learn”, the

headword re-writing method is used, as well as locating polysemy under one headword.

For example, the headword rgod is repeated three times, according to the number of

meanings: “laughter” (Tib. rgod; Mo. iniyekü), “wild” (Tib. rgod; Mo. ǰerlig), and “mare”

(Tib. rgod ma; Mo. geü). If the word is part of other phrases, it is arranged in

alphabetical order by its first syllable. In “Easy to learn”, this study also considers the

highlighting of the grammatical meaning. For example, in contrast to Tibetan

dictionaries, different tenses of verbs – present, past, future, and imperative form – are

presented, for instance, “fulfill” (Tib. skong, bskang; Mo. qangγaqu, güičedgekü) (present),

“fulfilled” (Tib. bskangs; Mo. qangγaba) (past), “to be born” (Tib. skye: Mo. törökü)

(future), and “was born” (Tib. skyes; Mo. törögsen) (past). In “A basket”, the verb tenses

are composed of phrases. For example, “fulfill desire” (thugs dam skong), “to fill up” (kha

bskangs); “born of body” (skye sku), “origin and cessation” (skye ’gag), “born from the

earth” (sa nas skyes), “born early” (sngon skyes so), and so on. In “A Basket”, verb tenses

are arranged in word combinations.

Translation

“Easy to learn” is a Tibetan-Mongolian dictionary and its translation method has

similarities with both early and later translation methods from Sanskrit into Tibetan.

The early practice of translation in Tibet incorporated Sanskrit words without

translating them. Then from the 9th century, the Tibetan lo tsa ba (or Sanskrit-Tibetan

translators of Buddhist texts) adopted the policy of avoiding the incorporation of

Sanskrit words as loan-words (Roerich 1967, p. 248). Similarly, the early Tibetan-

Mongolian translators did not translate Buddhist terms into Mongolian but rather

incorporated Sanskrit, Uyghur, or Tibetan loan-words. Then, in the 16th-18th centuries,

the general tendency was that Mongol authors avoided loan-words and rather

translated Tibetan terms into Mongolian. The “Easy to learn” dictionary, however,

contains both the practices of incorporating loan-words (particularly, the names of

plants, the terms of the five major and minor sciences, religious terms) and also

translations into Mongolia.

Table 5. Comparison of Tibetan terms translation in two dictionaries

Tibetan Terms Translation

Dictionary title dge ’dun dge slong dge tshul dge bsnyen

“Sunlight” quvaraγ dge slong dge tshul ubasi

“Easy to learn”a. bursang quvaraγ,

b. buyani küsegčid

a. buyan erigci,

b. ayaγ-atekimlig

a. buyan-u yosotu,

b. gecul

a. buyan-a sidar

b. ubasi


315

The terms dge ’dun and dge slong incorporated Uyghur (bursang quvaraγ, ayaγ-a tekimlig),

Sanskrit (ubasi) and Tibetan (dge slong, dge tshul, gečul) words. Moreover, the translation

of terms into Mongolian, such as “wish for virtue” (buyan-i küsegčid), “to cause virtue to

arise” (buyan erigci), “with method of virtue” (buyan-u yosotu), and “to come near

virtue” (buyan-a sidar) indicates a tendency to avoid borrowing. The translation of the

headword is a reflection of its meaning; for example, the expression skal med is

translated as “unfortunate” (qubi ügei) in “Sunlight”, while in “Easy to learn” as

“faithless” (süsūg ügei). That is, the concept of good luck and prosperity is associated

with belief; he who believes that is prosperous. In the “Large Tibetan-Chinese

dictionary” (Krang dbyi sun 1986, p. 117), this expression is explained as bsod nams med.

bSod nams corresponds to the Sanskrit punya, and is borrowed into the Mongolian

language. It is explained as the “result of a good action forming good karma” (Roerich

1987). It would seem that the meaning of this word is explained in “Easy to learn” from

the perspective of the Buddhist religion.

The translation of headwords in “Easy to learn” is sometimes broader than the meaning

in other dictionaries and is given in context. So, for example, the word bsnun gives the

following expressions: 1) “to pierce to the heart” (gnad bsnun) 2) “to suckle” nu ma

bsnun, and 3) “to prick” (mtshon bsnun), while the headword snun has two meanings in

the “Large Tibetan-Chinese dictionary”: “pricking”, and “breastfeeding”.

Conclusion

Tibetan-Mongolian dictionaries, which were compiled over several centuries by

Mongolian lexicographers, served as important guides for the translation of Buddhist

works written in Tibetan. Among these dictionaries, the dictionary composed by

Гomboǰab et al., “Easy to learn”, stands out for its structure, coverage of grammatical

and lexical material, and lexicographic method of compilation. The complex structure

of the dictionary is explained by the fact that its aim was multifaceted to serve as 1) a

guide for the learning of the Tibetan alphabet and grammar, 2) a manual for studying

both active and passive vocabulary, secular and religious words, and 3) a translation

manual. All the dictionaries that Гomboǰab et al. used, namely the dictionaries compiled

by Indian, Tibetan, and Mongolian scholars, were carefully studied and all the

achievements in these dictionaries were accepted by Mongolian lexicographers. Based

on the study of the dictionary “Easy to learn” as a source of Tibetan-Mongolian

lexicographic relationship, we may conclude that the Tibetan word arrangement

method, the choice of a headword, the headword location method, and the

interpretation are improved in the works of Mongolian lexicographers.

The dictionary “Easy to learn” has been an important guide for the translation of

Tibetan literature into Mongolian. Proof of this is the fact that Mongolian

lexicographers used this dictionary for several centuries when compiling their

dictionaries.


316

Acknowledgements

This research was supported by National University of Mongolia project

no. P2016-1122. I thank Prof. Ts. Shagdarsüren and Graduate student S. Hongorzul for

their advice and assistance.

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317

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http://www.tbrc.org/eBooks/W23703-1513-253-487-abs.pdf

http://www.tbrc.org/eBooks/W23703-1513-253-487-abs.pdf

http://www.tbrc.org/eBooks/W23703-1530-142-328-any.pdf




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NOTES

1. In addition to bilingual dictionaries, monolingual Tibetan-Tibetan (Bürnee 2005, 2019a) and

multilingual dictionaries are known. Aγvandandar's dictionaries “The necklace of the sages” (Blo

gsal mgrin can) and “New dawn” (sKya rengs gsar ba) are monolingual. The first is a dictionary of

old and new words when the second is spelling. In terms of multilingual dictionaries, the


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trilingual Manchu-Mongolian-Chinese thematic dictionary (Mo. Qaγan-u bičigsen manǰu mongγol

kitad ūsūg γurban ǰüil-ūn ayalγu neyilegsen toli bičig) was compiled in 1745. Subsequently, a four-

language dictionary was compiled, supplying each Manchu word with Tibetan, Mongolian, and

Chinese translations (18th-19th centuries) (Munhtsetseg 2016, pp. 71-82). The Pentaglot Manchu-

Tibetan-Mongolian-Uyghur-Chinese dictionary (Mo. Qaγan-u bičigsen tabun ǰüil-ūn ūsūg-iyer

qabsuruγsan toli bičig) was compiled around 1794 (Corff 2017).

Bilingual Tibetan-Mongolian dictionaries are alphabetic; most of the vocabulary is religious. In

contrast, multilingual dictionaries are thematic and are dominated by words of a secular nature.

We have not yet found any Mongolian-Tibetan dictionaries compiled by the Mongols. Mongolian

book catalogs contain Mongolian-Tibetan dictionaries, which are translations of Tibetan

dictionaries (Bürnee 2018).

2. The manuscript is an incomplete copy of a Mongolian-style xylograph that is kept at the

National Library of Mongolia.

3. In the Mongolian xylograph, we can see corrections of spelling errors in Mongolian translation

from the Beijing xylograph. For example, üsün corrected to usun or “water”, tusul to tasul or

“cut”, and qardur to γartu or “on the hand”. We can also find additions to the Mongolian

translation in the Mongolian xylograph. For example: “power” (γang sang) is added to the

translation of the Tibetan word mnga’ thang, “appearance” (γadar öngge) to the Tibetan expression

mngon mtshan and so forth.

4. Tib. Bod kyi brda yig rtogs par sla ba zhes bya ba bcos khul gyi zhus dag gsum song ba bzhugs so;

Mo. Töbed üge kilbar surqu bičig γurba sigüü ǰasaγsan orosibai.

5. Mo. Erketü ǰüg-ün sasin-u naran boloγsan baγsi qubilγan beyetü Erdeni Kuvang Ting Phu Zan Kuvang

Chi dhA Ku shi Vagindara Sudi Siri Bhadra dharmaman (in Tibetan, ngag dbang blo bzang chos ldan dpal

bzang po)-yin gegen-ber degedü boγda zengcu huvangdi-yin ǰarliγ-iyаr ǰöbsiyen soyurqaγsan-i aslan?

abuγad ǰasaγ da blam-a damba gelong duraduγsan-dur sitüǰü ǰokiyaǰu qаyiralaγsan sastir dur tüsig dem-

ün yosuγar töbed surγaγuli-yin ǰakin surγaγči (spyi spon) sayid mgon po skyabs kiged qamsan surγaγči Da-

a blam-a Bstan ǰin čosdar Blobsang čering Ngag dbang pun čoγs γutaγar ǰerge-yin tüsimel Abita tan luγ-a

Ngag sgron sMra rgyan Za ma tog Li shi Tshig gter terigüten dokiyan-u bičig sine qaγičin olan-i

neyilegülüged tegüǰü medeküi-tür kimda bolγan bičigsen egün-dür ülegsen tasuraγsan endegüregsen

γurban ǰüil terigüten gem kedüi činege aγsan-i čöm blam-a idam kiged medel tegüsügsen nuγud-tur

küličel-ün öčimüi (mGonbo skyabs et al. 2015).

6. The Mongolian edition contains only the first part of the colophon that described how the

dictionary board is prepared for printing (Heissig 1954, pp. 74-75); the main part of the colophon

is omitted.

7. Tib. Brda’i bye brag rnam par dbye ba’i tshig le’ur byas pa smra ba’i rgyan. The manuscript.

8. Tib. Bod kyi brda'i bstan bcos legs par bshad pa rin po che'i za ma tog bkod pa zhes bya ba bzhugs so;

the manuscript of the Mongolian translation entitled Töbed-ün dokiyan-u sastir-a sayitur nomlaγsan

erdeni-yin oki qaγurčaγ ǰokiyaγsan kemekü orosibai is stored in the National Library of Mongolia, call

number 12424.

9. Tib. Bod kyi brda'i bye brag gsal bar byed pa'i bstan bcos tshig le'ur byas pa mkhas pa'i ngag gi sgron

me; Mo. Тöbed-ün dokiyan-u ilγal tododqan üyiledügči sastar üges-i bölöglen üiledügsen merged-ün kelen-

ü ǰula.

10. Tib. Dag yig chung ngu gdul bya'i snying mun sel byed nyi ma stong gi 'od zer zhes bya ba bzhugs so;

the manuscript of the Mongolian translation entitled Тöbed-ün dokiyan-u ilγal tododqan üiledügči

sastir üges-i bölöglen üiledügsen merged-ün kelen-ü ǰula is stored in the National Library of Mongolia,

call number 12434/97.

11. The “Easy to learn” dictionary corrects the spelling of Tibetan words in the “Sunlight”

dictionary. For example, rog is corrected as rogs or “friend”, gcan zan as gcan gzan or “animal”.


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Mongolian words are also amended. For example, usudqari is changed to uyidqari “grief”, dge slong

to gelong or “Buddhist monk”, omtan to nomtan or “pious”, to mention a few.

12. Tib. Bod kyi skad las gsar rnying gi brda'i khyad par ston pa legs par bshad pa li shi'i gur khang zhes

bya ba bzhugs; Mo. Töbed kelen-ü sin-e qaγučin ayalγus-un ilγal-i üǰegülegči sayin ügetü lisi-yin ordu

qarsi kemegdekü orosibai.

13. Sa. Amarokośa, Tib. ’Chi ba med pa'i mdzod ces bya ba bzhugs so; Mo. Ükül ügei sang neretü sastir-a.

14. Tib. Mngon brjod kyi bstan bcos tshig gi gter.

15. Tib. Mngon brjod kyi bstan bcos sna tshogs gsal rab zhes pa ming gzhan mu tig phreng pa; Mo. Ilete

ögülekü-yin sastir eldeb ǰüil-i toduraγulaγči subud erike.

16. Tib. Ngo mtshar nor bu’i do shal.

17. In “Easy to learn” it is only in the beginning.

18. In “Sun light” it is only at the end.

19. Uridu čaγ-un olan merged-ber ǰokiyaγsan-u dag yig olan bui bolbaču merged tedeger ber ǰokiyaγsan-u

dag yig tedeger nuγud-ača anu üǰüg-ün oroqui-yin yoson tedeger anu delgerünggüi bui böged bui bolbaču

eriküi-ber olqu berke-yin tula edüge čaγ-un erketen moqudaγ nuγud bi metü-ber qurdun-a eriküi ba üǰekü

tedüi ber anu olqu (98a) kilbar-un tulada anu üǰüg-ün qubi γurban-i anu nayiraγuluγsan bolai

(Günγaǰamčo 1718, p. 97b-98а). This dictionary is the third in his lexicographical work which

consists of four parts (Iahontova 2017, p. 353).

20. A few dozen Sanskrit words can be found in the dictionary “Easy to learn”. Most foreign

words are common words used everyday, such as the names of flowers, trees, and jewelry.

Besides, there are words from Buddhism, such as deities, buddhas, and bodhisattvas.

Dialectal elements are observed from words and expressions in the dictionary “Easy to learn”,

such as ǰontoraγ (Tib. shan- Qalqa dialect gem) which means “fault”, kilong saba (Tib. dkar yol- Qalqa

dialect šileng saba) which means “porcelain”, and γudusu (Tib. lham- Qalqa dialect γutul) which

means “boot”, and the list goes on.

21. The manuscript of the “Pavilion of cloves” dictionary is kept in the National Library of

Mongolia. In addition, the IOM library keeps a manuscript of the dictionary, compiled in

alphabetical order by the Mongols for their own usage (Iahontova 2014a, p. 209)

22. The Sutra about the ten stages of saintly perfection of the bodhisattva according to the

Mahāyāna tradition (Das 1977).

23. The "+" sign indicates a presence of synonym and the "-" sign indicates an absence of

synonym.

ABSTRACTS

“Easy to learn” is the title of a Tibetan-Mongolian dictionary composed by Гomboǰab

(Cl. Mo. mGonbo skyabs) et al. in 1737 for the purpose of teaching the Tibetan language to

Mongols. Through a comparative analysis of its macro- and microstructures with related

dictionaries, this paper finds that this dictionary was composed based on a Sanskrit and Tibetan

lexicography, describes its distinctive lexicographic methodology, and illustrates how this source

represents the Mongolian and Tibetan lexicographic relationships.

Le dictionnaire intitulé « Facile à apprendre » composé par Гomboǰab (mong. cl. mGonbo skyabs)

et al. en 1737 était une source importante de la lexicographie des dictionnaires tibétains et


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mongols. Ce dictionnaire a été rédigé dans le but d’enseigner le tibétain aux apprenants mongols.

Dans cet article, nous procédons à une analyse comparative macro et microstructurelle avec des

dictionnaires connexes, qui permet de révéler que « Facile à apprendre » s’inspire de la

lexicographie sanskrite et tibétaine, que chaque partie reflète une méthodologie lexicographique

distincte et que cette source représente les relations lexicographiques mongoles et tibétaines.

INDEX

Keywords: dictionary, macrostructure, microstructure, lexicography, tradition, innovation

Mots-clés: dictionnaire, macrostructure, microstructure, lexicographie, tradition, innovation

AUTHOR

BURNEE DORJSUREN

Dr. Burnee (PhD) is Professor at the Department of Mongolian Language and Linguistics, National

University in Mongolia. Her research focuses on translation and lexicographical studies. Her

work includes A review of the Tibetan-Mongolian lexicographical tradition (Brill, 2007), Editions of the

Tibetan-Mongolian Dictionary Erikuy-e Kilbar (2017), Translation and Lexicography (2018).

[email protected]


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When sacred turns outcommodified. The propertyinventories of the 19th centuryBuddhist monasteries in BuryatiaQuand le sacré devient commodifié. Les inventaires des biens des monastères

bouddhiques du XIXe siècle en Bouriatie.

Ekaterina Sobkovyak

Introduction, or how written sources can contribute tothe studies on the materiality of religion

1 The following research1 was triggered by an informative talk which my colleague

Krisztina Teleki gave at the Fourth International Conference of Oriental Studies, held at

Warsaw University (Poland) in 2014. In her presentation and the subsequent article

(Teleki 2015), Teleki gave an overview and preliminary analysis of several Urga2

temples’ inventories that are currently preserved in the National Library and the

National Archives of Mongolia.

2 Although, as the investigation conducted by Teleki showed, the available monastery

inventories describing the property of Mongolian Buddhist monasteries are quite

numerous, these documents have never previously been paid serious attention and

systematically studied. The value of Teleki’s article, in which she not only provides a

short description of the studied documents but also presents a preliminary catalogue of

the inventories found both in the National Library and the National Archives of

Mongolia, is therefore difficult to overestimate.

3 My report, in turn, is devoted to inventories listing the movable and immovable

properties of the Buddhist monasteries of Buryatia3. I was fortunate to gain access to

documents that are now kept in the State Archives of the Republic of Buryatia and the


324

library of the Centre of Oriental Manuscripts and Xylographs of the Institute of

Mongolian, Buddhist and Tibetan Studies of the Siberian branch of the Russian

Academy of Sciences (Ulan-Ude, Russian Federation).

4 The Buryat documents in question have not been thoroughly examined by either

Russian, Buryat or Western scholars. Their few brief mentions and use as citations in

the works of Russian researchers merely hint at the diversity of the documents’ form

and content. Their historical value and cultural relevance have likewise remained

beyond the scope of serious academic discussion. It is for this reason that I devote a

large part of the present article to detailed and comprehensive descriptions of selected

Buryat monasteries’ inventories. Providing these descriptions, I first aim to familiarise

a broader circle of scholars with this kind of source and convey their availability and

abundant presence in various repositories. Secondly, I perform a brief historical-

philological analysis of the selected examples, as the historical context and content of

these documents are so complex that they demand primary review and preliminary

study. Finally, taking into consideration the specific nature of these documents, which

regard exclusively tangible objects, be they household items or representations of

spiritual entities, I attempt to approach them from the perspective of the materiality of

religion.

5 My intention to complement standard historical-philological analysis with an

additional aspect of study and consider the monasteries’ inventories in the context of

materiality of religion is not without reason. The “material turn” which occurred in

religious studies a couple of decades ago proved to be effective and brought about

numerous innovative investigations into the material aspects of religion. The shift of

scientific interest away from the philosophical and spiritual components, which have

long been considered dominant in discussion of religion as a cultural phenomenon, to

the full diversity of religion’s tangible manifestations created an opportunity for

scholars to investigate and establish the vital role of material objects in the

development and practice of religion.

6 Due to this close concentration on the study of physical objects, however, the research

into the materiality of religion came to be considered the prerogative of the scholars

working in the fields of archaeology, cultural anthropology, history of art, museology

and other disciplines which have traditionally dealt with artefacts as well as natural

and human-made sites and therefore possess a fully-fledged methodology for treating

such objects of research. Scholars of religion, who are often represented by historians,

philologists, sociologists or philosophers, were seen as those who “tend to be well-

prepared in the investigation of languages, texts and the history of ideas, but less so in

the study of objects, spaces, bodies and the practices of using them that make up

religions in one way or another” (Morgan 2017, p. 14). This view is quite true and there

is no reason to argue against the obvious. What I would like to demonstrate,

nevertheless, is that the historical-philological analysis of written sources of a

particular type can still contribute significantly to the research into the material

religious culture. Such a goal appears achievable if we make use of the following

definition of material culture proposed by Morgan:

Material culture, in other words, is more than an object. It is the way in which anobject participates in making and sustaining a life-world. To study religiousmaterial culture is to study how people build and maintain the cultural domainsthat are the shape of their social lives. This approach presumes that objects, spaces,


325

food, clothing and the practices of using them are not secondary to a religion butprimary aspects of it. (ibid., p. 15)

7 Following this definition allows us to concentrate not only on the physical

characteristics of artefacts – such as their size and weight, material, content

(decorative designs, inscriptions, diagrams etc.) or texture – the information about

which, if not indicated in a textual source, is unattainable for us, but to focus instead on

the “agency”4 of material objects under investigation, or, better still, on the network of

social agents of which those objects are active participants. This approach may help to

establish and describe the relationships between material objects and other agents, or

even the dynamics and different phases of this relationships, thus contributing to the

composition of the “cultural biography”5 of the investigated things.

On genre and purpose

8 Urga monastic inventories described by Teleki are written in two languages –

Mongolian and Tibetan – with the former prevailing6. Although most of the texts

written in Mongolian are determined in the title by the word dans or dangsa (Mo.)7, the

majority of the sources comprised in Tibetan include the term dkar chag (Tib.) in their

title. This fact allowed the researcher to associate the documents she studied with a

well-known and highly productive genre of Tibetan Buddhist literature such as dkar

chag.

9 Vostrikov characterised this genre as belonging to the Tibetan historical-geographical

literature, specifying, however, that when speaking about dkar chags, the geographical

component is much less significant than the historical one. According to him, such

texts include lists of the most important and noteworthy items situated or kept in the

described place or building and introduce, inter alia, complete enumerations of articles

immured inside statues, stupas and other sacred structures. As a rule, these lists are

accompanied by narratives about the history of erection of a certain monastery, temple

or statue and sometimes also by the subsequent history of such place or even the entire

history of a cult to which a place is devoted (Vostrikov 2007, p. 107). Vostrikov noted

that dkar chags are intended to serve as subject indexes or catalogues to the described

place or building (ibid., p. 111).

10 In his concise, but rather informative article on dkar chags, Martin specifically

underlines the attribution of dkar chags to one of the “traditional Tibetan literary

genre” (Martin 1996, p. 501). Considering the concept of “the three supports” (Тib. rten

gsum)8 to the description of which dkar chags are usually devoted, Martin gives the

following definition of the genre:

[…] a dkar chag is a text describing the construction and/or content of items whichTibetan Buddhist traditions consider holy and capable of bestowing blessings (byinbrlabs). (ibid., p. 504).

11 Martin names the memorialisation of “the merit of all those who participated in or

supported the construction of public objects of worship” as one of the possible motives

for writing dkar chags (ibid., p. 505).

12 Mongolian Buddhist scholars willingly borrowed the genre of dkar chag from Tibetans

and created their own treatises, which boast all the principal characteristics attributed

to their Tibetan counterparts9.


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13 The Urga inventories studied by Teleki were all written in the period of the 19th to the

beginning of the 20th century. The texts enumerate statues, thangkas and other images

of various deities, sacred books, ritual implements, and other objects of décor and

furniture. The description of items often includes information about their size, the

artistic style in which they were produced and the material. In comparison with

Tibetan dkar chags, which often included historical accounts devoted to the

establishment and development of a given monastery, the Urga inventories are mere

lists of objects not complemented by any historical details (Teleki 2015, pp. 187-189,

202).

14 The reason for compiling the Urga inventories, as well as their purpose, has not been

established by Teleki with any certainty. The scholar suggested that the texts might

have been made up “in connection with the Manchu emperors or the Bogd Gegeens’

orders, with the foundation or moving of temples or financial purposes or simply

registration of the jas properties” (ibid., p. 202).

15 The inventories from Buryatia, which are the main subject of the present article,

belong to a completely different type of text. Although their content is very similar to

that of the Urga inventories, as they also simply describe the property of a monastery

in a list form, they have little to do with the genre of dkar chag and should be

considered not as examples of Buddhist literature but as bureaucratic papers, official

documents issued by monasteries as legitimate religious institutions, the activities of

which are regulated by the state law and controlled by the lay local officials.

Russian imperial legislation regulating the activity ofthe Buddhist monasteries in Transbaikalia

16 Before proceeding to the analysis of the Buryat monasteries’ inventories, I would like to

give a brief overview of the history of the Buddhist monasteries in the Transbaikalia

region and the development of the state law governing the life and operation of these

religious institutions. Such a historical introduction is necessary to demonstrate how

and why a type of bureaucratic document such as a monastery inventory came to life.

17 When Russian expansion reached Eastern Siberia, the territory of Transbaikalia was

inhabited by various Tungusic, Turkic and Mongolian language peoples including

Buryats (Bogdanov 1926, pp. 28-33). Chronologically the process of incorporation of

this region into the Russian Empire began with the building of the stockaded town on

Yenisei (Ru. Eniseiskii ostrog) in 1618 and ended with the conclusion of the treaty of

Kyakhta in 1727 (Bazarov 2011, p. 36)10. After the establishment of borders between the

Russian and Qing Empires, the Russian administration began to pay closer attention to

the question of the religion followed by the Buddhist population of Transbaikalia. It is

worth noting that, if judged by the Buryat historical chronicles and the Cossacks’

reports from the middle of the 17th century, the Buddhist clergy acting in the

Transbaikalia region prior to 1727 was not centralised or organised into any monastic

system (Rumiantsev & Okun’ 1960, p. 193, 357). The monks performed rituals in small

felt temples and provided medical services on private requests and invitations from the

local population. The region was tightly connected with the Khalkha, which was the

centre of religious life and institutionalised monastic organisation in this part of the

Mongolian Buddhist world (Tsyrempilov 2013, p. 49).


327

18 The first attempt to officially regulate the religious matters of the Buddhist Mongolian-

Buryat peoples inhabiting the region was made by the count Savva Lukich Vladislavich-

Raguzinskii11. The instruction for the border guards12 issued by him soon after the

treaty of Kyakhta was signed was an important document, which determined the policy

of the local administration regarding the Buddhist clergy and lay Buddhists of

Transbaikalia for the next century (Gerasimova 1957, p. 24). The document not only

legitimised the status of the Buddhist community living in this part of the Russian

Empire but also laid the foundation for the centralised administration of the

Transbaikalia Buddhist clergy (Tsyrempilov 2013, p. 52)13.

19 In 1741, the Russian administration in the person of the vice-governor of Irkutsk for

the first time collected the information regarding the number of Buddhist monks and

temples in Transbaikalia and presented it to the government. The reported one

hundred and fifty monks were approved by the decree issued in the same year by the

empress Elizabeth Petrovna to become the so-called “staff” (Ru. shtatnyi) monks, who

were exempted from paying the tribute to the state treasury and other duties and

allowed to propagate their teaching among the nomads (Galdanova et al. 1983, p. 18;

Tsyrempilov 2013, pp. 55-63).

20 The first stationary wooden Buddhist temple was built by the Buryats in the 1750s.

Ngag dbang phun tshogs, supposedly a Tibetan Buddhist monk who at the time held the

position of the head-lama of the Buddhist in Transbaikalia, together with Damba

Darzha Zaiaev14 delivered a petition to the state officials asking for permission to erect

a wooden building of a Buddhist temple in Hilgantui. According to different sources, a

positive decision was issued by various bureaucratic offices: in 1753 by the Chikoisk

administration office of the Selenga district of the Irkutsk province (Ru. Chikoiskoe

upravlenie Selenginskogo uezda Irkutskoi gubernii) and in 1758 by the governor of Tobolsk.

This first Buryat Buddhist stationary datsan became known as Hilgantuiskii or

Tsongol’skii with the Tibetan name of Dga’ ldan ’bras spungs. Zaiaev was appointed its

abbot (Tsyrempilov 2013, pp. 66-68).

21 In 1758, the second wooden datsan was founded on the left shore of the Selenga river

by the Gusinoe lake. The datsan known as Tamchinskii or Gusinoozёrskii was given the

Tibetan name of Bkra shis dga’ ldan rdo rje gling. Upon its foundation, the parish of the

Tsongol’skii datsan split when the Atagans, Hatagins, Sartuls and several other groups

of Buryats joined the congregation of the Gusinoozёrskij datsan. These two datsans,

which had been struggling for supremacy and the status of the residence of the head of

the Transbaikal Buddhists for many years, became the leading Buddhist religious

centres. Numerous smaller Buddhist temples situated on the right and left banks of the

Selenga river consolidated under the supervision of the Tsongol’skii and Gusinoozёrskii

datsans respectively (Galdanova et al. 1983, p. 21).

22 At approximately the same time, monastic Buddhism began to take shape among the

Hori Buryats who lived to the east of the Selenga. They might have had several movable

felt temples by the 1770s, but it was only in 1773 that the state officials issued

permission for the erection of a permanent wooden building (ibid., pp. 22-23; Tsybenov

2011, p. 17).

23 In 1764, the district administration of Irkutsk appointed Damba Darzha Zaiaev the

official leader of the entire Mongolian-Buryat Buddhist clergy living to the south from

Lake Baikal. Zaiaev was granted the title of Bandido Hambo Lama15 giving him the right

to initiate the clergy of the lower ranks. From that moment, the further struggle for the


328

leadership between various representatives of the Buryat Buddhists came down to the

attempts to gain the title of the Bandido Hambo Lama (Tsyrempilov 2013, p. 82;

Razumov & Sosnovskii 1898, p. 131).

24 Officially, the rivalry between the three Buryat Buddhist centres finished in 1809 when

Gavan Ishizhamsuev was approved to hold the position of the chief Bandido Hambo

Lama of all the Selenga, Tsongol and Hori datsans (with the seat in the Gusinoozёrskii

datsan) by the district administration of Irkutsk (Chimitdorzhin 2010, p. 51). The

Tsongol monks, however, did not recognise the superiority of the Hambo Lama and

reserved for themselves de facto an unofficial right to make autonomous decisions over

questions of religious administration (Tsyrempilov 2013, p. 86). The Hori monks also

accepted the leading position of the head of the Gusinoozёrskii datsan with great

reluctance and made attempts to gain some degree of independence by acquiring high

religious titles for their prominent lamas (Galdanova et al. 1983, p. 25; Tsybenov 2011,

p. 24).

25 The lack of a centralised administrative system for the Buryat Buddhist monastic

community during the second half of the 18th to the beginning of the 19th centuries did

not have a negative influence on its development. According to the statistical records,

which the Siberian state administration began keeping in 1741, the number of Buddhist

monks in 1774 totalled six hundred and seventeen and increased rapidly to two

thousand five hundred and two by 1833, and to four thousand six hundred and thirty-

seven by 1831 (Galdanova et al. 1983, p. 26; Tsyrempilov 2013, p. 88). As for the officially

legitimised datsans, in the period from 1741 to 1822, eighteen Buddhist temples were

registered in Transbaikalia. The decade from 1822 to 1831 was characterised by the

swift growth of the monastic community, with fifteen new datsans built and many of

the old felt temples replaced with stationary wooden constructions (Gerasimova 1957,

p. 26).

26 Such a relatively fast spread and development of Buddhism and its monastic

institutions among Buryats might have been enabled, among other reasons, by the

passive position of both the local officials and state administration, who did not

interfere much with the religious affairs of the Transbaikalia Buryats. Many documents

issued by the district administration in Tobolsk and Irkutsk were either responses to

the petitions and requests submitted by the representatives of the Buryat nobility to

resolve individual cases or directives which were advisory rather than normative in

nature.

27 The Buryat Buddhist monastic community became the focus of attention for the

imperial government only after the activities of Speranskii16 in Siberia and his reforms,

which resulted in the composition of a special code of laws for the rule over the non-

Russian peoples of Siberia. This legislative act had the title “The statute on

administration of people of a different kin” (Ru. Ustav ob upravlenii inorodtsev). It was

approved by the emperor Alexander I in June 1822 and subsequently included in “The

Complete Collection of Laws of the Russian Empire” (Ru. Polnoe sobranie zakonov

Rossiiskoi Imperii). The goal of the statute was, first, to regulate the lay administration

over and among the non-Russian peoples of Siberia. For this reason, the number of

articles devoted to religious matters was very limited. Nevertheless, it became the

legislative document legitimated on the highest level which confirmed the right of the

non-Christian, non-Russian peoples of Siberia to follow their traditional religion,

dealing directly with the non-Christian clergy operating among non-Russians and


329

making them subordinate to the local police (PSZ 1830, p. 410, §289; Tsyrempilov 2013,

pp 96-99).

28 After the Siberian administrative reforms by Speranskii, the state officials seriously

engaged themselves in tackling the problems of religious practices among the Buryats

of Transbaikalia. Various bureaucratic authorities, who either occupied some high-

ranking position in the Eastern Siberian administration or were sent to the region from

the capital with an inspection, proposed the entire range of legislative projects

regulating the religious affairs of the Buryats.

29 Thus in 1826 the Governor General of Eastern Siberia Lavinskii17 initiated the

compilation of a code of laws restricting the activity of the Transbaikal Buddhist clergy.

This project was submitted for consideration to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the

Ministry of Internal Affairs, who rejected it.

30 The next project was prepared by Schilling von Cannstatt, who was sent to Eastern

Siberia by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs specially to examine the administrative

system of the Buddhist institutions, check the data provided by Lavinskii and draw up

an appropriate legislative document. The work of Schilling von Cannstatt was

distinguished by close cooperation with the representatives of the local public

authority and Buddhist administration. According to his request, a gathering of senior

monks of the Kudunskii datsan as well as members of local governing bodies composed

a document entitled “Religious statute of the Mongolian-Buryat clergy of

Transbaikalia” (Ru. Religioznyi ustav mongolo-buriatskogo duhovenstva Zabaikal’ia) later

referred to in scientific literature as the “Kudunskii statute” (Ru. Kudunskii ustav)18. As a

result, the project by Schilling von Cannstatt, which borrowed many of its points from

the Buryat customary law and internal Buddhist monastic regulations, had been

discussed in different governmental departments for seven years and was eventually

rejected in 1838 (Galdanova et al. 1983, pp. 27-28).

31 In 1841, supervision over the Eastern Siberian Buddhist matters passed from the

Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the Department of Religious Affairs of the non-Russian

Confessions of the Ministry of Internal Affairs in general and locally to the Central

Administration of Eastern Siberia. The latter office attempted to work out another

legislative project, putting the activities of Buddhists under the direct control of the

local lay non-Russian authorities and the administration of the district of Irkutsk. The

project was again rejected (Gerasimova 1957, p. 33).

32 In 1849, an officer of the Department of Religious Affairs, count Sergei Levashёv,

relying on the results of yet another inspection conducted by him on the orders of the

Ministry of Internal Affairs, presented a draft of “The statute on administration for the

Buddhist clergy of Eastern Siberia” (Ru. Ustav dlia rukovodstva lamaiskomu duhovenstvu

Vostochnoi Sibiri). The document was rejected in a manner similar to all the other

projects previously proposed (ibid., pp. 33-34; Pozdneev 1886, pp. 173-175).

33 Eventually Murav’ёv19, who was appointed to the position of the Governor General of

Eastern Siberia in 1847, came out with his own variant of a legislative act regulating

Buddhist affairs in Transbaikalia, which was entitled “The Statute of the Buddhist

clergy of Eastern Siberia” (Ru. Polozhenie o lamskom duhovenstve Vostochnoi Sibiri). An

interesting peculiarity which distinguishes the draft of this document from all the

preceding projects is that many of its articles were modelled after the code of laws

governing the Tibetan-Mongolian monasteries in Beijing and issued by the Lifanyuan20


330

in 181721. In May 1853, the project by Murav’ёv was approved by the emperor Nicolas I,

who wrote the following resolution on the document: “Consider to be approved but not

to include in the Collection of Laws” (Ru. Schitat’ utverzhdënnym’’, no ne vnosit’ v’’ Svod’’

zakonov’’) (Razumov & Sosnovskii 1898, p. 140; Vashkevich 1885, p. 74).

34 The statute of the Buddhist clergy of Eastern Siberia claimed the existence of thirty-

four datsans in Transbaikalia staffed with two hundred and eighty-five monks. These

numbers were fixed by the statute, and the building of any new religious edifices, as

well as the exceeding of the number of monks defined by the statute, was forbidden.

The official staff of the Buddhist clergy of Eastern Siberia attached to the statute had to

be distributed between the thirty-four datsans listed in the following table (Vashkevich

1885, pp. 143-144).

Table 1. The list of thirty four datsans officially approved for functioning in Transbaikalia after 1853

1) Aginskii 13) Gusinoozёrkij 25) Hozhirtaevskii

2) Alarskii 14) Gygetuevskii 26) Hokyurtaevskii

3) Aninskii, or Oninskii 15) Iroiskii, or Irinskii27) Tsongol’skii, former

Kil’gontuiskii

4) Arakiretuevskii, former

Ashebagatskii16) Kudarinskii 28) Tsugilinskii

5) Atsagatskii 17) Kyrenskii, former Tunkinskii 29) Tsulginskii

6) Atsaiskii 18) Ol’honskii30) Chzhagutaevskii, or

Zagasutaevskii

7) Barguzinskii 19) Sartol’skii31) Chzhidinskii, former

Atagatskii

8) Bargol’taevskii 20) Tarbagataevskii 32) Chitsanovskii

9) Bolakskii 21) Tokchinskii 33) Egituevskii

10) Bul’tumurskii, former

Tabangutskii the first

22) Tugnugaltaevskij, or

Tugnujskii

34) Iangasinskii, or

Iangozhinskii

11) Byrtsuiskii23) Uchotuevskii, former

Tabangutskii the second

12) Guninskii, or Gunovskii 24) Hodonskii, former Kubdutskii

35 According to the fifty-first paragraph of the statute, all movable and immovable

property of the datsans was to be managed by a warden (Ru. starosta). One warden was

to be elected for every datsan for every three-year term by the decision of the members

of a datsans’s parish from among these members. The elected warden was to be

approved by the Military Governor of Transbaikalia. According to the fifty-second

paragraph, the warden had to submit a yearly report of the state of a datsans’s


331

property to the steppe duma22. Moreover, the abbots of the datsans had to report the

state of their datsans’ property to the Hambo Lama every January. The Hambo Lama, in

his turn, had an obligation to compile a general report regarding the property of all the

datsans, to be submitted to the Military Governor of Transbaikalia not later than March

every year (ibid., pp. 134-135).

36 Judging from the abundance of monasteries’ inventories found in the archives of

Buryatia, the Buddhist administration of the Buryat datsans followed the provisions of

the statute regarding the reports of the monastic property rather accurately.

37 In what follows, I give an analysis of several property reports compiled at different

times in different datsans and discuss the peculiarities of their structure, content,

language and style.

Property inventories from Buryat Buddhistmonasteries

Archives and libraries storing the inventories

38 The main repository keeping various documents issued or received by the

administration of different Buryat datsans including property inventories is the State

Archives of the Republic of Buryatia, Ulan-Ude. Most of the documents pertaining to

the life and functioning of the Buryat Buddhist monastic institutions are preserved in

the fonds23 of certain datsans. Overall, the archives dispose the fonds of eightee n

datsans, namely of the Aginskii (fonds 518), Aninskii (fonds 519), Atsagatskii

(fonds 425), Atsaiskii (fonds 517), Bultumurskii (fonds Р.-1993), Guneiskii (fonds 420),

Gusinoozёrskii (fonds 84), Zugalaiskii (fonds 522), Iroiskii (fonds 520), Kudunskii

(fonds 470), Tokchinsko-Zutkuleiskii (fonds 443), Tugno-Galtaiskii (fonds 430),

Huzhirtaevskii (fonds 471), Tsolginskii (fonds 466), Tsugol’skii (fonds 521), Chesanskii

(fonds 459), Egetuiskii (fonds 285), and Iangazhinskii (fonds 454) datsans (Barannikova

1998, pp. 73-84).

39 The fonds of the Gusinoozёrskii datsan is the largest, containing six hundred and ten

files covering the period 1788 to 1929. As the datsan was the seat of the head of the

Buddhist clergy of Eastern Siberia – the Bandido Hambo Lama – the chancellery of the

monastery permanently maintained correspondence with all the Transbaikalia datsans.

Reports, petitions, inquiries, complaints and other documents accumulated, therefore,

in the Gusinoozёrskii datsan. The monasteries’ inventories were no exception.

According to the statute of the Buddhist clergy of Eastern Siberia, every datsan had to

send a yearly report on the state of its movable and immovable property to the Hambo

Lama, who subsequently had to prepare a general report to be submitted to the

military governor of Transbaikalia. The content of the datsans’ fonds confirms such a

state of affairs, as almost every datsan’s fonds preserves yearly property reports,

whereas the Gusinoozёrskii fonds keeps the reports gathered from other datsans, its

own property inventories and summary reports, including information on the thirty-

four Eastern Siberian datsans (ibid., p. 77).

40 The Centre of Oriental Manuscripts and Xylographs of the Institute of Mongolian,

Buddhist and Tibetan Studies of the Siberian Branch of the Russian Academy of

Sciences (Ulan-Ude) is the second repository keeping administrative documents issued


332

by or in relation with the Buryat Buddhist monastic institutions and Buddhist clergy.

The property inventories of the Buryat datsans are known to be kept in the Mongolica I

(M I) fonds of the Centre’s library (Tsyrempilov 2004, pp. 63-82). The inventories

describe the property of the Tsugol’skii (ibid., pp. 66-71, no. 193-208; pp. 74-75, no. 225),

Atsagatskii (ibid., p. 72, no. 215), Guneiskii (ibid., pp. 72-73, no. 217; p. 79,no. 250) and

Togchinskii (ibid., p. 75, no. 226) datsans. All date back to the last two decades of the

19th and the beginning of the 20th century.

41 Some documents related to the activities of the Hambo Lama, the Buddhist clergy of

Transbaikalia and the administration of the datsans can be found in the State Archives

of Zabaikal’skii krai (Chita).

Overview of the inventories under analysis

42 In this article, I perform an analysis of seven property inventories issued in seven

different Transbaikalia datsans. There were no other special reasons to choose these

particular inventories but the different places and dates of their origin and the diverse

styles in which they were compiled. The multitude of similar documents preserved in

the aforementioned archives did not allow me to process all the available property

reports, a comparative analysis of which would, without doubt, have had significant

historical and cultural anthropological value. The present investigation aims to draw

closer scholarly attention to this type of bureaucratic paperwork, which was created in

the overlap between Buddhist monastic and state administrative worlds, in order to

demonstrate their unique nature of belonging to these two worlds simultaneously.

43 The inventories a detailed analysis of which constitutes the main body of this article,

are as follows:

Property inventory of the Atsaiskii datsan, compiled in 1855, fonds 517, file 25, f.1.24

Property inventory of the Tsongol’skii datsan, compiled in 1861, fonds 84, file 208, ff. 1-2.

Property inventory of the Kudunskii datsan, compiled in 1860, fonds 84, file 208, ff. 18v-21r.

Property inventory of the Aginskii datsan, compiled in 1860, fonds 84, file 208, ff. 27v-34r.

Property inventory of the Ol’honskii datsan, compiled in 1873, fonds 84, file 299, ff. 47r-49v.

Property inventory of the Barguzinskii datsan, compiled in 1873, fonds 84, file 299,

ff. 53r-55r.

Property inventory of the Iangazhinskii datsan, compiled in 1878, fonds 454, file 8,

ff. 59r-61v.

44 The first inventory of the Atsaiskii datsan and the last inventory of the Iangazhinskii

datsan are kept in the fonds of the corresponding datsans. The other six inventories are

preserved in the fonds of the Gusinoozёrskii datsan.

45 All inventories are written in the classical Mongolian script. All the numbers in the

documents are given either in Tibetan numerals or written in words in Mongolian.

46 The monetary values of the items enumerated by the documents, if provided, are said

to be given “in silver” (Mo. čaγan-iyar), in möngö (Mo.) for monetary units of low

denomination and tügürig (Mo.) for monetary units of high denomination. In

Mongolian, the expression tügürig möngö was used to designate “money”

(Luvsandèndèv & Tsèdèndamba 2001c, p. 239). The Buryats are, however, known to use

tügürig for roubles (Kowalewski 1849, p. 1932). The values, therefore, are most likely

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.


333

given in roubles and kopecks indicated by the Mongolian words tügürig and möngö

respectively.

The Buryat Buddhist monasteries’ property inventories

Property inventory of the Atsaiskii datsan

47 The document dates from the 31st December 1855 (Mo. 1855 on-u diqabri-yin 31-ü edür).

The title of the inventory is “A record revealing in what follows one by one various

religious images, books, musical instruments, decorative items kept inside the Atsaiskii

datsan25, its subordinate temples and other buildings together with the herds,

according to the prior state of the treasury” (Mo. veyidamasti ačayin dačang qabiy-a-du

sümed26 bolon ali barilγad ba dotorki aliba burqan nom-ud kögčim-ün ǰingseg čimeg-güd ba

egün-ü kereglel-dü uridayin bayiγsan ǰis-a-yin mal27-nud-tai tai tus tusaγar-i egün-eče doroγsi

ilerkei).

48 The information presented in the inventory is organised in tabular form. All the

numbers given in the document are indicated by Tibetan numerals. The listed items are

divided into eleven groups as follows: “deity-images” (Mo. burqad), “religious texts”

(Mo. nom-ud), “appliances and textile decorations” (Mo. ǰingseng čimeg yandar-nud),

“musical hand instruments” (Mo. kögǰim-ün γar-un baγaǰid), “offering utensils”

(Mo. takil-un beleskile), “religious texts stored in the minor temples” (Mo. baγ-a sümüd-tü

quradaγ noman-ud), “buildings subordinate to them” (Mo. egünü qabiyatu barilγad),

“interior items” (Mo. dotorki yaγumad), “items acquired in 1855” (Mo. 1855 on-a sin-e

nemegsen yaγum-a), “printing blocks of texts” (Mo. nom-ud-un keb-üd), and “herds of the

treasury” (Mo. ǰisayin mal-nud). In a separate column, the total number of items is

indicated by Tibetan numerals. The segment of the table entitled “1855 on-a sin-e

nemegsen yaγum-a” is crossed out. The information about the new acquisition is given

below, outside the main table. The remark says: “Two tangkas and one brass pot were

newly obtained in 1855; added them to the numbers given above and wrote down”

(Mo. 1855 on-du sin-e nemegdegsen 2 ǰiruγ burqan. 1 γaulin dongbo bui. ede degereki toγan-dur

qamtutqaǰu bičibei).

49 The inventory describes the items in a general manner, providing no details. Thus, the

text gives only a type of deity-image28 without specifying the names of the deities

presented in the forms of statuettes or tangkas. Religious texts listed in the inventory

were all, most likely, written in Tibetan. The information about the language of the

treatises, however, is not given29. Interestingly, the language of the texts the printing

blocks of which were kept in the monastery, is indicated by the document30. The

monastery interior decorations listed under the title ǰingseng čimeg yandar-nud are

represented by categories of items such as “silk baldachins” and “cotton baldachins”

(Mo. torγan labari; bös labari31), “silk victory banners” and “cotton victory banners”

(Mo. toraγan ǰingčian; bös ǰingčian), silk and cotton five-colour ribbons (Mo. toraγan

badan; bös badan)32, “vangdan ceremonial scarfs with multicoloured silk cloth”

(Mo. vangdan qadaγ coqor kib-tеi)33, “long silk ceremonial scarfs” (Mo. uratu toraγun

qadaγ), dasi34 ceremonial scarfs, “cotton umbrella” (Mo. bös sikür)35, “ceremonial scarfs

and white silk scarfs” (Mo. qadaγ yandar36), “silk decorations” (Mo. torγan čimeg-üd),

“mandalas” (Mo. mangdal)37, “mirrors” (Mo. toli38, and “ritual vases” (Mo. bumba)39.


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50 According to the inventory, the Atsaiskii datsan possessed and utilised a standard set of

ritual items and musical instruments. The corresponding sections of the document list,

among others, objects such as “a vajra-bell” (Mo. vačir qongqu)40, “a double-sided hand-

drum” (Mo. damaru)41, “small cymbals” (Mo. selnin)42, “big cymbals’ (Mo. čing)43, “a

drum” (Mo. kenggereγ)44, “a seashell trumpet” (Mo. dung büriy-e)45, “a flute”

(Mo. bisikigür)46, duu-a darm-a (Mo.)47, “a big offering table” (Mo. yeke-yin takil-un sirege),

“branch-bowls” (Mo. üy-e čügüče)48, “the eight offerings” (Mo. 8 takil)49, “the seven

treasures” (Mo. 7 erdeni)50, “a small platter for baling offering” (Mo. baling-un bičiqan

tabaγ), “a peacock’s tail in two parts” (Mo. 2 keseg toγus-un segül), and “the cart and the

figure of a horse used during the ceremony of the circumambulation of

Maitreya” (Mo. mayidari ergüküi-yin terge mori).

51 The inventory reports that in 1855, the Atsaiskii datsan already had nine subordinate

“smaller temples” (Mo. baγ-a sümüd).

52 The last section of the main table of the document provides a detailed description of

the livestock belonging to the datsan’s treasury. The section includes seventeen entries

which name various male and female domestic animals.

53 The inventory is not signed.

The property inventory of the Tsongol’skii datsan

54 The date of the document compilation is not precise – only the year 1861 is mentioned

(Mo. 1861 on-a). The title of the document reads “In this approximate report deity-

images, religious texts and other objects kept inside the Tsongol’skii datsan called

Baldan braibung and its six satellite small temples, non-datsans are gathered in

sections and presented together with their monetary values” (Mo. čongγol-un baldan brai

büng kemekü dačang ba tegünü nökör ǰirγuγan ayimaγ dačang busu baγ-a sümes teyin dotorki

burqan nom terigüten-i ayimaγ ayimaγ-iyar qamtutqan51 kedüi tügürig čeng-tei-yin

baγcaramači52-yin veyidomosti egün-dür-e ilerkeyilebe). The inventory is written in a

tabular form. The monetary values of all the articles are presented in two separate

rows, with the headings mönggö and tügü. The monetary values are indicated by the

Tibetan numerals.

55 The document starts with the list of the main and subordinate buildings of the datsan

which includes the following fourteen entries: “the wooden building of the Tsongol’skii

datsan with outside and interior painting and metal” (Mo. čongγol dačang-un modon

barilγ-a bolon γadar dotor-un sirdlege ba temür) – 9 348 roubles; “the wooden building of

its satellite clan-temple53 called γomaling” (Mo. egünü nökör γomaling kemekü ayimaγ-un

modon barilγan) – 1 500 roubles; “the wooden building of the nimai clan-temple together

with its interior painting” (Mo. nimai-yin ayimaγ-un modon barilγ-a kiged dotor-un sirdelge

selte) – 1 080 roubles; “the wooden building of the luslaling clan-temple together with its

interior painting and glass windows” (Mo. luslaling ayimaγ-un modon barilγ-a kiged dotor-

un sirdelge sil čongqu selte) – 1 580 roubles; “the wooden building of the nitang clan-

temple” (Mo. nitang ayimaγ-un modon barilγan) – 1 500 roubles; “the wooden building of

the čoyingqor clan-temple” (Mo. čöyingqor ayimaγ-un modon barilγan) – 1 500 roubles;

“the wooden building of the rabcii clan-temple” (Mo. rabčii ayimaγ-un modon barilγan) –

1 500 roubles; “the building of the kitchen” (Mo. ǰiγan54-u barilγan) – 300 roubles; “the

building of the Medicine Buddha55 temple which is another one of the outside small

temples” (Mo. γadaγur ki üčüken sümed-eče otoči-yin sümen-ü barilγ-a) – 50 roubles; “the


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wooden building of the temple of the protective deity”56 (Mo. sakiγulsun-u süm-e-yin

modon barilγan) – 50 roubles; “the building of the Avalokiteśvara57 temple” (Mo. ari-a

balu-a-yin sümen-ü barilγ-a) – 55 roubles; “the building of the Great Wheel temple

together with the deity-images and sacred texts kept inside” (Mo. yeke kürdün-ü süm-e-

yin barilγ-a bolon dotor-un nom ba burqan selte) – 274 roubles; and “the Small Wheel

temple with the prayer-texts kept inside” (Mo. baγ-a kürdün-ü süm-e dotorki maṇi-tai) –

157 roubles, “the fourteen-segment fence surrounding all these (buildings) together

with four doors” (Mo. edeger bügüde-yin γadaγur toγoriγsan 14 üy-e čiusun qarši 4 yeke

egüde selte) – 372 roubles.

56 The next thirteen entries regard different kinds of objects kept in the main building of

the Tsongol’skii datsan. The entries do not list or describe every item belonging to the

respective category but just give their general name in the following way: “gilded58

deity-images kept in the great datsan” (Mo. yeke dačang-un dotorki sergü59 burqad ) –

791 roubles; “painted deity-images pinned to the walls” (Mo. qanan-du qatalγa60tai

ǰirumal burqad) – 1 280 roubles; “painted deity-images with edges” (Mo. ǰiq-a-tai ǰirumal

burqad) – 625 roubles 95 kopecks; “the Kanjur and other texts together with cloth-

wrapper” (Mo. γ̊angǰur61 bolon busu nom-ud barindaγ 62 selte) – 6 006 roubles 40 kopecks;

“the images of the main tutelary deities” (Mo. töb tügde63n64-üd) – 85 roubles; “offering

table and the temple of the gilded deities together with its table” (Mo. takil-un sirege

kiged sergü burqad-un süm-e sirege-tei) – 57 roubles; “the crown of the saint” (Mo. boγda-

yin titim)65 – 4 roubles; “big and small cymbals, trumpets, flutes, bells, hand-drums and

other musical instruments” (Mo. čang66 selnin büriy-e biskegür qongqu damaru terigüten

kögčim-üd) – 289 roubles 30 kopecks; “the eight offerings, lion and offering bowls, ritual

vases, mirrors, mandalas, teapots, platters, repository of ritual arrows and other ritual

utensils” (Mo. 8 takil kiged arslan ba takil-un čügüče bumba toli mandal ǰabiy-a tabaγ dalalaγ-

a67-yin sing68 terigüten takil-un keregten) – 200 roubles 50 kopecks; “various decorations

such as ritual scarfs, silk cloth, five-colour ribbons and victory banners” (Mo. qadaγ kkib

badan ǰingčan69 terigüten čimeg-üd) – 277 roubles 10 kopecks; “moulds for clay offering

figures and printing blocks of the Rab gsal collection and the

Vajracchedika Prajñāpāramitāsūtra” (Mo. sača70-yin keb kiged rabsal ba dorǰi ǰidba-yin bar) –

374 roubles 35 kopecks; “the cart, horse figure and decorations of

Maitreya” (Mo. mayidari-yin terge mori čimeg-üd) – 75 roubles; and “sitting chairs and

benches with pillows and mats” (Mo. saγudal-un sirege ǰibdan71 olboγ talbaγ 72-du) –

144 roubles 50 kopecks.

57 Similarly, the inventory lists the objects kept and used in the six clan-temples of the

datsan and in its three smaller temples, namely the Medicine Buddha temple, the

temple of the protective deity and the Avalokiteśvara temple. The only difference is

that the described items are divided into eight or nine sections (gilded and painted

deity-images, images of tutelary deities, texts, Prajñāpāramitā texts, musical

instruments, ritual utensils, decorations and sitting furniture) in the case of the clan-

temples and only into three sections (painted deity images, decorations and sitting

furniture) in the case of the smaller temples.

58 The inventory is not signed.


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The property inventory of the Kudunskii datsan

59 The title of the inventory reads “The report presenting the name-list of the Hori

Kudunskii datsan73 (buildings) as well as deity-images, religious texts and other objects

kept in it with their monetary values” (Mo. qori-yin qudun-u dačang ba dotorki burqan nom

terigüten-ü obis74 neres ba čeng-tei-yi ilerkeyilegsen bedamosta 75). The date of the

compilation is not indicated in the document. At the end of the main table, however,

the year 1860 is mentioned. This means we can presume that the document describes

the state of affairs as of the end of 1860. The inventory is written in tabular form. The

main table consists of four columns, the first of which contains sequence numbers of

the entries indicated by the Tibetan numerals, whereas the second provides the names

of the items, and the other two columns give the monetary values of the objects, which

are also written down in the Tibetan numerals. The items described by the document

are divided into eleven thematic sections by subheadings. They are listed one by one,

with the sequence number given for every entry. According to this numeration, the

inventory lists one hundred and sixty-two items.

60 The first two entries of the inventory regard the buildings of the datsan – “one big

wooden datsan with its outer fencing” (Mo. nige yeke modon dačang γadaγurki küriyetei-

e) – 2 600 roubles, and “one small wooden temple” (Mo. nige baγ-a modon süm-e) –

60 roubles. The next eighty-one entries (from the third to the eighty third) describe

deity-images and are introduced by two subheadings: the first one – “deity-images”

(Mo. burqad anu) is placed before the third entry; the second one – “deity-images on

small canvas” (Mo. baγ-a deleγ76 burqad anu) comes before the fifty-fourth entry. The

majority of the entries give just the name of a deity or a Buddhist saint without

specifying the form, material or size of the image. Some deities are said to be “painted

on canvas” or “printed on silk” (Mo. deleγ-tü ǰiruγsan; torγon-du darumal). Among the

deity-images enumerated under these two subheadings are Akṣobhya (Mo. migdûgba),

green and white Tārās (Mo. noγon dar-a eke; čaγan dar-a eke), yellow Jambhala (Mo. sir-a

ǰambala), Vajrabhadra (Mo. baǰir badaran-a), Sitātapatrā (Mo. čaγan sikür-tü),

Bhaiṣajyaguru (Mo. otosiy), Cakrasaṃvara (Mo. demsuγ), Hayagrīva (Mo. damdin),

thousand-armed Avalokiteśvara (Mo. mingγan motor-tai ari-a balu), Amitābha

(Mo. abida), yellow and white Mañjuśrī (Mo. čaγan manǰaširi; sir-a manǰaširi), and many

others.

61 The third subheading which comes before the eighty-fourth entry is “religious texts”

(Mo. nom-ud anu). The inventory includes eight positions under this heading among

which are “one hundred and fifty volumes of a hand-written Kanjur with wrapper and

binding cords” (Mo. ǰaγun tabin botiy beǰimel γangǰiur ǰingčiy77 dayiča78-tai) – 2 100 roubles,

“sixteen volumes of the Prajñāpāramitāsūtra in Tibetan with wrapper and binding

cords” (Mo. arban ǰiruγuγan botiy töbed yüm ǰingčiy dayiča-tai) – 90 roubles, “two volumes

of the Mongolian Daśaśatasāhasrikā Prajñāpāramitāsūtra” (Mo. qoyar botiy mongγol arban

nayiman miγ-a-tu) – 20 roubles, “one volume of the Tibetan AṣṭasāhasrikāPrajñāpāramitāsūtra” (Mo. nige botiy töbed naiman miγ-a-tu) – 6 roubles, “two volumes of

Mongolian Ma ni bka’ ’bum with a wrapper” (Mo. qoyar botiy mongγol ma-a ni kangbum

ǰingčiy-tai) – 20 roubles, and others.

62 The next subheading “wooden printing blocks of texts” (Mo. nom-un modon keb-üd anu)

joins nine items such as “thirty-two blocks of the Vajracchedikā Prajñāpāramitāsūtra

together with a text on the stages of the path” (Mo. dorǰi čô79daba bodiy mör80-tei γučin


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qoyar modon) – 22 roubles 80 kopecks, “seventy-three wooden blocks of the

Bhaiṣajyaguru ritual-text” (Mo. otosiy-yin čô81ga82-yin keb dalan γurban modon) – 60 roubles

10 kopecks, “thirty-five blocks of the ‘South gate of the Medicine Buddha’ ritual-text”

(Mo. otosiy-yin lhoγo83-yin keb γučin tabun modon), and others.

63 The next subheading reads “percussion and wind musical instruments” (Mo. deledkü

üliyekü daγu-tan anu). The entries under this heading describe a standard set of

Buddhist musical instruments. Apart from the instruments found in the two previous

inventories, the present document also lists the gaṇḍī (Skt.) beam84 (Mo. gangdiy

modun) – 20 roubles. Every entry provides not only the names but also the number of

musical instruments. The peculiarity is in the usage of the Russian noun para85, which

means “a pair”. Surprisingly, not only cymbals are counted in pairs but also flutes and

trumpets.

64 The sixth subheading refers to decorations. Apart from the decorations mentioned in

the two inventories described before, this document includes items such as šim-a

büram-a (Mo.)86 valued at 10 roubles for “two pieces and silk decorations called ‘the sun’

and ‘the moon’” (Mo. naran saran kemedeγ qoyar oyumal torγon čimeg) valued at 2 roubles.

Describing “silk ribbons” (Mo. torγon kib), the text provides information about their

colour and length given in arshin87 (Mo. arsim). As for the other decorations, the entries

again contain not only their names but also their number.

65 The inventory distinguishes between offering utensils and offering weapons and

enumerates them under two different subheadings – takil-un keregten anu and takil-un

ǰebseγ-üd anu. The list of the offering utensils is longer than in the two inventories

described above and more detailed. The entries again provide not only the objects’

names but also their number. An interesting nuance of the objects’ presentation is the

usage of an obsolete Russian unit of weight – zolotnik88 (Mo. ǰoltoniγ) – in the description

of “the silver offering bowls” (Mo. čaγan mönggön čügüče). Among the offering weapons

listed by the document are, for example, “one blue iron armour” (Mo. nige köke tömör

quyaγ) – 2 roubles, “one spear and one sword” (Mo. nige ǰida nige ilde) – 75 kopecks, “one

tiger skin and one wolf skin” (Mo. nige baras-un arisu nige činu-yin arisu) – 3 roubles.

66 At the end of the inventory, the sitting furniture of the datsan is described in two

entries under the subheading “chairs and mats” (Mo. sirge debisker-nüd anu). After that,

the text lists other buildings of the monastery such as “one wooden kitchen” (Mo. nige

modon ǰiγang) – 5 roubles, “one wooden barn” (Mo. nige modon agbar89) – 5 roubles, and

“two wooden buildings with stoves” (Mo. pegeǰin90-tei qoyar modon bayiǰin ger-üd) –

30 roubles.

67 The last two sections enumerate various items obtained in 1858 and 1859 (Mo. 1858 on-

du nemegsen anu; 1859 on-du nemegsen inu).

68 The document is testified to by the abbot of the datsan who made а corresponding

remark at the end of the document with his own hand – gerčilegsen sergetü čavang-u.

The property inventory of the Aginskii datsan

69 The document is entitled “The exposition of the Aginskii datsan91 Dačin lhôdübling, as

well as temples, buildings and kitchen built in its vicinity and various items kept inside

them such as ‘the three supports’ and offering utensils” (Mo. aγuyin92 dačin lhô93dübling

dačang kiged tegünü dergede bayiγuluγsan süm-e ger ǰiγag ba tegün dotorki γurban sitügen


338

kiged takil-un kereg ten terigüten-ü ilerkei). The inventory dates from the 31st December

1860 (Mo. 1860 on-u diqabri-yin 31-ü edür-e).

70 The text of the document is organised in a table. The entries have uninterrupted

sequence numbers from one to one hundred and twenty-nine, which are written down

in Tibetan numerals. The thematic sections of the inventory are indicated by the

subheadings inserted between the entries; the document includes a separate row in

which the monetary values (Mo. üne) of the enumerated objects are given in Tibetan

numerals.

71 The main heading of the table reads “the names of the datsan and temples, deity-

images, religious text, offering implements and other objects” (Mo. dačang süm-e burqan

nom takil-un ed terigüten-ü neres inu). The first subheading pertains to the entire

document and reads “from the state of affairs actually remaining at the end of 1859”

(Mo. 1859 on-u segül-dü niγur deger-e üldeǰü bayiγsan-ača). The next subheading is marked

with the numeral “1” and refers to the “section of the datsan and other buildings”

(Mo. dačang terigüten barilγ-a-yin ayimaγ). It includes nine entries, among which are

“one datsan called Aγuyin dačin lhôdübling, built from stones and bricks” (Mo. aγuyin

dačin lhôdübling kemekü čilaγu kerpiiče94-ber bariγsan 1 dačang) – 13 714 roubles

28,5 kopecks; “five wooden temples” (Mo. modon-iyar bariγsan süm-e) of the deities such

as Maitreya (Mo. maidari) – 15 roubles, Amitāyus (Mo. ayusi) – 30 roubles, Bhaiṣajyaguru

(Mo. otasi) – 15 roubles, Sarvavid-Vairocana (Mo. günrig) – 20 roubles, and of “the one

hundred million mantras prayer-wheel” (Mo. dongšur95 maṇ96-i-yin kürdü) – 182 roubles

86 kopecks; “a wooden fence surrounding all the buildings” (Mo. ede bügüdeyin γadaγur

modobar bariγsan küriy-e) – 40 roubles; “one wooden building storing eternal

mantras” (Mo. müngke maṇ97-i quradaγ nige modon bayising ger) – 100 roubles; and “one

wooden kitchen together with a barn” (Mo. modobar kigsen nige ǰiqang ambar-luγ-a selte) –


72 The next subheading – “of the three supports placed inside the big datsan” (Mo. yeke

dačang dotor-a bayiγuluγsan γurban sitügen-eče) – is marked with the numeral “2”. It

entitles the section which includes four subsections labelled with the following

subheadings: “the section of the physical support” (Mo. bey-e-yin sitügen-ü ayimaγ), “the

section of the verbal support” (Mo. ǰarliγ-un sitügen-ü ayimaγ), “the wooden printing

blocks of religious texts” (Mo. sudur-un modon bar-ud) and “the section of the spiritual

support” (Mo. sedkil-ün sitügen-ü ayimaγ). The first of these subsections lists the deity-

images, such as “gilded” (Mo. sergü) statuettes, statuettes “made of copper” (Mo. ǰes-iyer

bütügegsen) and “painted thangkas” (Mo. sirdemel körög). The size of the statuettes is

indicated in Mongolian units of length such as toqoi (an ell), tüge (a big span) and sügim

(a span) (Dondokova 2003, pp. 9, 14-15). The size of the thangkas is only defined as

“big” (Mo. yeke) or “small” (Mo. baγ-a).

73 The second subsection contains entries describing religious texts, such as “one hundred

and one volumes of the Tibetan hand-written Kanjur together with a cabinet and a

table” (Mo. bičimel töbed g98angǰur 101 boti güngaraba99 ba sirege-luγ-a selte) – 1 442 roubles

86 kopecks, “sixteen volumes of the xylographic Tibetan

Prajñāpāramitāsūtra” (Mo. darumal töbed yüm 16 boti) – 137 roubles 15 kopecks, “twelve

volumes of the xylographic Mongolian Prajñāpāramitāsūtra” (Mo. darumal mongγol yüm

12 boti) – 102 roubles 86 kopecks, “one volume of the Tibetan AṣṭasāhasrikāPrajñāpāramitāsūtra written alternately in gold and silver” (Mo. altan möngö-ber alaγlaǰu


339

bičigsen ǰidtongba100 töbed 1 boti ) – 114 roubles 30 kopecks, “one volume of the

xylographical Tibetan Suvarṇaprabhāsasūtra” (Mo. darumal altan gerel 1 boti töbed) –

3 roubles, “one volume of ‘The hundred thousand songs of Mi la ras pa’ in Tibetan”

(Mo. darumal töbed boγda milarayiba-yin gürbum 1 boti) – 6 roubles 50 kopecks and others.

The texts are characterised as “hand-written” or “printed” (Mo. bičimel; darumal), being

composed “in Tibetan” or “in Mongolian” (Mo. töbed; mongγol). The number of volumes

comprising a treatise or a collection of texts is indicated for every entry.

74 The third subsection enumerating wooden printing blocks includes three entries. The

fourth subsection which deals with “the spiritual support” also lists only three items:

“a one ell-high gilded copper stupa of the Great Awakening of the Buddha

Śākyamuni” (Mo. 1 toqoi kemǰiy-e-tei ǰes deger-e altalaǰu kigsen šigimuni-yin maaha-a bodi-

yin suburγ-a) – 114 roubles 28,5 kopecks, “an image of the Beg tse tutelary deity”

(Mo. begǰi-yin tügden) – 40 roubles, and “a two-part mould for a big clay figure” (Mo. 2

keseg yeke sača-yin keb) – 13 roubles 25 kopecks.

75 The next subheading indicated with the numeral “three” reads “from the offering

utensils kept inside the datsan” (Mo. dačan dotorki takil-un kereg-ten-eče). It entitles the

section divided into five subsections by the following subheadings: “the section of the

decorations” (Mo. čimeg-ün ayimaγ), “the section of music and entertainment”

(Mo. kögǰim čenggilgen-ü ayimaγ), “the section of offering bowls and other containers”

(Mo. čügüče terigüten saba-yin ayimaγ), “utensils for ablutions and mandala

offerings” (Mo. ukiyal ba maṇdal ergükü-yin kereg-ten) and “utensils for the accepting of

an offering” (Mo. dalalγ-a abqu101-yin kereg-ten).

76 The next nine entries regard sitting furniture and kitchen equipment and are

introduced by the following subheadings: “kinds of chairs and sitting mats” (Mo. sirege

debsger-ün ǰüil) and “cooking utensils belonging to the kitchen” (Mo. ǰiγang-dur qariy-a-

tai idegen-ü kereg-ten).

77 The third and second to last sections of the inventory include entries describing the

objects kept in the subordinate temple under the subheadings “the three supports and

offering utensils placed in the house of the eternal mantras” (Mo. müngke ma-a ni-yin

bayising-du bayiγuluγsan γurban sitüged bolon takil-un kereg-ten) and “food-related utensils

belonging to the house of the eternal mantras” (Mo. müngke maṇ102i-du qariy-a-tai idegen-

ü kereg-ten).

78 The last section of the text lists equipment used for the guarding of the datsan and is

entitled “cold weapon used by the watchmen of the datsan” (Mo. dačang-un qaraγulǰin-

du kereglegsen mečüs103).

79 The inventory ends with a fifteen-entry list of objects offered to the datsan by the

parishioners during 1860 (Mo. ene bayiγči 1860 on dotor-a süsüg-tenü ergül-iyer nemeγsen

inu).

80 The document is testified and signed by the abbot of the datsan Jigmed Tegülder-ün

(Mo. gerečilegsen sirege-tü ǰigmed tegülder-ün).

The property inventory of the Ol’honskii datsan

81 The inventory has two titles. The first is written in the middle of the recto side of the

first folio of the document. It reads “The exposition of the names and monetary values

of the Ol’honskii datsan104, deity-images, religious texts and other objects kept inside it,


340

and its outside buildings” (Mo. olqon-u dačang kiged tegün dotorki burqan nom terigüten-ü

ba γadaγatu barilγad ner-e üneyin čeng ilerkei). The second title is the first entry of the

table, which constitutes the main body of the document. It reads “The exposition of the

monetary values and names of the Ol’honskii datsan of the Irkutsk district of the

Transbaikal region, deity-images, religious texts, offering utensils and other objects

placed inside it, and its outside buildings and other constructions” (Mo. ǰabayiγalski

oblasta-yin irču-a-yin ökürüg-ün olqon-u dačang ba tegün dotor-a bayiγuluγsan burqan nom

takil-un keregsel bolon γadaγatu barilγad terigüten-ü čeng ner-e üne-yin ilerkei). The

inventory dates from the 15th December 1873 (Mo. 1873 on-u diγabri-yin 15 edür-e

bičigdegsen amui).

82 The inventory is written in tabular form. Its entries have an uninterrupted sequence of

numbers from one to seventy, which are given in a separate row in the Tibetan

numerals. The objects listed by the document are not divided into thematic sections.

There is only one subheading, which follows the first entry of the table after the title-

entry, which reads “the wooden datsan of Ol’hon called Rabdančoyinphiling with a six

span-high ganǰir-top” (Mo. olqon-u rabdančoyinph105iling neretü modobar bariγsan dačang 6

sügim ganǰir-a106 selte ) – 1 800 roubles. The subheading reads “the supports, offering

utensils and other objects placed inside it” (Mo. tegün dotor-a bayiγuluγsan sitügen ba

takil-un keregten terigüten).

83 The document includes two separate rows in which the monetary values (Mo. čeng) of

the enumerated objects are given in the Tibetan numerals.

84 The entries from two to nineteen list statuettes of the Buddhist deities, mainly gilded

ones107. All the descriptions include information about the size of the items which is

indicated in Mongolian units of length such as toqoi, sügim and tüge, and a Russian unit

vershok108 (Mo. brišoγ).

85 The entries from twenty to twenty-two list offering tables dedicated to various

purposes: “two big painted offering tables with carving” (Mo. 2 yeke seyilbüri-tei takil-un

sirdemel siregen) – 30 roubles; “a table with three sections for gilded deity-images”

(Mo. sergü burqad-un 3 sentei siregen) – 45 roubles; and “a table for the wrathful deity-

images” (Mo. doγčid109-un siregen) – 3 roubles.

86 The entries from twenty-three to forty-one enumerate offering utensils and containers

such as “offering bowls” (Mo. čügüče), “silver-plated seven treasures and eight

offerings” (Mo. möngölöγsen 7 erdeni 8 takil), “censer” (Mo. boyip110oor), “mirrors”

(Mo. toli), “silver-plated ritual vases” (Mo. möngölöγsen bumba) and others as well as a

standard set of musical instruments.

87 The entries from forty-two to fifty-four describe “painted deity-images” (Mo. deleg

burqan) such as “eight big thangkas of the Buddha” (Mo. burqan baγši-yin 8 yeke deleg

burqan) – 130 roubles, “one big thangka of Mañjuśrī” (Mo. manj111usiri 1 yeke deleg) –

15 roubles, “two middle-size thangkas of Avalokiteśvara” (Mo. 2 ariy-a balu-a dumda deleg-

üd) – 10 roubles, “nine thangkas of various protector-deities such as Vajrapāṇi and

Mahākāla” (Mo. včir vani maqak112 ala terigüten qangγal burqad 9 deleg) – 20 roubles, and

others. The size of the images is not described in any units of length but only

characterised as “big” (Mo. yeke), “middle-size” (Mo. dumda) or “small” (Mo. baγ-a).

88 The next nine entries present decorations such as labari, badan, ǰalcan, “cotton cloth-

covering for pillars” (Mo. baγan-a-yin bös buriyesü) and other textile items such as

“seatback pillows with silk covering” (Mo. mangnuγ buriyesü-tei tüsilge), “bench sitting


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mats” (Mo. ǰingdan-u debisker) or “baize and cotton sitting pillows” (Mo. čеmbе ba bös

olboγ).

89 The entries from sixty-four to sixty-eight present the descriptions of religious texts

such as “the one hundred and eight volumes of the Kanjur texts” (Mo. gangǰur nom-ud

108 boti nom), “all the Prajñāpāramitā texts together with two volumes of AṣṭasāhasrikāPrajñāpāramitāsūtra – twenty-two volumes” (Mo. yüm niti113 2 ǰidtogba qamtu 22 boti nom-

ud), “one volume of the xylographical Suvarṇaprabhāsasūtra in Tibetan” (Mo. 1 altan

gerel töbed darumar), “the Lhun grub (Tib.) text in Mongolian” (Mo. 1 mongγol lhantab

nom), “service prayers, and other short texts” (Mo. qural-un ungsilγ-a-yin ba busu ču baγ-

a nom-ud).

90 The last two entries of the main table regard “the prayer-wheel of one hundred million

mantras together with its temple” (Mo. doγǰuur ma-a ṇ114i-yin kürdü süm-e-tei qamtu) –

150 roubles, as well as “outside buildings and the surrounding fence” (Mo. γadaγatu

barilγad qarsi küriy-e) – 100 roubles.

91 The additional three entries put outside the main table list “one wooden building of the

kitchen with a barn” (Mo. 1 modon ǰiγang ambar luγ-a selte) – 75 roubles, and cooking

utensils kept inside it such as “three big and small cast-iron pots with two metal

trivets” (Mo. yeke baγ-a širemün 3 toγu-a 2 temür tulγ-a qamtu) – 30 roubles, and “three

metal ladles together with four brass kettles and three wooden chests” (Mo. γurban

temür sinaγ-a ba 4 γaulin dömbö 3 modon abdar-a selte) – 15 roubles.

92 The verso side of the last folio of the inventory provides additional information about

the new acquisitions made in 1873 after the articles mentioned in the inventory had

already been registered (Mo. 1873 on dotor-a deger-e ilerkeyilegsen-eče qoin-a nemegsen

anu).

93 A remark at the end of the text says that “the inventory was witnessed by the abbot of

the datsan Balsang-un” (Mo. edeger-i degegši ilerkeyilečü gerečilegsen širegetü-yin tusiyal-tu

balsang-un). The inventory is signed by the temple warden Ananda Galsang-u (Mo. süme-

yin starosta115 ananda γalsang-u).

The property inventory of the Barguzinskii datsan

94 The inventory has the following title: “A report. The names and monetary values of

various objects kept in the Barguzinskii datsan116 were exposed and written down”

(Mo. veyidomosta117| barγ118uǰin-u dačang-un dotorki yaγumas-un ner-e ba čeng ber ni

ilerkeyilen bečigdebei). The document dates back to 1873, without further details on

month and day provided. The main table which constitutes the inventory has four

columns: the first contains the names of the items, the second one “the number of

these items kept in the datsan” (Mo. yaγumas-un toγ-a anu), and the third and fourth

their monetary values. The numbers in the second, third and fourth columns are

written down in the Tibetan numerals. The entries of the list are not numbered. The

table has no divisions into thematic sections.

95 The first entry of the inventory describes the main building of the datsan (Mo. barγuǰin-

u dačang-un γadaγadu yeke barilγ-a) valued at 300 roubles. The next ten entries

enumerate deity-images in the form of statuettes made of various materials such as

“gilded copper images” (Mo. serge ǰes-iyer kigsen altalaγsan), “gold-painted clay images”


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(Mo. sibar-bar kigsen alta türkigsen) or “gilded images made of incense-paste”

(Mo. küči119-ber kigsen altalaγsan)120.

96 The next eleven entries enumerate numerous painted deity-images produced in

different techniques such as “painting on canvas” (Mo. qolsta121 deger-e ǰiruγsan ) and

“printing on cotton cloth” (Mo. bös deger-e daruγsan). The size of these images is

indicated using Russian units of length such as arshin (Mo. arsim) and vershok

(Mo. bersoγ).

97 The document includes only two entries listing religious texts: “a hand-written

Kanjur – the treatises of the Great Vehicle all completed with wrappers, indexes and

covering wooden plates” (Mo. bečemel γangǰiur yeke kölgen nom-ud bügüde ǰingči tobyoγ122

qabtusu-tai tegüs-iyer niyte) – one hundred and four volumes valued at 1 600 roubles, and

“the sixteen volumes of the Prajñāpāramitā text, together with separate volumes of the

gZungs bsdus collection and the Suvarṇaprabhāsasūtra” (Mo. 16 boti yüm kemekü nom

tusaγar sungdui altan gerel nom niyte) valued at 96 roubles.

98 Two long entries are devoted to the description of the datsan’s interior textile

decorations such as qadaγ, ǰilsang, labari, kiib, badan, tügdem. The description includes

information about the colour of the decorations, the length of some of them as

indicated in big spans (Mo. tüge) and arshins (Mo. arsim), and the type of cloth, such as

silk (Mo. torγon) and foulard (Mo. pangǰa123).

99 Another long entry enumerates various ritual utensils and musical instruments,

including “seventy-three small copper bowls and two oil lampads” (Mo. baγ-a üy-e-yin

73 ǰes čügüče qoyar nastu124), “two pairs of big trumpets” (Mo. qoyar p125ar-a üker büriy-e),

“two pairs of thigh-bone trumpets” (Mo. qoyar par-a γangling), “two pairs of flutes”

(Mo. qoyar par-a beskigür), “two gongs” (Mo. qoyar qarangγ-a), “one seashell trumpet”

(Mo. nige dungγar), “three good and two broken ritual vases” (Mo. 3 sayin 2 ebderkei

bumba), “two mandalas and one copper mirror” (Mo. qoyar mangdal; nige ǰes toli), “four

copper teapots” (Mo. 4 ǰes ǰabiy-a), “one pair of big and two pairs of small

cymbals” (Mo. 1 par-a čang; 2 par-a selning ), “four bells” (Mo. 4 qongqu), “the eight

offerings produced by the forging of a brass bar and the seven treasures” (Mo. γuli-bar

keb-tü čokiǰu kigsen 8 takil; 7 erdeni), “one lacquer platter” and “one metal platter”

(Mo. nige doolaγan126 tabaγ; nige temür tabaγ).

100 The main part of the inventory ends with entries listing furniture and sitting mats.

101 Three additional entries list objects kept in a small building standing separately from

the main datsan.

102 At the end of the inventory, the total value of the datsan’s building and the objects

preserved inside it is given in silver – 4 639 roubles 70 kopecks (Mo. ene yeke dačang-un

γadaγatu barilγ-a-tai kiged tegün-ü dotorki yaγumas-un čeng ni čaγan-iyar dörben mingγan

ǰirγuγan ǰaγun γučin yisün tügürig dalan möngö bolbai).

103 The document is signed by the abbot of the datsan. The signature is illegible.

The property inventory of the Iangazhinskii datsan

104 The title of the inventory reads “The register of the deity-images, religious texts and

other objects kept in the Iangazhinskii datsan127 and belonging to its treasury and the

report on every wooden building of the datsan” (Mo. yangγačin-u dačang-un dotorki

burqan nom bolon busu ǰüil-ün ǰisa-yin sang-tu qabiy-a-tai aliba yaγumas-un oop128is129 ba


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dačang-un modon barilγad-un tus veyidomosti130). The document dates from the 1st January

1878 (Mo. 1878 on-a gangvari-yin 1-ü edür).

105 The inventory is composed in tabular form. It consists of three columns the first of

which gives the names of the listed items and the other two their value. The entries

have no sequence numbers and are not divided into any thematic sections; no

additional headings are included. The values are written down in Tibetan numerals.

106 The first two entries describe the main building of the datsan131 and its “four

subordinate temples” (Mo. dörben baγ-a sümed). The next four entries enumerate other

wooden constructions belonging to the datsan, such as “an outside fence with five

gates” (Mo. γadaγur inu bayiγsan 85 üy-e qarsi 5 egüden-tei) – 125 roubles, “a barn housing

the equipment used during the gyre of Maitreya ceremony” (Mo. mayidari-yin ǰingčeg

noγon morin-u bayidaγ angbar) – 15 roubles, “a yurt in which food is cooked for regular

services” (Mo. čaγ čaγ-un qural-tu idegen činači bayidaγ nige ger) – 10 roubles, and “a

watchmen’s yurt of the datsan” (Mo. dačang-un dergedeki qaraγul-un nige ger) –

15 roubles.

107 Two entries are devoted to the enumeration of the painted deity-images. They do not

specify the names of the depicted deities or the exact size of the pictures which are

only characterised as big (Mo. yeke deliγ) and small (Mo. baγ-a diliγ).

108 The next nineteen entries refer to the statuettes of various deities. Apart from the

name of the presented deity, the text provides information about the type of the

images describing them as “golden statuettes” (Mo. sergüü), “small golden statuettes”

(Mo. bičiqan sergüü), and big and small sculptured images (Mo. yeke/bičiqan barimal).

109 The enumeration of the ritual utensils and textile decorations of the datsan includes “a

big brass mandala platter” (Mo. mangdal-un yeke γuulin tabaγ) – 1 rouble 25 kopecks,

“one big and two small mandalas” (Mo. nige yeke qoyar baγ-a mangdal-nud), “a shining

mirror made of glass” (Mo. šil gegen toli) – 3 roubles, “four joined mirrors” (Mo. qolbotai

4 toli), “two pairs of ritual vases” (Mo. 2 par bumba) – 10 roubles, “wooden figures of the

seven treasures and the eight offerings” (Mo. modon-iyar kigsen doloγan erdeni naiman

takil) – 7 roubles 50 kopecks, “thirty ritual branch-bowls” (Mo. γučin üy-e čügüče) –

35 roubles, “two teapots” (Mo. qoyar ǰabuy-a) – 3 roubles 50 kopecks, “long silk

ceremonial scarf” (Mo. yeke urtu torγon qadaγ) – 6 roubles, “thirty vangdan ceremonial

scarves” (Mo. γučin vangdan qadaγ) – 22 roubles 50 kopecks, “a tiger skin” (Mo. nige

baras-un arisu) – 15 roubles, “a victory-banner with white baldachin” (Mo. düγar132

ǰilcan) – 8 roubles, “five baldachins of which one is silk and four are cotton” (Mo. nige

mangnuγ133 4 bös niyte tabun labri) – 25 roubles, and others.

110 Religious texts listed by the document include “the Kanjur in one hundred and seven

volumes” (Mo. nige ǰaγun dolon boti g134angčiur nom) valued at 1 070 roubles, as well as

“two tables with carvings painted in gold on which the Kanjur is placed” (Mo. gangčiur

nom-ud-un altan-tai seilemel 2 siregen) – 20 roubles; “two volumes of the Prajñāpāramitā

text of which one is in Tibetan and the other is in Mongolian” (Mo. 1 töbed 1 mongγol 2

yüm) – 50 roubles; “the collected works of Tsong kha pa in forty-five volumes”

(Mo. döčin tabun boti boγda ǰongkh135aba-yin sünbüm nom-ud) – 135 roubles; and “the

Tanjur in two hundred and twenty-five volumes” (Mo. qoyar ǰaγun qorin tabun boti

dingčiur nom-ud) – 675 roubles. According to the inventory, the datsan also possessed

“wooden printing blocks of the Sutra of the Great Liberation136 in Tibetan” (Mo. töbed

tarba čingboo-yin modon keb) and “wooden printing blocks of the Vajracchedikā


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Prajñāpāramitāsūtra” (Mo. dorǰi ǰidba-yin modon keb) which all together counted two

hundred and seventy-two blocks (Mo. niyte 272 kesüγ bar-nud) and were valued at


111 The inventory presents a rather long list of ritual musical instruments which comprise,

however, a more or less standard set which includes “two pairs of small

cymbals” (Mo. 2 bar čilin) – 14 roubles, “three seashell trumpets” (Mo. γurban dungγar) –

15 roubles, “seventeen bells” (Mo. arban dolon qongqu) – 10 roubles 20 kopecks, “five

pairs of flutes” (Mo. 5 p137ar beskegür) – 7 roubles, two “gongs” (Mo. qarangγ-a) –

15 roubles, one dudarma (Mo. nige duu darm-a) – 2 roubles, “two pairs of brass trumpets”

(Mo. 2 par γaulin büriy-e) – 20 roubles, “a pair of thigh-bone trumpets” (Mo. nige par

γanglin) – 3 roubles, “eight double-sided hand-drums” (Mo. naiman damaru) –

80 kopecks, “eight pairs of big cymbals” (Mo. naiman par čang) – 24 roubles, and “ten

drums” (Mo. arban kenggerge) – 10 roubles.

112 Among the household items of non-religious nature listed by the inventory there are

“ten brass pots” (Mo. 10 γuulin dongbo) – 10 roubles, “three Chinese cast-iron cauldrons

with two trivets” (Mo. 3 kitad širem toγu 2 tuluγ-a-tai) – 9 roubles, “two metal ladles”

(Mo. 2 temür sinaγ-a) – 50 kopecks, “one big metal mortar” (Mo. nige yeke temür oor) –

2 roubles, “one metal scales” (Mo. nige temür singnegür) – 1 rouble, “six metal platters”

(Mo. ǰiruγan temür tabaγ) – 1 rouble 2 kopecks, and “two revolvers” (Mo. qoyar tasiγur

buu) – 3 roubles.

113 The document is not signed.

Analysing…

…the language of the inventories

114 Original citations from the seven inventories, which were presented above, clearly

show that, although the documents are written in the so-called classical or traditional

Mongolian script, the language of the texts is far from being Classical Mongolian.

115 The lexis of the documents is highly heterogeneous. The terms borrowed from other

languages are predominantly Tibetan and Russian in origin; most of these terms are

direct phonetical borrowings adjusted to the morphological and orthographical

features of the Mongolian language. The analysis of the loan-words revealed that the

words of Tibetan origin are used to refer to religious objects such as deity-images,

names of deities, titles of texts, ritual utensils and Buddhist musical instruments. The

terms of Russian origin, in their turn, refer to pragmatical and economic matters such

as the calendrical system, titles of documents, household items and outbuildings, and

units of measurement.

116 The orthography of the inventories is rather unstable. In many cases it conveys the

colloquial pronunciation of words and peculiarities of the Buryat language. Diacritical

signs are used irregularly. The diacritical mark for n is added only sporadically. The

diacritical marks distinguishing γ from q are sometimes applied inversely, so that they

are absent in a word containing γ and are written to mark q. Sometimes no distinction

is made for the cup-shaped č and ǰ in the middle position. Special Galik signs are

frequently used in loan-words to indicate various Tibetan or Sanskrit letters as well as

the Russian p. The rules of vowel harmony are often broken by using ‘back’ and ‘front’


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vowels in the same word. Case suffixes are often joined to the declined words. The

orthography of loan-words is especially changeable and happens to be diverse for the

same word, so that a certain term can have several different spelling variants even

within the same document.

…the structure of the inventories

117 All the inventories under investigation are tabular in form. The titles of the documents

denominate them with Russian bureaucratic terms such as “reports” (Mo. veyidomosti,

bedamosta; Ru. vedomost’) or “registers” (Mo. oopis/obis; Ru. opis’). The titles of the

inventories of the Atsaiskii, Aginskii, Ol’honskii and Iangazhinskii datsans also contain

the date of the document’s composition, including the year according to the Julian

calendar, the month given as a Russian word in Mongolian transliteration and the day.

In three other cases only the year is indicated in the text of the documents. The titles of

the inventories of the Aginskii and Tsongol’skii datsans contain both the Mongolian

and Tibetan names of the datsans, whereas the Tibetan name of the Ol’honskii datsan is

mentioned not in the title but in the entry describing the datsan’s main building.

118 All the inventories have a similar but not identical structure. This indicates that there

existed no obligatory or official form for compiling this kind of document. Except for

the earliest document issued by the Atsaiskii datsan, all the inventories include

columns or rows in which the values (Mo. čeng; sümge; sümγ-a; üne) of the enumerated

items are given in silver (Mo. čaγan-iyar; čaγan-bar) roubles and kopecks (Mo. tügü/

mönggö; tü/mö). The inventories of the Atsaiskii and Barguzinskii datsans have a

separate column in which the number of items listed by each entry is indicated. In the

documents pertaining to the Aginskii, Ol’honskii and Iangazhinskii datsans these

numbers are provided in the texts of the entries describing the objects. For the

Tsongol’skii and Kudunskii datsans no exact quantity of the enumerated items is

mentioned. The inventories of the Kudunskii, Aginskii and Ol’honskii datsans include

separate columns or rows containing the consecutive number for all the entries.

119 The arrangement of entries comprising the inventories has similar features for all the

documents under investigation. In three cases (Atsaiskii, Kudunskii and Aginskii

datsans) the entries are divided into thematical sections marked by the appropriate

subheadings. In the case of the Tsongol’skii datsan’s inventory, the sections are not

thematical but positional – the objects are grouped and listed according to a certain

building of the datsan’s complex in which they are preserved. The other three

documents do not divide listed items into any sections. All the inventories, however,

present a more or less stable order of introducing objects. Except for the Atsaiskii

datsan’s inventory, all the texts start with entries describing the main building of the

datsan or all its buildings, including smaller temples and household constructions.

Whether divided into sections or not, the lists of the objects kept inside the datsans

always begin with the enumeration of deity-images. When the type of an image is

mentioned, sculptural images made of gilded copper or bronze, clay or incense-paste

are listed first with pictorial images, painted or printed, following them. Only in the

case of the Ol’honskii datsan is the enumeration of sculptural images followed by the

description of ritual utensils and musical instruments, after which the list of the

painted deity-images is presented. The Iangazhinskii datsan’s inventory puts pictorial

images in the first place and sculptural images in the second.


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120 In most cases, the inventories continue with the lists of religious texts. The Ol’honskii

datsan’s inventory is alone in placing religious texts in the fifth place after deity-

images, musical instruments, ritual utensils and interior decorations. The items of

furniture and sitting textile are normally listed after all the sacred objects and objects

with direct ritual purposes. Kitchen and cooking utensils are normally placed at the

end of the main list.

121 Of the seven documents in question, only the Iangazhinskii datsan’s inventory does not

follow this order of introducing items. Its composition is rather chaotic and the entries

describing various objects are intermingled.

122 As to the length and thoroughness of the texts, the Atsaiskii datsan’s inventory can be

distinguished as the shortest one. The list of the deity-images of the Kudunskii datsan is

the longest and, in a way, most precise. Although it doesn’t provide information about

the size of the images or the material of which they were made, it devotes a separate

entry to almost all the enumerated images and gives the name of a depicted deity in

every entry. Other inventories, for comparison, may group several images into one

entry or mention them all under the common name “painted images” (Mo. ǰirumal

burqad) or “golden images” (Mo. sergüü burqad) in a single entry without specification.

123 The concept of “the three supports” (Tib. rten gsum; Mo. γurban sitügen) is only used in

the structure of the Aginskii datsan’s inventory. The sacred objects such as deity-

images, Buddhist texts and appropriate ritual items are divided into three groups

under the corresponding subheadings: “the section of the physical support of the three

supports placed inside the main datsan” (Mo. yeke dačang dotor-a bayiγuluγsan γurban

sitügen-eče bey-e-yin sitügen-ü ayimaγ), “the section of the verbal support” (Mo. ǰarliγ-un

sitügen-ü ayimaγ), “the wooden printing blocks of the sutras” (Mo. sudur-un modon bar-

ud) and “the section of the spiritual support” (Mo. sedkil-ün sitügen-ü ayimaγ). The title

of this inventory also contains the term γurban sitügen, which is used to refer to the

objects kept in the datsan and listed by the text. We find the term sitügen in this

meaning only once more in the texts of the other six inventories. The only subheading

introducing the enumeration of items stored in the Ol’honskii datsan includes it as a

collective term for part of the described articles – tegün dotor-a bayiγuluγsan sitügen ba

takil-un keregten terigüten.

…historical reliability of the inventories

124 According to the opinion of Buryat scholars, the information provided by the Buryat

monasteries’ inventories is usually false or incomplete. Researchers believe that

Buddhist monastic authorities in Buryatia tended to conceal the truth about the

monasteries’ income and property (Bazarov 2006, p. 35; Galdanova et al. 1983, p. 68).

125 Of course, at present the task of verifying the completeness of the Buryat monasteries’

inventories is unachievable. What can partly be achieved is the verification of the data

presented by these documents. Some of the information may be confirmed or refuted

by juxtaposing it with reports delivered by independent observers such as Russian and

European scholars and state officials. Another possible method to examine the accuracy

of the documents is a synchronic comparison of monetary values given by the

inventories of different datsans for similar items. It is highly unlikely that the datsans

had a preliminary agreement on how to falsify the details of the property reports and


347

that all of them deceived the authorities about the value of their property in the same

manner.

126 Thus, for example, Pozdneev, who inspected Buryat datsans by order of the Department

of Religious Affairs in 1909 and 1916, wrote in his reports that in 1909 the Tsongol’skii

datsan had eleven small temples built at different times. The scholar’s list of the

temples and their names coincide with the description provided by the Tsongol’skii

datsan’s inventory of 1861 discussed above. It includes, thus, six clan-temples, three

temples devoted to the deities such as Avalokiteśvara (Mo. aria-bala), the protective

deity (Mo. saqiγulsan) and the Medicine buddha (Mo. otoši), and two temples built for

the Great and Small Prayer-wheels (Bazarov 2006, pp. 32-33).

127 According to the information collected by Natsov138 in the 1930s, the Atsaiskii datsan

had nine subordinate small temples built in the period from 1795 to 1829, namely the

Śākyamuni and Ayuši (Mo.; Skt. Amitāyus) temples, the Günrig (Mo.; Tib. Kun rigs;

Skt. Sarvavid-Vairocana) and Doγsid (Mo.; Tib. Drag ched) temples, the temples of the

Demčog (Mo. ; Tib. bDe mchog; Skt. Cakrasaṃvara) and of the Prayer-wheel (Mo. kürde-

yin), the Šaγdar (Tib. Phyag na rdo rje; Skt. Vajrapāṇi) temple, the Medicine Buddha

temple and the Nayidan (Tib. gnas brtan)139 temple (Natsov 1998, pp. 21-22). Although

the inventory of the datsan dated 1855 does not include the names of the small temples,

it confirms their presence and number. The section “its subordinate buildings”

(Mo. egünü qabiyatu barilγad) of the document starts with the entry “small temples”

(Mo. baγ-a sümüd), the number of which is indicated as nine.

128 As to the Aginskii datsan, the information known from the scientific literature and

obtained from the official archival documents differs from the material found in the

inventory of 1860 discussed above. Zhamsueva writes that at the beginning of the

19th century, the datsan had four temples beside the main building. They were the

rGyud (Tib.) temple, also known as the Demčog (Tib. bDe mchog) temple, built in 1811;

the Dus ’khor (Tib.; Skt. Kālacakra) or Ayuši temple also built in 1811; and the sMan bla

(Tib.) and the Kun rigs (Tib.) temples both erected in 1816. According to the official

documents, the small temples were rebuilt or renovated in 1895-1897 and only in 1900

was the project of the new Maitreya temple approved (Zhamsueva 2001, pp. 36-37,

42-43). A picture drawn by the inventory of 1860 is slightly different. The document

says that already in 1860, the datsan had five small temples such as the Maitreya

(Mo. maidari), Amitāyus (Mo. ayusi), Bhaiṣajyaguru (Mo. otasi), Sarvavid-Vairocana

(Mo. günrig) temples and the temple of the Prayer-wheel containing 100 million

mantras (Mo. dongšur maṇi-yin kürdü).

129 It becomes clear, therefore, that the inventories under consideration may serve as

additional historical sources to collect supplementary information or verify the data

regarding Buryat monasteries’ immovable property that is already known from other

sources.

130 In the following table, the monetary values given by the inventories of different

datsans for similar items are compared.

Table 2. Some sacred and secular items of the Kudunskii, Aginskii and Ol’honskii datsans givenwith monetary values for comparison

Name of datsan


348

Article Kudunskii (1860) Aginskii (1860) Ol’honskii (1873)

Kanjur

2100 roubles

(one hundred and fifty

volumes of a hand-

written Kanjur

together with cloth

wrapper)

1442 roubles 86 kopecks

(one hundred and one

volume of a Tibetan

hand-written Kanjur

together with box and

table)

3300 roubles

(one hundred and

eight volumes of the

Kanjur)

Yum ( Prajñāpāramitā

texts)

90 roubles

(sixteen volumes of the

Tibetan Yum together

with cloth wrapper)


(sixteen volumes of the

xylographical Tibetan

Yum)

———

Gilded deity-

statuettes

100 roubles

(1 cubit-high gilded

image of the Medicine

Buddha)

180 roubles

(1 cubit-high gilded

image of Maitreya)

14 roubles 30 kopeckes

(1 span-high gilded

image of the Šākyamuni

Buddha)

10 roubles

(1 span-high gilded

image of Amitābha)


(1 span-high gilded

image of Mi la ras pa)

20 roubles

(1 span-high gilded

image of Yamāntaka)

Musical instruments

36 roubles

(four pairs of the big

cymbals)


(five pairs of the big

cymbals)

10 roubles

(one pair of the big

cymbals)

20 roubles

(four pairs of the

small cymbals)

7 roubles

(four pairs of the

flutes)


(five pairs of the flutes)

1 rouble

(five double-sided

hand-drums)


(five double-sided hand-

drums)

37 roubles

(four pairs of the small

cymbals)

30 roubles

(three pairs of the small

cymbals)

24 roubles

(three pairs of the

small cymbals)

Kitchen utensils

14 roubles

(one big and two small

cauldrons)

12.40 roubles

(four nine-mark cast-

iron cauldrons)

30 roubles

(three big and small

cast-iron cauldrons

together with 2

trivets)


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1 rouble 88 kopecks

(one five-mark cast-iron

cauldron)

50 kopecks

(two ladles)

28 kopecks

(one metal ladle) 15 roubles

(three metal ladles,

four copper teapots

together with three

wooden chests)

2 roubles

(five teapots)

14 roubles

(thirteen teapots made

of white metal)

131 It is a known fact that at the end of the 19th century, Russian scholar Pozdneev bought a

hand-written Mongolian Kanjur in the city of Kalgan, Inner Mongolia. The price

Pozdneev paid for the manuscript was 4 500 roubles. The monetary values of the Kanjur

copies given by the Kudunskii, Aginskii and Ol’honskii datsans’ inventories, therefore,

are quite realistic despite the difference between them. The descriptions of the

scriptural collections provided by the documents are incomplete. The details

concerning the materials used to produce these Kanjurs, the places of their origin and

their physical condition are not known. They could have been elucidating for the

understanding of the diversity of the prices.

132 The values of the other items, although not identical, are equivalent and reasonable. A

comparison with prices of religious items used at the same period by the local

Orthodox church or prices which retail merchants set for such items could be useful.

Thus, for example, the attachment to the Irkutsk eparchial gazette no. 1 issued on

1 January, 1866 includes an advertisement of Mr. Okulov’s shop in Irkutsk. The gazette

says that the shop offers seven vershok-high ikons of better quality in silver rizas140 and

icon-cases for 95 roubles, as well as similar quality four vershok-high icons for

27 roubles. The Gospel in velvet binding with silver corners or in gilded bronze cover

cost 70 roubles (IEV 1866, pp. 10-11). Another issue of the same periodical provides a

description of the Dormition church (Ru. Uspenskaia tserkov’) in Irkutsk. It lists, among

the most remarkable and valuable items preserved in the temple of the Dormition of

the Mother of God (Ru. Hram Uspeniia Bozhiei Materi), a gilded 84th fineness-silver

altar crucifix weighing 3 pounds and 18 zolotniks which is valued at 195 roubles, two

gilded 84th fineness-silver crowns used during wedding services incrusted with precious

stones weighing 5 pounds and 62 zolotniks which are valued at 120 roubles (IEV 1876,

pp. 361-362). As regards kitchen utensils, in a short financial report published in the

Irkutsk eparchial gazette in 1868, a superintendent of the Nerchinsk county religious

school (Ru. Nerchinskoe duhovnoe uezdnoe uchilishche) noted that 119 roubles and

8 kopeks were spent on tin tableware and a dozen of Melchior spoons (IEV 1869, p. 92).

133 Although it is not known whether the values provided by the inventories were exact to

those paid for the corresponding articles or approximate evaluations, they appear to be

realistic as regards both religious and household items. The only additional remark

that should be made here is that some inventories are very precise in pricing the

monastic property, whereas others obviously present rounded figures.


350

Sacred vs commodified

134 The analysis of the content of the Buryat monasteries’ inventories shows that many

items listed by these documents are Buddhist sacred objects; that is, the objects

represent different aspects of Buddhist doctrine, embodying the Buddha himself, his

words or other deities. These objects are believed to be endowed with transcendent

powers and are highly venerated by the faithful people. Most of them, even if not

defined as such by the documents, belong to one of the so-called “three supports”

(Tib. rten gsum), by which “support” (Tib. rten) means “an aid to memory, an aide

memoire or reminder of a real thing which the object stands for” (Dagyab 1977, p. 25).

The first of them – “the physical support” (Tib. sku rten) – refers to the images of the

Buddha, deities and saints. The second one – “the verbal support” (Tib. gsung rten) –

includes all religious written works. Finally, mchod rten (Tib.; Skt. stūpa), maṇḍala and

other objects directly related to religious practices belong to “the spiritual support”

(Tib. thugs rten) (ibid.; Martin 1994, p. 275). Placed inside a monastery building or a

Buddhist layman’s house, these objects are always treated in a special, ritualised way.

They are ritually practised by people and simultaneously turned into “power objects”

(Gentry 2017, pp. 7-22) which have their own intrinsic powers and ability to act and

transform reality.

135 Other religious articles described by the inventories but not belonging to “the three

supports” such as textile decorations, musical instruments or ritual utensils, also

possess profound spiritual meaning and symbolism grounded in the Buddhist

mythology and philosophical doctrine. Enacted in a prescribed way during various

rituals, or simply occupying their place in a monastery, they are also treated as entities

that have the power to “transform beings and their surroundings” (ibid., p. 8).

136 In the eyes of Buddhists, who interact with these objects, they are certainly highly

valuable. This value, however, is not necessarily and only indirectly connected with

their material dimension. It is, rather their efficacy at the spiritual level, sometimes the

duration of their “working experience”, and their connection in whatsoever way with

an eminent Buddhist personality etc. that comprise their value, which is not material

or utilitarian but metaphysical.

137 Without doubt, however, all these objects were initially created as commodities,

understood as “any thing intended for exchange” and as “objects of economic value”

(Appadurai 1986, pp. 3, 9). However, the “commodity phase” of their cultural biography

was expected, ideally, to be very brief (ibid., pp. 16-17). As soon as they began to be used

according to their intended purpose, that is to be consecrated, venerated, prayed to,

ritually recited and used in a special, normative, canonically prescripted way during

various religious services, they became de-commodified and sacralised through such

ritualised activity and devotional attitude (Rambelli 2007, p 263). Normally, such

objects lose their economic or monetary value after this de-commoditisation, as they

are no longer expected to be exchanged, and this value becomes irrelevant for their

further cultural history as it develops within the Buddhist tradition.

138 In the case of the Buryat Buddhist monastic inventories, however, we can observe аcollision or, better put, a combination of two traditions with a diametrically opposed

attitude towards Buddhist religious objects – the Buddhist tradition itself and the

Russian bureaucratic culture. The official request from the state administration to

compose and annually submit property inventories, as well as the utilitarian approach


351

of the bureaucrats to the material elements of the Buddhist monastic practice, created

a situation in which the objects, which possessed the status of “sacred” in the Buddhist

world, were regularly drawn back to the circle of commodities by attaching monetary

value to them and putting them on a par with truly profane objects such as household

buildings and utensils, weapons and livestock on the pages of the monasteries’

inventories.

139 Thus, on the one hand the compilation of monastic inventories in Buryatia was ordered

by state law, which automatically gave these texts the status of bureaucratic documents

and made the monks describe sacred objects used in their monasteries in an

uncharacteristically pragmatic manner, every time reifying their economic value. On

the other hand, Buddhist culture, which the monks represented, found its reflection

not only in the texts’ content but also in their form, echoing, to a certain extent, the

idea of classifying religious objects according to the concept of “the three supports” –

an idea which also defined the composition of the Tibetan dkar chags.

Conclusion

140 The analysis of the inventories provided on the previous pages shows that the authors

of the texts were familiar with the dkar chag genre as, at least in some cases, they partly

followed the pattern of describing sacred items based on the division into “the three

supports”. Other characteristics of the texts, however, distinctly indicate their nature

as being official economic reports, which they actually were.

141 The property inventories of the Buryat datsans came into being as a result of the

overlap of two very distinct traditions – the Tibetan-Mongolian Buddhist and the

Russian bureaucratical ones. Such origins determined the specific form of these

documents as regards both their content and linguistic features.

142 The historical value of the inventories, in my opinion, should not be questioned, as they

represent a unique source of information which reveals to us the details of the material

side of Buddhism as it was practiced in the Buryat datsans of the 19th century. It should

be emphasised, of course, that the inventories list only the communal, movable and

immovable, property of the datsans which nominally belonged undividedly to the

datsan’s clerical community as a whole. At the same time, the documents do not

include data concerning the monks’ individual belongings and their private property

which Buryat law allowed them to possess (Tsibikov 1970, pp. 69-70, 77, 1992, p. 82)141.

Although quantitatively the inventories may be imprecise, they certainly contribute to

our knowledge of the size of various Buryat monastic complexes, the cults of specific

deities and the extent to which they were practiced in Buryatia, the content of the

datsans’ libraries and the development of their own book printing, and the

characteristic language of the Buryat Buddhism in both its spiritual and material

aspects.

143 The inventories undoubtedly describe the majority of the tangible items involved in the

monastic practice of Buddhism in Transbaikalia in the 19th century and may, therefore,

be assessed as documents presenting the essence of Buddhist materiality for that

region and time. The thoroughness with which the inventories characterise the objects

is, in most cases, very low. For this reason, they are hardly helpful in tracing and

writing the history of some particular pieces. Perhaps the collection and detailed

comparative analysis of all of the inventories of a particular datsan, preferably


352

presented as uninterrupted annual issues, would give a better outcome in this regard.

This does not mean, however, that the inventories are useless for the composition of

what Kopytoff proposed to call “the cultural biography of things” (Kopytoff 1986),

especially if we avoid oversimplifying the concept by using it “as a catch-all term for

everything that happens to an artefact” (Fontijn 2013, p. 192). Speaking about Kopytoff’s

work, Appadurai noticed that the author described his biographical approach to objects

by observing their movement “in and out of the commodity state” (Appadurai 1986,

p. 13). Moreover, in the opinion of Fontijn, Kopytoff was not interested in capturing

actual or specific object histories but rather in emphasising the value of a common

view which a society shares in respect to what would be the right trajectory for a

particular kind of object. Deviations from these trajectories might become particularly

revealing for our awareness about the notions that people share regarding what is the

proper treatment and path of certain things (Fontijn 2013, pp. 184-185).

144 The property inventories of the Buryat datsans are themselves written evidence

recording the very fact of changing, at least nominally, the artefacts’ status as regards

commoditisation. They also report certain aspects of the emic attitude towards the

objects they list by proposing their categorisation according to the Buddhist doctrine,

for example, or applying specific language for naming them. Simultaneously, the

inventories document an emically unnatural movement of some of these objects back

to the commodity state.

145 Considering, however, an interesting observation made by Urry, who stated that

objects “can be said to demonstrate a cultural biography as they have been assembled

from objects, information and images drawn from diverse cultures in a specific

temporal and special order” (Urry 2000, p. 66), it might be more productive to treat an

entire datsan as such a complex object that, at the tangible level, was being

continuously composed of a multitude of material items. These items, the majority of

which are described by the property inventories under study, were also predominantly

“mobile” objects which, at particular moments of their existence, have not only

travelled geographically but have also undergone shifts in their symbolical meaning

and comprehension. The physical and symbolical mobility of these objects has

undoubtedly affected both their own cultural trajectories and the cultural biographies

of the datsans, of which they eventually became compositional elements. The Buryat

datsans’ inventories, therefore, demonstrate to us the fact of the constitution of a

datsan from “a complex combination of local, national and transnational components”

(ibid.) and may serve as an efficient tool for investigating the originality of Buryat

Buddhist material culture.

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Tsibikov, B. D. 1970 Obychnoe Pravo Selenginskih Buriat [Customary law of the Selenga Buryats]

(Ulan-Ude, Buriatskoe Knizhnoe Izdatel’stvo).

1992 Obychnoe Pravo Horinskih Buriat. Pamiatniki Staromongol’skoi Pis’mennosti [Customary law of the

Hori Buryats. Monuments of the literature in the lassical Mongolian script) (Novosibirsk, Nauka).

Tsybenov, B. D. 2011 Iz Istorii Buddizma Hori-Buriat (XVIII – Nach. XX v.) [From the history of the

Hori-Buryat Buddhism (18th-beginning of the 20th century)] (Ulan-Ude, Publishing House of the

East Siberian State Technological University).

Tsyrempilov, N. 2004 Annotated Catalogue of the Collection of Mongolian Manuscripts and Xylographs MI

of the Institute of Mongolian, Tibetan and Buddhist Studies of Siberian Branch of Russian Academy of

Sciences (Sendai, Centre for Northeast Asian Studies, Tohoku University).

2013 Buddizm i Imperiia: Buriatskaia Buddiiskaia Obshchina v Rossii (XVIII-Nach. XX v.) [Buddhism and

Empire. Buryat Buddhist community in Russia (18th–beginning of the 20th century)] (Ulan-Ude,

Institute of Mongolian, Buddhist and Tibetan Studies of the Siberian Branch of the Russian


Tucci, G. 1980 The Religions of Tibet (Berkeley/Los Angeles, University of California Press).

Urry, J. 2000 Sociology beyond Societies. Mobilities for the Twenty-First Century (London/New York,

Routledge).

Vashkevich, V. 1885 Lamaity v’’ Vostochnoi Sibiri [Lamaits in eastern Siberia] (St. Petersburg,

Printing House of the Ministry of Domestic Affairs).

Vostrikov, A. I. 2007 Tibetskaia Istoricheskaia Literatura [Tibetan historical Literature] (St.

Petersburg, Peterburgskoe Vostokovedenie).

Zhalsanova, B. Ts. 2009 Inorodnye Upravy kak Organy Mestnogo Samoupravleniia Buriat v XIX – Nachale

XX v. [Native administrations as a local administrative body of the Buryats in 19th–beginning of

20th century) (Ulan-Ude, Publishing and Printing Center of the FGOU VPO VSGAKI).

Zhamsueva, D. S. 2001 Aginskie Datsany kak Pamiatniki Istorii Kul’tury [The datsans of Aga as

monuments of the history of culture] (Ulan-Ude, Publishing House of the Buryat Scientific Center

of the Siberian Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences).

NOTES

1. I would like to express my sincere gratitude to my colleagues Jargal Badagarov, Isabelle

Charleux, Karenina Kollmar-Paulenz, Krisztina Teleki and Nikolai Tsyrempilov whose valuable

consultations helped me significantly to improve my research and finish this article.

2. Urga (also known under the names Örgöö, Daa Hürèè, Ih Hürèè [Mod. Mo.] and others) was the

political, administrative, religious and economic centre of Outer Mongolia until 1924, when it was

renamed Ulaanbaatar and became the capital of the Mongolian Peoples’ Republic. On the history

and description of Urga see, for example, Pozdneev 1886, pp. 63-149; Teleki 2011, 2015.


357

3. In the Buryat Buddhist tradition, the entire monastic complex is defined by the word dačang

(Mo.; Mod. Bur. dasan), which has been borrowed from Tibetan grwa tshang. In Tibetan, however,

this term is used with a different meaning: a “school where monks are instructed in sacred

literature” or a “section in a great monastery, where the monks belonging to one particular

school of studies live together” (Das 1979, p. 239). In Buryatian, the term refers to both the main

temple of a monastery in which the services and rituals are conducted, and to the totality of all

the monastery constructions, including the residential buildings of the monks (Budazhapova

2012, p. 81).

4. The concept of agency as a capacity inherent to non-human/tangible objects is borrowed from

Latour and the actor-network theory, to the development of which he made a great contribution.

Latour considered action to be not just an intentional and meaningful deed of which only

humans are capable, and suggested that any thing that modifies a state of affairs by making a

difference is an actor (Latour 2005, p. 71). Moreover, by defining “social” as “a type of

momentary association which is characterized by the way it gathers together into new shapes”

(ibid., p. 65) Latour recognises the status of things as social actors “which are able to transport

the action further through other modes of action, other types of forces altogether” (ibid., p. 70).

5. Kopytoff suggested the idea of attempting cultural biographies of things in connection with

the process of commoditisation/de-commoditisation. In the opinion of the scholar “a culturally

informed economic biography of an object would look at it as a culturally constructed entity,

endowed with culturally specific meanings, and classified and reclassified into culturally

constituted categories” (Kopytoff 1986, p. 68).

6. Teleki discovered and studied forty eight inventories written in Mongolian and twenty one in

Tibetan (Teleki 2015, p. 186).

7. From Chinese dēng cè – “note, protocol, archive, list, register” (Kowalewski 1849, p. 1566).

8. According to Martin, the three categories of things classified into “the three supports” are

considered holy in Tibetan Buddhist tradition and constitute an intrinsic part of any monastery’s

composition (Martin 1996, p. 504).

9. A description of the Maitreya statue of the Aginskii datsan in Buryatia may serve as an

example of dkar chag composed by the Buryat monks. The text is entitled A nu byams chen gyi dkar

chag rab gsal me long (Tib.). It was written in 1915 by a lama Blo brtan of the Aginskii datsan. A

copy of this treatise is now kept in the Tibetan collection of the Saint Petersburg Institute of

Oriental Manuscripts (former Saint Petersburg branch of the Institute of Oriental Studies of the

Russian Academy of Sciences) under the code number B 7 813/1 (Vostrikov 2007, p. 111; 257,

n. 662; p. 251). For other examples of dkar chag descriptions of sacred objects and places written

by Mongolian authors see Teleki 2015, p. 183; Byambaa 2004, p. 909, no. 02 443; p. 910, no. 02 444;

pp. 986-987, no. 02 641, no. 02 642, no. 02 643; pp. 1016-1017, no. 02 702, no. 02 704; pp. 1041-1043,

no. 02 751-02 753, no. 02 756.

10. The treaty of Kyakhta was signed on the 21st October 1727. The treaty proclaimed eternal

peace between the Chinese and the Russian Empire, and mutual willingness to live in friendship

and harmony respecting and following the laws and customs of both countries. It approved the

delineation of the borders between the empires determined by the treaty of Bura earlier that

year, establishing the protocol of exchanging envoys and correspondence. The agreed segment of

border was that from the upper course of the Argun’ river and to the Shabin Dabaga mountain

pass with the boundary following along the river (Lamin 2009, p. 782).

11. Vladislavich-Raguzinskii (1669-1738) originated from a Serbian noble family settled in the

Republic of Ragusa. He was a diplomat in the service of Peter I who conducted diplomatic talks

with the Qing Empire in 1725-1727. These negotiations finalised by the conclusion of the treaty of

Bura and Kyakhta should be counted among his main achievements as they determined the

official political and economic relations between the two countries up to the middle of the

19th century.


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12. The full title of the document was “The instruction issued by the ambassadorial office of the

count Raguzinskii on the 27th June 1728 for the border guard Firsov and interpreter Kobei”

(Ru. Instruktsiia Posol’skoi kantseliarii ot 27 iiunia 1728 g. grafa Raguzinskogo pogranichnomu

dozorshchiku Firsovu i tolmachu Kobeiu) (Tsyrempilov 2013, p. 45). According to other sources, the

document was issued on the 30th June 1728 (Vashkevich 1885, p. 35).

13. The document ordered that foreign Buddhist monks should not be allowed to cross the newly

established border and instead to use exclusively the services of the monks who remained in

Russian territory after the demarcation. The instruction also discussed the possibility of the

situation whereby the current number of monks was insufficient. It suggested, in such a case,

that two inquisitive boys from every clan should be chosen and sent to the chief of the clan (Bur.

taiša) Lubsan, where the Buddhist monks who lived by him would teach those boys Mongolian

and other subjects necessary for a Buddhist monastic (Razumov & Sosnovskii 1898, p. 130;

Vashkevich 1885, pp. 35-36).

14. Damba Darzha Zaiaev was born in 1702 or 1710 to one of the Tsongol families who originated

from Inner Mongolia. At the age of fourteen he started his long pilgrimage-educational journey

through the most respected Buddhist educational centres of Mongolia and Tibet, including the

famous sGo mang college of the ’Bras spungs monastery where he had been studying for seven

years. During his stay in Tibet, Zaiaev was granted an audience by the Seventh Dalai Lama Bskal

bzang rgya mtsho and the Fifth Panchen Lama Blo bzang ye shes, who gave him their blessing to

propagate the teaching among the laity and grant monastic ordinations. After his return to

Buryatia, he became one of the leaders of the Tsongol Buddhists, a co-founder of the stationary

Hilgantuiskii datsan in his native lands (Chimitdorzhin 2010, pp. 20-29; Tsyrempilov 2013,

pp. 63-68).

15. The title combines Sanskrit and Tibetan Buddhist terms. Thus, the element bandido is an

adaptation of the Sanskrit word paṇḍita – “learned, wise, skilful” (Monier-Williams 1974, p. 580)

used in the Tibetan culture also as a title “given to one who has become versed in the five

sciences” (Das 1979, p. 781). The element hambo is borrowed from the Tibetan mkhan po – “the

head of a particular college attached to a monastery, high priest who give vows to the junior or

inferior lamas, and professor of sacred literature” (ibid., p. 179). This Tibetan term was used as an

equivalent of the Sanskrit upādhyāya – “teacher, preceptor” (Monier-Williams 1974, p. 213). In

Mongolia, the heads of Buddhist monasteries who supervised academic activities and performed

some administrative duties bore the title of Hambo Lama (Pozdneev 1887, pp. 154-155; Miller

1959, p. 51).

16. Mihail Mihailovich Speranskii (1772-1839) – a count, an outstanding political figure of the

time of the Alexander I. In 1819 he was designated for a post of the Governor General of Siberia.

In 1921 when Speranskii came back to Saint Petersburg after his inspection of the region, the

first Siberian Committee was created to implement reforms planned by him. In 1822 the tsar

approved ten legislative acts proposed by Speranskii which changed the entire system of the

Siberian administration (Belous et al. 2013, pp. 28-30).

17. Aleksandr Stepanovich Lavinskii (1776-1844) held the office of the Governor General of

Eastern Siberia for eleven years – from 1822 to 1833. During this time, the Eniseisk Governorate

was established as well as the Chief Directorate of Eastern Siberia, which was the central

administrative body of power in Eastern Siberia from 1822 to 1887 (Belous et al. 2013, pp. 32-33).

18. The Kudunskii statute included two hundred and eighty-nine articles and determined the

principles of Buryat Buddhist community administration and cooperation with the state bodies

of power. Only one incomplete copy of this document comprising one hundred and forty-eight

articles has survived until today. The extant part of the statute is divided into the following

seven chapters: types of datsans and monasteries, about the building of new datsans; services of

the datsans; the treasury of the datsans and their income; categories of monks required in every

datsan; the elections of the staff monks with honorary titles, degrees, and official positions;


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penalties for breaking of monastic vows; about the schools of the datsans (Tsyrempilov 2013,

pp. 107-108). The translation of the document from Mongolian into Russian was performed by

Tsyrempilov (ibid., pp. 240-254).

19. Nikolai Nikolaevich Murav’ёv-Amurskii (1809-1881) was appointed to the post of the

Governor General of Eastern Siberia in 1847 and executed this office for thirteen years. In

1849-1855 he organised the Amur expedition which prepared the incorporation of the Amur

region into the Russian empire. A range of treaties concluded by him with China resolved border

problems in the East of the country. Murav’ёv-Amurskii personally controlled and managed the

process of colonisation and economic development of the new territories. He founded the city of

Blagoveshchensk. In 1858 he concluded the treaty of Aigun with China and was granted the title

of count, accompanied by the attachment of the honorary name “Amurskii” to his surname

(Belous et al. 2013, pp. 40-41).

20. In 1636 Hong Taiji, a Manchu ruler, the first emperor of the Qing dynasty, established a

Mongol bureau which dealt with the affairs of the subjugated Southern Mongol and Korean

peoples. After two years, the office was changed into Lifanyuan or “Court of Colonial Affairs”

(Manch. Tulergi golo be dasara jurgan (“Office Ruling the Outer Provinces”). With the growth of

Qing, the Lifanyuan expanded its jurisdiction over the Mongols in the North (Outer Mongolia),

the Turkic and Tibetan speaking peoples in the West and all other border peoples (Taveirne 2004,

p. 79).

21. The paragraphs which excessively exposed the influence of the Qing code were excluded from

the final version of the document after revision performed by the officers of the Ministry of

Internal Affairs (Tsyrempilov 2013, p. 157).

22. According to “The statute on administration of people of a different kin” (Ru. Ustav ob

upravlenii inorodtsev), which came into force in 1822, a three-level system of local administration

of non-Russian citizens of Siberia was introduced. The smallest administrative unit was a “clan

administration” (Ru. rodovoe upravlenie), which represented at least fifteen families and consisted

of one elder and two assistants at a maximum. Several “clan administrations” were placed under

the jurisdiction of a mid-level body called “native administration” (Ru. inorodnaia uprava), which

consisted of a head, two elected elders and a clerk. On top of this system was the office of a

“steppe duma” (Ru. stepnaia duma), which comprised a head, two “board members”

(Ru. predsedateli) and a clerk with an assistant. The steppe duma reported directly to the “district

administration” (Ru. okruzhnoe upravlenie), which was a local branch of the Governor General’s

office in Irkutsk (Zhalsanova 2009, p. 104, p. 106).

23. “The entire body of records of an organization, family, or individual that have been created

and accumulated as the result of an organic process reflecting the functions of the creator”

(Society of American Archivists 1997-2021).

24. All the inventories under analysis are kept in the State Archives of the Republic of Buryatia.

The fonds and file numbers indicate the location of the documents in the repositories of this

archive.

25. One of the Selenga Buryats’ datsans. It was founded in 1743 on the eastern shore of the

Gusinoe lake as a felt temple. Later, the datsan was moved to the mouth of the Atsa river and

then to the place called Tabhar at the southern slope of the Han Hongor mountain. In 1784, the

old wooden building of the datsan burned down. After the local Russian administration issued an

official approval, the new building of the datsan was erected in the same year on the right bank

of the Atsa river, to the south of the Batu Mandal hill. The datsan had nine subordinate temples,

which were founded during the period from 1795 to 1829 (Natsov 1998, pp. 20-22).

26. In this source, in the majority of cases, d in the final position is written down with the sign

used in the Classical Mongolian for d in the middle position followed by a short vertical “tail”1851

1887 .

27. The word mal is inserted between the lines.


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28. The inventory lists the following five types of deity-images: five pieces of “gilded statuettes”

(Mo. sergü burqan), five pieces of “clay statuettes” (Mo. čingsγ-a burqan), one hundred and eighty

pieces of “painted thangkas” (Mo. ǰirumal burqan), thirteen pieces of “prints on textile” (Mo. bös-

dü darumal), and “an image of a protective deity” (Mo. sakiγulsun-u tügden).

29. The section “religious texts” (Mo. nom-ud) includes entries such as, for example, “xylographic

Prajñāpāramitā in fourteen volumes” (Mo. darumal yüm 14 boti) – one item; “hand-written Kanjur

in one hundred and five volumes” (Mo. bečimel kangǰiur 105 boti) – one item; “hand-written

Bhadrakalpikasūtra (Tib. ’phags pa bskal pa bzang po pa zhes bya ba theg pa chen po’i mdo) in two

volumes” (Mo. bečimel kalsang kölge 2 boti) – one item; “the Rab gsal scriptures” (Mo. rabsal-un

sudur) – two items and others.

30. The section “printing blocks of texts” (Mo. nom-ud-un keb-üd) includes six entries: “wooden

printing blocks of the Tibetan Lhun grub chen po text in the process of carving” (Mo. töbed lhandab

čingboyin bar seyilči bayidaγ); “wooden printing blocks of the Rab gsal collection in Tibetan”

(Mo. töbed rabsal-un bar); “wooden printing blocks of the buddha Amitāyus text in Tibetan”

(Mo. töbed ayusi-yin nom-un bar); “wooden printing blocks of the buddha Sarvavid-Vairocana text in

Tibetan” (Mo. töbed güngrig nom-un bar); “wooden printing blocks of the Tibetan VajracchedikāPrajñāpāramitāsūtra” (Mo. töbed dorǰi ǰidba-yin bar); and “wooden printing blocks of the thangka

representing the stupa of Uṣṇīṣavijayā” (Mo. binčiy-a suburγan-u bar).

31. Tib. bla bre (Tucci 1980, p. 123).

32. The badan is a decoration sewed from long and wide ribbons of five colours: blue, white, red,

yellow and green. The colours symbolise the five buddhas of meditation (Skt. dhyanibuddhas), that

is Vairocana, Amoghasiddhi, Amitābha, Ratnasambhava and Akshobhya. The name of this

decoration is borrowed from the Tibetan ba dang which has the same meaning (Pozdneev 1887,

p. 100).

33. Qadaγ (Tib. kha btags) is a ceremonial scarf which is usually produced from silk or cotton cloth

and dyed in yellow, black, white or purple. They are often decorated with images of various

buddhas, mostly Amitāyus (Pozdneev 1887, p. 100). Vangdan (from Tibetan dbang ldan) type of

qadaγ is the longest scarf that may have been up to 5 m. It is usually decorated with the symbol of

the Wheel of Time (Skt. kālacakra) (ibid.; Budazhapova 2012, p. 79).

34. Tib. bkra shis. This is a type of short qadaγ which normally has 70 or 50 cm and is decorated

with flower ornaments (Pozdneev 1887, pp. 100-101) or the eight auspicious symbols

(Budazhapova 2012, p. 79).

35. This big round umbrella usually has 1,5 m or more in diameter. It is often made from silk

(Pozdneev 1887, p. 101).

36. White silk scarf (Luvsandèndèv & Tsèdèndamba. 2002, p. 465).

37. Tib. dkyil ’khor; Skt. maṇḍala.

38. Tib. me long. A metal circle produced from yellow polished copper. It is used during the

services to consecrate water (Pozdneev 1887, p. 97).

39. Tib. bum pa. A ritual vessel in which consecrated water is kept. It has the form of a vase

without a handle. It also has no cork. Instead, an aspergillum made of large peacock feathers is

stuck into the bumba’s neck (Pozdneev 1887, pp. 97-98).

40. Tib. rdo rje dril bu; Skt. vajra ghanta.

41. Tib. da ma ru; Skt. ḍamaru.

42. Tib. sil snyan (Tucci 1988, p. 118; Beer 1999, p. 201, 229). A percussion instrument – a pair of

copper round plates with a characteristic hemispheric bulge in the centre. The inner side of the

plates is usually decorated with the engraving of two crossed vajras (Pozdneev 1887, p. 104).

43. Or čang; Tib. zangs. A pair of plates with a hemispheric bulge in the centre. The bulges serve as

handles. The shape of the čang is similar to that of the selnin but not so flat. The difference is also


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in the size of the bulges which in the čang’s case are usually bigger (Pozdneev 1887, p. 104;

Kowalewski 1849, p. 2078).

44. Tib. rnga. A flat drum, the frame of which is usually made from wood or bark and is dyed in

red and decorated with the images of five or seven interweaved dragons. The sides of the drum

are made of goat skin dressed to the quality of parchment (Pozdneev 1887, pp. 103-104).

45. Or labai; Tib. dung or dung dkar.

46. Tib. gling bu. A wind instrument, the sound of which resembles a flute. It consists of three

separate parts, the middle of which is made of a solid wood or horn and the two ending parts of

copper. Its length is normally a little more than half a meter (Pozdneev 1887, p. 105).

47. Tib. mdo dar ma. A percussion instrument which consists of a quadrangular wooden frame

with a handle on one side. In the middle, this frame is divided by partitions into nine small

squares. Small copper plates of different size are placed inside each of these squares (Pozdneev

1887, p. 105). Judging from the description provided by Pozdneev, Budazhapova (2012, p. 80) or

Dondokova (2003, pp. 80, 134) it is the same instrument that Tucci mentions under the name drwa

ting (Tucci 1998, pp. 118-119).

48. The seven bowls in which offerings are served on the Buddhist altar every day. They

represent the “seven-branch practice” (Tib. yan lag bdun pa; Skt. saptanga) for purifying negative

tendencies and accumulating merit (Beer 1999, p. 205).

49. The eight offerings which are traditionally placed on the offering table are metal statuettes

representing “the white umbrella” (Mo. čaγan sikür; Tib. gdugs), “the golden fishes” (Mo. altan

ǰiγasu; Tib. gser nya), “the white seashell” (Mo. čaγan labai; Tib. dung dkar), “the white lotus”

(Mo. čaγan badm-a; Tib. pad ma), “the treasure vase” (Mo. bumba; Tib. gter gyi bum pa), “the endless

knot” (Mo. ülǰei utasun; Tib. dpal be’u), “the victory banner” (Mo. ilaγuγsan-u čimeg; Tib. rgyal

mtshan) and “the wheel” (Mo. kürde; Tib. ’khor lo) (Pozdneev 1887, pp. 86-87; Beer 1999,

pp. 173-186).

50. The seven treasures are placed next to or behind the eight offerings on the offering table.

They include “the precious wheel” (Mo. kürde erdeni; Tib. ’khor lo rin po che), “the precious jewel”

(Mo. čindamani erdeni; Tib. yid bzhin nor bur in po che), “the precious queen” (Mo. qatun erdeni;

Tib. btsun mo rin po che), “the precious minister” (Mo. tüsimel erdeni; Tib. blon po rin po che), “the

precious elephant” (Mo. ǰaγan erdeni; Tib. glang po rin po che), “the precious horse” (Mo. degedü

morin erdeni; Tib. tra mchog rin po che) and “the precious general” (Mo. čerig-ün noyan erdeni;

Tib. dmag dpon rin po che) (Pozdneev 1887, pp. 87-89; Beer 1999, pp. 162-163).

51. In this word and in many other cases in this source, two diacritical dots are put to the left of

the q sign. On the other hand, almost everywhere the diacritical dots for γ are missing.

52. Most likely the same as the Modern Buryat bagsaamzha – “assumption, rough estimation”

(Cheremisov 1951, p. 80).

53. The status of clan-temples meant that these temples were built and kept at the expense of

some clans, which founded them by the decision of the clan-gathering. Thus, the allowance of the

clan-lamas living in the monastery, the performance of the services in the clan-temples and the

maintenance of the buildings were paid by the laity of a certain clan (Zhamsueva 2001, p. 101;

Bazarov 2006, pp. 32-33).

54. From Tibetan rgyags khang (Budazhapova 2012, p. 86).

55. Tib. sMan bla; Skt. Bhaiṣajyaguru.

56. Tib. Chos skyong; Skt. Dharmapāla.

57. Tib. sPyan ras gzigs.

58. Although the term sergü literally means “golden image” (Tib. gser sku), I chose to translate it

as “gilded image”. The reason for this is, first, the price given is too low the images of whatever

size made of pure gold. Secondly, it is known that during the 19th century, the biggest metal

crafting centre producing Buddhist sacred images and ritual utensils to be sold to China, Russia,

Outer Mongolia, Amdo and even Central Tibet was Dolonnor of Inner Mongolia. The majority of


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the deity-images created there were bronze and copper statues, including gilded ones (Charleux

2010, p. 87).

59. Tib. gser sku – “a golden Buddha-image” (Kowalewski 1846, p. 1375).

60. Most likely an incorrect or variant reading of qatqulγa – “pricking, piercing, sticking”

(Kowalewski 1846, p. 784).

61. A circle-mark is put to the left from the γ-sign instead of the double diacritical dot.

62. “Cloth-wrapper of a book or deity-image” (Luvsandèndèv & Tsèdèndamba 2001a, p. 232).

63. Here a Galik sign 186A is used.

64. Most likely from the Tibetan thugs dam, referring to some form of the datsan’s main tutelary

deity’s visual representation. If so, however, it is not clear why a Galik sign normally applied to

denote the Tibetan e is used here.

65. May refer to the ritual crown called cod pan in Tibetan. This headgear had an oval form and

was covered with thin silk black threads resembling hair. At the top of the hat these threads were

bundled together and crowned with a vajra. On the sides of the hat they should have hung down

as one cubit-long braids. Instead of the hatband the crown had five plates depicting the five

dhyanibuddhas: Vairocana, Amoghasiddhi, Amitābha, Ratnasambhava and Akshobhya (Pozdneev

1887, p. 323).

66. A special Galik sign 183C is used for č.

67. “Fan, special arrow, winded with flax, used during offering rituals” (Kowalewski 1849,

p. 1634).

68. May be an incorrect reading of sang (Mo.) – “treasury, repository, store” (Kowalewski 1846,

p. 1289).

69. A variant reading of jangcan – “victory banner” (Luvsandèndèv & Tsèdèndamba 2001b, p. 159).

Tib. rgyal mtshan.

70. Tib. tsha tsha. Religious objects made of clay including flat clay reliefs and miniature

statuettes. They are produced either by stamping out with a die or by pressing from a mould and

subsequently dried by sun or, less usually, baked (Dagyab 1977, p. 46; Berounský & Sklenka 2005,

p. 60). A special Galik sign 183C is used for č.

71. Tib. rgyab rten (Budazhapova 2012, p. 87). For the description of the sitting furniture and

textile of the Mongolian Buddhist monasteries see Pozdneev 1887, p. 41.

72. “Quadrangular sitting pillow” (Luvsandèndèv & Tsèdèndamba 2001c, p 182).

73. Kudunskii datsan was one of the oldest datsans of the Hori Buryats. It was founded in 1756 or

1758 at the southern slope of the Chelsana mountain on the Kudun river. In 1772 the building of

the datsan burned down. The new building was founded at another location at the lower course

of the river Mungut and was finished and consecrated in 1775 (Galdanova et al. 1983, p. 23). Three

smaller temples are known to have been added to the monastic complex of the Kudunskii datsan

in different years – the Medicine buddha (Mo. otosi) temple in 1775, the Amitāyus (Mo. ayusi)

temple in 1807 and the prayer-wheel (Mo. kürde) temple in 1824. In 1824, the datsan was rebuilt

with the official approval of the district government in Irkutsk. Yet another rebuilding of the

datsan was initiated by the members of its perish in the 1880s. According to the plan approved by

the Ministry of Domestic Affairs and the Governor of Eastern Siberia, the ground floor had to be a

stonework with the two wooden upper floors. The construction works were completed in 1886

(Tsybenov 2011, pp. 37-38).

74. A variant of the Russian word opis’ meaning “inventory, register”.

75. A variant of the Russian word vedomost’ meaning “list, record, register”.

76. According to Asalhanova, in the Buryat tradition of deity-image production the tangkas were

commonly called deleg burqan or ǰaq-q-tai burqan (Asalhanova 2015, p. 188). While the word burqan

has been used in Mongolian to designate any image of the Buddha or other Buddhist deity, the

etymology of the word deleg is unclear. It might have been of Tibetan origin or might well be

connected to the Mongolian verb deli- meaning “to draw, to stretch” (Kowalewski 1849, p. 1719)


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and implying that thangkas are produced by painting on a cloth stretched out and laced firmly

onto a large wooden frame (Dagyab 1977, pp. 41-42).

77. Mo. ǰangči or ǰangča. Mod. Bur. zhansha – “silk wrapper for sacred books” (Cheremisov 1951,

p. 247). The first meaning of the word was “mantle, cloak” (Kowalewski 1849, pp. 2241-2242).

78. This might be an incorrect or variant reading of dayisu – “tape, ribbon, cord”

(Luvsandèndèv & Tsèdèndamba 2001b, p. 22).

79. Here a special Galik sign 1823 1838

1828 is used for o.

80. Tib. lam rim.


1828 is used for o.

82. Tib. cho ga.

83. Tib. sMan bla’i lho sgo.

84. A wooden beam used in Buddhist monasteries to call the monks for various meetings or

services. For more information on the instrument, see Sobkovyak 2015.

85. The text of the inventory gives a Mongolian phonetical version of the word, which reads pa-a

ru.

86. Tib. phye ma phur ma. This decoration has a round form. It is made of eleven oblong multi-

coloured pouches sewed together. The pouches are filled with fragrant herbs (Pozdneev 1887,

p. 101).

87. An obsolete Russian unit of length which equalled 0,71 m (Ozhegov & Shvedova 2006, p. 30).

88. One zolotnik equalled 1/96 pound or 4,26 g (Ozhegov & Shvedova 2006, p. 232).

89. Ru. ambar – “barn”.

90. Mod. Bur. pyeèshèn – “stove” (Cheremisov 1951, p. 385).

91. Aginskii datsan was founded in 1811. Like the majority of other Buryat Buddhist monasteries,

at the beginning it functioned as a felt temple. Its first stone main building was erected by

Russian craftsmen without an architectural plan in 1811-1816. At different times during the

19th century, four smaller temples were added to the monastic complex of the datsan – the Ayuši

(Mo.; Skt. Amitāyus) temple, the Otoši (Mo.; Skt. Bhaiṣajyaguru) temple, the Günrig (Mo.; Tib. Kun

rigs rnam snang; Sanksr. Sarvavid-Vairocana) and the Demčog (Mo.; Tib. ’Khor lo bde mchog;

Skt. Cakrasaṃvara) temple. Over ten years of negotiations between the parishioners of the

datsan, local aristocracy and authorities and the state administration preceded the erection of

the new main building of the datsan, which was finished in 1886. The school of Buddhist

philosophy (Tib. mtshan nyid) was opened in the datsan in 1861. Aginskii datsan was also an

important typographical centre which published the entire main corpus of textbooks for the

monastic schools, grammars and Tibetan-Mongolian dictionaries (Zhamsueva 2001, pp. 35-36,

117, 123).

92. Here and in the majority of cases in this source the diacritical dots for γ are missing.


1828 is used for o.

94. From Russian kirpich – “brick”.

95. Tib. dung phyur.

96. Here a special Galik sign 188F for the Sanskrit ṇ is used.

97. See previous footnote.

98. A special Galik sign \ is used for g in the initial position.

99. Tib. kun dga’ ra ba. In Buryatia, this term has been used to name an altar in the form of a

wooden cabinet with glass doors in which Buddhist deity-images and religious texts were placed

(Cheremisov 1951, p. 175; Linhovoin 2014, p. 200).

100. Tib. brgyad stong pa.

101. To accept an offering, about a spirit (Luvsandèndèv & Tsèdèndamba 2001b, p. 29).


103. A variant reading of mese – “sword; any cold weapon” (Kowalewski 1849, p. 2006) – here

given in a plural form indicated by the suffix -s.


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104. Ol’honskii datsan founded in 1823 was one of the Buddhist monasteries of the Western

(Irkutsk) Buryats (Natsov 1998, p. 173).

105. Here a special Galik sign 1839 for ph is used.

106. Tib. gan ji ra; Skt. gañja – “treasury, jewel room” (Monier-Williams 1974, p. 342). This is a

decoration usually installed on the top of the main temple’s roof. It has a vase-form with a high

neck narrowing to the top. During the consecration of the temple the ganǰir-decoration is filled

with the mantra-texts (Pozdneev 1887, p. 37).

107. Among the deity-images listed by the document are, for example, “a two ell-high gilded

Buddha Śākyamuni together with his two disciples” (Mo. 2 toqoi kemǰiyetei sergü ǰuu šigemuni 2

siravang-luγ-a selte) – 840 rouble roubles, “a two ell-high gilded holy Tsong kha pa together with

his two disciples” (Mo. 2 toqoi kemǰiyetei sergü boγda čongkhaba 2 siravang-tai qamtu) –

520 rouble roubles, “a one ell-high gilded Maitreya” (Mo. 1 toqoi kemǰiyetei sergü mayidari) –

180 rouble roubles, “two vershok-high gilded Tārā” (Mo. 2 brišoγ kemǰiy-e-tei sergü dara eke) –

8 rouble roubles, “a one span-high gilded Yamāntaka” (Mo. 1 sügim kemǰiyetei sergü yamandaga

burqan) – 20 rouble roubles, and others.

108. An obsolete Russian unit of length which equalled 4,4 cm (Ozhegov & Shvedova 2006, p. 76).

109. Tib. drag ched. Here d in the final position is written down with the sign used in the Classical

Mongolian for d in the middle position.

110. Here a special Galik sign 1839 is used for p.

111. A special Galik sign 183D is used here for j.

112. A special Galik sign 184D is used here for k.

113. This might be an incorrect reading of neyite – “together, jointly, in total” (Kowalewski 1846,

p. 626).


115. Ru. starosta – “warden, elder”.

116. Barguzinskii datsan was founded in 1818. Its parish was the entire region inhabited by the

Erihit families in the valley of Barguzin (Galdanova et al. 1983, p. 41).


118. The diacritical dots for γ in this document are used irregularly.

119. A variant reading of küǰi – “incense smoking stick or candle” (Kowalewski 1849, p. 2619).

Here, the word means a special paste made of incense sticks, clay, Tibetan paper and glue which

was used to create three-dimensional deity-images (Natsov 1998, p. 154).

120. The list includes images such as “the big gilded copper image of the Medicine Buddha”

(Mo. yeke serge ǰes-iyer kigsen altalaγsan otosi sitügen) – 80 rouble roubles, “the big gilded copper

image of standing Maitreya” (Mo. yeke serge ǰes-iyer kiγsen altalaγsan bosuqu mayidari sitügen) –

150 rouble roubles, “the gilded copper Tsong kha pa with two disciples” (Mo. serge ǰes-iyer kiγsen

altalaγsan ǰongqoba qoyar siravang-tai) – 200 rouble roubles, “the gilded image of the Buddha

Śākyamuni with two disciples, made of incense-paste” (Mo. küǰi-ber kiγsen altalaγsan sigemuni mön

qoyar siravang-tai sitügen) – 80 rouble roubles, and others.

121. A variant of the Russian holst – “canvas”.

122. “Table of content, index” (Luvsandèndèv & Tsèdèndamba 2001c, p. 211).

123. Or pangsa – “kind of silk taffeta, foulard” (Kowalewski 1846, p. 1268).

124. A lampad or oil lamp with a little hole in the centre in which a wick made of Stipa sibirica

grass and cotton is inserted (Natsov 1998, p. 164; Budazhapova 2012, p. 77).

125. Here and later in this entry a special Galik sign 1839 is used for p in the word par-a.

126. Might be an incorrect reading of dololγa – “varnish, lacquer” (Kowalewski 1849, p. 1855).

127. One of the datsans of the Selenga Buryats. It was founded as a felt temple in 1825 at the

source of the Iangazhin river when ten monks separated themselves from the Zagustaiskii

datsan. Later, the datsan was moved south-west to the north bank of the Selenga river where a


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small wooden building was erected. The famous Dashi Dorzhi Itigelov was an abbot of

Iangazhinskii datsan from 1904 until 1911 when he became the Hambo Lama of the Buryat

Buddhist (Natsov 1998, p. 8, p. 11; Chimitdorzhin 2010, p. 102).

128. Here a special Galik sign 1839 is used for p.

129. A variant of the Russian word opis’ meaning “inventory, register”.


131. “The big datsan, painted, with five golden ganǰirs, the wheel of the Teaching and roe deer”

(Mo. yeke dačang anu šeretei tabun altan gančar khorlo körügesü-tei qamtu) – 2 500 roubles.

132. Or duγar – “with a white baldachin” (Luvsandèndèv & Tsèdèndamba 2001b, p. 66).

133. “Chinese silk cloth, silk brocade decorated with dragon-images, flower-ornaments, etc.”

(Kowalewski 1849, p. 1976).

134. Here a special Galik sign 183A is used for g.

135. Here a special Galik sign 184D is used for kh.

136. Tib. ’Phags pa thar pa chen po phyogs su rgyas pa zhes bya ba theg pa chen po’i mdo.

137. Here and in other cases in this document a special Galik sign 1839 is used for p in the word par.

138. Genin Darma Natsov (1898-1941) was a native Buryat who grew up as a monk in a Buddhist

monastery and received religious education. Under the influence of the October revolution and

the communist doctrine he refused from Buddhism and became a communist party atheist-

activist and ethnographer-field researcher. In the 1930s, when he worked in the Anti-religious

Museum in Ulan-Ude, Natsov had several business-trips to different Buryat datsans in connection

with their liquidation and passing their property to the museum. During those trips he made

numerous notes regarding the history of the datsans and their current state (Natsov 1998,

pp. 3-4).

139. “The elders – arhat-dsciples of the Buddha” (Das 1989, p. 752; Natsov 1998, p. 163).

140. Ru. riza; also called “oklad” – thin metal covering of an icon, leaving open only the face and

hand parts of the painted image (Ozhegov & Shvedova 2006, p. 449, 679).

141. In this respect, since 1853, when the Emperor approved the “The Statute of the Buddhist

clergy of Eastern Siberia”, the Buryat law has contradicted the state law which proclaimed that

Buddhist clergy were forbidden to have any private property (Vashkevich 1885, pp. 133-134).

ABSTRACTS

Buryat Buddhist monastic inventories constitute a peculiar type of historical document, which

came into existence as a result of the overlap of the Russian bureaucratic and Buddhist monastic

traditions. Although many such documents have survived until modern times, a systematic study

of them has never been attempted. The present article provides a short overview of the historical

events which led to the appearance of this type of document in the Russian imperial bureaucratic

system. Benefiting from several theoretical approaches developed within the framework of

material culture studies, it presents an analysis of the structure and content of seven inventories

compiled at different times for different Buryat datsans.

Les inventaires des monastères bouddhiques de Bouriatie constituent un type particulier de

document historique qui est né du croisement des traditions bureaucratiques russes et des

traditions monastiques bouddhiques. Bien que de nombreux documents de ce type aient survécu

jusqu’à l’époque moderne, leur étude systématique n’a jamais été tentée. Le présent article donne


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un aperçu des événements historiques qui ont conduit à l’apparition de ce type de document

dans le système bureaucratique impérial russe. Bénéficiant théoriquement de plusieurs

approches développées dans le cadre des études sur la culture matérielle, il présente l’analyse de

la structure et du contenu de sept inventaires compilés à différentes époques pour différentes

datsans de Bouriatie.

INDEX

Mots-clés: monastère bouddhique, Bouriatie, inventaire, matérialité, religion

Keywords: Buddhist monastery, Buryatia, inventory, materiality, religion

AUTHOR

EKATERINA SOBKOVYAK

Ekaterina Sobkovyak holds a PhD in the field of Central Asian cultural studies and is currently

affiliated with the Institute for the Science of Religion and Central Asian studies of the University

of Bern, as an associated researcher. Her main area of interest, to which she has devoted a part of

her thesis (Sobkovyak 2017a) and on which published several articles on (Sobkovyak 2015;

Sobkovyak 2017b), is the Mongolian Buddhist monastic tradition and culture, with a special

emphasis on the study of Mongolian Buddhist monastic institutions.

[email protected]


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The first generation of dGe lugsevangelists in Amdo. The case of’Dan ma Tshul khrims rgya mtsho(1578-1663/65)La première génération d'évangélistes du dGe lugs à Amdo. Le cas de ’Dan ma

Tshul khrims rgya mtsho (1578-1663/65)

Brenton Sullivan

1 This article begins with a “manuscript” and some incredible claims. When living in

Xining and at monasteries in the vicinity of Xining from 2010 to 2011, I heard of an

“autobiography” of the figure known as ’Dan ma grub chen, “the Great Accomplished

One from ’Dan ma” (’Dan ma grub chen). ’Dan ma is a town one valley to the west from

Dgon lung byams pa gling, the important dGe lugs monastery in Amdo (A mdo) of the

17th and early 18th centuries that was at the centre of my research. This ’Dan ma grub

chen had served as the eighth abbot of dGon lung. The manuscript turned out to be a

photocopy of a manuscript held at a monastery that ’Dan ma had founded, Kan chen

Monastery (in today’s Huzhu County 互助县). The manuscript itself must have been in

terrible condition, because the text was damaged and illegible in numerous places,

particularly the right-hand edge of each page and most of the final four folios.

Nonetheless, uncovering the text was exciting because of the bold claims made about

’Dan ma himself.

2 ’Dan ma is sometimes referred to as a “Great Accomplished One” (grub chen) because of

the decades he spent meditating in retreat and because of the esoteric transmissions he

received from important Central Tibetan lamas. Synopses of his biography claim that

he was “one of the four heart-sons of the Omniscient Paṇchen, accomplished ones who

realized emptiness” (Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, p. 683/26a.6).

They further claim that he received from the Paṇchen Lama (Blo bzang chos kyi rgyal

mtshan, 1570-1662) the transmission of the esoteric teachings on the dGe’ ldan-bKa’

brgyud Mahāmudrā (Great Seal), including the extraordinary “Miraculous Scripture”


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that standard narratives usually say stopped with the Paṇchen Lama or even earlier

(Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, pp. 24b.3-25a.2). One luminary of the

early dGe lugs school in Amdo, Shar sKal ldan rgya mtsho (1607-1677), referred to ’Dan

ma alongside one other lama as “the sun and the moon” among the many practitioners

of Amdo (Rong po grub chen I sKal ldan rgya mtsho 1999a, p. 343). As if his meditative

accomplishments were not enough, synopses of his life also claim that he was the first

lha rams pa dge bshes (a monastic scholarly title) from dGon lung Monastery (Per Nyi ma

’dzin Ngag dbang legs bshad rgya mtsho, n.d., pp. 137-139)1 and that he was the

unexcelled debater at the first dGe lugs debates to be held at the Lhasa Great Prayer

Festival (Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, pp. 670/19b.5-671/20a.5).

3 The synopses of the life of ’Dan ma all date from a century or more after his time2. This

manuscript thus offered an opportunity to verify some of the claims made about this

ostensibly important figure. More importantly, the manuscript promised to tell the

story of a significant figure from the first generation of dGe lugs evangelists in Amdo3.

Most of these expectations were met, even though the “autobiography” is actually a

biography written by a disciple of ’Dan ma. Today, ’Dan ma is practically unknown

outside of some narrow circles at dGon lung Monastery and a couple other monasteries

in Amdo associated with ’Dan ma. Yet ’Dan ma was present for and participated in some

key moments in the history of the dGe lugs school in the first half of the 17th century.

The fact that he is unknown has to do both with the paucity of materials for the early

history of the dGe lugs school in Amdo (a paucity that this manuscript helps to redress)

and with the emphasis on retreat and esoteric practices – the less public face of Tibetan

Buddhism – that distinguishes this early generation from later generations of dGe lugs

“institution men”.

4 The manuscript biography of ’Dan ma helps focus our attention on some significant

characteristics of the early dGe lugs school in Amdo that are surprising when

considered from the perspective of the later, fully institutionalized dGe lugs school.

Some of the most influential exponents of the dGe lugs school during this pivotal

period of growth were ecumenical, explicitly challenging the reification of sectarian

boundaries. At the same time, they were celebrated for their meditative

accomplishments and years spent in isolated retreat. Similarly, they dedicated as much

or even more attention to promoting the practice of tantra as they did philosophy or

scholasticism. Finally, ’Dan ma’s biography together with other sources from his time

direct us to the importance of Central Tibetan lamas other than the Dalai Lamas for the

early propagation of the dGe lugs school in Amdo, lamas such as the sKyid shod zhabs

drung (1593-1638), rGyal sras Don yod chos (kyi) gya mtsho (fl. 1603-1625), and the

Fourth Paṇchen Lama Blo bzang chos kyi rgyal mtshan.

The manuscript

5 The present manuscript is entitled ’Dan ma tshul khrims rgya mtsho’i rnam thar tsit+tar

bcings pa [The complete liberation of ’Dan ma Tshul khrims rgya mtsho: [words that

are] bound to the mind; hereafter Tsit+tar bcings ba). As I explained above, I first saw the

photocopy of this manuscript4 at Kan chen Monastery in 2011, where I was able to

photograph it. The manuscript comprises 71 double-sided folios. Each side of the folios

usually contains seven lines written in dbu med script, resulting in a text of over

22 200 words.


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Figure 1. Title page and first page of the Tsit+tar bcings ba

© Brenton Sullivan, Kan chen Monastery, May 2011

Figure 2. Pages from the Tsit+tar bcings ba showing significant damage

© Brenton Sullivan, Kan chen Monastery, May 2011

6 The text is significantly longer than any other extant biography of ’Dan ma. The

biography in Thu’u bkwan III’s dGon lung gi dkar chag [Chronicle of dGon lung

Monastery] from 1775 runs to 4 200 words. In the Mdo smad chos ’byung [History of the


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Dharma in Domé], or Deb ther rgya mtsho [Ocean annals], of 1865 it runs to approximately

1 470 words (Brag dgon zhabs drung Dkon mchog bstan pa rab rgyas 1982,

pp. 108.3-110.19; Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, pp. 668/18b.

1-684/26b.2). More importantly, the Tsit+tar bcings ba is much closer in time to the life

of ’Dan ma, and it is the basis for these later, shorter biographies. The opening lines of

the Tsit+tar bcings ba explain that,

this is a mere drop of the story of complete liberation – which is like the ocean – ofmy pure, glorious lama, the powerful lord of accomplishment. Those who heard itfrom the mouth of [the master] himself, fearing [we] would forget it, wrote it down.(p. 2a.1-2)

7 In addition, in the final part of the biography in which the death of ’Dan ma is

recounted, the author refers to himself in the first person and writes himself into the

biography of ’Dan ma – “I also went to dGon lung Hermitage and bound myself to long-

term retreat” (pp. 58a.7-58b.1)5 – additional evidence that the text was composed by a

direct disciple of ’Dan ma and that the text indeed dates from that period.

Unfortunately, whatever colophon the text might have had is illegible.

8 Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma (1737-1802), in his chronicle of dGon lung

Monastery, refers several times to a biography (rnam thar) of ’Dan ma, and it is clear

from comparing the two texts that the Tsit+tar bcings ba served as the basis for Thu’u

bkwan III’s account. Thu’u bkwan did not have kind words for the present text,

however, writing:

I have not seen a manuscript of his life written by any qualified scholar-adept.There is a text on his sermons regarding meditation. It is written only in a villagedialect and thus is not pleasing to the ears, and it is [only] with difficulty that onemay find its content pleasing to the mind. Therefore, I have here written the mostessential parts of his biography. (Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000,pp. 684/26b.1-2)

9 Thu’u bkwan III is remarking on the fact that the Tsit+tar bcings ba records in an Amdo

dialect the conversations that ’Dan ma had6 and, more specifically, on the fact that the

manuscript contains numerous grammatical and spelling errors7. The later synopsis of

’Dan ma’s life found in the Mdo smad chos ’byung is based, in turn, on Thu’u bkwan III’s

account.

10 It is true that one can find “the most essential parts of his biography” presented in a

clearer fashion in Thu’u bkwan III’s retelling or in Mi nyag mgon po’s Gangs can mkhas

dbang rim byon gyi rnam thar mdor bsdus [Concise biographies of the succession of

Tibetan scholars], which is said to be based on both Thu’u bkwan III’s biography of ’Dan

ma and the mDo smad chos ’byung version (Mi nyag mgon po & Ye shes rdo rje 1996,

vol. 2, pp. 154-162. Nonetheless, the Tsit+tar bcings ba stands out for its details and for

providing us with the only independent source for this early exponent of the dGe lugs

school.

’Dan ma’s early years

11 Later sources refer to ’Dan ma as ’Dan ma grub chen (Shes rab dar rgyas 1729, pp. 10a.

4-5; Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, pp. 8a.5, 699/29a.3, passim). The

Tsit+dar bcings ba and other sources contemporary with it refer to him as Bsam blo ba

Tshul khrims rgya mtsho (p. 18b.3-4) or Bsam blo Ldan ma (Dalai Lama V Ngag dbang

blo bzang rgya mtsho 2014, p. 62, 2009, p. 56). He was born in 1587 (Fire-Pig) in ’Dan ma


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of the Haliqi Valley (Tib. Ha li ci), which corresponds to present-day Danma Township

丹麻乡 in the Halazhi Valley 哈拉直沟, Huzhu County 互助县, Qinghai Province 青海省

(Tsit+dar bcings ba, p. 2a.7).

Figure 3. Map of the Haliqi Valley and surrounding area

Projection: Beijing 1954/Gauss-Kruger CM 135EData sources: GMTED 2010 Dataset, USGS and Harvard Geospatial Library

© Aidan Harrington

12 Although Thu’u bkwan III’s later synopsis of ’Dan ma’s life tells us that this was an

estate (mchod gzhi) of dGon lung, at this earlier point in time it was a “divine

community” (lha sde) owing allegiance to the lord of the Zi na “Encampment” (sgar ba)

(p. 4a.6), who claimed descent from the ancient lDong clan (Ban Shinichiro 2016). ’Dan

ma’s father was a rNying ma pa named lDan ma Klu ’bum phyug and his mother was

named dKar mo (p. 2b.2). The family’s ethnicity is not specified, although it is very

likely they were Monguors (Tib. Hor; Ch. Tumin 土民, Tuzu 土族) (Limusishiden 2010),

a sedentary Mongolic people descended in part from Mongols who settled the area in

the wake of Köden Khan’s army in the 13th century.

13 ’Dan ma was one of nine siblings and half-siblings, and early on he showed signs of

being unique and religiously inclined. His dad did not wish for ’Dan ma to renounce,

but ’Dan ma fled to the Zi na sgar ba, to whom ’Dan ma’s father owed both political and

religious allegiance. ’Dan ma thus succeeded in renouncing and took the name Tshul

khrims rgya mtsho. He also took his full monastic ordination vows (p. 4b).

14 The second section of the Tsit+tar bcings ba8 is entitled “His virtues in listening,

thinking, and meditating”. ’Dan ma ultimately went to dGon lung Monastery at the

time of its founding in 1604. His primary teacher became Master (dpon slob) Sum bu9,

who would be designated the first abbot of dGon lung when the monastery’s founder,


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rGyal sras Don yod chos kyi rgya mtsho, returned to Central Tibet. The biography

provides rare insight into the early days of the monastery. Discipline was said to be

very strict, with no monks eating food after noon (p. 6b.5). At first there were only ten

or so monk quarters (gshegs chung) at the monastery (p. 7a.2-3). rGyal sras Rin po che

decided to give each monk a horse and other gifts, at which point boys and men turned

out in droves (three hundred monks were added, we are told). All the monks reportedly

stayed on after that (p. 7a.3-6). rGyal sras also established the practices and procedures

for the study of philosophy (’chad nyan), including “recitation lessons” (rtsi bzhag), an

introduction to logic and debate, and “dharma sessions” (chos thogs) (p. 7a-b).

15 Philosophical study and debate is said to have continually improved under Master Sum

bu, who told the dGon lung congregation,

I have come here for the benefit of the many worthy disciples of the Precious FifthVictor [i.e. the Dalai Lama]. How can we sit around our whole life for the benefit ofonly a few of us? If we by all means enact dharma classes [chos grwa], debate [riglung], disciplinary rules and procedures [’grig lam], and good comportment [kunspyod] as the master10 has commanded, then we [cannot] but be protected by thecompassion of the Knower of the Three Times and Knower of All, the Fifth Victor.

16 dGon lung’s population at this time (ca. 1609-1612) is said to have grown to over five

hundred monks.

Journey to Central Tibet

17 Some time after rGyal sras had departed (i.e. in 1609)11, ’Dan ma decided that he wished

to continue his studies in Central Tibet. Master Sum bu granted him leave (pp. 9b-10a).

’Dan ma decided he would not be able to faithfully maintain all the monastic vows on

his journey, and so he returned them (pp. 10a-11a). His destination upon arriving in

Central Tibet was ’Bras spungs Monastery’s sGo mang College (p. 12b)12. After securing

the requisite gifts (tea) for his regional house teachers (kham tshan gyi dge rgan tsho), he

settled in and applied himself to his studies. However, for three years he suffered from

a lung illness, which kept him from attending all but the assemblies that pertained to

scholasticism and debate, thus preventing him from partaking of the “mass teas” (mang

ja) and “monastery teas” (grwa ja) that were disseminated to assist the hungry monks

(pp. 13a.7-13b.1). The master (or “abbot”, slob dpon) of sGo mang, Gung ru Sangs rgyas

bkra shis, gave him instructions for how to cure himself, which ’Dan ma succeeded in

doing (pp. 13b-14a; see also p. 18b.6 and Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma,

2000, pp. 669/19a.4-5). This allowed him to return to sGo mang and partake of the mass

teas and monastery teas available to the registered monks there.

The Dben sa teachings of Mahāmudrā and of the“Fortress of the Sixty”

18 The next episode in ’Dan ma’s life is an important one for understanding the form of

dGe lugs teachings that first spread into Amdo. The text is partially damaged here, but

the general meaning can be deduced: the ritual of the “Fortress of the Sixty” (drug cu

pa’i mkhar thabs pa) was performed. The text tells us that “prior to this, not even the

name of the Fortress of the Sixty was known” (p. 15b.2-3), the implication being that

this was a momentous occasion for the popularity of this ritual, a fact corroborated


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elsewhere13. So what was this ritual? The Fortress of the Sixty, otherwise known as The

Iron Fortress and Sixty Ritual Cake Offering to Vajrabhairava14, is associated with dBen

sa rje drung Sang rgyas ye shes (1525-1591), although it was his disciple, the Fourth

Paṇchen Lama, who popularized it15. It was a particularly fearsome rite that was used to

ensnare or defeat enemies16, and, significantly, it appears to have been an important

component of the early dissemination of the dGe lugs school in Amdo17.

19 From the text we are able to discern the name Rab ’byams pa bSam nams grags pa,

which allows us to tentatively date this episode in ’Dan ma’s life to 161118. According to

the biography of the Fourth Dalai Lama, this Lab pa rab ’byams pa bSod nams grags pa

(fl. early 17th century) was asked to orchestrate a massive collective ritual that included

restoration offering rituals to protector deities and the Sixty Ritual Cake Offerings to

Vajrabhairava (drug cu ma). This was done in behalf of the dGe lugs school in gTsang,

which was suffering losses in its war with the King of gTsang and his allies19. It was

requested by the Fourth Paṇchen Lama, who, being based in gTsang and subject to

whims of the King of gTsang, could not conduct the ritual himself.

20 Some expressed concern that such fierce rites resembled too much the “petitions to the

gods of nomadic pastoralists” and that they were not proper dGe lugs rites (Dalai Lama

V Ngag dbang blo bzang rgya mtsho 2007, p. 308/42b.4). Upon completing the rites,

however, all sorts of potent signs appeared, including thunder, lightning, and hail, and

eventually several noxious “effigies” (liṅga) that the opposing camp had buried

surfaced and were thus uncovered (p. 15b.2). It is not clear whether ’Dan ma himself

participated in this collective ritual, although it would be unusual for his biography to

mention an event in which he did not play a role.

21 This would not be ’Dan ma’s last encounter with teachings of the dBen sa tradition and

the Paṇchen Lama. Several years later (after 1625), on one of ’Dan ma’s many visits with

the Paṇchen Lama, the Rapjam Scholar of the Ten Subjects dGe ’dun rgyal mtshan

(dates unknown) came to request teachings from the Paṇchen Lama, after which the

guru gave him “unique instructions not found in our dGe lugs pa and called the

Mahāmudrā” (p. 44a)20. ’Dan ma went to ask the Paṇchen Lama about these

extraordinary teachings. These were the bKa’ brgyud-dGe lugs Mahāmudrā teachings

that the Paṇchen Lama either developed or popularized (Jackson 2001). Mahāmudrā(phyag rgya chen po), literally “Great Seal”, refers to a system of radical meditative

practices and to the goal of those practices, namely, the direct experience of the

natural mind free of all distinctions and conceptualizations (Jackson 2001, pp. 155-156;

Sujata 2005, p. 60ff.). The Paṇchen Lama gave ’Dan ma the transmission of the root

verses and auto-commentary on Mahāmudrā that he had composed21. ’Dan ma then

explained that he also wished to practise these teachings, to which the Paṇchen Lama

replied, “you don’t need to do that. There is nothing in the world that surpasses the

view of Madhyamaka” (44a.7), suggesting that the philosophical insight into emptiness

attained through ’Dan ma’s studies and debate experience was sufficient. The Paṇchen

Lama was either being disingenuous or testing ’Dan ma’s resolve, for Roger Jackson’s

research on Mahāmudrā has shown that the Paṇchen Lama certainly considered the

practice of “Tantric Mahāmudrā” to be essential to enlightenment. The Paṇchen Lama

later changed his mind, however, when he took the “Precious miraculous scripture”22,

elsewhere described as being of the nature of clear light, and placed it on ’Dan ma’s

head, thereby blessing him.


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22 The significance of this act, were it true, would be to disrupt the standard account of

the transmission lineage of the dGe lugs Mahāmudrā teachings and the accompanying

“Miraculous scripture”. According to one tradition, the last recipient of the Miraculous

Scripture was the Paṇchen Lama, who returned it to the patron deities of the dGe lugs

school for safekeeping (Willis 1995, pp. 161-162, n. 114). Also, according to the standard

account, the Paṇchen Lama gave the Orally Transmitted (snyan brgyud) dBen sa

teachings, of which the Mahāmudrā instructions were the most important part, to two

of his major disciples: Blo bzang brtson ’grus rgyal mtshan (1567-1650) and the

aforementioned dGe ’dun rgyal mtshan. From that point the tradition is said to have

continued in two streams up until the 20th century when they were once again united

(Jackson 2001, pp. 158-159). ’Dan ma’s biography disrupts that narrative by making ’Dan

grub chen a recipient of these Mahāmudrā teachings (in the form of the textual

transmission of the Paṇchen Lama’s verses and auto-commentary) as well as the

emanated volume of extraordinary instructions.

23 These dBen sa Mahāmudrā teachings and the Iron Fortress and Sixty Ritual Cake

Offerings would eventually make their way to dGon lung and its neighboring monastery

of Mchod rten thang. There the “Fortress of the Sixty” marked the apex of those

monasteries’ new year and year end ceremonies, respectively. Although ’Dan ma is not

credited with instituting these traditions in Amdo (lCang skya II Ngag dbang chos ldan

is; Brag dgon zhabs drung dKon mchog bstan pa rab rgyas 1982, pp. 59.3-8; lCang skya II

Ngag dbang blo bzang chos ldan 1713, pp. 8a.1-2), it is possible that he helped to

introduce them or aspects of them. More importantly, these experiences of ’Dan ma

contributed to his reputation as a spiritual adept, and they further draw our attention

to the importance of such tantric traditions for the dGe lugs school in the early

17th century as it competed with its bKa’ brgyud rivals and simultaneously sought to

expand its influence farther away in Amdo.

’Dan ma’s scholarly exploits

24 Back at sGo mang College, ’Dan ma progressed swiftly through the curriculum (p. 15b).

During this time he also went to visit dGon lung Monastery’s founder, rGyal sras Rin po

che, at Dwags po College and entered the dharma classes there for a time (p. 17b). When

he returned to sGo mang, the Paṇchen Lama, who had served as abbot of ’Bras spungs

since 1617, decided to establish formal debates at the new year’s Great Prayer Festival

in Lhasa. The year was 1625 (Paṇchen Lama IV Blo bzang chos kyi rgyal mtshan 1969,

pp. 134/67b-135/68a). The problem, according to ’Dan ma’s biography, was that the

event had to be kept secret lest the King of gTsang intervene and stop it (p. 17a).

gTsang forces had invaded dBus in 1618, looted both ’Bras spungs and Se ra

Monasteries, and confiscated the estates of the principal dGe lugs patron, the sKyid

shod family. Three years later, Tümed Mongols from Kökenuur assisted the sKyid shod

Governor bSod nams rgyal mtshan (1586-1636) in defeating the gTsang forces in Lhasa,

although they failed to recover all the sKyid shod estates. Thus, in 1625 tensions still

ran high, and ’Dan ma’s biography tells us that utmost secrecy regarding the debates

was maintained. The candidates were advised not to talk about the debates and to

pretend they were instead studying for regular dharma classes (chos grwa) (p. 19b).

They were also not permitted to go to monasteries other than ’Bras spungs for study

retreats (dpe mtshams) lest they raise suspicions. The sGo mang master23 selected Chu


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bzang ba dKon mchog chos bzang (dates unknown) and ’Dan ma to participate in the

debates. The master of ’Bras spungs’ Blo gsal gling College24 chose ’Brug ltag pa Ngag

dbang dpal bzang25 (dates unknown) and Do dam nyag pa bSod nams chos bzang (dates

unknown)26 (p. 18b).

25 rGyal sras Rin po che is said to have been present at the debates and to have remarked

to ’Dan ma, “it is good that [one] from where I established philosophical teachings in

[mDo] smad participate at the first Lhasa debates” (p. 21a.4-5). He is referring to the

claims that these were the first dGe lugs formal debates held at the Great Prayer

Festival in Lhasa. From that time forward, the biography explains, “the custom of the

debate circuit of Lhasa flourished like this” (p. 23a.5). It is not clear who came out on

top. Thu’u bkwan III would later write that ’Dan ma “debated amongst ten million

scholars, and since he arose as the debater without peer, his renown spread around the

world” (Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, p. 671/20a.4). The modern

scholar Dung dkar Blo bzang ’phrin las instead writes that “the fame of Dom [i.e. Do

dam nyag pa] and ’Brug [ltag pa] grew without limit” after the debates27. ’Dan ma’s own

biography is unclear due in part to damage to the text or modesty or both. The Fifth

Dalai Lama simply recounts who participated, naming the four above (he refers to ’Dan

ma as bSam blo lDan ma) and adding a fifth, Dwags po dka’ bcu (Dalai Lama V Ngag

dbang blo bzang rgya mtsho 2014, p. 62, 2009, p. 56). The modern-day sGo mang gi chos

’byung [History of the dharma at sGo mang college] does the same (bsTan pa bstan ’dzin

2003, pp. 43-44)28. In any case, it does appear that these were the first dGe lugs formal

debates in Lhasa over which the Paṇchen Lama presided29. In addition, the Paṇchen

Lama writes that the event entailed a “great assembly of 5000” and that “everyone

agreed it was done as if the past had come back to life” (Paṇchen Lama IV Blo bzang

chos kyi rgyal mtshan 1969, pp. 134/67b.5-6). Thus, sources contemporary with this

momentous occasion assure us of ’Dan ma’s high-level participation.

Ecumenism or religious conversion?

26 ’Dan ma was not finished with his institutional life at sGo mang. He served as

disciplinarian (dge skos) of sGo mang for six months (p. 24b)30. However, this was all cut

short due to a barrage of “magical displays” or paranormal activity (cho ’phrul) that

would harm his physical and psychological health for years to come. This was

precipitated by his involvement in a conflict that arose between two regional houses

(kham tshan [sic]) at ’Bras spungs, which spiraled into a dBus-gTsang conflict. The

dispute involved some monks and the house teacher (dge rgan) from the Bsam blo

regional house, on the one hand, and the Har sdong (“Ha ldung”) regional house, on the

other hand. The treasurer of the Dalai Lamas, Dpon bSod nams chos ’phel

(1595?-1657/58), was approached, and he ruled in favor of the Har sdong house31. The

monks from the bSam blo house, with which ’Dan ma was affiliated32, approached ’Dan

ma for assistance. Together they then went to the King of gTsang, who found that bSod

nams rab brtan had been biased in his ruling and thus overturned it, ruling instead in

favor of the bSam blo house (pp. 23b-24b)33. bSod nams chos ’phel was fined, which

meant that the wealth of ’Bras spungs was penalized34. This troubled ’Dan ma (p. 24b.

6-7), and, more siginificantly, he angered the dGe lugs protector deity gNas chung, who

launched a years-long campaign of spiritual attacks (usually in his dreams) against ’Dan

ma.


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27 These spiritual attacks motivated ’Dan ma’s decision to leave ’Bras spungs and go into

retreat35. Much of his energy during the years that followed was focused on performing

“Ego-Cutting” (gcod) meditation, and it was this practice that ultimately freed him from

these debilitating attacks36. Once, the attacks were so persistent and horrific that ’Dan

ma became convinced that he would die and so traveled to the nomadic pastures of

Byang to dispose of his own body “so that no one would see it” (p. 36b.6-7): “Taking a

single bag of tsampa, I spent a few years in the uninhabited place, never encountering a

person” (pp. 37b-37a).

28 ’Dan ma describes himself as a bKa’ brgyud-like ascetic during this period, roaming

about aimlessly, with few provisions, with long, disheveled hair, and singing “herder

songs”37. Later in life he would sing “realization songs” (mgur) to his disciples, who

failed, we are told, to record them all (p. 63b.1-6). A few verses made it into his

biography, however:

Though there are many young ones who know everything,They cannot free themselves from the narrow path with a single obstacle.[Here] pride in [one’s] courage is meaningless.Although I am one who does not know everything,I liberate myself from the narrow path of the single obstacle.On the good, bed of primordial emptinessOh, how happy he is, the sweetly sleeping yogin. (p. 63b.1-3)38

29 Although ’Dan ma is himself a trained scholar, here and elsewhere he is clearly

demoting knowledge acquired through pedantic, scholastic training in comparison

with the insight of the genuine yogin (see also the following verses in the Tsit+tar

bcings ba, p. 63b.4-6; Brag dgon zhabs drung Dkon mchog bstan pa rab rgyas 1982,

pp. 110.17-18).

30 In one story he encounters a yogin practicing the “fierce” or “inner heat” (gtum mo)

meditative practice incorrectly. Upon showing him the correct way to practice it, the

yogin exclaims, “Who is your lama? Of what religious school are you? Your clothes [are

tattered?], your hair long. Are you not a [bKa’ brgyud] realized yogin (rtogs ldan)?” After

’Dan ma gub chen explains that he is a dGe lugs pa, the other practitioner exclaims,

“are there teachings such as this among the dGe lugs pa?” His faith (dad pa) in the dGe

lugs pa is said to have grown tremendously (p. 37a.5-37b.3)39.

31 On another occasion while staying at Yol dkar, he dreamed that a man gave him a book

said to contain teachings on the Jo nang school’s philosophical view. ’Dan ma thought

this an extraordinary gift and wished to ask the Jo nang master Tāranātha

(1575-1634/35) about it. However, after first asking the Paṇchen Lama about this plan,

the Paṇchen Lama retorted that Tāranātha’s view was “that of Hwa shang”

(pp. 35b-36a).

32 These episodes suggest ’Dan ma possessed a tolerant and even ecumenical approach to

Buddhist learning and practice. His performance of realization songs, of which only

fragments are found in the Tsit+tar bcings ba, is comparable to that of his later disciple,

Shar sKal ldan rgya mtsho, and, of course, the saint Mi la ras pa (1028/40/52-1111/23)

(Sujata 2005). He practised in remote places, explicitly identifying himself with the

characteristics and practices of earlier bKa’ brgyud masters, and purposefully visited

places associated with other schools and traditions such as Yol dkar (said to be the

place where the Zhi byed practitioner Pha rgod Kun bzang40 realized emptiness) (p. 35a-

b). This predilection for bKa’ brgyud sites and practices is not surprising when we


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consider the strength and influence of the bKa’ brgyud pa at that time. In addition, his

principal guru, the Paṇchen Lama, is also recognized for his “syncretist” and

“ecumenical” approach to Buddhist thought and practice (Jackson 2001, p. 182),

notwithstanding the above statement regarding Tāranātha attributed to him. Finally,

one must not forget that ’Dan ma’s own father was a Rnying ma pa (p. 2b).

33 ’Dan ma’s decision and ability to embark upon and follow through on a life of radical

retreat stands in stark contrast to his compatriot Lcang skya II Ngag dbang blo bzang

chos ldan. The latter was in Central Tibet in the years 1661-1683, and like ’Dan ma

before him he studied some of the teachings of the dBen sa tradition (through one of

the Paṇchen Lama’s disciples). However, when Lcang skya (along with two others,

including ’Jam dbyangs bzhad pa I) expressed his desire to emulate earlier holders of

the teachings by going into retreat, another of the Paṇchen Lama’s disciples ridiculed

him, saying, “are you going to throw away the teachings of the Victor Tsong kha pa?

Are you able to independently go your own way? This is not fitting for great scholars

who desire to maintain the correct [philosophical] viewpoint such as yourselves” (Brag

dgon zhabs drung dKon mchog bstan pa rab rgyas 1982, p. 59). lCang skya (and the

others) thereupon gave up on his ambition and instead embarked upon an institutional

and political career.

34 To be sure, ’Dan ma would also have an institutional career of sorts (see below), but this

was not to be so forcefully divorced from his spiritual pursuits. In this early period of

the development of dGe lugs institutions in Amdo, tantric ritual and meditative

practices garner equal respect and attention as do discipline and scholasticism. For

example, the sKyid shod zhabs drung (on whom see more below) appears to have spent

most of his time while evangelizing at Rong bo Monastery in Amdo giving “permission

blessings” (rjes gnang) and empowerments (dbang) to monks there (Ban Shinichiro 2017,

p. 6). Rong bo’s principal lama, Shar sKal ldan rgya mtsho, and his half-brother Rong bo

chos rje (1581-1659) are also remembered as much for their spiritual exploits as for

their roles in establishing philosophical teachings at Rong bo. Before dGe lugs

institutions became larger and more complex (and thus more rigid and monopolistic) at

the end of the 17th century and into the next century, there was as much value placed

on “practice” as there was “explanation”. There was also more tolerance of non-dGe

lugs views and practices than in later centuries.

35 Notwithstanding the embrace of bKa’ brgyud imagery and elements in ’Dan ma’s

biography, it is also important to recognize that the above story of his encounter with

the yogin is framed by a defense of and even promotion of the qualities of the dGe lugs

school. The faith of the yogin in the dGe lugs pa is said to have “grown tremendously”.

A similar story takes place in the biography of sKyid shod zhabs drung. He too is

described as “without partiality for different religious tenets”, and his profound and

ecumenical teachings so impressed the anti-dGe lugs leader Tsogtu Taiji (d. 1637) that

the latter’s “faith [in him] grew” (Rong po grub chen I sKal ldan rgya mtsho, 1999b,

p. 222). Moreover, sKyid shod’s biographer (who, incidentally, is Shar sKal ldan rgya

mtsho) writes,

the renunciants of the Sa skya, ’Brug pa, and Karma also came to have great faith[in sKyid shod zhabs drung]. In particular, the follower of the Karma pa called Zhwadmar rab ’byams pa discreetly listened to profound teachings from this Lord, andhe also presented [sKyid shod zhabs drung] with a Cornucopia of material offerings.(Rong po grub chen I sKal ldan rgya mtsho 1999b, p. 222)


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36 In both of these cases, the dGe lugs lama is portrayed as the one with the more

expansive and ecumenical approach to Buddhism, which paradoxically positions him to

promote the uniqueness of the dGe lugs school.

’Dan ma’s return to Amdo

37 ’Dan ma’s two principal lamas throughout his life were rGyal sras Rin po che Don yod

chos (kyi) rgya mtsho and the Paṇchen Lama Blo bzang chos kyi rgyal mtshan. The

biography records numerous interactions with the Paṇchen Lama while in Central

Tibet41. ’Dan ma’s interactions with rGyal sras are fewer, but he does go out of his way

to pay his respects to rGyal sras before returning to Amdo. rGyal sras had passed away

the year before, and a nunnery had taken as its share of his remains the skull of rGyal

sras. ’Dan ma insisted that they give it to him to take back to Amdo, which they did

(p. 45b). An exceedingly clear image of the ten-syllable mantra of the Buddha Kālacakra

and his maṇḍala (rnam bcu dbang ldan) is said to have appeared in relief on the skull

(p. 45b.1-2). This relic would be the cause of much controversy back at dGon lung.

38 ’Dan ma had hoped to travel first to Wutai shan, the Five-Peaked Mountain, but he

reports encountering a serious famine and cannibalism while in a certain place called

Yongs sha bo in Bar khams. Thus he turned back, visiting Li thang Monastery, Reb kong

(“Re gong”), and other places along the way. In Reb kong he met “a retreatant called

Rung bo chos pa who lived up to his name” and sKal ldan rgya mtsho (p. 46b.3-4). These

figures are, of course, Rong bo chos pa Blo bzang bstan pa’i rgyal mtshan (1581-1659)

and the latter’s half-brother (the biography calls him a nephew, tsha bo), the First Shar

Lama sKal ldan rgya mtsho (1607-1677), who together established Rong bo Monastery

as a dGe lugs institution (it had previously been a Sa skya monastery) that would wield

extraordinary power in Amdo.

39 In his 1652 A mdo’i chos ’byung (History of the dharma in Amdo), the earliest history of

Amdo, sKal ldan rgya mtsho wrote about his half-brother and about ’Dan ma in the

following way:

Nowadays, there are many practitioners. However, among them all, like the sun andthe moon, are the incomparable Dharma Lord [Chos pa] Blo bzang bstan pa’i rgyalmtshan and dGon lung’s Dharma Lord, the Renouncer of All, ’Dan ma Tshul khrimsrgya mtsho. (Rong po grub chen I sKal ldan rgya mtsho 1999a, p. 343)

40 The Tsit+tar bcings ba explains that ’Dan ma gave these two siblings whatever teachings

they required (p. 47b). ’Dan ma, moreover, transmitted teachings on the dGe lugs

Mahāmudrā – the special, esoteric teachings he had received from the Paṇchen Lama –

to Shar sKal ldan rgya mtsho (’Jigs med dam chos rgya mtsho 1997, p. 184; Sujata 2005,

p. 64, n. 21). Rong bo chos rje and sKal ldan rgya mtsho were also fellow disciples of the

Paṇchen Lama. Their meeting demonstrates the importance of ’Dan ma in the dGe lugs

expansion into Amdo and how his role stretched beyond the confines of his home

monastery of dGon lung.

41 The convergence of these three disciples of the Paṇchen Lama also highlights the

important influence of the latter in the geographical expansion of the dGe lugs school.

Fifty years ago Gene Smith drew our attention to the important role of the Paṇchen

Lama: “he would remain the most prominent teacher of the great incarnations of Tibet

and Mongolia for almost fifty years” (Smith 1969, p. 7, 2001, p. 127). We have only just

begun to heed Smith’s claim and fully comprehend the extent of the Paṇchen Lama’s


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influence during this pivotal period in Tibetan history. sKyid shod zhabs drung, ’Dan

ma, Rong bo chos pa, Shar sKal ldan rgya mtsho, and Stong ’khor Mdo rgyud rgya

mtsho (1621-1683) are just a few of his numerous disciples who fanned out across Amdo

and Mongolia to establish the dGe lugs school in these new places.

Arguing over relics

42 Upon returning to dGon lung, ’Dan ma continued his meditation practice at the dGon

lung Hermitage, also known as Byang chub gling, a few kilometres up the valley from

dGon lung Monastery itself. This he did for “a few years” until he was asked to serve as

dGon lung’s abbot. The most important event to occur during his abbacy (r. 1637-1639)

was the visit of the Central Tibetan lama sKyid shod zhabs drung (the biography writes

“sPyi shod zhabs drung”) of the powerful sKyid shod family in Lhasa.

43 sKyid shod zhabs drung was also a disciple of the Paṇchen Lama who worked on behalf

of the Paṇchen Lama in spreading the dGe lugs school in Amdo (Rong po grub chen I

sKal ldan rgya mtsho 1999b, p. 211; Ban Shinichiro 2017, pp. 7-8). Elsewhere I have

discussed the importance of the connection between the sKyid shod family and dGon

lung (Sullivan 2019). Monguors from dGon lung and the surrounding community

appear to have played a significant role in establishing the relationship between the

Dalai Lama’s dGe lugs school and the powerful Oirat Mongols who came to support the

dGe lugs school in its bid for political and religious hegemony in Central Tibet. sKyid

shod zhabs drung’s visit to dGon lung and, in particular, his death and enshrinement at

the monastery, marked the monastery as a place of importance and a recipient of

patronage for generations to come. sKyid shod zhabs drung’s brother, the powerful

sKyid shod Governor Yid bzhin nor bu (1589-after 1647), came to dGon lung to pay his

respects and made lavish donations (Rong po grub chen I sKal ldan rgya mtsho 1999b,

p. 250). In addition, sKyid shod zhabs drung himself donated to dGon lung numerous

estates that he had received from the Oirat Mongols. As Thu’u bkwan III writes in his

chronicle of this monastery, “up until the time of the unrest [in 1723], [the monastery]

would annually collect taxes from these divine comunities (lha sde), and offerings and

so forth would be given to the stūpa of sKyid shod at dGon lung” (Thu’u bkwan III Blo

bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, pp. 770/69b.4-770/69b.6).

44 sKyid shod zhabs drung passed away at dGon lung in 1638. As abbot, ’Dan ma was asked

to oversee the construction of a silver reliquary for sKyid shod’s remains, one that was

to be “like the stūpa of sKu ’bum Monastery” (p. 48b.6-7). The reliquary at sKu ’bum is

understood to contain the miraculous tree that sprung forth from the blood from the

umbilical cord of the founder of the dGe lugs school, Tsong khapa, when he was born,

and the stūpa is one of the major attractions of pilgrims from as far away as Mongolia

and the Caucases (Karsten 1996, p. 80)42. ’Dan ma declined to take on the task, citing the

need to first build a reliquary and shrine hall for the skull of rGyal sras Rin po che

(pp. 48b.7-49a.2). According to ’Dan ma, the congregation of monks all understood and

accepted this. However, a certain local ruler, Nang so dMar dmar, accused him of being

remiss in his abbatial duties. He then added, “nowadays, who can tell if everyone who

goes to Central Tibet and returns carrying bones, saying ‘this has divine writing on it,’

possesses human bones or dog bones?” (p. 49a.6-7) Clearly this was an attack on ’Dan

ma and the authenticity of the relics he had carried back from Tibet.


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45 The Tsit+tar bcings ba provides some background to the animosity exhibited by this local

leader. The latter had previously invited people from all over dPa’ ris (written “dPal

ras”) to come and receive a Vajra Garland (rDo rje ’phreng ba) empowerment and had

asked sKyid shod zhabs drung to conduct the empowerment. sKyid shod declined,

however, and so Nang so dMar dmar asked ’Dan ma to ask sKyid shod zhabs drung on

his behalf. ’Dan ma declined to intervene (pp. 47b-48a). This angered the local leader

and seems to be the pretext for the charges he later would make against ’Dan ma.

Suspicion was ultimately sewn, and though there were monks who were “faithful and

loyal” (49b.3), ’Dan ma was compelled to resign.

46 Some years later ’Dan ma was invited to serve as abbot of another major Amdo

monastery of the 16th and 17th centuries, Thang ring Monastery. One of the acts he

performed while abbot at Thang ring was to invite a young boy to the monastery in

1646. The boy was recognized as the rebirth of the late lCang skya Grags pa ’od zer (d.

1641), and he would grow up to be one of the most important Buddhist lamas in the

history of Sino-Tibetan relations, the Second lCang skya Ngag dbang blo bzang chos

ldan (1642-1714).

47 Later, the issue of rGyal sras Rin po che’s skull and reliquary resurfaced. While ’Dan ma

was residing at rTa rdzong (elsewhere written “sTa rdzong”), a certain Kyi kya Me rgan

chos rje43 dispatched a messenger to ask ’Dan ma to return to dGon lung to oversee the

construction of the reliquary. The text is damaged in several parts of this crucial

episode, but it appears that some of the monks who had previously opposed ’Dan ma

were punished (pp. 51a.7-51b; Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000,

p. 683/26a.1). ’Dan ma agreed to return with the skull and began his journey to dGon

lung. However, a faction of monks insisted that Me rgan chos rje take the skull from

’Dan ma and that ’Dan ma should not be permitted to return to the monastery. ’Dan ma

refused to abide by these conditions and was on the verge of departing when Me rgan

salvaged the deal by making offerings to ’Dan ma and spending the night with him,

receiving transmissions and permission-blessings from ’Dan ma (pp. 51a-52a).

48 When bTsan po “The Stern” Don grub rgya mtsho (1613-1665) became abbot of dGon

lung (r. 1648-1650), he also tried to make amends by reproaching the congregation of

monks and insisting that they apologize (p. 52a.5-7). bTsan po further tried to assuage

’Dan ma’s fears by explaining that all of the older monks who had led the attacks on

’Dan ma, apart from a certain Disciplinarian Hor dum44, had passed away. ’Dan ma was

skeptical and felt sure there was a conspiracy against him. Nonetheless, he trusted the

abbot bTsan po’s sincerity and went to dGon lung where construction of the reliquary

began (pp. 52a-53b).

49 At this point in the story, however, ’Dan ma was invited by some local leaders45 to help

them found a new monastery. This was mChod rten thang, a large and important dGe

lugs monastery on the northeastern fringe of the Tibetan Plateau. He then bequeathed

this monastery to sTong ’khor zhabs drung mDo rgyud rgya mtsho, another important

figure in the dGe lugs expansion into Amdo and beyond46.

50 ’Dan ma was then invited by two local leaders47 to the area of BA za (“Pa tsha”;

Ch. Bazha 巴扎). There, he thought, “it makes no difference where one resides. I cannot

not make a place for rGyal sras Rin po che’s skull to reside”. He therefore accepted the

invitation and quickly rushed to the spot in question: Kan chen (pp. 53b-54a)48. This is

where rGyal sras’ relics would remain.


381

51 The attention that the biography gives to the relics of these deceased lamas,

particularly those of rGyal sras Rin po che, and the infighting that erupts around them,

point to the power and significance of relics and reliquaries during this period of dGe

lugs expansion. The reliquary of sKyid shod zhabs drung was significant for the growth

and influence of dGon lung Monastery. The reliquary of rGyal sras established at Kan

chen might have served a similar function had it been established at a more centrally

located institution (such as dGon lung) or had its reputation not been impugned by the

local leader (who suggested the relics were fake). In any case, as important as

scholasticism and philosophy would prove to be for dGe lugs institutions in Amdo, dGe

lugs monasteries in the early years were equally or even more dependent upon the

power of lamas and tantric adepts, dead and alive, for their protection and

reputations49.

’Dan ma, the institution man

52 Beginning in 1654 (a Horse Year; one of the few years given in the entire biography),

’Dan ma dedicated himself to building up the infrastructure of mChod rten thang

(pp. 54b.5-55a.5)50. Donations were provided by rGyal ’bum rtse of BA za (“Pa tsha rgyal

’bum rtse”), and ’Dan ma himself drew up the designs51. He also spent time establishing

philosophical scholastic methods at nearby religious centres52. Eventually he returned

to nearby Kan chen, where much fundraising and building had taken place, and,

although he had not intended to found a monastery there, that is precisely what ended

up happening.

53 The name ’Dan ma gave this monastery (grwa tshang) was Theg chen thar ba gling.

Later, as scholasticism became established, it was called dGa’ ldan legs bshad gling

(p. 56b.5-6), although it is often referred to colloquially as Kan chen dgon. Its location is

quite remote, and it never grew to enormous proportions, although it is said to have

had around 100 resident monks at the end of the 17th century (Sde srid Sangs rgyas rgya

mtsho 1998, p. 342).


382

Figure 4. Kan chen Monastery

© Brenton Sullivan, May 2011

54 ’Dan ma’s description of his institution-building there exemplifies the very hands-on

instruction that was required to introduce dGe lugs monasticism to Amdo and from

there into Mongolia. “I appointed disciplinarians, cantors, cooks, water-bearers53, and

so forth, and I explained to them ‘this one has to do this’” (p. 52a.2-3). He gave

particular attention to the manner in which the disciplinarians were to solicit “mass

teas” (mang ja) from the laity: “The monks do not need to ask for mass tea offerings.

The responsibility for [getting] the mass teas to drink for the monks is that of the

disciplinarians and such officers” (p. 56a.5-7). This was a typical dGe lugs instruction

for ensuring that the prerogative to interact with lay patrons was that of the institution

(the monastery) rather than the monks (Jansen 2018, pp. 128-129).

55 Likewise, ’Dan ma established the liturgical program for Kan chen dgon, instructing the

monks on the importance of reciting the evening obstacle-clearing ritual (sku rim), how

to recite the prayer to Tārā (sGrol ma) and to repeatedly recite the Heart Sutra, how to

prepare ritual cake offerings for the forms of the Glorious Goddess (lHa mo), with

which he was associated (see pp. 43a-b), and penning a breviary (chos spyod) for the

monastery. ’Dan ma is said to have held himself to the same standards as every other

monk, attending the fortnightly confession of sins and attending the daily services,

underscoring the idea that he was a genuine practitioner and that his monastery was

disciplined and rigorous (pp. 56a-b).

Death and dating

56 The final part of the Tsit+tar bcings ba turns to problems with ’Dan ma’s eyesight (mig

’grib), his disciples’ requests for him to tell his life story, and his death. The voice

changes here. The pronoun “I” (nga) is used for the first time to refer not to ’Dan ma

(when he is quoted as speaking) but to the author (e.g. pp. 58a.7-58b.1, 65b.1). Likewise,


383

we see a greater frequency in the use of the phrases “he said” (gsung) and “he himself

spoke” (nyid kyi zhal nas) in the last fifteen folios (pp. 57b-71a), indicating that the

author now sees it necessary to more regularly distinguish what the master said from

what he, the author, says. This is likely due to the fact that this last part of ’Dan ma’s

life was not recounted from the master but is being told here for the first time by our

author.

57 At first ’Dan ma resisted the requests his disciples made for “supplication prayers” and

“praises” describing his life and exploits. However, in his seventy-fifth year of life he

relented, citing his old age and their fervent and persistent requests. Moreover, the

previous ad hoc efforts by students to record and collect the verses he occasionally

composed were said to have resulted in products that were insufficient and difficult to

comprehend (pp. 58b.5-59a.6). ’Dan ma bound the disciples to secrecy, warning them of

severe punishment for repeating his life story to others before he died. He also told

them that, after he died, they must continue to treat his story with respect,

transmitting it “as if a secret” to those who wanted to hear it (pp. 59a.6-59b.1). This

may help to explain the paucity of materials regarding the life of ’Dan ma.

58 ’Dan ma’s decline began in the winter, the eleventh month of the year before his death,

when he went to go to the bathroom and was unable to stand back up without

assistance (p. 65a.3). In the first month of the following year, he had a cushion placed in

the middle of his room and proclaimed that he needed to meditate. Shortly thereafter

rumors spread that ’Dan ma had died in his sleep. The author of our biography rushed

to his side in tears, exclaiming along with his fellow disciples, “we are blind men in the

middle of a plain! Where have you gone?!” At that point ’Dan ma reemerged from his

prolonged meditation session and replied, “you all really are blind men in the middle of

a plain!” He then explained to them that there was no need for a lavish funeral

ceremony on his behalf (dge rtsa) and that his remaining wealth should be used for mass

tea offerings at the monastery (66b.4-5).

59 The disciples explained to ’Dan ma that he had been “as if asleep” for twenty-three

days54, which pleased ’Dan ma to learn (66a.4-67b.1). Free of any ailments (skyon), signs

of his impending death began to appear, after which he “dissolved into the expanse of

reality”. That was followed by a week of indications that he had attained the dharma-

body of clear light, although he is also said to have constructed a perfect reward body

(long spyod rdzogs pa’i sku) while in the Bardo (p. 67b.2-4). His body was cremated, and

the Master of Offerings (mchod dpon) Blo gros rgya mtsho took responsibility for his

remains and possessions (pp. 68a.7-68b.7).

60 ’Dan ma’s year of death is somewhat unclear. Mi nyag mgon po, in his important

reference work Gangs can mkhas dbang rim byon gyi rnam thar mdor bsdus [ Concise

biographies of the succession of Tibetan scholars], says that ’Dan ma passed away early

one morning in the Wood-Dragon year (1664). However, neither of the two sources that

he cites provides a year of death for ’Dan ma (Mi nyag mgon po et al. 1996, p. 162). The

present biography gives extremely few dates, although, significantly, it does give us his

age at one point close to the end of his life. When his disciples are petitioning him to

tell the story of his life, he concedes, citing his old age of 75 (p. 59a.5). That would be

the year 1661 according to Tibetan and Monguor reckoning of age. The text then makes

a few other significant references to dates (pp. 64a.6-7; 65a.2-3; and, 65b.3), culminating

two years later “on the evening of the first day of the second month” when he passed

away (pp. 67a.5-67b.2). This would place his death in 166355. However, a biography of


384

Shar sKal ldan rgya mtsho records ’Dan ma’s death as occurring in 1665 (’Jigs med dam

chos rgya mtsho 1997, p. 184). More research is needed, although 1663 and 1665 appear

to be the most likely candidates.

61 His disciples include mostly figures from the dPa’ ris region in far northeastern Amdo.

Dka’u (Dka’ bcu?) dGe ’dun blo gros, also known as Sgom zhis grub chen dGe ba bzang

po (b. 1631), would go on to found Stong shags bkra shis chos gling in neighboring Ledu

County. Lu’u kya56 chos rje Don yod chos grags served as the fifteenth abbot57 of dGon

lung (r. 1661-1665). A certain Offering Master Hor skyong (Hor skyong ’bul dpon)

avoided ’Dan ma at first, as he was upset with ’Dan ma for having taken rGyal sras Rin

po che’s relics elsewhere. Later, however, while in Central Tibet, the Paṇchen Lama

reprimanded him, after which Hor skyong sought out ’Dan ma and his teachings

(pp. 59b-60a). Incidentally, Hor skyong ’bul dpon was also charged with greeting the

Fifth Dalai Lama when the latter passed by dGon lung Monastery in 1653 (Thu’u bkwan

III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, p. 694/31b.2). Other, unidentified disciples include Li

kyA rab ’byams pa, Lu’u gyA dka’ bcu58, and Thu’u gon Tshul khrims rin chen59. Perhaps

his most famous disciple is bTsan po (“The Stern”) Don grub rgya mtsho, who studied

under ’Dan ma at sGo mang College.

Conclusion

62 The spread of the dGe lugs school of Tibetan Buddhism from Central Tibet to the

northeastern corner of the Tibetan Plateau – Kökenuur and Amdo – and from there on

to Mongolia, usually begins with the famous meeting between the Third Dalai Lama and

the leader of the Western Tümed Mongols Altan Khan in 1578 beside Lake Kökenuur60.

Often the narrative then jumps forward in time to the founding of Bla brang bkra shis

’khyil by the First ’Jam dbyangs bzhad pa in 1709. Still precious little is known about

the roles of other dGe lugs lamas and institutions in the dissemination of the dGe lugs

school in Amdo in the intervening years.

63 Contemporary evidence for this crucial period in the growth of the dGe lugs school is

not as abundant as it is for later centuries. One is often forced to rely upon biographies

of eminent lamas from the period or Mongol-, Manchu-, or Chinese-language Qing

imperial archives. Gray Tuttle and Leonard van der Kuijp have utilized biographical

sources to reveal the active role played by the sixteenth abbot of sTag lung Monastery,

Kun dga’ bkra shis (1536-1605) in Tibetan-Mongol-Chinese relations in the late

16th century61. Tuttle has also published several articles in which he utilizes later

sources to carefully describe some of the early dGe lugs institutions in Amdo or to

construct a synoptic view of the development of dGe lugs institutions across time and

space (see, for example, Tuttle 2016, 2012, 2010, and 2017). Ikejiri Yōko, utilizing

Mongol-language archives from the early Qing, has recently shown how Thang ring

Monastery62 (founded in 1619) along with Gro tshang dgon (better known by its Chinese

name, Qutan si 瞿曇寺; founded in 1392 and lavishly supported by the Ming Dynasty)

were networked with dGon lung Monastery and provided the latter with much of its

first generation of administrative and scholastic leadership (IkejiriYōko 2018,

pp. 55-56)63. Recent scholarship on sKyid shod zhabs drung has discussed the influence

of this scion of the most important aristocratic family of dBus in promoting the dGe

lugs school in Amdo (Ban Shinichiro 2017; Schwieger 2013; Sullivan 2019). And Victoria

Sujata’s study of the First Shar Lama sKal ldan rgya mtsho (2005) has demonstrated the


385

connections that sKal ldan rgya mtsho’s meditative practices and enlightenment songs

(mgur) had with Central Tibetan predecessors and how he was instrumental in the

expansion of dGe lugs teachings and institutions in Amdo64.

64 In this article I have examined the life of another important figure, the Great

Accomplished One from ’Dan ma, Tshul khrims rgya mtsho. As we have seen, he was

described in the earliest history of Amdo as one of the guiding lights or “celestial orbs”

(“the sun and the moon”) of dGe lugs Buddhism in Amdo. He was also closely associated

with many of the known and important figures and institutions from this early period:

rGyal sras Rin po che, Chos pa Rin po che and his brother Shar sKal ldan rgya mtsho,

dGon lung Monastery, Thang ring Monastery, sKyid shod zhabs drung, and the Paṇchen

Lama.

65 More importantly, a review of ’Dan ma’s life and the contextualization of his life

alongside other early dGe lugs pa in Amdo demonstrate the unique characteristics of

the dGe lugs school in this period. In descriptions of this time and these figures,

considerable attention is given to apotropaic and fierce tantric rites during the dBus-

gTsang war and as the dGe lugs pa founded new monasteries on the frontier between

Tibet, Mongolia, and China. dGe lugs lamas, such as ’Dan ma and his guru, the Paṇchen

Lama, drew on the ideas and imagery of other schools (particularly the bKa’ brgyud) in

their spiritual practice. This together with a rhetoric of ecumenism lent these figures

an air of superiority – of comprehensiveness and of rising above the fray – that was

advantageous in Amdo, where other schools of Tibetan Buddhism and lay tantric

traditions maintained institutions and traditions that were centuries old. Relics and

reliquaries were fought over, and older, family-based religious institutions (such as the

Zi na sgar ba) still exercised great influence, making demands upon dGe lugs lamas no

matter the spiritual and scholastic credentials they professed.

66 The religious and political terrain of Amdo in this early period was an embattled one

and was markedly different from the period after the Dalai Lama’s Dga’ ldan pho brang

government was established. To be sure, ’Dan ma and other lamas from this early

period appreciated and gave attention to those elements we have come to expect of dGe

lugs monasticism: discipline, the institutionalization of roles, scholasticism. However,

navigating and succeeding in that earlier terrain required them to acquire and retain a

versatile skillset that could address the political and spiritual forces that still operated

there and that threatened the expansion of the dGe lugs Buddhadharma.

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Gyatso], Gangs can skal bzang dpe tshogs ([Lanzhou], Kan su’u mi rigs dpe skrun khang),

pp. 180-255.

Schwieger, P. 2013 A nearly-forgotten dGe lugs pa incarnation line as Manorial Lord in bKra shis

ljongs, Central Tibet, in C. Ramble, P. Schwieger & A. Travers (eds), Tibetans Who Escaped the

Historian’s Net. Studies in the Social History of Tibetan Societies (Kathmandu, Vajra Books), pp. 89-109.

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the Ganden School] ([Beijing], Krung go’i bod kyi shes rig dpe skrun khang).

Shes rab dar rgyas 1729 rJe ngag dbang blo bzang chos ldan dpal bzang po’i rnam par thar pa mu tig

’phreng ba [Biography of the glorious Lord Ngakwang Lozang Chöden. A rosary of pearls]

(Manuscript available in the Cultural Palace of Nationalities, Minzu University, Beijing).

Smith, E. G. 1969 “Introduction”, in Chos smra ba’i dge slong Blo bzang chos kyi rgyal mtshan gyi spyod

tshul gsal bar ston pa nor bu’i phreng ba [Autobiography of the first (fourth) Paṇchen Lama],

pp. 1-13 (New Delhi, Ngawang Gelek Demo).

2001 Among Tibetan Texts. History and Literature of the Himalayan Plateau (Boston, Wisdom

Publications).

Sujata, V. 2005 Tibetan Songs of Realization. Echoes from a Seventeenth-Century Scholar and Siddha in

Amdo, Brill’s Tibetan Studies Library (Boston, Brill).

Sullivan, B. 2019 The body of Skyid shod sprul sku. The mid-seventeenth century ties between

Central Tibet, the Oirat Mongols, and Dgon lung Monastery in Amdo, Revue d'Etudes Tibétaines 52,

pp. 294-327.

2021 Building a Religious Empire. Buddhism, Bureaucracy, and the Rise of the Gelukpa (Philadelphia,

University of Pennsylvania Press).

Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000 bShad sgrub bstan pa’i byung gnas chos sde chen

po dgon lung byams pa gling gi dkar chag dpyod ldan yid dbang ’gugs pa’i pho nya [The monastic

chronicle of Gönlung Monastery], in Gsung ’bum [Collected works] (Lhasa, Zhol New Printery

Block), pp. 647-788.

Tuttle, G. 2010 Local history in A mdo. The Tsong kha Range (ri rgyud), Asian Highlands

Perspectives 6, pp. 23-97.

2012 Building up the Dge lugs pa Base in A mdo. The roles of Lhasa, Beijing and local agency,

Zangxue Xuekan IJournal Tibet 7, pp. 126-410.

2016 The role of Mongol elite and educational degrees in the advent of reincarnation lineages in

seventeenth century Amdo, in K. Debreczeny & G. Tuttle (eds), The Tenth Karmapa and Tibet’s

Turbulent Seventeenth Century (Chicago, Serindia Publications), pp. 235-262.

2017 Pattern recognition. Tracking the speed of the incarnation institution through time and

across Tibetan territory, Revue d'Etudes Tibétaines 38, pp. 29-64.

Willis, J. D. 1995 Enlightened Beings. Life Stories from the Ganden Oral Tradition (Boston, Wisdom

Publications).

Wu shi Dalai Lama Awangluosangjiacuo (Dalai Lama V) 2006 Yi shi--Si shi Dalai Lama zhuan 一世--

四世达赖喇嘛传 [Biographies of the First through Fourth Dalai Lamas], Xueshan zhong de

zhuansheng; Xizang tongshi (Beijing, Zhongguo Zangxue chubanshe).


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NOTES

1. Research for this article was supported by the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation, the Fulbright

Scholar Program, and Academia Sinica in Taiwan. Nyi ma ’dzin also lists the First lCang skya

Grags pa ’od zer (d. 1641), although no dates are provided for his time in Central Tibet, which

likely overlapped with ’Dan ma’s. Also, contra Nyi ma ’dzin, other biographies of lCang skya say

that he participated in the debate circuit at Ngam ring Monastery, not in Lhasa.

2. The earliest, as I explain below, is found in Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma’s dGon

lung gi dkar chag [Chronicle of dGon lung Monastery] from 1775.

3. Gray Tuttle has created a periodization of the dGe lugs school in Amdo that includes an earlier

period from 1412-1459. While it is true that some important dGe lugs monasteries were founded

during this period, particularly south and southwest of Lanzhou along the Sino-Tibetan frontier,

these do not appear to reflect an intensive or widespread attempt to promote the dGe lugs school

outside of Central Tibet. dGe lugs pa traveling to or from Amdo at the end of the 16th century and

beginning of the 17th century may be understood as the first generation of dGe lugs evangelists if

we assume the start of that dGe lugs expansion into Amdo and beyond to coincide with the Third

Dalai Lama’s peregrinations there in the 1570s and 1580s. This coincides with Tuttle’s second

period, “the Peak of Central Tibetan Influence” (Tuttle 2012).

4. I presume that the manuscript itself is stored away for safe keeping.

5. Another example is “nged rnams la”, where the nged rnams (us) is referring to ’Dan ma’s

disciples (p. 65b.1).

6. E.g. the use of the question particle “i” (otherwise written as “e”) (pp. 10b.2, 11b.5, passim).

7. Nevertheless, it is worth pointing out, as an anonymous reviewer reminded me, that Thu’u

bkwan’s biography of ’Dan ma is longer than that for any of the other forty-three abbots

discussed in his chronicle of dGon lung. Separately, the manuscript is not limited to “sermons on

meditation”, although, as I will discuss below, ’Dan ma’s meditation practice and achievements

do figure prominently in the story of his life.

8. The first is “the location of his birth”.

9. This is Sum pa the Elder (che ba) Dam chos rgya mtsho (fl. 1604-1650).

10. Tib. nyid. This is likely a reference to rGyal sras.

11. The Tsit+tar bcings ba tells us that rGyal sras Rin po che only taught the dGon lung monks “for

about two years” (p. 7b.4-5). However, Thu’u bkwan III tells us that rGyal sras remained there for

six years and left in 1609 (Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, pp. 650/9b.2-3).

12. The Fourth Dalai Lama was said to have been the abbot of both ’Bras spungs and Se ra

Monasteries at the time (p. 12b.3-4).

13. See the biography of Lab pa rab ’byams pa bSod nams grags pa found in bsTan pa bstan ’dzin

2003, p. 570.

14. lCags mkhar; ’Jigs byed grags po'i gtor chen drug cu ba; and, lCags mkhar gtor chen drug cu

pa. For the latter, full name, see Cuevas 2017, pp. 13-14, n. 25.

15. Cuevas 2017, p. 13. The biography of the Fourth Dalai Lama also refers to the ritual practices

of the Sixty Ritual Cakes as belonging to “the tradition of practices of bDen sa rje drung” (Dalai

Lama V Ngag dbang blo bzang rgya mtsho 2007, p. 310/43b.4).

16. This is the implication of the rhetorical remark regarding the rite found in biography of the

Fourth Dalai Lama, “how can one catch the fish’s head with that [i.e. with something other than

the Fortress of the Sixty]?” (nya mgo ci non) (Dalai Lama V Ngag dbang blo bzang rgya mtsho 2007,

p. 309/43a.6). Cuevas (2017, p. 12) also suggests this.

17. It was introduced at dGon lung byams pa gling and mChod rten thang in far northeastern

Amdo. Cuevas has also demonstrated how the identity of the Amdowa Brag dkar sngags rams pa

Blo bzang bstan pa rab rgyas (ca. 1647-1727) was also closely tied to these tantras and fierce rites


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associated with Vajrabhairava (Cuevas 2017). Brag dkar’s date of death must be 1727 or later. See

note in Sullivan 2021.

18. The year, ’gal byed, is given in the biography of the Fourth Dalai Lama, which itself is citing a

work by mKhar nag Lo tsA ba (Dalai Lama V Ngag dbang blo bzang rgya mtsho 2007, p. 309/43a.

1).

19. Dalai Lama V Ngag dbang blo bzang rgya mtsho 2007, pp. 307/42a.6-308/42b.2. The Chinese

translation of the Dalai Lama’s biography is also very useful (Wu shi Dalai Lama

Awangluosangjiacuo (Dalai Lama V) 2006, pp. 307-313).

20. The name and title of this individual are obscured in ’Dan ma’s biography. Thu’u bkwan

provides them in his chronicle of dGon lung (Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000,

p. 24b.3).

21. These are the dGe ldan bka' brgyud rin po che'i phyag chen rtsa ba rgyal ba'i gzhung lam and

the dGe ldan bka' brgyud rin po che'i bka' srol phyag rgya chen po'i rtsa ba rgya par bshad pa

yang gsal sgron me (Jackson 2001, p. 156. See also Jackson 2019).

22. sprul pa’I glegs bam rin po che.

23. Gung ru Sangs rgyas bkra shis, the twenty-third dpon slob of sGo mang College.

24. I have not identified who this was.

25. The Fifth Dalai Lama’s autobiography gives his title as ’Bur ltag pa.

26. The Fifth Dalai Lama’s autobiography gives his title as Dam bsnyag (Dalai Lama V Ngag dbang

blo bzang rgya mtsho 2014, p. 62, 2009, p. 56).

27. He also says that Dom nyag pa was from sGo mang College and that Dom nyag pa and ’Brug

ltag pa earned the lha rams pa degree, a title that would not be used until the next century (Dung

dkar Blo bzang ’phrin las 1997, p. 218).

28. The sGo mang gi chos ’byung could be drawing on the later dGon lung gi dkar chag by Thu’u

bkwan, which, as I have explained above, is itself drawing on the biography of ’Dan ma. However,

the sGo mang gi chos ’byung also provides additional details such as the year (1625) and the name

of the dpon slob of sGo mang, suggesting that the author/editor of the sGo mang gi chos ’byung was

either using an earlier source or drawing on multiple sources (such as the autobiography of the

Fifth Dalai Lama as well as Thu’u bkwan’s text).

29. The Great Prayer Festival is not mentioned by the Paṇchen Lama in his autobiography under

any of the years from the time he took over as abbot of ’Bras spungs in 1617 to the events of 1624.

It is mentioned for the first time under the year 1625 (Paṇchen Lama IV Blo bzang chos kyi rgyal

mtshan 1969 p. 134/67b.5-6).

30. The text merely states that he served as a “college’s disciplinarian at ’Bras spungs”, but we

may surmise this to be sGo mang College.

31. My interpretation of this event is assisted by Thu’u bkwan’s summary (Thu’u bkwan III Blo

bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, pp. 671/20a.6-672/20b.1).

32. The Bsam blo dge rgan rnams gave him saffron cloth for his ordination robes, suggesting his

affiliation with the regional house (p. 26b).

33. That the King of gTsang ruled in favour of the Bsam blo house is based on my reading of the

following line: “’grus pa [’grul pa?] rnams nye rang [i.e, nye ring] med par bgos nas gcigtupagg la rdzun

’di ’dzin med na legs po byung”. Thu’u bkwan III also comes to this conclusion.

34. The Tsit+tar bcings ba merely states that “the common wealth was wasted” (gzhung gis phyag

sdzas pher chud gzan du bas). The range of idiosyncratic and non-standard Tibetan is on full display

here. Thu’u bkwan writes, “the [Ruler of] gTsang punished Dpon bsod nams chos‘'phel and

thereby wasted the common wealth [of the monastery]”. “gZhung” can also refer to “the

government”, although it is also often used to refer to the that which is held in common, which

would seem to be the meaning here.

35. ’Dan ma was again fully ordained before setting off, this time under the Paṇchen Lama.


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36. For one interested in the succession of attacks (cho ’phrul) and ’Dan ma’s triumph over them,

see pp. 25a, 28a, 30b-33a, and finally 37b-39a.

37. This period is one in which he moved about and “resided above dBen dgon, sNar thang Byang

chen, and other such undetermined places” (p. 29a.2). He describes “residing alone in

uninhabited secluded places (dben gnas). My previous clothes were wasting away, and I went

about almost naked” (p. 37a.1-2). Chos ’phel in his entry for sNar thang Monastery mentions the

ruins of a Byang chen gangs ri Monastery to the north of sNar thang (Chos ’phel 2010, pp. 161-2).

It is interesting how the biography also shows ’Dan ma’s recognition of the material benefits that

come with having the marks and appearance of a genuine yogin (p. 41a).

38. This also appears in Brag dgon zhabs drung dKon mchog bstan pa rab rgyas 1982,

pp. 110.14-17. These verses do not appear in Thu’u bkwan III’s chronicle of dGon lung, however,

which raises the possibility that the author of the mDo smad chos ’byung had access to the

Tsit+tar bcings ba or to some other biography of ’Dan ma.

39. “Dad pa” is slightly obscured in the text but is provided by Thu’u bkwan (Thu’u bkwan III Blo

bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, pp. 679/23a.6-680/23b.1).

40. This could be the Phar god Kun dga’ bzang po of the Shangs pa bKa’ brgyud, however, this

identification is tenuous as the text is difficult to read here.

41. See especially pp. 27b, 38b, 29a, 39b-40a, 43b-44a, and 44a-b.

42. Joachim Karsten writes, “[thistupaa] is the centre of the whole monastic complex and the

world of the dGe-lugs Order of Tibetan Buddhism, including Ch’ing Dynasty Mongolia, Manchuria

and the northern part of East-Turkestan (Hsin-ching)” (1996, p. 81, n. 41).

43. He is described as “serving as the lama of the nine clans [tsho] of X”, where “X” is unclear but

may be ’Do’ sad or something else altogether (51a.2).

44. This was un ang dGe skos, “Disciplinarian un ang”, where un ang is also a local place name

(sometimes spelled “Hor gdong”).

45. “sDe un ang so” (more commonly spelled “bDe rgu” in other sources) in particular is

mentioned.

46. Elsewhere it is said that the monastery was founded by sTong ’khor (also written as “sTong

skor”) where some of ’Dan ma’s students were in retreat (Brag dgon zhabs drung dKon mchog

bstan pa rab rgyas 1982, p. 123.11).

47. Dpon grags pa and rGyal ’bum rtse.

48. He mentions the principal patrons of the area as “Pa tsha gzung ’bum rgyal and so on”.

49. Part of the founding myth associated with dGon lung Monastery, for instance, recounts how

Ba so sprul sku Bstan pa rgya mtsho was sent by the Fourth Dalai Lama to tame the earth spirits

there (Sde srid Sangs rgyas rgya mtsho 1998, p. 340). Thu’u bkwan III refers to this figure as rJe

drung sprul sku bStan pa rgya mtsho, whose dates are 1560-1625 according to BDRC (P5465).

Thu’u bkwan III writes, “shortly before that [i.e. before rGyal sras Rin po che arrived at the future

site of dGon lung Monastery], rJe drung sprul sku bsTan pa rgya mtsho arrived at this place and

erected a statue of the Lord of Secrets, Vajrapāṇi. The dreadful gods and spirits [of this place]

were all tamed. In particular, in a black well beneath what [appeared] like the genitals of a Rock

Ogress lived a pernicious serpent demon. A lightening bolt actually fell upon that well and caused

a fire. Nowadays exorcisms are still performed in the lower part of the valley” (Thu’u bkwan III

Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, pp. 645/7a.3-5).

50. According to the mDo smad chos ’byung, this is also the year that ’Dan ma built the reliquary

for rGyal sras’ relics (Brag dgon zhabs drung dKon mchog bstan pa rab rgyas 1982, p. 110.7).

51. Mention is also made of the Fifth Dalai Lama’s passage through the area – although that

would have been in 1652 or 1653 – at which point ’Dan ma’s younger brother, bSam bstan, was

fully ordained under the Dalai Lama.

52. ’Dan ma “resided at the seat of the sNgo kho (sNgo khos [sic] sdad nas) and introduced these

methods and reforms”. This line is literally “Sngo kho took the seat [of mChod rten thang?]”.


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However, I follow Thu’u bkwan III in seeing ’Dan ma as the agent here. Thu’u bkwan tells us that

’Dan ma travelled to various places “along the ’Ju lag River such as to BA za and sNgo kho” (Thu’u

bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, p. 682/25b.4). In either case, the sNgo kho lama lineage

regularly appears in the mDo smad chos ’byung (Deb ther rgya mtsho) and is closely associated with

mChod rten thang.

53. Tib. chab ril. Assistants to the disciplinarians.

54. The later dGon lung dkar chag says that it was sixteen days (Thu’u bkwan III Blo bzang chos kyi

nyi ma, 2000, p. 683/26a.4). I do not know why this discrepancy exists.

55. The text is quite damaged throughout, and so one cannot rule out the possibility that a

significant reference to a date (e.g. “the following year”) has been excised from the present

manuscript.

56. Or Lu’u kyA, Lu’u gyA, etc. The Tsit+tar bcings ba mistakenly has Li kyA.

57. The Tsit+tar bcings ba calls him the thirteenth dpon slob.

58. This figure is apparently to be distinguished from ’Dan ma’s friend, Lu gyA dge slong dGe ’dun

dar rgyas. Thu’u bkwan III changes Lu gyA bka’ bcu’s title to “Lin kya dka’ bcu” (Thu’u bkwan III

Blo bzang chos kyi nyi ma 2000, p. 683/26a.2).

59. Thu’u gon has a dream in which he is told to offer a long-life prayer (brtan bzhugs) to ’Dan ma.

He thus travels to see ’Dan ma and does so (62a).

60. The exact meeting spot is said to be Cabciyal Monastery, which corresponds to what is today

Chab cha County (Ch. Gonghe xian 共和县) (Charleux 2006, p. 42, n. 133; Elverskog 2003, p. 160),

and, more precisely, Jiala Village 加拉村 in Qiabuqia Township 恰卜恰乡 (Qin Yujiang 1995; my

thanks to one of this article’s anonymous reviewers for this reference).

61. A confusing typo was introduced into the title of their article, providing the dates for the life

of Kun dga’ bkra shis’s disciple, Kun dga’ snying po / Tāranātha, in place of those for Kun dga’

snying po himself (Kuijp & Tuttle, 2015).

62. Its full name is Thang ring bshad grub gling or Thang ring dga’ ldan bshad sgrub gling.

Located in present-day Minhe County 民和县.

63. Kung Ling-wei also utilizes archival materials from the early Qing to offer some important

and novel insights into the early dGe lugs school in Amdo (Kung 2015 and 2018).

64. Bryan Cuevas’s study of the First Brag dkar sngags ram pa (2017) looks at a slightly later

figure and his role in promoting the dGe lugs pa in Amdo.

ABSTRACTS

This article studies and contextualizes a recently discovered biography of one of the earliest dGe

lugs evangelists in Amdo, ’Dan ma Tshul khrims rgya mtsho (1578-1663/65). The life of ’Dan ma

exemplifies important aspects of the dGe lugs school during its period of contest with other

Buddhist schools (particularly the Karma bKa’ brgyud school) and before the establishment of the

Dalai Lama’s dGa’ ldan pho brang government. In particular, it reflects a tendency among dGe

lugs pas of this period toward ecumenism, retreat, and tantra, which stands in contrast to the

mature dGe lugs school of large-scale institutions, discipline, and philosophy. It also

demonstrates the importance of dGe lugs lamas other than the Fifth Dalai Lama (born only in

1617) for the spread of the dGe lugs school in Amdo and beyond.


393

Cet article étudie et contextualise une biographie récemment découverte de l’un des plus anciens

évangélistes dGe lugs d’Amdo, ’Dan ma Tshul khrims rgya mtsho (1578-1663/65). La vie de Dan

ma illustre des aspects importants de l'école de dGe lugs au cours de sa période de concours avec

d'autres écoles bouddhistes (comme le Karma bKa’ brgyud) et avant la fondation du

gouvernement de dGa’ ldan pho brang du Dalai Lama. En particulier, cela reflète une tendance

chez les dGe lugs pas de cette période vers l'œcuménisme, la retraite et le tantra, ce qui contraste

avec l'école mature de dGe lugs des institutions à grande échelle, de la discipline et de la

philosophie. Cela démontre également l’importance des lamas autres que le cinquième dalaï-lama

(né seulement en 1617) pour la diffusion de l’école dGe lugs à Amdo et au-delà.

INDEX

Keywords: Geluk, Amdo, Tibetan Buddhism, biography, ecumenism, non-sectarianism

Mots-clés: Gelug, Amdo, bouddhisme tibétain, biographie, œcuménisme, non-sectarisme

AUTHOR

BRENTON SULLIVAN

Brenton Sullivan is an assistant professor of Buddhism and East Asian Religions at Colgate

University in Central New York. His research is on the history of Tibetan monastic institutions

and that of Sino-Tibetan relations. His book, Building a Religious Empire. Buddhism, Bureaucracy, and

the Rise of the Gelukpa (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2021) details the Geluk school’s unrivaled

emphasis on organizing and bureaucratizing its system of monasticism, which granted the school

both coherence and efficiency as it spread across the Tibetan Plateau and into Mongolia in the

17th and 18th centuries.

[email protected]


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A preliminary note on the successive renovations of SamyeMonasteryNote préliminaire sur les rénovations successives du monastère de Samye

Lobsang Tenpa

How Samye became an important monument

1 Samye (bSam yas), the first Buddhist monastery established in Tibet, is one of the most

important sacred sites in the Tibetan cultural world besides the Jokhang Temple (Jo

khang) in Lhasa1. It is located in the Chimbu (mChims phu)/ Dakmar (Brag dmar) valley,

south of the capital city, Lhasa. In Tibetan, it is simply referred to as Samye

Tsuklakhang (an abbreviation of bSam yas mi ’gyur lhun gyi grub pa’i gTsug lag khang,

Inconceivable Unchanging Spontaneously Established Monastery). According to the

“Testament of Ba” (Ba bzhad)2, an important early Tibetan history, it was built during

the time of emperor (tsenpo; btsan po) Trisong Detsen (Khri srong lde btsan,

r. 755-797/804) sometime between 763 or 775 (Hare Year) as the initial year, and 779

(Sheep Year) as the year the main shrine was consecrated. Other construction dates,

from 787 to 799 through to 787 to 791 have been given by later Tibetan historians3.

2 Almost all Tibetan historiographies mention that Samye was modeled after Odantapuri

Monastery, though Ne’u Paṇḍita stated that it is visioned after the ancient Nālanda

monastery4. The central shrine with four surrounding branch temples itself

represented the Buddhist universe, in the form of the Mount Meru and its surrounding

continents. The layout is modeled after the three-dimensional mandala, which is

dedicated to Buddha Vairocana. Interestingly, the central shrine consists of three

stories, and all three represent the traditional architectural style in a layer of India,

China, and Tibet. This signifies the cross-cultural relationships that influenced the

development of Tibetan imperial power. The foundation of the monastery was initiated

by Śāntarakṣita (725-788), the abbot of the Indian Buddhist learning center of


395

Vikramaśilā. Padmasambhava (ca. 8th century) undertook further tantric rituals to

subdue hostile spirits ensure the successful completion of construction. This led to the

beginning of the first monastic institution in Tibet. Due to the influence of these two

teachers, Buddhism in Tibet “represent[ed] two rather different forms of Buddhist

practice, the one conventionally academic and monastic, and the other mystical and

ritual”5. The three figures known as khenlob chosum (mkhan slob chos gsum) – Emperor

Trisong Detsen, Śāntarakṣita, and Padmasambhava – played decisive roles in the

foundation of Samye. They represent secular authority, the intellectual doctrinal view,

and tantric supremacy respectively. These three themes have continued to have an

influential role in Tibetan Buddhism and society, especially until the significant

changes that took place in the 1950s.

3 However, while the tale of these three figures is well known, the foundations of Samye

and Buddhism in Tibet were by no means straightforward. There was an intense rivalry

between Indian and Chinese Buddhist missionaries for influence in Tibet, which led to

debates between different propagator under the patronage of the emperor to be

conducted at Samye. For a period of circa five years (793-797), the “Council of Lhasa” or

“the Samye Debate” between (ca. 740-795, a disciple of Śāntarakṣita) and the Chinese

monk of reportedly took place6. Besides the “Samye Debate”, Samye has been famously

known for “Samye Stone Inscription and Samye Bell Inscription”7. Additionally, even

the infamous Lhalung Pelkyi Dorje (lHa lung dpal gyi rdo rje, 9th century), who brought

down the imperial house of Tibet by assassinating the last emperor Tri Udumtsen (Khri

u’i dum btsan), better known as Langdarma (Glang dar ma, r. 841-842), took his monk’s

vows at Samye8.

4 In the post-imperial period, Samye retained its significance and played a major role in

reviving Buddhism in U-Tsang in the late-10th century under the guidance of Lume

Sherab Tsultrim (Klu mes shes rab tshul khrims, d. 1017) and the group of Ba-rak (sBa

rag tsho), and so forth9. Since Samye was Tibet’s first monastic institution, and other

sectarian-based monastic institutes were not founded until late-11th century, Samye

functioned as the main seat for many ordination ceremonies. The biographies of

significant Tibetan masters suggest that ordination took place there until at least the

mid-15th century, including for well-known teachers and scholars such Longchen

Rabjampa Dreme Ozer (Klong chen rab ’byams pa Dri med ’od zer, 1308-1364), who was

ordained there in ca. 1323-1324, and Thrimkhang Lotsawa Sonam Gyatso (Khrims

khang lo tsā ba bSod nams rgya mtsho, 1424-1482) who was ordained in ca. 143310.

5 Moreover, the library of Samye (bSam yas Pad dkar gling) was well known for its

archive of Sanskrit texts. These texts were reportedly brought to Samye by Thumi

Sambhota (Thu mi sam bhu ta), Vimalamitra, Padmasambhava, and other significant

figures during the time of the Tibetan empire11. Atiśa Dīpankara Śrījñāna (982-1054)

discussed his experience encountering the library, stating, “as I open the archive (dkor

mdzod) of the Samye Library, and look at those Sanskrit texts, there are many texts of

sūtra and tantra which I had never seen before”. Similarly, in “The Blue Annals” (Deb

ther sngon po), the author Goe Lotsawa (’Gos lo tsā ba gZhon nu dpal, 1392-1481) records

that Atiśa said, “it seems that the doctrine had first spread in Tibet, even more than in

India”12. Similarly, the last abbot of Nālandā monastery, Kashmiri Paṇḍita

Śākyaśrībhadra (1127-1225) got access to those texts when he visited Samye in

ca. 1206-1207 (Deb ther sngon po 1984, p. 137)13.


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6 Besides the historical significance of the library, Samye also gained its mythical

prominence as the source of “Treasure texts” (gter ma). The discoveries of the texts

such as “The four tantras” (rgyud bzhi), the Tibetan medical text in 1038 by Drapa

Ngonshe (Grwa pa mngon shes, 1012-1090)14, two imperial Tibet-related texts bKa’

mchems ka khol ma and Mani bka’ ’bum, both ascribed to Songtsen Gampo (Srong btsan

sgam po, r 617-649)15, and the “Ancient myths and history of Early Tibet” (bKa’ thang sde

lnga 1997) by Ogyen Lingpa (O rgyan gling pa, b. 1323), are associated with Samye. Yet a

successive abbacy list and its account have yet to surface. The significance of Samye in

post imperial Tibet can be ascertained from successive renovations in the following

centuries.

Pre-17th century renovations of Samye Monastery(late-10th-16th century)

7 After the fall of imperial Tibet, Samye gradually regained its importance and it was

probably around the year of Water-Female-Ox (953) that different Tibetan patrons

began to renovate parts of the Samye complex. Drumbarwa Jangchub (Grum ’bar ba

byang chub) worked with the support of Lume Sherab Tsultrim and others to arrange

for the restoration of Kachu (Ka chu) temple of Samye16. A few years later, in 957 (Fire-

Female-Snake year)17, they built a new monastery called Solthak/nak Thangchen (Sol

thag/nag Thang chen) in the lower Chongpo (’Phyong po) valley18, where Lume was

appointed the first throne-holder, and Dring Yeshe Yonten was made the chief of

Samye monastery. However, when continuous factionalist conflicts between members

of the Lume and Ba-rak group (sBa rag tsho) lineages led to mismanagement and

damage19, other monks started to claim Samye for their lineage. This conflict led to the

greatest damage to the original Samye complex by fire in the year of the Fire-Male-Dog,

i.e. 986 or 104620.

8 However, it seems that the damage to Samye was actually minor, because in 1046, Atiśa

recorded how impressed he was with the collection of texts in the Library. In the

mid-11th century, Jangchub Oe (Byang chub ’od, r 1037-1057) was the first person to

initiate the major full restoration of Samye in 1047 after the visit of Atiśa. This

restoration was carried out under the guidance of Zanskar lotsawa Phakpa Sherab

(Zangs dkar lo tswa ba Phags pa shes rab, ca. 11th century)21. Yet as the conflict within

the Lume and Barak linages could not be settled and since many of them belonged to

the ruling clans’ families, and potentially due to concerns about their objections, the

damaged Samye complex and its surroundings were abandoned for many years. Only in

the 1140s did Ra Lotsawa Dorje Drakpa (Rwa lo tsā ba rDo rje grags pa, 1016-1128) begin

the rebuilding and renovation of Samye. His biography states that he reached Samye

with around 2000 of his disciples, and it took about five years to complete the full

renovation of Samye22. Goe Lotsawa in Deb ther sngon po (1984, p. 459) too recorded that:

He [Ra Lotsawa], with the help of his miraculous powers carried juniper timber upthe stream, and five hundred workmen, including brick-layers [gyang btang],carpenters, goldsmiths, blacksmiths and image-makers [painters], and so on,worked on it for three years. The scholar Rin chen rdo rje supervised the work. Ingeneral, about 100 000 loads of building materials were used. With the remainingsupply of colors he [Ra Lotsawa] restored the courtyard of the main temple and thedbu rtse (chief temple of Samye). The work took two years to complete. Thebuilding materials comprised 10 000 loads23.


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9 This wide scale renovation of Samye by Ra Lotsawa lasted for many years, and was

followed up only by several smaller restorations. Such restorations could have been due

to the deterioration of wood, or wear on the buildings. One such restoration took place

in the early 13th century (ca. 1200-1203). It was undertaken by Drikung Choeje Jikten

Gonpo (’Bri khung chos rje ’Jig rten mgon po, 1143-1217), who gathered donations for a

new temple to house the reliquary of Phakmodrupa Dorje Gyelpo (Phag mo gru pa rDo

rje rgyal po, 1110-70) in 1198 at Densathil (gDan sa thel, est. 1158), the monastery of

Phakdru Kagyu (Phag gru bKa’ rgyud), and kept part of the contributions for the

rebuilding of Samye. Although he founded the temple together with Taklung Choeje

Tashi Pel (sTag lung chos rje bKra shis dpal, 1142-1209), he was afraid that the temple

complex was likely to be destroyed in a feud between the two chieftains of Ngamshoe

(Ngams shod) of Central Tibet who were in conflict at the time24.

10 The next major renovation occurred only after 150 years. In the interim, both Sakya

Paṇḍita Kunga Gyaltsen (Sa skya paṇḍita Kun dga’ rgyal mtshan, 1182-1251) and

Longchen Rabjampa (based at Samye), occasionally managed some minor restorations.

In one of these restorations, Sakya Paṇḍita had the famous domtson dampa (sdom brtson

dam pa) diagram painted on the front door of the monastery; however, there is not any

record of actual building activities25. It was in 1347, under the supervision of Sherab Pal

(Shes rab dpal, 14th century) with further guidance from Sonam Gyaltsen (bSod nams

rgyal mtshan, 1312-1375), that a restoration project was started, but it seems to be not

a complete renovation. Sonam Gyaltsen resumed this project in 135626. A century later

in around 1466 a large-scale renovation took place under the patronage of Thrimkhang

Lotsawa27. The Deb ther sngon po (1984, pp. 961-962) describes this renovation:

[Thrimkhang Lotsawa] repaired the bSam yas khrims khang gling, and placed in thecentre (of the altar) the images of Mahābodhi with its retinue, the images ofŚāntarakṣita and rGyal ba mchog dbyangs, together with two golden caityasenshrining the relics of his [i.e. Thrimkhang?] father28.

11 Afterwards, between 1533 and 1534, an additional restoration of Samye took place. This

time it was led by Ngari Paṇchen Pema Wangye (mNga’ ris paṇ chen Padma dbang

rgyal, 1487-1542) and Rinchen Phuntsok (Rin chen phun tshogs, 1509-1557), who was

the 17th abbot of Drigung Monastery. Both had conducted an extensive re-consecration

ceremony after Ngari Paṇchen had discovered a Treasure text called “The condensed

essence of the Vidyadhara” (rig ’dzin yong ’dus), in the back of an image of Vairocana in

the upper hall of Samye monastery (Einhorn 2013).

12 However, it seems that the 1533-1534 restoration was on a minor scale, because

beginning in 1551 Rinchen Phuntsok, who retired from the abbatial throne in 1534,

together with Trengpo Sherab Ozer (’Phreng po shes rab ’od zer, 1518-1584), an

influential monk trained in Sakya-Geluk-Kagyu disciplines, started to discover some

other Treasure texts in and in the vicinity of Samye (Deroche 2011, p. 55, n. 24). As both

monks were active both in Samye and the surrounding regions, and in order to

legitimate their activities around the monastery and in response to the material effects

of the passage of time on the monastery, another restoration of Samye took place. This

led to a major restoration project in 1556, which was led by the 23rd/24th Sakya throne-

holder, Ngakchang Kunga Rinchen (sNgags ’chang Kun dga’ rin chen, 1517-1584). He

held the position for fifty years, and during those periods, he restored numerous Sakya

institutions and, also rebuilt Samye. After the restoration, in 1561 he even established

an institute for monastic education at Samye (bSam yas rab byung grwa tshang)29.


398

The history of Samye from the 17th century to themid-20th century (1600-1959)

13 The next renovation and rebuilding of Samye took place during the reign of the

5th Dalai Lama Lobsang Gyatso (Ta la’i bla ma Blo bzang rgya mtsho, 1617-1681). This

was one of the longest, as well as most comprehensive, renovations in Samye’s history,

and included every part of the Samye main complex and its surrounding structures.

The rebuilding or renovating took around 32 years from 1645 (Wood-Bird) to 1676

(Fire-Dragon) to finish, and was supervised and sponsored by Sakyong Gadenpa Dorjee

Namgyal (Sa skyong dga’ ldan pa rDo rje rnam rgyal, 17th century). Sakyong Gadenpa’s

ancestral family has been rural aristocrats since the Tshalpa rulers of Phakdru

(14th-15th century). After the Phakdru lost the civil wars against the Ganden Phodang

(dGa’ ldan pho brang, 1642-1959) in 1642, the 5th Dalai Lama had reinstated the family

estates in 1645 with additional estates of Samye Dzong after gaining confidence in the

family. Between 1645 and 1676 Dorje Namgyal himself supervised the ongoing

renovation of Samye and he invited in 1662 the 5th Dalai Lama to re-consecrate Samye

after the successful completion of the first stage30.

14 Other leading spiritual leaders also sponsored and made donations towards the

renovations. These figures included the 28th Sakya Throne-holder, Ngawang Kunga

Sonam (Ngag dbang kun dga’ bsod nams, 1597-1660) in 165931, and the first Dzogchen

Drubwang Pema Rigdzin (rDzogs chen grub dbang Padma rig ’dzin, 1625-1697) with his

youngest disciple, Rigdzin Nyima Drakpa (Rig ’dzin nyi ma grags pa, 1647-1710). The

latter two also claimed that they had contributed funds when parts of Samye were

damaged by fires (Gardner 2009). The mission started by Dorje Namgyal was continued

by his son, Lhagyal Rabten (lHa rgyal rab brtan, 17th-18th century), who held the regent

(sde srid) position during the Dzungar Mongols campaign in Tibet. In 1717 he

contributed to the rebuilding of some of the statues in the main shrine (Thub bstan

rgyal mtshan 2008, 376-377).

15 A few years later, Samye needed further renovation. In 1722, a restoration project was

carried out by Sonam Dargye (bSod nams dar rgyas, d. 1744), the father of the 7th Dalai

Lama Kelsang Gyatso (Ta la’i bla ma bsKal bzang rgya mtsho, 1708-1757). This was

initially intended to be a minor restoration, including the painting of the rooftop of the

upper main temple in golden bronze. However, the scope of the work gradually

extended to include a number of other areas after Samye bu tshal, referring to Samye

u-tse (dBu rtse) section, which had been damaged by fires and decay32. In between those

restorations, the 7th Dalai Lama visited Samye and performed a consecration; he also

composed a directory (bSam yas dkar chags II). The third restoration in that century took

place a few decades later, in 1769-70 under the guidance of the 6th Demo Rinpoche

Jampel Delek Gyatso (bDe mo rin po che ’Jam dpal bde legs rgya mtsho, 1722-

r 1757-1777). At that time Demo Rinpoche was holding a regent (rgyal tshab/ sde srid)

position during the minority of the 8th Dalai Lama Jampel Gyatso (Ta la’i bla ma ’Jam

dpal rgya mtsho, 1758-1804). The restoration was sponsored by the central Tibetan

government, which took initiative to restore Samye as needed due to damage or

decay33.

16 Before Samye was again destroyed by fires in 1816, during the reign of the regent the

8th Tatsak Kundeling Tenpe Gonpo (rTa tshag kun bde gling bsTan pa’i mgon po, 1760,


399

r 1789-1810) and in the presence of the newly recognized 9th Dalai Lama Lungtok Gyatso

(Ta la’i bla ma Lung rtogs rgya mtsho, 1805-1815), the walls of the main complex were

renovated in the 7 months following the 1806 Lhokha earthquake34. This restoration

was supervised by Khenpo Kelsang Choedak (mKhan po bsKal bzang chos grags,

19th century) under the guidance of the regent himself, who had also re-consecrated

the complex with the sponsorship of the central government. However, ten years later,

in 1816, the whole Samye complex was destroyed by fire.

17 Under the supervision of Lobsang Thapkhe (Blo bzang thabs mkhas, 1787-1827)35 with

special guidance by the Minister Shedra Dondup Dorjee (bKa’ gung bshad sgra Don grub

rdo rje, r. 1808-1839), a seven-year long project to rebuild Samye was sponsored by the

central government with other donations. It was one of the longest rebuilding projects

that took place after Ra Lotsawa’s restoration in the 11th century and the Gadenpa in

the 17th century. As the 10th Dalai Lama Tshultrim Gyatso (Ta la’i bla ma Tshul khrims

rgya mtsho, 1816-1837) was a minor, the regent, the 7th Demo Rinpoche Thupten Jigme

Gyatso (bDe mo rin po che Thub bstan ’jigs med rgya mtsho, 1778- r. 1811-1819)

initiated the rebuilding, but after he passed away suddenly in 1819, the newly

enthroned regent, the 2nd Tsemonling Rinpoche Jampel Tsultrim Gyatso (Tshe smon

gling rin po che ’Jam dpal tshul khrims rgya mtsho, 1792-1864, r 1820-1844) conducted

the re-consecration in 182436.

18 The renovated Samye did not survive for a long time due to the 1847 Lhokha

Earthquake, which brought down the central structure of the main temple and its

surroundings stupas. Those ruins were further damaged by successive rainfall. With

official grants sanctioned by the regent, the 3rd Reting Rinpoche Yeshe Tsultrim

Gyaltsen (Rwa sgreng rin po che Ye shes tshul khrims rgyal mtshan, 1816-1863) during

the reign of the 11th Dalai Lama Khedup Gyatso (Ta la’i bla ma mKhas grub rgya mtsho,

1838-1855), a renovation project was first led by Minister Sarjungpa Noejin Phuntsok

(gSar byung pa gNod sbyin phun tshogs, 19th century) with 700 workers. The whole year

of 1848 was spent conducting a survey, preparing, and, of course, conducting necessary

rituals, and by early 1849, the actual construction work was started. In 1854, the

complete renovation of the main temple, as well as other structures within the Samye

boundary, was completed. In the interim, in mid-1850, the initial leader of the project,

Minister Sarjungpa, suddenly passed away. The assignment was handed over to the

Shedra family to complete.

19 Minister Shedra Wangchuk Gyalpo (bKa’ gung shad sgra dBang phyug rgyal po,

1795-1864), who became the regent from 1862 until his death in 1864 after

overthrowing Reting Rinpoche in an internal conflict, supervised the renovation

project. Besides the structural renovations, most of the murals and paintings in the

temple, as well as several parts of the complex, were restored or rebuilt. Besides the

workers and supervisors, monks and lay officials, contributed to the project and the

religious leaders from most of the sects performed consecrations at the site. A grand

official consecration was conducted earlier during a 21-day visit of the 12th Dalai Lama

to Samye in the 7th month of the year 1852. The 9th Tasak Kundeling Lobsang Tenpe

Gyaltsen (rTa tshag kun bde gling Blo bzang bstan pa’i rgyal mtshan, 1811-1854), who

was the senior tutor of the 12th Dalai Lama, presided over this grand event with other

leading monks37.

20 There were no further renovations undertaken until 1935. This was the last restoration

of Samye before the Chinese takeover of Tibet in 1951, and this time also the catalyst


400

was a financial grant from the central government. It was completed by 1937. As the

necessary materials like the wood and iron were allowed to be transported without

obtaining the concerned kalon (bka’ blon)’s clearance, the lead supervisor, Parkhang

Khenchen Gyaltsen Phunshok (Par khang mkhan chen rGyal mtshan phun tshogs,

20th century) was able to renovate the major part of Samye main temple as well as other

structures within a short period. The regent, the 5th Reting Rinpoche Jampel Yeshe

Gyaltsen (Rwa sgreng ’Jam dpal ye shes rgyal mtshan, 1910, r. 1934-1941, 1947)38 did the

consecration himself with great fanfare.

21 During the Chinese Cultural Revolution of 1966 to 1976, the majestic Samye was

completely destroyed. The next rebuilding therefore happened in the 1980s after the

end of the Cultural Revolution39. The first mention of Samye’s destruction to the

outside world was by explorer and author Heinrich Harrer, who returned to Tibet in

1982, over 30 years after his last visit to Lhasa in 1951. Here is what Harrer (1984, p. 32)

described of his visit:

On our approach, in the Brahmaputra [i.e. Yarlung Tsangpo] valley, the firstterrible sight we saw confirmed all the bad news about Tibet’s oldest monastery,Samye; it was totally destroyed. One can still make out the outer wall, but none ofthe temples or stupas survives.

22 Even after the publication of Harrer’s travelogue in 1984, there were no official

government efforts or funds to renovate it. Gradually, local Tibetans started rebuilding

Samye in 1984 after Geshe Ngawang Gyalpo (dGe shes Ngag dbang rgyal po, b. 1924) was

appointed as the new head of the monastery with 25 new monks. After the visit of the

10th Panchen Lama Choekyi Gyaltsen (Pan chen bla ma Chos kyi rgyal mtshan,

1938-1989) in 1985, he requested a special fund from the government in addition to the

public donations, and the official rebuilding of Samye started in 1986. By the end of

1987, the Samye main temple was rebuilt, and allowed to function, but more as a

museum instead of as a learning and spiritual center.

Conclusion

23 Since its foundation, Samye monastery has played a major role in the promulgation of

Buddhism. In the 10th century, when Buddhism in Central Tibet was re-introduced from

Eastern and Western Tibet, Samye began to be central to sectarian debates and claims.

This can be observed at the earliest in the late-10th century in a conflict between the

Lume (kLu mes) and the Ba-rak (sBa rag) groups, and Atiśa’s departure from Samye

after his short stay there. Following that, it was only in the mid-12th century that Ra

Lotsawa first initiated a rebuilding project. Since then, each successive flourishing sect

and its spiritual leaders in different periods have all participated in the rebuilding and

renovating of Samye, all according to their own motives. Maybe they sought legitimacy

or a good reputation by undertaking these projects; but the major reasons for the

successive renovations were the fires caused by butter lamps and the decay of wooden

building materials. These two-materials cause led to the frequency of renovations or

restorations due to the inherent fragility of Tibetan architecture necessitating regular

maintenance, and the absence of giving importance to the original materials of the first

infrastructure. Although many renovators in early periods may have tried to make it

the center of their own sect, the diverse identities and affiliations of the successive

renovators demonstrates that Samye did not lose its primary character in retaining its

non-sectarian origin. While Samye could not revive its glorious position as the center of


401

monastic institutions, its long history and association with many of the most important

figures and events of Tibetan history have led it to remain as one of the most sacred

sites in the Tibetan Buddhist world. Hence Buddhists throughout the Tibetan and

Himalayan world regard pilgrimage to Samye as an essential activity that they should

ideally experience at least once in their lifetimes.

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NOTES

1. Throughout in this paper I use renovation for large scale projects, and restoration for minor

repairs. This Samye renovations’ article is related to a paper presented by me at the 15th IATS

conference in Paris 2019 about an autobiography of the Khams pa monk, Lobsang Thapkhe (Blo

bzang thabs mkhas, d. 1826), who had renovated Tawang monastery between 1810 and 1811 and

shortly after Samye Monastery from 1817 to 1825. He is known to have renovated some more

monasteries in Tibet, but his contributions are not widely known, particularly his collection of

alms for the renovation of Samye. I am thankful to the suggestions given to me at the conference

which finally led to this paper. I would like to thank Guntram Hazod, Kumagai Seiji, Miguel

Ortega and Dhondup Tashi Rekong for their comments on the initial draft, and Amy Holmes-

Tagchungdarpa for her critical comments and editing the language of this article. As this paper is

mainly about how and when those renovations have taken place, kindly refer to Chos ’phel 2002,

pp. 34-37; mKhas grub 2009, pp. 24-29; Chayet 1988; Dalton 2004, pp. 68-69; Demiéville 1952; Tucci


405

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https://treasuryoflives.org/biographies/view/Jamyang-Amnye-Zhab-Ngawang-Kunga-Sonam/P791




1958; and Buswell & Lopez 2014, pp. 146-147 for short descriptions of Samye and of the Samye

Debate.

2. Cf. dBa’bzhed 2000, p. 63, n. 201. See also Sørensen 1994, pp. 371-390 for the English translation

of the passage concerning the construction of Samye in the text, rGyal rabs gsal ba’i me long (1375)

by Sonam Gyalten (bSod nams rgyal mtshan, 1312-1375). See also Sørensen’s study “The grand

histories of bSam yas and lHa sa” (lha sa bka’ gtsigs chen mo/ bsam yas bka’ gtsigs chen mo) in the

same book.

3. See Bu ston chos ’byung 1988; Deb ther sngon po 1984, p. 70, etc. The latter dates do not seem

viable because both the emperor as well as his famous teacher, Śāntarakṣita (725-788) were dead

by that time.

4. See Anupam 2000 for a short description of Odantapuri Mahāvihāra, and Uebach 1987, p. 99

translation of Ne’u Paṇḍita’s note on Samye being modeled after Nālanda Monastery. Both these

monastic institutions flourished during the Pala dynasty (8th-12th century) in the area

corresponding with the present-day state of Bihar in India.

5. Cf. Snellgrove & Richardson 1995, p. 78.

6. Adamek 2007, p. 288 notes that in one of these debates “the fate of Chan in Tibet was said to

have been decided in a debate at the Samye monastery”. Most of Tibetan sources recorded that

the Indian Buddhist doctrine prevailed, but both the Indian and the Chinese philosophical views

(or practices) continued to influence the development of Tibetan Buddhism. The continuation of

the Chinese tradition can be seen in the idea of “simultaneous enlightenment” (cig car gyi ’jug pa)

concept. The influence of the Indian doctrine, which is a proponent of the “gradual

enlightenment” (rim gyi ’jug pa), can be denoted in the subsequent development of Buddhism in

Tibet, and is even more pronounced in the so-called “New Lineage” (gsar ma) periods. See

Namkhai Norbu 1984 and van Schaik 2007 on some interesting discussions on the connections

between rdzogs chen and zen.

7. See Richardson 1985 and Doney 2014 for further details about the pillar and bell and their

inscriptions.

8. Although this detail is not confirmed, Samten Karmay (2003) states that he even became its

ninth abbot or the last person to hold the abbacy.

9. It has to be noted that Buddhism in Central Tibet was widely believed to have been

discontinued but was actually kept alive in Southwestern Tibet (Ngari) and Northeastern Tibet

(Amdo) from the mid-9th century to the mid-10th century. In Ngari, it was Lha Lama Yeshe Oe (lHa

bla ma Ye shes ’od, ca. 959-1036) and his successor, Jangchub Oe (Byang chub ’od, r 1037-1057),

who had revived it, and their efforts were enhanced by the visit of the Indian scholar Atiśa, and

the great initiatives taken by Tibetans translators (lo tsā ba) such as Rinchen Sangpo (Rin chen

bzang po, 958-1055), Dromtonpa Gyalwe Jungne (’Brom ston pa rGyal ba’i byung gnas, 1004-1064),

and Marpa Choekyi Lodoe (Mar pa Chos kyi blo gros, 1012-1097), and so on. In Amdo, the

Buddhist transmission was continued by Mar Shakya Muni (dMar shākya mu ni), Yo Gejung (g.Yo

dge ’byung) and Tsang Rabsel (rTsangs Rab gsal), after they had escaped to Amdo following the

persecution and destruction of monasteries in Central Tibet. They passed their lineage to the

local monastic communities at Yanchung Namdzong Gon (Yan chung rnam rdzong dgon). They

first ordained Gongpa Rabsel (bla chen dGongs pa rab gsal, 832-915), who was also known as Gewa

Rabsel (dGe ba rab gsal), Karaphen (Ka ra ’phan) and Se Barro (gSas ’bar ro) as his lay and bon po

names. Gongpa Rabsel transmitted the lineage to Drumbarwa Yeshe Gyeltsen (Grum ’bar ba Ye

shes rgyal mtshan, 10th century) and others. (lDe’u jo sras 1987, pp. 154-155). Although lDe’u jo

sras (1987, pp. 155-156) recorded that Lachen Gonpa Rabsel had given the ordination to those

novices from U-Tsang, it was more likely to have been from Drumbarwa Yeshe Gyeltsen, who had

ordained those groups from U-Tsang at a hermitage called Marlung Dantik (rMar klung dan tig)

in Amdo (/Khams). Different numbers of these “wise men of U-Tsang” (dbus gtsang gi mkhas pa mi)

are recorded, such as seven, ten or twelve. In lDe’u jo sras (1987, pp. 155-156) text, they were


406

listed as Tsongtsun Sherab Seng-ge (Tshong btsun shes rab seng ge), Loton Dorje Wangchuk (Lo

ston rdo rje dbang phyug), Lume Tsultrim Sherab (Klu mes tshul khrims shes rab), Dring Zakara

(’Bring gza’ ka ra or known as Dring Yeshe Yonten (’Bring ye shes yon tan), Batsun Lodoe

Wangchuk (sBa btsun blo gros dbang phyug), Raksha Tsultrim Jungne (Rag sha tshul khrims

’byung gnas), and Sumpa Yeshe Lodoe (Sum pa ye shes blo gros). Further, the text states that the

lineage of Lachen (bla chen) was passed to six men of Khams (khams pa mi drug), such as Pagong

(sPa gong), Yar, Ja, Cogro (Cog ro), Allampa (’Al lam pa), and Nub (sNubs). However, Ba Tsultrim

Lodoe (sBa tshul khrims blo gros), probably referring to Batsun Lodoe Wangchuk, Bongdongpa

Upa Dekar (Bong dong pa u pa de kar), and two unnamed from Ngari called “two Wogye siblings

from Ngari” (mNga’ ris pa ’o brgyad spun gnyis) were also included in lists in other texts.

Interestingly, Sumpa was alive when Atiśa was visiting Lhasa and Samye in 1047, whereas those

“wise men” had already passed away by the late-10th century or in the early-11th century. Those

initially ordained monks soon split into factions, but two groups later emerged: the Ba-rak group

and the rest with Lume (lDe’u jo sras 1987, pp. 157-158).

10. Rabjampa took his ordination at the age of 13 in 1319 from Khenpo Samdrup Rinchen (mkhan

po bSam grub rin chen, 14th century) at Samye (Thub bstan rgyal mtshan 2008, p. 283). In the case

of Thrimkhang, he took his vows at Samye under the guidance of Rongton Choeje Mawa Senge

(rong ston chos rje sMra ba’i seng ge) (Deb ther sgnon po 1984, p. 947).

11. Reference in bKa’ thang sde lnga (1997, pp. 162, 166-167); sBa bzhed phyogs bsgrigs 2009, pp. 123,

138; Nyang ral chos ’byung 1988, pp. 304, 385, etc. See sNyan bzang G.yung drung tshe ring 2019

online publication of an interesting article, “discussing the Sanskrit texts of Samye” (bsam yas kyi

rgya dpe gleng ba).

12. In Tibetan, bsam yas kyi pe dar gyi gling/ dkor mdzod cig kha phye nas rgya dpe la gzigs pas/ sngar

gsan gzigs ma mdzad pa’i rgyud sde mang po bzhugs (’Brom ston pa 1995, p. 66). The latter translation

is based on Roerich & Gedun Choephel 1996, p. 257, and in Tibetan, sngon bod du bstan pa byung ba

‘dra ba rgya gar du yang byung ba dka’ (Deb ther sngon po, p. 316).

13. However, by the early 20th century, all these Sanskrit texts cannot be traced or were lost in

fires. dGe ’dun chos ’phel (1990, p. 34) notes that “among all the monasteries, most probably

Samye was an archive of Sanskrit texts, but someone said that now there exists nothing in that

[monastery], and it is truly the case”, (Tib. dgon ’di dag thams cad las kyang rgya dpe la re che sa bsam

yas dkor mdzod yin mod/ ’dga’ zhig gis der sang de na ci yang med zer te bden mchis). The famous Indian

scholar and traveler, Rahul Sankrityayan (1893-1963) did not mention in his writings that he

found any texts in Samye, although his companion Beni Mukherjee states that in the great hall

along a holy tangka, he found a Sanskrit grammar text written on a palm leaf and a medical text

written in Pali language describing how to procure medicine.

14. It is said that then he passed these texts on to his disciple, Uepa Dargye (dBus pa dar rgyas),

and from him to Tsoje Konkyab (’Tsho byed dkon skyabs), and finally entrusted it to Yuthok

Yonten Konkyab (g.Yu thog yon tan dkon skyabs, 1126-1202).

15. The first text bKa’ mchem ka khol ma is said to be retrieved by Atiśa in 1046, and it mainly

recorded the historical events of the emperor Songtsen Gampo (Srong brtsan sgam po). The

second text, Mani bka’ ’bum, is also related to the emperor Songtsen Gampo with collections of

various mythico-historical and doctrinal themes related to the Bodhisattva Avalokiteśvara (sPyan

ras gzigs). Even the biography of Padmasambhava, “The copper palace”(bKa’ thang zangs gling ma)

by Nyangrel Nyima Öser (Nyang ral Nyi ma ’od zer 1124-1204), is considered to be retrieved from

Samye, but this is disputed since it is also widely accepted as having been discovered in Yarlung

(Yar lungs).

16. In Tibetan chu mo glang gi lo […] ka chu bzung ste/ zhig ral gsos nas bzung (lDe’u jo sras 1987,

p. 157). In Deb ther sngon po (1984, pp. 87, 103-105), Lume and Sumpa’s renovations of Tsuklakhang

and other temples are mentioned. Cf. also Thub bstan rgyal mtshan (2008, pp. 255-259) for short

biographical details about Lume, and Samten Chosphel (2010) for a short biography of Sumpa. In


407

his translation of the Deb ther sngon po, Roerich & Gedun Choephel had converted those years

related with Lume and others to be in the early 11th century. However, the mid-10th century dates

are more appropriate considering that the revival of Buddhism in Central Tibet resumed within

110 years of the death of the emperor Langdarma in 842. Even though the author, Goe Lotsawa

(Deb ther sngon po 1984, p. 104; Roerich & Gedun Choephel 1996, p. 74) had stated that prior to

Atiśa’s arrival in Tibet in 1042 that for around 64 years, from 982-1042, Lume and others’ monks

were active in Central Tibet. Those years, falling in the mid-10th century are close to Cuevas’

suggested dates in his 2006 study (p. 51), particularly to the “Period of the Emergence of

Monastic Principalities (ca. 1056-1249)”.

17. I followed the dating of the founding year as 957 (Fire-Dragon) from Blo bzang chos ’byor

2007, p. 137. However, a different year of 1017 is mentioned in later historical works.

18. Although lDe’u jo sras (1987, p. 157) had attributed the founding of Solnak Thangchen

monastery to Drumbarba Jangchub, Khenbu Shonnu Rinchen (mKhan bu gzhon bu rin chen),

Ngak Yonten Nyingpo (sNyags yon tan snying po), Chim Lhungi Gyaltsen (’Chims lhun gyi rgyal

mtshan), and Chimki Tsunpa Chokbu (’Chims kyi btsun pa mchog bu), Deb ther sngon po (1984,

p. 105; Roerich & Gedun Choephel 1996, p. 75) considered the founders to be Drumer Tshultrim

Jungney (Gru mer tshul khrims ’gnas) and some others eight monks. The Deb ther sngon po

information is followed in later historical writings (cf. Sørensen 1994, p. 471, n. 1770). See

Sørensen & Hazod 2005 for further details about the foundation of Sol nag Thang po che

monastery.

19. Cf. n. 8. In lDe’u jo sras (1987 [12th century], pp. 155-156) text, the destruction of Samye by fire

is not mentioned. It is discussed in later historical texts, such as Deb ther sngon po. Tib. bsam yas

kyi ‘khor sa klu mes dang sba reg gi chags sdang gis me pho khyi’i lo la bsregs (Deb ther sngon po 1984,

p. 459).

20. Although the date Fire-Male-Dog is not mentioned in Ra Lotsawa’s biography, the record of

the date in Deb ther sgnon po can be inferred to have been during at least three different years, i.e.

986, 1046 or 1106. Roerich & Gedun Choephel 1996, p. 378 simply converted the date to 986 in his

translation of the book, The Blue Annals, while Cuevas (2015, pp. xxxv, 286) gives 1106 without a

corresponding Tibetan date, and Thub bstan rgyal mtshan (2008, p. 270) also located the Fire-

Male-Dog in the 2nd sexagenary cycle and noted 1106 as the corresponding year. As the Lume (Klu

mes) and Ba-rak (sBa rag) factionalist conflicts happened in the mid-10th century, the date is very

unlikely to be in the early-12th century. Although the year 1046 corresponds well to these events,

Atiśa did not mention that Samye was destroyed by fire in his biography when he visited Samye

in 1047. The date 986 is the most logical, considering the conflict between the Lume and Ba-rak

factions. However, further damage might have taken place after the visit of Atiśa, because he had

to leave Samye after his presence was opposed by resident monks. Ngag dbang rgyal po et al.

(2003, p. 55-59) included no details from the period, apart from the conflicts between Lume and

Ba-rak factions until the renovation started by Ra Lotsawa.

21. Cf. Vitali 2003, pp. 71-79. Atiśa had arrived in Tibet in 1042 under the invitation of the kings

of Western Tibet (Guge kingdom), Yeshe Oe (Ye shes ’od, ca. 959-1036) and his successor and

nephew, Jangchub Oe. The year 1047 is agreed upon by most of the Tibetan historians. See also

Deb ther sngon po (1984, p. 316) and its translation in Roerich & Gedun Choephel 1996, p. 257;

Davidson 2005, pp. 188-189, etc.

22. Cf. Rwa lo tsā ba’i rnam thar 1989, p. 63. See also Cuevas 2015, pp. 231-234 translation of Ra

Lotsawa’s biography, particularly the section regarding the renovation of Samye.

23. The translation is based on Roerich & Gedun Choephel 1996, p. 378. Tib. gyang tshun chad

‘gyel ba la ‘ol kha nas shug pa rnams gtsang po la gyen la drangs| gyang btang | shing bzo| gser

bzo| lcags mgar| lha bzo la sogs pa’i bzo bo lnga brgya tsam gyis lo gsum gyi bar du zhig gsos byas|

de’i zhabs tog gi lag len ni ston pa rin chen rdo rjes byas| spyir na de la khal ‘bum tsho cig song |

de’i tshon rtsi lhag gis gtsang ‘phrang gi khyams dbu rtse dang bcas pa gsos| yun lo gnyis song |


408

gnyer lo tsā ba rwa chos rab kyis byas| yo byad khal khri tsho gcig song| (Deb ther sngon po 1984,

p. 459).

24. Cf. Roerich & Gedun Choephel 1996, p. 570 also. Tib. ‘bri khung chos rjes phyag rdzas shin tu

mang bar bsnams nas bsam yas kyi zhig gsos la’ang mang du bzhag (Deb ther sngon po 1984 p. 674).

25. Both Ngag dbang rgyal po et al. (2003, pp. 71-85, 86-99) and Thub bstan rgyal mtshan (2008,

pp. 275-280, 283-286) have written brief biographies of Sakya Pandita and Longchen Rabjampa,

but neither state that any renovations were undertaken by them. As both the scholar monks

were famous figures in their respective religious sects, any activities they took part in at Samye

became part of Samye’s history. Sakya Pandita is especially associated often with Samye because

of being khon (’khon) clan descendent, whose ancestor Khon Lui Wangpo (’Khon klu’i dbang po,

8th century) was a financial patron as well as overseer during the founding of Samye. In 775, Khon

Lui Wangpo was among those “seven men” (sad mi mi bdun) who were first to be ordained by

paṇḍita Śāntarakṣita. As Khon Lui Wangpo had become a monk and translator, he had to leave his

position as a minister under Trisong Detsen. However, his khon clan lineage was carried on by his

brother Khon Dorje Rinchen (’Khon rdo rje rin chen, 8th-9th century) with seven sons, and the

successive khon descendants of Sakya were to be traced to him. Cf. Gardner 2020 for a short

biography of Khon Lui Wangpo.

26. Sonam Gyaltsen was more or less based at Samye, and had considerably revived the

importance of Samye. See the short details about him and his activities at Samye in Ngag dbang

rgyal po et al. (2003, pp. 100-108) and Thub bstan rgyal mtshan (2008, pp. 283-326). He is famously

known for his historical work, rgyal rab gsal ba’i me long, cf. Sørensen 1994.

27. Refer to Ehrhard 2002 for details about Thrimkhang Lotsawa.

28. The translation is after Roerich & Gedun Choephel 1996, p. 822. Tib. bsam yas khrims khang

gling gi zhig gsos/ dbus na byang chub chen po gtso ‘khor/ zhi ba ‘tsho dang/ rgyal ba mchog

dbyangs rnams kyi sku/ yab rje’i gdung tsha bzhugs pa’i gser ‘bum gnyis rnams dang bcas pa.

29. Cf. Thub bstan rgyal mtshan 2008, pp. 351-352. See the short biography of Ngakchang Kunga

Rinchen in Tibetan by Ngag dbang rgyal po et al. (2003, pp. 109-139) and Thub bstan rgyal mtshan

(2008, pp. 329-356), and in English by Gardner (2010). The detailed biography of him in Tibetan is

written by ‘Jam mgon a myes zhabs (1980).

30. Cf. Ngag dbang rgyal po et al. 2003, p. 141. In this detailed note on the restoration of Samye,

Thub bstan rgyal mtshan (2008, pp. 361-377) did mention the various projects undertaken in the

corresponding years in the Tibetan as well as Western Gregorian calendars. In two secondary

textual works by Ngag dbang rgyal po et al. (2003) and Thub bstan rgyal mtshan (2008), the

former included more details about the ritual aspects of the renovation and restoration, while

the latter recorded the actual rebuilding and associated figures. Refer to bSam yas dkar chag I for

further details about the renovation in the 17th century.

31. He was also known as Jamyang A-mye-zhab (’jam dbyangs a myes zhabs), and is well known

for his important role played in bringing diplomatic resolutions during the Ganden Phodrang

takeover of Tibet’s reign from Desi Tsangpa (sde srid gtsang pa, 1565-1641), and in the successive

conflicts between Tibet and Bhutan from the 1620s until his death. Refer to Tsering Namgyal 2011

for further details about him.

32. See Ngag dbang rgyal po et al. (2003, pp. 151-156) and Thub bstan rgyal mtshan (2008,

pp. 378-382) further details about the renovation and restoration of Samye during the 7th Dalai

Lama’s reign.


pp. 383-384) for further details about the restoration of Samye during the 8th Dalai Lama’s reign.

34. See Thub bstan rgyal mtshan (2008, pp. 385-387) for a short note on the renovation of Samye

after the earthquake; and Flora (2013) on the brief biography about the 8th Tatsak Jedrung

Kundeling Rinpoche.

35. See annotated translation and edition of the autobiography of Blo bzang thabs mkhas d. 1827.


409


pp. 387-388) for further details about the renovation and restoration of Samye. Refer to bSam yas

dkar chag III for further details on the renovation.


pp. 389-407) for the short summary about the renovation and restoration of Samye. Refer to bSam

yas dkar chag IV (2000) for detailed notes on the renovation of Samye by Shedra Wangchuk

Gyalpo.

38. The 5th Reting Rinpoche became the regent (rgyal tshab) of Tibet during the most important

and crucial time in Tibet’s modern history, after the death of the 13th Dalai Lama Thubten Gyatso

(Ta la’i bla ma Thub bstan rgya mtsho, 1876, r 1895-1933). The 13th Dalai Lama had ruled Tibet as

a de facto independent nation state to respond to the quickly changing events of the 20th century.

The regent, Reting could not replace the seat of the 13th Dalai Lama, although he played a major

role in installing his successor, the 14th Dalai Lama Tenzin Gyatso (Ta la’i bla ma bsTan ’dzin rgya

mtsho, b. 1935). He lost his life in 1947, even though he had resigned from the position in 1941

when the power struggle between the monastic monks and Lhasa aristocratic families

intensified.

39. Both Ngag dbang rgyal po et al. (2003, p. 188) and Thub bstan rgyal mtshan (2008, p. 419)

stated that except some broken and headless stone statues, nothing of Samye temple was left in

1984 to 1985, when they visited it in their early 30s. See Buffetrille 1992 and 1989 on how the

renovation project was carried out in the 1980s.

ABSTRACTS

This paper provides remarks on the history of renovations and restorations of Samye monastery,

which was Tibet’s first Buddhist monastic institution, founded in the late-8th century. The

research for this article was compiled from biographies of famous Buddhist masters associated

with Samye, and Samye’s Register (dkar chag) written in different periods. The historical

significance of Samye Monastery in Tibetan Buddhism and Tibetan political history is briefly

discussed in the first section, before I turn to consider the successive renovations in

chronological order, with a focus on the identities of the restorers involved and major events

that led to these renovations and restorations. Exploring the history of Samye’s renovations

provides valuable details about the motives that compelled different Tibetan Buddhist sects to

provide patronage for sacred sites in Tibetan Buddhism, and the connections of these motives

with broader political and cultural events in Tibet and surrounding areas.

Cet article présente des remarques sur l’histoire des rénovations et des restaurations du

monastère de Samye, premier institut monastique bouddhique du Tibet, fondé à la fin du VIIIe

siècle. Cet article a été compilé à partir de biographies de maîtres bouddhistes célèbres associés à

Samye et du Samye’s Register (dkar chag), ouvrages composés à différentes périodes.

L’importance historique du monastère de Samye dans le bouddhisme tibétain et l’histoire

politique est brièvement abordée dans la première section, avant de passer à l’examen des

rénovations successives dans l’ordre chronologique, en mettant l’accent sur l’identité des

restaurateurs impliqués et les événements majeurs qui ont conduit à ces rénovations et

restaurations. L’exploration de l’histoire des rénovations de Samye fournit des détails précieux

sur les motifs qui ont poussé différentes écoles bouddhiques tibétaines à accorder leur patronage


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aux sites sacrés du bouddhisme tibétain, et sur les liens entre ces motifs et les événements

politiques et culturels plus larges au Tibet et dans les régions environnantes.

INDEX

Keywords: social history, religion, Tibetan Buddhism, monastery, renovations, sacred sites,

patronage

Mots-clés: histoire sociale, religion, bouddhisme tibétain, monastère, rénovations, sites sacrés,

mécénat

AUTHOR

LOBSANG TENPA

Lobsang Tenpa received his Ph.D. degree from the University of Leipzig, Germany in June 2017,

and his Masters and Bachelor degrees are from India. His research focuses on the Indo-Tibetan

Buddhist Studies, as well as the history and cultures of the Himalayas and its peoples, and Tibet

through a South and Inner Asian studies disciplinary lens. Among the articles and books he has

written, some of his publications are, An Early History of the Mon Region (India) and its Relationship

with Tibet and Bhutan (Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, 2018), (with Kazuharu Mizuno)

Himalayan Nature, and Tibetan Buddhist Society & Culture in Arunachal Pradesh, India: A Study of Monpa

(Springer, 2015).

[email protected]


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Miss Tibet. Representing Tibet andTibetan culture on the global stageMiss Tibet. Représenter le Tibet et la culture tibétaine sur la scène mondiale

Pema Choedon

1 Regarded by some as “low-brow culture” (Banet-Weiser 1999, p. 6; King-O’Riain 2005,

p. 204) and deemed a site of women’s oppression – and thus antifeminist – beauty

pageants have been widely studied from different perspectives and within different

academic disciplines. Scholars like Sara Banet-Weiser (1999) and King-O’Riain (2007)

have argued that beauty pageants are multifaceted arenas linked to issues of nation,

ethnicity, culture, gender, and race. King-O’Riain argues that beauty pageants are

“cultural forms of collective self-identity”, which can be “a site of action and

interaction generating a process of cultural production that is deeply linked to claims

to cultural authenticity, race, gender, and identity” (King-O’Riain 2007, p. 75), making it

an arena that “embodies production points of cultural identity” (ibid.). Likewise, Cohen

and Wilk are of the opinion that, “beauty contests are places where cultural meanings

are produced, consumed, and rejected, where local and global, ethnic and national,

national and international cultures and structures of power are engaged in their most

trivial but vital aspects” (Cohen et al. 1996, p. 8).

2 Against this general theoretical backdrop, this article will explore how the Miss Tibet

pageant encodes different cultural meanings in the transnational Tibetan diasporic

community, in particular with regard to the Tibetan political struggle and Tibetan

women’s empowerment. In doing so, the Miss Tibet pageant becomes more than just an

arena of entertainment (which it is of course) but also a “reflection of larger social

forces” in the community (King O’Riain 2005, p. 204). The article further suggests that

in the Tibetan diaspora, the Miss Tibet pageant is even presented by some as a medium

for promoting the Tibetan national struggle on the global stage through showcasing

Tibet’s “traditional culture” in the form of dance, song, appearance, deportment, and

dress, alongside the adaptability of Tibetans to globalised modernism. This is similar to

the argument espoused by Cohen et al. (1996, p. 2) that beauty pageants are about

“choosing an individual whose deportment, appearance, and style embodies the values


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and goals of a nation, locality, group”. As we shall see, the Miss Tibet pageant has, in

this perspective, become a medium not only for advocating women’s empowerment,

but also for reinforcing a homogenous Tibetan national identity which can transcend

significant regional differences.

3 Different kinds of beauty pageants around the world have been distinguished by

scholars. Some are “mainstream”, organised by the state or some other dominant

stakeholders, while others, considered “ethnic” or “indigenous” pageants, have

emerged in response to these mainstream iterations (McAllister 1996; Banet-Weiser

1999; Lieu 2000; Schackt 2005; King-O’Riain 2005, 2008), generally as a validation of

women of minority or marginalized ethnicities and their culture (King-O’Rian 2008,

p. 79). For instance, the first Miss Black America pageant in the USA was staged in 1968

as “a break away action” to respond to the exclusion of women of colour from the Miss

America pageant (Craig 2002), while in Ecuador, indigenous pageants such as “Chonta

Huarmi” (Chonta Palm Woman) in Archidona and “Sara Nusta” (Corn Princess) in

Otavalo are part of a larger effort by indigenous political organizations to “seize control

of and separate out of the larger society” which is primarily dominated by those of

European decent, in an attempt to make a clear cultural distinction from “the larger”

society (Rogers 1999, pp. 57-58).

4 As a pageant within a community of political refugees, the Miss Tibet contest has had,

since its inception, a decidedly political agenda, somewhat similar to that of the Hoa

Hau Dai Contest through which the Vietnamese diasporic community in the USA has

attempted to promote its “imagined nation” and political identity (Lieu 2000). Clearly,

by using women’s bodies as symbols of a collective identity or as a medium through

which to express the political or other collective concerns of a minority community,

beauty pageants can serve different purposes, as defined by those communities

themselves. However, pageants can also be state-sponsored “minority cultural shows”,

with very different agendas. This was exemplified by the Miss Tibet pageant in 1992 in

Lhasa, Tibet (McGranahan 1996), which was designed to showcase the benign and

emancipatory policies of the Chinese state towards a “national minority”1.

5 As King-O’Riain observes, within a beauty pageant, a “cultural script” may be enacted

and evoked by statements by participants such as, “It isn’t about beauty, it’s about

culture”, and “I don’t want to win, I just want to participate to serve the community”

(King-O’Riain 2008, p. 75). The fact that there is “something more” than glamour and

glitz going on in a beauty pageant is at the root of their enduring attraction for

ethnographers (Cohen et al. 1996, pp. 7-8), and also adds to the experience of both

audience and participants themselves.

6 The empirical material for this article has two main sources. The first source are the

opinions of the “viewed subjects” regarding their lived experiences as participants –

and in some cases, as winners – of the Miss Tibet pageant. Extensive online interviews

were conducted in both English and in Tibetan, between August and November 2020

with ten former participants (aged 21-38) in Miss Tibet pageants from 2002 to 2018,

including some winners. The second are the perspectives of “viewing subjects”2,

collected by means of an online questionnaire which probed the purpose of the Miss

Tibet pageant, its contribution towards maintaining cultural traditions, and views

concerning the controversial bikini or swimsuit round of the pageant3. Obtaining

viewing subjects’ opinions on these issues through an online survey made it possible to

arrive at a better understanding of patterns in the outlook on the pageant among


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interested Tibetans who were not themselves participants. Sixty-two Tibetans from

different walks of life and living in different parts of the world responded to the online

survey, between August and December 2020. Forty-five of these were from India, four

from Nepal, and thirteen from Europe and North America.

7 The respondents from India lived in Dharamsala as well as in different Tibetan

settlements, such as Bylakuppe, Mungod, Ravangla, and Hunsur. Of the respondents,

twenty-eight were men while thirty-four were women. I divided them into three age

groups: 14 to 30 years (thirty-four respondents), 31 to 40 years (fifteen respondents),

and over 40 years (eight respondents). Five respondents did not give their age. When

analysing the result of my survey, I could not find any significant difference between

the age groups in the answers. The same is true with regard to where the informants

lived4. Responses to the online survey conducted for this research obviously reflect

only a small sample of public opinion. However, as Michael Burawoy argues, “Insofar as

meaning, attitudes, and even knowledge do not reside with individuals but are

constituted in social situations” (Burawoy 1998, p. 12), similarly, the respondents’

opinions on the pageant are inevitably embedded in larger social contexts. Moreover,

he argues that a micro-level ethnographic account can be used to understand larger

social structures (ibid., p. 5).

8 In addition to these two main sources of data, I also interviewed the director of the

pageant, Lobsang Wangyal, during a short fieldtrip to Majnu-ka Tilla, Delhi, and again

in Dharamsala, India, in 2019. I also interviewed a few other Tibetans. Finally, I will

refer to my own experience, having myself participated in the Miss Tibet pageant in

2015, carried this title for a year, been to an international beauty pageant representing

“Tibet”, and having observed the pageant in 2016 as the outgoing Miss Tibet.

Historical and cultural context

9 Before discussing the Miss Tibet pageant, it might be useful to sketch the history of the

Tibetan diasporic community, sometimes also referred to as the Tibetan exile

community, and its political agenda. Approximately 100 000 Tibetans fled Chinese-

occupied Tibet after the escape of His Holiness the Dalai Lama to India in 1959. Today

their descendants are scattered around the world from North America to Europe and

Australia, but still mostly concentrated in India where the Tibetan government in exile,

now known as the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA), has its headquarters in the

small town of Dharamsala in the Himalayan foothills in the state of Himachal Pradesh.

10 Tibetans in the diaspora continue to struggle for “free Tibet”, although over the years,

the goal has changed from campaigning for complete independence to the “genuine

autonomy” of what is now regarded in the diaspora as the three traditional Tibetan

provinces now incorporated in the People’s Republic of China. This shift, known as the

Middle Way Approach, was proposed by the Dalai Lama in 1988 in the hope of arriving

at a peaceful resolution of the Tibet issue through negotiations with the Chinese

government. Although there are Tibetans in the diaspora who continue to demand

complete independence for Tibet, the majority now accept the Middle Way Approach.


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The setting

11 The Miss Tibet beauty pageant appeared in the Tibetan diaspora in India when Lobsang

Wangyal organized the first Miss Tibet in Dharamsala in 2002. Lobsang Wangyal is

active in the diaspora community as a cultural entrepreneur, and is the founder not

only of the Miss Tibet pageant, but also of the Miss Himalaya pageant, as well as the

Tibetan Music Award.

12 The pageant’s precursor was a cultural event Lobsang Wangyal had organized in

Dharamsala two years earlier. At that time, he said, he realized that there were few

contributions from women in art or other forms of creativity in connection with

festivals in the Tibetan diasporic community. His ambition, therefore, was to contribute

to changing this5. The first Miss Tibet pageant staged in exile garnered widespread

media attention around the world with lofty titles such as “Pretty independent” (Time,

Baker 2002), “Miss Tibet off to controversial start” (BBC News 2002), and “Miss Tibet

generates lively Yak among exiles” (The Guardian, Harding 2002). The first ever Miss

Tibet recalled that the representatives of the media were more numerous than the

general audience, especially in the swimsuit round. Although Miss Tibet resembles

many other beauty pageants around the world, it also has its own unique features –

there are only a small number of participants, there are no big sponsors, and the

judges are without experience from similar events.

13 Since its establishment the Miss Tibet pageant has become one of the most popular

modern cultural events in the Tibetan diaspora organized by Tibetans and with only

Tibetan contestants, complete with bikinis, crowns, firecrackers, loud music, and

excited audiences. It is also widely followed and commented on in social media. The

winners and other prominent contestants have become public figures and have often

gained considerable social media followings. The climax of the event is the final night

when the silver crown is placed on the head of the winner. Her triumphant look,

holding the crown with one hand and waving like a queen with the other, mimicking

western beauty pageants and beaming through flashlights blinding her but

highlighting her face as she gazes into the boisterous audience, captures the night and

becomes the topic of talk and discussion for many days and months in the Tibetan

diaspora community around the world, and especially in India.

14 In the Tibetan diasporic community, the Miss Tibet pageant may be considered an

expression of modern folk culture rather than being a centralized and institutionalized

event. There is no backing from the CTA or any major Tibetan organization in the

diaspora. Although in 2010 the director of the Miss Tibet pageant tried to develop a

collaboration with Kingfisher, a large Indian national company, and again in 2018 with

Engaged Entertainment based in New York, these initiatives were not so successful and

did not continue. The pageant therefore has only been able to continue because of the

participation of the young Tibetan women participants themselves who are their own

sponsors, small donations from individuals in the Tibetan community and westerners

who view the pageant in a positive light, and personal investment from the director

himself.

15 The Miss Tibet pageant has eight rounds of performance, beginning with a press

conference where the contestants are called upon to speak out in front of an assembled

media pack made up of local news reporters, some Indian national reporters, and the

diasporic Tibetan community reporters, who interview the contestants about their


415

motivation and hopes of winning the pageant. Generally, these young women have

never spoken in public before. The most controversial round is the subsequent

swimsuit round to which I shall return below. It is followed by a talk and talent rounds,

for which the contestants have been given a topic on which to present a month or two

earlier. The remaining four rounds all take place on the finale night: an introduction

round in which the contestants introduce themselves to a larger audience and give an

extempore speech generally related to Tibetan issues; followed by a ramp walk in

western gown, and finally a cat walk in traditional Tibetan costume. The pageant ends

with a further interview round. Altogether, the Miss Tibet pageant takes from four or

five to ten days, depending upon the funding available6.

16 The contestants must fulfil certain formal criteria such as having a Green Book7, which

proves that one is a Tibetan in exile and that a small tax to the CTA has been paid.

Other criteria are that they must be between the age of seventeen and twenty-five

(recently the age has been extended to twenty-seven). They must have a minimum

height of 165 cm (which from my own experience as a contestant I know is not followed

strictly), and lastly, they must be unmarried. The number of contestants has always

remained low, and sometimes there has only been a single contestant, who is then

declared to be the winner, as was the case in 2013, 2014, and 20188. The highest number

of contestants so far was in 2017, when ten participants entered.

Controversy surrounding the Miss Tibet pageant

17 With regard to the controversy beauty pageants regularly arouse, Cohen et al. have

stated that, “[…] beauty contests are almost always […] riven by scandal, discord, and

dispute. There is always a division between frontstage and backstage, a rupture

between the objective selection of a winner in the main event, and all the other

interests that both contestants and viewers know are influencing the outcome: the

commercial, the class-based, the personal, the political” (Cohen et al. 1996, p. 7). Since

its advent in 2002, Miss Tibet has been no exception to this. It has been a hotbed of

dispute, with several exile Tibetan leaders opposing it. In 2002 Samdhong Rinpoche, the

then Prime Minister of the CTA criticized the first pageant as “un-Tibetan” and

“against Buddhist principles” (Wangyal 2011). On another occasion he was recorded

saying, clearly directing his criticism towards the Miss Tibet pageant, that “Tibet is

respected because of its spirituality and its cultural traditions in the world. The Tibetan

cause stands on that basis […]. Just imitating western culture will never help the

Tibetan cause […]. We are firm believers in the fact that the body is the home of the

conscience […]. Beauty is skin-deep and there can be no such contest of individuals

wherein inner virtues could be put to the test” (Walker 2004)9. More recently, when

asked about the Miss Tibet pageant in a conversation with one of the participants of the

2011 pageant, the then CTA Prime Minister, Lobsang Sangay, responded, specifically

targeting the bikini round, “Not that I am against Miss Tibet but I feel uncomfortable to

see Tibetan women in swimsuit”10. In contrast to these views, in 2016 and again in 2017

the Dalai Lama allowed his picture to be taken with all the participants (Miss Tibet

2017)11.

18 Others, among them lay people, have criticized the Miss Tibet pageant as “ill-timed,

undesirable and uncalled-for” (Harding 2002). A 67-year-old man who lives in

Dharamsala, expressed the view that, “Yes, this is a democratic society but the young


416

generation should remember that we don’t have a country, we don’t have a home, we

are refugees – all we have is our tradition and religion. They should focus on

conserving and nurturing that” (Pokharel 2017).

19 When I interviewed Dolma Yangchen, the Director of Tibetan Women’s Association, she

argued, without openly opposing the pageant, that women’s beauty should not be

defined by outer appearance but should be measured on the basis of capability and

skill. She further maintained that young Tibetan women can “channel” their talents to

other more meaningful platforms,

Why do young and educated girls unnecessarily participate in the beauty pageantwhich is laden with controversies? Why not exhibit their talents elsewhere? I feelthat young Tibetan women should take on specialist studies and through hard workshould compete with women from other countries for higher position […]. Thebeauty in the Miss Tibet pageant is someone else’s creation […]. I find noimportance in it because you lose your way at some point12.

20 Dolma Tsering, the first winner of the Miss Tibet pageant in 2002, who now lives in

Canada recalled with bitterness that, “the Tibetan community was furious” when it

took place. As she remembered it, Samdhong Rinpoche, who as noted above was the

then Prime Minister of the CTA, said, “Tibetan women wearing swimming costume and

having a beauty pageant was against Tibetan culture, Tibetan religion and Tibetan

history”13.

21 Not only conservatively-inclined Tibetans, but also some feminists who are referred to

as “women’s right militant” (bud med thob thang ‘thab rtsod pa) have expressed

opposition to the pageant, accusing it of promoting the objectification of the female

body. Feminism is a new concept to the Tibetan diaspora, and there is no consensus

about what it means. The term “feminism” generally has a negative association in the

community, and is viewed as an unwanted foreign import; Tibetan women who

consider themselves feminists are deemed as “copying western ideas” and regarded as

“radical”. There are also examples of some men making fun of feminist claims14. Since

the concept, feminism, is new to Tibetans, a series of terms have been coined in Tibetan

to express it, for example “female struggle-ism” (mo rtsod ring lugs), “woman-ism” (bud

med ring lugs), and “female character-ism/ condition-ism/ position-ism” (mo chos ring

lugs). These terms are, however, neologisms and are still uncommon in everyday speech

(Baimacuo & Jocoby 2020, p. 2). “Feminism” is also indicated by other Tibetan terms

such as “gender equality” (pho mo ’dra mnyam), “women’s empowerment” (bud med nus

stobs gong ’phel, lit. “expansion of women’s strength”), “women’s rights” (bud med kyi

thob thang), etc.

22 Feminism gained prominence with the launching of the website Tibetan Feminist

Collective (bod kyi mo rtsod ring lugs lhan tshogs) by a few young Tibetan women living in

India and the USA. In 2017, the Tibetan Feminist Collective attacked the Miss Tibet

event’s format as reflecting “western standards of beauty”, asserting, “Holding up

skinny women with fair skin and straight noses on a pedestal holds us back as a society,

although it is not limited to our particular group. We Tibetans vary immensely in terms

of physical features – something to be celebrated and embraced” (Pokharel 2017).

23 In an interview with the author, one of the founders of the Tibetan Feminist Collective,

Tenzin Kesang (who had by then had left the Collective), expressed the opinion that,

“According to me, feminism is something personal, one defines it according to one’s

life. So, I don’t think I would want to define the Tibetan feminism”. She believed that it


417

is not something “concrete but something that can evolve according to what we’ve

learned, what we’ve experienced and what we think is important for our community”15.

24 On the other hand, Tenzin Pelkyi, another of the founders of the Tibetan Feminist

Collective, said in an interview that after interacting with and observing the

contestants, “I think women who enter the pageant, are doing so for feminist purposes

because they want to show that Tibetan women are independent and forward-thinking,

and this is how Tibetan women can exist in our community”. She also felt that the most

important thing was “that they feel that they have agency and that they are the ones

who are determining their womanhood and their identity”16. Such views are often

shared by participants who do not necessarily define themselves as feminist and who

are also reluctant to define themselves as such.

25 With regard to physical criteria, Tenzin Pelkyi said that it is ridiculous to have

mandatory physical measures as that would mean judging a Miss Tibet by the criteria

an of American beauty pageant which are “always about women who are thin, tall and

conventionally attractive. There is no body diversity” (ibid.). One of my online survey

respondents, a 28-year-old woman from India, argued along similar lines that,

The beauty pageant in itself is the root of many beauty-related stereotypes. Theneed to be perfect is something that creates a mindset where anything less thanwhat the beauty queens display is thought of as inferior. The beauty standards thatwe have grown up watching have somehow made us all feel insecure in some way orthe other.

26 Likewise, Dechen Wangmo, one of the participants in the 2016 pageant, questioned the

body criteria of the pageant. She said that she agreed with the feminists’ view of the

pageant, and asked, “[…] if we think everyone is equal, why should we give our bodies’

measurements while applying? Why do we make certain criteria?”17.

27 The bikini round – the main source of controversy surrounding the Miss Tibet

pageant – is highly divisive. It is tempting to see this as a clash between tradition and

modernity. But such a simple dichotomy cannot account for the way in which the bikini

round has divided opinion within the diaspora community. The bikini round is

supported by many Tibetans on cultural reformist grounds, saying it provides women

with an arena in which to oppose the conservative ideal of a modest woman – about

which more will be said below – reflecting a modernist, anti-conservative motivation.

Meanwhile, among those who have criticised it, there are not only those whose

arguments based on a conservative or traditionalist outlook, but also others who

oppose it on modernist or feminist grounds.

28 In my survey, only six out sixty-two respondents were completely opposed to the bikini

round, while two expressed neutrality. Of those who were opposed to it, a young man

said the pageant should be about Tibetan culture and that the bikini round was

“against our culture. I feel like we are trying to copy western culture by wearing extra

open clothes”. Two women respondents said that the bikini session was not necessary

for the pageant to be successful, while a third said that, “The pageant is about talent

and intelligence, not related to bikini or the swimsuit round”. Although he felt that the

bikini round was a part of the pageant, another respondent said that there were

“expectations and judgement from the audience, which shouldn’t be the case”. He

thought that this round hampered rather than empowered women. A young woman

answered that although the true objective of Miss Tibet is to empower Tibetan women

by recognizing who they are as a person, “it has been following a stereotypical pattern


418

and objectifies women in many ways. It is a good initiative but should not be limited to

a certain beauty type. It should welcome beauty in every form – both inside and out”.

29 This point was emphasized by another respondent who had witnessed the pageant and

wrote that there were people who made derogatory remarks about the participants,

particularly regarding their face and body. Eleven of the respondents, although having

a positive outlook of the bikini round, still had reservations. For instance, one of them

wrote that, “Yes, it should be there but it should be done in such a way that there is no

vulgarity”.

Meanings imbued in the Miss Tibet pageant

30 One can see that the Miss Tibet pageant as a whole has been given different meanings

by both participants and by general public in the Tibetan diaspora. The variety of views

it elicits supports the statement by Cohen et al. that,

[…] beauty contests are not just about femininity, or beauty, or even competition.They evoke passionate interest and engagement with political issues central to thelives of beauty contestants, sponsors, organizers, and audience. (Cohen et al. 1996,p. 2)

31 No amount of controversy has been able to stop young Tibetan women from

participating and audiences watching the Miss Tibet pageant, and perhaps controversy

itself has ensured its survival, precisely because the controversy it arouses has

connected it to issues and struggles within the Tibetan diasporic community which

extend beyond the immediate purview of the contest. For instance, Tenzin Dawa, one of

the participants in 2016 who was seventeen at the time, said, “It was a kind of a

revolution for our community. It means so much more to me than just showing my

external beauty”. Dolma Tsering, one of the participants in 2011, said, “If it was only

about physical beauty I wouldn’t have participated”. Such attitudes are underpinned by

two arguments frequently made by former contestants. First, that the pageant

empowers young Tibetan women (this view was expressed by all but two of the viewed

subjects interviewed), in particular by being an arena for role models encouraging

young Tibetan women to be bold and confident. Secondly, that the pageant should

serve to contribute to the preservation of Tibetan culture and promote the political

cause of Tibet internationally (this was mentioned by all but one of interviewed

participants). In this vein, Tsering Kyi, Miss Tibet 2003, who escaped to India in 1999

and now works as a news presenter in the Tibetan section of Voice of America,

empathically pointed out, “I don’t consider the Miss Tibet pageant only a beauty

pageant (mdzes ma ’gran sdur) […] Nor do I consider it as a stage for women’s

empowerment (bud med skyed nus stobs gong ’phel) […] Being a Tibetan in exile after

leaving behind my home and family in Tibet, for me, it is an aspect of our political

struggle (bod mi’i ’thab rtsod)”18.

32 Turning to the viewing subjects, it might be thought that the general attitude in the

Tibetan community would not be favourable to the project; to my surprise, however,

the great majority of the respondents, irrespective of age, had a positive outlook on the

pageant, as mentioned above. Even women who considered themselves feminist were

generally in favour of it.

33 The respondents ascribed two distinct cultural meanings to the pageant. First, they

considered it to be important for empowering young Tibetan women. When asked to


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answer the question, “What is the purpose of the Miss Tibet pageant?”, almost half of

the respondents (thirty-three out of sixty-two) stated that they believed that the Miss

Tibet pageant was above all a platform to empower Tibetan women or, more

specifically, to enhance women’s talents, intelligence and personality and create a

positive view of Tibetan women, serving to “create positive outlook towards women”,

“to give platform to women to showcase their talents and knowledge”, “to boost self-

confidence and respect to Tibetan women”, or “to give an opportunity to young

Tibetan women to explore their personality and talent”.

34 Secondly, twenty-three respondents, in the same way as the participants, said that the

pageant is an arena for highlighting Tibetan identity, and for the Tibetan political

struggle internationally. They maintained that the platform promotes Tibetan culture

and traditions both locally and globally, and that the function of the Miss Tibet pageant

is to create awareness about Tibet. One of them wrote, “[the pageant] provides a

platform for Tibetan women to speak about Tibet”, while another wrote that it should

“represent our country in a glamour world”.

35 In the Tibetan diaspora, culture is a very important part of the political struggle and in

many contexts is inseparable from that struggle. This is evident from the very

beginning of the history of the exile community. Thus, shortly after the first Tibetan

mass exodus in 1959, the Dalai Lama established a number of institutions such as the

Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts (TIPA) and other cultural institutions to preserve

and rebuild Tibetan culture in exile (Wojahn 2016, p. 536). In fact, the political and

cultural aspects of the pageant intersect among the respondents. For instance, one of

them wrote that the pageant “[…] creates awareness about Tibet, its culture and

tradition”, another wrote, “[…] it is an opportunity to showcase Tibetan culture and

political movement at a global stage”, while yet another wrote, “the pageant is to

remind ourselves and inspire younger generation about our identity, culture, and sense

of belonging in an artistic modern way”. For these Tibetans, showcasing Tibetans on a

wider global stage, even in a form of entertainment, can help create, sustain and

increase awareness of Tibet as a political issue.

36 Among these two groups, there were six respondents who saw the platform as equally

promoting both Tibetan culture and women’s empowerment. These six therefore

belong to the total of fifty-six respondents constituting the two groups referred to

above. Thirdly, while the remaining six of the sixty-two had a positive view of the Miss

Tibet pageant, they did not point to women’s empowerment or to the pageant’s

cultural importance in their responses. For instance, eight of these nine respondents

implied that the pageant helps Tibetans to go along with the modern world, six of the

eight further arguing that the bikini round should be in the pageant because “it is now

the 21st century”. Among the nine respondents some also wrote that the pageant

“promotes beauty and talent”, or that it serves “to bring role models in our

community”.

Miss Tibet as a platform for women’s empowerment

37 The dominant view in the Tibetan diasporic community is that women should be

modest and low-key (nyam chung chung) in public. During my fieldwork in Dharamsala

in 2019, one of my interlocutors, a young Tibetan woman from the USA who at the time

had participated in the annual Young Tibetan Conference organized by the CTA, told


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me that she was very disappointed with the organizers. In the question-and-answer

round, she said, the host, who was a man, announced that women would be given the

first chance to speak. When no one spoke, he said – patronizingly, as my interlocutor

remarked – that, “even after being given a chance you don’t speak, but you still claim

that women are not given any say in the community”. This episode shows that Tibetan

women often find it difficult to speak up in a male-dominated forum.

38 We shall now take a closer look at how the Miss Tibet pageant is seen to promote

women’s empowerment in the diasporic community. Overall, the participants believe

this happens because the pageant challenges the traditional social shyness of Tibetan

women. A participant in the Miss Tibet 2011 pageant, Ngodup Dolma, said, “I think the

Miss Tibet pageant is about women’s empowerment. Since our community is a male-

dominated one, the pageant makes a room for young Tibetan women to highlight their

talent and intelligence”19. Most of the respondents in my survey as well as my

interlocutors – who were mostly former participants – maintain that the Miss Tibet

pageant is an arena where women can be empowered through coming out in public and

being vocal about their general concerns such as being role models and inspiring other

young women to participate in the pageant. The director of the Miss Tibet contest

himself claimed that its purpose is to “empower Tibetan women, particularly young

Tibetan women, by giving them the opportunities to come forward, to be themselves.

They can show their talents. They can show their aspirations”.

39 A participant in Miss Tibet 2011, Dolma Tsering, who also won a local South Indian

pageant, Miss Coimbatore in 2010, and who now lives in France, said, “Tibetan women

are mostly very shy and that’s why I participated in the pageant to encourage and

inspire them to be more confident and courageous […]. I consider myself a strong and

confident woman”20. The lone participant of the Miss Tibet pageant in 2005, Tenzin

Nyima, had said, “What I think is that I am the only contestant because Tibetan girls

are very shy in nature. Due to shyness, they lack sufficient confidence and this cripples

them to come out and face the situation on stage” (NewKerela 2005).

40 This characteristic of Tibetan women, namely shyness (nyam chung chung), is very

similar to a term, dzangma (mdzangs ma), used to characterize the ideal Tibetan woman.

The Tibetan word dzang has an interesting semantic range. When applied to men,

dzangpa (masculine) means “hero” (dpa’ bo), “learned” (mkhas pa) or “noble” (ya rabs).

When applied to women, however, dzangma means “wise” (blo gros can), or “well-

behaved” (spyod bzang can)21. Goldstein lists dzang with the meaning “shyness”,

irrespective of gender (Goldstein 1975, p. 943). A woman designated as dzangma should

have eight attributes: even without a husband she does not succumb to misery, she is

attached to her husband, she gives birth to many children, she is modest, does not

speak much, is honest, loyal, and hardworking (Dungkar 2002, p. 1741). The attribute of

a woman of being modest or shy, and speaking as little as possible, is still a prevalent

ideal in the Tibetan community, where young women are usually characterized as

being shy and less confident in the public arena compared to men. This is one of the

reasons why the Miss Tibet pageant is considered by many Tibetans to be a platform to

empower young women by giving them a space to come out of their gendered roles

nurtured in the community.

41 The Miss Tibet 2003 winner Tsering Kyi, who was born in Tibet, emphatically pointed

out that in the present Tibetan social environment both men and women in the

community are given equal rights and education so it is for women to work hard. She


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said that she wished to see women in the Tibetan community showing their capabilities

and their capacity for hard work rather than seeking special treatment. Being the lone

contestant in 2003, she also argued that her victory came from the fact that others

didn’t dare to participate and that she, who was able to, did.

42 The Miss Tibet pageant is seen as an arena for empowering women as it gives the

winner of the contest an opportunity to compete with other women in international

beauty pageants. It is believed that an international pageant allows Tibetan women to

match their talent and beauty with that of the women of other countries. As one of the

respondents wrote, participating in an international pageant is, “to let the world know

that our nation’s women are no less than women from other countries”. Thereby young

Tibetan women can “move along with the rest of the world”. The Miss Tibet 2016,

Tenzin Sangnyi, who now works as a nurse in England, said,

The positive aspect of the pageant is that it obviously empowers Tibetan women byhelping them move along with the modern world these days. It helps us to feel thatwe have a beauty pageant too […] It gives a platform to young Tibetan women tovoice their opinions, to show their skills, their talents, and just to feel that we arealso moving along with the rest of the world22.

43 Another participant of the same year, Tenzin Dawa from New York, supported the

pageant as a modern venue for women, arguing that, “I think the Tibetan mindset can

be so traditional that it almost steps back on the younger generation. If the world keeps

moving and if Tibet doesn’t, then it is not good”23.

44 These participants seem to have a feeling that Tibetans are lagging behind in the

modern world. A similar idea is also found among Tibetans in my survey when they

refer to the bikini round and the pageant itself as not a bad aspect of modern culture,

asserting that they “don’t live in the medieval period but in the 21st century”. These

statements show that while pageants are regarded as implying old-fashioned or

conservative notions of beauty in most parts of the western world (Banet-Weiser 1999,

p. 3), the Miss Tibet pageant is viewed by many young Tibetans, including the

participants, as a venue to liberate women from conventional norms and as a modern

and innovative medium for the Tibetan national struggle.

45 More importantly, regardless of being winners or not, the participants felt that the

pageant was an opportunity to do something for their community and for themselves,

precisely by breaking social pressure and expectations. Mingmar Dolma, who is from

New York, competed in the pageant despite her father’s reservations about it. Dolma

Tsering’s parents wanted her to get married at nineteen and take charge of their small

business which, she believed, was the traditional way Tibetans in exile took care of

their children, especially daughters. However, she wanted to take control of her life

and achieve something that was beyond the standard social norms. The Miss Tibet

pageant, she said, helped her in achieving that. Tsering Kyi said that the Miss Tibet

gave her a platform for fulfilling her wish (even when she was in Tibet) to do something

for her country. These are some examples of how the pageant, however trivial, for

many young women has given an agency and an arena on which to move forward.


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The bikini round revisited: a means of empoweringwomen?

46 In her ground-breaking study on Miss America, Sarah Banet-Weiser writes that, “For

this feminist scenario, the objectified bodies of the contestants are the victims, and the

pageant producers, directors, and public audience are the perpetrators” (Banet-Weiser

1999, p. 11). Having condemned beauty pageants as a whole as an objectification of

women’s bodies, the advocates of “western” feminism consider a bikini session the

ultimate example of a patriarchal venue for the male gaze.

47 The bikini session of the pageant in the Tibetan diasporic context, however, has a

double aspect: although some Tibetan feminists do feel that it encourages the

objectification of women’s bodies, most of the participants themselves and the

audience of the pageant (based on the sample surveyed) expressed conviction that it

actually represents women asserting control over their own bodies. In fact, both

viewing and viewed subjects expressed the opinion that the pageant empowers women,

and thus some emphasised that it becomes a part of the feminist movement.

48 As mentioned earlier, the majority of viewing subjects who participated in the survey

(i.e. fifty-three) had a positive attitude towards the bikini round, and out of that

number, thirty-three had an extremely positive view on it. They approved of the bikini

round for various reasons. Among them, nine related the bikini round to building

confidence in one’s body rather than judging its sexual appeal, and seven saw it as a

means of challenging the perception of conservative Tibetans. They felt that the bikini

round was an expression of freedom to make an individual choice in the face of a

conservative community as well as the adoption of a modern way of life that they

consider to be normal. As one of my respondents argued, “It is an important round in

every beauty pageant because it breaks stereotypes and deals with narrow-minded

Tibetan people”. Another respondent wrote, “There is nothing wrong with having a

bikini round. We always say we are broad-minded people, so let’s face it. I laugh at

people who say they don’t think it’s appropriate. Such people are hypocrites”. One of

my male informants said, “If we want Tibetan women to walk shoulder to shoulder with

women from other countries in an international pageant, then we should accept the

bikini round without shying away. It is surely not easy to walk in a bikini – for that one

needs to be courageous”.

49 Two thirds of the thirty-three respondents who viewed the pageant in an extremely

positive light felt that a bikini round is normal nowadays or that its formalities are

“part and parcel of the pageant”, and that hence it should be continued in order to be

able to enter international pageants. This resonates with the opinions of the viewed

subjects – the participants. One of my respondents from the survey wrote, “It is pretty

normal today. So, we should continue with it”. On a personal level, another of my

respondents wrote,

Honestly speaking, it was awkward the first time I saw them. Then the second andthe third time I got used to it. I realized there is nothing bad in it as I had beentaught to think – instead, I feel proud of them for being bold and confident.

50 In an interview with WildfilmsIndia, a public online broadcaster, the contestants of

Miss Tibet 2016 unanimously agreed when one of the contestants stated that, “Every

beauty pageant has swimsuit rounds. What is so big deal in having swimsuit round in

Tibetan beauty pageant?” (WildFilmsIndia 2016). Moreover, Miss Tibet 2002, Dolma


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Tsering, disagreeing with Samdhong Rinpoche’s statement regarding the swimsuit

round, said that as a monk he does not have the life experiences of lay people.

Moreover, she further argued that, “When Buddha achieved his enlightenment, he was

naked, and when he was born, he was naked. And when we look at the Buddhist deities,

gods and goddess like Tara, they are mostly naked. Thus, showing our skin does not

destroy our culture or religion. It is just the matter of how you present them”.

Moreover, Tsering Kyi, Miss Tibet 2003, was of the opinion that being confronted by

“modern culture” (rig gnas gsar pa) in the form of beauty pageants, a culture that she

furthermore believed was not well received in western society itself, it was

understandable to have such a view as Samdhong Rinpoche’s. She remembered that,

“the most difficult part of being Miss Tibet at the time was to change the perception of

Tibetans towards the pageant. And I think I did very well”. She hoped that by now

Samdhong Rinpoche had changed his views, realizing that “the pageant is about beauty

that is more than skin-deep”.

51 Although most of the former contestants supported the bikini round, opinions and

experiences concerning it differ considerably. The winner of the 2016 pageant, Tenzin

Sangnyi, told me, “I didn’t feel in any way that I was doing anything inappropriate or

daring. My only concern was to look good and to present myself in the best possible

way”. For her, being able to wear a bikini in public was a question of being confident

and modern.

52 A participant of Miss Tibet 2017, Mingmar Dolma, insisted, “I don’t think a beauty

pageant objectifies women’s bodies. I think people who are super old-minded would

think like that. They don’t know it’s 2020”. Dechen Wangmo, a participant in the Miss

Tibet 2016, said that she was fine with the bikini round. She went on saying that

although she does not have a perfect body, “I feel very beautiful in a bikini. I think it

makes a difference how you grew up in a community. My family has imposed no

restrictions on me”. Two former contestants referred to the bikini session as a matter

of bodily fitness. Most of them felt beautiful or confident in the bikini session. Tenzin

Dawa said, “I wouldn’t say that it is completely okay but I also didn’t have any

reservations. I definitely knew that the Miss Tibet pageant has backlash because of the

round but it wasn’t something that would hold me back from participating. I will do it if

I want to”. The strong acknowledgement of the participants, especially the winners, of

the purpose of their participation also reflects their feeling of having complete control

over themselves.

53 One can say the viewed as well as the viewing subjects’ opinions in the context of the

Miss Tibet pageant do not stray far from Benet-Weiser’s observation of beauty

pageants. She argues that beauty pageants “[…] rather than operating as simple

showcases for displaying objectified bodies, are actually a kind of feminist space where

female identity is constructed by negotiating the contradictions of being socially

constituted as “just” a body while simultaneously producing oneself as an active

thinking subject, indeed, a decidedly “liberal” subject”. She further argues that, “This

notion of being an actor in the world, of both existing as a body and transcending that

body, is the relentless theme of beauty pageants” (Banet-Weiser 1999, p. 24). One of the

respondents argued that in fact the Miss Tibet pageant should be part of feminist

movement while another emphasized that it “boosts the feminist movement”.

54 Nevertheless, one cannot deny that there is pressure on the participants to appear

according to certain western standards by wearing a bikini. Migmar Dolma, a


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participant in the Miss Tibet 2016, from New York said, “I worked a bit hard for the

bikini round because people will be looking at me […]. I felt comfortable wearing the

bikini, but was nervous at people looking at me and taking pictures”. Her statement

implies that if you don’t comply with a standard of beauty, it is shameful and a point

for the onlookers on which to judge you. Tenzin Khaechoe, from India, a participant of

the Miss Tibet 2017, told me that she took the bikini round as a challenge because, “All

the participants were very confident in the bikini but I grew up in India in different

background, hence, I felt it was difficult to appear in a bikini in front of people […]. I

felt the task was done once the session was over”24.

55 Summing up, the viewed subjects as well as those viewing subjects who have sympathy

for the former by and large share the view that Miss Tibet pageant empowers women

by giving them the agency to break away from social pressure and expectations. Thus,

Dolma Tsering maintained that,

[…] “humble girl” (bu mo nyam chung chung) is considered as really well-manneredin our community. I think it is imprinted in our brains. I think that’s why it is hardfor women to take opportunities such as Miss Tibet […]. It is hard, you know, youwill be blamed or embarrassed if you make mistake. If you overdress, you’relabelled. Your family will be insulted. That is why young women in our communityare not willing to take a risk by appearing in the pageant. It is about social pressure,stigma and abuse.

Collective identity and cultural difference

56 Although physical appearance is of importance in the Miss Tibet pageant both for the

audience and the participants, the pageant is above all an arena linked to the issues of

nation, identity, and culture, located in a tangible form in the bodies of the contestants,

consistent with King-O’Riain’s argument that beauty pageants are a site where diverse

cultural meanings “are given tangible form in the bodies of beauty queens” (King-

O’Riain 2005, p. 207). She also argues that,

Beauty pageants are often the subjects of debates about the future of ethniccommunities, in part because they are public spectacles that allow women fromwithin communities to voice their concerns but also because they are vehicles forconveying anxiety about collective identity. (King-O’Riain 2007, pp. 79-80)

57 At the pageant, especially the finale night, there are thousands of Tibetans as well as

non-Tibetans in the audience. Among the Tibetans the pageant generates a sense of

collectivity – a feeling of sharing a unique Tibetan culture, and thus being a unified

nation as Tibet consisting of the three main regions of Tibet: Kham, Amdo, and Ütsang

(eastern, north-eastern, and central Tibet respectively). These three regions also

known as “The Three Provinces” (Chölkha Sum), constituting a “Greater Tibet”. The

Tibetan historian Tsering Shakya argues that, “[…] unification of the entire Tibetan-

speaking area under Bod Cholka-Sum’ has become deeply embedded in the political

culture of the Tibetan diaspora, where the core of the refugees’ political identity lay in

the conception of Tibet as the unity of Kham, Amdo and U-tsang” (Shakya 1999, p. 387).

58 Against this historical backdrop, the title “Miss Tibet” communicates a feeling of unity,

a culturally and linguistically homogenous nation lost to China but alive in the minds of

Tibetans. Moreover, by choosing a winner irrespective of her ancestral region, the Miss

Tibet reinforces this shared political identity. In my survey, one of respondents who

had witnessed the Miss Tibet pageant asserted that, “It shows Tibet as an independent


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nation”; another wrote, “It creates awareness about Tibet and Tibetans”. When

Tibetans in the diaspora say “Tibet”, it is this culturally and politically unified Tibet

they have in mind. The Miss Tibet pageant is different from mainstream national

beauty pageants, however, in that it represents a nation that does not exist in

geopolitical reality. The pageant helps to create a nation that exists only in people’s

mind, as an “imagined nation”. It functions to reinforce the idea among Tibetans in the

diaspora that they share traditions, culture, history, language, and political aspirations.

59 One of the reasons why young women continue to participate in the pageant, despite

rumours and controversies, is its perceived importance for the political struggle and its

cultural promotion. In the Tibetan diaspora, to work for the Tibetan cause is seen as a

great achievement, and for many it is a defining purpose of their lives. Tenzin Sangnyi,

Miss Tibet 2016, said, “The cultural contribution to our Tibetan community is

completely given. If you are in Miss Tibet, we automatically have the responsibility of

representing our culture and our language. Obviously, every participant, I am sure, has

that feeling or awareness”. She also stressed the importance of “representing our

country and by just being on the stage: showcase that we are Tibetan, a refugee”. In

other words, being Miss Tibet is in itself an aspect of the Tibetan struggle.

60 Many of the participants stated that the prime reason for participating in the pageant

was its importance for the national struggle. Miss Tibet 2003 Tsering Kyi was of the

opinion that the pageant represents, “the Tibetan culture [rig gzhung] that is one of the

oldest and richest Asian cultures and a country under the Chinese occupation. Thus,

one must realize the responsibility of the pageant and work for our country if one

wins”. She also said that the pageant “gives a unique platform not just to showcase

Tibetan culture but is also a way to engage in the national struggle [bod mi rigs ’thab

rtsod]”. Consequently, some of the participants were not satisfied with how the pageant

was organized, including what they considered to be insufficient financial and moral

support from the community and the CTA. Thus, Dolma Tsering, Miss Tibet 2000,

strongly felt that the pageant should be organized in a better way because Tibetans

“are different from other national people. Being political refugees scattered around the

world we have a greater political responsibility”.

61 These opinions resonate with that of a respondent who wrote that the Miss Tibet

pageant reminds him that, “Tibet is our country and it will be free”, while another

respondent who had witnessed the pageant wrote that, “the Miss Tibet pageant

highlights Tibet as an independent nation”. In a similar vein, the Miss Tibet website

states,

To have international support for the plight of the Tibetan people, it is important tohave many different venues to create awareness. Once we have established a MissTibet competition, we will be able to apply for representation in internationalcompetitions… Miss Tibet would be in an excellent position to speak about theTibetan situation in international forums, drawing attention to the plight of theTibetan people as well as the brilliance of the lifestyle and culture. (Miss Tibetwebsite)

62 These statements illustrate what Jon Schackt, referring to Fredrik Barth, maintains,

namely that, “The beauty pageants have become an arena for communication of

cultural difference” (Schackt 2005, p. 277); in other words, they rely on the cultural

features that an ethnic group or nation wants to use as “signals and the emblems of

differences” (Barth 1969, p. 14). Being deprived of geographical boundaries, the Tibetan

diaspora invests culture with the utmost importance for their political assertion,


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strengthening and unifying cultural elements among themselves and highlighting their

difference from the Chinese. Barth argues that ethnic differences are created first, by

“overt signals and signs – diacritical features that people look for and exhibit to show

identity, often features as dress, language, house form, or general life style”, and

secondly, by “basic value orientation”. Miss Tibet succeeds on the local as well as the

global stage in showcasing Tibetans’ cultural differences and distinct identity from

other countries, especially China.

63 The Tibetan political scientist Dawa Norbu argues that, “[…] there can be no self-

conscious projection of ethnic or any other kind of identity without the generalized

other. For Tibetans Chinese have assumed this function. Their otherness in Tibet

provokes the assertion of Tibetan identity and the we/they differentiation” (Norbu

1992). This sentiment can be applied to Tibetans in the diaspora as well, and is visible in

the Miss Tibet pageant.

64 By participating side by side with contestants in international beauty pageants, the

winners of Miss Tibet contribute to and reinforce the differences between “Tibetans”

and “Chinese”: they take for granted that China and Tibet are separate nations.

Moreover, the sash with “Tibet” written on it is an assertion of Tibet’s cultural and

territorial identity and difference from China. Thus, it is not surprising that photos of

Miss Tibet with Miss China in international beauty pageants became very popular

among Tibetans and have been frequently used by news media in the diaspora.

65 Similar to what King-O’Riain maintains, a beauty queen is a woman chosen by the

community or a group to serve as “a symbolic representation of their collective

identity to a larger, often national audience” (King-O’Riain 2008, p. 74), the winner of

the Miss Tibet pageant becomes a global trope of Tibet – a symbolic representation of

the Tibetan community to promote a political statement of the existence of Tibet as a

nation with a distinct culture. In her personal account of her experience in Miss Asia

Pacific 2011 in South Korea, Miss Tibet 2011 wrote:

We had many problems as well with a few staff from the pageant organizers […]. Inthe end, I couldn’t enjoy the beauty pageant at all […]. I did it on behalf of allTibetans, to represent our country Tibet, our unique tradition and culture[…]. During the national costume round, I was hiding our national flag inside mynational costume, and when I walked the ramp, I took our beautiful and colourfulflag out and very proudly introduced it to the audience. (Miss Tibet 2011)

66 Similarly, Miss Tibet 2007, Tenzin Dolma, while participating in Miss Earth 2007,

expressed that, “[I] feel very proud and happy to be standing with delegates from

85 countries and to be able to speak something about our rich Tibetan culture […]. I am

trying my level best to educate them even more about Tibet” (Miss Tibet 2007).

67 Thus, in view of the political implications of the participation of a Miss Tibet, it is not

surprising that winners of Miss Tibet 2006 and 2011 were barred, due to pressure

exerted by the Chinese authorities, from attending international pageants unless they

wore a sash with the words, “Miss China-Tibet”. The Miss Tibet 2006, Tsering Chungtak,

was quoted in international news media saying, “I was given a choice either to

participate wearing sash as “Miss Tibet-China” or to pull out from the pageant. And I

made a decision to pull out from the pageant” (AP Archive 2015). Tenzin Yangkyi, told

me in 2016 that she was not allowed to carry on with the pageant as Miss Tibet in the

Miss Asia Pacific that took place in Seoul, South Korea, in 2011. However, being a Swiss

citizen, she chose to wear a sash with “Miss Switzerland-Tibet” in order to participate.


427

68 In this way, the Miss Tibet pageant gives the women who participate an opportunity to

fulfil their responsibility in joining the national struggle, the pageant becoming an

agency for young women rather than women becoming victims. For instance, in my

survey, of sixty-two respondents, thirty-three were of the opinion that the Miss Tibet

helps in creating awareness of their nation and traditional culture. One of them even

stated that, “If you don’t use the platform properly, it’s just to gain personal fame, but

if you use it properly, we can create awareness about the Tibetan cause”.

69 Among my informants, most of the viewed subjects took it for granted that the pageant

is a part of a national struggle. Tenzin Younten, Miss Tibet 2018, who had participated

in an international pageant said, “[…] being able to represent Tibet is equal to

representing a culture that is not taken away from us even though the land is taken

away by the Chinese. Our country has been corrupted by China but we are resilient […].

It is a reminder that Tibet still exists”25. Thus, the pageant serves to demarcate and lay

claim to the Tibetan ethnicity – the nation that is under “Communist China”, with a

unique culture, distinct from that of the Chinese26.

70 Miss Tibet 2016, Tenzin Sangnyi, said, “I thought the Miss Tibet pageant was more

about me but I thought the international pageant was more important than me […]. I

spoke about my country and our issues every time I got any opportunity. By taking this

title you have the responsibility to represent Tibet, which I think is a great

responsibility”. Although there were controversies, problems, and politics in

international pageants, the Tibetan contestants were at the end proud that they could

represent their country. For instance, Miss Tibet 2002 Dolma Tsering, whose father had

been imprisoned by Chinese in Tibet for 2 years, and who has been to two international

pageants – one in Malaysia and another in Mexico – emphasized,

There were difficulties, and sometimes we do not know what to expect from thepageant. Even very reputable pageant productions do things for their ownbenefit […]. However, I got a very great opportunity to talk about Tibetan issues andcause [in both the pageants]. I also got a chance to sit side by side with Miss China.There was huge media attention on that. It was a political breach between Tibet andChina […]. In Mexico I didn’t have a good experience, the pageant was disorganized.Still, I was happy to have represented Tibet among 45 nations and won a prize forthe best national costume.

Tibetan traditional costume as cultural representationof the nation

71 The traditional Tibetan dress for both men and women are called “chupa” (phyu pa).

However, there are regional differences in its length, back pleats, and other

accompanying accessories. According to Namgyal T. Taklha, traditionally “it is cut in

only one shape and was generally made of indigenous Tibetan material like nambu

(snam bu) hand woven wool material, felt and sheepskin”. It was only wealthy people

who could afford imported materials, such as cotton, silk, or brocade from China and

India (Taklha 2018, p. 13). However, in the diaspora the chupa, especially that of women,

has gone through many changes due to factors such as weather and functionality.

Cheap polyester and cotton materials have replaced the traditional woollen material,

and the way in which it is worn and stitched has changed over the years.


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72 However, in recent years there has been a noticeable comeback of woollen materials in

the diaspora; these textiles, traditional but with a modern print. In the Tibetan

diaspora, women’s chupa continue to play an important role, so much so that women

are often expected to wear one in their work places, especially if employed in the

Central Tibetan Administration. As we have seen, one of the reasons for the bikini

session being controversial has to do with the idea of Tibetan women generally being

imaged in “traditional dress”, signifying modesty.

73 This is evident in the pageant where the walk in chupa is highly valued and – in contrast

to the bikini round – automatically lends the pageant a Tibetan aspect. However, there

is a marked difference between the everyday chupa, which is a modern version of

Central Tibetan traditional dress, and the one generally worn in the “traditional

costume” round of the pageant. There the contestants wear any regional variety of

traditional dress as long as it looks good, or, as one of the participants said, “as long as I

look like a Tibetan woman”27.

74 The traditional costume round offers a major element for understanding the politically

and culturally unified feeling of Tibetan-ness, not just on a local arena but also in an

international beauty pageant. The use of a complete set of traditional costume

including boots is cherished because it creates an aura of authenticity. This offers a

celebration of unity in diversity and in fact, wearing the Tibetan traditional costume

marks “cultural authenticity” (Schackt 2005, p. 270; Chow 2011, p. 428). The whole

process of preparing for the show in itself becomes a ritual with the purpose of

maintaining a feeling of unity among Tibetans. The organizer makes the contestants

spend a lot of time in the traditional dress – for instance, after a long session of walk in

traditional costumes where the contestants perform Tibetan dance steps, the winner is

announced and crowned wearing her traditional costume. This, I argue, is a significant

gesture from the organizer’s side to emphasise Tibetan identity through the pageant.

75 Rogers considers the Ecuadorian indigenous pageant as an example of folklorization

because it is “a process in which a social group fixes a part of itself in a timeless manner

as an anchor for its own distinctiveness” (Rogers 1999, p. 58). The only part where this

happens in the Miss Tibet pageant is the traditional costume walk, where the

participants are adorned from head to foot in what they perceive as the traditional

dress of pre-1959 Tibet, capturing the attention of the audience more than in any other

part of the pageant, from the evening gown walk to the talent round. Among the

Tibetans it brings nostalgic feelings of the imagined past – a Tibet that has been created

and developed through history books, autobiographies, films, and the memories of

their parents or grandparents. The image of a past Tibet materializes through the

bodies of the young women in “traditional dress”.

Conclusion

76 The Miss Tibet pageant is an example of what Banet-Weiser refers to as “[…] the ways

in which liberal discourse is operationalized […] in a particular historical context”

(Banet-Weiser 1999, p. 23), insofar as it intends to promote women’s empowerment.

Moreover, in the context of the diasporic community’s commitment to political

activism for a “free Tibet”, the pageant becomes an arena for highlighting a national

struggle. This is evident in Tsering Kyi’s statement that, “By telling the story of one


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person [such as myself to the world media as a winner] you tell the collective story of

Tibetans”.

77 Like many other local beauty pageants around the world, the Miss Tibet pageant has

become a means to assert a collective identity (McAllister 1996; McGranahan 1996;

King-O’Riain 2008; Schackt 2005), in this case an imagined ethno-national identity; in

other words, Miss Tibet has become a political statement. The pageant helps Tibetans

to imagine their nation through women’s bodies, or more specifically through the

contestants’ bodies – in fact, more than just their bodies, but also by what they wear,

their speech, and their actions – elements that Barth calls “overt signals and signs”

(Barth 1969, p. 14).

78 The anthropologist and historian of modern Tibet, Melvyn Goldstsein, accepting the

differentiation into “political Tibet” and “ethnographic Tibet”, defines political Tibet as

the polity historically ruled by the Tibetan government in Lhasa, roughly equivalent to

today’s Tibet Autonomous Region in China, whereas ethnographic Tibet is much

broader as it includes “ethnically Tibetan areas of Amdo and Kham that today are part

of Qinghai, Sichuan, Gansu and Yunnan provinces” (Goldstein 1998, p. 4). Tibetans in

the diaspora regard political and ethnographic Tibet as constituting a unit which

Goldstein calls, “the heartland of Tibetan Buddhism” (ibid.), and it is this that diasporic

Tibetans refer to as “Tibet”, distinct from Buddhist populations in the Himalayan

regions of Indian, Nepal, and Bhutan.

79 Since Tibetans in the diaspora are struggling for the creation of a Tibet that combines

both the political and ethnographic Tibet as one united political entity, they have

engaged in a process of cultural homogenization where similarities are celebrated and

differences downplayed in order to create a unified ethno-political identity. This

process has been accurately described by Barth: “[…] cultural features are used by the

actors as signals and emblems of differences, others are ignored and, in some

relationships, radical differences are downplayed and denied” (Barth 1969, p. 14).

Elsewhere I have written that, “This shared culture assists in reinforcing their social as

well as imagined territorial boundary, distinguishing them above all from the Chinese”

(Choedon, forthcoming). Through what is perceived as a common heritage, the concept

of an “authentic Tibetan identity” emerges, and the participants of the pageant

attempt to embody this identity, which as Tibetans, they cherish and are committed to

preserve for a national, political cause.

Acknowledgments

80 I would like to thank Professor Ülo Valk (University of Tartu) for his interest and

encouragement. The research for this article was funded by the Estonian Research

Agency (grant project PRG670).


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NOTES

1. There is no evidence that the Miss Tibet pageant inside Tibet influenced the diaspora. The

director himself vaguely remembered that he had heard that a similar pageant had taken place.

2. I have borrowed the terms “viewed subject” and “viewing subject” from Yiu Fai Chow,

“Moving, sensing intersectionality. A case study of Miss China Europe” (Chow 2011, p. 419).

3. Many young educated Tibetans in the diaspora are very comfortable speaking in English. In

many cases, they also prefer writing in English than in Tibetan. With regard to the viewed

subjects, the language used during the interview depended on what they preferred, a few using

only Tibetan, which I have translated into English. To understand their views on the beauty

pageant, language was not the focus. Thus, I let them speak in whatever language they were most

comfortable with. For the online survey, however, I have used English, but I asked some of my

informants to translate the questionnaires into Tibetan for their parents.

4. I contacted each one of them with a personal message in social media to fill in this survey

irrespective of what their opinion might be regarding the pageant.

5. Here and below, I refer to the interview I conducted with Lobsang Wangyal on 20 December

2018 in New Delhi.

6. Based on my own experience from 2015 and 2016 and interviews of former contestants.

7. The Green Book is an identity document issued by the CTA.

8. On 2018 the pageant was to take place in New York. However, many of the participants who

were from India were not able to attend the pageant as they were refused visas, while a few from

the USA pulled out in the end.

9. Walker does not specify whether Samdhong Rinpoche spoke in English or Tibetan. If he spoke

in Tibetan, it is not clear who translated it.

10. In the course of a documentary film Miss Tibet. Beauty in Exile , directed by Norah Shapiro,

released in 2014.

11. In the relevant photos, the contestants were wearing chuba, the traditional Tibetan dress. The

Dalai Lama clearly was not opposed to the pageant, in contrast to Samdhong Rinpoche who some

years before had called it “un-Tibetan” and “against Buddhist principles” (see above).

12. Interviewed July 2019 in Dharamsala, in English.

13. Here and below, I refer to the online interview I conducted with Dolma Tsering on 26 October

2020, in both English and Tibetan.

14. Interviews during fieldwork July 2019 in Dharamsala, in Tibetan.

15. Interviewed in August 2019 in Dharamsala, in English.

16. Online interview 25 October 2020, in English.

17. Online interview 15 September 2020, in English.

18. Here and below, I refer to the online interview conducted with Tsering Kyi on 26 September

2020, in Tibetan.

19. Online interview 10 September 2020, in English.

20. Here and below, I refer to the online interview conducted with Dolma Tsering (participant of

Miss Tibet 2011) on 3 September 2020, conducted mostly in English but Tibetan was also used.

21. Bod rgya tshig mdzod chen mo, p. 2333.


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22. Here and below, I refer to the online interview I conducted with Tenzin Sangnyi on 22 July

2020, in English.

23. Here and below, I refer to the online interview I conducted with Tenzin Dawa on 12 October

2020, in English.

24. Online interview 6 August 2020, in Tibetan.

25. Online interview conducted on 17 October 2020, in English.

26. This idea was influenced by Mark Rogers’ work on indigenous Ecuadorian beauty pageants

(Rogers 1999, p. 57).

27. Information obtained from interviews of the contestants and my own experience from the

pageant.

ABSTRACTS

Since its inception in 2002, the annual “Miss Tibet” pageant has been a popular cultural event in

the Tibetan diaspora. As with other beauty pageants, it has been the object of controversies and

opposing opinions, reflecting conflicting trends of conservatism and modernism. It is imbued

with different meanings: it has provided a stage for Tibetan participation in international

competitive fora, it has drawn media attention to the Tibetan political issue, and for some, it is an

important platform for empowering young Tibetan women on the local stage. However, for

others it has symbolised cultural obsequiousness and has been opposed on both traditionalist and

on modernist feminist grounds.

Depuis sa création en 2002, le concours annuel de Miss Tibet est un événement culturel populaire

dans la diaspora tibétaine. Comme d’autres concours de beauté, il a fait l’objet de controverses et

d’opinions divergentes, reflétant les tendances contradictoires issues du conservatisme et du

modernisme. Il a différentes significations : il a constitué un tremplin pour la participation

tibétaine à des compétitions internationales, il a attiré l'attention des médias sur la question

politique tibétaine, et pour certains il constitue une plateforme importante pour l’émancipation

des jeunes femmes tibétaines au niveau local. Cependant, pour d'autres, il a symbolisé

l'obséquiosité culturelle et a fait l'objet de critiques des milieux traditionnalistes d’une part et

féministes d’autre part.

INDEX

Keywords: beauty, pageant, Tibetan, politics, diaspora, identity, culture, women, empowerment

Mots-clés: concours, beauté, politique, tibétain, diaspora, identité, culture, femmes,

émancipation

AUTHOR

PEMA CHOEDON

Pema Choedon obtained her MPhil in Inner Asian Studies at Jawaharlal Nehru University, New

Delhi. She is currently a PhD student at the University of Tartu, Estonia, in the Department of


434

Estonian and Comparative Folklore Studies. Her research focus is on cultural developments in the

Tibetan diaspora. Her article, “The Nechung Oracle and the construction of identity in the

Tibetan diaspora”, has been published in Asian Ethnology 80(2).

[email protected]


435

Comptes rendusBook reviews


436

Vandenabeele Valérie, La sociétéd’après. Politique sino-tibétaine etécologie au YunnanParis, Presses universitaires de Paris Nanterre, 2019, 432 pages,ISBN 978-2-84016-315-2

Pascale-Marie Milan

RÉFÉRENCE

Vandenabeele Valérie, La société d’après. Politique sino-tibétaine et écologie au Yunnan,

Paris, Presses universitaires de Paris Nanterre, 2019

1 En République Populaire de Chine, les politiques de modernisation visant l’intégration

des populations des marges du sud-ouest chinois à l’État-nation se sont rapidement

transformées suite à la réforme des quatre modernisations (1978) et à la politique de

développement de l’Ouest (1999) en des stratégies de croissance économique fondées

sur le tourisme et la mise en valeur du patrimoine. Dans son ouvrage, Valérie

Vandenabeele propose une étude anthropologique de ces procédés. Elle focalise son

analyse sur la création d’un parc national, celui de Pudacuo (ch. Pudacuo guojia gongyuan

普达措国家公园) situé dans la préfecture autonome tibétaine de Diqing, dans la

province du Yunnan. Le présent ouvrage, issu de la thèse de doctorat soutenue par

l’auteure en 2014 à Paris X-Nanterre, se compose d’une introduction suivie de trois

parties.

2 La première partie s’intéresse à la manière dont « on intègre les marges en République

Populaire de Chine ». L’auteure retrace le contexte de cette intégration à partir

d’annales chinoises, de sources anthropologiques et de la mémoire locale pour mettre

en lumière la constitution d’un « autre Tibet au Yunnan ». Elle développe ensuite une

analyse de la continuité des représentations et projections touristiques entre Shangri-

La (ch. Xiangelila香格里拉 ; anciennement ch. Zhongdian 中甸 et tib. Gyaltang) et le

parc de Pudacuo, permettant de comprendre comment l’identité culturelle tibétaine a


437

été instrumentalisée de manière à présenter les Tibétains locaux comme respectueux

de l’environnement et en phase avec leurs traditions. Cette identité culturelle rigide et

figée, qui correspond à un certain traditionalisme “montré en exemple par les

dirigeants” (p. 188), est ensuite mise en perspective dans la seconde partie de l’ouvrage

avec les réalités vécues par les habitants de Langzong, Langding, et Tsachuding. Dans

ces trois hameaux situés dans le parc ou l’avoisinant, Valérie Vandenabeele a mené une

ethnographie rendant compte de la recomposition des modes de vie et des moyens de

subsistances. Elle souligne particulièrement l’écart “entre l’univers religieux tibétain

traditionnel et les nouveaux discours qui soutiennent l’idée d’harmonie entre les

Tibétains et l’environnement naturel” (p. 256).

3 La troisième partie décrit de manière tout à fait remarquable les mécanismes de

l’intégration du modèle du parc national à travers la collaboration des dirigeants

locaux et d’une ONG conservationniste américaine. L’auteure met en lumière le

« désenclavement », la « démarginalisation » et le « recentrement » du lieu de vie des

Tibétains de Pudacuo à travers des processus de labellisation diffusant à large échelle

un modèle occidental. Malgré le déclassement du parc national au rang provincial,

l’auteure montre avec efficacité le développement d’un tourisme de masse servant les

objectifs de croissance économique des politiques chinoises actuelles. Pourtant

l’économie du parc ne bénéficie pas suffisamment – à la hauteur de leurs espérances –

aux locaux et engendre des inégalités entre les trois villages à l’étude (pp. 345-349).

4 La cohérence et l’unité de l’ouvrage résident dans le récit-même proposé par Valérie

Vandenabeele. Un récit porté par la somme considérable de connaissances assimilées

par la chercheuse sur le sujet encore assez méconnu de la patrimonialisation de la

nature et du système chinois des parcs nationaux. Si l’ethnographie menée fait preuve

d’une bonne immersion sur le terrain, le récit explicatif proposé est toutefois d’une

inégale densité et laisse au lecteur un sentiment ambigu. L’usage du « présent

ethnographique » (Bensa 2006 ;Fabian 2006) et d’un sujet collectif (les habitants, les

Tibétains) ne rend pas justice aux données présentées. Le premier procédé opère un

découpage entre le temps de l’enquête et le récit qui hypostase l’altérité (Bensa 2006).

Bensa plaide a contrario pour un empirisme raisonné, afin de donner à voir des récits

incarnés et des situations « effectives, datées, circonstanciées », de manière à

substituer aux totalités des chroniques narratives et des actions ancrées dans la parole.

Une telle approche aurait permis à l’auteure de rendre visible davantage les Tibétains

dont il est question ainsi que la diversité des appartenances historiques dont ils se

réclament. Cette option microsociale paraît d’importance tant la substantialisation

anhistorique entretient des affinités épistémologiques avec l’approche culturaliste

propre au paradigme ambiant chinois de l’étude des nationalités minoritaires. Cette

approche privilégie un essentialisme supposant une stabilité qui modèle les individus et

la société de manière à figer les identités culturelles et les rendre éternelles et

immuables. L’auteure est particulièrement critique de cette approche reprise pour les

besoins du tourisme, mais aurait sans doute gagné à faire montre de la contingence

synchronique et diachronique de l’ethnicité locale pour éliminer tout malentendu.

5 Les marges sino-tibétaines sont aujourd’hui régulièrement analysées comme une zone

de contact, une région-tampon ou un entre-deux en raison des transformations

sociopolitiques et historiques qu’a connues la région sous l’influence du Tibet et de la

Chine. Cette région invite ainsi à considérer que les groupes ethniques en présence ne

se sont constitués comme des entités stables que dans la première moitié du XXe siècle.


438

En utilisant principalement des sources chinoises, on comprend que l’auteure a cherché

à montrer la force des politiques contemporaines de modernisation et de

développement chez les Tibétains de Pudacuo. On peut cependant regretter les limites

de son analyse sur l’ethnicité en raison de l’insuffisance de sources tibétaines et du

manque d’analyses approfondies concernant la manière dont les locaux définissent

leurs appartenances. L’ethnicité de ces marges sino-tibétaines est en effet très souvent

le fruit d’« intérêts locaux » (Harrell 1990), malgré l’influence du Tibet et de la Chine.

On se demande ainsi comment dans cette partie du Kham, on devient simplement

Tibétain alors qu’un demi-siècle auparavant c’est l’identité collective Khampa qui était

valorisée. L’exemple du cas na, un groupe ethnique nommé Mosuo en chinois mandarin

et vivant une situation similaire vis-à-vis des transformations induites par le

développement d’un tourisme de masse dans la région voisine du lac Lugu (Yunnan-

Sichuan), met en lumière une ethnicité complexe. L’appartenance à l’identité collective

na est en effet le fruit d’histoires de peuplement, de rites en partage dont l’émergence

dépend de la vie quotidienne qui ne peuvent se réduire au label ethnique Mosuo. La

documentation approfondie des histoires de vie a l’avantage de mettre en lumière la

possible ethnicité changeante entre générations. Dans le cas na, cela montre que,

lorsqu’on est né de parents tibétains, naxi ou pumi, on peut se revendiquer de

l’ethnicité na. Nombre de questionnements émergent également au sujet de

l’ethnographie. Quid de la reproduction sociale du groupe qui semble pouvoir osciller

entre une transmission matrilinéaire et patrilinéaire, de l’organisation du travail

agricole, des relations “familiales” villageoises et de l’importance des maisons ? Ces

thématiques abordées brièvement invitent à des prolongements pour documenter avec

finesse la transition d’une économie de subsistance vers une économie de marché et les

transformations de l’organisation sociale locale. Le développement touristique à l’aune

de l’instrumentalisation de l’identité culturelle tibétaine attire également l’attention

sur la nécessité d’insister sur les expériences vécues et les paroles des locaux, tout en

proposant une discussion comparative à l’échelle régionale. Depuis plus de quarante

ans, les politiques de développement par le tourisme ont en effet profondément

transformé les organisations sociales, les relations ethniques et la présentation de soi

dans les marges sino-tibétaines. Entrer dans le détail des intérêts différenciés des

acteurs du tourisme et analyser les différentes scènes et discours corollaires à ces

intérêts permettrait de mettre en lumière la marge de manœuvre et les tactiques

locales – dont celles concernant l’ethnicité. Comme le souligne Saskia Cousin (2010),

une anthropologue spécialiste de l’étude du tourisme, « l’étanchéité des catégories

émiques et étiques » nécessite d’interroger les stratégies rhétoriques des informateurs,

car les « guides et la promotion touristique recyclent en permanence les concepts et les

écrits ethnographiques ».

6 Ces quelques réflexions font cependant plus signe d’un intérêt personnel pour la

documentation de la question touristique, de la contingence des ethnicités et des

organisations sociales dans les marges sino-tibétaines. Nul doute que le travail mené

par Valérie Vandenabeele se pose en précurseur d’analyses des politiques écologiques

et conservationnistes de la nature touchant les territoires où vivent les nationalités

minoritaires de Chine. Il pose également les jalons d’une nécessaire documentation de

leurs conséquences sur la vie locale. La création du parc de Pudacuo en utilisant les

ressorts de l’imaginaire occidental sur le bouddhisme tibétain et le mythe d’un paradis

terrestre véhiculé autour de Shangri-La met ainsi en lumière l’utilisation de la

différence culturelle pour développer, moderniser et intégrer les Tibétains locaux. La


439

valorisation d’une culture en phase avec le monde chinois contemporain, l’ouverture

vers l’extérieur et l’accès à la société de consommation sont de nouveaux horizons

transformant leurs modes de vie, mais dont ils comptent bien tirer parti. C’est en ce

sens un ouvrage qu’un lectorat large pourra apprécier en ce qu’il défait nombre de

procédés d’exotisation chinois ou occidentaux qui participent à mythifier l’identité

culturelle tibétaine et le bouddhisme.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Bensa, A. 2006 La fin de l’exotisme. Essais d’anthropologie critique (Toulouse, Anacharsis).

Cousin, S. 2010 Le tourisme à l’épreuve de l’enquête, à moins que cela ne soit l’inverse,

EspacesTemps.net [en ligne, URL : https://www.espacestemps.net/articles/le-tourisme-a-epreuve-

de-enquete/, consulté le 18 décembre 2021].

Fabian, J. 2006 Le temps et les autres. Comment l’anthropologie construit son objet (Toulouse,

Anacharsis).

Harrell, S. 1990 Ethnicity, local interests, and the state. Yi communities in Southwest China,

Comparative Studies in Society and History 32(3) pp. 515-548.

AUTEURS

PASCALE-MARIE MILAN

Chercheure associée au LARHRA (UMR 5190), actuellement un postdoctorat à l’EFEO


440

https://www.espacestemps.net/articles/le-tourisme-a-epreuve-de-enquete/

https://www.espacestemps.net/articles/le-tourisme-a-epreuve-de-enquete/

Sneath David, Mongolia remade. Post-socialist National Culture, PoliticalEconomy, and CosmopoliticsAmsterdam, Amsterdam University Press, North East Asian Studies, 2018,226 pages, 9 illustrations n&b, ISBN 9789462989566

Isabelle Charleux

RÉFÉRENCE

Sneath David, Mongolia remade. Post-socialist National Culture, Political Economy, and

Cosmopolitics, Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press, 2018

1 Cet ouvrage rassemble dix chapitres sur la politique, la société, l’économie et la religion

de la Mongolie des XXe et XXIe siècles – à l’exception de l’introduction et de la

conclusion, tous ont été publiés précédemment entre 2004 et 2014, sous forme

d’articles ou de chapitres de livre1. Anthropologue renommé, David Sneath y analyse la

société mongole à l’« âge du marché » (zah zeliin üje) après 1990, au prisme de théories

anthropologiques. Si les thématiques abordées sont essentiellement contemporaines –

la fabrique d’une culture et d’une identité nationales, les transformations de

l’économie politique et la réintroduction de politiques cosmologiques –, l’auteur offre

également une perspective historique afin de souligner des continuités, des parallèles

ou encore des ruptures ou des réinventions.

2 À la suite de l’introduction (chapitre 1) qui propose un excellent résumé de l’histoire

mongole, le chapitre 2 « Mapping and the headless state. Rethinking national populist

concepts of Mongolia » (précédemment publié : Sneath 2011) reprend la thèse

provocatrice de son ouvrage The Headless State (Sneath 2007a2) selon laquelle depuis les

Xiongnu, les peuples des steppes ont toujours été des sociétés stratifiées dominées par

des aristocraties héréditaires et établies sur des territoires comparables à des États. Le

terme « mongol », par exemple, ne s’appliquait qu’aux descendants de Gengis khan,


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avant de devenir une catégorie ethno-nationale au XXe siècle. Il est donc impropre de

parler de « tribus » et de « clans » : le mythe de sociétés tribales tire son origine de la

théorie évolutionniste du XIXe siècle qui voyait dans la parenté le principe organisateur

de base des sociétés non étatiques. Comment alors « cartographier » les Mongols ? Doit-

on les circonscrire aux citoyens mongols de la nation moderne ou y inclure les Mongols

de Chine, les Oirats, les Kalmouks, les Bouriates, les Mongols du Yunnan, les

descendants des Mongols en Afghanistan, ou encore l’empire Moghol3 ? La discussion

passionnante convoque les débats occidentaux sur les notions d’état et de nation depuis

le XIXe siècle, sur l’historiographie marxiste, sur les conséquences des différentes

traductions possibles du terme ulus (mo. cyr. uls : peuple, nation, État, domaine,

apanage, etc.) et trace un parallèle entre la représentation des « tribus nomades » des

steppes et celle des « invasions germaniques ». Les Germains n’ont pas « remplacé » les

Romains qui auraient migré, de même que les Xianbei n’ont pas remplacé les Xiongnu :

les populations locales ont pris l’identité politique de leurs nouveaux souverains. Pour

D. Sneath, c’est le concept de « royaume dynastique » de Benedict Anderson qui s’avère

le plus utile pour comprendre ces aristocraties des steppes et en particulier le « Grand

ulus/royaume mongol » (sur ces débats, on se réfèrera notamment aux travaux de

Christopher Atwood, Johan Elverskog et Lhamsuren Munkh-Erdene).

3 Le chapitre 3, « The rural and the urban in pastoral Mongolia » (publié précédemment :

Sneath 2005) analyse les processus d’urbanisation et de désurbanisation (un terme qui

désigne des citadins qui se sont reconvertis dans l’élevage dans les années 1990, mais

l’article a plus de quinze ans et c’est au contraire un exode rural massif vers les

quartiers de yourtes de la banlieue d’Ulaanbaatar que l’on observe aujourd’hui).

L’auteur évoque les différentes formes d’urbanisation et de sédentarisation

présocialistes, puis la construction de centres de districts et l’urbanisation à l’époque

socialiste. Il montre qu’à l’« âge du marché » le fossé se creuse entre citadins et ruraux,

entre l’image de la ville, symbole de modernité, et celle de la campagne, préservant les

« traditions ». Ces deux « pôles » sont néanmoins complémentaires et symbiotiques,

comme en témoigne l’importance des relations qui les traversent.

4 Le chapitre 4, intitulé « Proprietary regimes and sociotechnical systems. Rights over

land in Mongolia’s ‘age of the market’ » (publié précédemment : Sneath 2004), étudie

les changements de propriété de la terre et les controverses actuelles sur l’introduction

de la propriété privée. Avant la période socialiste, l’emphase est mise sur l’usage des

pâturages qui appartiennent aux esprits-maîtres du territoire (gazryn ezen). D. Sneath

donne une description fine du pastoralisme comme « système sociotechnique » opérant

à différents niveaux, de la famille aux nobles et aux monastères possédant de

nombreux troupeaux, puis aux coopératives de la période socialiste (negdel). Les

économies d’échelles des plus grandes structures permettaient de dégager des surplus

et surtout de répartir les risques ; après 1990, l’atomisation des unités pastorales rend

au contraire les éleveurs plus vulnérables aux catastrophes naturelles. D. Sneath étudie

diverses tentatives de coopératives, d’assurances et d’associations pour conclure que

c’est avant tout l’usage extensif de réseaux, familiaux et sociaux, qui fut vital pour

permettre aux éleveurs d’accéder à des biens et services.

5 Dans le chapitre 5, « Political mobilization and the construction of collective identity in

Mongolia » (pulié précédemment : Sneath 2010), l’auteur reprend et prolonge le thème

du chapitre 2 sur la construction de l’identité nationale et des minorités ethniques. Les

notions de nation et de tradition deviennent des ressources tant pour les politiciens qui


442

les convoquent dans des rituels politico-religieux, tels les rituels aux montagnes

sacrées, que pour les mobilisations populaires (notamment « ethniques » et

environnementales). D. Sneath analyse ensuite le rôle éventuel de l’appartenance

ethnique, de la parenté et de l’origine géographique (la terre natale, nutag) dans

différentes formes de mobilisations, réseaux, partis politiques, lobbys, conseils locaux

et autres types de groupements.

6 Dans le chapitre 6, « The “ age of the market” and the regime of debt. The role of credit

in the transformation of pastoral Mongolia » (précédemment publié : Sneath 2012),

l’auteur s’intéresse à l’expansion du crédit bancaire et de l’endettement généralisé pour

faire face à des revenus aléatoires, et analyse le vocabulaire de la dette. Un retour sur

l’histoire Qing permet de faire un parallèle avec les différents types de dettes

contractées auprès de marchands chinois. Au XXIe siècle, si l’endettement est encouragé

pour faire face aux aléas, notamment les fluctuations des prix dues à l’insertion dans

les marchés globaux et les catastrophes climatiques, et est vu par la Banque mondiale

comme favorisant le développement et les investissements, il mène en réalité à un

appauvrissement croissant des familles plus démunies.

7 Le chapitre 7, « Reading the signs by Lenin’s light. Development, divination and

metonymic fields in Mongolia » (publié précédemment : Sneath 2009), compare les

champs métonymiques de deux objets apparemment contradictoires, l’électricité

(emblème métonymique de la modernité) et la scapulomancie (pratique divinatoire à

l’aide d’une omoplate de mouton), qui ont coexisté malgré la « colonisation de

l’imagination » communiste. C’est parce que l’électricité était perçue comme une

nouvelle technologie « magique » que la scapulomancie avait encore du sens à l’ère du

progrès et de la modernité (sur les métaphores de la lumière, voir l’ouvrage récent

d’Abrahms-Kavunenko 2019).

8 Les deux chapitres suivants portent sur les cairns rituels appelés « ovoo », qui avaient

fait l’objet de son premier ouvrage basé sur des enquêtes menées en 1987-1988 dans les

ligues du Shilingol et du Hulunbuir en Mongolie-Intérieure (Sneath 2000). Le chapitre 8,

« Ritual idioms and spatial orders. Comparing the rites for Mongolian and Tibetan ‘local

deities’ » (publié précédemment : Sneath 2007b) compare les cairns rituels du Tibet

(tib. la rtse) et de Mongolie. D. Sneath y analyse un des plus anciens textes rituels

connus4, antérieur d’environ cent ans aux célèbres textes rédigés par Mergen gegen

Lubsangdambijalsan (1717-1766).

9 Cet « idiome politico-rituel » – le rituel aux cairns (ovoo) étant une expression de l’ordre

politique et cosmologique – est analysé plus en profondeur dans le chapitre 9,

« Nationalising civilisational resources. Sacred mountains and cosmopolitical ritual in

Mongolia » (publié précédemment : Sneath 2014). Reprenant de Marisol de la Cadena

(2010) le concept de « cosmo-politique » (les « non-humains » étant des acteurs de

l’arène politique), D. Sneath étudie les versions contemporaines des rites adressés aux

esprits-maîtres du territoire et leur rôle dans la construction de la nation, la

cosmologie étant utilisée comme ressource pour la construction d’une culture

nationale (et nationaliste). Il décrit le rituel d’État à la montagne Altan Höhii (province

de Hovd) qu’il a observé en 2009 et, au niveau micro-politique, les rituels de deux

chamanes qui servent de mediums à des esprits-maîtres du territoire, ceux-ci

s’exprimant à travers elles contre l’exploitation minière et la pollution, sur la base

d’enquêtes menées en 2008 et 2011.


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10 Le chapitre final, « Mongolian capitalism », est une excellente analyse inédite de

l’économie politique de la Mongolie contemporaine : D. Sneath tente de caractériser la

forme particulière qui émerge après l’effondrement du système socialiste, qu’il propose

de qualifier de « capitalisme oligarchique » comparable au « capitalisme patrimonial »

de Thomas Piketty, dans lequel la richesse héritée domine l’économie. Il y évoque la

privatisation des entreprises et des terres, la difficile émergence d’une classe moyenne

et les inégalités qui se creusent entre les « super-riches » issus de l’alliance entre

politiques et businessmen (une trentaine de familles) et une majorité de pauvres (près

d’un tiers des Mongols vivant en-dessous du seuil de pauvreté en 2016), la dépendance

croissante de la Mongolie des marchés globaux, la corruption et les reconfigurations

des partis politiques, la croissance de l’économie informelle – notamment le

« phénomène ninja » (mineurs illégaux) –, enfin, ce qu’il appelle le « nutagisme » (que

l’on peut traduire par localisme), culte de la terre natale favorisant la constitution de

réseaux locaux.

11 Les articles ont été réédités au format de l’ouvrage, avec une bibliographie unique en

fin de volume ; un index aurait justement été utile à ce type de publication. Une telle

collection d’articles entraîne d’inévitables répétitions, notamment sur la période

socialiste et sur le culte des montagnes5. L’ouvrage, notamment l’analyse inédite du

chapitre 10, sera particulièrement utile aux chercheurs et étudiants s’intéressant à la

Mongolie contemporaine. Si la plupart des articles sont facilement consultables en

bibliothèque, certains chapitres de livres sont plus difficiles à trouver. On peut

néanmoins estimer que le prix de 85 € est excessif pour un ouvrage de 226 pages

(d’autant plus que l’introduction est gratuitement téléchargeable sur le site de

l’éditeur).

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Abrahms-Kavunenko, S. 2019 Enlightenment and the Gasping City. Mongolian Buddhism at a Time of

Environmental Disarray (Ithaca/London, Cornell University Press).

Cadena, M. de la 2010 Indigenous cosmopolitics in the Andes. Conceptual reflections beyond

politics, Cultural Anthropology 25(2), pp. 334-370.

Sneath, D. 2000 Changing Inner Mongolia. Pastoral Mongolian Society and the Chinese State (Oxford,

New York, Auckland, Oxford University Press).

2004 Proprietary regimes and sociotechnical systems. Rights over land in Mongolia’s “age of the

market”, in K. Verdery & C. Humphrey (dirs), Property in Question. Value transformation in the global

economy (Oxford/ New York, Berg), pp. 161-182.

2005 The rural and the urban in pastoral Mongolia, in O. Bruun & N. Li (dirs), Mongolians from

Country to City. Floating Boundaries, Pastoralism and City Life in the Mongol Lands (University of Hawaii

Press, Honolulu), pp. 140-161.

2007a The Headless State. Aristocratic Orders, Kinship Society, & Misrepresentations of Nomadic Inner Asia

(New York, Columbia University Press).

2007b Ritual idioms and spatial orders. Comparing the rites for Mongolian and Tibetan “local


444

deities”, in U. E. Bulag & H. G. M. Diemberger (dirs), The Mongolia-Tibet Interface. Opening New

Research Terrains in Inner Asia. Proceedings of the Tenth Seminar of the IATS, 2003 (Leiden/Boston,

Brill, Brill’s Tibetan Studies Library 9), pp. 135-158.

2009 Reading the signs by Lenin’s light. Development, divination and metonymic fields in

Mongolia, Ethnos 74(1), pp. 72-90.

2010 Political mobilization and the construction of collective identity in Mongolia, Central Asian

Survey 29(3), pp. 251-267.

2011 Mapping and the Headless State. Rethinking national populist concepts of Mongolia, in

P. L. W. Sabloff (dir.), Mapping Mongolia. Situating Mongolia in the World from Geologic Time to the

Present (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press), pp. 34-59.

2012 The “age of the market” and the regime of debt. The role of credit in the transformation of

pastoral Mongolia, Social Anthropology/Anthropologie Sociale 20(4), pp. 458-473.



NOTES

1. Ce compte rendu précise les références originelles des articles et des chapitres qui

étonnamment ne sont pas données dans le livre ; les éditeurs sont simplement remerciés page 7.

2. L’article originel publié en 2011 contenait une note indiquant qu’il reproduisait des extraits de

l’ouvrage The Headless State ; cette note n’a pas été reproduite dans le chapitre 2 de l’ouvrage

recensé ici.

3. Il est dommage que le présent ouvrage n’ait pas reproduit les deux cartes présentes dans le

chapitre d’origine.

4. Ce texte écrit entre 1649 et 1691, conservé à la Bibliothèque centrale de Mongolie à

Ulaanbaatar, a été publié par U. Erdenetuja en 2002. D. Sneath en donne une traduction en

anglais en annexe de l’ouvrage, pp. 211-214.

5. On note également un manque de cohérence dans les transcriptions. Même au sein d’un même

chapitre, l’auteur hésite entre différentes transcriptions du mongol classique et cyrillique

(Zakhchin, Zakhachin p. 52 ; törö, törü, tör, pp. 44, 50, 51).

AUTEURS

ISABELLE CHARLEUX

GSRL, UMR 8582, CNRS - EPHE, PSL, Paris (France)


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Bumochir Dulam, The State, PopularMobilization and Gold Mining inMongolia. Shaping “Neoliberal” PoliciesLondon, UCL Press, 2020, 232 pages, ISBN 978-1-78735-184-4

Sandagsuren Undargaa

REFERENCES

Bumochir Dulam, The State, Popular Mobilization and Gold Mining in Mongolia. Shaping

“Neoliberal” Policies, London, UCL Press, 2020

1 Currently in Mongolia, it seems as though history is repeating itself to some extent. Just

as in the early 20th century, Mongolians are again determining their socio-economic

and political trajectories in re-building the nation-state. Dissimilar to the previous

century’s bloody political conflict that built a socialist nation-state based on Marxism-

Leninism, current 21st century Mongolians are wrangling about the potential benefits

of neoliberal reforms of building a capitalist nation state. Moreover, unlike the

20th century, these last few years have shown a small number of Mongolians striving for

limited opportunities, at the international level, to reflect on the transition from an

insider perspective. As such, this dramatic ideological shift of the 1990s transition is

thoroughly captured in the recently published book, The State, Popular Mobilization and

Gold Mining in Mongolia. Shaping “Neoliberal” policies, by Dulam Bumochir. This book

allows an opportunity to contemplate on the swift transition process, by affording a

great deal of analysis on the ways in which specific ideological discourses are

constructed and employed to justify prioritization of certain development trajectories.

This occurs vividly in the context of resource politics in Mongolia. As Bumochir

elaborates, state and non-state national and multi-national agents in different socio-

political strata, when dealing with resource politics, employ various ideologies and

concepts and interpret them in their own way, which are suited for accomplishing a

political end. For that matter, the author, indeed, makes nuanced analysis a priority


446

towards building an overarching argument in order to produce an open ended,

objective debate of this era. While engaging with most of the major discourses

regarding Mongolia’s path towards democracy and market economy, the author

creatively aims at exploring “how the identification of precarity on these issues

constructs a political discourse that politician uses to justify the establishment of

‘mining capitalism’” (p. 24) or the pursuit of environmentalism for that matter.

Bumochir employs indigenization as a fresh analytical focus. This is enlightening in the

way that the author exposes layers of complexities, which are weaved into the

interactions between numerous agents involved in resource politics. As a result,

Bumochir argues, the application of neoliberal reforms often come face to face with

nationalists and are engulfed in indigenization processes at the local and national level,

which in turn shapes neoliberalism in Mongolia. This indicates that the author

challenges the oversimplified mainstream development thinking that neoliberal

reforms often shape developing contexts. In other words, the author pushes the

conceptual boundaries beyond the popular analytical impasse, such as powerful multi-

national mining corporations vs powerless state and/or local community, or resource

curse and resource nationalism.

2 Bumochir uncovers the fact that there are broader analytical dimensions out there,

potentially available for adequate examination of the following contradictory positions,

which prevailed in resource politics in Mongolia. The argument of this book is

consistently constructed around two major concepts – neoliberalization and

indigenization – which are then centered on two inarguably equivocal themes: a) sector

based ideological distinction persists between neo-liberal mining capitalism vs

nationalist or traditional environmentalism/pastoralism, and b) the state acts as the

sole, legitimate agent for exercising control and sorting out conflicts in resource

governance. The author provides excellent structure in each chapter to build and

articulate his overarching argument, whilst perpetually contemplating on these

concepts and themes. Each chapter begins with its own theoretical lens identified upon

a coherent and concise discussion of up to date conceptual frameworks. This sheds

light on the ways in which agents subsequently determine their development

discourses and build narratives to justify arguments. The author concludes each

chapter with a conceptual argument as a bridge to the next chapter. The theme of an

ideologically distinct neo-liberal mining sector is established in chapters 1 and 3.

Bumochir investigates the ways in which a few politically and economically connected

prominent public figures, representing the state and private sectors, justified their

motives towards promoting neoliberal mining reforms and boosting the national

economy of Mongolia. These agents found the economic situation for Mongolia

vulnerable as its two primary neighbors (China, Russia) were emerging as geo-political

powers, and were pursuing ideological positions unsuitable for Mongolia at the time.

They emphasized that the national economy was in a precarious situation, one which

could potentially affect Mongolia’s political independence. Therefore, they allowed the

flows of revenue coming from the liberalized mining sector, even if they had to

navigate statist and nationalist policies when necessary. Here, the author left potential

room for further analysis regarding the conflicting themes of neoliberal mining

capitalism versus nationalist and/or traditionalist environmentalism/pastoralism. In

Mongolia, neo-liberal policy reforms also swept through both the environmental and

pastoral sectors indifferently. It introduced exclusive group use rights for conservation

purposes and individual possession rights to campsites, triggering a process of


447

privatizing rights or commoditizing rights (transfer/sale of certification of lease). As a

response, the pastoral sector, specifically, also experienced a fair share of contestation

and then the indigenization process, only to be survived by a hybrid property form of

public use of pasture and private use of campsites. Overall, this reform resulted in

certain socially and environmentally detrimental outcomes. A number of campsites

increased, resulting in the reduction of available pastoral resources between campsites

and causing regional or micro level overgrazing and growing disputes (Undargaa 2016).

3 In chapters 2 and 4, along the lines of exploring the adequacy of a resource curse or

resource nationalism for examining resource politics in Mongolia, Bumochir addresses

issues of growing opposition to neoliberal mining reforms by both environmentalist

and nationalist mining proponents and their nationalist and statist policies. In this

scenario, all agents, regardless of perspective, invariably approached the state as the

legitimate actor or platform to pursue control, mediate and reconcile between

opposing positions. Different agents criticize the state, the author depicts, for

diminishing neoliberal mining reforms by exercising too much control or overlooking

environmental or nationalist mining causes by exercising too little control. This

depiction could benefit from further clarity regarding the complex role the Mongolian

state has played in the historically interdependent state and community co-

management (different from the one promoted by the international development) over

natural resources (Undargaa 2016). For instance, Ch. Khurts (Ch. Hurts), the former

minister of Mining, made an excellent point about the need for balanced involvement

of the state in mining reforms to reflect the historical governance of natural resources,

people, and culture in Mongolia, rather than excessive state control being captured by

international powers in both the socialist and post-socialist periods (pp. 46, 55). By

radically following Soviet Russian introduction of resource nationalism under

contemporary state property regime, the Mongolian socialist-state shifted its historical

state/public ownership (Lattimore 1932) to state property under the 1940’s

constitution. On behalf of the public, the state performed a dominant and exclusive

management role, and only allowed local deputy assemblies to represent herders to

perform mostly nominal management roles. Since then, particularly after the 1990s,

those representing the state, in fact, have continued exercising exclusive control in the

environmental and pastoral sectors, either by imposing neoliberal reforms or

conservationist policies. The state allows appropriation of rural jurisdictional

territories for the purpose of special-use areas, protected areas, mining, intensive

farming and crop-cultivation. This is mostly without much consideration and

consultation for excluding and/or displacing herders’ from their jurisdictional grazing

territories. Thus, in this book, the concern of the absence of the state in environmental

protection is mainly attributed to mobile pastoralism.

4 This distinction is particularly relevant to chapters 5 and 6, in which Bumochir

extensively addresses two opposing positions regarding the role of pastoralism in re-

enforcing environmental protection and national identity: pastoralism is attributed to

being the foundation of an original environmental society vs pastoralism perceived as

unsustainable environmental practice. The author provides a thorough and proficient

conceptual background to environmentally and socially embedded pastoralism, which

is an inarguably strong position held by Ts. Munkhbayar (Ts. Mönhbayar), the leader of

the environmental movement alliance. The author subsequently incorporated

Munkhbayar’s point of pastoralism being important to the natural environment, the

national identity and the independence of Mongolia in his concluding argument by


448

referring to the cultural and spiritual significance of pastoralism (p. 132). This

argument could be analyzed further referring to the significance of pastoralism as

political economy – the governance of pastoral people and pastoral production – which

in fact provides a very real benefit for the above causes. Munkhbayar managed to

transform, the author highlights, a local environmental protest movement into a

national socio-political cause by successfully allying with the political interests of state

and non-state agents at regional and national levels (pp. 91-92). This was to draw

attention to the absence of the state in addressing environmental damage, caused by

mining and inflicted upon jurisdictions of pastoral people throughout Mongolia.

Munkhbayar’s call for such broader political collaboration is inevitable and a necessary

step for the following reason. The governance of pastoral people and production is

firmly rooted in an historically interdependent state and local community (currently

local administration and civil representative assembly) co-management towards

pursuing a pastoral economy. This system is specifically tailored and customized for

obtaining political and economic benefits from the existing dry-land ecology (Sneath

2007). Since the 1990s, failure of state policies and involvement in maintaining this

historical pastoral institution has manifested in abolishing historically statutory

mechanisms (tax, jurisdictional control/maintenance over the movement of labour,

livestock and pasture/water) and affected local level co-management in many ways.

Some local level co-management in pastoral governance and the environmental

protection has survived to some degree, whilst others struggle depending upon the

interests, capacity and ability of different agents to successfully collaborate (Ariell

2016; Undargaa 2016). In other words, the problem of open access prevailing at the

national legislative level often leaves local co-management exposed to vulnerabilities

and persevering by their own means (Undargaa & McCarthy 2016). This is unlike some

revisionists’ misreading of pastoralism, in which open access prevailed in community

pastoral practice and caused land degradation (pp. 123-130). Moreover, the significance

of pastoralism has often been realized as a social safety-net, providing food security, in

addition to other cultural and spiritual aspects of pastoralism, especially, when

historically interdependent state and local co-management of governance of pastoral

people and production was maintained.

5 In brief, Bumochir maps previously unexplored territories with intricate conceptual

debates in resource politics, particularly with regard to stakeholder analysis. Whilst

providing details of once publicly unavailable state level security and personal

information, the author unpacks events and information of an intense nature as

engaging and comprehensive reading with twisting arguments. This is thanks to his

creative story-telling, an intelligible structure, nuance, and a flowing text. In this

regard, this book appeals a great deal to both academic and non-academic readers.


449

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Ariell, A. 2016 The role of kinship in negotiating territorial rights. Exploring claims for winter

pasture ownership in Mongolia, Inner Asia 18(2), pp. 245-264.

Lattimore, O. 1932 Manchuria. Cradle of Conflict (Toronto, The Macmillan Company of Canada).

Sneath, D. 2007 The Headless State (New York, Columbia University Press).

Undargaa, S. 2016 Pastoralism and Common Pool Resources. Rangeland Co-Management, Property Rights

and Access in Mongolia (Oxon New York, Routledge).

Undargaa, S. & J. F. McCarthy 2016 Beyond property. Co-management and pastoral resource

access in Mongolia, World Development 77, pp. 367-379.

AUTHORS

SANDAGSUREN UNDARGAA

Australian National University, Canberra, Australia

[email protected]


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Tsultemin Uranchimeg, A Monasteryon the Move. Art and Politics in LaterBuddhist MongoliaHonolulu, University of Hawai‘i Press, 2020, xx+283 pages,ISBN 9780824878306

Isabelle Charleux

RÉFÉRENCE

Tsultemin Uranchimeg, A Monastery on the Move. Art and Politics in Later Buddhist

Mongolia, Honolulu, University of Hawai‘i Press, 2020

1 A Monastery on the Move présente l’histoire d’Ikh Khüree (Ih hüree) – connu des

Occidentaux sous le nom d’Ourga (< mo. Örgöö, « palais ou tente d’un khan ou d’une

personne de rang », en l’occurrence le Jebtsundampa khutugtu [Žavzandamba

hutagt]) – à travers son architecture et sa production artistique bouddhique1. Fondé en

1639 par Öndör gegen Zanabazar (1635-1723), le Ier Jebtsundampa, Ikh Khüree était un

monastère itinérant et siège politique du pontife des Khalkha (Halh). L’ouvrage porte

plus particulièrement sur la production artistique du Ier et du VIIIe Jebtsundampa – soit

Zanabazar, surnommé par les Mongols le « Michel-Ange » de Mongolie, et le Bogd khan

(Bogd han, 1869/70-1924) qui gouverna la Mongolie autonome de 1911 à 1921 – à partir

d’objets qui ont échappé à la destruction à grande échelle du patrimoine matériel

mongol pendant les purges communistes de 1937 à 1939 (voir l’inventaire du

patrimoine d’Ikh Khüree réalisé par Teleki 2015).

2 Le célèbre peintre et historien d’art Nyam-Osoryn Tsültem (Njam-Osoryn Cültem,

1923-2001), père de l’auteure, a été le premier à étudier l’art bouddhique mongol dans

sa thèse de doctorat (en russe), publiée en 1982. Il y développe l’existence d’un style

pictural proprement mongol, le « Mongol zurag », et qualifie d’« école » l’art de

Zanabazar et d’Ikh Khüree. Le public français a découvert les peintures et sculptures

d’Ikh Khüree, dont les onze plus célèbres statues de Zanabazar, à Paris en 1993-1994


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lors de l’exposition « Trésors de Mongolie » au musée des arts asiatiques – Guimet (N.-

O. Tsültem était alors venu en personne donner une conférence au musée). Gilles

Béguin, spécialiste des arts tibétains et himalayens, conservateur du musée et

commissaire de l’exposition, avait alors le premier souligné l’influence néware de la

statuaire de Zanabazar (Aubin & Béguin 1993 ; voir également l’exposition américaine

« Mongolia, the Legacy of Chinggis Khan », Berger & Bartholomew 1995). Mais à part les

catalogues de ces expositions, l’art bouddhique d’Ikh Khüree n’avait suscité que peu

d’études.

3 A Monastery on the Move d’Uranchimeg Tsultemin est l’aboutissement d’un travail

commencé lors de sa thèse de doctorat soutenue à l’Université de Californie à Berkeley

en 2009 sous la direction de Patricia Berger, éminente spécialiste de l’art « sino-

tibétain » des Qing. Une première version fut publiée en mongol en 2016 (Urančimeg

20162). Partant de la culture matérielle – statues de bronze et de terre, stupas,

peintures, cartes, architectures, sceaux, photographies de bâtiments disparus –,

U. Tsultemin formule de nouvelles hypothèses sur l’histoire d’Ikh Khüree. Elle utilise

une variété de sources écrites – hagiographies/biographies des Jebtsundampa, écrits

d’Agwaan Khaidav (Agvaan Hajdav, 1779-1838), abbé d’Ikh Khüree, chroniques

historiques, documents d’archives, biographie secrète mongole de Tāranātha,

prophéties du Bogd khan, prières, manuscrits conservés dans une collection privée – et

accorde une place particulière à l’histoire orale, notamment aux nombreuses légendes

qui circulent en Mongolie sur Tāranātha et Zanabazar. L’ouvrage intègre une

découverte archéologique majeure qui vient confirmer les intuitions de sa thèse : les

ruines du monastère Saridag (Sar’dag, nom officiel : Ribogejai gandan shaddubling

[Ribogežaj gandan šaddublin]) fondé par Zanabazar dans les monts Khan Khentii (Han

Hentij) de 1654 à 1686 et rasé par les Zunghar en 1689 (voir également, dans ce numéro,

le compte rendu de l’ouvrage dirigé par S. Čuluun en 2019).

4 U. Tsultemin aborde l’art et l’architecture religieux comme des instruments essentiels

(des « agents actifs ») dans la conversion des Khalkha au bouddhisme. Les

Jebtsundampa, à commencer par Zanabazar, se sont appuyés sur le pouvoir de l’image.

L’objectif de leur production aurait été avant tout politique : légitimation du pouvoir,

promotion du lignage des Jebtsundampa pour en faire l’équivalent de celui du dalaï-

lama et du panchen-lama pour les Khalkha, et remodelage de l’identité de Zanabazar en

religieux gélukpa (il était initialement reconnu comme une réincarnation de l’historien

tibétain jonangpa Tāranātha)3. L’analyse de portraits de Zanabazar et du Bogd khan

mène l’auteure à adopter la thèse du « gouvernement bouddhique » (tör shashin [tör

šašin], tib. chos srid) développée précédemment par Sung Soo Kim et Peter Schwieger,

qui diffère du « gouvernement duel » (khoyor yos [hoyor ës], tib. lugs gnyis)45 puisqu’il

réunit en une même personne les pouvoirs religieux et politique, mais en subordonnant

le second au premier. Zanabazar l’a rêvé (mais en 1691, à l’initiative de Zanabazar et de

son frère le Tüsheet khan [Tüšeet han], les Khalkha deviennent sujets de l’empereur

Qing), le Bogd khan l’a réalisé lorsqu’il gouverne la Mongolie autonome. Cette

conceptualisation mongole du pouvoir politique hérite autant de la conceptualisation

bouddhique que gengiskhanide, puisque les Jebtsundampa sont d’ascendance

gengiskhanide par le sang ou par la réincarnation. Cependant, la relation que

développa Zanabazar avec l’empereur mandchou Kangxi (r. 1662-1722) était de type

mchod yon, liant le maître spirituel, qui donne des enseignements et des initiations, et le

donateur laïc, qui protège et patronne la communauté bouddhique.


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5 Le chapitre 1 retrace la biographie de Zanabazar et présente ses fondations

monastiques. L’auteure montre que sa résidence et monastère, Ikh Khüree, adopte la

mobilité pour deux raisons stratégiques : la première, pour établir l’autorité religieuse

de Zanabazar sur tous les Khalkha, le Jebtsundampa n’étant alors qu’une réincarnation

parmi d’autres ; la seconde, dans un but prosélyte, pour propager la doctrine

bouddhique sur de grandes distances. Tsultemin propose de voir en Ikh Khüree le

campement monastique central par rapport à deux autres fondations itinérantes du

pontife, le monastère « de droite/de l’ouest » (Baruun khüree [Baruun hüree], fondé en

1647, qui se sédentarisa au sud d’Erdene zuu : actuel Shankh khiid [Šanh hijd]) et le

monastère « de gauche/de l’est » (Züün khüree [Züün hüree], sur le fleuve Kherlen

[Herlen]), tous trois comprenant le même type de salle d’assemblée démontable6. Le

déménagement à une vingtaine de reprises de ce monastère géant requérait des

ressources considérables en temps, en main-d’œuvre et en argent. Zanabazar fonda par

ailleurs deux autres monastères (appelés « khiid [hijd] »), sédentaires : Tövkhön

(Tövhön) et Saridag. Selon Tsultemin, au contraire des monastères itinérants (khüree

[hüree]), ouverts aux laïcs, ces monastères « khiid » construits en dur dans des sites peu

accessibles auraient été initialement des lieux de méditation. Si cela ne fait aucun doute

pour Tövkhön khiid, qui a conservé des grottes de méditation, il me semble difficile,

étant donné sa taille remarquable, de considérer Saridag comme un monastère

érémitique, dédié à la contemplation. Plus probablement, comme beaucoup de

monastères situés dans des lieux peu accessibles, on peut parler à Saridag d’une

orientation plus « académique » (mettant l’accent sur la formation des moines) que

« ritualiste » selon la division communément établie, la principale activité des

monastères ritualistes étant d’effectuer des rituels pour les laïcs. Zanabazar semble

avoir voulu faire de Saridag le principal centre de formation des moines mongols, sur le

modèle des grandes institutions monastiques gélukpa du Tibet central. Comme le

montre Hatanbaatar (2011-2012), Saridag peut en fait être considéré comme la pré-

incarnation d’Ikh Khüree.

6 Le chapitre 2 analyse les œuvres attribuées à Zanabazar – une quarantaine de statues

en bronze réalisées à la cire perdue, les statues en terre de Saridag et quelques

peintures – et montre que le style, et surtout les iconographies choisies, telles que les

cinq Tathāgata, Vajradhara, Vajrasattva, Maitreya, les vingt-et-une Tārā, Vasudhārā et

Jambhala, sont originaux si on les compare à la production contemporaine gélukpa du

Tibet central. Les portraits surprenants de Zanabazar le dépeignant en chef de famille

mongole découpant une queue de mouton, abondamment diffusés par xylographie,

contrastent avec ses portraits plus conventionnels.

7 Pour comprendre qui était Zanabazar, il apparaît donc insuffisant de se baser

uniquement sur sa première biographie rédigée par son disciple Zaya Pandita

Luvsanprinlei (Zaja Pandita Luvsanprinlej, 1642-1715), qui le présente comme gélukpa.

Il semble que Zanabazar ait cherché à créer une tradition proprement mongole et

inclusive, en continuité avec la tradition impériale mongole, tout en puisant également

des références à l’art tibétain du premier millénaire. Les chaînons, cependant,

manquent pour comprendre comment la mémoire de l’art bouddhique impérial se

serait transmise jusqu’à Zanabazar. À part quelques statues attribuées à son « école »

ou « atelier », son art n’a pas eu de postérité : ses successeurs sont « rentrés dans les

rangs » gélukpa.


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8 De nombreuses questions demeurent sans réponse, incitant Tsultemin à formuler des

hypothèses sur la localisation des ateliers de fonderies – à Saridag ? –, sur l’influence

néware, et sur l’attribution d’œuvres à Zanabazar. Elle soutient que l’art de Zanabazar

(qui privilégiait des iconographies paisibles) avait pour but d’être accessible au plus

grand nombre et devait sembler familier aux Mongols – mais le succès du grand

missionnaire Neichi Toin (1557-1653) n’est-il pas attribué notamment à sa promotion

d’iconographies courroucées pour remplacer les supports d’esprits chamaniques

(ongon) ?

9 Le chapitre 3 se concentre sur la fabrique de l’identité gélukpa de Zanabazar par ses

disciples, notamment à partir de son soi-disant autoportrait, d’un portrait officiel

supposément peint par le lama-artiste Agwaan Sharav (Agvaan Šarav, m. 1841) (une

commande de l’empereur Qing), et de la comparaison de ses différentes biographies.

Cette identité gélukpa-Qing se manifeste dans le style pictural mêlant influences

chinoises et tibétaines. Malgré cela, les sources orales, et des traditions comme le culte

du crâne de Tāranātha à Ikh Khüree montrent que l’adhésion de Zanabazar au

bouddhisme « rouge » (notamment jonangpa et sakyapa) n’a pas été complètement

oubliée.

10 Dans le chapitre 4, Tsultemin étudie en quoi les portraits des successeurs de Zanabazar,

tous nés au Tibet à l’exception du deuxième Jebtsundampa, établissent l’identité de ce

lignage au sein de l’empire Qing. Elle examine les questions de ressemblance (les

portraits du huitième étant basés sur des photographies), de codes visuels, du caractère

public ou privé des portraits, de leur fonction (politique, dévotionnelle, funéraire) et les

met en relation avec leurs hagiographies écrites et le développement monastique et

académique d’Ikh Khüree (la question d’éventuelles différences entre les portraits

peints de leur vivant et ceux peints après leur décès mériterait peut-être d’être posée,

comme elle l’a été pour le portrait tibétain). Se dessine ainsi un style pictural propre à

Ikh Khüree mais en lien avec le « style Qing » ou « style gélukpa international »7.

S’appuyant sur les écrits d’Agwaan Khaidav et l’ouvrage de l’artiste Damdinsüren

(1995), Tsultemin passe ensuite en revue les ateliers et grands artistes d’Ikh Khüree à la

fin des Qing.

11 Outre la présence du Jebtsundampa, l’accumulation de portraits de ce lignage, des

œuvres de Zanabazar, de statues sacrées et d’autres objets précieux (ce à quoi il

faudrait rajouter les stupas funéraires et les reliques des Jebtsundampa et autres saints,

les montagnes sacrées qui entourent la ville et leurs éléments numineux – sources

miraculeuses, grottes, etc.) font d’Ikh Khüree une ville sainte : comme à Lhasa, les

circumambulations de ces objets sacrés multiplient les mérites, assurant aux laïcs

comme aux moines des bénéfices en ce monde, une meilleure réincarnation, voire

l’obtention de l’Éveil8.

12 Le chapitre 5 revient sur la fondation d’Ikh Khüree comme un campement monastique

sur le modèle de l’ordo (ord) impérial, centré sur le Palais jaune et la Salle d’assemblée

blanche. Tsultemin décrit la salle d’assemblée Battsagaan (Batcagaan), le monastère

occidental de Gandan, les collèges et principaux temples, ainsi que le fonctionnement

de la ville monastique, ses règlements et son organisation. Elle cherche à comprendre

comment, de campement monastique, Ikh Khüree devient au XVIIIe siècle le cœur de la

nation khalkha et le principal monastère pour la formation des moines khalkha, et

constate que son développement est interdépendant de celui de la ville chinoise


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marchande, Maimaicheng, qui contribue à faire d’Ikh Khüree un centre de commerce

international.

13 Tsultemin analyse ensuite deux cartes-peintures très détaillées d’Ikh Khüree et

démontre qu’elles furent des productions politiques essentielles dans la stratégie de

construction étatique (il aurait été utile au lecteur de situer les principaux temples et

palais d’Ikh Khüree sur la carte de Jügder [Žugder]). Ces deux peintures ne sont

cependant pas les seules ; Teleki en recense au total une dizaine, qui sont conservées

dans différents musées et collections privées (Teleki 2015, pp. 297-329 ; Teleki & Ernst

2013). Une carte-peinture récemment redécouverte sur un mur du Potala de Lhasa est

sans doute la plus ancienne représentation de la ville monastique9. Enfin, la ville

monastique était aussi représentée sur des cartes de bannières de la fin du XIXe et du

début du XXe siècle10. L’entreprise cartographique du Bogd khan n’a fait que continuer

celle des Qing, et on peut se demander pourquoi aucune carte complète de la Mongolie

autonome n’a été dessinée avant l’avènement de la République populaire.

14 Le dernier chapitre revient sur la thèse du « gouvernement bouddhique » marquant la

fusion des sphères religieuses et séculières. Ce concept est lié à la promotion du culte

de Maitreya, le bouddha du futur, représenté dans sa forme royale (tournant la roue du

Dharma), à travers la construction d’une statue monumentale, en soulignant

l’importance prise par la procession de la statue Maitreya11 et de rituels de longévité

(danshig [danšig])12. L’extérieur du temple de Maitreya a été photographié avant sa

destruction mais seule une photographie de l’intérieur est actuellement connue ;

cependant je pense que la figure 6.3 ne montre pas la statue colossale mais une

sculpture secondaire13. Tsultemin présente ensuite des peintures mettant en scène la

procession de Maitreya, le Danshig Naadam (Danšig Naadam) et le Tsam (Cam, rituel de

danses masquées) qui permettent de « visualiser le gouvernement bouddhique ».

15 La fin du chapitre revient sur les portraits des Jebtsundampa, notamment sur les séries

de thangkas (thang ka) xylogravés destinés à une production de masse, à l’image des

portraits des dalaï-lamas et panchen-lamas. Tsultemin souligne la dualité de la figure

des Jebtsundampa et de ses représentations en peinture. Elle analyse notamment deux

thangkas représentant l’un, Zanabazar en moine (le soi-disant autoportrait), l’autre, un

personnage traditionnellement identifié comme étant sa mère14, mais qu’elle pense être

un portrait de Zanabazar âgé, ainsi que leurs copies au XIXe siècle, en veste mandchoue.

Quant au Bogd khan, il est représenté à plusieurs reprises avec son épouse

Dondogdulam (qui portait le titre d’Ekh dagina [Eh dagina], « mère-ḍākinī »), lui en

simple robe de moine méditant, elle, comme sa partenaire tantrique à la coiffe et aux

attributs ésotériques, représentant l’union des principes masculin et féminin (yab yum)

exprimant l’union de la sagesse et de la compassion, centrale au bouddhisme tantrique.

Des pôles complémentaires sont à l’œuvre dans ces peintures – jeune/vieux, religieux/

séculier, jaune (religieux)/bleu (séculier), simple moine/pratiquant(e) tantrique,

bouddha/bodhisattva, mongol-populaire (Zanabazar découpant une queue de mouton)/

moine gélukpa – dont l’union, selon l’auteur, légitimerait la théocratie du

Jebtsundampa. J’avais précédemment formulé deux autres hypothèses pour tenter

d’expliquer pourquoi le Bogd khan, qui avait pris les préceptes monastiques dont le

célibat, avait une épouse : la première est que le Bogd khan se représentait en

monarque universel qui tourne la roue de la Loi (cakravartin) et devait en posséder les

« joyaux » : il avait déjà la roue (cakra), le joyau qui exauce les désirs (cintāmaṇi), le

général, le ministre et même l’éléphant (comme l’a souligné Batsaihan 2008 et 2016). La


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seconde est que la prise d’une épouse était une référence à la représentation duelle du

pouvoir dans le monde mongol avant la période Qing, qui dépeint le khan et son épouse

principale sur un pied d’égalité (Charleux 2010 : exemples du XIIIe au XVIIe siècle). Dans

les deux cas, l’on revient au « gouvernement bouddhique » d’un souverain utilisant

tous les mécanismes de légitimation de son pouvoir du monde mongol : le bouddhisme,

le lignage d’or gengiskhanide et le culte du Ciel.

16 Ikh Khüree était donc le principal centre artistique des Mongols khalkha. Comme de

nombreux auteurs qui se focalisent sur la Mongolie dite « Extérieure » sous les Qing,

U. Tsultemin écrit souvent « Mongol » pour « Khalkha » et adopte un point de vue

centré sur les Khalkha et le lignage des Jebtsundampa. Il ne faudrait pas oublier

l’influence dans le monde mongol plus large d’autres réincarnations telles le Troisième

Mergen gegen Lubsangdambijalsan (1717-1766) de l’Urad et le Cinquième Noyon

khutugtu Danzanravjaa (1803/1804-1856) du Gobi, l’importance d’autres lieux de

production artistiques majeurs comme Dolonnor et Höhhoten Mongolie-Intérieure, et

d’autres centres monastiques majeurs.

17 Les allers-retours fréquents entre le XVIIe et le début du XXe siècle peuvent parfois

dérouter le lecteur, mais sont nécessaires pour comprendre à quel point le Bogd khan a

réactualisé l’œuvre de Zanabazar. Cet ouvrage magnifiquement illustré qui restaure

l’agentivité artistique des Khalkha dans le courant de la « Nouvelle Histoire Qing » est

une lecture passionnante et nécessaire à tout historien d’art de l’Asie septentrionale, en

particulier de la période Qing.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

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nationaux).

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Luvsanprinlei. Studies, Annotated Translation, Transliteration and Facsimile (Varsovie, Faculty of

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Ishihama, Yu. 2004 The notion of “Buddhist government” (chos srid) shared by Tibet, Mongol and

Manchu in the early 17th century, in Ch. Cüppers (dir.), The Relationship Between Religion and State

(chos srid zung ’brel) in Traditional Tibet (Lumbini, Lumbini International Research Institute),

pp. 15-31.

Jin Chengxiu 金成修 (= Kim Sŏng-su) 2006 Ming Qing zhiji zangchuan fojiao zai Neimenggu diqu de

chuanbo 明清之际藏传佛教在内蒙古地区的传播 [Diffusion du bouddhisme tibétain en Mongolie

sous les Ming et les Qing], traduit du coréen (Pékin, Shehui kexue wenxian chubanshe).

Mortari Vergara Caffarelli, P. 1982 Architettura in “stile tibetano” dei Ch’ing; Diffusione di un

linguaggio architettonico di tipo “occidentale” nell’Asia (Rome, Istituto di studi dell’India e dell’Asia

Orientale).

1996 International dGe-lugs-pa style of architecture from the 16-19th century, The Tibet

Journal 21(2), pp. 53-89.

Njam-Očir, G. 2019 Bodalagijn hanan dah’ Ih hüreenij 1648 ony zurgijg üzeh 7 šaltgaan [7 raisons

de regarder la peinture d’Ih hüree datée de 1648 sur un mur du Potala], site News.mn, 14 octobre

2019 [en ligne, URL : https://news.mn/r/2207899/, consulté le 18 décembre 2021].

Schwieger, P. 2015 The Dalai Lama and the Emperor of China. A Political History of the Tibetan

Institution of Reincarnation (New York, Columbia University Press).

Teleki, K. 2015 Introduction to the Study of Urga’s Heritage (Ulaanbaatar, Mongolian Academy of

Sciences, Institute of History and Archaeology & International Association for Mongol Studies).

Compte rendu in Études mongoles & sibériennes, centrasiatiques & tibétaines 49, 2018, https://doi.org/

10.4000/emscat.3173.

Teleki, K. & R. R. Ernst 2013 Analysis of a unique painting presenting Gandantegchenlin

monastery in Ulaanbaatar around 1850, Zentralasiastische Studien 42, pp. 161-180.

Teleki, K. & M. Nandinbaatar 2019 Maitreya procession in Mongolia, in “Züün Khuree” Dashichoiling

monastery, Šašin sojol sudlal – Religion and Cultural Study 1(12), pp. 97-122.

Tsultem, N.-O. 1982 Iskusstvo Mongolii s drevneyshih vremen do nachala XX veka [Art de la Mongolie.

Des périodes anciennes au début du XXe siècle], 2e édition (Moscou, Izobrazitel’noe Iskusstvo).

Tsultemin, U. 2015 The power and authority of Maitreya in Mongolia examined through

Mongolian art, in V. Wallace (dir.), Buddhism in Mongolian History, Culture and Society (New York,

Oxford University Press), pp. 137-159.

Urančimeg, C. 2016 Mongolyn Ih Hüree hijdijn Buddyn šašny urlag [L’art bouddhique du monastère Ih

hüree de Mongolie] (Ulaanbaatar, BCI hevlelijn kompani).


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NOTES

1. Ikh Khüree/Ourga est devenu capitale de la Mongolie autonome en 1912 sous le nom de Niislel

Khüree (Nijslel hüree) ; en 1924, le gouvernement communiste la renomma Ulaanbaatar.

2. L’auteure a précédemment signé ses articles sous le nom de C. Urančimeg/Ts. Uranchimeg.

3. Sur cette question, voir Bareja-Starzyńska 2015.

4. Sŏng-su Kim/Jin Chengxiu 2006 ; Schwieger 2015 ; voir également Ishihama 2004.

5. Le gouvernement duel forme la base de la relation politico-religieuse (théoriquement)

égalitaire, sur le modèle de Khubilai khan (r. 1260-1294) et Phakpa Lama (1235-1280).

6. Cependant, l’excellent article de Hatanbaatar (2011-2012) montre que la question est plus

complexe, Züün khüree étant également une appellation d’Ikh Khüree et de Saridag.

7. Gilles Béguin pour l’art et Paola Mortari Vergara Cafarelli pour l’architecture d’époque Qing

ont employé l’expression de « style lamaïque international » (sur le modèle du gothique

international) pour caractériser une uniformisation issue du métissage des cultures Qing/

mandchoue, chinoise et tibétaine à partir du milieu du XVIIe siècle (Mortari Vergara Cafarelli

1982 et 1996). Dans mes propres travaux, je me suis opposée à l’emploi de cette caractérisation

simplificatrice qui masque la diversité et la richesse de la production artistique et architecturale,

notamment en Mongolie-Intérieure. Il me semble que ce qu’on peut qualifier de style d’Ikh

Khüree au XIXe siècle a des caractéristiques tout à fait particulières qui le distingue nettement de

la production Qing.

8. Pour des références sur Ikh Khüree comme site de pèlerinage, attirant des pèlerins de toute la

Mongolie et de Bouriatie, voir Charleux 2015, pp. 44-48.

9. Selon Njam-Očir, une inscription tibétaine sur la peinture permet de la dater entre 1645 et

1648 : elle aurait été peinte pour célébrer le treizième anniversaire de Zanabazar (Njam-Očir

2019). Il me semble toutefois, étant donné le nombre de districts (ajmag) représentées et le style

de la peinture, qu’elle a dû être peinte à la fin du XVIIIe siècle (après 1772). Une copie de cette

peinture a été exposée lors d’une exposition au Palais central de la Culture à Ulaanbaatar en 2019.

10. Voir par exemple la carte de la bannière de Pungtsugtsering, Tüsheet khan aimag

(Puncugcerin, Tüšeet han ajmag), datée 1905, dans la Staattsbibliothek zu Berlin (Preussischer

Kulturbesitz, Orientabteilung, Hs. Or. 80).

11. Sur la procession de Maitreya à Ikh Khüree, voir Teleki & Nandinbaatar 2019.

12. Le chapitre a partiellement été publié précédemment : Tsultemin 2015.

13. Un film russe intitulé Jego zovut Suhe-Bator (« Son nom est Sükhbaatar », 1952, scène à 36’46’’)

montre l’intérieur du temple et de la statue. Une photographie datée de 1934 postée récemment

sur Twitter (https://twitter.com/GunErdene/status/1337758308917121024, consultée le 3

septembre 2021), dont je ne connais pas l’origine, pourrait représenter la célèbre statue.

14. Rappelons que la tradition orale explique la remarquable connaissance du corps féminin de

ses sculptures de Tārā par la présence d’une compagne tantrique.

AUTEURS

ISABELLE CHARLEUX



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https://twitter.com/GunErdene/status/1337758308917121024

Čuluun Sampildondovyn (dir.), Sar’dagijn hijd. Öndör gegeenZanabazaryn büteelijn hüree[Monastère de Sar’dag. Monastère etlieu de création d’Öndör gegeenZanabazar]Ulaanbaatar, Tüüh-arheologijn sudalgaa, 2019, 488 pages,523 photographies couleur, ISBN 978-99199-550-0-7

Isabelle Charleux

RÉFÉRENCE

Čuluun Sampildondovyn (dir.), Sar’dagijn hijd. Öndör gegeen Zanabazaryn büteelijn hüree

[Monastère de Sar’dag. Monastère et lieu de création d’Öndör gegeen Zanabazar],

Ulaanbaatar, Tüüh-arheologijn sudalgaa, 2019

1 Longtemps focalisés sur les périodes anciennes, de l’âge du bronze au XIVe siècle,

l’archéologie mongole commence à s’intéresser à son patrimoine plus récent.

L’historien Sampildondovyn Čuluun, directeur l’Institut d’histoire et d’archéologie de

l’Académie des sciences de Mongolie, a mené de 2013 à 2017 plusieurs expéditions

archéologiques pour étudier les ruines du monastère de Sar’dag (Sar’dagijn hijd), au

sein de son projet sur les « Villes mongoles du XVIIe siècle »1. Sar’dag est

incontestablement un site majeur du XVIIe siècle en Mongolie. La découverte a été

médiatisée, notamment par une exposition intitulée « Secrets of Saridag monastery »

au Musée national de Mongolie à Ulaanbaatar, du 27 septembre au 20 décembre 20192.


459

2 Sar’dag ou Hijtijn Sar’dag – appellation commune du Ribogejai gandan šaddublin (tib. Ri

bo dge rgyas dga’ ldan bshad sgrub gling) – est un des premiers monastères fondés par

Öndör gegen Zanabazar (1635-1723), le Ier Žavzandamba hutagt, à son retour du Tibet.

En 1651, pour l’assister dans la fondation de monastères, le dalaï-lama et le panchen-

lama demandent à cinquante moines tibétains, lettrés et artisans, de l’accompagner en

Mongolie. De 1654 à 1680, Zanabazar bâtit ce grand monastère au pied du mont Sar’dag,

à 100 km au nord-est d’Ulaanbaatar (district d’Erdene, province de Töv). En 1686, en

lien avec la consécration du monastère, sont fabriquées de nombreuses statues. Mais

Sar’dag n’eut que trente-cinq ans d’existence : il fut intégralement rasé par les troupes

Zunghar menées par Galdan Bošigt, qui envahit le territoire Halh en 1688-1689. Ses

objets précieux ont probablement été emportés par les moines ayant fui avant l’attaque

de l’armée Zunghar ou peut-être par les Zunghar qui pillèrent le monastère avant de

l’incendier.

3 Comme l’explique S. Čuluun dans le premier chapitre, les ruines de Sar’dag avaient été

localisées par de brèves expéditions russes en 1915 et 1923 mais étaient difficiles

d’accès, recouvertes de végétation dense et localisées dans des montagnes boisées. En

1995, une expédition archéologique de la province de Töv visita le site et rédigea un

rapport préliminaire. Les expéditions montées par S. Čuluun ont mis deux jours pour

atteindre le site à cheval et ont travaillé dans des conditions souvent difficiles. Dans le

chapitre 2, Čuluun présente l’environnement du monastère, situé dans la chaîne des

Hentij han, à 120 km au sud-ouest du Burhan haldun, montagne sacrée de Gengis khan.

L’environnement du site entouré de montagnes et ouvert au sud apparaît comme

géomantiquement idéal.

4 Le troisième chapitre, écrit par Čuluun et Hatanbaatar, retrace l’histoire du monastère.

La source la plus ancienne mentionnant Sar’dag est la biographie de Zanabazar

composée par son disciple Zaja pandita Lubsang Prinlei (1642-1715) entre 1698 et 1702.

Ce chapitre reprend l’article de Hatanbaatar sur les fondations religieuses de

Zanabazar3, en y ajoutant des documents russes témoignant des relations qu’il entretint

avec la Russie tsariste. Le quatrième chapitre, écrit par Čuluun, porte sur l’histoire

orale de Sar’dag.

5 Le cinquième chapitre, écrit par E. Urtnasan et Č. Enhtuul, étudie l’architecture du

monastère. On ne peut qu’être surpris par la monumentalité de la construction dans un

lieu aussi reculé : il semblerait que Zanabazar ait voulu fonder un nouveau centre du

bouddhisme mongol, son « siège du Dharma ». Les expéditions ont mis au jour les

fondations de douze bâtiments, de terrasses (peut-être pour y poser des yourtes, ger) et

les ruines de trois stupas (fig. 1).


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Figure 1. Plan au sol du monastère de Sar’dag

© E. Urtsanan et Č. Enhtuul, 2015 (fig. 4, in Čuluun 2019, p. 114)

6 Au centre, ce l’on suppose être la grande salle d’assemblée (cogčin dugan), en pierre

calcaire de deux étages, avec probablement 56 piliers et des portes au sud, à l’ouest et à

l’est, est édifiée sur une terrasse de 1,5 m de haut. Son plan est remarquable : si la

partie centrale reprend le plan habituel du temple tibétain, avec une salle d’assemblée

carrée et un sanctuaire de dimensions inférieures, accolé au nord, l’addition d’un

porche et de quatre pièces latérales forme un plan à douze côtés ; le tout, comme le

remarquent les auteurs, évoque le plan centré du mandala (fig. 2).

Figure 2. Plan au sol du temple central (cogčin dugan ?)

© E. Urtsanan et Č. Enhtuul, 2015 (fig. 4, in Čuluun 2019, p. 114 et fig. 12, in Čuluun 2019, p. 121)


461

7 J’ajouterais que ce plan est exceptionnel en Mongolie et rappelle des modèles étrangers

anciens, notamment le plan centré, parfois cruciforme, des salles d’assemblée des

premiers monastères tibétains (mais sans le couloir de circumambulation) comme

l’Utse (tib. Dbu rtse) de Samyé (Bsam yas, VIIIe siècle), le Sumtsek (tib. Gsum brtsegs)

d’Alchi (Ladakh, Xe siècle) et surtout le Pelkhor chöde (tib. Dpal ’khor chos sde) de

Gyantsé (tib. Rgyal rtse, 1418-1425). Une vue du ciel du monastère Högnö tarnijn Övgön

hijd (district de Rašaant, province de Bulgan), qui selon la tradition a été fondé par

Zanabazar et fut rasé par les troupes de Galdan, montre un plan de bâtiment centré

comparable à celui du temple central de Sar’dag (fig. 8, p. 106).

8 Le temple central de Sar’dag était entouré d’une muraille de deux mètres de haut et de

douves ; 24 pièces étaient situées à l’intérieur du mur nord et de la moitié nord des

murs est et ouest, rappelant les cellules de moines entourant la cour des monastères

d’Inde, du Gandhara et d’Asie centrale du premier millénaire. Ces portions du mur

étaient surmontées d’un toit « en forme de stupa de terre damée » (la reconstitution

dessinée représente des stupas sur la muraille, comme à Erdene zuu : fig. 2). On a là

encore un plan archaïsant faisant référence aux anciens monastères tibétains et

centrasiatiques. Dans son ouvrage paru en 2020 (compte rendu dans ce numéro),

U. Tsultemin souligne à la fois l’affiliation pleinement gélukpa de Sar’dag et

l’iconographie plus œcuménique de sa statuaire qui ne suit pas les modèles tibétains

gélukpa contemporains (2020, pp. 58-68 ; voir également son article de 2019). Tant

l’iconographie que l’architecture témoigneraient donc de la volonté de Zanabazar de

promouvoir un bouddhisme inclusif et « non-sectaire » se référant au Tibet ancien.

Figure 3. Dessin proposant une reconstitution de l’architecture du monastère de Sar’dag

© E. Urtnasan (fig. 5, in Čuluun 2019, p. 115)

9 Le style des bâtiments de Sar’dag aurait été en grande majorité tibétain, ce que

confirment la présence de murs à fruits, de piliers carrés et d’éléments de charpente


462

avec des modillons en extension (chapitre 10 par Č. Enhtuul)4. On peut effectivement

supposer que les artisans venus du Tibet avec Zanabazar ont contribué à la

construction. Curieusement, les autres bâtiments ne sont pas de plan oblong, comme

les tsuklakkhang (tib. gtsug lag khang) tibétains, mais de plan barlong (le côté le plus long

est perpendiculaire à l’axe du bâtiment). Les principales influences chinoises sont la

double toiture à versant couvertes de tuiles en céramique vernissées et le toit du

porche du temple central. Si les premières constructions bouddhiques des Mongols de

la fin du XVIe et du début du XVIIe siècle sont de style chinois, comme le Ih zuu

(mong. cl. Jeke zuu) de Höhhot fondé en 1579-1580, Erdene zuu édifié en 1585-1586 sur

le site de Qaraqorum ou encore le temple de Sanduj huvilgaan (mong. cl. Sangdui

qubilγan) bâti en 1652-1653 dans ce qui deviendra Zaja gegeenij hüree (Cecerleg,

province d’Arhangaj), l’influence architecturale tibétaine se répand dans le courant du

XVIIe siècle, lorsque les premiers moines mongols formés dans les monastères tibétains

rentrent en Mongolie – voir notamment la salle d’assemblée principale du Šireetü zuu

(mong. cl. Siregetü zuu) de Höhhot édifiée au milieu du XVIIe siècle et les temples bâtis

par Zaja pandita à son retour du Tibet, de 1679 à 1715, à gegeenij hüree. La conception

architecturale de la salle d’assemblée du Šireetü zuu, sa charpente et sa menuiserie

suivent ce que l’on nomme par convention l’« ordre classique » de l’architecture

tibétaine à l’époque du Ve Dalaï lama (1617-1682) (Meyer 1987, figs 218 et 219, p. 393).

C’est à ces temples qu’il conviendrait de comparer les temples de Sar’dag.

10 L’étude des matériaux de construction tels les appareillages de pierres, les bois utilisés

et les tuiles fournit des renseignements uniques pour cette époque, les monastères

contemporains n’ayant pas comme Sar’dag été figés dans le temps, à l’exception de

Cagaan bajšin, forteresse et monastère de Cogt tajž (v. 1580-1637) édifiée de 1601 à 1617

dans la province de Bulgan, du monastère Högnö tarnijn Övgön hijd, dont les appareils

de pierre sont d’ailleurs comparables à ceux de Sar’dag, et de quelques autres que

S. Čuluun projette d’étudier.

11 De nombreux objets ont été découverts dans les ruines de Sar’dag. Le sixième chapitre

(écrit par C. Günčin-Iš) présente notamment les restes de deux statues monumentales

en terre (fragments de doigts et de pieds), des fragments de bodhisattvas en terre, un

stupa en fer, des petites tablettes votives en argile (cac, tib. tsha tsha) et deux plaques

d’argent gravées des figures de Jambhala et Vasudhārā. Des armes et un chaudron

semblent avoir servi de dépôts de consécration des statues monumentales. Dans le

chapitre 7, la chercheure russe Sumu-Handa D. Syrtypova étudie les trois mille statues

de Bouddha en argile représentant les cinq Tathāgata (bouddhas primordiaux)

découverts dans les vestiges du bâtiment principal et les compare avec les célèbres

statues en bronze doré de Zanabazar5. Mesurant environ 15 cm de hauteur, elles ont à

l’évidence été faites à partir de moules. Dans les chapitres suivants, E. Urtnasan analyse

divers objets en métal (ornements, clous, chaudron, etc.), B. Batcoož, les armes et

armures (dont une épée d’origine européenne, un fusil et deux mousquets) ; Č. Enhtuul,

des éléments d’architecture, Čuluun et D. Sajnbajar, des bois (étude

dendrochronologique), enfin N. Nandinceceg présente la restauration des objets. Les

artefacts de provenances variées tels des cadrans solaires, des céramiques chinoises et

des monnaies avec écriture arabe frappées au Népal témoignent d’échanges continus

avec la Russie, le Moyen-Orient, le Tibet et la Chine des Ming, comme le montrent

S. Čuluun et Č. Enhtuul dans le chapitre 12. Enfin, les deux derniers chapitres sont

consacrés aux artefacts de Sar’dag conservés à l’Ermitage à Saint-Pétersbourg (par


463

Elihina Julija Igorevna) et à l’emploi de techniques modernes en archéologie

(reconstitutions 3D et emploi de drones, par Tecüo Šoži, A. Enhtör, E. Urtnasan et

Čuluun).

12 Cette publication prestigieuse, magnifiquement illustrée, d’une grande qualité

scientifique, nous apporte des renseignements uniques sur un monastère mongol du

XVIIe siècle et intéressera particulièrement les spécialistes de la culture matérielle

mongole et tibétaine.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Chuluun, S. 2019 In search of Khutugtu’s monastery. The site and its heritage, Cross-Currents: East

Asian History and Culture Review 31, numéro special : U. Tsultemin (dir.), Buddhist Art of Mongolia:

Cross-Cultural Discourses, Facts, and Interpretations, pp. 244-256 [en ligne, URL : https://cross-

currents.berkeley.edu/e-journal/issue-31/chuluun, consulté le 18 décembre 2021, article

accompagné d’un « Photo essay » : https://cross-currents.berkeley.edu/e-journal/issue-31/

chuluun1].

Hatanbaatar, N. 2011-2012 Ih hüreenij üüsel ba Baruun hüree, Sar’dagijn hijd [Origine d’Ih hüree,

et Baruun hüree, Sar’dagijn hijd], Tüühijn sudlal - Studia Historica 41-42(8), pp. 72-91.

Meyer, F. 1987 Le Tibet à l’époque des Dalailama. XVe au XXe siècle, in P. Mortari Vergara &

G. Béguin (dirs), Demeures des hommes, sanctuaires des dieux. Sources, développement et rayonnement

de l’architecture tibétaine (Rome, Università di Roma « La Sapienza »), pp. 381-407.

Tsultemin, U. 2019 Buddhist archeology in Mongolia. Zanabazar and the Géluk diaspora beyond

Tibet, Cross-Currents: East Asian History and Culture Review 31, numéro spécial : U. Tsultemin (dir.),

Buddhist Art of Mongolia. Cross-Cultural Discourses, Facts, and Interpretations, pp. 7-32 [en ligne, URL :

https://cross-currents.berkeley.edu/e-journal/issue-31/uranchimeg, consulté le 18 décembre

2021].

2020 A Monastery on the Move. Art and Politics in Later Buddhist Mongolia (Honolulu, University of

Hawai‘i Press).

NOTES

1. Les fouilles ont été menées en codirection par l’Institut d’histoire et d’archéologie de

l’Académie des sciences de Mongolie et le Musée du palais du Bogdo Khan.

2. Voir la présentation en ligne : http://www.artavenue.mn/secrets-of-saridag-

monastery-8203-27-september---20-december-2019--national-museum-of-mongolia.html,

consultée le 25 septembre 2021. Le lecteur anglophone pourra consulter un article en anglais

résumant les découvertes, accompagné d’un essai photographique (Chuluun 2019).

3. Hatanbaatar 2011-2012, non cité.

4. Le dessin de reconstitution architecturale proposée par Urtnasan (fig. 2) est hypothétique en

ce qui concerne les élévations et les toitures.

5. Voir également Tsultemin 2019 et 2020, pp. 58-65.


464

https://cross-currents.berkeley.edu/e-journal/issue-31/chuluun




https://cross-currents.berkeley.edu/e-journal/issue-31/chuluun1




https://cross-currents.berkeley.edu/e-journal/issue-31/uranchimeg

http://www.artavenue.mn/secrets-of-saridag-monastery-8203-27-september---20-december-2019--national-museum-of-mongolia.html

http://www.artavenue.mn/secrets-of-saridag-monastery-8203-27-september---20-december-2019--national-museum-of-mongolia.html

AUTEURS

ISABELLE CHARLEUX



465

Résumé de thèseThesis abstract


466

Xénia de Heering, Des mots quisonnent juste. Publication,circulations et réceptions de Joies etpeines de l’enfant Naktsang, untémoignage inédit sur les années1950 dans l’est du Tibet (2007-2019)Words that Sound Right. The Publication, Circulation and Receptions of Joys

and Sorrows of the Naktsang Boy, an Unprecedented Testimony on the 1950s

in Eastern Tibet (2007-2019)

RÉFÉRENCE

Thèse de doctorat en sociologie, soutenue à l’École des hautes études en sciences

sociales, le 7 décembre 2020 (818 pages). Membres du jury : Robert Barnett

(examinateur), Alain Cottereau (examinateur), Hildegard Diemberger (pré-

rapporteure), Isabelle Henrion-Dourcy (pré-rapporteure), Judith Lyon-Caen

(examinatrice et présidente du jury), Françoise Robin (codirectrice de thèse), Isabelle

Thireau (directrice de thèse).

1 Cette thèse traite d’un livre tibétain hors du commun, Joies et peines de l’enfant Naktsang

(Nags tshang 2007)1. Témoignage oculaire sur l’expérience de la prise de pouvoir

communiste chinoise dans les régions tibétaines de l’Amdo et du Kham, racontée d’un

point de vue tibétain, hors cadres officiels, ce récit d’enfance autobiographique publié

en République populaire de Chine (RPC) en 2007 devint très vite un best-seller du

marché littéraire régional. La thèse en étudie les réceptions, en tentant de répondre à

la question suivante : comment ce témoignage historique sans précédent en RPC,

mettant par écrit des souvenirs qui hantent les esprits mais demeurent bannis de


467

l’espace public, est-il intervenu dans la réalité sociale de ses récipiendaires, y compris

en faisant bouger les lignes des manières, plus ou moins partagées, de se représenter un

passé commun ? Dans un environnement politiquement très contraint, sur quelles

médiations ce processus – analysé comme un processus actif et collectif – s’est-il

appuyé ?

Rencontre avec l’objet : un livre qui raconte « tout »

2 J’ai découvert Joies et peines en février 2008, quelque six mois après sa publication

initiale à Xining, ville chinoise située à l’extrême nord-est du Plateau tibétain et

capitale de la province du Qinghai. L’ouvrage, considéré comme hors du commun,

faisait alors sensation parmi ses lecteurs. La première personne qui me parla du livre,

un ami tibétain diplômé d’université, âgé d’environ 25 ans, me dit avec grand

enthousiasme que celui-ci racontait « tout » et parlait de la « Révolution culturelle »,

signalant par là un contenu atypique et politiquement sensible. Comme son titre le

suggère, Joies et peines relate l’expérience d’un enfant. Son auteur, Naktsang Nülo, n’est

pas un écrivain professionnel mais un fonctionnaire tibétain retraité. Né en 1948 dans

une localité aujourd’hui incluse dans la préfecture autonome tibétaine (PAT) du

Gannan, dans la province du Gansu, il est inconnu du grand public lorsque son livre

paraît. Sous cette apparente banalité, on découvre un témoignage historique sans

précédent, décrivant non seulement, avec une précision quasi ethnographique, la vie

quotidienne de pasteurs ordinaires dans la région tibétaine de l’Amdo au début des

années 1950, mais aussi les violents bouleversements et la répression qui marquèrent, à

partir de l’année 1958, l’incorporation de régions du Tibet aujourd’hui incluses dans les

provinces du Qinghai et du Gansu2 à l’administration communiste chinoise.

3 Sur près de cinq cents pages, Joies et peines relate les onze premières années de la vie de

Nülo. Les trois premières parties du livre décrivent une enfance passée dans les

pâturages et au monastère de Chukhama, où Nülo demeure parfois aux côtés de son

frère Japé, moine novice de quatre ans son aîné, ainsi que des pèlerinages à Lhassa et au

monastère de Labrang3. Cet environnement et ces pratiques familières vont

brutalement connaître un bouleversement complet. Les quatrième et cinquième parties

du livre relatent l’arrivée, en 1958, des troupes de l’Armée populaire de Libération

(APL) à Chukhama et les événements qui eurent lieu dans les mois qui suivirent. Sous la

menace armée, les moines sont contraints de détruire leur propre monastère, à l’issue

d’une parodie de débat ayant conclu à son « inutilité ». Avec neuf autres compagnons,

le veuf Naktsang Durkho, emmenant ses deux fils Nülo et Japé, décide alors de fuir pour

tenter de rejoindre Lhassa4. Cherchant à éviter les nombreux soldats de l’APL déployés

dans la région, le groupe croise sur sa route des monastères et des campements

dévastés, des troupeaux dispersés d’innombrables animaux sans maître, des cadavres,

des civils blessés livrés à eux-mêmes. Après la mort de Naktsang Durkho dans une

embuscade de l’APL, les survivants, y compris Nülo, alors âgé de dix ans, sont faits

prisonniers. Désormais orphelins, Nülo et son frère Japé sont par la suite transférés à la

« Maison du bonheur » (Bde skyid khang), un campement où les fonctionnaires

communistes ont regroupé plusieurs centaines d’enfants et de personnes âgées – les

membres adultes de leurs familles, qui prenaient auparavant soin d’eux, ayant été tués

ou emprisonnés. Les résidents de la « Maison du bonheur » sont bientôt décimés par la

famine qui sévit alors dans l’ensemble du pays, suite au lancement du Grand Bond en


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avant. Le récit de Nülo s’achève le jour de son entrée à l’école de Chumarlep (PAT de

Yushul, Qinghai), le 30 décembre 1959.

4 Une riche tradition d’écriture biographique et autobiographique, essentiellement de

nature religieuse, s’est développée au Tibet à partir du XIIe siècle. Au XXe siècle, nombre

d’écrits autobiographiques laïcs à teneur plus politique, produits en RPC et dans la

diaspora tibétaine, sont venus s’y ajouter. Joies et peines, cependant, se détache

nettement de cet ensemble. Par la teneur de son récit, par son dispositif narratif

particulier, par la langue employée, faisant une large place aux tournures orales, par le

choix même des mots qui portent son témoignage, Nülo se place à distance des

controverses politiques et idéologiques comme des hagiographies à vocation

sotériologique. Une des spécificités de Joies et peines est en effet que l’expérience de

Nülo dans le « renversement d’époque » de 1958-1959 est racontée du point de vue

« naïf » de l’enfant – un enfant de dix ans qui ignorait ce qu’était le Parti communiste,

qui ne comprenait pas le chinois, qui ne savait pas comment son histoire allait finir et

qui peinait, bien souvent, à faire sens des événements inouïs dans lesquels il était

plongé. Il en résulte un récit dépouillé de toute évaluation ou compréhension

rétrospective, plongeant le lecteur dans une vision prospective de l’action en cours.

Cette technique narrative crée un certain suspense, mais là n’est pas l’essentiel. Comme

le démontre cette thèse, le fait que Joies et peines ait pu être publié, puis apparaître

comme un témoignage convaincant, juste et véridique à des lecteurs aux orientations

idéologiques et politiques contrastées doit beaucoup aux particularités de son dispositif

narratif5.

5 Afin de saisir les raisons pour lesquelles Joies et peines a pu avoir un tel écho parmi les

lecteurs de l’est du Tibet, il faut dire quelques mots de « l’année 58 » (nga brgyad lo). Ce

chrononyme, familier en Amdo, demeure en effet quasiment inconnu des non-

spécialistes de la région et absent de la plupart des ouvrages traitant de l’histoire

contemporaine de la RPC comme du Tibet, qu’ils soient publiés en Chine ou à l’étranger.

À l’échelle de la RPC, 1958 est connue comme l’année où débute le Grand Bond en avant.

Pour les régions pastorales du Qinghai et du Gansu, 1958 – et non 1949, année de

fondation de la RPC – est cependant avant tout l’année qui marque le point de bascule

entre l’« ancienne » et la « nouvelle société ». À partir du printemps 1958, en l’espace

de quelques semaines, ces régions dont les élites locales avaient été recrutées dans la

nouvelle administration communiste chinoise et où, jusqu’alors, aucune réforme du

système de propriété n’avait été entreprise, vont en effet connaître une collectivisation

à marche forcée, l’arrestation voire l’élimination des élites, la fermeture voire la

destruction de la quasi-totalité des monastères. Des révoltes armées éclatent alors un

peu partout en Amdo. Qualifiées de contre-révolutionnaires par le Parti communiste,

elles sont réprimées avec une extrême violence, exercée à l’encontre de ceux qui sont

effectivement engagés dans la lutte armée, mais aussi de ceux qui sont simplement

soupçonnés d’intentions contre-révolutionnaires. Les pertes humaines provoquées par

cette campagne politique et militaire de « pacification des révoltes », difficiles à

chiffrer dans la mesure où les archives chinoises demeurent inaccessibles aux

chercheurs, furent colossales. L’historien Benno Weiner, auteur d’un travail pionnier

sur les révoltes de 1958 en Amdo, estime que près de 10 % de la population tibétaine du

Qinghai aurait été tuée ou emprisonnée dans le sillage des révoltes (Weiner 2020,

p. 187)6. Les combats, les conditions de détention dans les prisons et les camps de

rééducation où ceux qui furent qualifiés de contre-révolutionnaires furent enfermés,

puis les ravages de la famine causée par le Grand Bond en avant firent que le Qinghai


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perdit, entre 1957 et 1964, 18 % de sa population tibétaine (Weiner 2020, p. 252, n. 35).

D’après l’historienne chinoise indépendante Li Jianglin, dans certaines zones du

Qinghai où la répression des révoltes a été particulièrement féroce, les pertes humaines

furent plus importantes encore7. Comme l’écrit l’anthropologue Fernanda Pirie, la

mémoire de cette période demeure, aujourd’hui encore, un obstacle aux tentatives de

l’État pour établir sa légitimité aux yeux de la population tibétaine (Pirie 2013, p. 73).

Joies et peines témoigne ainsi d’un passé traumatique que l’histoire officielle passe sous

silence, lorsqu’elle ne le présente pas comme une étape décisive et bienvenue dans la

marche vers l’avenir radieux que serait la situation actuelle.

Positionnement et dispositifs de l’enquête

6 « Réception », dans ce travail, n’est pas à entendre comme l’étude des effets

rhétoriques d’une œuvre sur un lecteur abstrait. Cherchant à décrire, de façon

empirique, les manières dont Joies et peines intervient dans la réalité sociale, j’utilise le

terme dans un sens plus concret. D’une part, pour faire référence aux espaces où le

livre est effectivement reçu : suivant l’historien Roger Chartier, le terme renvoie donc à

une aire de réception descriptible en termes géographiques et sociaux. D’autre part,

suivant le sociologue Renaud Dulong, pour désigner « le moment […] constitutif du

témoignage » (Dulong 1998, p. 138) : la réception est donc envisagée comme un

processus actif et situé, indissociable de l’analyse du témoignage comme forme d’action

et phénomène social. Les réceptions de Joies et peines ne pouvaient donc être étudiées

indépendamment des circonstances dans lesquelles ce témoignage fut produit et reçu,

ni en faisant abstraction de la matérialité de l’objet qui le donnait à lire ou encore des

modalités concrètes de sa circulation, comme nous l’enseignent les travaux fondateurs

des historiens du livre Roger Chartier et Robert Darnton8.

7 Depuis les années 1980, nombre de publications en RPC – mémoires, biographies et

autobiographies, puis écrits de fiction et, plus récemment, films documentaires – ont

véhiculé des récits qui ne concordent pas avec l’histoire officielle des années 1950. Dans

le contexte tibétain, cependant, Joies et peines constituait une première : un récit écrit

en tibétain, publié en RPC et racontant l’expérience du « renversement d’époque » (dus

log, dus ’gyur) de 1958 d’un point de vue tibétain. Comprendre comment une telle

publication, puis sa diffusion commerciale à grande échelle, avaient été possibles, sans

déclencher de sanction de l’auteur par les autorités, constituait une première énigme à

laquelle l’enquête devait tenter de répondre. Enquêter sur les réceptions d’un ouvrage

que la plupart des lecteurs, sur place, jugeaient « politique » et prenaient pour interdit,

dont aucune recension n’est parue dans les journaux ou revues de critique littéraire

locaux – des sources fréquemment exploitées dans les études de réception –, était

quelque peu délicat. Les lecteurs de Joies et peines ne manquaient pas, mais dans un

contexte politique où le Parti communiste chinois prétend au monopole de

l’interprétation du passé et peut sévir contre ceux qui s’écartent des interprétations

imposées, la prudence commandait d’enquêter avec une relative discrétion. Décrire les

pratiques de la lecture, de l’édition et du commerce de l’imprimé, pour caractériser les

manières dont celles-ci se sont saisies de Joies et peines dans différents milieux sociaux

représentait également une difficulté, dans la mesure où ces questions n’avaient pas, à

ce jour, fait l’objet de travaux approfondis pour ce qui concerne la période

contemporaine et les usages non religieux de l’imprimé.


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8 Dans ces conditions, il a fallu faire preuve d’inventivité et combiner plusieurs

approches afin de mener à bien cette investigation. Cette recherche s’appuie tant sur

une enquête de terrain ethnographique que sur l’étude de matériaux écrits. La tenue

d’un journal de terrain a permis de consigner observations ethnographiques et

échanges, le plus souvent informels, avec divers enquêtés, tout en gardant une trace de

la progression de l’enquête et de mes questionnements. Le réseau d’enquête s’est

élaboré au fil des rencontres, essentiellement parmi des Tibétains plutôt instruits

vivant à Xining. Cette capitale provinciale de 2,2 millions d’habitants (dont 5 % de

Tibétains) constitue en effet un centre régional important pour les activités culturelles

tibétophones, notamment l’édition et le commerce de la librairie. Des enquêtes plus

ponctuelles ont également été effectuées dans des zones rurales du Qinghai et du

Gansu, ainsi qu’à Pékin et à Dharamsala (Inde).

9 Le volet de l’enquête portant sur les sources écrites a mobilisé plusieurs dispositifs

d’investigation aux visées différentes : analyse des catalogues de maisons d’édition

d’État et d’imprimés, licites ou illicites, côtoyant Joies et peines dans les librairies,

couplée au recueil des évaluations que celles-ci suscitaient ; comparaison matérielle et

textuelle des différentes éditions de Joies et peines (réimpressions par Nülo,

contrefaçons, éditions parues à l’étranger), dans la perspective d’identifier les visées de

leurs producteurs ; inventaire multilingue de textes consacrés à Joies et peines, afin

d’étudier la temporalité, les formes et les espaces de la circulation de la réputation du

livre, et donc ses publics. Un corpus d’écrits de Naktsang Nülo, mais aussi d’écrits qui

lui ont été adressés par de nombreux lecteurs (lettres et messages publics postés sur

Internet) a également été constitué, afin d’analyser comment le succès de Joies et peines

a contribué à transformer le statut de son auteur, faisant de lui une figure publique

considérée comme exemplaire, et comment Nülo, avec la hardiesse mêlée de prudence,

l’acuité politique et le dévouement au collectif qui caractérisent son action, a agi pour

ouvrir des espaces de discussion publique malgré l’absence de véritable espace public.

10 Dans l’élaboration des matériaux présentés et dans l’écriture de la thèse, j’ai

constamment tenté d’articuler processus de découverte et de compréhension, c’est-à-

dire de relier le compte rendu d’enquête à l’explicitation des manières dont j’avais

abouti aux hypothèses et conclusions avancées9. La variation des échelles d’observation

et d’analyse – de l’étude de cas d’une communauté de « petits lecteurs » en zone

pastorale à la représentation spatiale synthétique de résultats d’enquête à l’échelle du

Plateau tibétain –, a permis de connecter les réceptions étudiées à des coordonnées

géographiques, sociales, temporelles et linguistiques précises. Soulignons enfin que

l’important travail de traduction qu’impliquait la réalisation de cette thèse a été

appréhendé comme faisant partie intégrante de la recherche, tant comme processus de

découverte dans le cours de l’enquête que comme exigence scientifique au moment de

la restitution de ses résultats.

Connecter des expériences : les échos multiples demots qui sonnent juste

11 La publication et la circulation de Joies et peines, au Tibet même et à l’étranger, a bien

souvent été caractérisée, par des témoins de 1958 encore vivants comme par leurs

descendants, comme un tournant dans l’histoire collective du Tibet. L’intérêt suscité

par Joies et peines a certes été stimulé par la conjoncture politique des manifestations


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tibétaines du printemps 2008 et de leur répression, mais la chronologie de la diffusion

du livre établie dans la thèse montre qu’il leur préexistait10. Que Joies et peines – un récit

témoignant de l’expérience du « renversement d’époque » de 1958 d’un point de vue

tibétain, de façon explicite, sobre et précise – soit devenu un best-seller régional alors

que de l’avis général, toute évocation de cette période relève en RPC de l’interdit

politique, constituait en tout état de cause une énigme à laquelle la thèse devait

s’efforcer de répondre.

12 Il fallait, d’abord, élucider la question de la publication du livre. Pour cela, la thèse

revient sur les transformations intervenues dans le monde de l’édition, chinoise et

tibétophone, depuis les années 1980. En dépit de sa commercialisation partielle et d’une

liberté d’entreprise plus grande qu’auparavant, ce secteur d’activité reste soumis à des

impératifs politiques et à un contrôle étroit, qui semble particulièrement strict dans le

cas de la publication tibétophone, dès lors qu’un écrit touche à des thèmes

politiquement sensibles. Une publication « ouverte » (ch. gongkai 公开), en passant par

les circuits de l’édition d’État, n’a pas été possible pour Joies et peines. Le livre est donc

paru sans ISBN. L’étude des herméneutiques locales de l’ISBN (ou de son absence) et

l’attention portée aux manières dont, avant d’être lus, les imprimés sont jugés, a permis

de montrer que l’absence d’ISBN, sur le terrain, suscitait le plus souvent des

interprétations politiques : elle signale qu’un ouvrage n’a pas été publié par une maison

d’édition d’État et, par conséquent, que le texte n’en a pas été censuré11. Fréquemment

considéré comme une publication illicite, comme un « faux livre » (dpe cha rdzun ma),

Joies et peines était donc susceptible de dire vrai.

13 L’enquête a cependant permis de confirmer que Joies et peines, et c’est un point

fondamental, n’était pas une publication illégale, en dépit de son absence d’ISBN. Nülo

est en effet parvenu, pour ainsi dire, à enfreindre un interdit tout en restant dans le

domaine de la légalité : son témoignage est publié, en 2007, avec une « autorisation à

imprimer de type interne ». Ce choix éclaire le projet politique de Nülo et donne à Joies

et peines une place particulière parmi les quelques autres livres évoquant 1958 qui sont

parus peu après. Le témoignage de Nülo s’écarte certes des formes et des cadres

idéologiques imposés aux publications « ouvertes » traitant de l’histoire tibétaine

contemporaine, mais il ne contredit pas le verdict que les dirigeants qui succédèrent à

Mao Zedong (1893-1976) portèrent sur les « excès » de l’« Expansion de la pacification

des révoltes » lancée en 1958 dans le Qinghai. Dans les années 1980, Nülo lui-même,

ainsi que les onze compagnons avec qui il quitta Chukhama en 1958, peu après l’arrivée

de l’APL, furent en effet officiellement reconnus comme victimes de cette campagne et

dédommagés à ce titre. La reconnaissance d’un statut de victime, octroyée à ceux dont

il fut décrété qu’ils furent jadis accusés à tort, n’ouvre cependant nul droit à la parole.

Le processus des réhabilitations politiques mises en œuvre en RPC à partir de la fin des

années 1970 est plutôt, pour les nouveaux dirigeants, un moyen de se distinguer de

leurs prédécesseurs et de légitimer leur pouvoir, tout en réaffirmant la continuité du

régime politique fondé en 1949 (Thireau & Hua 2010, pp. 179-212).

14 La publication de Joies et peines constitue donc une première réussite, qui ne peut être

comprise sans prendre en compte les compétences, l’expérience, l’acuité politique et

les relations développées par Nülo au cours de sa carrière de fonctionnaire et de

membre du Parti communiste chinois, ni sans tenir compte de sa détermination et du

courage dont il a fait preuve pour mener à bien ce projet de transmission qui lui tenait

à cœur. Au regard de la question de la publication, ce statut légal singulier de document


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« interne » est néanmoins quelque peu brouillé. Il n’autorise pas de diffusion

commerciale dans les circuits de la librairie étatique grand public, mais les choses sont

plus floues concernant d’autres modalités de diffusion, un flou qui a grandement

profité à la diffusion de Joies et peines. Comme pour les publications « ouvertes », dotées

d’ISBN, et comme dans bien d’autres domaines, les décisions officielles en RPC se

révèlent en outre réversibles. En 2009, un peu plus de deux ans après l’obtention de son

imprimatur « interne », une décision officielle vise à rendre illégale la circulation de Joies

et peines dans le contexte d’une lutte intensifiée contre le « séparatisme » déclenchée

suite aux manifestations tibétaines du printemps 2008. Grâce à son habileté et à son

engagement continu pour défendre et revendiquer publiquement la légitimité comme

la légalité de son livre, Nülo est cependant parvenu à éviter à Joies et peines le verdict

d’une interdiction pure et simple. Sans pouvoir pousser l’enquête dans cette direction,

nous avons observé, à la suite d’autres chercheurs, que l’appareil de l’État et du Parti ne

pouvait être conçu comme monolithique, constituant plutôt un ensemble institutionnel

stratifié et complexe, traversé de tensions et de contradictions12. Dans ce contexte, la

position et l’expérience de Nülo dans cet appareil lui ont permis de parvenir à se

protéger lui-même de sanctions qu’il redoutait de subir pour avoir publié Joies et peines,

à protéger son témoignage et à en protéger les lecteurs à qui la possession d’un livre

illégal ne pouvait être reprochée.

15 La thèse s’efforce de rendre compte, ensuite, des circulations de l’ouvrage et de la

formation de son aire de réception. Nous avons pour cela considéré tant les pratiques

commerciales de la librairie tibétaine privée que les pratiques de lecture qui,

nourrissant une demande qui ne tarissait pas, ont stimulé la production de dizaines de

milliers de contrefaçons. Loin de se considérer spolié par ces pratiques de piratage,

Nülo a exprimé à maintes reprises sa plus profonde gratitude aux fabricants de

contrefaçon, grâce à qui la diffusion de son témoignage a été démultipliée, pour

atteindre des volumes sans commune mesure avec les tirages habituels de livres de

littérature ou d’histoire en tibétain. Cette attitude semble indiquer que si Joies et peines

relève bien, comme livre, de la propriété intellectuelle de Nülo, l’histoire que porte ce

livre relève en revanche, à ses yeux, de la propriété légitime de tous, d’un bien

commun. Peu importe qui produit les objets concrets qui la portent, ou que certains en

fassent du commerce, l’essentiel est que ces objets parviennent entre les mains de leurs

lecteurs. Nülo a d’ailleurs été particulièrement actif non seulement pour diffuser son

livre, mais aussi pour en diversifier autant que possible le lectorat : des centaines

d’exemplaires ont été offerts à ses amis et connaissances, aux diverses personnes qui

venaient le trouver, mais aussi envoyés en cadeau à des écoles secondaires tibétaines

du Kham et de l’Amdo et même distribués et vendus à Lhassa. L’auteur n’a pas été le

seul à contribuer ainsi à la diffusion de l’ouvrage. La capillarité du réseau de diffusion

qui a donné forme à l’aire de réception de Joies et peines va en effet bien au-delà des

réseaux de sa diffusion commerciale. L’ouvrage a été offert, emprunté, envoyé ou

transporté, parfois en quantité, là où il n’était pas disponible. Ces pratiques font

apparaître non seulement l’imbrication des pratiques de lecture et des réseaux de

sociabilité, mais aussi l’importance accordée à ce livre. Dans cette même perspective,

j’ai également étudié les multiples prises d’écriture que celui-ci a suscitées et les

espaces dans lesquels elles s’inscrivaient : lettres adressées à l’auteur (dont une

sélection traduite est présentée dans les annexes de la thèse), mais aussi commentaires,

reprises d’extraits du livre, chansons et poèmes publiés en ligne. La cartographie des

espaces où la renommée du livre s’est diffusée au fil des années a ainsi permis


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d’esquisser les différents publics affectés par l’existence et la lecture de ce témoignage,

dont l’enquête montre qu’ils appartiennent à des milieux sociaux très divers.

16 Il fallait rendre compte, enfin, des réceptions du témoignage à travers l’analyse des

usages et des appropriations multiples dont Joies et peines a fait l’objet. Pour contribuer

à expliquer la formation d’une aire de réception aux contours atypiques, d’une porosité

sociale particulièrement marquée, j’analyse le dispositif narratif du témoignage et

notamment la langue employée dans le texte. Ce sont ces caractéristiques formelles, en

effet, qui font que Joies et peines a pu être approprié, en Amdo et dans une partie du

Kham, par des communautés de lecteurs aux compétences et habitudes de lecture très

variables, des plus érudits aux moins instruits. Lu par des écrivains, des éditeurs, des

universitaires, des religieux érudits et de simples moines, Joies et peines l’a été aussi par

des collégiens comme par des personnes peu lettrées, hommes et femmes n’ayant pas

l’habitude de lire en raison, notamment, du caractère peu accessible pour eux de la

langue littéraire systématiquement employée dans l’édition en tibétain13. Il a été lu, et

apprécié, dans des milieux modernistes d’orientation libérale, attachés à la défense des

libertés individuelles et n’hésitant pas à critiquer les politiques de l’État chinois comme

le système de valeurs hérité du bouddhisme, mais aussi dans ceux attachés à la

préservation de ces mêmes valeurs, présentées comme typiquement tibétaines, ainsi

que par des fonctionnaires, actuels ou retraités, ne remettant nullement en cause, pour

certains, la légitimité du Parti communiste chinois.

17 L’écriture de Nülo, employant à dessein des structures syntaxiques simples et faisant

une large place aux tournures de la langue telle qu’elle est parlée, dans ses diverses

variantes dialectales, rendait ainsi son texte accessible aux peu instruits, sans pour

autant empêcher sa lecture par les plus éduqués. Parfois choquante de prime abord,

tant elle s’écartait des normes dominantes de la langue littéraire, cette écriture

produisait aussi un effet de proximité et d’authenticité pour ceux qui comprenaient les

dialectes mis par écrit par Nülo, offrant par là un accès privilégié aux affects. S’il est

exagéré de dire, comme on l’entend parfois, qu’il n’y a pas un lecteur qui n’ait versé de

larmes à la lecture de Joies et peines, l’enquête montre que ceux qui pleurèrent furent

nombreux, certains reliant explicitement cette capacité du texte à les émouvoir à

l’écriture « en langue parlée ». Cet usage indiquait aussi clairement qui étaient les

premiers destinataires de ce témoignage, que Nülo, de son propre aveu, aurait eu plus

de facilité à écrire en chinois. L’emploi du tibétain, et plus encore d’une langue simple,

locale et familière a contribué à la réception de Joies et peines comme « une histoire à

soi »14. La forme culturellement familière du récit de vie y a sans nul doute contribué

aussi, bien que Nülo ait opéré de nombreux déplacements qui font de Joies et peines un

objet singulier se laissant difficilement saisir à l’aide des catégories, plus ou moins

stabilisées, en usage pour décrire les textes littéraires tibétains. En adoptant le regard

« naïf » de l’enfant qu’il était et une langue familière, exempte de toute terminologie

politique, Nülo positionne clairement son témoignage hors des cadres idéologiques et

des visées de légitimation qui régissent les écritures « officielles » de l’histoire et la

composition de récits de vie, en RPC comme dans la diaspora tibétaine (Henrion-Dourcy

2013). Raconter les expériences et pensées d’un « enfant n’ayant pas atteint l’âge de

raison » (byis pa bsam med zhig) place aussi Joies et peines à distance des écritures de soi

attestées dans la tradition littéraire tibétaine, récits de vie de maîtres spirituels

accomplis ou, plus rarement, de serviteurs exemplaires de l’État tibétain. Le récit, dans

Joies et peines, est certes ancré dans des conceptions religieuses familières, mais le

prisme d’interprétation général n’en est pas religieux. Ce témoignage se distingue ainsi


474

de récits contemporains écrits ou oraux, produits par des religieux, qui évoquent les

violences de la période maoïste de façon souvent succincte, voire allusive – à l’inverse

de Joies et peines, que les lecteurs qualifient volontiers de « clair » (gsal po), « détaillé »

(zhib cha ldan pa) et « complet » (cha tshang ma) –, et qui, surtout, les interprètent avant

tout à l’aide de notions bouddhiques, qu’il s’agisse de les concevoir comme le produit de

causalités karmiques ou comme des épreuves dont le dépassement a permis

l’accomplissement de progrès spirituels15.

18 Les réceptions du témoignage dans le Qinghai et dans les zones tibétaines des provinces

voisines (Gansu et Sichuan), en Amdo ainsi que dans certaines parties du Kham, ne

pouvaient enfin être comprises sans chercher à décrire les expériences et les problèmes

qui, pour les personnes de ces régions, donnaient à l’existence de ce récit public une

saillance particulière. Ce n’est qu’au regard de l’expérience historique partagée du

« renversement d’époque » de 1958, quelles qu’aient été, jusqu’à présent, les formes et

les difficultés de sa transmission entre générations – et pour partie précisément en

raison de ces difficultés –, que l’on peut comprendre l’importance historique reconnue

au témoignage de Joies et peines et l’émotion collective que celui-ci a suscité dans ces

régions, bien davantage qu’ailleurs. Les personnes sont affectées de façon différente

par le témoignage, en fonction de la place qu’elles occupent dans l’espace social, mais

sa publication est un événement auquel tous reconnaissent une immense portée

collective. Joies et peines est compris comme une action au bénéfice des générations

suivantes, mais aussi des nombreux morts délaissés ayant péri en 1958, dans les

combats, en prison ou au cours de la famine qui a suivi, intervenant ainsi pour

transformer les liens entre générations. C’est un livre qui témoigne, certes, d’un passé

traumatique, mais qui fait événement dans le présent. Orientant les interprétations du

passé, les réceptions du témoignage redéfinissent aussi les attentes présentes et les

horizons d’attente collectifs pour l’avenir – en termes de reconnaissance et de justice,

mais aussi d’engagement au profit du collectif.

19 Le succès – éditorial, commercial et populaire – de Joies et peines n’était pas prévisible et

tient ainsi à une conjonction de plusieurs facteurs de natures différentes. Il n’est pas le

résultat d’un accomplissement individuel mais bien d’un processus collectif, auquel

l’initiative de Nülo donna une impulsion première. Ce processus a contribué à changer

les manières dont certains, en Amdo et dans le Kham, s’imaginaient le passé récent et

créé une référence partagée qui permet de l’évoquer ensemble. Joies et peines a fourni à

ces publics – par-delà les différences de générations, de catégories sociales et, parfois,

de convictions politiques – non pas une vision univoque des événements, mais la

possibilité d’une perspective commune sur un passé partagé : une perspective nourrie

des liens entre générations et des expériences de lecture du témoignage qui laisse place

à la diversité des expériences vécues et permet de les relier entre elles. L’efficacité du

témoignage comme médiateur dans de telles connexions des expériences est liée à

l’exemplarité, tant historique que morale, qui a été collectivement reconnue au

témoignage de Nülo.


475

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Baciocchi, S., A. Cottereau & M.-P. Hille, 2018 Pratiques d’enquête et sens de la réalité sociale, in

S. Baciocchi, A. Cottereau & M.-P. Hille (dirs), Le pouvoir des gouvernés. Ethnographies de savoir-faire

politiques sur quatre continents (Bruxelles, Peter Lang), pp. 9‑28.

Barnett, R. 2009 The Tibet protests of spring 2008. Conflict between the nation and the state, in

E. Allès & F. Robin (dirs), The Deadlock in Tibet, China Perspectives 2009(3), https://doi.org/10.4000/

chinaperspectives.4836.

Bensa A. & D. Fabre 2001 Une histoire à soi. Figurations du passé et localités (Paris, Maison des

sciences de l’homme).

Chartier R. 1992 L’ordre des livres. Lecteurs, auteurs, bibliothèques en Europe entre XIVe et XVIIIe siècle

(Aix-en-Provence, Alinea).

Darnton R. 1991 Édition et sédition. L’univers de la littérature clandestine au XVIIIe siècle (Paris,

Gallimard).

Dulong R. 1998 Le témoin oculaire. Les conditions sociales de l'attestation personnelle (Paris, Éditions de

l'École des hautes études en sciences sociales).

Henrion-Dourcy I. 2013 A look at the margins. Autobiographical writing in Tibetan in the People’s

Republic of China, in M. Dryburgh & S. Dauncey (dirs), Writing Lives in China, 1600–2010

(Houndmills, Palgrave Macmillan), pp. 206‑235.

Li Jianglin & M. Akester 2013 When the iron bird flies. A summary of findings, site web War on

Tibet. Chinese and Tibetan documents on the history of the Communist occupation in English Translation,

14 mai [en ligne, URL : https://historicaldocs.blogspot.com/2013/05/when-iron-bird-flies-

summary-of-findings.html, consulté le 9 avril 2020].

Lin G. C. S. & S. P. S. Ho 2005 The State, land system, and land development processes in

contemporary China, Annals of the Association of American Geographers 95(2), pp. 411‑436.

Nacang Nuluo 納倉．怒羅 [Nags tshang nus blo] 2011 Na nian, shishi fanzhuang: yi ge Xizang ren de

tongnian huiyi 那年，世時翻轉: 一個西藏人的童年回憶 [Ces années-là, le renversement

d’époque: souvenirs d’enfance d’un Tibétain] (Taipei, Xueyu chubanshe).

Nags tshang nus blo 2007 Nags tshang zhi lu’i skyid sdug [Joies et peines de l’enfant Naktsang]

(Xining, Qinghai Xining Yinshuachang).

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po bod kyi rig gzhung sri zhu khang).

Naktsang Nulo [Nags tshang nus blo] 2014 My Tibetan Childhood. When Ice Shattered Stone, traduit

du tibétain par A. Cargill & S. Lhamo, édité et abrégé par A. Cargill, préface de R. Barnett

(Durham, Duke University Press).

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Studies 72(1), pp. 69‑89.

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hagiography, in R. Barnett, B. Weiner & F. Robin (dirs), Conflicting Memories. Tibetan History Under

Mao Retold (Leiden/Boston, Brill, Inner Asia Book Series), pp. 513‑544.


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Weiner B. 2020 The Chinese Revolution on the Tibetan Frontier (Ithaca, Cornell University Press).

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F. Robin (dirs), Conflicting Memories. Tibetan History Under Mao Retold (Leiden/Boston, Brill, Inner

Asia Book Series), pp. 485‑505.

NOTES

1. Suivant la convention scientifique, la translittération de Wylie est employée pour les termes

tibétains. Les noms propres revenant fréquemment, cependant, tels que le nom de l’auteur

Naktsang Nülo (Wylie : Nags tshang nus blo) sont ici transcrits phonétiquement afin de faciliter la

lecture aux non-spécialistes.

2. Suivant l’usage de mes enquêtés, « Tibet » désigne ici le Tibet dit « ethnographique », c’est-à-

dire l’ensemble des zones de peuplement tibétain situées en RPC : la Région autonome du Tibet,

où vivent 43 % des 6,2 millions de Tibétains recensés en RPC d’après le dernier recensement en

date (2010), mais aussi les zones de peuplement tibétain incluses dans les provinces voisines, qui

ont pour la plupart le statut administratif de préfectures autonomes tibétaines (PAT). Les régions

orientales du Tibet ainsi défini sont appelées Kham (Tibet oriental) et Amdo (nord-est du Tibet).

Si l’on se réfère aux divisions administratives chinoises, le Kham est à cheval entre la Région

autonome du Tibet et les provinces du Qinghai, du Sichuan et du Yunnan, tandis que l’Amdo

englobe la majorité du Qinghai ainsi que des régions tibétaines voisines, situées dans le Gansu et

le Sichuan.

3. Situé dans l’actuelle PAT du Gannan (Gansu), Labrang est le plus grand monastère bouddhique

tibétain de l’Amdo.

4. Selon les termes de l’« Accord en dix-sept points », signé en 1951, aucune réforme politique,

religieuse, sociale ou économique ne devait en effet être imposée par le Parti communiste chinois

dans les territoires administrés par le gouvernement tibétain (correspondant plus ou moins à

l’actuelle Région autonome du Tibet), qui fonctionnaient depuis plusieurs décennies comme un

État de facto indépendant. Cet accord sera répudié par les deux parties en 1959, après l’exil du

Dalaï lama en Inde.

5. Les éditions et traductions de Joies et peines parues à l’étranger sont également indicatives de

cette relative labilité politique. Dès 2008, une adaptation du livre en tibétain littéraire, expurgée

des nombreux régionalismes de l’édition originale, est publiée en Inde par une maison d’édition

de la diaspora tibétaine (Nags tshang 2008). En 2011, une traduction en chinois est ensuite

publiée par une maison d’édition proche du gouvernement tibétain en exil, à Taiwan (Nacang

Nuluo 2011). Enfin, en 2014, une traduction anglaise est publiée par une maison d’édition

universitaire états-unienne (Naktsang Nulo 2014).

6. Comme le rappelle Weiner, les Tibétains ne furent pas les seules victimes de cette répression,

qui s’abattit également sur d’autres groupes ethniques présents en Amdo (Mongols, Salar, Hui,

etc.).

7. Ainsi dans la PAT de Yushul, où était située la « Maison du bonheur » évoquée dans Joies et

peines, la population tibétaine a chuté de plus de 40 % entre 1957 et 1963 (Li & Akester 2013).

8. Citons ici mes premières lectures dans ce domaine, deux ouvrages qui orientèrent grandement

l’élaboration de mon enquête : L’ordre des livres (Chartier 1992) et Édition et sédition (Darnton

1991).

9. Cette démarche, et notamment l’usage qu’elle propose du journal de terrain, développée et

pratiquée dans le séminaire de l’EHESS « Pratiques d’enquête et sens de la réalité sociale », est

présentée dans Baciocchi et al. 2018.


477

10. En mars-avril 2008, quelques mois avant que Pékin n’accueille les Jeux Olympiques, plus de

cent manifestations ont eu lieu à travers le Plateau tibétain (voir Barnett 2009).

11. Selon la loi chinoise, seules les maisons d’édition dûment enregistrées sont autorisées à

attribuer des ISBN. Au moment de l’enquête, seules huit maisons d’édition d’État habilitées à

produire des publications « ouvertes » en tibétain recevaient des ISBN attribués par

l’Administration nationale de la presse et de l’édition.

12. George Lin et Samuel Ho écrivent ainsi : « The Chinese socialist state is better seen as a

dynamic, complex, heterogeneous, and self-conflictual institutional ensemble in and through

which the forces and interests of different levels of the state are contested, negotiated, and

mediated. » (Lin & Ho 2005, p. 411).

13. Il existe en tibétain une diglossie entre la langue littéraire, commune à l’ensemble des

tibétophones, et les langues parlées, dont les linguistes distinguent une cinquantaine de variétés

différentes, elles-mêmes subdivisées en dialectes.

14. Nous empruntons l’expression au titre d’un ouvrage dirigé par Alban Bensa et Daniel Fabre,

où elle renvoie d’abord à la possibilité d’« instituer une identité locale par la figuration du passé »

(Bensa & Fabre 2001).

15. Pour des exemples d’analyse de récits de vie de religieux du XXe siècle présentant les

souffrances endurées au cours de la période maoïste comme des occasions de progrès spirituels,

voir Willock 2020 et Turek 2020.


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