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Études mongoles et sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines

46 | 2015 Études bouriates, suivi de Tibetica miscellanea

Édition électronique URL : https://journals.openedition.org/emscat/2484 DOI : 10.4000/emscat.2484 ISSN : 2101-0013

Éditeur Centre d'Etudes Mongoles & Sibériennes / École Pratique des Hautes Études

Référence électronique Études mongoles et sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines, 46 | 2015, « Études bouriates, suivi de Tibetica miscellanea » [En ligne], mis en ligne le 10 septembre 2015, consulté le 13 juillet 2021. URL : https://journals.openedition.org/emscat/2484 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/emscat.2484

Ce document a été généré automatiquement le 13 juillet 2021.

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SOMMAIRE

Études bouriates

Introduction Nikolay Tsyrempilov

On the people of Khariad (Qariyad) Tsongol B. Natsagdorj

Diseases and their origins in the traditional worldview of : folk medicine methods Marina Sodnompilova et Vsevolod Bashkuev

An outpost of socialism in the Buddhist Orient: geopolitical and eugenic implications of medical and anthropological research on Buryat- in the 1920s Vsevolod Bashkuev

‘Remote’ areas and minoritized spatial orders at the – border Caroline Humphrey

Daily life and party ideals on late Soviet-Era radio and television : programming for children, teens, and youth in Melissa Chakars

Performing “culture” : diverse audiences at the International Shaman’s Conference and Tailgan on Ol’khon Island Justine Buck Quijada et Eric Stephen

Tibetica miscellanea

On the Tibetan Ge-sar epic in the late 18th century : Sum-pa mkhan-po’s letters to the 6th Paṇ-chen Solomon George FitzHerbert rNgon-pa’i ’don… : A few thoughts on the preliminary section of a-lce lha-mo performances in Central Isabelle Henrion-Dourcy

« Mystères » bouddhiques. La théâtralisation des rituels tibétains par les voyageurs au début du XXe siècle Samuel Thévoz

La terminologie de parenté au Ladakh (Leh) Patrick Kaplanian

An archaeological survey of the Nubra Region (Ladakh, Jammu and Kashmir, ) Quentin Devers, Laurianne Bruneau et Martin Vernier

Études mongoles et sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines, 46 | 2015 2

Comptes rendus

Goldstein M.C., A History of Modern Tibet volume 3 : the storm clouds descend 1955-57 Berkeley : University of California Press, 2014, ISBN 978-0-520-27651-2 Matthew Akester

Yeh Emily T., Taming Tibet : Landscape Transformation and the Gift of Chinese Development Cornell University Press, Ithaca & London, 2013, 324 pages, paperback. ISBN 9780801478321 Katia Buffetrille

Sihlé Nicolas, Rituels bouddhiques de pouvoir et de violence : la figure du tantriste tibétain Turnhout, Belgique, Brepols, 2013, 405 p., ISBN : 978-2-503-54470-0 Cécile Ducher

Bellezza John Vincent, Death and Beyond in Ancient Tibet. Archaic Concepts and Practices in a Thousand-Year-Old Illuminated Funerary Manuscript and Old Tibetan Funerary Documents of Gathang Bumpa and Beiträge zur Kultur- und Geistesgeschichte Asiens Nr. 77, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse, Denkschriften, 454. Band, Vienna (Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften), 2013. ix + 293 p., ISBN 978-3-7001-7433-2 Per Kværne

Buffetrille Katia (ed.), Revisiting Rituals in a Changing Tibetan World Leiden, Brill, 2012, vii-386 p., ISBN 978 90 04 23217 4 Nicolas Sihlé

Lang Maria-Katharina, Bauer Stefan (eds.), The Mongolian Collections. Retracing Hans Leder Vienne (Autriche), Austrian Academy of Sciences, 2013. ISBN : 978-3-7001-7520-9 Isabelle Charleux

Batsaihan Oohnoin, Mongolyn süülčiin ezen haan VIII Bogd Žavzandamba. Am’dral ba domog (The Last Emperor of Mongolia Bogdo Jebtsundamba Khutukhtu. The Life and Legend) : Admon, 2011, xx+707 p. Bibliography. Index. ISBN 978-99929-0-464-X Isabelle Charleux et Laura Nikolov

Pesteil Philippe, Bianquis Isabelle (eds.), Déprise et emprise du rural. Regards croisés sur les dynamiques sociales Stamperia Sammarcelli, Università Corsica, Corte, 2013, 198 p. ISBN 9782915371802 Charlotte Marchina

Bulgakova Tatiana, Nanai Shamanic Culture in Indigenous Discourse Fürstenberg/Havel, Kulturstiftung Sibirien, 2013, 261 p. ISBN 978-3-942883-14-6 Aurore Dumont et Alexandra Lavrillier

Kasten Erich (dir.), Reisen an den Rand des Russischen Reiches : die wissenschaftliche Erschliessung der nordpazifischen Küstengebiete im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert Fürstenberg/Havel, Verlag der Kulturstiftung Sibirien, coll. « Exhibitions and Symposia », 2013, 318p. ISBN 978-3-942883-16-0 Jan Borm

Erdal Marcel, Nevskaya Irina, Nugteren Hans, Rind-Pawlowski Monika (Hg.), Handbuch des Tschalkantürkischen Teil 1 : Texte und Glossar, Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden, 2013. xii, 252 S (Turcologica, Bd. 91,1), ISBN 978-3-447-06964-9 Dmitri Funk, Oksana Poustogacheva et Irina Popravko

Études mongoles et sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines, 46 | 2015 3

Léotar Frédéric, La steppe musicienne : Analyses et modélisation du patrimoine musical turcique Paris, Vrin, 2014, 303 p. ISBN 978-2711625505 Rémy Dor

Note de recherche

The past in the way of the present : Ruminations on Pema Tseden’s movie Old Dog Roberto Vitali

Résumés de thèse

Éric Mélac, L’évidentialité en anglais : approche contrastive à partir d’un corpus anglais- tibétain

Aurore Dumont, Échanges marchands, réseaux relationnels et nomadisme contemporain chez les Evenk de Chine (Mongolie-Intérieure)

Aurélie Biard, État, et société en Asie centrale post-soviétique. Usages du religieux, pratiques sociales et légitimités politiques au Kirghizstan

Marie-Paule Hille, Le Xidaotang, une existence collective à l’épreuve du politique. Ethnographie historique et anthropologique d’une communauté musulmane chinoise (, 1857-2014)

Hommage

Philippe Sagant, la passion de l’ethnologie Katia Buffetrille et Marie Lecomte-Tilouine

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Études bouriates

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Introduction

Nikolay Tsyrempilov

EDITOR'S NOTE

Editors’ note : Terms in Buryat have been transliterated according to official Buryat spellings provided by dictionaries.

Present-day scholarship on the Buryats, or Buryat-Mongols, consciously or otherwise considers the people in question and the areas they inhabit as a marginal part or periphery of the Mongolian or Russian worlds ; the logic of this marginality is determined by the history of this ethno-cultural group formation at the civilizational juncture between Asia and , and furthermore acquires its historical and cultural identity from this marginality. Indeed, most of the few Western Buryatologists approach their area specialization from one of two dominant perspectives. The majority of them initially had, and still have, an established basic interest in Russian studies or, to be precise, studies in Russian .1 In this perspective the Buryats are viewed as the largest indigenous people of Siberia, culturally and historically one of the most curious minorities of Asiatic Russia. The second perspective runs through Mongolian (rarely Tibetan) studies, but even here the Buryats are seen only as a part (albeit an important one) of the larger Mongolian or Tibetan Buddhist worlds.2 It turns out that the Buryats are still being studied as a fragment of a larger picture, be it Mongolia, Russia, Tibetan , Siberian , and so forth. However, this academic marginality should not necessarily be regarded as a flaw. One of the positive aspects is that Buryat studies attract a circle of researchers with specialization in various regions and disciplines, and Buryatology thus becomes a highly contextualized sphere. In many cases this contextualization may generate a multidimensional picture. It is no less important to keep in mind that the Buryats are a classic case of an autoethnographic people, and it was in the middle of the 19th century that early Buryat chroniclers first attempted to describe their own people by imitating modern European

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ethnographic accounts.3 However, it was in the early 20th century that the school of Buryatology started to take shape thanks to the outstanding efforts of the first ethnographers and historians of Buryat origin. In early Soviet times this school, based in Buryatia, included many famous , such as Bazar Baradiin, Tsyben Zhamtsarano, Gombozhap Tsybikov, and Mikhail Bogdanov. Almost all these brilliant scholars were purged in the 1930s.4 Due to the post-WWII political configuration (especially the deterioration in USSR-PRC relations during the 1950s),5 Buryat studies have drifted away from Mongolian studies. The Buryats began to be viewed as a group with weak links with the larger Mongolian world, whose ‘real history’ starts with the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution. Postcolonial discourse becomes dominant but exclusively in the Marxist interpretation of historical materialism. Buryatology in the USSR evolved separately from the rest of the world, and this is still true for Buryat studies of Buryatia. This special issue of EMSCAT represents a resolute step towards overcoming this protracted isolation. Today, apart from the school of Buryatology of Ulan-Ude which is now based in the Institute for Mongolian, Buddhist and Tibetan studies, Department of History and Culture of Buryatia of Buryat State University, Buryat Academy of Mongolia, there are no other established and systematic centres of Buryat studies in other parts of the world. Nonetheless, there are a few experts in various aspects of Buryat studies in different universities and academies of , Mongolia, Europe and the USA. This issue of EMSCAT is the first attempt at a compilation of papers by Buryatologists of different countries and regions, including the Republic of Buryatia. Readers will judge how successful this attempt is, but I would like to believe that it is a sign of growing interest in Buryat studies in the world. The six papers selected for this issue are written in the framework of different approaches and source bases and are yet to a certain degree united by a few overarching problems : specifically, problems of interpretation of what is regarded as traditional, and the problem of identity arising from the interaction between traditional and modern, local and global, in the domains of physical health, religious ritual, culture, mass media, genealogy or geographical space. In his contribution to the issue Natsagdorj illustrates the complexity of ethnic identity and political loyalty in the 17th century Mongol world. The focus of his paper are the Buryat migrants to Western Mongolia, known as Hariad, who for a long time were counted as a part of the Mongolian dominating sub-ethnic group of the Halh. The Hariad never followed other Buryat clans who returned to live under Russian administration, but managed to retain their common identity, albeit under a different . The ideas of norms and the normative in both traditional and modernizing Soviet Buryat society are discussed in Sodnompilova and Bashkuev’s papers. Marina Sodnompilova scrupulously analyses what was considered deviation from the norm in the domains of mental and physical health, or simply disease. The normative , as seen in the traditional Buryat worldview, depends on a delicate balance between the worlds of human beings and those of deities and spirits. This traditional understanding of diseases and their causes is not necessarily a property of the past. These views demonstrate surprising endurance in contemporary Buryat society. Vsevolod Bashkuev also raises the problems of what was normative in the sphere of health and hygiene, but his narrative concerns early Soviet representations of the

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Buryats as a model Socialist nation able to serve as a reference point for other peoples of Asia. He scrutinizes the goals and points of reference of the scientific research conducted by the Soviet professionals in medicine and social hygiene and their German counterparts in Buryat-Mongolia in the 1920-30s. Bashkuev traces the cultural and scientific shifts that took place in early Soviet Russia in the sphere of eugenics and approaches to healthcare and led to concrete policies in Buryat-Mongolia. Contrasting the German approach to healthcare policies with the politically charged Soviet conception of the degeneracy of backward peoples, Bashkuev shows how the Soviet conception of positive eugenics gradually prevailed due to the Bolsheviks’ conviction in the gradual social progress of the Soviet people. Caroline Humphrey examines the traditional Buryat understanding of geographic space and spatial order, contrasting it with the centre/periphery hierarchical pattern of the Russian state. The traditional worldview of the Buryats implied alternative views of what constituted the centre and the periphery, how geographical space was organized and the logic underlying this organization. Reflecting on the ideas stated in Sodnompilova’s paper on revitalization of the older concepts in the new isolation of the Buryat villages in the super-centralized Russia of our days, Humphrey shows how this traditional vision of spatial order challenges the state models. Melissa Chakars tackles the important question of how effectively the Soviet authorities utilized TV and radio as an ideological instrument in their attempt to modernize the Buryat society and create a new type of identity. One of the important issues Chakars raises is the contradictory nature of this process when a local TV channel, by drawing attention to the problems of the local community, challenged the official narrative concerning the formation of Soviet national identity. Another significant point is that although the authorities established total control over mass media, the actual perceptions of their messages were out of their control. It is obvious, the author concludes, that these messages generated alternative views that might differ significantly from what was expected. Justine Quijada and Eric Stephen ponder the issues of the local and the global, using the example of the International Shaman's Conference and Tailgan, or collective prayer, organized by the Tengeri Shaman’s Association annually from 2002 on Olkhon Island of . The paper’s main purpose is to show what multiple perceptions of the performance reveal about the individual participants in the event. Their point of comparison is the audience that attends smaller rituals that are regularly organized at the headquarters of Tengeri in Ulan-Ude. It predominantly consists of Buryats rather than Russians or other ethnic groups, and the concepts of ‘tradition’ and ‘authenticity’ are articulated during these ceremonies even if outsiders often question this authenticity. The analysis of the survey data gathered during the Tailgan in the summer of 2012 shows how divergent audiences can be and how their motivations can differ. What is more important is how the organizers of the ceremony shift the accent from the local and specific to the global and universal aspects of shamanism to appeal to a diverse audience. While the papers offer diverse perspectives on the same problems concerning the past and present of the Buryats, this issue invites readers of EMSCAT into a process of developing a new analytical field which may potentially lead to a re-consideration of approaches in Mongolian and Tibetan studies.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Belka, L. 2014 Mandala a dějiny : Bidija D. Dandaron a burjatský buddhismus (Brno, Masarykova univerzita), 170 p.

Bernstein, A. 2013 Religious Bodies Politic. Rituals of Sovereignty in Buryat Buddhism (University of Chicago Press), 280 p.

Chakars, M. A. 2014 The Socialist Way of Life in Siberia. Transformation in Buryatia (Central European University Press, Budapest – New York), 296 p.

Ippei, S. 2014 The Roots Seekers : Shamanism and Ethnicity among the Mongol Buryats (Yokohama, Shumpusha Publishing), 576 p.

Kollmar-Paulenz, K. 2014 Systematically Ordering the World : the Encounter of Buriyad-Mongolian, Tibetan and Russian Knowledge Cultures in the 19th Century, in Philippe Bornet et al. (eds) L’orientalisme des marges : éclairages à partir de l’Inde et de la Russie (Revue Etudes de lettres, Université de Lausanne), pp. 123-146.

Manduhai, B. 2013 Tragic Spirits. Shamanism, Memory, and Gender in Contemporary Mongolia (University of Chicago Press), 336 p.

Montgomery, R. W. 2005 Late Tsarist and Early Soviet Nationality and Cultural Policy. The Buryats and their Language (The Edwin Mellen Press, Lewiston, Queenston, Lampeter), 347 p.

Rupen, R. 1956 Buryat intelligentsia, Far Eastern Quarterly 15(3), pp. 383-398.

Schorkowitz, D. 2001 Staat und Nationalitäten in Rußland : Der Integrationsprozeß der Burjaten und Kalmücken, 1822-1925 (Stuttgart, Franz Steiner), 616 p.

NOTES

1. This is true for the Buryatologists of Europe and the USA, most of whom study the Buryats as a part of the Russian world. Recent studies of different aspects of the Buryat history and published in the West include Chakars (2014), Montgomery (2005), Schorkowitz (2001). 2. The attempts to view the Buryats in the context of the larger Mongolian world are usually based on the example of the Buryat diaspora of Mongolia, as in the prominent works of Manduhai (2013) and Ippei (2014). As for recent studies that place the Buryats in the framework of the Tibetan Buddhist world see Bernstein (2013). 3. A recent study by Karenina Kollmar-Paulenz shows that some of the 19 th century Buryat chronicles that provide a systematic taxonomy of the Buryat shamanist tradition bear obvious traces of the influence of Russian ethnographic scholarship. See Kollmar-Paulenz (2014).

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4. A brilliant, and still uncontested, account of the early 20 th century Buryat intelligentsia has been given by Rupen (1956). 5. In 1956, after Nikita Khrushchev’s visit to the PRC, the Buryat-Mongolian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic was hastily renamed the Buryat Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, and the Buryat-Mongol people officially changed their name to Buryat. The reason for these changes was purely political.

AUTHOR

NIKOLAY TSYREMPILOV Nikolay Tsyrempilov is Head of Department of History of Buryatia of the Buryat State University (Ulan-Ude, Republic of Buryatia). The subject of his academic interest is the history of Buddhism in Tibet, Mongolia and Russia. Among his monographs are ‘From Tibet Confidentially. Secret Correspondence of the Thirteenth to Agvan Dorzhiev, 1911-1925’ (LTWA, 2013), ‘Buddizm i Imperia : Buriatskaia Buddiiskaia sangha i Rossiiskoe gosudarstvo v XVIII-nach. XX vv.’ (Buddhism and the Empire. Buriat Buddhist Sangha and Russian state in the 18th-early 20th c. Ulan-Ude, 2014). He is a member of Inner Asia Journal editorial board, Brill’s Inner Asia Archive and Brill’s Eurasian Studies Library. In 2013-2014 he was a member of Princeton Institute for Advanced Study.

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On the people of Khariad (Qariyad) À propos du peuple Khariad (Qariyad)

Tsongol B. Natsagdorj

Introduction

Several provinces () of Mongolia, such as Khövsgöl, Zavkhan, Arkhangai and , are home to a group of Khalkh Mongols who call themselves Khariad (Classic Mongolian qariyad). A well-known Mongolian ethnographer S. Badamkhatan described the process of formation of the clan (oboγ) and lineage (yasu) of the Khalkh Mongols, based on the fieldwork materials collected among the Khariads of Khövsgöl province. But unfortunately, the written source in Mongol, entitled ‘The History of the Ach Khariads’ (Ach Khariadyn tüükh), which was used by Badamkhatan was recently lost (BNMAU 1987, p. 38). In his work about Mongol clan names, A. Ochir wrote that ‘Khariads, among the Khalkh and Oirads, probably originate from the Buryats of the lake Baikal and had an eagle for a totem’ (Ochir 2008, pp. 219-220). Bair Nanzatov lists Khariad and Buriad among the clans of the modern Mongols, who are, in his opinion, the descendants of the Buryat migrants in the 17th century (Nanzatov 2010, p. 90). In his recent paper on the population of the banner of Baγatur beyise of Khalkh Sayin noyan province, recently Ch. Mönkhtör suggested the Khariads who live in of Mongolia were migrants from Buryatia who settled there between 1700 and 1730’s (Mönkhtör 2012). But there are still a number of questions about the Khariads which have not been resolved . So, hereinafter I shall try to answer the main questions regarding this problem based on the multi-language primary sources and the Khariad oral histories.

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The origin of the Khariads

The Khariads in the 15-17th centuries

As the Khalkh chronicle Erten-ü mongγol-un qad-un ündüsün-ü yeke sir-a tuγuji (henceforth Sir-a tuγuji) states : So called four Oyirads : Qariyad. The one [part] of them [called] Ögülüd, now known as Sargis people. Qosiγud, Torγud, Jegün-γar and Dörbed are together compound the one [of them]. Barγu, Baγatud and [Q]oyid are the one of them. These are the Four Oyirads.1 Thus from the Khalkh chronicler’s point of view, the Oyirads were composed of Qariyad, Ögülüd (Sargis), Qosiγud, Torγud, Jegün-γar, Barγu, Baγatud, Qoyid. There is further evidence that Khariads were among the Oyirads in the 15th century. Both the anonymous ‘Golden summary (Altan tobči, 1604) and another compiled by Lubsangdanjin (1675), ‘The chronicle called Precious Summary on the roots of the hans’ (Qaγad-un ündüsün-ü erdeni-yin tobči) by Saγan Sečen (1662), ‘The Yellow chronicle on the roots of the ancient Mongol hans’ (Erten-ü mongγol-un qad-un ündüsün-ü yeke sir-a tuγuji) (late 17th century) and ‘History of Asaragchi’ (Asaraγči neretü teüke) by the Khalkh noble Byamspa (1677), all describe one jousting scene at the beginning of the battle between eastern Mongols and Oyirads, which took place at the middle of the 15th century. While both ‘Golden summary’ (Altan tobči) do not indicate ethnic identity of the Oyirad nobleman Guyilinči, Saγan sečen claims he was from the Buriyad of the Oyirads (Huraangui 2011, pp. 100, 270 ; Luvsandanzan 2011, pp. 242, 725 ; Sagan 2011, pp. 153, 477). Interestingly, both Khalkh chronicles ‘The Yellow chronicle on the roots of the ancient Mongol khans’ (Erten-ü mongγol-un qad-un ündüsün-ü yeke sir-a tuγuji) (Shar tuuj 2011) and ‘History of Asaragchi’ (Asaraγči neretü teüke) (Asragch 2011) identify the Oyirad nobleman as being of Qariyad origin (Shar tuuj 2011, pp. 90, 117 ; Asragch 2011, pp. 68, 239). We may therefore conclude that a branch of the Oyirads in the 15th century, known as Buriyad to other Mongols (such as Ordos of Saγan Sečen), was known to Khalkh Mongols as Qariyad. But which part of modern Buryats was known to the Khalkh people by the name of Khariad or Qariyad ? As we know, most modern Buryats were actually never referred to as such outside the Russian administrative system, where this name was the official designation of the Mongol-speaking people who became the subjects of the Tsar after 1727. Tuguldur Toboyin (1863), in his ‘Qori kiged aγuyin buriyad-nar-un urida-daγan boluγsan anu’ (The chronicles of khori buryat, Letopisi 1935), captures the moment when the Khori (who are now the majority of the Transbaikal Buryats) took the name Buryat in the following passage : Fleeing from there [they] reached the rivers Itanča and Quduru. Then they left that place and reached the shore of the lake Baikal, the island of Olkhon, and camped over there. Because on the west and east shores of the lake Baikal there were living the people called Buriyad, who settled there earlier, the Russians named [us] after them, thus we became known as the Buriyads of the eleven Khori tribes.2 Another indigenous group of the Transbaikal region — Tabunuty (Mo. tabunangγud) — were always referred to as Mungaly, i.e. Mongols, by Russian Cossacks. So, who were the ‘real’ Buryats ? As I shall show below, the ethnic groups who were referred to as the Buryats both by themselves and other Mongols, except for the Khalkh, inhabited the

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west coast of the lake Baikal and the Sayan Mountains. A few arguments may be made in support of this suggestion. a. The Cisbaikal Bulagads maintain that their ancestor was Bukha-noyon (lit. Bull-lord) the son of Khormusta Tengri, who descended to earth and had a son by Ööled’s Taizhi (Taiji) khan’s daughter3 (Khangalov 2004b, p. 350). A folk song of the Bulagad people’s marriage ceremony tells us the following : The fate of Buryaad people The history of Bulagad people Bukha — the lord father Budan — the lady mother.4 This personage was well known to the Khalkh and shamans of the northern Mongolia as ‘the lord of the Buriads and Khariads’. In the collection of Yöngsiyebü Rinčen there are few examples of such shamanic invocations. One of these runs as follows : Sék, sék, ség ! The hero Black Ilden, Lord of the Khariad, The hero Bull Ilden, Lord of the Buryat Who puckers his cruel brow And strikes his sword-like red horns Ah ! My father ! Come [to us] bellowing Stepping with your steel hooves — shir ! shir ! Smacking with your whip — sung ! sung ! [Come to us] My hero Bull Ilden !5 As Rinchen mentions, the Khalkh shamans believed that this Bukha noyon was sent by Chinggis Khan to Arig River to supervise the Khariads and Buriads.6 b. The Russian scholar G. N. Potanin noted that the referred to their neighbours, the Buryats, as Kharyat.7 In 1784 the Urga Yündündorji decided to evacuate the Darhads from inside the borderline on the grounds that ‘the people of Qara-Darqad cannot find a place to camp because of heavy snow. They can move out to the Russian Qariyads’.8 One year before this, in 1783, the Russian Buryats of today’s region crossed the border and together with the Qing Uriyanghais robbed Chinese merchants on Qing territory. The incident caused an interruption of the trade up to 1792, when the two sides signed a new edition of the Kyakhta treaty. The Buryat robbers in the official Qing documents were identified as Khariads (Mo. qariyad, Ma. kariyat) from the very beginning of this case and even in the so- called ‘International protocol’ of the 1792 they were classified as Khariads (russ. харяты) (Sbornik 1889, p. 94).9 The Qing official Songyun who signed the new treaty wrote about the Russo-Qing border and explained that Khariads lived to the west of Kyakhta near the Tangnu Uriyanghai (Vestnik 1858, p. 48). We may conclude from the above that Khalkh and Darkhads designated the Buryats from Cisbaikal Tunka and Sayan Mountains region, specifically the Bulagads, who had the bull totem, as Khariad (qariyad). At the same time there is no mention (at least, none that I have found) that the Cisbaikal Bulagad Buryats called themselves Khariad. I suggest that Khariad was the exo-ethnonym of the Buryats, given to them by their southern Khalkh neighbours. So, for Khalkh Mongols, Qariyad and Buriyad were two different names of the same Mongol-speaking ethnic groups of the northern shore of the lake Baikal.

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The subjection of the Khariads

In 1675 the envoys of the Khalkh left wing’s ‘Faithful and powerful’ Vajra Batu Tüsiyetü khan (Mong. Süsüg küčün tegüsügsen Wčirai batu tüsiyetü qaγan ; russ. Ochiroi sain kan) Čaqundorji handed over the letter of their khan to the Russian Tsar in Moscow. The fragments of this original Mongol letter are now kept in the Russian State Archive of Ancient Acts. I shall provide below my translation of it, while the Russian translation of the 17th century made by Pavel Kulvinsky does not agree with the original Mongol text of the letter (see Shastina 1960).10 Let there be happiness. The faithful and strong Vajra Tüsiyetü … in the […]th month the thirty quivering fugitives headed by Čakir baγatur… were not given back to us, claiming as they were the subjects of the White khan. Five yurts of Erke tayiji … two subjects of Erdeni baγatur, altogether five groups of men and eighty-two head of cattle, were taken [from us]. You have caused these kinds of troubles. Now settle them. If any of our subjects ever cause you trouble, let us know. Send one good person to Irkutsk and fortresses. We will send a good person [over there]. Let them discuss and investigate who is [guilty]. This is all we know. There may be more cases we do not know. If you do not give us our Qariyads back or find the guilty parties, you cannot live in the fortresses of Selenginsk, Irkutsk and Irgen. You cannot come to trade. If you give our Qariyads back and find the guilty, you may live in those fortresses and come to trade. Accompanying [this missive] are presents of green silk, blue silk, brown silk and red silk brocade [together] with a silver salver.11

Pictures 1-1 & 1-2. The letter of Tüsiyetü khan Čaqundorji to the Russian Tsar, 1675

RGADA, f. Mongol’skie dela, Opis’ 1, 1675, d. №1, lists 9, 8

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Russian clergyman translated the word qariyad as yasachnye (russ. ясачные), meaning those who pay taxes in fur (Materialy 1996, p. 281). Obviously, Pavel Kulvinsky mistook the word qariyad for another word qariyatu, meaning ‘taxable subject’. But qariyad is not the same as qariyatu as becomes clear from another letter of the same Khalkh khan to the Qing emperor Kangxi sent in 1687, in which he provided information about the mission of Fyodor Alexeevich Golovin as follows : ...Also, a [Russian] messenger came here with a letter and went back. In the letter it was said that the Russian White khan has sent five thousand messengers. The main point of his words was that [they] are willing to conclude the peace [with you] here or at the east side gathering together at the assembly. There are also many troops advancing at the east side, as [we] have heard. Although they took our Qariyad people and made many troubles on our frontiers, it seems that their khan wants to conclude peace. But as his people are very uncertain, rebellious and untrustworthy, for a long time I could not decide [whether to conclude peace]. Now, as this envoy said that there are answers to the questions that were asked from the White khan, I have sent my men to understand the situation.12 When the letter was received in , the translators of the Lifanyuan court translated the underlined phrase into Manchu as ‘meni harangga kariyad gebungge jušen be gaifi, jecen i / bade nungneme bisirengge labtu bicibe, esei han doro acara cihangga / gese bime, ceni jušen umesi yargiyan akū facuhūn toktohon akū / ofi, lashalame muterakū goidaha’ (Dayičing 2005b, p. 332) which means ‘Although they took our subjects called Kariyad and made many troubles on our frontier lands, it seems that that their khan wants to conclude peace. But as his people are very uncertain, rebellious and untrustworthy, for a long time I could not decide [whether to conclude the peace]’. There is also another letter of Tüsiyetü khan Čaqundorji to the Qing court, dated 1685, in which again he mentions the Qariyads, this time together with the Russians. This letter of the Faithful and powerful Vajra Batu Tüsiyetü khan is to inform the officials of the court about the Russians. ‘[They] live together with the Qariyads of our frontier. Having heard that they are treating those Qariyads badly and stopping the travelers who go there, I have sent [the envoy] to discuss those cases. [They] have not come back yet. When they have returned, [I] shall immediately inform you about their words. I am sending [this] after finding out that you were asking our envoys about the Russians. In addition, there are words that the envoy will convey to you orally.’13 So, the Tüsiyetü khan of the Khalkh’s left wing complained to the Qing emperor that the Russians had taken the Qariyad people who were his subjects. In the above quoted fragment from Sir-a tuγuji the Qariyads were mentioned as a part of the Four Oyirads. Why then did the Khalkh’s Tüsiyetü khan in the second half of the 17th century consider those Qariyads, i.e. Cisbaikal/Irkutsk Buryats, as his subjects, who were taken from him by Russians ? As is known from various sources, the period of the 16th and early 17th century was the time of the Mongol-Oyirad wars, in which the Oyirads were suffering substantial losses including the territories to the west of the (Okada 1972, pp. 69-85). Taking an active part in those wars, the northern Khalkh’s two wings could expand their territories greatly to the . Therefore I suggest that, during these wars the Khariads — that is, the Buryats — of the northern shore of lake Baikal and the Sayan Mountains, who were among the Four Oyirad’s allies, were subdued by the Khalkh nobles and began to pay tribute to the latter.

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In the historical legends of the western Buryats, the Mongol nobles are described as alien invaders who tried to extend their power over their lands, as well as to disseminate among them. According to a widespread legend, called Mongolian noble Söökher (Mongol Söökher noyon), at the beginning the Bulagads decided to submit without any resistance to the cruel Mongol, i.e. Khalkh, noble, when he invaded their lands and killed the Buryat shamans (Baldaev 2012, pp. 317-318). This account, one of the many versions of the legend, was recorded by an eminent ethnographer Sergey Baldaev in 1937 from a descendant of the captured warrior of the legendary Söökher noyon in tenth generation. This means that the real prototype of this Sööher noyon lived at the end of the 16th century and the beginning of the 17th century. Obviously Söökher, or Šüükher, is a Buryatized version of the Mongol Čögekür. There were many Čögekürs at the beginning of the 17th century among the Khalkh nobility. One of them, the founder of the Khalkh Sayin noyan’s dynasty Tümengken Köndelen Čögekür Noyan, is mentioned in Sir-a tuγuji as Buriyad Sečen Čögekür.14 Probably, the faithful patron of the Yellow-hat school of Buddhism — Tümengken Köndelen Čögekür noyan, who received the title Sayin noyan from the Dalai lama for his protection of the religion, was the same person as the one mentioned in the Buryat legend. Nevertheless, the western Buryats, called Khariads, who were among the Oyirad’s allies in the 15th century, remained in their homelands, while the other Oyirads were driven out to the west after suffering heavy losses in the wars with the eastern Mongols in the second half of the 16th century. The remaining ‘Oyirads’ begun to pay tribute to the Khalkh nobles, but saw them as foreign invaders, as one can see from their historical legends cited above. When the new players from the northwest came to the local scene to gather yasak, the Khalkh nobles were dissatisfied with the actions of the Russian Cossacks who were ‘untrustworthy and uncertain’ people.

The Buryat migration into Khalkh

The Muscovite expansion and the Buryat resistance

Since the chronology of the Cossack expansion to the western Buryat lands in the first half of the 17th century has been given in detail by A. Okladnikov, I will not elaborate this issue (See Okladnikov 1937). One of the strategies the Buryats used while fighting with the Cossacks was to escape to their far encampments or even further to Khalkh Mongolia. In 1655, the Ekhirid nobles Bura and Tagasai, the Tsar’s new subjects, came to Verkholensk fortress and informed the Cossacks about the group of Buryats headed by Tishirei, who had stolen 400 of horses and were intending to flee to Mongolia. The nobles were seeking military support (Zalkind 1958, pp. 33-34). But the most massive flights were yet to come. In July 1658, the Buryats of the Balagansk fortress, after being reduced by the Cossack ataman Ivan Pokhabov to a desperate situation, fled to Mongolia, killing all the Russians on their way and collecting the Cossack horses from the fortress outskirts. The captured Buryat Kursun told the Cossacks, under torture, that the Mongol merchants named Abavak and Badan, who had come to trade with them in winter, suggested that they should flee to Mongolia (Okladnikov 1937, p. 119). Just after the first flight, the Buryats of the Bratsk fortress, headed by Baakhai and Dakhai, followed the Balagansk Buryats. Someone

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called Azigidai Buyantin, who did not want to join the flight, came to Bratsk fortress and gave the Cossacks a detailed account about the Buryat flight. As he said, ‘all the Buryats of the Udinsk and Verkholensk fortresses were going to flee with them. 300 Mongol troops came to their support and brought them many camels for flight and sheep for food’ (ibid., p. 123). The Cossacks sent to chase the fugitives in September, but could not catch up with the Buryats who had passed the so-called ‘Mungal’ Mountains (Eastern Sayan Mountains) and reached Khalkh Mongolia (ibid., p. 127). It was still not clear where exactly in Khalkh Mongolia the Buryat migrants subsequently settled. Below I shall try to answer this question. In 1660, major Cossack forces headed by Druzhina Popov were sent from Yeniseisk fortress to contact the fugitive Buryats and, if possible, bring them back under Tsar’s rule. The Buryat, named Moksoi, captured at Irkut River told them : Buryat nobles, your former subjects, left Balagansk fortress with their subjects and passed over [Sayan] Mountains to the Mongol lands. Those Buryat nobles live with their people in the Mongol steppe under Mongol taizhis. At [Sayan] mountains, the Mongol Tsar and his taizhis established an outpost consisting of 500 Mongols and Girot nomads in order to guard the Buryats to be sure they cannot flee back to Balagansk fortress from Mongol land and also to watch out that your troops do not pass over the mountains to Mongolia.15 It seems that the Girot nomads (Rus. Girotskie kochevnye lyudi) were related to the Gerüd otoγ16 of the Khalkh which was given to Noγonoqu üyijeng noyan, the third son of Geresenje, together with Gorlos otoγ, after the death of his father. Most of the researchers read the name of this otoγ as Khergüüd, Kherüüd (Gongor 1970, p. 179 ; Ochir 2002, p. 43) thus following the opinion of the Vladimirtsov who claimed they might be descendants of medieval Yenisei Kirgiz (Vladimirtsov 1934, p. 134). But many ethnographic expeditions to the Khalkh Mongols of the former Tüsiyetü khan and Sayin noyan provinces (the domains of the descendants of the Noγonoqu üyijeng), never detected any group of people referred to as Khergüüd or Kherüüd. At the same time there were those who designated themselves as Black and White Gerüüd or just Gerüüd (Mong. gerüüd, har gerüüd, tsagaan gerüüd). Nowadays they live in the neighborhood of those Khariads mentioned at the beginning of the paper, on the territory of the former Sayin noyan provinces’ banners — Dalai Čoyingqur and Baγatur jasaγ (Mongolyn 2011, p. 263). When the Muscovite envoy Ivan Petlin travelled to Ming China in 1619, on his way in Khalkh Mongolia he met the noble Čečen noyan (Tümengken/Buriyad sečen čögekür noyan — the founder of the Sayin noyan’s domain), whose people were called Giryut (Russko-Kitaiskie 1969, p. 79). So the Mongol Tsar, Tüsiyetü khan Čaqundorji, settled the Buryats on the territory of Sayin noyan’s domain, among the Gerüüds. Evidence for this can also be found in a written source of the modern Khariads from Khövsgöl province, entitled ‘The History of the Ači Abaγ-a Dumda Qariyads’ (A che a pa ga tung tu ha ri ti thu hu ‘u). When they met with the Tümengken sayin noyan (Tib. thung hung zas ’ing no yon) they told him about the reasons [of their flight] in detail and kowtowed to him. The marvelous [lord] commended them for this and granted them many sheep to enjoy felicity.17

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Picture 2. The title page of the manuscript ‘A che a pa ga tung tu ha ri ti thu hu ’u’

Ts. B. Natsagdorj, XVII zuuny Mongol-Orosyn khariltsaan dakhi khariyatyn asuudal [The problem of the subjection between Mongolia and Russia in the 17th century] (Ulaanbaatar, Admon) 2013, p. 88

The Buryats of Tunka region, who moved back to Buryatia from Mongolia during the Mongol-Dzungar war at the end of the 17th century, still remembered two centuries later how the Khalkh Mongols had met them and helped them with everything when they arrived there as fugitives from the cruel Bagaba i.e. Pokhabov. The Khalkh, as might be expected welcomed their relatives very well, showing full compassion for their misfortunes, not to mention the clothes and food (which were given to everyone in need free of charge). The poor men were given sheep, cattle, horses and camels, while women received silk and cloth. The guests received the finest land for their encampments, with full rights to be ruled by the Mongol-Buryat law of the northern side of the Lake Baikal, which had been used by them from ancient times. Most importantly, all the migrants were granted full exemption from local tribute. That is how the Khalkhs were delightful for us — concludes the storyteller.18 But soon after this, the internecine war in Khalkh Mongolia, known in Mongolian historiography as ‘Lubsang’s rebellion’, broke out. Massive migration from Khalkh’s right wing to the left wing or even further to Qing Mongolia across the Gobi obviously caused a shortage of lands for encampments. Probably, the army draft also caused return flights of the Buryats. The Buryats from the Bükhed clan headed by Kinkun daruga arrived in Irkutsk in April 1667, fleeing from Mongolia (Okladnikov 1937, p. 136). Just before them, two men from the Bulud clan came to Irkutsk and informed the Cossacks that about one hundred Buryats had fled from Mongolia but had been stopped by Mongol troops and brought back (Okladnikov 1937, p. 137). The Mongol outpost troops were guarding the route of the fugitives (ibid., p. 137). But not all the Buryats, i.e. Khariads, fled back to their homeland. Many of them remained among the Khalkh. Beginning with G. N. Potanin, various scholars have traced the Khariad clan among the Khalkh Mongols from the Dalai Čoyingqur and Baγatur beyise banners of Sayin Noyan’s province, territories included in today’s Ikh- Uul district (sum) of Zavkhan province, Shine-Ider, Galt and Zhargalan districts of

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Khövsgöl province and , Khangai, Tsahir districts of of Mongolia.19 Moreover, there are other clans in that region and other places that are descendants of the Buryat migrants of the 17th century, and these will be considered in the next section.

The Khariad clans among Khalkh

Khariad (ach Khariad, avga Khariad, dund Khariad) — At the beginning of the paper I noted that the Mongolian manuscript called ‘The History of Ach Khariads’ (Ach Khariadyin tüükh), which was discovered and copied by S. Badamkhatan in 1981 during his field research at the home of B. Dagvasambuu (the brother of Mongolian academician B. Shirendev) in Shine-Ider district of Khövsgöl province and later used by him in The Ethnography of the MPR (BNMAU-yn ugsaatny züj), was lost.20 The handwritten copy of that manuscript, which was kept by A. Gochoo and his son G. Lhagvasüren was published in the form of genealogical tables in 2004 by a member of the same Khariad clan, T. Dan-Aazhav (Dan-Aazhav 2004). When I met with Dr. Dan-Aazhav in 2012 while trying to learn more about the original Mongol text of the source, he told me that he had a Tibetan manuscript that was identical in terms of content with the Mongol manuscript, and he kindly agreed to make me a copy of it. As he said the manuscript was kept in the monastic library of the Nükhtiin khüree (which was located in the same Shine-Ider district of Khövsgöl province). When the monastery was closed in the 1930s it was among other books and sutras of the library kept by Khariad V. Tsogdog, a former student of the monastery. The manuscript deals with the origin of the Khariads, their migration to Khalkh, the granting of various by Khalkh Sayin noyan to their leaders and genealogy of the whole tribe, divided into twenty-odd groups. According to the source, the Buryat migrants Tabdai and Khongkhadamar received various titles and privileges from Khalkh’s Tümengken Sayin noyan. Since we know the exact date of birth of the two descendants of the mentioned Tabdai, who received the title tsoorch (Tib. tar hang tshor che ; Mong. darqan čoγorči) from Sayin noyan, we can calculate his approximate date of birth.

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This means that their ancestor Tabdai could have been born in the early 17th century and could indeed have been a contemporary of Sayin noyan Tümengken. Anyway, I consider it likely that this group of Khalkh, who used to be referred to as the Khariad, are the descendants of those Buryat migrants of the mid-17th century. Over the years they have forgotten to which clan or tribe of the western Buryats they belonged and have accepted the general name given to Buryats in Khalkh — Khariad. From the ethnographic data collected by Mongolian scholars, one can clearly see that these Khariads considered themselves to be Khalkh, and distinguished between themselves and the neighboring Khotogoids (Mongolyn 2011, p. 259). But there is one clue in the Tibetan manuscript that might be useful for ascertaining the origin of these Khariads. The subtitle of the manuscript reads in Tibetan : pho mi[ =mes] grags pho mi yod yen hus thes ha ri ta’i riT brgyud po ri ta’i rus can brtan bzad[ =zhugs] so// which means ‘Here lies the glory of the Yenghudei Khariads of Buryat origin’. In two other places the text mentions the Yengkhüdei Khariads (tib. yen hus thes ha ri ta ; yeng hus thes ha ri ta). The syllables ‘yeng hus thes’, which are meaningless in Tibetan, resemble the Buryat clan name Yengüüd. According to Buryat genealogical legends they are included in Bulagad clans (Rumyantsev 1969, p. 81). According to a legend of the Alar’s Khongodors, when they fled back from Khalkh, the Yengüüd’s nine sons were left behind in Mongolia, for their support of Sain khan (Skazaniya 1890, pp. 126-130). It may be true that the modern Khariads of the above-mentioned districts (sums) of Khövsgöl, Arkhangai and Zavkhan provinces, originate from the Bulagad- Buryat clan of Yengüüd. According to ethnographic records, those Khariads were divided into twenty-odd patronymic groups such as Khudgiin khar malgaitan, Orosynkhon, Zantgarynkhan, etc. They were also subdivided into Ach Khariad (Nephew or Grandson Khariads), Dund Khariad (Middle Khariads), Baruun and Züün Khariad (Right and Left Khariads), Sakhlag tsagaan Khariad (Bearded white Khariads).

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Bööchüüd — In the same districts of the above-mentioned provinces of the Mongolia, in the neighborhood of the Khariads, Mongolian ethnographers have noted a people who call themselves Bööchüüd (Ochir, Serjee 1998, pp. 10-11, 27-29, 40-42). In 2007, B. Zinamidar published the photographic copy of the genealogical table of this clan, which was kept by G. Luvsansodov, a resident of Galt district of Khövsgöl province (Zinamidar 2007, p. 67). As Zinamidar made a number of misspellings while transliterating the Mongol text into Cyrillic Mongolian, I shall use here a photocopy of the text. The beginning of the source reads as follows : The origin of the seven Bögečüd is related to two brothers of the Qariyad origin (lit. bone), Šaγajaγai mergen and Šaγdur qosiuči. The son of Šaγdur qosiuči was Ayusi jayisang qosiuči. His sons by his senior spouse were Qara bürgüd, Sira bürgüd ; his sons by his junior spouse were Lajab, Lamajab ; together they are the forefathers of this people.21 As Zinamidar states, there are two opinions about the name Bööchüüd (Mong. bögečüd). One explains the name in terms of the massiveness of migrants (Mong. bögem means many, massive) ; others say they were named after their good shamans (Mong. böge – shaman) (ibid., p. 57). When the Buryat refugees arrived in Khalkh in the middle of the 17th century, Buddhism had already been flourishing there for about 70-80 years under the patronage of Khalkh nobles. So, it is quite possible that shamanist Buryats were labeled as ‘shamanists’ by the neighbouring Khalkh. As their oral history maintains, the Bööchüüds had good shamans until recent times (ibid., p. 57). Barnuud — In the same places where the above-mentioned Khariads and Bööchüüds live, ethnographers found people belonging to the Barnuud clan (Ochir, Serzhee 1998, pp. 10-11, 27-29, 40-42). In ‘History of the Ači Abaγ-a Dumda Qariyads’ there is a fragment about the origin of the Barnuuds : As Khongkhadamar was a heroic skillful man in martial arts, he was appointed a pathfinder and leader of the right wing of the troops. When there was a competition among the troops he caught a young tiger. Thus his descendants are referred to as Barnuud down to the present day.22 This Khongkhadamar was younger brother of Tabdai, from whom the abovementioned Khariads are descended. Is the Barnuud clan of Khar Darkhads of Jebzundamba shabi administration in modern Khövsgöl province related to these Barnuuds ? I cannot make any conclusive statement at the point and would just mention here that among the Darkhads, there was also a clan named Khariad, which was sometimes referred to as Buriad (Badamkhatan 1965, pp. 66-67). Khariads of the Doloon Görööchin. From the up to 1924 Tüsiyetü khan’s banner had an enclave territory in the north, in today’s Tarialan district of Khövsgöl province, which was officially called ‘North hunters’ otoγ of the forest’ (Modun-u aru görügečin otoγ’). They consisted of 7 clans (oboγ/ovoγ), allegedly descendants of the 7 hunters who came here from the outskirts of Erdeni-Zuu monastery. These 7 clans are Khalbagad, Khar süreg, Sharagchuud, Olgonuud, Khongiid, Salgaid and Khariad (Banzragch, Ichinnorov 1999, p. 173). One of them, called Khongiid in the ethnographic reports of some Mongolian scholars, is named Khongoodor, just like the Buryats of the Alar and Tunka regions. I have found a document, dated 1785, in which this administrative unit was referred to as ‘Evenki hunter people’ (Görügečin qamniγan arad) (NCA Mongolia, М1D3-49.5). Obviously not all those ‘hunters’ were migrants from the steppe zone. ‘Local’ Buryats and Evenkis, who were migrants from the north, took part in the formation of this administrative unit as well. The territory of this unit was

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detached from the banner of General Tüsiy-e güng of Sayin noyan province, the rulers of which were the descendants of Dalai Sečen noyan (Rus. Dalai Tsetsen noyon) who provided active ‘Buryat’ policy and even attacked Tunkinsk fortress with his Buryat troops in 1684 (Dopolneniya 1867, pp. 256-257). I suggest that some of his Buryat subjects under the name of Khariad became the one of the 7 clans of Görööchin otoγ. During his field research in 1925 in MPR, near the Terelzh River, the famous Russian Mongolist Boris Vladimirtsov made some notes about two Khalkh shamans, one of whom, named Gombozhav, was a shaman in the 10th generation of the Khariad clan (Vladimirtsov 1927, p. 21). The former banner of Darqan čing wang of Tüsiyetü khan province, where the shamans lived, was ruled by a descendant of Galdandorji, a son of the Tüsiyetü khan Čaqundorji. The ethnographer S. Badamkhatan placed the Kharid clan among the disciples of Zaya pandita of Khalkh, in today’s Bulgan district of Arkhangai province (CHD IH MAS VII3-7-22). It shows that Buryat migrants were settled almost everywhere and that even in the early 20th century some of them still remembered their origin. According to the official census of 1 August 2013, there were 1017 Bööchüüds, 2898 Barnuuds and 6991 Khariads in Mongolia. Most of the Khariads lived in Khövsgöl province and in Ulaanbaatar.23

Picture 3. Khariad clans

Mongol ulsyn ugsaatny sudlal, khelnii shinzhleliin atlas [The ethnographic and linguistic atlas of the MPR], Rinchen (ed.) (Ulaanbaatar, ShUAKh), p. 63

Conclusion

Our data show that the Qariyads mentioned in Khalkh chronicles ‘Sir-a tuγuji’ and ‘Asaraγči neretü-yin teüke’ were most probably none other than the Buryats of

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Cisbaikalia, Sayan and Tunka regions, who were among the Oyirad allies from the 14th to 16th centuries. Beginning from the mid-16th century, the Oyirads were driven out to the far west by eastern Mongols, and the former ‘Oyirads’ — Buryats — were subdued by Khalkh nobles and Tüsiyetü khans of the left wing who considered themselves as their sovereign rulers. But real direct rule over them was in the hands of the Sayin noyan’s nobles who were formally subordinated to Tüsiyetü khan. I suppose that the Buryats previously belonging to the Oyirad confederation were put under the rule of the first Sayin noyan Tümengken/Buriyad sečen čögekür (Söökher and Šüükher noyon in the Buryat legends) on the eve of the Muscovite expansion into the Buryat lands. Not willing to pay double tribute to Cossacks and Khalkh nobles, the Buryats fled to Khalkh Mongolia. Contrary to a widespread opinion among Soviet scholars, it seems that not all the Buryat migrants fled back to their homeland from Khalkh, seeking for the fair governance and lower taxes of Muscovite administration : most of those Buryat migrants from various clans remained in Khalkh and are still known by the name of Khariad, which was actually the general Khalkh designation of all western Buryats.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Abbreviations archives

NCA Mongolia : National Central Archives of Mongolia.

CHD IH MAS : Centre of Historical Documents. The institute of History, Mongolian Academy of Sciences.

RGADA : Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv drevnikh aktov (Russian State Archives of the Ancient Acts)

Published sources

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Luvsandanzan (Lubsangdanjin) 2011 XVII zuuny mongol tüükhen survalzhiin ekhüüd. Luvsandanzany zokhioson ertnii khaadyn ündselsen tör yosny zokhiolyg tovchlon khuraasan Altan tovch khemeekh orshivoi. [The chronicle called Golden Summary in which the history of the ancient khans were compiled by Lubsangdanjin] (Ulaanbaatar, Mönkhiin üseg publishing). 1996 Materialy po istorii russko-mongol’skikh otnoshenii. 1654-1685 [Russian-Mongolian relations : Documents and historical sources for the years 1654–1685], G. I. Slesarchuk (comp.) (Moskva, Vostochnaya literatura RAN). 1975 Matériaux pour l’étude du chamanisme mongol. III. Textes chamanistes Mongols, recueillis par Rintchen (Wiesbaden, Otto Harrasowitz). 1979 Mongol ard ulsyn ugsaatny sudlal, khelnii shinzhleliin atlas [The ethnographic and linguistic atlas of the MPR], edited by Rinchen (Ulaanbaatar, ShUAKh). 2011 Mongolyn ugsaatny zui. Kheeriin sudalgaany ekh khereglegdhüün – V [Mongolian ethnography, Fieldwork materials, vol. 5] (Ulaanbaatar, Soyombo printing).

Mönkhtör, Ch. 2012 Migrats ba khishig (Khalkhyn negen khoshuuny khün am büreldsen tukhai) [Migration and

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blessings – On the formation of the population of Khalkh’s one banner] Niigmiin ukhaany salbaryn ‘Khüreltogoot-2012’ Erdem shinzhilgeenii baga khural (iltgelüüdiin emkhtgel) (Ulaanbaatar), pp. 115-121.

Nanzatov, B. Z. 2010 Mongol’skie buryaty : diaspora v situatsiakh vyzova. [Mongolian Buryats : A Diaspora in Situations of Challenge] Transgranichnye migratsii v prostranstve mongol’skogo mira : Istoria i sovremennost’ (Ulan-Ude, Izdatel’stvo Buryatskogo Nauchnogo Tsentra SO RAN), pp. 83-110.

Natsagdorj, Tsongol B. 2012 O prichine podpisaniya ‘mezhdunarodnogo protokola’ mezhdu Tsinskoi i Rossiiskoi imperiami v 1792 godu v Kyakhte [On the cause of signing the 1792 « International protocol» between the Qing and the Russian empires], Transgranichnye migratsii v prostranstve mongol’skogo mira. Vypusk 2 (Ulan-Ude, Izdatel’stvo Buryatskogo Nauchnogo Tsentra SO RAN), pp. 73-101. 2013 XVII zuuny Mongol-Orosyn khariltsaan dakhi khariyatyn asuudal [The problem of the subjection between Mongolia and Russia in the 17th century] (Ulaanbaatar, Admon).

Ochir, Taijiud Ayudain & Serjee, Besüd Jambaldorjiin 1998 Mongolchuudyn ovgiin lavlakh [The guidebook of the Mongol clan names] (Ulaanbaatar, ShUA- iin Informatikiin khüreelengiin khevlekh kheseg).

Оchir, A. 2002 Khalkhyn aryn doloon otgiinkhny ugsaatny büreldkhüün, garal, tarkhats [The ethnic formation and population of the northern seven otoγs of Khalkh]Töv Aziin nüüdelchdiin ugsaatny tüükhiin asuudal (Ulaanbaatar, Nüüdliin soyol irgenshliig sudlakh olon ulsyn khüreelen). 2008 Mongolchuudyn garal nershil [The origin and names of the Mongols] (Ulaanbaatar : Nüüdliin soyol irgenshliig sudlakh olon ulsyn khüreelen).

Okada, Hidehiro 1972 Outer Mongolia in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. // アジア・アフリカ言語文化 研究 (Journal of Asian and African Studies) (5).

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2011 XVII zuuny mongol tüükhen survalzhiin ekhüüd. Ertnii Mongolyn khaadyn ündesnii ikh Shar tuuzh [The Yellow chronicle on the roots of the ancient Mongol khans] (Ulaanbaatar, Mönkhiin üseg publishing). 1890 Skazaniya buryat zapisannye raznymi sobiratelyami. Zapiski Vostochno-Sibirskogo otdela imperatorskogo russkogo geografichesko obshchestva po etnografii, Tom 1, vypusk 2 (Irkutsk, Tipografia K. I. Bitkovskoi).

Stukov 1881 O proiskhozhdenii severobaikal’skikh buryat voobshche i tunkintsev v osobennosti (Po chisto narodnym legendarnym predaniyam) [On the origin of the Buryats from the northern shore of Lake Baikal in general and on the Tunka Buryats in particular. Based on folktales.] Pamyatnaya knizhka Irkutskoi gubernii 1881 g. (Irkutsk). 1893 Tanguto-Tibetskaya okraina Kitaya i Tsentralnaya Mongolia. Puteshestvie G. N. Potanina 1884-1886. Tom vtoroi [Tangut-Tibetan frontiers of the China and Central Mongolia. Journey of G. N. Potanin 1884-1886. vol. 2] (Saint-Petersburg, Tipografia A. S. Suvorina).

Tsendina, A. D. Transliteratsiya mongol’skogo teksta ‘Shara tudzhi’ [Transliteration of Mongol text of the Shara- Tudzhi], http://altaica.ru/LIBRARY/mong/Sira.pdf (accessed 25/08/2014). 1858 Vestnik Imperatorskogo russkogo geograficheskogo obshchestva. Chast’ dvatsat’ chetvertaya (Saint-Petersburg).

Vladimirtsov, B. 1927 Severnaya Mongoliya II. Predvaritel’nye otchety lingvisticheskoi i arkheologicheskoi ekspeditsii o rabotakh, proizvedennykh v 1925 godu (Leningrad : Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR). 1934 Obshchestvennyi stroi mongolov [The social structure of the Mongols] (Leningrad, Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR).

Zalkind, E. M. 1958 Prisoedinenie Buryatii k Rossii [The incorporation of Buryatia to Russia] (Ulan-Ude, Buryatskoe knizhnoe izdatel’stvo).

Zinamidar B. Bööchüüd omgiin 2007 Sain noyon aimgiin Dalai Choinkhor vangiin khoshuu tüünii darkhchuud [The banner of Dalai Choinkhor prince of Sayin noyan’s aimag and its smiths] (Ulaanbaatar).

NOTES

1. [dörben oyirad gegči / qariyad. nigen i ögülüd / edüge sargis gegči ulus / bolba : nigen i qosiγud / torγud jegün γar / dörbed qamsaju nigen : / nigen i baraγu. baγatud. / oyid. dörben tümen / oyirad gegči ene :] (Tsendina, p. 49). 2. [tende-eče tesikin negüged, itanča quduru γoul ba : tende-če basa negüüjü, bayiγal mörün-ü köbege-ber ba : oyiqan kemekü oltiruγ-iyar nutuγlaju bayirilabai tere sidar bayiγal mörün-ü urida qoyitu eteged-iyer urida-yin bayidaγ buriyad kemekü ulus bui tula, teden-i daγuriyaju, oros ulus-un nereyidügsen-iyer qori-yin arban nigen omoγ-un buriyad kemen nerčibei :] (Letopisi 1935, p. 9). All translations from the Mongolian, Russian, Manchu and Tibetan to English are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 3. Obviously, Ööled’s Taizhi khan is related to the famous Oyirad rulers who were bore the title of Taishi, and it marks the period when the Buryats were among the Oyirads. 4. [Buryaad khünei zayabari / Bulgad khünei tüükhe / Bukha noyon baabai / Budan khatan iibii] (Hangalov 2004a, p. 59).

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5. [Sék, sék, ség ! / Xariáddiň edzeň Xarǎ Ildeň bátar, / Buriáddiň edzeň Buxǎ Ilden bátar, / Širýn maňnaeγan dzangidadži, / Selemen ulán eweré sedžidži, / Á tatγae mini ! / Γan tömör túraeγá xolwolzatalǎ alxadži / Širmen xarǎ túrae šir šir xítele gišxidži, / Suxae tašúr suň xílgedži, / Sursaň saexan dúγán dúladži / Uramdaň ajaladži dzalartši irtgé, / Buxa Ildeň bátar mini !] (Matériaux 1975, p. 79). 6. [uγ teüke inu, činggis gedeg baγatur, buljiqu-dur / ariγ-un dooradu küriyen-ü tusiy-a buq-a noyan-i yabuγulju qariyad buriyad-un bosuγ-a sakiγuluγsan gedeg ebüged-ün aman ulamjilal teüke-tei baγatur kemen buq-a noyan-i takiqu ajuγu kemen 1962 on-u 7 sar-a-yin 7-a yümjir gedeg ebügen bulaγan ayimaγ tesig sumu-yin töb-tür kelejü ele sir-a-yin daγudalγ-a-yi temdeglegülbei] (Matériaux 1975, p. 82). 7. [Darkhaty nazyvayut Buryat Irkutskoi doliny Kharyat ili Kharyas] (Potanin 1883, p. 25). 8. [qar-a / darqad-un arad yeke časun-dur tokiyalduju nutuγlaqu γajar / oldaqu ügei bolba : ede oros qariyad-un eteged sarnin očiqui-yi boljasi ügei](NCA Mongolia, М1D3-47.1). 9. For more about the case see Natsagdorj 2012. 10. Pаvel Kulvinsky was a Pole from Lithuania. As a prisoner-of-war he was exiled to Siberia and served there as a military man. In 1667, he was sent to Jungar land and acquired a good grasp of Mongol, Todo and Tibetan grammars. 11. [oom sayin jirγalang boltuγai. / süsüg küčün tegüsügsen wčirai tüsiyetü /...(.)aran (…)ki eketü γarqu... / sara-du-ni čakir ba(γa)turekilen γučin saγadaγ bosqaγul čök(…) / *čaγan qaγan-i albatu bile geji ese ögbe : erke tayiji-yin tabun ger kümün ... erdeni / baγatur-yin qoyar kümün bügüde tabun ayimaγ nayan bo qoyar boda abuba : eyimü eyimü šoγ kibe egün-i tegüsgeji ög : / man-i albatu tan-ača šoγlaγsan bei bolqula tegün-i inaγsi kele : tendeče erkeü-gi-yin bayising selengge-yin bayising-du nigen / sayin kümün-i ilege : endeče sayin kümün-i ilegey-e : ede kelelčeji oltuγai : man-du medegdegsen-i ene : ese medegdegsen-i olan / bei-je : qariyad-i man-i ese öggüged : ene šoγlaγsan-i jöb buruγu-gi ese olbasu : selengge erkeü ergeng-yin / bayising saγuji bolqu ügei : qudaldu yabuji bolqu ügei. qariyad-i man-i öggüged ene šoγlaγsan-i olji ögbesu / bayising či saγutuγai qudaldu či yabutuγai : / beleg noγuγan loodang, köke loodang, küreng loodang, ulaγan taji : mönggün č[ar] ] (RGADA, f. Mongol’skie dela, Opis’ 1, 1675., d. №1, lists 9, 8.). 12. […basa oros-yin čaγan qaγan-u tabun / mingγan elči ilegegsen kemejü bičig-tei elči ireji qariba. üge ni inu niruγu / deger-e sumun elči ilegejü egüber ba jegün tegegür alin-a ire gegsen γajar-dur / čiγulγalaju törü kikü genem. bisiči olan čerig jegün eteged saqaji yabunam. / kemen sonosdanam. manu qariyad ulus-i abuγad, jaq-a jaq-a-ača šoγ kiji / bayiqu ni olan či bolba, qaγan inu törü kikü duratai metü boluγad / ulus ni tung maγad ügei samaγu itegel ügei tulada sigiyid-ün yadaγsaγar / öni bolba. edüge ene elči ber čaγan qan-du činaγsi kelegsen üges-ün aliba qariγu bei geküdü ni učir-i meden bolγaγuqu-yin tulada kümün ilegebe] (Dayičing 2005b, p. 100). 13. [süsüg küčün tegüsügsen vačirai batu tüsiyetü qaγan-u bičig. ○ yamun-u sayid-tu medegülkü. oros-yin tus : man-i jaq-a qariyad-tai / qamtu saγudaγ bile tere qariyad-taγan sirigülenem gekü boluγad : endeče / očiγsan jiγulčid-i boγoji geküi-yi sonusuγad. tegün-i učir kelelčetügei geji / ilegegseger irege edüi. iregsen degere üge-yi ni keley-e : man-i / elči-če oros-i asaγunam geküdü ilegebe : basa elči amabar-iyan / medegülkü üge-tei bei] (Dayičing 2005a, pp. 261-263). 14. [buriyad sečen čögekür temür takiy-a-tai (buriyad sečen čögekür [was born] in [the year] of the iron cock)] (Tsendina, p. 58). 15. [prezhnie de tvoi gosudarevy yasachnye lyudi Brattskie knyaztsy, s svoimi ulusnymi lyudmi, ot Balaganskogo ostroga otkochevali za kamen’ v Mungal’skuyu zemlyu, i zhivut de te brattskie kyaztsy i s svoimi ulusnym lyudmi v Mungalskikh stepyakh u Mungalskikh taishei, a za kamenem de, gosudar’ ot Mungalskogo tsarya i ot ego taishei postavleny na zastave Mungalskikh lyudei i Girotskikh kochevnykh lyudei sot s pyat’ i bolshi, dlya togo chtob, gosudar’, bratskie knyaztsy s svoimi ulusnymi lyudmi iz Mungalskoi zemli nazad k Balaganskomu ostrogu ne ushli,, i tvoi b

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gosudarevy sluzhilye lyudi za kamen’ v Mungalskuyu zemlyu ne proshli] (Dopolneniya 1851, p. 200). 16. Administrative unit among the Mongols between 15th and 20th. 17. [thung hung zas ’ing no yon la mjal ’phrad rgyu mtshan thams cad rgyas par zhus phyag ’dud la ngo mtshar rmad du ’byung ba’i bsngags pa mdzad cing sna tsho pa’i g.yang shag nang ’ur shi ci ’ur nu ling dig cu li ci] (Natsagdorj 2013, pp. 112-113). 18. [Khalkhastsy, kak i mozhno bylo ozhidat’, prinyali svoikh rodstvennikov radushno, vykazali ne skazannoe sochuvstvie k ikh neschastiyam i ne govorya uzhe ob odezhde i pishche (chto davalos’ bezplatno vsyakomu nuzhdayuschemusya), podarili bednyakam muzhchinam : komu ovtsu, komu korovu, komu loshad’, komu verblyuda ; a zhenshchinam inoi scholku, inoi dabu, inoi pochanku, inoi khib i proch. Otveli svoim gostyam khoroshie mesta dlya kochevania, s polnym pravom — zhit’ i upravlyat’sya po obychayam, vodivshimisya i ustanovivshimisya u nikh – pribaikal’skikh severnykh mongolo-buryat, i, chto vsego vazhnee, ne veki vekov darovali vsem prishel’tsam sovershennuyu svobodu ot tuzemnoi dani. Vot kak – zaklyuchaet legendist – byli rady nam Khalkhastsy !] (Stukov 1881, pp. 176-177). 19. Tanguto-Tibetskaya 1893, p. 103 ; Mongol ard 1979, p. 63 ; BNMAU 1987, p. 38 ; Ochir, Serzhee 1998, pp. 10-11, 27-29, 40-42 ; Mongolyn 2011, pp. 259-262 20. A handwritten copy of S. Badamkhatan was not among the items of the Centre of Historical Documents of the Institute of History in the early 2000s. 21. [doloγan bögečüd-ün omoγ uγ inu qariyad yasutai šaγajaγai mergen šaγdur qosiuči kemekü aq-a degüü qoyar-ača šaγdur qosiuči-yin köbegün ayusi jayisang qosiγuči mön tegünü yeke gerün köbegüd qar-a bürgüd šar bürgüd qoyar baγ-a gerün köbegüd lajab lamajab qoyar dörbe-eče egüsügsen ulus mön bolai] (Zinamidar 2007, p. 67). 22. [hong ha ta mar ’di skyes bu’i yon tan smin bzang dpa’ po mi zhes pa dmag dang g.yas ru’i jo bo’i lam ’byung pas byon pa la rjes ’brang yang dmag gi’i kab ya tha tha ha dor stag gi phrug gu ’dzin pas yang de’i ri brgyud da lta’i bar par nu ta zhes ming btags pa’i rgyu mtshan ’di’o//] (Natsagdorj 2013, p. 112). 23. The official letter of General Authority for Registration of Mongolia to the author.

ABSTRACTS

The paper discusses Buryat migrants who were forced to flee to Khalkh Mongolia in the middle of the 17th century in the face of the Muscovite expansion toward the Baikal region. Being members of the Four Oyirad alliance, they were incorporated into Khalkh during the Oyirad- Mongol wars in the 16th century and began to be called Khariads by Khalkh Mongols and counted as the subjects of Khalkh nobles. Earlier scholarship, especially that of the former , considered almost all Buryat migrants as victims of cruel Mongol lords who had fled back to their homeland seeking the gentler rule of the Muscovites. However, as shown in this paper, although many of the Buryat migrants remained among the Khalkh Mongols, the memory of their Buryat origin has survived to the present day.

Le document traite de migrants bouriates qui ont été forcés de fuir en Mongolie Khalkh, face à l’expansion moscovite vers la région du Baïkal, au milieu du XVIIe siècle. En tant que membres de l’alliance des Quatre Oyirad, ils avaient été incorporés au sein de la population Khalkh pendant les guerres Oyirad-mongoles du XVIe siècle et avaient alors été qualifiés de Khariads par les Mongols Khalkh et considérés comme des sujets des nobles Khalkh. Des travaux plus anciens, en

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particulier ceux de l’ex-Union soviétique, estimaient que presque tous les migrants bouriates étaient des victimes des cruels seigneurs mongols qui étaient rentrés dans leur pays d’origine motivés par le régime plus doux des Moscovites. Mais, comme le montre cet article, la plupart des migrants bouriates sont restés au sein de la population des Mongols Khalkh et cependant les souvenirs de leur origine bouriate continuent à survivre.

INDEX

Mots-clés: Bouriate, Khariad (Qariyad), Oïrate (Oyirad), frontière, Khalkh, Khövsgöl, Tunka Keywords: Buryats, Khariad, Qariyad, Oirad, Oyirad, frontier, Khalkh, Khövsgöl, Tunka

AUTHOR

TSONGOL B. NATSAGDORJ Tsongol B. Natsagdorj is a research of the Institute of History, Mongolian Academy of Sciences (Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia). His field of interests includes pre-Qing Russo-Mongolian relations and the ethno-political history of the frontier peoples. He is the author of XVII zuuny Mongol-Orosyn khariltsaan dakhi khariyatyn asuudal (The problem of subjection between Mongolia and Russia in the 17th century, Ulaanbaatar, 2013), and a member of the editorial board that compiled and published Tuvagiin tüükhend kholbogdokh arkhiviin barimtyn emkhetgel (The collection of archival documents related to Tuvan history, 2011 ; 2011 ; 2013 ; 2014). His latest paper ‘Geleg Noyan Qutuγtu and His Darkhad Subjects from the Khuvsgul-Sayan Region’ was published in Inner Asia (16) 2014, pp. 7-33.

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Diseases and their origins in the traditional worldview of Buryats : folk medicine methods1 Les maladies et leurs origines dans la vision du monde traditionnelle des Bouriates : méthodes de traitement populaires

Marina Sodnompilova and Vsevolod Bashkuev

Introduction

1 The nature of diseases in the traditional beliefs of the Mongolian peoples is a complex, ambiguous and generally understudied phenomenon. This paper seeks to answer the following questions : -What is “disease” as realized by a man of traditional culture ? -What state of human organism the Buryats considered as unhealthy ? A search for answers to these questions determines the necessity to study the traditional Buryat perceptions of the origins of some widespread illnesses. Another interesting issue is Buryat understanding of the ways by which infectious diseases spread. All this data help better grasp the logic of magical methods, rituals and rational practices of Buryat folk medicine. For the first time this paper presents a number of folk healing methods recorded by the authors during field research in one of the Buryat ethno-territorial groups, the Zakamna Buryats living in the mountainous area in the southwest of the Republic of Buryatia.

2 A number of ethnographic, historical and sociological works considered health problems of the Mongolian peoples, particularly Buryats. However, in all these studies the problem of diseases was viewed in the context of Tibetan medicine. Tibetan medicine is traditionally considered the folk medicine of not just Buryats, but peoples of Mongolia too. In reality, however, it differs from the folk medicine of the Mongolian peoples since it is based on a scientific foundation of the Buddhist tradition. In this connection we specifically accentuate that the goal of this paper is to study folk and

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everyday medicine of the Mongolian peoples. Mongolian folk medicine practices represent a heritage of the centuries-old culture of nomadic cattle herders and hunters, whose knowledge of healing and bone-setting were accumulated in observations of animals and assistance to them. Since the ideological foundation of folk medicine was mainly formed according to Shamanist ideas and practices, most of the existing historiography concentrated around activities of Shamans, healers, bone- setters and conjurers.

3 The problem of diseases was analyzed in the context of some relevant research problems. For instance, attention was paid to diseases and their causes in the course of analysis of the Shamanist pantheon. Information about the diseases appeared as part of historical and ethnographic descriptions of certain ethnic groups and nationalities of the Mongolian world. Describing Western Buryat Shamanist pantheon M. N. Khangalov pointed out a whole group of deities, characterized in the traditional worldview as malicious spirits and gods, whose function is to send diseases to the people. He also described Buryat folk treatment methods and magical skills mostly characteristic of Shamanist practices.

4 G. N. Potanin and Ts. Zhamtsarano also left many descriptions of diseases spread among the Mongolian peoples in the late 19th-early 20th centuries and methods of their treatment. The everyday folk medicine of the Buryats with both its rational and irrational treatment methods was studied in the works of G.-D. Natsov, L. Linkhovoin, N. L. Zhukovskaya, G. R. Galdanova, S. G. Zhambalova, T. T. Badashkeeva and other researchers. For example, studying the traditional nutritional system of the Zakamna Buryats G. R. Galdanova comes to the conclusion that it was the healthy and nutritious food of the taiga and highland zones of southwest Buryatia that contributed to good health of the local population. T. T. Badashkeeva paid much attention to the activities of a specific group of healers — the bariachi bonesetters. Studying Buryat hunting S. G. Zhambalova turns to medicinal properties and the use of elements of spoils of the chase (bear fat, velvet antlers, fresh water seal’s fat) for treatment of various diseases. It should be noted, however, that the aforementioned studies are related to data collection period in the study of Buryat traditional culture. As such, they mostly contain field materials gathered by their authors, awaiting specific scientific scrutiny. From this viewpoint, in the context of this paper these publications can be treated as primary sources.

5 The study by K. M. Gerasimova analyzes life protection rituals in the Buddhist tradition. Studying Buddhist cultic texts, K. M. Gerasimova traced the way in which Buddhists enhanced ancient traditions of magical protection of humans within the context of Buddhism’s primary objective that was to establish the authority of the “Yellow Faith” among Central Asian peoples.

6 Since the Buryats perceived diseases as malignant activity of other world’s creatures or people practicing magic, special attention in the traditional culture was paid to preventive measures. These included rites, ritual activities, making of protective charms and jewelry, and decoration of clothes or their parts with ornaments depicting protective symbols. In this connection we also included studies on Buryat decorative art, musical and dancing culture2 into the framework of this paper.

7 However, despite the existence of scientific works on Buryat folk medicine, the nature of the diseases as reflected in the traditional Buryat worldview, causes of diseases, their

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typology and traditional methods of their treatment still represent an insufficiently studied field and, therefore, require closer scientific attention.

Denotation of diseases in the language

8 In the Mongolian languages the denotation spectrum of sickness or ailment is rather broad. Übshen (Bur.), gem3 (Bur.), övchin (Mong.) denote “sickness, illness, ailment” (Butanaev 1996, p. 6).

9 A group of other meanings associated with the above mentioned terms attracts attention. They are “vice”, “deficiency”, “taint”, “harm” and “hoodoo,” which points at the principal attribute of diseased human condition in the worldview of the Mongols, that is, a violation of integrity of the human body, organism as a whole, and a deviation from the norm. Interesting information about early beliefs reflecting the condition of a sick man is provided by the contemporary analysis of terms’ semantics. In particular, the semantic analysis of the root ot and its variants ut/üt/еt/it carried out by E. V. Sundueva led us to the following conclusions. The archaic figurative root ot with the meaning of “something gnarled/bent” is associated with an entire group of terms, among which we are particularly interested in [Bur.] übde / [Mong.] övd / övde in the already known meaning “to be sick, to ail,” but originally denoting “to be bent with pain.”4 The Mongol word övdög “knee” belongs to the same group of terms with the common meaning “something bent.” Interesting in this connection is one of the treatment methods used by in order to cure hordeolum externum (stye). It could be treated by putting a sore eye to a knee three times followed by a mandatory spell övdg övdgen av, which literally means “a knee, take away the illness” (Sharaeva 2011, p. 70). Obviously, the terms denoting illness ascend to depictive roots.

Symptoms of a disease. Disease typology

10 The traditional worldview of the Mongolian peoples, particularly Buryats, defines that any disease is a negative consequence of a human contact with the other world ; a result of human violation of taboos that determine the interactions of the world of men with that of deities and spirits. In this connection it is necessary to divide diseases into two types :

11 1. Mild illnesses, the causes of which people could understand. For their treatment age- old methods and medicines were used. In particular, such illnesses included various traumas (wounds, bone fractures, cold) ;

12 2. Serious and epidemic diseases, the nature of which was unknown to people (fever, smallpox, anthrax, plague, rabies, venereal diseases, paralysis). Their treatment, as a rule, required magical means and methods, such as various rituals and conjurations.

13 It is important to know what state of a human organism was considered by the Buryats as diseased. Besides visible causes of a disease, such as injuries, traumas, fractures, and cold, the main features of the diseased state of the organism were torpidity, drowsiness, apathy to the things around and, contrastingly, excessive agitation and anxiety. Evidently, Buryats considered sick any unusual state of organism. For example, rapid heartbeat was considered illness and even on such an insignificant occasion Western Buryats deemed it necessary to stick a sheep as a sacrifice to gods

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(Zhamtsarano 2001, p. 44). Breathlessness and nausea, usual symptoms during pregnancy, also were considered sickness and required treatment by offering numerous sacrifices to gods (ibid., p. 340). This high susceptibility to anything unusual, including the state of organism, was a consequence of huge influence of Shamanism on people’s lives. As T. M. Mikhailov rightly stated, “Shamans took great pains to make believers assess as many real things, phenomena and events as possible from the standpoint of their beliefs and directly through the prism of their religious feeling” (Mikhailov 1987, p. 58).

14 The above mentioned symptoms of the sick state — drowsiness and apathy — caused specific concern of the people around since they pointed at the absence of soul in a person.5 As is known, in the prism of traditional worldview a disease is a temporary separation of soul from body. The soul accidentally leaves the body as a result of scare or is forcefully extracted by the will of some deity. The longer the soul is outside the body, the more dangerous the situation gets for the sick man. Finally, the absence of soul would result in death of a person. Return of the soul was the purpose of special rituals performed by both shamans and . According to Shamanistic beliefs, it was not always possible to return the soul because not every shaman possessed necessary qualities using which he could reach an agreement with deities or, as a variant, deceive them and return the soul back to a sick person. Death occurred when the stolen soul was imprisoned in Erlen-khan’s dungeon from where there was no return.

Causes of diseases

15 The traditional worldview explains origins of serious and infectious diseases by the maleficent activity of supernatural creatures among which the man dwells. “Spirits of diseases had different ranks and titles, such as tengri, noion, burkhan, khatan and so on” (Mikhailov 1987, p. 20). According to the beliefs of western Buryat shamanists diseases were mostly spread among people by a group of “evil eastern tengri~tengeri [celestials]” or “eastern khad” led by Erlen-khan, the lord of the underworld. In the human world diseases spread with fogs, which the traditional Buryat worldview considered negative natural phenomena.6

16 Among the eastern tengri~tengeri there are deities whose function is to spread various diseases. In particular, there are Hozhiringi-dolon-tengeri, or seven deities of Hozhiringi, sending various contagious and non-contagious diseases on people and cattle. Each of them has its own name and is a master of a certain disease.

17 For example, Khamshi-Khara-tengeri sends the diseases known to Buryats as khamšig (tuberculosis) and khimshin (a variety of scurvy), causing coughing. Bomon-Khara- tengeri sends the disease called bomo (anthrax). Okhin-Khara-tengeri does harm to people and domestic cattle. She strikes men and women with infertility and sends genital diseases, especially female. Her wrath kills women in labor and pregnant women. An awful deity was Ganzu-tengri, the master of rabies. M. N. Khangalov recorded various names of this disease : shüder[shödör]-ganzu (derived from the term shüder, which means tether), when a sick animal turns around as if tethered, and nokhoi-ganzu, or “dog rabies.” A shaman called Alia khatun, Gemi-ezhin, Gegui-noion and Gagui-khatun is believed to be the deity of sexual diseases (Zhamtsarano 2001, pp. 81-82).

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18 A disease may be caused by deities and spirits, whose nature is generally benevolent. This happens in a case of breaking the rules set for contact or communication between men and supernatural creatures. For instance, guardian spirits of water bodies send diseases upon people if they come for water at night disturbing peace. The same happens if people contaminate waters by using dirty vessels or washing clothes there. The guardian of the punishes human disrespect by sending various skin diseases. Probably that is why in the names of some skin diseases there is a component gal meaning “fire”. For instance, it appears in the name of shingles gal namarkhan. K. V. Vyatkina provides an example when a curse Ündür-Gegen addressed to the Uryankha (one of the Mongolian tribes) was spread to people via their hearth’s fire. Ündür-Gegen wished the Uryankha, his shabinars, who butchered his old blue cow the following, “Let you be struck by severe ulcers.” “First, a family in the yurt, where the meat of the butchered cow was offered to the fire was afflicted. Others got infected because they took fire from this yurt” (Galdanova 1992, p. 247). As we see, the disease known as tav or “scabs” was spread via fire.

19 Local guardian spirits dwelling on sacral mountain tops can punish with disease a woman or an outsider violating this spirit’s territorial boundaries. Disease as punishment may be sent by various family guardian spirits, the , if they are treated the wrong way. A woman is most often a subject of punishment of supernatural forces, since her position in society was most limited by the traditional normative system and various taboos. For instance, if a woman accidentally violates the borders of the sacral space of the yurt where the ongon of the householder are placed, she may feel headache, get sore eyes and throat (the authors’ archive).

20 Befouling buzartakha, khülhekhe is among the widespread causes of diseases. 7 A person could get befouled as a result of contacts with unclean people, objects and animals, by eating foul food and visiting foul places.8 Women were considered unclean during menstruation and after delivery, especially in the first three days. Food cooked by a woman in these days was also considered foul. A house where a man died was also believed to be foul for a certain period. Anything or anybody inside such house was unclean too. Men, especially, remarkable individuals, associated with the outer world in this or that way, such as shamans, lamas, blacksmiths, tale-tellers, elders and those who passed a Buddhist purification ritual, were especially prone to befouling. Rich and powerful people, such as noions, also tended to avoid foul places (Natsov 1995, p. 37). That is why everywhere in the Mongolian world it was strictly forbidden for women to touch belongings of shamans and blacksmiths or enter their dwellings and blacksmith’s shops. There were many examples, when after getting befouled, a shaman lost his magic powers and could even die.

21 Evil spell and hoodoo were essentially the same as befouling. The Mongol society was afraid of black shamans, people capable of sending curses upon their neighbors and marginal persons, such as single women and men and cripples, whose malice or envy could lead to illness. Such people were not invited to children’s holidays and weddings.

22 At the same time people capable of extolling the good and by doing this invite disaster were also feared. The Mongols called such people tsagaan khel am “white tongue” or “white mouth” and tsagaan chötgör “white filth.” They were feared even more than detractors called khar khel am or “black tongue” (Zhukovskaya 1988, p. 89).

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23 One of the frequent causes of disease was “disrespect” or “disregard” of humans to deities and spirits. As M. N. Khangalov puts it, the cause of soul loss by a person often was failure to offer sacrifice (Khangalov 1959, p. 214).

24 The Mongols believe that some diseases can be caused by a disturbance in the established order of interaction between members of the traditional society. For instance, mastitis in a breastfeeding woman could be related to such “socially” caused diseases. All Mongolian peoples share the same view on the cause and culprit : it is a woman’s elder brother who did not make her a present on occasion of childbirth. The Mongols believed that as soon as the man corrected his mistake, the woman would recover.9

Methods of treatment

25 The essence of treatment almost always involved remedying the situation — zahakha and removing obstacles zai gargakha. The situation was remedied in various directions. First of all, shamanists would turn to a shaman for advice, while Buddhists would go to a lama. Then a sick person was cleansed of abomination and treated using rational and magic methods : performing necessary rituals, donating to a temple.

26 One of the most important and necessary stages of treatment used for curing various diseases was sagaalkha, aryuulkha ritual, which meant “cleansing” using sacred plants and water of healing springs. The significance and power of this ritual can be inferred from the consistent plot of Buryat heroic epics where the magical cleansing of dead protagonist’s bones brought him back to life.

27 The Mongolian peoples respected coniferous trees, especially juniper arts, silver fir zhodoo / yodoo, and aya-ganga grass (wild thyme). These plants were traditionally used as a cleansing remedy. Juniper fir needles were procured by men, who performed cleansing rituals similar to hunter’s ones before going cropping. Juniper was procured in remote places far from settlements. They were called aryuun gazar or “clean place” where people do not enter. Such localities, unspoiled by humans, give special sacral power to plants. The cleansing power of the plant gathered in a sacred place outperformed capacities of an ordinary shaman. The Khakass people would say on this occasion, “Wild thyme is better than a bad shaman” (Vyatkina 1960, p. 35).

28 If juniper could be gathered by commoners, it was strictly forbidden to touch silver fir trees without a special right to do so. Shamanism allowed gathering silver fir bark only to those men, whose ancestors were involved in this trade. As M. N. Khangalov wrote, “One has to have a hereditary right even to flay a silver fir. A man without such ancestry has no right to take silver fir bark used for religious services. It is a sin and he should not touch a silver fir tree” (Khangalov 1959, p. 159).

29 In curative magic cleansing with the smoke of sacred trees usually was not enough. It was also necessary to use water from sacred springs and stones from various mountains. The number of springs from where water could be taken and the number of stones could vary from 3 to 5 to 9. There were several cleansing rituals using water and stones : uhan tarim, shuluun tarim, gal tarim, yehon tarim.10 The ritual was performed by tarimchin shamans (conjurers). Spring water was boiled in a caldron. Special herbs, silver fir and birch bark were brewed in this water. Stones were warmed up. A twig made from herbs, birch, willow, pine, and silver fir branches was soaked in boiling

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water. A patient was beaten with this twig until sweat appeared. This was a sign that disease started to leave the body. This method of treatment has a rational basis as it is akin to a sweat bath.

30 Performing an üliger epic or fairy tale to a sick person was a unique treatment method (Galdanova 1992, p. 246). There was one peculiarity : not just any good tale-teller could help the patient. It required a kin tale-teller. Whether an üliger or song rhymed speech was related to the sacral language form in contrast to the profane speech. Performance of üliger or songs (especially at wedding parties) had a purpose to endow the listeners with the power of life, remedy problems, for example, summon rain amidst drought. It could also endow a person with children. This is proved by a wishful words recorded from the Urats (Urad) of . The best singer at a wedding was told, “Always perform songs having seventy beginnings and sing so that the number of your relatives will become abundant” (Naranbat 1992, p. 67). When songs are performed, spirits of lands and water are happy. In this connection women attend the Mongolian Oirat annual mass veneration ritual ova (oboo) at a sacred mountain wearing nice clothes and sing songs to awaken the nature from winter sleep.

31 Resort to magical methods of treatment took place during epidemics. Buryat understanding of the nature of these diseases is of particular interest. Some diseases had “divine/heavenly origin. In other words, such diseases were sent upon people by Heaven and supreme deities. Zakamna Buryats considered the infectious disease called khorkhiroo spreading from wild animals to domestic cattle rabies to be sent by Heaven (Van Gennep 1999, p. 49). Western Buryats believed that rabies had a heavenly origin. A number of diseases causing paralysis halkhi / halshi / halti daarikha apparently had divine origins. Origins of this disease can be traced in its very name, which literally means “hit by the wind.” In contemporary ethnographic material such diseases as poliomyelitis and blood stroke are related to this group.

32 Smallpox that followed the Russian settlers and claimed many lives was included into the number of heavenly diseases. Zakamna Buryats called smallpox “The White Deity” (sagaan burkhan). Western Buryats called smallpox hahai. In the beliefs of Western Buryats this epidemic disease was sent down to earth by the eastern tengri to collect a tax in human souls. Each settlement or family had to pay the eastern celestials “tribute” or alban in lives of their family members or neighbors. If a person sick with smallpox was in the house, he or she was referred to as albanda khebte or “lying down as tax” and ulaan khubi aba “this one got a red share” (Khangalov 1958, p. 457).

33 The Buryats believed that these diseases could be defeated by befouling. The “master” of the disease was the object of befouling. Personification of the disease facilitated perception of the phenomenon a man could not understand. Having determined his adversary a traditional society man turned to methods, the efficiency of which was already known. In order to befoul the disease various “unclean” objects were utilized. For instance, these could be feces of wild animals, such as wolf, a fox’s snout, cemetery soil, human bones to be burnt to fume patients. A rare disease called khulgana übšen11or tuberculosis of submandibular gland could allegedly be treated by touching the sore place with an unclean object, such as afterbirth stolen from a new mother.12 Being befouled by the “unclean” person, the disease was expected to loosen its grip.

34 Apparently some magical methods of treatment had certain rational elements. Some of them are still in use nowadays. For instance, there is a peculiar method of treating a sick person by covering with warm internal organs of a specially butchered animal

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(sheep or horse) and wrapping in its hide. It was widespread among the nomadic cattle breeders. The method was considered efficient for the treatment of certain diseases, such as cold-related diseases and bites of poisonous snakes. Nowadays this treatment is used to remedy cancer patients whom the contemporary medicine is unable to help.

35 As scholars and travelers of the past noted, Buryats in general suffered from very few diseases. Diseases that Buryats suffered from in the past were largely related to their specific economic activity, everyday life and nutritional peculiarities. In addition to epidemic diseases, there were such widespread illnesses as fever, local fever (haluun übšen) and scald head. Many diseases were brought in the Buryat environment from other regions in the course of colonization.

36 Climate and physiographic conditions of the region contributed to good health. The traditional Buryat nutritional complex undoubtedly supplemented benevolent health forming factors. It is characteristic that plants and products of animal origin used as medicinal ingredients were present in everyday Buryat ration.

37 The most widespread health problems were cold-related diseases. For their treatment various remedies and methods were used. Various dairy products were widely used as medicine. In the case of uncomplicated disease progression a popular remedy was aarsa, a nutritious and tasty milk beverage, a product of milk vodka distilling. A sick person drank large amounts of hot aarsa and then, naked, went out of the house to do some physical labor until wet with sweat. Coming back to a warm house the patient had to lie down in the bed under a thick blanket. Afterwards, the illness usually was cured. Aarsa was considered a very good remedy for gastric distresses restoring gastrointestinal microflora. Like hard pressed cheese khuruud, this beverage helped enhancement of teeth (the authors’ archive).

38 Winter periods witnessed frequent cases of frostbite. To treat frostbites the blistered parts of skin were punctured by a red-hot needle to let the liquid out. Then the affected area was covered with bozo — a by-product of milk vodka distilling used for making aarsa.

39 Properties of mare’s milk had special significance in the Buryat traditional medicine. It was used as a general tonic in the treatment of various diseases and as an eliminant. For these purposes a cloth folded 2-3 times was saturated with heated mare’s milk. A sick person was wrapped in it and stayed like this until the cloth got absolutely dry. This treatment had to be repeated several times (the authors’ archive).

40 Among meat products preference was given to horse meat and mutton. Horse meat had a warming effect and its consumption was extremely necessary during cold winters. Mutton was very highly valued by the Buryats. Mutton broth was usually prescribed as a recuperative remedy for sick people or new mothers. There was also a very special attitude to game. Meat of wild animals feeding on many good plants in the taiga was highly valued in Buryat diet as a source of vitamins. As is known, the Buryats usually ate slightly undercooked meat because only in this case all its health properties were retained. Squirrel meat was used as a general tonic. Buryats believed that squirrel meat was rich in vitamins because a squirrel feeds on various foods. Zakamna Buryats called squirrel meat khangai khesheg or “taiga wealth, happiness” and never neglected this product. The elderly specifically liked squirrel meat. Wild boar and bear meat were highly valued. Bear meat and fat were very good for the treatment of various lung diseases. Hard wild boar’s bacon was considered a delicacy very good for strengthening teeth. According to Buryat beliefs, the curative properties of the game were explained

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by the peculiarities of their diet. Unlike domestic cattle, wild ungulate animals “feed on the best grass” nogooni deezhe idene (the authors’ archive).

41 Buryats drank fresh “live” blood of animals for the treatment of a number of diseases. Wolf’s blood was considered to be especially curative. It was recommended to drink blood for the treatment of anemia and tuberculosis (the authors’ archive).

Rituals

42 Protective magic used for the benefit of man and protection of his life and health from the influence of maleficent supernatural beings occupied key positions in the religious practices of shamans.

43 1. Propitiating and blessing rituals

44 The main activities that could prevent or cure diseases were propitiating and blessing rituals performed in honor of various deities. Rituals were used to directly appease the masters of the diseases or to seek protection of higher ranked deities from their malignant actions.

45 Western Buryat shamanists treated “secret” (genital and venereal) diseases only with rituals directly addressing the master deities of these diseases. They were offered milk vodka, white stud-ram or stallion. Ts. Zhamtsarano wrote, “They do not know other cures.”

46 2. Life ransom rituals

47 In the religious practices of Buryat shamanism a soul ransom ritual dolio was widespread. T. M. Mikhailov relates it to psychotherapeutic methods of treatment. Usually an animal, a goat, sheep, cattle or horse was offered to the deity sending the disease in exchange for the patient’s soul. However, sometimes the “addressee” was not satisfied with such an exchange. Then a soul of another man, a relative or neighbor was offered in exchange for the soul of the patient. It happened so that the closest relatives of the sick person voluntarily agreed to die instead. Yet, in most cases a man who the shaman selected as a sacrifice did not know about it. “A shaman secretly agreed with the sick person or his family members about ransom of his or her soul by some relative or neighbor, who, obviously, did not know about it” (Mikhailov p. 168). In the past, as M. N. Khangalov and T. M. Mikhailov assumed, a man destined for dolio was literally sacrificed and, possibly, such rituals were still performed in the late 19th-early 20th centuries.

48 The dolio ritual was performed only by a black shaman. That is why black shamans were feared and disliked by the Mongols. The practice of “soul ransom” was usual for shamanist Buryats and for such malicious sorcery, “catching” and “devouring” human souls shamans often were put on trial by the community. Sometimes the community trial sentenced black shamans to death.

49 Another typologically similar ritual was called töön tabikha. This ritual was performed when a small child was sick. During this ritual some components of the ritual kit (pieces of tinder) were given names of the elderly women in the settlement, passing the disease to them in the process. Then the tinder was burned. The one that burned faster than others meant that the woman whose name was given to that piece of tinder would die earlier than others. The sick child was expected to recover after the ritual.

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50 With the spread of Buddhism among the Mongolian peoples life protection rituals, a prerogative of shamans before, were gradually transformed and got adapted to the “Yellow Faith.” The Buddhist religion strove to push the shamans out of the individual everyday ritual sphere. Not touching upon the considerable changes in the sphere of everyday ritualism that the Buddhist church achieved13, we will note that the Buddhist variants of life protection rituals display the same idea of giving the maleficent deities, demons and spirits substitutes of a real person. The evil spirits were offered an image of a patient made of dough in which five müse (water in which a sick person washed body, arms and legs) of a person were added.14 This figurine was dressed in clothes and decorated with jewelry. This “analogue” of a man was offered instead of the sick person’s soul.

51 The main objective of the Buddhist ritual amin zolig, luud gargakhu was to appease and deceive evil powers and offer them a substitute sacrifice instead of a live person, being supported by the supremacy of Buddhist gods and magical power of truth of the Buddhist teaching and demonstrating magical powers of Tantric mysticism.

Conclusion

52 Thus, in the perception of Buryats any disease is a deviation from the norm. This is reflected in the language. It is a consequence of a human violation of the order of interaction between the world of men and the world of deities and spirits. In this case, various rituals aimed at expulsion or destruction of the cause of the disease (evil spirit) or propitiating rituals addressed to the deities and spirits, which caused the disease act as methods of treatment. In addition to magic methods and rituals rational ways of treatment were used too. They require a more detailed study.

53 Nowadays when the quality of state medical services decreases and commercial services are unaffordable for many people the traditional explanation of diseases and their causes becomes increasingly popular. In their turn, such perceptions lead to reproduction of special ritual practices. As a result, the interest of population to folk medicine steadily grows.

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Zhukovskaya, N. 1988 Kategorii i simvolika traditsionnoi kul’tury mongolov (Moscow, Nauka), 195p.

NOTES

1. Research for this article was supported by the Russian Foundation for Basic Research grant # 14-06-00312. 2. The Buryat female costume as an object, manifesting Buryat perceptions of health and female fertility became a subject of research for D.A. Nikolaeva (2007) and O.V. Shaglanova (2005). 3. The word gem in Buryat denoted genital diseases otherwise known as “secret diseases” (Zhamtsarano, p. 81). According to other sources, sexually transmitted diseases were referred to as hüiten übshen (Van Gennep, p. 98), literally “cold disease.” Besides “cold” the term hüiten also denoted “alien” and, in the case of venereal diseases, it apparently reflected the fact that they were brought to Buryats from the outside. 4. For more detail, see Sundueva 2010, pp. 71-76. 5. In the beliefs of Western Buryats a soul is manifested as a bee. Therefore, the Buryats avoid killing bees accidentally getting in a yurt, apparently out of fear to kill a soul (Khangalov 1958, p. 395). 6. For more detail see Sodnompilova 2007, p. 185. 7. For more detail, see Zhamtsarano 2001, p. 123. 8. In the contemporary interpretation of traditional notions a hospital may be regarded as a foul place, i.e. a place accumulating human misery and illnesses. 9. See Zhukovskaya 1988, p. 91. 10. For more detail see Khangalov 1958, pp. 507-510 ; Badashkeeva 2000, issue 3, pp. 125-145. 11. G. R. Galdanova points out that this disease mostly afflicted Western Buryats (Van Gennep p. 99). This fact was also confirmed by Ts. Zhamtsarano, who wrote in his travel diaries that the Buryats in the Ol’khon district of the Irkutsk “…suffered from cervical illnesses, the so-called qulgana (mouse)” (Zhamtsarano, p. 82). 12. See Galdanova 1992. 13. Gerasimova 1999, p. 138. 14. Natsov 1995, pp. 59-62.

ABSTRACTS

The nature of diseases in the traditional perceptions of the Mongolian peoples is an understudied phenomenon that requires an in-depth study. In the beliefs of the people of traditional culture any illness is seen as a divergence from a norm. It is a bad consequence of a human disturbance of the order of interaction between the world of men and the world of deities and spirits, and, as such, it is fixated in the language. Curing of a disease consisted in magical “correction” or elimination of the disturbance followed by magical practices and rites coupled with practical therapeutic methods.

La nature des maladies dans les perceptions traditionnelles des peuples mongols est un phénomène peu étudié qui nécessite une étude approfondie. Dans les croyances des gens de

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culture traditionnelle toute maladie est considérée comme un écart par rapport à une norme. C’est une mauvaise conséquence d’une perturbation humaine de l’ordre des interactions entre le monde des hommes et le monde des divinités et des esprits, et, comme tel, il est inscrit dans la langue. Traiter une maladie consistait en une « correction» ou élimination magique de la perturbation, suivie par des pratiques et des rites associés à des méthodes thérapeutiques pratiques de type magique elles aussi.

INDEX

Keywords: tradition, diseases, life, protection, ritual, semantics Mots-clés: tradition, maladies, vie, protection, rituel, sémantique

AUTHORS

MARINA SODNOMPILOVA Marina Sodnompilova is a leading research fellow at the Institute of Mongolian, Buddhist and Tibetan Studies of the Siberian Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences in Ulan-Ude. She specializes in cultural anthropology of Buryats, traditional worldview and traditional medicine of the Mongolian peoples. [email protected] Vsevolod Bashkuev is a senior research fellow at the Institute of Mongolian, Buddhist and Tibetan Studies of the Siberian Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences in Ulan-Ude. He specializes in history of medicine and transnational history in Inner and Central Asia in the 1920s-1930s. [email protected]

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An outpost of socialism in the Buddhist Orient: geopolitical and eugenic implications of medical and anthropological research on Buryat- Mongols in the 1920s1 Un avant-poste du socialisme dans l’Orient bouddhiste» : implications géopolitiques et eugéniques de la recherche médicale et anthropologique sur les Mongols bouriates dans les années 1920

Vsevolod Bashkuev

Introduction

1 This paper seeks to reframe some issues concerning the scientific study of the Buryat- Mongols in the 1920s – early 1930s focusing on medical and anthropological research. In doing so, it will attempt to analyze the role and meaning of the medical and anthropological study of the Buryat-Mongols in the context of early Soviet geopolitical designs in Asia, particularly, the part of it that the Bolsheviks often referred to as “Buddhist Orient.”

2 A brief note should be made on the terminology. First of all, the term “geopolitics” and its derivates are used here in their contemporary meanings because in the Bolshevik discourse they were thoroughly avoided. Pro forma the Soviets castigated geopolitics as imperialist pseudoscience. Its close kinship with the Nazi Geopolitik turned it to a complete official taboo after World War II. However, it does not mean that the Bolsheviks did not think geopolitically and had no suchlike stratagems and designs. In their discourse the general euphemisms for “geopolitics” were “Soviet foreign policy” and “struggle against imperialism”. Depending on the context, other synonyms could be used too.

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3 Contrary to geopolitics, eugenics was a popular discipline and a frequently encountered term in the 1920s Soviet Russia. In comparison with the where eugenics was in its infancy, in the USSR it experienced a short blossoming period. Even in the early 1930s, when consolidated Stalinism pressed hard on the relatively liberal scientific community, eugenics continued to exist under the name of medical genetics. It took the bloodbaths of the Great Terror and World War II to completely discredit this discipline and cleanse it from all Soviet scientific discourse. In fact, negative connotations of eugenics as a nazified science are still very much alive in Russia.

4 In this paper I aim to trace the peculiarities of “socialist eugenics,” particularly as applied to the health improvement of national minorities and to the problem of creating a new Soviet man. Within the geopolitical context of the day I will consider the Soviet study of the Buryat-Mongols as the means to determine, analyze and assess the immediate threats to their existence, measure and evaluate their development potential and implement a consistent policy of socialist transformation. While medical and anthropological research on the Buryat-Mongols shapes the subject of this study, the eugenic agenda concealed in it is the pinpoint of this paper.

5 T1 Scientific research on the Buryat-Mongols and geopolitical factors

6 On 20 October 1925 Chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars of the Buryat- Mongolian ASSR M. Erbanov sent a telegram to the regional office of the Buryat republic in Moscow. In it, he allotted regional representatives a task to urgently establish contacts with the heads of the Commission for the Scientific Study of Mongolia under the auspices of the Council of People’s Commissars of the USSR. The leader of the newly established Buryat autonomy was interested in an opportunity to include Buryat-Mongolia into the scope of activity of this commission. If successful, the republic could get an opportunity to carry out large-scale and systematic scientific studies of its territory and population funded by the central government in Moscow.

7 An urgent necessity of a comprehensive study of the Buryat-Mongolian autonomous republic in the 1920s – 1930s was explained by several reasons. In our view, the geopolitical factor played the key role here.

8 The creation of the Buryat-Mongolian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic on 30 May 1923 may be viewed as a pragmatic alliance of interests of the Russian Bolsheviks, their Buryat associates, such as M. Amagaev and M. Erbanov, and Buryat national intelligentsia including Ts. Zhamtsarano, E.-D. Rinchino, B. Baradin, D. Sampilon, and others. The Bolsheviks, whose idea of exporting proletarian revolution to Europe spectacularly failed by 1920, fixed their attention on East and Central Asia instead, hoping that the establishment of frontier national autonomies would help in transmitting Communist ideology across the border. In their sight, a close linguistic and cultural affinity of the Buryat-Mongols with the Mongols of Outer and Inner Mongolia, Barga and , and same religion as in Tibet, made them perfect proxies of Soviet foreign policy in these regions. As M. Erbanov and M. Amagaev put it in their 1922 memorandum, “…we need to note very close ethnographic and cultural ties of Transbaikalian Buryats with linguistically and historically kindred Mongolian masses of East and Central Asia. In certain conditions, this tribal and religious kinship makes the Buryats indispensable agents of Soviet influence particularly in the neighboring Mongolia…” (Russian State Archive of Social and Political History, f. 372, op. 1, ed. khr. 127, l. 2ob).

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9 From the pragmatic perspective these ideas also strongly appealed to the Buryat “national democrats” who, according to Robert Rupen, were nationalists, Pan- Mongolists and agents of Russian influence in Mongolia and beyond (Rupen 1956, p. 385). Using the Bolshevik ideology as a vehicle of Europeanization they simultaneously pursued their own agenda of eventually unifying all Mongols in a single state, even at the price of being under the Soviet protection. Promoting Bolshevik policies among the Mongols they, as Rupen puts it, “tried to extract favorable treatment for the Buryats in return for their services in Outer Mongolia” (Rupen 1956, p. 388). Their Pan-Mongolism extended well beyond the borders of the Mongolian world in a form of Pan-Buddhism, which added Tibet to the Mongolian areas to be brought under unified control. This was consonant with Erbanov’s and Amagaev’s prospects which highlighted “a great role the Buryats can play now, when under certain conditions Tibet may become a sector of political struggle between English imperialism, stubbornly pressing into it from India, and the RSFSR” (Russian State Archive of Social and Political History, f. 372, op. 1, ed. khr. 127, l. 3 ob).

10 In such a way, the Buryat-Mongols and their newborn autonomous republic were viewed by all stakeholders as the means of spreading Communist ideology, Soviet foreign policy and Bolshevik- Europeanization into the Mongolian areas of Inner and Central Asia. This role was essentially geopolitical, though at that period the term “geopolitics” never appeared in the Bolshevik lexicon. Instead, the Bolsheviks used euphemisms like “the best influence” and “special role” stressing the ability of the Buryat political activists and intellectuals to stir up and “awaken” the Mongolian world, and arrange its rapprochement with the USSR.

11 At the same time a group of Soviet officials and scholars in the neighboring regions seriously explored possibilities to create a -Baikal mega-region based on economic zoning. It would include the Buryat-Mongolian ASSR, Irkutsk and Zabaikalskaya provinces. If this idea prevailed, the Buryat national autonomy would irretrievably be lost to amalgamation into a larger administrative-territorial entity.

12 At this moment geopolitics once again intervened in favor of Buryat-Mongolia. Influential Soviet officials voiced their concern about its future. For instance, Georgyi Chicherin, the Soviet Union’s People’s Commissar of Foreign Affairs wrote to Joseph Stalin on 25 June 1925, “…the creation of the Buryat-Mongolian statehood within the autonomous Soviet republic had, first of all, a goal of the best influence of the USSR on the peoples of the Far East, their awakening and rapprochement with the USSR in a struggle against foreign imperialism.”(Elaev 2000, p. 186)

13 Therefore, the geopolitical position of Buryat-Mongolia towards Mongolia and the “Buddhist Orient” was well understood and backed in Moscow. This circumstance helped to save the national autonomy in the critical period of 1924-1925 (Plekhanova 2010, pp. 147-148). At the same time this threat to Buryat-Mongolian statehood forced local officials to urgently seek additional support in a form of inclusion into a centrally organized scientific study program.

14 In the mid-1920s in the Soviet Union there was a rapid growth of scientific interest to Outer Mongolia. Under strong Soviet influence Mongolia chose a socialist way of development in 1924. A certain vacuum of influence that appeared in Mongolia while Russia was in a state of revolution and civil war was partially filled by dangerous competitors, such as China, Japan and the USA. In 1922 the American Museum of Natural History transferred to Mongolia its Central Asiatic expedition headed by Roy

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Chapman Andrews. In response, in 1923 the USSR organized its own Mongolian- Uryankhai geological expedition headed by I. P. Rachkovskii in Western Mongolia. Also there was the Mongolian expedition under P. K. Kozlov financed by the Council of People’s Commissars of the USSR, but formally under the auspices of the Russian Geographical Society.

15 In spring 1925 the Commission for the Scientific Study of Mongolia attached to the Council of People’s Commissars of the USSR was created. Its field of responsibility was centralized organization of scientific expeditions. As Russian historian V. V. Mitin argues, the purpose of these activities was Soviet monopolization of the scientific study of Mongolia. It envisaged not only carrying out of comprehensive research on productive forces and socio-economic conditions of the country, but also removal of competitors by political means (Mitin 2008, p. 35). Not surprisingly, the American Asiatic expedition encountered numerous obstacles put on their way by the Mongolian officials backed by their Soviet counselors (Andrews 1932, pp. 233-234).

16 Intensive study of Mongolia and the Mongols by the Soviets was beneficial for both sides. The Mongols received assistance from qualified scientists and obtained important scientific information about their country. They also retained a good share of fieldwork materials and findings of the expeditions. In its turn, the USSR solidified its ideological and political positions in Mongolia exerting strong influence on the key Mongolian institutions, such as education, science, culture and healthcare.

17 Here, the most beneficial aspects for Buryat-Mongolia were the ethnocultural affinity with the Mongols and the boundary geographical position of the republic securing its stable role as a model of socialist transformation for the kin country. That is why in the correspondence with the Commission for the Scientific Study of Mongolia and the Academy of Sciences of the USSR the government of Buryat-Mongolia highlighted its geographical position of “a boundary eastern autonomous republic directly bordering on Mongolia sharing with it, besides national kinship and linguistic affinity, many other things in various fields.” (State Archive of the Republic of Buryatia, f. R-250, op. 1, d. 11, l. 5) In late 1925 the Commission for the Scientific Study of Mongolia resolved to include the Buryat-Mongolian ASSR and Uryankhai into the field of its activity. Since 1926 the Commission’s title changed. It became the Commission for the Scientific Study of the Mongolian and Tannu-Tuvinian People’s Republics and Buryat-Mongolian ASSR (Mitin 2002, p. 115). The geopolitical significance of Buryat-Mongolia for Soviet foreign policy objectives in Mongolia used as a bargaining chip played its game.

18 However, success of Buryat-Mongolia as the “outpost of socialism in the Buddhist Orient” heavily depended on how quickly the newly founded national autonomy would overcome its own serious problems. If the Buryat-Mongols were to lead other Mongols to socialism, they first had to undergo urgent socio-cultural transformations themselves in order to overcome grave challenges of underdevelopment. Speaking about the role of the Buryat-Mongols as agents of Soviet-style modernization one should bear in mind that in the Bolshevik terminology of the day the Buryat-Mongols en masse were defined as “unenlightened people.” Thorough work and a cultural revolution were required to turn them into a new, truly Soviet generation capable of building socialism in Russia and beyond. It was this necessity that sparked active campaigns to overcome social and epidemic diseases, teach personal and communal hygiene, develop physique of the nomads through balanced nutrition, hygienic

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practices and sports, and fight social ills like alcoholism, early sex life and promiscuity in the first few years of Buryat-Mongolia’s existence.

19 This ambitious aim was nothing short of creating a new harmonious human being free of debilitating diseases and degenerative traits ; robust and capable of productive labor ; uniform and steadfast in the political affiliation. A new socialist Buryat-Mongol would then become a role model for other Mongols, and the Buryat-Mongolian ASSR — a showcase of socialist transformation. In this intention the Bolshevik ideological ends amalgamated with European eugenic theories with certain local variations and peculiarities.

Eugenics in Soviet scientific and medical discourses in the 1920s

20 History of eugenics in imperial Russia and the USSR is not an overly researched field. While there is a number of works analyzing the development of eugenics as a science in Soviet Russia, comparing it with the experience of other countries, very few studies scrutinize Soviet eugenics as ideology and even fewer — as social policy (Krementsov 2014, p. 26). As our study is concentrated on how eugenics had underlain political decisions in the field of nationality policy with geopolitical goals in mind, it enters a new layer of terra incognita in this rather sparsely studied history.

21 In imperial Russia eugenics became topical in the early 20th century when institutionalization of eugenics began in Western Europe and . It was warmly received by Russian medics, especially hygienists and public health physicians. Eugenics was also popular among experimental biologists and geneticists (Krementsov 2014, p. 29). Some scholars, like E. Shepilevskii, advocated European (in his case, German) approaches to eugenics (Felder 2014, pp. 44-47). Others liberally mixed German Rassenhygiene and French puériculture, British and American eugenics with French anthropologie sociale, German Sozialpathologie and French eugénétique ; in a similar way to zootechnics they proposed anthropotechnics (Krementsov 2014, p. 27).

22 Despite many borrowings, most Russian proponents of eugenics were unanimous in criticizing racial and class components of German racial hygiene and British-American eugenics. Instead, they accentuated the importance of social environment, education and upbringing. Russian theorists renounced such measures of negative eugenics as segregation and sterilization of the “unfit” popular in Germany, Scandinavia, and the USA. As an alternative they proposed improvement of social conditions, reformation and preventive medicine (Krementsov 2014, p. 27-28). This trend continued after the Bolsheviks seized power in October 1917.

23 In Soviet Russia eugenics became institutionalized thanks to several factors. One of them was active promotion of eugenics by the founders of Russian genetics Nikolai Kol’tsov and Yuri Filipchenko, who established the Russian Eugenics Society (Moscow, 1920) and the Bureau of Eugenics (Petrograd, 1921). These eugenic institutions had powerful backing in the People’s Commissariat of Public Health and the Academy of Sciences respectively.

24 Another factor was the general consonance of the eugenic agenda with the objectives of state medicine : prophylaxis, social hygiene, social medicine, and mother and child welfare. In his efforts to institutionalize eugenics in Soviet Russia, Nikolai Kol’tsov first

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found support and shelter in the State Museum of Social Hygiene of the People’s Commissariat of Public Health. Many Bolshevik social hygienists, including the people’s commissar of public health N. A. Semashko, sympathized with eugenists (Krementsov 2014, p. 30, 35 ; Graham 1977, p. 1149). In his turn, Yuri Filipchenko found support for his bureau at the Natural Productive Forces Research Commission (KEPS) of the Academy of Sciences in Petrograd. In the context of this paper these two affiliations are pivotal, since the problem of health improvement of national minorities belonged to the sphere of social medicine and social hygiene, and the scientific research on the Buryat-Mongols and Mongols was planned and directed by the Academy of Sciences of the USSR with the study of productive forces in mind.

25 Finally, there was a pragmatic interest of the Soviet leadership to the complex issues of social engineering and enhancement of the human stock. As Loren Graham argues, “To the extent that eugenics was understood, it was thought to be the science for the collective improvement of mankind, and as such it was an activity that the young Soviet government automatically found interesting” (Graham 1977, p. 1150).

26 Obviously the Bolsheviks were not original in their attempts to create a “new man.” However, in their drive towards this goal they went farther than anyone else. As Y. Marchenko argues, the original idea was a Christian ideal of transforming the “Old Adam” into a “New Adam.” Each new epoch in history posed the problem of the creation of a “new man” according to own its ideals and interests. The “new man” in the Bolshevik interpretation was to be a “creative dreamer” driven by the mission of spreading communism worldwide. In the first place, the new man was envisaged as a revolutionary : active, fit, knowledgeable, ascetic in everyday life, internationalist by nature, eager to cognize God by science and surpass him in managing the earth (Marchenko 2008, pp. 79-80).

27 In their pragmatic vision of the socialist new man the Bolsheviks combined several postulates of eugenics and social hygiene. Physical perfectness and force played a central role in the philosophy of eugenics. In this context, a physically healthy man was synonymous to a physically perfect man (Shul’ga 2014, p. 32). In Russia, where public health was always a big concern and where eugenists were preoccupied with problems of degeneration and extinction, attainment of this ideal, undoubtedly, was an inseparable part of the ultimate goal — the creation of a new socialist man.

28 Inasmuch as the Bolshevik scholars sympathized with Lamarckism, they prioritized goals of social hygiene and criticized “narrow” bourgeois understanding of eugenics as “biological improvement of the human stock by selection of procreators.” For example, G. A. Batkis, a well-known Soviet hygienist and active member of Communist scientific societies, castigated “bourgeois” eugenics for exaggerating “selection of procreators” and underestimating “measures to protect progeny from hereditary venereal diseases … alcoholism, tuberculosis,” in which he saw the principal goal of social hygiene. Batkis advocated for “broad understanding of socialist eugenics,” which, in his view, was similar to social hygiene (Krementsov 2014, p. 38).

29 A similar approach to eugenics was manifested in Soviet gynecology and mother and child welfare. Professor N. M. Kakushkin of Saratov University stated that “all issues of breastfeeding, infant hygiene, pre-school and school upbringing, marriage and sex hygiene, questions of fighting STDs and prostitution” should be within the sphere of competence of a “gynecologist-eugenist” (Krementsov 2014, pp. 34-35). In an article published in the “Irkutsk Medical Journal” Soviet gynecologist M. P. Bushmakina

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acknowledged that the goals of eugenics and health improvement were essentially the same. In her view, following from the goals of eugenics most gynecological issues of the day could be narrowed down to the study of female body type and social gynecology. Social gynecology was aimed at studying impacts of everyday life and labor conditions on female organism and concentrated on prophylaxis of venereal diseases and cancer, struggle against abortion and prevention of professional diseases (Bushmakina 1927, pp. 3-9).

30 If we superimpose these views on the action taken by the Soviet government to improve the health of the Buryat-Mongols, we will see that the Bolshevik complex of measures constituted a policy to radically change health parameters, physique and social environment in an effort to create a new “socialist national minority” that would possess superior physical characteristics, fertility and labor productivity. In essence, these objectives expose a good deal of eugenic thinking. Below, a few examples to illustrate this assumption will be provided.

Eugenic implications of anthropological and medical research on the Buryat-Mongols

31 A letter of the chairman of the State Planning Committee of BMASSR (Gosplan BMASSR) to the Academy of Sciences of the USSR on 26 December 1925 reads, “In the field of human science we face an issue of colossal importance, the so-called extinction of the aboriginals, as it happens, Buryat-Mongols. Incomplete and imperfect studies show only a 3 % population growth of the latter, while the Russian population supposedly grew by 10 %” (State Archive of the Republic of Buryatia, f. R-250, op. 1, d. 11, l. 10).

32 The letter also stated that since P. S. Pallas and J. G. Georgi no serious studies of the human potential had been carried out in the region. Such important aspects as physique of the local population, capacity for work and predisposition to diseases or this or that kind of labor remained completely unstudied, as were regional demographic processes. The letter accentuated the fact that the development of Buryat-Mongolia’s human potential was impossible without relevant scientific studies of its population.

33 The term “extinction of the aboriginals” was highlighted in the original document. Actually, as was mentioned before, degeneration and extinction traditionally were issues of great concern for the Russian eugenically minded physicians and biologists (Felder 2012, pp. 54-55), as well as social philosophers and political writers, such as the Siberian “oblastniki” (Yadrintsev 1892, pp. 99-102). Also the threat of extinction from hereditary syphilis and other venereal diseases often appeared in the reports of the Buryat-Mongolian People’s Commissariat of Public Health to central authorities in Moscow (State Archive of the Republic of Buryatia, f. R-665, op. 1b, d. 1, 150-153). There definitely was a continuity of approach between these views. The main link was human heredity undermined by a debilitating disease. The objective to save and improve it through a complex of calculated medical, socioeconomic and cultural measures reveals a clearly eugenic agenda. In the context of the new nationality policy, the opposite outcome would be the most unwelcome scenario given the geopolitical role the Bolsheviks assigned the Buryat-Mongols.

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34 Thus, urgent measures to curb the spread of social diseases were the first on the “new man” creation agenda. The archival statistical data presents the situation as rather troublesome. Tuberculosis was widespread among the Buryat-Mongols in the western districts of the republic, while eastern districts massively suffered from syphilis. According to various sources, from 42 % to 61 % of Buryat population of the republic was infected (Bashkuev 2012, p. 175). In some places the number of syphilis cases among Buryat-Mongols exceeded that among Russians by 38 times. In addition to syphilis, many Buryat-Mongols suffered from gonorrhea and trachoma. Taking into account a large number of untreated cases of syphilis and gonorrhea, numerous cases of hereditary syphilis and frequent miscarriages caused by venereal diseases against the background of very low birth rates among the Buryat-Mongolia (17.6 per 1000 among the Buryat-Mongolia versus 45.5 per 1000 among the Russians in 1924) (State Archive of the Republic of Buryatia, f. R-661, op. 1b, d. 1, l. 153, 153 ob, 154) serious medical study had to be immediately undertaken to find out the causes of these problems and develop relevant solutions.

35 Priority of medical problems explained the urgency with which Buryat-Mongolia’s People’s Commissariat of Public Health developed and submitted to the Gosplan a tentative agenda of planned field work under the auspices of the Commission. The necessity to find out causes of low birth rate among the Buryats was clearly prioritized. Next important issue was the study of infant mortality and its causes. Study of endemic and social diseases formed another important block in the tentative research agenda. Finally, studies of climatic peculiarities of the region as well as geological and balneal properties of local mineral springs were planned (State Archive of the Republic of Buryatia, f. R-250, op. 1, d. 11, l. 21).

36 The research plan of the Academy of Sciences for the year 1927 envisaged a comprehensive study of population of the Aginskii district, the easternmost region of the Buryat-Mongolian republic. The plan included racial, medical, sanitary and ethnological studies to be carried out by three scientific detachments. The medical- anthropological detachment was assigned a task to specify the tribal composition of the population (Buryats, Mongols, Khamnigans, and Russian Cossacks) and its distribution in the territory of the district. Other tasks included studying of body type and racial characteristics of the population, morphological peculiarities of the human organism under the influence of natural environment, issues connected with miscegenation of Buryat-Mongols and as well as Buryat-Mongols and Russians, problems of maternity and infancy, hygiene and nutrition. The ethnological and historical detachments aimed at studying of traditional economy types, patterns of land use and archeological sites in the Onon valley (Ibid, l 101).

37 Apart from the Commission’s research plan the Commissariats of Public Health of RSFSR and BMASSR sent a number of “venereal disease detachments” or mobile groups of venereologists to examine and the population and cure venereal diseases. They also carried out scientific research and gathered statistical data on the spread of STDs among the Buryat-Mongols, Russians and other ethnic groups in the republic. Besides pure medical data these detachments produced extremely interesting anthropological and ethnographic observations. Their ideas about everyday life of Buryat-Mongols (and later Mongols) allow deconstructing the civilizing discourse of the Soviet physicians and singling out numerous patterns, from social paternalistic to eugenic and racial,

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that characterized the Soviet scientific approach, deceptively uniform in ideology, as a complex and multi-faceted phenomenon.

38 Some patterns of nomadic lifestyle seemed specifically shocking to the eyes of the Soviet physicians whose educational background was thoroughly European by nature. This especially concerned personal and communal hygiene and sex habits. Dr. D. A. Lapyshev, head of the venereal disease detachment working in Buryat- Mongolia in 1924-1925 wrote in one of his articles, “Baths are absolutely nonexistent here and a Buryat totally repudiates bathing. There is no soap here…and almost the entire population of the settlement would flow together staring and gaping at our morning wash-ups as if it was something never seen before.” (Lapyshev 1929, pp. 546-547)

39 Out of 155 Buryat families examined by Lapyshev’s venereal detachment in the Aginskii district only 49 families were not afflicted by syphilis. About one half of the exposed syphilitics (42.5 %) were in the age group between 20 and 40 years old, or in the most fertile and productive age. Thirty seven and a half per cent of children of Buryat- Mongols in Aginskii district died before they were one year old and 50.6 % died before 12. Lapyshev thought that syphilis and its consequences caused most of those deaths. This view was shared by other venereologists working in other districts of Buryat- Mongolia. Drs. I. G. Zaks and S. T. Il’in who worked in the venereal detachment in Khorinskii district in 1926 noted the role of syphilis in high infant mortality and degeneration of hereditary syphilitics (Zaks & Il’in 1927, p. 874).

40 Sex life of the Buryat-Mongols was another object of interest for the Soviet physicians. They characterized it as casual and noted its early start. For instance, Dr. A. M. Pesterev worked in Khorinskii and Eravninskii districts in 1925-1927 and noted that 55.7 % of examined men and 78.7 % of examined women began their sex life at the age of 14-16. He noted that in Buryat-Mongolian families, where a child was considered the reason of existence and infertility was viewed as a curse, in the conditions of high infant mortality both husband and wife had recourse to adultery with a view to have children. In his article he wrote, “The task of social venereology in the course of building up of the curative and preventive measures should be the urgent sanitation of the sex life and family life in general in order to paralyze infections like syphilis and gonorrhea, whose further spread may lead to the extinction of the Buryat nationality. The ethnic perspectives of the Buryat nationality greatly depend on how early and intensively the fight against the old life and sexual habits will start.” (Pesterev 1930, p. 98)

41 The joint Soviet-German research on syphilis in Buryat-Mongolia forms an extremely important aspect of the scientific study of the Buryat-Mongols in the 1920s and a significant stage in the Bolshevik campaign to eradicate social diseases in national minorities. In sufficient detail it is described in several publications in English and Russian, but in the context of this paper a few details should be mentioned.

42 The first joint Soviet-German reconnaissance team including Volf Bronner, Alfred Stümer and Karl Wilmanns arrived in Buryat-Mongolia in summer of 1926. It confirmed that the region was a highly promising destination for a larger expedition because large numbers of Buryat-Mongols were afflicted by syphilis. The second, best known, expedition arrived in summer of 1928. It comprised a well-trained team of German and Soviet doctors, including venereologists, dermatologists, X-ray specialists, nurses, engineers and anthropologists. The three-month work of the expedition revealed the most characteristic patterns of disease and suggested ways of eradicating it. It was an

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extremely important stage of health improvement of the Buryat-Mongols and a convincing example of successful international cooperation between ideologically heterogeneous scholars. In the wake of the Soviet-German syphilis expedition of 1928 new expeditions to study gonorrhea, tuberculosis, trachoma, blood groups, racial anthropology of the Buryat-Mongols and physique of Buryat children were dispatched to this region in 1929-1931. This time they were fully staffed by Soviet specialists.

43 The 1928 Soviet-German syphilis expedition was unique because it raised new questions about syphilis in Buryat-Mongolia. The Soviets searched for the sources of syphilis infection and after this expedition they concentrated more on sexual ways of transmission and the role of Buryat sexual behavior in the spread of the disease. In the 1928 article in “Pravda” Volf Bronner described the expedition as “a scientific venture to examine syphilis as a factor of degeneration of culturally backward peoples.” (Solomon 1993, p. 228) The expedition provided excellent environment for the transfer of medical and scientific experience, from utilizing disposable medical instruments, X- raying and performing lumbar punctures to studies in bacteriology and anthropological research. At the same time it revealed stark differences in the research agendas of the German and Soviet teams. As Susan Solomon argues, while the Germans viewed the Buryat-Mongols as a population to be studied, the Soviets perceived them as a subject of concern (Ibid., p. 231).

44 Views of the Soviet physicians reflected their deep concern about the future of the Buryat-Mongols and proposed measures which, despite being referred to as “social venereology”, were to a high degree consonant with Western eugenic ideas of that period. Eugenists in Europe and America believed that hereditary diseases, such as syphilis, were degenerative factors and called for their eradication. In Soviet Russia the causes of such diseases were sought primarily in social conditions. However this did not affect considering their mid- and long-term effects through the prism of heredity and eugenics. Medical research on the Buryat-Mongols defined the most troublesome areas and centered health improvement measures on politics of the body (e.g. entrenchment of personal and communal hygiene and transformation of sex habits), pro-natalist and child-care policies and simple, but efficient ideological mobilizing frames portraying social diseases as the legacy of Tsarism. These elements suggest that in its essence the campaign against social diseases, such as the one carried out in Buryat-Mongolia, was an element of a Soviet eugenic program devised for rapid social transformation and physical enhancement of a geopolitically important national minority.

45 Research on blood groups of the Buryat-Mongols in the Aginskii district was conducted in 1927 by Dr. V. I. Zhinkin, Deputy People’s Commissar of Public Health of Buryat- Mongolia. Studies of the isohemoagglutination properties of blood and the Hirszfeld racial-biochemical index of the Buryat-Mongols were aimed at learning more about their racial and biological characteristics. Soviet medics specifically chose the easternmost Aginskii district as the local Buryat-Mongols were considered the purest blood of the nation devoid of any miscegenation. In their studies, the Soviet scientists sought to explain the prevalence of social diseases among the Buryat-Mongols by looking for racial-biochemical proofs of any specific susceptibility to such infections. They carried out blood tests on 320 patients with tertiary syphilis filling a gap in the scientific works of that period. Even though the results displayed basically the same blood group distribution as with healthy Buryat-Mongols, Dr. V. I. Zhinkin raised a

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question whether a low racial-biochemical index of Buryat-Mongols was a factor of their high susceptibility to syphilis (Zhinkin 1927, pp. 4-8).

46 Racial anthropology was another issue on the agenda of the scientific study of the Buryat-Mongols. In the collections of the Peter the Great Museum of Anthropology and Ethnography in St. Petersburg there is a unique collection of photographic materials of the 1931 Buryat-Mongolian anthropological expedition. It was headed by the research fellow of the Museum of Anthropology and Ethnography of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR G. I. Petrov and worked in the village of Polkanovo in Troitskosavskii district in July-August 1931. Polkanovo was one of the largest settlements populated by the Buryat-Russian half-breeds whose history counted over two centuries of mixed marriages (Khartanovich 2011, pp. 86-87). One of the tasks of the 1931 anthropological expedition was to refute the theory about gradual degeneration of people as a result of miscegenation. In the opinion of G. I. Petrov the half-breeds were “both stronger and more beautiful than their ancestors and are characterized by enviable fertility.” (Ibid., p. 91) The government of the Buryat-Mongolian ASSR intended to study the productive forces of the population for the use in . In this particular case, the enterprise in question was Chikoi tannery.

47 In this way, the agenda of scientific and medical research on the Buryat-Mongols reveals a eugenic rationale consonant with the European eugenic ideas of that period. At the same time there were important differences. In Sweden, Germany and some other European states eugenics grew out of state anthropological museums, where, as Paul Weindling puts it, “anthropological surveys shifted to such biological markers as blood group and marked a preliminary of coercive sterilization, and in the German case the sifting of populations for their racial value for a Greater Germany” (Weindling 2013, p. 36). This was a state interventionist approach, whereas in the USSR the eugenic agenda rather came from below, being voiced up by professionals in medicine and relevant sciences. Contrary to Central European, German, Scandinavian and American experience, these experts in various human sciences used the consonance of eugenics and Bolshevik ideological goals as regards the improvement of the human stock to influence at least some government policies toward national minorities. Also many of them were genuinely concerned about the future of Soviet indigenous peoples.

Conclusions

48 A short review of examples of medical and anthropological research on the Buryat- Mongols presented here suggests several conclusions. First, in the necessity of scientific study of the Buryat-Mongols the geopolitical agenda was rather strong. It was due to Buryat-Mongolia’s unique geographical position towards Outer Mongolia as well as linguistic and cultural affinity to the Mongols. Buryat-Mongolia performed an important geopolitical function of transmitting into Mongol-inhabited and Buddhist regions of East and Inner Asia a positive image of socialist transformations in an ethnically and culturally kindred ethnos. On the one hand understanding of this gave Buryat-Mongolia influential lobbyists, such as Georgy Chicherin or Volf Bronner. On the other hand, it suggested multiple ways in which beneficial geopolitical position could be used to secure state financial support, steady scientific interest and, for the time being, a degree of immunity from territorial revisions. All this came to an end in September 1937 when the republic was divided into three parts. However, that

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happened in the darkest period of Stalinism when the humanistic agenda of the 1920s was at best forgotten, at worst castigated and destroyed together with its proponents.

49 In the medical, hygienic and biological agendas of the 1920s eugenic implications are also easily traceable. During that period eugenics, not yet compromised by National- Socialism, was a highly respected discipline throughout the world. Some countries went so far as to introduce eugenic polices through legislature, including such notorious things as forced sterilization or introduction of eugenic passports. Contrastingly, the Soviets continued the pre-revolutionary tradition of criticizing racial and social-Darwinist approaches and denounced negative eugenics based on segregation and sterilization as a way to improve the human stock. Instead, as the central measure they advocated amelioration of social and cultural environment. The Bolsheviks strongly sympathized with positive eugenics based on the development of talents and strong traits in humans. Therefore socially induced gradual improvement of people remained their first priority. It was fully consistent with their ideal of creating a new socialist man through ideological indoctrination, cultural revolution and Bolshevik-style social modernization.

50 Merely implicit in the state policy, eugenics in the USSR had enough proponents among professionals in medicine, social hygiene, biology, and social sciences. From below, via such experts eugenics manifested itself in social medicine, venereology, social hygiene and many other aspects of applied human sciences. Quite often these enthusiasts managed to secure powerful allies. When organizers of science and healthcare sympathized with eugenic ideas, eugenics was gradually entwined into actual policies, such as eradication of social diseases in Buryat-Mongolia.

51 In their curious Soviet form eugenic ideas were also exported to such neighboring countries as Mongolia, where experiments with socialist modernization were started about a decade later than in the USSR. The Buryat-Mongols played several roles in these processes. They acted as a geopolitically important national minority whose successful socialist transformation was to send explicit signals to kin Mongolian nations to move toward socialism. At the same time the Buryat-Mongols were objects of scientific study. They provided invaluable scientific data on specific health problems of “unenlightened” nomads in a very distinctive natural, social and cultural environment. What is specifically important, working to solve health problems of the Buryat- Mongols, the Soviets accumulated hands-on experience, developed and tested various medical and social techniques and methods to be used later in the Mongolian People’s Republic and in the sphere of Soviet geopolitical interests in Inner and Central Asia.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Andrews, R. C. 1932 The new conquest of Central Asia : a narrative of the explorations of the Central Asiatic expeditions in Mongolia and China, 1921-1930 (New York, The American Museum of Natural History), 678 p.

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Bashkuev, V. 2012 Sovetskaya sotsial’naya evgenika i natsmen’shinstva : likvidatsiya sifilisa v Buryat-Mongolii kak element programmy sotsial’noi modernizatsii natsional’nogo regiona (1923-1930 gg.), Vlast’, 10, pp. 174-178. 2013 Soviet eugenics and national minorities : eradication of syphilis in Buriat-Mongolia as an element of social modernisation of a frontier region 1923-1928, in Björn Felder and Paul Weindling (ed.), Baltic Eugenics. Bio-Politics, Race and Nation in Interwar Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania 1918-1940 (Amsterdam/New York, NY, Rodopi), pp. 261-286.

Bushmakina, M. 1927 Puti sovremennoi ginekologii, Irkutskii meditsinskii zhurnal, 5, 3(20), pp. 1-10.

Elaev, A. 2000 Buryatskii narod : stanovlenie, razvitie, samoopredelenie (Moscow, Rossiiskaya Akad. Gosudarstvennoi Sluzhby pri Prezidente Rossiiskoi Fed.), 349 p.

Felder, B. 2012 Rasovaya gigiena v Rossii : Evgenii Alekseevich Shepilevskii (1857-1920) i zarozhdenie evgeniki v Rossiiskoi imperii, Istoriko-biologicheskie issledovaniya, 4, 2, pp. 39-60.

Graham, L. 1977 Science and values : the eugenics movement in Germany and Russia in the 1920s, The American Historical Review, 82, 5, pp. 1133-1164.

Khartanovich, M. 2011 Buryat-Mongol’skaya antropologicheskaya ekspeditsiya AN SSSR 1931 g., Nauka iz pervykh ruk, 3, pp. 84-91.

Krementsov, N. 2014 Ot “zverinoi filosofii” k medetsinskoi genetike : evgenika v Rossii i Sovetskom Soyuze, Istoriko-biologicheskie issledovaniya, 6, 2, pp. 24-56.

Lapyshev, D. 1927 K kharakteristike sifilisa sredi buryat, Vrachebnaya Gazeta, 8, pp. 546-554.

Marchenko, Y. 2008 Sotsiokul’turnoe konstruirovanie “novogo cheloveka” v 1920-e gg. i ego sovremennyi variant, Vestnik Tomskogo gosudarstvennogo universiteta, 317, pp. 77-82.

Mitin, V. 2008 Nauka i politika : sovetskie uchenye v Mongolii v 1920-1930-e gg., Vestnik Pskovskogo gosudarstvennogo universiteta, 5, pp. 34-40. 2002 Iz istorii deyatel’nosti Mongol’skoi komissii AN SSSR v 1920-e godu, Metamorfozy istorii, 2, pp. 106-128.

Pesterev, A. 1930 Polovoi byt buryat, Zhizn’ Buryatii, 4, pp. 89-98.

Plekhanova, A. 2010 Proekt sozdaniya Lensko-Baikal’skoi oblasti : ekonomicheskaya tselesoobraznost’, interesy natsional’noi avtonomii ili geopoliticheskii prioritet, Gumanitarnyi vektor, 3, pp. 145-149.

Rupen, R. A. 1956 The Buriat Intelligentsia, The Far Eastern Quarterly, 15, pp. 383-398.

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Solomon, S. G. 1993 The Soviet-German Joint Syphilis Expedition to Buriat-Mongolia, 1928 : Scientific Research on National Minorities, Slavic Review, 52, 3, pp. 204-232. 2006 Introduction : Germany, Russia, and medical cooperation between the wars, in S. Solomon (ed.), Doing medicine together : Germany and Russia between the wars (Toronto, University of Toronto Press), pp. 3-34.

State Archive of the Republic of Buryatia, fund R-250.

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Shul’ga, E. 2014 Filosofiya evgeniki : obreteniya i poteri, Istoriya meditsiny, 1, pp. 27-35.

Weindling, P. 2013 “Race, Eugenics and National Identity in the Eastern Baltic : From Racial Surveys to Racial States,” in Björn Felder & Paul Weindling (ed.), Baltic Eugenics. Bio-Politics, Race and Nation in Interwar Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania 1918-1940 (Amsterdam/New York, NY, Rodopi), pp. 33-48.

Zaks, I. & S. Il’in 1927 Opyt izucheniya zabolevaemosti venboleznyami v Buryato-Mongolii, Venerologiya i dermatologiya, 9, pp. 857-875.

Zhinkin, V. 1927 O krovyanykh gruppakh i rasovo-biokhimicheskom ukazatele u aginskikh Buryat (Verkhneudinsk), 10 p.

NOTES

1. Research for this article was supported by the Russian Foundation for Basic Research grant # 14-06-00312.

ABSTRACTS

This article unveils the geopolitical and eugenic contexts of medical and anthropological research on the Buryats, whose deteriorating health became a matter of serious concern in the early 1920s, when the Buryat national autonomy was created within the RSFSR.

Cet article dévoile les contextes géopolitiques et eugéniques de la recherche médicale et anthropologique sur les Bouriates, dont l’état de santé s’est détérioré au point de devenir un sujet de grave préoccupation au début des années 1920, lorsque l’autonomie nationale bouriate fut créée au sein de la RSFSR.

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INDEX

Keywords: Buryat, Mongols, Mongolia, geopolitics, eugenics, medical research, syphilis, social modernization Mots-clés: Bouriatie, Bouriates, Mongols, Mongolie, géopolitique, eugénisme, recherche médicale, syphilis, modernisation sociale

AUTHOR

VSEVOLOD BASHKUEV Vsevolod Bashkuev is a senior research fellow at the Institute of Mongolian, Buddhist and Tibetan Studies of the Siberian Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences in Ulan-Ude. He specializes in history of medicine and transnational history in Inner and Central Asia in the 1920s-1930s. His publications include : Bashkuev, V. 2012 Mythmaking vs. forgetting in the context of post-Soviet ethnic history in the Republic of Buryatia, late 1980’s – early 2000’s, in S. Chatterjee and A. Sengupta (ed.), Eurasia twenty years after: 1991 in retrospect (New Delhi, Shipra Publications), pp. 14-31. Bashkuev, V. 2013 Soviet eugenics and national minorities: eradication of syphilis in Buryat-Mongolia as an element of social modernization of a frontier region, 1923-1928, in Björn M. Felder & P. J. Weindling (ed.), Baltic Eugenics : Bio-Politics, Race and Nation in Interwar Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, 1918-1940 (Amsterdam-New York, NY, Editions Rodopi B.V.), pp. 261-287. Bashkuev V. Y. 2013 Silencing the shame : forgetting of the 1920s syphilis epidemic as a strategy of post-Soviet identity construction, Jefferson Journal of Science and Culture, 3, pp. 110-132. [email protected]

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‘Remote’ areas and minoritized spatial orders at the Russia – Mongolia border Régions ‘reculées’ et ordres spatiaux minorisés à la frontière Russie - Mongolie

Caroline Humphrey

Introduction

1 Any state, when constructing a central location of power and wealth, at the same time also creates other areas that are seen from the centre as ‘remote’. The Russian state in its Tsarist, Soviet and post-Soviet variants is no exception ; indeed the geographer Boris Rodoman has argued (2004) that Russia provides an extreme example of centricity. It concentrates all lines of power, infrastructure, and communications towards the metropolis — and this has generated a particular pattern of ‘remoteness’ across provincial regions. The spatial pattern identified by Rodoman locates such remote areas especially at administrative boundaries, as will be discussed below. This paper will discuss the consequences of such a pattern in relation to the Russian-Mongolian border. This is a sparsely inhabited region where, broadly speaking, the border coincides with an ecological frontier : the mountainous taiga forests of Siberia with well-watered valleys give way here to the dry and open grasslands of Mongolia. However, the argument made by the geographers is not about ecology but essentially about political structures. It is inattention from the state administration that produces undeveloped and cut off places. The perception that such an area is ‘remote’ comes from outside, from people located in cities. With the dramatic shifts in the meaning attributed to such places in the post-Soviet era, urban residents now often see these places as somehow culturally authentic, to be ‘rediscovered’ and their secrets opened up (Humphrey in press). But such an external perspective leaves almost unexamined the real lives of the people living in remote frontier zones, in particular their experience and concepts of space and borders. In this paper I shall argue that the Buryats of the borderlands have an alternative vision of social space, and that this is

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not simply a different autochthonous register but rather a profound otherness that has to be seen as ‘minoritarian’ and hence related to the hierarchical state order of Russia. The Buryat spatial-social form is in many ways the converse of that of the state. This could be seen conceptually as a Lévi-Straussian ‘structural opposition’ against the state order, but in this paper I shall take a different approach to show how it is the outcome of an ethnically specific way of inhabiting, and orienting to external spaces, in newly isolated lands.

2 There is now an extensive anthropological literature on life in contemporary rural Siberia (see Donahoe et al. 2008) and especially on Buryatia (Gomboev 2006 ; Nanzatov et al. 2008 ; Skrynnikova ed. 2009 ; Popkov ed. 2009 ; Rinchinova 2011 ; Shaglanova 2010, 2011). This paper frames its study in a particular way, by focusing on the rural lacunae in areas between administrative entities, zones from which the tentacles of the state have been almost completely withdrawn, and where a literally de-modernised life is going on. In these places Buryat ideas of boundaries have been revitalised in recent years. Although the Buryat concepts refer to their own history and legends, because these people have always lived in the interstices of alien state structures (Russian, Mongolian, Manchu, Chinese) in practice some of the Buryat boundaries coincide with recent (Soviet) and contemporary borders ; but they are conceptualised in quite different ways. Thus for these rural Buryats ‘the same’ border or boundary may have several overlaid meanings. Let me explain the specific sense in which I shall examine this phenomenon. As Nadya Nartova has rightly observed all state borders are seen differently by the various actors engaged with them, such as customs officials, migrants, tourists, smugglers, or lorry drivers, and she suggests the engaging idea of the hologram as a way to conceptualise the concentration of different perspectives on one object (Nartova 2010, pp. 268-73). I wish, however, to focus not on individual perceptions of borders but the way they appear in common Buryat understandings of landscape, relatedness, and extra-local geo-political articulations. It will be suggested that just as the hierarchical ‘vertical’ structure of the Russian state produces ‘remoteness’, a ‘horizontal’ idea that in Slavic culture also corresponds with depth (glub’, glubinka), it happens that the Buryats’ notions concerning borders also relate verticality with expanse. Their ideas, however, are the reverse of the Russian, since in the Buryat case the distant edge (boundary, border) is identified with height and sacredness, and also — paradoxical as it might seem — with centricity.

3 Ultimately I aim to relate the boundary consciousness of rural Buryats living in the border zone to their contemporary historical-geographical situation, namely their positioning both within a modern state as stranded within ‘remoteness’ and beyond it as a historically mobile minority that uses its own ideas to give this placing a different meaning.

The spatial order of the Russian state

4 For an analysis of how remoteness has been produced in Russia I turn to the work of Boris Rodoman. By the 2000s, aghast at urban sprawls, reckless agricultural expansion and industrial destruction of wild lands Rodoman argued (2004) that Russia had developed an ‘anisotropic’ society, one in which vertical links are very strong, while horizontal ones are weak. The administrative-territorial division of Russia, especially under the Soviet government, was a demonstration of this. The state amalgamated all

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vital activities (political, social, economic, ethnic) into one uniform system. The transport system became the reflection of the administrative divisions, and vice versa, and the radial roads that connected the centre with the periphery were a manifestation of the power vertical. The lines of communication prioritised were those that connected the capital with the regional centres, the provincial party leader with the district subordinates, and the raion (district) bosses with the directors of enterprises. Today also, in rural areas the only roads kept in good repair are those used by the authorities (nachal’stvo). Other side roads die out. The absence of lateral connections is the weak aspect of the anisotropic society : many roads, bridges, public transport, and more generally the social links, that in pre-Soviet times used to connect settlements with one another, no longer exist.

5 Rodoman argues that this structure operates on different scales in the same way. Thus, the same centre-focused organisation is found in Russia as a whole, in each Republic and Oblast, and in districts (raion) and down to the lowest level. Because this order applies not only to roads, but also to public transport, communications, distribution of supplies, and allocation of funds, it creates enormous inequalities, which people feel very strongly at each level. If we apply his idea to Buryatia, there is a huge difference in prosperity between life in the capital Ulan-Ude and some outlying district centre of the same Republic, and a similarly great one between the district centre and the poverty- stricken villages in its peripheries. The acute experience of this inequality, combined with the ability to compare one’s own with other places, is central to post-Soviet experience. The centric structure also provides a mode of geographical orientation. In Russia, Rodoman writes, ‘I can always sense where the centre is and where is the periphery, in any village, in any forest I can feel it, where is our centre and our edge (okraina), which is the direction of Moscow’ (2004, p. 3).

6 Rodoman continues that what is significant about this pattern is that a decaying zone (upadochnaya zona) tends to occur on the edges of each Oblast, even Moscow Oblast. Since this is true for each administrative unit the borders between them turned into a kind of vacuum. ‘Where three boundaries meet in one place, real godforsaken pockets (‘bear corners’ medvezhie ugly) result’ (2004, p. 5). Today, these border zones are where depopulation is strongest, where there are fewest villages and those that exist are decaying.

7 Note that the adjective upadochnaya, which could be translated as ‘falling’, refers to a vertical drop ; in other words, the zones at the edge are also the ones ‘below’. Russian vocabulary referring to remote places includes the idea of distance or farness (udalennost’), but also in everyday speech to depth. Thus the rural hinterlands are commonly known as glubinka (from glubina, depth, deep places, also heart or interior) and such places in an abandoned, overgrown state are known as glush’ (roughly translatable as ‘backwoods’).

Living in ‘remoteness’

8 The Buryat villages along the Russian border with Mongolia would no doubt be described by urban dwellers in exactly these terms. Indeed they are triply subject to the spatial order described by Rodoman, since they are located at the peripheries of the Russian state, of the Buryat Republic and the Zabaikal’skii Krai, and also of the districts that lie along the border (Oka, Tunka, Zakamna, Dzhida, Kyakhta, etc.). In addition to

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languishing in neglected ‘remoteness’ as Rodoman would have predicted, they are also enclosed and cut off by the international frontier from the countries on the other side. The border districts were given the special administrative status of a ‘border zone’ (pogranichanaya zona) with specific legislation related to security (Nanzatov & Sodnompilova 2012a, p. 165). A large military force is maintained at Kyakhta, which is now the only crossing point for road traffic still open to Mongolia from Buryatia (a nearby crossing for rail traffic is nearby at ). The Buryat-Mongolian border is 1,213 km long, and a number of other crossing points used to exist ; but in the last twenty years many of them became inactive and in 2010 all were closed ‘for security reasons’. This means that to go to Mongolia the inhabitants along the frontier have to travel inwards to a local centre and then out again to the crossing points at Naushki / Kyakhta.

9 Formerly, the Buryats used to cross the border in many places in the course of their normal economic activity. Their main livelihood was based on nomadic livestock herding and the summer pastures of some communities were located in Mongolia. In Soviet times Buryat collective farms, including some located at distance from the border, took their sheep to Mongolia and mowed hay there annually (Humphrey 1986), and people often crossed the border for hunting and gathering. Many Buryats visited relatives in northern Mongolia and attended family festivals, etc. without hindrance. Now, with the post-Soviet tightening of the border regime, maintaining relations with kin in Mongolia has become difficult and more intimidating ; people do still make the journey but ‘secretly’ according to Nanzatov and Sodnompilova (2012a, p. 165), which probably means that they cross the border illegally. One of the legislative differences applying to inhabitants of the border zone is that they are allowed (as are Mongols on the other side) to travel to nearby districts of Mongolia without a visa. But the number of vehicles that can cross at Kyakhta is limited by a slow, restrictive regime at the crossing point. A further hindrance is that the settlements immediately adjacent to the border on the Russian side, such as the entire town of Kyakhta, are subject to additional frontier security limitation ; they are ‘closed zones’, accessible only to those with residence documents or special permits granted by the FSB, and this deflects private investment in such zones. So for all these reasons the cross-border contacts and visa- free travel, that might in principle have alleviated the boundary torpor pointed to by Rodoman, does not in fact result in economic development or a thriving border trade.

10 Buryats — and in fact anyone — living in the border zone thus find themselves more ‘remote’, in the sense of cut off, than they were in Soviet days. Each district has its own small and generally sleepy town as administrative centre ; and then spread out over a vast area are villages separated by mostly unused grasslands, forests and mountains. Characteristically the Buryat settlements are not built directly on main roads, but a few kilometres off to the side, reachable by uneven sandy tracks. In summer 2013, I met Buryat villagers of Yonkhor, who were trying to make a success of horse herding for meat production, but they bemoaned the difficulties of life when their long access road regularly became impassable during the year. The collective and state farms of the region have long since closed down, leaving ruins in each village. Institutions that used to connect the villages with towns, such as schools, post-offices, medical and children’s centres, and culture clubs, have disappeared (see picture 1). Public transport services have been reduced or shut, and those that exist are expensive. In most large villages there are a few larger private farms, the so-called ‘peasant enterprises’ (krestyanskoe

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khozyaistvo), but these tend to employ outside workers and the proceeds are generally set aside for the owners to purchase accommodation in the city and leave the village (Skrynnikova ed. 2009, p. 108). Many other residents have already left, and their houses are now boarded up.

Picture 1. Shrine on the road between Chita and Ulan-Ude at the pass over the Yablonevyi Mountain range (July 2007)

Sayana Namsaraeva

11 The remaining villagers produce their own subsistence on small plots. As there is so little paid employment money reaches most households regularly only from state pensions and allowances. It is uneconomical to sell meat, milk, butter or vegetables in distant towns because of lack of transport and market fees. Credit and new agricultural are unavailable. The result of all this is that the ordinary villagers are economically unambitious and generally produce only what they need for apared down existence.1 Skrynnikova ed. 2009, p. 76) note, ‘In conditions of chronic absence of money, making use of nature has become the only way to survive…in fact, there has been a return to the traditions of natural appropriative economy.’

12 In fact, there is no question of a ‘return’, as Buryats never used to live in this way in the past. In the pre-Soviet period they did not live year round in close-packed villages and did not depend on hunting and potato production. They moved seasonally between winter and summer pasture areas with herds of cattle, sheep, goats and horses, and sometimes did some agriculture on the side. Their settlements (ulus) varied in size, the winter being larger than the summer ones, and the houses or yurts were widely dispersed. The current compact village pattern arranged around communal facilities, such as the collective farm office, the shop, the well, and the club, was inherited from the Soviet era. But now, because they no longer have a collective farm or local industry to unite them, these villages are isolated from one another. The memory of the former

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Soviet organisation makes the large empty intervals between them seem bleak. When I once mentioned the beauty of the empty grasslands stretching up to the hills and dotted with groves of pine and cedar trees, a woman exclaimed, ‘I hate those trees! They just sow themselves anywhere and no one does anything. I cannot forget that that land used to be productive fields.’

13 The administrative and physical isolation of ‘remoteness’ is tempered by modern technology. Many households have cars, though they often cannot afford to run them. More important are TVs, radios, computers and mobile phones. These, especially phones, have become central to managing daily life, and everyone is aware of the areas where the signal is strong and where it is weak. In describing the life in these places it is necessary to remind readers that most of the people I have been calling ‘villagers’ are well educated and many have held responsible positions or been trained for specific work (librarian, accountant, mechanic, medical assistant, etc.) that no longer exists. Now, perforce confined to the village for long periods, they turn their attention to the village as a society. Each settlement I visited seemed to contain at least one person who was devoted to chronicling the history of that place, its ancestors, notable inhabitants, and the elaborate genealogies of the kinship groups living there. In summer sporting events, the competitors’ village origin is always mentioned, so it is as though the villages are teams challenging one another.

14 If all this suggests a village-focused sociality, there are nodes where the localised economy links to the greater economy of the country. Traders, who as in Mongolia are often women (Pedersen 2006), sell village produced meat, potatoes, furs, etc. in the capital of Ulan-Ude. Timber logged nearby is transported to the nearest railway head. The business-people / mediators in such transactions, at least in my experience, are usually outsiders. Meanwhile all the villagers can calibrate their position, and one simple way this is done is by comparing — and lamenting — prices. For them the locality is thus not only laden with a multiplicity of inward meanings and feelings, but is also a place understood as a model that articulates with, and can be compared with, large extra-local geopolitical entities (see Stasch 2013). They often look outwards to the great Russia in which they are situated. Their gaze tends to follow the trajectory of those who have left the village for the towns, often their own departed children, the vertical hierarchy mentioned by Rodoman ; they do not compare the locality with any ‘sideways’ place, some Sretensk or Orel, but look directly ‘upwards’ first to the nearby town, then to the Republic capital, and most of all to distant Moscow, the centre of power, wealth and prosperity. People thus have an acute sense that they live in remote obscurity in Moscow’s terms, and yet, as I shall describe the Federal hierarchical is not the only, or even the primary, sense they make of the geography of their situation.

The international border : looking over to the other side as a citizen of Russia

15 Rodoman’s argument concerned primarily borderlands between internal administrative entities and the international border presents a somewhat different, more complex situation. Other Russian geographers have expressed the hopeful view that international borders are areas of contact rather zones of closure ; they have become ‘nodes of growth’ where people learn new ideas and not from the inaccessible centre but from their foreign neighbours (Kagansky 2010, p. 36). This idea

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has limited applicability to Russian-Mongolian border. On Buryat websites the impending massive growth of the Mongolian economy is discussed with a mixture of amazement and envy, but there is little mention of learning from there.2 At the border itself, Russian citizens seem to have rather negative opinions of the ‘mentality’ of the Mongols. One resident of Kyakhta, combining ethnic stereotyping with a feat of self- Orientalisation, described the Mongols as cunning, unreliable, and ‘born traders’, who ‘unlike us get up early at four in the morning with only one thought in their heads, “How can I make money today”, and they do everything to achieve their goal. But our people sleep in ; they come to work (if there is work) and do it just somehow, or they simply spend time there and that’s all, with no idea of working to earn. The idea doesn’t even come into their heads.’ He accused Mongols of using the local visa regime to come over to Kyakhta, impudently ignoring the travel restrictions and taking multiple jobs, while Russian citizens who go to Mongolia are constantly afraid of the authorities (Nanzatov & Sodnompilova 2012b , pp. 60-61). In practice quite a few Buryats from the town do engage in various small schemes with partners across the border — buying petrol to re-sell, exchange of meat for potatoes, currency speculation, day-work as ‘camels’ (transporters) for traders, and so forth. Elsewhere, some smuggling takes place across the border via obscure paths in the forests known to locals.3 One Buryat from Kyakhta, a driver and minor entrepreneur, said to me, ‘The border will always feed you.’ But he also grumbled at the restrictions ; and said that of course the closure of the entire length of the border (apart from Kyakhta and Naushki) renders traffic in any other place strictly illegal.

16 The international border is a highly complex and densely over-layered interface between different kinds of social agency and spatial perception. It encodes, for example, a social fault line, which can be seen in hostilities such as cross-border cattle raiding. This is in fact a ‘scalar’ phenomenon, mirroring administrative divisions, since livestock theft is reported to be particularly prevalent inside Russia on the borders between the districts, and between the villages within one district (Nanzatov et al. 2008, p. 200). The crucial moral injunction is that one should not steal from one’s own people — but ‘one’s own’ may be defined more widely, or more narrowly. Such relative, or scalar, fault lines appear also in perception of occult social realms, which also sometimes coincide with administrative and/or socio-economic divisions. An example of this way of thinking can be seen from the following contribution to a Buryat online forum : ‘There was such a ‘meat king’ in our village — that’s what they called him after he was revealed to have been a cattle thief. No one would talk to him. And after a while his daughter died ; she burnt out from cancer in just six months’.4 It was left for forum participants to understand that this illness was not an accident ; it was a punishment by the spirits. The spirits are territorial beings, attached to areas with boundaries marked by barisa shrines, and this also applies to the shamans, who master their own spirits but not those from neighbouring lands. Thus, in the case of the international border, it is not surprising to learn that Zakamensk Buryats say of their Mongol neighbours, ‘They have very strong shamans ; they can send very powerful curses — zhadkha khayana5 — which can bring harm to more than one generation of our people.’ Meanwhile, on the other side of the international border the same kind of threat is seen as coming from the Buryats. Nanzatov and Sodnompilova conclude, ‘So this is how they live, afraid of one another on each side of the border, people who have kinship links and common ancestors, yet they have already become “Mongols” and “Buryats” to one another’ (2012b, p. 60).

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17 However, politico-administrative and occult divisions do not always coincide. Ethnography from a more eastern section of the border presents a different picture, where the more mobile Buryats of the Khori-Aga group of clans live on both sides of the Russian-Mongol and the Russian-Chinese frontiers. In these regions shamanism unites more than divides people : the Russia-based Buryat shamans travel to their kin in Mongolia and China to learn ‘authentic traditions’ lost during the Soviet period, while the Buryats living in China and Mongolia travel to Russia to visit their homeland (nyutag) and the places of their ancestral spirits (Namsaraeva 2010, 2012 ; Shimamura 2004). This case shows that there are registers of ideas of space and place that override, or exist in a different mode from, the divisions created by centralised states. Indeed, I shall argue in the next section that there is a Buryat geography whose structure is the converse of that of the hierarchical state.

An alternative sacred geography

18 Buryats prefer to live in the open, treeless grasslands of wide valleys (see picture 2). Their villages are not usually located beside the rivers (gol), which may flood, but some distance away, often nestled in a sheltered area at the foot of hills. A large valley system, such as that of the Dzhida, Barguzin or Chikoi Rivers, has a number of branch valleys that are separated from one another by forests and low-rising hills. These hills, as well as the high mountains on the periphery, are studded with sacred sites of various kinds : notably, the oboo (a of stones), the shandan (a shaman’s grave), the barisa (a tree or pole on which people tie ribbons, zalama), and the arshaan (a sacred spring) (Galdanova 1992 ; Gomboev 2006).

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Picture 2. Climbing to the Alkhanai mountain oboo (Duldurginskii district, Zabaikal’sk Region, July 2008)

Sayana Namsaraeva

19 On the ground the topography of these sacred sites is not random, and yet nor is it simply a ‘cultural construction of nature’, 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 (Humphrey 1996, p. 86 ; Pedersen 2011, p. 14). Since the Buryats prefer a pattern of habitation in a valley-plain surrounded by mountains, their ideal landscape has the form of a broad bowl.

20 Oboo, the most socially important of the sacred sites, are constructed on the tops of the mountains that dominate the valleys. It is here that communities regularly gather to pay their respects to the spirits (gazaryn ezhed ‘spirit masters of the land’) that govern the blessings, fertility, prosperity of the inhabitants of the area — or alternatively, if angered, send them misfortunes, illness and early death. The oboo are said to be the ‘seats’ (suudal / huudal) of the spirits, who may come and go, but have their main abode on the mountain. Most of these spirits are the transformed ‘souls’ of ancestors of local kin groups.6 On the same m ountainsides, or nearby in the forests, are the worshipped grave-sites of deceased shamans, male and female (Abaeva 1992, p. 78) and it is at these places that new shamans are often consecrated (Gomboev 2006, pp. 95-96). Stories about these remarkable ancestors and shamans constitute the history of social groups — and they are sometimes the main discursive basis of the groups’ existence. In Buddhist areas the mountain master-spirits will have been given the Tibetan name of a deity. But in any case, the plethora of sacred places surrounding a valley is linked by social relationships to the communities living at the foot of the mountains (see picture 3). When I travelled in summer 2013 among the villages of the Buddhist Tsongol Buryats in the Chikoi River area, I was told that each lineage (ug, yahan) in the

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neighbourhood had its own mountain with an oboo, and that on the same day in summer the male members of each group would climb up to their own site to ‘meet’ and make offerings to their ancestral spirits. Later in the month, following these separate rites, the men of all the related lineages would join together and go to the highest mountain of the vicinity for a common sacrifice.7 These dominant mountains are called Khan (‘king’). Being so high, they are difficult to access, and they are located on the edges of a system of communities.

Picture 3. A village below the hills (Southern Buryatia, July 2013)

Caroline Humphrey

21 It can be seen already that this Buryat set of ideas contrasts strikingly with the Russian state system. Instead of the latter’s conical model, with ‘height’ and political power at the centre and ‘depth’ in the gaps and edges, the Buryat bowl-shaped vision locates highness and spiritual lordship at the boundaries. Meanwhile the riverine middle is occupied by ordinary people, who are differentiated only by kinship and/or which village they live in. The topographically central area, which is low-lying and not necessarily even inhabited, has no obvious to align with political centricity.

22 This political absence at the heart of the Buryat landscape must be related to their ‘minoritized’ status, to fact that for centuries their political masters have been ‘foreigners’ (Russians, earlier Khalkha Mongolians) while their own potential hierarchies were truncated at local levels. But it is also connected, I suggest, to the Buryats’ own alternative understanding of political content, pattern and direction. To explain this, let me begin with the strongly gendered conceptual and affective aura of mountains. Nanzatov et al. (2008 , pp. 52-60) have observed that the worshipped mountain is a ‘masculine’ idea, contrasted with rivers, lowlands and marshes. The mountain is invoked as the seat of the patrilineal ancestors and past leaders of a kin group (‘clan’, ‘tribe’).8 Women and males of other clans are generally forbidden to climb

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up the sacred mountain and to attend the holy rites at its oboo, a prohibition that is linked both to the impurity (for men) of menstrual blood and to the fact that, because of the practice in principle of exogamy, the category of married-in women at any given place are seen as foreign to the clan (Nanzatov et al. 2008, pp. 52-53 ; Shaglanova 2010). The male mountain spirits, the khada-uulyn-übeged (lit. ‘respected old men of cliffs and mountains’), represent the notion of the originating fount-leader of an exclusive patriarchal group. This is also a scalar vision. Such local kin groups are nested within more inclusive categories — e.g. the ‘seven clans’ in the border area originating from western Buryat lands and the ‘eight clans’ originating from the east and Mongolia 9 — and it is these broader agglomerations that worship the great King (‘Khan’) mountain spirits, which operate on a more expansive scale and wider territory. In such cases the spirit, such as Khan becomes as almost deity-like figure, usually pictured as a mounted warrior brandishing weapons.

23 This is a martial image that is common to land deities across Inner Asia, yet it is not purely conventional — there are old Buryat people who claim to have seen Burin Khan with their own eyes and who are able to describe the colour of his horse, his clothing and bows and (Abaeva 1992, p. 79). What is notable about this kind of master- deity is not only that he can appear to people as a visible ‘presence’ but also that he stands as the content of a particular conception of power. He is not so much imagined as governing us, like a Russian ruler, as dispensing fortune, defending against demons, and ensuring the continuation of our group through generations — if only we respect the natural order over which he presides. Yet real-life local headmen, and even government officials (at least in Mongolia and Inner Mongolia) make sure to take charge of the main oboo rite of their region. The political leadership represented at oboo is not real-politik, but it is a demonstration of hierarchical social status.10 At the same time, power here is imagined not as located in living humans, but derived from the autochthonous spirits of nature (into which the ancestors have transformed), a power that confers the blessed reproduction and good fortune of social groups, whether these be defined by kinship, territory or political allegiance. In the post-Soviet era, there is renewed vigour in the notion that this power-energy-fortune (Mong. sülde, Bur. hülde) is necessary for any person wishing to succeed in worldly politics. At the same time, as Buryats say, hülde also is the gift of fertility. Childless couples go to sacred mountains to pray for a baby, and, if the wish is granted, the child is known as ‘born of the mountain spirit’ (Nanzatov et al. 2008, pp. 55, 215).

24 So far my account has been similar to the description given by Morten Pedersen of the ‘Shishged Depression’ inhabited by Darkhad Mongols just on the other side of the international frontier in the Khubsugul (Khövsgöl) region of Mongolia. It is worth briefly discussing this case, since the Darkhad are minoritized within Mongolia in a way that is not unlike the Buryats in Russia. The Shishged Depression is a wide valley surrounded by mountains and forests, known by other Mongols as ‘a destitute, barbaric and shamanic backwater, whose fate was always to hover on the edge of civilisation’ (Pedersen 2011, p. 10). Pedersen observes that the largest and most important oboo of the southern Darkhads is on the high Öl mountain pass, which marks the border between the Shishged and the rest of Mongolia, and therefore is not anywhere near the town of Ulaan-Uul, the administrative centre (2011, p. 143).11 This is similar to the Buryat case, but Pedersen has a different interpretation from mine concerning the relation between edge and periphery.12 He concludes that a ‘weighty’ centred steppe opposes the ‘weightless’ counter-image of a marginal taiga [forest], a zone of pure

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multiplicity and metamorphosis (2011, p. 146). This idea, however, ignores the peculiar nature of the oboo type of centricity, which if I am right occurs at a joint between realms.

25 What significance does this notion of edge-based centricity have for practical life of Buryats? The oboo rites gather people who otherwise rarely meet to one spot. From their various settlements, they drive most of the way and then climb up to the peak. The goal of worship is not only for the elders, leaders and kin groups to gather blessings, but is also directed towards practical concerns, such as the weather, the state of the pastures, attacks by predators, or epidemic diseases. In 1996, the Chairman of what was then still the Karl Marx Collective Farm of District told me that when there has been a drought recently, he had sent a group of men on horseback to make offerings at a distant peak — one so high that the snow at the summit ‘reached the top of their boots’. This expedition was to request rain for the farm’s fields.13

26 Some great oboo rites provide the occasion for a meeting of otherwise separate groups. How is this conceptualized? In to go outwards is also to rise up, a positive movement towards the sacred, while to return home is expressed by the same word as to descend (buukh) (Nanzatov et al. 2008, p. 91 ; Bakaeva 2003, p. 237). Looking upwards from the village, only one side of the mountain of course is visible and it appears as an edge, beyond which nothing can be seen. But once at the top, a vast new vista opens out, and it is of this entire expanse that the mountain is a centre. The notion is inherently expansive. It includes both what is behind (below) us and what lies before us. This is why a grand mountain will not only form the border between communities but also be the point that links them, since people from the other side come to worship there too.14 In the Buryat border zone people of all clans converge on the great mountain called Burin Khan, coming from two directions : on the same day, the 2ndnd of the last lunar month of summer, the villages of Iro, Udunga, Tashir, Selenduma and Nandi arrive from the eastern side and people from Inzagatui, Borgoi, and Ichetui come from the west. At the summit there is a lake. Twelve small oboo are set in a circle surrounding one large oboo and each of the small cairns is worshipped by a different clan (rod) (Abaeva 1992, p. 79).

27 Not only is one oboo multiple in this way, but mountains are held to be in relationship with other mountains. In the case of the great peaks this expands the sacred geography far beyond the next valley. These links are quite mysterious and difficult to understand, with constellations of mountains existing on different scales. If Burin Khan is the ‘king’ of the varied local cluster just mentioned, it is also a point in far wider network of grand mountains, some of which are in Mongolia.15 Meanwhile the realm of each great mountain contains its own internal concatenation of lesser mountains with different characters. During fieldwork in 1996 in Tashir, I was told that the nearby pleasantly rounded mountain called Khongor-Uula was the wife of Burin Khan, and that Adkhata mountain near Selenduma was his son. Right next to Khongor-Uula, which was considered to be ‘calm’ (nomkhon), was another forested and somehow ungainly mountain known as Kharuukha Emege Ezhi, a female spirit with a fierce, vengeful (dogshin) nature. Fewer people went there to pray than to the other mountains, though Nina, the Secretary of the Trade Union, attended regularly as she lived close by. Meanwhile, the farm’s territory also included a different and very powerful Emege Ezhi shrine — one of three ‘sisters’ whose seats were distributed across the borderlands of south Buryatia. High in the upland forests, this site had only recently been

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constructed ; yet already it was regularly attended twice a year by 200-300 clan members, many coming from long distances.16 The example of Tashir seems similar to other places in the region, and it makes clear that sacred mountains exist in scattered networks.

A lived-in landscape

28 During most of the year no one goes near the peaks of sacred mountains, which are surrounded by many prohibitions, 17 and women do not go there at all. Yet there are ways in which the presence of mountain spirits are acknowledged daily. People often make libations to mountains from just outside their homes, at a distance. And mountains can approach close : There is a saying that children born of Khümüün (Khumun) Khan [the main worshipped mountain of Tsongol Buryats] sometimes notice a vast shadow behind them. The explanation for this is that Khümüün Khan keeps watch over his children. (Nanzatov et al. 2008, p. 215)

29 It seems that it is the height, the ‘look’ and the aura of a given mountain that gives rise to the sensation that it is a living presence, and also to the relational naming of mountains in terms of gender / kinship categories. The characters of mountain spirits, especially the maleficent, are then linked to events — accidents, illnesses, cattle blight, etc. — that people explain as caused by the spirit’s wrath at some person having cut wood, dug the ground, or otherwise infringed the prohibitions surrounding the mountain. In the 1990s in Tashir I had the impression that the linguistic expressions, ‘wife of’ and ‘son of’, were shorthand for what must have been multiple affective and non-verbalised experiences of living in the shadow of these mountains. Even I, as a stranger in Tashir, could sense the counter-play of different mountain force fields, given that Burin Khan glimmered in the barely visible distance, whereas benign Khongor-Uula and the evil, tree-covered Kharuukha Emege Ezhi loomed close by. The main road ran along at their foot. Each time we drove anywhere, other hills would be passed without comment, but at these particular mountains it was necessary to stop and make a libation of vodka to the spirits, for safety’s sake.

30 What, however, do rural Buryats make of the spatial structures created by the state? At one level they react to them in a matter of fact way like any other citizens of Russia, but at the same time Buryats have their own histories that inflect and destabilise the common ordinary ideas. For example, there is a Buryat account of the establishment of the international border between Russia and Qing Mongolia by Count Raguzinskii in the 1730s. According to this history, Raguzinskii asked for help from a Buryat guide called Shodo, and he in turn had recourse to animal knowledge when delimiting the exact line of the border. Shodo said that the boundary should be where the tracks of his horses led when out at pasture, since ‘we know very well where our lands are, where our fathers lived and their bones peacefully lie. Not only people, but our horses know.’ The horse tracks were then adopted to form the international border (Nanzatov et al. 2008, pp. 205-206). Two aspects of this story are significant : first, that, of all the domesticated livestock kept by Buryats, horse herds are in fact the ones that graze furthest away, and therefore their roaming defines the extent of the lands that a given community practically use. Second, a song about this event that is sung to this day, lauds the idea of a border that not only delimits ‘what is ours’ but also links us with

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others. In this song Raguzinskii is praised as wonderful, for having ‘introduced us to peoples’ (2008, p. 206).

31 The Buryats have thus found a way, at least in folkloric history, to ‘naturalize’ the international border, to remove the sense of it being an alien imposition, and to assimilate it to their own practices. This fits with the loyal stance towards the Russian government that Buryats almost invariably assume in public. However, in the case of roads, which are the sinews of the state structures that connect ‘down’ to the villages, we find a far more ambivalent set of ideas with which I shall conclude this article. Indeed, this is another facet of the reversal of the state geography : if lofty inaccessible mountains are the epitome of ‘remoteness’ and yet valued by Buryats so highly, it turns out that main roads — which in principle should be their lifelines to towns and wealth — are in some important respects disliked and feared by them.

Roads

32 Buryats, who in the past travelled on horseback, or with slow-moving carts and caravans, would not have had much in the way of roads of their own. Their vocabulary reflects the ideas of the road as a main route (zam), as cart tracks (zim), as a trace (of footsteps, Mong. mör, Bur. mür), and as a path (khargui). Seasonal migrations to fresh pastures, the main occasion for travel, would not involve specially constructed roads at all. A notional circle was used to model actual transhumant journeys (though these were not usually circular but more like an elongated loop) and this enabled the conceptualisation of the series of pastures as a protected, encircled precinct (khüree) with the affective qualities of the idea of a homeland (nyutag).18 Roads constructed by outside authorities for their own purposes, coming from some unknown place and bisecting homelands, were a different matter, and in some ways dangerous. In Tsarist times roads brought troubles : the authorities would order Buryats to serve travelling officials, provide horses, carts and food, or act as guards for columns of prisoners stumbling along the ‘penal roads’ (katorzhnyye puti) that led through Trans-Baikalia.

33 Even now there is a sense that roads — the ordinary roads maintained by the Federal Roadways Service — are dangerous. They lead out, elsewhere, to some other (unknown) place, and hence potentially to an alien or hidden (daldyn) world. They belong to no one alive. Evil spirits, as well as ordinary people travel along them, particularly at night. Hordes of ghosts may be met where three roads meet. Stories abound, such as that of the group of boys and girls walking along the road to the club at night when they hear a mysterious bell, which came closer and closer, and ‘suddenly I was thrown to the ground by a blow. After that my mother yelled at me for walking along a road at night’ (Nanzatov et al. 2008, p. 302). Humans should give way to travelling spirits (yabadal), whether these are great ‘fate-spirits’ (zayaan) who use vehicles like officials, or small ones that travel on horseback or on foot. Since the spirits take the middle of the highway, people are advised to walk along the edges. It is forbidden to build a house on a former road, and also to light a fire on a road, these being prohibitions that Nanzatov et al. (2008, p. 303) explain by the conceptual contradiction between the domestic home, the hearth, and the very idea of a road. For the same reason dwellings should not be sited beside a road, but safely at some distance.

34 However, enforced collectivisation entailed the construction of Russian-type houses in rows along roads. The idea behind this policy was not only the imposition of a cultural

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pattern common to Russia but also the practical policy of gaining access to the scattered population, providing services to them and at the same time control over them. In Soviet times, the Buryat villagers must have balanced their fear / dislike of roads against the advantages of closeness to the shop, the club, the school, the bakery, or the bus to town. But now almost all of these benefits have disappeared and the occult threats loom larger than ever. Travelling with Buryats by car today one frequently stops at roadside offering places called barisa (see picture 4) Scraps of cloth are tied to the shrine (often a tree), coins, matches and other offerings laid down, and vodka is thrown to the spirits and also consumed by the travellers. This is done to get protection from the dangers of travelling the road itself, such as accidents, breakdowns or robbery. But the barisa also has other connotations. It commemorates ancient mythic tragedies. It may contain the ashes of a deceased shaman in a secret crevice.19 It also is the gateway of a clan territory : people say it is necessary to stop at these places to beg protection from the outside spirit-masters, since in leaving one’s home area one also leaves behind the protection of one’s shamans.20 Even the Soviet boundaries were subject to a version of this practice, so for example, the statue of Karl Marx which stood by the road to mark the entrance to the collective farm became a kind of barisa. Incoming drivers would halt there, visitors leaving would say their farewells there, and libations were made. The foot of the statue was heaped with empty bottles, coins, etc.21 So the first thing to note is that Buryats deal with roads by stopping the flow along them — and also that after a few such stops the journey carries on in a state of inebriation, which we can perhaps see as mental abstracted from the act of travelling.

Picture 4. A village scene (Southern Buryatia, July 2013)

Caroline Humphrey

35 Furthermore, in these borderlands that have been rendered increasingly ‘remote’, even the most disbelieving and practical person is likely to see roads in a negative light ;

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local roads are often impassable, transport is expensive and unreliable, and the road system was planned for state purposes, not your own. Roads do not take the shortest route to where local people may want to go, such as your mother’s village over the hills. And finally, in the valleys by the border, with the closure of crossing points, roads turn into dead-ends. At the furthest points of these roads there was hunger and destitution in the 1990s, and today still a sense of being marooned, abandoned. Roads are the connections of rural people to the state that register in imagination the fears and disappointments in this relationship.

Conclusion

36 This paper has tried to explain the condition of ‘remoteness’ brought about by recent changes in the economy and administration of Russia at its borders. The new isolation of Buryat villagers, and their sense of being cast adrift to manage as best they can, has been observed with dismay by local writers (Skrynnikova et al. eds. 2009, pp. 107-109). Studies by Buryat ethnographers have documented an indigenous semiotics of space that seems to have increasing vitality in the present day. My aim has been to show that these Buryat understandings are not simply survivals from a timeless ‘traditional culture’ but closely related — by means of contrast — to the state structures within which they live. I have not emphasized Russian nationalities policy towards Buryats (for an excellent comparative survey, see Donahoe et al. 2008). Rather, the paper has drawn attention to the more neglected topic of the geography created by the state. Hyper-centralisation, I have argued following Rodoman, has systematically created areas of ‘remoteness’ at the edge of administrative units at all scales — and in particular a vast and elongated area of isolation along the Siberian border with Mongolia. Buryats, Russians and others living in this zone are subject to the same contemporary conditions of withdrawal of state services, lack of transport, unemployment, high prices, scarcity of money, and difficulty in obtaining goods. From the perspective of Moscow officialdom there is a ‘geography of ignorance’ (van Schendel 2002) that fails to acknowledge these zones as having any importance, and may hardly even register their existence. This is compounded by the ‘political geography of forgetting, silence and erasure’ (Grundy-Warr & Sidaway 2006) that still occludes the histories of these people, which is no doubt related to the fact that they criss-crossed the international frontier whose integrity was so jealously guarded by the Russian state. It is for these reasons, rather than nationalities policy, that I have called the historical-geographical consciousness of the border people ‘minoritized’. The could as well be applied to some borderland Russian populations too, such as the Old Believers and certain remnants of the Trans-Baikal Cossacks (Peshkov 2010), but the Buryats of remote valleys are a particularly vivid case, for in their long history of exception they have generated an understanding of spatial forms that is counter to that known, or even possible to know, in cities. In this sense the ‘remote’ Buryats are minoritized even in relation to their prosperous, Russian-speaking, urban co-ethnics.

37 By allowing the contours of the land and their own lives in it to take precedence — or rather to ‘take form’ as a set of spatial concepts and feelings — the Buryats counteract the hyper-centric hierarchical structure of the Russian state. Without uttering a word of opposition, indeed maintaining a loyal stance, they nevertheless organise the crucial ritual events of their lives around a notional protected hollow with powers located not

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in the middle but at its rim, and thus they enact an utterly different vision. When the sacred mountains at the edges are envisaged as pivots connecting one broad valley with the next, and these, at a wider scale, connect the ‘hollows’ across a vast region, this can be seen as a challenge to the state model, which has always insisted on a single, inviolate international border line. What is perhaps most minoritarian about this vision is the evacuation of any indigenous notion of political power in the depth of the hollow, in other words the absence of an idea of static authority at the centre, its extrusion of centricity to distant sacralised heights.22 In this way, it is as though people are living out, without saying so, a refusal of the state version of what power is. It might be objected that I have described only some folkloric never-never land of superstition, but I hope I have provided enough evidence that the mountains, the boundary shrines and the sinister roads are more than this : for villagers they are the ‘face of history’ (Stasch 2013, p. 566) and they are points of concentrated memory and emotion to which people relate their everyday lives. In these remote areas, boundaries are certainly conceived in terms of defence and self-protection, but they also have a semantic richness entirely foreign to the state version oriented to external enemies — since it is from these places on the rim that a host of life- and death-related forces derive : ancestral blessings, fertility, prosperity and the filaments of opening social connections.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Abaeva, L. L. 1992 Kul't gor i buddizm v Buryatii (Moscow, Nauka).

Bakaeva, E. P. 2003 Predstavleniya o puti i zhilishche v traditsionnoi kul’ture kalmykov, Vestnik Instituta KIGI RAN, 18. (Elista, Kalmytskii Institut Gumanitarnykh Issledovanii RAN), pp. 236-55.

Donahoe, B., Habeck, J. O., Halemba, A., & I. Santha, 2008 Size and place in the construction of indigeneity in the Russian Federation, Current Anthropology, 49 (6), pp. 993-1020.

Galdanova, G. R. 1992 Zakamenskie Buryaty. Istoriko-etnograficheskie ocherki (Novosibirsk, Nauka Sibirskoe Otdelenie).

Gomboev, B. Ts. 2006 Kul’tovye mesta Barguzinskoi doliny (Moscow-Ulan-Ude, FGOU BPO).

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Humphrey, C. 1986 Karl Marx Collective : Economy, Society and Religion in a Siberian Collective Farm (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press). 1996

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Shamans and Elders : Knowledge, Power and Experience among the Daur Mongols (Oxford, Clarendon Press). 2014 The changing significance of remoteness in contemporary Russia, published in under the title ‘Izmenenie znachimosti udalennosti v sovremennoi Rossii’ , Etnograficheskoe Obozrenie, 3, pp. 8-24.

Humphrey, C. & H. Ujeed, Hürelbaatar 2013 A Monastery in Time : the Making of Mongolian Buddhism (Chicago, Chicago University Press).

Kaganskii, V. 2010 Russia’s territory in the 21st century, in Soili Nysten-Haaralaand Katri Pynnöniemi (eds.), Russia and Europe : From Mental Images to Business Practices (Kotka, Kymenlaakso University of Applied Sciences, Series B), pp. 35-41.

Namsaraeva, S. 2010 The metaphorical use of avunculate terminology in Buriad diaspora relationships with homeland and host society

, Inner Asia, 12(2), pp. 201-230. 2012 Ritual, memory and the Buriad diaspora notion of home, in G. Delaplace, C. Humphrey & F. Billé (eds.), Frontier Encounters : Knowledge and Practice at the Russian, Chinese and Mongolian Border (Cambridge, Open Book Publishers), pp. 137-162.

Nanzatov, B. Z., Nikolaeva, D. A., Sodnompilova, M. M. & O. A. Shaglanova, 2008 Prostranstvo v traditsionnoi kul’ture mongol’skikh narodov (Moscow, Vostochnaya Literatura RAN).

Nanzatov, B. Z. & M. M. Sodnompilova, 2012a Prigranichnaya zona : aktual’nye problemy povsednevnosti (na primere prigranichnykh raionov Buryatii, Vlast’, 3, pp. 165-168. 2012b Povsednevnost’ pogranich’ya : neformal’nye normy i praktiki (na primere Buryatskogo i Tuvinskogo uchastkov Rossiisko-Mongol’skoi granitsy, in Transgranichnye migratsii v prostranstve mongol’skogo mira : istoriya in sovremennost’, Vypusk, 2 (Ulan-Ude, Izdatel’stvo Buryatskogo Nauchnogo Tsentra, SO RAN), pp. 48-63.

Nartova, N. 2010 Echsche o granitse (Laboratorium), 1, pp. 268-273.

Pedersen, M. 2006 Where is the centre? The spatial distribution of power in post-socialist rural Mongolia, in Ole Bruun & Li Narangoa (eds.), Mongols from Country to City : Floating Boundaries, Pastoralism and City Life in the Mongol Lands (Copenhagen, Nias Press), pp. 82-109. 2011 Note Quite Shamans : Spirit Worlds and Political Lives in Northern Mongolia (Ithaca, Cornell University Press).

Peshkov, I. O. 2010 Granitsa na zamke postsovetskoi pamyati. Mifologizatsiya frontirnykh soobshchestv na primere russkikh iz Trekhrech’ya, in V. I. Dyatlov (ed.), Migratsii i diaspory v sotziokul’turnom, politicheskom i ekonomicheskom prostranstve Sibiri, rubezhi XIX-XX i XX-XXI vekov (Irkutsk, Ottisk), pp. 601-616.

Popkov, Yu. V. 2009 Gorod i selo v usloviyakh globalizatsii (na primere Respubliki Buryatii), (Ulan-Ude, Izd. BNTs SO RAN).

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Rinchinova, S. B. 2011 Narodnye buryatskie traditsii v sovremennoi sem’e, in V. M. Dianova (ed.) Rossiya – Mongoliya : kul’turnaya identichnost’ i mezh-kul’turnoe vzaimodeistvie (Sankt-Peterburg, Sankt-Peterburgskii Gosudarstevnnyi Universitet), pp. 184-190.

Rodoman, B., Borisovich B. 2004 Rossiya – administrativno-territorial’nyi monstr, http ://polit.ru/article/2004/11/04/rodoman/, Accessed April 2013.

Shaglanova, O. 2010 Dialog “svoikh” i “chuzhikh” v etnograficheskom pole, Etnograficheskoe Obozrenie, 3, pp. 21-31. 2011 Chinese labour migration in the context of a Buryat village,

Inner Asia, 13(2), pp. 297-214.

Shimamura, I. 2004 The movement for reconstructing identity through shamanism : a case study of the Aga Buryats in post-socialist Mongolia, Inner Asia, 6, pp. 197-214.

Skrynnikova, T. D. (ed.) 2009 Gorod i selo v postsovetskoi Buryatii : sotsial’no-antropologicheskie ocherki (Ulan-Ude, Izd. BNTs SO RAN).

Stasch, R. 2013 The poetics of village space when villages are new : settlement form as history making in Papua, Indonesia, American Ethnologist, 40, 3. pp. 555-570.

Van Schendel, W. 2002 Geographies of knowing, geographies of ignorance : jumping scale in , Environment and Planning D : Society and Space, 20, pp. 647-668.

NOTES

1. Some more hard-working folk produce a little extra for exchange. This done through barter, notably the exchange of home grown potatoes or meat for sacks of sugar, cans of oil, and clothing brought to the villages by local traders. Most households keep 2 – 3 cows for milk and a few sheep for festivals and ceremonies, and more rarely chickens and pigs. In this situation, hunting and gathering have become important resources. Hunting is a very widespread occupation, not only for furs, which can be sold, but also for meat. For Buryats meat is the central element of the diet, and it is estimated that half of the meat consumed by villagers is now game from hunting. In summer, women and children forage in the woods for pine nuts, berries, and mushrooms, which are prepared for storage and consumption through the year, and also sold or exchanged when possible. In these hunting and foraging activities, the laws concerning land property and hunting seasons are widely ignored (Skrynnikova ed. 2009, p. 76). 2. See www.buryatia.org forum entitled ‘Dalekaya blizkaya Mongoliya’, accessed January 2013. 3. In 2010 along the Buryat part of the Russian-Mongolian border 130 people were arrested for illegal crossing of the border and 360 for infringing the ‘border regime’ (i.e. traveling beyond the permitted zone without a visa). The guards confiscated from the arrested 30 guns, 2,000 rounds of ammunition, and narcotics (Nanzatov and & Sodnompilova 2012b, p. 50). 4. www.buryatia.org, forum entitled ‘Skotokrady’ p. 3, accessed December 2013. 5. Zhadkha khayana : literally ‘to throw magic.’

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6. ‘A significant proportion of the cult sites of Zakamna are for the worship of real ancestors buried on the slopes of the highest mountain of the valley’ (Galdanova 1992, p. 109). 7. Among Ekhirit people in the border region, Baitag Mountain is the cult centre for all lineages of the clan. The lower mountains surrounding it are attached to individual lineages and small patri-focused groups. ‘Informants link a specific mountain with a concrete group : “Our Markuseevs and Altaev have the Uuta Khada hill, but the Khushkheev have Malaan Khada hill” (Nanzatov et. al. 2008). In other areas along the border, the basis for oboo worship may be territorial, i.e. nearby villages and hamlets, rather than kin-based. The same principle still obtains however : smaller groups worship the lower mountains and they join together in wider, more inclusive assembly to pay respects at the highest mountain (Galdanova 1992, pp. 109-110 ; Abaeva 1992, p. 64 ; Natsagdorj, personal communication). 8. Female ancestors (ütöödeinüüd lit. ‘respected old women’) are often linked to waters and lakes. 9. At the end of the oboo rites competitive games were held to entertain and honour the spirits. In tales of the Zakamensk Buryats it was recounted that these used to set clan again clan, or even the whole ‘western seven’ (baruun doloon) versus the ‘eastern eight’ (züün naiman). When the western side won in the wrestling or horse races, shamans from the eastern side would complain that of course they had prevailed, since their most powerful and first ancestor, Bukha Noyon, had intervened to help his team, upending and tripping eastern competitors with his horns (Galdanova 1992, p. 110). 10. This is encoded in the roles of patron and leading officiant, and it is made evident by seating patterns and the demeanour of elders at the ritual (Pedersen 2006, pp. 94-95). 11. In an illuminating earlier paper Pedersen argues that the Darkhad Mongols know two kinds of centre, an intrinsic ‘absolute’ one represented by oboo and household , and an extrinsic ‘relative’ one manifested in the District Centre and the state hierarchy. Different kinds of social leadership are associated with the contrasting types of centre (2006, pp. 95-98). I would query here only the adjective ‘absolute’, since it seems to me that the intrinsic form is also scalar and relative. 12. To support this argument, Pedersen cites the (now-abandoned) Zhargalant Oboo, located on a hilltop close to the geographical centre of Shishged, which ‘played the role of a spatial technology’ that organised places and divinities around a central point in the form of a Buddhist mandala (2011, p. 137). It should be noted, however, even these notional mandala patterns, i.e. those read into the lands surrounding a monastery with its protective oboo, were not necessarily imposed at geographically or administratively central locations. Monasteries as places of ascetic retreat were ideally located at a distance from clusters of lay population. 13. Caroline Humphrey, fieldnotes, 1996, Tashir, Selenga District, Buryatia. 14. This was pointed out to me during recent fieldwork in Urad (Inner Mongolia), where the sacred peak called Shar Oroi, the seat of the land-master deity Muna Khan, forms the boundary between the southern (öbür) and the northern (ar) Urads. These two populations have very little contact apart from their common attendance at the annual rites for Muna Khan (even though administratively they form one Banner). 15. Burin Khan is said to be one of the three King Mountains of the Trans-Baikal region known as Ar-Khalkha (northern Khalkha, where ‘Khalkha’ denotes Mongolia), the others being Khümüün Khan and Khügtei Khan (Abaeva 1998, p. 79). There are several other mountains in Buryatia and across the border in Mongolia also called Burin Khan. It is not clear whether people in different places had the same idea about their mountain (burin means ‘full’ or ‘complete’) or whether the groups who historically moved northwards from Mongolia into Russia took their oboo with them as they migrated, reconstituting it at each place (Nanzatov et al. 2008, p. 187). 16. The site was very large, consisting of the wooden shrine itself, a sacred tree, six big altars for offerings of vodka, milk, bread/sweets, and mutton, and sixteen further tables and benches for the worshippers’ feast. A thread tied from tree to tree enclosed the whole precinct, with an

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opening to the south. The prayers were read in Tibetan by a lama. Women workers of the Milk Production Brigade paid particular attention to worship of this Emege-Ezhi, a female spirit. It was regarded as the master-spirit of the whole village, so incomers wishing to live there, such as new brides, should request its permission before settling. Caroline Humphrey, fieldnotes 1996, Tashir, Selenga District, Buryatia. 17. For example, trees on the mountain should not be cut down, springs not polluted by human dirt, and even at a distance impure objects should not be thrown in the direction of the mountain. 18. Bakaeva observes, confirmed by Nanzatov et. al. for Buryats (2008, p. 296), that for traditional Kalmyks the annual migration was like a circle or spiral : ideally the journey, even if in fact horizontal, should proceed ‘upwards’ (ööd) in the ‘right / west ’ (Mong. zöv, Bur. züb) direction, i.e. following the movement of the sun, while the return was conceptualised as travelling downwards via the east to the initial stopping-place (K. buuts, Bur. buusa) (Bakaeva 2003, pp. 237-238). Bakaeva links the nomadic migration circle to other notions of encircling protection and interior harmony, such as that of the ger (round felt tent) (2003, p. 239). 19. Istvan Santha, personal communication, based on fieldwork among western Buryats. 20. It is dangerous for shamans to call on spirits in ‘foreign’ territories, and they will be punished for this by the spirit-masters of that land (Nanzatov et al. 2003, p. 203). 21. Caroline Humphrey, fieldnotes 1995, Tashir, Selenga District, Buryatia. 22. In this respect, the sacred mountain landscape has a somewhat different character in the interior of the independent state of Mongolia. Here, the city of Da Khüree / Ulaanbaatar has been the fixed capital for at least two centuries, and the main Buddhist monastery is also located in the city. In the metropolitan area, I would argue, the worshipped mountains seem more like adjuncts to a central focus of power, arranged around it for its benefit, e.g. the four sacred mountains that ring Ulaanbaatar.

ABSTRACTS

The article first outlines how ‘remoteness’ was conceived and constructed during the Soviet and post-Soviet periods in Russia. Using the ideas of the social geographer Boris Rodoman, it argues that centric structures of power, communications and state provision created scalar zones of non-development and isolation at borders between internal administrative regions. In post- Soviet times this structure continued, but according to Vladimir Kagansky it has been disturbed by recent ‘spontaneous transformations’ whereby state international borders are becoming areas of contact and enterprise, rather than isolation. The paper suggests to the contrary that, with the increasing centralisation of the Putin era, Kagansky’s theory has not been realised on the Russia- Mongolia-China border, and that the reduction of border crossing points in fact deepen the residents’ sense of being situated ‘at a dead end’. However, the indigenous people living in border zones, notably the Buryat, operate not only with these state-constructed geographies, but also with their own quite different spatial concepts. These are so much the converse to the Russian that they can be seen as a distinctive minoritized vision. The Buryat ideas and ritual practices reach across political boundaries. In effect they create a subtle challenge to the spatiality of the Russian state. It is argued that roads in this situation become particularly concentrated vectors of contradictory values.

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L’article décrit d’abord comment « l’éloignement » a été conçu et construit pendant les périodes soviétique et post-soviétique en Russie. En utilisant les idées du géographe social Boris Rodoman, il fait valoir que les structures centralisées du pouvoir, les communications et l’approvisionnement d’Etat créent des zones scalaires de sous-développement et d’isolement aux limites des régions administratives internes. Bien que cette structure se soit maintenue au cours de la période post-soviétique, elle a, selon Vladimir Kagansky, été remise en cause par les récentes « transformations spontanées » par lesquelles les frontières internationales deviennent des zones de contact et d’entreprise, plutôt que d’isolement. L’article suggère au contraire que, avec la centralisation croissante de l’ère Poutine, la théorie de Kagansky ne s’est pas vérifiée sur la frontière Russie-Mongolie-Chine, et que la réduction du nombre de points de passage de la frontière a en réalité contribué à approfondir le sentiment des habitants de se trouver dans une « impasse ». Cependant, les populations autochtones vivant dans les zones frontalières, notamment les Bouriates, utilisent non seulement ces géographies construites par l’État, mais aussi leurs propres concepts spatiaux, très différents. Ces derniers sont si opposés aux concepts russes, qu’ils peuvent être considérés comme une vision minorisée spécifique. Les idées bouriates et les pratiques rituelles dépassent les frontières politiques. De fait, elles opposent un défi subtil à la spatialité de l’État russe. Dans cette situation, les routes deviennent des vecteurs particulièrement concentrés de valeurs contradictoires.

INDEX

Keywords: remoteness, spatiality, state structure, minoritization, Buryats Mots-clés: isolement, spatialité, structure de l’État, minorisation, Bouriates

AUTHOR

CAROLINE HUMPHREY Caroline Humphrey, FBA, is an anthropologist who has worked in Russia, Mongolia, China (Inner Mongolia and ), India, and Ukraine. She has researched a wide range of themes including Soviet and post-Soviet provincial economy and society ; Buryat and Daur shamanism ; Jain religion and ritual ; trade and barter in Nepal ; environment and the pastoral economy in Mongolia ; and the history and contemporary situation of Buddhism, especially in Inner Mongolia. She has written on inequality and exclusion ; the politics of memory ; naming practices ; ethics and conceptions of freedom. Recent research has concerned urban transformations in post-Socialist cities (Buryatia ; Uzbekistan, Ukraine). Currently she is developing a research project on socio-political interactions on the Russian–Mongolian–Chinese border. Among her major publications there are : Caroline Humphrey & Vera Skvirskaja (ed.) 2012 Post-Cosmopolitan Cities : Explorations of Urban Coexistence, edited by (Oxford and New York : Berghahn Books). Caroline Humphrey with Hürelbaatar Ujeed 2013 A Monastery in Time : The Making of Mongolian Buddhism (Chicago University Press).

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Daily life and party ideals on late Soviet-Era radio and television : programming for children, teens, and youth in Buryatia La vie quotidienne et le parti des idéaux vers la fin de l’ère soviétique à la radio et à la télévision : la programmation pour les enfants, les adolescents et les jeunes en Bouriatie

Melissa Chakars

1 The history of late Soviet broadcasting for children, teenagers, and youth in the Buryat Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic demonstrates what authorities expected of their youngest citizens and at the same time presents snapshots of their everyday lives. Broadcasting was both aspirational and reflective. From the 1960s to the break-up of the Soviet Union, radio and television became increasingly widespread in eastern Siberia. The spread of broadcasting meant that people had new ways to spend their free time and survey data from around the Soviet Union, including from Buryatia, shows that broadcasting was quite popular (Dagbaev 1995 ; Golubev 1974 ; Golubev 1989 ; Paasilinna 1995 ; Roth-Ey 2011). Knowing that many were tuning in, local officials therefore sought to present programming aimed at specific audiences that provided the messages that they wanted to convey. Broadcasting, like print media, was to serve as a method to relay information as well as act as a pedagogical tool.

2 This article explores locally produced radio and television programming in Buryatia aimed at young people. In particular, it analyzes transcripts from the radio shows Pioneer Buryatia, Youth of the Republic, Teenagers and the Law and the television programs Let’s Think Together, Khamar-Dabaan [Hamar-Daban], Gorn, and What Are You Up To, Student ?1 Several of these shows ran regularly from the late 1960s to 1991 and some of their content reveals the political shifts of the time from the conservative policies of Leonid Brezhnev to the reform-era ones of Mikhail Gorbachev. Two of these programs — Teenagers and the Law and Let’s Think Together — were created during Gorbachev’s

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perestroika campaign and tackle the problems of youth crime, drinking, and hooliganism. These were topics that were previously taboo in Soviet media, but under Gorbachev had become issues for open discussion and resolution.

3 Soviet authorities devoted great attention to the education of children and youth for the purposes of political socialization, creating useful and capable members of society, instilling patriotism, and legitimating authority. Officials encouraged these goals to be taught in schools and appear in various forms of media ranging from literature to newspapers to broadcasting (Kelly 2007 ; Kuebart 1989 ; O’Dell 1978). On Buryat republican radio and TV, these goals were manifest in four themes that appeared as most prevalent on the shows discussed here. One of these themes is the idea that young individuals should constantly work to improve their minds through intellectual activities and their bodies through sports and exercise. A second is the value of practicing good citizenship by being helpful and useful members of society. A third is a building of feelings of loyalty, patriotism, and belonging, and the fourth major theme is the condemning of bad behavior and teaching right from wrong.

4 These themes were conveyed on television and radio programs through regularly showcasing children and adults who exhibited behavior that should be modeled as well as behavior that should be avoided and denounced. Explicit commentary was usually provided to make clear to audiences what was acceptable. Narrators, hosts, and invited experts often provided information, advice, and analysis that encouraged young people to be hard-working, moral, patriotic, and useful citizens. Programs also used literature, music, history and geography lessons, interviews, or letters from viewers and listeners for conveying the four themes.

5 Most radio and television programming produced in Buryatia was aimed at all ethnic groups in the region and was largely conducted in the . Russian programming reinforced the growing trend toward Russification that occurred under Leonid Brezhnev (Kreindler 1989 ; Szporluk 1986). However, there were programs For example, the radio show Pioneer Buryatia, broadcast shows in both Russian and Buryat. There was also special programming in Buryat such as a 1969 children’s radio show titled A Word About Lenin on which the host read a poem in Buryat by Shirab Nimbuev about Vladimir Lenin as part of the upcoming celebrations to mark the centenary of his birth in 1870.2 Buryat language programming was practical in that it provided shows to viewers who knew Buryat, but it had political significance as well. It, along with other Buryat-language media such as newspapers and literature, helped authorities legitimize the Buryats as an individual nation within the Soviet Union and supported the logic of their designation with an autonomous republic (Chakars 2014).

6 Broadcasting for children and youth in Buryatia also conveyed messages meant specifically for the ethnic Buryats. Sociologist Vladimir Shlapentokh has argued that Soviet authorities employed different strategies toward Russians and non-Russians in order to gain legitimacy and support for the state. While propaganda aimed at Russians emphasized patriotism and national traditions, for non-Russians emphasis was placed on how progressive the Soviet system was and how it offered more advantages than alternative ones. This was done in an attempt to stymie separatism or non-Russian nationalism (Shlapentokh 1986). This strategy is evident in Buryatia where radio and television programming regularly conveyed the idea that Buryatia had benefitted from being a part of the Soviet Union through economic and technological development, increased social mobility, and a higher standard of living. The programs also sought to

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demonstrate that Buryatia was an indispensable part of the USSR’s brotherhood of nations by emphasizing Buryatia’s Soviet history and not it’s pre-Soviet or pre-Russian past. Programming for children and youth highlighted significant Soviet historical events and showed how Buryatia shared much in common with the USSR as a whole. These messages were meant to give Buryat viewers and listeners a sense of belonging, pride, and loyalty toward the Soviet Union.

Television and radio broadcasting in Buryatia

7 The first radio station in the Buryat Autonomous Republic was founded in 1926 and Buryat-language programming began in 1931. However, the spread of radio was rather slow. Although campaigns started in the 1930s to bring radio to the countryside, it was not until the late 1950s that many small towns in the republic could supply their residents with the opportunity to hear radio either at home, a club, or over a loudspeaker. The case was quite different with television, which was introduced to Buryatia in 1961 (Golubev 1974). Authorities in Buryatia devoted much support to the technology and television spread quickly throughout the republic. Television was introduced at a time — much later than radio — when the republic had the resources to devote to its development and when Party officials in Moscow had decided it was one of the most important new technologies for the country (Chakars 2015).

8 Historian Kristin Roth-Ey has argued that the Party supported television because it was a symbol of modernity, it represented “the socialist ‘good life’,” it showed that the Soviets could compete with American technology during the Cold War, and, unlike radio, with television, Soviet citizens could only get Soviet-produced programming (the major exception was in northern Estonia where people could watch Finnish TV). She explains that in many regions throughout the Soviet Union, local “enthusiasts” worked to bring television to their locales even if there were few people who could actually run the television stations (Roth-Ey 2007). This was true in Buryatia as well. Many Buryat leaders wanted the new status symbol for their residents and brought the technology to Ulan-Ude. In the beginning there were few television specialists and the station could not even provide daily programming. However, only a few years later in 1966, the Ulan-Ude television station employed numerous people and provided five hours of daily programming.3

9 In addition to authorities’ enthusiasm for broadcast media, audiences were excited as well. By the late 1960s, thousands in Buryatia had become regular radio listeners and TV viewers. The increasing availability of broadcast media in Buryatia in the late Soviet period reveals a shift in the way that average people in the republic regularly gained information and spent their free time. Local scholar Evgenii A. Golubev conducted two large surveys — one in 1968 and one in 1984 — of radio listeners (around 60 percent of those surveyed were Russian and 25 percent were Buryat). Both surveys revealed that 90 percent of radio listeners listened at least two hours a week and most listened three or more. Programs for young people and those on the topics of sports, entertainment, and music received the highest ratings (Golubev 1974 ; Golubev 1989). While there are no studies of television viewers in Buryatia, sociological research conducted in other parts of the Russian Republic in the late Soviet period points to the medium’s popularity with many viewers watching on average as many as 12 hours a week (Hollander 1972 ; Hopkins 1970 ; Mickiewicz 1981 ; Roth-Ey 2011). Although surveys

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about television were not conducted in Buryatia, it is most likely that patterns among viewers in Buryatia were similar to those in other parts of the Soviet Union with many people enjoying much television viewing in their spare time.

10 The rapid spread of broadcasting in Buryatia in the late Soviet period also meant that residents could participate in the creation of television and radio programming. Many Buryats came to dominate jobs in local media. In 1979 for example, 60 percent of the republic’s journalists, editors, and writers were Buryat even though they made up less than 25 percent of the republic at the time.4 Although local officials could not ignore central directives that influenced what were acceptable topics for broadcasting, they did design their own programs that presented life in their region. Given the multi- ethnic population of Buryatia, as well as its official designation as an ethnically based territorial unit within the USSR, television and radio programming for young people also helped to promote a regional identity by providing shows in both Buryat and Russian that taught local history and showcased the environment.

11 In the case of both radio and television, republican residents also received national broadcasting from Moscow. For republican residents with radios, there were up to five hours of programming a day in the 1960s and by 1974 they could choose from three channels — two republican ones and one from Moscow. Throughout the 1960s and 1970s, Buryat television viewers could watch one Buryat channel and one all-union one from Moscow. A second channel from Moscow became available after 1981 (Golubev 1989). Young people, therefore, could — and probably did — regularly listen or view broadcasting produced outside of Buryatia. At the same time, the types of shows produced locally were aimed specifically and uniquely at them. They presented regional topics and highlighted their communities. Young people could tune in and learn much about their home and the people who lived there.

TV and radio programs to enhance body and mind

12 One of the most prevalent themes on radio and television in Buryatia in the late Soviet period was encouragement for young people to involve themselves actively in school and extracurricular programs that would strengthen body and mind. Authorities told young people to participate and challenge themselves in academics, in clubs, and in sports and exercise. Television viewers and radio listeners were regularly provided with model pupils and students excited about learning and improving their lives.

13 Television and radio programs examined life at school from kindergarten to the university and highlighted students who enjoyed their studies and were successful. For example, on the January 22, 1974 evening television episode of What Are You Up To, Student ?, the host interviewed a young woman named Ira Khromaya who talked about how much she loves to read, study, and relax with friends.5 Similarly, the January 17, 1982 radio show of Pioneer Buryatia interviewed a student named Tanya Semenova who explained that “More than anything, I love math.”6 Many programs also promoted the most successful students by describing academic competitions. For example, on the March 20, 1982 show of What Are You Up To, Student ?, Buryat State Pedagogical Institute students came to the television studio to discuss winning a competition against students from other universities.7 On a 1990 radio episode of Teenager and the Law, students discussed competitions for those enrolled in courses on Soviet government and the law and a 1982 program of Pioneer Buryatia described school competitions for

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younger students.8 On each of these three shows, students talked about how hard they worked and many also discussed their planned future professions.

14 Radio and television programs for young people also examined concerns from or about students. For example, on a 1970s episode of What Are You Up To, Student ? a student asked, “Why do we have to study English when we are in a major that doesn’t need it ?”9 On a 1990 airing of Pioneer Buryatia, a high school student complained that there should be more freedom in choosing classes.10 And, in another example, a professor argued on What Are You Up To, Student ? that while students have greater opportunities than they did in the past, they are too passive and do not prepare as well as they should.11 In each instance, the shows’ hosts used these comments and questions as an opportunity to offer advice and explanation. In these cases, the hosts explained the importance of academic requirements for professional and higher educational preparation and discussed how students could be more active in their studies.

15 Broadcasting in Buryatia also encouraged young people to participate in extracurricular activities. Local officials especially touted the importance of joining the Soviet mass youth organizations of the Octobrists for children 7 to 9, the Pioneers for children 10 to 14, and the Komsomol for those 15 to 28. Broadcasting in Buryatia therefore provided the radio program Pioneer Buryatia and the TV show Gorn for the younger children and the radio program Youth of the Republic for the teens and young adults of the Komsomol. These programs regularly supported the activities that these organizations facilitated such as excursions around the country, celebrations to mark important anniversaries and holidays, clubs for various hobbies, summer camps, choirs, art projects, sports competitions, and dance performances. Young people were encouraged to keep busy with activities that enhanced their minds and kept them in shape. For example, on the January 9, 1982 Buryat-language episode of Pioneer Buryatia, the host dedicated much of the show to describing numerous activities to keep busy during winter vacation.12

16 Khamar-Dabaan, a 1970s television program for young people, also emphasized the educational and physical benefits of extracurricular activities through its subject of travel and tourism. The program profiled local young people who traveled around Buryatia, the Soviet Union, and its allied nations. Sometimes there were school, Pioneer, or Komsomol trips and on other occasions they were ones made by individual families. The show also promoted sports tourism. For example, the March 5, 1974 program highlighted skiing trips and lauded the benefits of such exercise.13 Others promoted activities such as photography by highlighting students who had participated in a photo competition titled “Our Land, Buryatia.” The students discussed the art of photography on the show and described the trips that they had taken to get the perfect shots.14

17 Officials used television and radio programming in Buryatia in an attempt to get young people to value learning, knowledge, and good health. Shows provided examples of students winning academic competitions, singing in choirs, attending Pioneer summer camps, and traveling around the country. The ideal young person presented on radio and TV was diligent, active, and passionate about academic subjects and extracurricular activities. However, for officials, ideal young people should not only improve their own bodies and minds, but needed to work to better their communities as well.

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Radio and TV promote being helpful and useful to society

18 Television and radio programs in Buryatia constantly aired messages about the value of helping others. They suggested that young people should help their family, neighbors, and friends, as well as people they had never even met. They were encouraged to take initiatives, but also to follow directives that led them to conduct volunteer work around Buryatia, in other parts of the Soviet Union, and on occasion even outside of the country.

19 The theme of helping others was especially pronounced on the radio show, Pioneer Buryatia. Similar to Scouts or other youth organizations around the world, the Pioneers were instructed to be helpful members of society and Pioneer Buryatia regularly demonstrated this. For example, episodes in the 1970s featured Ulan-Ude Pioneers from the sixth grade helping an elderly communist woman with her chores and a seventh grade Pioneer named Ira Dorzhieva helping a kindergarten teacher put on concerts for children. On another episode, the show’s host read a letter from a woman who wrote into the program to tell about her neighbor, a boy and Pioneer named Volodya Kazakov, who was helping her because she had fallen and broken her leg. She explained in the letter that he visits her every day and that she “wants everyone to know what a good boy and real Pioneer he is.”15

20 In addition to helping neighbors and teachers, Pioneers also aided regional officials in various ways such as helping the police patrol the streets in local villages.16 Programs also often brought on adults who talked about how they had been helpful in their youth. For instance, the May 27, 1978 airing of the TV show Gorn interviewed an elderly woman who discussed her experience as a child when she was a Pioneer. She described how she had helped with the Buryat Republic’s literacy campaigns in the 1950s by reporting to authorities about neighbors and family members who did not know how to read.17 These and other examples were commonly presented on radio and television, providing the lesson that helping officials was valuable and that young people could contribute positively to the prosperity and stability of their country.

21 Programming for teenagers and young adults also showed how to be useful to those far away. For instance, early 1980s episodes of What Are You Up To, Student ? presented interviews with students from Buryat State Pedagogical Institute who had spent their summer in Mongolia working on a construction brigade and others who had worked over the summer on a collective farm in , north of Lake Baikal.18 The radio show, Youth of the Republic, also regularly featured members of the Komsomol volunteering their time outside of their local communities. For example, the September 29, 1968 radio program featured a story about urban students helping with the fall harvesting and making bread on collective farms.19

22 For authorities, encouraging young people to be useful and helpful members of society had practical benefits such as gaining extra help during harvest season. However, the work was also intended to create better citizens who cared for others in their communities and beyond. Episodes of Pioneer Buryatia in 1990 reveal that some felt that it was the value of helping others that was the most important part of the Soviet youth organizations and it was this aspect that justified their existence. Under Gorbachev’s reforms in the late 1980s, people were permitted to form their own independent

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organizations without state sponsorship — something that had not previously been allowed in the Soviet Union. The result was that many began to leave official organizations such as the Pioneers and Komsomol. Pioneer Buryatia aired discussions over the future of the organization. On June 10, 1990 a Pioneer leader named Erzhena argued that the organization was necessary because of the valuable charity work it conducted.20 In another episode, Dulma Vladimirovna described how important the Pioneers had been to her when she was a child. She made a passionate argument that the organization should continue.21 While it is probable that the radio program of the Pioneers would not have aired many people who called for its demise, the opinions expressed by those interviewed were probably sincere. Nevertheless, despite their efforts, the Pioneers and the Komsomol were disbanded when the Soviet Union broke up in 1991, leaving such radio and television programs as part of the historical record of their past.

Programming to encourage loyalty, patriotism, and belonging

23 Radio and television programming for children and youth in the Soviet Union was often educational and it reinforced subjects such as history and geography taught in schools. In Buryatia, as previously mentioned, these lessons also served as a method to teach young people about their region’s place within Soviet history and the country’s family of nations. By presenting the role of Buryatia in the most glorified periods of Soviet history such as the October Revolution and World War II, as well as local residents’ involvement in important national celebrations, radio and television were teaching young people that Buryatia was an integral and important part of the Soviet Union. Stories of hardships and war also provided young people with heroes who were devoted to the common good and sacrificed for the betterment of their country.

24 Teaching history on local broadcasting involved showcasing individuals who had experienced it. It also emphasized the problems of the past, contrasting them with the more stable, comfortable, and reportedly better present. The television show Gorn and the radio program Pioneer Buryatia commonly featured children and teens who were studying local residents who had participated in the October Revolution, the Civil War, and WWII. For example, the host of Pioneer Buryatia on an episode in February 1974 read a letter from a child in Barguzin who explained that his school was studying local revolutionary and Civil War heroes. The host of the show commented on their work, stating that those were very difficult times when “no one studied in nice schools… many had to fight, many were hungry.”22 The May 28, 1982 episode of Gorn was similar. The show featured Pioneers from School no. 6 in Ulan-Ude who were learning about the history of WWII by studying division 277 because it had “sons from Buryatia, Chita Oblast’, and ’.”23 Both programs also regularly brought veterans on their shows to describe their own experiences and elaborate on historical topics. Stories of war showed how residents from Buryatia were brave, loyal, and willing to lay down their lives for communism and the Soviet Union. They emphasized that Buryatia and the people who lived there were significant and invaluable Soviet citizens.

25 Another method to teach about history was to celebrate important local and national anniversaries. The March 13, 1982 television episode of Gorn provided a story about how schools in Ulan-Ude were preparing for the 60th anniversary of the Pioneers. The

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program also featured Buryatia’s local Pioneer history.24 Both of the radio shows, Pioneer Buryatia and Youth of the Republic, made much fanfare over the 1970 anniversary of 100 years since Vladimir Lenin’s birth. Programming described the preparations and celebrations and the role of Pioneers and Komsomol members around the republic in the process. One particularly notable show was a 1968 episode of Youth of the Republic that presented local music about Lenin in honor of the upcoming festivities. The program opened with the explanation that there are more songs on this planet about Lenin than anything else and that today’s show would feature songs about Lenin and the Buryat people. The host explained that while professional musicians had composed some of the songs, herders, tractor drivers, and many ordinary people wrote others that used traditional Buryat musical composition The program then played several of these songs from the Buryat Autonomous Republic, Chita Oblast’, and Irkutsk Oblast’. One of the songs included the lyrics “Lenin brought happiness and the sun” and “Thank you Lenin for giving the Buryat people freedom.”25 While excessively fawning toward Lenin, these songs and the show that aired them were intended to highlight Buryatia’s connection to the founder of the Soviet Union, reinforcing the idea that the region was a natural and important part of the country. Furthermore, Lenin was commonly used in children’s literature in the Soviet Union as a father figure, as well as a model child (O’Dell 1978). Therefore, this kind of depiction of Lenin that appeared on youth radio in 1968 was not exceptional.

26 In addition to history, geography was another subject featured on local broadcasting in Buryatia that consistently reiterated local history and the theme of belonging. The most illustrative example of this is the 1970s program, Khamar-Dabaan. Opening with a friendly and inclusive announcement — “Good evening television viewers ! We continue our meetings of Club Khamar-Dabaan” — the show featured young people traveling around Buryatia, the Soviet Union, and abroad. For instance, one episode told the story of a school trip to Kyakhta to visit the house-museum where the Mongolian revolutionary, Damdin Sükhbaatar, had once stayed while seeking support from the Bolsheviks. Buryats were taught that Russia had helped Mongolia with its communist revolution and this kind of school trip reinforced this lesson. Student also learned about other regions in the USSR on episodes about trips to other parts of the country such as Yakutia and Georgia. On occasion, Khamar-Dabaan also featured young people traveling abroad as in one episode about a student trip to Bulgaria that highlighted visits to WWII monuments to honor Soviet and Bulgarian soldiers.26 On this occasion, this show also provided a history of Soviet-Bulgarian relations.

27 The subject of the friendship of peoples also appeared regularly on programming for children, teens, and youth. For example, Pioneer Buryatia aired a show in 1982 that discussed how “together a friendly family” of various nationalities had gathered in the early 1970s to build the massive Gusinoozerskii power station south of Ulan-Ude.27 On another episode of Pioneer Buryatia, the program reported on how central authorities had bestowed the Buryat Autonomous Republic with a national honor, the Order of the Friendship of Peoples . The program highlighted the celebrations taking place at the Buryat State Academic Opera and Ballet Theater that included a speech by republican First Secretary Andrei Modogoev. The show’s host explained what a great honor this was for the republic.28

28 The friendship of peoples did not just take place within the Soviet Union, but also between allied nations, which for Buryatia commonly meant with its neighbor,

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Mongolia. A November 1970s episode of What Are You Up To, Student ? focused on Mongolian students studying in Ulan-Ude. The host interviewed students as well as Dashi Zhalsabon, the secretary of the Soviet-Mongolian Friendship Institute of Culture. Zhalsabon discussed student exchange programs and the upcoming 50th anniversary celebrations to mark the founding of the Mongolian People’s Republic. The host also interviewed the Mongolian student Tsyren-Bat, who was studying library science and described how hard it was when he first moved to Ulan-Ude because he did not know Russian. The host ended the segment by explaining that these Mongolian students are “the future of their country” and the representatives of “a new Mongolia.”29 It was supposedly their valuable studies in Buryatia that were helping them with this.

29 For much of the late Soviet period, Buryat republican radio and television often presented heroic historical stories and positive examples of the friendship of peoples. Under Gorbachev’s policy of glasnost’, Soviet media institutions were permitted to present alternatives to the typical rhetoric, but radio and television were still controlled by the state and overseen by the Party. Soviet officials generally had a cautious attitude about broadcasting and more slowly implemented glasnost’ on radio and television than in print media (Paasilinna 1995). Therefore, the standards of Soviet ideology were still commonly found in broadcasting and new and previously taboo topics were only carefully introduced.

30 An episode of Pioneer Buryatia that aired on January 28, 1990, makes this abundantly clear. The show started with a piece on the upcoming preparations for the 120 years sine the birth of Lenin. For the most part, the host presented information that was not that much different than what had been offered 20 years earlier on the shows discussed above. Listeners learned about different schools and museums around the region and heard about their preparations. The host also asked young people to write into the radio station about what their schools were doing, as well as facts about Lenin that they found most interesting. The host also interviewed a woman named Lena Radnaeva who oversaw the Lenin Room at a middle school in Zakamensk, a town in southern Buryatia. She explained how she had prepared topics for student projects and many were about Lenin. However, she also listed other topics such as revolutionaries in Buryatia, local WWII heroes, and one titled “Our village in the years of repression” —meaning the purges and terror conducted under Joseph Stalin in the 1930s. When she was done talking, the host paused to ask her more about the subject of repression —a topic that would not have been discussed openly in youth programming only a few years earlier. She then explained that not many from the region had been repressed, but she had researched one Party worker named N. M. Lobtsov who was killed in 1937. This episode shows the workings of Gorbachev’s policy of glasnost’ that reduced censorship and even allowed Soviet citizens — in this case Radnaeva and the radio show host — to examine once prohibited subjects, but at the same time doing so within a discussion of celebrating Lenin.30

31 In another example from that same Pioneer Buryatia episode, the host raised the issue of the friendship of peoples, yet also commented on what was happening in the country at the time : demands from many different ethnic groups for autonomy, sovereignty, and/or independence. He states, “We want to bring your attention to the question of the relationship of different nationalities. A growth of national self-consciousness has occurred, but at the same time not all of us respect and value the people of other nationalities. To value others one has to learn this from childhood.”31 His words

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revealed that times had changed. At the same time, they were words of caution calling for Soviet citizens to show tolerance and appreciate diversity. In addition, his message for children — the main audience of the show — was that as a child one learns to be considerate of others.

32 After such opening remarks for this segment of the show, the host then interviewed a woman named Sveta Dement’eva who described the opening of a Evenki National Center. She explained that when she was a kid, Evenki children studied Evenki in the lower grades, but that unfortunately this no longer happens. A Evenki language teacher at the center spoke next explaining that people do not use the language very much anymore and those who know it do not know the standard, literary Evenki.32 While not explicit in this show, criticism of language loss, increasingly common in the Gorbachev era, was often criticism of Soviet policies that had emphasized the Russian language over native ones. Likely any viewers watching this episode would have understood this to be implicit in the Evenki interviewees’ comments even if the subject had not been directly addressed.

33 Even with some new analysis of historical and contemporary issues, radio and television programming for young people in Buryatia still consistently promoted loyalty, patriotism, and a sense of belonging in the late Soviet period. They did so through the teaching of history, geography, and the friendship of peoples. While some of the specific subjects for discussion changed in the late 1980s era of reform — such as openly discussing the purges of the 1930s or Evenki language loss — the promotion of Buryatia’s logical position in the USSR and the encouragement of its residents to be faithful, dignified, and loyal Soviet citizens continued.

Teaching right from wrong

34 Officials in the Soviet Union used radio and television to teach children, teens, and youth how to behave in society (Kruk 2015). In addition, many officials increasingly complained in the late Soviet era that the younger generation was not as hard-working and dedicated to state values as previous ones had been (Bushnell 1988). In Buryatia in 1966, for example, Modogoev expressed concern that Buryatia’s youth were lacking in patriotism and morality and that instead they subscribed to only individualism (Kolmakov 2004). A lengthy report from the republic’s Ministry of Education described rising rates of crimes committed by young people in the 1970s and explained that in most cases they committed criminal offenses in groups while consuming alcohol.33 Officials blamed parents for these problems as well as “government administrations in various regions for not teaching teenagers correct behavior.”34 Authorities called for better education to teach right from wrong. In addition to schools, radio and television programming served that function through promoting good behavior and denouncing harmful activities.

35 Prior to Gorbachev’s reforms for Soviet media, radio and television rarely reported on especially deviant activities such as youth drinking and crime, relying instead on largely positive examples of behavior to teach right from wrong. Shows like Pioneer Buryatia grappled with more ordinary instances of bad conduct. For example, the host of a 1970s episode read excerpts of winning essays by children from a competition titled “Discipline in the Street.” In an essay by Liuda Butukhanova, she described how she tried to quickly cross the street to beat an oncoming car. In the process, she fell and

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would have been run over if not for the help of a nearby woman, who saved her. The essay explained how she realized her grave mistake and she promised to never do it again.35 In another example, the host of Pioneer Buryatia read a letter from a boy named Sergei Lubkov who told a story about how his dad scolded some boys on the street who were playing hockey with a loaf of bread and laughing as it broke into pieces. His father told the boys that it takes a lot of work to make bread and that there are many hungry people in the world who could eat that.36 Occasionally, Pioneer Buryatia would contend with more serious issues such as smoking. An episode from 1982, for example, aired a story about a boy who lived by the aviation factory in Ulan-Ude. Refusing to give his name, the host described how the boy had been pressured by his peers to try smoking. The show then condemned this behavior and encouraged young listeners to resist such pressures.37

36 With the advent of perestroika and glasnost’, Gorbachev sought to use media to help reform society by allowing for a space to discuss the country’s problems and introduce new solutions (Gorbachev 1988). Radio and television broadcasting in Buryatia was suddenly permitted to take this on by discussing youth crime, drinking, and hooliganism. These policies are evident in Buryatia where local officials introduced the radio show Let’s Think Together and the television program Teenager and the Law in an effort to openly engage young people and fix such problems. For example, the January 29, 1990 episode of Let’s Think Together began with a report of statistical data from the Buryat republican police that showed that crime among youth had risen 23 percent since 1983 and that one in every five crimes committed in the republic was done by someone under the age of 18. In addition, the host explained that 37 percent of the crimes committed by young people were done by those who were under the influence of alcohol. After presenting this information, the host then turned to a discussion about how to solve these serious problems. He interviewed educators and officials who argued that young people needed more productive and useful ways to spend their free time. Many complained that the republic needed better clubs with greater adult supervision. The host of the show then examined regional clubs for young people, discovering that some were places where teens were listening to “loud music,” getting alcohol, and smoking cigarettes. Others, however, were exemplary places where children and teens participated in useful activities such as sports, chess, photography, dancing, and sewing. The value of good extracurricular activities was discussed and then the show ended with the statement : “Let’s think about this problem together.”38

37 Seemingly picking up on this request, local broadcasters introduced a new radio program in the summer of 1990 titled Teenager and the Law to teach young people about the republic’s laws with the hope that this would cut down on youth crime. The first program aired on June 24, 1990 and interviewed teenagers, such as Alyosha, who explained that he did not think he could get into much trouble because he was under 18. This was followed by the comments of another teen, Natasha, who argued that if teenagers better understood the laws, fewer crimes would be committed. Another teen named Olga contended that there should be more courses in school to teach teenagers about the country’s laws. She also complained that there were not enough extracurricular activities available to young people and so they do not have anything to do with their free time.39

38 Radio and television shows that taught right from wrong were also intended to supplement lessons that officials hoped young people were getting at home and at

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school. They were meant to provide instruction such as respecting elders and how to correctly cross the street. In addition, especially in the last years of the Soviet Union, they became spaces to discuss and debate what to do about more serious conduct such as committing crime. The programs used children, teens, parents, educators, and authorities to carry out these discussions and determine right from wrong.

Conclusion

39 It is difficult to know on any large scale exactly how young people interpreted the messages provided on Buryat republican radio and television for children, teens, and youth in the late Soviet period. Were they inspired by the examples of heroic WWII veterans, helpful Pioneers, and diligent students or did they find the suggestive models patronizing ? Did they accept the versions of the history of Buryatia provided for them or did they question their validity ? Were they energized to become more patriotic with feelings of loyalty to the Soviet state and its institutions or not ?

40 Undoubtedly, radio and television programming created a variety of responses and messages presented on programs resonated differently among individuals. Some peoples’ responses to the content of radio and television programming may have fit into what anthropologist Caroline Humphrey has termed “evocative transcripts” — alternative versions of history drawn from official ones (Humphrey 1994). Stories about WWII heroes, Lenin, or Evenki language loss may have elicited different accounts than what was presented on radio or TV. Some of people’s alternative renderings may have been critical of Soviet policies. However, for other people, the official versions may have been acceptable and contributed to, for example, an increased feeling of patriotism and loyalty for the Soviet state as authorities intended.

41 The shows themselves also drew from real life examples. Those highlighted were people who were exhibiting the behavior that officials sought and who may also have been regular listeners and viewers. From those who were interviewed, it is possible that many were sincere such as the child who explained that she loved math, those who defended the Pioneer organization from dissolution, and the teenagers who made suggestions about improving their leisure activities. At the same time, others on radio and TV may have been, as historian Stephen Kotkin explains, speaking Bolshevik — using specific state language to regularly interact in Soviet society (Kotkin 1995). Many broadcasting hosts and interviewees such as educators, scholars, and veterans, may have told stories with an official approach as expected by authorities and listeners, even if, perhaps, they thought about them in contrasting ways.

42 Although authorities could never control exactly how messages were internalized, they nevertheless intentionally designed programming for young people to provide them with precise and definitive messages. This information was intended to help define the future generations of Buryatia even as some of it changed over time. The programs provided model children, teens, and adults for listeners and viewers to emulate. They provided advice and delineated good, bad, and exemplary behavior. While aimed at an audience of young people, the shows messages’ could also easily be seen as intended for parents and educators as well. The programs sought to build better communities with members who were thoughtful, helpful, and caring. In addition, local television and radio in Buryatia depicted the region’s place in the nation as an intrinsic part of the Soviet Union with legitimate and highly valued citizens.

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Szporluk, R. 1986 The Press and Soviet Nationalities : The Party Resolution of 1975 and its Implementation, Nationalities Papers, 14/1-2, pp. 47-67.

NOTES

1. Pioner Buryatii, yunost’ respubliki, Podrostok i zakon, Davaete podumaet vmeste, Khamar- Dabaan, Chem zhivesh’ student ?, and Gorn in Russian. Khamar-Dabaan refers to the Khamar- Dabaan mountain range in southern Buryatia. Gorn refers to a horn-shaped pibgorn instrument used by children in the Pioneer organization for those aged 10 to 15. The transcripts for these shows can be found in the Natsional’ny arkhiv Respubliki Buryatii (National Archive for the Republic of Buryatia) (NARB). 2. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 720. The archival document where the show can be found lists the title of the show in Russian as Slovo o Lenine. However, the show’s transcript is in Buryat. 3. NARB, f. P-1, op. 1, d. 7415, ll. 10-12. 4. NARB, f. R-196, op. 1/8, d. 118, ll. 62-66. 5. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1168, l. 1, 30. 6. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2086, ll. 28-29. 7. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1224, ll. 1-7. Buryat State Pedagogical Institute is now Buryat State University. 8. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2900, l. 2 ; NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2086, ll. 28-29. 9. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1168, ll. 1-5. 10. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2893, ll. 1-10. 11. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1168, l. 20. 12. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2086, ll. 1-11. 13. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1166, ll. 2, 24-25.

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14. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1166, l. 6. 15. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1132. The quote is from page 44. 16. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1132, l. 3. 17. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2614, ll. 2-5. 18. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2114, ll. 21-24. 19. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 632, ll. 1-4. 20. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2893, l. 92. 21. Ibid., 69-70. 22. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1132, l. 22. 23. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2111, ll. 35-38. The quote is on page 38. 24. Ibid., 1-6. 25. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 632, ll. 36-38. 26. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1166. 27. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2086, ll. 104-115. 28. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1132, ll. 18-32. 29. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1168, ll. 39-48. The quote is on page 48. 30. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2893, ll. 11-14. 31. Ibid., 15. 32. Ibid., 15-16. 33. NARB, f. R-60, op. 1, d. 1736, ll. 49-52. 34. Ibid., 52. 35. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 1132, l. 28. 36. Ibid., 21. 37. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2086, ll. 30-32. 38. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2917, ll. 1-12. 39. NARB, f. R-1051, op. 1, d. 2900, ll. 1-10.

ABSTRACTS

This article analyzes radio and television programming for children, teenagers, and youth in the Buryat Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic during the last decades of the Soviet Union. It contends that four themes appear as most prevalent on such programming : the value of improving mind and body through educational activities and sports ; the importance of being helpful and useful members of society ; the encouragement of loyalty, patriotism, and belonging ; and teaching right from wrong. The article argues that authorities designed these themes to create thoughtful, useful, and diligent citizens who supported state goals and understood and valued their individual role in society, as well as Buryatia’s position in the Soviet Union.

Cet article analyse la programmation à la radio et à la télévision pour les enfants, les adolescents et les jeunes dans la République socialiste soviétique autonome de Bouriatie au cours des dernières décennies de l’Union Soviétique. Il fait valoir que quatre thèmes apparaissent comme les plus répandus : la valeur de l’amélioration de l’esprit et du corps à travers des activités éducatives et sportives ; l’importance d’être des membres utiles à la société ; l’encouragement à la loyauté, au patriotisme et a l’appartenance ; et l’enseignement du vrai du faux. L’article affirme que les autorités ont conçu ces thèmes pour créer des citoyens réfléchis, utiles, et

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diligents qui soutenaient les objectifs de l’Etat et comprenaient et appréciaient leur rôle individuel dans la société, ainsi que la position de la Bouriatie dans l’Union Soviétique.

INDEX

Keywords: Buryatia, Buryats, children, media, radio, Russia, Siberia, students, television, youth Mots-clés: Bouriatie, Bouriates, enfants, medias, radio, Russie, Sibérie, élèves, télévision, jeunesse

AUTHOR

MELISSA CHAKARS Melissa Chakars is an assistant professor of history at Saint Joseph’s University in Philadelphia, USA. Her research centers on the 20th century history of Buryatia with a focus on education, media, and socio-economic development. Three publications : Stewart Anderson & Melissa Chakars eds. 2015 Modernization, Nation-Building, and Television History (London, Routledge). Melissa Chakars, 2014 The Socialist Way of Life in Siberia : Transformation in Buryatia (Budapest, Central European University Press). Melissa Chakars & Elizabeth L. Sweet, 2014 “Professional Women and the Economic Practices of Success and Survival Before and After Regime Change : Diverse Economies and Restructuring in the Russian Republic of Buryatia,” Geojournal 79/5, pp. 649-663.

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Performing “culture” : diverse audiences at the International Shaman’s Conference and Tailgan on Ol’khon Island Spectacle culturel : diversité du public à la Conférence internationale sur le chamanisme et au Tailgan sur l’île d’Olhon

Justine Buck Quijada and Eric Stephen

1 At the beginning of August, 2012 approximately 200 people were clustered around the overlook outside the village of Khuzhir on Ol’khon Island. With the town behind them, they looked out over Shaman’s Rock, an outcropping that juts into the lake and is the temporal home of the spirit master of the lake. The deep blue expanse of Lake Baikal stretches behind it until the horizon meets the sky. Most of the people, however, were not looking at the landscape, but rather at the row of 13 decorated posts that stretched across the overlook and the shamans who were setting up small altars, one at the base of each post. They were here for the tenth annual International Shamanic Conference and Tailgan conducted by the Tengeri Shaman’s Association. 1 The name of the event, which combines “international” with a local Buryat term for a shamanic ceremony — tailgan — indicates a tension between the global and the local, the universal and the specific, that pervades the event, but an easy dichotomy of global/local does not begin to capture the multiplicity of audiences and performances at the ritual.

2 This article explores the presentation and performance of “culture” in this ritual and poses the methodological question of how survey data about the participants can help us to understand the ceremony. I will warn the reader that I offer no firm conclusions, but rather suggest that rituals with demographically divided audiences, such as those performed by Tengeri at Ol’khon Island, should be approached through the idea of “semiotic diversity” (Carreño 2014), which presumes multiple meanings for multiple audiences. Such an approach sees apparent contradictions in a ritual not as

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incoherence but rather “the extraordinary congregation of the diverse people present […] becomes in itself an index of the power that resides there” (Carreño 2014, p. S193).

3 Tengeri’s Annual International Shamanic Conference and Tailgan is held every year at the end of July or beginning of August, outside the village of Khuzhir on the island of Ol’khon. Ol’khon is the only island in Lake Baikal, and Khuzhir, while quite small, is the largest settlement on the island. During the Soviet period the island was home to a large fish processing plant, but in the post-Soviet period it has become part of a nature preserve. Tourism is the island’s main source of income, and Ol’khon is one of the most popular locations for visitors on Lake Baikal. As the deepest and largest body of fresh water in the world, and a UNESCO world heritage site, Lake Baikal is a considerable tourist destination, but its location, in the middle of Siberia, four time zones east of Moscow, limits the number of tourists. Most are from within Russia, but a small but steady stream of eco-tourists from other areas of the world comes to Ol’khon Island every summer. Within the greater Baikal area, among members of all ethnic groups, Lake Baikal is seen not only as a desirable vacation spot, but also a sacred place, infused with a powerful healing energy.

4 The ritual is organized by two shaman’s organizations, MROSh Tengeri 2 from Ulan- Ude, and another shaman’s organization called Tengeri from the Aginskii Okrug in Chita oblast’. The two organizations are independent, but the directors of each studied with the same teacher in Mongolia, and so they often cooperate. It is explicitly an “invented tradition” in so far as it has only been held since 2002. In 2001, members of the Tengeri Shaman’s Association visited the island, and at this time the spirit master of Lake Baikal entered the body of one of the shamans and demanded 18 years of sacrifices to re-sanctify the island and rebalance the spiritual energies of Lake Baikal. Members of the Tengeri Shaman’s Association speak with reverence of this promise, and speak of this new ceremony as part of an attempt to restore and revive their traditional pre-Buddhist, pre-Soviet culture. Clients and patients, as well as shamans, speak about the powerful energy of Lake Baikal and how much they want to attend the event for months in advance. For them, it is the highlight of the summer ceremonial season.

5 For residents and those who work in the tourist industry of Ol’khon Island it is a potential source of revenue, but to my knowledge no local shaman from the island has ever participated. For the few hundred ethnic Russian and foreign tourists who attended, it was a “cultural event” advertised by their tourist resort and, as one survey respondent answered, “an opportunity to photograph shamans.” A few of those Russians and foreigners, however, call themselves pilgrims instead of tourists, and travel from the European parts of Russia and Western Europe merely to attend this event. These few pilgrims speak of being “drawn to Baikal” and of how this is a “once in a lifetime opportunity.”

6 The overwhelming presence of tourists is part of what leads a number of local Buryats, both on the island and in Ulan-Ude, where Tengeri is based, to dismiss the ritual as a tourist event, about which one friend of mine said “there is absolutely nothing traditional”, and which most Buryats would find ridiculous. For others, including the shamans, the presence of foreigners is a sign of the power and energy of this sacred site, which is able to draw people from around the world. The co-existence of these perceptions renders this ceremony something different than either a tourist ceremony, or conversely, a local ceremony that happens to draw tourists.

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The organizers and the broader context

7 The Local Religious Organization of Shamans Tengeri is an urban organization located in Ulan-Ude, Buryatia, with which I have conducted fieldwork in 2005 and 2012 (Quijada 2008, 2009, 2011). The organization has changed significantly in these years and has become a noticeable fixture in the religious landscape of Ulan-Ude. Officially founded in 2003, Tengeri has become the most active shaman’s organization in the city, and since opening a ceremonial center in the suburb of Novaya Komushka, it is increasingly visible as well. Tengeri is not the first shaman’s organization in the Republic of Buryatia. Böö Mürgel was founded by Nadia Stepanova in 1992 (Humphrey 2002, p. 211), predating Tengeri by at least a decade, and since then several others have appeared. In addition to building a new ritual center in Novaya Komushka, Tengeri has two affiliated offices in Chita and Irkutsk respectively. Along with opening new buildings, the number of initiations being conducted for new and current members every summer has increased exponentially. The organization has also established a calendar of regularly celebrated public rituals open to anyone. Most recently, two former members of Tengeri have left the organization and opened their own offices. All of these shamanic organizations should be considered part of a wider trend towards institutionalizing shamanic practices in Siberia (see for example Lindquist 2005 and Balzer 2005).

8 The Republic of Buryatia is a multi-ethnic and multi-religious republic, where, statistically at least, there tends to be a strong correlation between self-professed ethnic identity/nationality and religious identity. For example, Holland (2014, p. 171) documents that “roughly 83 % of respondents who indicated that Buryat is their nationality in turn responded that they are Buddhists” and 66 % of those identifying themselves as Russian also identified themselves as either Orthodox or generally Christian. However, both Holland’s statistics and my own fieldwork imply that commonplace religious practices can diverge widely from the responses that people give on surveys to questions about religious identity. Individuals who identify strongly with one particular denomination may participate in many different religious rituals, and are often called upon to do so through kinship obligation (see Quijada 2009). Nevertheless, although shamanic practices have increased and gained much greater visibility in the past 10 years, as Holland’s data shows, shamanism does not begin to rival Buddhism’s position in the public sphere. For some urban Buryats, shamanism remains an ethnographic curiosity, while for many more it is what one might call a supplemental religious resource. For example, people who otherwise identify as Buddhists or even atheists, might attend their family’s annual clan ritual (tailgan), or turn to a shaman for treatment in cases of intractable illness or misfortune. This kind of participation, however, does not require anything akin to identification as a member of a religion. For those who become involved with Tengeri, however, shamanism is increasingly the only religious practice they engage in.

9 While their stated mission is the “rebirth of religious shamanic traditions and customs of the Buryat people [and] the preservation and development of the cultural heritage of the republic” (Bolotova 2012, p. 2), much of Tengeri’s day-to-day activities are devoted to promoting an institutional form for these practices. This includes building a center where rituals are held and clients can come for treatment, and establishing a calendar of regularly held rituals that are open to the public. The calendar of rituals is part of a

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broader attempt to establish a defined cosmology, as each calendrical ritual is devoted to a particular deity. The tailgan at Ol’khon Island is one of these regularly scheduled rituals.

10 Tailgan is a general term for a ritual in which a group makes offerings to a deity. In rural settings a tailgan is most often a clan making offerings to their clan ancestors, or a village making offerings to the place spirit of a particular location, but the basic form of the ritual can be adapted to encompass any number of collectivities and deities. Due to this flexibility, it is difficult to write generally of the beings to whom offerings are made. Higher level spirit place masters, or deities such as Bukha Noion, the Bull ancestor figure of the Buryat people more broadly are generally referred to as gods (Burkhan in Buryat or Bog in Russian). Some of the shamans at Tengeri call these gods into their bodies during ceremonies, but they more commonly embody the spirits of their own ancestor shamans, who are called ongon (Buryat sing.).3 In rural clan tailgan, the spirits being addressed are, in my experience, referred to as our ancestors (nashi predki, in Russian). In this article, I will follow the usage of the shamans at Tengeri, and use the term ongon for the other-than-human persons who the shamans at Tengeri call into their bodies when referring to the general practice, and deity in reference only to the specific beings for whom they use that term.

11 In the summer of 2012, Tengeri’s summer ritual season included the following ceremonies : a spring tailgan to open the season, tailgan in honor of Bükhe Baatar, spirit master of the Selenga river and masculine energy (July 1), Lusad Khan, the god of water (July 7), the Darkhan (blacksmith) clan spirits (July 15), Khihaan Ulaan, one of the 99 Tengeri (July 21), Ol’khon Island (August 4) and a fall tailgan to close the season. Survey data on attendees was collected at five of these ceremonies (only the spring and fall tailgan were not included for logistical reasons). In addition to these ceremonies, which are open to the public, initiation ceremonies (called either shanar or shandru depending on whether the shaman is being initiated as a black or white shaman), clan tailgan ceremonies commissioned by clients, and other healing ceremonies are conducted throughout the summer, but these are by invitation only and are not advertised or open to the public. Demographic surveys were only collected at public ceremonies, and when the Ol’khon survey data is compared to ‘smaller ceremonies’ below, it is to these small-scale public tailgan ceremonies that I refer.

12 All the public ceremonies, except Ol’khon, were held in or around Ulan-Ude by members of the Tengeri organization. The dates and locations are listed on a large billboard at the entrance to Tengeri’s ceremonial complex, marked on the organization’s calendar and are occasionally advertised in hand-distributed flyers or radio listings. Most attendees, however, come through word of mouth. The leadership at Tengeri very self-consciously walks a fine line on the question of advertising. Many people I have spoken to in Ulan-Ude are very critical of advertising on the part of any religious organization, but especially shamans (see also Quijada 2009). While few people openly criticism of the organization, more than one person answered my question “so what do you think of Tengeri ?” by obliquely noting that “well, traditionally shamans aren’t supposed to advertise”. Members of the organization, however, justify these notices through explicit comparison to other religious organizations, noting that Buddhist temples and Christian churches post notices of their services, which are open to anyone, so that people know when to come. The

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schedule of regularly scheduled ceremonies open to the public is one of the most noticeable forms of Tengeri’s institutionalization of shamanism.

13 Nevertheless, as noted above, most attendees come through word of mouth, and at the smaller local ceremonies listed above, 63.91 % of the people interviewed reported having attended a Tengeri event before. Often, clients who come to Tengeri for treatment are advised to attend one of these rituals. Occasionally the process is reversed, and prospective clients attend a tailgan in the hope of learning more about the organization and meeting a shaman who can treat them. The attendees predominantly, but not exclusively identify themselves as Buryat. At the smaller, local public tailgan ceremonies 70.41 % of attendees identified themselves as Buryat, 25.44 % identified as Russian, with 1.18 % identifying themselves as both Russian and Buryat, while 2.96 % chose “other”. Although predominantly Buryat, the attendees represent the multi-ethnic composition of Ulan-Ude, and it should be noted, that although only 1.18 % chose to check both “Buryat” and “Russian” boxes on the survey, anecdotal evidence from conversations during the events implies that many people, including several shamans, come from ethnically mixed backgrounds, but choose to identify as Buryat (or occasionally as Russian) exclusively, and at least two practicing shamans are ethnically Russian.

14 Although held at different locations, and in honor of different deities, the general form of public tailgan is similar. The shamans who will be conducting the ceremony each set up an altar table with offerings, and most of the audience sets up their own offerings of milk, cookies, candy or vodka. The ceremony begins with a kamlanie (Russian for shamanic ritual), drumming and chanting by the participating shamans, which calls their ongon, or deity, to the ceremony. The kamlanie is followed by offerings to the ongon, usually including the sacrifice of a sheep. After this, the shamans alternate “calling down their ongon”. Sometimes clients are brought closer by assistants, so that they can ask questions. At ceremonies in 2005 this often resulted in a mad rush surrounding possessed shamans, whereas in 2012 these encounters were arranged beforehand. The trance portion of a ceremony can last several hours, and usually culminates in one shaman calling down the deity for whom the ceremony is being conducted, in order to determine if the offering has been accepted. After all the participating shamans have called down their ongon, blessings are said over the food brought by the audience, and the altars and offerings are dismantled and sometimes burned before the final closing kamlanie. The location, the participating shamans, and the offerings prepared will vary depending on the deity or spirits being honored.

15 The metapragmatic framing at these ceremonies is limited. Sometimes short opening speeches are held to introduce the shamans who will be participating. Sometimes the audience is instructed not to cross certain lines in the ritual space, sometimes the audience is separated by gender, and during blessings the audience is instructed to cover their heads and to face in the four cardinal directions, but these instructions often follow a breach in protocol rather than pre-empt inappropriate behavior. The lack of direction given to the audience is at times a source of anxiety, and several first time attendees have approached me, perhaps assuming that the anthropologist is the expert, to ask what is expected of them. I have also heard more than one audience member complain “well I wouldn’t have done it if anyone had told me !” Participants often copy one another’s behavior, and police each other, so the more often people

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attend Tengeri organized rituals the more comfortable they are and the more likely to casually instruct neighbors in proper behavior.

16 Speech during the ritual is predominantly directed towards, or originating from the ongon.4 Kamlanie is sung to the ongon, blessings are said over food and directed towards the cardinal directions, and the ongon themselves speak through the shaman’s body during trance. Assistants will ask the ongon questions, and the answers are carefully recorded and their meaning is discussed afterwards. There is very little meta- pragmatic speech about what is happening during the ritual. While Buryat ‘tradition’ or ‘culture’ is constantly discussed by Tengeri members in their occasional newsletters (such as Bolotova 2012) and when they talk to me about their practices, it is rarely mentioned during the rituals themselves. Although there are two ethnic Russian shamans who regularly participate in ceremonies, and some of the clientele is Russian, the vast majority of both shamans and attendees are Buryat. Much of the ritual is conducted in the Buryat language. Since these rituals consist predominantly of Buryat people, in a Buryat place, speaking the Buryat language, the presumed “culture” that is being revived through their practices is implicitly Buryat.

17 However, as discussed more extensively elsewhere (Quijada 2008, 2009, 2011), Tengeri’s claim that their rituals are manifestations of “Buryat” culture are not completely uncontested, in the sense that many people in Ulan-Ude and its environs question the “traditionality” of Tengeri’s practices. Tengeri practices a form of transe in which the deity or ancestors fully enters the the shaman’s body, something which is not all shamans in Buryatia do. Some independent local shamans have told me that this form of trance is a Mongolian practice, whereas others note that there was a great deal of regional variation in practices, and most shamans in the areas directly around Ulan- Ude, such as the Kabanskii Raion, did not practice this kind of full trance. Tengeri argues that this was a “traditional” practice, which was forgotten during Soviet times and which they therefore had to travel to Mongolia to revive, and most of their clients accept this explanation.

18 However, few, if any of the shamans at Tengeri come from unbroken lineages of practicing shamans and most are urban, educated Buryats who discovered their callings later in life. Even though they claim the “traditionality” of their practices, they themselves are “non-traditional” in the eyes of many of their potential clients. Instead, the legitimacy and authenticity of their practices is grounded in a biological, genetic argument. They argue that shamanism is a genetic capability prevalent in indigenous populations, like Buryats, and that if this capability is not properly identified and trained, it results in physical or mental illness. Western (and Soviet is Western in this context) cultures have lost the ability to recognize and use this capability, and so those Buryats who carry shamanic genes must revive traditional practices in order to live successful lives. This argument both legitimizes Tengeri’s practices by grounding them in a biological argument, and at the same time opens up the practices to a universal audience. This gene, while more prevalent among indigenous people, they argue, does appear among Europeans. New Age interest in indigenous shamanism is thereby incorporated into local arguments of legitimacy. Therefore, when Bair Zhambalovich trains and initiates Russian or German shamans, he explains that their capability and the ancestors they embody are Russian or German respectively, and the method he teaches them for accessing these capabilities is Buryat (po-buriatski). Within this argument the content (the ancestor spirits) can be separated from the form (the ritual

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techniques). The form is marked as “Buryat” but the content is conceived of as a universal human capability.

19 Interestingly, Tengeri’s arguments about “Buryat identity” can be seen as a manifestation of a broader global shift in identity politics, which the Comaroffs call “Ethnicity Inc.” Under conditions of global neo-liberal capitalism, “cultural identity, in the here-and-now, represents itself ever more as two things at once : the object of choice and self-construction, typically through the act of consumption, and the manifest product of biology, genetics, human essence” (Comaroff & Comaroff 2009, p. 1).

20 While I heard no mention of genetics during the ceremony on Ol’khon Island, this argument, which is often made by the organization’s Director, Bair Zhambalovich Tsyrendorzhiev, and widely accepted among the group’s members, is a necessary context for understanding how culture is invoked in the Ol’khon island ritual. On Ol’khon, where some of the shamans and most of the audience are not exclusively or even predominantly Buryat, “culture” becomes a more slippery concept.

The Annual International Shamanic Conference and Tailgan

21 The ceremony at Ol’khon Island differed from the locally conducted, smaller public ceremonies in several ways. Traveling to Ol’khon Island from Ulan-Ude can take anywhere from 15 to 24 hours depending on how long you wait for the ferry. The cost and inconvenience of a multi-day trip prohibited some of the shamans and many of their clients who wanted to attend from doing so. In addition, in its guise as an “international conference,” the Ol’khon event included shamans who are not affiliated with Tengeri. Along with the shaman’s organization from the former Aginskii Buryat Autonomous Okrug, which has been collaborating with Tengeri to organize this ritual since it was first held, shamans from other areas of Russia and other countries are invited. In previous years, shamans from Inner Mongolia and California have participated. In 2012 there was a Mongolian shaman, an ethnic Russian shaman from , and a shaman from Germany who had been initiated through Tengeri, but who lived and worked in Germany.

22 As noted above, when I attended the third ceremony in 2005, the organizers explained that they began doing these tailgan because the Spirit Master of Ol’khon, Hotun Khan5, had entered one of the shamans while he was in trance, and had demanded 18 years of sacrifices to restore Ol’khon Island to its full spiritual status as an axis mundi, a point of connection between the spirit and human worlds. The shamans who were present promised Hotun Khan that they would sacrifice a sheep every year for 18 years, and have done so ever since. However, given the special nature of the location, they also envisioned this as a global “shamanic conference” where shamans from all around the world could come to exchange techniques and experience the sacred energy of Lake Baikal. Accounts of the first few tailgan and the one I attended in 2005 match this description. In 2005, the visiting Buryat shamans from Inner Mongolia stayed near the Tengeri members, and conducted their own ritual the day before, as part of the exchange experience. This kind of intimate cooperation and exchange was logistically

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much more complicated in 2012, because the scale of the event had increased dramatically.

23 In 2005 the audience was around 50 people, most of them friends and relatives of Tengeri members. There were a handful of tourists and a Korean television crew. In 2012, in contrast, we collected 310 surveys, and the total number of attendees was probably close to 400. In 2012, attendees at the smaller ceremonies around Ulan-Ude in 2012 ranged from 30 at the smallest to 60 people at the largest event, so Ol’khon is significantly larger. Most of the difference in attendance is due to tourists, and Tengeri has made explicit attempts to increase tourist attendance. In 2005, the night before the main ceremony we visited several resorts in order to invite tourists. Since then the organization has clearly cooperated with various authorities and tour groups to promote it, and in 2012 there was a billboard advertising the event at the ferry dock on the way to Ol’khon.

Picture 1. Tourists photographing preparations (Olkhon Island, August 2012)

Roberto Quijada

24 As a rule, members of religious organizations in Russia are reluctant to speak about money. People belonging to one organization often tell rumors that other organizations receive money from the government or from private donors, but no one you speak to ever confirms that they receive any such donations, so my comments about income are speculative at best. Managers of campgrounds and resorts on the island, as well as the local administrators, consider the event to be one of many activities that tourists can participate in, such as taking a boat ride around the island or a trip to see nerpa (Russ.), the freshwater seal indigenous to Lake Baikal. It is less clear why tourist attendance would benefit the shaman’s association financially. There is no fee to attend, and general donations are not solicited. In 2012 there was a booth set up where attendees could buy supplies for the ritual (milk, candy and cookies to be blessed) as well as buy key chains that had been blessed by shaman who was channeling a powerful deity, and some of the profits may have offset travel costs for the organizing

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shamans, but it is not a large source of income. Some of the clients who come to the ritual will ask for special prayers to be said during kamlanie, or to ask questions when a shaman calls down an ongon and these clients will leave monetary donations or gifts (primarily tea, cigarettes and vodka) on the shaman’s altar. Rituals are good places for shamans to connect with new clients. Some shamans may hold smaller healing sessions immediately afterwards. As such, participating in any ceremony can be financially very lucrative for a shaman. However, shamanism, as practiced by Tengeri, is a donation- for-service system. Tourists who come to the ritual purely as tourists, not as neo- shamanic New Age pilgrims, or as prospective clients, are unlikely to know enough about the practices to spend any money on them, and as such are probably not a primary source of income. The value of their presence must be measured in a different coin.

“Culture” at Ol’khon Island

25 The tenth Annual International Shamanic Conference and Tailgan on Ol’khon Island, in 2012, as noted above, opened with speeches and kamlanie at an overlook outside the village of Khuzhir, from which Shaman’s Rock is clearly visible. Kamlanie are the chants/prayers performed by each shaman to open the ceremony, calling the deities and ongon down to this plane of existence. The opening speeches were clearly directed towards the human audience, and they clearly articulated a tension between the local and the global. Bair Zhambalovich Tsyrendorzhiev, Tengeri’s Director, opened the ceremony by placing the location, Ol’khon Island, in relationship to both global spirituality and Buryat tradition : Lake Baikal is a place that all the world considers to be a sacred place, a place like a temple [Russ. khram]. Ol’khon Island is a place to which people from all over the world come to pray, a place where great gods descend to earth, where the earth is united with the gods of the sky, here people come to ask for happiness and well- being […] there is a Buryat tradition, namely, a tradition that tells of the thirteen sons of Tengeri who gathered around Lake Baikal, who came to a gathering at the blessed island of Ol’khon […] to ask how to help people...6

26 He went on to praise the local administration of Khuzhir, for having erected the tethering posts, “striving to make this place sacred and beautiful” [sviatym, krasivym] by which this location “acquired the look of an ethnographic, cultural, religious place” “[priobrela vid etnograficheskogo, kul’turnogo, religioznogo mesta]. Placed in conjunction with the previous portion of his speech, where he cites “Buryat tradition” the implication that the place being rendered ‘ethnographic, cultural and religious’ is a Buryat place, but this is not explicit. Bair Zhambalovich’s speech was followed by a representative of the administration of Khuzhir, who welcomed the audience as “our guests” [dorogie nashi gosti], evoking a host/guest relationship between the local administrator and the tourists. The administrator thanked a local tour company for funding the construction of the tethering posts, and “participating in the cultural life of the island,” “culture” this time being geographically, but not ethnically marked.

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Picture 2. The opening kamlanie at the 10th Annual International Shamanic Conference and Tailgan (Olkhon Island, August 2012)

The row of tethering posts are what made this an “ethnographic, cultural and religious” location Roberto Quijada

27 After the administrator, the director of Tengeri’s Irkutsk affiliate offered a brief blessing for the participants in Russian. Her speech was followed by another brief speech by the director of the shaman’s organization from Aga. The shaman from Aga welcomed and blessed the participants in the Buryat language, which most of the audience would not have understood. While I was not able to ask her about why she spoke in Buryat, in the context of the ceremony it clearly served to mark the local nature of the event, reminding the tourists in the audience of their outsider status. This expression of the importance of the local was followed by the affirmation of the value of the global by two speakers who mentioned my presence and that of the shaman from Germany. I had been asked to speak the night before, but was given no instructions as to what to say. My presence as “our scientific partner from America”, as I was introduced, confirmed the value of the local to the global, irrespective of what I said. The next speaker, the participating shaman from Germany, offered similar confirmation, as she praised the way in which “shamanism was being kept alive here”.

28 The emphasis on the importance of this locality to the global, and the translation of a Buryat sacred site as a “temple” [khram] is not unique to Tengeri. Bernstein (2008) argues that this language is pervasive not only in local publications by shamans, but also in Ol’khon tourist brochures. Her 2006 film, In Pursuit of the Siberian Shaman, shows Russian campers spreading laundry on sacred sites, and documents how the local Ol’khon shaman Valentin Khagdaev describes shaman rock to tourists as a temple, comparable to Christian sacred sites in Canaan, Bethlehem and Jerusalem (ibid. 2008, p. 34). Bernstein argues that this act of translation should be understood as “staking out political ground for potential land right disputes” (ibid. 2008, p. 42). Instead of figuring in a land rights dispute, the site has now been marked as a sacred site for the consumption of tourists. Unmarked sacred sites can be accidentally desecrated by

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uncomprehending tourists, but when the same sites are marked, they “acquire the look of an ethnographic, cultural and religious site.”

29 A battered sign at the location reads : Cape Burkhan is a sacred and untouchable monument of nature, history and culture. Its phenomenon lies in deep respect for a religious sanctuary, for spirits and gods related to the master of Ol’khon. This universal place of prayer is a unique natural object, meriting the special protection of a nature preserve. Entry to the territory of the monument is strictly prohibited.7

30 Here again, “culture” is evoked without any qualifiers. Due to centuries of Russian expansion and imperial exile, the entire Baikal area has a long history of multi-ethnic co-existence, but rather than reference this, culture and history are both left unmarked. It must also be noted, that Ol’khon Island is part of a nature preserve in Irkutsk Oblast’, which, unlike the Republic of Buryatia, is not a national territory. Therefore, political concerns about whose traditions are eligible for state-funded preservation may pose constraints on how monuments are described. Lake Baikal itself is recognized as a Natural World Heritage Site by UNESCO, so perhaps the language of universal heritage has spread into cultural monuments around the lake as well. All these uses seem to play on the ambiguity of the term ‘culture’ which refers to specific cultures in the ethnographic sense, and what is sometimes termed “high culture”, such as art and music, which has a more universal value.

Picture 3. A shaman helps a client communicate with an ongon, an ancestor spirit possessing a shaman, during the tailgan (Olkhon Island, August 2012)

Roberto Quijada

31 In the metapragmatic framing around the ceremony, speeches at the beginning and signs at the location, “culture” is evoked as an unmarked category, so it may be presumed that the ritual is the “culture” on display. And in many ways the ritual can be read as such. After the opening speeches, everyone moved to a different location, where the ritual ground is marked off by . The audience stands outside the rope, watching the shamans perform inside the ritual space, and the ritual follows the same

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pattern as the smaller tailgan conducted in and around Ulan-Ude for a predominantly Buryat audience, described above. Kamlanie in Buryat open and close the ceremony, sacrifices, including a sheep slaughtered during the ritual are offered to the spirit master of Ol’khon, and the participating shamans call down ongon and deities who speak Buryat to those who come to ask them questions. The shamans call down the ongon concurrently and repeatedly, and this portion of the ritual lasts several hours. At the end, the sacrifices and the trees that are set up at the location are burned. None of these elements are glossed or explained during the ritual. The colorful Buryat national costumes that the shamans wear mark a Buryat identity, but would not necessarily be identifiable as such to tourists. Nor is it clear that tourists would know the difference between the Mongolian, the Tuvan and the Buryat shamans, which to locals is evident in both their costumes and their style of chanting and trance.

Picture 4. The six directions blessing at the 10th Annual International Shamanic Conference and Tailgan (Olkhon Island, August 2012)

The ribbon that marks off the ritual space can be seen behind the shamans Roberto Quijada

32 Bernstein (2006, 2008) describes ceremonies conducted explicitly for tourists by local Ol’khon shaman Valentin Khagdaev, arguing that both tourist and shaman are aware that the ceremony is not a “real performance” or a “real ritual” but rather a presentation about Buryat shamanism that incorporates a few elements of ritual (Bernstein 2008, p. 40). Khagdaev emphatically insists that “for the tourists it’s a hobby. An amusement. I should not do such rituals and I won’t” (Bernstein 2008, p. 40). Instead, he aims to educate tourists about Buryat culture by translating local beliefs and practices into a form that is comprehensible to foreign tourists. He explains the small ritual elements that he includes by paralleling them to western forms, for example Shaman Rock is compared to a church, Lake Baikal to Jerusalem. This

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metapragmatic glossing labels the rituals and places as specifically Buryat, but the presence of the metapragmatic frame marks the experience as “inauthentic”.

33 From this perspective, Tengeri’s ritual at Ol’khon island can be seen as a more effective tourist performance, because it does not provide any interpretive framework — the ritual is not explained, and can therefore be perceived by tourists or pilgrims as “more authentic” in its incomprehensibility. Unfortunately, our survey data did not include questions about the reception of the ritual, and so further research will have to be done to explore this question. However, the fact that local tour companies and hotels routinely promote the event implies that they believe tourists enjoy it.

34 However, tourists are not the only audience for the ritual. Buryats as well as Russians and foreigners come to Ol’khon specifically for this ritual. How the presence of tourists and non-local pilgrims at the event is interpreted by local Buryats also needs further investigation. However, interviews and previous experiences lead me to believe that for those who are otherwise skeptical about Tengeri and its activities, the presence of non- locals is seen as a sign of inauthenticity. For those who are members or clients of the organization, the presence of non-locals, like the speeches given at the event, offer proof that the ‘global’ appreciates this particular formation of the ‘local’. Further clues may be found in the demographic data collected at the ritual.

Attendance demographics and questions of motive

35 As noted above, survey data was collected at five public tailgan ceremonies held by Tengeri in the summer of 2012. The survey was designed to evaluate Tengeri’s claims that their organization contributes to the revival of Buryat culture more generally. The surveys conducted as part of this research included basic demographic information, such as age, gender, marital status and self-reported ethnicity, as well as questions regarding the respondent’s relationship to Tengeri and shamanic practices more broadly. All surveys were conducted in Russian. Surveys were given to each adult at the ceremony and although no data was collected regarding rates of completion, they were close to perfect. A more extensive discussion of the results of statistical analysis for this data set is available in Stephen (2014) and in Quijada et al. (2015).

36 The location of different ceremonies was recorded so that attendees at different places could be compared. In addition to basic demographics, respondents were asked a series of yes/no questions regarding their current or previous association with behaviors associated with Buryat identity. The intent of this group of questions, however was not to reify the idea of what is to be appropriately defined as “traditional” in this cultural context ; instead, the summation of these variables was only meant to ascertain one’s relationship to behavior patterns that are commonly seen to be markers of “tradition” among Buryats living in Buryatia — language use and ritual behavior, in so far as it relates to shamanism.8

37 Within this cluster, two questions were asked regarding Buryat language use, specifically whether or not the respondent spoke Buryat as a child and whether or not the respondent speaks Buryat currently. Next, five questions were asked regarding the respondent’s relationship to shamanic practice. The response to the question “did your family engage in shamanic practices when you were growing up ?” was used to index childhood shamanic practice. Similarly, the response to the question “do you attend

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clan tailgan for your family ?” was used to index family shamanic practice. Those who reported that they were married were additionally asked whether they attended their spouse’s clan tailgan.

38 Finally, two questions were used to address contemporary shamanic practice. Participants were asked whether or not they had attended other Tengeri ceremonies before as well as whether or not they had attended other ceremonies by another shaman or shamanic organization. Together, these two variables shed light onto whether the participant had a prior connection with Tengeri or whether attendance at one of Tengeri’s ceremonies proves a novel experience. The remaining questions were open ended, asking how participants had learned about the ceremony and why they had come.

39 We collected over 300 surveys at Ol’khon Island, nearly twice as many as at all the other ceremonies combined. The vast difference in attendees was due to the presence of tourists. Unfortunately, the survey was designed for the smaller ceremonies and did not have a question identifying attendees as “tourists”, specifically. Although it is not valid to assume that tourist status is based solely on ethnic identification, the demographic questions do offer a sense of comparison between the above-mentioned smaller local tailgan ceremonies conducted by Tengeri in Ulan-Ude and the large ceremony at Ol’khon Island. At Ol’khon Island 65.48 % of those surveyed identified as Russian (compared to 25.44 % at the smaller ceremonies), only 21.94 % as Buryat (compared to 70 % Buryat at the smaller ceremonies), and 11.61 % identified as “other”, a group which included people from China, Belgium, Germany, France and other locations.

40 As noted, the surveys also included open-ended questions asking why people had come to the ceremony. Following Miles and Huberman (1994), this qualitative information was coded into quantitative variables through the generation of a provisional “start list” used by the authors to code the data separately : whether the individual attended the ceremony for spiritual/religious reasons (Spirituality) ; for reasons specific to the context of the ceremony (Ceremony Specific) ; for reasons relating to kinship (Kinship) ; and out of a general interest (Curiosity).9 These categories were not mutually exclusive.

41 When combined with other demographic variables, the survey data allows us to categorize the attendees into four groups : 1. Russians and “other” who came out of curiosity, who, for shorthand, will be called ‘tourists’ ; 2. Buryats who came out of curiosity ; 3. People who came for spiritual reasons with pre-existing relationships to Tengeri (predominantly but not exclusively Buryat) ; and 4. People who came for spiritual reasons with no previous relationship to Tengeri. This last group is predominantly Russian, and I will tentatively call them New Age pilgrims.

42 Overall, 70 % of attendees at Ol’khon Island answered “curiosity” whereas only 8.28 % of the attendees at the smaller tailgan rituals held by Tengeri in Ulan-Ude listed curiosity as a reason for attending. Of those who identified as Russian the number was even higher, 80.68 % of Russians listed curiosity, but nearly 30 % (29.58 %) of Buryats attending the Ol’khon Island event also listed curiosity as their motivation. While one cannot equate “curiosity” with tourism, the two are related categories.

43 Curiosity, of course, is a very general term, and it is difficult to use survey data to draw conclusions about different types of curiosity. The vast majority of responses expressing “curiosity” consisted of extremely brief comments, such as “interesting” or

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“worth watching”. Only a small fraction elaborated on what exactly they were curious about, but among those, 26 responses use the word “culture” (kul’tura) while only 11 indicated they were curious about shamanism, and only four used the term “religion”. And of the 26 that mentioned “culture”, only three specified “Buryat culture” or “Buryat customs” while the rest used phrases such as “to learn about another culture” or “to learn about the local culture,” and one foreign tourist answered that they wanted to learn about Russian culture. Many of the ethnic Russians and other foreigners (Chinese, Belgian and French for example) specifically noted that they were part of a Baikal tour, that they learned about the ceremony from their campground or resort, or used the phrase “excursion” thereby confirming the decision to treat this group as tourists.

44 Likewise, we must be careful not to give too much weight to one answer alone. While nearly 30 % of Buryats at Ol’khon answered that they attended out of curiosity, a close look at their other answers indicates that their “curiosity” is of a very different kind than that of Russian tourists. In questions about previous experience with shamans, the majority of the Buryats who came out of curiosity answered that they had visited shamans as children, had attended clan tailgan and had been to other shamanic ceremonies, but not those of Tengeri. As a result, it is safe to conclude that many of them are already involved in shamanic practices and were curious about how this organization conducted rituals, rather than curious about shamanism or Buryat culture in general. As such, this group should be considered a separate audience, to which a small subset of Buryat respondees (approx. 15 individuals), who listed spiritual reasons for attending the ceremony but who had no previous experience with Tengeri should be added.

45 Likewise, the group that responded to the question about attendance for spiritual reasons should be subdivided as well. The most common answer that was coded as spiritual was “to pray” (pomolit’sya) but responses listing requests “to ask for health” or “for well-being” (za blagopoluchie) as well as more esoteric answers such as “for cognitive goals” (v poznavatel’nykh tselyakh) or “to purify oneself” (ochistit’sya) were also coded as spiritual reasons. The numbers within these groups are too small to yield statistical significance, but taken individually they paint an interesting picture of who travels to Ol’khon for the ceremony. Of 80 people who listed spiritual reasons for attending the ceremony at Ol’khon, more than half (48) had no previous ties to the Tengeri association. The other 32 reported previous attendance at Tengeri ceremonies. Both these groups had nearly twice as many women as men.

46 Overall, this group, those with previous experience with Tengeri, is predominantly, although not exclusively Buryat (27 out of 32 respondents), and otherwise similar statistically to those who attend smaller public tailgan ceremonies by Tengeri in Ulan- Ude. They are also probably slightly underrepresented in the overall sample at Ol’khon, since many of the people who participate in Tengeri ceremonies in Ulan-Ude helped during this ceremony. In addition, they may have already completed surveys at other ceremonies, and therefore avoided the survey takers at Ol’khon.

47 In addition to “spiritual reasons,” reasons for attending were also coded for kinship and ceremony-specific (in this instance, answers that referred either to the spirit master of Ol’khon or the energy of Lake Baikal). Given the nature of the Ol’khon ceremony, it is not surprising that there were fewer people who gave a ceremony- specific reason for attending at Ol’khon than there were for smaller ceremonies overall.

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However, it is noteworthy that this significance still held, even after those who reported “curiosity” were excluded from the sample. In fact, attendance for a ceremony-specific reason was low overall (15.5 % of the total sample), and only 26.5 % of those who reported a spiritual reason for attendance included a specific reason related to the ceremony. So, for example, people were three times as likely to answer that they came “to pray” than they were to pray for something or to someone that was specific to the ceremony. This result seems to indicate that, at both Ol’khon and the smaller ceremonies, the majority of those who are engaging with Tengeri on a religious level are frequently not coming to Tengeri’s tailgan for the specific deities or clan groups being honored. Attendance for kinship or spiritual reasons also did not significantly differ between Ol’khon and the smaller ceremonies.

48 However, the kinship code was constructed conservatively to include only those responses where one’s relationship to family was explicitly noted, such as “to pray for the health of my child”, “my husband is participating”, or “to pray to my ancestors”. Theoretically, many who come to a tailgan ‘to pray’ will pray to their ancestors, which can be seen as an unspoken kinship obligation. Therefore, it is important to note that attendance for reasons of kinship only, as defined here, occurs in equal probability at both Ol’khon and the smaller ceremonies. In contrast, the spiritual motivation variable was coded more expansively, encompassing any indication of prayer, meditative reflection or worship. This variable (spiritual motivation) was non-significant at the multivariate level, which indicates that there were similar subsets of clients at all ceremonies, including Ol’khon, who attended for religious reasons. The overall conclusion is that those people who come to Ol’khon because they already participate in Tengeri ceremonies are statistically very similar to those who participate in them at the small ceremonies in Ulan-Ude.

49 Interviews and conversations, as well as the low survey responses for ‘ceremony- specific’, indicate that most of the members of Tengeri who go to Ol’khon Island go in part because the location is special and because the long trip, when they can afford it, is akin to a vacation. Although the promise made to Hotun Khan is important to the organization’s founders, for most of the initiate shamans and the clients, the opportunity to see Ol’khon Island, and the chance to visit with shamans who live far away, is more of a draw than the specific desire to make offerings to Hotun Khan. There is good reason for this, in that aside from Hotun Khan, the ongon and deities invoked during the ceremony are predominantly the same as those called down at other rituals. In conversations the presence of New Age pilgrims is often explicitly mentioned, and the fact that people do travel from far away to attend the event validates both the location and the event as special.

50 The final group consists of those who I am calling New Age pilgrims, those who give spiritual reasons for attending, but who have no previous ties to Tengeri. It should be noted that this label is a limited interpretation of the demographic data, and we did not ask specifically where people came from. However, when combined with interview data from the event, it is possible to identify this particular subset. 48 of the survey respondees who gave spiritual reasons for attending had no previous experience with Tengeri, and among these were 31 Russians, and a handful of people from other places, identifying as Yakut, Kazakh, and Italian. Several of those who spoke no Russian, including a woman from Italy, had found the event listed on the Internet and decided to attend. One Russian answered that he had traveled to the island with “his own

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shaman” (presumably the one from Tuva) and several answered the survey, saying that they had been told to come by shamans in other cities throughout Russia. If people hear about these events through shamans and New Age organizations in other places, then these places will frame the meaning that people attribute to this experience. The way in which the ritual is framed, as “unmarked culture” or as a Buryat ritual form that has universal value, is most likely to resonate with members of this group, who come to the ceremony with their own presuppositions.

51 One of these people, with whom I spoke at length during the ritual, offered a story that was similar to the genetic argument made by Bair Zhambalovich. She spoke of having a pervasive feeling of not fitting in, of knowing things that she could not explain, and had worked in health care for a long time. Through reading New Age books and exploring the Internet she had come to suspect that she might have shamanic abilities, and she felt driven to learn more. When she saw a listing of this ritual (and she showed me the paper printout, which listed merely the date and location) she felt compelled to come, and the experience, she said, was quite worth the trip, although she struggled to find the words to express why. She is the only person to express such a view, and so this interpretation must be verified through further research, but when seen from this perspective, the unusual framing (or lack thereof) of the ceremony is uniquely compelling. Unlike a tourist performance, which clearly explains what is going on, and labels it as specifically “Buryat” (for example), this ceremony is unmarked, unexplained, and in many ways incomprehensible to New Age pilgrims, thereby enabling them to participate on their own terms. There is enough of the “local” for the ceremony to retain an authentic aura, but because it is a “local” form of something that is “globally” or “universally” valuable, they can find their own (potentially universal) meaning in this local form even though they are not local. Although such New Age pilgrims are only a small subset of those who attend the International Shamanic Conference and Tailgan, they represent a growing demographic trend and are the most likely to form long-term networks between shamans in Ulan-Ude and organizations and practitioners elsewhere.

Conclusions

52 Read together, these demographic variables seem to suggest that the Ol’khon Island event has a much more bifurcated clientele than the smaller rituals. At Ol’khon, one will find a significantly larger number of individuals who have never been to Tengeri before as well as individuals approaching these ceremonies out of curiosity. However, the Ol’khon Island sample is also comprised of clients who are coming for spiritual or kinship reasons at relatively equal levels as the smaller ceremonies, when controlling for other factors. Thus, Ol’khon is a meaningful religious ceremony for some and an intriguing curio for others. But this division does not map neatly onto ethnic or geographic identities. Buryats are more likely than not to view the ceremony as religious and Russians are more likely to attend it out of curiosity, but interviews at the site indicate that those few Russians and foreigners who are coming for spiritual reasons are intensely motivated to do so. All in all, survey demographics allow us to distinguish four distinct audiences : Tengeri members and clients, local residents (predominantly but not exclusively Buryat) who are curious, tourists, and New Age

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pilgrims. The differences between these groups suggest that they have different interpretations of the ritual.

53 On the other hand, the allure of Ol’khon Island itself is the one, shared variable. Tourists, most obviously, came to see Ol’khon and Lake Baikal rather than the ceremony itself, and this ritual is only one of many “local” activities they will experience. For Buryats, both those affiliated with Tengeri, and those who are not, as well as for New Age pilgrims, the lake is also a significant draw, and the sacred nature of the location is part of what enables an otherwise very specific ritual to be appealing to multiple groups.

54 Demographic inquiries can only take us so far, but the numbers do indicate that there are multiple audiences, who, given widely divergent reasons for attending, are most likely getting very different things out of the ceremony. The ceremony itself reflects this division, with a metapragmatic framing during the opening speeches as “globally valuable local culture”. By leaving “local” and “culture” undefined and unmarked, local Buryats and other Tengeri members can experience it as part of their broader attempt to revive Buryat shamanic practices, while at the same time, enabling New Age pilgrims to find a universal appeal in a local Buryat form. The ritual balances a fine line between tourist event and ritual, so that by not defining what is going on, the organizers are able to appeal to multiple audiences.

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NOTES

1. Fieldwork and survey data for this article was collected during a collaborative research grant generously funded by the National Council for Eurasian and East European Research (NCEEER), for which the primary author was the principal investigator. Statistical analysis of the survey data was conducted by Eric Stephen, and funded by a Wesleyan University Faculty-Student Internship. Results of this research are also presented in Quijada et al. (2015). All conclusions and any mistakes are the responsibility of the primary author. 2. MROSh stands for Mestnoe Religioznoe Organizatsiya Shamanov Tengeri [Local Religious Organization of Shamans Tengeri] which is the organization’s legal registered name. 3. The shamans at MROSH Tengeri call the spirits of deities and ancestors into their bodies, and these beings then interact with the living during ceremonies. They do not practice the “soul travel” which is sometimes considered characteristic of Siberian shamanism. One could call the practice “trance possession,” this term is not generally used for Siberian shamanism, and implies that the presence of the beings is an affliction, which is not the case here. The shamans at Tengeri generally use the Russian phrases “to go into trance” (vxodit’ v transe – Russian) and “to call down the ancestors” (vyzyvat’ ongon – Russian/Buryat). As noted below, whether the practice of embodying ancestors is “traditional” in Buryatia is contested locally. The rest of this article will use the term “to call down the ongon” to refer to their practices. 4. I draw here on Keane’s discussion of speech roles in religious language (1997).

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5. The names of spirit place masters are not standardized. The master of Lake Baikal is also referred to as Khotun Khan, or Khotun Noion (Noion is an term like ‘Lord’). The spelling difference is because in Russian the name is transliterated as Khotun, but in 2012 Tengeri members insisted on the Buryat spelling of the name, and Buryat, unlike Russian, has a letter “h” [Note of the editorial board : the Buryat letter “h” corresponds to the sound “s” in Mongolian, but what is written Hotun in Buryat today is actually Qotun in the and Khoton in Cyrillic]. 6. It must be noted that the transcriptions of the opening speeches are fragmented. The opening was recorded outdoors, in a crowd, and there was a considerable amount of wind and light rain, so portions of the recordings are inaudible. […] marks the sections where the recording is inaudible. Transcription and translation are by the author. 7. Мыс Вурхан является священным и неприкасаемым памятником природы истории и культуры. Его феномен заключается в глубоком почитании культового святилища, духов и божеств, связанным с образом владыки Ольхона (…) это всеобщее молитвенное место является уникальным природным объектом заслуживающим особой охраны с заповедным режимом. Входить на территорию памятника строго запрещается. 8. As noted in the beginning, the vast majority of Buryats self-identify as Buddhist, and would associate attendance at Buddhist rituals to be a marker of Buryat identity. As these surveys were conducted at shamanic rituals, the questions focused on previous and current participation in shamanism. 9. For example, “to pray”, “to worship my ancestors” or “for enlightenment purposes” would have been coded as spirituality ; “to pray on behalf of my brother’s health” would have been coded as both “spirituality” and “kinship” ; whereas “my brother is a shaman and I gave him a ride” was only coded as “kinship”. Responses that specifically noted “honoring the deity”, or the purposes for which one might honor this deity, were coded as “ceremony specific”. Responses such as “out of interest”, “curiosity”, “to see the ritual”, as well as statements such as “part of my tour”, would have been coded as “curiosity”. Initially, the authors coded the list separately. After coding, we reviewed the 6.4 % of answers where our codes diverged and chose which codes to apply in each case. The high level of intercoder reliability (93.5 %), which measures the level of agreement between the two coders, indicates that the categories applied were fairly self-evident.

ABSTRACTS

This article explores the presentation and performance of “culture” at the Annual International Shamanic Conference and Tailgan on Olkhon Island, Lake Baikal and poses the methodological question of how survey data about the participants can help us to understand the ceremony. Demographic survey data indicates that there are multiple audiences, who, given widely divergent reasons for attending, are most likely getting very different things out of the ceremony. The ceremony itself reflects this division, with a metapragmatic framing during the opening speeches as “globally valuable local culture”. By leaving “local” and “culture” undefined and unmarked, local Buryats and other Tengeri members can experience it as part of their broader attempt to revive Buryat shamanic practices, while at the same time, enabling New Age pilgrims to find a universal appeal in a local Buryat form.

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Cet article examine la session annuelle de la Conférence Chamanique Internationale et du Tailgan sur l’île d’Ol’hon, dans le lac Baïkal, sous l’angle de la prestation “culturelle” qu’elle présentait. Il en découle une question de méthode : les données relatives aux participants aident-elles à comprendre la cérémonie ? L’enquête démographique montre la grande diversité du public ; du fait de la variété des raisons d’assister et des attentes, les impressions retirées de cette session sont très différentes. La cérémonie elle-même reflète cette diversité, que les discours d’ouverture ont pragmatiquement tenté d’encadrer en parlant de “culture locale à valeur globale”. Du fait que “local” et “culture” restent non définis, les Bouriates locaux et les membres de l’association Tengeri peuvent percevoir cette “culture locale” comme une contribution à la revitalisation des pratiques chamaniques bouriates, tout en permettant aux pèlerins New Age de trouver quelque chose d’universel sous une forme bouriate locale.

INDEX

Mots-clés: Bouriatie, chamanisme, rituel, Olhon, Baïkal, le néo-chamanisme, démographie Keywords: Buryatia, Shamanism, Ritual, Olkhon, Baikal, neo-shamanism, demographics

AUTHORS

JUSTINE BUCK QUIJADA Justine Buck Quijada is Assistant Professor in the Religion Department at Wesleyan University in Connecticut. Her research is on post-Soviet religious revival in Buryatia, shamanism and ritual. She is the author of “Soviet Science and Post-Soviet Faith : Etigelov’s Imperishable Body (American Ethnologist, 2012) and co-editor of Atheist Secularism and Its Discontents : A Comparative Study of Religion and Communism in Eurasia (Palgrave Macmillan, 2015). She is working on a book manuscript called Opening the Roads : History through Ritual in Post-Soviet Buryatia.

ERIC STEPHEN Eric Stephen graduated with a BA in Religious studies and an MA in Psychology from Wesleyan University and is currently a graduate student at Harvard Divinity School. His research interests are in the quantitative research, religion and social justice.

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Tibetica miscellanea

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On the Tibetan Ge-sar epic in the late 18th century : Sum-pa mkhan- po’s letters to the 6th Paṇ-chen Lama L’épopée tibétaine de Gesar à la fin du XVIIIe siècle : les lettres de Sum-pa mkhan-po au 6e Paṇ-chen Lama

Solomon George FitzHerbert

Introduction

1 Any contemporary visitor to the eastern Tibetan regions of and A-mdo (which include the eastern parts of the Tibetan Autonomous Region as well as the historically and culturally Tibetan regions of Qinghai, Gansu, Sichuan and Yunnan Provinces) will be struck by the contemporary visibility of ‘Ge-sar Culture’. They will see shops, restaurants, hotels and bars carrying the name of this epic hero ; they will hear music and video-CD shops blaring out modern renditions of Ge-saric songs and theatrical performances ; they will see statues of Ge-sar mounted on his horse at the centre of modern town squares ; in the summer months they may also encounter local state- funded ‘Ge-sar festivals’, with Ge-sar-themed pageantry, horse-races and dances. And should such a visitor enter any of the Tibetan-language bookshops in these regions, they will see whole shelves given over to new books (in Tibetan) of Ge-sar tales (ge-sar rgyal-po’i sgrung), and volumes of scholarly anthologies and monographs in Tibetan on various aspects of the epic cycle. Looking a bit closer, they would find that many of these new volumes of Ge-sar epic tales on display are the edited transcriptions of the oral recitations by recent or contemporary Ge-sar bards (such as Grags-pa, bSam-grub, Tse-ring dbang-‘dus and others) whose repertoires have been recorded at the state- funded Ge-sar research institutes dotted around the ethnically Tibetan, Mongolian and Monguor (Ch. tu-zu) regions of China. And they would find that these books are mostly

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published by state-funded provincial-level Nationalities Publishing Houses (mi-rigs dpe- skrun-khang).

2 This prominence of ‘Ge-sar Culture’ in the eastern Tibetan regions requires some critical examination. At one level, it simply indicates the important place the Ge-sar epic occupies in Eastern Tibet popular culture — the Ge-sar epic as a well-loved folkloric locus for the expression of Tibetan popular pieties, heroic legends, highland aesthetics, aspirations and identity. However popularity alone cannot account for this public prominence,1 any explanation of which must also take into account the lavish state patronage that the Ge-sar epic has enjoyed and continues to enjoy in the PRC. It is on the back of this official state support, that ‘Ge-sar Culture’ has in recent decades become something like an officially-sanctioned umbrella beneath which Tibetans are finding ways to pursue cultural and religious renaissance and identity assertion, in ways which may only have incidental or tangential relevance to the sprawling epic tradition itself (Buffetrille 2009). Understanding this state patronage requires some historical context.

3 In the first place, this historical context consists in the Leninist roots of the Chinese Communist Party’s policies on Nationalities. The Chinese Communist Party’s adoption of the Ge-sar epic as an object of patronage began as early as the late 1950s. At this time the new Socialist China was still conducting its Soviet-led and inspired ethnographic mapping of its territories, and was still evolving its minority-region developmental strategies under the wing of thousands of Soviet ‘advisers’. It was in this context that the Ge-sar epic found favour within the CCP’s adopted Leninist discourse on both “nationality” and “class”, in a way that was entirely analogous to the parallel phenomena in the Soviet Union.2 It had “national” value in that it gave expression to minority (Ch. shao-su min-zu) culture while also, by merit of being shared by Tibetans, Mongols and Monguors, it validated the useful idea of cultural affinity within the “big family” of nationalities that fell under the Chinese socialist state. It had further legitimizing value in terms of “class”, on the grounds that it was an expression of folk as opposed to elite culture — the Ge-sar epic was (and still is) framed in official state discourse as reflecting the true aspirations of the downtrodden Tibetan masses, an epic tradition which was suppressed by the exploitative aristocratic and religious elites of the old society. Today, as socialist ideological discourse recedes in contemporary China, the patronage of Ge-sar is still validated in these terms, and Ge-sar patronage is commonly referenced in official government refutations of allegations of Chinese colonialism and cultural repression in Tibet.

4 Seen in this Soviet-inspired context, it is apparent that Chinese state patronage of Ge- sar is almost directly analogous to the similar (and equally fitful) state patronage meted out to popular minority-culture art-forms, including epics, among the nationalities of the Soviet Union (see for example Prior 2000 on the fitful Soviet patronage of the Kyrgyz Manas epic).

5 However, there is also a longer-term historical context to the current Chinese State patronage of Ge-sar, and this dates back to the Qing Dynasty. Manchu patronage of Ge- sar in the 18th century was part of a sophisticated Qing Imperial strategy of statecraft for the incorporation of its loosely-incorporated Inner Asian empire.3 For the Manchus, whose own roots lay in a northern Inner Asian martial cultural complex characterised by the prominence of shamanism and horseback hunting,4 the Ge-sar epic was seen as an instrumentally-significant form of cultural ‘glue’ for the knitting together the

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various Inner Asian peoples and tribes, and potentially furnishing a kind of corporate solidarity between the inner Asian peoples and the wider Manchu-governed Chinese Imperium.

Ge-sar in the 18th century

6 We see this attempt to enlist Ge-sar to Qing Imperial legitimacy, for example, in the sponsorship by Emperor Kang-xi of the collation, carving and printing of an edition of the Ge-sar epic in 1717. This Mongolian-language version entitled Arban ĵüg-ün eĵen Geser qagan-u toguji “Saintly Biography of Geser Khagan, Lord of the Ten Directions”, was, according to Damdinsuren (1957, p. 56) likely collected from the region north of the Blue Lake.5 It is interesting that although this is a Mongolian-language version, it presents Ge-sar explicitly depicted as a ‘King of Tibet’. This, as well as the fact that many of the personal names found in this version appear to be phonetic renderings of their Tibetan equivalents (Ligeti 1951), is taken as evidence by scholars that the Ge-sar epic’s origins are Tibetan rather than Mongol. The attempt to present the Ge-sar epic as kind of cultural glue for the Manchu Imperium is also particularly evident in the Chinese sub-title appended to the text — San Guo Shi, The Three Kingdoms. Here we see an effort to extend the legendary resonance of Ge-sar beyond the Tibeto-Mongol cultural domain by the (historically spurious) association between the Ge-sar epic and perhaps the main locus classicus of mythic warrior-heroism in Chinese popular lore — the Chinese historical epic of The Three Kingdoms set in the 3rd Century CE, which was given its final literary expression by Luo Guanzhong in the 14th century.

7 This Chinese sub-title also reflects one of the most interesting aspects of the Qing Dynasty’s Inner Asian cultural diplomacy — namely its deliberate attempt to merge or assimilate the deified Tibetan-Mongolian epic figure of Ge-sar / Ge-ser — who has been propitiated in rites of ‘smoke offering’ (Tib. bsang-mchod) by Tibetans and Mongols alike as a protective deity of horses and livestock and the enemy-conquering raid at least since the late 16th century — with the Chinese martial deity and Imperial protector Guan-di, who was the apotheosis (the deified form) of Guan-yu (162-220 CE), one of Liu Bei’s generals in The Three Kingdoms (on the apotheosis of Guan-yu see Duara 1988).6

8 By 1748, when Sum-pa mkhan-po Ye-shes dpal-’byor wrote his historical work the dPag- bsam ljon-bzang, this assimilation between Ge-sar and Guan-di appears to have become quite established, and is bolstered by a further assimilation with the (especially) Mongol protector deity Beg-tse. In the dPag-bsam ljon-bzang, Sum-pa glosses the name Kwan-lo-ye (Guan-di) thus : “he is also said to be an incarnation of lJong-btsan Shan-pa, of Ge-sar, and of Beg-rtse” (Stein 1959, p. 112). Clearly the Qing dynasty sought to bolster its political legitimacy in Inner Asia through the assimilation of Ge-sar — as both a popular Tibetan and Mongolian heroic figure and protector deity — with the imperial guardian-deity Guan-di.

9 However the Qing Imperial elite was not alone in its efforts to harness the legitimating power of Ge-sar to its rule. Also during the 18th century, concerted efforts were made by the then-ascendant eastern Tibetan kingdom of sDe-dge to assert historical ‘ownership’ of the Ge-sar tradition. During the 17th century sDe-dge had absorbed the historic kingdom of Gling-tshang, a once powerful neighbouring Tibetan kingdom in Khams which had been instrumental, during the height of its power in the 14th-16th centuries, in the development and propagation of the Ge-sar legend and its

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development into an epic cycle. The royal family of Gling-tshang claimed direct descent from Ge-sar’s fabled nephew and the hero’s heir in the epic itself, namely dGra-lha Tshe-rgyal.

10 The legitimating power of textual production was an aspect of diplomatic statecraft which was well-understood in the ascendant Kingdom of sDe-dge in the early-mid 18th century. In 1729, sDe-dge’s famous printing house (par-khang) was established, and the first editions of the so-called sDe-dge bKa’-gyur (Tibetan Buddhist canon) were printed four years later. It was only the following year, in 1734-1735, that attention was turned to the Ge-sar epic, when the minister (zhabs-drung) of the sDe-dge kingdom, Ngag- dbang bstan-’dzin phun-tshogs composed what was to become a Tibetan literary classic, and arguably the most canonical text in the whole literary corpus of the Tibetan Ge-sar epic, namely the two-volume “Conflict Between Hor and Ling’ (Hor-gling g.yul-’gyed). In the final chapters of this monumental work (over 1000 pages of modern print) it is Ge-sar’s nephew Dgra-lha Tshe-rgyal (the fabled ancestor of the Gling-tshang kings, to whom the royal house of sDe-dge were in a sense, successors) who commands the swelling ranks of Gling as they make their final victorious assault on the crumbling enemies of Hor.

11 The oral tradition concerning Ge-sar was clearly very vibrant and alive in Khams at this time, and Ngag-dbang bstan-’dzin phun-tshogs has some claim to being considered as something akin to a Tibetan Elias Lönrot. According the colophon of the Hor-gling g.yul-’gyed, the text was compiled and composed on the basis of the oral tellings of no less than “some twenty bards”. Some of whom are named : Lha-dbang tshe-ring from Nang-chen, Tshe-ring don-grub from sDe-dge, another Chab-mdo, and another from Gling and so on. The Hor-gling g.yul-’gyed, aside from its many literary merits, is also very interesting because it bears witness to the Ge-sar oral tradition in a period before the epic had been comprehensively swamped by the interpretative sensibilities of rNying-ma Buddhism — in other words before Ge-sar’s role as a messenger (pho nya) of Padmasambhava came to dominate all other qualities of his heroic station.7 Instead we see an epic that is equally weighted between its chivalric dimension — as a tale of survival and honour concerning the horse-rustling tribe of Gling — and its ‘shamanistic’ dimension as a magical tale about a shape-shifting trickster hero. In this text Ge-sar’s association with Padmasambhava is hinted at here and there, but it is by no means centre-stage.

12 During the same period as the Kingdom of sDe-dge was asserting some sense of “ownership” of the Ge-sar tradition by dint of its close connections to the Kingdom of Gling-tshang, there was also interest in Ge-sar by senior figures in Central Tibet. We see evidence of this in the production of a series of Ge-sar texts by a very senior religious and political figure of the time, namely the 5th Sle-lung sprul-sku, bZhad pa’i rdo-rje (1697-1740). Sle-lung was considered the reincarnation of Tsong-kha-pa’s rdzogs-chen teacher, and as such his incarnation-line occupied a very elevated status in the dGe-lugs-pa establishment. The Fifth Sle-lung’s influence with the then (rNying-ma-pa-leaning) ruler of Tibet Pho-lha-nas bSod-nams stob-rgyal, was considerable. Indeed in 1731 Pho-lha-nas’ main minister and right-hand-man Tshe-ring dbang-gyi-rgyal-po (1697-1763) commissioned a lengthy commentary from Sle-lung on the completion stage practices of the Tantric deity gSang-ba ye-shes.8 It was only two years prior to this commission, in 1729, that Sle-lung had recorded his “pure vision” (dag snang) of Ge-sar’s theogony as a protective deity,9 and composed two texts of ritual

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offering to a form of Ge-sar known as Ge-sar rDo-rje tshe-rgyal to accompany it.10 As further evidence of the favour given to Ge-sar by members of the Lhasa political elite, it is also notable that perhaps the most influential Central Tibetan lay political figure of the 1780s and 1790s, rDo-ring Paṇḍita (rDo-ring Bstan-’dzin dpal-’byor) had a shrine to Ge-sar on the third floor of his home.11

13 This interest in Ge-sar by Tibetan political elites (both eastern and central Tibetan) in the mid-18th century was very likely influenced by the parallel Manchu imperial interest in this figure. Over the course of the 18th century, as Qing assertions of power over Tibet steadily increased,12 the Chinese Imperial martial protector Guan-di became an ever-more prominent figure in imperial circles. We see this in the fact that there was a shrine to Guan-di at Tashilhunpo monastery, which was apparently sacked by the invading Gurkhas in 1791 (Richardson 1974, p. 47). And as the 18th century progressed, the assimilation between Guan-di and the Tibeto-Mongol figure of Ge-sar/Ge-ser became ever more marked. This process reached its apogee in the wake of the Manchu military intervention to repel the invading Gurkhas in the early 1790s. Following this campaign, in 1793, a combined Ge-sar/Guandi chapel was established in Lhasa by the Manchu Ho-lin and General Fu k’ang-an, upon the latter’s return from the Gurkha campaign. This temple stands on the sPar-ma-ri hill below the Potala (Ferrari 1958, p. 92), and its founding is commemorated by an inscription (Richardson 1974, p. 53). From this time on, for the rest of the so-called Manchu Protectorate in Tibet (1720-1912), this Guandi/Ge-sar temple, curated by the dGe-lugs-pa monks of the nearby Kun-bde-gling monastery, served as the garrison temple for the small Chinese military force stationed in Lhasa. And it accordingly came to be known colloquially in Lhasa as the “Chinese Temple” (Tib. rgya mi’i lha khang).13 The temple can still (in its recently renovated form) be visited today.

14 Clearly, then, the oft-stated idea that the Ge-sar epic was frowned upon by the elites of traditional Tibet,14 requires substantial circumscription, since we can see here, clearly, that Ge-sar, as a kind of ‘Tibetan form of Guan-di’ was in fact embraced not only by the Manchu elite, but also by powerful sections of the Tibetan elite, and particularly those associated with the Qing Imperial court in the late 18th century. And the patronage of Ge-sar by Tibetan political elites outlived the Qing Imperium itself. In the period of Tibet’s political independence from China after 1913, we find that the Rwa-sgreng Regent — who was the effective ruler of Tibet during the minority of the 14th (the present) Dalai Lama until 1941 — employed a personal Ge-sar bard. His name was Byams-pa gsang-bdag and he was later to become the chief informant for a number of seminal western Tibetological works.15

15 However it is fair to say that the Tibetan Ge-sar tradition has never been as strong in the central Tibetan provinces of dBus and gTsang as it is in both Khams and A-mdo. In these eastern provinces Ge-sar traditions — including masked dances and ritual propitiations — are carried on by a diverse range of monastic communities in the rNying-ma, Sa-skya and bKa’-brgyud schools, and many of our most seminal surviving Ge-sar texts from these regions were in fact authored by members of monastic and aristocratic elites. Indeed, even in modern times, it seems that the reception of Ge-sar was not so much a matter of religious approbation as it was of regional resonance. In eastern Tibet, as in Mongolia, Ge-sar was by no means anathema, even to dGe-lugs institutions. George Roerich, for example, in his excellent 1942 field-work based article on Ge-sar, states that “in A-mdo among followers of the dGe-lugs-pa sect one often

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hears the unexpected statement that Tsong-kha-pa himself, the Tibetan Reformer, had been once the chaplain (a-mchod) of King Kesar of Ling” (Roerich 1942, p. 286). The sense that Ge-sar epic was a ‘waste of time’ therefore seems to be sentiment that was primarily one that arose from the epic having only very shallow roots in the popular traditions of central Tibet, rather than any deeper hostility.

The context of the exchange about Ge-sar between the 6th Paṇ-chen bla-ma and Sum-pa mKhan-po

16 Probably our most revealing source about the Ge-sar epic in the late 18th century is the written correspondence (dris-lan lit. “questions-answers”) on the subject of Ge-sar between two of the most senior dGe-lugs-pa establishment figures of the period, namely the de facto ruler of central Tibet in the 1770s, the 6th Paṇ-chen bla-ma Blo- bzang dpal-ldan ye-shes (1738-1780), and the renowned (dGe-lugs-pa) scholar, historian, diplomat and lama Sum-pa mkhan-po Ye-shes dpal-’byor (1704-1788). The questions came from the Paṇ-chen, and the answers from Sum-pa. The remainder of this article will explore the context of this exchange, and present it in full English translation. Sum-pa mkhan-po’s comments on Ge-sar in this exchange, the source of which he says, were conversations with elders in sDe-dge, remain one of our most important primary sources on the history and development of the Tibetan Ge-sar epic tradition, and are regularly cited by contemporary Tibetan scholars. It is on the basis of this exchange, above all, that Sum-pa mkhan-po is sometimes hailed as a beacon of rationality and critical investigation in the Tibetan scholarly tradition.

17 According to his autobiography, Sum-pa mkhan-po Ye-shes dpal-’byor was born to Mongol parents (his father Oirat, his mother Jungar) in the A-mdo grasslands between rMa-chen sPom-ra and the rMa-chu river in 1704, and he considered himself to belong to the Baatud tribe of the Oirat Mongols. Recognised as the reincarnation of a senior Tibetan lama, however, his Tibetan education and the cultural milieu of his life was very much embedded in Tibetan Buddhism of the time, and he identified as much with his Tibetan incarnation lineage as with his natal identity as a Mongol (Erdenibayur 2007, pp. 304-306). His monastic seat was at the major dGe-lugs-pa centre of dGon-lung, located east of Xining in the heart of the Monguor (Ch. tu-zu) lands — at the juncture of the Tibetan, Mongolian and Chinese cultural worlds. This was also the monastic seat of the hugely influential “Grey-Willow” lCang-skya incarnation lineage, the scions of which were so instrumental in Tibetan-Qing relations during the 18th century.16

18 The Sixth17 Paṇ-chen bla-ma Blo-bzang dpal-ldan ye-shes on the other hand was the most prestigious religious and political figure in the Tibetan world in the 1770s. He was born to aristocratic Tibetan parentage. His older half-brother was the 9th Zhwa-dmar- pa, incarnation, the second-most senior lineage-holder in the Karma bKa’-brgyud school. It was this brother who was deposed after the Paṇ-chen’s death for his complicity in the Gurkha invasion of Shigatse in 1791.

19 During the minority of the 8th Dalai Lama, it was the aristocratically-born, energetic and politically-active Paṇ-chen who was the de facto ruler of Tibet. This is attested to in the Paṇ-chen’s 1774 letter to the then head of the British East India Company in , Warren Hastings. This letter, which was delivered to Bengal by a Tibetan envoy named Padma and a Hindu Gosain named Purangir,18 was an attempt on the part of the Paṇ-

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chen Lama to resolve a conflict that had erupted between the British and the then ruler of Bhutan over the region of Cooch .19

20 This de facto status as ruler of central Tibet, led shortly afterwards to the East India Company despatching their first ever envoy to Tibet to Shigatse, where the young Scot George Bogle stayed as the guest of the Paṇ-chen Lama for several months in 1774-5. Bogle’s testimonies paint an interesting picture. The erudite Paṇ-chen (who rarely among his Tibetan contemporaries, knew Sanskrit), conversed with Bogle in Hindustani.20 We also hear that he was engaged in active diplomatic and trade relations with both the ascendant Gurkha monarchy, and the then Raja of Benares, Chait Singh (r. 1770-1781).21 Bogle was also astonished at the vast apparent reach of the religion of Tibetan “Tartary”, over which the Paṇ-chen’s religious status reached. In this period, the reach of Tibetan religion extended, as Sum-pa points out in his autobiography, from the mythical holy sites of India in the west22 to the great ocean in the east, encompassing all the lands between : Nepal in the west ; the “three circuits” of Ngari (western Tibet) ; the “four horns” of dBus and gTsang (central Tibet) ; mDo-khams (eastern Tibet) ; the “thirteen provinces” of China in the east ; and all the lands of the four tribes of , the seven tribes of Khalkha, and forty-six Mongol tribes.23

21 The exchange between these two exalted figures on the subject of Ge-sar took place on the eve of the Paṇ-chen’s historic visit the Manchu court for the occasion of the Qianlong Emperors 70th birthday.24 Qianlong’s reception of the Paṇ-chen was to take place at the fairytale imperial summer residence at Chengde (c. 250 km northeast of Beijing), where a replica of Tashilhunpo was being built to house the visiting Lama, near the replica of the Potala already in place.25 It was in anticipation of this visit that the Paṇ-chen sought clarification from Sum-pa concerning the identity and history of Ge-sar — once again attesting to the significance of Ge-sar in this period as a significant locus of Qing-Tibetan cultural diplomacy.

22 The Paṇ-chen departed in September 1779 and after crossing first the Tang-la pass and then the ’Bri-chu River (Upper Yangtze), he was met by envoys of (the almost octogenarian) Sum-pa mkhan-po before he reached rMa-chen spom-ra, the great mountain range in mGo-log. The two lamas then actually met in person in mid- November before the Paṇ-chen reached sKu-’bum, where he would stay for several months over the Tibetan New Year of early 1780. It was during this first meeting (i.e. before arriving at sKu-’bum), which is described very poetically in Sum-pa’s autobiography, that the Paṇ-chen requested Sum-pa to give him further explications on a number of issues which the Paṇ-chen had previously taken up with Sum-pa in a letter — in particular on how to calculate the arrival of the comet du-ba mjug-ring ; and (what concerns us here) on the figure of King Ge-sar, the hero of the Tibetan epic tradition. He asked Sum-pa to give a detailed account of these issues, to put them in writing, and to bring this with him when they were to meet again at sKu-’bum.26 When the Paṇ-chen says, in this historical context that an account of Ge-sar would be “useful” (phan par), one can only assume that the ‘usefulness’ had to do with his upcoming audience with the . Immediately prior to their meeting in the winter of 1779-1780, Sum-pa had spent eight years in Mongolia, and presumably this was part of the reason for the Paṇ-chen asking Sum-pa about this subject. Sum-pa would be someone particularly well-qualified to assess the historical origins of the Ge-sar legend, due to his knowledge of both Tibetan and Mongolian culture.27

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23 By locating this correspondence in its historical context, we gain a good insight into the burgeoning diplomatic and political instrumentality of the epic in this period ; we also see the Ge-sar epic’s ambivalent socio-religious status for these senior Buddhist figures ; and we also gain a window state of the epic narrative tradition itself in the late 18th century. It is notable that no mention is made in this exchange of the assimilation of Ge-sar with Guan-di. This is somewhat surprising, though I see awareness of this as an unspoken understanding which underlies the exchange. R. A. Stein states that the Paṇ-chen composed a ritual for Guan-di at the same time — 1779-1780 (Stein 1959, pp. 112-113). However Stein was unable to locate this text, and I too have not found it. That he should have done so, however, makes perfect sense in the context, and should the text come to light, it could further illuminate the diffusion of this syncretism.

The content of the exchange

24 While the context of this exchange illustrated the diplomatic instrumentality of the Ge- sar epic in Tibetan-Mongol-Qing relations in the late 18th century, the content of the exchange is revealing on a number of issues. Sum-pa gives us an important testimony on the state of the Ge-sar epic in this period, based, he says, on “what I heard from elders in sDe-dge”. This account of the epic narrative and his conjectures concerning the history of the epic are of great interest to any historian of the epic, and the correspondence reveals a number of interesting perspectives. Both lamas hint at the ‘international’ resonances of the Ge-sar legend in this period, as discussed above. For example we see the Paṇ-chen probing a possible mytho-geographic connection between a Ge-saric battle, and the death of Chinggiz Khan in the A-mdo borderlands. And in Sum-pa’s answers, the Ge-sar tradition is likened to Chinese popular storytelling traditions — namely the tales concerning Thang-seng Lama — the Tibetan name of the chief protagonist in the Chinese popular storytelling tradition known as the Journey to the West, or more commonly in the West as Monkey ! Cognizant of the Panchen’s diplomatic mission as a possible reason for his queries concerning Ge-sar, he also mentions that the stories of Ge-sar are performed in front of the Qing “” Emperor himself.

25 On the religious status of Ge-sar, we see a certain scepticism on Sum-pa’s part. He is clearly not deferential towards Ge-sar — when describing his birth he uses the non- honorific skyes not ’khrungs for “born”, and he states explicitly that although people claim Ge-sar to be this and that emanation, he does not regard Ge-sar as a particularly holy or venerable figure. But on the other hand he is far from dismissive of the epic as a cultural tradition — he compares it for example to the oral tradition which sustained the Hindu Vedas. He is also willing to entertain the suggestion that Ge-sar was the incarnation of local mountain divinity in Eastern Tibet — a worldly, rather than an enlightened spirit.

26 Sum-pa’s replies also illustrate his concern to assert the Tibetanness of Ge-sar. This is interesting, especially given Sum-pa’s own Mongol ancestry. Rather than pointing to the Mongolian cultural borrowings exhibited by the Tibetan Ge-sar tradition (which are many — even the Tibetan word for “warrior” used in the epic — dpa’ rtul — is for example a borrowing from the Turko-Mongol batyr/batur) instead Sum-pa recounts a variety of local Tibetan Ge-saric traditions, two of which are particularly salient in his account. The first are the legends concerning Ge-sar’s birth in the region of Gling-

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tshang and ‘Dan-ma, near sDe-dge, in Khams. He gives detailed information concerning Ge-sar’s reputed birth, referring to landmarks still pointed out today near the village of A-phyug (within the former domains of the kingdom of Gling-tshang). And from these legends he is happy to assert that Ge-sar should be considered a real historical figure, and that he can’t have lived very long ago. And the second, are some legends concerning Ge-sar from central Tibet. These are of particular interest because Central Tibetan legends concerning Ge-sar are rather less common than those to be found in the eastern regions of the Tibetan world. Here he gives the account of Ge-sar’s great adversary, the Demon (bdud) King, being associated with the Nag-tshang region north of Lhasa, and Kong-po in southern Tibet as the abode of demons (indeed there is often a conflation in Ge-sar tales between Ge-sar’s adversary the demon bDud klu-btsan, and the mythical demon of Kong-po, A-chung rgyal-po).

27 It is also interesting to take note of Sum-pa’s comments concerning the relationship between the Ge-sar legend and local traditions concerning local mountain deities (ri- gnyan gzhi-bdag). The idea of local mountains (ri) being abodes of authoritative ancestral deities (gnyan), which are “territorial lords” (gzhi-bdag) or local deities, is part of what is often described as a prominent part of Tibet’s “secular” or lay culture (see for example Karmay 1996). This aspect of is generally regarded as having been discouraged by the Buddhist formalism of dGe-lugs tradition. However this again is clearly a simplification — here we have such a tradition being openly validated by Sum-pa. Indeed it is also of interest to note that in the Paṇ-chen Lama’s collected works (gSung-’bum, volume ja), there are a variety of propitiatory works (mchod pa) for local deities (gzhi bdag or yul lha), indicating that such practices were very much alive within dGe-lugs tradition at that time.

28 Of particular interest is the name of the mountain deity that Sum-pa reports Ge-sar may have been an incarnation of. He names it as Gom-pa ra-tsa. Well this name is very interesting, because by the time the so-called Gling-tshang woodblock edition of the Ge-sar epic was composed in the early 20th century (now available in full English translation in Kornman et al. 2012), Gom-pa ra-tsa features not as a local territorial divinity and Ge-sar’s backer, but rather as a heretical sorcerer whose attempt to kill the infant Ge-sar soon after his birth, constitutes a major sub-plot (see Kornman et al. (trans) 2012, pp. 222-240 ; Stein 1956 vol. 2, fol. 35b-43b). We have here a very clear example of how the epic narratives concerning Ge-sar can change over time, and the folkloric process that Vladimir Propp described as “the demotion of former idols”. A figure of Gom-pa-ra-tsa remains associated with the mountain above the reputed site of the hero’s birth, but the role of that figure changes from that of local presiding deity, to villainous heretic, as the epic tradition becomes ever more Buddhiscised in the hands of a hegemonic Buddhist literary culture.

29 Similarly interesting is Sum-pa’s account of how Ge-sar kills his demon-adversary. Sum-pa’s account of this duel places a strong and dualistic emphasis on the non- Buddhist Tibetan concept of bla — or “soul” — again a salient feature of Tibetan indigenous rather than Indic Buddhist belief. Nowhere to be seen, in his account are the , Rudra-slaying models of demon-subjugation, which over time have come to dominate the interpretative “mental texts” (Honko 2000) of Tibetan Ge-sar story-tellers and authors.

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30 What follows is a full translation of the exchange, which apart from anything else, gives a very good and concise introduction to the cultural milieu and the narrative frame of the Ge-sar epic as witnessed by Sum-pa mkhan-po in the late 18th century.

The Content of the Exchange

31 From the Paṇ-chen bla-ma Blo-bzang dpal-ldan ye-shes, to zhabs-drung Sum-pa mkhan- po ye-shes dpal-’byor (translated from Damdinsuren 1957, pp. 184-185) : In (your) religious history (chos ’byung)28 when you mention Hor, it is suggested that the part of it nearest to Tibet is called . Now I have heard it said that while fighting with Ge-sar, one of the main chiefs of Hor, called Sky-King Gur-ser of Yellow Hor, had his residence, which was a great castle, completely destroyed. Now since you yourself have mentioned that the place where Chinghiz Khan (cing-gi-se rgyal-po) died was a river-crossing near the castle of Shirigol (zhi-ril-gwol), it seems that the castle, in terms of region, condition and whatever other aspects, may be one and the same place ? So tell me : when did this King Ge-sar appear ? During the reign of which king of Tibet ? According to the history of Byang-chub ’dre-bkol [i.e. the Rlangs po-ti bse- ru]29 the great master (slob-dpon i.e. Padmasambhava) said to dPal-kyi seng-ge, in the presence of King Khri-srong lde-btsan and so on, that “in the 12th generation you shall gain dominion over gods, demons and men” and thus it was prophesied that Byang-chub ’dre-bkol would become the Lama of Ge-sar. Now if you can give me an account, unadulterated by worldly oral tales, of this king — when, how and what he did — I would consider this useful (phan par). Kindly send your detailed answer.

32 Sumpa’s response was as follows (translated from Sum-pa’s gSung ’bum vol. nya fol. 189, line 7 ff) : Although it is said by many Mongols that Chinggiz Khan of Hor was killed by the queen of Mi-nyag [i.e. Xi-xia], according to the “great Yellow Annals” of China (rgya- nag gi yig-tshang che-ba), this queen wasn’t able to kill him, and he in fact died at sNgad-chu-nag in rMa-chu [upper Yellow River, A-mdo]. [fol. 190] Later the king was also said to have died at a place called Cha-ghan-pal-gwa-su which is between Zhi-ra-gwol and Yu-gur [north of the Blue Lake].

33 Now as for the history of Ge-sar, well it is comparable to the tales of the Chinese monk Thang-seng bla-ma [the monk in The Journey to the West/Monkey], in that although his real life story is quite another thing, various stories are told about him these days, and are even performed as dances (zlos-gar) before the great [Qing] Manjuśri Emperor (’jam- dbyangs gong-ma chen-mo). In a manner similar to the oral tradition of the Hindu Vedas, the stories are embellished and poeticised and told in all kinds of ways.

34 Well as for Ge-sar himself, he is said to have been born at a place called sKyid Nyi-ma kun-’khyil, a Gling-ba place to the left [i.e. north, when facing east to face the emperor] of the territories of sDe-dge in Upper Khams (stod-khams). Ge-sar later defeated Hor Gur-ser, king of the Yu-gur Ho-thon tribe, whose castle, Ya-rtse mKhar-dmar, is to the “upper left” [north-west ?] of sDe-dge. Nowadays the territories of that tribe — the “eight tribes of Zhi-ra-gwol” — lie beyond the Blue Lake. If Ge-sar stories are recounted in that place, the local spirits do harm to horsemen. Formerly this was also the place where Pe-dkar resided, in the retreat of Bandha Hor which was destroyed and whose remains are still visible.

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35 Although it is unknown exactly when Ge-sar lived, I suspect it may not be too long ago, since I have heard that his arrows, bows and so on, and his descendants and so on from his real blood-line, still exist today in Khams.

36 Then, when the Paṇ-chen and Sum-pa met again in A-mdo in the winter of 1779-1780, as described above, the Paṇ-chen asked again for further clarification and detail on this issue. The written response that Sum-pa brought with him to give to the Paṇ-chen at sKu-’bum monastery that winter, runs as follows (fol. 196, line 6 ff.) :30 In China, Tibet and Mongolia (hor), the stories of Ge-sar are told in poetic fictionalised ways, but he seems to have been a ordinary person, as it is hard to rely on the many competing accounts saying that he is this or that emanation, so it is rather hard to make a considered judgement about whether he was an ordinary person or an incarnation [fol. 197].

37 So if we just consider the repute of Ge-sar as an ordinary being, well with regard to his place of birth : if you go up from upper Bar-khams to the area between the rMa-chu, rDza-chu and ’Bru-chu [sic. ’Bri chu] rivers, to the place where the rDza-chu meets the two rivers of sKye’u-gzhung and Tsha-lung-ba, there is a confluence of three rivers. That place is to the “left” of the sDe-dge palace and is included in the territory of sDe- dge. Well the actual birth place, in the upper part of that valley there is a small lake like a , and a confluence of two rivers, and there are four ridges on a small rocky hill and between them is a flat meadow laid out like a carpet. There a tree grows, and there is a flat stone, a remnant of his parents’ tent having being erected there. And it is said that this place is called sKyid Nyi-ma kun-’khyil.31 Above that place, three rivers — the Khang-chen lung-ba, the Yag-nye’i-chung and the rDza-chu — unite in front of Tiger Mountain (stag-ri), where there is a small hill shaped like a heart.

38 Below that, in the upper reaches of a rocky mountain, resides a powerful ancestral territorial divinity (gzhi-bdag gnyan-po)32 called Gom-pa-ra-tsa, 33 and in front of that rocky mountain there are thirty cairns which are said to be Ge-sar’s thirty kinsmen.

39 As for the (patrilineal) clan (rus) of Ge-sar, in the land of Bar-khams sDe-dge, there are two major communities (sde), the Gling-ba and the ’Dan, and he was a Gling-ba. Nowadays the Gling-ba are not under sDe-dge, while the ’Dan are.

40 Now as for Ge-sar, his father was Sing-rlom and his mother ’Gag-rus.34 Some say that since the people of Gling and ’Dan were frequently attacked by brigands they would regularly make smoke offerings (bsang) to the territorial divinity of an ancestral mountain (ri-gnyan zhig gi gzhi-bdag) in that place seeking protection, and it is said that Ge-sar was born as that territorial divinity itself or as its emanation. Such a thing is possible because for example even recently the wife of a nomad who regularly made offerings to her ancestral mountain (ri-gnyan) in the land of mDong-nag, gave birth to a child, Tsha-bo ’Jam-dbyangs rab-‘byams who is recognised by all, both lay and monastic, as the son of that place’s territorial divinity (gzhi-bdag).

41 Then soon after Ge-sar’s birth, his own uncle Khro-thung exiled him to Lha-lung g.yu- mdo, near the (poison) lakes [called] sKya-rangs and sNgo-rangs at the source of the rMa-chu river. Having settled there (gzhi bzung nas) he grew up brave and skilful. In that place, not far from a small mountain known as ‘Ge-sar’s mdzo-tying place’, there is said to be a plain called the “poison-plain of A-ba” (A-ba phyi-dug-thang) where the Hor army was encamped, and this is also stated in the biography of the Great Fifth [Dalai lama] (vol. ka, fol. 181). As for this Ge-sar, he was a mighty, athletic and fiercely intelligent man. He took two wives — Me-za ’Bum-skyid [fol. 198] and the daughter of

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Gling sKya-li, called ’Brug-mo-skyid, and these were respectively the elder and younger [wives]. His horse was called rKyang-rgod g.yer-ba.

42 Now, as for the Demon (bdud) that Ge-sar later defeated, well to the north of Lha-sa, in the direction of gNam-mtsho phyug-mo, in the areas of the Gre-ba Nag-tshang [tribe], a mighty fellow was born between the places called Gu-ru and Mon-ra. The people of that area, the Nag-tshang-ba, are themselves said to be a tribe of demons (bdud kyi ru-sde). Well, this fellow then migrated in the direction of Lha-sa to the Kong-po area. In that land there is a river-source where the water is poisonous or stupefying and whoever drinks it goes half-mad, and it is said that all the people and animals there [behave] as if they are drunk (ra-ro ’dra). Well, that fellow drank that water. In that land in the middle of a “demon soul mountain” (bdud kyi bla-ri) called Ha-shang rTse-dgu there are three small lakes, and if the water of these lakes is mixed, it is a said that a demon will be born. Well, this fellow drank the poison-water and then combined the water of the three lakes, and as a result he himself was considered to have turned into a demon in the land of men. Then he went to ’Dam [north-east of Lha-sa] where he dwelt in a fort made of deer horns and bones called the Demon-Fort (bdud-mkhar) Sha-ra gnam- rdzong, and there engaged in banditry (jag byed).

43 One time, on a plundering expedition, he came to the land of Gling. At that time Ge-sar was away hunting or raiding another country, so he kidnapped and made off with Ge- sar’s girl Me-za ’Bum-skyid and her sibling Phying-sngon-can. When Ge-sar returned home and heard about this, he set off like a raider and crossed the gShed-chu-khams-pa into the Demon’s country. When he arrived, the Demon had gone on a raid and so [instead] he met Me-za ’Bum-skyid. She hid Ge-sar in the cellar, and told him how he could kill the Demon. When the Demon returned home he slept for the night. Then the next day at the very break of day, from the Demon’s nostrils came two snakes, one black and one white, which then fought on his face. When the black snake — the “soul” (bla) of the Demon or some kind of spontaneous fiendish creature (’dre) — came to the centre of his forehead, Ge-sar fired an at it and killed the snake-like thing and the Demon at the same time. It is said that Ge-sar then spent the next nine years with Me-za in the Demon’s land [fol. 199].

44 Meanwhile the raiding armies of the Hor chiefs Gur-dkar, Gur-ser and Gur-nag went to the land of the Gling-bas. They killed Ge-sar’s elder kinsman (mes po) rGyad-cu Zhal- dkar (sic. rGya-tsha Zhal-dkar) [Ge-sar’s older brother], and [attacked] the thirty kinsmen of Gling and so on, and carried off A-khu Khya-rgan (sic. A-khu Khra-rgan) [Ge-sar’s Uncle] and ’Brug-mo and so on, and Gur-dkar took ’Brug-mo-skyid as his queen.

45 Now the lands of the Gling-bas and the Hor-pas were not far from each other. That is to say at the head of A-che-na valley which is above Chu-dmar, on the left side of the ‘Seven Enclosures’ of the ’Bru-chu (sic. ’Bri-chu), is a snow mountain called Gang-chags dKar-po, and below that is a large rock-mountain on the side of which was located the Red Ya-rtse dmar-mkhar castle of the Hor King Gur-dkar. And it is said that a wall still remains of this castle, and that where Ge-sar struck it with an iron chain, red fragments are still visible today. I have heard accounts from those who have seen and heard (gtam mthong thos kyi mi las) that in some ravines of that mountain, there dwell “sword ghosts” (gri-’dre) of the Hor-pa soldiers who were formerly killed there, and since they are non-human magical illusion-like beings (chos-’phrul lta-bu), even now at night, ordinary people don’t dare go to that place.

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46 When Ge-sar returned home from the Demon-land, when he heard from witnesses how the Gling-bas had been defeated by the Hor soldiers, he led a large army of Gling-bas to the Red Ya-rtse dmar-mkhar castle of Hor. There he used an iron chain to swing [himself] inside the fort, and then opened the gates to his entire army. The Hor chief and many soldiers were killed, and at that time it is said that seven skilled warriors from the Hor army — the Ya-ba skya-bdun — escaped together with their followers. Then, taking [his uncle] A-khu Khya-rgan (sic.) and [his wife] ’Brug-mo with him, Ge- sar returned home.

47 Later, one time when Ge-sar went to the land of ’Dan, he was pursued by ’Dan dogs, and his horse got startled and threw him, and it was from this [fall], it is said, that he passed away. Since then the people of ’Dan-ma have had to pay an indemnity (stong mjal) for Ge-sar, which is like a tax that they have to give to the Ling-bas every year. Indeed at the so-called Thang-chung lhakhang (temple) in the land of ’Dan,35 there is a large pile of stones to which it is said even now that if the ’Dan-mas add a stone each year carved with the maṇi, that the land will be well [fol. 200]. And for that reason, in that land there is a saying : “there is no end to the paying of Ge-sar’s blood-price ; there is no end to the wealth of ’Dan-ma”(ge-sar gyi stong-mjal-ba la tshar-rgyu med/ ’dan-ma’i rgyu-chas la ‘dzad-rgyu med).

48 At that time the people of Gling and ’Dan and the Demon land, and the people of Hor, had no shared emperor or firm common law, so each of them did as they pleased. In those days, naturally enough, due to the people’s pride in bravery, they were probably engaged in frequent conflicts arising from their raids on one another.

49 As mentioned before, near the remains of the Ya-rtse-mkhar-dmar at the foot of the rock mountain and A-chen Gang-chag dKar-po, are the remnants of King Gur-dkar’s settlement, and the descendants of the Ya-ba sKya-bdun and so on. And in the inner part (phugs) of their tents they keep a narrow post (ka-ba phra-ma), at the tip of which they attach a small stick at a slant, which is a sign to represent how Ge-sar defeated Hor in the past, and how in victory he “placed a yak saddle on every tent”.36 Also about seven or eight days to the north of the Blue Lake, beyond Pha-stong and the Shug-sha River but on this side of the Chinese Su-gru fort, are the descendants of Hor Gur-ser’s clan, known as the Eight Tribes of the Sha-ra Yu-gur. Their language is like Ho-thon, but their appearance is unlike any others in China, Tibet or Mongolia. That [place] is also called Bandha Hor, and in that place there is a custom of keeping a black board (nag byang) across the “waist” of every tent, and this is said to be a sign that before, when Ge-sar defeated Hor, the tent was rent by [his] sword. In both the tradition of the A-chen and the Hor of Upper Blue Lake, since they fought with the Gling-bas in the past, the ghosts (gre-’dre sic.) of those that were killed were reborn as spirits (lha-’dre) in the lineage of the followers of the Kings Pe-dkar and Pe-ser and so on (pe-dkar-po ser rgyal-po sogs), and even now exist as such.

50 In these places if the tales of Ge-sar are recounted when they ride out (rta rkyang zhur zhon nas) then the spirits do them harm. Nowadays in various parts of Khams such as Chab-mdo, some of the Thirty Kinsmen [of Ge-sar] and so on of Gling are said to be reborn as something like territorial divinities, and it is said they possess people (khog la zhugs) and give prophecies. Likewise in various Yu-gur areas, the Gur kings and various warriors have been reborn as spirits and there are oracles and mediums (lha-ba la bab- pa ’dug-go) [into whom they descend] [fol. 201].

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51 I do not think that Ge-sar existed very early. In the Lho-g.yu-phugs temple in the Chab- mdo area, there is a two-volume set of Ge-sar’s original prajñāparamitā scriptures, with each volume constituting a yak-load. I have also heard from those who have seen them that there are also the swords of Ge-sar and A-me and the thirty kinsmen, which are a little bigger than the swords nowadays. Also, in a few other temples in dBus and gTsang, Ge-sar’s hat and arrows and so on can be seen.

52 All this information comes from what I heard from elders in sDe-dge, and though I am not sure about some points, most of it is a faithful account.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

The sources

This written correspondence (though without the Panchen’s first letter of enquiry) is found on folios 10-16 of Nang don tha snyad rig gnas kyi gzhung gi dogs gnas ‘ga’ zhig dris pa’i lan phyogs gcig tu bris pa rab dkar pa sangs, in volume nya of Sum-pa mKhan-po’s gSung-’bum. According to the late Gene Smith of Tibetan Buddhist Resource Center Library (TBRC),37 there exists only one blockprint edition of this gSung ’bum which was printed in Dolonor in Inner Mongolia and then reprinted by Lokesh Chandra (TBRC ref. W29227). These prints are hard to read in places. Fortunately however, the Mongolian scholar Tseten Damdinsuren also faithfully reproduces the correspondence in Tibetan and cited his source as volume ja of Blo-bzang dpal ldan ye shes’ gSung ’bum (Damdinsuren 1957, pp. 184-191). The correspondence is also reproduced in Tibetan in a recent collection of Tibetan historical sources relevant to Ge-sar studies : gNa’ deng mkhas pa’i ge sar sgrung skor gyi gsung sgros gzi yi mgul rgyan.38

Western Language Works Cited

Buffetrille, K. 2009 ‘May the New Emerge from the Ancient ! May the Ancient Serve the Present !’ The Ge-sar Festival of Rma chen (A mdo 2002), in R. Vitali (ed.), The Earth Ox Papers, Proceedings of the International Seminar on Tibetan and Himalayan Studies, held at LTWA, September 2009. Tibet Journal, Autumn 2009, XXXIV, 3-Summer 2010 XXXV, 2, pp. 523-554.

Chayet 1985 Les Temples de Jehol et leurs Modèles Tibétains (Paris, Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations).

Damdinsuren, Ts. 1957 Istoricheskie korni Geseriady (Moskva, Izd-vo Akademii nauk gobl.).

Das, SC. 1902 Journey to Lhasa and Central Tibet (London, Murray).

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Duara, P. 1988 Superscribing Symbols : The Myth of Guandi, Chinese God of War, Journal of Asian Studies, 47, 4.

Erdenibayur 2007 Sumpa Khenpo Ishibaljur : A Great Figure in Mongolian and Tibetan Cultures, in Bulag & Diemberger (eds), The Mongolia-Tibet Interface (Leiden, Brill), pp. 303-314.

Ferrari, A. 1958 Mk’yen brtse’s Guide to the Holy Places of Central Tibet, Serie Orientale Roma, XVI (Roma, Instituto Italiano per il Medeo ed Estremo Oriente).

FitzHerbert, S. G. 2010 A Modern Version of the Birth of Ge-sar, in S. Arslan & P. Schwieger (eds.), Tibetan Studies : An Anthology. Proceedings of the 11th Seminar of the International Association for Tibetan Studies Königswinter 2006 (Halle, International Institute for Tibetan and Buddhist Studies), pp. 215-254.

Gellner, E. 1990 The Dramatis Personae of History, East European Politics and Societies, 4, pp. 116-133.

Honko, L. 2000 Text as Process and Practice : The Textualization of Oral Epics, in Honko L. (eds.) Textualization of Oral Epics, Trends in Linguistics, Studies and Monographs 128 (Berlin, Mouton de Gruyter), pp. 3-54.

Hummel, S. (trans. Vogliotti) 1998 Eurasian Mythology in the Tibetan Epic of Ge-sar (Dharamsala : Library of Tibetan Works and Archives).

Karmay, S. 1996 The Cult of Mountain Deities and Its Political Significance, in Blondeau & Steinkeller (eds.), Reflections of the Mountain (Vienna, Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften), pp. 59-75. Also in Karmay 1998 The Arrow and the Spindle, 1 (Kathmandu, Mandala), pp. 432-450.

Kornman, R., Sangye Khandro & Lama Chonam (trans.) 2012 The Epic of Ge-sar of Ling : Ge-sar’s Magical Birth, Early Years and Coronation as King (Boston, Shambhala).

Kun mchog dge legs, Dpal ldan bkra shis & Kevin Stuart 1999 Tibetan Tricksters, Asian Folklore Studies, 58, 1, pp. 5-30.

Ligeti, L. 1951 Un Épisode d’Origine Chinoise du “Geser-Qan,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae, I, pp. 339-357.

Loo, Margaret Shu-yi 1970 The Biography of the III , Blo-bzang-dpal-ldan-ye-shes-dpal-bzang-po, Examined in Light of Sino-Tibetan Relations during the Late Eighteenth Century. PhD. Dissertation, University of Washington.

Martin, T. 2001 The Affirmative Action Empire : Nations and Nationalism in the Soviet Union 1923-1939 (Ithaca, Cornell University Press).

Millward, J. et al. (eds.) 2004 New Qing Imperial History : The Making of Inner Asian Empire at Qing Chengde (London, Routeledge Curzon).

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Nebesky-Wojkowitz, R. de 1956 Oracles and Demons of Tibet : the Cult and Iconography of the Tibetan Protective Deities (Gravenhage, Mouton).

Petech, L. 1950a China and Tibet in the Early XVIIIth Century : History of the Establishment of the Chinese Protectorate in Tibet (Leiden, Brill). 1950b The Missions of Bogle and Turner according to the Tibetan Texts, T’oung Pao, 2nd Ser., 39, pp. 330-346.

Prior, D. 2000 Patron, Party, Patrimony : Notes on the Cultural History of the Kirghiz Epic Tradition (Bloomington, Papers on Inner Asia No.33)

Rawski, E. 1998 The Last Emperors : A Social History of Qing Imperial Institutions (Berkeley, University of California Press).

Richardson, H. E. 1974 Ch’ing Inscriptions at Lhasa, Serie Orientale Roma, XLVII, 47 (Roma, Instituto Italiano per il Medeo ed Estremo Oriente).

Roerich, G. N. 1942 The Epic of King Kesar of Ling, Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, VIII, 7, pp. 277-311.

Schram, L. 1957 The Monguors of the Kansu-Tibetan Border Part II : Their Religious Life, Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, New Ser., 47, 1, pp. 1-164.

Sperling, E. 1998 Awe and Submission : A Tibetan Aristocrat at the Court of Qianlong, The International History Review, 20, 2, pp. 325-335.

Stein, R. A. 1956 L’ Épopée tibétaine de Ge-sar dans sa version lamaïque de Ling (Paris, PUF). 1959 Recherches sur l’épopée et le barde au Tibet (Paris, Presses Universitaires de France). 1962 Une source ancienne pour l’histoire de l’épopée tibétaine : Le Rlangs po-ti bre-ru, Journal Asiatique, 250, pp. 76-106.

Stewart, G. T. 2009 Journeys to Empire : Enlightenment, Imperialism and the British Encounter with Tibet, 1774-1904 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press).

Teltscher, K. 2006 The High Road to China. George Bogle, the Panchen Lama and the First British Expedition to Tibet (London, Bloomsbury).

Waddell, L. A. 1906 Lhasa and its Mysteries, With a Record of the Expedition of 1903-1904 (London, Methuen & Co.).

Wang, Xiangyun 2000 The Qing Court’s Tibet Connection : Lcang skya Rol pa’i rdo rje and the Qianlong Emperor, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 60, 1, pp. 125-163.

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Tibetan Works Cited

Ngag-dbang bstan-’dzin phun-tshogs (original eighteenth-century compiler/ editor) 1979 Hor gling g.yul ’gyed (Xining, mTsho-sngon mi-rigs dpe-skrun-khang).

Sle-lung bZhad pa’i rdo-rje (1697-1740) Dag snang ge sar gyi gtam rgyud le’u (Pure Vision of the Gesar Tale (online at Tibetan Buddhist Resource Centre tbrc.org text ref. W22130). bSod-nams bstan-’dzin dpal-’byor (1761-) 1987 rDo ring paṇḍi ta’i rnam thar (smad cha) (Chengdu, Si-kron mi-rigs dpe-skrun-khang).

Sum pa mkhan po Ye shes dpal ’byor 1 (letters) Nang don tha snyad rig gnas kyi gzhung gi dogs gnas ‘ga’ zhig dris pa’i lan phyogs gcig tu bris pa rab dkar pa sangs, (online at Tibetan Buddhist Resource Centre tbrc.org text ref. W29227). Also found in modern reprint in gNa’ deng mkhas pa’i ge sar sgrung skor gyi gsung sgros gzi yi mgul rgyan (Beijing 2003, pp. 244-251) ; Also found in Damdinsuren, Ts. 1957, pp. 184-191.

Sum pa mkhan po Ye shes dpal ’byor 2 (autobiography) 2001 PaNDi ta sum pa ye shes dpal ’byor mchog gi spyod tshul brjod pa sgra ’dzin bcud len (Pe cin, Mi- rigs dpe-skrun-khang 2001.

NOTES

1. The Ge-sar epic is certainly an important part of eastern Tibetan popular culture, but it is not as central as the contemporary prominence of Ge-sar Culture might suggest. In a survey of 53 Tibetan students from Yul-shul, mGgo-log, rMa-Iho, mTsho-byang, mTsho-lho, and mTsho-nub prefectures studying at Qinghai Education College in Xining, only two said they had heard stories of Ge-sar, while for example, all of them said they had heard stories of Akhu bstan-pa. Kun mchog dge legs et al. 1999, p. 6. 2. Arguably Lenin’s greatest theoretical contribution to Twentieth century Socialism was his reconciliation in terms of the dialectic of “historical materialism”, of the apparently competing and incompatible claims of “nation” and “class” as the main protagonists in what has been characterised as the great 19th century debate on the “dramatis personae of history” (Gellner 1990). In his Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism, faced with the social reality that the Soviet revolution had inherited an empire, Lenin effectively elevated oppressed nationalities to an equivalent ideological status as oppressed classes. In so doing, he laid the bedrock for the early Soviet policies of “indigenisation” or korenizatsia whereby there were strict quotas for ‘native’ cadres in official posts and so on (Martin 2001). Thus was born the uneasy cohabitation of two streams in Soviet nationalities policies — on the one hand, a pressure towards uniformity through economic integration, while on the other, an emphasis on “national liberation” and the nurturing of local nationality cadres, and their distinct nationality cultures. In practice these two streams proved uneasy bedfellows, as attested to by the fluctuations in fortunes of advocates of “national cultures” in the Soviet Union from the 1930s, and then the rapid dissolution of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s on the very national lines constructed by Soviet policymakers. However, this set of paradoxes was one which was imported wholesale into the Chinese context in the early 1950s, and are still being played out today. 3. For general background on Qing cultural diplomacy for the incorporation of its Inner Asian empire see for example Rawski 1998 and Millward J. et al. (eds.) 2004. 4. On the complex cultural self-image of the Manchu Qing Dynasty, and its multi-ethnic “banners” see for example Rawski 1998, pp. 59-89, 197-201, 231-263.

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5. According to Damdinsuren (1957, p. 56) this version of the Ge-sar epic is said in Mongolia to have originally been written in around 1630 in the region of Kokonor, and this woodblock edition may have been overseen by the first “Grey-Willow” Hutuktu (lcang-skya hu-tuk-tu), Ngag-dbang blo-bzang chos-ldan (d. 1714). A German translation of this text was made by Schmidt in 1839 making it the first version of the Geser/Ge-sar epic to gain a western audience. An abridged English translation was made by Ida Zeitlin in 1927 (Zeitlin 1927). It is also now available in a new abridged English version as Ge-sar ! The Epic Tale of Tibet’s Great Warrior King Dharma Publishing 1995. 6. On the elevation and eventual deification of Guan-di from a relatively minor character in the Three Kingdoms (San guo shi) to a Imperial protector deity and then to a Republican-era Chinese National symbol by whom officers of the Republican period had to swear oaths of allegiance, see Prasenjit Duara’s excellent article on “Superscribing Symbols” : Duara 1988. On the Qing Dynasty merging of the Chinese cult of Guandi with the Tibeto-Mongol cult of Ge-sar in Central Tibet see Stein 1959, pp. 111-115 ; Roerich 1942, pp. 306-308 ; Hummel 1998, pp. 14-16. Travellers of the period noted many Ge-sar/Guandi temples in Mongolia. As a result there was an initial confusion among foreign scholars about the identities of these two figures. Das for example may be forgiven for having confused the two figures when he wrote that Ge-sar was a king in Shanxi (China) who later became a god of war (Das 1902, p. 224). For a fuller list of references on the merging of Ge-sar and Guan-di see Hummel 1998, pp. 14-16 note 10. 7. A ‘classic’ Ge-sar text which exemplifies this trend — i.e. in which the role of Padmasambhava is central to the epic plot —, is the “Lingstang xylograph” version published and translated by R. A. Stein in 1956, and recently published in full English translation by Kornman et al. (trans) 2012. 8. On this see the DPhil research of Cameron Bailey, Oxford University, to which I owe this information. 9. Sle-lung’s vision of Ge-sar took place in 1729 at his home monastery at ’Ol-dga’ in Lho-brag, southern Tibet, when Sle-lung was thirty-two years old. In these texts, Ge-sar carries the name rDo-rje tshe-rgyal, which was a form of Ge-sar which was taken on by ’Ju Mi-pham in the late 19th century and elaborated as a yi-dam (enlightened tutelary divinity) in Mi-pham’s voluminous corpus of ritual and meditative texts centered on the figure of Ge-sar. 10. This name, or this form, of Ge-sar as an object of ritual propitiation was later picked up on by the great ris med master ’Ju Mi-pham (1846-1912), who was responsible above all others for the elaboration of a Buddhist cult of Ge-sar as a tutelary (enlightened) divinity. On this see the work of Gregory Forgues. 11. rDo ring paṇḍi ta’i rnam thar, Volume 2 (smad cha). Chengdu. Si kron mi rigs dpe skrun khang, p. 1071. 12. In 1749, the two Manchu contrived the murder of the Tibetan ruler ’Gyur-med dbang- rgyal. As a result they were attacked by an angry Tibetan mob and both soon lost their lives. But the upshot of this political intrigue and drama, was a further strengthening of the Qing Military presence in the Tibetan capital. See Petech 1950a, pp. 213-18. 13. The Ge-sar/Guan-di temple in Lhasa was described by many visitors in the early 20th century. For example Waddell talked of the “Chinese temple of Ge-sar, the deified Mongol emperor of Siberia” and gave a plan of the temple (Waddell 1905, pp. 334, 40 no. 11). Roerich writing nearly forty years later, concurred that it was known as the “Chinese temple”(rgya-mi’i lha-khang) (Roerich 1942, p. 308). 14. In a short biography of the modern bard Grags-pa (1906-1986) for instance, it is stated that “in the times before Liberation, a bard, even if he was famous, had a very low status in society, similar to a butcher, a blacksmith or a shoemaker”. The same source gives the oft-cited saying in “traditional” Tibet that “if you want to waste your life, then read the false tales of Ge-sar” (mi tshe gtong zad dug tong na ge sar shob sgrung la ltos). See FitzHerbert 2010, p. 221. Numerous western

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scholars have confirmed this notion that Ge-sar was and is still frowned upon, but have identified the source of this negative attitude more narrowly as being a) a specifically dGe-lugs phenomenon (Samuel 2002 p. 179) and b) even more particularly, that the approbation of Ge-sar emanates specifically from ’Bras-spungs Monastery. Nebesky Wolkowitz suggested that the source of this disapproval of the epic at ’Bras-spungs concerned the figure of Pe-har — an important dGe-lugs protector, and a deity closely associated with the gNas-chung oracle. Pe-har, he argued, appears in various suggestive guises in the Ge-sar epic as the main god of several of Ge-sar’s enemies (Nebesky-Wojkowitz 1956, p. 101), so it would be inappropriate for monks to read Ge-sar and thus to be celebrating the downfall of Pe-har, since he as an important and revered protector deity. One prominent legend of Pe-har has it that he originally resided in the land of Bhata Hor as the deity gNam-the dkar-po, before being subdued by Padmasambhava and brought to bSam-yas monastery as a guardian of the treasures housed there. Well gNam-the dkar-po is the main deity of Ge-sar’s greatest adversary in the epic, King Gur-dkar of Hor. Associations have also been made between Pe-har and the main deities of other Ge-sar adversaries, including King Sa-dam of ’Jang and King Shing-khri of Mon. This reason for the prohibition of Ge-sar does not however seem to be made explicit to contemporary monks of ’Bras-spungs in India. They affirm that they enjoined not to read Ge-sar, but it seems, without any specific reasons given. Two former dGe-bshes from ’Bras-spungs both explained the prohibition to me in terms of Ge-sar representing a worldly cultural matrix that is considered rather unBuddhist, and also that the epic was dangerous on account of being “too interesting” — and potentially powerful distraction from more edifying scholarly pursuits. 15. Byams-pa gsang-bdag (Champasangta) was a primary informant for Rene de Wojkowitz’s Oracles and Demons of Tibet (1956), and for R. A. Stein’s Recherches sur le Barde et l’Épopée au Tibet (1959). That the Rwa-sgreng regent kept a personal Ge-sar bard, was also likely influenced by the association maintained between the holy mountain-deity of Rwa-sgreng, Phying-dkar-ba, and the holy mountain of A-mdo closely associated with Ge-sar, A-myes rma-chen. On this see Stein 1959, Buffetrille 2009. 16. For an informative treatment of Gonlung (dgon lung) monastery see Schram 1957, pp. 26-33. 17. 6th according to the tradition of Tashilhunpo, or 3rd according to Lhasa tradition. 18. The Gosains (written ’gu bzang in Tibetan in the Panchen’s biography) were a class of wandering Hindu monks-turned-traders, who came to dominate the trade between India and Tibet from around the 1730s (Petech 1950, pp. 334-335). In 1741 the Capuchin Beligatti, when describing a religious ceremony in Lhasa, observed “about 40 Azarra (ācārya), i.e. religious men from Hindustan, who are rich merchants, proceeding on horseback and wearing Chinese brocades” Magnaghi 1902, pp. 82-83, as cited by Petech 1950, p. 334. Bogle, in his journals, observed that around 150 Gosains were resident at Shigatse during his visit in 1774-1775. 19. In the letter, the Panchen states that : “the said Deh Terria [or Deb Rajah, effective ruler of Bhutan] is dependent upon the Dalai Lama, who rules in this country with unlimited sway, though, on account of his being yet in his minority, the charge and administration of the country, for the present, is committed to me.” Stewart 2009 p. 22, citing Lamb Bhutan and Tibet pp. 37-38. Lamb’s source in turn was Turner 1800 (1971) p. xi. The same letter is also published, in slightly different wording, by Markham 1876 (1999) pp. 1-3. The English translations were made via the medium of Persian from a Tibetan original, which might possibly still be held in Government of India archives in Calcutta. 20. According to Bogle, the Panchen had learned Hindi from his mother who was closely related to the royal house of Ladakh. For a recent treatment of Bogle’s mission to Tibet, see Stewart 2009. 21. Bogle met an envoy of this Raja during his stay at Tashilhunpo. For more on relations between him and the Panchen from Tibetan sources see Petech 1950, p. 336. 22. “From Dzalandhara in the western land of the auspicious tulsi plant”. 23. Sum-pa mkhan-po 2, p. 503.

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24. The Paṇ-chen’s journey to this birthday reception has been the subject of a very readable work of popular non-fiction : Telscher 2006. This book is based primarily on Margaret Loo’s translation (Loo 1970) of ’Jam-dbyangs bshad-pa’s biography of the, known as the Nyi ma ’od zer. 25. According to Qianlong’s inscription to commemorate founding of temple, the Xumifoushou miao “Sumeru temple” was modelled on Tashilhunpo. It was built to honour the Pan-chen’s arrival. See the articles and translations by Peter Zarrow, Anne Chayet and Nyima Dorje Ragnubs in Millward et al. (eds.) 2004. Also Chayet 1985. 26. Sum-pa’s autobiography — paṇḍi ta sum pa ye shes dpal ‘byor mchog gi spyod tshul brjod pa sgra ‘dzin bcud len. Pe cin 2001, p. 506. 27. The question as to whether Ge-sar was originally a Tibetan or a Mongolian legend is still unsettled, with the Buryats claiming Geser as an indigenous tradition, and some scholars looking for a Monguor source. Sum-pa’s assertion in this exchange of the tradition’s Tibetan origins is one of the bases on which the thesis of Tibetan origins is most widely accepted by scholars. 28. Referring to Sum-pa mkhan-po’s Chos-’byung dpag-bsam ljon-bzang. 29. This gter-ma text is the earliest textual attestation in Tibetan sources of legends concerning Gling Ge-sar. It was probably finally redacted around 1450 (see Stein 1962). This text is effectively the historical charter of the Rlangs clan who became rulers of Central Tibet in the mid 14th century as the Phag-mo-dru Dynasty. In it we find the 11th century ancestor of the Rlangs clan travelling to eastern Tibet where he encounters Ge-sar and his warriors, who are depicted as horse-traders. Clearly the Paṇ-chen lama has done some research on the question of Ge-sar’s historicity. 30. Words in brackets (aside from Tibetan) give the interlinear additions in the Tibetan text. 31. This description is very similar to that of the location of the birth as revealed in the “Lingtsang woodblock” version of the epic hero’s birth. This is a description of the geographical landmarks in the purported birth-place of Ge-sar at A-phyug, in the former domains of the kingdom of Gling-tshang, in modern sDe-dge county of mKhar-mdzes Tibetan , Sichuan Province. 32. Fol. 197, line 3. The modern Beijing reprint has the erroneous readings gzhi gnyan po and gom par tsha. 33. See discussion of this figure above. 34. The spellings given by Sum-pa of the names of the main characters in the epic are rather idiosyncratic by modern standards, but all clearly recognisable. These names of the hero’s human parents are normally rendered in more modern Eastern Tibetan texts as Seng-blon and ’Gog-bza’ respectively. 35. This is the famous sGrol-ma Temple at ’Dan-khog, just north of sDe-dge, on the banks of the ’Bri-chu River. 36. “placing a saddle”, normally a “neck-saddle” is a Tibetan idiom for political subjugation in a wide variety of contexts, ancient and modern. 37. Personal correspondence. 38. Beijing, 2003 pp. 244-251.

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ABSTRACTS

This article presents a full English translation of an influential exchange of letters on the subject of the Ge-sar Epic between two very senior figures in late 18th century Tibet. The letters were between the 6th Paṇ-chen bla-ma Blo-bzang dpal-ldan ye-shes (1738-1780), and the renowned dGe-lugs-pa scholar, historian, diplomat and lama Sum-pa mkhan-po Ye-shes dpal-’byor (1704-1788). The article explores the historical context of this correspondence on the eve of the Paṇ-chen’s visit to the Qing Imperial court on the occasion of Emperor Qianlong’s 70th Birthday. Seeing this exchange in its historical context reveals the significance of the Ge-sar epic in the late 18th century as an important site of Imperial cultural diplomacy between the Tibetan, Mongolian and Manchu worlds.

Cet article présente une traduction complète en anglais d’un échange de lettres concernant l’épopée de Ge-sar entre deux figures majeures de la fin du XVIIIe siècle au Tibet. Les lettres étaient entre la VIe Pan-chen bla-ma-Blo bzang dpal-ldan ye-shes (1738-1780) et le célèbre érudit, historien, diplomate et lama Sum-pa mkhan-po Ye-shes dpal-’byor (1704-1788). L’article explore le contexte historique de cette correspondance à la veille de la visite du Paṇ-chen à la cour impériale des Qing à l’occasion du 70e anniversaire de l’empereur Qianlong. L’étude de cet échange dans son contexte historique révèle l’importance de l’épopée de Ge-sar à la fin du XVIIIe siècle comme un sujet important de la diplomatie culturelle impériale entre les mondes tibétain, mongol et mandchou.

INDEX

Mots-clés: Gesar, épopée, Tibet Keywords: Gesar, epic, Tibet

AUTHOR

SOLOMON GEORGE FITZHERBERT Solomon George FitzHerbert is a Departmental Lecturer in Tibetan and Himalayan Studies at Oxford University

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rNgon-pa’i ’don… : A few thoughts on the preliminary section of a-lce lha- mo performances in Central Tibet1 rNgon-p’ai ’don… : Quelques réflexions au sujet de la section introductive des représentations d’a-lce-lha-mo au Tibet central

Isabelle Henrion-Dourcy

1 A-lce lha-mo, often simply called lha-mo, as it will be used hereafter, is generally translated in English as ‘Tibetan opera’. ‘Tibetan drama’ would arguably be a more suitable evocation of this style of performance, since it bears no resemblance to Chinese operatic forms and is more reminiscent of forms associated in the Western imagination with ‘Asian drama’. It is, amongst the traditional Tibetan performing arts the most established style, prevalent mainly in Central Tibet2. Its masks have become one of the most prominent visual icons for Tibet, especially mobilised in the tourism industry, yet this tradition has yet to receive serious scholarly attention.

2 The focus of this paper is the preliminary section of the performances commonly called rngon-pa’i ’don, ‘the exordium of the hunters’. Rather than the word ‘prologue’, which does not translate any Tibetan terminology nor corresponds to a real plot acted out before the main play, the terminology ‘preliminary section’ seems best suited. rNgon- pa’i don is a convenient simplification used by the actors to shorten the lengthy name given to this introduction. This name is actually a description of the three types of actions performed on stage : “the exordium of the hunters, the [calling] down of the blessings by the princes and the songs and dances of the goddesses” (rngon-pa’i ’don, rgya-lu’i byin-bebs, lha-mo’i glu-gar). Only the first action is mentioned, the other two being implied in an unspoken etcetera3. In this paper, after a sequential description of the actions performed by the actors, I will address two main issues : the ritual nature of this part of the performance and the significance of one particular play, Chos-rgyal Nor- bzang.

3 As in most traditional theatrical productions worldwide, lha-mo cannot be acted without an introductory piece. It is, with some minor variations, the same introduction

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throughout Central Tibet and whatever the main play to be performed, with the same three types of characters, similar dances and song themes. As one actor warned : “If you want to understand lha-mo, you have to understand the rngon-pa’i ’don first.” The preliminary section is more than just a series of songs and dances that bear no relationship with the main theme of the play. It is to be understood as the core of lha- mo : not that it is ‘central’ in the chronological unfolding of the performance (it opens the show), but it contains essential characteristics of lha-mo performances. Moreover, it is held by performers to be the historical origin of lha-mo.

4 The first discussions of the preliminary section are articles in Tibetan by Blo-bzang rdo-rje (1982, 1989, pp. 10-14) and in an English translation (Lobsang Dordje 1984, pp. 17-21). He mentioned the sequences of the preliminary section, part of the text sung by the actors and the terminology for a few movements, but he did not provide a general interpretation for the elements he collected. The Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts (TIPA) of Dharamsala has also published a leaflet in Tibetan, in which the author and TIPA artistic director Blo-bzang bsam-gtan (Bod kyi zlos-gar 1994) wrote down for the first time the whole text sung and recited by the actors during the preliminary section, following the oral tradition and performing style of one specific lha-mo troupe, the famed sKyor-mo-lung-ba troupe based in Lhasa. This TIPA leaflet does not, however, provide any interpretation of the meaning of the words uttered and actions performed. It has been translated into English by Henrion-Dourcy and Puchung Tsering (2001), with abundant annotations and explanations in footnotes. These textual elements of analysis will therefore not be presented again here. The approach chosen here is rather performative, in that I will look into the ritual aspect of the preliminary section, and I will also delve on the seminal role of one lha-mo play in particular in shaping this preliminary section. The four elements of analysis include : ideas about the history of lha-mo, the context of performances in place and time, the structural mould of the shows, and finally the three types of characters and their actions on the stage.

5 Whereas in the main part of the performance the actors strive to stick perfectly to the libretto, a written text called ’khrab-gzhung (“performance-text”),4 the preliminary section does not refer to a text, and was never written down. It was, and still is, passed down orally through the generations. TIPA’s leaflet (1994) is the first attempt to fix it on paper, and it is unknown in Tibet itself. On the whole, the lha-mo actors I interviewed in Central Tibet perform the set of lyrics, even after the near-twenty year ban that affected a-lce lha-mo in the sixties and seventies.

A look into the purported origins of lha-mo

6 There is no written track of the history of lha-mo. In the mist surrounding its origins, the consistent account is the well-known story of Thang-stong rgyal-po (1361-1485 ?5). He was both a scholar and an accomplished yogi (grub-thob). To my knowledge, none of his biographies6 has ever mentioned his involvement with lha-mo7. His role as ‘bodhisattva as artist’ (Gyatso 1984) seems to be a later construction. However, his application of the bodhisattva ideal to civil engineering is ascertained : he is credited with the construction of iron-chain suspension bridges all over the Tibetan plateau.

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Picture 1. Bridge attributed to Thang stong rgyal po

Katia Buffetrille (rTa dbang, 2009)

7 Tibetan oral tradition associates the beginning of lha-mo with the building of bridges. This is the purported origin of the theatrical genre, of its name, and of one of the three characters of the preliminary section. The story, though it has some variants,8 is well- known and need only be summarized here : Thang-stong rgyal-po lacked funds for building a bridge over the gTsang-po in Chu-shur, some 35 miles southwest of Lhasa. He devised a new begging technique by inviting some of his workers, seven cousins9 (spun- bdun), to put up a show mixing folk songs and dances with religious themes he was familiar with. The audience was so enthralled by the seven cousins’ performance that they likened them to goddesses (lha-mo) descended from the sky. As for the first term designating the drama tradition, a-lce (“elder sister”), it does not refer here to a strict kinship bond, but it merely denotes affection. A-lce lha-mo can therefore be understood as those “lovely goddesses”. Reliable historical materials are sorely needed to examine the historical plausibility of this story and the attributed paternity of the genre to Thang-stong rgyal-po.10 Actors pay homage to him in lha-mo performances by placing a statue of him on the stage’s altar and by singing praises to him in the preliminary section.

8 The origin of the second characters of the preliminary section, the princes (rgya-lu) is also considered to be contemporary to this unconventional yogi. As he was building another iron-chain bridge in bKra-shis-rste village, in the region of ’Jal-po-gong in Western Tibet, the elder household chiefs, supposedly called rgya-lu in that region, 11 enjoyed so much the goddesses’ show that they sprung up from the audience and improvised songs and dances in spite of their great age. Their extemporaneous performance is said to have been kept as an integral part of the preliminary section.

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9 The third characters of this section, the rngon-pa (ambivalently understood as “hunters” or “fishermen”) have come to epitomize lha-mo : their mask and their ample movements have actually become a hallmark for Tibetan performing arts as a whole, as much in Tibet as in exile. The oral tradition has not kept the story of their origin, but they are identical with characters of the Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang, which leads me to believe in the seminal role played by this story in retracing the genealogy of the hunters on the stage.

Picture 2. The three main types of characters of the preliminary section

Isabelle Henrion-Dourcy (Zhol pa troupe, Drak Yerpa, August 2013)

The importance of one lha-mo play in particular : Chos- rgyal Nor-bzang

10 Before describing the actual performance and the actions of the three characters, we have to introduce one lha-mo libretto in particular : Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang12 (“The dharmarāja Nor-bzang”). It is considered one of the first, if not the first ever, composed libretti of a-lce lha-mo, and the only one where the author is mentioned in the colophon : sDing-chen smyon-pa Tshe-ring dBang-’dus (Tshe-ring dBang’dus, “the Madman of sDing-chen”). He was a government official at the time of the Eighth Dalai Lama (1758-1804)13, chief of the district (rdzong-dpon) of Shel-dkar when he composed the libretto, sometime between 1770 and 1780 (Smith 2001, p. 176). It was thus written three centuries after the purported founding of lha-mo by Thang-stong rgyal-po. Since lha-mo’s history rests upon oral tradition, it is practically impossible to retrace its genealogy precisely, but given the fact that symbols and excerpts of the Chos-rgyal Nor- bzang story are important elements of the preliminary section, we can propose that this preliminary section, at least as it stands now, is posterior to Tshe-ring dbang-’dus’ composition of the lha-mo libretto.

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11 The story was actually well-known before the 18th c. : it is an adaptation of a famous jātaka, with the same hero Nor-bzang, found in the 64th chapter of the Āvadānakalpalatā (dPag-bsam ’khri-shing), composed by Kśemendra, and augmented by his son Somendra. The Tibetan translation of this work was achieved under the patronage of Si-tu Byang- chub rgyal-mtshan (1302-1364), and is found in the bsTan-’gyur of Beijing. Another version of this story can also be found in the Vinaya of Mulasarvastivadin (Panglung 1981, pp. 39-40).14 As is the case for the whole lha-mo repertoire, this version was recycling well-known literary elements that had been circulating in literate and folk circles for several centuries in the wake of the edification literature that spread on the Himalayan plateau.

12 I would like to propose that the popularity of this play, in this achieved form at the end of the 18th c., may have initiated a reshaping of the lha-mo performances’ preliminary section. Many informants have equated the rngon-pa, rgya-lu and lha-mo to respectively the hunter, the prince Nor-bzang and his bride Yid-phrog lha-mo (“Fascinating goddess”), three prominent characters of the beginning of this story (summarized below). It is also explicitly said so in the actors’ “talk” (kha-bshad15) uttered during the preliminary section. Moreover, the songs of the auspicious conclusion in the evening, at the very end of a performance (bkra-shis), are all excerpts from the same Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang libretto.

13 This story features a hunter, named Pang-leb ’dzin-pa (“the holder of the wooden board”16), who dwells near a lake where he sometimes fishes, hence his ambivalent status as a hunter or fisherman, just as the rngon-pa in the preliminary section of lha-mo (hereafter, rngon-pa will be simply translated as hunter). As he promised to protect the queen of the klu who live in the lake, he kills an evil magician who came to poison her. In gratitude, the queen of the klu gives him a magical lasso, which enables him to catch celestial beings. He entraps Yid-’phrog lha-mo, who happened to be bathing in a nearby lake. Nevertheless, he is advised to give her over to his prince Nor-bzang, who is a dharmarāja, the only human being deserving of such a celestial spouse.

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Picture 3. Chos rgyal Nor bzang

Isabelle Henrion-Dourcy (Zhos ton in Lhasa, August 2013)

14 This is merely the beginning of the libretto, but it is the only section that is of relevance to the rngon-pa’i ’don. The reference is not made to the story itself (it is neither told nor acted during the preliminary section), but only to the three main protagonists of the beginning of the play. They serve to characterise by their status and demeanour the ritual actions performed by the actors on the stage during the rngon-pa’i ’don. The three parts of the preliminary section will now be described below in separate sections, after an examination of the structural mould of the performances.

Setting of performances in time and space

15 In Central Tibet, lha-mo is usually played during the ’ong-bskor festivals (the circumambulation of the fields that precedes the harvesting). It is thus a key moment in the agricultural cycle, leading some Western observers17 to call the performances “harvest festivals”. It is a first indication of the relationship between lha-mo and prosperity, especially from the soil. However, lha-mo is played mainly in winter in Western Tibet, and is thought of as a begging device in the slack season. But the relationship with the soil is also established there, as they say that crops grow better where lha-mo has been performed.

16 Lha-mo is played in the day-time. The length of the preliminary section varies according to the time allotted to the whole performance. Until the nineteenth century, informants said that a single opera could take up to seven days, in which case the preliminary section would last for a whole day. Nowadays, as in pre-1959 Tibet, performances last for one day (about eight hours) and the preliminary section takes approximately one hour. When performances are shortened to a half-day, the preliminary section lasts for half an hour.

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17 In villages, lha-mo is played in an open space, in the middle or at the border of the village, often a threshing ground. It is also played in the courtyard of monastic or (before the 1950s) aristocratic dwellings, or on a formal stage during the “yoghurt feast” (zho-ston), the prominent festival held at the turn of the seventh lunar month in Lhasa, featuring numerous lha-mo performances to be delivered in front of the Dalai Lama and government officials (before 1959), or Lhasa city officials after the takeover from the People’s Republic of China (PRC).

18 Before the beginning of the performance, the altar (simply called “table”, sgrog-rtse) is prepared. It is not specific to lha-mo performances. It resembles household altars, such as the ones used during lay ceremonies like New Year (lo-gsar) and weddings. It is placed at the centre of the circular stage, next to the central pillar (ka-ba) holding the awning. It supports offerings and sacred images : the actors bring their statue18 of Thang-stong rgyal-po, which they place at the centre of the table, and an image of the astrological diagram (srid-pa-ho) which they hang high on the pillar. The sponsor of the performance brings all the rest : a gro-so phye-mar (wooden pail containing wheat on one side and roasted barley flour — rtsam-pa — on the other), with large lumps of butter, denoting affluence, in which he plants a few straws of fresh wheat and auspicious made of butter (rtse-gro) ; and two silver jars for the barley beer (chang), that have to remain empty in the Dalai Lama’s presence. To the central pillar, he attaches a wheat sheaf and a freshly cut willow sapling19 (lcang-ma), or sometimes juniper branches, with ceremonial scarves (kha-btags), and also a frame with religious icons like postcards of thang-ka and pictures of important lamas. He also lights a bunch of incense. All these offerings, around which the actors are going to dance during the whole day, are supposed to bring good luck (bkra-shis).

The structural mould of Tibetan performances

19 A recurring pattern can be seen amongst traditional performances of Tibet, such as a- lce lha-mo, bla-ma ma-ni, bro, ral-pa and bkra-shis zhol-pa : they are structured in three parts. First : the ’don, the introductory section to prepare the stage, designed to get rid of bad influences threatening the show and the community, often also comprising a taking refuge (skyabs-’gro) and a call for blessings. Second : the main part of the performance, called “text” (gzhung) for lha-mo, the story. And finally : the bkra-shis, the “auspicious” [conclusion] bringing wishes of prosperity to the sponsor or the honoured guest, and the whole community. This threefold partition parallels the three sections usually composing religious rituals (Kvaerne 1988, pp. 151-152)20 : the preparation (sngon-’gro), the ritual itself (dngos-gzhi), and the conclusion, generally a dedication of merit to all sentient beings (bsngo-ba). The three-part division (’don — gzhung — bkra- shis) can be considered the ritual structure of lha-mo performances, in the sense that it is a necessary and repetitive arrangement. It is unthinkable to act the main play without its usual introduction and conclusion. On the other hand, it is possible to play just the preliminary section and the auspicious conclusion, skipping the gzhung. It is actually quite a common occurrence : when the sponsor wishes so, or does not have time or financial means for a whole performance. The performance would then be called an “offering of songs” (gzhas-phud). This indicates how important this first section is, perhaps more important than the gzhung itself.

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20 Inside the preliminary section of lha-mo itself, we find again a triple division, where three types of characters perform their part one after another : five or seven hunters- fishermen (rgnon-pa), two princes (rgya-lu) and seven or nine goddesses (lha-mo), also called mkha’-’gro (dākinī), or rigs-lnga (associated with the Buddhas of the five families)21. After each of their respective part, all these characters end with a concluding auspicious prayer (chod-mtshams).

21 Let us now examine in turns each of the three parts of the preliminary section.

First : the hunters’ exordium

22 Late in the morning, the drums and cymbals call the audience to the stage by beating a special rhythm called “the drum signal” (rnga-brda). The stage is empty, except the youngest goddess waiting at the entrance holding out a five-coloured-arrow (mda’-dar). A second drum-beat warns the actors to get ready. After the third drum signal, the main hunter, the chief of the troupe, called “teacher” (dge-rgan) in lha-mo, comes onto the stage. He seizes the arrow from the goddess, lifts it over his head and shouts “Phyva-shog !” (“May luck come !”). In some troupes, the initial shout may take the sound of “Chos-chos !” (meaning unclear), “mChod-bzhes !” (“Please accept this offering !”), or even “mChod-zhig !” (“Let’s offer !”). He then leads onto the stage all the other hunters, who all carry their own arrow and who all shout the same cry upon arrival. They then all bow in respect. They move silently their bodies and their head adorned with a huge mask until the last hunter has reached the stage (gdong-ston, “to show the face”). In Western Tibet, if the teacher considers that the moment is not ripe, he thrusts all the actors into the backstage and they will all come back again onstage. Such an unsuccessful first appearance on the stage could never happen in the presence of the Dalai Lama, since no imperfection is allowed. The two other types of characters, the princes and the goddesses, enter the stage and stay discretely in the background as the hunters’ performance starts.

23 The hunters’ section is divided into four consecutive performance parts (’khrab-khyer) : 1- sa-sbyang (“cleansing the earth”, sometimes called sa-bcag, stamping the earth to make it smooth) ; 2- sa-’dul (“subjugating the earth”) ; 3- chas-sor22 (meaning unclear), possibly chas-gsol23 (“celebration of the origin”) ; and finally 4- chod-mtshams (“conclusion”).

24 The first two parts, the cleansing and the subjugation of the earth, refer to all the dance until the first sung aria (rnam-thar). The actors need to be solemn, fearless and strong. First : cleansing the earth (sa-sbyang). They walk slowly around the stage, pointing their arrow to the ground, while the teacher howls meaningless sounds (skad-stong, “empty sound”). During the whole hunters’ part, the only actor to sing is the teacher. The other ones support him in a chorus (ram-skyor). The teacher also recites some talks (kha- bshad) where he mentions the troupe’s joy at being there that day, and sends good wishes to all. References to animals are mentioned in this part : the skad-stong of the teacher is sometimes likened to the bellowing of a bull24 and the hopping jumps they make are called “bird walk (bya-’gros), alluding to the raven (pho-rog). Also, their spacious wild movements are referred to as “having the wings of the white vulture spread out” (bya thang-dkar rgod-po’i gshog-pa lding-ba). After a full stop and total silence, the actors start again : it is the subjugation of the earth (sa-’dul). They all spin round and the pace accelerates, which is supposed to level the ground and get rid of all the

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obstacles that might hinder further performance : it is supposed to get rid of the dust (that is also why they spread water on the stage before the start of the performance), and of the small stones. It is also said to prevent the subsequent dizziness of the actors, by making the first spins performed as fast and acrobatic as possible. They also agitate their arrows like swords fighting off invisible enemies, or making stylised gestures evoking the shooting of an arrow (mda’-’phen). This is designed to get rid of the potential malevolence of numina that could cause an accident on the stage. The teacher still howls sounds and the other actors shout loudly. The swirling accelerates in a mesmerising atmosphere. The teacher utters another talk (kha-bshad), they all stop, and the hunters bow in respect.

25 The teacher then starts the first lha-mo song (rnam-thar). It is an ode to nature, possibly the village where Thang-stong rgyal-po built his iron-chain bridge and created a-lce lha- mo. He praises the delicious smell of juniper incense pervading to the realms of the gods, and the sweetness of the voice of the pheasant. This aria ends the first two sections of the hunters’ exordium.

26 The last two sections of the hunters’ exordium, contrary to the first ones, rely only on the meaning of the rnam-thar performed, rather than on a performative action. There is a canon of songs common to all the lha-mo troupes I have interviewed in Tibet so far. As it would take over a day to sing the totality of the rnam-thar of the rngon-pa’i ’don, the teacher selects just one or two airs from each section. In the next section, for example, the chas-sor, the ritual of origin ( ?), the hunters say that they are proud to come from the three-layered realms of the gods (lha) above, the middle realm spirits (btsan) in the middle, and the naga (klu) below. Usually, just one of the origins (the realm of the lha above) is sung out, and the other two are omitted. There aren’t any special dance movements associated with this triple origin of the hunters. When it is finished, all the troupe carries out stereotyped interlude-dances that will be repeated throughout the whole lha-mo performance : a slow dance (dal-’khrab) or a fast dance (mgyogs-‘khrab). Then comes the conclusion (chod-mtshams), where the teacher sings that he wishes these songs and dances of the hunters will entice those who hear them towards the pure Dharma.

27 Let us now have a closer look at this rngon-pa character. As in the story Chos-rgyal Nor- bzang, he is ambiguously a hunter (rngon-pa) and/or a fisherman (nya-pa). His costume bears the symbolism of the latter : his mask is embroidered with shell fish and his belt with long tassels (thig-rag) looks like a fishing net and symbolises a row of fish hanging down from his waist to his feet. He is at the same time a killer and a protector of the klu, warrantors of the region’s prosperity and fertility25. The recurrent description of him is that he is an incarnation of Phya-nag rdo-rje (Vajrapāni), “the one who wields the vajra”, personifying power, protection26 and even fierceness in the Buddhist pantheon. Dark blue is his colour, as for the hunter’s mask27. This colour symbolises violence and heroism (Blo-bzang rdo-rje 1989, p. 23). Their jacket is striped in black and white (although multi-coloured stripes are nowadays more common), and it symbolises the separation between white (positive) karma and black (negative) karma.

28 This characterisation of the hunter may help us understand the meaning of the word ’don, applied to his actions. It does not imply the “monotonous recitation of a text” (Das 1992, p. 694 ; Ellingson 1979, p. 150), as is the case for religious ’don. There isn’t any such text here. Das (ibid.) further gives for ’don “to cause to come out, to expel”. The hunters’ task is to “cleanse and subjugate the earth”28 (sa-sbyang, sa-’dul), a seizure

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which involves fierceness, conferred to them by their costume, their identification to both Vajrapāni and Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang’s hunter, as well as their songs, but not clearly something to “come out”. Rather than translation ‘exhortation’ (Lobsang Dordje 1984), I propose the word ‘exordium’, to encompass at once a plurality of meanings : that of ‘out’ [ex], ‘beginning’ [ordiri] and ‘discourse preparing an audience for a main recitation’29. It is a call for something to come out, although no informant so far has clarified whether it is for the rest of the performance to come out, or for the spirit entities residing at that place to be warned and pacified. It is also unclear whether sa- bdag, klu, bdud30 or other numina are addressed here.

29 At the end of their section, the hunters join hands and bow again. The youngest goddess31 goes round all the hunters to gather their arrow and plants them in the pail of wheat on the altar. Every hunter utters a talk (kha-bshad) and then the teacher invites the remaining characters on the foreground of the stage : the two princes (rgya- lu) and the (often seven, sometimes nine) goddesses (lha-mo).

Second : the call of blessings by the princes

30 Contrasting with the hunters’ wild movements, the princes, a senior and a junior one, embody the self-control and wisdom of elder responsible household chiefs. Their dance movements are adapted to their great age and moral standing : reserve and solemnity. They quiet down the hunters’ excitement, for example when they tease the princes for their old men’s manners, or the goddesses for their erotic appeal. Their part is called “the [calling] by the princes for blessings to come down” (rgya-lu’i byin-’bebs). It comprises a ceremonious dance (also called byin-’bebs) where they move in a straight line backwards and forwards (they are the only characters not to circle around the stage), holding their walking stick (od-ma) horizontally and transmitting blessings to the earth.

31 After the hunters’ cleansing, the performance space is ready for the princes to call blessings onto the stage. Contrary to the religious rituals where the term byin-’beb appears, it is not preceded in this secular context by a specific invitation (spyan-’dren) of deities, who would be generated (bskyed) by the officiants32. The princes merely sing praises to major Buddhist treasures : the Buddha, the Dalai Lama, the major pilgrimage sites of Tibet and the head lamas of important monasteries, as well as Thang-stong rgyal-po. They also sing about their happiness to be there that day, and the beauty of their country. This section comprises a series of rnam-thar, which are considered by Tibetans the most beautiful of the preliminary section, if not of the whole of lha- mo.These songs require a stunning beautiful voice, so it is generally the eldest prince, vice-teacher of the troupe, who sings that part. It embodies the melodic offering (mchod-dbyangs) par excellence. These are actually the words they use in most of the rgya-lu airs : mchod-dbyangs ’bul-lo (“[to the Buddha, the Dalai Lama,...] I present this melodic offering”). Meanwhile, the goddesses spin their arms in gracious offering movements (phyag-’bul, “offering of the hands”), typically acting out a female dance (mo-’khrab) which, according to informants, is likened to the spinning of a rosary (’phreng-ba bskor-ba) or to the traditional activity of spinning wool (bal-las, sPen-rdor 1990, p. 28). As was the case in the hunters’ section, the various rnam-thar are separated by interlude-dances carried out by the whole troupe, and the princes conclude their part with a conclusion (chod-mtshams).

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32 As for the characterisation of the rgya-lu, their name means “prince” (Bod-rgya tshig- mdzod chen-mo, p. 538), conferring to them a dignified charisma (see note 11). The dress they wear is supposedly the ancient dress of the old people of Western Tibet, with no belt. Their distinctive mark is their huge and round yellow hat, ’bog-chen or ser-chen ’bog-tho (“big ‘bog-tho”, an artistic magnification of the hat worn by pre-1959 Tibet government officials).33 The lha-mo troupe from gCung Ri-bo-che, one of the four main troupes of pre-1959 Tibet, has been awarded by the 13th Dalai Lama the privilege to wear a smaller white hat, ar-kong (or ar-kon), like that worn by the government officials (drung-’khor) during their parade at the time of New Year, when they had to wear the purportedly ancient rgya-lu-chas (costume of the princes of imperial Tibet) (Richardson 1993, pp. 14-17). Together with the fact that the princes of Tibetan opera are often equated with the dharmarāja Nor-bzang, this confirms their attributes of power, solemnity and dignity. They embody the law, the perfect behaviour, necessary for their task of calling for blessings to come down. Both of the actors who play the role of the princes must have a good heart (sems bzang-po). But the princes of Tibetan opera are not young and forceful like Nor-bzang or the officials for the New Year celebrations. They are played as old men with slowed down movements. A further discrepancy with the libretto is that, in the story, Yid-’phrog lha-mo is married to Nor-bzang, but no goddess has this special relationship with any prince.

Third : the songs and dances of the goddesses

33 Then comes the time for the goddesses to introduce themselves : one after another, and with much teasing on the part of the hunters, they spin around the stage in a clockwise circle, like all the dances performed in a-lce lha-mo. This particular spin is called, “the circumambulation of the sacred/soul lake34 Pema” (mtsho-chen Padma bla-mtsho’i mtsho- bskor). This alludes to the Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang libretto. The goddesses need to be gracious and charming. They are followed by similar but more acrobatic tumbling movements by the hunters called “big jumps” (’phag-chen), with their bodies on a horizontal plane and their legs thrown over towards the sky. The whole goddesses’ part is called “the songs and dances of the goddesses” (lha-mo’i glu-gar). After the cleansing of the stage by the hunters, and the call of blessings upon it by the princes, the goddesses celebrate the success and joy of the event by offering their songs and dances. When it is their turn to sing, they stretch down the paper rainbow that falls from their crown to their ears. Several explanations have been given : they descend from heaven on a rainbow to deliver their song (rnam-thar) ; they listen to the invisible ; as for Milarepa and the epic bards, their gesture “expresses (...) receiving revelations from the gods, (...) inspiration, both religious and poetic, and symbolises at the same time the oral transmission” (Stein 1987, p. 193). Their first song is their most famous aria : the six-syllable mantra Om Mani Padme Hum. They can also sing, depending on the songs selected, prayers to Thang-song rgyal-po, their fascination for the Buddha’s teachings and the holy scriptures, and also lyrics with reference to the Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang play. The customary procedure for their singing is to start from the bottom of the row, with the least experienced actor/actress, and move up step by step with each song until the last goddess in the row, the most experienced one, sings the conclusion (chod-mtshams). This hopping process is called “the ascent of the staircase of auspiciousness” (bkra-shis them-pa yar-’dzegs).

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34 The goddesses of Tibetan opera are characterised along the lines of the Chos-rgyal Nor- bzang play : they represent the goddesses of the three superposed realms bathing in the lake where the hunter caught Yid-’phrog lha-mo. The two goddesses coming from the klu wear a green shirt under their dress, colour of the water where these creatures live. They also sing a lha-mo song (rnam-thar) excerpted from the Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang libretto, where they identify themselves with a klu-mo. The two goddesses from the middle btsan level wear a red shirt, for the btsan are violent and are attributed a red colour. Finally, the two goddesses coming from the upper realm of the gods (lha) wear a blue shirt, evoking the sky. The last goddess, the most experienced one, chooses the colour of his/her shirt and is equated to Yid-’phrog lha-mo. The designation “five families” (rigs-lnga) applied to these characters, refers to the ’phrog-zhu, the five-part- crown with the Dhyani Buddhas that they wear on their heads. They are also called “the dākinīs of the five directions” (mkha’-’gro sde-lnga), associated with the five Dhyani Buddhas. The other occurrences where such a crown is worn like a cosmic mandala on the head are with spirit mediums (lha-pa, lha-mo) and during monks’ tantric rituals. Yid-’phrog lha-mo, as performed in the libretto Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang, does not have such a head ornament.

35 After the goddesses’ performance, and another interlude-dance performed by the whole troupe, the preliminary section is finished. The teacher summarises the main story that will be played (gzhung), sets the plot and invites the first character of the play to come onto the stage.

Conclusion

36 Lha-mo performances display ritualised features 35. First, they follow a patterned structure : they are divided in three consecutive parts (’don, gzhung, bkra-shis). So the preliminary section ’don is the necessary preparation before the main libretto (gzhung) is acted out. Wishes of prosperity are sent to everyone at the end of the show (bkra- shis). Because this drama play tells of the holy deeds of a bodhisattva, it cannot be told on a mundane ground. The purpose of the preliminary section is to provide an appropriate setting to the performance. A mundane space, where every day profane activities happen, needs to be transformed into a sacred performance space suitable to receive a holy story. This is the second ritualised aspect of lha-mo performances. Three characters carry out this transformation. First, the hunters cleanse and subjugate the earth, subduing the possibly malevolent entities that might harm the performance and the community. The stage is then cleared, but needs the second characters, the princes, to call blessings upon it, by making pure melodic offerings to holy men and holy places. Finally, the stage receives the charming songs and dances of the otherworldly goddesses. The dramatised “transformation of space” (Schrempf 1999) carried out in the preliminary section of lha-mo has common themes with other Tibetan religious rituals36, but without their esoteric aspects. This preliminary section is not explicitly meant for the transformation of consciousness of the performers, nor develop their own spiritual powers.

37 Finally, the ritualised features of this preliminary section can also be understood in a relationship with the community where it is performed. It is clear from the altar, from the time of the year when it is performed (key moments of the agricultural cycle), and for the evocation of the klu (connected with treasures, amongst which the fields’

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fertility) in the preliminary section, that lha-mo performances are connected with the place’s prosperity. In gTsang, lha-mo performers say that there are better harvests on the soil where lha-mo has been performed. It doesn’t have a curing effect in case of calamities, but it simply has a propitiatory character : it is an offering. What is hoped for in return is the prosperity, peace and general well-being for the place and the people, as it is wished in the bkra-shis. The whole performance (’don, gzhung, bkra-shis) is actually seen as an offering : pleasing through entertainment. But who are the recipients of this offering ? Information is discordant, but tries not to miss anyone out : the spirits of the three superposed realms (the lha above, the btsan in the middle, and the klu below), possibly the soil’s owners (sa-bdag), but also emphasize the appeal to blessings (byin-rlabs) from the buddhas, bodhisattvas and religious teachers. During the gzhung, the audience is expected to take refuge in the moral virtues and spiritual faith of the heroes depicted.

38 In a general interpretation, a-lce lha-mo, and especially its preliminary section, is a propitiation ceremony for the general wellbeing of the place where it is performed. As everywhere on the Tibetan plateau, this quest is two-pronged : it needs not only the quelling or pleasing of the worldly (‘jig-rten) spirits, but also the blessings of the representatives of the Dharma.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

In Tibetan

Blo-bzang rdo-rje 1982 Bod kyi lha-mo’i zlos-gar gyi sgyu-rtsal skor gleng-ba, Nyi-gzhon, 1, pp. 76-85. 1989 Bod kyi lha-mo’i zlos-gar gyi sgyu-rtsal skor gleng-ba, in ’Phrin-las chos-grags (ed.), Bod kyi lha-mo’i zlos-gar gyi ’khrab-gzhung phyogs-bsgrigs kun-phan bdud-rtsis char-’bebs zhes-bya bzhugs-so (lHa-sa, Bod-ljongs mi-dmangs dpe-skrun-khang), pp. 1-29.

Hor-khang bsod-nams dpal-’bar 1991 Lha-mo’i gzhung brgyad kyi khungs bstan-pa ’phrul gyi rgyangs-Shel, Bod-ljongs sgyu-rtsal zhib-’jug, 2, pp. 1-13.

Karma smon-lam & sKal-bzang mkhas-grub 2005 Bod zhva brgya yin go sprod (Dharamsala, Bod gzhung shes rig las khung, Pha yul phyogs bsgrigs deb pheng 16).

Lhalungpa Lobsang P. 1962 ’Dzin grva dang po’i slob deb - Tibetan Reader 1 Primary School Textbook (W. G. Kundeling on behalf of His Holiness the Dalai Lama).

sPen-(pa) rdo-r(je) 1990 Bod kyi lha-mo’i ’byung-khungs dang ’phel-rim sgyu-rtsal gyi khyad-chos skor la dpyad-pa, Bod-ljongs sgyu-rtsal zhib-’jug, 2, pp. 24-68.

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Bod-kyi zlos-gar (the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts), Blo-bzang bSam-gtan, & Nor-bu tshe- ring (eds.) 1994 rNgon-pa’i ’don dang rgya-lu’i byin-’bebs lha-mo’i glu-gar bkra-shis mchod-mtshams bcas kyi ’khrab- gzhung (Dharamsala, TIPA).

Zhol-khang bsod-nams dar-rgyas 1992 Glu gar tshangs-pa’i chab-rgyun (lHa-sa, Bod-ljongs mi-dmangs dpe-skrun-khang).

In Western languages

Blondeau, A. M. & S. G. Karmay 1988 Le cerf à la vaste ramure. En guise d’introduction, in A. M Blondeau et K. Schipper (éd.), Essais sur le rituel I. (Louvain/Paris, Peeters), pp. 119-146.

Cantwell, C. 2005 The earth ritual : subjugation and transformation of the environment”, Revue d’études tibétaines, 7, pp. 4-21.

Das, S. C. 1992 Tibetan-English Dictionary (Delhi, Book Faith). dPal mo skyid 2013 The ‘Descent of Blessings’ : Ecstasy and revival among the Tibetan communities of Reb gong, Asian Highland Perspectives, 28, pp. 25-79.

Ellingson, T. J. 1979 ’don rta dbyangs gsum : Tibetan chant and melodic categories, Asian Music, 10, 2, pp. 112-156.

Gardner, A. 2005-2006 The Sa chog : Violence and veneration in a Tibetan soil ritual, Études mongoles, sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines, 36-37, pp. 283-324. URL : http://emscat.revues.org/1068 ; DOI : 10.4000/emscat.1068

Gyatso, J. 1986 Thang-sTong rGyal-po, father of the Tibetan Drama tradition : the Bodhisattva as artist, in Jamyang Norbu (éd.), Zlos-gar (Dharamsala, Library of Tibetan Works and Archives), pp. 91-104.

Henrion-Dourcy, I. & Tsering Puchung 2001 ‘Script of the exordium of the hunters, the bringing down of blessings of the princes, the songs and dances of the goddesses, and the auspicious conclusion’, by Lobsang Samten, in Lungta, Journal of Tibetan history and culture, 15 (“The singing mask : Echoes from Tibetan opera”), pp. 61-96.

Henrion-Dourcy I. 2015 Ache Lhamo : Jeux et enjeux d’une tradition théâtrale (Kyoto/Louvain, Mélanges chinois et bouddhiques/Peeters).

Jamyang, N. 1984 The story of Prince Norsang - a Tibetan folk opera, Tibetan Review, 19, 4, pp. 12-15.

Kahlen, W. 1990 Thang-stong rGyal-po, a Leonardo of Tibet, in M. Brauen & C. Ramble (éd.), An International Seminar on the Anthropology of Tibet and the Himalayas (Zürich, Museum of Ethnology of the University of Zürich), pp. 138-150.

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Kvaerne, P. 1988 Le rituel tibétain, illustré par l’évocation, dans la religion bon-po, du ‘Lion de la parole’, in A. M. Blondeau et K. Schipper (éd.), Essais sur le rituel I (Louvain/Paris, Peeters), pp. 147-158.

Lobsang, D. 1984 Lha-mo, the folk opera of Tibet, Tibet Journal, 9, 2, pp. 13-22.

Panglung, J. L. 1981 Die Erzählstoffe des Mulasarvastivada-Vinaya analysiert auf grund der Tibetischen Übersetzung (Tokyo, The Reiyukai Library).

Pema, D. 1986 Prince Nhosang (Leiden, Parallax).

Richardson, H. 1993 Ceremonies of the Lhasa year (London, Serindia).

Roerich, N. 1932 The ceremony of breaking the stone. “Pho-bar rdo-gcog’” Urusvati 2, pp. 25-51.

Schrempf, M. 1999 Taming the Earth, controlling the Cosmos : transformation of space in Tibetan Buddhist and Bonpo ritual dance, in T. Huber (éd.), Sacred spaces and powerful places in Tibetan culture : a collection of essays (Dharamsala, Library of Tibetan Works and Archives), pp. 198-224.

Smith, E. G. 2001 Among Tibetan texts. History and literature of the Himalayan Plateau (Boston, Wisdom Publications).

Snellgrove, D. 1987 Indo-Tibetan Buddhism (London, Serindia).

Stein, R. A. 1959 Recherches sur l’épopée et le barde au Tibet (Paris, PUF). 1987 La Civilisation tibétaine (Paris, L’Asiathèque).

Tashi, Ts. 2001 Reflections on Thang stong rgyal po as the founder of the a lce lha mo tradition of Tibetan performing arts, Lungta, Journal of Tibetan history and culture, 15 (“The singing mask : Echoes from Tibetan opera”), pp. 36-60. 2007 On the dates of Thang stong rgyal po, in R. N. PRATS (éd.), The Pandita and the Siddha : Tibetan studies in honour of E. Gene Smith (Dharamsala, Amnye Machen Institute), pp. 268-278.

NOTES

1. This is an updated version of the paper delivered at the 8th Seminar of the International Association for Tibetan Studies (Bloomington, Indiana, July 25th-31st 1998). Thanks are due to Katia Buffetrille, Fernand Meyer and Nicolas Sihlé for the stimulating suggestions they then provided. This article relies on data collected in Tibet in 1996-1997, thanks to a scholarship provided by the Belgian National Fund for Scientific Research (FNRS). Given the rapid changes affecting this drama tradition in Tibet, including the way in which it is portrayed in official discourse, this publication of old research materials aims at providing grounds for a discussion on the main symbolic elements of a-lce lha-mo. The analysis carried out in this paper is based on data gathered among three main amateur troupes in Central Tibet : in Lhasa, rGyal-mkhar Chos-

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rdzong, and gCung Ri-bo-che. These places hosted the most famous lha-mo troupes in pre-1950s Tibet. The official Tibetan Autonomous Region lha-mo troupe (Bod-ljongs lha-mo tshogs-pa), based in Lhasa, also performs ‘traditional plays’, i.e. based on traditional librettos. This troupe has undertaken many reforms in style and content, shortening the preliminary section to a mere five-minute evocation. This troupe’s performing style won’t therefore be taken into consideration here. 2. This dramatic tradition also exists, though in a much simpler form, in peripheral regions, most notably among Mon-pa communities (in the mTsho-sna district in the Tibetan Autonomous Region, in the rTa-dbang district in Arunachal Pradesh in India, and also in Me-rag Sag-steng in Bhutan), among Sherdukpen (gSher-stug-spen) communities (also in Arunachal Pradesh) and in Limi (in Humla district, Nepal). A-lce lha-mo has also disseminated at a later stage (late 19th c. and first half of the 20th c.) from Lhasa to some and locations, through lamas from these regions who had to come to Lhasa for their studies and brought elements of lha-mo back to their native regions. On all these peripheral traditions of Tibetan drama, see Henrion-Dourcy (2015). 3. This is why an ellipsis was added after the name of the hunters’ section in the title of this article. 4. The ‘khrab-gzhung consists in the adaptation for the stage of a rnam-thar (“full liberation”), a term usually used for the spiritual biography of high lamas. Even when illiterate, lha-mo performers and spectators consider the theatrical text sacred, because it is a written account of a bodhisattva’s deeds. The words of this text, in themselves, are imbued with power and blessings, as is documented for Buddhist texts throughout the Tibetan plateau. 5. The dates of Thang-stong rgyal-po’s lifespan are subject to debate among Tibetologists. I am following here Stearns (2007, pp. 11-14) and Gyatso (1986, pp. 92-93, 102-103), who also discuss alternative birth and death dates, as well as Zhol-khang (1992, p. 13). Tashi Tsering (2007) has discussed at length both the longevity practices attributed to the saint and the hypothesis that his death was concealed for a long time for political reasons. 6. See especially Tashi Tsering (2001, 2007) and Stearns (2007), who have listed and analysed many biographies of Thang-stong rgyal-po. 7. Zhol-khang bSod-nams dar-rgyas (1992, p. 13) claims that he saw more than fifty years ago a Tibetan book (dpe-cha) kept in the monastery of Chu-bo-ri, where Thang-stong rgyal-po built his supposedly first iron-bridge : this dpe-cha was the biography of the grub-thob, written by his seventh reincarnation, thus approximately three hundred years after Thang-stong rgyal-po’s death. Approximate references : Grub-thob sku-phreng bdun-pa bsTan-‘dzin ye-shes lhun-‘grub, Thang-stong rgyal-po’i skyes-rabs. This biography, if it did exist, is now lost, since the monastery has been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. Zhol-khang writes that this text firmly established Thang-stong rgyal-po as the founder of a-lce lha-mo, along with the exact dates and events that surrounded this creation. 8. The story told by bkra-shis zhol-pa performers who also play a somewhat lesser tradition of a-lce lhamo (see Pema Dundrup 1996, e.g.) doesn’t mention the seven cousins, for example, but the goddess Tāra (sGrol-ma). 9. The informants interviewed consistently said that the seven cousins were women, although lha-mo as it was observed in the 20th c. was played chiefly by male actors (Richardson 1993, p. 98), but not solely so. Whether Thang-stong rgyal-po’s bridge workers were male or female is impossible to verify. One could imagine that the workers-performers were males, that they crossed dressed as females and that the result was likened to “goddesses”, yet such an interpretation would be impossible to ascertain. However, an intriguing entry to the Mongolian scholar dGe-bshes Chos-grags’s dictionary (composed in 1949, so more than five centuries after Thang-stong rgyal-po), goes along similar lines : “a-chi lha-mo [sic.] : men wearing female clothes” (mentioned in Tashi Tsering, 2001, p. 47). 10. Tashi Tsering (2001) offers the most comprehensive discussion on this topic.

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11. I asked whether such a terminology did exist when I went to gCung Ri-bo-che, in the same area. All informants denied any colloquial use for the term rgya-lu and reserved it to lha-mo. The story comes from lha-mo actors and fans in Lhasa. 12. The full title is Chos kyi rgyal-po Nor-bu bzang-po’i rnam-thar phyogs-bsgrigs byas-pa thos-chung yid kyi dga’-ston, “The story of the dharmarāja Nor-bu bZang-po, a feast for the minds of the lowly educated [i.e. the common people]”, but it is most well-known under its short title Chos-ryal Nor- bzang. It is surprising that, given the importance of this libretto, it has never been translated into Western languages. The available version in English (Pema Dundhrup 1996) is not based on Tshe- ring dbang-’dus’ text, but on the text performed by a troupe of bkra-shis zhol-pa. This type of performing style has been renamed, after the Chinese take-over, and probably to follow Chinese- style folklore writings, ”white mask lha-mo” (’bag dkar-po’i lha-mo), referring to the colour of the hunters’ masks, by contrast with the blue masks worn by the troupes who perform the more elaborate style of a-lce lha-mo described in the present paper. 13. Hor-khang 1991, Blo-bzang rdo-rje 1989. 14. This information was kindly brought to my attention by Pr. Fernand Meyer. 15. Kha-bshad : “talk, gossip” (Das 1992, p. 136), but in a lha-mo context, it refers to set utterances in a sentential tone, often comments that are more or less improvised, but are not always comic, and are not considered as belonging to the performance 16. No informant or scholar has so far been able to explain the meaning of this name. 17. See Duncan M., Harvest Festival Dramas of Tibet. Hong Kong : Orient Publishing Co., 1955 ; and Duncan M., More Harvest Festival Dramas of Tibet. Londres : The Mitre Press, 1967. In Kham, he observed that these performances were called dbyar-gnas-’cham (summer retreat dances) but, in Central Tibet, no lha-mo performance is evoked by a seasonal terminology. 18. It can also be a (painted scroll) depicting him, as is often the case nowadays, but Tibetans tend to think that bla-ma ma-ni should carry , and lha-mo actors should carry statues. No specific explanation was gathered so far. 19. Michael Aris kindly mentioned to me in 1998 that it is necessary to enshrine the srid-pa-ho diagram in green leaves for its efficiency. 20. This parallelism was occasionally underlined by the actors themselves, only if they had had previous monastic education. It is not a common view amongst lha-mo amateurs. 21. These figures for characters are ideal. They are often adapted to the available number of performers present that day. 22. Blo-bzang rdo-rje 1989, and all the informants’ oral information. I haven’t managed to find a satisfying explanation for this term chas-sor. Chas : to depart, to set forth, to start (Das, p. 412), but sor does not have a clear meaning here (Bod-rgya tshig-mdzod chen-mo, 2963-2965). The only other occurrence of this term is for the entrance of the butchers (shan-pa) in the main part of lhamo plays (gzhung) : it is also called chas-sor (in the ‘Gro-ba bZang-mo and gZugs kyi Nyi-ma lha-mo plays). 23. Lhalungpa 1962, p. 3. 24. Informants from rGyal-mkhar lha-mo troupe. See also sPen-rdor 1990, p. 28. 25. In the play Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang, the Northern country is prosperous because it made offerings to the klu, and the southern country suffers famine because it didn’t. 26. The Encyclopedia Britannica, vol. 12 p. 235, mentions that Vajrapāni is believed to be the protector of the nagas (klu), but D. Snellgrove does not mention anything about this particular aspect of his protection. (1987, pp. 135-141, 175-176). 27. Whereas the actors of bkra-shis zhol-pa, another yet related performing style of Central Tibet, describe their mask in their songs, the rngon-pa don’t describe the meaning of their mask in what they sing. See Stein 1987, p. 193 for the Gesar epic’s bards’ description of their hats. 28. See Cantwell (2005) and Gardner (2006) for a detailed presentation of such a ritual when carried out in a religious context.

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29. Exordium : “a beginning ; an introduction ; especially, the introductory part of a discourse or written composition, which prepares the audience for the main subject ; the opening part of an oration” (Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary). 30. The mythological theme of taming a malevolent spirit (bdud) with/by a performance is a recurrent one : for example with dance (bro) during the foundation of bSam-yas monastery or with various shows during Lhasa’s yoghurt feast (zho-ston). 31. The reason for this task to be given to the youngest goddess is the fact that this actor/actress is the latest recruit of the troupe, and so can be sent about on various odd jobs by all members of the troupe. Moreover, outside the context of performances, the latest recruits would prepare the tea and the meals for the troupe, and observe the usual precedence rules of the elders. 32. See dPal mo skyid (2013, pp. 39-43) for a discussion of byin-’bebs in the context of a religious dance (‘chams) of the Bon-po tradition. She also gives photographs (pp. 40, 41, 53) of lay audience members, mostly women, who fell into what she calls “ecstatic trance” upon receiving these byin-’bebs blessings generated by the presence of the main deity. 33. For an overview of Tibetan hats, see Karma smon-lam & sKal-bzang mkhas-grub 2005. 34. Bla-mtsho, “soul lake”, refers to a lake considered to be the support of the life-spirit of a deity. 35. All Tibetans interviewed have rejected the terms cho-ga or rim-gro (Blondeau & Karmay 1988, p. 125), that are the most usual terms translated as ‘ritual’, as appropriate in the context of lha- mo performances. Lha-mo does not have that level of seriousness nor efficiency. 36. See Cantwell 2005, Gardner 2005, Schrempf 1999, Blondeau & Karmay 1988, Kvaerne 1988.

ABSTRACTS

The purpose of this paper is to provide a structural and performative analysis of the preliminary section of the a-lce lha-mo (Tibetan drama) performances as they are held in Central Tibet. Three types of characters take to the stage successively and carry out specific actions destined to prepare the ground for the main part of the performance. First, the hunters stamp and subjugate the earth. Second, the princes call for blessings, and third, the goddesses index the otherworldly nature of the performance ground by their songs and dances. The ritual nature and the symbolism of each of these three characters is analysed, underlying the significance of one lha- mo play in particular, Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang.

Le propos de cet article est de fournir une analyse structurelle et performative de la section introductive des représentations d’a-lce lha-mo (théâtre tibétain) au Tibet central. Trois types de personnages effectuent tour à tour sur scène des actions spécifiques destinées à préparer l’espace scénique pour la pièce principale. D’abord, les chasseurs piétinent et soumettent la terre. Ensuite, les princes appellent des bénédictions. Enfin, les déesses accomplissent par leurs chants et leurs danses la transformation de l’espace en un lieu hors de ce monde. La nature rituelle et le symbolisme de ces trois personnages sont analysés, en montrant l’apport significatif de la pièce Chos-rgyal Nor-bzang.

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INDEX

Mots-clés: Tibet, théâtre, section introductive, rituel, soumission de la terre, chasseur, prince, déesse Keywords: Tibet, drama, preliminary section, ritual, earth subjugation, hunter, prince, goddess

AUTHOR

ISABELLE HENRION-DOURCY Isabelle Henrion-Dourcy est professeure agrégée au département d’anthropologie de l’Université Laval à Québec. Ses sujets principaux de recherche sont les arts du spectacle et les médias dans les communautés tibétophones tant au Tibet qu’en exil. Ses publications incluent 2015 Ache Lhamo : Jeux et enjeux d’une tradition théâtrale tibétaine (Kyoto/Louvain, Mélanges chinois et bouddhiques/Peeters) ; 2013 Easier in exile ? Comparative observations on doing research among Tibetans in Lhasa and Dharamsala, in Sarah Turner (ed.), Red stamps and gold stars : Fieldwork dilemmas in upland socialist Asia (Vancouver, University of British Columbia), pp. 201-219 ; et 2012 Une rupture dans l’air : La télévision satellite de Chine dans la communauté tibétaine en exil à Dharamsala (Inde), Anthropologie et Sociétés, 36 : 1-2 (“MédiaMorphoses : la télévision, quel vecteur de changements ?”), pp. 139-159. [email protected]

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« Mystères » bouddhiques. La théâtralisation des rituels tibétains par les voyageurs au début du XXe siècle Buddhist “mystery plays.” Early 20th century travellers and Tibetan rituals as theatre

Samuel Thévoz

Approcher les rituels tibétains à travers l’expérience des voyageurs

1 Il y a à peine plus d’un siècle, les explorateurs du Tibet se faisaient les premiers témoins des rituels pratiqués dans ce pays encore mal connu1. Les voyageurs dont il sera question ici sont Sven Hedin (1910), Henri d’Ollone (1911), Jacques Bacot (1909 et 1912) et Alexandra David-Néel ([1912] 1975). Pour apprécier la valeur de ces premières rencontres avec les formes cultuelles tibétaines, les sciences humaines offrent aujourd’hui plusieurs approches que j’esquisserai selon trois « voies » majeures.

2 La première cherche à accéder à une connaissance de l’autre en dépassant les incompréhensions de la rencontre interculturelle, les biais idéologiques et les torsions que l’écriture impose à l’expérience vécue. C’est l’approche de l’ethno-histoire ou de l’anthropologie historique2. Dans cette perspective, les textes des voyageurs traduisent un état de la culture tibétaine et offrent au spécialiste des connaissances positives sur la société étudiée à travers leurs descriptions de différents aspects des rites tibétains : cérémonies de Nouvel An, cérémonies officielles, danses ’cham, « théâtre sacré », oracles.., etc.

3 Une seconde voie cherche à replacer ces textes dans le contexte épistémologique de leur temps. C’est l’approche de l’histoire des sciences. On soulignera alors que ces

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voyages, menés dans les années 1910, s’effectuent à un moment-clé des sciences des religions : les notions de rite et de sacré retiennent alors l’attention des sciences humaines alors en voie d’institutionnalisation. Émile Durkheim amorçait un débat qui se poursuit dans les réflexions de Marcel Mauss, de Robert Hertz et de Lucien Lévy- Bruhl (Tarot 1999, 2003 ; Keck 2008). Tout en portant un intérêt remarquable aux formes rituelles tibétaines, les voyageurs montrent combien ils étaient tributaires des champs de questionnement de leurs contemporains (Thévoz 2010) et participent du contexte épistémologique de leur époque. En livrant dans leurs récits de voyage ou dans leur correspondance des témoignages à caractère ethnographique, ils offrent par ailleurs une source majeure d’information pour l’anthropologie et la tibétologie naissantes autant qu’un réservoir d’images pour l’imaginaire collectif qui tient, jusqu’à aujourd’hui, les formes religieuses tibétaines pour les manifestations les plus terrifiantes du mysterium tremendum3, notion-clé des études sur le « sacré » du début du XXe siècle. Il est utile de rappeler par exemple que Rudolf Otto, pour qui le « mystère » représente « ce qui est absolument en dehors du domaine des choses [...] « familières » » (Otto [1917] 2001, p. 58)4, définissait le mysterium tremendum comme le « sentiment du mystère qui fait frissonner » (ibid., p. 36) dont la manifestation la plus aiguë est l’« horreur sacrée » : Le sentiment d’horreur n’est pas la crainte naturelle et ordinaire, c’est déjà la première apparition et comme un vague pressentiment du mystérieux sous la forme rudimentaire du « sinistre », la première évaluation d’après une catégorie qui ne se trouve pas dans le domaine commun et naturel et ne s’applique pas à quelque chose de naturel. (ibid., p. 40)

4 Une troisième voie envisage les textes des voyageurs sous l’éclairage de l’histoire du regard porté sur le Tibet, c’est-à-dire celle de l’imagologie ou de l’histoire des représentations. Au XIXe siècle, toute manifestation religieuse au Tibet était perçue à l’aune de la notion de « lamaïsme » dont la notion de « rite » était constitutive5. Ainsi n’est-il pas inutile de préciser que, à l’heure où les voyageurs de la première décennie du XXe siècle partaient pour le Tibet, la religion des « barbares de l’Ouest » était approchée selon une axiologie négative. En 1847, l’indianiste Théodore Pavie, dans son manifeste en faveur des études tibétaines assurées alors par Philippe Édouard Foucaux à l’École des langues orientales de Paris depuis 1842, décrivait ainsi le bouddhisme tibétain en s’appuyant sur les chroniques chinoises, les récits des missionnaires et les quelques témoignages de voyageurs comme celui du père Huc ([1850] 2001). Pavie décrivait ainsi la religion tibétaine : La période thibétaine [du bouddhisme], ou le lamaïsme, se continue encore et montre la religion de Bouddha passée dans les mœurs des peuples, mais immobile, stationnaire et languissante. […] L’intronisation des lamas au Thibet date du XIIIe siècle ; voilà six cents ans qu’ils s’y maintiennent dans une condition tout-à- fait passive. […] Depuis la fondation du bouddhisme, le chef de la doctrine a toujours été considéré comme une incarnation du législateur divinisé ; au Thibet, cette croyance a conduit les fidèles au fétichisme le plus outré. (Pavie 1847, pp. 46-47)

5 Dans la perspective philologique de Pavie, le dogme de l’Église tibétaine, à l’origine du bouddhisme dégénéré dit du Nord, se fonde sur des livres dont la lettre l’emporte sur l’esprit et conduit à un ritualisme où le geste sans signification tend à la pensée magique, voire à la sorcellerie : L’ensemble des ouvrages bouddhiques conservés dans les états (sic) du lama se divise en deux catégories. La première comprend le Kan-djour ou préceptes traduits,

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collection de cent volumes qui renferme le rituel proprement dit. Le thibétain étant la langue de la liturgie, le latin de la religion de Bouddha, ce rituel a été adopté par tous les couvens bouddhiques de la Tartarie et de la Chine [...]. Dans la seconde, appelée Stan-djour, sont contenues les instructions traduites, les incantations, les formules de malédiction et d’exorcisme. (ibid., p. 45)

6 L’auteur résume, en le déplorant, l’essor de ce culte marqué du sceau de la décadence : Après s’être manifestée comme une loi d’émancipation pour toutes les castes opprimées et de réhabilitation pour toutes les créatures, après avoir pris la forme d’une religion consacrée par un rituel, cette croyance égarée qui vint aboutir au dogme du vide et du néant, à l’absorption pure et simple dans le grand être universel, recruta, chemin faisant, les superstitions répandues dans toute l’Asie. (ibid.)

7 Dans la réduction des paroles primitives du Bouddha à un ensemble constitué de rites, Pavie reconnaît le « culte du néant » qu’est alors le bouddhisme pour l’Occident (Droit 1997 et App 2012). S’appuyant sur cet état général de la réception du bouddhisme tibétain, l’histoire des représentations, cherchant avant toutes choses à repérer des permanences et des phénomènes de longue durée, soulignera la survivance tout au long du XXe siècle des avatars du « lamaïsme » sous les traits notamment du « mythe » de Shangri-La (Bishop 1989, Lopez [1998] 2003, Thévoz 2011). En revanche, cette approche ne s’emploiera pas à faire apparaître les singularités propres à chaque voyageur et, partant, de rendre visibles les changements dont ceux-ci sont porteurs, à leur échelle, dans la perception des rituels tibétains.

Drames sacrés : de rituel en mystère

8 Ces approches, on le voit, ont toutes leur légitimité propre. Néanmoins, la lecture que je propose aimerait être plus minutieusement attentive aux dimensions littéraires de ces textes. Dans cette perspective, elle procède, pour commencer, au repérage des lieux communs aux voyageurs lorsqu’ils décrivent les rituels tibétains, indépendamment de la variété, voire de l’incommensurabilité, des phénomènes que ceux-ci recensent dans leurs récits. Comme nous le verrons, il ressort que les voyageurs décrivent les formes cultuelles observées en des termes dramaturgiques, plutôt que directement liturgiques par exemple. De toute évidence, ils appliquent à la culture tibétaine un schème d’intelligibilité particulièrement efficace dans le contexte historique et culturel qui était le leur. Toutefois, ce schème ne se réduit pas à un modèle explicatif préexistant à la rencontre et à l’expérience de voyage. Au contraire, il facilite potentiellement l’interaction et ouvre la possibilité d’une rencontre interculturelle in situ6 : c’est là le deuxième temps de l’analyse, qui permettra de cerner les usages du « prisme » théâtral propres à chacun des voyageurs.

9 Si l’on y regarde de plus près, la référence dramaturgique à laquelle les voyageurs rapportent unanimement les rites de la religion tibétaine se cristallise autour de la notion spécifique de « mystère ». De par les liens consubstantiels entre théâtre et religion qu’elle suppose à leurs yeux, la forme du « drame liturgique » médiéval (et ses dérivés : « mystère », « miracle », « moralité ») semble s’imposer comme référence hautement signifiante aux voyageurs.

10 En effet, ces arpenteurs d’un monde inconnu, pour être des explorateurs, n’en sont pas moins imprégnés de la culture lettrée de la fin du XIXe siècle. Rappelons à ce propos que, dans le sillage de Gaston Paris, la nouvelle école de philologie romane (Ridoux

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1996) redécouvre par les textes les formes de la dramaturgie médiévale (et notamment de la fin du Moyen Âge, où le théâtre religieux connaît son essor)7. De surcroît, la résurgence du « mystère » exerce son influence sur la dramaturgie symboliste du tournant du siècle8. Chez des auteurs comme Auguste Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, Stéphane Mallarmé, Maurice Bouchor, Maurice Maeterlinck ou Paul Claudel, le terme « mystère » est mis au service de « leur ambition de porter à la scène un monde spirituel et de donner une représentation élargie de la vie humaine, aussi bien objective que subjective » (Losco-Lena 2010, p. 17). Dans cette perspective, l’on explore, en dehors de toute orthodoxie religieuse et souvent même d’une quelconque obédience confessionnelle, les liens de la scène théâtrale avec l’« outre-monde » (Losco-Lena 2010, pp. 14-18). Le « mystère » appartient ainsi fortement à la culture des voyageurs au moment où ils prennent la direction du Tibet.

11 L’on sait que les « mystères » médiévaux mettaient traditionnellement en scène des épisodes bibliques ou hagiographiques (Pavis [1996] 2006, p. 225). Pour les Symbolistes, le « mystère » est revêtu d’une vocation sacrée qu’il ne possédait pas à l’origine. Les voyageurs, quant à eux, quand ils emploient le terme, ne se réfèrent pas plus rigoureusement que leurs contemporains dramaturges aux textes du XVe siècle. Les spécificités dramaturgiques du genre et la scénographie en « décors simultanés » sont volontiers négligées. Une idée du « mystère » règne alors, diversement ajustée aux connaissances philologiques. Symétriquement, la notion de « mystère » permet aux voyageurs de regrouper sous une même catégorie des phénomènes culturels disparates aux yeux de l’ethnographe d’aujourd’hui : cérémonies religieuses, danses rituelles, drames à thème religieux, rites ésotériques, etc.

12 Il ressort clairement de leurs récits que les explorateurs témoignent du goût pour l’art médiéval porté alors par le romantisme hugolien et le wagnérisme (Losco-Lena 2010, pp. 113-150). Dès lors, aux similitudes que les voyageurs se sentent autorisés à observer entre les structures sociales et l’univers de croyances « pré-moderne » du Moyen Âge occidental et du Tibet lamaïque, s’adjoint ainsi un régime de comparaison portant sur les formes esthétiques et dramaturgiques. À propos des « mystères » tibétains, ils retiennent par exemple comme points de comparaison les circonstances de l’exécution du drame : l’on sait à ce propos qu’au Moyen Âge, les « mystères » transformaient, le temps de la représentation, programmée à l’occasion de fêtes religieuses, les enceintes des abbayes, les églises ou les lieux urbains ordinaires en « espaces théâtralisés ». Les voyageurs partagent en outre l’idée entretenue ultérieurement par la critique littéraire que ces représentations sont des événements « collectifs » pratiqués sur le mode du « rite » actualisant les « mythes » fondateurs pour le bénéfice et en présence de l’ensemble de la « cité » (Baumgartner 1988, pp. 150-155). Les voyageurs rapprochent également du « mystère » la mixité générique de certaines formes dramatiques tibétaines (alternance du drame sacré avec des mimes, des farces et des jongleries), leur dispositif dramaturgique (intervention d’un récitant extérieur à l’action ; chants et psalmodies se superposant au jeu des acteurs, religieux et laïcs en partie amateurs), la durée de la représentation, enfin, s’étalant volontiers sur plusieurs jours (Baumgartner 1988, pp. 189-193).

13 Ces quelques ressemblances de famille entre la tradition chrétienne médiévale et les rituels tibétains tendent à motiver la référence au « mystère ». La tension qui sous-tend les usages de ce terme dans le discours des voyageurs est inhérente à son étymologie même : « du latin ministerium, office, acte. Ou selon une autre étymologie, du latin

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mysterium, mystère, vérité secrète. » (Pavis [1996] 2006, p. 225)9. On perçoit d’emblée combien, en utilisant un terme aux significations labiles, tout exogène soit-il au monde tibétain, les voyageurs, loin de se contenter de ramener les formes rituelles tibétaines aux formes culturelles européennes (Bishop 1989, pp. 154-155), font résonner la notion de « mystère » sur l’arrière-fond de la perception du « lamaïsme » en Occident. En effet, le terme relève simultanément de la praxis (« office, acte ») et de la métaphysique (« vérité secrète »). Appliqué au monde tibétain, il peut donc se référer d’une part au rite fétichiste, issu d’une « croyance égarée », administré voire manipulé par le clergé (Pavie), et d’autre part au « drame sacré », dans l’acception romantique et post- romantique que lui donnaient les contemporains des voyageurs. Dans ce second sens, le « mystère » se rapproche des cultes à mystères antiques et, plus encore, de la notion de mysterium tremendum telle que la définissait Rudolf Otto à la même période (cité supra).

14 On se rend ainsi compte combien l’orbe des questions esthétiques circonscrites ici croise les problématiques épistémologiques évoquées au préalable, tout en portant au jour, nous aurons le loisir de le constater, les positions idéologiques à l’œuvre dans l’approche des rituels tibétains.

15 Ce « prisme » théâtral mène certes à de nombreuses apories épistémiques, car il demeure in fine une catégorie exogène et surplombante. Cependant, j’aimerais montrer qu’il comporte des vertus heuristiques essentielles pour penser la rencontre avec d’autres cultures, il y a un siècle comme aujourd’hui. En effet, il permet de saisir, pour autant qu’il ne se fige pas en système, une diversité d’aspects du monde rituel tibétain ; sous ce rapport, il traduit la complexité de l’expérience interculturelle. Il importe dès lors d’examiner les multiples actualisations de la perception et de la représentation des rituels sous les traits de drames auxquels les voyageurs se sont accordés à attribuer, à tort ou à raison, des valeurs sacrées. En effet, loin de se limiter à indiquer que, comme le veut une longue tradition critique (Thévoz 2012), le regard du voyageur sur l’altérité renvoie in fine à sa culture propre et n’élabore jamais que des fictions, la pluralité des modes de « théâtralisation » des rituels conduit à en évaluer les implications épistémologiques. Celles-ci exigent à leur tour d’être reversées au bénéfice d’un changement de paradigme dans l’histoire de la tibétologie que les approches méthodologiques énumérées en préambule ne suffisent seules à expliquer.

16 Les quelques éléments développés jusqu’ici, outre la mise au point méthodologique auxquels ils ont servi, autorisent à se faire une image de ce que les premiers explorateurs ont en tête lorsqu’ils abordent la question des pratiques religieuses au Tibet. Pratiquement contemporains par leur date de publication, les récits des voyageurs se rapportent à des voyages légèrement espacés dans le temps et témoignent d’une évolution rapide des représentations et des savoirs.

Dans les coulisses d’une mise en scène (Tashilhunpo, début de saison 1907)

17 L’explorateur suédois Sven Hedin rapporte son expédition de 1906-1908 dans le célèbre Transhimalaya. Upptäckter och äfventyr i Tibet10. Le récit est traduit en français en 1911 sous le titre Le Tibet dévoilé. Nul doute donc qu’en ouvrant l’ouvrage le lecteur parisien du début du siècle, sensible aux promesses du titre séduisant, n’ait été habité par la soif de découvrir à distance les grands espaces vierges inconnus du Tibet, sinon hanté par le désir de voir révélée une culture aux contours inquiétants. Arrivé en février 1907 au

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Tashilhunpo (Kra shi lhun po) de Shigatse (gShis ka rtse), le célèbre monastère où siégeaient, traditionnellement, les panchen lamas, Hedin souligne qu’y règne « une impression de chose profondément mystérieuse et cachée » (Hedin 1910, p. 106), formule qu’il répète à l’envi. Ainsi le voyageur se fait-il fort d’aviver les aspirations de son lecteur quand il déclare : « pendant mes longues et fréquentes promenades, j’ai fréquemment assisté à de curieuses cérémonies » (ibid., p. 112).

18 Le « prisme » théâtral à l’œuvre dans son récit des célébrations du nouvel an tibétain (lo gsar), assimile explicitement les pratiques « lamaïques » au « mystère » médiéval. Observateur souverain placé sur « un balcon dominant la scène et la salle » du « vaste théâtre en plein air » et jouissant ainsi d’une vision panoramique en surplomb (ibid., p. 97), Hedin occupe une position symétrique au « Tachi-lama » (panchen lama) qui, depuis son « estrade » peut, « sans être exposé aux regards de la foule », « tout voir » à la manière du prince dans les salles « à l’italienne ». Par cette référence au théâtre classique, Hedin ajoute au registre du « mystère » une dimension qui trahit quelque idéologie. En effet, cette position de pouvoir, qui le distingue des « six mille spectateurs entassés dans les galeries, sur les toits, sur les murs, sur les corniches », conduit l’explorateur-ethnographe à dominer le spectacle vivant comme s’il le contemplait à travers une vitrine de musée : « Un éblouissant chatoiement de couleurs ; une exposition de costumes de l’Asie centrale. » Néanmoins, après cette phase d’exposition (le terme appartient lui-même à la terminologie dramaturgique), artificiellement statique, la musique qui enveloppe le drame accapare tous les sens du spectateur et semble le soustraire à ses capacités critiques : Tout à coup, du haut des toits, tombe un long mugissement. Des lamas soufflent dans d’énormes conques ; c’est l’annonce du commencement de la fête, et aussitôt la foule pousse de longues acclamations. Puis, d’une galerie cachée sous d’immenses voiles noirs monte un chœur, grave et lent, d’une sublime beauté religieuse et d’une puissance pénétrante. Jamais je n’ai entendu chant plus émouvant. (ibid., p. 98)

19 L’orchestration musicale, constituée principalement d’instruments à vent (conques, trompes) et de percussions (tambours, cymbales), est amplifiée par le chœur. L’ensemble rappelle simultanément par sa « sublime beauté religieuse » et sa « puissance pénétrante » le protocole liturgique du culte catholique, à la manière d’un introït, et l’« art total » wagnérien fin de siècle, familier à l’explorateur scandinave. Les phases de la cérémonie se succèdent : d’abord processionnelle, elle laisse place à l’apparition d’un oracle masqué derrière le « rideau noir » qui constitue le seuil de la « scène » : Un masque, nommé Argham, s’élance alors, en dansant et en tenant à bout de bras une soucoupe remplie de sang de chèvre. D’un mouvement brusque, il la renverse sur les marches, puis continue ses ébats, les deux bras tendus. (ibid., p. 98)

20 Loin de rendre manifeste le mysterium tremendum annoncé par le chœur et l’orchestre, le caractère horrifique de la transe rompt au contraire, dans l’esprit rationnel du voyageur, l’envoûtement provoqué par la musique et le conduit à se rabattre sur des savoirs préalables sur le lamaïsme : « Très certainement, cette cérémonie est une survivance de l’antique religion indigène. Le lamaïsme est pénétré d’éléments sivaïstes et de pratiques remontant aux temps pré-bouddhiques » (ibid.).

21 La mixité générique du « mystère » amplifie l’« impureté » (ibid., p. 106) des formes rituelles tibétaines. On décèle dans le discours du voyageur une vision anthropologique dont le paroxysme du drame fournit la justification :

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Au début, tambours, trompettes et cymbales jouent piano, mais peu à peu, le mouvement se précipite, les musiciens tapent à tour de bras et soufflent à perdre haleine : c’est alors une effroyable cacophonie, et, enivrés par ce bruit assourdissant, les danseurs se démènent comme des possédés. Cette frénésie gagne les spectateurs. Des pèlerins se lèvent, et, se tournant vers le Tachi-lama, se prosternent trois fois de suite. Entre tous, un vieillard du Tchang-tang, vêtu de peaux, est infatigable ; sans répit, on le voit se jeter à terre. Absorbé dans cette mimique, il ne voit pas une peau d’orange, glisse et fait une culbute à la grande joie de ses voisins. (ibid., p. 98)

22 Sven Hedin ethnographe raconte ici sur le mode de la gradation une scène de participation collective : mise en scène et drame débordent le cercle restreint des acteurs pour contaminer l’ensemble de l’assemblée. Puis le ton de la description change au fur et à mesure que se déploie la scène. En effet, celle-ci tourne à la farce ; dans cette comédie, l’orchestration n’est plus qu’une « effroyable cacophonie ». Le savoir de l’ethnographe l’autorise à voir au-delà des apparences : il peut lire dans les traits de son visage l’origine du vieux nomade, mais il le soupçonne, de par son comportement, de mauvaise foi. Il ne voit pas derrière sa mimique autre chose que des gestes sans signification : tout dans ce spectacle se réduit à un simulacre. Si les notations du voyageur donnent matière à une ethnocritique, force est de reconnaître que les données « ethnographiques » — à l’évidence répondant à l’ethnologie de son temps — sont entrelacées à l’axiologie de Hedin : Un tel spectacle doit laisser une impression profonde sur les pèlerins. Après avoir été témoins de ces mascarades d’un symbolisme effrayant et de ces luttes contre les démons toujours terminées par leur défaite, ces simples regagnent leur désert, pénétrés de la toute-puissance de la religion et de la nécessité de son secours pour échapper aux maux qui menacent l’humanité souffrante. (ibid.)

23 Quand, au début du récit, Hedin partageait au lecteur ses propres émotions face au cérémonial (« Jamais je n’ai entendu chant plus émouvant »), il soulignait les effets recherchés d’une mise en scène, tandis qu’in fine il fait voir comment l’observateur rationnel débusque ce stratagème religieux. Il ne met pas en doute la force de l’impression mais, contrairement aux fidèles, il a les moyens, par l’exercice de la raison critique, de se détacher de cette puissance. En définitive, la comparaison avec le « mystère » médiéval opère comme un repoussoir et marque un profond déséquilibre où la farce l’emporte toujours sur le drame sacré. Dans le dispositif narratif du récit de voyage, Hedin aménage une dimension théâtrale : il double le récit des événements d’un commentaire tour à tour implicite et explicite. Le narrateur s’arroge ainsi en quelque sorte le rôle de récitant. Tous les événements de Lo gsar sont rapportés dans un chapitre intitulé « Mascarades et symbolisme religieux ». Hedin conclut bien à des « mascarades d’un symbolisme effrayant » lorsqu’il explique : les lamas sont gens fort habiles et fins psychologues. Pour assurer leur prestige sur le peuple, ils s’efforcent de frapper son imagination par la magnificence et l’étrangeté des pompes religieuses et en même temps de l’amuser par des spectacles profanes adaptés à sa mentalité. (ibid., p. 118)

24 Ainsi, malgré une évidente sympathie affichée en chemin lors de ses rencontres avec les Tibétains, Sven Hedin reste tributaire de la conception de Pavie : il continue à voir dans la religion tibétaine une machine mise sur pied par les lamas pour maintenir le peuple en leur pouvoir. En définitive, Hedin n’analyse guère les aspects complexes d’une organisation sociale de type médiéval, mais fustige un « milieu moyenâgeux ». L’ethos de l’explorateur clairement mise en œuvre par Hedin est de « biffer la légende » : en se donnant comme but de dresser la carte du pays entier, de lever le

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mystère du système lacustre du Tibet et de résoudre le mystère des sources de l’Indus (Forêt 2004), Hedin relègue à un rang inférieur la culture tibétaine. Le « lamaïsme » est une insoutenable « vision du Moyen Âge monacal au XXe siècle », un vestige des vieilles « fables » dont il appartient à la science occidentale de déjouer les « mystères ».

Le « mystère des origines » : les danses sacrées ou l’avant-scène du drame de la modernité (Labrang, juin 1908)

25 Les Derniers Barbares d’Henri d’Ollone traite des faits religieux d’une manière un peu différente et les insère dans une problématique différente de celle de Hedin. D’Ollone parcourt entre 1907 et 1908 le « mince ruban de terre fertile entre les déserts du Tibet et de la Mongolie, et unique trait d’union entre la Chine et le monde occidental ». Une fois parvenu en territoire à dominance culturelle tibétaine, l’explorateur se familiarise avec les lamas et les sanctuaires bouddhiques qui parsèment son itinéraire jusqu’au monastère de Labrang (Bla brang). Là, il assiste à l’improviste, et primus inter pares, assure-t-il, à des danses sacrées, « cérémonie tout à fait étrange ». Il nomme les instruments de l’orchestre en des termes particulièrement hétéroclites : « des trompettes de toutes les tailles — quelques-unes dépassant un mètre, — des hautbois, des conques, des tam-tams, des cymbales » (D’Ollone 1911, p. 334). Il décrit les officiants selon des systèmes de référence tout aussi éclectiques. Des comparaisons quelque peu saugrenues servent à accentuer les impressions hétéroclites du voyageur : Tout autour de la terrasse qui s’étend devant le temple, formant un vaste demi- cercle, une trentaine de jeunes lévites exécutaient des danses sacrées. Elles se composaient de pas rythmés, accompagnés de balancements du buste ; les bras nus, étendus dans le prolongement des épaules, soutenaient l’excédent d’étoffe que présente par en haut la pièce de tissu rouge drapée qui constitue le vêtement monacal, et figuraient très exactement des ailes de chauve-souris. (ibid., p. 335)

26 Enfin, en multipliant les incises, il tente de saisir la pulsation de la représentation : Pour que leur légèreté fût plus grande, les danseurs étaient nu-pieds, leurs bottes posées à côté d’eux. Les pas étaient tantôt lents et harmonieux, tantôt rapides, accompagnés de voltes et de bonds, mais toujours avec un rythme et un ensemble parfaits. Enfin, après une cadence vive, violente, presque frénétique, musique et danses s’arrêtèrent brusquement. (ibid., p. 335)

27 Regrettant de ne pouvoir photographier la scène dans de meilleures conditions d’éclairage, d’Ollone substitue à l’évidence de l’image photographique un commentaire que l’on peut lire comme une critique théâtrale : « ces danses n’ont rien de commun avec les scènes carnavalesques, tant de fois décrites, par lesquelles les lamas figurent la défaite des démons : elles sont véritablement gracieuses et nobles » (ibid., p. 336). De manière alors véritablement originale, d’Ollone fait l’apologie des danses ’cham tibétaines et leur reconnaît des qualités artistiques. Son appréciation dramaturgique, sensible au rythme du spectacle et à l’impression d’ensemble, se démarque remarquablement de l’axiologie antithéâtrale de Hedin.

28 Il ne demeure pas moins que les séquences de la description attestent la difficulté à dire ces danses sacrées et à les inscrire dans un système de référence stable. D’Ollone conclut ainsi :

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Les anciennes religions, aussi bien l’hébraïque que la grecque ou l’égyptienne, comprenaient toutes des danses dans leurs cérémonies ; mais je crois bien que, mis à part les derviches tourneurs, il n’y a point d’autre exemple connu, à l’heure actuelle, de danses sacrées. (ibid., p. 336)

29 Dans l’imaginaire de d’Ollone, ce tableau vivant, pratique photographique qui lui est contemporaine (Bajac 1999), renvoie à un passé bien antérieur au Moyen Âge de Hedin : mystères grecs, cérémonies égyptiennes, rites hébraïques. L’évocation des « lévites » enjoint en particulier de lire cette description sous un angle quelque peu allégorique. Le « Lha-brang » — d’Ollone prend à tort le « bla » (comme dans « lama ») pour « lha » (dieu) — devient notamment une allégorie du Temple de Jérusalem. Plus loin, il comparera le Wutai shan au « Mont Salvat » et la musique tibétaine (un « prodige », dit- il) au « motif du Graal » du Parsifal de Wagner (D’Ollone 1911, p. 351)11 ? Toujours est-il que la rencontre avec les lamas et les pratiques religieuses des Tibétains suscite dans le récit de d’Ollone un élan mystique devant la foi de ces barbares prisonniers de ce désert de montagnes sauvages et appelle de vertigineuses comparaisons transculturelles.

30 Les danses tibétaines se tiennent, dans la description dramaturgique de d’Ollone, à l’avant-scène d’un drame qui les englobe et les dépasse. Un épisode ultérieur permet de saisir toutes les implications de ce « mystère » tibétain. Le récit de d’Ollone (son « apothéose ») culmine dans « une vision synthétique de ce monde étrange » (ibid., p. 370) que lui offre la rencontre au Wutai shan avec le dalaï-lama (Sperling 2011). Il assiste au départ du pontife pour Pékin, fin juillet 1908 : « le Bouddha vivant et ses montagnards s’en allaient tout uniment monter en chemin de fer, sans rien perdre, eux, de leur rudesse, lui, de sa divinité ». Figure moderne de l’exil, cette vision est aussi un « mystère » primordial qui se joue devant les yeux de l’explorateur : Si immense, si divers est ce monde des Barbares, que chaque découverte ne fait que mieux mesurer la profondeur de notre ignorance. Mais, d’y avoir pénétré, nous gardons en notre cœur un peu de cette horreur sacrée que la révélation des mystères causait jadis aux initiés : il nous semble qu’un coin de voile s’est soulevé, nous laissant deviner dans l’ombre quelque chose du passé qui survit et de l’avenir qui se prépare. (D’Ollone 1911, p. 371)

31 Précédemment, d’Ollone insérait la scène tibétaine dans la perspective comparatiste de l’histoire des religions : en ethnographe, il pense trouver à Labrang un cas inédit et inconnu de danse sacrée ; en ethnologue, un chaînon manquant dans l’histoire de l’humanité. En décrivant le monde tibétain, d’Ollone déploie des références culturelles qui assimilent les drames sacrés tibétains à la « légende » wagnérienne, aux rites hébreux, nous l’avons vu, mais aussi, ici, aux cultes à mystères antiques. La dimension du « mystère », sous-jacente dans les descriptions que nous avons lues, devient explicite dans la fin du récit du voyage. Contrairement à Hedin, la notion de « mystère » renvoie chez d’Ollone moins au genre dramatique médiéval et à l’ordre de la mise en scène que, dans le sillage de la seconde étymologie (« vérité secrète »), à une pure vision débordant toutes les limites du cadre de représentation. S’il n’est pas soumis au soupçon critique, le mysterium tremendum se résout ici dans un syncrétisme mystique, où les deux mondes en confrontation — moderne et profane vs. primitif et sacré — se rejoignent moyennant le report de l’ diachronique sur l’axe synchronique : « Monde primitif, violent, barbare, en un mot, distant du nôtre de quinze siècles, mais déjà tout proche dans l’espace » (ibid., p. 387). La rencontre de d’Ollone avec le Tibet inconnu lui présente une « scène primitive » : par cette hiérophanie, l’avenir du monde moderne

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trouve une voie de salut en s’harmonisant avec le patrimoine immémorial de l’humanité.

Un spectateur désorienté. L’outre-scène du drame sacré : au-delà du lamaïsme (Gata, 25 juillet 1909 et Tchangou, 17 août 1909)

32 « Mystère » orchestré par les lamas chez Hedin, « mystère » des origines chez d’Ollone, les manifestations rituelles tibétaines suscitent tour à tour des appréciations critique et apologétique. Ainsi les pratiques rituelles vues à travers le « prisme » théâtral se doublent-elles de significations secondes où la démarche ethnographique rencontre autant les hypothèses ethnologiques que les a priori idéologiques. Hedin y voit une forme primitive et dégradée et considère le « mystère » tibétain, marqué d’une différence irréductible, comme un repoussoir. D’Ollone, quant à lui, y voit une voie d’accès aux temps primordiaux de l’humanité — partant, à son propre inconscient. En cela, il tend à nier toute différence culturelle, les particularités ethnographiques des danses sacrées s’abîmant dans le fonds commun à tous les hommes. Le « mystère » qu’inspirent les rituels tibétains aux voyageurs ne révélerait-il donc que les limites de leur regard ? La « découverte » n’est-elle qu’une illusion cognitive et culturelle ? Ces questions ont été posées à la même époque par Jacques Bacot, qui déclarait — non sans une allusion maligne aux vastes étendues que Hedin avait arpentées ou aux milliers de kilomètres avalés par son contemporain d’Ollone — avoir « recherché les hommes, ces Tibétains méconnus » plutôt que « les vastes étendues glacées qu’on parcourt pendant des mois sans voir âme qui vive » (Bacot 1909, pp. i-ii). C’est précisément en compagnie de Tibétains uniquement qu’il parcourra le monde tibétain du Kham (Khams), à la frontière entre le Tibet et la Chine.

33 Il raconte avoir été le premier Européen à entreprendre le pèlerinage de la montagne sacrée Kawakarpo (Kha ba dkar po) (Bacot 1909). Il rapporte les récits mythologiques sur la montagne du « cavalier blanc » ; il prête attention aux pratiques dévotionnelles des pèlerins et il cerne leur rapport à l’espace : « Le feu, de cèdre et de cyprès, répand dans la forêt l’odeur des sanctuaires » (ibid., p. 133). Ce faisant, Bacot fait preuve d’une attention ethnographique radicalement différente du regard lourd de préjugés de ses prédécesseurs sur les rituels des Tibétains. Lors de son second voyage (Bacot 1912), la description des pratiques religieuses est devenue, dès les premières pages, un enjeu de première importance. Comme d’Ollone, il assiste à des « danses sacrées » jouées sur le parvis du temple du monastère de Gata (mGar thar). À son tour, Bacot compare le drame sacré au théâtre sacré occidental. La représentation se rapproche notamment du théâtre antique, car « le dialogue est à la fois chanté et dansé. Après chaque phase du drame, les acteurs se réunissent et lisent le récit. Après la forme trilogique, voilà aussi le chœur du drame antique » (Bacot 1912, p. 24). Le drame rappelle de surcroît les « mystères » du Moyen Âge par son sujet religieux (une vie de Bouddha), par les circonstances de l’exécution (« une ville de tentes s’est formée », « pendant trois jours », dans la « première enceinte » de la lamaserie) et par l’alternance structurelle des genres : Ces légendes sacrées, jouées par des moines sur le parvis du temple, me rappellent les mystères chrétiens. À certains moments, des pitreries font rire les spectateurs,

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des pitreries anciennes et vénérables, tradition d’un passé à jamais inconnu. (ibid., p. 25)

34 Bacot livre véritablement une analyse dramaturgique de ce « drame sacré »12. Les références à des formes théâtrales exogènes ne véhiculent guère de jugement de valeur mais servent à saisir la particularité du phénomène observé et à souligner ses différents aspects : la beauté des maquillages, des masques, des costumes ; le jeu varié des acteurs et le « vélum magnifique » sous lequel ils dansent ; la foule massée paisiblement en cercle sur l’herbe, abritée sous les tentes ; l’attention soutenue de l’auditoire, lamas, bonzes et laïcs venus de loin pour assister à cette danse « fort rare » que « peu de lamaseries exécutent. »

35 De surcroît, la référence au « mystère », loin de nier toute différence culturelle, accentue l’écart existant entre l’investissement émotionnel des spectateurs et l’attitude de Bacot qui avoue, comme à regret, trouver que le drame sacré est monotone, contrairement aux autres participants captivés par le spectacle. En se résignant à accepter son incompréhension, le voyageur transmet à son lecteur l’expérience de l’altérité vécue in situ. Plutôt que d’assimiler, sans précaution garder, l’ailleurs au monde connu, c’est d’abord un effet de différence qu’il élabore dans son récit (Bonoli & Thévoz 2012).

36 Ultérieurement, Bacot cherchera à approfondir ce moment fort de sa rencontre avec le théâtre tibétain : à son retour de voyage, il traduira le texte du drame vu à Gata : le Chos rgyal Dri med kun ldan gye rnam thar, version tibétaine dialoguée du Vessantara Jātaka13 (Bacot 1914). Le célèbre indianiste Sylvain Lévi, lui-même pionnier des études théâtrales dans le monde indien (Lévi 1890), assurera la direction de ce travail, indiquant la sensibilité dramaturgique des études indiennes et tibétaines françaises de cette période. Sur une plus longue durée, les répercussions de la rencontre inaugurale de Bacot avec le théâtre tibétain se font sentir à travers ses publications : les Trois mystères tibétains en 192114, Zugiñima en 1957. L’expérience théâtrale de Gata ouvrait au futur philologue, ainsi qu’à la tibétologie moderne, un champ d’études inattendu (Thévoz 2012).

37 Deux mois après son passage à Gata, Bacot est, comme Hedin avant lui, le témoin d’une séance de possession que d’aucuns de ses contemporains qualifieraient d’horrifique. À Tchangou (Brag ’go), il assiste à une séance de possession d’un « lama medium » (Bacot 1912, p. 332) ou « Kotupa » (sku rten pa) (Nebesky-Wojkowitz [1956] 1996, pp. 409-443). Là où son prédécesseur n’aurait vu que « mascarade », Bacot est amené à s’interroger sur les conceptions tibétaines relatives à « l’incarnation d’un dieu protecteur dans le corps d’un lama » (Bacot 1912, p. 44). Pareille remise en question lui fait « éprouve[r] le malaise de se trouver sur le seuil d’un monde redoutable et inconnu » (ibid., p. 50). Tout comme Hedin, Bacot est attentif à l’orchestration : « Toute cette ville bourdonne de prières, immense orchestre de voix humaines, de cymbales, de gongs, de cloches » (ibid., p. 41). Lui aussi en éprouve les effets sensoriels puissants : « Je ne sais rien qui fixe la pensée et l’hypnotise autant que cette musique martelante, inexorable, obsédante jusqu’à en devenir pénible » (ibid.). À l’inverse de l’explorateur suédois, Bacot ressort profondément ébranlé de son expérience des rituels tibétains : Les rites du lamaïsme tibétain sont les seuls qui troublent toujours ma curiosité blasée. Aucune autre religion ne frappe aussi violemment le spectateur le plus indifférent, ne jette ainsi l’homme hors de sa sphère familière, dans ce trouble vague qui est le seuil de l’inconnaissable. Ces prières obstinées, ces voix chaudes

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comme le parfum de l’encens, donnent la sensation que des dieux les écoutent. Chez les Tibétains la religion est un très grand art. (ibid., p. 42)

38 Les notations concernant la musique tibétaine renouent avec le wagnérisme qui caractérisait les descriptions de Hedin et de d’Ollone. Pourtant, les différences sont d’emblée perceptibles dans le ton de la description et l’attention avec laquelle Bacot cherche à rendre, sans l’expliquer, ce moment intense. Ne pas comprendre n’implique ni de se désintéresser bonnement et simplement des pratiques religieuses ni de projeter ses propres schèmes culturels sur les formes rituelles découvertes. Au contraire, l’incompréhension initiale devient le moteur même de l’exploration. Ainsi, dès la brève exposition de ce que son compagnon Adjroup Gumbo lui a dit du drame, se distingue nettement un va-et-vient entre la sphère culturelle du narrateur (et de son lecteur) et celle des Tibétains : 17 août. — Dès huit heures j’étais à la lamaserie avec des soldats. En ce jour, le deuxième de la lune, aura lieu l’incarnation d’un dieu protecteur dans le corps d’un lama. Celui-ci, « le Kotupa » est un frère lai des plus humbles. Le deuxième jour de chaque lune il perd connaissance d’une façon naturelle ou provoquée, et le lendemain n’a aucun souvenir de la cérémonie extraordinaire qu’il célèbre. (ibid., p. 44)

39 La superposition des calendriers est révélatrice de l’espace interculturel dans lequel Bacot pénètre alors. Dans la même perspective, l’on relèvera les termes tibétains mis entre guillemets ou non, le caractère médiatif de l’information (« aura lieu… »), la suspension du jugement à propos d’un phénomène inexplicable. Le voyageur, placé devant l’inconnu, traduit tout au long de la description de la séance de possession la dimension phénoménologique de l’expérience : son attention est littéralement tendue vers ce qui se passe, en termes dramaturgiques, « hors scène » : Un rideau voile, à mi-hauteur, l’ouverture de la porte. Mais, d’une sorte de tribune, en face, dans le vestibule, on voit par-dessus le voile tout l’intérieur du sanctuaire. Après l’office, on prélude au mystère terrible qui va suivre […]. La porte du temple est ouverte. Un rideau de soie grise et molle voile la moitié inférieure de l’ouverture noire. (ibid., pp. 45-47)

40 Le voile joue le rôle de seuil, séparant les espaces du visible et de l’invisible, par-delà lequel le spectateur profane ne peut qu’entrevoir la scène sacrée. Car c’est bien au-delà de ce seuil que se déroule le « mystère » dont Bacot décrit la disposition, le protocole, les gestes rituels des moines. Le voyageur éprouve le drame comme une expérience totale : des sons, des odeurs envahissent l’observateur ; l’air, dit-il, se remplit progressivement de sons effroyables et de « voix de catacombes », de l’odeur des feuillages odorants et de leur fumée blanche. Ces sensations éprouvées « font vibrer le squelette dans la chair » (ibid., p. 46). L’expérience du « mystère » se situe véritablement aux franges du monde ordinaire et transgresse les limites de la scène visible : « Des cymbales déchirantes clament dans la nuit du temple que les trompes funèbres font encore plus noire et plus creuse. Le mystère s’accomplit dans ces ténèbres » (ibid., p. 48). Pour faire sentir à son lecteur ce qui se joue « hors-scène », en deçà du visible, au moment de la crise dramatique, Bacot emploie d’ailleurs le procédé dramaturgique de la téichoscopie. Cette technique, développée dans le théâtre grec et affectionnée des Symbolistes, permet par un récit au présent de « faire voir à travers le mur » l’irreprésentable sur scène : L’esprit du lama quitte son corps où va rentrer la divinité. Ce qui marche maintenant, ce qui avance parmi ces majestueux rugissements de bronze est un cadavre animé par un dieu. (ibid., p. 47)

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41 Au paroxysme du cérémonial, la scène sacrée se dévoile littéralement : « Le voile de la grande porte s’est affaissé sur le seuil ». Si le spectateur transgresse le seuil par la vue, c’est surtout par l’imagination qu’il accède au sens du « mystère », qu’il adopte le point de vue des participants et se glisse le temps de l’événement dans leur peau, guidé par les avertissements que lui ont fournis ses compagnons de route. Ainsi la mise en scène dramaturgique ne se réduit-elle pas ici à la mise en scène d’une « mascarade ». Bien au contraire, le voyageur reconnaît que le drame ne se réduit pas aux limites de ce qui, sur scène, s’offre au regard de l’observateur extérieur : Le dieu incarné est là, immobile et terrifiant. Son visage grimace de colère et de souffrance ; ses yeux suintent de sang et ses lèvres dégouttent de bave. […] Il est tout secoué de chocs intérieurs comme si la divinité prisonnière bouillonnait de rage dans ce corps trop petit, boursouflant les muscles, la face et les yeux qui perlent de sang. (ibid., p. 49)

42 Tout l’intérêt de la description, me semble-t-il, est d’osciller du début à la fin entre deux interprétations. La première voudrait qu’on abuse de la crédulité du spectateur (la religion comme un « très grand art »). La seconde suppose que quelque chose de bien plus fondamental soit à l’œuvre ici, qui justifie la patiente et scrupuleuse description de la scène qui s’étend sur plus de dix pages. Le « mystère » qui se joue devant ses yeux ne laisse pas intact même le spectateur étranger : ainsi se fondent chez Bacot les deux étymologies du terme, où la forme dramatique, évoquée par lui sous un rapport heuristique à des fins ethnographiques, entre en résonance avec la perception d’une « vérité » anthropologique qui ne nie pas les différences culturelles. La référence aux « mystères » médiévaux et au théâtre antique échappe à la simple tonalité exotique qu’elle avait chez Hedin et prend son sens plein en tant que mode théâtral participatif d’ordre sacré, tel, du moins, que l’on se l’imagine alors. Le voyageur n’assiste plus à un spectacle, au sens classique du terme, où proscenium, loges et parterre sont clairement distincts, comme chez Hedin où le « mystère » s’insérait dans un dispositif d’observation. Au contraire, Bacot est immergé dans le drame : arrière-scène, avant- scène et enceinte communiquent au point que le dispositif scénographique s’efface et où visible et invisible s’interpénètrent. Alors que Hedin prétendait accéder aux coulisses de la scène15, Bacot, après avoir initialement souligné les relations du lieu théâtral avec ce qui l’entoure en termes spatiaux et intersubjectifs, se concentre sur la manière dont l’espace scénique advient à la conscience du spectateur et se fait ainsi signe pour la communauté réunie. Aussi la conception d’une « outre-scène » n’a-t-elle que peu en commun avec le « mystère » des origines de d’Ollone. Ici, la représentation du rituel ne procède pas par a priori. L’expérience vécue ne débouche qu’a posteriori sur une tentative d’explication : Son cas a sans doute un nom scientifique. Mais il y avait autre chose, quelque chose d’inexprimable qui n’est pas entièrement humain. On éprouvait le malaise de se trouver sur le seuil d’un monde redoutable et inconnu. Les Tibétains sont un peuple étrange qui vit à part des autres et ne fait rien comme eux. Après tout, nos laboratoires pourraient bien n’être pas l’Univers. (ibid., pp. 49-50)

43 Plutôt que de réduire le phénomène à un système théorique clos (« sans doute un nom scientifique »), Bacot ouvre les possibles interprétatifs. On perçoit ainsi une allusion aux expériences et sciences dites « psychiques », phénomène fin de siècle qui émouvait les contemporains du voyageur à l’heure des leçons du Dr Jean-Martin Charcot, des conférences d’Henri Bergson et de la modélisation de la première topique par Sigmund Freud. Cependant, Bacot, ici comme ailleurs, en avançant qu’« après tout, nos

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laboratoires pourraient bien n’être pas l’Univers », ne fait pas prévaloir d’explication préconstruite : aussi les recherches en sciences de l’esprit du tournant du siècle n’absorbent-elles pas à elles seules le champ de questionnement qu’il découvre. Par exemple, l’anthropologie et la sociologie naissantes prêtent également attention aux phénomènes de possession16. Cependant, la réflexion de Bacot n’est que lointainement sociologique, c’est un autre courant de pensée, issu de la philosophie allemande dans la veine des Geisteswissenschaften, que l’on peut évoquer. En effet, dans la phénoménologie religieuse de Rudolf Otto, l’essence de la religion serait contenue dans l’expérience du sacré et la définition que Otto donne de la notion d’« horreur sacrée » (Otto [1917] 2001, p. 40, cité supra) est remarquablement proche de la conception de Bacot (Bacot 1912, p. 42), où le mysterium tremendum se situe au-delà de l’entendement et de la « sphère familière », tandis que d’Ollone s’en tenait à une formule archaïsante et littéraire.

44 D’autres travaux contemporains sont encore plus proches de l’environnement intellectuel du voyageur. En mettant l’accent, à travers son usage de la notion de « mystère », sur la dimension symbolique des rituels tibétains, Bacot rejoint la réflexion de Marcel Mauss sur les faits de culture (Tarot 1999, 2003) ; en insistant sur l’idée de participation, Bacot se rapproche encore des travaux de Lucien Lévy-Bruhl et de la notion d’« affectivité ». À sa manière, Jacques Bacot saisit les enjeux des remises en question épistémologiques de ses contemporains par une mise en suspens métaréflexive de ses propres catégories logiques. En s’interrogeant sur le sacré à travers les pratiques rituelles tibétaines — dans les deux exemples donnés ici, comme à propos, par exemple, de la tradition des « terres cachées » (sbas yul) qui donne son sous-titre à son récit (Vers Népémakö, terre promise des Tibétains) —, Bacot ouvre à la tibétologie des questionnaires nouveaux, connexes aux réflexions des fondateurs des sciences humaines modernes. Ce faisant, il dégage les « études thibétaines » de l’orbe du lamaïsme et invite à comprendre dans sa complexité et pour elle-même ce que Rolf Stein appellera plus tard la « civilisation tibétaine ».

Le theatrum mundi d’une orientaliste bouddhiste : simulacre lamaïque et illusio bouddhique (Lachen, mai 1912)

45 À une poignée d’années près, Alexandra David-Néel rencontre les formes du bouddhisme tibétain au Sikkim en avril 1912. Mais avant même d’avoir pénétré au Tibet, David-Néel se déclarait « bouddhiste pratiquante et militante » (David-Néel 1975, p. 109) : à Kalimpong (Kālimpong), elle explique au dalaï-lama stupéfait qu’elle l’est devenue non pas en Asie, mais à Paris, « sur les bancs d’une université européenne en étudiant la philosophie orientale » (ibid., p. 124). La position originale, mais ambiguë, de l’exploratrice face aux rituels tibétains illustre une attitude qui, bien qu’on y reconnaisse en creux l’empreinte, se démarque de celle de ses prédécesseurs. C’est en ce sens qu’il est instructif ici de s’intéresser aux lettres qu’elle écrit à son mari lors de son séjour en Asie. Dans la lettre du 30 mai 1912, elle raconte la cérémonie à laquelle elle a assisté au monastère de « Lachen ». Cette lettre est exemplaire, car nous y retrouvons comme une synthèse des approches des voyageurs précédents. David-Néel souligne pour commencer le caractère exotique de la scène : À l’entrée du monastère, tous les lamas rouges, le grand lama supérieur en tête, nous reçoivent. Les musiciens, les porteurs d’ombrelles, de bannières etc. sont

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rangés en haie. Il y en a qui soufflent dans des trompettes tibétaines si longues que le bout en est appuyé à terre. C’est extraordinairement pittoresque. (ibid., p. 156)

46 C’est ensuite le cadre théâtral et protocolaire qui retient son attention : Nous sommes sur une terrasse dominant la vallée, j’ai l’impression d’être sur une scène de théâtre. […] Nous enlevons nos manteaux et entrons dans le sanctuaire. Le prince se prosterne trois fois, un peu gêné par ma présence. (ibid., p. 156)

47 Ici, la description change de registre en mettant en scène la narratrice elle-même qui explicite ses propres convictions : Il connaît mon opinion sur les cérémonies de ce genre. Je me contente d’honorer de l’ordinaire salut hindou Chenrési-Avalokiteçwara qui est, d’ailleurs, le symbole de la plus belle idée orientale. (ibid., p. 157)

48 L’« opinion » de David-Néel relève largement de son héritage philologique : elle a été formée aux études bouddhiques par Philippe Édouard Foucaux, Léon Féer et Sylvain Lévi au sein des cercles savants français. Depuis les travaux fondateurs d’Eugène Burnouf, ces études étaient centrées sur le bouddhisme dit du Nord, généralement considéré comme dégénéré, comme le soutenait Pavie, car ultérieur aux premiers développement du bouddhisme en Inde. Cependant, David-Néel a aussi, par ses voyages, fréquenté les spécialistes allemands et anglais comme Hermann Oldenberg et Thomas W. Rhys Davids. Contrairement à l’école française (Lévi [1924] 1937), ces derniers ont mis l’accent sur le bouddhisme du Sud, dit orthodoxe. Accédant aux enseignements du bouddhisme par les textes, David-Néel privilégie, conformément à la tradition philologique, les témoins les plus anciens, supposément plus proches de la doctrine du Bouddha lui-même. Sa conception des rituels tibétains respecte en ce sens — et bien qu’elle se défende d’appartenir à ces « érudits ferrés de racines grammaticales » (David- Néel 1975, p. 109) — les sentiments alors largement partagés sur le lamaïsme : Les lamas chantent alors la formule du « triple refuge », cela est en tibétain et, avec ce chœur, bien différent de la récitation à Ceylan. […] Voilà bien du ritualisme... Enfin pour l’amour du pittoresque, résignons-nous. […] Oh ! Je me les rappellerai souvent au moment de faire des conférences en Europe, ces discours dans ces milieux exotiques, parmi les idoles extravagantes, les symboles effarants et l’auditoire fantastique des lamas rouges. Puis le supérieur se place dans la nef centrale ayant retiré sa mitre. (ibid., p. 155)

49 Ce « ritualisme » outrancier, orchestré par les lamas, est loin de gagner l’intérêt de celle qui sera plus tard la célèbre vulgarisatrice du bouddhisme tibétain : « C’est long, long, interminable, entrecoupé de multiples prosternations. […] Enfin, c’est terminé » (ibid., p. 158). En contrepartie, c’est la voyageuse elle-même qui dispensera à Gangtok (lettre du 23 juin) le message authentique du bouddhisme : « dans l’oratoire tantrique, je parle de la grande doctrine que ces lamaïstes ont oubliée ou qu’ils se contentent de connaître égoïstement, laissant la foule dans sa superstition grossière » (ibid., p. 164). Aussi assure-t-elle à son mari qu’elle est reconnue comme une autorité auprès des lettrés de Gangtok : On dit beaucoup de mal des lamaïstes et leur ignorance le mérite ; mais ne font-ils pas preuve d’une belle largeur d’esprit en m’appelant moi, de croyances si différentes des leurs et prêchant contre leurs superstitions, à parler dans leurs temples ? (ibid., p. 173)

50 Quelques mois plus tard, au monastère de « Podang » (lettre du 1er septembre à Gangtok), elle assiste à la « danse des squelettes », durant laquelle « Yâma le roi des morts envoie des émissaires sur la terre à la fin de l’année ». Elle en conclut que « le

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lamaïsme est une religion terrifique » (ibid., p. 194). Sur le même sujet, au monastère de Toumbong, elle renchérit : Nous ne comprenons la danse que comme évocation lascive et, comme telle, exécutée par des femmes. Mais, ici, la danse est une pantomime. Les guerriers évoluent autour de Mahâ Kala et du génie du Kintjindjinga, tour à tour apaisés et en furie. En fait, ce sont des danses sacrées qui se déroulent devant le temple... (ibid., p. 198)

51 Première chanteuse à l’Opéra-Comique d’Hanoi, David-Néel avait interprété quelques années auparavant Lakmé de Léo Delibes. Drame lyrique célèbre notamment pour l’exotisme du ballet des bayadères de l’Acte II. Aussi ne manque-t-elle pas d’y comparer les danses des lamas et d’en souligner le contraste : ces « danses sont loin d’être grotesques comme on les proclame, elles me font penser à celles des guerriers scandinaves. » Il n’en demeure pas moins que la perception de ces « danses sacrées » s’insère dans un raisonnement bien différent de celui de d’Ollone quelques années auparavant. Ce qui compte aux yeux de David-Néel est d’en évaluer l’orthodoxie. Or il serait erroné de leur attribuer une quelconque vérité doctrinale et d’en justifier la pratique : Le vieux maharadjah [du Sikkim] n’a aucune espèce de piété bouddhiste, il craint les mauvais esprits, a installé Padmasambhava sur l’autel de son sanctuaire et est un chasseur enragé. Ce qu’on chante pendant les danses est une fois de plus terrifique et horrifique comme tout ce lamaïsme qui n’est que magie et sorcellerie. (ibid., p. 198)

52 David-Néel est, en 1912, fortement tributaire du point de vue négatif sur le bouddhisme tibétain comme ritualisme abject. Le lecteur le sait par les récits et romans d’aventure ultérieurs qui la rendront célèbre, l’auteur atténuera sa position initiale au fur et à mesure qu’elle se familiarisera avec le bouddhisme tantrique. Ce jugement initial ne disparaîtra pourtant pas entièrement dans le récit de ces mêmes expériences qu’elle racontera au grand public dans Mystiques et Magiciens du Tibet en 1929, ouvrage rédigé dans la lancée du Voyage d’une Parisienne à Lhassa en 1927. Revenant en effet dix-sept années plus tard sur ces événements, elle fait alors état d’un changement de point de vue. Dans sa correspondance avec son mari, la « névrose » des pratiquants du « chöd » (gcod)17 ne manquait pas de la laisser sceptique. Dans ses récits destinés au grand public, elle présente ce même rituel tantrique comme une variante orthodoxe des différentes « méthodes d’atteindre tharpa, de se libérer complètement de l’illusion, d’effacer le mirage du monde imaginaire et d’affranchir son esprit des croyances chimériques » (David-Néel 1929, p. 165). C’est là le bouddhisme « secret » qu’elle dissocie si nettement de ce qu’elle continuera d’appeler, en 1953, le « lamaïsme »18.

53 La notion de « mystère », chez David-Néel, sert donc encore à comprendre les rituels tibétains, mais elle se partage entre ses deux acceptions. Elle désigne un « bric-à-brac » « effarant » quand elle se rapporte d’abord, comme chez Hedin, aux « offices » du clergé tibétain, gestes sans signification pour les fidèles « superstitieux ». Elle ne se rapporte pas moins à une « vérité secrète », dans un sens quasi occulte, étranger à d’Ollone et à Bacot : pour David-Néel, le « mystère » donne alors la possibilité d’atteindre le « domaine de l’Autre. » En Inde, le « mystère » se jouait derrière le « rideau symbolique du Temple de Chidambaram » (1975, p. 78)19 : Innommable trompette... innommable musique de trois notes répétées à l’octave, avec des quintes qui sonnent crues, dures, infernales, emplissent le temple d’horreur. Ah ! Comment décrire cette vision, le frisson qu’elle vous fait courir par les moelles ! On est à côté de la terre, dans le monde des influences terribles et

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mauvaises, le domaine de « l’Autre » comme on disait au Moyen-Âge. Et réellement on le sent passer sur soi le souffle de « l’Autre ». Et puis les portes illuminées des sanctuaires interdits qui s’ouvrent sur des gouffres à la fois scintillants et obscurs... Quelle vision inoubliable où passent tant de choses en plus de celles que l’on voit avec ses yeux de chair. (David-Néel 1975, p. 59)20

54 Au Sikkim, puis au Tibet, le « mystère » se prolonge dans les rituels ésotériques du tantrisme tibétain. Aussi les rituels tibétains sont-ils porteurs d’une « vérité secrète » s’ils se conforment à l’orthodoxie doctrinale bouddhique de « Sunyata le Grand Vide » (ibid., p. 148). Pratiqués par les initiés, seuls aptes à dépasser l’illusio de la représentation, ils conduisent à « effacer le mirage des phénomènes » et à sublimer le theatrum mundi de l’existence.

Les savoirs sur les rituels : les dessous culturels et interculturels du « mystère »

55 Il est remarquable que, dans la première décennie du XIXe siècle, les voyageurs assimilent différents faits culturels tibétains au « mystère » pour en souligner la dimension rituelle. Cette congruence historique nous rappelle d’abord que toute approche, hier comme aujourd’hui, est contingente, située dans le temps et dans l’espace. Ainsi est mis en lumière un moment-pivot dans l’histoire des représentations et des savoirs sur les rituels au Tibet. La notion de lamaïsme est encore active quand elle est projetée sur la culture tibétaine (Hedin pour un jugement négatif, d’Ollone pour une appréciation positive). Toutefois, le « ritualisme » tibétain prend un visage nouveau, lorsque naissent de nouveaux critères épistémiques : ainsi l’approche de Bacot fait écho au renouvellement des questionnements des sciences humaines, tandis que David-Néel oppose au « lamaïsme » des rituels d’ordre privés, dont la dimension spirituelle s’intègre dans la vision du bouddhisme à laquelle elle adhère.

56 Cependant, ces questions d’ordre épistémologiques ne doivent pas faire oublier que, par delà la diversité des formes rituelles rencontrées, le « prisme » théâtral et la référence au « mystère » agissent comme un modèle d’intelligibilité commun à chacun des voyageurs, ce à défaut d’une discrimination avertie entre les diverses formes cultuelles et théâtrales tibétaines ou d’une connaissance des et typologies indigènes. Ces dernières paraîtront aujourd’hui, peu ou prou, au regard de l’ethnographe averti ; l’ethnohistorien, quant à lui, les décèlera, a posteriori, dans les textes des voyageurs.

57 Cette déficience transitoire ne fournit pourtant pas une explication pleinement satisfaisante. J’ai souligné combien la notion de « mystère » revêt des significations profondes aux yeux des explorateurs dans le contexte des années 1910 ; celle-ci désigne certes une forme dramatique historique, mais elle incarne avant tout à cette période une idée de la représentation théâtrale. J’ai alors cherché à cerner la complexité que sa récurrence remarquable, unanime mais non uniforme, suppose alors. Analyser ces significations permet d’apercevoir les valeurs parfois opposées que le « mystère » représente pour les voyageurs. Symétriquement, les usages contrastés que ceux-ci lui réservent ouvrent sur des modes de connaissance singuliers.

58 On observe ainsi des actualisations plurielles de la notion de « mystère ». Les voyageurs y associent d’autres formes dramatiques : théâtre classique chez Hedin, théâtre antique et rites hébraïques chez d’Ollone, théâtralité symboliste chez Bacot, spectacle exotique

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chez David-Néel, la référence wagnérienne omniprésente. Ils lui confèrent aussi différents enjeux métathéâtraux : « mascarade » chez Hedin, « tableau vivant » chez d’Ollone, « participation » et « régime symbolique » chez Bacot, illusio et theatrum mundi chez David-Néel. Cette pluralité de significations masquée par l’univocité de la référence au « mystère » conduit ainsi à considérer les approches des rituels tibétains sous un double rapport : tout en renvoyant à la culture propre des voyageurs, la notion de « mystère » ne révèle pas moins les situations d’expérience qu’elle met en œuvre dans la rencontre interculturelle.

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NOTES

1. Version augmentée et remaniée en profondeur du chapitre VII de mon livre (Thévoz 2010, pp. 247-298), le présent article contribue à un projet de recherche que je mène actuellement grâce au soutien du Fonds national suisse de la recherche scientifique (PA00P1_145398), que je remercie ici. En m’invitant au séminaire « Rituels » de l’équipe « TBACT » (Tibet, Bhoutan, Aire Culturelle Tibétaine) du CRCAO (UMR8155) en juin 2013, Katia Buffetrille m’a offert une première occasion de reformuler les questions abordées ici, qu’elle en soit vivement remerciée. 2. Citons, à titre d’exemple, les travaux de Richard White (1991) sur les relations entre missionnaires et Amérindiens aux XVII-XVIIIe siècles. 3. Dans le sillage de l’étude que l’ethnologue autrichien René de Nebesky-Wojkowitz a consacrée à la démonologie tibétaine, les formes religieuses tibétaine peuvent de nos jours encore apparaître comme une affaire d’oracles et de démons, selon le titre de l’ouvrage ([1956] 1996). Elles appartiendraient ainsi moins à la catégorie de la religion qu’à celle de la magie. Ainsi Lopez (1979) observe-t-il que de toutes les formes d’expressions religieuses, les divinités courroucées tantriques tibétaines se rapprochent le plus de ce que Rudolf Otto ([1917] 2001), appelait le mysterium tremendum. 4. Le « mystère » est, au sens commun, « ce qui est caché, c’est-à-dire ce qui n’est pas manifeste, ce qui n’est ni conçu ni compris » (ibid., p. 37) ; dans le domaine religieux, il est « le "tout autre", ce qui nous est étranger et nous déconcerte, ce qui est absolument en dehors du domaine des choses habituelles, comprises, bien connues, et partant « familières » ; c’est ce qui s’oppose à cet ordre de choses et, par là même, nous remplit de cet étonnement qui paralyse. » (ibid., pp. 57-58) 5. Rappelons avec Lopez ([1998] 2003, p. 34) que le « lamaïsme » désigne une conception de la religion tibétaine héritée du chinois « lama jiao » qui signifie littéralement « religion des lama ». Parallèlement au « dao jiao » (taoïsme) et au « ru jiao » (religion des érudits, confucianisme) et pour des raisons politiques, l’empereur mandchou Qianlong, en 1775, distinguait ainsi le bouddhisme tibétain de la « religion de Bouddha » (« fo jiao ») dont les lamas étaient jusqu’alors les éminents représentants à la cour impériale. De facture relativement récente, le terme apparaît à une période d’intenses contacts entre l’Empire chinois et les missionnaires européens. En dehors d’un contact direct avec le Tibet et les Tibétains, ceux-ci l’introduisent durablement dans les langues européennes, imposant ainsi une vision négative de la religion tibétaine, ecclésiale de par sa forme et superstitieuse de par ses dogmes et ses pratiques fétichistes et magiques. 6. En visant avant tout à historiciser la perception des voyageurs, je ne suis ni la voie de l’ethnoscénologie — qui, cherchant « le fonds commun de l’humanité » à travers les formes multiples d’une « théâtralisation contre l’innommable », se présente comme « l’étude dans les différentes cultures des pratiques et des comportements humains organisés (PCHSO) » (Pradier

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1996, p. 16) ni celle de l’« anthropologie théâtrale » (par exemple Barba [1993] 2003) pour laquelle toute performance théâtrale renvoie à des origines rituelles et sacrées. Lire à ce propos Rozik 2002. 7. C’est à Paulin Paris, le père de Gaston, que l’on doit une leçon au Collège de France consacrée à « la mise en scène des mystères et du mystère de la Passion » (1855). En 1878, Gaston Paris et Gaston Raynaud publient le Mystère de la Passion d’Arnoul Gréban (XVe s.). 8. Tant et si bien que Sophie Lucet (1997, pp. 193-339) consacre la seconde partie de sa thèse sur la dramaturgie symboliste à ce qu’elle appelle un « théâtre du "mystère" ». Voir également Folco (2006, chapitre « La légende et le mystère », pp. 230-247). 9. L’ambivalence survit de fait dans l’imaginaire collectif aux mises en garde d’un Émile Faguet, par exemple, qui précisait en 1901 dans son Avant-Propos au Vray Mistère de la Passion de Gréban (1901, p. III) : « il faut écrire mistère, comme au moyen âge, et parce qu’ils avaient raison de l’écrire ainsi : mistère venant de ministerium et non pas de musterion »). 10. Voir Thévoz (2010) pour plus de renseignements biographiques sur les voyageurs. 11. Mentionnons que le compositeur Max d’Ollone est le frère de l’explorateur et, élève de Massenet, auteur de plusieurs drames lyriques où l’on retrouve l’influence de Wagner. Mais Henri d’Ollone percevait-il l’inspiration bouddhique du Parsifal ou du Tristan de Wagner, lecteur de Schopenhauer et de Burnouf (App 2011) ? 12. L’on comparera avec profit la définition que donne Henrion-Dourcy (2009), spécialiste du Ache lhamo auquel appartient le « drame » décrit par Bacot : « Comme la plupart des théâtres d’Asie, il est un genre composite : à la fois drame à thématique religieuse (issue du bouddhisme mahāyāna), satire mimée, et farce paysanne, il comprend de la récitation sur un mode parlé, du chant, des percussions, de la danse et des bouffonneries improvisées, ainsi qu’un usage de masques et de costumes flamboyants, qui tranchent avec la sobriété absolue des décors (la scène est vide) et de la mise en scène. Bien qu’il ait été encouragé et financé par le gouvernement des dalaï-lamas, de grands monastères et des familles aristocratiques, c’est un théâtre avant tout populaire, et non pas réservé à une élite lettrée. » 13. Le sujet de ce « mystère » est « l’histoire de l’avant-dernière existence sur Terre de celui qui renaîtra Çakya-Muni. Vessantara « Tchrimekundan des Tibétains » est le futur Bouddha. Il traverse une vie d’épreuves remarquables qu’il s’est toutes attirées par sa passion de la charité. » (Bacot 1921, p. 19) 14. Bacot résume en quatrième de couverture sa vision du « théâtre tibétain, théâtre des grandes altitudes. Les monastères où on le joue occupent des lieux choisis, ces vallées aériennes de la Haute-Asie […] Les monastères, la scène de ce théâtre, sont des oasis de prière dans ces déserts enchantés. […] Comme les maisons d’une ville autour de la place publique, les tentes ouvrent leurs murs de toile sur l’espace libre de la scène. Devant ces Tibétains accourus de loin, les acteurs ne représentent pas la vie, mais leur idéal de la vie. Leur thème est l’impermanence des choses. Leur théâtre est un camp de nomades qui lui-même disparaît dès que le spectacle est terminé. » 15. Significativement, Bacot dira plus tard du théâtre tibétain qu’il ne cherche guère « à produire l’illusion par le décor et la machinerie. » (Bacot 1921, p. 15) 16. Au milieu du siècle, la « démonologie » devient en tibétologie un domaine d’études particulièrement développé. Voir Nebesky-Wojkowitz [1956] 1996 et Lalou 1957, ch. « Prophètes et démons », pp. 76-78. 17. Technique de méditation et ensemble de rituels, dont la codification remonte au XIe siècle et revient traditionnellement à Machik Labdrön (Ma gcig Lab sgron). Par cette pratique, les adeptes, parfois surnommés les « saints fous » par les voyageurs, cherchent à « trancher » (gcod) l’ego en développant des visions dans lesquelles le corps, d’où émanent les afflictions mentales, est l’objet d’un sacrifice visant à faire reconnaître l’absence de soi.

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18. Il ne faut pas oublier que, dans le sillage de Waddell (1894), le terme a perduré au XXe siècle. Voir Lopez [1998] 2003 pour l’analyse de la fortune de ce concept dans le domaine anglo-saxon. Conze (1958) disqualifie cette catégorie. En France, dans la collection « Que sais-je ? », Arvon (1951) entretient le jugement négatif porté sur le bouddhisme tibétain ; ce n’est qu’en 2004 que l’ouvrage est remplacé par celui de Claude Levenson. 19. Retenu pour les premières pages de L’Inde où j’ai vécu (David-Néel 1969), ce leitmotiv apparaît de manière récurrente dans sa correspondance. 20. C’est le premier moment de la longue samâdhi (David-Néel féminise le terme) que lui a procurée « l’atmosphère psychique [de l’Asie] qui a donné le jour à ces théories » (David-Néel 1975, p. 80). Ce sont ces dernières qui sont le cœur de sa rencontre avec le bouddhisme tibétain. Elles l’orientèrent moins vers une approche de la culture tibétaine en tant que « civilisation » (Stein 1962), dans le sens de Marcel Mauss, que vers les phénomènes psychiques qu’elle considère explicitement, en conclusion de Mystiques et Magiciens du Tibet comme ressortissant d’une étude de « psychologie ».

ABSTRACTS

Early 20th century travellers focused on Tibetan rituals and gave numerous descriptions in their accounts. It is striking that they all use the notion of “mystery play” to convey intelligibility to their perception of a wide and multifarious array of rituals. By contextualizing the term and analyzing the multiple meanings and values it conveys for each of the travellers, I argue that the phenomenon implies more than a symbolic projection on the Tibetan culture and gives evidence of a set of cognitive processes activated in the intercultural encounter.

Dans la première décennie du XXe siècle, les voyageurs marquent un intérêt appuyé envers les formes rituelles tibétaines et livrent dans leurs récits de voyage ou dans leur correspondance des témoignages à caractère ethnographique. Le présent article s’interroge sur la référence permanente à la notion de « mystère » dans leurs récits. En évaluant la valeur et les significations que revêt le terme aux yeux des voyageurs, il s’agit de dépasser le simple constat d’une projection culturelle. En effet, des différents regards portés sur le religieux tibétain ressortent également différentes visions et expériences de la culture tibétaine, variables en termes axiologiques, heuristiques, phénoménologiques et réflexifs.

INDEX

Mots-clés: Tibet, rituels, théâtre, cognition, récit, voyage, interculturel Keywords: Tibet, rituals, theatre, cognition, narrative, travel, intercultural

AUTHOR

SAMUEL THÉVOZ Samuel Thévoz est chercheur pour le Fonds national suisse de la recherche scientifique. Ses travaux portent sur la littérature de voyage au Tibet, sur les phénomènes interculturelles en

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littérature et sur la rencontre du théâtre européen et occidental avec l’Asie bouddhique. Ouvrage : Un horizon infini. Voyageurs et explorateurs français au Tibet (1846-1910) (Paris, PUPS, 2010). Édition : Marie de Ujfalvy-Bourdon, Une Parisienne dans l’Himalaya (Paris, Transboréal, 2014).

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La terminologie de parenté au Ladakh (Leh) Kinship terminology in Ladakh (Leh)

Patrick Kaplanian

1 Depuis les travaux du Prince Pierre de Grèce (1956, 1963) et ceux de Grist (1977, p. 46 et surtout 1979, pp. 218-244) peu de choses ont été écrites sur la de parenté. Je pense que le moment est venu d’étoffer le dossier.

Les termes d’adresse à Leh

Le noyau de base

2 En matière de termes d’adresse le premier schéma, le plus simple, ne semble pas à première vue relever franchement de la terminologie de parenté, puisqu’il s’agit de termes utilisés pour s’adresser à n’importe qui, depuis l’inconnu qu’on croise dans la rue jusqu’à ses proches. Il s’agit de neuf termes (fig. 1).

Figure 1

3 Abi (a-phyi), « grand-mère », FM, MM1 et toute femme de la génération Ego + 2 ou plus. Meme (mes-mes) « grand-père », FF, MF et tout homme de la génération Ego + 2 ou plus. Aba (a-pha) « père », F et tout homme de la génération Ego + 1.

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Ama (a-ma) « mère », M et toute femme de la génération Ego + 1. Aco (a-jo) « frère aîné », eB et tout homme de la génération d’Ego plus âgé qu’Ego. Ache (a-che) « sœur aînée », eZ et toute femme de la génération d’Ego plus âgée qu’Ego. Nono (no-no) « petit-frère », yB et tout homme de la génération d’Ego un peu plus jeune qu’Ego. Ou encore d’une génération inférieure. Nono était le terme honorifique pour no (no). Maintenant il s’emploie couramment concurremment à no qui est beaucoup plus rare. Nomo (no-mo) « sœur cadette », yZ et toute femme de la génération d’Ego plus jeune que lui, ou encore d’une génération inférieure. Enfin coco (jo-jo) s’emploie parfois pour appeler une toute petite fille (coco désigne aussi la poupée). Ici aussi il s’agit d’un terme honorifique passé dans le langage courant.

4 Ce « noyau de base » des termes d’adresse appelle trois réflexions : a) La première est l’existence d’une triple graduation vers le haut : l’aîné (aco ou ache), la génération d’Ego + 1 (aba ou ama), la génération d’Ego + 2 (meme ou abi). Vers le bas il n’y a qu’un degré, nono ou nomo (et à la rigueur un peu plus si l’on tient compte de coco). Un vieil homme emploiera nono pour un plus jeune que lui, qui pourrait être son cadet, son fils, son petit-fils, voire plus (son SSS ou son SSSS). b) Tous les Ladakhi interrogés disent que nono et coco sont des termes honorifiques pour no et nomo. En pratique en ce qui concerne nono il est systématiquement employé pour un plus jeune et pas seulement pour les « nobles », skutraks (sku-drag). Par contre on emploiera effectivement coco à la place de nomo pour une plus jeune « noble » réservant coco dans le vocabulaire courant à une très petite fille. On peut se poser la question de l’emploi courant actuel de ce vocabulaire utilisé jadis pour les seuls cadets nobles car si le vocabulaire honorifique se délite en matière de cadets, il ne se délite pas en matière d’aînés. On dira kaga au lieu d’aco et shema au lieu d’ache pour un(e) noble. En fait cela montre que le Ladakh est une société très hiérarchisée et qu’elle le reste dans les mentalités. L’existence de trois degrés vers le haut, et le maintient d’une stricte différence entre aînés, nobles ou pas, s’oppose à l’existence d’un seul degré vers le bas et à la disparition, toujours vers le bas, d’une distinction entre le vocabulaire honorifique et le vocabulaire « roturier »2. c) Comme je viens de le dire, ces termes dépassent le cercle étroit de la parenté. Un père ou une mère, pourra dire nomo, nono à son jeune frère, à son fils à sa fille, à ses petits-enfants, à ses neveux, à ses petits-neveux et même en dehors de sa famille puisque nomo, nono s’emploient pour désigner n’importe qui de la génération d’Ego – 1 ou d’Ego mais d’un âge inférieur à Ego, au point qu’on peut se demander s’il s’agit véritablement d’une nomenclature de parenté. Si, en effet, aba désigne toute personne de la génération d’Ego + 1 s’agit-il d’une métaphore par laquelle on assimile tout homme en âge de l’être à un père, ou s’agit-il tout simplement d’un mot qui veut dire « homme de la génération d’Ego + 1 » et qui s’emploie pour le père parce que celui-ci en fait partie ? Rien ne permet de trancher, pour le moment, entre les deux termes de l’alternative.

Les degrés de parenté

5 Pour répondre à cette dernière question nous allons considérer les degrés de parenté. Le mot rtsima (rtsib-ma) veut dire côte au sens de l’os de la poitrine. Il désigne aussi les degrés de parenté. Comment calcule-t-on les degrés de parenté ? Entre deux germains

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(frère et sœur E et F) il y a un degré de parenté. Entre un parent et un enfant (A et E/F) aussi (fig. 2) : il y a un degré entre un frère et une sœur parce qu’il n’y a qu’une génération qui les sépare de l’ancêtre commun. Donc si l’on passe à deux générations entre un grand-père et un petit-fils (A et G/B par exemple), il y a deux degrés de parenté, donc entre deux cousins germains (G et B) aussi. Donc entre A et B par exemple il y a deux degrés de parenté, et entre B et C ou D aussi. On voit donc : a) que le calcul des rtsima est bilatéral, peu importe si l’ancêtre commun est un homme ou une femme, b) que le calcul des degrés de parenté se fait en remontant l’arbre généalogique3.

6 Maintenant voyons le cas de B et C. Il y a deux générations entre B et C, donc deux degrés de parenté. Or il peut très bien se faire que C et B soient deux personnes d’âge assez proche. Si elles ignorent leur lien de parenté, ce qui est fréquent, elles vont s’appeler, si ce sont des femmes, ache et nomo, sœur aînée et sœur cadette, selon leurs âges respectifs. Mais si l’arbre généalogique est connu, alors C appellera B abi, grand’mère, et B appellera C tshamo. Il m’est arrivé effectivement de voir une femme d’une soixantaine d’années en appeler une autre de sa génération abi. L’explication qui m’a été donnée est celle qui précède. On voit donc que la notion de « savoir » est très importante. Lorsqu’on sait on emploie les termes de parenté précis, lorsqu’on ne sait pas on utilise le noyau de base ou des termes de parenté vagues4. La conclusion de tout cela c’est que aba, ama, abi, meme, etc. sont bien des termes de parenté, utilisés par défaut lorsque le lien de parenté est inconnu. Il en est de même des moines. Si tel moine est le jeune frère de mon père je l’appellerai agu et non pas azhang (cf. infra)5.

Figure 2

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Le tableau complet des termes d’adresse

Les consanguins

7 Génération Ego + 2. Pas de changement. Il n’y a que deux termes, abi et meme.

Figure 3

8 Génération Ego + 1 : aba (F) et ama (M) désignent aussi FeB et MeZ. FZ est ane qu’elle soit plus âgée ou plus jeune que le père d’Ego et MB est azhang qu’il soit plus âgé ou plus jeune que la mère d’Ego. FyB est agu et MyZ est machung.

9 Cette nomenclature de la génération Ego + 1 est la plus originale. Je vais longuement y revenir. Signalons tout de suite que les termes sont les mêmes pour les alliés. La femme de aba est ama et réciproquement, celle d’azhang est ane et réciproquement, celle d’agu est machung et réciproquement. Pour plus de détails voir plus loin.

10 Génération d’Ego. Pas de changement. Les quatre termes sont nono, aco, nomo et ache. Génération Ego – 1 : fils (S) : putsha (bu-tsha) ; fille (D) : pomo (bu-mo). Pour les neveux pomo/putsha ou tshao/tshamo ( tsha-bo/tsha-mo). Pour plus de détails voir plus bas. Comme déjà dit les termes nono, nomo peuvent être employés. Comme en français et dans beaucoup de langues les mots putsha (bu-tsha) ; fille (D) : pomo (bu-mo) peuvent avoir le sens général de garçon et fille sans référence à la parenté : « i pomo demo duk : cette fille est jolie »6. Génération d’Ego – 2 : tshao/tshamo dans tous les cas (petits-enfants et petits-neveux). Idem au-delà (Ego – 3, etc.). Nous retrouvons à cette génération la simplification en deux termes que nous avions à la génération Ego + 2. Les deux seuls critères sont le sexe et la génération.

11 Donc apparaissent, concurremment à no/nono et nomo/coco, les termes de pomo (bu-mo, fille), putsha (bu-tsha, fils), tshao (tsha-bo ; petit-fils ou neveu) et tshamo (tsha-mo petite- fille ou nièce). Mais ces quatre termes s’emploient concurremment à no/nono et nomo/ coco.

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12 Il y a toujours trois degrés vers le haut. Vers le bas cela semble se complexifier. Il y a au moins deux degrés. Les cadets, puis la génération Ego – 1. Mais les termes tshao/tshamo sont transgénérationels puisqu’ils s’emploient aussi bien pour certains « neveux » et « nièces » que pour les petits-enfants.

13 Le 2e schéma met donc en évidence : a) la simplicité des niveaux de Ego + 2 et Ego – 2 : tous les grands parents, tous les grands-oncles et grands-tantes, par alliance ou pas, et tous les gens de la génération d’Ego + 2, s’appellent abi et meme. Tous les petits-fils et petits-neveux s’appellent tshao et tshamo. b) La même simplicité relative au niveau d’Ego. Tous les frères et sœurs, et tous les cousins, et toutes les personnes de la génération d’Ego consanguins, utérins et alliés, sont soit no/nono//aco soit nomo/coco//ache. Aux deux critères du sexe et de la génération s’ajoute celui de l’âge relatif.

14 On peut déjà faire une première synthèse. Au niveau d’Ego le système n’est pas de type eskimo puisqu’il ne distingue pas les germains (frère et sœur) des cousins, mais de type hawaïen. C’est un système dit « générationnel » dans la mesure où tous les frères et cousins, sœurs et cousines sont désignés par le même terme. Mais il faut prendre en compte par contre la différenciation entre cadet et aîné qui n’existe pas dans le système strictement hawaïen qui n’emploie qu’un terme pour frère ou cousin aîné ou cadet et un terme pour sœur et cousine aînée ou cadette7.

15 Il s’agit donc d’un système à tendance générationnelle ou hawaïenne mâtiné de l’opposition aîné/cadet sauf pour les termes permettant de s’adresser à la génération Ego + 1 qui forment un ensemble beaucoup plus compliqué. En résumé les critères sont : Ego + 2 : sexe et génération. Ego + 1 : Sexe, génération, âge relatif par rapport au père ou à le mère d’Ego. Ego : sexe, génération, âge relatif par rapport à Ego. Ego – 1 : sexe, génération, mais il faut compter avec deux termes transgénérationels tshao/tshamo. Ego – 2 : sexe, génération, mais il faut compter avec deux termes transgénérationels tshao/tshamo. Il restera à voir le niveau Ego + 1 et le problème des termes transgénérationels tshao/ tshamo.

Les affins les plus proches

16 En ce qui concerne la génération d’Ego nous avons deux règles contradictoires. Selon la première le mari de ma sœur aînée (ache) est frère aîné (acho) et la femme de mon frère aîné (acho) est sœur ainée (ache). Le mari de tshao est tshamo et réciproquement. La référence est le parent le plus proche.

17 Selon la seconde pour s’adresser aux maris de sœurs et femmes de frères, on ne considère que l’âge relatif par rapport à soi-même. Si par exemple ma petite sœur (nomo) a un mari plus âgé que moi, je l’appellerai aco, et s’il est plus jeune que moi, je l’appellerai nono.

18 Les choses ne sont pas claires. Ainsi j’ai entendu une fois un homme d’une cinquantaine d’années, s’adressant à un couple. Le destinateur d’une cinquantaine d’années était plus jeune que le mari du couple (une soixantaine d‘années) mais plus âgé que la femme (une quarantaine d’années). Il les appelait acho et ache, et de me donner la règle « la

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femme de acho est ache ». Je lui demandai alors comment il aurait fait s’il la connaissait avant son mariage. Il me répondit qu’effectivement elle serait passée de nomo à ache et que, encore aujourd’hui, s’il la croise seule sans son mari dans le bazar elle redevient nomo.

19 Il est à noter que même mari et femme s’appellent entre eux aco/ache/nono/nomo. Si l’homme est le plus âgé ce qui est le cas le plus fréquent il va appeler sa femme ache en fonction de la première règle et nomo en fonction de la seconde.

20 Par contre nous allons voir qu’à toutes les autres générations, par exemple à la génération Ego + 1 c’est la première règle qui est appliquée et de façon stricte, ce qui s’explique assez facilement puisque de toute façon, sauf cas exceptionnel rare, ils sont nettement plus âgés qu’Ego, et que donc il ne peut y avoir conflit entre les deux règles.

Les autres affins

21 En ce qui concerne les frères et sœurs du conjoint d’Ego et d’une façon générale tous les parents du conjoint d’Ego, ici encore nous avons affaire à deux règles contradictoires. La première est : « quelle que soit la façon dont j’appelle mes parents, ma femme les appelle de la même façon. Quelle que soit la façon dont ma femme appelle ses parents, je les appelle de la même façon ». J’appelle cette règle, la règle d’identité d’appellation entre mari et femme. Et par ailleurs nous avons une fois de plus la règle de l’âge réel.

Les germains de père et mère

22 Nous allons maintenant nous intéresser aux termes de la génération Ego + 1 que sont : azhang, machung, agu, ane. Tout d’abord, il s’agit de termes utilisés, eux aussi, quelquefois au-delà du cercle familial, quoiqu’à Leh, même si cet emploi est admis théoriquement, il est assez rare, sauf en ce qui concerne azhang ou ane utilisés pour un moine ou une nonne. Dessinons cette partie du tableau pour mieux l’analyser (fig. 4) :

Figure 4

23 On voit que pour les oncles paternels d’Ego, les oncles parallèles, on distingue entre l’oncle aîné paternel d’Ego (FeB, aba, comme le père) et l’oncle cadet paternel d’Ego (FyB, agu). Par contre la sœur aînée du père (FeZ) et la sœur cadette du père (FyZ) s’appellent toutes les deux ane. À l’opposé en ce qui concerne les oncles et tantes du côté de la mère c’est le contraire. On ne distingue pas les frères de la mère (MeB et MyB), qui sont tous deux azhang, l’aîné et le cadet, et on distingue les sœurs, l’aînée (MeZ) étant ama (comme la mère) et la cadette (MyZ) étant machung ( =ama chumung : petite mère).

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24 Ceux que le père d’Ego appelle aco deviennent aba pour Ego et leur épouse ama, ceux que le père appelle no ou nono deviennent agu et leur épouse machung. Tandis que celles que le père appelle ache ou nomo deviennent indifféremment ane. Celles que la mère appelle ache deviennent ama et leur époux aba et celles que la mère appelle nomo deviennent machung et leurs époux agu tandis que ceux qu’elle appelle aco et no ou nono deviennent indifféremment azhang.

25 On voit que le système reste générationnel. Si en effet d’autres critères, que nous venons d’analyser, interfèrent, il ne reste pas moins que tous les termes d’adresse de la génération Ego + 1 sont propres à cette génération.

26 Il convient d’insister sur l’originalité de cette terminologie. Dans sa recension des critères de classification Kroeber8 distingue huit types de relations possibles, dont la différence d’âge entre individus au sein d’une même génération qui au Ladakh existe donc pour les générations Ego et Ego + 1. Lowie9 a voulu raffiner le 2 e critère de Kroeber, c’est-à-dire la différence entre relation de type linéaire (père, mère) et de type collatéral (oncle, tante). Il distingue quatre cas : I) Oncles et tantes sont assimilés terminologiquement au père et à la mère. C’est à nouveau le système hawaïen (générationnel). II) Le frère du père est assimilé au père, alors que le frère de la mère est désigné par un terme spécifique et réciproquement la sœur de la mère est assimilée à la mère et la sœur du père est désignée par un terme spécifique. C’est le système à bifurcation et à assimilation (bifurcate merging) aussi appelé iroquois. III) Le frère de la mère et le frère du père sont distincts du père et de la mère et l’un de l’autre. Idem pour les tantes. C’est le système à bifurcation et à lignes (bifurcate collateral). IV) Notre système (français et anglais entre autres) : des termes pour père et mère, et un terme pour sœur de père et sœur de mère (tante/aunt), un autre pour frère de père et frère de mère (oncle/uncle).

27 Cette classification est déjà ancienne mais elle garde encore aujourd’hui tout son intérêt surtout d’un point de vue pédagogique. Elle est d’ailleurs fréquemment citée10.

28 Quoiqu’il en soit le schéma ladakhi ne correspond à aucun des types décrits par Lowie. C’est un mélange du type II et du type III. Les frères aînés seulement du père sont appelés aba comme le père et les sœurs aînées seulement de la mère sont appelées ama comme la mère comme dans le type II. Le jeune frère du père porte un nom spécifique (agu) et la jeune sœur de mère aussi (machung, c’est-à-dire en fait ama chumung, « petite-mère ») comme dans le type III. Par contre on retombe bien dans le type II de Lowie avec un terme spécifique pour les sœurs de père aînées ou cadettes (ane) et les frères de mère aînés ou cadets (azhang).

29 On peut se poser la question de la non-mention par Lowie de ce mélange : différence entre aîné et cadet dans une autre génération que celle d’Ego. Lowie ignore complètement ce critère dans la génération d’Ego + 1 à laquelle il consacre son article. Pourtant des exemples existent et le Ladakh est loin d’être un cas unique. En Chine la terminologie établit quatre types de distinction suivant le sexe, l’âge relatif, la génération et la filiation. Là où le français ou l’anglais se contentent d’oncle/uncle le chinois dispose de cinq termes 1°) FeB, 2°) FyB, 3°) MB, 4°) FZH, 5°) MZH11. C’est à la fois plus simple et plus compliqué que le ladakhi. Plus compliqué parce qu’il y a encore plus de termes, mais plus simple en fin de compte parce que les règles sont claires : FeB ≠ F ≠ FyB. À chaque position un mot.

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30 C’est que le rajout de ce critère12 met par terre une théorie qui a fait fureur dans l’anthropologie anglo-saxonne de Tylor à Radcliffe-Brown en passant par Lowie et qui lie une terminologie de type iroquois à l’existence de groupes de filiation unilinéaires (GFU, unilineal descent groups), c’est-à-dire à l’exogamie. Selon la théorie de Tylor et Rivers, reprise par Lowie et Radcliffe-Brown, le fait d’appeler le FB comme le F et la MZ comme la M renvoie à la solidarité de groupe. L’idéologie est la consanguinité. Comme l’écrivait Tylor clan exogame et terminologie classificatoire (iroquoise) « sont en fait deux faces d’une seule et même institution »13.

31 Or l’existence des termes agu et machung met tout cela par terre. Car machung appartient au même GFU qu’ama. Avant le mariage s’entend, et c’est bien de cela que parle Radcliffe-Brown. De même pour agu et aba. On objectera que dans le système traditionnel, un agu se faisait gendre (makpa) dans le cadre d’un mariage uxorilocal (voir Grist 1977, 1979 ; Phylactou 1989 ; Kaplanian 1981) ou moine et que dans l’un et l’autre cas il quittait le phaspun (le clan) et la maison (khangpa, khang-pa). Mais cela n’est déjà plus tout à fait le raisonnement de Radcliffe-Brown et obligerait à tenir compte non seulement du groupe (maison et phaspun) d’origine mais du groupe d’adoption.

32 Dès 1897 Kohler14 émettait, à propos des Omaha, l’hypothèse que le même terme de parenté renvoyait à ce qu’il appelait le « mariage de groupe » (Gruppenehe). Avant de prendre une seconde épouse, un Omaha faisait part à la première du désir d’alléger sa tâche. Et celle-ci pouvait répondre, ou prendre les devants, et dire « Je souhaite que tu épouses ma nièce, [ou ma sœur ou ma tante], parce qu’elle et moi nous sommes une seule chair. » Et effectivement pour un locuteur masculin omaha WFZ = WZ = WZD. Un même terme désignerait donc les personnes que l’on peut épouser ensemble.

33 Cette hypothèse a fait fortune. Sapir a avancé que le lévirat et le sororat préférentiels ainsi que la polyandrie fraternelle et la polygynie sororale peuvent rendre inopérant le critère de la collatéralité et engendrer ainsi des terminologies de type à « assimilation par bifurcation » (bifurcate merging, le type II de Lowie, c’est-à-dire que le frère du père est appelé « père » et la sœur de la mère, « mère »). Et cette hypothèse a été reprise par Kirchhoff et d’autres15.

34 Murdock reprend cette théorie de Sapir et Kirchhoff et en fait un « théorème » (le théorème 2, p. 147 de l’édition française) qui s’exprime comme suit : « En régime de polygynie sororale, les termes désignant les parents de premier ordre [c’est-à-dire F, M, H, W, S, D, B, Z, cf. Murdock p. 106] tendent à s’appliquer par extension à leurs parents collatéraux en ligne féminine de même sexe et de la même génération. »

35 Mais ce qui est surtout original au Ladakh c’est que seuls les FeB et MeZ sont assimilés respectivement à F et M. En ce qui concerne les FyB et MyZ, le système est à bifurcation et à lignes (bifurcate collateral), le type III de Lowie où les oncles et les tantes paternels et maternels sont non seulement distingués de M et F mais entre eux. En fait loin de réfuter la théorie de Kohler, Sapir et autres Murdock, le fait que FyB soit différent de FeB = F la renforce. Il suffit de se référer à l’ethnographie. La polyandrie, en effet, n’implique pas le mariage de tous les frères avec la même femme, mais uniquement des deux premiers, à la rigueur des trois premiers. C’est dit et redit par tous les ethnographes (voir par exemple Ramsay 189016, Grist 1979, p. 230). Autrement dit le « vrai » père d’Ego n’est pas son père mais son FeB et réciproquement puisqu’il n’y a de cérémonie de mariage qu’avec l’aîné(e) (Grist 1977, 1979). D’ailleurs dans le mariage polyandre le père biologique reste inconnu.

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36 Que cette terminologie renvoie à la polyandrie est un discours que j’ai explicitement entendu de certains Ladakhi. Si le frère aîné du père s’appelle comme lui aba, père, c’est parce que les deux frères étaient censés, il n’y a pas si longtemps, épouser la même femme disent-ils. Mais dans ce cas comment expliquer que la sœur aînée de la mère s’appelle ama (et son mari aba) ? À cause de la polygynie sororale ? C’est oublier que dans le système traditionnel on avait ou bien la polyandrie fraternelle ou bien la polygynie sororale, pas le deux en même temps.

37 En 1981, j’écrivais : « De la même façon que le mariage bagma [c’est-à-dire virilocal] implique la polyandrie fraternelle, le mariage de type makpa [uxorilocal, makpa veut dire gendre] implique la polygynie sororale. En d’autres termes le makpa épouse toutes les sœurs ou, du moins, a le droit de partager leur couche s’il le désire. On voit donc ici que le système se généralise de façon symétrique. »

38 « Dans le système bagma, ce sont tous les frères qui sont épousés ; dans le système makpa, ce sont toutes les sœurs ; au moins en théorie » (Kaplanian 1981, p. 156. Pour plus de détails Grist 1979, pp. 225-230). Je dois reconnaître que cette belle symétrie, qui me satisfaisait intellectuellement à l’époque, ne va pas de soi. Que le mariage courant, normatif, soit (ou plutôt était, car l’institution est en pleine déconfiture) la polyandrie fraternelle n’implique pas la réciprocité. On pourrait très bien imaginer que le mariage virilocal soit polyandre et que le mariage uxorilocal soit monogyne. Il faut bien reconnaître que la terminologie de parenté renforce pourtant cette symétrie. En fait le système terminologique semble bien refléter la coexistence de la polyandrie fraternelle et de la polygynie sororale. L’enfant est né à la fois d’un mariage polyandre de sa mère et d’un mariage polygyne de son père17.

39 Grist écrit : « We did hear of cases of two brothers marrying two sisters as bagma, and the marriage being that of both the women and both the men, but the general ethos of sexual relations in Ladakh seems to allow this, since all brothers and sisters (unless they are monks and nuns) appear to be allowed to have sexual relations with each other’s spouses of the opposite sex. » (1979, p. 230). On ne saurait être plus clair. Mais il faut insister sur le fait qu’il s’agit d’un modèle idéal, d’une structure mentale et il est peu probable qu’à une époque tous les groupes de germains épousaient des groupes de germaines.

40 Ramsay dans son dictionnaire (1890) va encore plus loin : « REMARRY TO - yáng hlokstey pakston cho ches. The first wife of a man is called his "changchhen", if she has no children, or if he is rich enough to keep two families, he may marry a second wife, who is called his "changchhungan", and if she too is childless, or if he can afford to keep three families, he may marry a third wife, who is called his "yángchhungan". So long as these are alive, he may not marry a fourth wife. If one wife dies, another wife may be taken in her place. As a matter of fact, the Ladákis are much too poor to wish to support more than one wife in a family, and it is only the necessity for having children, who will one day relieve them of the "forced labour" duties attaching to the possession of land, that induces them to remarry. If a man and his brothers have got, in common, three living wives and yet not child, they may not get another wife, but may call in to their family circle another man, to be a husband to their wives ; this man is termed a "phortsak". If he too begets no child, still another man, called "phó-chhungan", may be called in. If he too is childless, the original husband and wife must resort to adoption » (pp. 133-134) ; l’information est reprise par Hanlon18.

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41 Ce type de mariage paraît un peu surréaliste et je doute qu’il n’ait jamais existé, du moins poussé à son extrême. Il faudrait en effet, pour en arriver là, que toutes les femmes ou tous les hommes soient stériles ce qui statistiquement, vu le nombre de personnes impliquées, est peu probable. Il ne peut néanmoins pas avoir été inventé. La terminologie est trop précise et nous possédons deux témoignages. Cela veut dire que cette polygynie sororale/polyandrie fraternelle induite par le vocabulaire de la parenté existe au moins dans les mentalités. Il est vrai que Ramsay n’indique pas que ces femmes sont sœurs19.

42 Les sœurs du père d’Ego (FZ) ne peuvent être potentiellement mère d’Ego, et elles portent toute la même adresse, ane, sans distinction d’aînée ou de cadette. De même les MB (azhang). Et l’époux d’azhang est ane et réciproquement. Ils ne font ni partie de la maison, ni du clan (phaspun, pha-spun).

Moines et nonnes

43 a) Azhang et ane s’emploient comme termes d’adresse pour les moines et les nonnes. Ces termes désignent ceux qui ne peuvent être potentiellement père ou mère d’Ego et qui n’appartiennent ni à la maison ni au phaspun. Tel est aussi le cas des personnes qui entrent dans les ordres et qui sont considérés comme ayant quitté maison et phaspun (voir Ramsay, 1890)20. Agu et machung quant à eux, tant qu’ils ne sont pas mariés ailleurs, peuvent toujours rejoindre le mariage de groupe.

La génération Ego – 1

44 Venons en maintenant à la génération Ego – 1 et faisons à nouveau un schéma (fig. 5). Les informateurs ont parfois du mal à répondre et cela vient probablement du fait que la terminologie évolue, putsha/pomo s’employant de moins en moins au profit de tshao/ tshamo voire de no/nono/coco/nomo21. Pour retrouver les termes de parenté c’est-à-dire grosso modo si c’est pomo/putsha (P) ou tshao/tshamo (T) ils raisonnent à l’envers : — comment appelles-tu le fils de ton frère aîné ? — je suis son agu donc je l’appelle tshao.

45 On voit donc que ce qui est déterminant pour la génération Ego – 1 est la génération Ego + 1 qui lui sert de référence. Comme quoi la série aba, ama, ane, azhang, agu, machung est plus stable que la série pomo, putsha, tshao, tshamo. Donc si Ego est masculin et s’il est l’agu ou l’azhang, son neveu, s’appelle tshao et tshamo. S’il s’appelle aba c’est pomo (bu- mo) et putsha (bu-tsha). On appelle donc pomo et putsha ses propres enfants puisque on est l’aba.

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Figure 5

46 Ainsi Ego masculin est l’agu de 1 et 2 (puisqu’il est le jeune frère de leur père) et appelle 1 et 2 tshao et tshamo. Par contre il est l’aba de 5 et 6 puisqu’il est le frère aîné de leur père et donc il appelle 5 et 6 putsha et pomo. Bien entendu il appelle ses propres enfants 9 et 10 putsha et pomo. Les enfants des sœurs sont appelés tshao/tshamo de toute façon puisque Ego est azhang des enfants de sa sœur aînée et azhang des enfants de sa sœur cadette (3, 4, 7, 8).

47 Maintenant on connaît la règle comme quoi quelle que soit la façon dont ma femme appelle ses oncles et ses tantes je les appelle de la même façon et réciproquement. La règle est la même en ce qui concerne les neveux. Donc tous les termes d’adresse de 1 à 8 (et bien entendu 9 et 10) que nous venons d’énumérer sont aussi employés par le conjoint d’Ego. Pour les suivants de 11 à 18, il faut prendre le conjoint d’Ego comme repère, sachant que son mari utilisera les mêmes termes.

48 La femme d’Ego est l’ane de 11 et 12 qui sont donc tshao/tshamo pour la femme d’Ego (et donc pour son mari) ; elle est machung de 13 et 14 qu’elle appellera donc tshao/tshamo ; elle est l’ane de 15 et 16 qu’elle appelle donc tshao/tshamo ; enfin elle est l’ama de 17 et 18 qu’elle appelle donc putsha/pomo.

49 Précisons que ces appellations sont données suite au raisonnement que je viens de raconter, le plus souvent à haute voix. Mais dans la pratique on n’appelle plus ses neveux et nièces putsha et pomo. Même tshao/tshamo tendent à disparaître au profit de nono/nomo. Tshao/tshamo résiste pour les petits-enfants et les petits-neveux.

50 Il va de soi que la tendance à remplacer pomo/putsha par tshao/tshamo est due à la déliquescence de la polyandrie. Tant que F et FeB étaient mariés à la même femme il était évident que tous leurs enfants étaient des « fils » et « filles ».

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51 De plus comme no/nono et nomo sont couramment employés, on tend aussi vers l’assimilation des générations – 1 et – 2 aux cadets d’Ego.

52 Restons-en au système traditionnel de nomination des neveux et nièces. Ce système groupait ensemble sous le vocable de tshao/tshamo les enfants qui les appellent agu/ azhang/ane et machung. C’est-à-dire que ce qui est soigneusement distingué à la génération Ego + 1, les sœurs cadettes de mère (MyZ), les frères cadets de père (FyB), les sœurs de père (FZ) et les frères de mère (MB) se trouvent regroupés en deux vocables à travers leurs neveux.

53 Ceci n’est peut-être pas très étonnant si l’on admet que le fondement de la terminologie de parenté renvoie à un mariage de groupe entre des frères et des sœurs. Tous les enfants de ce mariage de groupe sont pomo et putsha, et tous les enfants des autres germains des tshao et tshamo. Mais cela inverse la question et nous renvoie d’Ego – 1 à Ego + 1. Si cette terminologie renvoie à un mariage de groupe entre des frères et des sœurs, elle pourrait se contenter de distinguer ceux qui font partie du mariage de groupe de ceux qui en sont exclus. Pourquoi la terminologie distingue-t-elle soigneusement dans ce qui est rejeté hors de ce mariage de groupe plusieurs termes ? Plus précisément Pourquoi distingue-t-elle machung d’ane et agu d’azhang ? Peut-être parce que machung et agu ne sont pas membres du mariage de groupe mais peuvent éventuellement le devenir. Et s’ils le deviennent on ne s’adresse plus à eux avec ces mots machung et agu : Grist (1979) fait remarquer que si un agu rejoint le mariage polyandrique, il devient aba. À la génération suivante, la question ne se pose plus. Ou bien ils ont rejoint le mariage de groupe ou bien ils ne l’ont pas fait. Ils n’a a donc plus que deux classes d’enfants et de neveux.

54 Ceci expliquerait peut-être pourquoi les moines et nonnes sont appelés azhang et ane et non pas agu et machung. Ils ont définitivement quitté maison et phaspun et ne sont pas potentiellement membre du mariage de groupe. Ils ne font partie ni de la maison, ni du phaspun22.

55 Rappelons enfin qu’à la génération Ego – 2 tous les petits-enfants et petits-neveux peuvent être appelés tshao/tshamo. Ce ne sont pas pour autant des termes d’adresses généraux comme les huit du noyau de base quoiqu’il ne soit pas interdit à un vieil homme d’appeler un petit enfant qui n’est ni son neveu ni son petit-fils tshao. Mais dans ce cas là la métaphore est explicite. Le vieil homme veut exprimer ainsi une affection particulière pour cet enfant.

56 Une dernière remarque avant de passer à la nomenclature de désignation. On a souvent tendance à prendre les enfants comme référence. Un peu comme dans une famille française où le père dira à son enfant « demande à maman », puis finira par appeler lui- même sa femme « maman ».

Termes de désignation à Leh

57 Voyons maintenant le tableau des termes de désignation. Les principales différences avec le système des termes d’adresse sont les suivantes :

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Figure 6

58 1) On signalera d’abord que certains informateurs ont du mal à désigner le neveu du côté du frère. Ils disent plus volontiers noe putsha, noe pomo, acoe putsha, acoe pomo : le fils/la fille de mon frère cadet/aîné. Par contre tous les enfants de mes sœurs sont des tshao/tshamo.

59 2) Nama (mna’-ma) veut dire l’épouse, la femme et la belle-fille. Makpa (mag-pa) désigne le mari et le gendre. Voici donc deux autres termes transgénérationnels23. Pour le reste il n’y a pas de changement sauf en ce qui concerne les mots mingbo et sringmo.

60 3) En effet, nous dit Grist mingbo (ming-po) s’emploie pour dire frère lorsque le locuteur est une femme et sringmo (sring-mo) s’emploie pour dire sœur lorsque le locuteur est un homme. Il convient de préciser :

61 a) Effectivement une fille dira nye mingbo, « mon ou mes frères », lorsqu’elle n’a pas besoin de préciser l’âge relatif. Elle emploiera plutôt mingbo au pluriel comme collectif « mes frères », les uns étant plus âgés d’autres plus jeunes.

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Figure 7

62 Nga(la) mingbo sum yot : j’ai trois frères.

63 b) En fait mingbo ne désigne pas le frère lorsqu’une fille parle, mais le frère d’une fille, ce qui n’est pas la même chose24. Ainsi un garçon pourra demander à une fille : Nyerangla mingbo tsam yot ? : Combien avez-vous de frères ? Et s’il ne sait pas l’âge relatif d’un de ses frères par rapport à elle : Nyerangla mingbo kane yot ? : Où est votre frère ?

64 c) Le terme mingbo n’est pas du tout, pour les frères d’une femme, exclusif des termes aco et no/nono. Une femme peut très bien dire : Nga(la) aco nyis, no sum yot : j’ai deux frères plus âgés et trois plus jeunes Dans la pratique elle dira nye aco ou nye no lorsqu’il s’agit d’un seul frère nécessairement plus jeune ou plus âgé qu’elle. Mingbo n’est pas à proprement parler un terme de désignation mais un collectif pour « frères » qui englobe aco et no. Il est vrai que l’expression acono existe.

65 d) Évidemment tout ce que je dis pour mingbo est valable symétriquement pour sringmo. Un garçon peut dire : nga(la) ache sum nomo nyis yot : j’ai trois sœurs plus âgées et deux plus jeunes. Nga(la) sringmo snga yot : j’ai cinq sœurs Nga(la) achenomo snga yot : même sens Et une fille pourrait lui demander : Nyerangi sringmo kane yot ? : où est votre sœur ? Nyerangla sringmo tsam yot ? : combien avez-vous de sœurs ?

66 e) Le problème se pose plutôt pour les frères d’un garçon (ou on ne peut employer mingbo réservé aux frères des filles) et pour les sœurs d’une fille (où on ne peut employer sringmo réservé aux sœurs des garçons). S’il y en a plusieurs on peut toujours employer les collectifs acono et achenomo obtenus simplement en juxtaposant les deux mots. Mais imaginons qu’un locuteur masculin veuille parler à une fille de sa sœur sans savoir son âge relatif par rapport à son interlocutrice. J’ai remarqué que dans ces cas là

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on emploie plutôt le terme qui désigne l’aîné : ache (et réciproquement aco quand une fille parle).

67 f) Aujourd’hui sringmo tend à prendre le sens général de sœur et mingbo de frère, quelque soit le locuteur et l’âge relatif comme dans les langues indo-européennes. Mais, pris sur le fait, la plupart de ceux qui ont fait la « faute » la reconnaissent ; comme quoi cette évolution est récente. L’ancien sens normatif de mingbo et sringmo reste conscient25.

68 Pourquoi ces termes de sringmo et mingbo ? Il est possible de faire un rapprochement avec la génération d’Ego + 1 au niveau des termes d’adresse et de désignation. On a vu qu’on distingue les frères ainés/cadets du père mais pas les sœurs ainées/cadettes du père. De même sringmo est un collectif pour les sœurs d’Ego, mais pour le frère on continue à distinguer aco et no. Et on distingue les sœurs ainées/cadettes de la mère mais on ne distingue pas les frères ainés/cadets. Et de même mingbo est collectif pour tous les frères mais une personne du sexe féminin doit distinguer ache et nomo.

69 La question est ainsi déplacée : quand on parle des germains et des oncles et tantes de son propre sexe, on doit bien préciser l’âge relatif. Pour un homme aco/no, aba/agu ; pour une femme ache/nomo, ama/machung. Quand on parle d’un germain ou d’un oncle ou tante du sexe opposé on peut s’en dispenser. Mingbo englobe aco/no et il y a azhang qui est un terme unique pour aîné et cadet de mère : sringmo englobe ache/nomo et ane est un terme unique pour aînée et cadette de père. On a alors une correspondance terme à terme. Celui que mon père désigne comme aco je l’appelle aba. Celui que mon père désigne comme no je l’appelle agu. Celles que mon père désigne comme sringmo je les appelle ane. Celle que ma mère désigne comme ache je l’appelle ama. Celle que ma mère désigne comme nomo je l’appelle machung. Ceux que ma mère désigne comme mingbo je les appelle azhang.

70 Si cette comparaison est éclairante, elle ne résout pas tout. Pourquoi sringmo et mingbo en tant que termes de référence uniquement, alors que pour les oncles et tantes le raisonnement reste valable pour les termes de désignation aussi bien que les termes d’adresse, puisque ce sont les mêmes ? Peut-être parce qu’en adresse la génération, ou plus précisément le niveau (génération plus opposition aîné/cadet), prime tout.

71 Une dernière remarque. Les termes de désignation dépassent eux aussi largement le cadre strict de la parenté. Voici quelques exemples pris sur le vif. — À l’entrée d’un monastère : « le moine (meme) est là ? — oui » — À des enfants à l’entrée d’une réunion : « Va chercher un adulte (aco). Mais un adulte (aco chenmo) hein ! (chenmo veut dire grand). » — À une petite fille qui rentre de l’école : « La maîtresse (ache) était-elle là ? »

72 On voit donc apparaître des termes de parenté là où en français on aurait « quelqu’un, un homme », etc. Par exemple à quelqu’un qui était absent on peut dire : « un aco, un azhang, un aba, etc. est venu te voir. » On prend alors l’âge de l’interlocuteur comme référence.

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L’évolution de la terminologie

73 1) La liste des termes d’adresse est stable. En gros la règle est donnée par Riaboff (car la règle est aussi valable au Zanskar) : « un Ego s’adresse à des affins par des appellations qu’il applique également à ses consanguins » (1997, p. 80). La liste est stable et son emploi évolue vers un renforcement de l’aspect générationnel à niveaux, les critères de la génération et de l’âge relatif tendent, avec le sexe, à être les seuls.

74 2) Tshao/tshamo évolue vers le sens indo-européen de neveu/nièce, ceci en adresse comme en désignation.

75 3) Les termes distinguant les futurs alliés, soit sringmo pour la sœur d’un frère qui joindra un autre phaspun et une autre khangpa et mingbo pour le frère d’une sœur, parce qu’elle joindra un autre phaspun et une autre khangpa, tendent, eux aussi, à disparaître au profit d’un sens indo-européen de « frère » et « sœur ».

76 4) Comme pour l’adresse, pour la désignation la tendance générationnelle (renforcée par l’opposition aîné/cadet) se développe. De la même façon qu’on n’adresse plus systématiquement du aco à eZH, mais du aco ou du nono selon son âge relatif par rapport au locuteur, de la même façon évolue la façon d’en parler. Sauf pour la génération Ego + 1 où cette évolution résiste.

77 5) De même la règle d’appellation réciproque entre mari et femme tend à disparaître au profit du seul âge relatif. Sauf pour la génération Ego + 1 où elle résiste.

78 La représentation traditionnelle que projette la terminologie de parenté est celle d’un mariage de groupe entre des germains et des germaines. Ce mariage est un mariage, en principe, entre les deux aînés. Les jeunes frères et les jeunes sœurs des deux aînés s’y ajoutent successivement sans cérémonie. C’est de là que découlait la règle d’appellation réciproque. Si Ego est masculin, sa femme est une aînée, non pas parce qu’elle est plus âgée que lui, mais parce qu’elle-même est l’aînée du groupe de sœurs26.

79 Évidemment la disparition de la polyandrie fraternelle et de la polygynie sororale expliquent cette évolution, ainsi que le déclin de l’institution du phaspun. On évolue vers un système générationnel (renforcée par l’opposition aîné/cadet) avec quelques traits indo-européens.

Conclusions

80 Que conclure ?

81 1) Tout d’abord on constatera qu’il reste encore un certain flou sur des points de détail. Je m’apprêtais à écrire « les recherches continuent ». Elles continuent effectivement mais ce flou peut être éclairé sous un autre angle depuis la publication d’un article de Zeisler27. J’avais choisi Leh parce que c’est l’ancienne capitale royale, l’actuel chef-lieu de district, bref la ville, la référence. En fait Zeisler démontre qu’on peut en gros distinguer deux groupes de parlers au Ladakh, qu’elle appelle kenhat (gyen-skad) et shamskat (gsham-skad). Or Leh est à la charnière des deux zones dans lesquelles sont parlés chacun des deux dialectes. Il faudrait refaire le relevé de la nomenclature de parenté dans un village du Haut-Ladakh, (kenhat), en amont de Leh, et dans un village du bas-Ladakh (shamskat) en aval de Leh, pour compléter cette étude.

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82 2) Une explication de ce modèle induit de mariage de groupe est peut-être à chercher dans les coutumes des Dardes bouddhistes28. On sait que les Ladakhi considèrent que leur civilisation relève en partie du Tibet et en partie des Dardes29, qu’elle constitue en quelque sorte un syncrétisme entre les deux. Or le mariage de groupe existe bel et bien chez les Dardes bouddhistes.

83 D’après Vohra30 15 % des mariages de la première génération, c’est-à-dire en gros de ceux qui avaient entre 60 et 70 ans lors de son enquête en 1980, donc qui sont nés vers 1910-1920, sont des mariages de deux frères avec deux sœurs, chaque frère épousant une sœur (p. 140). Sept cas sur 45. Il doit s’agir d’une coutume ancienne car le pourcentage tombe à 4 % pour la seconde génération (deux cas sur 46) et 8 % à la troisième (trois cas sur 38).

84 Deux sœurs qui épousent chacune un frère, cela n’est théoriquement pas un mariage de groupe. Mais Vohra laisse entendre qu’il s’agit d’un mariage de groupe déguisé. Il en donne un exemple p. 88. Dans une famille il y a cinq frères. Les deux premiers ont épousé deux sœurs d’une famille x, et les deux suivants deux autres sœurs d’une famille y. Et Vohra de préciser : « Informal marital relationships prevailed among the brothers and their wives, but the children born in the household were known as the children of the elder brother ». Plus explicite encore est l’exemple de la page 85 : « The two adopted sons received in common two sisters as wives from Chogolag-pa household. Though officially Horphel was married to Sonam Skid and Samdan to Sam, they both shared their wives. In any case the elder brother, Horphel, would be the only one to have the status of father and it would be his eldest son who would become the household head in the following generation ». À noter qu’il s’agit de deux frères adoptés, alors qu’un aurait suffi.

85 3) Ces traces de mariages de groupe décrites plus haut en citant Ramsay et Grist sont elles suffisantes pour affirmer l’existence d’un mariage de groupe à une certaine époque dont la nomenclature de parenté serait encore aujourd’hui le reflet ? Peut-être pas. Mais il existe une autre façon de voir les choses. Nous allons voir que l’approche du cas ladakhi est finalement différente de celle du cas omaha étudié par Kohler.

86 L’unité de base de la société ladakhi est la maisonnée, la khangpa. Je dis maisonnée et non pas maison car la khangpa ne désigne pas nécessairement un bâtiment unique. Il peut y avoir les annexes, mais maison principale (khangchen ; khang-chen) et annexe(s) (khangu ou khangchung ; khang-chung) forment une seule khangpa. Habituellement (faut- il le répéter je parle de la situation d’il y a bientôt 40 ans) vivent dans la maison principale le couple, ou le trio polyandrique, et leurs enfants non mariés. Les vieux parents se retirent dans une annexe après le mariage de leur aîné.

87 Dans l’organisation sociale du village seule, les khangpa sont des unités électives. Le chef du village est élu sur le principe d’une voix par khangpa. Il en est de même lors des réunions, à laquelle n’assiste qu’un représentant par khangpa. Il en est de même dans les rituels où certains rôles sont joués par un membre de chaque khangpa année après année à tour de rôle, etc. Bref il y a des individus mais il y a surtout des khangpa. Il existe néanmoins des groupes d’unifiliation patrilinéaires, les phaspun (pha-spun, pha père, spun, germain) qui ne remontent pas à un ancêtre commun fut-il fictif. Simplement la règle d’appartenance est la patrifiliation, ce qui est suffisant.

88 J’ai déjà démontré31 que la maison ladakhi était un tout insécable. Et que pour introduire un nouvel élément (un nouveau né, une jeune mariée) ou au contraire

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retirer un élément (en cas de décès) il fallait « dissoudre » la maison dans le phaspun. La maison, groupe compact et insécable disparait, le phaspun, groupe d’individus, le remplace. Le nouveau-né, la jeune mariée, sont en tant qu’individus intégrés dans ce groupe d’individus qu’est le phaspun (ou le contraire en cas de décès) et, une fois les cérémonies terminées, la khangpa se reforme. Il n’est donc pas absurde de penser que, idéalement, je dis bien idéalement car cela ne renvoie pas à la réalité ethnographique, le mariage se fait entre deux maisons, ce qui implique effectivement l’union de toutes les sœurs avec tous les frères.

89 La nomenclature de parenté refléterait alors le mariage idéal non pas entre deux individus mais entre deux khangpa. Ceci expliquerait qu’il n’y a qu’un mariage par génération. Il était théoriquement exclu qu’un cadet se marie (sauf mariage uxorilocal). Les vieux parents se retiraient dans l’annexe, et tous ceux en âge de procréer qui n’entraient pas dans le mariage polyandrique ou polygynique étaient censés quitter la maison : moine, nonne ou mariage uxorilocal.

90 Dans cette logique l’un mariage par génération et par maison, les enfants du trio ou du quatuor polyandrique étaient considérés comme des fils de l’aîné. Il n’y avait d’ailleurs de cérémonie de mariage qu’avec l’aîné. Les cadets entraient ensuite dans le lit de leur belle-sœur sans autre forme de rituel. Il en était de même du mariage polygynique « en gendre » : le mariage n’avait lieu qu’avec l’aînée. Mais il était effectivement impossible d’affirmer que tous les enfants étaient les enfants de l’aînée. On procédait autrement : les enfants de la cadette n’étaient pas reconnus. Si l’aînée n’avait donné naissance qu’à des filles on procédait à un nouveau mariage en gendre, même si la cadette avait eu un garçon.

91 Un seul mariage par génération permet de conserver l’unité, la cohésion de la khangpa. La succession des générations est représentée par une ligne (gyut ; brgyud). L’explication fonctionnaliste de ce système et qu’il a pour but de ne pas diviser la terre ; explication plausible mais insuffisante puisqu’il existe d’autres moyens de conserver le terroir intact.

92 4) Peut-on aller plus loin ? Essayer de remonter dans le temps ? Allen a conçu comme point de départ, peut-être à l’époque paléolithique, un modèle « tétradique » dans lequel deux générations (qu’il appelle paire et impaire) alternent, chaque niveau étant réduit à deux fois un frère et une sœur32. Au niveau un (impair) les deux frères échangent leur sœur. Au niveau deux (pair) la règle du mariage avec la cousine croisée s’applique. Et on recommence. Le schéma d’Allen (Fig. 8) aide à comprendre : il y a donc deux sexes, indiqués par des losanges (en fait des carrés dont les diagonales sont parallèles aux côtés de la page) et des carrés. Le schéma peut être lu avec les losanges indiquant les femmes et les carrés les hommes ou vice-versa. De ce point de vue il est strictement symétrique. Donc si, par exemple, Ego (le losange noir) est un homme, il épouse sa cousine croisée et sa sœur épouse son cousin croisé frère de l’épouse d’Ego. Il n’est pas difficile de démontrer que ce schéma se reproduit à l’infini la génération impaire qui suit celle paire d’Ego, est identique à celle qui précède. Ceci est marqué par le « rouleau » à droite et à gauche du schéma qui indique que l’on peut lire le schéma de haut en bas ou de bas en haut selon que l’on remonte générations dans le temps ou que, au contraire, on les suit dans leur succession.

93 Il y aurait eu dans ce monde une terminologie de parenté à huit termes qui correspondent aux huit losanges et carrés de schéma.

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Figure 8

N. J. Allen

94 À la règle du mariage avec la cousine croisée s’ajoutaient deux autres règles. La première est l’assimilation des générations deux à deux. Ce qui fait qu’Ego, s’il est masculin, est assimilé à son grand-père et à son petit-fils (FF = SS) ; la seconde est l’équivalence de tous les frères (F = FB) et sœurs (M = MZ), etc. d’une génération.

95 D’après Allen, on peut construire toutes les nomenclatures actuelles en développant ce schéma selon trois règles diachroniques :

96 1) La disparition de l’identification entre générations alternées. FF devient différent des termes désignant des membres de la génération d’Ego et différent de SS. Ce qui est bien le cas au Ladakh.

97 2) La disparition des règles normatives (prescriptive), qui, permettent de fusionner en un mot un parent par le sang et un affin. C’est partiellement le cas au Ladakh.

98 3) La fin de l’assimilation des germains de même sexe et de même génération. C’est partiellement le cas au Ladakh.

99 Allen en donne lui-même un exemple à propos de la terminologie omaha33. Évidemment c’est loin d’être le cas dans le système ladakhi qui ne distingue pas les cousins croisés et parallèles et, de toute façon, interdit le mariage avec tout cousin. Bien entendu il serait toujours possible en appliquant les règles de dérivation de passer progressivement du système tétradique au système ladakhi. Mais une fois de plus c’est la génération Ego+1 qui attire l’attention. L’identité entre germains de même sexe et de même génération a été partiellement brisée en introduisant des termes spécifiques pour les cadets. Mais c’est le « partiellement » qui est intéressant.

100 Revenons au schéma d’Allen. Il est simple et clair parce qu’il n’y a qu’un garçon et une fille par couple et que chacun épouse le garçon ou la fille de l’autre couple. Mais que se

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passe-t-il lorsqu’il y a plusieurs enfants ? Allen a prévu le cas qui écrit34 que cela ne pose de problème que dans les sociétés qui séparent les générations (c’est-à-dire qui applique la règle de transformation № 1). Mais dans le système tétradique toutes les générations paires ne forment qu’une seule classe et, s’il y a, par exemple, plusieurs frères, et pas assez de cousines croisées à épouser, les frères surnuméraires peuvent toujours épouser quelqu’un de la génération Ego+2. Je sais bien que de tels systèmes existent réellement mais la systématisation qu’en fait Allen me gêne. D’abord dans cette société préhistorique on ne devait pas vivre bien vieux, et un mariage avec la génération +2 impliquait une forte différence d’âge mais surtout d’état physique. Ensuite rien ne dit qu’il y avait suffisamment de conjoints disponibles au sein de la génération + 2 (ou – 2). Étant donné que tous les FB était des F classificatoires et toutes les MS des M, il est plus logique de penser qu’on avait affaire à un mariage de groupe. Dans ce cas le schéma d’Allen tient parfaitement. Peu importe le nombre de frères et de sœurs, il n’y a même pas besoin de les représenter sur le schéma, un seul triangle et un seul petit cercle suffisent : ils ne représentent plus un seul individu, mais une série de frères et une série de sœurs. Nous ne sommes pas si loin du schéma ladakhi.

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Dumont, L. 1953 The Dravidian kinship terminology as an expression of marriage, Man, art. 54, pp. 34-39 ; repris dans Dumont, L. 1983 Affinity as a value, Marriage alliance in South India, with Comparative Essays on Australia (Chicago, Chicago university Press), p. 9. Version française dans Dumont, L. 1975 Dravidien et Kariera, L’alliance dans le mariage en Inde du Sud et en Australie (Paris, Mouton).

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NOTES

1. Abréviations anglaises : F, father ; S, son ; Z, sister ; D, daughter ; B, brother ; H, husband ; W, wife ; eB/eZ, elder brother/sister ; yB/yZ, younger brother/sister. Ainsi par exemple FFZeS se lit « Father’s father’s sister’s elder son », le fils aîné de la sœur du père du père (d’Ego). 2. Notons qu’on appelle un musulman kaga à la place de aco et quelquefois une musulmane didi concurremment à ache. Kaga étant le terme honorifique pour aco cela veut-il dire que l’on considère tous les musulmans comme des nobles ? Il est plus vraisemblable de penser qu’il s’agit de la déformation de l’ourdou kaka, frère aîné, assimilé en kaga. L’emploi de didi (ourdou pour « sœur aînée »), concurremment à ache, le confirme.

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3. Il s’agit tout simplement du système canon. Cf. Ourliac & de Malafosse 1968, p. 84 et Héritier 1981, qui présente pp. 180-182 les différentes façons de calculer les degrés de parenté. 4. Cela rejoint une remarque plus générale : plus on est précis mieux c’est. On emploiera nyen ou nyendrung (gnyen ou gnyen-drung ; parent au sens de kin and affine) par défaut, parce qu’on ne sait pas très bien la relation de la personne dont on parle, mais si on sait, agu ou machung, par exemple, c’est mieux que nyen. Et aco ou no c’est mieux que mingbo, ache ou nomo c’est mieux que sringmo, etc. (cf. infra). 5. L'intérêt des rtsima ne concerne que le mariage. Dans les années 1970 la sacro-sainte règle était qu’on ne pouvait épouser quelqu’un en deçà du 7e degré, même si on pouvait relever déjà de sérieux coups de canif dans cette règle (Grist 1977, 1979 ; Kaplanian 1981 ; Phylactou 1989, etc.). Au Zanskar Gutshow (1995) parle du 5e degré et Riaboff du 7e degré du côté du père et du 4e du côté de la mère (1997, p. 89). 6. Il est à noter que comme termes de désignation pomo/putsha veulent dire homme ou femme. On les emploiera pour dire « les femmes d’un côté et les hommes de l’autre » ou bien « il y avait 27 femmes et 30 hommes à la réunion ». 7. Murdock 1949 ; Shusky 1965, p. 22. 8. Kroeber 1909, pp. 77-84, 1952, pp. 175-181. Dans ce texte célèbre Kroeber distingue huit critères, en l’occurrence : 1) la génération, 2) la différence entre ligne directe et collatérale, 3) la différence d’âge à l’intérieur d’une même génération 4) le sexe, 5) le sexe du locuteur, 6) le sexe de la personne par laquelle passe la relation de parenté, 7) la distinction entre parents par le sang et alliés, 8) le statut de la personne par laquelle passe la relation de parenté : vivante ou morte. À cette liste Lounsbury (1956, p. 168 et n. 25) ajoute le critère de la différence entre les degrés de collatéralité (différences between kinsmen of varying degrees of collaterality). Un cousin germain peut être appelé d’une autre façon qu’un cousin au deuxième degré. Murdock (1972) quant à lui, ajoute le critère de la polarité. « Il faut, dit-il, deux personnes pour qu’il y ait une relation de parenté.» « La reconnaissance de ce critère au niveau linguistique implique l’existence de deux termes de parenté distincts pour toute relation, chacune des personnes intéressées en employant l’une pour désigner l’autre. » Mais deux personnes peuvent aussi se désigner par le même terme. C’est le cas de cousin en anglais (1972, pp. 111-115). Il appelle le critère 6 « bifurcation » (forking). Quant à moi je fais remarquer qu’il existe des termes de parenté honorifiques, pour s’adresse aux membres de la noblesse et du haut clergé. 9. Lowie 1928, pp. 263-267. 10. Françoise Héritier (1981, p. 19) mentionne ces quatre cas et fait remarquer que Lowie ne cite pas tous les cas possibles mais tous les cas effectivement rencontrés dans le corpus ethnographique. Il reste encore un cas théorique : les frères de mère s’appellent comme le père, tandis que les frères de père sont affublés d’un terme différent. 11. Han Yi Feng 1937. Voir aussi Han-Yi-Feng 1967 et Yuen Ren Chao 1956. 12. Dumont note bien l’existence, dans les langues dravidiennes de l’Inde du Sud, de préfixes pour démarquer par exemple F de FeB et FyB, mais il considère que des préfixes ne doivent pas être pris en compte et qu’il y a bel et bien « assimilation » (merging) des FB ou F. Je ne parle pas un mot de tamoul, mais doit-on considérer qu’en français la différence entre père, grand-père et beau-père ne doit pas être prise en compte ? Dans ce cas que faire de la synonymie entre belle- fille et bru, beau-fils et gendre ? De toute façon la question ne se pose pas en ladakhi au moins pour agu. Par contre si on refuse de prendre en considération machung, en tant que mot composé, toute la démonstration de cet article s’effondre. Or la symétrie entre agu et machung est évidente, et l’un est composé pas l’autre. Dumont 1953 pp. 34-39, repris dans Dumont 1983, p. 9. Version française dans Dumont 1975. Même position chez Augustins 2000, pp. 573-598.

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13. Cité par Zimmermann 1993, p. 49. Voir aussi dans le même ouvrage p. 125 : Selon Radcliffe- Brown (1952, p. 70) « Ego perçoit du dehors la lignée patrilinéaire de sa mère dans son unité et applique à tous les membres de même sexe de cette lignée le même nom de parenté sur au moins trois générations.» Cette théorie n’est effectivement intéressante qu’à partir du moment où non seulement M = MZ mais aussi Z = MZD et MMZ = MM comme c’est effectivement le cas chez les Iroquois (ibid., p. 50). Et p. 133 « Mais Radcliffe-Brown allait plus loin en disant qu’elles sont traitées "comme" la mère parce qu’elles appartiennent au même groupe de filiation patrilinéaire.» Voir aussi les critiques très sévères de Murdoch, op. cit., pp. 129-130. 14. Kohler 1897 ; trad. Anglaise 1975. Cité par Zimmermann (1993, pp. 124-125). 15. Sapir 1916, pp. 327-337 ; Kirchhoff 1932, pp. 58, 46-49. Cet article propose aussi les quatre catégories de Lowie. B. W. Aginsky (1935, pp. 450-451). 16. Ramsay 1890. 17. Ce renforcement de la symétrie entre mariages makpa (uxorilocaux) et bagma (virilocaux) par la terminologie de parenté est corroboré par le discours des Ladakhi qui insistent sur la symétrie entre les deux cérémonies de mariages, les rôles du fiancé et de la fiancée étant tout simplement inversés. Le makpa « fait la fille ». Ce discours est peut-être théorique (je n’ai jamais assisté à un mariage makpa) mais il existe. 18. Hanlon 1893, p. 103. Je tiens à remercier John Bray de m’avoir envoyé une copie des textes introuvables de Hanlon. Le phortsak est aussi mentionné par Pierre de Grèce (1963) et par Grist (1979). 19. Gutschow (1995, p. 345) nous apprend à propos du Zanskar : « If childress, polyandrously wed brothers may bring in a second and even a third wife, usually related to the first wife. » Voilà qui pourrait être une confirmation ethnographique à condition que la nomenclature zanskari de parenté soit comparable avec celle du Ladakh proprement dit. 20. Notons que meme peut s’employer pour un moine et ane peut s’adresser à une femme célibataire assimilée à une nonne. Ane peut aussi désigner — c’est un comble — une femme facile, une femme illégitime voire une prostituée. 21. À ce propos j’ai remarqué que les femmes étaient beaucoup plus à l’aise dans la terminologie de parenté. Plusieurs fois le mari a appelé sa femme au secours laquelle répondait du tac au tac. Fils du frère aîné ? tshao ! Fille du frère aîné ? tshamo !, etc. 22. Il arrive qu’un moine se défroque, et même qu’il se marie après. Cela ne change rien au raisonnement « théorique » auquel renvoie la terminologie de parenté. 23. On notera l’existence de deux termes bagma (bag-ma) et nama (mna’-ma) pour désigner la fiancée et l’épouse. Bagma désigne avant tout la future femme pendant la cérémonie du mariage (mais nama peut être utilisé), lequel s’appelle bagston. Par contre le fiancé et le mari (et le gendre) sont tous deux makpa (mag-pa). Ceci s’explique aisément par le changement de statut de la femme qui se déplace, change de maison et, il n’y a pas si longtemps que cela, de phaspun (groupe exogamique). Bagpo ou pagpo existe. Je l'ai entendu quelquefois. 24. En d’autres termes il ne s’agit pas du critère 5 de Kroeber mais du 6 : « 5) Le sexe du locuteur - Cette catégorie ne joue pas en anglais ni dans la plupart des langues européennes, mais on sait son importance dans nombre d’autres langues. Père, mère, frère, sœur et parents plus éloignés peuvent être nommés d’une certaine façon par un homme et d’une façon différente par sa sœur. 6) Le sexe de la personne par laquelle passe la relation de parenté - L’anglais n’exprime pas cette catégorie, aussi trouvons-nous souvent nécessaire de préciser si un oncle est un frère du père ou un frère de la mère, et si une grand-mère est paternelle ou maternelle. » Traduction Zimmermann, 1993, p. 106. Lequel Zimmermann précise en note : « Ce sixième critère, le sexe du parent intermédiaire, fut baptisé bifurcation par Lowie en 1928. Ce qui est exactement en jeu dans la bifurcation, comme le note Ward H. Goodenough, 1970, p. 115, n. 18, ce n’est pas le sexe du parent intermédiaire mais la présence ou nom d’une différence de sexe entre, d’une part, le parent intermédiaire et, d’autre part, le plus âgé des deux individus dont la relation de parenté

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est à définir. Par exemple, soit A le neveu ou la nièce, B le parent intermédiaire (son père ou sa mère), C l’oncle ou la tante : il y a bifurcation, s’il y a une différence de sexe entre B et C, la paire de parents de même génération (coeval pair). » Évidemment ce raisonnement ne tient pas ici. Le locuteur, son interlocutrice et le frère (mingbo) de celle-ci, ou bien le locuteur, son interlocuteur et la sœur (sringmo) de celui-ci peuvent très bien être de la même génération. Faut-il diviser le critère 6 de Kroeber en deux sous-cas ? 25. Sringmo et mingbo ne sont donc pas des termes de parenté au sens strict mais plutôt des collectifs. Y en a-t-il d’autres ? — Il n’y a pas de mots pour « parents ». On juxtapose abaama comme on peut juxtaposer acono ou achenomo. On emploie quelquefois phama. — Il n’y a pas non plus de termes pour les grands-parents. Selon la même technique on juxtapose abimeme. — Maintenant si acono et achenomo peuvent désigner respectivement les frères ou les sœurs pour l’ensemble des frères et sœurs on utilise mingsring (mingbo + sringmo). Évidemment aconoachenomo aurait été un peu long. Mais alors que mingbo désignait les frères de sœurs et sringmo les sœurs de frères, mingsring s’emploie pour tous. D’autre part il peut parfois s’étendre aux cousins de 1er degré au moins. On emploie parfois l’expression mingsringmingbo, dont il n’est pas sûr qu’elle soit strictement synonyme de mingsring. Mingsring a un concurrent : spunla. Mais spunla est ambigu. Il n’y a qu’une minorité d’informateurs pour dire qu’il est strictement synonyme de mingsring et une majorité pour le traduire par parents par le sang (kin). Spunla s’oppose alors à nyen qui sont les parents au sens large, parents par le sang et alliés (kin and affines). Au Zanskar le terme désigne les consanguins (kin) uniquement, d'après Gutshow (1995) et d'après Riaboff gnyen-drung désigne au Zanskar aussi les parents au sens large, les parents par le sang étant sha khrag gnyen drung (1997, p. 89 et n. 32). — Sur le même modèle que acono, mingsring, etc. il existe makpanama pour désigner le couple. Par contre il existe un mot pour époux/épouse c’est zhitmat. On peut poser la question à un homme et à une femme (ce n’est pas très poli, mais c’est grammaticalement correct) : Zhitmat chachen ? Vous êtes mariés, vous êtes un couple ? Et on répond Nazha mingsring inok : (Non) nous sommes frères et sœurs Ou bien Nazha zhitmat inok (Oui) nous sommes époux Il n’existe pas de termes généraux pour oncles, tantes, oncles et tantes, et cousin est désigné par aco, no, ache, nomo comme nous le savons maintenant. Il existe donc très peu de termes collectifs : mingbo, sringmo, zhitmat, sans oublier thrugu (phru-gu ; enfants). Le reste est obtenu par juxtaposition de deux mots. 26. Je tiens à remercier Isabelle Riaboff pour ses commentaires fort utiles et pour m'avoir envoyé des informations qui ne figurent pas dans sa thèse. 27. Zeisler 2011. 28. Je remercie Bettina Zeisler de m’avoir suggéré ce rapprochement avec les Dardes lors de la présentation de ce texte dans le cadre du 13e Congrès de l’IATS (International Association of Tibetan Studies) à Oulan-Bator en juillet 2013. 29. Kaplanian 1991. 30. Vohra 1989. 31. Kaplanian 2008. 32. Une première esquisse dans Allen 1982. Le principal texte est Allen 1986. La première partie est reprise de façon plus détaillée dans Allen 2003 et, de façon encore plus étayée, dans Allen 2011. 33. Allen 2012. 34. Allen 2011, p. 106.

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RÉSUMÉS

L’un des traits caractéristiques de la terminologie de parenté au Ladakh est l’existence de mots différents de M et F pour MyZ et FyB alors que MeZ et FeB s’appellent comme M et F. Cette constatation met à mal les théories de l’anthropologie anglaise qui fait dériver la terminologie de parenté de l’existence de groupe exogamiques, mais renforce par contre celle de Kohler pour qui la terminologie est liée à l’idée de mariage de groupe. L’auteur montre que le mariage de groupe ladakhi est néanmoins assez différent du mariage de groupe omaha étudié par Kohler. Quelques lignes sont aussi consacrées au modèle tétradique d’Allen.

One of the characteristics of kinship terminology in Ladakh is the existence of terms for Mother’s younger sister and Father’s younger brother that differ from Mother and Father, while Mother’s elder sister and Father’s elder brother are called by the same term as Mother and Father respectively. This system challenges theories from English anthropology that claim that kinship terminology is derived from the existence of exogamous groups but supports Kohler’s theory that kinship terminology is linked to the idea of group marriage. The author shows that Ladahki group marriage is nevertheless significantly different from the group marriage studied by Kohler. A few lines are devoted to Allen’s tetradic model.

INDEX

Mots-clés : parenté, nomenclature, terminologie, théorie tétradique, Ladakh, Leh Keywords : kinship, terminology, tetradic theory, Ladakh, Leh

AUTEUR

PATRICK KAPLANIAN Chercheur indépendant, il travaille sur le Ladakh depuis 1975. En 1981, il a publié une monographie sur les Ladakhi. En 1985, il a organisé le second colloque sur le Ladakh. Il a publié depuis de nombreux articles. [email protected]

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An archaeological survey of the Nubra Region (Ladakh, Jammu and Kashmir, India) Prospections archéologiques dans la région de la Nubra (Ladakh, Jammu et Cachemire, Inde)

Quentin Devers, Laurianne Bruneau and Martin Vernier

The authors heartedly thank Anne Chayet, Abram Pointet, Nils Martin, John Vincent Bellezza, Viraf Mehta, Dieter Schuh and John Mock for their academic support and Tsewang Gonbo, Lobsang Stanba, Tsetan Spalzing, Norbu Domkharpa, Phunchok Dorjay, David Sonam and Olivier Tochon for their help in the field. The authors also wish to thank the following institutions for the funding of fieldwork through grants : École Française d’Extrême Orient (Paris), Fondation Pierre Ledoux-Jeunesse Internationale (Paris), Gerda Henkel Stiftung (Düsseldorf), Association Française des Femmes Diplômées d’Université (Paris), Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres through the Paule Dumesnil grant (Paris), Indian Cultural Studies (Mumbaï), Fondation Carlo Leone et Mariena Montandon (Sierre), Centre de Recherches Archéologiques Indus-Balouchistan, Asie centrale et orientale (UMR9993,Paris), Centre de Recherche sur les Civilisations de l’Asie Orientale (UMR8155, Paris).

Introduction

1 The Nubra region, discussed in this paper, is the northernmost of Ladakh and in fact of all of India. It is fed by two main rivers : the Shyok and the Siachen. Both originate from the Siachen glacier, but on either side of the western Karakoram Range. The Siachen river, usually known under the name of Nubra, is the largest tributary of the Shyok, which, in turn, joins the Indus in Baltistan (Pakistan).1 The confluence of the Shyok and Nubra rivers is characterised by an open landscape (Fig. 1), where the main villages of the region are found.

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Figure 1. View of the confluence of the Siachen and Shyok rivers from the top tower complex between Sumur and Maral looking southwest

Devers 2011

2 The Nubra region is well known for its role as a gateway between the Indian subcontinent and Central Asia in modern times. It was a trade route between Yarkand (present-day Xinjiang, China) and Leh, the capital of Ladakh, till the closing of borders in 1949.2 Besides the Tarim Basin in the north, Nubra is bordered in the south by central Ladakh, in the west by Baltistan and in the east by the Tibetan plateau. A great variety of roads used to link those areas to our region of investigation (Fig. 2).

Figure 2. Routes between Nubra (Central Ladakh and surrounding regions)

Devers 2014

3 William Moorcroft was the first to explore Nubra in the early 1820s.3 Although he mentioned Charasa’s fortress he did not provide any description of monuments. A similar remark can be made of the subsequent travelers (surveyors, naturalists,

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political agents, traders, explorers) who passed through the region. Even Aurel Stein, who traveled through the Nubra on his way from Khotan to Leh in 1908, did not mention anything more than the village of Panamik.4

4 The first visitor to Nubra who gave an account of its material culture, and more particularly of its archaeological remains, is August Hermann Francke, a pioneer for archaeological research in Ladakh. As early as 1905 he published hymns and Tibetan inscriptions from Deskit, Hundar and Rongdo handed on to him by an informant.5 He visited Nubra in 1914 on his journey from Khotan to Leh, and mentioned a on his way down from the Siachen, as well as an old temple and old chortens (mchod rten)6 containing clay tablets (tsha tsha) with Indian script in Khyagar.7 That same cave was subsequently visited by the geologist Helmut de Terra in the late 1920s.8 Later, the region being at the core of the Indo-Pakistani political turmoil, no scholarly mention of Nubra was made for almost fifty years.

5 The opening of a road suitable for motor vehicles in 1969 over the Khardung pass made the region accessible for a new generation of scholars. In 1983, Rohit Vohra conducted fieldwork there and mentioned ruins of fortifications, Buddhist bas-relieves as well as Tibetan stone and temple inscriptions.9 These mention local rulers and, together with the manuscript ‘history of Deskit monastery’ (bde skyid dgon gyi chags rabs), throw light on the history of the valley between the 15th and the 17th century.10 The latter document was used, along with others previously unknown, by Zodpa and Shaksgo to compile the first work on the history of Nubra.11 Another book was recently published on the history of the region, with a special attention given to sacred landscapes.12 The only foreign source referring to Nubra are the memoirs of Mirza Haidar, a Turco- Mongol officer who invaded the region from Yarkand in the early 16th century.13

6 Prior to the 15th century, the history of Nubra is virtually unknown, and little archaeological research has been conducted in the region until very recently. A first survey took place in 1992, under the direction of R. S. Fonia for the Srinagar Circle of the Archaeological Survey of India.14 Thirteen locations were surveyed along the Siachen and Shyok rivers, and the resulting list published referred to a pre-historic cave and site, rock engravings, stone sculptures, temples, monasteries, remains of watchtowers and habitations. Although some dates were proposed, there were no descriptions of the remains. During a second survey, rock-engravings at Tirisa, Murgi and Sasoma were recorded.15

7 Over the past ten years, the remains from the Nubra region received unprecedented attention. Preliminary surveys, unfortunately seldom published, were conducted by S. D. Jamwal and T. L. Tshangpa.16 The Buddhist carvings of Tirit and Hundar were published as part of a study dedicated to the early Buddhist rock sculptures of Ladakh.17 An ongoing research project dedicated to the chortens of Ladakh takes into account those of Ensa and Deskit.18 Besides these case studies, an inventory of the cultural heritage of Nubra was published by the Namgyal Institute for Research on Ladakhi Art and Culture (NIRLAC), focusing mainly on lhato (lha tho, a small construction housing a protective spirit), mani walls (bearing stones inscribed with mantras), chortens, temples, monasteries, mosques and palatial remains.19 Another book was recently dedicated to the monasteries of the region.20

8 Although some archaeological sites are mentioned in these publications, no comprehensive account has yet been attempted : it is the aim of this paper to do so. The work presented here is the result of extensive surveys conducted by the authors (L.

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Bruneau, Q. Devers and M. Vernier) between 2006 and 2014 (six campaigns), which revealed extremely valuable sites, many previously unreported. They bring to light, among others, long-sought Protohistorical funerary sites, the largest and most important Bronze Age rock art site of Ladakh as well as new evidence of architectural contacts with Central Asia.

9 The sites are described hereafter according to a geographical order : we begin at Sumur and go up the Siachen river, on its left bank, before reaching its right bank and follow it southwards to Charasa. Then we go down the Shyok river, starting in Digar, then on its right bank from Rongdo to Tirit, and finally on its left bank from Deskit all the way to Turtuk (Fig. 3).

Figure 3. Maps of the main archaeological sites surveyed along the Siachen river between Sumur and Panamik, and along the Shyok river between Tirit and Udmaru

Devers 2014

10 In the absence of dating, the authors hypothesize the antiquity of the sites and remains presented below whenever sufficient data is available. The sites and their possible chronological framework are listed in Annex 1. A provisional chronology, for the Nubra region only, may be proposed as follows : the term Protohistory is used for the period anterior to the 8th century AD. It may be subdivided into the Bronze and Iron ages that are referring to, respectively, the second millennium BC and the first millennia BC and AD (up to the 8th century). The historic period in the Nubra may start in the 8th century AD, when Buddhism was possibly introduced into the region. This period may be subdivided into ‘early history’ (8th-13th centuries AD) and ‘late history’ (from the 14th century onwards). This chronology may be subject to considerable changes in the years to come according to subsequent discoveries and further researches.

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Sumur

11 Along the Siachen river are the villages of Sumur and Khyagar, located respectively on the left and right side of a lateral stream. The villages are well known for the rather recent but imposing monastery of Samstanling, usually said to be in Sumur but actually built on Khyagar’s side of the stream.

Ancient ruined settlement

12 From Sumur village, a link road leads to the monastery. Following it, one reaches the stream in the upper part of the village, in the vicinity of the monastic compound. At the mouth of the side valley, on the left bank, are the ruins of an ancient settlement in the mountain slope above the road.

13 The settlement is made of two parts : one consists in dwellings, the other in enclosures, likely for cattle. The habitations are built on small terraces (2-3 in average) set between boulders, and integrate the latter into their walls. Some walls appear to be in dry stone while some display weathered mortar. In a general way, the walls are curvy : only a few are straight with perpendicular angles. The overall characteristics of these habitations (small windowless rooms, random-rubble slab-walls, topographical integration into the parent formation) fit the category of archaic buildings described by Bellezza for Upper Tibet.21 Ceramic on the ground is rather abundant, among which we noticed one shard with red paint. The southern edge of the settlement is marked by a thalweg entailing the slope, inside which a series of successive walls delineate flat terraces, perhaps ancient irrigated fields.

Buddhist carving and ruined Buddhist complex

14 Opposite the ruined settlement, on the left side of the road, stands a passage chorten, and, about a hundred meters further down the road, to the south, a mani wall. Leaning against the latter, is a stela (0.35x1.63m)22 bearing a Bodhisattva in abhayamudrā standing on a lotus base (Fig. 4).23 The deity wears a crown displaying four prongs and a central element, along with rounded earrings, a plain necklace and plain bangles at the arms, wrists and ankles. Although the piece might not be at its original location (it is broken in two halves), ruins of an ancient Buddhist compound are found in proximity.

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Figure 4. Sumur : stela with a Bodhisattva image (The slab is 0.35x1.63m)

Bruneau 2006

15 The field next to the passage chorten is covered with rubble. Among those are the ruins of two large circular chortens, which are respectively 11m and 6m in diameter and about 5m in height. Built on a large common terrace, the chortens seemed to have had respectively two and three platforms. Southeast are two other round structures of about the same size. The first one (7m in diameter and 5m in height) consists of a base made of one level topped by three small chortens. The second (6m in diameter and 5.5m in height) consists of a base made of three levels topped by a pile of mani stones. On the south-western end of the compound is a long structure that appears to be a double mani wall. On its southern side is a fourth circular structure (about 5m in diameter) with apparently one level only ; while along the north-western edge is a small tsakhang (tsha khang). In front of the first two large chortens, the ground is covered with rubble and is marked with a series of hollows, likely former rooms. Part of the field is scattered with boulders that are now being turned into construction material. A former entrance alley can finally be discerned.

16 We have here undoubtedly a former Buddhist complex composed of a series of structures, among which two large central chortens and a series of rooms — perhaps buildings of religious use. The local oral tradition does not record the antiquity or function of the site.

17 Crossing the stream, a few hundred meters away, one reaches the monastery of Samstanling, behind which is a large Buddhist relief.

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Khyagar

Buddhist carving24

18 The relief (Fig. 5) is nowadays almost unreachable, as it stands within a jungle of thorny sea buckthorn bushes located on the northern side of the monastery. It represents two Bodhisattvas engraved on a boulder (6.8x4.2m). The Bodhisattva on the left (1.70x4m) holds a flower in his right hand, but this attribute is not specific enough to enable its identification. He has a nimbus and wears a five pointed crown along with rounded earrings, but no other . One can notice the highlighted cheeks and muscles of the torso. He wears a short dhoṭī (on his right leg the folds of drapery are visible at knee level), and a garland hangs from his waist. The Bodhisattva on the right, in abhayamudrā, does not display any attribute and therefore cannot be identified. His dhoṭī, held by a plain belt, is tight and forms a triangle between the legs. Over them, fourteen crude engravings of chortens were later added. A small platform is built in front of the rock.25

Figure 5. Khyagar : line drawing of the Buddhist carving behind the monastery of Samstanling (The carved area is 6.8x4.2m)

Vernier 2008

19 As the stela, ruined Buddhist compound and relief testify, the location where the monastery stands nowadays is historically linked to Buddhism well before the 19th century.26 We should mention here the small wooden head of a Buddha, obviously of a certain antiquity, displayed in the Central Asian Museum in Leh, and which was reportedly purchased in the village in the 1990s.

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Palace and old village

20 Down from the monastery, on the right side of the link road reaching Khyagar village, are the ruins of an ancient settlement overlooked by a palace built along the mountain slope.

21 Of a respectable size, the palace has four floors and a line of four balconies on the second storey. Only the temple on the topmost floor is still in use. The best-preserved buildings of the former village are those in the immediate vicinity of the palace — some still have their roofs. Besides these is a small group of chortens, among which one has a painted passage. Just below is a terraced open square, with a long bench built against the retaining wall. The ruined habitations have rather neat and straight walls with perpendicular angles. The masonries use abundant mortar and do not integrate boulders. The walls are still well preserved in their elevation, usually above human size. The rooms are in average larger than 3m, some as long as 8 to 10m. The palace is locally said to have been built 6-7 generations ago (note that the duration of a generation is often locally understood as being that of a lifetime), and to belong to the Zimskhang family (gzims khang, literally ‘sleeping place/house/room’).27

Petroglyphs

22 A series of lhathos and tsakhangs scatter the slope above the palace. Walking up and left from the latter, is the rubble of some construction built on top of an engraved boulder. Among the twenty or so carved motifs are ibexes, yaks, armed anthropomorphic figures with bow and , and a predation scene between a canine animal and a large bird. The latter has a set of stylised ears resembling horns, which could identify it as a khyung (mythical horned eagle).

Sumur to Maral

23 The side valley of Sumur and Khyagar, which leads to the pasture lands known under the name Maral, houses the remains of outstanding fortifications.

Fort

24 About an hour of walk from Khyagar, when the path leaves the torrent to go into the mountain, a small fort crowns a rocky promontory. Built mostly in stone, one low wall stands out for being in shuttered-mud (rammed earth). Ruins of habitations and enclosures are scattered in the slope near-by. In addition, a small structure can be seen perched higher up in the mountain, perhaps a former tower.

Fortress

25 The path continues with a steep ascent. After about another hour of walk, a large fortress appears in the mountain (Fig. 6). Built in stones, with a double rampart, flanked by nice round towers and one quadrangular bastion, nearly 200m in length, it is the largest fortress of Ladakh documented so far.28 It is bordered on the south by cliffs descending into the torrent, on the west by steep slopes, on the north by short cliffs

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overlooking the trail coming from Khyagar, and on the east by a thin strip of flatland. This strip forming the weakest angle, a walled fosse entailing it through and through was dug in front of the rampart. In addition, a D-shaped outpost tower was built in front of this fosse, and a second tower, round, was erected a bit higher up in the mountain slope in order to defend this overall weak area.

Figure 6. Sumur Maral : fortress viewed from the north. The fosse can be seen on the left of the rampart, along with the second outpost tower straight below

Devers 2011

26 The masonries of the rampart and of its flanking towers incorporate layers of bush branches. Some towers retain a few melted bricks (40x20x12cm) in their upper elevation. Both outpost towers are built differently than those of the ramparts (their masonries, for instance, do not feature bush branches). They are most likely not contemporaneous with the other structures forming the fortress.

27 Altogether, there are about 80 rooms within the inner rampart and two more inside the outer one. Ceramic is very abundant and hearths were noticed. Almost all rooms are built in stone, except for two buildings using bricks as well, one possibly being a former silo (a construction subdivided into four small windowless compartments). Overall, two to three stages of construction can be identified. From the lowest tower, the remains of a built footpath can be seen descending the cliffs towards the torrent : the fortress had a protected access to water in case of a siege. Traces of metal work in the form of slags were found in the area delineated by the outer rampart.

28 This fortress is unique in the entire region. Such a double rampart flanked by round towers is nowhere to be found elsewhere in Ladakh, Tibet, Baltistan or in the Himalayas in general. This design reminds of some fortresses in the Pamirs, especially in the Wakhan Corridor.29 There, similar forts were used until the 6th-7th century30, but it is

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impossible, in the absence of hard chronological data, to determine whether the fortress of Sumur-Maral is contemporaneous or not.31

29 The fortress is situated about 500m above the valley floor, an unusual high and remote location for such a large fortification. However, much higher up in the mountain, about 500m higher up, i.e. about 1000m above the valley floor, is yet another small fortified complex.

Top tower

30 This small complex consists in a watchtower surrounded by three defensive walls, and by several small terraces likely for setting tents. The tower (Fig. 7) underwent two stages of construction : a square tower was first built in dry masonry using bush branches, then, on one of its sides, a roundish extension was added in simple dry masonry without bush branches. The view from the tower is quite impressive. It opens downstream, towards the confluence of the Shyok and Siachen rivers, and upstream towards the mountain pass (name unknown) — unlike the fortress from which only the confluence is visible, a turn of the valley obstructing the view upstream.32 This open view on the pass may well explain the function of the tower. Indeed, the valley on the other side of the pass joins the upper course of the Shyok river. At this junction are the ruins of an old fort, called Jurgolok33, Yarghuluk34 or Yurgolak35. According to a local tradition, this fort was built to protect a trail going to Sumur by way of the valley of Maral, supposedly used when the Saser pass was closed.36 As such, the tower above the fortress may well have had the function of watching the pass closing the valley, in order to warn the fortress in case of an attack coming from the Karakoram route.

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Figure 7. Sumur Maral : location of the top tower from the south, and close-up view from the northeast

Devers 2011

Chamchen

31 Chamchen is a small village located half way between Khyagar and Tirisa.

Tower and ruined enclosure

32 Just after the village, at the mouth of a side valley, is a tower built in stones on the mountain slope on the left side of the stream. About 700m after the bridge, the ruins of an old low rampart or enclosure can be noticed on the left side of the road.

Chomolung

33 Between the villages of Yulksam (the next village after Chamchen) and Tirisa, still on the left bank of the Siachen, one comes across a barren track of land known as Chomolung.

Petroglyphs and inscriptions

34 After Yulksam one can take the ancient track climbing above the rocky ridge through which the modern road was cut. This ancient track is said by some local informants to be the first attempt of a motorable track made in the late 1960s to reach Panamik. Along the latter, still well paved, in two places are found four large engravings of

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chortens, of which three are accompanied by Tibetan inscriptions.37 Two of the inscriptions, in umet (dbu med) script, display archaic features such as the reversed i. One of them mentions a date, expressed as yos bu´i lo or “year of the hare”, showing that the sexagenarian circle of years was obviously not in use.

35 Along the modern road, on the cut surfaces of the rocky ridge we noticed a panel of about 50 engravings, most of them heavily patinated. There are interesting petroglyphs of ibexes, stag and yaks in a style that could be attributed to the Bronze Age. Among those animals is a large human figure, with mace and quiver at the waist. Some motifs are later additions, such as camels, riders and anthropomorphic figures represented as if standing on the back of the former ibexes and yaks.

Tirisa village

36 In the middle of the village, few meters down the road, is a holy footprint sheltered by a small mud-brick structure. The foot imprint is said to belong to Dachompa Nyima Gungpa (dgra bcom pa nyi ma dgung pa)38 and is part of a set of four such prints left in Nubra by this great tantric master on his way to Tibet.39

37 After the village of Tirisa one reaches a rather large alluvial fan, locally known as Kushuwar Thang.

Kushuwar Thang

Petroglyphs and inscriptions

38 Although many boulders of the alluvial fan had already been broken into building blocks, we were able to document 102 petroglyphs. The rock art site stretches over a barren area from the road up to the mouth of the narrow valley at the top of the fan (about 350m). There stands a large lhatho painted in ochre with white stripes. The engravings are found at two locations : on scattered boulders in the lower part of the fan, and on rock faces in vicinity of the lhatho.

39 The boulders bear fourteen inscriptions in Tibetan, both in capital and cursive letters, associated with chortens of various types. The inscriptions are obviously of various impulses. They are mostly dedicatory and include names and titles. One of the inscriptions in dbu can script displays archaic features such as the reversed i and mentions the “year of the tiger” or “stag gI lo”, showing that the sexagenarian circle of years was obviously not yet in use.

40 Apart from inscriptions and chortens, the rock faces in vicinity of the lhatho bear deer and ibexes in a local adaptation of the Iron Age “animal style”. The animals are depicted as if standing on the tip of their hooves. Their body shape, with the hindquarters higher than the forepart and the arching of the back, is also characteristic of the style. Another deer has its head turned backwards on its back with antlers depicted as if viewed from the front. On the same surface one finds a birthing scene which is unique in Ladakh (Fig. 8). The engraving is, even if rather coarse and irregular, quite realistic. It shows a woman (the breasts are represented as two triangles) in a squatting position. Her right arm is raised while her left hand seems to grab her newborn baby depicted on her side. The umbilical cord is clearly drawn. On a large

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block, next to this very unique delivery representation, are two standing characters engaged in what might be a sexual fondling, unless it depicts the preceding step of the delivery scene and represents a woman assisted by the other character. The scene is unfortunately not clear enough to decide, but such narrative representations involving humans are so far unique for the Ladakhi rock art corpus.

Figure 8. Kushuwar Thang : rock art site. Birth giving scene

Bruneau 2011

Other remains

41 The ground in front of the engraved boulders is levelled and flattened, and there are remains of dry masonry platforms. In the vicinity, at the bottom of huge boulders, are ruined low walls in dry masonry delimiting rock shelters. One of them is large enough to accommodate several dozens of persons, standing, and its whole inner ground is laid out. No lithic tools or were found and the shelter was and still is used by shepherds.

42 Nearby, on a small promontory, are remains of a rectangular building with two rooms in dry stone. This structure was built on a more ancient one, with an obvious reuse of some of its building material. Its location at the breach of a slope provides a very good view of the valley, and it might have previously been a defensive construction. Some metal slags have been collected around the building.

43 Other defensive buildings are found a few hundred meters further north. They consist in half a dozen of rooms that are organic in shape, divided in two groups. A first one is at the very end of the fan on an almost flat ground. A second group of rooms is found about a hundred meters above, built in the slope more or less in a row.

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44 On the other side of the same alluvial fan, slightly down the slope and between several runoff ravines, are several structures of low piled-up stones. These structures present various degrees of construction, but they are all built on a rather square base. They are possibly ancient graves. Many fragments of wide terracotta containers were collected in their immediate vicinity.

Tirisa lake

45 Tirisa is well known for its small lake, locally known as Lophan Tso, enclosed in a geological formation that stands out in the landscape. Indeed, it protrudes in the middle of a flat sandy desert on one side, and the flat riverbed on the other side. The lake is one of the major pilgrimage places of the Nubra and one of the legends associated to it, linking it to Ensa, is discussed further below.40 Lithic artefacts were reported in the surroundings of the lake by the ASI.41

Large ruined building

46 The northern tip of the geological formation ends with a small promontory that is detached from the main rock. It is crowned by a large building, roughly 40x20m in size. Its walls are well preserved, up to a height of 1.5-2m, and are 50cm thick in average. One wall bears the imprint of a former timber lacing. According to the locals, until the construction of the modern road it was used to store soda. It is still known under the name of Phul Porsa (phul por sa, “the place where salt/soda is stored”). Indeed, the plain around Tirisa is known for the quality of its salt, which was used throughout Nubra and even Ladakh until recently.

Fortified settlement

47 The remains of a fortified settlement can be seen on the hilltop that dominates the northern side of the lake. It is defended by a rampart that follows the edge of the cliff. The area thus delineated is roughly 5m wide. The entrance, in the form of a few steps going through the rampart, is found on the western edge, which is the least accessible side. Buildings cover only part of that space, counting about twenty rooms. A few more are probably to be added as the site is, overall, in a very ruinous condition. This state of conservation seems to be the result of a deliberate destruction and not of natural decay. The habitations with the best-preserved walls are located on the northern part of the site, where the topography is flatter. They are mostly quadrangular in shape and retain an elevation of about 50cm. The walls, made of stones, are 40cm thick in average and do not integrate boulders at their base. The eastern edge of the settlement is the culminating point, with structures that are more strongly built and that are probably related to defence. A chorten is carved on the rock face between this culminating point and the habitations. Ceramic is found in good quantity, among which we noticed one shard with incised motifs. Overall, the different parts of the site seem to be of one main single stage of construction.

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Fort

48 On the southern side of the lake, a small hill bears the remains of an ancient fort about 50x20m. Its walls were mostly built in bricks (size of the bricks : 41x22x10cm) with an average thickness of about 50cm. It is one of the few forts built with bricks in the Nubra region and more generally in Ladakh.42

Petrogyphs and inscriptions43

49 On the northern and southern shores of the lake, are ten or so engraved rock faces and boulders. Except for a few recent and fair images, the petroglyphs are heavily patinated with coarse and wedge-shaped impacts typical of stone tools. There are only scenes with wild animals (yaks and ibexes), no human figure was documented.

50 Historical engravings are found on the outer rock faces of the geological formation : about thirty surfaces bear depictions of ibexes along with horsemen, chortens and three Tibetan inscriptions. These are all engraved on a single surface along with ten images of chortens. (Fig. 9). The three inscriptions in dbu med script are engraved on the side and below a five-tiered chorten. Two of the inscriptions are obviously contemporary to the image and are dedicatory.44 The longest one is most probably expressing a date using the rab-´byung sixty-year cycle.

Figure 9. Tirisa lake : Tibetan rock inscription and chortens

Devers 2011

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Ruined chorten and related remains

51 About 600m east of the inscription is a large ruined chorten45 (Fig. 10). Made of stone, with a height of about 10m, it is erected on an artificial rectangular terrace (20x25m) delineated by an enclosure. It presented a ladder on each side, the one on the western being the best preserved. The base and platforms are heavily damaged and their number as well as their shape (either circular, rectangular or cruciform) is difficult to ascertain. The dome and superstructure have vanished completely and the wooden central pole, well preserved, sticks out at the top of the ruined monument.

Figure 10. Tirisa lake : main ruined chorten of the ancient Buddhist complex from the east (about 10m in height)

Devers 2011

52 In the area around the chorten, several rows of small mounds of rubble and melted mud can be seen — probably decayed small chortens. Due south to the main chorten is a small platform built with large bricks. Along the road, the ruins of two rooms built in brick are also found.

53 No doubt that these various remains were part of an ancient Buddhist complex. It should be noted that in 2013 contractors started to dismantle the enclosure of the chorten and digging the surrounding ground in search for construction material.

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Panamik

Ruined settlement

54 Ruins of an ancient settlement are found on the alluvial fan above the cultivated fields, on the right side of the stream. It is divided in two distinct groups of habitations. In the first one the constructions are mostly rectangular, built on flat neatly levelled terraces that are 3-4m in size in average. Walls do not integrate boulders and are rather neatly built using mixed-cobble masonry. Most of them are preserved at an elevation of roughly 1.5m, several being totally flat on their top without any rubble around : it tends to indicate that it was their original height.

55 In the second, smaller, group of habitations constructions are in a general way larger and more oblong, several are 6x3m and one measures even nearly 10m. It would prove interesting to proceed to excavations in both clusters as the ground of the terraces has a somewhat important natural sedimentation, which is not all that common in Ladakh. Above the ruined settlement, along the edge of the cliff, is a boulder engraved with three riders.

Petroglyphs

56 More petroglyphs are found on rock faces further north, where the road comes along the mountain side. They consist in five depictions of chortens and two Tibetan inscriptions in Tibetan u-chen (dbu can) script. Above these carvings, on top of the cliff, are the remains of an ancient funerary site.

Funerary site

57 The graves have all been looted in olden times, as the advanced weathering of the opened ground indicates. The tombs consist in arrays of stones set into the ground, with hollow pits in the middle resulting from the looting. They are either circular or rectangular in shape. Circular tombs are more numerous, and range from two to five meters in diameter. In some pits, a stone wall starting right from the surface downwards and corresponding to the funerary chamber is visible. In the case of rectangular graves — some are 10m in length — the underground wall starts one to two meters below the surface. There are also small rectangular graves that are placed against boulders. These various types of tombs are found mixed together, in different clusters scattered over the slope. Altogether we counted about fifty graves.

58 The rubble of an ancient construction stands on a rocky promontory on the lower part of the site, but, given its dilapidated state, its function is difficult to establish. Further north, a few other looted tombs and two other ruined constructions, standing on rocky promontories, are to be observed.46

59 The characteristics of these graves (quadrangular and circular arrays of stones set into the ground) remind of those found in Western Tibet47 and across Central Asia48, which have been dated from the Bronze and Iron Ages.

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60 Adjoining Panamik is the village of Hargam, which is the limit set for foreigners. There, a bridge enables to reach the right bank of the Siachen river. The first locality downstream is Ensa, famous for its highly situated monastery.

Ensa

Petroglyphs49

61 Ensa monastery could, until very recently (2011), be reached only by a steep footpath along which are two engraved boulders. The first one, on the way up, bears an interesting scene composed of ibexes, horses, horsemen and a ‘mascoid’. Noticeably, a horse is held on a lead by an anthropomorphic figure standing in front of it. Such a scene of is rare in the rock art of Ladakh, as is the depiction of a ‘mascoid’, which we will discuss further down. The other boulder is found along the flat part of the trail just before reaching the monastery, and bears the carving of a chorten.

Ancient chortens

62 Reaching the plateau where the monastery is set, are about fifty chortens.50 Among them several are of interest to us because they exhibit lotus-moulded petals on their plinth, a motif rarely preserved in Ladakh.51 One also has traces of red paint and miniature clay chortens on the upper part of its plinth (Fig. 11). Except for Malakartse Khar chorten in Zanskar, it is the only other known example in Ladakh.52

Figure 11. Ensa : chorten with miniature clay chortens on its plinth from the west (The scale on the green folder is 40cm long)

Devers 2010

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Buddhist carving

63 Among the chortens is a little shrine sheltering a stela (about 0.85x1.25m) of Avalokiteśvara in rājalīlāsana, identifiable by the Buddha in his crown and the lotus hold in his left hand (Fig. 12). Avalokiteśvara has a nimb and halo, and wears heavy round earrings as well as a necklace and pointed armbands. In 2010, the shrine was included in the wall of a small temple room, facing the door.53

Figure 12. Ensa : line drawing of the stela with the figure of Avalokiteśvara (The carved area is 0.85x1.25m)

Vernier 2008

64 According to the local tradition, the location where the monastery now stands was first a meditation retreat used by Sherab Zangpo (shes rab bzang po) around 1430, only later it was turned into a monastery.54 Among the antiquities are three wooden pieces, formerly painted, carved in shape of lions (Fig. 13). The lions display protruding eyes, open jaws, hanging out tongues, a pearl necklace and a flower motif between the back legs. Similar wooden lions are used in Ladakhi temples of the 12th-15th centuries either as consoles, beams’ ends or portico elements, the most famous examples being those of the Alchi Sumtsek.55

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Figure 13. Ensa : one of the wooden sculpted lions

Devers 2013

65 A last noticeable curiosity at Ensa monastery is a footprint attributed to Dachompa Nyima Gungpa.56 According to the local tradition, this monk was able to fly by using his garments. It is said that he refused to build the “Lhasa Gonpa” at Ensa. Thus he left the print of his right foot on a rock at that location and flew away to Tibet to build it. No “Lhasa Gonpa” is known neither in Tibet nor in Ladakh, but the local tradition asserts that it is this very same gonpa that one can see in the reflection of the waters of Tirisa’s lake. The footprint is strangely realistic and shows no signs of use of tool. Another footprint of this type can be seen at Murgi, the closest village to Ensa monastery.

66 Between Ensa monastery and the modern village of Murgi, one finds one of the largest archaeological site of the Nubra region, that of Murgi Tokpo.

Murgi Tokpo

67 The site is composed of various types of remains (petroglyphs, ruins of habitations) all located in the alluvial fan of the torrent (tokpo) of Murgi.57

Petroglyphs

68 The inhabitants of Murgi appropriately know the rock art site under the name ‘rdo nag’, literally meaning ‘black rocks’, as it is formed of boulders covered with a red-brown crust. Due to the peculiar color of the rocks, the site clearly stands out in the surrounding landscape (Fig. 14). Also, from the top of the site, one has a panoramic view of the valley (Fig. 15).

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Figure 14. Murgi Tokpo : general view from Panamik in the east. The various zones of the rock art site are indicated with (I to VI)

Other remains are visible : the ruined settlement is designated by the single star ; fort A and B are respectively pointed to by the two and three stars ; and the location of Ensa is indicated by the hash tag. Devers 2010

Figure 15. Murgi Togpo : view from the top of the rock art site, looking northeast towards Panamik

Bruneau 2011

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69 For the purpose of documentation, the rock art site was divided into six zones, each corresponding to a topographical feature of the fan. Each boulder was mapped using a GPS device and a detailed photographic record was carried out. Varied information such as size, patina, orientation, inclination and engraving technique for each was also noted down. For the most noticeable ones, copies using transparent plastic sheets were made.

70 The bulk of the petroglyphs is located at zones II and III, separated by a ravine (27m at the highest), which respectively count 1683 and 726 carvings. The other zones (I and IV to VI) total 892 carvings. Overall, the petroglyphs are heavily patinated, few only have a medium or light patina. The latter consist of rare chortens, engraved in zone I mostly.

71 The motifs characteristic of the rock art site of Murgi Tokpo are : large ibexes, often isolated, groups of ibexes, yaks and/or deer. Hunting scenes of these animals are also typical of the site. They most frequently show one or two hunters on foot, helped by dogs. Duel or battle scenes of archers are also common. There are rare images of hand and foot prints as well as camels and riders (Fig. 16).

Figure 16. Murgi Tokpo : rock art site : recording on transparent sheets of various figures and scenes

a : deer hunting scene ; b : camel ; c : two horsemen ; d : ibex ; e : group of anthropomorphic figures ; f : three yaks and a camel ; g to j : ‘mascoids’ ; k : yak ; l : hand prints ; m : hunting scene ; n : group of anthropomorphic figures Bruneau, Vernier & Devers (2007 & 2011)

72 Emblematic of Murgi Tokpo are ‘mascoids’ (Fig. 16). A hundred or so were recorded at the site whereas only a dozen is known for the rest of Ladakh. As demonstrated in previous works, mascoids are typical of the rock art of Inner Asia, especially South Siberia and the Altaï, for the Bronze Age.58 Other stylistic features such as the path of

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arrows engraved in fighting or hunting scenes, hunters with maces or quivers at their waist, anthropomorphic figures with mushroom-like headdresses or else animals with a ball-tail are also characteristic of Central Asian rock art attributed to the Bronze Age.59 On a comparative basis we propose a similar timeframe for the petroglyphs of Murgi Tokpo.

73 Being the largest rock art site of Ladakh (3301 petroglyphs carved on 877 boulders), Murgi Tokpo deserves an in-depth thematic and stylistic analysis to better apprehend its artistic and cultural links with Central Asia but also its relationship with surrounding remains. Indeed, some engraved boulders from zone VI are incorporated into the walls of ruined habitations.

Ruined village

74 According to local beliefs, the ruined village is said to be part of a bayul (sbas yul), literally ‘a hidden land’ (ba ces / sbas byes : to hide to conceal, and yul : village, country). This is a recurrent association in Ladakh and there might be a local belief through history of an existing link between rock art sites, very ancient settlements and bayuls.60

75 The village is composed of over 50 rooms (2m to 5m size in average), which are rather organic in shape. The walls are still standing up to 1.8-2m tall and integrate boulders. Surface pottery is abundant in the rooms and few metal slags were also noticed. On the southern edge of the village, in the slope, there is a long rectangular building. Its design, size and preservation are very different from the other constructions : it does not integrate boulders, walls are neat and straight, the terracing of the ground makes use of timbers. One of the rooms has mud-coat on the walls with traces of red . Small chortens and tsakhangs are found in vicinity. According to villagers it was a retreat place (mtshams khang), where a single monk used to live to practice meditation.

Murgi village

Fort A

76 The ruins of a first fort (A) stand on a rocky outcrop about 200m southwards. At the foot of the outcrop is a row of six contiguous rooms (4x5m in average). They are built on the edge of a dry trench formerly dug by a torrent, using the trench as a defence feature. From these rooms, the lower courses of a rampart 70cm thick run towards the top of the outcrop. There, it keeps a distance of 2.5m from the outer buildings of the fort. There are in total about a dozen rooms across the fort. These are organic in shape, with rather curvy walls. Their size ranges between 3m and 6m. The walls are 30-40cm thick in average. The cliffs are used as natural ramparts on the eastern edge. The state of conservation of the site is similar to the ruined village of Murgi Tokpo described previously, as is the general organic shape of the rooms.

Fort B

77 The second fort (B) is built on a similar layout, but the topography is somehow different, resembling more a ridge than an outcrop. Like for Fort A, at the foot of the slope are a few rooms lined along a rampart that goes towards the top of the fort. It is

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also set at a distance from the outer buildings (about 2m). A space was dug to create some sort of small fosse between these outer buildings and the rempart.61 Facing the rampart is a square building, 3x3m in size. Its masonry is reinforced by bush branches as for the towers of the fortress above Sumur. The rest of the fort is very ruinous and it is hard to identify a precise plan. On the southern and eastern edges, cliffs are used as natural defences.

Fort C

78 Far above the village, dominating a waterfall, a rocky promontory is crowned by a low rampart. It is roughly 65cm thick and preserved on a height of 40cm to 80cm. Its course stops when it reaches the cliff. Not so many stones can be seen on the ground, indicating that the rampart was not much higher in its original state. Two inner circular rooms are on two curves of the rampart. The bases of a few other walls are visible inside the thus delineated area, but their traces are too faint to draw a coherent plan. On the western edge of this rampart, few petroglyphs are carved on the surface of the rock.

Foot print

79 As previously mentioned, Murgi village houses another footprint left by the tantric master Dachompa Nyima Gungpa whilst departing from Ensa to go to Tibet.62 Not far from the enclosed footprint, on the right side of the road is an ancient chorten partly buried.

Ancient chortens

80 This chorten is of the ladder (lha bab, ‘descent from heaven’) type, rarely found in Nubra region. It is partly buried due to a large quantity of sediments that were brought by past floods.63 (Fig. 17, a) As such, its plinth is not visible and its ladders descending from the top of the upper platform go directly into the ground.

81 Down a footpath on the other side of the road is a passage chorten, also partly buried (Fig. 17, b). Datable from the first half of the 14th century through its murals64, it is nowadays difficult to enter the monument as the passage has been almost entirely closed off by the accumulation of sediment brought by floods. Near the waterfall that marks the southern edge of the village is another group of chortens, some erected on plinths decorated by lotus petals (Fig. 17, c).

82 Two more ruined chortens are found in the barren area south of the waterfall. One is composed of five platforms of diminishing size built of mud bricks (40x22x11cm) on a square base of mud stone masonry65 (Fig. 17, d). The dome that might have topped the whole almost totally collapsed. The structure has a closed inner chamber located under a wooden frame that is nowadays partly visible due to the advanced decayed state of the chorten. The second one, of the ladder type, is located a little further up. Only the eastern side still shows the initial shape of the structure as the others collapsed. It is built in a stone mud-mortared masonry with bricks on the upper parts (36x26x1cm), largely plastered with mud.

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Figure 17. Murgi village : ancient chortens

a : partly buried ladder chorten (The scale on the green folder is 40cm long) ; b : partly buried passage chorten with detail of its murals (the scale-tape is 1m long) ; c : chorten with decoration of lotus petals (size not known) ; d : chorten with five diminishing platforms (r. 3.5m high) a, b, c & d : Devers 2010 ; detail of the murals : Vernier 2013

Petroglyphs

83 Leaving Murgi village to go to Guri, at the south of the barren area, where the road meets a modern canal, one encounters large brownish boulders. There, we documented 463 petroglyphs scattered on 49 boulders. There were certainly more since the lower part of the rock art site has been altered and partly destroyed by the construction of the canal.

84 Except for a few heavily patinated animals, the petroglyphs have a medium patina. The main topics are : chortens, ibexes (isolated or in groups), horses and groups of riders. There are two rare depictions of anthropomorphic figures armed with a pickaxe. One is very large (110x125cm) and shows the figure brandishing the weapon : it is unique in Ladakh. Large images are typical of the site : there are horses with an indented mane over a meter wide. (Fig. 18). All are represented with four bended legs, two pointed ears and an arched tail. Three such horses are mounted : the bridle is clearly carved and in one instance the saddle is visible. One of the riders seems to wear a Phrygian headdress. These images, combined to the various group of riders represented at the site, may indicate an Iron Age date. Interestingly, a large vertical rock at the bottom of the site provides space for shelter and the ground was undoubtedly cleared, but we did not find any occupational remains.

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85 More petroglyphs are found at Guri, the next village on the right bank of the Siachen river.

Figure 18. Murgi village : rock art site : equid figure

Bruneau 2013

Guri

Petroglyphs

86 There are twenty or so engravings on rock faces near the monastery. The patina is fair in most cases and the images consist mainly in ibexes and chortens.

Ruined temples ?

87 At the entrance of the village when coming from Murgi, on the left side of the road, is a small open square with chortens and the ruins of two adjacent constructions in bricks (A and B). Their elevation is completely gone : only a raised platform and the base of the walls are left. Though very weathered, partly melted and difficult to accurately measure, the size of the bricks seem to be 45x28x11cm. The characteristics of these two constructions — elaborate design on a raised platform, use of bricks, built environment composed of chortens — remind us of temples.66

Ruined habitations

88 The area on the mountainside facing the monastery, on the other side of the fields, is scattered with rubble and ruins of curvy walls. It is overall too ruinous to be further described. These are probably the ruins of an ancient village.

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Charasa

89 At the southern end of the village of Charasa, a rocky formation entering into the riverbed of the Nubra river is crowned with the ruins of a fortified settlement, turned into a large palatial complex, and a group of temples. A full description of the latter is beyond the scope of this paper : we will focus primarily on the different archaeological levels visible.67

Fortified settlement

90 The fortified complex is composed of three parts (Fig. 19) : two clusters of buildings (A and B), and the ruins of the former protected settlement (C). The first cluster (A) constituted an outer level of defences and the second (B) an inner one.

Figure 19. Charasa : plan of the fortified settlement

Vernier & Devers 2014

91 Among these different parts, three main archaeological levels can be identified (Fig. 19). The first is characterised by walls built in stone masonry that follow the curves of the terrain, and flanked by round towers with elevations in bricks. The towers from this stage feature triangular loopholes that are delineated by two bricks leaning against each other. The second level is characterised by walls made in red shuttered- mud. They are built either on top of levelled walls from the previous state, or on top of newly timber-laced masonries. Their loopholes are large and rectangular, moulded into the mud. The constructions from this stage are strictly rectangular. When shuttered- mud walls are built on top of walls from the previous stage, they do not follow their original curves : they go straight using large timbers to bridge the turns. The third level

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encompasses several sub-stages of constructions, all characterised by tall brick walls. Like for the previous phase, the bases of the walls are built in timber-laced masonries. The loopholes, triangular, are different from those of the first stage as they are delineated by a gradual overhang of bricks. Both clusters of buildings underwent important modification during this stage : existing shuttered-mud constructions were altered — several doors and openings were walled, new parting walls were erected — and extended with new brick buildings. Tower h constitutes the unique example in Ladakh of a shuttered-mud tower encased by brick-walls. This feature is quite peculiar to us as it does not seem to fulfil any function.

Palatial buildings

92 On an artistic level, the palatial buildings incorporate decorative woodcarvings, such as capitals, doorframes and beams. One doorframe stands out for it is carved with a garuḍa figure on the top at the centre of the lintel : the garuḍa holds four snakes, two in its beak and the two other ones with its human style hands, the snakes split in two interlaced pairs going down on each side of the entrance wooden frame. Other doorframes are engraved with more common floral scrolls motifs that can be seen at various places in Ladakh on doorframes, beams and capitals.68 Among the decorative motifs on the pillars are Buddhist symbols such as the endless knot, the conch, vase and umbrella and some Lantsa lettering.69

Petroglyphs

93 On the northern tip of the rocky formation outside the rampart, near towers b and c, are some petroglyphs. Except for one crude carving of a chorten they consist in ibexes. An interesting panel displays forteen ibexes, some adults and some small, well executed and with a dark patina. They have four short straight legs, an elongated rectangular body, an upward curved short tail and very long curved horns. This type of images may well be assigned to the Bronze Age.

94 Our exploration along the Siachen ends at Charasa. We further explored the Nubra region along the Shyok river, starting from Digar, then going down the right bank from Rongdo to Tirit.

Digar

95 The village of Digar is reached by a motorable track on the left bank of the Shyok.

Buddhist carving

96 In the village is a monumental ancient Buddhist carving now sheltered within a temple known as Chamba Lhakhang (Fig. 20).70 The relief, about 3.2x7.1m, is carved on a tall boulder and depicts Maitreya : he wears a three-pointed crown, holds a decorated vase in his left hand and a rosary in his right hand. Faded paint is still visible in the headdress. Some parts of the face (nose and cheeks) are fixed with clay pasted on the rock. Some elements of the jewellery (earrings and necklace) are set with small stones, turquoises and corals, and clay. At least one kneeling donator figure is represented at

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the foot of Maitreya. The size of the relief and presence of a donator reminds us of the well-known carving of Mulbekh but a detailed stylistic analysis of Digar’s Maitreya is needed before any comparison shall be made. The latter presents stylistic peculiarities such as a belt adorned with lotus petals.

Figure 20. Digar : view of the temple sheltering the monumental carving of Maitreya, and detail of the face and torso

Bruneau 2014

97 The relief is now enshrined within a temple, which consists of three built walls while the fourth is the boulder itself. The walls are painted with rather recent murals, but the iconographic program itself could be older. The other sides of the boulder are engraved with series of om mani padme hum and with chorten designs. A chorten is built on top of the rock together with a red lhatho. Seldom boulders in the village, in proximity of the relief, bear images of chortens. Also, noticeably a crude copy of the relief is incised on a boulder at the entrance of the village, replicating the lotus pedal decoration of Maitreyas’ belt.

Kharpoche

98 About 500m away from the village into the side valley of Digar are the extensive ruins of a fortified settlement. The site is set on a steep headland overlooking the confluence of two streams. The cliffs at this confluence are pierced with numerous , some of them with ruined walls in front. Several are nowadays inaccessible as they are about 15m above the valley floor. The site of Kharpoche is at the crossroads of the paths leading either to Sabu or to Stagmo in central Ladakh. At the eastern tip of the headland is one of the finest Buddhist stela of Ladakh.

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Fortified settlement and petroglyphs

99 The fortified settlement is about three hundred meters in length. Two long transversal walls going from one edge of the headland to the other divide the settlement in three parts. These transversal walls also act as retaining walls, creating some sorts of large terraced levels. A number of rooms are quadrangular, and others are organic in shape. The masonries are made of large mud-mortared cobbles. The two upper parts of the settlement are organised around large open squares. Ceramic shards are abundant. Several boulders are engraved with petroglyphs, including the depictions of a chorten and of a duel scene.

Buddhist carving

100 In proximity of the settlement we documented a tall (4.1m in height), free standing stela, bearing Bodhisattvas on its three sides (Fig. 21).71 One (2.6x4.1m) is carved with a depiction of Mañjuśrī and Tārā ; another (1.4x4.1m) with Vajrapāṇi and the third (1.6x4.1m) with Padmapāni. The headdresses, jewellery and garments of the Bodhisattvas are varied. The space between the figures is filled with floral decoration and makaras, so far unique features for the Buddhist carvings of Ladakh.

Figure 21. Digar Kharpoche : the three sides of the Buddhist carving at the edge of the fortified settlement (height is 4.1m)

Devers 2014

Rongdo72

101 Rongdo is the last village accessible by road on the right bank of the Shyok when coming from Tirit. Between Rongdo and Tsati one comes across an alluvial fan. At its bottom is the fourth footprint of Dachompa Nyima Gungpa in the Nubra region.73 As it is the case in Tirisa, Ensa and Murgi, a small structure was built to shelter the print.

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Petroglyphs

102 Our survey of the alluvial fan revealed fifteen or so boulders engraved with ibexes. Noticeably one of the boulders bearing a group of five ibexes is half buried and another one displays two ibexes with a partitioned body, a stylistic feature that is quite unusual in the rock art of Ladakh.

103 More petroglyphs are found further down the Shyok, in the alluvial fan of the torrent of Yulkam, located between the villages of Tsati and Tirit.

Yulkam Tokpo

Petroglyphs

104 On the left side of the torrent we documented only two engraved boulders, but both very interesting. The first one bears ibexes and stags. The latter have a long elongated muzzle and antlers represented as seen from the front in shape of a V. Such representations of stags are rare in Ladakh. On the second rock are twenty-five motifs : a hand, a lizard, birds, wild sheep, ibexes, an archer and a ‘mascoid’. Although there is a great variety of styles, judging from the patina and technique, all petroglyphs are seemingly from a single state : this complex composition requires a future detailed study.

105 On the right side of the torrent we documented four more engraved boulders with ibexes and a large horse. At several places the space between the boulders was obviously cleared and flattened. In some places are small platforms among which we found several lithic tools and a large broken mortar. Ceramic is also quite abundant. All these remains point out to the ancient occupation of the fan, in proximity to the water of the torrent.

Tirit

Buddhist carving

106 In the barren area above the village of Tirit is a monumental stone relief (14x12m)74 (Fig. 22). Above the village, a large rock that is still the object of worship bears four figures standing in a straight samabhaṅga posture. One should notice the quadrangular holes on top of the figures, used for beams either for roofing or scaffolding. The central deity represents Maitreya (2.66x6.60m) identifiable by the chorten in his crown, the rosary and the water pot. He is framed on his right by Mañjuśrī (1.97x5.44m), holding the sword and the book, and, on his left, by a Buddha (1.26x3.30m) and a Bodhisattva (1.26x2.54m). The four figures display similar stylistic traits such as round faces, elongated eyes, broad shoulders, long and wavy fingers. They wear a tight and specific dhoṭī : the two legs are distinct and joined by a triangular shape. Mañjuśrī and Maitreya display a jeweled belt and their waist is marked by four circular forms that are also found on the Buddha image. The garland and central fold of Maitreya’s dhoṭī are noticeable for their floral and geometric decoration. There are traces of red paint on the relief.

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Figure 22. Tirit : line drawing of the Buddhist carving viewed from the southwest

The rock is 14x12m, the carved area 6.2x6.6m. From left to right : Mañjuśrī, Maitreya, Buddha (bottom) and a Bodhisattva (top) Vernier 2008

107 Until recently three walls delineated a small room with an entrance door in front of the relief. The ground in this room, the level of which had increased over time, covered the lower part of the figures. Also, a circumambulation path around the rock was clearly identifiable. However, in early spring 2013 the Tourism Development Authority dismantled the walled structure, leveled the ground and created a stone and cemented plinth in front of the rock, along with a rather disproportioned car parking area, destroying, in addition to the charm of the site, any evidence that may have been retrieved from proper archaeological investigations.

Petroglyphs75

108 A few hundred meters further down the relief, on both sides of the road, are about five engraved boulders. Aside ibexes are the large carving of a chorten and a hunting scene composed of two bowmen chasing yaks.

109 Crossing the Shyok river we carried on our exploration on its left bank at Deskit, well- known for its picturesque monastery.

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Deskit

110 The monastery of Deskit is currently located on the premises of an ancient fort.76 According to the villagers it was formerly located on the small hill now occupied by a monumental Maitreya statue consecrated by His Holiness the Dalai Lama in 2010.

Deskit Gonpa : the former fortification

111 Since the fort was largely altered by the shifting of the monastery on these premises, its full study and exact mapping would be a vast undertaking. Our survey instead aimed at identifying the main archaeological levels.

112 The lowest and most ancient level is made of walls in stone masonry with timber- lacing. Above these, forming the second level, remnants of shuttered-mud walls are visible in different places. Only few walls or fragments of walls from this level are left, which, combined with their state of conservation, suggests that the fortress from this period underwent an event or a series of events during which it got seriously damaged. Finally, in the posterior levels walls are mostly built in bricks. The sequence of these levels is thus similar to that observed in Charasa. The main difference being that original walls do not feature timber-lacings in the latter location.

113 The last untouched remnant of the fortification is a round tower above the monastery77 (Fig. 23). Still roofed, to our knowledge it is the only tower of this shape such preserved in Ladakh. It is quite large, over 8m in diameter, with eight loopholes. A central U- shaped wall supports the timbers of the roof, which are laid in a radiant fashion. The tower borders a very steep slope on its north-western side, making it a difficult angle for an attack. A fosse about 4m wide and 1.5m deep was dug on its more vulnerable south-eastern side.

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Figure 23. Deskit : tower and former fort seen from the northeast. The close-up view of the tower is taken from the southwest

Devers 2010

Buddhist carving

114 A slab (3.85x1.60m) enclosed within three ruined walls is found below the monastery78 (Fig. 24). It bears a representation of a two-armed Maitreya and a four-armed deity with the lower hands in añjalimudrā. The two deities wear similar round earrings and necklace as well as a plain garland. Noticeable are the ribbons on each side of their heads. On one of the remaining walls are traces of a red painted diagram.

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Figure 24. Deskit : Buddhist carving from the north and close-up view (The slab is 3.85x1.6m). Left : Maitreya and right four-armed deity

Bruneau 2006

Chomo Phu Lhakhang : temple and petroglyphs

115 In the side valley of Deskit, about half an hour of walk behind the monastery, is a small temple.79 After going up in the mountain, a small footpath ending with two ladders goes down a cliff before reaching a small patch of vegetation along a torrent. The shrine is very small (2.1x1.9m), the roof is low (1.8m), the door both narrow and low (0.7m wide, 0.9m high). The walls, made of stone, are 50cm wide. Only the murals of the right and entrance walls are still preserved (Fig. 25) — the other two were fully replastered during a recent renovation of the building. About half of the original roof — made in wood, possibly formerly painted — is still there, while the other half was rebuilt with stone slabs during the restoration. It can be noted that beside grey and black, the last preserved on the walls is red, giving a particular red tone to the murals. According to Martin, the paintings point to a late 14th or early 15th century dating80.

116 The cliff bordering the site is engraved with numerous petroglyphs from various periods. The variety of motifs extends from zoomorphic depictions, anthropomorphic ones, chortens, to inscriptions (in Tibetan and Latin scripts).

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Figure 25. Deskit Chomo Phu Lhakhang : detail of the murals

Devers 2014

Tingang complex

117 On the other side of the torrent bordering the monastery extends a plateau, at the other end of which are a series of ruins, locally known as Tingang. The ruins consist in : three groups of habitations, three temples, a row of chortens, and a strongly built house (Fig. 26).

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Figure 26. Deskit Tingang : general view from the south

The single white star indicates the strong house ; the three temples are lined behind the two white stars Devers 2010

118 The rooms of the habitations, overall rectangular, are of an average size of 3m. The walls, built in a schist-like masonry, are preserved on an average height of about 1.5m. No timber is left. Several buildings are made of series of rooms, something not encountered in the other ruined settlements described in Sumur, Khyagar, Panamik or Murgi, where the buildings are made of single rooms. Walls often incorporate niches. The state of conservation is rather good and the buildings do not seem to have undergone any particular type of destruction other than the natural decay of time. Ceramic is abundant, we noticed one shard with painted design and two with incised motifs.

119 Turning now to the temples : they are very small in size (Fig. 27). Temple 1 measures 1.7x1.8m, and its walls are 1.7m tall. The doorway is about 70cm wide, the former lintel was about 90cm above the ground. The walls are made in mud-bricks (the size of which is not measurable because of the coat) except for the entrance wall built in schist-like masonry. It is built on a raised platform with a flight of six stairs. The inner back wall still bears the mud-halo of a statue, about 115cm in size (Fig. 28). There is no trace of holes or sticks in the wall, indicating that the statue must have been free standing. Temple 2 is larger (2.2.x2.5m), with a doorway similar to temple 1 (70cm wide) — however it is not possible to know the height of the former lintel. Its walls, 1.9m tall, are built with a schist-like masonry. As most of the coat of the back wall has fallen off, it is not possible to know whether there was a halo as in temple 1. The space between temple 1 and temple 2 is filled with bricks. Temple 3 (1.7x2.0m) is built against temple 2. Its right wall is actually the left wall of temple 2. Its doorway is narrower (60cm) than the other two temples, and the former lintel was about 90cm above the ground. The walls are 1.7m tall and built with a schist-like masonry. The mud-coat also mostly fell off, but some shape painted in red can still be seen on the left wall. There is a walled courtyard in front of the temples, in the middle of which stands a tsakhang with numerous clay tablets of different types. Behind the temples is a row of several chortens.

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Figure 27. Deskit Tingang : plan of the three temples

Devers 2010

Figure 28. Deskit Tingang : temple 1 (right, in bricks) & 2 (left, in stone) viewed from the east

Devers 2010

120 The absolute dating of these temples is difficult to ascertain, as the main elements that could have been of help, i.e. the murals, are gone81. However, their simple plan with no

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porch, recess or projection ; the reduced size of their rooms ; the low height of their walls ; and the reduced width and height of their former doors make them the smallest and shortest ruined temples of Ladakh. These characteristics are very similar to those of the Chomo Phu Lhakhang located in the side valley behind the monastery. Considering the rarity of such attributes — which are seen only in these three temples and in the Chomo Phu Lhakhang — and the fact that these attributes are met only in Deskit — nowhere else in Ladakh are there such temples or ruins of temples —, it can be hypothesized, in the absence of chronometric data, that the three temples in Deskit Ting gang may be of a similar period as the temple in Chomo Phu, i.e. from around the late 14th or early 15th century.

121 Considering the size and layout of the buildings in the various groups of habitations (i.e., several are made of series of rooms), the unusual number of niches in the walls and the presence of the temples, the ruins of Ting gang may be that of an ancient Buddhist compound.

122 Away fromthe rest of the settlement, to the north, is a kind of ‘strong’ house. We do not use the word ‘fortification’ because its location is not particularly defensive — especially in Ladakhi standards of high and precipitous topography — and its size is rather limited. It consists of a rectangular building divided in three, rather small (between 1.3m and 2.3m in width and 2.7m in length) rooms. The walls are 60cm thick and 1.8m tall. The few cobbles on the ground suggest that it was likely their original height. It does not seem that there was any opening other than the door. The masonry uses very little to no mortar. A protective enclosure runs around the building, over 2m in height with a thickness at the base of nearly 1m that decreases vertically. It is not possible to identify the function of this building (habitation, religious usage, etc.) and, in the absence of chronometric data, it is difficult to venture its relationship with the rest of the Buddhist compound. The building could for instance be understood both within a Buddhist and a non-Buddhist context. Indeed, the rest of the plateau extending towards the present-day monastery of Deskit is scattered with a large number of graves of various types.

Funerary site

123 The main visible concentration of graves, about a hundred tombs, is located south of the ruined temples. They appear to have been looted in ancient times, like the ones documented above Panamik.

124 From a ground observation, they consist for the most part in rectangular or circular arrays of stones set into the ground. Rectangular graves are the largest, varying from roughly 3m to nearly 10m in length. Circular tombs are smaller, extending from roughly 2m to around 4m in diameter. At least one grave has a double-course enclosure. In the pits of several graves an underground wall, located one to two meters below the surface, corresponding to the funerary chamber is visible (Fig. 29). The graves in this part of the plateau seem to have been somewhat spatially organized : the largest tombs are found on the western edge of the area, whereas the smallest ones appear to be lined on the eastern edge. Furthermore, graves tend to follow a grid pattern that is almost aligned on the cardinal points. On the rest of the plateau, tombs are more sparsely scattered, with no immediate apparent organisation. Ceramic is rather abundant on the ground.

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Figure 29. Deskit Tingang : one of the graves viewed from the southeast. The upper line of stones is about 5.6m long

Devers 2011

125 Like in Panamik, from their apparent type (quadrangular and circular arrays of stones set into the ground), these graves are reminiscent of those found in Western Tibet and across Central Asia that are dated from the Bronze and Iron Ages. This dating might well be supported by petroglyphs found in proximity, at the bottom of the plateau.

Petroglyphs

126 The carvings are located on the surfaces of a rocky ridge, along the modern road, on top of which are several recent platforms (ro khang).82 Apart from recent scratches of letters and chortens as well as a surface engraved with a series of faint animals, riders and hands, the rock art site of Deskit is remarkable for the presence of a dozen of images in the ‘animal style’, also known as ‘art of the steppes’. Ibexes and felines are represented as if standing on the tip of the hooves, their body respectively marked by a motif in shape of a S or by stripes (Fig. 30). These thematic and stylistic characteristics may point to an Iron Age date.

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Figure 30. Deskit Tingang : recording on a transparent sheet of an ibex and a feline figures represented in the so-called “animal style of the steppes”

Bruneau & Vernier 2011 & 2014

Hundar

127 The village of Hundar is nowadays well-known because it is adjoining sand dunes illustrative of the landscape of the Nubra. The only known inscriptions referring to local rulers for the region, found on votive plates, were discovered there.83

Fortified settlement

128 The former fortified settlement of Hundar lies on a hillside along the right bank of the stream.84 The southern side is protected by a long rampart that runs downhill, flanked by eight to nine towers. Its eastern and northern flanks are protected by series of natural cliffs, complemented by small portions of ramparts and four smaller tower-like constructions. The rampart on the southern side has a general thickness of 1m at its base, with a decreasing profile. Its height varies depending on the topography. Some sections are pierced with triangular loopholes. Except for the top-most tower (tower A) which is D-shaped, the towers on the southern flank are quadrangular, ranging from 2.4m to 5.5m in size and built in stone masonry. The actual hilltop is further ahead of tower A, and is covered with rubbles — perhaps a former tower ? Due west, on the other side of a thalweg, is a quadrangular outpost built in shuttered-mud. It seems to have had a former upper elevation in brick, but only few traces are left.

129 The main entrance of the settlement is located on the southern side.85 The rampart there is quite thicker, 2m instead of 1m. A smaller more discreet entrance is located in

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the cliffs on the north-western side. The area where the actual habitations must have been is completely in ruins, only piles of rubble cover the slope. Two temples still stand among the ruins : Lhakhang Marpo and Lhakhang Kharpo. As their names indicate, their façades are respectively painted in red and in white.86

130 The votive plates bearing the names of local rulers were found on the mani wall at the bottom of the cliffs.87 Down below the mani wall, on the right bank of the stream, is a large boulder bearing two Buddhist deities.

Buddhist carvings88

131 The boulder, probably of granite, is in an advanced state of decay (Fig. 31). However a seated Bodhisattva (2.37x2.83m) holding a flower, probably Avalokiteśvara, and a Buddha (0.92x1.40m) seated on a lotus (8 or 9 downwards petals) can be identified. There are remains of red paint and the boulder is still the object of worship. According to the villagers, a larger existed just opposite, on the other side of the stream, but was destroyed about 30 years ago when the powerhouse was built.89

Figure 31. Hundar : Buddhist carving. The main visible Buddha is 2.37x2.83m

Bruneau 2011

Hundar Brog

132 Hundar Brog is the name given to the side valley of Hundar. It leads to Central Ladakh, either to Phyang through the Lasirmo pass, or to Basgo through the Nia pass. Guided by former reports from the ASI90 and the identification of an ancient fortified settlement

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on a satellite image by a colleague91, our survey conducted in the valley proved very fruitful.

133 A few kilometers from the valley’s mouth is a large cave. About ten chortens painted in ochre on the outer rock surface were documented. A few kilometers upstream, the valley widens and opens onto ancient terraces, where there is an abandoned Buddhist complex. It is formed of a group of chortens and ruined buildings dominated by five caves, some interconnected, one with remnants of murals.

Fortified settlement

134 Few hundred meters away, at the junction of two streams, the ruins of an ancient fortified settlement crown a steep headland overlooking the confluence. The topographical setting is quite similar to that of Kharpoche in Digar. This promontory is unfortunately too steep and dangerous to climb but its surroundings were the source of interesting discoveries. On one edge of the complex, we found significant traces of metallurgical activities in the form of slags, some incorporating fragments of pottery. From what we could see, the masonries are similar to those observed in Kharpoche, i.e. they are made of large mud-mortared cobbles.

Buddhist carvings

135 Around the fortified settlement we documented three large Buddhist reliefs of Bodhisattvas (Fig. 32), one accompanied by worshippers. The general outlook and iconography of these bas-relieves match those at Tirit and Khyagar. The smallest (1.60x2.15m), and most faded one, is engraved on a boulder located at the entrance of the ruined fortified settlement. A three pointed crown, large circular earrings and a probable abhayamudrā are still visible. A second relief (c. 2.6x3.8m), carved on a large boulder, stands at the confluence of the streams. It is the most elaborated of the three. It represents a four-armed Avalokiteśvara (vase, rosary and antelope skin on the shoulder) surrounded by four worshippers, some of them kneeled. The third relief (c. 2x5m) is situated on the other side of the main stream, west of the fortified settlement, next to the location where a bridge might once have stood to access the site. It is coarser than the others. It was carved directly on the cliff of the mountain. It also bears rosettes, large earrings, a three-pointed crown and is in abhayamudrā. Some parts of the figure, mainly its head, have been modeled with clay pasted on the rock surface. A similar practice was observed on the Buddhist slab of Deskit and on the monumental Maitreya at Digar. The contemporaneousness of this application is apparently asserted by some very faded remains of color on some clay elements. The spatial disposition of these three figures is quite interesting, as they seem to function as protective figures to guard the accesses of this crossroad, fortified, site.

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Figure 32. Hundar Brog : the three Buddhist carvings (from left to right : 1.60x2.15m, 2.6x3.8m & c. 2x5m)

Devers 2013

136 The fortified settlement of Hundar Brog strongly reminds of the fortified settlement of Kharpoche. Without any necessary chronological implications, both sites are found on similar flat headlands at the confluence of two streams ; both are built inside side valleys with easy passes leading to central Ladakh ; both are built with similar masonries and both are characterised by finely sculpted Buddhist carvings located at their edges. These two sites form as such a particular group, distinct from the other fortified settlements we have inventoried so far in Nubra and in Ladakh in general.

Skuru

137 Skuru is the last Buddhist village on the left bank of the Shyok. Shortly before the village, about a kilometre before the bridge, is a large boulder (c. 6x6m, 3m high), in the middle of a field on the right side of the road, with Buddhist deities carved on it.

Buddhist carving

138 On a horizontal slab one finds the carving of a large (1.5x3.5m) standing Bodhisattva in abhayamudrā holding a vase (?), and on another side of the boulder two seated Buddhas92 (Fig. 33).

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Figure 33. Skuru : Buddhist carving. The Bodhisattva is 1.5x3.5m

This image is the result of the merging of several pictures – there might as such be a bit of geometrical distortion Devers 2010

Fortified settlement

139 The small plateau on the left bank of the side stream, above the road, is covered with five groups of chortens. Behind them, in the direction of the mountain, a small rock promontory bears the remains of a fort.

140 The walls are built with two main types of masonries, one using little to no mortar, the other using abundant mortar. We noticed four shards of ceramic with incised decoration. On the ridge that links the promontory to the mountain are two bases of square towers. They protect the thin ridge, which is the weakest angle of the fort in case of an attack. A fosse was additionally dug in front of the towers, in order to hinder any approach from this direction.

141 Descending stairs on the eastern side lead to further ruins. Bordered by the fort’s promontory on one side and the cliff of the stream on the other, these ruins are likely those of an ancient fortified settlement. A rampart pierced with loopholes runs along the cliff. It turns in the direction of the promontory on its northern end. On this side, where the rampart faces the plateau, there is another wall built in front, along with a fosse, in order to further protect this weak side. Another weak angle is on the southern end of the promontory. Unfortunately, because of the current bulldozing of this area, nothing of the rampart is left. The habitations are too ruinous to be described, only depressions on the ground surrounded by piles of stones are to be seen.

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Zangpo Chosling gonpa

142 On top of the ridge, opposite Skuru, on the other side of the Shyok river, is a monastery known as Zangpo Chosling. A long path starting in Udmaru, constructed on the mountain flank, enables its access. Although at the present day there is no permanent monk, a room was recently built for the Rinpoche (rin po che). Behind it are the ruins of several interconnected rooms that are probably the remnants of the original monastic complex. The villagers of Udmaru reused the bricks of this ancient building to build the new room for the Rinpoche. On one of the ruined walls is the painting of a small chorten, perhaps the last witness of more extensive wall paintings. According to local tradition, the monastery is from the same period as Ensa. As there is almost nothing left from the original building, it is not possible to assess the plausibility of this claim.

Turtuk

143 We ended our investigations at Turtuk, the last village before the Pakistani border. Turtuk is famous in Ladakh for its arts and crafts, in particular for its stone pots (rdo ltok) and metal work. Its old mosque is also noticeable for its woodcarvings.

Fortification

144 Above the village, on a very steep face delineated by small cliffs in the middle of the mountainside, are the ruins of a vast fortification.93 It is the steepest fortified site we have documented in Ladakh. The small cliffs that naturally protect the site prevented us from entering it. However, a few lower buildings are easier to approach. They are built in a schist-like masonry with little mortar.

Yabgo Mod Khan Kacho’s residence

145 The residence of the rāja of Turtuk, Yabgo Mod Khan Kacho, stands out by its unique style (Fig. 34). In Ladakh, this type of architecture with closely laid timber lacings and cribbage columns, also known as ‘cator and cribbage’, is found only in the area of Turtuk.94 The closest full expression of this architecture is in Baltistan, where it is commonly encountered as can be seen in the forts of Kharmang or Hunza.95

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Figure 34. Turtuk : cator and cribbage architecture of the residence of Yabgo Mod Khan Kacho

Devers 2010

146 The rāja had his lineage tree painted on one of the walls of his house (Fig. 35). According to it, the Yabgo dynasty originates from Western , where it started with a prince called Tung. His first eleven successors were all from there, and their kingdom was confined to this area. In the 8th century, the twelfth in-line, Beg Menthal, extended his rule over “Balakh, Gandahar, Eastern Turkestan and Baltistan”. The current rāja does not know from which religion the first twenty-six rulers were. Nonetheless, after Muqeem Khan, the twenty-sixth in line, the rājas converted to Islam. Whereas until Yabgo Sikiem (1550-1590), the thirty-second ruler, there was only one rāja for the entire kingdom, the latter divided it among his three sons. Following the invasion of part of Kashmir, these three sub-kingdoms were located in Pakistan. However, during the war of 1971 four villages of the sub-kingdom of Khapulu Chhorbat were taken over by the Indian army : Turtuk, Tharkshi, Chulungka and Thang.

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Figure 35. Turtuk : lineage tree painted in the residence of Yabgo Mod Khan Kacho

Devers 2010

147 We did not have access to the original documents that were used to produce this lineage. Our goal here is not to attempt a critical historical study of this material, but merely to raise awareness about its existence, in the hope of seeing it further researched in the future by competent historians.96

Conclusion

148 The surveys conducted by the authors show that the Nubra region houses a rich archaeological heritage, composed of rock art, graves, fortifications, inscriptions, early Buddhist remains and ruined settlements. The large number of sites (sixty-six) documented and their diversity enables us to propose a first cultural sequence for the region (see Annexes 1 & 2).

149 The surveys carried by the Archaeological Survey of India in the 1990s revealed the existence of lithic artefacts at Tirisa.97 Although further investigation is needed to specify their dating they point at a prehistoric occupation of Nubra. Regarding Protohistory the rock art and funerary sites surveyed provide evidence of cultural links with the steppic world. For the Bronze Age the thousand images documented in Murgi Tokpo display thematic and stylistic similarities with the rock art of Central Asia. These are reinforced by the existence at Panamik, on the opposite bank of the Siachen river, of graves typologically reminiscent of those of the Central Asian Bronze or Iron Ages. Similar features are found at Deskit. There, the presence of petroglyphs related to the ‘animal style’ provides further evidence for contacts with the Central Asian world during the Iron Age.

150 Unlike Central Ladakh, Nubra has no inscriptions from the first half of the 1st millennium AD. In fact, all the rock inscriptions found in the valley are in Tibetan.

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The earliest are undoubtedly those documented at Kushuwar and Chomolung, in proximity to the ancient Buddhist compound of Tirisa. The large ruined chorten with ladders on four sides, built on a rectangular platform and enclosed by walls, is reminiscent of monuments in Khotan and Kashmir dated to the last quarter of the 1st millennium AD.98

151 The early diffusion of Buddhism in Nubra is also well-evidenced by the stone sculptures. For instance, the stylistic features of the figures of Tirit’s monumental relief (i.e. three-pointed crowns, rosettes over the ears and long garlands) are typical of Western Himalayan aesthetics. All these elements span a long period of time, from the 8th century with the Gilgit bronzes, to clay sculptures and paintings of the late 12th- early 13th century found in the temples of Alchi for example.99 Nevertheless, a date from the 11th-12th centuries could be proposed on the basis of comparison with bronzes such as that of Padmapāṇi owned by the Brooklyn Museum and that of Avalokiteśvara in the Norton Simon Museum.100 Undoubtedly Buddhism was well established in Nubra at the beginning of the second millennium AD.

152 The dates of non-iconographic and non-Buddhist remains, such as ruined villages and fortifications, are more difficult to ascertain. Whereas educated guesses are possible in some cases, we completely lack for the time being hard chronological data.

153 The various archaeological sites surveyed show strong influences from the Central Asian and Tibetan cultures. If Ladakh is often referred to as a “cultural crossroads”, archaeology shows that Nubra played an important role over millennia as an interface between both worlds.

154 Based on the results of surveys presented in this paper an Indo-French cooperation project was put into place in 2012 with the Archaeological Survey of India by the authors. The MAFIL (Mission Archéologique Franco-Indienne au Ladakh, or Indo- French Archaeological Mission in Ladakh), co-directed by S. B. Ota and L. Bruneau, is a four-year research project (2013-2016) that aims at specifying the chrono-cultural sequence of the Nubra region. The sites of Tirisa, Sumur-Maral, Deskit Ting gang and Murgi Tokpo were selected for further detailed on-ground studies, test excavations and radiocarbon dating. A range of specialists takes part in the project (ceramologist, funerary anthropologist, geomorphologist, geophysician and prehistorian), and it is hoped that this scientific endeavor, the first of its kind ever undertaken in Ladakh, will improve our understanding of the history of Nubra and of the interactions between the Central Asian and Tibetan worlds.

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APPENDIXES

Annex 1 : list of surveyed sites

Location Type of remains Chronology N° on map

Chamchen Ruined enclosure ? 11

Chamchen Tower ? 10

Charasa Fortified settlement History 41

Charasa Petroglyphs Protohistory & history 42

Chomolung Inscriptions Early history 13

Chomolung Petroglyphs Protohistory & history 12

Deskit Buddhist carving Early history 52

Deskit Tower History 51

Deskit Phu Temple Early history 53

Deskit Phu Petroglyphs Protohistory & history 54

Deskit Tingang Buddhist ruins Early history 55

Deskit Tingang Funerary site Protohistory 56

Deskit Tingang Petroglyphs Protohistory & history 57

Digar Buddhist carving Early history (43)

Ensa Ancient chortens Early history 29

Ensa Buddhist carving Early history 30

Ensa Petroglyphs Protohistory & history 28

Guri Petroglyphs Early history 38

Guri Ruined buildings Early history ? 39

Guri Ruined settlement History 40

Hundar Buddhist carving Early history 59

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Hundar Fortified settlement History 58

Hundar Brog Buddhist carving Early history 62

Hundar Brog Buddhist ruins Early history 60

Hundar Brog Fortified settlement Early history ? 61

Kharpoche Buddhist carving Early history (45)

Kharpoche Fortified settlement Early history ? (44)

Kharpoche Petroglyphs Early history (46)

Khyagar Buddhist carving Early history 4

Khyagar Palace and ruined settlement Late history 5

Khyagar Petroglyphs ? 6

Kushuwar Thang Fortification ? 17

Kushuwar Thang Funerary site ? Protohistory 18

Kushuwar Thang Inscriptions Early history 15

Kushuwar Thang Petroglyphs Protohistory & history 14

Kushuwar Thang Ruins History 16

Murgi Tokpo Petroglyphs Protohistory & history 31

Murgi Tokpo Ruined settlement ? 32

Murgi village Ancient chortens Early history 36

Murgi village Fort A ? 33

Murgi village Fort B ? 34

Murgi village Fort C ? 35

Murgi village Petroglyphs Protohistory & history 37

Panamik Funerary site Protohistory 27

Panamik Petroglyphs Early history 26

Panamik Ruined settlement History 25

Rongdo Petroglyphs Protohistory (47)

Skuru Buddhist carving Early history 63

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Skuru Fortified settlement History 64

Sumur Maral Fort History 7

Sumur Maral Fortress History 8

Sumur Maral Top tower complex History 9

Sumur Buddhist carving Early history 2

Sumur Buddhist ruins Early history ? 3

Sumur Ruined settlement ? 1

Tirisa Lake Fort History 21

Tirisa Lake Fortified settlement Early history ? 20

Tirisa Lake Inscriptions Early history 23

Tirisa Lake Large ruined building Late history ? 19

Tirisa Lake Petroglyphs Protohistory & history 22

Tirisa Lake Buddhist ruins Early history 24

Tirit Buddhist carving Early history 49

Tirit Petroglyphs Protohistory & history 50

Turtuk Fortification History (66)

Yulkam Tokpo Petroglyphs Protohistory (48)

Zangpo Chosling Gonpa Buddhist ruins Early history 65

Annex 2 : surveyed sites by period

Protohistory Early history c. 2nd millennium BC - c. 8th c. AD - c. 13th c. AD c. 8th century AD

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Charasa : petroglyphs

Chomolung : inscriptions

Chomolung : petroglyphs

Deskit : Buddhist carving

Deskit Phu : temple

Deskit Phu : petroglyphs

Deskit Tingang : Buddhist ruins

Deskit Tingang : petroglyphs

Digar : Buddhist carving Charasa : petroglyphs Ensa : ancient chortens Chomolung : petroglyphs Ensa : Buddhist carving Deskit Phu : petroglyphs Ensa : petroglyphs Deskit Tingang : funerary site Guri : petroglyphs Deskit Tingang : petroglyphs Hundar Brog : Buddhist carvings Ensa : petroglyphs Hundar : Buddhist carving Kushuwar Thang : funerary site ? Kharpoche : Buddhist carving Kushuwar Thang : petroglyphs Kharpoche : petroglyphs Murgi Tokpo : petroglyphs Khyagar : Buddhist carving Murgi village : petroglyphs Kushuwar Thang : inscriptions Panamik : funerary site Kushuwar Thang : petroglyphs Rongdo : petroglyphs Murgi Tokpo : petroglyphs Tirisa Lake : petroglyphs Murgi village : ancient chortens Tirit : petroglyphs Murgi village : petroglyphs Yulkam Tokpo : petroglyphs Panamik : petroglyphs

Skuru : Buddhist carving

Sumur : Buddhist carving

Tirisa Lake : inscriptions

Tirisa Lake : Buddhist ruins

Tirisa Lake : petroglyphs

Tirit : Buddhist carving

Tirit : petroglyphs

Hundar Brog : Buddhist ruins

NOTES

1. The river is most commonly mapped as ‘Nubra’ but it is locally known as Siachen.

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2. About the history of the trans-Karakoram trade route : Rizvi 1999, pp. 183-206. 3. Wilson 1841, p. 404. 4. Stein 1912, pp. 486-87 ; 1921, pp. 1326-27. 5. The manuscript of Francke entitled First collection of Tibetan inscriptions dating from 1905 was edited and published by Jina in 2003 only : Francke / Jina 2003. For votive plates and inscriptions see : Nos. 39, 71, 73 and 83 from Deskit ; Nos. 40, 41, 57 and 85 from Hundar ; No. 56 from Rongdo. 6. In this paper we decided, for several reasons, to provide Wylie spellings only for common Tibetan nouns and historical figures. First of all, the Wylie spellings of most places mentioned in this paper are unknown. When they are, more and often than not, there is no agreement on the spelling. The very name of Nubra well illustrates it as the region is either spelled nub ra or ldum ra. Furthermore, the toponyms of the region are not all of Tibetan origin. 7. Francke 1921, pp. 122-31 ; 1930, p. 45. 8. De Terra 1931. 9. Vohra 1985b, pp. 248-250 ; 1990. 10. Vohra 1985a, pp. 11-14. 11. Zodpa / Shakspo 1982. 12. Urgyan 2010. On the sacred landscapes (mountains, lakes, caves, trees and prints) of Nubra see also Wangchok 2009. 13. Elias / Ross 1898, p. 418. 14. Fonia 1993 ; Anonymous 1997, pp. 36-37. 15. Anonymous 2004, p. 59. 16. Jamwal 200 ?, 2006 ; Tshangpa 2007, 2014. 17. Dorjay 2010, pp. 53-56 (Fig. 22-21, Tirit) ; p. 56 (Fig. 22, Hundar). 18. Kozciz 2010. 19. NIRLAC 2008. The volume dedicated to Nubra is the fourth one of a series of 6 covering the whole of Ladakh. The publication of volumes 5 and 6 is still pending. 20. Agrawal 2012. 21. Bellezza 2008, p. 20-25, 39. As defined by Bellezza, in Upper Tibet the “archaic cultural horizon” designates sites that present a set of characteristics and morphologic attributes distinguishing them from Buddhist monuments and other constructions influenced by Central Tibetan architecture. According to him, such sites derive from a tradition that probably originates from the times of the so-called Zhang Zhung entity mentioned in the texts. However, all sites do not necessarily date from the times of this entity (that is to say prior to the 7th century AD) : some of them were built after the conquest of Upper Tibet by Central Tibet, even after the second spread of Buddhism, and still incorporated these characteristics. Without necessarily pertaining to any Zhang Zhung influence, this notion of “archaic cultural horizon” can be applied to Nubra to designate sites that present characteristics deriving from a tradition anterior to the introduction of Buddhism and of Tibetan influence in the region. 22. As a convention, measurements in this article for Buddhist carvings are hereafter given in the format width x height. Brick dimensions are given in the format length x width x thickness. 23. Dorjay 2014, p. 63 (Fig. 2.24). 24. Mentioned under Sumur in : Anonymous 1997, p. 37 (Pl. XIIIA) ; Agrawal 2012, pp. 145-47. Mentioned under Sumstaling in : Mani 1998, p. 70 ; 2001, p. 103. 25. A hundred meters behind the monastery compound, just outside the limit of the irrigated land, are the remains of ancient walls made of large boulders delimiting flat terraces. Contiguous to some very large rocks, and partly excavated under them, these might be the remains of tombs. The area has obviously been reused as a cremation ground for a significant period of time and these activities, involving some minor masonry work, have much altered the ancient remains. 26. The monastery as it stands today and as asserted by the tradition was founded in 1870 by the famous monk, scholar and reformer Lama Tsultrim Nyima (tshul khrims nyi ma) (1796-1872), who

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also founded Rizong monastery (Central Ladakh). On the monastery of Samstanling : Agrawal 2012, pp. 137-145 ; NIRLAC 2008, p. 339. 27. NIRLAC 2008, p. 219. 28. As of 2014, over 252 fortifications were inventoried by the authors in Ladakh. The only mention of the fortress in Sumur is : Kapadia 2003, photograph 25. 29. See for example Jamchun fortress : Ranov 1984, p. 82 ; Bubnova 2008, p. 291-293. 30. Ranov 1984, p. 83. 31. Kapadia (2003) reports the name of the fortress as Tsogmak (tsog mak, or Mongolian army). He also reports a legend according to which the fort is believed to have been built at the time of a Mongol invasion in Ladakh, but it is not clear whether it refers to the time of Gengis Khan (13th century) or to the Mongol armies of the fifth Dalai Lama during the Tibet-Ladakh-Mughal war (end of the 17th century). 32. According to the villagers the lhatho now inside the fortress was originally set in the tower –it is only relatively recently that the villagers moved it to its current location. 33. De Filippi 1924, p. 312. 34. Quarter Master General’s Dept. Intelligence Branch India 1890, p. 100. 35. Kapadia 2003, photograph 24. 36. Ibid. 37. These inscriptions, as well as those of Kushuwar Thang, were submitted for transliteration and translation to Prof. Dieter Schuh who kindly provided a detailed reading on the 12th of May 2014. We thank him very much for his precious help. 38. Dachompa Nyima Gungpa was a wandering Nyingmapa monk and tantric practitioner. The dates of his lifetime are unknown. 39. NIRLAC 2008, p. 373. 40. On the pilgrimages see NIRLAC 2008, p. 374. 41. On the lithic artefacts : Fonia 1993, pp. 36-37 (Fig. 1). The following remains are listed at Tirisa by the ASI : a pre-historic site, rock engravings of ibex and hunting scene, watchtower and toll post of Dard rulers : Anonymous 1997, p. 37. 42. One of the few other fortifications using mostly bricks is Phyang (Central Ladakh). In the Nubra, the earliest stage of construction of Charasa, as described below in the article, seems also characterised by an important use of bricks. 43. Mani 1998, p. 71 ; 2001, p. 103. 44. These inscriptions were transliterated and translated by Prof. D. Schuh who provided a reading on the 11th of May 2014. 45. This chorten is mentioned by Agrawal 2012, pp. 110-111. 46. Of interest, among the stones on the enclosure of one the tombs are two fragments of an engraved hunting scene. The upper body of an archer is identifiable as well as the feet of another anthropomorphic figure and the bodies of three animals. The path of the arrow shot by the archer is depicted and could suggest a Bronze Age date. The boulder or the rock from which these two fragments originated could not be found in the area. 47. See types II.2a, II.2b and II.2c of Bellezza’s typology of funerary sites (Bellezza 2008, pp. 110-128). 48. For examples in Mongolia, see : Desroches 2003, pp. 104-107. For examples in the Tarim basin, see : Wu et al. 2006. 49. The petroglyphs were previously reported under the name Yansa : Mani 1998, p. 71 ; 2001, p. 103. 50. NIRLAC 2008, p. 261 ; Kozicz 2010. 51. For a list of chortens in Ladakh with moulded lotus petals see footnote 16 in Devers et al. 2014. 52. This chorten is reported by Kozicz 2010 under the name Ensa, Stupa 2. For Malakartse Khar : Linrothe 2007, Fig. 2.

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53. In front of this construction are a large number of holes in the ground, about 10cm in diameter, surrounded by small cairns. Believers plunge their hands in one of the hole and the content of the dirt they extract predicts the gender of their forthcoming child and its fate. 54. Sherab Zangpo (1400-1425 or 1438) was the twelfth abbot of Ralung monastery (Western Tibet), which is the traditional seat of the Drukpa order. In Nubra he is said to have founded the monasteries of Ensa and Deskit. On the monastery and its foundation : NIRLAC 2008, p. 258 ; Agrawal 2012, pp. 225-229. 55. Luczanits dated the foundation of the Sumtsek as being from the early 13th century : Luczanits 2007, p. 73. Other examples are found in the Lotsawa Lhakhang in Alchi, as well as in the temples of Sumda Chung, Mangyu, Wanla, and Lhachuse. Sumda Chung and Mangyu are part of what Luczanits calls the “Alchi group of monuments”, which he dates to be from around 1200 : Luczanits 2005, p. 86. Luczanits dates the foundation of the temple of Wanla as being between the end of the 13th and the early 14th century, “most likely the first half of the fourteenth century” : Luczanits 2002, p. 124. Poell dates the wood carvings of Lhachuse as preceding the Alchi Sumstek, so as being from before the 13th century : Poell 2014, p. 221. 56. NIRLAC 2008, p. 258. 57. The petroglyphs of Murgi were first reported by the ASI (Anonymous 1997, p. 37 ; 2004, p. 59 ; Mani 1998, p. 71, 2001, p. 103) under the name Murgi nala, nala being the hindi equivalent of the Tibetan tokpo. A is also mentioned at Murgi : Anonymous 1997, p. 37. 58. Mascoids from Murgi Tokpo in comparison with those of Upper Tibet and Inner Asia are discussed at length in Bruneau / Bellezza 2013. See also Bruneau in press. 59. On the stylistic features see Bruneau et al. 2011, Bruneau 2013, in press. 60. Other examples are the rock art sites at Tahan Tungri in Zanskar and those of Umla Thang and Sabu Lungmoche in central Ladakh. It should be noted that, in Ladakh, bayuls are not strictly linked to Padmasambhava in the same way they usually are in other Himalayan regions. The origin and identity of the bayuls we documented in Ladakh in relation to archaeological ruins are rather unclear and local traditions are not unanimous. 61. This was unnecessary for Fort A as it stands on an outcrop. There was already a natural vertical distance between the buildings and the outer ground down below 62. NIRLAC 2008, p. 260. 63. Ibid. 64. The murals are in a very bad state of conservation ; only few parts remain on the walls. In these, some stylistic and iconographic elements (lotus petals of the main deities and armbands of their assistant bodhisattvas) remind those on the murals of the Tashi Sumtsek in Wanla or of the Lhakhang Soma in Alchi, thus suggesting a dating from c. the first half of the 14th century : private communication from Nils Martin, 3rd of March 2014. N. Martin is a Phd candidate at the École Pratique des Hautes Études (Paris) and conducts researches on the 14th and 15th centuries Buddhist wall paintings of Ladakh. 65. NIRLAC 2008, p. 261. 66. According to the villagers, a long time ago the ancient inhabitants died altogether of disease or war. Then, the dead rose again, becoming rolangs (ro lang) or rising-dead. Some other people came and killed these rolangs once for all and buried them in these two constructions, which they then destroyed. 67. On the fort of Charasa and its temples : NIRLAC 2008, p. 53. On the mythic lore of Charasa village : Vohra 1985b, p. 248 ; 1990, pp. 226-229. 68. See Mumtaz et al. 2014 for other capitals carved with interlaced figures in Ladakh (Chigtan). 69. Some of these capitals inside the palaces have been repeatedly marked with butter dots (yar) over time or are adorned with sheaves of barley tied around their shaft as an offering. Both these practices testifying of the important role, beyond the architectural one, of the column (ka) and the beliefs associated with it.

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70. The only mention of this carving is found in : NIRLAC 2008, p. 89. Only one photograph of the temple was published but none of the carving itself. 71. NIRLAC 2008, p. 88 ; Dorjay 2010, p. 53 (Figs. 17-19), 2014, p. 61 (Fig. 2.22). 72. A votive inscription from Rongdo mentioning king Sengge Namgyal (17th century) was reported by Francke : Francke / Jina 2003, No. 56. 73. NIRLAC 2008, p. 381. 74. Anonymous 1997, p. 37 (Pl. XIIIB) ; NIRLAC 2008 ; p. 366 ; Dorjay 2010, p. 56 (Figs. 20 & 21), 2014, p. 63 (Fig. 2.23). 75. These petroglyphs are reported by Mani : 1998, p. 71 ; 2001, p. 103. The petroglyphs reported under the name Tirat Tirit are most probably the same : Anonymous 1997, p. 37. 76. On the gonpa of Deskit and its temples : NIRLAC 2008, p. 60 ; Agrawal 2012, pp. 15-23. On the palatial remains : ibid., pp. 23-24. On the history of Deskit : Vohra 1990, pp. 233-235. A votive tablet was found in Deskit by Francke that bore the name of Drakpabum (Grags-pa-‘bum, second half of the 15th century), who is said to have been in Nubra when emissaries of Tsongkhapa came to see him : Francke 1926, p. 99, 102 ; see also Francke / Jina 2003 : inscription no. 39 (hymn to Tsongkhapa). On the emissaries of Tsongkhapa and the dates of reign of Drakpabum see : Jampspal 1997, pp. 141-144. For other votive plates from Deskit bearing hymns to three rulers of the Namgyal dynasty (18th century) : Francke / Jina 2003, Nos. 71, 73 & 83. 77. NIRLAC 2008, p. 62. 78. Anonymous 1997, p. 36 : it is not clear whether the term ‘rock engravings’ refers to the Buddhist slab below the monastery or to the petroglyphs described below. 79. The site is inventoried by NIRLAC under the name Chomo Tsamphuk : NIRLAC 2008, p. 61. 80. We are indebted to Nils Martin for sharing this dating with us : private communication to Quentin Devers, 26th of September 2014. 81. As for their relative chronology, we know that temple 3 was built after temple 2. However, there is no direct stratigraphic relationship between temple 1 and temple 2. As such, the chronological order of the three temples could be either 1-2-3, 2-1-3, or 2-3-1. 82. Mani 1998, p. 70 ; 2001, p. 103 ; Jamwal 200 ? ; Thsangpa 2007, p. 57. 83. Francke 1930, p. 44 ; Vohra 1985a, pp. 11-14 ; Francke / Jina 2003 : inscriptions Nos. 57 & 85 refer to two rulers of the Namgyal dynasty (17th and 19th centuries) whereas inscriptions Nos. 40 & 41 mention local rulers. As stated by Vohra (1990, p. 233) it would be hazardous to identify them as there are, for the time being, no other source available. Nonetheless Vohra tentatively dates the inscriptions from the 16th century 84. The fort is briefly mentioned in : Anonymous 1997, p. 36 ; NIRLAC 2008, p. 107 ; Agrawal 2012, p. 74. According to inscriptions on some of the votive tablets, Vohra proposes the name Dechen Tsemo (bde chen rtse mo) for this site : Vohra 1985a, pp. 12-13. Elias & Ross (1895, p. 41, footnote) proposed that the town “Mutadar” referred to by Mirza Haidar (1499-1551) in his memoirs, which he states to have been the chief fort of Nubra, is to be identified with Hundar. However, they base this identification solely on speculative phonetic grounds : “This name may also read Maut-dār, but is probably intended for Hundar, near the junction of the Nubra and Shayok rivers. The chief village, and seat of the district officials in the Nubra is, nowadays, Tagdr – a name which bears a certain resemblance to a part of the word Mutadār.” (ibid.) We would like to notice here that in his siege of the fort, Mirza prepared catapults (Elias / Ross 1895, p. 41). The use of such siege engines might be an indication of the place where the battle took place. Indeed, the fortified settlement in Hundar is bordered by high cliffs on the north, i.e. on the main valley side, making the use of catapults likely pointless from that angle. Catapults could probably have been successfully set for an attack from the south, i.e. from the side valley ; however the entrance of this side valley is very narrow and one has to pass right below the settlement’s defences : it is not certain that an enemy could have safely entered the side valley to set catapults there. The other major fortifications of the region are : Charasa, Deskit and Sumur-Maral. The latter can be safely

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crossed-out as its location is incompatible with the use of catapults. The two remaining ones, Charasa and Deskit, are both plausible candidates for such siege. The fortified settlement of Charasa is set on a low hill with flat open ground on all sides, leaving plenty of options to set catapults up at will. As we saw earlier, its shuttered-mud walls bear the marks of important damage, which in some parts was inflicted only in the upper part of the elevations –this type of destruction suits the action of catapults. At Deskit, though the fort is highly situated making the use of catapults from the valley floor unlikely, it faces a plateau on the other side of the torrent that is just as high. The distance between the fort and the plateau is reduced, less than a hundred meters. As such, it is conceivable that catapults could have been set there and successfully used against the fort. Furthermore, only few bits of shuttered-mud walls are still standing suggesting that heavy destruction took place. Therefore either Charasa or Deskit fit the description of being the chief fort of Nubra and to have faced catapults. We can further notice that as Elias and Ross (ibid.) state, at one time Charasa was known to be the chief place of the valley. 85. Near the entrance, outside the fort, is a boulder engraved with various motifs of light patina (mainly anthropomorphic figures, animals, swastikas and modern inscriptions in Latin ). These petroglyphs are also reported by Mani : 1998, p. 70 ; 2001, p. 103. 86. About the temples : NIRLAC 2008, p. 116 ; Agrawal 2012, pp. 72-74. 87. See above footnote 83 ; NIRLAC 2008, p. 108. 88. Vohra 1985b, p. 248 ; Vohra 1990, p. 231 ; Anonymous 1997, p. 36 (Pl. XII) ; Dorjay 2010, p. 56 (Fig. 24), 2014, p. 65. 89. Vohra 1985b, p. 248 : Vohra refers to another image opposite the boulder described above and reportedly destroyed at the time of construction of the power house. This story has been confirmed to us by villagers in 2011. 90. Fonia 1993, pp. 37-38 ; Anonymous 1997, p. 37. 91. We are indebted to Abram Pointet (associate professor, EPFL, Lausanne) for bringing this large fortified site to our attention : personal communication to Martin Vernier in March 2013. 92. Vohra 1985b, p. 248, 1990, p. 232. According to Vohra, earlier the rock was seen standing but during a Mongol invasion, the leader of the army, having failed to capture the fort had, in his anger, the rock knocked down so that the image now lies on its back. For the relief, see also NIRLAC 2008, p. 330. 93. For a short description of the fort of Turtuk : Vohra 1990, p. 229. Vohra reports the local name of the fort as being Brogpai Khar (pp. 229-231). 94. One exception lies in Sumur. Indeed, a chorten built on the roof of a private temple belonging to the Onpo family, Onpa Gonpa, stands on four short cribbage columns. It is the western-most expression of this type of architecture we have noticed in the Nubra. 95. For a quick report about this type of architecture in Northern Pakistan see Hugues 2000. For pictures of the forts in Kharmang and Hunza see respectively De Filippi 1924, p. 36 and Hugues 2000, p. 3, 8. 96. Cunningham compiled dynastic lists pertaining to the dynasties of Khapulu and Keris in Baltistan, in which several names depicted in the lineage tree in Turtuk can be recognised. Cunningham 1854, pp. 29-31. For comments on the lineage see also Francke 1930, p. 44. Emerson published a dynastic list in which the second name is ‘Baig Manthal’ (we are indebted to John Mock for pointing this reference to us). Emerson 1984. 97. Fonia 1993, pp. 37-38 (Fig. 1) ; Anonymous 1997, p. 37. 98. For instance, the stūpas of Rawak in Khotan and that of Ushkur in Kashmir present the same plan : see respectively Maillard 1983, pp. 166-169 and Fisher 1989, pp. 22-24. Agrawal proposes a date of the 8th century for the chorten of Tirisa but he does not provide any arguments for his statement : Agrawal 2012, p. 111. 99. Hinüber 2004, pp. 149-176 ; Luczanits 2004 ; Bruneau forthcoming.

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100. Images of these bronzes can be found online on the websites of the museums. Accession number of the bronze of Padmapāṇi in the Brooklyn Museum : 78.256.4 (1050-1150, H 28cm). Accession number of the bronze of Avalokiteśvara in the Norton Museum : F.1976.05.14.S (Tibet, 1100-1199, brass inlaid with gold, silver, turquoise and pigment, 40x16.5x8.3cm).

ABSTRACTS

The Nubra region discussed in this paper is the northernmost of Ladakh (Jammu and Kashmir, India). Although some archaeological surveys have been conducted in the region since the 1990s no comprehensive account has yet been attempted : it is the aim of this paper to do so. The work presented here is the result of extensive surveys conducted by the authors between 2006 and 2014 (six campaigns), which revealed sixty-six valuable sites, many previously unreported. They bring to light, among others, long searched Protohistorical funerary sites, the largest and richest Bronze Age rock art site of Ladakh, several ancient Buddhist carvings and ruined monuments as well as new evidence of architectural contacts with Central Asia.

La Nubra est la région la plus septentrionale du Ladakh (état de Jammu et Cachemire, Inde). Bien que des prospections archéologiques y aient été menées de manière épisodique depuis les années 1990 aucune étude d’ensemble n’a été proposée. Cet article vise à combler ce manque et présente les résultats de prospections approfondies conduites par les auteurs. Six campagnes, menées entre 2006 et 2014, ont mis au jour une soixantaine de sites, pour la plupart précédemment inconnus. Parmi les vestiges répertoriés se trouvent non seulement des sites funéraires protohistoriques, un vaste et riche site d’art rupestre attribuable à l’Âge du Bronze, des bas- reliefs et ruines de monuments bouddhiques mais aussi des vestiges fortifiés révélant des liens forts avec l’Asie Centrale.

INDEX

Mots-clés: Ladakh, archéologie, prospection, art rupestre, ruine, fortification, tombe, Bouddhisme, inscription, sculpture Keywords: Ladakh, archaeology, survey, rock art, ruins, fortification, grave, Buddhism, inscription, carving

AUTHORS

QUENTIN DEVERS Quentin Devers wrote a thesis on the fortifications of Ladakh. In the course of a series of extensive surveys he has adopted an approach of built archaeology, analyzing all built remains such as ruined settlements and ruined Buddhist monuments. An important component of his research is the study of sites in a spatial perspective, aiming at understanding ancient route networks and the evolution of territorial dynamics over time. Publications :

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In press An Archaeological Account of Nyarma and its Surroundings, Ladakh, in C. Jahoda, C. Kalantari (eds.), Material on Western Tibet (Vienna, OAW). 2012 with Vernier, M. A Remarkable Chorten in Markha Village, Ladakh, Artibus Asiae, 72/2, pp. 443-451. 2011 with Vernier, M. An Archaeological Account of the Markha Valley, Ladakh, Revue d’Études Tibétaines, 10, pp. 61-113.

LAURIANNE BRUNEAU Laurianne Bruneau specializes in the archaeology and the arts of South and Central Asia. Her researches aim at understanding the artistic and cultural relationships between these two regions. She is associate professor at the École Pratique des Hautes Études (EPHE) and affiliated to the team Tibet, Bhutan and Tibetan Cultural area of East Asian Civilizations Research Center (CRCAO) in Paris. Since 2012 Laurianne is the co-director of the Indo-French Archaeological mission in Ladakh in cooperation with the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI). Publications : sous presse Étude thématique et stylistique des pétroglyphes du Ladakh (Jammu & Cachemire, Inde) : une nouvelle contribution à l’art rupestre d’Asie Centrale pour l’Âge du Bronze, Eurasia Antiqua, 18, pp. 1-19. 2013 with Bellezza, J.V. The Rock Art of Upper Tibet and Ladakh : Inner Asian cultural adaptation, regional differentiation and the Western Tibetan Plateau Style, Revue d’Études Tibétaines, 28, pp. 5-161. 2011 Influence of the Indian cultural area in Ladakh in the 1st millennium AD : the rock inscriptions evidence, Puratattva – The Bulletin of the Indian Archaeological Society, 41, pp. 179-190.

MARTIN VERNIER Martin Vernier is an independent archaeologist and tibetologist based in Switzerland. Since 1996 he has focused on the historical and archaeological heritage of Ladakh. Laureate of a research grant, he spent two years (2003-2004) exploring and systematically documenting the petroglyphs of the region. He created the first electronic database and published the first monograph on Ladakhi rock art. He now conducts research on the stone Buddhist steles and reliefs. Publications : 2013 The Forgotten citadel of Stok mon mkhar, Revue d’Études Tibétaines, 27, pp. 81-102. 2012 with Devers, Q. A Remarkable Chorten in Markha Village, Ladakh, Artibus Asiae, 72/2, pp. 443-451 2007 Exploration et Documentation des pétroglyphes du Ladakh 1996-2006 (Como, Quaderni Fondation Carlo Leone and Mariena Montandon – NodoLibri).

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Comptes rendus

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Goldstein M.C., A History of Modern Tibet volume 3 : the storm clouds descend 1955-57 Berkeley : University of California Press, 2014, ISBN 978-0-520-27651-2

Matthew Akester

RÉFÉRENCE

Goldstein M.C., A History of Modern Tibet volume 3 : the storm clouds descend 1955-57, Berkeley, University of California Press 2014

1 The keenly awaited third volume of Melvyn Goldstein’s ‘History of Modern Tibet’ comes as no disappointment to his loyal readers, and if anything surpasses the earlier volumes in its depth of research and insight. The preface explains that two volumes have become necessary to cover the period 1955-1959 due to the wealth of material available to the author, and his presentation is indeed illustrated with detailed citations from an impressive array of sources, notably internal CCP documents, the Kalimpong diaries of Tsipon Shakabpa and Professor Goldstein’s unique collection of interviews with key players on the political scene.

2 Goldstein’s work is conducted within a highly conventional narrative style of political history, focussing on close examination of the words and deeds of élite actors in the supposed main events of the period — in this case, the conspiracies of émigré aristocrats in India, the launch of Socialist Reform in Kham/Sichuan, the Dalai Lama’s visit to India and decision to return, and the debate within the CCP leadership over the pace of reform in central Tibet. These narratives are constructed with diligent and competent attention to the available sources, clarifying and revealing information barely covered by the existing literature.

3 Moreover, this volume is the first to venture much beyond the corridors of power in Lhasa, Beijing, Delhi and Washington, by describing the Litang uprising, which the

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author takes as representative of the situation in Kham following the premature introduction of reform, and in my view, the charting of tensions between the central and provincial leaderships over this process is the book’s most substantial contribution.

4 In brief, it argues that Leftist cadres in Sichuan rushed into Socialist Reforms in early 1956 in spite of cautions from the central leadership, sparking the revolt they had sought to avoid (Chapter 3). Deng Xiaoping could have averted this situation, but declined to do so, partly for personal reasons (p. 109, 476). Chapter 8 is a fascinating chronicle of the centre’s attempts to alleviate the damage, sending two missions to reprimand local cadres and reassure local élites, and calling a high-level meeting in July 1956 which called for peace negotiations with the rebels. When these failed, and renewed calls came from the Sichuan provincial and Ganzi prefectural committees to push ahead with reform, however, the centre acquiesced (March 1957).

5 Goldstein is unusually ambivalent about this decision, ostensibly a critical setback for ‘Mao’s gradualist policy’, praise for which is the dominant theme of volumes 2 and 3 of his work : after describing the decision as “ill-conceived” (p. 265), and even accepting that the revolt had popular support (p. 243), he appears to endorse Mao’s justifications that ‘Tibet’ (i.e., the Lhasa government’s domain) and ‘Ganzi’ (Chinese nomenclature is used for Tibetan territories outside that domain) were historically different, and that the process of cancelling ongoing reforms was logistically tiresome and demotivating for the revolutionary cadre force (p. 270, pp. 475-476).

6 It was a ‘pivotal moment in Sino-Tibetan history’, to use Goldstein’s words, and for the handful of Tibetan progressives who went along with CCP ideology, the moment when hope and trust in its nationality policies ebbed into doubt and foreboding. ‘Mao’s nuanced Tibet policy was seriously undercut by the bloody events in Sichuan’, he writes (p. 292), with evident sympathy for Tibetan cadres like Jambey Gyatso, who ‘came from a poor family and thoroughly approved of implementing democratic reforms, but nonetheless was shocked by the wanton destruction of [Batang Choedé] monastery...’ Many readers will more readily sympathise, especially with the benefit of hindsight, with the sentiments of the ‘common people’ in Batang, as recalled by Jambey Gyatso and usefully cited here (p. 239), that “One cannot trust anything the Chinese have said. Who knows what will happen in the future ? The policy of the CCP is [like] a wet skin hat.”

7 This is all interesting and informative material, it is just that the broader argument within which it is presented here is overstated and ideologically driven. Goldstein’s argument is of course richly nuanced, but it shares some basic assumptions with the historic CCP position on Tibet, chiefly that ‘democratic reform’ was necessary and desirable for Tibet, and that had the reactionary Tibetan ruling class not obstructed reform in the attempt to preserve their privileges and way of life, all would have been well. This view tends to confuse ‘democratic reform’ — violent expropriation of the upper classes, ‘struggle’ against counterrevolutionaries of all classes, and institution of a class dictatorship run by the Party — with modernisation itself, as if Tibet were doomed to remain ‘feudal’ and ‘backward’ forever without the CCP’s intervention. Based on these assumptions, the present volume argues that Mao’s ‘gradualist policy’ was derailed in Sichuan after zealous local cadres provoked Tibetan resistance by introducing reform prematurely, but still his decision to indefinitely postpone reform in proto-TAR was enlightened statesmanship that ‘pulled Tibet back from the brink of

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disaster’ (p. 466). It concludes with a chilling piece of logic, blaming the unholy alliance of Khamba rebels, reactionary Tibetan aristocrats and the CIA for ‘...bringing about the total destruction of traditional Tibet’s institutions’ (p. 487) by staging an insurgency !

8 The problem with this interpretation is simply that Mao’s Tibet policy and the debates within the leadership over the speed of reform were entirely tactical — there was no debate about whether Tibet should enjoy autonomy per se, just over how long concessions to the traditional ruling class should be maintained, in order to smooth the transition to full incorporation in the PRC under the CCP’s undivided authority. Mao in particular was in a win-win position on this question, having the authority to hold out for a magnanimous approach, confident that if it went wrong, the issue could always be resolved militarily in China’s favour, and that is, as we know, what eventually happened.

9 It is quite misleading to suggest that the outcome of this debate, or the willingness of Tibetan élites to be peacefully won over, were such decisive factors in shaping Tibet’s fate under Chinese rule. Mao’s speeches and directives (e.g., p. 339, 455) make it clear that at least from the outbreak of resistance in Sichuan, the ‘gradualist policy’ was liable to be cancelled or trumped by hardline approaches as soon as it ran into trouble, and this was inevitable, given that Tibetan opposition to ‘democratic reform’ was far more popular and engrained than Tibetan enthusiasm for Communism. So when Goldstein postulates that ‘Tibetan history would have taken a very different turn’ had Deng Xiaoping intervened to restrain the Sichuan leadership, one wonders how different things could really have been, especially on the eve of the Anti-rightist campaign and ‘Great Leap Forward’.

10 Professor Goldstein writes in his preface that his research was motivated by a determination to ‘disprove entrenched beliefs and widely held stereotypes’, a laudable and welcome endeavour, but one that seems not to extend to the CCP’s claims. For example : despite acknowledging the relevance of events and personages in eastern Tibet in volume 3, his discussion is prefaced by a laboured and confused defence of the Chinese government’s position that areas of Tibet outside the effective borders of the latter-day Ganden Potrang state are only ethnically Tibetan and cannot be considered part of the same country (p. 79-87). He marshalls support for this view from mid-20th century foreign observers and scholars (Kolmas, Petech, Ekvall, Teichmann, Richardson, etc.), who confirm that Tibetan polities east of the Dri Chu river in Kham were not under Lhasa’s direct authority during the later Qing era, but this is hardly in dispute, and none of these authors seem to have shared his conclusion that eastern Tibet’s identity was somehow less Tibetan than other parts of the plateau.

11 The historical details of war and diplomacy that produced the state of affairs prevailing between China and Tibet in 1949 are naturally complex, but simply put, the fact that eastern Tibet was not part of Ganden Potrang territory does not mean that it was part of China either. The territory ruled by the Lhasa government was larger and grander than other Tibetan polities, and had a long border with British India, but it was no more intrinsically Tibetan than those in the east, nor had it been any less prone to imperial hegemony under the Qing. The distinction between territories ruled by Lhasa and those under other Tibetan rulers, all with varying degrees of independence from neighbouring powers, needs no introduction ; but the claim that the former should be designated ‘Tibet’ while the latter should not, because they were vassals of late imperial China, does not bear historical examination.

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12 Having raised it, I should mention one other instance of this intellectual gerrymandering, although it is incidental to the subject of the book. In the preamble to his discussion of the Sino-Indian agreement (p. 158), Goldstein writes that at the 1914 ‘British India acquired an area of about fifty thousand square miles from Tibet that was then called NEFA...’ In fact, the territory ceded by Tibet at Simla was known to Tibetans as ‘the three valleys under the passes’ (La ’og yul gsum), including the Tawang valley, an area of about three and a half thousand square miles, or 7 % of NEFA, the present Arunachal Pradesh. If one includes the little Pachakshri enclave in West Siang district, which also came under Lhasa’s jurisdiction in the 18th century, Tibetan-controlled territory in NEFA before 1950 could amount to 8 %.

13 It could hardly escape an historian that none of the remaining 92 % or so of NEFA/ Arunachal had ever been controlled by Tibet, nor was it claimed by Tibet at Simla. It has however been claimed by the PRC, without discernable justification, since the late 1950s. Goldstein’s elision of Tawang with NEFA, backed up by a map (no. 5) showing Tibet’s pre-1914 border running along the north bank of the Brahmaputra, seems far removed from the spirit of historical enquiry, never mind any quest to ‘disprove entrenched beliefs’, and is the kind of thing that unfortunately undermines the overall integrity of his work.

14 To conclude, volume 3 is a great contribution to knowledge of the period. Apart from the tensions over Tibet policy within the CCP discussed above, it gives us fly-on-the- wall coverage of the amateurish attempts by Shakabpa and Gyalo Dondrup to woo the Indian and US establishments, the most detailed portrait of Alo Chondze yet published, a Chinese perspective on the Litang uprising, and a preliminary account of the dismantling of Fan Ming’s reforms in proto-TAR, among other readings, based on rare Chinese and Tibetan language sources. If one ignores the presumptuous title of the series, and the axe-grinding tone of the narrative, it is an informative read for anyone with a sustained interest in the subject.

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Yeh Emily T., Taming Tibet : Landscape Transformation and the Gift of Chinese Development Cornell University Press, Ithaca & London, 2013, 324 pages, paperback. ISBN 9780801478321

Katia Buffetrille

RÉFÉRENCE

Yeh Emily T., Taming Tibet : Landscape Transformation and the Gift of Chinese Development, Cornell University Press, Ithaca & London, 2013

1 Depuis plus d’une décennie, Emily Yeh nous a habitués à une production scientifique fort abondante et de grande qualité. Taming Tibet prouve une fois de plus le talent de l’auteur dans l’analyse de situations des plus complexes. Elle nous offre ici une étude subtile, nuancée et absolument passionnante des mécanismes sous-jacents à la production et à la transformation du paysage tibétain de Lhasa et de ses environs, des années 1950 à nos jours. Cette transformation a été catalysée par le « développement », projet national présenté comme un don fait au peuple tibétain, et qui conduit à « territorialiser » le Tibet, c’est-à-dire à l’incorporer dans le territoire de l’État chinois.

2 E. Yeh considère trois périodes qui, chacune, ont marqué la transformation du paysage :

3 1. Depuis les années 1950 et jusqu’en 1980, un « paysage socialiste » est apparu, créé par le labeur des Tibétains, ouvriers et membres des communes.

4 2. Les années 1990 ont vu le passage de la « libération socialiste » au développement économique (dérégulé) ; elles sont marquées par l’arrivée de nombreux migrants Han.

5 3. Finalement, les structures en béton ont fait leur apparition dans les années 2000 à la suite de l’urbanisation intense.

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6 Le livre, organisé autour de ces trois périodes, décrit les dynamiques des diverses politiques et leurs conséquences sur les Tibétains ainsi que sur les Chinois migrants. L’auteur s’intéresse particulièrement à la notion de « don » fait aux Tibétains par l’État chinois et à ses implications : don de les avoir « libérés » de cette « société féodale » qu’était le Tibet traditionnel, don du « développement » qui les sort de cette « arriération » dans laquelle ils vivaient et leur permet de rentrer dans la modernité, mais dons à double tranchant, à la fois cadeau et poison. En effet, à travers le cadeau du développement, l’État, en tant que donateur, est reconnu comme une « entité concrète » : recevoir ce cadeau conduit les Tibétains à reconnaître l’État chinois comme le leur et le territoire de la République populaire de Chine comme un espace auquel ils sont liés, ce qui constitue un processus de « territorialisation » (p. 17).

7 Chaque chapitre porte le nom de l’élément qui a le plus marqué l’époque décrite.

8 Le premier (pp. 57-91), intitulé Terre, « Soil », traite des deux premières fermes d’État puis des communes. Il est particulièrement important par les informations nouvelles qu’il apporte sur cette époque. La littérature de l’exil ne parle pas, ou très peu, des conditions et des raisons de la vente des terres par le gouvernement tibétain qui ont permis l’installation des fermes (p. 62), et si elle parle des travailleurs, elle les présente comme des traîtres ou des personnes qui ont été abusées (p. 83). Les seules sources à ce sujet sont donc chinoises et l’auteur les exploite admirablement.

9 Ces fermes furent créées pour tenter de résoudre la pénurie de nourriture liée à l’invasion chinoise des années 1950 et à la présence d’un grand nombre de soldats. Yeh s’intéresse aux raisons pour lesquelles les groupes dominés semblent participer à leur propre oppression. Elle montre comment les travailleurs tibétains, essentiellement des femmes de milieu pauvre, se sont laissé incorporer dans la nouvelle structure politique qui se mettait en place, quand bien même cela permettait à l’armée chinoise d’affirmer son contrôle sur le pays, car elle leur offrait, en termes de classe, une trajectoire ascendante (p. 76).

10 La culture de légumes et l’agriculture mécanisée ont favorisé un nouvel imaginaire de la nature comme terrain de bataille, produisant un nouveau paysage tibétain (p. 61).

11 Ces fermes d’État ont donné naissance aux communes populaires, et si les travailleurs des fermes évoquent avec nostalgie ces années de labeur durant lesquelles les relations entre Han et Tibétains étaient particulièrement bonnes (p. 79) et où ils contribuaient à une cause historique et noble (p. 86), de leur côté, les membres des communes (1963-1970) considèrent cette période comme la pire de leur vie, une époque de travail particulièrement dur et de pénurie de nourriture (p. 88). Ces fermes ont été des sites clés favorisant l’incorporation du pays dans l’État chinois.

12 Avec le deuxième chapitre intitulé Plastique, « Plastic » (pp. 95-187), nous entrons dans les années 1980, période de la décollectivisation et du « système de responsabilité des familles ». Chaque Tibétain reçoit alors le droit d’utiliser des parcelles de terre de trois qualités différentes, et donc de petite taille. Les Tibétains ont très vite choisi de sous- louer leurs terres aux migrants Han qui arrivaient alors en nombre de plus en plus important, participant ainsi activement à leur propre marginalisation sous le prétexte que le travail était trop dur. Yeh étudie le point de vue chinois et le point de vue tibétain.

13 La question de la migration Han au Tibet reste un sujet très débattu mais les longues enquêtes de terrain de l’auteur lui permettent de dire que si l’on considère la Région

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autonome du Tibet dans son ensemble, il y a peu d’arguments qui permettent d’affirmer que les Tibétains sont une minorité dans leur pays. Le recensement de 2000 donne 93 % de Tibétains dans la RAT (p. 99), celui de 2010, 90,5 %1. Comme l’a montré A. Fischer (2008, p. 146)2, et comme l’auteur le confirme, cette migration est essentiellement urbaine.

14 Alors que les migrants Han sont plus payés que les Tibétains, qu’ils envoient dans leur région natale la majeure partie de leur salaire, ils se perçoivent pourtant comme les victimes d’un gouvernement chinois qui favoriserait financièrement le Tibet, mais aussi comme des agents du développement, et ce bien qu’il n’existe aucun transfert de compétence entre Han et Tibétains. Ces migrants savent que s’ils peuvent gagner de l’argent à Lhasa, ils n’engrangeront pas de suzhi, « qualité », du fait du sous- développement de la capitale tibétaine, et n’amélioreront donc pas leur statut.

15 La présence de ces migrants Han, venus pour l’essentiel du Sichuan voisin, renforce, aux yeux des autorités officielles, la légitimité de l’État puisqu’en tant qu’« agents du développement », ils contribuent à faire du Tibet un lieu meilleur (p. 123). Ils considèrent Lhasa comme un « Petit Sichuan » dans lequel ils dominent les activités économiques (p. 98).

16 De leur côté, les raisons invoquées par les Tibétains pour ne pas cultiver de légumes sont leur manque de compétence et de connaissance scientifique ainsi que le travail qu’ils estiment être trop dur (p. 127). Ils participent ainsi activement à la circulation et la reproduction du discours colonial chinois les décrivant comme paresseux et gâtés par la trop grande générosité du gouvernement chinois (p. 187), jugement que contredit le courage des Tibétains dans leurs tâches coutumières, ce que souligne l’auteur (p. 170). Mais cette affirmation de manque de compétence et de connaissance scientifique est aussi une affirmation identitaire, un marqueur de différence avec les Han. Le Tibétain n’est pas un homo economicus, nous dit l’auteur (p. 159) mais on peut penser que dans d’autres circonstances, maîtres de leur destin, les Tibétains se seraient adaptés aux défis du monde contemporain. Pour Yeh, la non participation des Tibétains à la culture des légumes s’explique à la lumière du concept de surdétermination qui montre combien les pressions politiques, économiques et culturelles sont entrelacées et que l’on ne peut les réduire à l’une ou à l’autre (p. 132).

17 Avec le troisième chapitre, Béton, « Concrete », nous entrons dans l’époque de l’urbanisation intense et de la construction de rangées de maisons uniformes qui dessinent un nouveau paysage urbain. Cette urbanisation n’a pas seulement pour but le développement et la modernité ; elle est aussi vue comme un moyen de réaliser la stabilité (p. 202), de contrôler la population et de mettre les Tibétains dans la situation d’être redevables à l’État pour ce « cadeau » — à double tranchant — qu’il leur fait. Les conséquences pour les Tibétains sont énormes : expropriation de leur maison et de leurs terres, et donc perte de leurs moyens de subsistance et installation dans de nouvelles maisons qui entraînent souvent un endettement des familles concernées. L’urbanisation implique de nouvelles pratiques socio-spatiales et l’abandon des anciennes (p. 226). Elle est liée à une influence de plus en plus profonde de la culture chinoise sur leur vie (p. 226).

18 En achetant ces maisons, les Tibétains participent à la création de ce nouveau paysage. L’État chinois attend d’eux, non seulement qu’ils manifestent de la gratitude pour ce cadeau qui doit être visible pour être effectif (p. 241) mais aussi qu’ils deviennent des acteurs économiques de ce développement (p. 242).

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19 Le travail de E. Yeh, tout en nuances, illumine les complexités des politiques chinoises au Tibet. Je voudrais seulement indiquer deux points me paraissant discutables et apporter une précision.

20 Le premier point concerne le titre et s’adresse plus à l’éditeur qu’à l’auteur. Taming Tibet est un très beau titre, très percutant, mais mal choisi car il implique que le « Tibet » se limite au seul Tibet central, à la Région autonome du Tibet dont il est question dans l’ouvrage, (essentiellement Lhasa et ses environs), une conception beaucoup plus chinoise que tibétaine.

21 Par ailleurs, mes expériences de recherche sur les pèlerinages durant deux décennies ont montré que, contrairement à ce qu’écrit Yeh (p. 30), les groupes de pèlerins ne se mélangent pas et si, occasionnellement, un échange s’établit, c’est habituellement au niveau individuel, pour interroger un religieux ou un habitant du lieu. Le sentiment de fraternité, la qualité de « communitas » que V. Turner (1966, 1974, 1978)3 observe dans tous les pèlerinages dont il traite, ne sont généralement pas présents dans le monde tibétain, si ce n’est lors de très courts moments. Au long des routes, tous les niveaux de la société tibétaine sont représentés mais, contrairement à ce que l’on pourrait penser, les différences sociales ou de statut perdurent lors du pèlerinage.

22 En ce qui concerne le nombre de morts dues au Grand Bond en Avant des années 1958-1961, 1962 que Yeh évoque p. 85, les études fouillées de Yang Jisheng4 (2008, p. 516) et de F. Dikötter (2010, p. x)5 l’évaluent entre 36 et 45 millions.

23 Avec Taming Tibet, Emily T. Yeh offre à toute personne intéressée par les relations entre le Tibet et la République populaire de Chine, un livre passionnant à lire, fournissant de nombreuses clés pour comprendre des situations qui, au premier regard, semblent totalement incompréhensibles ou contradictoires.

NOTES

1. http://www.geopopulation.com/20130722/demographie-tibet-recensement-de-la-population- en-chine-et-dans-le-monde/ 2. Andrew Fischer 2008 « Question 44 », in A. M. Blondeau & K. Buffetrille, Authenticating Tibet. Answers to China’s 100 Questions (Berkeley-Los Angeles-London, University of California Press). 3. Turner V. 1969 The ritual process. Structure and anti-Structure (Cornell University Press, Ithaca, NewYork). 1974 "Pilgrimage as Social Process", Dramas, Fields and Metaphors : Symbolic Action in Human Society (Cornell University Press, Ithaca, London), pp. 166-231. 1978 Images and Pilgrimages in Christian culture. Anthropological Perspectives (Basil Blackwell, Oxford). 4. Yang Jisheng 2008 Stèles. La grande famine en Chine 1958-1961 (Paris, Seuil). 5. Frank Dikötter 2010 Mao’s Great Famine. The History of China’s most Devastating Catastrophe, 1958-1962 (New York, Walter & Co).

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Sihlé Nicolas, Rituels bouddhiques de pouvoir et de violence : la figure du tantriste tibétain Turnhout, Belgique, Brepols, 2013, 405 p., ISBN : 978-2-503-54470-0

Cécile Ducher

RÉFÉRENCE

Sihlé Nicolas, Rituels bouddhiques de pouvoir et de violence : la figure du tantriste tibétain, Turnhout, Belgique, Brepols, 2013

1 Dans cet ouvrage, Nicolas Sihlé reprend, tout en les remaniant en profondeur, les travaux résultant de sa thèse de doctorat intitulée : « Les tantristes tibétains (ngakpa), religieux dans le monde, religieux du rituel terrible : étude de Ch’ongkor, communauté villageoise de tantristes du Baragaon (nord du Népal) ». Entre la soutenance de la thèse (2001), et la publication de ce présent livre (2013), un cycle de douze années s’est écoulé, et c’est en réalité à une renaissance que l’on assiste, tant le texte a été repensé, remanié et amplifié. Entre temps, le titre a évolué, pour passer d’une association locale, Ch’ongkor, à une évocation plus universelle du sujet de l’ouvrage : Rituels bouddhiques de pouvoir et de violence : la figure du tantriste tibétain. L’auteur aurait d’ailleurs pu aller plus loin en faisant le choix de l’intituler Vers une anthropologie du bouddhisme tantrique — du nom d’une des sections de l’introduction — tant l’ouvrage propose à son lecteur une introduction didactique au vaste domaine de l’anthropologie du bouddhisme, plus particulièrement sous sa forme tantrique tibétaine, jusqu’alors peu exploré si ce n’est dans des contextes monastiques.

2 Il est saisissant de constater qu’à partir d’un cas particulier — une communauté villageoise d’une vingtaine de maisons de tantristes située au Baragaon, une petite société de culture tibétaine du nord du Népal dans laquelle Nicolas Sihlé a passé quinze mois à la fin des années 1990 — l’auteur nous offre une réflexion approfondie sur une question centrale pour le bouddhisme tantrique : « Comment comprendre la forte

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association institutionnalisée d’un spécialiste religieux bouddhiste avec l’exercice de rituels violents ? » (« Introduction », p. 20) Ce paradoxe entre, d’une part, une religion millénaire généralement perçue comme pacifique, et d’autre part, les formes violentes, voire antinomiques, qu’elle a adoptées dans certains pays — et notamment dans l’aire culturelle tibétaine — a longtemps fait obstacle à une bonne compréhension du bouddhisme tantrique. Plusieurs monographies ont récemment tenté de répondre à cette question ; citons notamment Making Sense of Tantric Buddhism – History, Semiology, and Transgression in the Indian Traditions de Christian Wedemeyer (New York, Columbia University Press, 2013) et The Taming of the Demons – Violence and Liberation in Tibetan Buddhism de Jacob Dalton (New Haven, Yale University Press, 2011). Mais alors que ces travaux s’appuient sur des études textuelles et historiques des phénomènes tantriques, l’auteur du présent ouvrage se fonde quant à lui sur une analyse ethnologique de données de terrain extensives. Ainsi vient-il combler un vide dans notre compréhension du tantrisme au Tibet, en particulier dans la problématique soulevée par l’opposition entre moine et pratiquant laïc.

3 La comparaison de la thèse avec le livre publié révèle de profonds remaniements du texte, à la fois dans la structure et dans la formulation de presque tout l’ouvrage. Le recul théorique et critique, déjà présent dans la thèse mais ici largement amplifié, donne au lecteur le sentiment d’avoir entre les mains une somme de connaissances extrêmement solides, et constituant une introduction à de nombreux autres sujets de l’ethnologie — il suffit d’ailleurs pour s’en assurer de considérer l’apparat critique riche de très nombreuses références bibliographiques. Bien que la volonté didactique de l’auteur, à laquelle il associe volontiers un ton académique, alourdisse parfois la lecture — voire même pourrait susciter quelque agacement chez le lecteur — on apprécie en définitive de disposer ainsi d’un cours complet, et savant, sur un sujet qui, pour être spécialisé, n’en est pas moins indispensable à la compréhension du bouddhisme en général, tibétain en particulier. Avant de conclure, la dernière section de l’ouvrage (pp. 247-261) — particulièrement fascinante — s’interroge sur la possibilité d’étendre à l’ensemble du monde tibétain cette analyse sur les ambiguïtés de la violence rituelle et propose un examen comparatif avec le reste du monde bouddhique. De cela il n’était pas question dans la thèse, et le lecteur aspirant à étendre les connaissances acquises à la lecture des 250 pages précédentes se voit ainsi gratifié du fruit auquel est parvenu l’auteur au terme de nombreuses années de recherche et d’enseignement.

4 Ces quelques remarques pourraient laisser à penser que ce livre, dense et riche, ne s’adresse qu’aux spécialistes du bouddhisme et exige des efforts par trop soutenus. Mais le talent pédagogique et d’écriture dont fait preuve l’auteur est tel que le lecteur, passée une introduction condensant les thèmes développés dans les chapitres à venir qui le propulse dans un univers complexe, prend plaisir à découvrir l’histoire de ces religieux paysans du fin fond du Népal et rit même parfois en imaginant l’ethnologue gentiment moqué pour ses questions décalées et lui-même immergé dans des rituels alcoolisés en technicolor. Une grande exigence intellectuelle transparaît, certes, de chaque phrase, mais il s’agit en réalité d’une difficulté avantageusement compensée par un voyage à finalement peu de frais (pour le lecteur) à l’autre bout du monde. La multiplication des références sert en fait un véritable but pédagogique, et les lecteurs de cet ouvrage gagneront à user de lui comme d’un point de départ pour l’approfondissement d’autres thèmes connexes.

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5 L’introduction nous plonge d’emblée dans l’aporie du bouddhisme tantrique et de la violence rituelle en citant tour à tour le Dhammapada (« S’abstenir de faire le mal, cultiver le bien, purifier son esprit, voici l’Enseignement des bouddhas ») et l’un des textes utilisés par les tantristes de Ch’ongkor (« Les Trois Joyaux, […] soyez témoins ! […] Tranchez promptement la vie de l’ennemi ! Sucez le sang du cœur de l’ennemi ! […] »). Cette entrée en matière s’ensuit d’une définition du bouddhisme tantrique et de ce que l’auteur appelle des « tantristes ». Il présente ensuite son approche générale qui vise principalement à intégrer la dimension religieuse à son analyse ethnologique. Il se distingue ainsi de Charles Ramble, un autre ethnologue ayant travaillé sur une communauté de tantristes vivant à quelques dizaines de kilomètres de celle de Ch’ongkor, qui a lui approché son sujet depuis la perspective des questions d’organisation sociale et socioénomiques, et qui continue depuis plusieurs décennies à explorer l’univers social et rituel bönpo du Baragaon.

6 L’ouvrage est scindé en deux grandes sections. La première, « Les descendants de Maître Tsapgyepa. Une communauté de prêtres tantriques dans l’Himalaya », est subdvisisée en deux chapitres. Elle offre une présentation complète de Ch’ongkor, d’un point de vue géographique, historique et, surtout, ethnologique. Dans cette section, l’auteur nous familiarise avec la vie d’un village de religieux du Baragaon dont il présente en détail l’organisation sociale ainsi que les échanges entretenus avec le monde alentour, principalement les réseaux de monastères et de patrons locaux. La seconde section, « Un ordre religieux local : pouvoir rituel, violence et péché » fait l’objet de trois chapitres et aborde plus spécifiquement l’analyse de la sphère religieuse, notamment rituelle, de cette communauté. L’auteur y analyse les processus de formation et d’acquisition de légitimité rituelle des tantristes (chap. 3), puis le champ rituel à proprement parler, à travers sa structure, ses grandes catégories et des exemples de rituels marquants (chap. 4), avant de conclure sur la dimension qui est au cœur de cette étude, la place ambiguë de l’activité rituelle violente (chap. 5). En somme, comme l’indique l’auteur, « cette étude est structurée par une progression des cadres d’analyse allant du général au particulier, progression ponctuée par une synthèse, et en conclusion, par une ouverture sur des questions générales d’anthropologie des spécialistes religieux » (p. 25).

7 On remarquera que la citation ouvrant la conclusion et traitant de la dualité du moine et du tantriste, tirée du Pema Katang — un enseignement attribué à Padmasambhava qui fut révélé au XIVe siècle par Urgyen Lingpa — était celle qui, dans la thèse, marquait le début de l’introduction. Ainsi, parvenu à cette conclusion et riche du savoir conquis à la lecture des 262 pages précédentes, le sens de cette citation prend toute sa profondeur. On peut alors revenir à l’introduction, pour se rendre compte que la boucle est effectivement bouclée, et que l’auteur est parvenu à nous transporter au Baragaon. Il nous a fourni les clés pour comprendre cette communauté et, plus largement, les problématiques associées à la violence rituelle et à la dualité entre moines et religieux- maîtres de maison.

8 La seule réserve que je pourrais émettre — puisque c’est la tradition dans ce genre d’exercice — a trait au traitement proprement tibétologique de la transmission dont ont hérité les Ch’ongkoras au XVIIe siècle, celle de Mañjuśrī Yamāntaka, évacuée en une note de bas de page (pp. 73-74). L’auteur y admet qu’il n’a « pu trouver d’éléments permettant d’ de façon probante les cycles rituels centraux de la tradition de Ch’ongkor », citant les efforts comparatifs vains qu’il a entrepris avec l’aide de

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plusieurs tibétologues. Il est probable que des recherches plus poussées auraient permis d’élucider l’origine et les développements de cette tradition dans l’ordre . Cette lacune est cependant admise par l’auteur, qui d’ailleurs s’en justifie : « par souci de cohérence ethnographique, la riche littérature savante tibétaine relative aux thèmes abordés ici n’est que peu mentionnée ; priorité est donnée aux sources locales, et à ce qu’elles représentent pour ceux qui détiennent et transmettent ces textes. Ce serait m’essayer au travail d’un autre, mais surtout affaiblir la portée, la rigueur et l’originalité de l’approche véritablement ethnographique du présent travail que de diluer l’attention portée aux sources locales par l’introduction substantielle de données savantes issues d’autres, lointains horizons tibétains » (p. 20). Il faut bien convenir que si le tibétologue sera un peu frustré de n’avoir plus de détails sur l’origine de cette transmission, sa frustration sera largement compensée par la richesse ethnographique et théorique du travail considérable fourni avec intelligence, générosité et simplicité par Nicolas Sihlé.

9 Enfin, si regret il devait y avoir de la part de l’éditeur — mais qui n’en est pas un pour la présente lectrice tant la lecture est agréable et l’écriture assurée —, il porterait sur la langue de composition de l’ouvrage, le français, qui le rend de facto d’un abord difficile pour un lectorat exclusivement anglophone. Bien que Nicolas Silhé soit l’auteur de plusieurs articles en anglais sur des thèmes connexes à ceux abordés dans cet ouvrage, on ne peut qu’appeler de nos vœux à la traduction de celui-ci car il s’agit là d’une contribution magistrale et indispensable à l’anthropologie du bouddhisme tibétain.

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Bellezza John Vincent, Death and Beyond in Ancient Tibet. Archaic Concepts and Practices in a Thousand- Year-Old Illuminated Funerary Manuscript and Old Tibetan Funerary Documents of Gathang Bumpa and Dunhuang Beiträge zur Kultur- und Geistesgeschichte Asiens Nr. 77, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse, Denkschriften, 454. Band, Vienna (Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften), 2013. ix + 293 p., ISBN 978-3-7001-7433-2

Per Kværne

RÉFÉRENCE

Bellezza John Vincent, Death and Beyond in Ancient Tibet. Archaic Concepts and Practices in a Thousand-Year-Old Illuminated Funerary Manuscript and Old Tibetan Funerary Documents of Gathang Bumpa and Dunhuang, Beiträge zur Kultur- und Geistesgeschichte Asiens Nr. 77, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse, Denkschriften, 454. Band, Vienna (Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften), 2013

1 As indicated by the title, Death and the Beyond has an overarching theme (“the eschatological patterns and ritual constructs of death rites in ancient Tibet”, p. 5), but

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falls into three distinct parts, defined by the three categories of documents studied by the author. Briefly stated, the documents are :

2 1. A manuscript, probably originally a scroll, consisting of illustrated sections, now only partially preserved, dated by Bellezza (p. 15) to the eleventh or the first half of the twelfth century A. D. The manuscript is in a private collection in New York.

3 2. Two manuscripts deposited in the dGa’-thang Bum-pa (stūpa) and discovered, along with other manuscripts, in 2006 and published in Lhasa the following year. The manuscripts are preserved in Lhasa.

4 3. Three manuscripts originating from Dunhuang, PT 1134 and PT 1194, preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale (Paris), and ITJ 731r, preserved in the British Library (London).

5 This review will only deal with the first of the above manuscripts. While in no way underestimating the importance of the other documents, the first would seem to be unique in terms of contents and, especially, its iconographic images. Moreover, Bellezza is the first scholar to study this document, thus adding to the importance of the first part of his book. It should be mentioned, however, that earlier in the same year that his work was published (2013), images of the entire manuscript were published in Deborah Klimburg-Salter, Linda Lojda & Charles Ramble (eds.), Bön. Geister aus Butter. Kunst und Ritual des alten Tibet (Vienna, Museum für Völkerkunde), 2013, pp. 38-45.

6 The present volume should be studied in relation to the overall research project of the author, especially Zhang Zhung : Foundations of Civilization in Tibet. A Historical and Ethnoarchaeological Study of the Monuments, Rock Art, Texts and Oral Tradition of the Ancient Tibetan Upland (Vienna, Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften), 2008, a work to which Bellezza often refers. The present review will, however, strictly limit itself to the study of the illustrated manuscript in question. A general discussion of the manuscript will be followed by comments regarding a few matters of detail.

7 The manuscript consists of forty sections (sometimes referred by Bellezza as ’frames’), each section showing either one or several deities in human form, one or several animals or birds, or various ritual structures, and accompanied by a short text related to the image and generally having the form of an invocation or prayer. Unfortunately the manuscript is not complete, but must originally have consisted of 104 sections. Bellezza has made a credible attempt at reconstituting the original order of the sections, which are presented and discussed one by one in that order. The work edited by Klimburg-Salter et al. referred to above has the advantage of showing on a single page (p. 39) the original order of the sections, clearly indicating which ones are missing. It would have been helpful if this page had been included in Bellezza’s work as well.

8 Thirteen sections are unattached to other sections ; ten form five pairs ; twelve form strips of three. Pairs and strips form integral units. It is possible to organize the sections in vertical sequences of four (including missing sections) ; moreover, since the bottom section (in those cases where the bottom section is actually preserved) of each sequence has a numbering following the traditional Tibetan system of using the letters of the Tibetan alphabet, followed by the corresponding number written in full (e.g. nga bzhi pa, ca lnga..., cha drug pa etc.), the correct order of the sequences can be established. Moreover, since each section is doubled by an image on the reverse, the sequences of

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four and the sections constituting them may be referred to as recto and verso, as the case may be.

9 This leads us to the question of the original physical form of the manuscript. To my mind it is reasonably clear that it originally consisted of a certain number of rectangular folios of the usual Tibetan type, each folio having four sections on either side. This assumption is strengthened by the presence of fine red circles often found in early examples of such manuscripts, a reminiscence of the Indian pothī prototype which later disappeared in Tibet. Small perforations in these circles may possibly indicate that the folios were originally held together by a metal pin (p. 28). Be this as it may, it is obvious that the folios were intended to be read vertically, and not horizontally, as is normally the case. I doubt whether the manuscript, or parts of it, were ’concertinaed’, as Bellezza suggests (p. 6).

10 Thanks to a chronometric analysis carried out on a fragment of the manuscript, it can be dated to the “11th or first half of the 12th century C.E.” (p. 15). “As the provenance of the text remains unknown” (p. 21), Bellezza guardedly concludes, with regard to the style of its illustrations that, “the historical and geographic source of this art will remain an open question” (p. 21).

11 The contents of the manuscript are related to two rituals : a ritual of conducting the consciousness principle (bla) of a dead person to a post mortem land of bliss, overcoming various demonic hindrances on the way (recto sections) ; and (verso sections) a ritual, designated as a ste’u ritual. Bellezza does not at the outset define ste’u (p. 18), but later he identifies it as “a ritual structure” or “a ritual assemblage” (p. 24). According to the text of one frame it is, “the receptacle or tabernacle (rten) of the deceased… The rten is also seen as a highly insulated environment that affords protection from the host of demons ever ready to attack the newly deceased” (ibid.).

12 Without entering into the details of the internal sequence and structure of the sections, which, in my opinion, Bellezza convincingly reconstructs, a feature of the manuscript, its images and texts, should be emphasized : the word bon does not appear at all, nor, for that matter, the figure of sTon-pa gShen-rab. Bellezza wisely does not refer to the manuscript as a bon text. There is no trace in it of ’Eternal Bön’ (g.yung-drung bon) nor of Buddhism (p. 17) ; and the fact that certain ideas and names of deities and spirits occur which are also known from the earlier documents found at Dunhuang, in the dGa’- thang bum-pa, and in certain texts incorporated in the Eternal Bön scriptures, does not necessarily mean that this is a bon document. We probably have to adjust our view of the period of transition in which Buddhism gradually became the dominant . Thus, Buddhism did not confront a more or less unified bon priesthood having coherent beliefs and ritual practices ; it would rather seem that Buddhism gradually imposed itself (a process which in a certain sense is still going on, with the ascendancy of Gelugpa monastic orthodoxy), and Eternal Bön simultaneously emerged against a background of Buddhism as well as diverse non-Buddhist beliefs and ritual practices. In this background bon priests were by no means the only protagonists, but it did comprise certain basic common traits throughout the Himalayan range and the Tibetan plateau. An important contribution to this understanding of the religious scene in Tibet between the 7th and, say, the 12th century A.D., is Toni Huber’s article, “The Iconography of gShen Priests in the Ethnographic Context of the Extended Eastern Himalayas, and Reflections on the Development of Bon Religion”, Franz-Karl Ehrhard and Petra Maurer (eds.), Nepalica-Tibetica. Festgabe for Christoph Cüppers, Beiträge zur

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Zentralasienforschung, Band 28, 1, Andiast (International Institute for Tibetan and Buddhist Studies), 2013, pp. 263-294.

13 In this process of re-orientation, Bellezza’s presentation and study of the illustrated manuscript is of particular importance, and will be a point of departure for much further scholarly work, perhaps, as Bellezza points out, even “a multi-generational project” (p. 254). For providing this point of departure, Bellezza deserves the gratitude of all Tibetologists interested in the study of early, non-Buddhist rituals and beliefs in Tibet. Whether his work will also have an impact on the debate — in contemporary art as well as in writing — among Tibetans themselves about what constitutes Tibetan ’identity’, remains to be seen.

14 A few details elicit comment. This should in no way be understood as criticism of Bellezza’s book, which is to be welcomed both for the material it provides and the discussion which it will hopefully inspire. Having said that, his work seems to me to exhibit an occasional tendency to speculate, e.g. “… the gods are all shown with short hair or closely shaven heads… This lack of hair may have been a symbol of hoary age, the result of the deities having long ago taken up residence in the parallel world of the dead” (p. 20, my italics). Another example is the statement that, “I am of the opinion that the term do-ma is etymologically related to another Old Tibetan word, do (island, headland), and to ma (mother or a feminizing agent). The do-ma (probably meaning literally something to the effect of ’island mother’) is the refuge or vessel in the postmortem sea” (p. 31, n. 48, my italics).

15 The translation of certain passages, words, and expressions in the text will no doubt be subject to modification and improvement as research — whether undertaken by Bellezza or others — continues. Here I shall only point out an instance of a translation that perhaps could be improved : on p. 42, sman mgon rgyal po bsrid is translated “there existed (my italics)… the sman defender, this king”. The verb srid, however, has the primary sense, “to procreate, create (transitive)”, as well as “be created, be born, appear (intransitive)”, the latter surely being the meaning here. This sense of srid has been amply demonstrated by R. A. Stein in his article, “Un ensemble sémantique tibétain : créer et procréer, être et devenir, vivre, nourrir et guérir”, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 36, 2, 1973, pp. 412-423, which, somewhat surprisingly, is absent from Bellezza’s Bibliography.

16 While Bellezza generally appears to me to be careful not to connect bits of information gleaned from texts from different periods without taking due precaution, he slips when he claims that, “An excellent description of Lha-yul gung-thang is found in the famous Eternal Bon guide to Mount Tise, Ti-se’i dkar-chag” (p. 44, n. 65). The work in question, the Tibetan text of which was published in 1989 by Namkhai Norbu and Ramon Prats (Gaṅs Ti se’i dkar c’ag, Serie Orientale Roma, 61, Rome-IsMEO), is not an ancient source, but dates from 1844, the author being dKar-ru grub-dbang bsTan-’dzin Rin-chen rGyal- mtshan (b. 1801) ; the author was not primarily a scholar, but rather a visionary and a mystic, as has been shown by Charles Ramble, “A Nineteenth-Century Bonpo Pilgrim in Western Tibet and Nepal : episodes from the Life of dKar ru grub dbang bsTan ’dzin rin chen”, Revue d’Études Tibétaines, 15, 2, 2008, pp. 481-501. So no matter how elaborate this particular description of Lha-yul gung-thang, the celestial realm of the gods, may be, it is not “an excellent source”, but on the contrary a singularly unreliable source for the understanding of more ancient beliefs.

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Buffetrille Katia (ed.), Revisiting Rituals in a Changing Tibetan World Leiden, Brill, 2012, vii-386 p., ISBN 978 90 04 23217 4

Nicolas Sihlé

RÉFÉRENCE

Buffetrille Katia (ed.), Revisiting Rituals in a Changing Tibetan World, Leiden, Brill, 2012

1 Revisiting Rituals in a Changing Tibetan World is a very welcome, carefully produced addition to Brill’s by now well-known “Tibetan library” series. It contains the proceedings of a conference on the contemporary transformation of rituals in the Tibetan cultural area, held at the Collège de France in November 2007. The volume is thematically focused, but not rigidly so, allowing for explorations of neighbouring domains, such as Buddhist contexts marked by the influence of Tibetan Buddhism, or topics going somewhat beyond a central focus on ritual per se. One might have imagined a more thematic organisation of chapters, focusing for instance on issues of change and innovation in religious rituals (Barnett, Buffetrille, Even, Helffer, von Rospatt), similar issues with regard to rites of passage and other social or socio-political rituals (Dodin, Jagou, Schneider), and questions of ritualization (Diemberger, Pirie). The somewhat simpler and more straightforward structure chosen by editor K. Buffetrille seems to be rather geographically inspired, moving from Tibetan locations within the confines of the present-day People’s Republic of China to Himalayan and/or exile contexts, and finally to cases in which the Tibetan component is less dominant, as the focus shifts to neighbouring cultural contexts (Newar or Mongolian), in which the influence of Tibetan Buddhism and its clergy is only one of the factors of religious change. Finally, a chapter by R. Barnett, which brings us back to Tibetan contexts, is with its 102 pages almost a small book-length study in itself, and is placed at the end of the volume.

2 The short introduction (Chapter 1) by the editor provides some historical context for the inclusion of less Tibet-centred materials, in the form of a reminder of the close

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historical relationships, in particular in the religious sphere, between Tibet and its Nepalese and Mongolian neighbours. It then concludes with a summary of each of the volume’s contributions. As in many volumes of conference proceedings, there is no attempt here to draw links a posteriori between the papers — which in effect are rather diverse in topic and orientation. This being so, the present review will have to limit itself to outlining each individual chapter very briefly (in effect, much of their merits will have to go unaddressed, for lack of space), and to offering only a few comments.

3 Chapter 2, “Holy Books as Ritual Objects and Vessels of Teachings in the Era of the Further Spread of the Doctrine”, by H. Diemberger, gathers a variety of observations on holy books and their place in Tibetan religiosity, far beyond the contemporary period alone (and at some remove from the theme of ritual per se). This chapter is one of the very few that adopts an explicit analytical perspective. Following Gell’s work on the agency of artworks (and other objects), the author suggests that we may consider Tibetan religious books as endowed with agency “in an indirect sense”, as “‘extensions’ of persons as part of their ‘distributed personhood’” (p. 11). The author provides a whole range of semantic and cultural data, showing that books can be interpreted as sometimes being treated like high-status persons — an intriguing analytical suggestion indeed. In one of the later sections, the author suggests that “books seem to deploy the power to mobilise the people around them, and get people to relate to one another and build networks to rescue, preserve, re-discover and also assess” the surviving books (p. 24). In this particular case, one may wonder whether there is any clear empirical justification or analytical gain in switching from a vocabulary of collective values and human actors rallying in defence of the Buddhist dharma to a vocabulary of the agency of books. The author’s general, stimulating suggestion however definitely merits our attention and further examination.

4 In the next chapter, “The Use of the Ritual Drawing of Lots for the Selection of the 11th Panchen Lama”, F. Jagou examines the procedure of “drawing lots from the ”, which was instituted in 1792 by the Qing court for the recognition of high reincarnate Buddhist masters in Tibet, including in particular the Dalai Lamas and Panchen Lamas. The analysis demonstrates the court’s concerns about fighting corruption and nepotism in such matters, both in Mongolia and in Tibet. The author then examines the way in which this procedure has come to be invoked by PRC state authorities at the time of the disputed recognition of the 11th Panchen Lama in 1995. PRC state authorities’ claims to an historical precedent in this matter are examined primarily from the perspective of, one could say, jurisprudence, by considering elements of continuity as well as departures from traditional politico-religious patterns. The author refrains from providing an explicit conclusion, but the analysis points clearly enough to a lack of legitimacy of the PRC authorities’ claims in this matter, given the massive political reordering since the Qing era. Beyond this critical scrutiny of the PRC’s official justifications, a few words address what could be said, in effect, to underlie the claims of the PRC state, namely the political instrumentalisation of a politico-religious ritual from a past era (a mode of analysis adopted more centrally by Sperling 2012).1

5 T. Dodin’s chapter, “Transformed Rituals ? Some Reflections on the Paradigm of the Transformation of Rituals in the Tibetan Context”, is a careful, sustained, and on the whole convincingly argued critique of the notion that we have seen in certain political or politico-religious events in Tibet over recent decades, a “transformation” of

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religious rituals into political ones. Dodin refers here to Schwartz’s 1994 book Circles [sic, for Circle] of Protest, in which the author argues that the momentous 1987 demonstrations in Lhasa, in which groups of demonstrators repeatedly (although not exclusively) walked around the Barkor (a circular route surrounding the Jokhang chapel, the sacred heart of Tibetan Buddhism), were a transformation of religious circumambulations. More recent public events with a strong political significance are also discussed by Dodin, who concludes that none of them qualify as “transformations” of religious rituals. It is not clear, however, whether anyone has actually made that claim and whether the term “paradigm” in the chapter’s title might perhaps be regarded as slightly too strong.

6 In Chapter 5, “Legal Dramas on the Amdo Grasslands : Abolition, Transformation or Survival ?”, F. Pirie examines both traditional and more modern forms of mediation processes in feuds among pastoralists in Tibet’s north-eastern province, Amdo. Starting from relatively standard working definitions of “secular ritual”, Pirie offers a sophisticated, rigorous examination of the extent to which the notion of “ritual” might be considered to apply to these mediation procedures, resulting in the conclusion that there is actually little reason to do so. The author notes that “weakly-ritualised ‘performances’” (p. 93) might be more accurate. In effect, the discussion could perhaps have escaped its slightly unhelpful binary character — ”ritual” or not “ritual” — by shifting the vocabulary to that of ritualisation. However, even within that more rigid framework, Pirie’s discussion is still nuanced. Examples and insights from legal or ritual anthropology, based on work carried out in other cultural contexts, are also brought in to suggest contrasts, in order to construct the argument ; the result proves sound and convincing.

7 N. Schneider’s chapter, “The Ordination of Dge slong ma : a Challenge to Ritual Prescriptions ?”, provides a narrative account of the recent debates, primarily within the Tibetan high clergy in exile, surrounding the issue of introducing full monastic ordination for women in Tibetan Buddhism, and of the obstacles that have prevented these debates from moving ahead, or even taking place at all. It summarises the arguments of both proponents and opponents of the project. What also clearly emerges is the politics of the debate. The Dalai Lama and a few other prominent figures have expressed support, but the required quorum for tackling the difficult question amounting to a possible transformation of the tradition has never been reached, as many members of the high clergy make the strategic choice of not responding. The most active driving force behind the debate seems to be Western feminist practitioners ; nuns in Tibet itself seem to not even discuss the issue (p. 118), and the author herself adopts a very neutral voice in this regard.

8 In Chapter 7, “Preservation and Transformations of Liturgical Traditions in Exile : the Case of Zhe chen Monastery in Bodnath (Nepal)”, M. Helffer summarizes the establishment of new Tibetan monastic institutions in exile (focusing on the Zhechen nyingmapa monastery), the efforts made to preserve the continuity of ritual traditions, and the content of Zhechen’s annual ritual cycle. Some recent changes or innovations are noted, in particular the development of the performance of certain ritual dances in non-religious contexts, especially for Western audiences. The author identifies a variety of forces at play in these situations : figures of religious authority (e.g. Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche), whose presence is marked by a cyclical character as they appear through a principle of succession by reincarnation ; powerful patrons, such as the

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Bhutanese royal family ; influential cultural brokers like the French monk Matthieu Ricard ; economic needs (with world tours as a means of securing income for the monastery) ; and global forces, such as the benefits to be obtained through the inclusion of the monastery’s masked dances on UNESCO’s Intangible Heritage list.

9 K. Buffetrille’s chapter, “Low Tricks and High Stakes Surrounding a Holy Place in Eastern Nepal : the Halesi-Māratika Caves”, analyses recent developments at a disputed, multi-ethnic Hindu-Buddhist sacred site in Nepal. The fascinating politics that have played out here (and that the author analyses basing herself on rich data gathered over a period of fifteen years) are at the centre of the chapter. These politics are both very local and a reflection of larger forces : development plans of the Nepalese state, ethnic revival in Nepal (with substantial Sherpa involvement), Maoist interference during the People’s War, but also the current vitality of Tibetan Buddhism, with its post-exile search for new holy places that borders on colonisation (p. 199). The part of the chapter devoted more specifically to collective rituals carried out at this sacred site (pp. 192-194) provides also a brief tantalizing insight into the participation of this place and of its caretakers in a larger, recent movement which has seen major Tibetan religious gatherings being held, in particular at special holy sites, for reasons, such as “world peace”, that sometimes show a clear modern Western influence. (This development has started to be mentioned in a variety of works and would greatly deserve sustained ethnographic, comparative and theoretical attention.)

10 With A. von Rospatt’s chapter, “Past Continuity and Recent Changes in the Ritual Practice of Newar Buddhism : Reflections on the Impact of Tibetan Buddhism and the Advent of Modernity”, we move to the first of two contributions that examine changes in neighbouring, related cultural contexts. This chapter provides a timely, highly synthetic (and, to this reader, very welcome) overview of four major areas of recent change in Newar Buddhism, in a context of strong pressures deriving from a variety of factors : a small but very critical modernist Theravāda movement, the increasing presence (if not encroachment on sacred sites) of prestigious Tibetan Buddhist institutions and clergy, the development of secular education, and economic difficulties, in particular following changes in land tenure. These four major areas of religious change are : (i) the relaxing of restrictions (based on caste or gender) governing access to certain forms of practice or initiation, (ii) new emphasis on paying proper attention to the meaning of the Sanskrit ritual texts or of the ritual procedures in themselves, (iii) the standardisation of ritual practice (among others through newly established teaching programs, about which interesting empirical data is provided in the appendix), and (iv) the deliberate development of certain forms of ritual practice in a conscious attempt to strengthen Newar Buddhism. The concluding remark on the contrast with Tibetan Buddhism, in which non-Tibetan practitioners “help perpetuate the tradition” (p. 234), perhaps would need to be nuanced ; as von Rospatt rightly observes, contact with non-Tibetan followers has helped to attract substantial patronage, but non-Tibetan practitioners’ religious lives remain to some extent sociologically segregated from those of common Tibetan practitioners, and the “tradition” they contribute to fostering has distinctively modern traits. This is only a minor quibble ; the chapter is a highly interesting examination of the local religious context of what, ironically, has become one of the most iconic locations of contemporary Tibetan Buddhism — the Kathmandu valley.

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11 In Chapter 10, “Ritual Efficacy or Spiritual Quest ? Buddhism and Modernity in Post- Communist Mongolia”, M.-D. Even presents a tripartite historical summary of the developments that have led to the present-day situation of , from the early twentieth-century revolutionary period to the religious revival of the post-communist transition years and to the present. The author argues that the communist years have not destroyed Mongolian Buddhism and the Mongols’ attachment to it, but that they have definitely weakened them. The examination of the contemporary situation focuses on the reformist, modernist forms of Buddhism that have been established in Mongolia in large part by transnational organisations such as the Foundation for the Preservation of the Mahāyāna Tradition, and which stand in stark contrast to the ritual-centred Buddhism practised by most Mongols. The title of the chapter highlights this tension, which Elverskog, drawing on studies of the forms Buddhism has taken in the West, has discussed under the designation “two Buddhisms”. The discussion here focuses on the views of Westerners (e.g., p. 267 : “Western Buddhists appear to be dismayed by the practice of the locals”) ; it would have been interesting to procure a sense of how this tension is perceived by Mongols themselves, who, somewhat paradoxically, occupy a rather minor place in this last section of the chapter.

12 The last chapter, modestly entitled “Notes on Contemporary Ransom Rituals in Lhasa”, by R. Barnett, amounts to more than a fourth of the entire volume. Here the author, a noted specialist of Tibetan politics and cinema, explores a well-known class of Tibetan rituals, lütor or lü (Tibetan glud-gtor, glud), or “ransom” rituals, from an original perspective : the presence in modern cityscapes, like that of Lhasa, of the ritual devices that are cast out at the close of the ritual, generally at crossroads. Directing more substantially our attention to rituals carried out in urban Tibetan contexts is highly overdue, and Barnett’s initiative is welcome indeed ; however, the author’s remark about “the traditions of village ethnography, with their implied perception of the rural as backward and preserved” (p. 316), appears as somewhat facile and out of touch with contemporary ethnography in rural contexts. It should also be noted that what is proposed here in exchange is not urban ethnography, but rather a composite whole made up of chance observations of ritual remains on Lhasa streets, photographic documentation, comments by informants and colleagues, and, most substantially, wide- ranging readings on lütor and similar rituals. Casting thus his net very widely enables the author to compose first a picture of the lütor rituals’ possible origins and typical content. Adopting a more interpretive mode, the chapter addresses issues of representation (arguing that we have in the fashioning of effigies, thread-crosses and other implements a form of “art”) and questions regarding interactions with invisible forces (maybe going somewhat too far when suggesting that this ritual necessitates an “understanding of the alien’s psychology”, p. 353). It finally offers a discussion on how the ritual remains at Lhasa’s crossroads might be read, whether as a critique of modern culture, following Walter Benjamin and a suggestion by Ronald Schwartz (p. 350), or along the lines of an “ethnography of resistance”, following for instance Scott (p. 352) : here the author insists on “parallels” and the potential for “slippage” (pp. 352, 354, 355) between the more common private lütor exorcisms and collective, more political, similar ritual forms. Barnett’s points are often relevant and stimulating, but in this last section his analysis occasionally manifests some slippage itself, shifting towards a more political agenda, like when we read that the “underlying thesis of the [lütor ritual in general] is that subalterns can briefly assert themselves against foreign domination and

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intrusion (…). At times, with skill, the subject will engross the power-holders with that which they most urgently desire, usually professions of loyalty” (p. 354). Other quibbles could be voiced, such as where the text presents lü practices as carried out “by members of some Buddhist monasteries, or very often by practitioners and specialists in Bon communities” (p. 276, emphases added) — a contrast that reflects perhaps traditional Tibetan ideas about Bön more than a careful ethnographic assessment ? Nevertheless, though this contribution is maybe somewhat long-winded, the elements brought together here constitute an at times very engaging fresco of this sector of Tibetan ritual culture.

13 Although one may close the book with a sense of regret for its lack of greater thematic focus and integration, one must acknowledge the generous gift of riches and stimulation that we find here. This volume is an important addition to any serious library collection on Tibetan religion.

NOTES

1. Sperling, E. 2012 Reincarnation and the Golden Urn in the 19th Century : The Recognition of the 8th Panchen Lama”, in H. Blezer et al. (ed.), Studies on the History and Literature of Tibet and the Himalaya (Kathmandu, Vajra Publications), pp. 97-107.

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Lang Maria-Katharina, Bauer Stefan (eds.), The Mongolian Collections. Retracing Hans Leder Vienne (Autriche), Austrian Academy of Sciences, 2013. ISBN : 978-3-7001-7520-9

Isabelle Charleux

RÉFÉRENCE

Lang Maria-Katharina, Bauer Stefan (eds.), The Mongolian Collections. Retracing Hans Leder, Vienne (Autriche), Austrian Academy of Sciences, 2013

1 Cet ouvrage présente la collection d’objets bouddhiques mongols rassemblée par Hans Leder (1843-1921), chercheur et explorateur autrichien. Il conclut un projet international rassemblant musées européens et Université nationale de Mongolie, supporté par le programme forMuse – research at museums/BMWF qu’a dirigé Maria- Katharina Lang. Un des aboutissements de ce projet est un site internet sur l’ensemble de la collection (en construction : http://www.moncol.net). Lang a précédemment publié un petit ouvrage en allemand1 sur cette collection, et en a également fait l’objet de sa thèse.

2 Dans le premier article (« The collector and the collections »), Lang retrace l’histoire de la collection Leder. Composée de quelques 4 500 pièces, c’est sans doute la plus importante collection d’objets religieux mongols en Europe, mais elle est dispersée entre huit musées ethnographiques européens : le Weltmuseum Wien, le Linden- Museum de Stuttgart (Staatliches Museum für Völkerkunde)2, le Grassi Museum für Völkerkunde de Leipzig, le Völkerkundemuseum der J. & E. von Portheim-Stiftung de Heidelberg, le musée Náprstek de Prague (la collection praguoise a été en grande partie détruite en 1945), le musée Néprajzi Múzeum de Budapest, le Museum für Völkerkunde de Hambourg et le Ethnologisches Museum de Berlin.

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3 Lors de son premier voyage en 1892, Leder partit comme entomologiste ; son intérêt se porta progressivement sur l’ethnographie religieuse mongole et il entreprit trois autres longs voyages dans la Mongolie de l’empire mandchou (1899-1900, 1902, 1904-1905). Il visita Ih Hüree (Ourga, sur le site de l’actuelle Ulaanbaatar), Erdene zuu, Kharabalgasun, Zayayn hüree, Lamyn gegen hüree, ainsi que de nombreux autres monastères et sites. Le tchèque Jisl Lumír (1921-1969) partit sur ses traces en 1963. À son tour, entre 1996 et 2012, Lang tenta de retrouver les sites que Leder avait visités afin de les confronter avec les descriptions dans ses écrits, et enregistra des interviews sur l’histoire et la provenance des différents types d’objets afin de mieux comprendre le processus de collection.

4 Leder avait peu de moyens financiers ; il était chargé de collectionner pour les musées européens (notamment le Linden Museum de Stuttgart) qui ne tenaient pas toujours leurs engagements et ne payaient par les sommes convenues. Il se contenta parfois de ramasser les tsha tsha (mong. cac, plaques votives moulées en terre) et les drapeaux de prières directement sur les et sur les autels, comme il l’a noté dans ses carnets. Voyageant accompagné de moines, il acquit au cours de ses expéditions une bonne connaissance de la culture matérielle religieuse mongole, ainsi que des langues russe et mongol. Il rédigea plusieurs articles documentant ses expéditions, ainsi qu’un livre non publié sur les croyances des Mongols : Das geheimnisvolle Tibet, 1909. Leder fut ainsi un témoin privilégié de son époque ; il rencontra en Mongolie le philologue finnois Gustaf J. Ramstedt (1873-1950) ; le lama bouriate Avgan Dorjiev (1854-1938), et assista à la venue du treizième dalaï-lama en Mongolie. A son retour, se trouvant dans une situation financière désespérée, il vendit ses collections, souvent à bas prix.

5 Les pièces collectées représentent un instantané de la culture religieuse quotidienne des Mongols qui a presque complètement disparu dans la Mongolie communiste lors des persécutions religieuses de la fin des années 1930s (depuis les années 1990, ces objets qui ont pour la plupart perdu leur fonction sont vendus chez les antiquaires mongols et sur e-bay à des prix qui ne font que croître) : thang ka ; thang ka miniatures et tsa ka li (mong. zagal zurag) ; tsha tsha ; ga’u (mong. guu, boîte à amulettes contenant des tsha tsha et/ou différents types d’amulettes) ; objets rituels (rosaires, moulins à prières, stūpa miniatures, hadag) ; drapeaux de prière et amulettes imprimés ; statuettes représentant les danseurs du rituel masqué cam ; manuscrits et livres imprimés.

6 L’ouvrage rassemble treize articles portant sur la collection, le bouddhisme dans la Mongolie contemporaine (« Mongolian Buddhism : identity, practice and politics ») par Lhagvademchig Jadamba Shastri, article général qui ne cite pas la littérature académique sur le renouveau du bouddhisme mongol depuis 1990), et sur des catégories d’objets et des divinités spécifiques. La culture matérielle bouddhique est ici étudiée essentiellement par des tibétologues et mongolisants, avec une attention particulière accordée aux inscriptions, aux fonctions et usages (des amulettes, des divinités représentées sur des peintures miniatures), et au rituel de consécration.

7 L’article d’Olaf Czaja (« Tsakli, thangkas, prints, amulets and manuscripts ») étudie notamment l’iconographie du bouddhisme populaire, la fréquence ou l’absence de certaines divinités et les inscriptions tibétaines des thang ka et tsa ka li (ceux-ci sont souvent difficiles à distinguer voire utilisés l’un pour l’autre — les premiers sont conservées dans des boîtes à amulettes et des cadres, placés sur les autels domestiques ou portés sur soi ; les seconds sont des cartes d’initiation, allant souvent en séries, utilisées pour la divination, les initiations, la méditation et certains rituels. Czaja

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remarque des incohérences (mantra ne correspondant pas à la divinité représentée par exemple) et note les qualités différentes et les différents types d’images — images imprimées et colorées par la suite, peintures prenant modèle sur les images imprimées —, les assemblages de divinités et leur arrangement sur l’autel (voir également l’étude de Stevan Davis sur un corpus de 5 120 peintures miniatures3). Il donne des informations assez générales sur certaines pratiques et raisons de vénérer ces images, sans toutefois préciser ses sources sur cet objet d’étude encore mal connu (ainsi, il semblerait que l’auteur extrapole à la Mongolie des pratiques courantes au Tibet, voir page 42 notamment).

8 Ágnes Birtalan signe deux articles sur deux types de divinités populaires largement représentées dans la collection : le Vieillard Blanc et les dieux guerriers. Fondant son étude sur la comparaison entre représentations visuelles et textes rituels (prières, offrandes d’encens, invocations), elle montre l’extrême complexité de ces figures composites, nées d’un fonds commun à l’Asie Intérieure, sur lesquelles se sont greffés traits chinois, tibétains, mongols et centrasiatiques à des époques variées, rendant leur interprétation extrêmement délicate. Ainsi, si l’iconographie du Vieillard Blanc est clairement empruntée à l’Asie orientale, en particulier à la Chine (Shouxing/Shoulao, mais aussi les arhat et Laozi), les textes de prières à cette divinité reflètent quant à eux un fond centrasiatique. Centrant son étude sur le Vieillard Blanc mongol, elle suggère que c’est le Tibet qui a emprunté cette figure à la Mongolie, thèse qui ne semble pas solidement fondée (« Cagān Öwgön – The White Old Man in the Leder collections »). Les emprunts d’attributs et de traits iconographiques (dont le sens est réinterprété) forment ainsi des couches superposées de croyances en cette figure que les Bouriates assimilèrent à Saint-Nicolas.

9 Dans son deuxième article, Birtalan étudie les divinités guerrières équestres, certaines, indifférenciées, incarnant la notion abstraite de süld, d’autres étant des groupes de divinités centro-asiatico-tibétaines comme les govijn lha, dalha/dajčing tenger/dajsun tenger, Geser, Cambagarav, ou encore des divinités locales (Dajan Deereh) ou d’origine chinoise (Guanyu) (« Equestrian warrior deities in the Leder collection »). Elle examine les différences entre l’équipement du guerrier et de son cheval sur les peintures de la collection Leder et chez les Mongols médiévaux et modernes, les Chinois et les Tibétains.

10 Béla Kelényi s’intéresse aux cinq divinités protectrices personnelles (govijn lha/goba-jin lha), dont le culte en Mongolie a pris une importance particulière par rapport au Tibet (« The depiction of the five personal protective deities in the Leder collection »). Couramment représentées en Mongolie, ces divinités ont encore été peu étudiées. Kelényi se penche sur l’iconographie des thang ka de la collection Leder ainsi que sur les inscriptions et traduit un sādhana tibétain écrit en 1817. Dans deux autres articles (« Types of votive plaques [tshatsha] in the Leder collection » et « A Maitreya [tsha tsha] in the Leder collection »), Kelényi étudie les plaques votives qui nous renseignent sur les spécificités du panthéon bouddhique populaire des Halh au début du XXe siècle (notamment les associations de plusieurs divinités sur un même tsha tsha), et leurs nombreuses utilisations.

11 Dans un autre article, Lang s’intéresse aux statuettes en bois représentant des personnages de cam (65 dans la collection Leder — des figurines semblables se trouvent dans les musées de Saint-Pétersbourg), commanditées par le collectionneur à un lama artisan mongol (« The Tsam figures in Leder’s collection »). Ce type d’objet qui n’existe

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pas en Mongolie même est une documentation inestimable sur le tsam d’Ih Hüree, dont la dernière représentation date de 1937. Lang identifie ces figures en se basant sur des descriptions textuelles, notamment de B. Rinchen, sur un album peint par Yadamsüren, et sur les notes (lettres, inventaire) et l’ouvrage de Leder, et s’intéresse particulièrement aux personnages propres au tsam d’Ih Hüree, telles les divinités montagnes. Dans l’article suivant, Krisztina Teleki présente le cam d’Ih Hüree à partir de différentes descriptions anciennes et l’observation du rituel recréé en 2002 (« The Khüree-Tsam and its relation with the Tsam figures of the Leder collection »).

12 Trois autres courts articles portent sur les représentations de Zanabazar dans la collection Leder (par Lang, « Various depictions of Zanabazar ») et les différents types de drapeaux de prières hijmor’ combinant des symboles d’origine tibétaine et chinoise (par Kelényi, « Different types of prayer flags in the Leder collection » et « The stronghold of good luck »).

13 Les objets de la collection Leder discutés dans les articles sont reproduits en miniature dans chaque article, et la plupart se retrouvent en plus grand format, en couleur (113 objets – 139 photographies, montrant parfois différent côtés de chaque objet), dans la deuxième partie de l’ouvrage (classés en référence à l’article correspondant), si bien que le lecteur doit effectuer un va-et-vient en lisant l’article. Les transcriptions mongoles n’ont pas été unifiées.

14 Ce volume, bien qu’il nous laisse un peu sur notre faim au regard des quelques 4 500 objets qui composent la collection, est un des rares ouvrages documentant la culture matérielle du bouddhisme mongol (complétant notamment le catalogue Demons and protectors. Folk religion in Tibetan and Mongolian Buddhism, édité par Béla Kelényi, Budapest, Ferenc Hopp Museum of Eastern Asiatic Art, 2003). On peut espérer que le site internet de la collection soit un outil pratique et bien documenté.

NOTES

1. Maria-Katharina Lang, Mongolische Ethnographica in Wien. Die Sammlung Hans Leder im Museum für Völkerkunde Wien (Vienne, Austrian Academy of Sciences Press), 2010. Un chercheur allemand, Elisabeth Harderer, a également écrit thèse portant sur plusieurs thang ka de cette collection : Elisabeth Harderer, Buddhistische Thangkamalerei in der Mongolei : Einige Rollbilder der Sammlung Leder (Université de Graz), 2003. 2. Le tibétologue allemand Siegbert Hummel a travaillé sur des objets de la collection Leder du Linden-Museum de Stuttgart et publié plusieurs articles dans la revue Tribus : Veröffentlichungen des Linden-Museums entre 1959 et 1967. 3. The Miniature Paintings of Mongolian Buddhism : Tsaklis, Thangkas and Burhany Zurags, http://asianart.com/articles/burhanyz/index.html, publié le 8 avril 2010.

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Batsaihan Oohnoin, Mongolyn süülčiin ezen haan VIII Bogd Žavzandamba. Am’dral ba domog (The Last Emperor of Mongolia Bogdo Jebtsundamba Khutukhtu. The Life and Legend) Ulaanbaatar : Admon, 2011, xx+707 p. Bibliography. Index. ISBN 978-99929-0-464-X

Isabelle Charleux et Laura Nikolov

RÉFÉRENCE

Batsaihan Oohnoin, Mongolyn süülčiin ezen haan VIII Bogd Žavzandamba. Am’dral ba domog (The Last Emperor of Mongolia Bogdo Jebtsundamba Khutukhtu. The Life and Legend), Ulaanbaatar : Admon, 2011

1 O. Batsaihan here gives a second edition of his rather provocative account of the role the Eighth Žavzandamba Hutugtu (1869/1870-1924) played in the origin, process and outcome of Mongolia’s national revolution of 1911. A first version of the book was published in 2008 under the title Mongolyn süülčiin ezen haan VIII Bogd Žavzandamba. 1911 ony ündesnii huv’sgal : sudalgaany büteel (Ulaanbaatar, Admon, ISBN 978-99929-0-464-0), and translated into English by Mounkhou Ravjaa in 2009 (O. Batsaikhan, Bogdo Jebtsundamba Khutukhtu, The Last King of Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar, Admon, ISBN 978-99929-0-768-1).

2 Compared to the first edition, the 2011 edition has 12 additional chapters and about 300 more pages. Chapters 1 to 8, 11 and 13 are updated versions of the preceding editions,

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while chapters 9 and 10, and 14 to 22 are new additions. The book must be praised for its extraordinary iconography, with 179 photos (twice the number of photos of the previous edition) relating to the life and activities of the Bogd Haan1 and the main actors of his reign (some pictures are reproduced twice, such as p. ii/282, p. 30/167, pp. 32-33/164-165). Some excellent portraits were certainly taken at a photographic studio in Hüree (Ih Hüree, or Da Hüree, known in the West as Urga, Russian transcription of örgöö, ‘palace, residence’ [of the Žavzandamba]). The only thing that is lacking is a table of illustrations with proper copyrights of the pictures, as well as a list of quoted documents. In fact, a presentation of the sources being used could explain why those produced in Bogd Haan’s circle are missing, especially as far as his dealings with the Dalai Lama at the beginning of the century are concerned. During Mongolia’s recent socialist past, the Eighth Žavzandamba Hutugtu was vehemently decried and even depicted as an arch-enemy of Mongolia’s independence. However, in a very convincing and comprehensive 707 page-long demonstration, Batsaihan shows that he was a main actor of the independence movement. Some may think that though he claims to be “as objective as possible,” Batsaihan perhaps goes too far in praising this “extraordinary leader and a father of Mongolia’s national revolution” (p. iv) ; however, his account is based on a great variety of Mongolian, Japanese, Russian, and American archival sources used for the first time in analyzing this period of modern Mongolian history : a number of decrees, “The Secret History of Bogd Žavzandamba’s Enthronement” (on this Mongolian manuscript preserved in the National Central Library, see p. 256), newspaper articles, memoirs, diaries, reports, and secret telegrams by those who took part in or witnessed those events, such as Magsar(žav) the Witty ( teacher and mentor of the Bogd Haan), Russian and Japanese diplomats and officers (Border commissar Hitrovo, Russian Consul Šišmarev, Plenipotentiaty Representative of the Russian Empire Korostovec). Batsaihan translated a number of these sources in the book. Finally, he led interviews with old renowned scholars such as O. Pürev. Thus Batsaihan does not only show the political importance of the Eighth Žavzandamba, he also sheds light on his relations with Chinese, Russian and Mongolian parties and officials (see chapters 3 and 4). What is more, his study goes beyond the Žavzandamba’s death in 1924, up to 1929, and addresses two major issues about the new Mongolian state : the first about the treasure of the Bogd Han after his death, and the second about the decision of the government not to recognize a new reincarnation.

3 The first two chapters, mostly based on Russian archives describe Mongolia’s situation before 1911, focusing on the relations between the Žavzandamba Hutugtu and the exiled Thirteenth Dalai lama, who had taken refuge in the Mongol capital in 1904-1906. It is well known that the Thirteenth Dalai lama did not get on well with the Žavzandamba Hutugtu, who was jealous of the Tibetan pontiff’s popularity, and the tensions between the two may have forced the Dalai Lama to leave the city earlier than planned. Batsaihan pointed out that this animosity was caused by the Bogd Haan’s fear of having his authority over nobles and lamas contested by the Dalai Lama, who was trying to have Mongols on his side (at that time, Tibet was caught between Chinese and British interests and so eventually looked for Russian support). He shows that the Mongolian independence movement had begun before the Dalai Lama’s arrival in Mongolia, in response to the mutual pressure on Outer Mongolia from both China and Russia. Thus, the independence movement was not encouraged by external forces such as Russian agents plotting a conspiracy, even if Russia kept a close eye on the

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development of such a movement : the origin of the 1911 movement of national independence was first and foremost a reaction against the “New Policy/ Administration” of the Qing government, that entailed attempts of colonization and assimilation of Mongolia by the settlement of Chinese farmers, troops and offices (although he does not quote Thomas E. Ewing’s work, Batsaihan arrives at the same conclusions as him) (Ewing 1978, 1980a, 1980b). Batsaihan thus highlights the role of the Žavzandamba in the organization of the movement to oppose the New Policy, starting in 1905 with secret meetings and the dispatch of a first delegation to Russia to seek assistance. The tensions between the Manchu authorities on one side and the Žavzandamba and the Mongol princes on the other about the implementation of the new Manchu policy slowly degenerated.

4 De facto, just before the fall of the Qing the Bogd Haan was already growing more and more independent. Batsaihan highlights his authority and political courage at that time. Although the Halh had stayed loyal to the Qing,2 the Žavzandamba always found pretexts not to visit the emperor in Beijing : before 1911, he was already “semi- independent in his relations with the Chinese [read : the Qing]” (p. 25). Batsaihan gives a detailed description of the events leading to the declaration of independence of 1911. Thus we learn about the dissension and contradictions inside the delegation sent to Russia, and between the delegation’s members and other Mongolian officials in Khüree (pp. 48-50). He confirms the Russians tried to use this event to reinforce their presence in Mongolia and did not want to promote an independent Mongolia. Facing the determination of the Mongols who did not want any negotiation about their independence from the Chinese, the Russian consulate gave protection to the Chinese amban in Khüree.

5 A central question of the book, which is only discussed in chapter 7 pp. 237-238, is : how could a lama of Tibetan origin win over all Halh Mongols under his banner and become emperor of Mongolia ? Although his identity remains full of inexplicable contradictions, mysterious ambivalence and disturbing ambiguity (see chapter 7), one thing is sure : the Žavzandamba was the supreme leader of the Halh, and was worshiped and respected by the princes and the whole population of Halh, as well as Buryats (who went on pilgrimages to worship him) (pp. 267-268), Inner Mongol princes and even a few Chinese, who thought to rally his government. The trust people had in the Bogd Haan was not shaken in spite of his marriage, dissolute life and drinking, and he was the one with whom noble men consulted about the future of Mongolia.3 In addition, he was considered as belonging to the Chinggisid family since he was viewed as the reincarnation of Zanabazar, himself a descendant of Chinggis Khan. He was Mongolized, erudite (unlike his predecessors, he had passed the gavj (Tib. dka’-bcu) degree, the second degree of doctrinal studies), and charismatic, while none of the four ruling princes of the Halh aimag-s (even the Tüšeet Han, who was the eldest and direct heir of Chinggis Khan) were approved unanimously (p. 252). Buddhism therefore acted as a unifying factor for the Halh.

6 Two fascinating chapters, chapters 5 and 6, describe from witnesses’ accounts the enthronement ceremony of the Bogd Haan and his queen and the new symbols of the state. In reinstating independence and enthroning the Bogd Gegeen as the theocratic ruler of a feeble state, he and the Halh nobles had to consider all concepts of Mongolian political authority. But it here appears that the Buddhist references dominate (the Soyombo on the flag, the Seven Jewels of the Cakravartin ruler of ancient India

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multiplied on many supports such as the official dress, seals, and crowns, and the reign title “Elevated by Many” — a Buddhist reference to an ancient Indian king, Mahāsamādhi, of whom Mongol emperors were said to descend according to Mongolian Buddhist chronicles). Why the Bogd, who was acknowledged as belonging to Chinggis Khan’s lineage, took the title of Haan, and aimed at reunifying the two Mongolias, did not use any reference to Chinggis Khan comes as a surprise. The only ritual linked to the Chinggisids is the New Year ritual of lighting the hearth of the Western Palace, the ancestors’ shrine dedicated to Abadai Khan (Avtai Han), the late 16th century Buddhist king of the Halh.

7 Why did the Žavzandamba infringe his monastic vows to take a wife ? It had become common for Mongol monks to take a wife at that time, but we also know that he enforced the law forbidding women to enter Gandan Monastery. Batsaihan gives us here another clue : since he was enthroned as a Cakravartin ruler, he definitely needed a queen, one of the “Seven Jewels”— he had the six others : , jewel, general, minister, horse, and even the elephant (p. 221). Another justification of his marriage could be that the depiction of power in ancient Mongolia was dual, the queen being on an equal footing with the king (Charleux 2010). After Dondogdulam passed away a new queen was even chosen for him. He nevertheless apparently felt uncomfortable with this situation and sought for legitimation of his marriage (see page 279, when he discovered in a book in his library that a “certain Dalai lama in Lhasa had been married” — a reference to the Sixth Dalai Lama).

8 Chapter 7 also raises the issue of the monumental statue of Migžed Žanraisig, “Eye- healing Avalokiteśvara,” erected as a landmark of Mongolian independence. For Batsaihan, the common assertion that the statue was built to cure the Bogd’s eyes was certainly a pretext, but a German scholar, Olaf Czaja, has shown that this rare iconography also supports this hypothesis (Czaja 2013).

9 After having listed the accusations (including assassination, pedophilia and debauchery) widespread in socialist propaganda and perpetuated in modern democratic Mongolia that reflect the impact of ideology on historical research, Batsaihan assesses the personality and acts of the Bogd Haan, using as main sources “The Secret History of Bogd Žavzandamba’s Enthronement” and witnesses’ accounts (chapter 7). Batsaihan “rehabilitates” the Žavzandamba by listing several examples of his high reputation and morality. Although he acknowledges that some of the accusations against him were certainly true, such as his passion for alcohol and bisexual affairs, he also showed that witnesses have lied or exaggerated them, in particular donir (clerk of a monastery) Žambal, “a sinful person,” “a liar” (p. 270). Since Žambal’s diary was published in Mongolian and translated into English (Jambal [1959] 1997), this source has been widely used by scholars (perhaps the author should also be cautious when using Ossendovsky’s account, see Maistre 2010, p. 392).

10 A useful complement to the Žavzandamba’s political aims is given by Tsultem Uranchimeg (2009) who analyzes in great detail the paintings he commissioned to painter Šarav that include many sexual scenes, and proposes a reading of his contradictory life from the perspective of his patronage and involvement in art production.

11 The central part of the book is the development of Russo-Chinese-Mongolian relations with detailed accounts of the meetings and negotiations about Mongolia’s real status — autonomy or independence — and its consequences concerning foreign relations,

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diplomatic representations, military presence, economic relations, and communications. The arm-wrestling between Mongolia, that sought for official recognition as well as military assistance and financial loans ; Russia, that had strong strategic and economic interests in Mongolia it viewed as a buffer-state between the great empires and wanted to avoid an open conflict with China while at the same time opposing Chinese economic and military penetration ; Nationalist China, that desperately attempted to keep the Qing colony within its fold ; and Japan, is described step by step.

12 The personality and policy of amban Sandoo, in charge of implementing the New Administration, is analyzed in chapter 3, based on an interview he gave to a Japanese scholar, preserved in the Archives of Japan (see picture p. 71). Because of the troubled political situation in China, his reports on the evolving situation in Mongolia remained without response, and his attempts to arrest the members of the delegation to Russia, manipulating some influential Mongols and threatening the Žavzandamba, were ineffective.

13 Extremely detailed accounts from various sources are given about the missions sent by Mongolia to Saint-Petersburg, their composition, their reception, and the ambivalent nature of Russian’s response, starting with a secret mission to seek assistance from the Tsar (August 1911, chapter 2). Batsaihan evidenced that before the departure of the mission, on the occasion of a 1911 secret meeting, a provisional government was in effect established in Mongolia, and was formalized after the return of the delegation to Russia on 30 November 1911. Named General Provisional Administrative Office for the Affairs of Halh Hüree, headed by Tüšee Güng Čagdaržav (1880-1922), it gathered nobles and high-ranking lamas. Batsaihan assumes that the Žavzandamba fully controlled and directed it, though his role is not clear according to sources. On 1st December 1911, the provisional government proclaimed a Declaration of independence, addressed to “the Mongols, Russians, Tibetans, Chinese and all people” (translated p. 49). Sandoo was expelled from Hüree, while the Manchu troops who had not shifted to the side of the Žavzandamba were disarmed.

14 In chapter 4, based on the biographies (life, political activities) of six (plus two) lay and cleric personalities, Batsaihan shows that these men won social and economic power by serving the Bogd Haan. Indeed he emphasizes their political role in favor of independence, overlooking the fact that the new regime did not offer a better life for Mongolian commoners.4 These biographies reveal the tensions and dissensions between them, and the author enumerates the first measures of the new government concerning the organization of its finances, army, ministries, communication, transportation, calendar, production of a map, adoption of the new symbols of the state, and policy towards Chinese merchants and usurers. So, these men accumulated experience in internal politics and diplomatic affairs, as it was shown during the negotiation of treatises in the 1910s (pp. 75-76). Chapter 8 is dedicated to the first treaty signed on 21st October 1912 in Hüree between Mongolia and Russia, which entailed the first official recognition of the Hüree government through an agreement conforming to the standards of international law, and gave favorable trade conditions and special privileges to Russian traders in Mongolia. Batsaihan shows the pivotal role of Ya. Korostovec appointed as Russia’s plenipotentiary representative to hold the negotiations. He stresses the ambivalent position of Russia, which used in the treaty the words “Mongolia” (in Russian) and “self-governing/self-rule,” “Mongolian state/

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nation” (in Mongolian) on the one hand, and on the other hand clearly limited her support to the Hutugtu of Hüree and the Halh princes, carefully avoiding the question of Inner Mongolia and Barga because of a secret agreement they had passed with Japan on the division of the spheres of their influence in the Far East.

15 Chapter 9 lists about 200 laws, rules and administrative acts adopted during this period, on topics as diverse as land-cultivation, military flags of the aimag, training of troops, Russian veterinarians, fines and sentences for stealing animals, payment of previous debts, and excessive drinking and gambling.

16 The Bogd Haan government engaged a dialogue of the deaf with the young Republic of China, which rejected “Outer Mongolia”’s independence from China. Chapter 10 describes the mission sent by Hüree to Saint-Petersburg in 1912-1913, which confirmed that the Tsarist government recognized an “autonomous” but not “independent” (Northern) Mongolia. A Russo-Chinese Declaration signed on 23 October 1913 (“the result of a secret plot on Mongolia by her two great neighbors” according to the author) made real the threat to Mongolia’s national sovereignty. Meanwhile several dozen of Inner Mongol princes who had expressed their desire to join the Bogd Haan’s government (including a few ) changed their mind when Yuan Shikai offered them higher salaries, and popular revolts that rose up in Inner Mongolia were suppressed. Fearing a Chinese invasion, Hüree sent in 1913-1914 another delegation to Saint-Petersburg, to request military, financial and diplomatic assistance. Batsaihan gives the text of two letters addressed by the Bogd Haan to the Russian Emperor in 1913, a personal letter that Prime Minister Namnansüren handed to a French ambassador (pp. 391-395), and the Mongol text of a treaty for mutual assistance between Tibet and Mongolia, two newly “independent” states, on 24 December 1912 (chapter 11).

17 Chapter 12 is about another act of foreign policy of the Bogd Haan’s government : the fate of a letter to the Emperor of Japan, dated 19 January 1914, asking for Japan’s assistance in uniting the two Mongolias. Thanks to archives about discussions between the Japanese Foreign Minister and the Ambassador of Russia, Batsaihan shows the prudent position of Japan who found a pretext to ignore the letter and sent it back to Hüree. Batsaihan tried to restore the content of the letter from the incomplete Mongolian original in the Mongolian National Archives and from its Japanese translation in the Archives of the Japanese Foreign Ministry.

18 Chapter 13 is dedicated to the Kiakhta tripartite treaty (1915), about which the author had already published a monograph (Batsaihan [2002] 2007). Russia represented the middle path between the two extreme positions of Mongolia and China, and helped both parties soften their claims after nine months of negotiations (the parties met formally 41 times). This chapter details the discussions on status, delimitation of borders, trade, reign title, terminology (“autonomy,” “self-rule,” “ruler,” “haan,” and their translations in the three languages plus French, a “neutral” language), and highlights how the three parties differently perceived, understood and interpreted the tripartite agreement (including the “Book of interpretation on the meaning of the Sino- Russian and Mongolian Agreement” issued by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Mongolia). Batsaihan retranscribes the opinions of various researchers, and concludes that the Kiakhta tripartite treaty was a de facto recognition of the Mongolian state and her government at international level — although it recognized on paper Chinese suzerainty over Mongolia, and the transfer of political and economic rights to Russia.

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No discussion could be held on the unification with Inner Mongolia, and the treaty officially recognized the separation between (Outer) Mongolia and Inner Mongolia.

19 The following chapters list some of the activities of the Bogd Haan government after the Kiakhta treaty (chapter 14) and recount Baron Ungern’s restoration of the Bogd Haan’s government (fall 1920-1921) and the expulsion of the Chinese troops who had taken advantage of the Russian revolution to occupy Hüree (chapter 15). Thus, there was a resurgence of the freedom movement and a search for new allies when Baron Ungern entered Mongolia on behalf of the Russian-Mongolian traditional friendship (pp. 309, 318). Batsaihan does not mention the historiography that describes a brutal and negative attitude of Ungern in Mongolia. By reading this chapter, readers can get the impression of a peaceful collaboration during the time of Ungern’s presence.

20 Chapter 16 investigates the relations between the Bogd Haan and the Mongolian People’s Party, that seized power in July 1921 and founded a new Provisional government, proclaiming the separation of state from religion. He points out that the People’s Provisional Government of Mongolia usurped Bogd Haan’s government power. Batsaihan retranscribes the unilaterally adopted “Treaty of Oath regulating the relations between the Bogd Haan and the Government” (November 1921), and examines the limited power of the Bogd Haan, whose privileges were progressively abolished. In spite of this limitation, the provincial nobles and officials continue to refer to him (p. 327). He also provides an account of the arrests and imprisonment of dozens of people, including ministers and officials of the Bogd’s Government to create an atmosphere of fear and intimidation. In addition, the question of state funding appears, although not explicitly, when the author addresses the financing of tributes to Bogd Haan, the use of his property for public service, etc. (pp. 329-331).

21 Chapter 17 is about the circumstances and cause (possible assassination — see page 238) of the Bogd’s death on 20 May 1924. After he asked the reader to judge by himself the relationship between the Bogd Haan and the government (p. 331), the partial treatment of a possible assassination of the Bogd Haan by E. Rincino here alters the scientific scope of the work. The reader is not convinced by this chapter based on oral sources, even though at the same time it provides valuable documents produced by the government after the death of Bogd Haan, that show how the legitimacy of the Bogd Haan was quickly transferred to the government.

22 Chapter 18 goes into economic questions, introducing the inventory of Bogd’s properties and assets, their administration, revenue sources, and expenditure. In the following chapter, the author studies how the administrative structure of the Bogd’s Šav’ was dismantled by the People’s Government after his death, and his properties were confiscated, inventoried and nationalized, part of them being (re)distributed or sold. He concludes that the state budget of Mongolia for 1927 was not in the red for the first time in years, because the Bogd’s properties served as the basis of the modern Mongolian economy.

23 Chapter 20 inventories the library of the Bogd Haan and highlights the great project of collection, compilation, and translation of all kind of works in different languages, including his own writings.

24 Chapter 21 investigates the failed attempts to have a young boy recognized as his reincarnation in 1925-1926 — the Bogd Haan’s death being a convenient pretext for establishing a Republic in Mongolia replacing the monarchy. The government postponed the settlement of the issue and although it had sent a delegation to the Dalai

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Lama for his guidance on the issue of reincarnations (in 1927), it eventually banned the identification of any reincarnation in Mongolia (in 1929). The last chapter deals with the identity and destiny of the Bogd Gegeen’s biological and adopted children.

25 In addition to the documents translated in the text, six appendices can be found at the end of the book (pp. 606-685, already present in the first version) : 1) a profile of the Bogd Haan by Liuba, General Consul of Russia in Nisleel Hüree, 1912 (given in translation) ; 2) the 1912 Treaty of Friendship between Mongolia and Russia (in modern Mongolian and Russian, with reproduction of the Mongolian and Russian original manuscripts) ; 3) a reproduction of the Mongolian and the Tibetan originals of the 1913 Treaty between Mongolia and Tibet ; 4) a reproduction of the French, Mongolian, Russian and Chinese versions of the Kiakhta Tripartite Agreement of 1915 ; 5) and the Bogd Haan’s golden diplomas.

26 In his search for exhaustiveness, the author accumulated existing primary and secondary sources of events including world press reports and Western travelers’ accounts, and many repetitions sometimes make the reading exhausting. Batsaihan seems so passionate about these documents that he sometimes fails to criticize them, or to place them in their context of production : for example, on several occasions the author uses a document written in 1933 to attest to an earlier movement of unification between all Mongols, dating back to the beginning of the 20th century (p. 30, 186). He mentions the authors are Buryats but the purpose of this document remains unknown. This example is quite a typical one, since the meaning of “Mongol Uls” could be quite different from one individual to another during the first half of the 20th century. Neither does he mention the influence of the Inner Mongols’ nationalism in Outer Mongolia or the activities of other Mongol groups like Kalmyks, the “liberation” of the Hovd province, the rallying of Western Mongols, and the episode of the charismatic independent Ja Lama. These omissions perhaps lead him to overlook the complexity of a “national” movement in Mongolia.

27 If one is now sure that the Bogd Haan played an important role in the 1911 movement of separation from China, it would perhaps have been useful to define precisely in introduction the meaning of “national” and “national movement”, and to analyze the evolution of the uses of the word uls. Indeed, the expression Mongol Uls is used in the documents, but ündesnii (which means national or roots) is not, except sometimes in religious contexts. However, the documents also show how the Bogd Haan recovered the legitimacy of power with the help of the Mongol nobles. He became the khan of the Mongols, calling other Mongol groups to join the new “Mongol Uls.” But was this movement a national one or the rehabilitation of a traditional ancestral power ? This may be the reason why China did not accept the term uls to describe the new status of Outer Mongolia.

28 This is not really a criticism but rather a call for better definitions, in order to properly communicate on the same phenomenon and thus to contribute to a common field of research on a topic that remains essential to Mongolia, because of its inclusion in the “concert des nations.” Whatever the nature of the Bogd Haan’s power, traditional or modern, he bears an unquestionable legitimacy. Thus it is extremely interesting that Batsaihan addresses the question of the Bogd Haan’s reincarnation and, even if sometimes timidly, the issue of state funding, particularly when he asserts that “Bogd’s properties were the basis of the modern Mongolian economy” (p. 360).

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29 So, in spite of a few questionable choices in the presentation of the sources, this work is an invaluable contribution not only to the history of modern Mongolia and the birth of her nation-state, but also to the history of international relations in Asia, the history of representation, and to the history of political thought. In addition to giving a reappraisal of the Eighth Žavzandamba Hutugtu’s role in the independent movement of 1911, thanks to the cross-fertilizing of sources reflecting the point of view of Russians, Chinese, Mongols and Japanese, Batsaihan has also cleared the way for further research.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Batsaihan [2002] 2007 Mongolyn tusgaar togtnol ba Hyatad, Oros, Mongol gurvan ulsyn 1915 ony Hyagtyn geree (1911-1916) [Mongolia’s Independence and the Kyakhta Agreement of 1915 between China, Russia and Mongolia] (Ulaanbaatar).

Charleux, I. 2010 From ongon to icon : Legitimization, glorification and divinization of power in some examples of Mongol portraits, in R. Hamayon, I. Charleux, G. Delaplace & S. Pearce (éd.), Representing Power in Ancient Inner Asia : Legitimacy, transmission and the sacred (Bellingham, Western Washington University), pp. 209-261.

Czaja, O. 2013 The eye-healing Avalokiteshvara. History, art and medicine, paper presented at the XIIIth Conference of the International Association for Tibetan Studies, Ulaanbaatar.

Elverskog, J. 2007 Our Great Qing : The Mongols, Buddhism, and the State in Late Imperial China (Honolulu, University of Hawai‘i Press).

Ewing, T. E. 1978 Revolution on the Chinese Frontier : Outer Mongolia in 1911, Journal of Asian History, pp. 101-119. 1980a Between the Hammer and the Anvil. Chinese and Russian Policies in Outer Mongolia, 1911-1921 (Bloomington, Ind.), pp. 34-43. 1980b Ch’ing Policies in Outer Mongolia 1900-1911, Modern Asian Studies, pp. 145-157.

Jambal [1959] 1997 Tales of an Old Lama, transl. by Charles Bawden (Tring, U.K., The Institute of Buddhist Studies, Buddhica Britannica, Series Continua VIII)—from a Mongolian text recorded and edited by Ts. Damdinsüren : Övgön Jambalin yaria, 1959, reed. in Tüüver zohiol, 1969.

Kaplonski, C. & D. Sneath 2010 The , vol. 1-3 (Kent, G.B., Global Oriental Ltd).

Maistre, L. de 2010 Dans les coulisses de l’Agarthe. L’extraordinaire mission de Ferdinand Anton Ossendowski en Mongolie (Paris, Archè Milano).

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Sarközi, A. 1992 Political Prophecies in Mongolia in the 17-20th Centuries (Wiesbaden, Otto Harrassowitz, Asiatische Forschungen 116/Bibliotheca Orientalis Hungarica).

Tsultem U. 2009 Ikh Khüree : A nomadic monastery and the later Buddhist art of Mongolia, PhD dissertation in History of Art (University of California, Berkeley, unpublished).

NOTES

1. “Holy emperor,” title given to the Žavzandamba Hutugtu when he was proclaimed emperor of Mongolia. 2. On this question, see Elverskog 2006. 3. About the Žavzandamba’s prophecies, see Sarközi 1992. 4. See Kaplonski & Sneath 2010, in particular Tsedev, “The Social and Economic Situation of the Shav,” pp. 771-788 (vol. 3), previously published in 1964.

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Pesteil Philippe, Bianquis Isabelle (eds.), Déprise et emprise du rural. Regards croisés sur les dynamiques sociales Stamperia Sammarcelli, Università di Corsica, Corte, 2013, 198 p. ISBN 9782915371802

Charlotte Marchina

RÉFÉRENCE

Pesteil Philippe, Bianquis Isabelle (eds.), Déprise et emprise du rural. Regards croisés sur les dynamiques sociales, Stamperia Sammarcelli, Università di Corsica, Corte, 2013

1 Dirigé par Philippe Pesteil et Isabelle Bianquis, l’ouvrage Déprise et emprise du rural. Regards croisés sur les dynamiques sociales est le fruit d’un workshop qui s’est tenu en 2009 à l’université de Corte. Il accueille dix contributions inégales de sociologues et anthropologues.

2 Le pari est audacieux : réunir des contributions d’auteurs issus de traditions académiques différentes (institutions françaises, mongoles et russe), aux approches et terrains extrêmement variés (des chasses aux sangliers corses aux quartiers de yourtes d’Oulan-Bator, en passant par un parc naturel mauritanien). On saluera la préface des éditeurs, qui fournit au lecteur une synthèse efficace des thématiques et questions qui traversent l’ensemble des contributions, parvenant à présenter le volume dans sa cohérence. L’ouvrage convainc le lecteur de la pertinence de la comparaison entre ces divers terrains, en mettant au jour des processus similaires en Europe comme en Mongolie.

3 La « déprise » du rural — terme employé par les auteurs pour éviter la référence au catastrophisme biblique associé à celui d’ « exode rural » (p. 9) — a été enclenchée aux

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XIXe et XXe siècles, selon les cas, par des facteurs économiques tels que l’industrialisation, la crise du secteur agro-pastoral, l’attrait pour un mode de vie urbain, ou encore la nécessité de poursuivre des études. Les éditeurs soulignent à juste titre la spécificité de la Mongolie qui a vu en quelques décennies des inversions saisissantes de flux migratoires, dont Linda Gardelle donne des chiffres éloquents : la Mongolie compte 95 % de pasteurs nomades en 1950, 28 % en 1989, puis 50 % au début des années 1990 (p. 171). Et l’on sait que ce chiffre est bien inférieur de nos jours, en particulier depuis le zud1 de 2000-2002 (cf. contributions de S. Dulam et L. Gardelle). De la Corse à la Mongolie, on assiste de façon intéressante depuis quelques années à une « emprise » du rural. La majorité des contributions montre comment cette volonté de retour à la campagne, permanent ou occasionnel, est favorisée par une idéalisation du monde rural, associé à des valeurs mélioratives comme un environnement sain, une alimentation de qualité et des relations sociales conviviales. De nombreux citadins cherchent ainsi à garder un lien fort avec le monde rural, seul lieu où ils pourraient réellement appartenir à une communauté. Corses comme Mongols procèdent ainsi à un processus d’abstraction en revendiquant une appartenance et un attachement à la campagne qu’ils ne fréquentent parfois que quelques jours par an.

4 Dans son article « Le village en absence. Départs, retours et installations en Corse », Philippe Pesteil livre un aperçu historique des migrations des Corses vers la France continentale depuis le XIXe siècle en s’appuyant sur une analyse d’une série de dessins parus dans la presse autonomiste. L’objectif à long terme des émigrés est de rentrer au pays, dont les dures réalités sociales sont occultées par une représentation idéalisée de la société rurale. De nos jours, une nouvelle alliance entre activités agro-pastorales et touristiques permet néanmoins d’assister à une reconfiguration de l’occupation de ces espaces.

5 Davia Benedetti (« L’exode rural dans l’imaginaire niolin à travers la chorégraphie d’A Granitula di a Santa ») propose une étude de la région du Niolu, en Corse, qui se vide à partir du XIXe siècle sous des contraintes politiques et juridiques, mais qui voit tous les ans l’arrivée massive de personnes venues participer aux trois jours de festivités religieuses de la Santa. À cette occasion, les participants effectuent une marche spiralée qui figure les allers et retours vers la campagne en même temps qu’un déni de la désertification rurale.

6 L’article « Pratiques et représentations de la chasse en contexte d’exode rural. L’exemple de la vallée de la Granola » de Tony Faogacci nous décrit un territoire en pleine évolution, touché par le phénomène de rurbanité. À travers la riche ethnographie d’une battue au sanglier, l’auteur donne à voir le dynamisme des relations entre ruraux et urbains, dont l’intégration est désormais plus souple.

7 Dans sa contribution « Vers une renaissance rurale », Françoise Clavairolle commence par une revue des travaux principaux portant sur l’exode rural avant de se concentrer sur les Cévennes. Elle montre que l’on passe au fil du temps d’une ruralité subie à une ruralité choisie, participant d’une requalification des Cévennes, auxquelles sont désormais associées des valeurs mélioratives. L’arrivée des néoruraux, qui transforment la gestion des affaires publiques par la création de nouvelles structures productives et associatives, n’est cependant pas sans créer des tensions.

8 Abdel Wedoud Ould Cheikh (« (R)urbanisation, assignation à résidence et nostalgie du futur. Les populations du banc d’Arguin (Mauritanie) et leur environnement ») montre à travers une analyse fine comment les Imraguen subissent une patrimonialisation par

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les imaginaires dominants qui associent authenticité et ruralité. Promus gardiens d’un parc naturel, les Imraguen optent pour une solution pragmatique en acceptant la conformité à un label pour bénéficier des retombées des projets. Cette invention est le résultat d’un « malentendu opératoire » (p. 115), où chaque partie trouve néanmoins son compte.

9 Dans son article « Figures d’une nouvelle ruralité en Russie », Elena Filippova analyse quelques changements majeurs intervenus dans plusieurs villages de la partie européenne de la Russie depuis la chute de l’URSS. Au début des années 1990, sous l’effet de la crise agricole, des réformes administratives et des situations de violence dans les anciennes républiques soviétiques, le flux migratoire vers les campagnes russes s’inverse. Les antagonismes entre autochtones et nouveaux arrivés ne s’atténuent pas, cependant que les difficultés agricoles s’aggravent. De moins en moins productive, la campagne russe devient toujours plus résidentielle.

10 L’article de Sedenjav Dulam (« Flux migratoire de la population du monde rural vers les villes en Mongolie ») offre une analyse des causes et conséquences des migrations vers les zones urbaines de la population de la province de Bajanhongor entre 2000 et 2004, période pendant laquelle les éleveurs ont subi le zud dévastateur de 2000-2002. Les éleveurs ayant perdu leur bétail sont venus gonfler les quartiers de yourtes périphériques de la capitale, qui n’étaient pas préparés à accueillir cette masse de migrants. L’auteur décrit les conditions difficiles dans lesquelles vivent ces nouveaux arrivants qui, victimes du manque d’infrastructures, sont moins considérés comme urbains que comme « en dehors de la civilisation urbaine » (p. 149).

11 Dans sa contribution « La Mongolie entre ville et campagne : imaginaires croisés et circuits d’échanges », Isabelle Bianquis appréhende les relations entre ville et campagne en Mongolie à travers l’alimentation. Tout urbain a des proches à la campagne, qui l’approvisionnent en viande et laitages frais, et dont il héberge et nourrit les enfants lorsqu’ils viennent poursuivre leurs études en ville. La consommation en ville des produits frais issus de l’élevage s’accompagne d’une représentation idéalisée de la campagne, synonyme de qualité et d’authenticité, que les médias et le tourisme international viennent accentuer. De fait, les citadins n’apprécient les séjours à la campagne que lorsqu’ils sont de courte durée, tandis que les modes de vie urbains modifient les relations sociales et certaines valeurs associées au mode de vie pastoral (le gras, traditionnellement prisé, se voit dévalorisé).

12 Linda Gardelle (« De la ville à la campagne et de la campagne à la ville : des fixations temporaires ») souligne le caractère fluctuant du sens des migrations entre ville et campagne. Tandis que le début des années 1990 a marqué un retour des citadins au pastoralisme nomade sous l’effet d’une poussée nationaliste, le zud de 2000-2002 a engendré un exode rural massif. L’auteur propose un rapprochement entre le caractère flexible du mode de vie pastoral et non définitif des installations d’une part et les parcours dynamiques des Mongols, entre ville et campagne, d’autre part. Cette adaptabilité et ces fluctuations sont renforcées par l’absence d’idée de déterminisme social chez les Mongols, et par le fait que les ruraux, bénéficiant d’aides de l’État pour s’équiper en biens d’équipement modernes, ne se sentent nullement exclus.

13 Dans son article « Présence des Kazahkhs en Mongolie », Altangul Bolat brosse un tableau historique des migrations des de Mongolie, qui représentent plus de 4 % de la population. Ils sont nombreux à quitter leur région d’origine (Bajan-Ölgij) pour rejoindre les grandes villes au début des années 1960, alors que l’industrie

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mongole est en plein essor. À partir des années 1990, l’État kazakh encourage, subventions à l’appui, le retour des Kazakhs de Mongolie. Par ailleurs, l’insuffisance des offres de formation supérieure et l’absence de débouchés professionnels poussent les jeunes à rejoindre la capitale, au détriment de leurs culture et langue.

14 Dans la mesure où cet ouvrage résulte d’un séminaire conçu comme un workshop (p. 11), on aurait attendu davantage de références directes aux autres articles du volume. Seul un auteur lie son texte à un autre (p. 183), alors que des liens plus évidents, évoqués dans la préface, auraient gagné à être mis en valeur directement dans les contributions. Cette impression d’hétérogénéité est renforcée par une discontinuité sur le plan éditorial : selon les articles, les références bibliographiques sont tantôt dans le texte, tantôt en notes de fin ; la présentation des textes originaux et de leur traduction, aléatoire (le lecteur est ainsi convié à se reporter à une note de fin pour comprendre un texte corse, p. 21), ne facilite pas toujours la fluidité de la lecture. Les normes de translittération du mongol ne semblent pas harmonisées, parfois au sein d’un même article. On appréciera les 45 tableaux et illustrations du volume, tout en regrettant ici et là une résolution trop faible.

15 Ces défauts formels ne retirent rien à l’ambition de cette comparaison originale entre des terrains si éloignés, qui permet d’apporter un éclairage nouveau des relations des Mongols à la campagne, à la lumière de processus globaux également à l’œuvre dans d’autres parties du monde.

NOTES

1. Le zud désigne une catastrophe d’ordre naturel qui touche une grande partie du territoire mongol et engendre d’importantes pertes de bétail.

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Bulgakova Tatiana, Nanai Shamanic Culture in Indigenous Discourse Fürstenberg/Havel, Kulturstiftung Sibirien, 2013, 261 p. ISBN 978-3-942883-14-6

Aurore Dumont et Alexandra Lavrillier

RÉFÉRENCE

Bulgakova Tatiana, Nanai Shamanic Culture in Indigenous Discourse, Fürstenberg/Havel, Kulturstiftung Sibirien, 2013

1 L’ouvrage de Tatiana Bulgakova est consacré aux Nanaï (nanaitsy)1 qui vivent sur les rives des fleuves Amour et Oussouri dans l’Extrême-Orient russe, et aux discours que ce peuple toungouse tient sur ses pratiques chamaniques et sur les dires et gestes des esprits. Composé de quatre parties complétées par des photographies, un index et un glossaire, il progresse selon une logique thématique, l’auteur exposant le résultat de ses recherches menées sur trois décennies (1980-2012).

2 Dans la première partie, intitulée « Research into shamanic culture’s mysteries », Tatiana Bulgakova montre comment l’ethnographie du chamanisme est profondément influencée par des facteurs subjectifs. Les données récoltées se révèlent parfois lacunaires, contradictoires, voire absentes. En effet, le chercheur de terrain est confronté à diverses interprétations résultant d’expériences individuelles multiformes chez les informateurs. Afin de se prémunir contre d’éventuelles représailles de l’ennemi, les chamanes dissimulent fréquemment toute information relative aux combats entre chamanes. Or, comme le souligne Bulgakova, l’absence d’informations ne signifie pas pour autant l’inexistence du phénomène. C’est ainsi que certaines notions — le réceptacle immatériel des âmes des patients (dëkaso) et les territoires chamaniques (gora et dërgil) — ne sont apparues dans la littérature ethnographique que dans les années 1990, sous l’impulsion d’Anna V. Smoliak, (ethnographe soviétique, spécialiste des Toungouses de l’Amour, dont les Nanaï). Les informations, contradictoires au premier abord, contraignent le chercheur à clarifier des interprétations qui varient

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selon le contexte : par exemple, l’automutilation que s’inflige le chamane peut être une démonstration de ses talents chamaniques, une bataille contre un ennemi, ou encore une offrande aux esprits.

3 La deuxième partie, « Rivalry in shamanic healing », aborde les troubles collectifs et leur interprétation par les Nanaï. Contrairement à une idée répandue, la « maladie chamanique » et son éventuelle guérison (que l’auteur préfère appeler rémission) n’affectent pas uniquement le chamane, mais l’ensemble de son groupe de parenté. Des contacts rapprochés avec le chamane entraînent une sensibilité aux esprits chez ses proches parents. Certains en viennent même à chamaniser dans leurs rêves ou dans la vie réelle pour leurs besoins personnels, sans pour autant être reconnus comme chamanes par la société.

4 Par ailleurs, maladie et guérison sont liées à ce que les néo chamanes appellent nikheleuri, terme nanaï signifiant « ouvrir », c’est-à-dire « l’ouverture d’un individu aux esprits ». Si la maladie affectant une personne est occasionnée par l’installation d’un esprit dans son corps, le traitement consiste à l’expulser. En revanche, si l’âme (panian) d’un individu a quitté son corps, le chamane doit la localiser puis la déposer dans le réceptacle immatériel, dëkaso pratique dont seuls les « non-chamanes » peuvent bénéficier. Selon le discours autochtone, le dëkaso s’apparente à une maison, une ville, ou plus généralement à une prison. En effet, les âmes emprisonnées tentant de s’échapper sont nourries par les esprits en échange de guérison.

5 À l’inverse, l’ « initiation » chamanique se conclut par la disparition des âmes humaines de celui qui devient chamane et sont remplacées par des esprits chamaniques (seven). L’« initiation » n’est pas la phase finale de la formation d’un chamane : ses contacts avec les esprits nécessitent d’être renouvelés, d’où l’existence de « multiples initiations ».

6 Enfin, l’auteur analyse les critères d’évaluation de la puissance d’un chamane. Selon la vision autochtone, celle-ci ne repose pas seulement sur la capacité de guérir un patient ou l’aptitude à produire des miracles. Les chamanes se mesurent entre eux grâce à l’arbre chamanique établi dans le monde des esprits : le chamane peut déterminer la puissance de chacun de ses adversaires selon la place qu’il occupe sur une branche et selon que celle-ci est plus ou moins haute. Lorsqu’un chamane parle de lui-même à un non-chamane, il fait valoir son intrépidité face aux esprits mais face à un autre chamane, il se déprécie, de peur que celui-ci, toujours tenu pour être un adversaire en puissance, ne lui vole ses esprits seven. Enfin, si les rumeurs sont une composante essentielle dans l’élaboration de l’opinion publique sur le pourvoir réel ou supposé d’un chamane, les « gens ordinaires » ne critiquent jamais ouvertement les chamanes sous peine d’attiser la colère des esprits.

7 La troisième partie, intitulée « Shamanising by arts », est consacrée à la pratique chamanique par les arts (au sens large), autrement dit à la littérature orale (contes, récits épiques, etc.) et aux danses anciennes et contemporaines. Chaque récit, qui est vu comme une « route », est une réalité passée, transformée en conte par un chamane qui l’aura reçu en rêve, puis transmis à la communauté. Conteur comme chamane content, à cette différence que le premier connaît la « route », tandis que le second est guidé par ses esprits en territoire inconnu. Pour tous deux, conter est un moyen de rester liés aux esprits.

8 L’auteur relève de la cruauté dans certains récits. Les sources en sont variées, les esprits seven, hérités de chamane en chamane, sont chargés d’une agressivité

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accumulée qu’il convient d’atténuer. Les gens ordinaires peuvent également être animés par des seven agressifs, notamment les esprits « amants », jaloux des époux. De la violence peut naître de la cohabitation entre un humain et un esprit (il faut alors soumettre l’esprit), ou bien du mariage entre deux humains, dont l’un, au moins, est chamane. Une femme chamane est susceptible de voler le seven plus puissant d’un homme (notamment par le biais de relations sexuelles), mais non l’inverse ; le mariage peut aussi permettre une paix temporaire entre deux clans de chamanes ennemis. La future mariée et les amants esprits sont une représentation constante dans les contes nanaï, où comme dans les pratiques chamaniques, les jeunes gens servent d’appât pour entrer en contact avec les esprits. Lorsqu’une mariée rejoint la famille de son époux, elle y apporte les esprits de son propre clan, potentiellement dangereux pour la famille de son mari, qui, pour les écarter, tire des coups de feu durant la cérémonie nuptiale.

9 Dans la société nanaï traditionnelle, toutes les danses sont des offrandes aux esprits. Les mouvements du corps accompagnés du rythme des tambours et des chants rendent les esprits actifs et permettent d’établir un lien entre les humains et eux. Lors des rituels, les participants puis le chamane dansent à tour de rôle, utilisant tambour et ceinture chamaniques. Ce sont les esprits seven qui apprennent aux humains à danser lors des rituels.

10 Pendant la décennie de transition (1985 et 1995) entre le chamanisme dit classique (aujourd’hui disparu) et le néo-chamanisme, apparaît un nouveau phénomène consistant à exhiber les chamanes, les chanteurs et les conteurs lors de spectacles publics. Qu’ils soient à but rituel ou non, ces spectacles soumettent les spécialistes rituels aux représailles de leurs esprits auxiliaires ainsi convoqués. En effet, il est arrivé, dit-on, que des esprits n’ayant reçu aucune contrepartie, se vengent, causant ainsi la mort de plusieurs chamanes. Actuellement, dans le contexte du renouveau ethnique, des pratiques chamaniques sont réinventées — de manière artificielle dit l’auteur — sur la base de matériaux ethnographiques locaux, mais aussi pan-sibériens et internationaux. Aujourd’hui, afin d’éviter les représailles des esprits, les acteurs jouant des rôles de chamanes évitent soigneusement d’appeler les esprits : ils ne prononcent pas les mots chamaniques appropriés et portent de faux costumes ; d’autres se considérant chamanes, utilisent la scène et le contact avec les esprits pour « soigner » l’auditoire. Selon l’auteur, il est vain de faire renaître le chamanisme nanaï traditionnel ainsi.

11 La dernière partie, « Political and legal labours ruled by shamanic spirits » examine les aspects juridiques et politiques du chamanisme. Certains auteurs russes considéraient la cour traditionnelle des Nanaï comme démocratique. Mais pour les Nanaï, le jugement final provenait des esprits, l’autorité juridique étant autrefois reliée au chamanisme, et par conséquent cachée à l’observateur. Selon l’autorité juridique nanaï, le juge- médiateur (diangnian) avait pour rôle de désamorcer les disputes entre clans. La plupart du temps, les parents du fautif faisaient appel à lui non pas pour punir le fauteur de troubles mais pour neutraliser le conflit et l’indignation des victimes. Le juge- médiateur et le chamane partageaient de nombreux points communs : tous deux disaient voir leurs esprits en rêve et devaient surmonter un épisode de maladie avant d’être élus.

12 La fin de la dernière partie de l’ouvrage s’achève sur les relations entre le pouvoir soviétique et les chamanes. De nouveau, l’auteur rapporte certains faits habituellement passés sous silence. Si pendant la période soviétique, le chamane était considéré comme

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un ennemi de classe, les chefs d’accusation n’étaient pas toujours de nature religieuse. L’auteur cite l’exemple du chamane Bogdan Onenko. Sous l’influence de la propagande athéiste, nombre de ses patients refusèrent de le rétribuer en animaux sacrifiés, promis par le chamane à ses esprits en échange de guérison. Le non-paiement entraîna la vengeance des esprits, le chamane et ses patients tombant malade un à un. Afin de rétablir l’ordre, Bogdan Onenko fut obligé de voler les animaux de ses patients pour satisfaire ses esprits. Ce larcin lui valut une arrestation non pas pour pratique illégale du chamanisme mais pour vol.

13 Bulgakova insiste sur une autre croyance rarement évoquée : les chamanes étaient certes persécutés par le régime soviétique, mais disaient l’être encore plus par leurs esprits qui les forçaient à continuer de chamaniser. Certains chamanes ont répondu à l’appel, pratiquant avec des casseroles ou des conserves en guise de tambours. En outre, d’autres ont bénéficié d’une permission officielle de chamaniser après avoir guéri des membres du gouvernement. L’auteur révèle par ailleurs que les « persécuteurs anti- chamanes » étaient plus souvent des Nanaï que des Russes. Enfin, certains Nanaï partis étudier à Moscou offraient des sacrifices à l’esprit Staline : voilà comment cinq informateurs de l’auteur étaient à la fois chamanes et communistes !

14 L’ouvrage de Tatiana Bulgakova est remarquable. Il se distingue d’abord par la richesse des données ethnographiques recueillies en langue vernaculaire, à une époque où les chamanes étaient encore nombreux. L’auteur a pu établir des relations de grande confiance avec les chamanes, tâche particulièrement ardue. Il se caractérise ensuite par l’importance accordée au discours autochtone : les propos des chamanes et de la population nanaï (qui sont, selon Bulgakova, les « détenteurs de la tradition ») viennent systématiquement soutenir les propos de l’auteur. Il convient ainsi de souligner l’honnêteté scientifique de Tatiana Bulgakova et son sens moderne de l’éthique du terrain, qui questionne l’opposition « observant-observé » et reconnait à l’informateur le rôle qu’il remplit réellement, soit celui d’« assistant ». L’auteur a en outre multiplié les terrains afin d’enrichir et de réinterpréter les données récoltées. Enfin, l’originalité des thématiques, la précision de leur analyse et la mise en perspective de pratiques peu connues confèrent une grande valeur à l’ouvrage.

15 Cependant, le lecteur peine parfois à établir un lien chronologique entre ce qui existe aujourd’hui et ce qui a disparu. À cet égard, une analyse approfondie du néo- chamanisme aurait été la bienvenue. Il est également regrettable que certaines informations de première importance soient reléguées en note de bas de pages et qu’aucune mention ne soit faite du mode de vie traditionnel des Nanaï. Ces quelques remarques n’enlèvent toutefois rien à la qualité et au caractère novateur de cet ouvrage de premier plan sur le chamanisme sibérien.

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NOTES

1. Environ cinq mille Nanaï vivent en Chine sur les rives des fleuves Oussouri et Soungari dans la province du Heilongjiang. Dans la classification officielle chinoise, ils sont désignés sous l’appellation Hezhe et font partie des « minorités ethniques ».

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Kasten Erich (dir.), Reisen an den Rand des Russischen Reiches : die wissenschaftliche Erschliessung der nordpazifischen Küstengebiete im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert Fürstenberg/Havel, Verlag der Kulturstiftung Sibirien, coll. « Exhibitions and Symposia », 2013, 318p. ISBN 978-3-942883-16-0

Jan Borm

RÉFÉRENCE

Kasten Erich (dir.), Reisen an den Rand des Russischen Reiches : die wissenschaftliche Erschliessung der nordpazifischen Küstengebiete im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert, Fürstenberg/ Havel, Verlag der Kulturstiftung Sibirien, coll. « Exhibitions and Symposia », 2013

1 La parution de cet ouvrage collectif aux éditions de la fondation que dirige Erich Kasten à Fürstenberg (Allemagne) peut être considérée comme un événement quant à l’étude des origines de l’ethnologie sibérienne de langue allemande. Réunissant quelques-uns des meilleurs spécialistes de l’histoire de la découverte scientifique des zones côtières russes du Pacifique nord, le volume propose à la fois une histoire des principaux observateurs de langue allemande de ces terrains et leurs travaux aux XVIIIe et XIXe siècles, ainsi qu’une approche synthétique pluridisciplinaire de ce corpus en fin de volume. L’objectif consistait à dresser une sorte d’inventaire des contributions les plus importantes au cours de cette période tout en proposant des vues d’ensemble pour mieux rendre compte de l’étendue du domaine germanophone.

2 C’est l’évolution de ce champ qui retient d’abord l’attention par le biais d’un excellent chapitre de Peter Schweitzer consacré à l’histoire de l’ethnographie de langue

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allemande dans les régions concernées. L’auteur en propose dan un premier temps une périodisation pour ensuite s’interroger sur les traits communs éventuels de ce qu’il envisage comme une « tradition » germanophone et d’autres « écoles », notamment russe. Dans ce but, il identifie quatre périodes : une première phase qui représenterait la pré- ou protohistoire du domaine comprenant quelques rares textes comme celui d’Haberstein (1549) et, surtout, les grandes expéditions académiques du siècle des Lumières ; ensuite le XIXe siècle considéré comme période « formative » qui correspond à une montée en puissance de considérations épistémologiques, avec une première moitié du siècle relativement peu spectaculaire toutefois, suivi d’une seconde moitié au cours de laquelle des réflexions théoriques à caractère plus systématique font leur apparition et dont il conviendrait de distinguer les contributions russes de celles dans d’autres langues ; la troisième période serait ensuite celle d’un premier véritable essor entre 1880 et 1917, suivi de deux sous-périodes entre 1917 et 1930, puis 1931 et 1945 ; enfin, la quatrième période s’inscrirait sous l’enseigne de la « consolidation » avec, en première partie, les années soviétiques et l’ambition quasi-monopoliste des travaux russophones, puis la phase post-soviétique actuelle où l’on observe des interactions entre traditions nationales et des recherches internationales. Peter Schweitzer revient ensuite en détail sur les différentes étapes esquissées. Bien que cet effort de périodisation puisse sembler quelque peu trop « positiviste » ou schématique aux yeux de certains, il a le mérite de proposer un modèle taxinomique assez clair dont les spécialistes ne manqueront pas d’examiner les articulations tout en mettant en jeu des observations ethno-historiographiques de synthèse intéressantes et propices à stimuler des débats plus approfondis. Pour n’en citer qu’un exemple, à l’époque des Lumières, la Sibérie apparaît comme une espèce de laboratoire servant à produire toutes sortes de nouvelles connaissances scientifiques. L’importance des universités allemandes dans la formation de nombre des savants évoqués ici est soulignée par Schweitzer comme par d’autres auteurs de ce volume. Ces personnalités représentaient certes une petite élite germanophone sans que l’on puise pour autant la concevoir comme porteuse d’une « tradition » nationale dès cette période tant il convient de l’étudier dans le cadre élargi des multiples échanges entre les philosophes de la République des Lettres, comme l’observe d’ailleurs aussi Peter Schweitzer. On ne saurait donc parler d’une véritable école allemande (ou de langue allemande en tout cas) avant la deuxième moitié du XIXe siècle selon Schweitzer, même si les écoles et universités allemandes jouent un rôle prépondérant dans la formation du regard des observateurs dès le siècle précédent. Enfin, l’auteur se demande dans quelle mesure les études sibériennes auraient contribué à la professionnalisation de l’ethnographie. Elles auraient joué un rôle primordial en ce qui concerne les travaux de langue russe, mais seulement partiel quant au corpus germanophone. Cela étant, les études sibériennes représentent évidemment un domaine majeur de l’ethnographie allemande (ou germanophone), bien plus qu’au Royaume-Uni, aux Etats-Unis ou encore en France, observe Schweitzer, du moins au cours des deux siècles dont il est question ici.

3 Le volume propose ensuite une série d’études à la fois biographiques et historico- critiques des principaux observateurs de langue allemande dont certains comptent parmi les plus connus tels Georg Wilhelm Steller ou Peter Simon Pallas ; des figures célèbres comme Adalbert von Chamisso, très souvent évoqué mais dont on connaît toutefois un peu moins bien les travaux scientifiques ; puis, plusieurs savants dont les spécialistes ont certes affirmé l’importance, mais dont on n’avait pas réuni en un seul volume les itinéraires comme Carl Heinrich Merck, Georg Heinrich von Langsdorff,

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Friedrich Heinrich von Kittlitz, Adolph Erman, Johann Karl Ehrenfried Kegel, Carl von Dittmar ou encore Gerhard von Maydell. Il s’agit de chapitres érudits d’un très bon niveau et, dans certains cas, d’un caractère exemplaire eu égard au nombre de sources mobilisées. C’est notamment le cas des articles d’Erich Kasten et d’Erik Tammiksaar, chercheur estonien, spécialiste de l’histoire des populations baltes de langue allemande dont sont issues certaines des personnalités évoquées ci-dessus qui ont fait carrière dans l’empire russe. Kasten voit en Steller un précurseur (parmi d’autres) de l’observation participante dont il souligne l’originalité et l’efficacité des méthodes utilisées. Cela concerne en particulier sa façon d’apprécier la nourriture autochtone et son intérêt pour des pratiques homéopathiques, puis une ouverture d’esprit certaine qui n’était pas sans poser de problème en terme de loyauté vis-à-vis des autorités russes et de ses propres convictions religieuses. D’inspiration piétiste, ces dernières représentent un aspect important de son regard tout en étant source de crises de conscience potentielles : comment contribuer à la fois à la protection des populations étudiées par rapport à un pouvoir régional peu sensible tout en souhaitant la conversion certes non-coercitive mais progressive de ces sociétés ? Erich Kasten soutient l’hypothèse selon laquelle l’approche de Steller annoncerait de façon rudimentaire la problématique d’une forme d’anthropologie engagée que l’on appelle en anglais advocacy anthropology. Sa manière de garder ses distances par rapport aux pouvoirs politiques régionaux dans l’extrême Est notamment lui aurait permis de créer un climat de confiance entre les autochtones et lui-même indispensable pour l’enquête ethnographique.

4 Han F. Vermeulen reprend ensuite les travaux de Peter Simon Pallas pour s’interroger sur les rapports entre ce médecin et naturaliste avec l’ethnologie, l’importance de cette discipline pour lui et le rôle de Gerhard Friedrich Müller, son ainé de plus de trente ans, dans la pensée ethnologique de Pallas, en supposant que l’on puisse parler de l’ethnologie en tant que discipline au cours du siècle des Lumières. C’est ici que le besoin urgent d’une histoire comparée de la discipline devient manifeste. En France, on a surtout retenu le rôle supposé fondateur de l’éphémère Société des observateurs de l’homme (1799-1804) étudiée entre autres par Jean-Luc Chappey, tout en considérant l’Histoire d’un voyage fait en la terre du Brésil (1578) de Jean de Léry comme le « bréviaire de l’ethnologue » selon la formule de Claude Lévi-Strauss et un précurseur notable de l’ethnographie moderne. Dans le monde anglophone, on chercherait sans doute du côté des expéditions du siècle des Lumières, et, en amont, dans les premières recommandations pour observateurs de la Royal Society dans la deuxième moitié du XVIIe siècle. Or, à y regarder de près, le mot « ethnographie » semble bien avoir été introduit par Müller vers 1740 pour n’apparaître dans les dictionnaires anglais qu’au début du siècle suivant. On trouve évidemment des textes à caractère ethnographique en amont, mais Müller jouerait un rôle de père fondateur quant à la théorisation des enjeux d’une approche descriptive. Cette approche peut sembler à nouveau quelque peu trop catégorique, voire « positiviste ». Il n’empêche, Vermeulen démontre bien le rôle central des travaux de langue allemande quant à l’émergence d’une pratique qui se professionnalise et s’institutionnalise aux siècles suivants — processus dans lequel Pallas occupe d’ailleurs une place éminente que personne ne lui disputerait. Sans pouvoir revenir plus longuement sur l’enquête minutieuse de Vermeulen ici, on doit faire état de quelques réserves par rapport à certaines lectures sans doute un peu trop rapides ou pas assez mises en contexte pour être tout à fait convaincante. Cela concerne en particulier la suggestion que les savants-explorateurs du XVIIe siècle ne

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s’occupaient pas ou seulement de façon occasionnelle de considérations ethnographiques à l’exception des expéditions russes. Une attention plus rapprochée des domaines anglophone et francophone aurait sans doute permis de nuancer ce propos bien davantage. On cherche peut-être bien en vain le mot « ethnographie » dans ces travaux dès l’époque en question. Or, des propos à caractère ethnologique sont bien présents dans les débats de l’époque, comme l’a montré notamment l’étude fondamentale de Michèle Duchet consacrée aux bibliothèques des philosophes et à leurs réflexions sur l’homme naturel ou encore les textes des Forster père et fils (Johann Reinhold et Georg, compagnons du Capitaine Cook lors de son deuxième voyage autour du monde), deux figures majeures sur lesquels Vermeulen s’attarde trop peu. De manière générale, son chapitre représente néanmoins un effort significatif d’apprécier l’importance fondamentale des études sibériennes de langue allemande au cours du long XVIIe siècle dans la perspective de la professionnalisation de la discipline.

5 Il serait inutile de commenter longuement ici les études biographiques consacrées à Merck, Langsdorff, Chamisso, ni celle de Lisa Strecker dédiée à Kittlitz que l’on a déjà pu découvrir en langue russe dans un autre ouvrage collectif dirigé par Erich Kasten. Contentons-nous seulement de souligner le caractère éminemment érudit de ces travaux accompagnés, comme l’ensemble des contributions, de bibliographies très utiles. Dans ce cadre, les trois chapitres d’Erik Tammisaar portant sur Erman, Dittmar et Maydell font toutefois figure d’exception. L’auteur a réussi à mobiliser un nombre de sources russes, allemandes et estoniennes permettant des présentations d’itinéraires personnels d’un degré d’exactitude impressionnant qu’il met en perspective de manière très éclairante par rapport au contexte historique. C’est également le cas du chapitre d’Erich Kasten sur l’agronome Johann Karl Ehrenfried Kegel, bien que l’on ne se laisse pas emporter aussi loin que Kasten dans son enthousiasme quand il évoque les appréciations « équilibrées, et, au fond, bien appropriées d’une situation particulière » des savants allemands (mieux : de langue allemande) au Kamtchatka (p. 249 : « ausgewogene, letztendlich angemessene Einschätzungen einer bestimmten Situation »).

6 La dernière partie de l’ouvrage propose des synthèses du corpus par rapport aux différentes disciplines représentées dont on retiendra en particulier les réflexions stimulantes d’Eric Tammisaar quant à l’intérêt géographique et géologique de ces travaux, et d’Erich Kasten par rapport à l’ethnologie. Ce dernier s’interroge sur la motivation et l’identité des savants en évoquant à la fois des considérations de carrière et l’impératif de faire avancer le savoir scientifique, ambition qui rend souvent inévitables des écarts par rapport aux instructions officielles. Cette manière de s’adapter sur le terrain s’est avérée particulièrement fructueuse quant à la production de nouvelles connaissances tout en révélant des soucis que l’on pourrait rapprocher du défi que tâchent de relever aujourd’hui l’anthropologie appliquée et cette advocacy anthropology dont il a été question supra. Cela étant, Kasten s’empresse d’observer que l’ouverture d’esprit envers des mappemondes autochtones (Weltbilder ou worldviews) resta cependant très réduite chez ces savants alors qu’ils appréciaient souvent les savoirs traditionnels des sociétés étudiées.

7 En guise de conclusion, affirmons toute notre estime pour ce travail collectif fort utile qui représente une contribution importante à l’histoire des travaux de langue allemande dédiés aux études sibériennes.

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Erdal Marcel, Nevskaya Irina, Nugteren Hans, Rind-Pawlowski Monika (Hg.), Handbuch des Tschalkantürkischen Teil 1 : Texte und Glossar, Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden, 2013. xii, 252 S (Turcologica, Bd. 91,1), ISBN 978-3-447-06964-9

Dmitri Funk, Oksana Poustogacheva et Irina Popravko

RÉFÉRENCE

Erdal Marcel, Nevskaya Irina, Nugteren Hans, Rind-Pawlowski Monika (Hg.) Handbuch des Tschalkantürkischen, Teil 1 : Texte und Glossar. Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden, 2013. xii, 252 S (Turcologica, Bd. 91,1)

NOTE DE L’AUTEUR

Written in the framework of the project “Man in a Changing World. Problems of Identity and Social Adaptation in History and at Present” (the RF Government grant No. 14.B25.31.0009)

1 Chelkans1 — or, as they are usually called by linguists and native folklorists, Chalkans — are amongst the smallest of the Turkic groups of the indigenous population of Siberia. Practically throughout the whole Soviet period of history they were known as “an ethnic group” of the (northern) . , as a matter of fact, have not become an object of serious interest either for linguists or for social anthropologists, in spite of the relatively isolated location and longstanding conservation of many features of their traditional culture, including folklore and language. One would think that this should be ample reason to rouse the interest of researchers.

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2 All the research into certain features of their language and culture, which shows a gradual increase since the middle of the 1970s, was based solely on material collected during short-term expeditionary trips. Nevertheless, there are just a few monographic works dedicated to the Chelkans, which is why every publication on this topic deserves special attention.

3 Handbuch des Tschalkantürkischen, edited by Marcel Erdal, Irina Nevskaya, Hans Nugteren and Monika Rind-Pawlowski, is the first part of a monographic description of Chelkan language planned by the considerably large team of authors.2 The work has the subtitle “Texts and glossary”, which by itself covers three quarters of the content (pp. 1-185), although in fact such issues as Chelkan ethnography, lexicology and ethnomusicology are also touched upon (chapter 3, pp. 189-252). All this makes the publication a matter of considerable for a wide circle of specialists.

4 The editors of the book highlight the fact that the Chelkan language — features of which reveal a strong resemblance to Shor, Khakas and Chulym- rather than to Altai — is part of a language continuum, and cannot therefore be included into any of its neighboring languages (p. viii). Such an approach to the Chelkan language can only be welcomed.

5 In the introduction the authors characterize the available material. As far as it can be judged by the description, it is exceedingly broad and covers notes collected between 1950 and 2005 : materials of colleagues from the Institute of Philology in Novosibirsk from 2000 till 2001 (p. viii), materials from the personal archive of A. Kandarakova from 1950 till 1970 (p. ix) and 25 pages of text material forwarded to the authors by their Turkish colleague Figen Güner Dilek (p. xi). However the majority of the texts in this volume have been taken specifically from the archive of Kandarakova (p. xii), whose identity and role as a researcher receive no further mention in the text.

6 There is apparently also personal field material collected by the authors, but it is hard to form an opinion about this : there is little detailed informaton about the years during which the “Chalkan project” (financed by the DFG and the RFBR3) was carried out. The project was, however, obviously very productive. The evidence for this is not only the book under review, but also 23 long and short articles, published within the frameork of the project, as well as two brochures containing examples of the folklore (see the list on pages ix-xi). The majority of the articles were included in two “Chalkan collected volumes”, from the series “The languages of the indigenous people of Siberia” (published in Novosibirsk in 2004 and 2005).

7 The first chapter — “Chalkan texts” (“Tschalkanische Texte”, pp. 1-105) — includes a fairytale, a legend, a funny short story, a description of leather working and five recipes for traditional dishes. It also contains 66 “proverbs/sayings” and 59 riddles. All the published texts are written in the Chelkan language in Cyrillic, glossed and provided with translations into Russian and German. A large number of the texts are published here for the first time, although some of them were obviously known much earlier, as they had been published in the book Altaiskii fol’klor a quarter of a century ago (1988). We have collated the first 18 riddles, of which seven were published in different variants in the aforementioned volume Altaiskii fol’klor.

8 There is also a lack of commentary : both the riddles and proverbs4 of Chelkans are rich with traditional figurativeness. This can cause confusion with regard to their meaning for anyone insufficiently familiar with the ethnography of the Turkic groups of the

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Sayan-Altai region. In publications of material of this sort it seems advisable to provide an example of every minor genre not only with lemma and translation, but also with variants and explanation of the meaning of an expression, characteristics of the cultural context and biographical information about the narrators (for an exemplary presentation, see Shongolo & Schlee 2007).

9 In the vast majority of cases, translations (especially into German5) are of high quality ; this in spite of the fact that the terminology connected with traditional culture was undoubtedly difficult to understand for the authors of the book. In the fairytale “Arabushka” (Arabušqa) (pp. 3-42) for instance, one can find Chelkan terms like toon and para. The first is translated as « морда» (a fish trap ; Germ. Korbgeflecht zum Fischfang), the second as « сеть» (a fishing-net ; Germ. Fischernetz) (sentence 5) or as « невод» (a seine ; Fischernetz) (sentence 7) (p. 4). The term toon in fact means « заездок»/« заездка» (a fish weir), or — more commonly — « запор» (a special hedge used for fishing), and is not related to the terms « морда» or « мордушка» (a fish trap). Para is not a seine, but a fishing-net of which one part is in the form of a cone. It was often used as an element of a special hedge for fishing (toon), but apparently it could also be used separately. An example of this can be found in the culture of (see Funk 1996, pp. 258-259 ; for more details see Bel’gibaev 2004, pp. 52-55).

10 Chapter 2 provides a Chelkan-German-Russian glossary (“Glossar Tschalkanisch- Deutsch-Russisch”, pp. 107-185). It covers not only the texts published in this book, but the whole textual corpus (i.e. folklore texts and words to be found in the articles which will be discussed later) created by the authors, of which this publication contains only a part. Being aware of the fact that these word forms originate from different sources and were fixed in different variants of pronunciation, the compilers of the glossary deserve credit : they have intentionally avoided homogenization, and have faithfully recorded every variant registered in their corpus.

11 Altogether, the glossary comprises approximately 1 500 dictionary entries, and is currently one of the most voluminous, or perhaps even the most voluminous, dictionary of the Chelkan language. There is, however, scope for a multiple expansion of the dictionary : first, by adapting the texts that have been published in several collected volumes of folklore which were beyond the authors’ reach ; secondly, by analysing the folklore archive of the Institute of Altaistics in the city of Gorno-Altaisk, where multiple notes on Chelkan can be found ; and thirdly, by more active and long- term work directly with Chelkan speakers.

12 The book finishes with articles and materials in English and German language subsumed in third chapter under the general title “Ethnological and lexicological research” („Ethnologische und lexikologische Untersuchungen“, pp. 187-252). Amongst them are a review article by Е. Belgibaev, “Ethnic-historical data about the Chalkans”, pp. 189-199, articles dedicated to particular aspects of Chelkan folklore (particularly to so-called “short songs”), “Model tunes of the ‘short songs’ of the Chalkans” by G. B. Syčenko, pp. 201-206, and to the Chelkan lexicon — “Kinship terms in the Chalkan language” (“Verwandschaftstermini im Tschalkanischen”) by E. Tjunteševa and O. Šagdurova (pp. 207-229), and “Some denominations of insects in Chelkan language (in comparison with the other Southern Siberian Turkic languages)” (“Einige Insektennamen im Tschalkanischen [im Vergleich zu anderen südsibirischen Türksprachen]”) by M. V. Sumačakova, O. Ju. Šagdurova & H. Nugteren, pp. 231-246.

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13 The majority of the articles contribute something new to our understanding of Chelkan language and culture. Only the article about kinship terms is somewhat disappointing, as this text was already published in Russian 11 years ago by the same authors (Nikolina, Kokoshnikova 2004).6 We may also conclude that, on the one hand, from the perspective of knowledge about the regional literature (particularly about Chelkans), and on the other hand from the perspective of familiarity with general theoretical problems of this social phenomenon, this article was unfortunately written without reference to the anthropological discourse on kinship systems. As the bibliography of the article shows, the authors were not aware of the early works of Leonid P. Potapov where the abovementioned system was characterized and provisionally analyzed for the first time (see, e.g. Potapov 1937, pp. 5-6). Without this background it is difficult to understand what led this system, with its 29 terms (which in 1936 were the only ones to denote 679 possible variants of kinship categories7), to those 40 terms that were discovered by the authors of the article.

14 At the end of the Chelkan volume there are three lists : a list of male and female Chelkan names (pp. 247-248), a list of Chelkan and “tribal names” (Stammesnamen, p. 248), and a Chelkan bibliography (pp. 249-252).

15 While the first two lists might admittedly be interesting for native Chelkans, they are hardly useful for specialists : none of the lists mentions the author, the source of information, or the time when a given item of data was gathered. While speaking about lists of names, it is obvious that proper names can be found in the archives, or collected from informants in the field, or found in genealogies or (other) folklore texts. Moreover, the folklore texts can be simple everyday stories or hero epics — the difference is considerable. A similar remark can be made with regard to clan structure, for it cannot be taken as a given fact : clan structure is full of dynamism and is reflected on differently from case to case in the consciousness of a certain informant. Furthermore, it is expressed differently from one situation to another.

16 While reading the book many remarks and thoughts arise ; however it must be emphasized that, generally speaking, the work leaves a generally positive impression. As mentioned above, there are only a few academic works dedicated to Chelkans,8 especially in German and English. This alone is enough for the book to be acknowledged as a considerable contribution to the development of Turcology. However this is not the only feature in its favour : the collective work Handbuch des Tschalkantürkischen offers new and interesting material both to linguists and to folklorists, and what is even more valuable is that it makes one reflect while reading. That, in general, can be considered one of the most important qualities of any scientific work.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Shongolo, A. A., Schlee, G. 2007 Boran Proverbs in their Cultral Context [Köln, Rüdiger Köppe Verlag] (Wortkunst und Dokumentartexte in afrikanischen Sprachen, Bd.24).

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Altaiskii fol‘klor 1988 Altaiskii fol’klor (Materialy po chalkanskomu dialektu). Zapis‘, sostavlenie i perevod E.P. Kandarakovoi (Gorno-Altajsk, Gogno-Altaiskoe otdelenie Altaiskogo knizhnogo izdatel’stva).

Bel’gibaev, E. A. 2004 Traditsionnaia material’naia kul’tura chelkantsev bassejna r. Lebed’ (vtoraia polovina XIX – ХХ v.) (Barnaul, izd-vo Altaiskogo universiteta).

Nikolina, E. V., Kokoshnikova, O. Iu. 2004 Terminy rodstva v chalkanskom iazyke v sopostavlenii s tiurkskimi iazykami Iuzhnoj Sibiri, in Shirobokova N.N. (ed.) Iazyki korennyh narodov Sibiri. Vyp. 15 : Chalkanskij sbornik (Novosibirsk, NGU), pp. 33-54.

Potapov, L. P. 1937 Perezhitki rodovogo stroia u severnyh altaicev (po materialam ekspeditsii v Ojrotiiu v 1936 g.) (Leningrad, Gosudarstvennyi muzei ètnografii).

Funk, D. A. 1996 Iz materialov ètnograficheskoi poezdki k chelkantsam v avguste 1990 g., in Funk D. A. (ed.) Problemy ètnicheskoj istorii i kul’tury tjurko-mongol’skih narodov Iuzhnoi Sibiri i sopredel’nyh territorii. Vyp. 2 (Moskva, Institut ètnologii i antropologii RAN), pp. 242-265.

Funk, D. A. (ed.) 2000 Chelkantsy v issledovaniiah i materialah XX veka (Moskva, Institut ètnologii i antropologii RAN).

Funk, D. A., Bel’gibaev, E. A., Dobzhanskaia, O. È. 2006 Čelkantsy, in Funk D. A., Tomilov N. A. (eds.), Tiurkskie narody Sibiri (Moskva, Nauka), pp. 463-490.

NOTES

1. Henceforth we will use this variant to render the ethnonym. The form is justified by ethnographic tradition, and by the fact that nowhere in the official documents of Russia (population census, lists of small peoples) is the nationality “Chalkans” mentioned. Since 2000 the Chelkans have been officially appointed indigenous peoples of the Russian Federation (RF Government Regulation №255 from 24.03.2000). 2. On the title page eight authors are named — M. Erdal, A. Ozonova, I. Nevskaya, M. Rind- Pawlowski, H. Nugteren, E. Tjuntesheva, O. Shagdurova, A. Tazranova, and N. Shirobokova — but in fact certain parts of the book are written by other authors : E. Bel’gibaev (pp. 189-199), G. Syčenko (pp. 201-206) and M. Sumačakova (pp. 231-246). 3. Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG) / Russian Foundation for Basic Research (RFBR). 4. For the authors of the book Handbuch des Tschalkantürkischen this question was obviously not very important. 5. Unfortunately, translations into Russian language are at times stylistically rather weak, and it is sometimes doubtful that they were made by native speakers. 6. In the annotation to this article and in the bibliographic lists in the present book this publication is not mentioned. 7. The questionnaire with which L. P. Potapov worked contained exactly this number of questions. What questionnaire was used by the authors of the present article is not mentioned in the book. 8. Of the recent extensive collective reviews, mention may be made of Funk 2000 and Funk, Bel’gibaev, Dobzhanskaia 2006.

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Léotar Frédéric, La steppe musicienne : Analyses et modélisation du patrimoine musical turcique Paris, Vrin, 2014, 303 p. ISBN 978-2711625505

Rémy Dor

RÉFÉRENCE

Léotar Frédéric, La steppe musicienne : Analyses et modélisation du patrimoine musical turcique, Paris, Vrin, 2014

1 Je ne pense pas être parfaitement indiqué pour rendre compte de l’aspect musicologique de cet ouvrage, mais je souhaite néanmoins dire tout le bien que je pense de ce travail de terrain remarquable, qui met à notre disposition non seulement un ensemble documentaire cohérent, mais des analyses fines et pertinentes. Le Professeur Nattiez (Université de Montréal), dans sa préface, n’est pas non plus avare de compliments.

2 L’ouvrage comprend huit chapitres, dont je donne le titre ci-dessous : I. La place de la musique dans la vie quotidienne et rituelle des Turks d’Asie Intérieure (pp. 27-60) II. Questions de méthodologie (pp. 61-78) III. La mise en œuvre d’une méthodologie : le corpus touva (pp. 79-104) IV. Extension de la procédure analytique au corpus kirghiz (pp. 105-134) V. La systématique musicale des agro-pasteurs ouzbeks (pp. 135-170) VI. Modélisation du corpus karakalpak (pp. 171-194) VII. Démarche comparative et répertoires isolés : le cas kazakh (pp. 195-206) VIII. Structures, musique, contexte (pp. 207-224).

3 Il va sans dire qu’il est doté de tout l’apparat critique nécessaire (glossaire, annexe, liste des tableaux, bibliographie, index) ; mais surtout il s’appuie sur un site :

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lasteppemusicienne.oicrm.org réalisé par Frédéric Léotar (ci-après FL), qui fournit toute la documentation sonore et visuelle, de sorte que la lecture du livre peut s’accompagner du visionnage des séquences vidéos, ce qui est extrêmement appréciable et apprécié.

4 La visée générale de FL est de mettre au jour la cohérence des traditions musicales turciques par-delà les spécificités locales engendrées par le passage du temps. Il est parti (p. 12) — j’en suis très flatté et très heureux — de mes travaux sur les huchements, pour les développer, les amplifier dans un domaine précis, celui de la musique. Je rappelle que hucher relève de la communication interspécifique et correspond à « communiquer avec un animal en criant/sifflant et gesticulant ». Mon propos était de mettre en évidence un système de communication archaïque qui s’est développé sur l’ensemble du continent eurasiatique. Très sagement, FL a réduit l’ensemble géographique à des dimensions plus réduites, celles de l’Asie Intérieure, et à un domaine particulier, qu’il définit et explore, celui des mélodies huchées.

5 Étant moi-même ethno-linguiste de terrain, je suis très sensible à l’effort réalisé par FL qui pendant quinze ans s’est rendu en République de Touva, en Ouzbékistan, au Qaraqalpaqstan, au Qazaqstan, au Kirghizstan. C’est la rançon de nos disciplines, qui exigent cette longue et difficile collecte documentaire : pourrons-nous longtemps continuer cet investissement dans une société où le time-consuming règne en maître ?

6 Je vais m’arrêter assez longuement sur le 1er chapitre, plus proche de mes préoccupations et sur lequel je peux formuler des observations, je l’espère pertinentes.

7 L’observation de départ que l’éleveur turk ne s’appuie pas sur des données abstraites pour comprendre le monde, mais sur une observation empirique et un examen attentif de l’environnement immédiat, est parfaitement exacte (p. 27). Par contre, je suis moins d’accord avec la suite : « L’imitation du milieu environnant par la voix a été particulièrement développée chez les Touvas » (p. 28). Il ne s’agit pas d’« imitation » à proprement parler, mais de « restitution » : à l’aide des organes vocaux, l’éleveur restitue des bruits. Ce qui est impressionnant — mais c’est là une caractéristique des sociétés turkes — c’est la capacité linguistique et musicale de restituer des bruits (p. 30 le ronronnement de la centrifugeuse). Ces bruits sont ensuite automatiquement intégrés à la langue, on peut alors en tirer des verbes, des substantifs, etc.

8 Le berger turk a recours, outre sa voix, à des instruments de musique, et notamment à la flûte de roseau. Il aurait fallu à ce sujet signaler que les légendes centre-asiatiques (p. 31) sont d’origine anatolienne, renvoyant à l’hagiographie de Mevlâna Celaleddin Rumî et à sa création du ney.

9 Le point fort de l’étude de FL consiste en l’analyse des mélodies huchées : « mélodies à part entière, à l’intérieur desquelles un huchement exclusif est répété. Une telle désignation associe donc un type particulier d’adresse, le chant, à la pratique plus générale des huchements » (p. 36). FL ajoute un point important : les huchements liés à un mouvement dans l’espace sont criés, les huchements produisant une stase sont chantés. Le tableau 3 (p. 38) donne les principaux huchements des mélodies huchées centre-asiatiques.

10 À juste titre, FL fait ensuite un rapprochement entre mélodies huchées et berceuses (pp. 50-59). L’éducation du jeune enfant et le dressage du poulain par exemple procèdent suivant des contraintes comparables. On chante pour calmer un bébé, on chante pour habituer un agneau ou un chevreau à une nouvelle mère. Toutefois, il faut

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bien comprendre la complexité des glissements entre huchements et langue. Intégré dans la mélodie huchée, le huchement perd une partie de ses propriétés initiales, mais pas toutes : à ce titre il ne peut pas être traité comme strictement identique aux autres éléments de la phrase. À l’inverse un exhortatif, un impératif, un déictique peut parfaitement être huché, perdant ses caractéristiques grammaticales et sémantiques. Dans une berceuse, il y a le cœur de la berceuse, qui relève du huchement au bébé aley- aley (dodo-dodo), et puis tout le reste qui ne lui est pas destiné, mais constitue le catalogue de ce que sa mère lui souhaite ou de ce qui est destiné à l’auditoire : en Turquie, certaines ninni sont de véritables pamphlets !

11 Dans ses remarques sur la terminologie de la berceuse, FL a eu tendance à se laisser emporter par les explications fournies par ses informateurs locaux : elles ne sont pas inintéressantes, loin de là, mais elles ne sont pas « scientifiques ». Il n’y a strictement aucun rapport entre Alla « Allah » et alla « berceuse » (pp. 55-56). Tout musulman sait bien qu’associer qui que ce soit à Allah (alors un bébé !) est un sacrilège valant damnation ! Non, la réalité n’est pas là du tout, et on ne peut pas écrire : « l’analogie entre l’enfant et Dieu est donc double » (p. 55). Il faut se replacer dans un cadre linguistique particulier qui est celui du motherese (parler-maman), lequel est caractérisé par une tendance forte à allonger vocoïdes (voyelles considérées d’un point de vue phonétique) et les contoïdes (consonnes considérées d’un point de vue phonétique) et, par ailleurs, à labialiser les vocoïdes. On a au départ le mot bala « petit » sur lequel on refait un doublet ala-bala « mon tout-petit petit », c’est une pratique courante dans les langues turkes. En motherese la prononciation devient al(l)a-bal(l)a, puis la tête du doublet se détache (c’est fréquent dans l’orature : je l’ai montré pour le proverbe et autres formules courtes). On dispose alors du mot alla pour référer à la berceuse : la consonne allongée va être dissimilée dans certaines langues donnant des variantes alda, puis la voyelle finale sera cinétisée produisant des variantes aldey qui seront ensuite réduites en aley. Une autre petite inexactitude réside dans l’explication de appag’ım comme épithète du bébé : aq, ap (blanc) + paq, pag’ (le plus) ; en fait il s’agit d’un type de réduplication partielle à valeur intensive : on part de pak « pur » et l’on obtient appak « parfaitement pur », ou encore kara « noir » donnera kapkara « absolument tout noir ». Encore un détail rectificatif : FL traduit menin’ balam ay meken par « mon enfant est-il la lune ? » (p. 57) ; pour que cette phrase ait une signification, il aurait fallu mettre le nom de l’astre nocturne au masculin : pour les Turks « le » lune est un beau jeune homme, très attiré par les jeunes filles, qu’il enlève et emporte dans sa tanière sélénite, ce pour quoi on ne doit pas laisser sortir ses filles après le coucher de « la » soleil.

12 Le chapitre 2 détaille la méthodologie suivie qui s’appuie sur « la tripartition sémiologique (Molino-Nattiez), l’analyse paradigmatique (Ruwet), le concept de note structurale (Meyer) et la notion de modèle (Arom) » (p. 61). Croiser les approches à partir de points de vue différents me semble une excellente chose d’autant que Ruwet apporte une dimension linguistique qui s’avère bien utile. Toutefois FL aurait dû pousser un peu plus loin son intuition, lorsqu’il souligne (p. 39) « la proximité entre intonation et mélodie, autrement dit entre domaine de la parole et domaine du chant » : il y a un auteur qui manque dans sa liste et c’est Rose Nash. Cette remarquable phonéticienne américaine, également diplômée en musicologie et théorie de la musique est la première à avoir fait un pont, pour les langues turkes, entre langue et musique : ce n’est pas pour rien que son passionnant Turkish intonation : an instrumental study

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(Mouton 1973) s’ouvre sur cette belle phrase de Zoltan Kodaly : « Every language has its own innate tone colour, tempo, rythm, melody, in a word, its music ».

13 L’apport théorique de FL démarre avec l’analyse des 14 mélodies huchées du chapitre 3, recueillies chez les Touvas. L’auteur met en place sa problématique en dégageant un modèle, synthétisé par un tableau (p. 101). Le corpus touva part d’un modèle à cinq éléments ABCBA. Cette notion de modularité me paraît très importante : il y a une modularité de l’esprit qui se traduit à de multiples niveaux, par exemple en grammaire kirghize, c’est la modularité qui permet de comprendre le passage des formes simples aux formes complexes du verbe. FL montre que par rapport à la forme générale qui contient tous les modules, une forme tripartite BCB est prépondérante. Je voudrais attirer son attention sur le fait que dans tous les cas la cellule C me semble capitale, car elle paraît être le pivot autour duquel se construit — peut-être en miroir — la phrase mélodique : on peut en supprimer la tête (AB) ou la queue (A), mais le noyau CB reste intact. Peut-être faudrait-il se pencher également sur le rapport avec la notion de syllabe où le modèle préférentiel est court (par exemple CV) alors que la grammaire autorise des formes longues (CVCC).

14 Le modèle est ensuite étendu (chapitre 4) à un corpus kirghiz diversifié qui ajoute aux mélodies huchées et aux berceuses, des lamentations funéraires, des chants de dépiquage, des mélodies instrumentales, des chants de mariage, etc. C’est une très bonne idée puisque cela permet de confirmer la valeur heuristique des procédures mises en place pour l’analyse des mélodies touvas, tout en élargissant le modèle initial. Cela permet aussi à FL de formuler une remarque importante : « Dans la vallée de l’Alaï une certaine homogénéité structurelle est apparue, alors que dans la région de l’Isyk- Köl une variabilité plus nette était à l’œuvre » (p. 130). C’est une confirmation supplémentaire du dramatique clivage Nord/Sud dans lequel le Kirghizstan est empêtré depuis sa création. Résultat de la machiavélique politique stalinienne qui a consisté à mettre ensemble des gens qui se reconnaissaient comme ethniquement Kirghiz et d’autres qui se reconnaissaient comme linguistiquement Kirghiz : au moment souhaité on pouvait avec la plus grande facilité les dresser les uns contre les autres.

15 Les trois chapitres suivants sont consacrés aux corpus ouzbek, qazaq et qaraqalpaq. J’ai un peu de mal à comprendre pourquoi FL a sauté des Kirghiz aux Ouzbeks pour revenir ensuite aux Qazaqs. Toujours est-il que le modèle ouzbek révèle trois types de structures : à deux cellules (BCB, ACA) visiblement en miroir, à trois cellules (ABCBA), ou encore à quatre cellules (ABCDCBA) (p. 168). FL met en évidence que l’importance statistique des pièces non-mesurées permet de souligner une opposition entre un ensemble ouzbek-touva-kirghiz méridionaux et un isolat kirghiz septentrional. La particularité du corpus qaraqalpaq consiste en la mise en évidence d’une cellule nouvelle (E) qui permet de produire un modèle plus étendu (ABCDEDCBA) (pp. 192-193). En ce qui concerne le corpus qazaq, il est particulièrement réduit et limité à sept pièces. Il faut y voir une conséquence du choc frontal qu’ont eu à subir les Qazaqs avec la politique stalinienne de sédentarisation-collectivisation. Beaucoup de choses se sont perdues dans les marécages de l’acculturation, et notamment bien des procédures pastorales comme les mélodies huchées. Comme il fallait s’y attendre l’analyse a montré (p. 204) les liens étroits qui unissent les traditions musicales qazaqes et qaraqalpaqes : mélodies identiques, structure ABCBA majoritaire dans les deux cas etc.

16 Le dernier chapitre est consacré à l’analyse très fouillée d’une berceuse qaraqalpaqe. En superposant les métriques musicales et poétiques FL découvre la variabilité de la

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structure du vers (pp. 209-210) : je le renvoie à l’introduction de mes Chants de Toit du Monde (Paris, Maisonneuve et Larose, 1982) où j’ai élaboré une typologie de la variation du vers kirghiz qui peut lui être utile.

17 Laissons le dernier mot à l’auteur : les corrélations établies entre structures musicales et paroles révèlent « un ordre à travers lequel l’« homme-musicien » établit une relation privilégiée avec son environnement, les animaux, les esprits ou encore l’écosystème qui l’entoure » (p. 236).

18 S’ajoutant aux travaux d’Alain Desjacques, Sabine Trebinjac et Henri Lecomte la passionnante étude de Frédéric Léotar améliore et approfondit notre connaissance de l’univers musical des populations altaïques : qu’il en soit remercié !

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Note de recherche

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The past in the way of the present : Ruminations on Pema Tseden’s movie Old Dog

Roberto Vitali

1 Life is an ordeal in societies where the smooth unfolding of spontaneous expressions is obstacled by social, religious, or political impositions. When movies are not shot for the sake of sheer entertainment but want to communicate aspects of the reality in which their creators operate, the cinema of societies threatened by these evils offers food for thought hardly like any other. This is perhaps why Third World cinema has a heroic touch that is lacking in the productions from bourgeois Western societies.

2 Having read what people and critics had to say about it, I always wished to see Pema Tseden’s “Khyi rgan” (Old Dog). Pema Tseden is the first Tibetan movie-maker living in China. For one reason or another, this was never happening but finally it did. My ruminations about the movie are late incoming and so I begin with apologies to anyone who dares wasting time to read these lines. It seems I was the last man standing in queue to view Old Dog. My long expectation was worthy of the days, weeks and years I spent wondering whether I could see it. I’m normally quite difficult, for I always go for the maximum (that much ? I ask myself. Am I sure ?) In its case I’m all praises. This movie is the best production ever on Tibet ― or on Tibet by a Tibetan and an Inji alike ― I have seen, although I did not watch everything on Tibet that has been shown on the silver screen.

3 ~ The director surely has command of the filmic language. He knows how to narrate a story and to visualise it. His talent helps the simplicity of the story to stand up in all its beauty and communicates with a strength met with in a cinematic season that is long gone but that was one of the greatest moments of the medium. I mean to refer to Italian Neo-Realism, where one encounters a powerful mix of filmic narrative skills combined with stories that are deeply true. The tragedy of Tibet has never been depicted in such stunning terms as in Old Dog, for Tibetan cinema ― whether by Tibetans or Injis ― has been until now somewhat stereotyped by an effort to interpret the subjects chosen. Tibetan film-making is in its infancy, like many other disciplines

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people from the plateau have just began to expose themselves to. Old Dog does not aim at illustrating a theme or give an insight into the Tibetan way of life and its people, unlike anthropological movies — the obligatory genre when dealing with anything concerning the plateau. The decision to tell the story that Old Dog tells makes the difference. The movie breaks the deadlock of filmic works based on the anthropological approach. It is anthropological on many counts, but it is more than that. It is a fiction movie with a poignant theme and deep multiple messages. In Old Dog Pema Tseden has the great merit to tell a story for what it is, without explanations or an erudite approach. It is a story that comes out on screen with a low pace. As in some movies of another cinematic genre ― Spaghetti Westerns ― a slow flow helps to build up the climax. Movies transcend to another dimension when they have a good ending. Pema Tseden indeed knows how to handle the dramatic end of his story, a metaphor of Tibetan life on the plateau under the Chinese. The Chinese are never mentioned, but their presence is thick on screen.

4 ~ Old Dog by Pema Tseden tells the story of an old nomad who gets back his mastiff, the guard of his cattle for many years, from the Chinese to whom his own son had sold the animal. The son sells it because he has realised that it is preferable to give away the animal than to have it stolen from people involved in the trade of mastiffs to satisfy the demand of affluent Chinese who have recently developed a fancy for these animals. The old nomad gets on his horse and goes downtown to return money to the Chinese dog- merchant and get his companion back. This is the beginning of a number of attempts by middle-men involved in the trade to deprive the old nomad of his sheep guard, lured by the high prices these dogs are fetching with the Chinese. Life becomes a sort of nightmare for the old man who finds himself sieged by the greed of those people. He eventually resorts to the extreme act of killing his own dog rather than to seeing him snatched away by the thieves.

5 ~ Parallel narratives. There are several narratives that run parallel to the main theme of the old man and his dog. They mainly concern the old man’s son. That is just natural, for the son is the major personage after the father and his dog. He is the first to sell the dog out, but realises that he had made a mistake soon after, when he witnesses the reaction of his father. His is a story of catharsis to the point that he beats up and sends to hospital the Chinese dog-merchant who had tried to steal the dog after returning him to the father. The son is portrayed as a confused youth, torn between the beauty of pastoralist life, which he reckons as genuine and the leisure of modern existence, being prone to drinking. There is something that unites the old and the young in the family. That is television, which exercises an irresistible spell on both of them.

6 More unachieved, in my view, is the depiction of another parallel theme. This is the father's obsession that his son, who does not hesitate to define as useless on every possible occasion, has not yet had a child from his wife. The son, being modern, does not feel any desire to have a child, while the father is outraged that he is not caring for the continuation of the family. Eventually, the father obliges the son to go to hospital and have a medical check, which the son feels shameful to have. He obliges his wife to undertake it and comes to know that he himself, not his wife, is barren. He feels hurt in his pride, torn between an old-style ego, upset by a failure that a man should never show, and proclivity to avoid responsibility in life. The theme is a bit forced into the account and is treated rather superficially just as another contradiction between traditional and modern life.

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7 ~ The movie is a case of cultural euthanasia. Faced with the middle men’s perpetual attempts at stealing his animal or buying him out that are upsetting his lifestyle, killing his dog of thirteen years is the only rational choice left to the old man. The audience gasped in horror and shock in the movie hall, during the projection of Old Dog at a Tibetan film festival, when the old man suddenly strangles the dog with his chain. I was not taken by awe and surprise. I had expected something similar happening in the movie. It was a bit of time that I was mumbling within myself that the wayout of the impasse had to be drastic ― dramatic perhaps ― to counteract the continuous risk of loosing the old man’s companion. He decided to lose it, and to let no one else at his place decide that he had to lose it.

8 ~ The moral of the story is that one should “act like a karma yogin”. Once cornered in a situation he does not want and cannot escape, the old man resorts to keep destiny in his own hands rather than let it slip out of his control.

9 ~ It is a story of renouncement. The old man chooses renouncement as a way to be free from the shackles of a world he does not belong to. It is a message that sacrificing something one cares for (his companion for thirteen years) is a way to go on, and this is what he does after killing his dog. He crosses an empty field into the future ― the unknown ― with the confidence that he is still himself, strong of his attitude, and that he has not sold out to the values that are not his own. His world is in shatters but, despite all that is going wrong, this world is still intact deep inside him.

10 ~ In many ways, the Chinese arrogate decisions to themselves without leaving any prospects to the Tibetans. Self immolation and the euthanasia of the dog are cases whereby Tibetans keep decisions in their hands. The many cases of self sacrifice leave the Chinese unprepared despite their might, the death of the dog leaves audiences unprepared. Once again Tibetans are able at least to unsettle the policies of the Chinese and the imagination of the audiences around the world. I still wonder whether anyone can explain the Tibetan psyche. This has not happened yet.

11 ~ The film ends on a positive note. A renouncement leads to a new beginning. It is not the son but the old man who walks on across an empty field at the end of the movie after killing his dog. His journey in life is not over.

12 ~ The future is assigned to the old man rather than his son. This is another message ; it tells that the Tibetan past is the key to the future.

13 ~ Tibet is not for sale. Unlike what is happening in most countries in this age of widespread, rampant search for material gain, including the Third World, Buddhist ethics being deeply rooted among most people of Tibet, especially ― I would dare to say ― among the commoners, aspiration for money and a wealthy lifestyle is not the priority. Money ― in particular Chinese money to which Tibetans are perforce exposed ― cannot buy Tibetan soul. Old Dog tells that there are enough Tibetans who go anyway for money and easy-earned profit, even implying that this could be the way ahead in the future, but it also tells us that anyone who treasures the values proper to the people of the plateau and their belief system walks in the opposite direction. They are on a path on which money is not everything and several other values come much before it. Economics versus ethics is one more battle of spirits on the plateau. It can be once again the old versus the new, but with a distinction. The rather detached attitude of commoners in Tibetan society may also rest on a vision that has brought the Chinese to eradicate feudalism in Tibet, where the high ranks in the monastic hierarchy have,

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throughout the century, shown a good amount of attachment to a prosperous and comfortable life. The commoners, who historically had none of that, seem to me to be no less spiritual than a good number of spiritual masters. That the Chinese cannot buy Tibetan soul with their renmimbi (yuan) spells good for the future. Improved life conditions (“panem et circenses”), although appealing to almost everyone, are not a guarantee for the Chinese to win over a populace who relates to them with utter defiance. I wonder how effective will the reward be, recently promised by the Chinese to anyone who provides information on plans to self immolation. I can imagine that the Chinese will gain little ground with these methods.

14 ~ It is a story told by means of animals as well. The director seems to have a fair idea of animal husbandry. The little gimmick of the isolated sheep, who had stranded away from the herd, struggling to reunite with the others, but is obstacled by a fence, is a pearl of sheep psychology. Indeed fences have been made to divide the plots of the nomads. The fence and the sheep are symbols of the divisive policy adopted by the Chinese in land allocation. In the bygone days the land was never divided, least to say fenced, and the introduction of fences has germinated into land disputes among Tibetans. Litigiosity in the communities does not serve the purpose of Tibetan identity and does not spell good for the struggle to achieve a better — i.e. independent — future.

15 The episode is also a symbol of the Tibetan struggle in isolation, a metaphor of the ideological, economical and humanitarian barrier the Chinese have been building around the plateau. The sheep, isolated by the rest of the herd by a fence, but striving hard to rejoin it by trying every single possible passage across the wires and eventually succeeding in finding one big enough to go through it, is a parable for Tibetan resilience that will be eventually rewarded with freedom.

16 ~ The stillness of time. I have heard complaints that the movie is slow. Those, who say so, have probably not experienced the way time flows on the Tibetan plateau, away from the towns transformed into Chinese steel and mirror monsters. Time seems to be immemorial on the sandy plains and the hills lit by the sun. Life flows with a rhythm that has its own pace and everyone ― men, animals, even fierce winds ― seem to be aware of that. The slowess of the alternation from days to nights is transferred to and tangibly existing in the villages which have retained very little Tibetanhood except a mockery of traditional architecture without any sensibility. Time there, too, flows slow like the mythical water courses of the Indo-Tibetan tradition and unlike the rivers that cross the plateau opening their way fiercely through deserts, rocks and grass lands.

17 ~ The horror of Chinese insertion into the Tibetan landscape. The Chinese have reduced all villages of Tibet to ugly anonimity. The Amdo village, stage of several sequences of Old Dog, does not escape this ubiquitous and insensitive approach. It could be any village anywhere in Eastern Tibet. The houses are sinister representatives of a mockery of the old Tibetan architectural tradition. A dusty snooker table stands crippled in the middle of the main road, the one road of the village. Miserable small Chinese-style shops packed with cheap, basic goods are run by absent people sitting in them ― or outside ― with no expressions on their faces. Everywhere is mud, spilled machine oil, noisy and pollutant tractors struggling on the way. Poverty is enhanced by the brutality of the local conditions, an environment of degradation. Pema Tseden sends this other message. This is the hopelessness of the myriad villages of Tibet and their lost identity and personality. This desolation documents well the Chinese insertion into the Tibetan landscape. In one sense what Pema Tseden shows is meaningful. It proves

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the extraneity and absurdity of this occupation. Ecological damage is massive on its micro scale besides the damage created by great Chinese enterprises, like mining and deforestation. Even the weather is gloomy in Pema Tseden’s village, while the sun shines on the pastures where the cattle of the old man graze.

18 ~ The absence of a trace of religion. Liberating. In the movie religion does not represent and guarantee the spontaneous unfolding of Tibetan culture exclusively. Other aspects of Tibetan culture are no less indispensable to the survival of its civilisation. Despite the idea common in occupied Tibet that religion is the lever to freedom, local cultures and traditions are signs of freedom and well being, opposite to the oppression of modernity and arrogance.

19 ~ The dogs in the movie. The mastiffs I have seen in Tibet are much wilder than the dogs of the movie. Forget the old dog, but the other, too, look like mascots rolling at the pace of the leash and battered motorbikes that the actors ride in the movie. The mastiffs I have seen fly like arrows across the plains where nomads pitch their blacks tents.

20 ~ Politics sometimes jeopardise creativity. Nothing against politics ― there is much need of it ― but the ideological deadlock in the diaspora is so prominent that schlerotises everything, including Tibetan creativity. In its apparently non political approach, a movie from Tibet like Old Dog is subtly and powerfully political. It puts forward a fundamental political message besides showing the horrors of Chinese occupation in daily life and does it in a way that is poignantly poetical. Paradoxically a movie director is freer in occupied Tibet, if he resorts to use his creativity, than in exile, where there is an ideological correctness that needs to be addressed by means of standards concerning religion, politics or the social.

21 ~ It is a parable of the arrogance and stupidity of a world of empty values ― the fancy for Tibetan mastiffs recently spreading among affluent urban Chinese ― in opposition to a world with deep and archaic customs shattered by greed and opportunism.

22 ~ Old Dog is humanistic cinema. It breathes new air in the infancy of Tibetan cinema, for it does not want to show, represent something to the audience, but goes straight into the depth of the Tibetan psyche and transmits to the viewer the sense of anguish that is individual and, for this reason, dramatically collective.

23 The movie is humanistic in that it documents and puts forward a description of how changes in culture affect people. It is a movie on change. This obviously happens either in a positive or negative sense. When it comes to Tibet, change is topically negative and misplaces people’s existences on account of the repression that the Chinese exercise upon every aspect of the traditional way of life. Change is not for the better for the greatest majority of people in Tibet. The old customs have forged the Tibet that the Chinese have wiped out. Change is the policy of the occupants. The Tibetans who buy and steal mastiffs are portrayed as people taking this opportunity for personal financial gain. The movie does not go further to examine the motivations that lead these people to work for the new lucrative trade. The motivation they adduce for buying and stealing dogs is sheer profit. Profit-making is read without any support or justification from the part of the director, whereas Pema Tseden follows the old man’s struggle to save what is dear to him with empathy.

24 ~ It is contemporary, for the movie is built around a theme that is nothing else than a new vogue spread over the plateau ; a vogue that, once again, breaks away from spontaneous cultural expressions. Mastiffs are not pet dogs.

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25 ~ In several cases the movie shows Tibetans living a life of cynicism. Life is somewhat accepted by a number of locals for what it is now and for what the Chinese offer. There is a perceived dichotomy between the people hanging around the village and those in nomadic settlements, but life flows equally repetitive in the village and on the nomadic pastures with a stillness that Chinese occupation has not overturned. This theme is the subtle link, the meeting point between past and modernity in the huge expanse of the plateau outside the major inhabited centres.

26 The movie does not say whether the few people shown in the village, either playing endless snooker games or sitting in small shops packed with goods ― Chinese style ― are ex-nomads obliged to live a village life by the economic conditions created by the foreign occupants. They are depicted as living an indolent life, while the author sees nomads’ life as a full yet simple but ultimately rewarding life. These nomads ― turned urban people ― may not have faced the ugly destiny of others obliged to transfer themselves inside the compounds built by the Chinese, which resemble prison camps rather more than spontaneous settlements. Even in Pema Tseden’s village people move around like puppets in search of a stage.

27 ~ In its powerfully striking simplicity, the movie sends out a bold message to the Chinese. The movie’s message is much bolder than most overtly politically-oriented documentaries dealing with Tibetan affairs I know of. Its subtle treatment and the screenplay apparently dealing with a subject that is not blatantly political may have helped to its screening — though moderate — outside China in movie festivals around the world without too much hindrance. But I wonder whether everything that is shown and told in the movie has gone down well with the authorities that oversee the messages sent out by works of art. Or whether something has been removed. It seemingly did not suffer censorship. Is this a sign of an opening in Chinese ideological inflexibility ? That would be really good. Or is it critical blindness ?

28 ~ The message the movie sends out to the Chinese is that integration is next to nihil after more than half a century of their presence in Tibet and that their inflexibility creates conditions that the ordinary Tibetans find difficult to stomach. The old man walking into the unknown at the end is the metaphor of things to come. It says that the future of Tibet is undecipherable although somewhat traced by Chinese repression but Tibetans will keep on counting on an inner strength that their world nowhere stops from infusing into them despite persecution.

29 ~ In a way the movie should be an eye opener for the Chinese. It somewhat offers solutions without hinting at them, not even slightly. It tells that things do not work in the way that has been sanctioned by them until now. It says that time has come for a change to the changes in the lifestyle brought by the Chinese in successive waves. But the Chinese may not listen : there is no worse deaf man than the one who does not want to hear.

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INDEX

Mots-clés: Cinéma, tibétain Keywords: Cinema, Tibetan

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Résumés de thèse

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Éric Mélac, L’évidentialité en anglais : approche contrastive à partir d’un corpus anglais-tibétain

RÉFÉRENCE

Thèse de doctorat en linguistique anglaise soutenue à l’Université Sorbonne Nouvelle - Paris 3, le 12 décembre 2014 (520 p. + 17 p. d’annexes). Membres du jury : A. Celle, E. Corre (directeur), Ph. Miller (rapporteur), J. Nuyts, E. Sweetser (rapporteur), N. Tournadre (codirecteur), D. Ziegeler

L’évidentialité en anglais : approche contrastive à partir d’un corpus anglais-tibétain

1 L’objet de cette thèse est de fournir une description détaillée de l’évidentialité en anglais et en tibétain. L’évidentialité y est définie comme l’expression linguistique du mode d’accès à l’information énoncée. Cette étude se fonde principalement sur trois corpus spécialisés en anglais et tibétain recueillis aux universités de Lhassa et de Cambridge (TSC et CSC/LAC, 2010-2012, 10 h.). Les méthodes employées pour la constitution de ces corpus visaient à éliciter un grand nombre de formes évidentielles en posant des questions qui ont trait à différents modes d’accès à l’information, et en adoptant une méthodologie identique en anglais et en tibétain afin d’obtenir des données qualitatives et quantitatives comparables.

2 Le tibétain possède un système évidentiel complexe et grammaticalisé dont la description peut fournir une grille d’analyse préliminaire pour notre étude de l’évidentialité en anglais. Des exemples authentiques issus du corpus nous permettent d’illustrer et de compléter les descriptions du groupe verbal tibétain dans plusieurs travaux pionniers antérieurs à la présente recherche (Tournadre 1996 ; Tournadre &

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Sangda Dorje 1998 ; Vokurková 2008 ; Oisel 2013) afin de poser les bases de la sémantique évidentielle.

3 Les marqueurs évidentiels qui émergent dans les parties tibétaine et anglaise du corpus sont examinés afin de déterminer les paramètres qui motivent leur utilisation. Les marqueurs tibétains sont principalement grammaticaux et intégrés à des paradigmes syntaxiques : copules (’dug), suffixes verbaux (-song, -gi.’dug, -bzhag) et enclitiques (-za et -ze). Les marqueurs évidentiels anglais sont lexicaux ou semi-grammaticaux : verbes de perception, verbes de cognition, verbes de discours, modaux, adverbes, conjoints, parenthétiques et marqueurs de discours (Nuyts 2001, Cappelli 2007, Sanders & Sweetser 2009, Mortensen 2010, Whitt 2010, Gisborne 2010, Miller 2008, Boulonnais 2010, Gurajek 2010, Kaltenböck et al. 2011, Heine 2013).

4 Cette description de l’évidentialité en tibétain et en anglais nous permet d’analyser les conséquences d’un rendu grammatical ou lexical de cette notion (Talmy 2000, Bybee et al. 1994, Nuyts 2001, Boye & Harder 2009). Les analyses contrastives sur les corpus recueillis et sur large corpus illustrent les différences de complexité, d’optionalité, de fréquence, de restriction sémantique, de prise en charge, de statut informatif et de stratégie de discours dans les deux systèmes. Le premier point qu’il convient de noter est que le système tibétain est plus unifié, puisque l’évidentialité s’y exprime le plus souvent par des suffixes verbaux et des copules, alors que l’évidentialité anglaise émerge dans une dizaine de catégories syntaxiques. Ensuite, l’évidentialité en anglais est plus complexe, dans le sens où son expression demande généralement plus d’éléments morphologiques, phonologiques et syntaxiques. Par exemple, le tibétain standard peut exprimer en une syllabe une information obtenue de quelqu’un qui a été un témoin direct de l’événement : -song-ze (prononcé /sõŋs/). En revanche, cette distinction évidentielle se rendra en anglais par une formule comme ‘I heard from someone who was there that…’ Ensuite, le système anglais est plus optionnel, bien que la présence de marqueurs factuels en tibétain dans le même paradigme syntaxique rende l’ensemble du système semi-obligatoire, du moins d’un point de vue sémantique. Par ailleurs, les données quantitatives des deux corpus indiquent que l’évidentialité est encodée six fois plus souvent en tibétain qu’en anglais. La sémantique lexicale est typiquement plus spécifique que la sémantique grammaticale. Par exemple, les enclitiques de ouï-dire -za et -ze couvrent tout le spectre de l’évidentialité par ouï-dire, tandis que les équivalents anglais comportent davantage de traits sémantiques. Enfin, pour plusieurs raisons linguistiques et cognitives, l’évidentialité grammaticale se situe davantage à l’arrière-plan que l’évidentialité lexicale.

5 Cette étude réévalue la dichotomie, souvent considérée comme acquise, entre évidentialité grammaticale et lexicale (Aikhenvald 2004). Nous avançons que les marqueurs évidentiels des deux langues se positionnent à différents endroits sur un continuum multidimensionnel lexique-grammaire. Il n’est pas remis en question que le système évidentiel tibétain est plus grammaticalisé que le système anglais, mais on démontre que ce dernier présente tous les signes d’une grammaticalisation partielle : évolution sémantique vers l’abstrait, réduction, décatégorisation, etc. Par exemple, une expression comme ØSounds like marque le passage d’un verbe d’émission sonore à un marqueur inférentiel à partir de sources verbales (auditives ou écrites) : ‘Sounds like he’s having serious problems, doesn’t he ?’ Il s’agit par ailleurs d’une anomalie syntaxique, puisque non seulement l’anglais autorise ici l’effacement du pronom sujet, mais l’exploite dans une perspective de spécialisation sémantique : ØSounds like peut

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seulement marquer l’inférence, et ne plus encoder la simple apparence, contrairement à It sounds like : ‘It sounds like he’s having serious problems, but actually he is fine.’ Il s’agit simplement d’un exemple parmi d’autres de la grammaticalisation de l’évidentialité en anglais, ce qui amène à conclure que l’évidentialité doit être intégrée à la recherche en anglais pour une description précise et complète de cette langue.

Evidentiality in English : a contrastive study on a Tibetan-English corpus

6 This thesis gives a detailed description of evidentiality in English in contrast with Tibetan. Evidentiality is presented as a universal semantic domain expressing the mode of access to the asserted information. This study is based on specialised corpora collected in Tibet and in England (TSC and CSC/LAC, 2010-2012, 10 h.). These corpora were designed to elicit numerous evidentials by asking questions related to diverse modes of access to information. Using the same methodology for both English and Tibetan enabled us to gather comparable data both quantitatively and qualitatively.

7 Tibetan has a complex and grammaticalised evidential system, and its description can provide a preliminary analytical grid for a semantic assessment of English evidentiality. Authentic examples from the corpora illustrate and supplement the analyses of the Tibetan verb phrase from previous research (Tournadre 1996 ; Tournadre & Sangda Dorje 1998 ; Vokurková 2008 ; Oisel 2013), in order to lay the foundation of the semantics of evidentiality.

8 The evidential markers that emerge in the Tibetan and English sections of the corpora are examined so as to determine the parameters that motivate their usage. Tibetan evidentials are mainly grammatical and paradigmatised : copulas (’dug), verb suffixes (- gi.’dug, -song, -bzhag) and enclitics (-za and -ze). English evidentials are either lexical or semi-grammatical : perception verbs, cognition verbs, speech verbs, modals, adverbs, conjuncts, parentheticals and discourse markers (Nuyts 2001a, Cappelli 2007, Sanders & Sweetser 2009, Mortensen 2010, Whitt 2010, Gisborne 2010, Miller 2008, Boulonnais 2010, Gurajek 2010, Kaltenböck et al. 2011, Heine 2013).

9 This survey of Tibetan and English evidentiality provides precise data for the analysis of the consequences of a grammatical or a lexical rendering of the notion (Talmy 2000, Bybee et al. 1994, Nuyts 2001a, Boye & Harder 2009). Linguistic evidence illustrates the differences in complexity, optionality, frequency, semantic restriction, speaker commitment, informative status and discourse strategy in the two systems. The Tibetan system is more homogeneous because Tibetan evidentials are mainly verb suffixes, copulas and enclitics, whereas in English evidentiality emerges in about ten syntactic categories. English evidentiality is more complex in the sense that it usually requires more morphological, phonological and syntactic elements. For example, Tibetan speakers can express in one syllable that the asserted information comes from what a direct witness said : -song-ze. In English however, only a longer phrase can render this evidential meaning : I heard from someone who was there that… The quantitative data from the contrastive corpus also indicates that Tibetan expresses evidentiality six times more frequently than English. Furthermore, lexical semantics is typically more specific than grammatical semantics. For example, the Tibetan enclitics -za and -ze cover the whole spectrum of hearsay evidentiality, whereas their English

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equivalents (He said, I was told, I heard, apparently…) contain more semantic features. Finally grammatical evidentiality is more backgrounded than lexical evidentiality in terms of information hierarchy for several linguistic and cognitive reasons.

10 This study reassesses the assumed dichotomy between grammatical and lexical evidentiality (Aikhenvald 2004), arguing that evidentials in both Tibetan and English inhabit a lexicon-grammar multidimensional continuum where they merely occupy different positions. This study does not question that the Tibetan evidential system is more grammaticalised than the English one, but it shows that the latter presents all the signs of partial grammaticalisation : semantic evolution, reduction, decategorisation, etc. For example, a conventionalised phrase such as ØSounds like shows the evolution of a verb of acoustic emission to an inferential marker from verbal sources (auditory or written) : ‘Sounds like he’s having serious problems, doesn’t he ?’ This marker presents a syntactic anomaly, because not only English allows the omission of the subject pronoun here, but exploits it for the sake of semantic specialisation. ØSounds like can only encode inference and not mere appearance, unlike It sounds like : ‘It sounds like he’s having serious problem, but actually he’s fine.’ The evolution of sound is just one example of the grammaticalisation of English evidentiality, and this notion is therefore perfectly relevant and necessary for a thorough and accurate description of English.

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DeLancey, S. 1985 / 2011, evidentials and the semantics of causation, In Proceedings of the Annual Meeting of the Berkeley Linguistics Society (Vol. 11). 1986 Evidentiality and volitionality in Tibetan, Chafe & Nichols (eds.), pp. 203-213.

Denison, D. 1992 The information present : present tense for communication in the past. History of Englishes. New Methods and Interpretations in Historical Linguistics, pp. 262-286.

Diewald, G., & E. Smirnova (eds.) 2010 Linguistic realization of evidentiality in European languages (Vol. 49), Walter de Gruyter.

Garrett, E. J. 2001 Evidentiality and assertion in Tibetan (Doctoral dissertation, University of California, Los Angeles).

Gisborne, N. 2010 The event structure of perception verbs (Oxford University Press).

Gurajek, B. 2010 Evidentiality in English and Polish (Doctoral dissertation).

Guentchéva, Z. 1994 Manifestations de la catégorie du médiatif dans les temps du français. Langue française, pp. 8-23. 1995 L’énonciation médiatisée et les mécanismes perceptifs. Langue et langage, Problèmes et raisonnement en linguistique. Mélanges offerts à Antoine Culioli (Paris, PUF), pp. 301-315.

Heine, B. 2013 On discourse markers : Grammaticalization, pragmaticalization, or something else ?. Linguistics, 51, 6, pp. 1205-1247.

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Hopper, P. J., & E. C. Traugott 1993 Grammaticalization. Cambridge textbooks in linguistics (Cambridge, CUP).

Kaltenböck, G., Heine, B., & T. Kuteva 2011 On thetical grammar, Studies in language, 35, 4, pp. 852-897.

Kärkkäinen, E. 2003 Epistemic stance in English conversation : A description of its interactional functions, with a focus on I think (John Benjamins Publishing).

Lazard, G. 2001 On the grammaticalization of evidentiality, Journal of Pragmatics, 33, 3, pp. 359-367.

Matlock, T. 2011 Metaphor and the Grammaticalization of Evidentials, in Proceedings of the Annual Meeting of the Berkeley Linguistics Society (Vol. 15).

Miller, P. 2008 Prédication et évidentialité : de l’emploi copule des verbes de perception en anglais, Faits de langues, 31-32.

Mortensen, J. 2010 Epistemic and Evidential Sentence Adverbials in Danish and English (Doctoral dissertation, A).

Newmeyer, F. J. 2000 Deconstructing grammaticalization, Language sciences, 23, 2, p. 187.

Nuyts, J. 2001 Epistemic modality, language, and conceptualization : A cognitive-pragmatic perspective (Vol. 5) (John Benjamins Publishing).

Oisel, G. 2013 Morphosyntaxe et sémantique des auxiliaires et des connecteurs du tibétain littéraire : étude diachronique et synchronique (Doctoral dissertation, Université de la Sorbonne nouvelle- Paris 3).

Sanders, T., & Sweetser, E. (eds.) 2009 Causal categories in discourse and cognition (Vol. 44). Walter de Gruyter.

Talmy, L. 2000 Toward a cognitive semantics, vol. 1 : Concept structuring systems (The MIT Press).

Thompson, S. A., & A. Mulac 1991 A quantitative perspective on the grammaticization of epistemic parentheticals in English, Approaches to grammaticalization, 2, pp. 313-329.

Tournadre, N. & Sangda Dorje 1998 Manuel de tibétain standard (L’Asiathèque). 1996 L’ergativité en tibétain. Approche morphosyntaxique de la langue (Paris, Éditions Peeters Louvain).

Vokurková, Z. 2008 Epistemic modalities in spoken standard Tibetan (Doctoral dissertation, Thèse de doctorat. Filozoficka Fakulta Univerzity Karlovy–Université Paris 8).

Whitt, R. J. 2010 Evidentiality and perception verbs in English and German (Vol. 26) (Peter Lang).

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Aurore Dumont, Échanges marchands, réseaux relationnels et nomadisme contemporain chez les Evenk de Chine (Mongolie- Intérieure)

RÉFÉRENCE

Thèse de doctorat en anthropologie soutenue à l’École pratique des hautes études, le 8 décembre 2014 (452 p., 18 pl. de photographies). Membres du jury : D. G. Anderson (rapporteur), I. Charleux, R. Hamayon, J. Lagerwey (directeur), A. Lavrillier, I. Thireau (rapporteur, président du jury)

1 Ici et là, les groupes nomades s’adaptent à des environnements économiques, politiques et sociaux en constante mutation. Pour autant, nombreux sont les observateurs à remarquer la flexibilité, voire la résilience de ces populations. Ce double constat, d’un bouleversement et d’une adaptation, constitue le point de départ de cette thèse doctorale consacrée aux Evenk de Mongolie-Intérieure. Les trois groupes toungouses concernés, les Evenk éleveurs de rennes, les Khamnigan et les Solon, forment une « minorité nationale evenk1 » (ewenke shaoshu minzu) en dépit de leur appartenance à deux milieux culturels et domestiques distincts. Les uns pratiquent l’élevage du renne et une chasse occasionnelle dans la taïga, tandis que les autres s’adonnent à l’élevage de type mongol dit des « cinq museaux2 » dans la steppe. Ce travail s’appuie sur des enquêtes de terrain menées entre 2008 et 2014 dans la région de dans le nord-est de la Mongolie-Intérieure où coexistent ces deux types d’élevage mobile. L’objectif est de mettre en lumière les dynamiques caractérisant le « nomadisme contemporain », envisagé à partir de la mobilité, des échanges marchands et des réseaux relationnels.

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2 Après l’exposé, dans un chapitre liminaire, des cheminements du projet de « classification ethnique » (minzu shibie), la première partie propose un survol historique et géographique de la région de Hulunbuir et de ses peuples. Elle poursuit par la présentation des économies domestiques nomades avant et après l’instauration de la République populaire de Chine (1949). Dans la première moitié du XXe siècle, les Evenk étaient organisés en familles nucléaires nomadisant selon les besoins de l’élevage, de la chasse et des échanges marchands. Les politiques mises en place par le régime communiste ont entraîné la transformation de l’économie domestique traditionnelle en un élevage de type extensif, un usage plus systématique de l’habitat fixe, une réduction des parcours de nomadisation et la création de catégories socio- professionnelles pour les éleveurs. Cette partie s’achève par la présentation de la politique du « Développement du Grand Ouest » (xibu dakaifa). Lancée au début des années 2000, elle promeut le développement économique et la protection environnementale des provinces de l’ouest du pays. Ce projet de modernisation a marqué une phase de transition importante chez les peuples nomades. L’inscription des éleveurs dans des cadres sociaux étendus et la place qu’ils se voient assigner dans les structures et les préoccupations étatiques sont perceptibles tant au niveau des modes d’organisation de l’économie pastorale que dans l’essor du tourisme et des nouvelles pratiques qui y sont associées. L’esquisse des différentes politiques permet ainsi de comprendre dans quel processus historique s’inscrit la situation actuelle des Evenk.

3 La seconde partie explore le nomadisme à l’époque contemporaine. L’analyse des espaces nomade et sédentaire et de leur exploitation alternée par les éleveurs permet d’appréhender la représentation des espaces et celle des personnes. Forestier ou steppique, l’espace nomade est aménagé de façon uniforme et parcellisé par le pouvoir central, tandis que les éleveurs le perçoivent comme un espace « ouvert », où chacune des ressources végétales et animales est parfaitement connue. Nous avons envisagé ce « double espace » comme suit : un territoire normé façonné par l’administration qui le divise et le contrôle d’une part ; et un espace autonome dépourvu de signes réglementaires mais que les Evenk se sont approprié d’autre part. L’étude de l’unité domestique éclaire l’évolution structurelle et symbolique du campement et des différents types d’habitats mobiles utilisés.

4 La dernière section de cette partie porte sur la mobilité. Dans la taïga et la steppe, les rapports que les éleveurs entretiennent avec l’espace sont fondés sur une mobilité à la fois réduite mais paradoxalement plus flexible, caractérisée par des mouvements circulaires. Par mobilité réduite, nous entendons la diminution des espaces de pâturage et la faible fréquence de nomadisation. Pour les besoins de l’élevage et des échanges marchands d’une part et en raison des distances importantes qui séparent les milieux sédentaire et nomade d’autre part, les Evenk parcourent annuellement des trajets d’amplitude importante. Cependant, alors que les déplacements déterminés par l’élevage ont été réduits par divers facteurs (sédentarisation, découpage des aires de nomadisation et restrictions territoriales), la mobilité des éleveurs demeure soutenue. Ces différents types de mobilité, qui prennent des formes inédites, témoignent de la pérennité d’un mouvement nomade que nous avons qualifié d’élémentaire.

5 La dernière partie analyse les mécanismes marchands et les dynamiques relationnelles entre les Evenk et leurs partenaires chinois. Après avoir explicité la circulation des biens et des personnes dans deux types d’économies, formelle et informelle, les échanges marchands monétaires et non monétaires sont illustrés par les différents

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types de transaction existants (don, vente, location). Ceux-ci dépassent souvent le champ de la légalité et mettent en perspective des réseaux de relations interpersonnelles sans lesquels ces opérations seraient impossibles. La section suivante examine la dynamique des réseaux relationnels (guanxi) dans les échanges. Le cercle familial élargi, les commerçants, les chauffeurs de taxi et les agents du pouvoir interagissent de façon complémentaire avec les Evenk : chacun met en place des modes d’action tels le jeu de la face, de la réciprocité et des faveurs permettant le bon fonctionnement des guanxi.

6 L’étude des différentes sociétés evenk de Chine a permis de saisir des logiques similaires dans les pratiques pastorales, les échanges marchands et les réseaux relationnels. Elle éclaire les mécanismes d’adaptation mis en œuvre par les populations.

Trade exchanges, relation networks and contemporary nomadism among the Evenki of China (Inner Mongolia)

7 Everywhere, nomadic people adapt to their economic, political and social environment that is constantly changing. Thus, many observers have noted the flexibility and the resilience of these populations. This double assessment, that of change on the one side and adaptation on the other, is the starting point of this research devoted to the Evenki of Inner Mongolia. The three concerned Tungusic groups, the Evenki reindeer herders, the Khamnigan and the Solon, form one « Evenki national minority3 » (Ewenke shaoshu minzu), although they belong to two distinct cultural and domestic environments. Some are reindeer herders who practice hunting occasionally in the taiga, while others are engaged in the Mongolian herding type of “five muzzles4” in the steppe. This work is based on fieldwork conducted between 2008 and 2014 in the Hulunbuir area, in the northeastern part of Inner Mongolia where those two types of mobile pastoralism coexist. The goal of this research is to highlight the dynamics that characterize contemporary nomadism, considered from the perspectives of mobility, commodity exchanges and relational networks.

8 After having exposed the « ethnic classification » project (minzu shibie) in an introductory chapter, the first part of the dissertation provides a historical and geographical overview of the Hulunbuir area and its peoples. It is followed by the presentation of nomadic domestic economies before and after the establishment of the People’s Republic of China (1949). In the first half of the twentieth century, the Evenki were organized in nuclear families, nomadizing according to the herding, hunting and trade exchanges necessities. The communist policies led to the transformation of traditional domestic economy into an extensive type of herding, a more systematic use of fixed dwellings, the reduction of nomadic areas and the creation of socio- professional categories for herders. This part ends with the presentation of the « Open Up the West policy » (xibu dakaifa). Initiated at the beginning of 2000, this policy promotes the economic development and environmental protection of the Western provinces of China. This modernisation project marked an important transition for nomadic peoples. The inclusion of herders in extensive social settings and the position they are assigned in the state structures are visible both in the organization of pastoral economy, tourism development and in new practices associated with them. The sketch

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of the different promoted policies allows understanding in which historical process fits the current situation of the Evenki.

9 The second part studies the situation of contemporary nomadism. The analysis of nomadic and sedentary spaces and their alternated exploitation by herders sheds the light on the representation of spaces and people. Whether in the taiga or in the steppe, the nomadic space is organized in a uniform way and divided by the regional authorities, while herders perceive it as an “open space” where each plant and animal resources is perfectly known. We considered this “double space” as follows : on the one hand, a standardised territory shaped and divided by the administration, and on the other hand, an autonomous territory, without regulatory signs, and appropriated by Evenki. The study of the domestic unit illuminates the structural and symbolic evolution of the nomadic camp and the use of different types of mobile dwellings.

10 The last section is devoted to mobility. In the taiga and in the steppe, the relations between herders and space are based on a reduced mobility, which at the same time, is paradoxically more flexible, characterized on circular movements. What we mean by “reduced mobility” is the reduction of grazing areas and the low frequency of nomadisation. For herding and trade exchanges purposes on the one hand and because of the significant distances between sedentary and nomadic areas on the other, the Evenki annually cover great distances. Nevertheless, while the moves determined by herding have been reduced by various factors (sedentarisation, the division of nomadisation’s areas and territorial restrictions), the herders’ mobility remains important. These different types of mobility, which take new forms, reflect the sustainability of nomadic move that we qualified as “elementary nomadic move”.

11 The last part of the thesis deals with trade mechanisms and relational dynamics between the Evenki and their Chinese partners. After having explained the circulation of goods and people within the two types of economy, formal and informal, the monetary and non-monetary exchanges are illustrated by the different types of existing transactions (gift, trade rent. The latter often exceed the scope of legality and highlight the interpersonal relationships (guanxi) without which these operations would not be possible. The following section examines the relationships dynamics in these exchanges. The extended family, traders, taxi drivers and power agents interact in a complementary way with the Evenki : each of them set up mode of action such as the face, reciprocity and favors for the right operation of guanxi.

12 The study of different Evenki societies of China has established the existence of similar logics in pastoral practices, trade exchanges and relationship networks. It highlights Evenkis’ adaptative strategies.

NOTES

1. D’après le dernier recensement national chinois de 2010, la « minorité evenk » compte 30 875 individus. 2. Ce sont les ovins, caprins, bovins, chevaux et chameaux.

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3. According to the 2010 Chinese national census, there were 30 875 Evenki in China. 4. These are cows, camels, horses, sheeps and goats.

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Aurélie Biard, État, religion et société en Asie centrale post- soviétique. Usages du religieux, pratiques sociales et légitimités politiques au Kirghizstan

RÉFÉRENCE

Thèse de doctorat de Science politique soutenue à l’IEP de Paris, le 29 mai 2015 (556p. + annexe de photos). Membres du jury : S. A. Dudoignon, R. Hamayon, Ch. Jaffrelot, P. Michel (directeur), E. Pace, C. Poujol (rapporteur), S. Serrano (rapporteur)

1 L’effondrement de l’URSS en décembre 1991 a engendré une nouvelle configuration politique, économique et sociale dans l’ensemble de l’espace postsoviétique, dont les effets se font encore sentir plus de vingt ans après. La disparition du régime a offert la possibilité aux populations éponymes de chacune des républiques centrasiatiques (Kazakhstan, Kirghizstan, Ouzbékistan, Tadjikistan, Turkménistan), de réinvestir leur espace religieux, transformé par soixante-dix ans de politique athéiste militante, et de « redéfinir les références symboliques de leur identité, et cela à un niveau qu’elles n’avaient jamais connu »1. Par l’établissement d’un État indépendant, ces sociétés sont devenues à la fois les acteurs et les objets de multiples débats concernant leur identité nationale. Ces amples recompositions sociales ont conduit à d’importantes ré- articulations du ‘croire’, celui-ci étant appréhendé comme « entreprise d’allocation de sens »2, dans un contexte politique nouveau3.

2 Ce travail de thèse explore la difficile reconstruction des dispositifs identitaires suite au flottement généralisé induit par les recompositions dues à la fois à l’effondrement du communisme et à la mondialisation de l’économie et de la culture. Les brutales transformations qu’ont connues les sociétés centrasiatiques cassent en effet les références culturelles ‘traditionnelles’, questionnent les identités, bousculent, dans un

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univers dynamique marqué par le disruptif, toute stabilité, et nécessitent une reformulation des logiques de légitimité. Cette recherche porte sur le cas du Kirghizstan, république d’Asie centrale turcophone, de tradition nomade et à majorité musulmane (islam hanafî4), qui représente un laboratoire à forte valeur heuristique afin d’observer les recompositions identitaires à l’œuvre dans le monde contemporain.

3 L’une des principales stratégies déployées par les acteurs de la scène kirghizstanaise est celle des redistributions réciproques entre religion et politique. Nulle surprise, semble- t-il, à ce que le religieux soit convoqué par des acteurs comme vecteur d’ajustement dans un contexte caractérisé par des changements brutaux : la religion est traditionnellement tenue pour un marqueur identitaire particulièrement performant car elle cultive les mythes d’origine et se veut un conservatoire des traditions. Le religieux représente donc, comme le note Patrick Michel, « un registre performant de production d’une stabilité de référence, et dès lors d’énonciation d’une altérité de référence, en situation de flottement généralisé des critères traditionnellement tenus pour pertinents en matière de définition identitaire »5.

4 L’on se propose donc, dans ce travail de thèse, d’étudier les réponses apportées par les acteurs de la scène kirghizstanaise aux bouleversements induits par la mise en flottement des critères d’identité traditionnellement pertinents. Leur réponse se fonde principalement sur la ré-articulation du religieux en relation au politique à quatre niveaux différents : celui de la liquidation de l’URSS et, dès lors, de l’empire tsariste dont l’Union soviétique avait hérité ; celui de l’héritage de l’idéologie soviétique et, partant, la liquidation de formes anciennes de légitimité politique et l’émergence de nouvelles légitimités politiques, hybrides et plurielles (souvent encore empreintes des formes anciennes) ; celui de la construction de l’État et de la nation et, enfin, celui de la mondialisation dont le Kirghizstan subit les effets dissolvants.

5 Afin de dégager des éléments d’analyse visant à rendre compte du statut, de la nature et du rôle du religieux sur la scène contemporaine kirghizstanaise, nous explorons la triangulation des acteurs État-religion-société, avec l’objectif de démontrer leur imbrication intime. La thèse centrale de ce travail soutient en effet que la place du religieux dans la société kirghize doit être appréhendée non comme une structure absolue avec des entités hermétiques les unes aux autres ; ‘religion’, ‘politique’ et ‘identité’ ; mais comme un processus qui est à la fois dynamique, éminemment hybride et imbriquant de manière intime ces trois répertoires. Il ne s’agit, dès lors, guère d’étudier une structure mais des pratiques discursives et matérielles, individuelles et collectives, qui permettent de comprendre ces interactions qui font que le religieux ‘illustre’ les changements sociétaux profonds des sociétés post-soviétiques. La religion est en effet un élément clé dans l’instrumentalisation de la nation, dans le quotidien ritualisé de la population locale et dans le rapport au politique. Notre approche remet en cause le postulat selon lequel la religion serait dotée d’une pertinence qui lui appartiendrait en propre alors même que ce qui est décrit n’est jamais tant la ‘religion’ que les utilisations simultanées et parfois contradictoires dont elle fait l’objet6. Le religieux peut en effet aussi bien servir de vecteur à une validation des constructions en cours et/ou de l’ordre établi dans la république kirghize post-soviétique qu’à leur contestation.

6 Ce travail de thèse s’assigne donc pour objet de se saisir des recompositions du religieux comme autant d’indicateurs et de modalités de gestion des évolutions affectant la société contemporaine kirghizstanaise, depuis l’effondrement de l’Union

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soviétique. L’analyse porte non sur l’offre religieuse mais sur l’utilisation qui est faite de ce religieux sur une scène kirghizstanaise traversée par les flux de la mondialisation, de la part d’acteurs, tout à la fois religieux, sociaux et économiques. L’on privilégie dès lors une lecture des emplois et réemplois du religieux sur le terrain politique au Kirghizstan en s’inscrivant dans le cadre d’une sociologie politique des usages de biens symboliques. Pour ce faire, les mutations du religieux, de l’islam en particulier, sont replacées dans leur contexte politique, économique et social. Il s’agit de situer le religieux en objet dans son champ, la société kirghizstanaise de la post-indépendance, et de faire que, dans un va-et-vient constant, le champ révèle l’objet et l’objet le champ7.

7 Cette problématique centrale (le religieux indicateur et mode de gestion) 8 est ici explorée par le biais de trois hypothèses principales correspondant à autant d’usages faits du religieux de la part de différents acteurs.

8 La première hypothèse est celle du religieux utilisé comme tentative de recharge/ réenchantement de l’ordre politique de l’après-indépendance, qui est lui-même à la recherche d’une légitimité nouvelle depuis l’effondrement du communisme. Le religieux est en effet utilisé par l’État kirghiztanais et les élites républicaines pour servir de support à la ‘remise en ordre’/consolidation de l’État-nation après le morcellement violent et chaotique des années 1990. L’exaltation et la sacralisation de la nation titulaire sont donc au cœur du projet politique kirghizstanais et la place accordée au religieux y est donc paradoxale, à la fois importante et marginale. Il ne s’agit pas ici de n’importe quel religieux, mais d’un religieux pensé comme irréductible à une supposée ‘voie kirghize’ ou ‘kirghizité’. Or, la place attribuée à l’islam, la religion majoritaire au Kirghizstan comme dans l’ensemble de l’Asie centrale, comme ‘religion de la nation’ est des plus problématiques. L’islam, dont la portée sociale et une possible politisation remettent en cause la légitimité de l’État, effraie des élites post-soviétiques en quête d’une foi strictement nationale. Préférence a donc été donnée, de manière équivoque, à un religieux pré-islamique, incarné par le tengrisme ou tengrianstvo (« pratiques liées au Ciel »), l’ancienne religion des peuples turciques. La mode du tengrisme permet en effet de réinventer une tradition religieuse qui, contrairement à l’islam, ne peut se poser en concurrente de l’État, et qui incarne la sacralisation ou le ré-enchantement de la nation effectué par les régimes post-soviétiques, et la remise au goût du jour des discours ethnonationalistes (Chapitre I).

9 Cette sacralisation du national comme compensation à la perte de sens du politique soviétique s’accompagne d’une mise sous tutelle de l’islam. La gestion étatique du religieux se caractérise en effet par la promotion officielle d’un islam dit ‘traditionnel’ et strictement national, censée conjurer le risque présumé que cette religion universaliste ferait peser sur la stabilité et l’unité des nouveaux États. L’islam sert ainsi de vecteur à l’affirmation d’une spécificité nationale : la ‘kirghizité’ s’incarne en un ‘bon’ islam qui se reconnaît comme territorialisé et universaliste, séculaire et non transcendant, et adapté aux traditions vernaculaires érigées en valeurs suprêmes par l’État post-soviétique. Ce ‘bon islam’ promu par les institutions officielles partage avec le tengrisme de nombreux traits, donnant naissance à des luttes de concurrence entre les partisans des deux religions pour le droit à représenter la ‘kirghizité’. Mais l’islam dispose également d’une autre fonction, celle de permettre la disqualification de l’ennemi politique, figure abstraite reconstruite à des fins de légitimation du pouvoir, et qui s’incarne dans le cas kirghiz par la supposée ‘ouzbékité’ de tous les courants

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islamiques ne se reconnaissant pas dans l’islam dit ‘officiel’. Courants soufis et néo- soufis clandestins ou groupes salafistes, tous se trouvent réunis sous le terme de wahhabî, considéré par les autorités politiques, religieuses, et par la majorité des citoyens kirghizstanais, comme synonyme d’‘extrémisme’ et de terrorisme (Chapitre II).

10 Notre seconde hypothèse est que le religieux permet, au niveau des communautés et des individus, de redistribuer le rapport au sens dans une société désarticulée par les changements brutaux liés à l’effondrement de l’État-providence soviétique. Le recours à l’islam répond en effet à l’effondrement du contrat social soviétique : le religieux étant étroitement intégré au tissu social kirghiz, il en reflète les changements de valeurs et de normes sociales ainsi que les légitimités en compétition. La faillite de l’État pourvoyeur de biens sociaux a contribué à renforcer les métaphores organicistes mettant en parallèle les trajectoires individuelles et familiales avec les trajectoires collectives projetées de la nation. De là découle le rôle prééminent donné à un religieux thérapeutique comme expliquant et ‘soignant’ les maux aussi bien collectifs qu’individuels. Les représentations du bonheur et du malheur, du corps, de la vie et de la mort sont donc un reflet indirect mais révélateur des interprétations individuelles et collectives du futur politique de la nation : on est malade car la société est malade – du chaos, de la démocratie, de la perte des valeurs – et les rites de passage, en partie les rites funéraires, incarnent le moment suprême où l’ordre politique et l’ordre individuel doivent finalement se réconcilier. L’articulation complexe et problématique entre norme islamique et traditions dites ‘ancestrales’ ou pratiques thérapeutiques holistiques s’avère donc centrale, accentuée par le rôle majeur de ‘pourvoyeur de sens’ et/ou de ‘réenchantement’ que jouent les figures religieuses locales, souvent supposées être dotées de pouvoirs pouvant interférer sur la santé physiologique (physique) et mentale (Chapitre III).

11 Notre troisième et dernière hypothèse est que le religieux est également utilisé pour établir un rapport renouvelé au politique et vise, partant, une refondation de l’ordre politique. En Asie centrale comme ailleurs, l’islamisme politique des décennies 1980-1990 cède progressivement le pas devant un néo-fondamentalisme conservateur qui veut réformer la société et les mœurs et faire revivre l’islam primitif. Ce qui est remis en cause, c’est non seulement le culturel mais également le politique. L’on assiste ainsi, chez certains mouvements comme le Hizb al-Tahrîr, d’origine proche-orientale, partout interdit en Asie centrale, à une réactivation, via la rhétorique locale de l’idéal du califat, d’une utopie religieuse contestataire de l’ordre politique et économique. De son côté, le mouvement revivaliste et prosélyte, né dans le sous-continent indien, du Tablighi Jama‘at, lequel jouit au Kirghizstan d’une large marge de manœuvre en raison de son ‘apolitisme proverbial’9, a certes « mis entre parenthèses les questions de prise de pouvoir », mais sans pour autant « écarter le but ultime de voir les musulmans partout au pouvoir »10. Le Tabligh se concentre en effet sur la formation d’un noyau de fidèles ‘authentiques’, de born again, et apparaît dès lors comme un mouvement supranational qui vise à réactiver la solidarité politique des musulmans quelle que soit leur nationalité11, un défi sans précédent pour l’État kirghiz et sa vision territorialisée et sacralisée de la nation (Chapitre IV).

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BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Gaborieau, M. 1997 Renouveau de l’islam ou stratégie politique occulte ? La Tablîghî Jamâ`at dans le sous- continent indien et dans le monde, in C. Clémentin-Ojha (dir.), Renouveaux religieux en Asie (Paris, École française d’Extrême-Orient), pp. 211-229.

Hamayon, R. 1996 Chamanisme, bouddhisme, héroïsme épique : quel support d’identité pour les Bouriates post-soviétiques, Études mongoles et sibériennes, 27, pp. 327-358.

Kepel, G. 2012, Le Prophète et Pharaon. Les mouvements islamistes dans l’Égypte contemporaine (Paris, Gallimard).

Michel, P. 1993, Pour une sociologie des itinéraires de sens : une lecture politique du rapport entre croire et institution - hommage à Michel de Certeau, Archives de Sciences Sociales des Religions, 82, pp. 223-238. 1999, Religion, nation et pluralisme - Une réflexion fin de siècle, Critique internationale, 3, pp. 79-97. 2006, Espace ouvert, identités plurielles : les recompositions contemporaines du croire, Social Compass, 53, 2, p. 227-241.

Michel, P., & J. García-Ruiz 2012 Et Dieu sous-traita le Salut au marché. De l’action des mouvements évangéliques en Amérique latine (Paris, Armand Colin).

Muminov, A. 1999 Traditional And Modern Religious-Theological Schools in Central Asia, in L. Jonson & M. Esenov (dir.), Political Islam and Conflicts in Russia and Central Asia (Stockholm, The Swedish Institute of International Affairs), pp. 101-111.

NOTES

1. Hamayon 1996, p. 327. 2. Il s’agit, comme le précise Patrick Michel, d’une approche par le ‘croire’ et non par la ‘croyance’, ou a fortiori par la ‘religion’. « Chacun de ces deux derniers termes est en réalité tellement marqué par la référence à la stabilité fictive qu’il apparaît impropre à décrire une réalité organisée par le mouvement. Le croire est le dispositif, nécessairement dynamique et donc évolutif, par lequel du sens est recherché et affecté » (1999, p. 82). 3. Michel 1993, p. 225. 4. Muminov 1999, pp. 101-111. 5. Michel 2006, p. 229. 6. García-Ruiz & Michel 2012. 7. Kepel 2012, p. 285. 8. Sur cette problématique, voir Michel 2006, pp. 227-241. 9. Le Kirghizstan est la seule république d’Asie centrale à ne pas avoir banni le Tablighi Jama‘at, ce mouvement transnational est très actif dans le pays. 10. Gaborieau 1997, p. 220.

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11. Gaborieau Op. cit. p. 223.

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Marie-Paule Hille, Le Xidaotang, une existence collective à l’épreuve du politique. Ethnographie historique et anthropologique d’une communauté musulmane chinoise (Gansu, 1857-2014)

RÉFÉRENCE

Thèse de doctorat en anthropologie sociale et ethnologie soutenue à École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales (Paris), le 5 décembre 2014 (1111 pages [t.1 : 1-464, t. 2 : 465-904, Ann. : 1-207]. Membres du jury : Fr. Aubin, É. Claverie, A. Cottereau, V. Goossaert, B. Horlemann, I. Thireau (directeur), Th. Zarcone

1 Cette thèse porte sur une communauté musulmane de langue chinoise du Gansu, le Xidaotang, fondée par Ma Qixi (1857-1914), un lettré confucéen, à la fin du XIXe siècle. Elle résulte d’une enquête ethnographique en histoire et en anthropologie échelonnée sur dix années entre 2004 et 2014 principalement dans le Nord-Ouest de la Chine.

2 L’enquête a porté en premier lieu sur l’histoire de cette communauté. L’analyse l’aborde non pas d’un point de vue sinocentré mais comme un processus historique local réagissant à l’histoire provinciale et nationale. Une ethnographie historique est ainsi mise en œuvre pour croiser et décrire les points de vue et les pratiques des différents acteurs concernés sur des échelles temporelles variées de 1857 à 1957. Une réflexion est menée en parallèle sur la condition historique comprise comme possibilité et capacité d’écrire et de dire son histoire.

3 L’histoire de cette communauté est envisagée dans son rapport à l’histoire politique de la Chine selon trois angles d’approche : les horizons d’avenir que chacun des contextes

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historiques dessinent, les ressources mobilisées par les acteurs pour faire face à la violence des crises locales et leur acuité politique pour appréhender chaque changement d’époque. Dans ce cadre général, l’ethnographie rend compte du lien politique institué à l’intérieur de la communauté : quelles ont été les compétences et les modes d’action des hommes qui l’ont gouvernée ? Selon quels critères de légitimité les croyants configurent la relation de pouvoir et d’autorité ? L’ethnographie s’intéresse également à la densité du réseau d’alliances de cette communauté — des marches tibétaines aux villes côtières, du monde marchand au monde politique — ainsi qu’à la constitution progressive d’espaces d’autonomie.

4 Dans un second temps est présentée une ethnographie contemporaine, à partir de la politique de réforme et d’ouverture (début des années 1980). Comme un miroir tendu à l’histoire, elle examine le rapport dynamique que la communauté entretient avec son passé en examinant les modalités de sa présence : usage des concepts, ancrage des normes et héritage des pratiques. Ainsi, une réflexion est entamée sur la capacité de la communauté à se refonder après ses difficultés à exister en tant qu’elle-même durant la période maoïste.

5 Une ethnographie du religieux menée sur les lieux saints et au plus près des croyants rend compte des transformations en marche à l’intérieur de la communauté, que ce soit dans sa façon d’affirmer son originalité en opposition aux autres courants islamiques ou dans sa manière de démontrer sa cohésion sociale et religieuse exemplaire. La thèse met ainsi en lumière la transformation et le glissement des véhicules de la croyance à travers l’analyse des accommodements entre un réformisme religieux nourrissant les attentes du pouvoir politique et un cadre de référence religieux stable et constant. La tension entre les impératifs politiques contraignants et la vitalité religieuse ouvre ainsi une possibilité d’inscrire dans la réalité sociale des espaces d’autonomie et une capacité à pouvoir être soi.

6 Par la mise en regard des résultats de l’enquête historique et anthropologique, cette thèse examine sur le long cours le rapport entre la communauté du Xidaotang et le politique sur deux échelles : le lien politique à l’intérieur de la communauté et le rapport au politique dans l’espace public ; ces deux phénomènes ne devant pas être compris comme disjoints mais comme entrant en résonance. La thèse montre ainsi les jugements de légitimité qui instaurent une relation d’autorité entre Maître et fidèles, et le rapport que le Maître entretient avec le pouvoir politique. Elle éclaire également les points de convergence entre un cadre religieux islamique et une pensée éthique confucéenne non seulement dans leur manière de gouverner la communauté adoptée par les Maîtres du Xidaotang mais aussi dans leur volonté de pénétrer l’espace public en tant que citoyens. Le modèle politico-religieux qu’ils portent place l’exemplarité, l’incitation à l’action et la relation avec autrui au centre de leur vision de l’humanité et du divin.

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Hommage

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Philippe Sagant, la passion de l’ethnologie

Katia Buffetrille et Marie Lecomte-Tilouine

NOTE DE L’AUTEUR

Hommage dirigé par Katia Buffetrille et Marie Lecomte-Tilouine Photographies de Katia Buffetrille

1 Philippe Sagant est né le 8 mai 1936 et nous a quittés le 10 janvier 2015, après une très longue et cruelle maladie. Nous avons voulu ici retracer les jalons de sa carrière et de sa vie intellectuelle, avant de laisser la parole à quelques uns de ses collègues et étudiants.

2 Après des études à l’EPHE, Philippe Sagant soutient en 1973 une thèse de doctorat intitulée « Le paysan limbu, sa maison et ses champs », à l’université de Paris VII, sous la direction de Lucien Bernot (EHESS). Affecté au Museum d’Histoire Naturelle/Musée de l’Homme en 1965, il intègre le CNRS en 1966 comme attaché de recherche en ethnologie, puis promu chargé de recherches en 1974, il termine sa carrière comme directeur de recherches au CNRS.

3 Membre du Centre d’études de l’Inde et de l’Asie du Sud à partir de 1970, Philippe Sagant a dispensé des enseignements de 1978 à 1983 à l’Université de Haute-Bretagne, Rennes, ainsi qu’à l’Université Paris X, Nanterre, au sein du séminaire de maîtrise d’A. Macdonald, « Le domaine himalayen », et à l’INALCO, où il fut chargé de cours sur la civilisation népalaise de 1981 à 1993.

4 Ses enquêtes de terrain ont tout d’abord mené Philippe Sagant en Aubrac, puis il se spécialisa sur le Népal où il fit de nombreux séjours entre 1966 et 1986. Il choisit d’étudier un petit groupe ethnique de langue tibéto-birmane vivant à la frontière orientale du pays : les Limbu. La majeure partie de son œuvre s’appuie sur les matériaux réunis en « Pays Limbu », avec, tout d’abord, sa thèse de doctorat, qui a formé la matière de son ouvrage de référence : Le paysan limbu, sa maison et ses champs

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(Mouton 1976). Nous laisserons ici A. Macdonald, son collègue et ami, en souligner les qualités exceptionnelles : [O]n a ici le tableau le plus exact et le plus vivant de la vie des paysans des collines de l’est du Népal. [...] P. Sagant [...] constate « l’apparition d’une société à tendance de classe qui s’articule sur les clivages de castes et d’ethnies » (p. 273) et soumise à l’autorité administrative de Kathmandou. Il explique ce bouleversement social par la transformation profonde du milieu technique : l’outillage, dominé par l’araire, est actuellement identique pour toutes les populations des collines et on pratique partout la même agriculture. [...] [I]l nous fait comprendre de façon passionnante « la lutte pour la terre » et l’enjeu de la compétition foncière [...]. Sur la maison et l’agriculture limbu, P. Sagant nous a donné un ouvrage définitif. J’espère qu’il ne m’en voudra pas de suggérer qu’il nous a aussi donné un livre essentiel pour la compréhension de l’hindouisation politique de l’est du Népal.1

5 Parti de l’étude de l’agriculture, de l’outillage et du foncier, Philippe Sagant va rapidement se révéler un fin anthropologue du religieux et du politique. Son intime connaissance du contexte villageois le conduira à se démarquer radicalement des études jusque là menées sur le chamanisme, en montrant qu’une séance ne doit pas se comprendre comme un tout, mais doit être replacée dans un parcours de vie où prime l’interprétation collective des événements. Dans cette région où les chefs règnent littéralement sur de petits territoires comme des roitelets, il aura à cœur de comprendre le fonctionnement de ce morcellement, et sa formation, ainsi que le rôle de l’assemblée des chefs, et enfin s’interrogera sur la nature de l’autorité du chef en ce milieu composite, entre chamanisme animiste et hindouisme. Il soulignera le rôle de la chasse, celui de la force vitale, des dieux des montagnes, ainsi que des formes locales de la déesse. Ces thèmes le conduiront tout naturellement à se tourner vers le Tibet, et il choisit de les soumettre à un informateur de choix : Samten Karmay. Tous deux décidèrent alors d’écrire un ouvrage ensemble. En 1986-87, Philippe souhaita compléter son enquête par l’observation ethnographique, et se rendit dans le village de Samten, au Tibet, en compagnie de Katia Buffetrille. Il voulait rencontrer les hommes, voir le village et les temples, s’imprégner du paysage et de l’atmosphère de ces lieux qu’il ne connaissait alors qu’à travers les paroles de ce dernier. Travaillant en étroite collaboration sur le thème de l’autorité traditionnelle au Tibet, ils ont montré de manière convaincante que « dans certaines régions, le chef dérive son autorité et sa légitimité des dieux du territoire » (Ramble 2006, p. 6).2

6 Suite à ce séjour au Tibet, Philippe Sagant poursuivit son enquête au Népal, dans le district de Manang, qui devait être son dernier terrain ethnographique, et qui a été la source d‘un bel article où il montre les relations entre culte aux montagnes sacrées et organisation politique.

7 Enfin, certains des travaux de Philippe Sagant ont été rendus accessibles à un plus grand nombre de lecteurs par la parution, en 1996, aux éditions Oxford University Press, d’une collection de ses articles traduits en anglais, sous le titre de l’un de ses meilleurs essais : The Dozing Shaman. On ne peut qu’espérer que l’ensemble de son œuvre, qui figure ci-dessous en bibliographie, soit ainsi diffusé en anglais très prochainement.

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Philippe Sagant en compagnie d’amis Limbu à Libang (date inconnue)

Le système thekka thiti avait pour but d’isoler les chefs limbu les uns des autres, de casser leurs relations politiques, de les placer sous le contrôle direct et exclusif de la cour régionale (adâlat) et du bureau des revenus fonciers (mal adda). On les vit au contraire, par leurs fonctions de juges, constituer sur l’ensemble du pays un réseau serré de relations personnelles et hiérarchisées : une féodalité. Sans doute auraient-ils pu tenir longtemps. Toutefois, les mesures prévoyant l’intégration des immigrés sur les terres du segment de clan ouvrirent le chemin à la pénétration des Népalais au plus profond du pays limbu. Précipitant les transformations du milieu technique et économique, ce sont elles, en fin de compte, qui permirent à l’État gurkha d’en finir avec la résistance limbu.3

8 Pour Philippe Sagant, le rôle de l’ethnologue consistait à montrer comment une société se comprenait elle-même, puis à le transmettre aux autres. Il aimait établir des relations personnelles aussi bien sur le terrain que dans la vie quotidienne et nombreux sont ceux qui ont été profondément marqués par son enseignement, par son amitié. Certains d’entre eux ont tenu à l’exprimer.

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Katia Buffetrille (1986)

Sur le terrain, tout le travail de l’ethnologue consiste à donner du sens à ce qu’il voit, non pas le sens que lui, l’Occidental, croit pouvoir discerner, mais celui qu’attribuent les indigènes eux-mêmes. Alors seulement, peut-être, apparaissent les enjeux.4

9 András Höfer My acquaintance with Philippe Sagant dates back to the year 1964 when we were both attending a class of the unforgettable Lucien Bernot, held in the sous-sol of a building in rue Monsieur le Prince in Paris. Mutual sympathy and a common dilemma soon brought us closer together. We had both started specialising in the ethnology of Mainland Southeast Asia and were at the same time fully aware of the impossibility of carrying out fieldwork among any of the ethnic minorities in the then-restricted areas of , Arunachal Pradesh or Burma.

10 One day, while we were having a drink in one of the cafés of boulevard Saint Michel, Philippe revealed to me, out of the blue, his decision to relinquish his aspirations regarding Southeast Asia and try research in Nepal instead. He also suggested that I should join him in a course of colloquial Nepali, that was taking place on the top floor of the Musée de l’Homme and run by a maître de recherche by the name of Macdonald. That’s how I came to embark on Nepal studies.

11 A few years later, I bumped into Philippe in Kathmandu. I had just come back from the hills, and our long, cheerful conversation inevitably pivoted around our practical experiences « out there » in our respective fields. At a certain point, I somehow felt compelled to give our talk a — perhaps rather unbecoming — academic twist by broaching the question of what exactly his current fieldwork in Limbu country was aiming at. I still recall, more or less literally, the wording of the reply Philippe gave me. He said, « Well, you know, I frequently withdraw into a nearby forest with a couple of villagers in my company ; there we sit down, drink plenty of millet spirit, and I listen to

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the stories of the people. I’m interested in those micro-détails [a favourite term of Lucien Bernot] contained in their narrations. » I resisted the temptation to demand more. Inasmuch as Philippe’s modesty, tinted with subtle self-irony, was notorious, I had no reason not to suspect something promising behind his understatement. And yet, who would have thought at that time that all these détails were already maturing like grains of sand to pearls and would a little later gather momentum to reappear in surprisingly telling contexts in his studies, such as, say, « Le chamane assoupi » or « Le paysan limbu, sa maison et ses champs », all so well-founded and unique in their approach ?

12 Michael Oppitz, The dozing ethnographer If I remember correctly, I had met Philippe through Rolf Stein and Sandy Macdonald. Stein had given a course at the Collège de France on the phurbu, which we both attended. When we strolled along in the streets of Paris — must have been quite a number of times — we talked about our constant brooding concerning form : how to write ethnography. Philippe had found it for his book on the Limbu peasant. For me his descriptions of village life as determined by the seasonal changes from month to month were just perfect. Another topic of our talk was loneliness in the field. We both confessed that we had been reading trashy novels (Malinowski) to combat it — I had devoured Joyce’s Ulysses on the porch of a Nyingmapa monastery in Rolwaling ; Philippe had been distracted by Flaubert up in Libang. And we both confessed that rituals could at times be so tiresome that not only the village audience and some of the main protagonists would fall asleep, but also the most avid ethnographer. Was it this experience that gave rise to Philippe’s most famous title ?

13 Charles Ramble The academic milieu can seem like a mildly threatening environment at the best of times, but especially so for anyone who has been out of touch with it for a while. When, after several years of absence, I began to make faltering steps at reintegration, it was in France in the early 1990s. Among the people who convinced me that the effort would be worthwhile was Philippe Sagant. At this time he was becoming increasingly interested in trans- and cis-Himalayan comparisons, but although he had clearly read very widely and had developed numerous ideas on the subject, he made no attempt to set me on any theoretical or methodological tramlines. Over the course of coffees and lunches he just got me to talk about what I had seen and done in Tibet and the Himalaya. Talking about ethnography is not the same thing as writing it ; but it does mean that you have to think about it, and, in thinking about it, subject it to a first round of organisation. There is nothing more encouraging that talking to someone who is interested in what you have to say. It makes everything more real. Spending time with Sagant made me realise that listening to stories is not just a passive exercise but, when intelligently done, has a reciprocal effect on both the story and the narrator. Philippe Sagant was an original thinker and a fine writer, but he was also an exceptionally creative listener.

14 Marc Gaborieau Mon amitié avec Philippe Sagant remonte à 1965. Cette année-là Jacques Millot, directeur du Musée de l’Homme, et Corneille Jest, chargé de recherche au CNRS, mirent sur pied une équipe de recherche sur le Népal. Philippe Sagant et moi-même avons été parmi les premiers jeunes chercheurs intégrés dans cette équipe qui permit notre recrutement au CNRS. Philippe vint alors faire sa première mission de longue durée chez les Limbu du Népal oriental : il séjourna longuement chez moi à Katmandou à l’automne 1966 pour préparer son départ sur le terrain et à l’été 1967 à son retour.

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Durant ces semaines de séjour forcé à Katmandou, notre amitié s’est forgée et nos discussions se sont réellement engagées sur nos conceptions de l’ethnologie au départ divergentes mais destinées à converger. Nous avons eu ensuite l’opportunité de collaborer plus longuement à l’EHESS, dans le cadre de l’équipe « Village » du Centre d’Etudes de l’Inde et de l’Asie du Sud de 1974 à 1978, qui donna lieu à deux publications collectives. Dans la première (L’Homme XVIII 1-2 , 1978, pp. 109-134), Philippe Sagant donna une magistrale analyse des « pouvoirs de chefs limbu au Népal oriental ». Il assuma ensuite la responsabilité éditoriale d’un numéro spécial de L’ethnographie (CXXe année, 1978, II, Nlle série, no 77-78) sur « Les migrations dans l’Asie du Sud ». Il donna enfin une intrigante communication sur « Le chamane assoupi » au colloque Asie du Sud5. Nos chemins devaient ensuite se séparer, mais je garde le souvenir d’un ethnologue original qui a marqué l’orientation de mes recherches et qui est resté un ami fidèle sur lequel on pouvait compter.

15 Charles Malamoud Je suis un lecteur de textes : textes sanscrits, pour la plupart, composés il y a vingt-cinq siècles par des brahmanes, pour des brahmanes. Il se trouve cependant que dès mes premiers pas dans les études indiennes, j’ai croisé ou côtoyé des hommes et des femmes qui voyaient l’Inde sous un tout autre angle : ethnologues, ils étudiaient des communautés bien circonscrites, bien déterminées par leur environnement immédiat, vivantes, et dont, pour de longues périodes de « terrain », ils partageaient la vie. Il se trouve aussi que la plupart de ces chercheurs, surcroît d’exotisme pour moi, étudiaient non pas l’Inde proprement dite mais sa bordure himalayenne. Parmi eux, Philippe Sagant.

16 J’ai participé avec lui à diverses rencontres et réunions, surtout des jurys, au Laboratoire d’Ethnologie de l’Université de Paris X Nanterre, dans les années 1970. Les circonstances n’étaient pas propices à des conversations en tête-à-tête, mais ces discussions m’ont permis de découvrir en Philippe Sagant, doublant le chercheur rigoureux et original, un homme vraiment humain, constamment soucieux des moyens d’existence et des conditions de travail des étudiants que nous devions certes orienter et évaluer, mais aussi encourager et soutenir. Mais surtout le souvenir que je garde de Philippe Sagant est tout entier habité par la gratitude : dans le numéro de la revue Puruṣārtha que j’ai dirigé et qui est consacré à « la dette » dans le monde indien (n° 4, 1980), figure un article que Philippe Sagant a bien voulu nous donner. A la fois ample, précis et profond, il comporte une typologie de la dette qui découle d’une analyse des modes d’endettement en pays Limbu, liée elle-même à l’histoire de l’hindouisation de ces montagnes, et donc de l’introduction du système des castes. C’était une façon de « situer » et de mettre en perspective, dans le temps et dans l’espace, l’idée de « dette » que je m’étais efforcé de mettre en lumière dans les textes surtout normatifs de l’Inde brahmanique. Au moment où il nous quitte, j’ai à cœur de rappeler ce qui demeure ma propre dette à l’égard de Philippe Sagant.

17 Boyd Michailovsky En 1976 j’ai demandé conseil à Philippe Sagant pour une enquête sur la langue limbu, et il m’a très généreusement donné le nom du village, Libang, où il avait le plus travaillé : « Je te donne un seul nom, ‘Motta’ — Harka Jit. Allez le voir ! » Nous avons donc passé deux mois chez lui en pleine mousson et recueilli les récits en langue limbu qui sont consultables sur le site Pangloss actuellement. L’un de ces textes a inspiré à Philippe un article merveilleux sur la malemort qu’il m’a fait co-signer en 1992.

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18 Ce dont je me rappelle de Philippe est sa gentillesse, et le plaisir qu’on avait à recevoir les petits mots amicaux, manuscrits, qu’il envoyait par la poste.

Katia Buffetrille (1986)

Parce que j’étais curieux des gibiers qu’il chassait, Tendar nous entraîna sur la terrasse de sa maison. Sous les toits étaient amoncelés des trophées de toutes sortes. Du haut d’une échelle, Dargyé les sortait un à un, ça n’en finissait plus : têtes de moutons sauvages avec cornes gigantesques, massacres de cerfs aux vastes andouillers, énormes crânes d’ours empaillés, dépouilles d’ovins et de caprins sauvages dont je serais en peine de dire les noms…6

19 Pascal Bouchery Philippe Sagant a profondément marqué la génération d’himalayanistes à laquelle j’appartiens. Tout d’abord par le style de ses écrits, remarquable entre tous. Il parvenait à dépeindre la complexité des réalités sociales dans un style incisif d’une très grande sobriété, et déroulait son propos comme on raconte une histoire. C’est ensuite par la puissance de ses idées que Philippe Sagant forçait l’admiration, résultat d’une subtile alchimie entre Granet, Hocart et Marx. L’Asie lui apparaissait comme un tout, il traquait dans des sociétés très diverses la présence de thèmes récurrents (la force vitale, l’élection divine, le double pouvoir, la place de rang, les chasses rituelles, le jeu...) qui lui paraissaient de nature à s’ordonner en système et, ce faisant, étaient propices à révéler des logiques sociales similaires. Enfin Philippe Sagant était un ethnographe hors pair, particulièrement méticuleux dans la réalisation de croquis et dessins. Sa pensée et ses intuitions souvent géniales continueront encore longtemps de nous inspirer.

20 Anne de Sales Philippe Sagant aimait les histoires, les écouter et les raconter. Il rappelle dans son introduction à l’édition anglaise de ses essais, The Dozing Shaman, que c’est en écoutant

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les récits quotidiens par lesquels les Limbus relataient les événements de leur vie, qu’il avait l’impression d’atteindre au plus près l’image qu’ils se faisaient d’eux-mêmes, de leurs institutions et du monde autour d’eux. Il était très attentif à la qualité narrative de l’expérience des individus. Ainsi avant mon départ pour mon premier terrain, chez les Kham-Magar, il m’a donné un conseil dont je lui serais toujours redevable : « quand tu arriveras au village, dis-toi que tu dois rester un mois, c’est tout. Au bout de ce premier mois, tu pourras reconsidérer l’affaire ». Sans ce conseil je me serais aussitôt enfuie, ne supportant pas la solitude à laquelle les villageois d’abord méfiants et peu hospitaliers m’avaient réduite. Mais un mois, j’ai pensé que je pourrais tenir. Et je suis restée dix-huit mois. En me racontant le début de mon histoire avant que je la vive, Philippe m’avait mis sur le chemin.

21 Philippe Ramirez Quelque fin d’après-midi autour de 1985-86, un café à Montparnasse, deux demis, deux Philippe face à face, séance de debriefing : un Philippe terrorisé, attendant le verdict quant à deux pages de bafouilles, sur la vendetta ; l’autre Philippe, tranquillement, lui tendant huit pages de commentaires, et démarrant, aussi timide sûrement, mais avec ce petit sourire narquois et bonhomme, et tout de suite la passion, la passion pour le cru, pour le vu, pour les connexions, pour les comparaisons, pour « l’ethno » – comme il disait avec respect. Au café, à Nanterre, aux Langues’O, tu revenais obstinément sur le trésor que tu avais découvert là-bas : « La honte ça peut faire mourir, il faut faire sa place ». Tu en as fait une énorme, et tu l’as fait tranquillement. Salut mon Prof, salut Philippe.

Katia Buffetrille (1986)

Le foyer (thab ka) est une construction monumentale qui prend appui au fond sur le mur ouest et déborde largement jusqu’au milieu de la pièce, au point de l’envahir. Ses « trois pierres » sont, en fait, des constructions de terre tassée qui surélèvent le foyer lui-même et donnent à la maîtresse de maison la possibilité de cuisiner debout. Disposées en étoile, elles compartimentent la cuisine en trois espaces distincts7.

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22 Pascale Dollfus Je pense à la générosité extraordinaire de Philippe pour ses étudiants, même tout à fait débutants, au temps et à l’énergie qu’il leur consacrait, à ses lectures si minutieuses de tous leurs écrits. Il avait le don de déceler dans les travaux de chacun des « idées », qui souvent étaient encore très embryonnaires pour l’auteur lui-même. Exprimées par lui, elles devenaient claires, lumineuses, intelligentes. Jamais pourtant, il ne les aurait reprises à son compte.

23 Comme beaucoup d’étudiants qu’il a formés et épaulés, ses conseils, ses mots, m’accompagnent aujourd’hui encore quand j’écris.

24 Marie Lecomte-Tilouine Philippe Sagant arrivait à son cours, joyeux, mains dans les poches, et se lançait avec passion dans l’évocation d’un monde qu’il savait rendre merveilleux : celui des Limbu du Népal oriental. Quel bonheur de se voir ainsi délivrer savoir et plaisir en lieu et place de l’habituel ennui qui présidait aux cours ! Plaisir de la narration vive, mais aussi de l’ébullition d’une pensée, dont le charme particulier était fait d’un mélange de simplicité et de profondeur, d’un ancrage dans l’observation minutieuse du quotidien au service de grandes questions anthropologiques, telles que les fondements symboliques du pouvoir, l’expression spatiale de l’organisation sociale, la construction collective des trajectoires individuelles, les modalités de la colonisation des peuples indigènes et ses conséquences. Comme ses cours, les écrits de Philippe Sagant ne s’embarrassaient guère des tristes conventions académiques de l’époque et n’ont pas pris une ride. Ils ont cette rare qualité de transfigurer jusqu’aux sujets arides de l’anthropologie marxiste dont il s’est longtemps réclamé.

25 L’enthousiasme et la générosité de Philippe Sagant ont suscité chez ses étudiants une immense envie de progresser. Sa prise au sérieux de leurs premiers balbutiements et le flot d’idées qu’il leur délivrait en retour, le respect. Son humanité, l’excellence de sa matière ethnographique, portée par une écriture pétillante, ainsi que la liberté de sa pensée, ont fait de Philippe Sagant un vivant parmi les ombres du monde académique, hier, comme aujourd’hui.

26 Satya Shrestha-Schipper J’ai rencontré Philippe Sagant pour la première fois à l’Université Paris X-Nanterre en 1992 alors que j’étais étudiante de maîtrise en ethnologie et qu’il donnait des cours sur l’Himalaya. Dès le début, nous nous sommes très bien entendus et, pour diriger mon mémoire, il a très gentiment accepté de m’encadrer. Son aide et ses encouragements ont été très importants pour moi. Il a passé énormément de temps à corriger le contenu de mon texte mais aussi sa forme et les fautes de français. Après cela, il a continué à diriger mes travaux de thèse jusqu’ à ce qu’il tombe malade. J’ai longtemps refusé de changer de directeur, espérant son retour.

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Katia Buffetrille (1986)

La fauche s’effectuait le mois du serpent, le neuvième selon le calendrier de Lhasa, c’est-à-dire en novembre. C’était un gros travail et pour en venir à bout, il fallait s’entraider. Un groupe passait d’abord dans le pré, il coupait l’herbe à la faucille et la déposait sur le sol derrière lui pour qu’elle sèche. Ensuite, il fallait confectionner de longues balles de fourrage en entortillant l’herbe coupée avec une sorte de tourniquet. On chargeait les balles à dos de yaks pour les descendre au village…8

27 Grégoire Schlemmer, L’une des neuf forces de l’homme La grande influence intellectuelle qu’a exercé Philippe Sagant sur mon regard anthropologique est d’autant plus remarquable que je l’ai peu connu. Je n’ai suivi son séminaire à Nanterre sur le domaine himalayen que l’année qui précéda son terrible accident. Durant son séminaire, on quittait momentanément les structures abstraites de la pensée ou l’analyse formelle des systèmes de parenté pour aller, en compagnie des chamanes Yakthumba, rechercher les âmes égarées jusqu’au carrefour des quatre orients de l’autre monde, ou chevaucher avec les Sharwa et toute la grande caravane sur les haut plateaux tibétains, tout en redoutant une attaque des terribles Golok. Philippe Sagant était un conteur, et l’enthousiasme qu’il mettait dans ses propos se propageait à son auditoire. Et si ces histoires suffisaient à elles seules à éveiller l’attention, elles n’étaient pour autant qu’illustratives. Il ne s’agissait pas que d’anecdotes donnant chair à l’abstraite théorie. Elles révélaient aussi comment, dans ces sociétés qui ne sont pas tenues par un code législatif ou un corps de théoriciens, les discours se disent et les choses se font ; comment paroles et actions se construisent dans leur réalisation. Plus qu’une technique narrative, plus aussi qu’un point de méthode, c’est toute une approche du terrain et une vision de l’anthropologie que révèle cette mise en récit dont Philippe Sagant avait le talent. Et ce ne fut là que l’une des nombreuses « forces de l’homme ».

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28 Stéphane Gros La passion communicative de Philippe Sagant pour l’ethnologie était la marque d’un enseignement à même de susciter des vocations. Philippe Sagant m’a ainsi initié à l’ethnologie et à des questionnements pour moi alors inédits. En tant que maître, il avait cette aptitude rare et précieuse, par ses remarques sensibles, détaillées et stimulantes, de transmettre une analyse qui lui était propre, mais comme s’il n’avait fait que révéler une potentialité dans les travaux de ses étudiants. Il faisait ainsi participer à l’émergence d’une réflexion. Sa préoccupation pour le détail ethnographique et pour la mise en récit de la manière dont les idées sont vécues, selon ses mots, furent et continuent d’être un modèle et une source d’inspiration. Pour avoir contribué à la mise en ordre de ses archives, j’ai réalisé encore mieux l’ampleur de son travail et l’envergure de son ambition intellectuelle investie dans la poursuite d’idées maîtresses qu’il voyait plonger dans la nuit des temps, et qui soutenaient des édifices culturels pour beaucoup sur le point de disparaître.

29 Gisèle Krauskopff Je retrouve une longue lettre de Philippe, simplement datée mercredi, dont je ne peux fixer la date : quatre longues pages d’une écriture ferme et élégante, sans la moindre rature ; quatre pages détaillées sur la « malédiction » comme institution, sur les rituels des labours et des semis, leurs objectifs et la place qu’y tiennent les chefs de clans limbu. L’ethnographie est vivante, on y est, avec les témoins d’alors : « On dit que les semences tressaillent lorsque la force les pénètre. Les enfants se tiennent là les yeux écarquillés ». Mais si longtemps après, le plus extraordinaire pour moi, c’est que je ne peux me souvenir des questions, sans doute fort brèves, que j’avais pu poser, à l’origine d’un tel écrit, vraie matière d’un article. Une phrase pourtant l’ouvre : « ta lettre me ramène bien loin en arrière, dans le temps, dans l’exploitation des matériaux limbu. Elle me les fait voir d’un autre œil ». Elle dit cette générosité à l’égard des plus jeunes qu’il formait, cette écoute entière, au point de vous faire croire, vous débutant, à la valeur de vos manques.

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Katia Buffetrille (1986)

Chez les Sharwa, les hommes portaient des pelisses, chouba, faites de peaux de mouton, la toison à l’intérieur, au contact du corps, le col rehaussé de fourrure de léopard… Quand on voyait un homme avec une chouba de peaux d’agneau, on savait qu’il était riche, et qu’il partait l’hiver avec la grande caravane.9

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Bibliographie10

Ouvrages et édition d’ouvrages

1976 Le paysan Limbu, sa maison et ses champs (Paris, Mouton).

Karmay, S. G. & Sagant, P. 1998 Les neuf forces de l’homme : Récits des confins du Tibet (Nanterre, Société d’Ethnologie).

Karmay, S. & Sagant, P. (éds.) 1997 Les habitants du toit du monde : Études recueillies en hommage à Alexander W. Macdonald (Nanterre, Société d’Ethnologie).

1996 The dozing shaman : The Limbus of eastern Nepal. Scott, Nora B. (Trad.) (Delhi, Oxford University Press).

Études mongoles et sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines, 46 | 2015 372

Articles

1969 Les marchés en pays limbu (notes sur trois hat bajar des districts de Taplejung et de Terhathum), L’Ethnographie, pp. 90-118.

1969 Tampunma, divinité limbu de la forêt, Objets et Mondes, Print., 9, 1, pp. 107-124.

1970 Mariage par enlèvement chez les Limbu (Népal), Cahiers Internationaux de Sociologie, 48, pp. 71-98.

1971 L’exploitation de Séveyrac. Aperçu sur l’évolution économique récente d’une ancienne grange abbatiale, L’Aubrac : étude ethnologique, linguistique, agronomique et économique d’un établissement humain. Tome 2 : ethnologie historique (Paris : Éditions du C.N.R.S. Recherche coopérative sur programme organisée par le C.N.R.S), pp. 167-209.

1971 Note sur l’exploitation de Merlet, L’Aubrac : étude ethnologique, linguistique, agronomique et économique d’un établissement humain. Tome 2 : ethnologie historique (Paris : Ed. du C.N.R.S. Recherche coopérative sur programme organisée par le C.N.R.S), pp. 211-216.

1973 Les travaux et les jours dans un village du Népal oriental, Objets et Mondes, Hiver, 13, 4, pp. 247-272.

1973 Prêtres limbu et catégories domestiques, Kailash, 1, 1, pp. 51-75.

1975 Nationalité et État-nation : L’exemple de l’intégration politique des Limbu du Népal, Pluriel, 2, pp. 3-20.

Gallissot, R. & Sagant, P., 1975 Les Limbu : groupe ethnique ou nationalité ?. Pluriel, 2, pp. 75-92.

1976 Les Limbu, population du Népal oriental, L’Ethnographie, 72, pp. 146-173.

1976 La Chine, vue d’un village himalayen, Critique, nov., 354, pp. 1186-1191.

1976 Becoming a Limbu priest : Ethnographic notes, in J. T. Hitchcock, R. L. Jones (éds), Spirit possession in the Nepal Himalayas (Warminster, Aris & Phillips Ltd), pp. 56-99.

1978 Les pouvoirs des chefs limbu au Népal oriental, L’Homme, janv.-juin, 18, 1/2, pp. 69-107.

1978 Du village vers la ville et la plantation, L’Ethnographie, 77-78, pp. 11-33.

1978 Ampleur et profondeur historique des migrations népalaises, L’Ethnographie, 77-78, pp. 93-119.

1978 ‘Quand le Gurkha revient de guerre...’, L’Ethnographie, 77-78, pp. 155-184.

1979 Le chamane assoupi, in M. Gaborieau & A. Thorner (éds), Asie du Sud : Traditions et changements (Paris, Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique), pp. 243-247.

1980 Usuriers et chefs de clan : Ethnographie de la dette au Népal oriental, in La dette (Paris, Ecole des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales), Purusartha, 4, pp. 227-277.

1981 Mais qui tuera le cochon dit ma mère ?, Objets et Mondes, 21, 2, pp. 83-86.

1981 La tête haute : maison, rituel et politique au Népal oriental, in G. Toffin, L. Barré, C. Jest (éds), L’Homme et la maison en Himalaya : Ecologie du Népal (Paris, Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique), pp. 149-180.

1981 Les gardiens de la banque : Histoires de vie et autres histoires, Tud Ha Bro, Sociétés bretonnes 6 (Rennes, Université de Haute Bretagne), pp. 21-39.

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1981 Le fils des Quatre Orients, Orients, Hommage à Georges Condominas (Paris, Sud-Est Asie-Privat), pp. 1-8.

1982 L’hindouisation des Limbu, in A. W. MacDonald (éd.), Les royaumes de l’Himalaya, histoire et civilisation (Paris, Imprimerie Nationale), pp. 165-239.

1982 Le chamane et la grêle, L’Ethnographie, 78, 87-88, pp. 163-174.

1982 L’espace limbu : Habitation et organisation du monde, Les Cahiers de l’ADRI 1, 6/7, pp. 13-28.

1987 La cure du chamane et l’interprétation des laïcs, in A. W. Macdonald (éd.), L’Ethnographie. Rituels Himalayens, 83, pp. 247-274.

1987 Traditions enfantines : L’apprentissage des techniques au Népal oriental, in B. Koechlin et coll. (éds), De la voûte céleste au terroir, du jardin au foyer (Paris : École Pratique des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales), pp. 629-635.

1988 Le vol des connaissances, Autrement, Hors série 28, pp. 101-108.

1988 Le rapt d’une femme. Autrement, Hors série 28, pp. 113-121.

Karmay, S. & Sagant, P. 1988 La place du rang dans la maison sharwa (Amdo ancien), in D. Blamont & G. Toffin (Eds), Architecture, milieu et société en Himalaya (Paris, Éditions du CNRS, Études himalayennes 1), pp. 229-260.

1990 Les tambours de Nyi-shang (Népal) : Rituel et centralisation politique, in Tibet : Civilisation et société - Colloque organisé par la Fondation Singer-Polignac à Paris, les 27, 28, 29 avril 1987 (Paris, Fondation Singer-Polignac - Maison des Sciences de l’Homme), pp. 151-170.

Michailovsky, B. & Sagant, P. 1992 Le Chamane et les fantômes de la malemort : Sur l’efficacité d’un rituel, Diogène, avr.-juin, 158, pp. 20-36.

1996 Les récits du chasseur, in C. Champion (éd.), Traditions orales dans le monde indien (Paris, EHESS), Purushartha 18, pp. 419-428.

1996 Dasai et le double pouvoir chez les Yakthumba, in G. Krauskopff & M. Lecomte-Tilouine (éds), Célébrer le pouvoir : Dasai, une fête royale au Népal (Paris, Éditions du CNRS- Maison des Sciences de l’Homme), pp. 283-314.

Karmay, S. & Sagant, P. 1997 Introduction, in S. Karmay & P. Sagant (éds), Les habitants du toit du monde : Études recueillies en hommage à Alexander W. Macdonald (Nanterre, Société d’Ethnologie), pp. 9-30.

1999 Horse trading in Tibet, Nepal and India (1956-1959), traduit par Keyes Susan, European Bulletin of Himalayan Research, 15-16, pp. 30-31.

Traductions en anglais

1985 With head held high : The house, ritual and politics in east Nepal, Kailash,12, 3/4, pp. 161-222.

1988 The shaman’s cure and the layman’s interpretation, Kailash, 14, 1/2, pp. 5-40.

Michailovsky, B. & Sagant, P. 1992 The Shaman and the ghosts of unnatural death : On the efficacity of a ritual, Diogenes, 158, pp. 19-37.

Comptes-rendus et à propos

1981 « Faith-Healers in the Himalayas » de C. J. Miller, L’Homme, janv.-mars, 21, 1, pp. 134-135.

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1982 « Le Corps Taoïste » de K. Schipper, Libération, 15 mars.

1983 « Migration and Ethnic Conflict in India » de M. Weiner, Annales, 2, pp. 299-300.

1984 « Ovibos, la grande aventure des hommes et des bœufs musqués » de R. Gessain, L’Ethnographie, pp. 223-225.

1983 « Solstice Païen » de J. Y. Loude & V. Lièvre, La Quinzaine Littéraire, 6 mai.

1985 « Les Indiens du Canada » de S. Hargous, L’Ethnographie, 1, pp. 155-157.

1985 « Voir, Savoir, Pouvoir, Le chamanisme chez les Yagua du Nord-Est péruvien », L’Ethnographie, 1, pp. 158-161.

1986 « Caste et classe en Asie du Sud (Purusartha 4) », J. Pouchepadass éd., Revue Française d’histoire d’outre-mer, 272, pp. 375-376.

1987 « Shamanism in Eurasia » de M. Hoppal (éd.), L’Homme, oct.-déc., 27, 104, pp. 123-125.

1988 « Le Mendiant de l’Amdo » de H. Stoddard, L’Homme, avr.-sept., 28, 106/107, pp. 357-359.

1992 « Lieu de neige et de genévriers : Organisation sociale et religieuse des communautés bouddhistes du Ladakh » de P. Dollfus, L’Homme, janv.-mars, 32, 121, pp. 206-208.

1996 « La chasse à l’âme. Esquisse d’une théorie du chamanisme sibérien » de R. Hamayon, L’Homme, avr.-juin, 36, 138, pp. 127-135.

Traduction d’ouvrage

En collaboration avec Gasiorowski, J., Traduction de Stomma, Ludwik, 1986 Campagnes insolites : paysannerie polonaise et mythes européens (Lagrasse, Éditions Verdier).

Films

En collaboration avec B. Genestier, 1973 En pays limbu, 16 mm., coul. 35 min., montage J. P. Lacam (Paris, Comité du film ethnographique).

En collaboration avec G. de Caune & R. Cerre., S.d. Dans l’Himalaya, au rythme des saisons. Film En pays Limbu réduit à 13 min. pour la télévision, Antenne 2.

En collaboration avec H. Heer, 1988 Reisende zwischen Himmel und Erde (Limbu). Hambourg, Multimedia.

NOTES

1. Alexander W. Macdonald, compte-rendu de P. Sagant « Le paysan limbu, sa maison et ses champs”, L’Homme, 1979, 19(1), pp. 156-157. 2. Ramble Ch., 2008, The Navel of the Demoness (Oxford, Oxford University Press). 3. Sagant P., 1978, Les Pouvoirs des chefs limbu au Népal oriental, L’Homme, 18(1-2), pp. 106-107. 4. Karmay S. & Sagant P., 1998, Les Neuf Forces de l’Homme. Récits des confins du Tibet (Nanterre, Société d’ethnologie), p. 74. 5. Le chamane assoupi, in M. Gaborieau &@ A. Thorner (éds), 1979, Asie du Sud : Traditions et changements (Paris, Editions du CNRS), pp. 243-247. 6. Karmay S. & Sagant P. 1998 Ibid., p. 38.

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7. Karmay S. & Sagant P., 1987, La place du rang dans la maison sharwa (Amdo ancien), in D. Blamont & G. Toffin (éds), Architecture, milieu et société en Himalaya (Paris, Éditions du CNRS), p. 238. 8. Karmay S. & Sagant P. 1998, ibid., p. 118. 9. S. Karmay & P. Sagant, 1998, ibid. 189. 10. Bibliographie compilée par Stéphane Gros et Grégoire Schlemmer à partir du fonds d’archive Philippe Sagant de la bibliothèque Eric de Dampierre (LESC, MAE – Paris 10 Nanterre).

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