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Cosmologies of Freedom and Buddhist Self-Transformation in the
Mongolian Gold Rush
Abstract
This article examines how Mongolian Buddhist monks view the freedom they
have experienced since the fall of Soviet socialism in 1990. Whereas the
anthropological literature on postsocialism tends to focus on political and
economic transformations, I argue that contemporary Mongolian politics point
to the co-existence and interdependence of human and nonhuman agents. The
article highlights how, in the context of the country’s current mining boom,
postsocialist politics require attention to contemporary religious practices and
spiritual beings beyond the ‘secular’. Considering emerging forms of Buddhist
environmentalism, I describe how the freedom projects of Mongolian monks
crystalize the intersection of Soviet socialist materialism, neoliberal
individualism, and a Buddhist ethics of self-transformation.
----
In 2006 a large crowd gathered at the annual Maidar Ergeh (Skt. Maitreya)
prayer ceremony in the mountainous region of Uyanga in Central Mongolia.
Chanting Buddhist monks1 (lam) were seated outside in the blazing summer
sun, surrounded by dozens of makeshift market stalls and a motley swarm of
lay worshippers and giggling teenagers on horseback. The lamas swiftly spun
their prayer beads, sounded their conch shell horns and blew waves of juniper
incense across the onlookers in anticipation of the future Buddha’s coming.
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Discreetly retreating from his seat, a middle-aged lama joined me in the cool
shade and shared the following reflections:
Since 1990 I have strongly supported our freedom (erh chölöö) to
live and work. But people’s living standards are going down. Now
there is so much poverty, alcoholism, and poor health. As you
know, our Uyanga is very rich in gold. It is also a place where
people just seek their own gains and make a living by digging into
the ground. But we can’t blame nature for being rich in resources!
Some people are doing ‘offensive politics’ (uls tör hiij dairah)…
In referring to ‘offensive politics’, the lama was not only lamenting the
predominance of corrupt politicians pursuing their own interests before those
of the country. Nor was he simply talking about people’s short-sighted,
presentist desire for mineral wealth that is turning the country into an emerging
mining nation dependent on global commodities demands and China’s
continuing economic growth. In a country where politics (uls tör) involves
state prophecies, shamanic advisors, and astrological divination, elected
politicians are only some of the agents that appear on the political scene (see
Empson 2006; Pedersen 2011). In addition to the role of religious specialists in
Mongolian politics, agents with or without a human body are also central to
political negotiations. These multiple and diverse agents have carefully and
respectfully to balance their interests and actions in attempts to ensure their
‘peaceful’ (taivan) and ‘beautiful’ (saihan) co-existence. If they fail to do this,
calamities are expected to happen. Although the exact timing, character, and
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victim of the impending misfortune remain unknown, its eventual appearance
is beyond doubt (High 2012). Recognizing politics as not necessarily delimited
to the human realm, ‘offensive politics’ have potential repercussions far
beyond what we might call a ‘secular’ political domain.
Since the collapse of the Soviet Union a growing body of literature has sought
to understand the lived experience of socialism and its aftermath. The
‘freedom’ that the lama, mentioned above, has supported since 1990 is part of
this wider geopolitical history that spans much of the Eurasian continent. The
postsocialist literature has given careful attention to local experiences of the
‘transition’. Yet, as Gal and Kligman suggest, “most scholars of and in the
region have more vigorously explored economic and political processes such
as marketization and democratization” (2000: 3). Indeed, Berdahl calls for
analyses that move away from this “predominant focus on large-scale
economic processes, political elites, and evolutionary trajectories” and instead
begin to unveil the multiple, sometimes hidden, agents that have remained
suppressed for so long (2000: 3, 9). Analyses that approach political agency as
a capacity exclusive to humans not only risk reproducing oppositions central to
Soviet ideology (Luehrmann 2011; Quijada 2012), but also, in my view, hinder
our understanding of politics as anything but primarily ‘secular’. 2 Political
agents are presumed to be human, whereas ‘the spiritual’ is regarded as a
fundamentally unrelated and incompatible sphere.
Based on extensive ethnographic fieldwork carried out between 2005 and 2011
in and around the monastery of Uyanga (Uyangiin Hiid), this article examines
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how Buddhist lamas view what they refer to as the freedom that their country
has experienced since the fall of Soviet socialism. But rather than approaching
spirit-religious views in terms of “the anxieties and uncertainties brought about
by the collapse of socialism and the incipient market economy”
(Buyandelgeriyn 2007: 127), I seek to address personal convictions as both
creative engagements with and contemplations on the world (see also Højer
2009). My aim is to transcend the binary opposition of esoteric ‘belief’ versus
this-worldly ‘knowledge’ that so powerfully reifies religious views as separate
and separable from the person – a tendency of purification and distinction that
marked both Western and Soviet projects of modernity (Pelkmans 2009: 5).
Rather than offering an account of Buddhist theology as a distinct kind of
abstract epistemological orientation separate from politics, I consider
Mongolian Buddhist views of current postsocialist freedom projects. That is, I
examine the ways in which political freedom is imagined from the perspective
of a cosmology that does not presuppose politics to be secular, or even humancentred.
Since the decades of socialism were generally detrimental to religious
practices, including Mongolian Buddhism, it is tempting to assume that most
lamas would simply cherish their post-1990 freedom. In the 1930s thousands
of lamas were sent into forced labour camps or killed during widespread
purges (Dashpurev and Soni 1992; Kaplonski 2002). Monasteries were
destroyed and religious relics were burnt. Mongolians were forced to practice
in secret, facing imprisonment, torture, or execution if caught by the
authorities. In the aftermath of Mongolian independence, religious practices
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have been publically allowed again and churches, monasteries, and mosques
have been built across the country. Followers are recruited into religious
education and religious institutions can once again play a central role in
people’s lives. Yet, many lamas in Uyanga do not regard this freedom as
something that liberates and frees them. Indeed, for them, such a freedom
should not be a goal that we should strive towards. To their frustration, they
complain that many of their fellow countrymen mistakenly think that they are
now ‘free’ (chölöö). By looking at what they mean by ‘freedom’ and being
‘free’, this article considers a Buddhist ethics of self-transformation alongside
concerns about Mongolia’s current mining boom.
The politics of compassion
Mongolian Buddhism is generally associated with Mahayana (Skt. Mahāyāna)
Buddhism and its Tibetan variations, whilst also incorporating various local
religious traditions (see Heissig 1980). Within this complex, the notion of
freedom is intricate and multi-layered. In classical teachings, ‘freedom’ refers
to the ultimate escape from the deluded nature of samsara (Skt. saṃsāra) and
the attainment of enlightenment. The Sanskrit word ‘samsara’ literally means
‘continuous flow’ or ‘to perpetually wander’, referring to the flow of existence
through birth, life, death, and rebirth. In Mongolian language, orchlon
(samsara) is approximated to a quasi-place name that denotes ‘this world’ as
opposed to the much worse underworlds or hells (tam) or the distant world of
bliss inhabited by gods (burhany yertönts). Orchlon is a realm of existence that
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is at once abstract and immediate, speculative and concrete. Closely associated
with the view that beings continue to be born and reborn into any of these
realms depending on the karma (üiliin ür, lit. ‘result of actions’) they have
accrued during life, orchlon underscores the stakes of ethical action in this
current world.3 It is through contemplating our actions, caring and taking care,
that we can leave it behind. As such, the emphasis on ethical self-formation
does not abandon the realm of politics. The ethical and the political are not
compartmentalized, but rather exist in unbroken continuity (see also Mahmood
2005). The project of freedom is thus to bring to fruition the potential that most
humans have within them to transcend their current bodily form and no longer
be caught within this worldly cycle of rebirths.
When one of the lamas in Uyanga described this sense of freedom to me, he
was referring to a famous 12th century Tibetan text entitled The Jewel
Ornament of Freedom (Tib. thar pa rin po ch’e rgyan). It provides an account
of how to follow the Mahayana path to freedom, how “on account of this
human existence endowed with freedoms and assets, there is the ability to give
up non-virtue, the ability to cross samsara’s ocean, the ability to tread the path
of enlightenment and the ability to attain perfect buddhahood” (Holmes 1995:
21). For humans, freedom is described as a precious jewel of liberation – a
potential so pure, complete, and timeless that it should be treasured and
rejoiced accordingly. According to the Dalai Lama, the desire for this freedom
constitutes the shared foundation for ethical sensibilities among all beings. In
his view, “all beings are equal in the sense that all have a natural tendency to
wish for happiness and freedom from suffering” (1994: 4). Since all beings are
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subject to the universal law of karma, escaping samsara and attaining
enlightenment is a goal not only for humans, but for all beings. However, all
beings are not considered equally positioned to achieve the ultimate goal of
freedom from suffering. Beings born into lower realms, such as hell beings,
hungry ghosts, and animals, are said to be driven by their delusive passions
and desires, hence unable to rein in their untamed minds. Humans, on the other
hand, are endowed with a precious consciousness that makes it possible for us
to perform actions of mindfulness, restraint, and compassion. In contrast to
other beings, humans have thus obtained, what the Dalai Lama describes as,
“the best form of existence for the practice of the Dharma” (ibid.: 39).4 As a
result, humans are under a particularly strong moral imperative to realize their
unique potential for freedom.5
For the lamas in Uyanga, however, gaining enlightenment and reaching
nirvana (Skt. nirvāṇa) does not lie within their purview. They consider
themselves so-called ‘low sutra lamas’ (baga hölgönii lam), entangled in the
present and primarily concerned about helping other people with their pain and
their suffering. After a busy morning at the monastery, one of the lamas
introduced himself in the following way:
I am the kind of lama who people come to for help
when someone is sick. For example, a child is crying
and can’t sleep, a woman is having difficulty giving
birth, or a man is experiencing problems with his eyes.
So I recite relevant mantras (tarni) and blow on the
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painful area. I might hand them some blessed water or
ask them to light some incense at home. I give
blessings (yerööl tavih). I am that kind of lama.
Whereas other Buddhist traditions emphasize the liberation of the self as the
goal of religious devotion, the Mahayana school emphasizes the liberation of
all beings as the central motivating factor. Buddhist scholar Jonathan Landaw
attributes this collective emphasis to the fundamental view that “we are not the
only ones who experience suffering and dissatisfaction; all other living beings
share in the same predicament” (1982: 20). In cultivating compassion - that is,
the altruistic desire for other beings to be free of suffering - Mahayana
Buddhism foregrounds exemplars of compassion: the so-called bodhisattvas
(bodsadvaa, Skt. bodhisattva). These beings have reached a state of
enlightenment but decided to postpone entering nirvana in order to use their
merit to release from suffering all who pray to them. Whereas the lamas in
Uyanga seek to help other people with their pain and suffering, they are,
however, far from reaching the blessed state of the bodhisattvas. Instead they
consider themselves earthly beings that are still held in this immediate world of
orchlon.
None of the village lamas in Uyanga have taken the vows of monkhood (gelen
sahiltai). According to one of the lamas, “a very small part of him” is thus
committed to accept the commandments of the Buddha. Most lamas are
married and live with their wives and children. They drink alcohol, smoke
cigarettes, and eat meat. In contrast to the so-called ‘high sutra lamas’ (deed
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hölgönii lam) in the capital of Ulaanbaatar, the lamas in Uyanga are not
obliged to accept a strict monastic discipline and indeed rarely practice deep
meditation, philosophical discussion, or prolonged isolation. They rarely go on
pilgrimages or study under renowned Buddhist masters in Inner Mongolia or
India. They are village lamas who are emphatically caught in the present and
its many difficulties.6 Freeing themselves from this world is thus neither within
their reach nor is it their call. As a younger lama put it, “I am a lama who can’t
set the goal of becoming pure (ööriigöö ariusgah) but I can instead pray for the
good of every living thing”.
Since the re-opening of Uyanga monastery in 1990, only a limited number of
lamas have continued to pursue their monastic practice. Many of the lamas
who have undertaken the monastic training over the years have since left the
monastery and joined the lay population. An elderly lama explained:
After reaching the age of 20, some lamas tend to get married and
have children. They face a situation where money is required and
they realize that the salary they get from here is not enough to take
care of a family. They also learn that life as a lama is not that easy,
that the life of meditation might not be that comfortable. They then
go to the countryside to become herders or begin to work in the
mines. They start to think of new ways of making money and so
they leave. It might be said that they have left because of greed
(shunal).
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Although many have left the monastery, one of the most experienced lamas in
Uyanga has been there since its re-opening.7 Budlam comes from a family of
lamas: His father specialized in Buddhist philosophy (choir) and his father-inlaw in Buddhist medicine (mambe). After years of working as a math teacher
at the local school and later as an accountant for a small company during the
socialist period, Budlam joined the monastery in Uyanga at the cusp of
independence. During any given day, he is busy attending to the needs of local
people. Long queues form in front of his desk at the monastery where he ‘does
readings’ (unshlaga hiih) for several hours every day. Once he returns home,
there is usually someone requesting him to carry out a personal reading.
Sometimes he performs readings in his home; other times he will go to
people’s ger (round white felt tent). Since he is considered the most capable
and knowledgeable lama in Uyanga, people often ask specifically for him at
the monastery – even if it means waiting around for hours, if not days.
A mining boom
Part of the reason why Budlam is so busy is related to Mongolia’s mining
boom. Since the year 2000 Uyanga has been described as the ‘capital of ninja
mining’. The term ‘ninja’ (ninja) is commonly used throughout Mongolia to
refer to artisanal gold miners. In an area with approximately 2000 nomadic
herders, more than 8000 ninjas gathered in the early gold rush years in the
valleys close to the village. After 10 years of mining the local riverbed for the
precious metal, many ninjas have moved on to new areas and the valleys are
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now being dug up predominantly by illegal mining companies. The handmade
metal picks and plastic panning bowls of ninja miners have thus in effect been
largely replaced by industrial diggers and high-pressure water cannons.
In Mongolia mining involves transgressing fundamental taboos (tseer) related
to the land and its spirits (High and Schlesinger 2010). As one lama described
it, “mining is like having a thorn pressed into your hand. That’s how much
nature and the land hurt”. Since mining in Uyanga relies on the central use of
water for the extraction of gold, it is above all the water lords known as lus that
are angered.8 When travelling along redirected rivers, stagnant tailing ponds, or
dried-up riverbeds, herders often lament the disregard (toohgüi) that they feel
that miners have shown local residents, whether human or nonhuman. And
when the main river feeding the region eventually turned deep red from the
heavy mineral and sedimentation pollution from mining, it acquired the
colloquial name of ‘Red River’ (Ulaan Gol). This name referred not only to
the changed colour of the river, but also to the ‘red sentiments’ that herders and
lamas commonly ascribe to the thousands of miners working in the area.9 As
an ‘ulaan herüülchid’ – literally a ‘red quarrelsome people’, miners are seen to
instigate angry confrontation and conflict by refusing to care and take care of
other beings.
Many of Uyanga’s lamas also point to another reason for why it is the lus that
has become particularly affected in Mongolia’s mining boom. As Budlam
recounts, “Our people never really liked to take a lot of gold. It is a very
special and precious treasure that is one of the ‘nine jewels’ (yösön erdene)
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connected to the gods”.10 Gold is described as an unmatched treasure that is
‘held’ (barih), if not ‘withheld’ (tatgalzah), by lus. Unlike many other metals,
gold is fiercely guarded by these beings. As in the material collected by Réne
de Nebesky-Wojkowitz on Tibetan protective deities known as “treasure
guards” (1956: 253), lus are said to have adorned their abodes with gold.
Staircases, walls, and floors are all made of gold, as is their armour if they
have any. They might be protecting themselves with gold shields or
brandishing swords made of gold. They might drink from gold cups or curl
around enormous gold nuggets. In order for humans to obtain gold without
‘stealing’ from lus, it is therefore necessary to first try to persuade lus to part
with their treasure.
Desiring a metal that is so closely guarded and so destructive to extract, miners
often come to the lamas for help. Sometimes they ask them to carry out rituals
that will calm the angered spirits.11 Other times they ask them to relieve the
physical pain they experience from working in the mines. If the miners have
not been able to find much gold, they also ask lamas to cajole lus into sharing
‘fortune’ (hishig) with them. Or, if they are about to open a new mine, they
invite several lamas out to the mines to conduct a large prayer ceremony.12 For
the lamas in Uyanga, ninja miners, company bosses and miners working for
the illegal companies have therefore now become their most frequent and loyal
visitors.
However, according to most lamas, the miners aren’t really concerned about
the impact of mining on spirits. They aren’t really troubled by the pain they
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inflict onto other beings in their offensive disregard of taboos. In response to
my questions about the high number of gold miners visiting the monastery,
they insisted that this was not a case of an economic boom accompanied by
intense religious revitalization. Nor was it for them evidence of an ‘occult
economy’ where human desires are mediated by concerns about angered
spirits. Much to my initial surprise, in their view it was rather evidence of the
longevity and popularity of Marxist materialism. They regard the current
hunger for gold as an example of how their fellow citizens think that the land
and its natural resources are simply there to be exploited. In the words of a
younger lama: “they think that what truly exist are only the things that are
materially real, that everything else is empty”.13 Seeing the universe in these
terms, the miners are believed to come to the lamas not because they recognize
the existence and suffering of spirits, but because they are greedy for money.
They just want the lamas to make them more likely to find gold by doing
whatever rituals are needed. If they really were concerned about inflicting
suffering onto others, they surely would have given up mining a long time ago.
As Budlam says,
Today, ninjas come with swollen legs and arms. When
I blow on their body it heals again. Then they think
everything is sorted out. But that’s not true. The truth is
that they are destroying the living world (yertönts).
They just don’t know that this is a living thing. They
were taught to believe that the environment is lifeless.
But it’s not. This whole universe is a living universe
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and can’t be treated as separate from its humans and
animals, from its worms and insects, from its water and
air. All these together are one whole thing.
Perhaps not surprisingly, few of the miners would agree with Budlam’s
rendition. Instead they remark that their frequent visits to the village lamas
reflect precisely their recognition of and concern for the spirits. The fact that
they do not change their ways or give up mining is, to them, a result of the
limited alternatives available. There are few other jobs in the region and
pastoralism is demanding work that requires constant participation and
considerable patience. Although it has been the traditional backbone of
Mongolia’s economy for centuries, pastoralism is no longer considered a
desirable option for many of the miners.
In an article on the moral apocalypse experienced during postsocialism,
Caroline Humphrey (1992) describes how Mongolians have become
‘dislocated selves’, seeking to revive lost traditions and creating anew a ‘truly
Mongolian’ moral society. As she writes,
Soviet ideology was taken up almost more sincerely,
more naively, more brutally than in the USSR itself. In
the 1930s the Mongolian government destroyed every
single one of the 700 Buddhist monasteries in the
country and killed tens of thousands of people,
annihilating all that was best and most sophisticated
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about native Mongolian culture, philosophy, and art ...
A feudal society permeated with religion at all levels
was abruptly replaced by a European, atheist ideology,
predicated not on a model of the past but on the
modernist development of the present. The moral
authority of the socialist period was based on a vision
of a future society, which was to be egalitarian,
industrialised, and single-minded (ibid.: 375).
The socialist attempt to eradicate anything traditional, anything distinctly
Mongolian, and certainly anything religious, has in many of the lamas’ eyes
been highly successful – probably more successful than ever intended.14 And
indeed, the radical political initiatives that were undertaken in the name of
socialist egalitarianism have, in their view, ended up paradoxically producing
individuals that have lost their concern for precisely the collectivity. In a vein
characteristic of the elder generation of lamas, one of the oldest lamas in
Uyanga views the historical transition this way:
We, the Mongolian people, used to be a nation that
lived for others. But after 70 years of socialism,
Mongolian people only live for themselves. If a stray
dog starves, no one will now give him food. If a
drunken man sleeps on the ground, no one will now
give him shelter. No one will care. Mongolian people
nowadays don’t take pity on others. When did that
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good thing of Buddhism, that thing that teaches people
to live for others, get lost? During these 70 years of
socialism, when everyone started to live for themselves
only, for making his own life better, for getting his own
salary, for desiring to have a comfortable life and
striving for nothing else, people of our generation
stopped dedicating their minds for others. They
completely stopped caring for others. Mongolia is
being destroyed by itself, by its own people.
Inflected and promulgated through contemporary capitalist ideology, this
elderly lama sees a cynical materialism pervading Mongolian society today
(see also Humphrey 2002: 84).15 The self, which was freed from spirituality
under socialism, is today on the hunt for money, resorting to whatever means
might be available. If this means digging deep holes in the ground and
redirecting rivers, people will do it. If it means selling the potent metal of gold
that so easily blinds its holders, luring them into bottomless greed, they will do
it. The freedom (erh chölöö) that Mongolians aspire to, according to many
lamas in Uyanga, is emblematically self-centred. It is free of political ties, free
of moral obligations, free of environmental restrictions. In this view, socialist
atheism has been elaborated and extended into a fundamentally free individual
that is conducive to the neoliberalism, promoted in Mongolia’s current mining
boom.
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Buddhist environmentalism?
The lamas in Uyanga are not alone in making these critical remarks about the
present state of affairs. Influential Buddhist practitioners across the world are
responding to various contemporary problems, whether the Dalai Lama
working towards the political recognition of Tibet, Thailand’s Sulak Sivaraksa
criticizing Western approaches to economic development, or Thich Nhat Hanh
calling for a return to a more mindful engagement with the present, to name
but a few. Whereas some see the environment as an instructive and exemplary
teacher, others embrace a protective and defensive stewardship of nature and
its resources.16 In recent years Mongolian lamas have collectively sought to
address the needs and demands that have arisen due to mining. Apart from
undertaking various kinds of environmental awareness projects, many
monasteries also collaborate with international Buddhist movements,
development organisations, and the government. They print books and
brochures on environmental issues, undertake reforestation projects, and
organize environmental training courses for the lay population.17 According to
the Centre of Mongolian Buddhism, based at the country’s largest monastery
(Gandantegchinlen), this involvement of Mongolian Buddhists in
environmental advocacy work adheres closely to the teachings of the Buddha.
Its statement reads as follows:
We need to live as the Buddha taught us to live, in
peace and harmony with nature, but this must start with
ourselves. If we are going to save this planet, we need
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to seek a new ecological order, to look at the life we
lead and then work together for the benefit of all;
unless we work together no solution can be found. By
moving away from self-centredness, sharing wealth
more, being more responsible for ourselves, and
agreeing to live more simply, we can help decrease
much of the suffering in the world (the Buddhist
Statement on Ecology, quoted in Chimedsengee 2009:
4).
The Dashchoilin monastery in Ulaanbaatar is commonly regarded as
particularly efficacious in mitigating the damage caused by mining. Before a
new mine is opened, lamas are often consulted. With reference to instructions
contained in Tibetan and Mongolian texts, a mining site is determined to have
relatively ‘good’ or ‘bad’ properties, just as a given day is regarded as more or
less auspicious for ‘the breaking of the soil’.18 Speaking at the Northern
Buddhist Conference on Ecology and Development in Ulaanbaatar in 2005,
one of its lamas described how more and more mining companies were
consulting them to enquire about auspicious start dates for their projects and to
request ‘appeasement ceremonies’ (argadan örgöl) addressing in particular the
angered lus. He believed that company directors were increasingly turning to
them for assistance “because company profits are decreasing and because
families in the area are perceived to be experiencing harm from pollution
(bohirdol) and other similar causes” (Chimedsengee 2009: 22). Knowing both
the companies and the affected families well, he emphasized how he offered
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ritual services and personal advice to miners and company bosses out of his
compassionate desire to help mitigate human and nonhuman suffering.
However, at a monastery where apparently 80% of Ulaanbaatar-based mining
companies come for ritual services, it would seem that a new and substantial
mining-related clientele has emerged. Whereas many lamas have had to forego
a monastic life due, in part, to the low income, is this postsocialist generation
of lamas drawing on environmental discourses whilst seeking to profit from
the affliction that has arisen in the mining boom?
Perhaps not surprisingly, many lamas object to such a reading. They explain
how the monetary aspect of rituals is not that straightforward. As a younger
lama grumbled after a particularly busy service in Uyanga, “all the big mining
bosses came by here today. But it doesn’t matter how many readings we do
during our meeting (hural). We still don’t get any more money”. At the
monastery there is a set price for rituals, paid directly to a lay accountant
(nyarav). At the end of each month, the accountant hands out a salary to each
lama depending on his seniority. Approaching seniority largely in terms of age,
the youngest lama receives 60,000 tögrögs per month (approx. 50 USD) with a
sliding scale up to the most senior receiving 100,000 MNT per month (approx.
83 USD).19 The salaries are more or less fixed so in times of greater
ceremonial activity, the extra income is not necessarily distributed to the lamas
themselves. It might instead be saved for quieter months or subsumed into the
substantial maintenance budget. “It is expensive to keep the monastery
operating”, the accountant explained. In the old days the cost of basic food and
ritual supplies were covered by the laity, but today such networks of support
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have largely disappeared. Although the lamas might not receive a higher salary
from their ritual activities during hural, the accountant said that the monastic
institution certainly benefitted from the mining boom.
Beyond the set price for rituals, visitors to the monastery also often present
offerings (tahil) to gods and, depending on the circumstances, to the lamas
individually. Elaborate arrangements consisting of sweets, dried milk curd, and
silk scarves topped with crisp new bank notes are presented to the lamas,
recognizing the position of the higher ranking lamas with more extensive
offerings. It is not rare for such offerings to include the highest denomination
of 20,000 MNT (approx. 17 USD). These offerings constitute a substantial
additional income beyond the monthly salaries. This is particularly the case in
Uyanga where unfortunately there is reputed to be at least one fatality a day
from the gold mining. During the intense transition period (bardo) of 49 days
when the soul (süns) of the deceased travels between lives, relatives often
present additional offerings and request additional readings from lamas. By
thus making merit (buyan hiih), relatives can aid the journey of the parting
soul. These sad occasions take place regularly and involve extraordinary levels
of generosity. In a region of relative poverty, many of Uyanga’s lamas have
now become noticeably well-off. In addition to the mining company bosses,
lamas are now some of the only ones owning Land Cruisers and computers,
investing in local businesses and going on international holidays.
Yet, they dismiss this wealth as insignificant and ephemeral. “Material
wealth”, the lama administering the Uyanga monastery (da lam) pronounced,
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“can bring much misfortune (gai) and malicious gossip (hel am) among the
laity, but not among us. This is because it only matters to the ‘greedy mind’
(shunal setgel)”; that is, a mind that clings to the present and values its current
embodied self above other beings. As one of the wealthiest lamas in Uyanga,
the da-lama insisted that to criticize him for his material wealth was a
reflection of people’s own greedy minds rather than a shortcoming of his.
Since he did not suffer from such ignorance, he could own multiple cars and
houses without these possessions ‘pulling at him from behind’. And when I
broached the topic of sharing his wealth with the much poorer villagers, he
reasoned that sharing his prayers was much better – “I think what is best for
the Mongolian people is the philosophy of Buddhism, not wealth and
possessions”.
Looking past the flow of money, the lamas’ involvements in the mining boom
would also seem to facilitate, if not indeed legitimize, practices that the lamas
themselves consider offensive. As they carry out ‘appeasement ceremonies’
and recite texts that encourage the lus to pass their treasure to humans, are the
lamas not also involved in the ‘offensive politics’ for which they criticize the
‘ulaan herüülchid’ of miners? Amid the project of self-transformation, are they
not evidencing a way of being that is also fundamentally ‘free’ and selfcentred?
According to the head of Gandantegchinlen monastery (Hamba lam), such a
view separates actions from the soteriological motivations of the involved
lamas. He argues that it is because the fate of humanity is inextricably
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interwoven with and dependent on the fate of the environment that the Centre
for Mongolian Buddhism encourages ritual involvement. Drawing on the belief
in reincarnation (dahin törölt), he explains that since humans can be reborn as
any animal, including insects – or even as trees or water – we must respect
these elements of life. Prior to our present existence, we have known the
suffering experienced by these beings because we have, at some point, lived a
life in that body. Harming any being is dangerous for humans who may be
reborn as any of these in the future. In this view, mining is a form of violence,
inflicting onto others a pain and suffering that we are all intimately familiar
with. It entails a profound ignorance of other beings, especially those who do
not have a human body. If lamas were to no longer conduct ‘appeasement
ceremonies’ and other rituals, they would then, in his view, be presuming the
environment to be ‘empty’ (hooson) and humans to be ‘free’ (chölöö). At the
Northern Buddhist Conference on Ecology and Development, he therefore
called on all Mongolian monasteries to “support and work closely with
environmental organizations, encouraging above all the participation of the
religious community” (2005: 8).
When talking to Budlam in Uyanga, he draws on a slightly less conventional
Buddhist critique of extractive industries. Attacking the ideological framework
that justifies practices such as mining, he seeks to prove how Marxist
materialism and its celebration of the atheist individual misconstrue the
relationship between humans and the environment. As he says:
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This atmosphere, this vast seemingly empty space
called the universe, is not empty. It truly exists in the
same way as material objects exist. All beings, such as
animals and humans, trees and rivers, emit energy
(enerji) through their own minds and actions.20 They
emit electricity, heat, and energy. As long as they think
of good things and do good deeds, they disseminate
energy that causes other living beings to also think of
good things and do good deeds. But if they think of bad
things and do bad deeds, then that energy also gets
spread around them through the environment and into
the atmosphere. This bad energy causes others to suffer
and degrade. This energy always emanates from
beings, especially from humans as they have a higher
level of reincarnation.
Now, today, when we use mobile phones to get
connected to each other, who is connecting us? How
can we talk to someone in America, directly? The great
energy that is constantly being emitted from living
beings in the vast space of air, that positive and
negative energy, that plus and minus energy, that
energy of hot and cold, that’s the only thing connecting
us. This universe is one whole sphere of energy.
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Marxists say nature is empty, but it’s not. That’s why
we can talk on mobile phones.
Budlam here draws on technology as material evidence for the existence of
beings that we otherwise might not recognize and sometimes not even see. In
this sense sentient life is everywhere around us. Its usual invisibility, however,
does not justify our ignorant actions. If we mistakenly think that we are free
and independent, we just need to cast a quick glance at the ways in which we
now communicate across great distances. Incorporating technology into his
view of the interdependence between humans and nonhumans, Budlam
questions the human-centredness of Marxist materialism and questions the
supremacy it has so successfully lent to the material.
In Buryatia, Buddhist monks similarly draw on science and technology in
attempts to assemble persuasive evidence of Buddhist understandings of being.
When the Bolsheviks established the Soviet state in 1927, a high-ranking
Buddhist monk Etigelov settled into prolonged meditation (Bernstein 2011;
Quijada 2012). Having chanted tantric texts for the dead, he ‘left’ the corporeal
plane of existence and was subsequently buried. Following his own
instructions, he was exhumed in 2002. He was reported to have emerged still
seated in the lotus position and scientists stated that his miraculously preserved
body appeared as if dead for only days rather than decades. The scientific
testing underscored the common view that “Etigelov’s lack of decay is not
merely a miracle; it is a scientifically proven miracle” (Quijada 2012: 145).
Linking his bodily state to Buddhist notions of transcendence, the Buddhist
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monastic community drew on science to prove their faith, thereby reconciling
any dichotomy between science and religion. Quijada sees this reconciliation
between science and religion as closely related to people’s experiences of a
failing postsocialist state and the distress it has brought upon its citizens.
Whereas Soviet discourses came to define religion and science as mutually
constitutive categories by virtue of their antithesis, the present desire for
treatment and healing has altered their dialogic relationship. In this case,
“Etigelov has transcended a specifically local Buryat and post-Soviet condition
of suffering, rooted in the dislocations of post-Soviet transformations” (ibid.:
149). As different modes of assembling persuasive understandings of the
world, religion and science have in postsocialist Buryatia become potentially
mutually supportive.
As one of the first in Uyanga to be equipped with a mobile phone, Budlam
refers to technology as evidence for his understanding of the world and the
ways in which all living things are mutually interrelated (see also McMahan
2008).21 For him, this is not only a philosophical reflection on the state of the
universe, but also an understanding with powerful ethical and political
implications. If we are all part of a vast, interdependent network of being, our
actions can have profound implications for others. Conversely, lacking any
inherent self-existence, actions carried out by others can have profound
implications for us. In a world where we are all constituted by our interactions
with other beings, humans are far from the only agents on the political scene.
And whether or not Budlam and other lamas seek an active role in the gold
rush, they know they will be affected by the inflicted pain. As Lama Zopa
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Rinpoche suggested on a recent visit to Mongolia, ‘we have created the
situation in which we find ourselves, so it is also up to us to create the
circumstances for our own release’. For the country’s lamas, it is therefore
pertinent, even if also profitable, to focus on easing the suffering inflicted on
others.
Although the current mining boom has evidenced a flourishing of ‘offensive
politics’, it is a phenomenon that cannot meaningfully be regarded as produced
mainly under conditions of ‘socialism’, ‘postsocialism’, ‘neoliberalism’, or
‘capitalism’. By moving beyond the bounds and legacies of a Cold War
oppositional view, the critiques advanced by lamas have laid bare certain
presuppositions that are common to these otherwise different ideologies. They
are not just critiquing the past or the present, favouring one political regime
above another. Instead they show how a secularized political domain, devoid
of nonhuman agents, has transcended major political transitions and continued
to form a single, shared political field.
Cosmopolitical freedom
Having recognized the multiple notions of freedom that overlap and co-exist in
the gold mines of Uyanga, what kind of freedom are the lamas lamenting as
lacking in their fellow citizens? What can we call freedom projects that do not
aim to set us free? For lamas like Budlam, the political transition to a
postsocialist regime was an opportunity to recognize their relationship with,
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and indeed dependence on, multiple other beings. It was a historical
opportunity to recognize that they are in fact not free. This view of freedom is
also captured by Isabelle Stengers’ (2010) approach to ‘cosmopolitics’ where
freedom can be seen as a challenge, not a condition. For her, politics “should
not be restricted to our fellow humans, as politics since Plato has implied, but
should entertain the problematic togetherness of the many concrete,
heterogeneous, enduring shapes of value that compose actuality” (2002: 248).
Embracing a vast number of human and nonhuman entities, the lamas of
Uyanga reject the idea that politics means the give-and-take in an exclusively
human club. Similarly, they also reject the notion of a universe as a passive
and empty background to our actions, devoid of recognition and respect. The
freedom they experience and would like for others to exercise is not simply a
human-centred freedom that we could call ‘political’. It is rather what I would
like to call ‘cosmopolitical’: A freedom that does not presuppose the equality,
or even similarity, between political agents, but rather an attentive coming
together of multiple non-equivalent entities.
As such, for the lamas of Uyanga Buddhist self-transformation does not entail
achieving freedom. They do not regard freedom as constituting a liberating end
point, a moment of fulfilment, or a moment of completion. It is not a distant
goal that exists above and beyond them. Instead, they seek to exercise a
freedom that is grounded in action and contemplation. It is the freedom to be
able to reflect on how they live their lives in the present. Since such reflection
takes different forms in different historical situations, the lamas’ freedom
project crystallizes the intersection of Soviet socialist materialism, neoliberal
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individualism with a Buddhist ethics of self-transformation. It is a state of
being that is not only historically contingent, but also historically reflexive.
The lamas engage history in their contemplation on how to exercise a
‘cosmopolitical freedom’.
Rather than presuming that freedom goes hand in hand with ‘being free’, they
thus invite us to move beyond the notion that freedom is only possible in the
absence of constraints. Exercising ‘cosmopolitical freedom’ is not predicated
on, and indeed goes against, the view of people as ‘free agents’, exercising
choice without coercion. As Laidlaw (2002) suggests in his work on freedom
and ethics, it is crucial that we distinguish between notions of freedom and
agency. For Laidlaw, “if the word ‘freedom’ is reserved only for choices one
approves, then it loses its meaning” (ibid.: 326). Given the fickle character of
spirits and the difficulty of living amidst so many different beings, I can
imagine that Budlam would agree with this statement. ‘Cosmopolitical
freedom’ is not about the ability to make free choices, but rather the ability to
act in a world that extends far beyond the individual.
Such limits on human agency are not only central to the challenges of Buddhist
self-transformation, but also figure centrally in contemporary Western
concerns about global technosciences. For example, Latour (2004) seeks to
come to terms with the facts of co-existence; a world that is increasingly
populated by nonhuman entities that we have invented. Styrofoam cups, oil
tankers, genetically modified organisms (GMO), and thorium reactors now
populate the earth, having acquired an existence of their own with unknown
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capacities to influence our lives. GMOs, for example, do not behave in
controllable or even predictable ways. Other species that they come into
contact with are not in a position to ‘choose’ whether or not to become
implicated in the evolutionary trajectory of a new, scientifically generated
species. Since so many of these entities are simultaneously toxic and attractive
to one another, Whiteside poignantly asks: “Can we live together? – where
‘we’ is people and all the nonhuman phenomena with which they become
entangled” (2006: 105-106). In their calls for a ‘precautionary politics’, both
Latour and Whiteside argue that the entanglements forged between humans
and nonhumans now require a new kind of politics that engages a
‘cosmopolitical’ vision that is not predicated on conventional bifurcations of
the world. As for the lamas in Uyanga, the possibilities for freedom involve
multiple and various agents beyond those that happen to take our familiar
human body. And in order for us to begin recognizing the illusion of political
agency as a pre-eminently human property and politics as separate from the
cosmos, they suggest we reflect on those spaces that we might otherwise
presume to be ‘empty’.
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Notes
Research for this article has primarily been supported by an ESRC
Postgraduate Studentship (PTA-030-2003-00784), Wenner-Gren Dissertation
Fieldwork Grant (Gr. 7376) and a British Academy Post-Doctoral Fellowship
(PDF/2009/423).
1
In order to approximate the Mongolian terminology and avoid potential Western connotations
of monkhood, I henceforth use the term ‘lama’ to refer to the Buddhist monks.
2
In her work on ‘postsecular religion’, Sonja Luehrmann demonstrates elegantly how “Soviet
secularization was … not only about replacing the church with the cinema and appropriating
the cinema’s cultural power to the state. It was also about accustoming people to social
relations in which there were no significant nonhuman agents” (Luehrmann 2011:7). It is this
‘exclusive humanism’, which Charles Taylor (2004; 2007) has traced in modern Western
thought, that I claim still thrives in the scholarly literature known as ‘transitology’.
3
Regarding ethics as fundamental to the human condition is far from particular to religious
devotional views of the human subject. Lambek and others (2010) have made a call for greater
scholarly recognition of ‘ordinary ethics’, ensuring that it can “overcome its own inherent
tendency to succumb to metaphysical denunciations of its apparent vagueness, imprecision,
superstition – not overcome this once and for all, but in each incidence of our intellectual and
spiritual chagrin” (ibid.: 2, quoting Cavell 2004: 8).
4
The Sanskrit word ‘Dharma’ is derived from the root ‘dhŗ’ which means ‘to carry’, ‘to
uphold’ or ‘to support’. In Buddhist terminology, it has various meanings ranging from the
state of Nature “as it is” (Skt. yathā bhutā) to the teachings of the Buddha.
5
The unique position of human beings for following the path to salvation, as described by the
Dalai Lama, is debated within the Buddha’s own teachings. In the Lotus Sutra, for example, it
is made clear that the attainment of Buddhahood is available to all beings who follow the
teachings, even the epitome of evil Devadatta and the nonhuman dragons or nagas protecting
the Buddhist doctrine (Watson 1993: ch. 12).
6
The distinction between ‘low’ and ‘high sutra lamas’ is central to the village lamas’ own
presentations of themselves. However, it should not be mistaken for also an analytical
dichotomy. Following the work of Martin Mills (2000; 2003) on Tibetan Buddhist
communities among the Ladakh, I see Mongolian Buddhist monasticism as a scalar field
where social and religious identities are recursively and increasingly transformed, rather than
replaced or repressed. As such, the Mongolian ‘low sutra lamas’ might approximate Mills’s
“incomplete renouncers” (2003: 69).
7
Although there have been concerted, and often internationally-backed, efforts to reinvigorate
Mongolian Buddhism over the last few decades, the notion of ‘revitalisation’ might not
describe adequately the heterogeneous processes that have taken place (see AbrahmsKavunenko 2011).
8
The water lords lus are in many ways reminiscent of the Buddhist beings known as nagas
(Skt. nāga, Tib. klu). The Sanskrit word nāga means ‘snake’ or ‘serpent’, and nāgas dwell in
rivers, lakes, and other water sources. They have their own society or kingdoms under the earth
and are passionate beings that will strike back at offenders (Nebesky-Wojkowitz 1956; Tucci
1949: 723). However, in contrast to the ways in which people describe lus in Uyanga, nāgas
are further depicted as creatures with the torso and head of humans, and the body and tail of a
snake. Moreover, nāgas are said to be able to assume human form at will (D. Lopez, personal
communication). Although Sühbaatar (2001) has collected some similar Mongolian examples,
I did not in Uyanga come across such descriptions of anthropomorphic features or abilities in
lus.
9
There are many expressions in Mongolian language that associate the colour red with
negative feelings of anger and violence. Those that I have heard used to describe miners
include ulaan galzuu (lit. red rage), uurlaj ulaih (lit. to become red with anger), ulaan herüülch
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(lit. a red quarrelsome/argumentative person), ulaan üzsen araatan shig (lit. to be like a wild
beast that has seen red).
10
In Mongolia the ‘nine jewels’ are pearl, coral, turquoise, lapis lazuli, mother of pearl, steel,
copper, silver, and gold. These gems were sometimes ground up and used as pigments to
handwrite Buddhist texts, representing the gem-like teachings of the Buddha (see Zhengyin
2003: 618).
11
In his analysis of the Tibetan soil ritual Sa Chog, Gardner argues that the ritual is not
intended to avoid inflicting harm on the serpent, but rather, alongside its veneration of
nonhuman beings, to “maximise the violence” (2006: 11). In Uyanga, the rituals not only
address spirits that are different from the Tibetan soil serpent and are far from as elaborate as
those described by Gardner. But they also do not seem to bear any parallels to the Tibetan
“symbolic stabbing wrapped in a wrathful subjugation narrative” (ibid.: 11). Beyond the
lamas’ own commentary, the ritual orchestration itself that calls forth spirits and offers items
most desirable to them, the patient waiting and the still unknown aftermath, ascertains the
expected display of respect and veneration of other beings. It is thus more in line with Charles
Ramble’s discussion of a harvest ritual where sacred texts are recited in order to protect the
cultivated fields from external harm (Ramble 1996: 145).
12
It is not only miners who draw on the expertise of monks to carry out rituals. As noted by
Elverskog (2006), Buddhist practices today often centre on ritual efficacy through the reading
of texts, making astrological predictions, and conducting other rituals.
13
This sounds almost like a pun on Marx and Engels’ verdict on capitalism ‘all that is solid
melts into air’, which also gave Berman the title of his book on modernity. Marks, Engels, and
Berman, just like the monks’ views of the Mongolian miners, are taking it for granted that only
the material is real, but simultaneously suggesting that old certainties and values are threatened
by global modernity (I am grateful to Nicolas Argenti for highlighting this link).
14
Although the monks lend support to Humphrey’s view of the successful espousal of socialist
ideology in Mongolia, there are also numerous counter-examples. Apart from the fact that
many people continued their religious practices, albeit in secrecy, during the socialist period,
staunch defenders of socialism also incorporated traditional rituals into the socialist work
regime. The former governor during the late socialist years in Uyanga, for example, recounts
how they made offerings before laying the foundations of new buildings in the 1980s: “We had
to ask the land for permission”.
15
The ideological association between socialism and neoliberalism has also been discussed by
Boyer and Yurchak (2010) in the context of a particular parody genre (stiob) that flourished in
late-socialist USSR and today’s US late-liberalism.
16
Critical Buddhism, associated primarily with Japanese Buddhist scholars such as Noriaki
Hakamaya and Matsumoto Shirō of the Sōtō Zen sect, argues against the possibility of
Buddhist environmental ethics. While the Japanese Buddhist tradition emphasizes that all
beings are ‘inherently’ enlightened (including non-sentient beings such as plants and rocks),
they claim that attempts to posit a unified reality as the source from which all particularities
emerge is ultimately non-Buddhist since it conflicts with the doctrine of non-self (anātman)
(see Swanson 1993).
17
In attempts to formalize their environmental conservation work, they reintroduced in 2001
the notion of Buddhist Sacred Reserves (Ariun Dagshin Gazar), ritually marking areas that are
deemed protected by deities. However, the success of these attempts is still doubtful (see also
Dudley et al. 2005).
18
Kenneth Kraft (2000) in his activist work on, among others, nuclear waste uses notions of
‘eco-self’ and ‘eco-karma’ to refer specifically to the acting self and its moral implications for
the environment.
19
In a region where it is not common for members of the monastic community to observe even
the basic Five Precepts (Skt. pañca-śīlāni), the older the lama, the more senior and higher paid
he is likely to be – almost regardless of his abilities to study scriptures, engage in devotional
practice, or cultivate higher wisdom. Approaching seniority largely in terms of age is in
continuation with broader regional practice of patriarchal social organisation.
20
In referring to ‘energy’, Budlam is likely to draw both on popular Russian new age
spirituality and Tantric Buddhist understandings of ‘energy’ flowing through our bodies and
the universe, creating and upholding our being. Through rituals and meditation we can contact
and channel this ‘energy’, thereby achieving mindfulness and liberation from suffering.
38
Pre-copyedited version! Final version published in Journal of the Royal
Anthropological Institute, Vol.19, Issue 4, pp. 753-770. Mette M. High
In a similar vein, Buddhist scholar David McMahan writes: “That we live in a radically
interconnected world has become a truism. Indeed, this age of internationalism and the internet
might well be called the age of inter: there is nothing that is not interconnected,
interdependent, interwoven, interlaced, interactive, or interfacing with something else to make
it what it is. Thus, any religious tradition that can claim ‘interdependence’ as a central doctrine
lays claim to timely cultural resonance and considerable cultural cachet” (2008: 149). In his
attempts to position Buddhism as a pre-eminently ‘modern religion’, McMahan evinces a
certain theory of globalization that is fraught with presumptions of unprecedented
‘connectedness’ (I am grateful to one of the anonymous reviewers for highlighting this link).
21
Notes on contributor
Mette M. High is a postdoctoral research fellow in Social Anthropology at University of
Edinburgh. Her forthcoming monograph explores the relationship between spirit worlds and
gold money in the Mongolian gold rush.
Social Anthropology, University of Edinburgh, Chrystal Macmillan Building, 15a George
Square, Edinburgh EH8 9LD, UK. m.high@ed.ac.uk
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