Religion, Ritual and Ritualistic Objects

Religion, Ritual
and Ritualistic
Objects
Edited by
Albertina Nugteren
Printed Edition of the Special Issue Published in Religions
www.mdpi.com/journal/religions
Religion, Ritual and Ritualistic Objects
Religion, Ritual and Ritualistic Objects
Special Issue Editor

Albertina Nugteren
MDPI • Basel • Beijing • Wuhan • Barcelona • Belgrade

Albertina Nugteren
Tilburg University
The Netherlands
Editorial Office
MDPI
St. Alban-Anlage 66
4052 Basel, Switzerland
This is a reprint of articles from the Special Issue published online in the open access journal Religions
(ISSN 2077-1444) from 2018 to 2019 (available at: https://www.mdpi.com/journal/religions/special
issues/Ritual)
For citation purposes, cite each article independently as indicated on the article page online and as
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LastName, A.A.; LastName, B.B.; LastName, C.C. Article Title. Journal Name Year, Article Number,
Page Range.
ISBN 978-3-03897-752-0 (Pbk)

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c 2019 by the authors. Articles in this book are Open Access and distributed under the Creative
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Contents
About the Special Issue Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii
Preface to ”Religion, Ritual and Ritualistic Objects” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix
Albertina Nugteren
Introduction to the Special Issue ‘Religion, Ritual, and Ritualistic Objects’
Reprinted from: Religions 2019, 10, 163, doi:10.3390/rel10030163 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Walter E. A. van Beek

Matter in Motion: A Dogon Kanaga Mask
Reprinted from: Religions 2018, 9, 264, doi:10.3390/rel9090264 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Frank G. Bosman
‘Requiescat in Pace’. Initiation and Assassination Rituals in the Assassin’s Creed Game Series
Francesco Perono Cacciafoco and Francesco Cavallaro

Lamòling Bèaka: Immanence, Rituals, and Sacred Objects in an Unwritten Legend in Alor
Laurie M.C. Faro

When Children Participate in the Death Ritual of a Parent: Funerary Photographs as Mnemonic
Objects
Deborah de Koning
The Ritualizing of the Martial and Benevolent Side of Ravana in Two Annual Rituals at the Sri
Devram Maha Viharaya in Pannipitiya, Sri Lanka
Xiaohe Ma and Chuan Wang

On the Xiapu Ritual Manual Mani the Buddha of Light
J. Andrew McDonald
Influences of Egyptian Lotus Symbolism and Ritualistic Practices on Sacral Tree Worship in the
Fertile Crescent from 1500 BCE to 200 CE
Andrea Nicklisch
Continuity and Discontinuity in 17th- and 18th-Century Ecclesiastical Silverworks from the
Southern Andes
Catrien Notermans
Prayers of Cow Dung: Women Sculpturing Fertile Environments in Rural Rajasthan (India)
Albertina Nugteren
Bare Feet and Sacred Ground: “Vis.n.u Was Here”
v
About the Special Issue Editor
Albertina Nugteren (PhD 1991, Universities of Utrecht and Leiden, The Netherlands) is currently a
Professor in the Department of Culture Studies and Digital Sciences at Tilburg University. Trained as
a classical Indologist she now combines ethnography and textual studies. Through years of travel
in South Asia as well as the shifting demands of academic curricula she also began to focus on
contemporary issues such as Hindu communities in diaspora. Special research interests include
religious rituals, rituals after disasters, material culture, and the ‘green’ environment (sacred trees,
sacred groves, natural burial sites, the use of wood in open-air cremation, etc.). Her work is published
widely, such as with Brill, Oxford University Press, Routledge, Equinox and Praeger/ABC-CLIO. She
also published a novel on ancient India, and writes poetry.
vii
Preface to ”Religion, Ritual and Ritualistic Objects”
The idea for the present volume was conceived gradually during academic conferences, when
receiving notifications of fascinating new series set up by well-known publishers, and while ‘thinking
through things’ both in the classroom and during fieldwork. When I was invited to convene and
guest-edit a Special Issue on ritual by the Journal Religions, I saw this as a thrilling opportunity to
send out open invitations for an object-centered volume. I was highly curious to see what kind of
ritualistic ‘things’ would come floating by.
I envisaged a wide range of contributions on material culture and ritual practices across religions.
The primary focus was to be on objects: tangible material things as used in religious ritual settings.
The response was promising, and the Journal’s time schedule guaranteed a rapid production process.
As often happens, some proposals were too broad and general, and submissions sometimes lacked
originality or were not based on new ethnographic data gathered ‘on the spot’. But what remained,
and is proudly presented here, is an attractive collection of ten papers, most of them lavishly
illustrated with pictures.
As editors, we would like to express our gratitude to all authors for sharing their fascination
with the life of ritualistic objects with the readers. Also, we thank all the anonymous peer reviewers
whose astute remarks and suggestions greatly enhanced the quality of each paper.
Albertina Nugteren
ix
religions
Editorial
Introduction to the Special Issue ‘Religion, Ritual,
and Ritualistic Objects’
Albertina Nugteren
Faculty of Humanities and Digital Sciences, Tilburg University, 5000 LE Tilburg, The Netherlands;
a.nugteren@uvt.nl
Received: 13 February 2019; Accepted: 25 February 2019; Published: 6 March 2019
If an object-centered volume on religious ritual is anything, it is a collection of contributions on material

culture as a manifestation of structured symbolic practices (Fleming and Mann 2014; Grimes 2011;
Keane 2008; Morgan 2008). Such practices are assumed to be endowed with signification and to be
based on an interrelated set of ideas. Rituals may be taken to exist because they perform the function
of establishing a common mood and thus assert social solidarity, but a ritual has a particular style, is
part of a cultural and symbolic order. Its material dimensions, particularly its objects, may provide us
with keys to meaning-making.
According to Hodder (1987, p. 1) the meaning in objects is threefold: (1) objects have use value
through their effect on the world (a functionalist, materialistic, or utilitarian perspective); (2) objects
have structural or coded meanings, which they communicate (their symbolic meaning); (3) objects are
meaningful through their past associations (their historical meaning). Studying objects as transporters
of meaning, as well as people’s responses to such objects, especially in ritual contexts, thus becomes a
study not merely of culture-specific materiality (or: materialization, when the processual character is
emphasized) but also of the multiple interpretations that occur when people and objects move from
one context to another.
We are fortunate that all authors in this Special Issue show a sensitive awareness of contexts
and people’s responses to objects, and do not limit themselves to iconography, style, or symbolism.
Nor do they fall victim to ‘the danger of a single story’ (as the novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
calls it in her TED-talk, (Adichie 2009)). The single story, according to Adichie, ‘creates stereotypes.
And the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete’ (quoted
in (Buggeln and Franco 2018, p. xii)). Instead, all contributors present multiple perspectives and
suspicion of single (or reductive) narratives, and thus allow their objects to come to life before the
reader’s eye, and shimmer.
This is not a collection of articles about rituals, but about the power of ritual objects. Some of
those objects are found in museums; others are used within religious contexts and in daily life. Grimes:
‘Ritual stuff is sometimes treasured and iconic, but sometimes it is not.’ (Grimes 2011, p. 77) Cow dung
is an example of the latter. In India it may be merely dirt; it may be scattered as fertilizer in the fields;
mixed with straw and dried in the sun cow-patties may be used as fuel in simple ovens and furnaces;
it may be the semi-fluid ‘paint’ with which the walls and floors of traditional rooms (temples and
kitchens) were (and sometimes still are) ritually purified; and it may be the stuff from which divine
figures are fashioned, as related by Catrien Notermans in her article on women’s Govardhan festivities
in rural Rajasthan.
1. Context
Things, objects, materiality: when they become saturated with religious meanings ((Morgan 2011,
p. 140): ‘a thing is an object waiting to happen’) they appear to possess more power than people would
reasonably allocate to them. What all contributions in this object-centered thematic issue share is the
importance of context. The cow dung, mentioned above, in its normal appearance all over the world
Religions 2019, 10, 163; doi:10.3390/rel10030163 1 www.mdpi.com/journal/religions

Religions 2019, 10, 163
is ‘nothing but shit’, literally so. The object’s existence, function, and potency depend on the context.
A heap of cow dung on an Indian street may be smartly sidestepped by an urban lady passing by.
She carefully hitches the borders of her silk sari for a minute. But what is dirt to the lady on her way
to office may be precious to the urban scavenger. It can be collected, dried, and sold to the factory
where it is made into granules of organic fertilizer used in gardens. In Notermans’ article it is all this,
and more. In her portrayal of cow dung’s cognitive and relational specificity, she draws attention to
rural women’s intimate relation to cows and their dung in various contexts. Is it the multiple-day feast
of Divali, not merely the single ritual, which makes cow dung stand out as the substance of fertility?
Is it the specific context in which cow dung is not merely dirt—indeed, in the festive ritual situation it
becomes the material from which divine figures are crafted and about which local stories are being told
and re-told—or does its significance exist independent of the ritual and narrative context? Notermans
shows that for the women the cognitive and imaginative relation may be heightened by the ritual
context, yet the basis is found in their daily lives and ecologies.
One of the qualities ascribed to ritual (Bell 1992, 1997) is that rituals are an intensified form of
participation and communication. If we take ‘communication’ here to have both social (for example,
disciplinary, expressive) purposes and self-referring properties—women intensifying their pre-existing
everyday relationships to both cows and their produce—we could state that the rural women around
Udaipur have a matter-of-fact relationship to cow dung that becomes more dense when expressed
through ritual, creativity, narrativity, symbolism, and a common mood (cf. Collins 2004). Cow dung,
to them, is precious in a multi-purpose way. That the festive figurines made of cow dung are destroyed
on the spot, then sun-dried, and at the right time carried out to the fields as fertilizer points at a
lifeworld in which context is merely a matter of application, of use and deployment. Context does
matter but in this case study it is transitional rather than sharply oppositional. That such precarious
ecology—in terms of both lifeworlds and livelihoods—is under threat, such as by housing projects,
fertilizer factories, and intergenerational change, is, literally, merely a footnote.
2. Form
Does form matter? The role that the shape or aesthetics may play in ritual efficacy is best
illustrated and critically discussed through Walter van Beek’s article on Dogon dance masks. Both in the
production of the masks and the staging of the masked dance there are identities, there is personhood,
there is agency, but there is also imitation, role-play, a masquerade. Dance is ‘matter in motion’
(as van Beek’s title aptly states): ‘Masks are matter in motion and symbols in context.’ It appears
that in this case study we need to consider both context and form, both objects and movements and
places. The masks are to honor the dead and provide them with a means to become ancestors. Death
itself is a major transition, marked by funerary rituals, but the major transition ritual—that of ritually
transferring them, post-death, to the realm of ancestors—is essential. There is a reason why the dead
are often referred to as ‘the departed’: they are somewhere else, not with us anyway, but they are still
unsettled and for their own good and that of society they need to be firmly established ‘elsewhere’,
as ancestors. Warning for over-interpretation of masks, van Beek rejects stereotypical significations
attributed by outsiders, by whom masks are thought to represent ancestors, deities, spirits, or, in a
different register: objects of art. The Dogon masks, van Beek cautions, are the entire apparition:
costume, headpiece, and paraphernalia. They are a class of beings in their own right, and they come
from outside the village. They are a presence rather than a representation: wild animals, sometimes
humans. Their dances often mimic the particular animal the apparition refers to, but the apparition is
the mask, not the person behind it. At the same time, masks show trends and fashions. At some recent
point in time, the author notes, masks tended to become de-liminized, once some dancers started
to write their own name on the headpieces, along with the year. In this process of masks becoming
personal billboards, the ritual objects had crossed over into the ‘real’ world, of writing lessons in school,
and of the international calendar.
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One of the notions that is challenged in this article is the materiality of the masks, their ‘objectness’
(cf. Morgan 2011). In this particular case, the headpiece (commonly referred to as a mask when placed
in an ethnological museum) may be an object, but it is not a ritual object at all. The ritual entity, in the
staged context of the dance, consists of the material object(s) plus the costumed dancer. This implies
that it is the combination of person, object, and act that is the real ritual agent, the ritual entity that
moves and acts.
When we compare these insights about Dogon masked dances and masquerades to Andrea
Nicklisch’s processions and displays of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century ecclesiastical silverworks
in the southern Andes, we truly cross over to another dimension of objectness and materiality.
Although in van Beek’s case we do find some intrusions of modernity—the European anthropologist,
his camera, not to forget the billboard culture of individual names written on headpieces—in
Nicklisch’s study it is not the historical Spanish intrusion that determines the approach but the
subsequent trans-cultural and inter-cultural processes. The silver objects are framed, by the author,
as objects in their own rights, on their own non-verbal levels. This implies that the objects and
images are studied from the perspective of the beholders. The degree to which, in the eyes of
indigenous believers, the objects displayed before them may be interpreted as expressing continuity
or discontinuity of indigenous or Catholic beliefs and iconographic vocabularies, is determined by
the various angles. Nicklisch pays special attention to the angle that encompasses both belief systems,
in the sense of a mutually transferred meaning. The objects are integrated into ritual acts in the context
of church services and processions, yet in the ongoing cross-cultural and trans-cultural encounters
there may be multiple readings of such images, objects, and rituals. The author uses the idea of ‘contact
zones’ (Pratt 1991, p. 34), particularly cultural contact zones, as a sensitizing concept for indicating a
(directly physical, spatial but also mental, intellectual) zone where cultures meet, clash, and grapple
with each other.
A street shrine, framed in massive silverwork, hosts an image of the Virgin of Guadeloupe.
Especially her cloak is covered with countless devotional gifts: precious stones, pearls, medals, coins
and watches. It is this image of the Virgin—porcelain skin and sky-blue cloak—that is carried around
in an annual procession. Pre-Hispanic worldviews and narratives shine through as mixed with
Christian and possibly even pre-Christian European worldviews and narratives especially in the form
of winged anthropomorphic beings. Much of this is made of local silver, or faced with silver, such as
the tabernacle, candle banks, and altar. The author briefly discusses indigenous parallels, such as in
the two silver plaquettes supposedly depicting Adam and Eve, as revealing a transfer of meaning.
In the author’s view, the indigenous system has instrumentalized a dominant system (Hispanic
Christianity) as a vehicle and canvas for its own worldviews. By exploring processes as trans-cultural
and cross-cultural transfer, she weighs related concepts such as cultural adaptation, acculturation,
de-culturation, neo-culturation and trans-culturation. Is it possible, she wonders, to understand
pictorial representations, in a colonial contact zone, directly, or at least beyond binary oppositions
and exclusivities?
3. Figuration, Iconicity, Aniconicity

In Nicklisch’s focus on historic objects made of silver, we may already have posed questions about
figuration, iconicity, and aniconicity even when they were not accentuated or made explicit. Such
questions were left out of both van Beek’s and Nicklisch’s presentation, but should be addressed here
as a third connecting topic. The act of ‘representation’ may need to be distinguished from the notion
of ‘presence’ (as van Beek did), but in most of the contributions there is no such distinction. Deborah
de Koning, in her article on two annual rituals in Colombo, Sri Lanka, distinguishes two sides in the
discourse and emerging cult around the god-king-hero-healer Ravana: the martial and the benevolent.
She locates and temporizes these two main sides of his contemporary ‘appearance’ in two rituals:
the ritual setting of a public street procession, and the low-key, low-profile rituals appealing to him as a
healer, within the relative ‘inner circle’ of a Buddhist temple compound. Although the figure of Ravana
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has long been familiar throughout Asia through the Hindu epic Ramayana (and more popularly through
plays and performances, and particularly televization), there is a recent upsurge of his popularity in
Sri Lanka. Although the process of ‘Ravanization’ is still too young, too new, and too fluid for her
to determine its reach and impact, the author acknowledges the multidirectionality and processual
nature of Ravana’s cult by consistently speaking of ‘ritualization’ (cf. Bell 1988, 1997; Grimes 1982,
2011) instead of rituals. Zooming in on two major ways in which Ravana is portrayed—his martial
side and his benevolent side—she grapples with the inconsistency of binary categorizations. Yet,
instead of the stereotypically monstrous, we find a warrior-king whose ‘attributes’ are presented in
a spectacular display, ranging from a parade of ‘jeweled’ elephants to drum dances and angampora
martial arts. Most stunning and disconcerting in its eeriness is the life-like statue of King Ravana
himself as the center of the elephant procession. That Ravana is thus being hailed as a god-king refers
back to (Sri) Lanka as the location of the epic war between Rama and Ravana. This direct (and highly
imaginative) association between Lanka and Ravana—as Lanka’s famous king in epic times—has
gained new currency in today’s nationalist sentiments.
The other, explicitly benevolent, side may be more puzzling to some: how could the same exalted
figure, whose role combines the various personalities of royal adversary-warrior-epic king-founder of
the nation be simultaneously a sage, a healer, a benefactor, a deity even, to those who participate in a
ritual of participation, by imbibing his bathwater as medicine? Whereas the figure of the ‘just ruler’
may be a logical composition, the composite configurations we find in Ravana as a healer may need
more crystallization before anything definite can be said about this aspect. Possibly, it is easier for us
to understand a king’s sword as symbolizing both his martial prowess and his role of dispensing or
guarding justice. The warrior-king may have been previously demonized by his adversaries, but that
this same god-king is now dispensing medicine and carrying the lotus as one of his emblems may be
better understood and aligned with his martial side when seen in the perspective of a South Asian
king’s role in times of war as contrasted with his role in times of peace. There might be a fascinating
sequence to this publication when the author would undertake an exploration of possible parallels with
the bodhisattva figure; after all, these healing rituals take place within the precincts of a Buddhist temple.
From sword and scripture or lotus as attributes of a god-king, symbolizing his layered power,
we move on to the symbol of the lotus in a completely different time and setting: ancient Egypt,
the Levant and Mesopotamia, in an article by Andrew McDonald. Lotuses are widely dispersed—all
they need is a little water, mud, and the sun’s warmth—and so is the lotus motif. The lotus may have
grown within everyone’s reach in a wide area—from the Nilotic and other ancient river civilizations,
such as those of the Euphrates and Tigris to contemporary ponds, marshes, and mud-holes throughout
South and Southeast Asia. But the history of arts and artifacts is such that what has survived the
rampages of time is often connected with royal dynasties, court deities, and priestly rituals. McDonald,
in his study of Egyptian lotus symbolism, does not lose sight of the aquatic, biological, and botanical
realities, but in studying surviving artifacts he is necessarily limited to the symbolism of ‘high culture’.
The lotus motifs he presents in his article are highly stylized, exquisite to look at, especially considering
that some or most of the depictions must have been colored (blue and variations of yellow). Most
of the floral and vegetative illustrations he uses are static images now kept in museums, but he also
provides textual details and photographed botanic specificities to make his points: the time-tested role
of water lilies in (royal or priestly) libation ceremonies. Such ceremonies are portrayed on the walls of
tombs, on papyri, royal thrones, coffins, drinking cups, and vases. In ritualistic contexts on both sides
of the Red Sea, a rite of passage involved a person’s metaphorical transformation into a lotus flower,
both in a ruler’s inauguration and in his funerary rites. It should not surprise us that, in a circular
worldview, a short-lived aquatic flower was so closely connected to the solar disc and the arc of the
sky; by richly illustrating his article with well-chosen images the author discloses the associative logic
of this floral symbolism.
Lotus symbolism, in McDonalds’ presentation, is rich and layered. One of the keys to this
symbolism is the plant’s three-day life span, and the fact that new shoots arise before a flower stalk
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has finished the three days of anthesis. These three phases—as a bud, a half-open lotus with delicately
unfolding petals, and a fully opened lotus looking like an aureole, indeed the solar disc—may seem
extremely transient to some. Yet the lotus became a symbol of immortality, combining obvious
fertility motifs, cycles of return, conceptions of immortality and aspirations to join the gods in the
afterlife. In initiation rituals, ‘lotus nectar’ may even have been imbibed for its psychoactive effects.
In the course of time (from 2500 BCE onwards) and through cultural diffusion as well as geographic
expansion (Ancient Egypt, the Fertile Crescent, Levantine centers, Greece and onwards), distant human
populations came to share these iconographic, mythic, and ritualistic conventions. Moreover, lotus
symbolism began to collate crucial elements with sacred tree symbolism, and the occasional transition
of the herbaceous plant into a sacral (lotiform) world-tree motif includes ancient winged entities,
serpents, and solar orbs we may see referred to even today, such as in forms of both western and
eastern esotericism. But on this point McDonald wisely restrains himself, and merely mentions a
minor work by Ananda K. Coomaraswamy (1935).
Vegetative symbolism may use life-like floral and plant imagery, and in that sense its art may be
called figurative, but plant symbolism can become so dense and stylized that the resulting compositions
draw the beholder into complicated allegorical significances, especially in the ritualistic use of
immortalizing plants. Can ancient Egyptian tableaus on coffins and tombs still be called iconic
in the conventional sense of that term? When floral motifs become so stylized and juxtaposed with so
many intricate motifs referring to eternal life, can we still speak of iconicity? Moreover, all persons
and all vegetation portrayed there have been dead for millennia; how could we possibly link all
that dead matter to biological and botanical reality? There seems to be an enormous gulf between
the tombs of ancient Egyptian pharaohs and the next topic, pictures taken of children taking part in
funerary rites for a dead parent in a contemporary Dutch family, but in fact there isn’t. Laurie Faro
introduces us to ritual-like mnemonic and coping practices of children in whose memories their dead
father lives on, among other reminiscences, through a series of intentionally and purposely taken
photographs. A striking detail of Faro’s report is that the mother of the children, who, naturally, having
lost her husband, herself is full of grief, carefully plans and initiates the entire event with the children’s
perspective foremost in her mind. While orchestrating the entire set of mourning activities, she is
lucidly aware that she should create memories, good memories, for the children. In terms of academic
studies on dying, death, and disposal, she is a prime example of the ‘continuing bonds’ and ‘symbolic
immortality’ paradigms.
Today, post-mortem photography is rare. In this particular case, the children’s mother decided not
to have the deceased photographed, or at least not to have any photographs of him while lying in his
coffin, to be included in the ‘visual essay’. Photos of the dead, be they taken long before they actually
died or on their death-bed, may function as tangible links between past and present (Zerubavel 2003),
but most people choose to remember a lighter moment, the beloved person at his or her best. When
the coffin had been positioned in one of the rooms in the family’s home, they had surrounded it
with flowers—indeed, in a way resembling the ancient Egyptians with their lotuses—as well as with
some earlier pictures of the deceased among his family while still alive. Faro’s article makes mention
of some other objects, indicated as ‘transitional objects’, put into the coffin by the children, objects
that the children considered to ‘represent’ or ‘characterize’ him. Although Faro does not discuss the
‘absence-presence’ predicament of death rites explicitly, there are clues in her article. For instance,
the six-year-old boy imagines his father to now live on a little cloud (in the original Dutch it almost
sounds as: on a cotton-ball fluff), and as on the way to a new life. Unexpectedly, bridging millennia,
this is not unlike the imagery and promises of ancient Egyptian death rites.
Figuration, iconicity, and aniconicity are much more explicitly thematized in Albertina Nugteren’s
article on a Hindu god’s footprint believed to have been left on a natural rock in Gaya, India. After
a general introduction into the social facts of human feet and footwear in India, Nugteren zooms
in on divine feet. The idea that the divine (deities, prophets, messengers, the numinously sacred in
general) may leave footprints is widespread in the world, and India is particularly blessed by such
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visible-tangible ‘traces’. Or should we say that human imagination proves to be so fertile that it finds
traces of divine presence in both expected and unexpected places, and does not shy from exploiting
such sites? Places of pilgrimage have often grown around such a gravitational point (Eck 2012), and
so is the case in Gaya. A search for origins—what came first? How and with what object or story or
event did this ritual center start?—is bound to lead contemporary scholars to frustration. Nugteren
extricates various myths and local variations of such myths, but acknowledges that they may well be
later—ex post facto—justifications, rationalizations, and embellishments. What remains is the object as
such: a more or less clearly outlined imprint of a footstep (toes, and a hollow impression where both
the ball and the heel of a foot may have slightly dented the surface) on a piece of natural rock.
In the temple’s everyday reality, however, devotees are not particularly interested in the form.
Instead, they cover the basin almost continuously with gifts of flower petals, sacred leaves, oil, clarified
butter, and other ritual-sacrificial substances. Ritual gifts, naturally, are part of an exchange, and
many prayers and wishes are said aloud or muttered inaudibly. Key to the ritual behavior in front
of this divine footprint is a lively engagement with the god Vishnu’s absence-presence: He was here,
once, in primordial time, and subsequently left his footprint on a rock. Priests and devotees are
now continuously filling the hollows his foot is supposed to have left on the stone. The dichotomies
absence-presence and emptiness-fullness are thus ritually bridged, transcended, and transformed.
From a more distanced and etic perspective, the cult around the footprint poses a question about the
figurative nature of such a natural footprint: can we speak of an icon and thus of iconicity, or does
such a ‘natural manifestation of the divine’ in the form of a trace of his presence, an imprint of his foot,
belong to that other category, the aniconic (Gaifman 2017)? It cannot be called a relic, as this is not
a foot, merely the alleged imprint of a foot; yet for the faithful it appears to be all at the same time,
without the finer distinctions between concavities and convexities, or between presence and absence.
What matters, really, is the god’s grace, and the cultural heritage of narratives that ascertain that he
once moved around in this world, and that his feet touched this spot. He may no longer be seen in his
full form, but this is the place where one comes closest to his visible and tangible presence.
4. The Ritual Setting

As a fourth focal point, we trace the importance of the ritual setting. In an object-centered issue
like this, some authors pay more attention to the ritual setting than others. With the jointly written
contribution by Xiaohe Ma and Chuan Wang, we enter the domain of ritual manuals. Indeed, in some
cultural situations rituals have to be performed ‘by the book’ and are highly stylized events. In ritual
theories, especially those referring to events requiring adherence to time-tested traditional rules,
stylization (or its concomitants, formalism, traditionalism, invariance and rule-governance) may be
considered one of the crucial aspects of ritual performance (Bell 1992, 1997). Ritual manuals may have
been newly constructed yet given the sheen of a long pedigree, but they also may have grown through
long practice. Texts may become ritualized just as rituals may become textualized (Bell 1988). Such
manuals may have been written down by one authoritative person, but in other cases an anonymous
author may have merely compiled what had long been practiced and had been transmitted orally
until the moment of compilation. Formalization may both produce and maintain tradition, and its
efficacy may be partly due to the fact that a formalized ritual becomes a form of power and control.
Another dimension of constructed tradition is that it may delineate group identity. This latter aspect
becomes especially pungent in the case of Chinese Manichaeism, which in later Chinese history was
often considered a potentially troublesome sect. One of its strategies was a continuous assimilation of
Buddhist and Taoist terminology; it survived, in its later forms, as Religion of Light. The possession
of a written collection of manuals for congregational worship may well have been a factor in both its
precarious delineation and its vitality.
Although most religious scholars may be aware of Manichaeism (also spelled Manicheism) as
a Gnostic movement that once stretched from the Atlantic to the Chinese Sea but has long been
completely extinct, it may come as a pleasant surprise to hear that recent finds indicate that some
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material traces testify to its long survival in Buddhist or Taoist ‘disguise’ even today. This highly
contested topic, however, is not what the two authors are concerned with; rather, they attempt to
understand a collection of ritual manuals from Chinese Manichaeism in the perspective of a pictorial
tradition in the form of a painting, and vice versa. The upper part of this painting, known as ‘Diagram
of the Universe’, is generally said to portray ‘Mani, the Buddha of Light’. It portrays Mani, the founder
of Manichaeism who lived in the third century, as a Buddha. Not only was Manichaeism deeply
sinicized on its entry in China, adapting to the Chinese cultural context, its basic tenets included a
claim to universality, as the completion and fulfillment of all preceding religions. That its founder
Mani was portrayed as a Buddha is not exceptional at all, considering both Manichaeism’s claim to
universality and its uneasy status as a sect. Ma and Wang, however, were puzzled about the lower
part of the painting. In this article, they try to ‘read’ this lower part (of a half-devotional, half-didactic
painting dated late 14th/early 15th century) by using the ritual manuals (of which the oldest parts
may go back to the 9th to 11th century, but as a compilation may more or less be dated about the
same period as the painting) as a clue or chiffre. Using the method of juxtaposition, by combining a
written collection of rituals as a key to the lower half of a painted scroll, they hope to come to a deeper
understanding of both objects.
Mahayana Buddhism in China had developed an extensive congregational cult, consisting of
ritual activities such as worship (invocation of Buddhas, bodhisattvas, and even sacred scriptures),
confession, and repentance, and chanting by the priests as well as the audience. For various reasons,
Manichaean sects were, on and off, considered as potentially troublesome minorities, and this may
partly explain why Manichaeism began to be practiced under ‘the cloak of Buddhism’, as Ma and
Wang call it. The ritual compilation Mani Buddha of Light shows many parallel elements with Mahayana
Buddhism, but the ‘great ones’ being invoked in rituals are the five Manichaean prophets (Narayan.a,
Zoroaster, Buddha Sakyamuni (the historical Buddha), Buddha Jesus and Buddha Mani). When the
elaborate Diagram of the Universe is deployed as a kind of illustration of the rituals, or conversely but
simultaneously, when the ritual manual is deployed as an illustration of the cosmology displayed in
the scroll painting, an extremely rich and intricate image of Chinese Manichaeism emerges. Terms
such as ‘realm of Light’, ‘new paradise’ and ‘new Light world’ not only indicate the salvationist
and soteriological character of Chinese Manichaeism, but also present a fascinating parade of beings
(humans, divine beings, monsters, animals) populating the various realms (or rings of existence)
surrounding—indeed—mythical Mount Meru at the center of the cosmos.
Whereas the Manichaean pantheon and paradises of Light are overwhelming in their luminosity,
there is a world of Darkness there as well. Manichaean views and practices in general may be
known to most scholars of religion mainly through the works of anti-Manichaean polemicists, where
Manichaeism tends to be presented as an arch-heresy. In a great leap through time and geography we
now find ourselves, with Frank Bosman’s article on the Creed of Assassins in the digital world of online
games and encounter another cosmic dualism, another paradise, and another esoteric worldview:
the battle for the Apples of Eden, between Templars and Assassins. Although the historical realities of
these two name-giving associations do not entirely translate to the online identities, the names give a
quasi-historic, quasi-mythic character to the game. The overall setting is the ongoing battle between
two rival factions: the Assassin Brotherhood (modeled on the historical Nizar Isma’illis known from
the Third Crusade) and the Templar Order (inspired by the historical order of the Knights Templar
who had started as protectors of pilgrims in occupied Jerusalem). They compete over the possession of
mythical artifacts, the Apples of Eden: power objects par excellence.
That the universal binaries—life and death; belonging and exclusion; state control and individual
emancipation—are marked by in-game rituals may be expected. Initiation, the purpose of which
is to accompany, produce, and announce a vital change of position, in this case of initiation into a
fraternity, is usually classified as a rite of passage. The ritual of assassination—the victims belong to
the competing faction—may be likewise characterized as a rite of passage: violence, human sacrifice,
death. Political assassination is thus elevated and ritualized as one group’s rite of belonging and
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identity for the good of the world (‘We work in the dark, to serve the light. We are Assassins’). In the
perspective of current extremisms, human sacrifice, in this series of games, is highly problematic, and
Bosman admits that it may become palatable and justifiable only when ritualized, and when nothing
less than World Order is at stake. Although ‘it is merely a game’, this latter aspect confronts us with
another side of ritual and ritualistic objects. The ritual activity of sacrifice—from the perspectives of
victims and perpetrators alike—has been studied by many academic disciplines, and the rich density of
its meanings continues to invite theoretical reflections. The translation of online and in-game violence
back into today’s daily life-world, and vice versa, poses compelling questions about ritual refraction
(Houseman 2011).
Violence, committed wittingly or unwittingly, is one of the subtopics in the co-authored article
on stories told in the Alor-Pantar archipelago, Southeast Indonesia, by Francesco Cacciafoco and
Francesco Cavallaro. The violence committed in various versions of the founding myth they study may
be considered a sacrifice, it may be considered communion through food, but in its bare bones the story
is about an innocent child. This child had lost its way and happened to trespass, i.e., it unintentionally
passed into the supernatural world where some of the deities used to rest and meet with the Abui
people. The child was taken hostage, dismembered, cooked, and served as food. Those who had
been invited to the gruesome feast from the outside world only later discovered that the food that
had been offered to them on a table was actually the dismembered body and head of the missing
child. On request, the horrified dinner guests from the village were allowed to take the child’s head
with them.
The main story’s composite configurations reflect a ritual setting in more ways than one. First,
there is the ritual-like act of storytelling itself. Storytelling is not just a pastime, it is a ritual recreation of
primeval times, and only the ‘owner’ of a story knows the story in its entirety. Gaps and inconsistencies
should not be seen as flaws or errors; rather, they are the prerogative of the ‘owner’ of the story who
leaves out certain parts or consciously makes leaps and bounds through the story. The rightful ‘owner’
of the story may even act as a trickster and put his audience on the wrong foot, intentionally, playing
with his audience’s misplaced rationality. Second, there is the ritual meal. The horrific dinner referred
to above may reflect times when the Abui people were still cannibalistic head-hunters, and the head
trophies—the skulls of people killed in war—were often placed and kept on altars in sacred places
and fed with cooked rice. Remember that the child’s head was ceremonially placed at the central
table—as if on an altar—amidst the other cooked human meat! The altars with ritual stones surviving
today may be directly linked with this past. Third, when contexts change or stories get juxtaposed
with other narratives, or the same legend is being retold with shifting interpretations and shifting
loyalties, the ritual-like activity of storytelling becomes a ‘discourse’: interlocking story motifs testify
to intercultural contact, such as with the Portuguese and Dutch colonizers from the sixteenth century
onwards. The authors not only relate an alternative (still unpublished) version of the same myth,
they also attempt to make sense of the changing positions of the main deities, Lamoling and Latahala,
in the light of Christian missiology and fragments of Platonic thinking and classical theology. Naturally,
this results in clashes and paradoxes (cf. Ingold 2003). But by indicating the stratified character of the
myth in its variations, the authors attempt a ‘stratigraphy’. One of the outcomes is that one god, who
used to be a companion of the people, eats with them, dances with them, and shares their everyday
life events, begins to be gradually portrayed as demonic, constantly changing in form, unreliable—the
epitome of the charms of animism (cf. Sprenger 2015) and the dangers of polytheism—whereas the
other god is gradually elevated to a monotheistic rank where he is considered ‘the only and true god’.
It is fascinating to notice how the authors, with their sociolinguistic backgrounds, are increasingly
drawn into the narrative by their attempt to analyze and understand place names. One of the methods
for tracing ‘mythscapes’ is the exploration of local landscapes in terms of place names: their semantic
properties may define and delimit landscape categories, just as their features (plants, crops, but
also vernacular names of typical landmarks in the topography) are situated by narration. Toponyms
may testify to the traditional use of a place and may shed light on landscape as a religious category.
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A toponym, explained either in a scholarly way or through local folk etymology, may also be a key to
the ritual position of a particular location. Main places in this respect are Lamoling Beaka and Karilik,
both ‘gates’ and ‘portals’ to the world of supernatural entities. Myths, like rituals, can be analyzed
as ‘situated practices’ (Overing 2004, p. 71). Myth actually shapes the world and its landscapes. In a
way, this represents the fourth aspect of the ritual setting in this article: they used to be indigenous
cult places, now abandoned, but still honored as the sacred sites where the events reported in their
founding myth had once taken place.
5. Conclusions
In a fascinatingly diverse way, people come to embody ‘their’ culture, a complex set of ideas,
values, and practices. Whether they are religiously inclined or not, at cross-national, trans-national and
inter-national levels, they are inescapably part of a world in which there may be religious dimensions
to collective aspirations, such as for peace and justice, but also to tensions, violence, and conflicts.
History shows that faith traditions may splinter into small groups. They may also merge, fuse, mix,
co-exist, incorporate, compete, transcend, or fade away. In such processes, ritual calendars mark
significant past events. What exactly is historic past, and what is mythic past, may easily get blurred,
but particular moments, sites, and objects take on a particular importance in the group’s hierarchy
of time and place. Although all sacred occasions and sites are centers, some are believed to bring
believers closer to the divine than others (Hassner 2009, pp. 29–30). The same may be true of sacred
objects: ‘ownership’ of sacred objects has often given rise to violent conflicts. The individual rewards
attributed to visiting such a site or possessing such an object vary from situation to situation, from
culture to culture, and from religion to religion.
Instead of highlighting conflicts over such objects, in the sense of military, theological, political,
or touristic clashes, the objects presented in this volume illumine subtler processes. Most of them
are presented as modes of experiencing divinity, as making divinity (or the divinity of royal rule)
sense-able. By studying them in their ritual setting, ‘loops’ are made between collective cultural
practices and individual sensing (Howes and Classen 2014). An object may shine in all its exuberant
materiality; it may come to life only through the ritual setting and its performative aspects; or it may
exist merely for a moment, and then be intentionally eaten or otherwise destroyed. The use of religious
objects involves not only the collective and individual’s experience but also all those people who are
involved in their production, ritualization, and maintenance. This broader context illustrates how
religious acts and actors co-define material objects to suit changing times and audiences.
This brings us to the end of this introduction. In the final pages of this thematic issue of the
journal Religions, on ‘Religion, Ritual and Ritualistic Objects’, the biodata of all authors are briefly
introduced as well.
For me, acting as convener and academic editor, it has been a pleasure to work with them.
6. Contents (in Alphabetic Order)

• van Beek, Walter E. A. 2018. Matter in Motion: A Dogon Kanaga Mask. Religions 9: 264.
• Bosman, Frank G. 2018. Resquiescat in Pace. Initiation and Assassination Rituals in the Assassins’s
Creed Game Series. Religions 9: 167.
• Cacciafoca, Francesco Perono, and Francesco Cavallero. 2018. Lamòling Bèaka: Immanence,
Rituals, and Sacred Objects in an Unwritten Legend in Alor. Religions 9: 211.
• Faro, Laurie M. C. 2018. When Children Participate in the Death Ritual of a Parent: Funerary
Photographs as Mnemonic Objects. Religions 9: 215.
• de Koning, Deborah. 2018. The Ritualizing of the Martial and Benevolent Side of Ravana in the
Annual Rituals at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya in Pannipitiya, Sri Lanka. Religions 9: 250.
• Ma, Xiaohe, and Chuan Wang. 2018. On the Xiapu Ritual Manual Mani the Buddha of Light.
Religions 9: 212.
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• McDonald, J. Andrew. 2018. Influences of Egyptian Lotus Symbolism and Ritualistic Practices on
Sacral Tree Worship in the Fertile Crescent from 1500 BCE to 200 CE. Religions 9: 256.
• Nicklisch, Andrea. 2018. Continuity and Discontinuity in 17th- and 18th-Century Ecclesiastical
Silverworks from the Southern Andes. Religions 9: 262.
• Notermans, Catrien. 2019. Prayers of Cow Dung: Women Sculpturing Fertile Environments in
Rural Rajasthan (India). Religions 10: 71.
• Nugteren, Albertina. 2018. Bare Feet and Sacred Ground: “Vis.n.u Was Here”. Religions 9: 224.
7. List of Contributing Authors

Walter van Beek is professor em. in the Anthropology of Religion at Tilburg University, and senior
researcher at the African Studies Center, Leiden University, both in The Netherlands. As a cultural
anthropologist he has a long field experience among the Dogon of Mali and the Kapsiki/Higi of
Cameroon and Nigeria. He has published extensively on indigenous religious aspects of both groups,
such as in 2017, Rites et religions dans le Bassin du Lac Tchad, edited with Emilie Guitard (Karthala/ASCL);
in 2016, The Transmission of Kapsiki-Higi Folktales over Two Generations: Tales that Come, Tales that Go
(Palgrave-MacMillan); and in 2015, The Forge and the Funeral. The Smith in Kapsiki/Higi Culture (Michigan
State University Press). At present he is engaged in a project of cultural heritage preservation in Mali,
and a wide-ranging study of African masking rituals.
Frank Bosman is a senior researcher at Tilburg Cobbenhagen Center, Tilburg University,
The Netherlands. He has published extensively on religion and popular culture, with a special focus
on religion and video games. He plays a noticable role in the public discussions in The Netherlands on
religion and society through multiple on- and offline media outlets. Game-related publications are: in
2018, Death Narratives: A Typology of Narratological Embeddings of Player’s Death in Digital Games,
Gamenvironments 9: 12–52; in 2017, The incarnated gamer. The theophoric quality of games, gaming,
and gamers. In Boundaries of the self and reality online. Implications of digitally constructed realities. Edited
by Jayne Gackenbach and Johnathan Brown (Londen: Elsevier, pp. 187–204), and soon to be published,
his book Gaming and the divine. A new systematic theology of video games (London: Routledge).
Francesco Cacciafoco has a PhD (2011) in Historical Linguistics from the University of Pisa,
Italy. He is a linguist and philologist with a focus on etymology and toponymy. He also works on
anthropological linguistics and cultural anthropology applied to the documentation of undocumented
and/or endangered languages and to the reconstruction of indigenous myths and legends. He joined
Nanyang Technological University (NTU), Singapore, in 2013 where he is currently a lecturer
in linguistics. Some of his selected publications are: in 2017, together with Francesco Cavallaro,
The Legend of Lamòling: Unwritten Memories and Diachronic Toponymy through the Lens of an
Abui Myth. Lingua: An International Review of General Linguistics 193: 51–61; and with the same
co-author and František Kratochvíl, in 2015: Diachronic Toponomastics and Language Reconstruction
in South-East Asia According to an Experimental Convergent Methodology: Abui as a Case-Study.
Review of Historical Geography and Toponomastics 10: 29–47.
Francesco Cavallaro is an Associate Professor in Linguistics and Multilingual Studies and the
Head of the Centre for Modern Languages, Nanyang Technological University, Singapore. His research
interests are in sociolinguistics and the social aspects of bilingualism, especially of minority groups in
multilingual contexts. His main research focus is the survival of minority languages and the factors
that influence both language maintenance and shift. He has published on language maintenance and
shift, the demographics of the Italian community in Australia, language attitudes in Singapore and on
minority groups in South East Asia. In addition to the articles mentioned above, in co-authorship with
Francesco Cacciafoco, he is the author of the book, published in 2010, Transgenerational language shift:
From Sicilian and Italian to Australian English (La Trobe University, Melbourne).
Laurie Faro has been educated in the field of law and culture studies. Already as a young
attorney she developed a strong interest in empowering the victim in the legal process. This focus
remained when she switched to scientific research in the field of health law, care and patients’ rights.
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remained when she switched to scientific research in the field of health law, care and patients’ rights.
In 1990 she completed a PhD project on this subject, and in 2015 a second PhD on the experiences of
people burdened with traumatic experiences in the past and the impact of their ritual commemoration
practices. At present she is involved in the research project ‘Children handling death: reality versus
popular culture.’ Related publications are, in 2015, Postponed monuments in the Netherlands: Manifestation,
context, and meaning (PhD thesis Tilburg University); and in 2014, ‘The Digital Monument to the Jewish
Community in The Netherlands: A meaningful, ritual place for commemoration’. New Review of
Hypermedia and Multimedia 20: 1–20.
Deborah de Koning graduated in the field of religious studies and is currently working as a
PhD-candidate at Tilburg University in The Netherlands. She received a grant from the Netherlands
Organisation for Scientific Research to conduct her PhD-research on the increased popularity of the
mythological king Ravana among Sinhalese Buddhists in post-war Sri Lanka. Her main fields of
academic interest are Buddhism and Hinduism in South Asia and Hinduism in diaspora, with a
particular focus on contemporary developments and identity-issues. A related publication, in 2017,
is ‘Ravana: Once a demon, always a demon? Considering Ravana from a different perspective?’,
Diggit Magazine 30 March 2017.
Xiaohe Ma, a native of Shanghai, China, graduated from Fudan University (1982) and Simmons
College, Boston (1997). He worked at Yazhou Zhoukan (Asian Weekly, Chinese version), Hong Kong
(1993–1996) and East Asian Library, UCLA, Los Angeles, U.S.A. (1996–1999) before he came to Harvard
Yenching Library, Harvard University, where he is currently librarian for the Chinese Collection. He is
also a guest researcher of Fudan University and guest professor of Jinan University. Research interests
include the history of Central Asia, the history of Sino-foreign relations, Manichaeism, etc. He is
well-known for his studies on Manichaeism and research on the Xiapu documents, both in Chinese and
English. A related publication in open access is ‘On the Date of the Ritual Manual for the Celebration
of the Birthday of the Ancestor of Promoting Well-Being from Xiapu’, in Open Theology 1 (2015): 455–77.
Andrew McDonald is a plant systematist (evolution-based classification), floristic explorer of
Southeast Asia and the Neotropics, conservation biologist and archaeo-ethnobotanist. He dedicates a
large portion of his research efforts to understanding the role of plants in defining religious practices
and values of civilized cultures. After having held research positions at the University of Texas-Austin,
Harvard University and various federal botanical institutions in Mexico, Cambodia and Indonesia,
he is presently a professor in botany at the University of Texas-Rio Grande Valley. Some related
publications are: in 2016, Deciphering the Symbols and Symbolic Meaning of the Maya World Tree.
Ancient Mesoamerica 27: 1–27; in 2012, together with J. Andrew and B. Stross. Water Lily and Cosmic
Serpent: Equivalent channels of the Maya spirit realm. Journal of Ethnobiology 32: 73–106; and in 2002,
Botanical determination of the Middle Eastern tree of life. Economic Botany 56: 113–29.
Andrea Nicklisch is a curator (department of ethnology) at the Roemer-und-Pelizaeus Museum
in Hildesheim, Germany. She is one of the curators of the museum’s considerable collection of
pre-Columbian, ancient-Peruvian and early-colonial objects from Meso-America. For her PhD she
studied ecclesiastical silverworks as objects illustrating the transfer of meaning and interpretation in
early-colonial contact zones. One of the related publications is: ‘The Seeming and the Real: Problems
in the Interpretation of Images on Seventeenth-Century Silverworks from Bolivia’. In: Image, Object,
Performance: Mediality and Communication in Early Modern Contact Zones of Latin America and Asia. Edited
by Astrid Windus and Eberhard Crailsheim (Münster 2013, pp. 155–71).
Catrien Notermans is an anthropologist and associate professor at the Department of Cultural
Anthropology and Development Studies at Radboud University, Nijmegen, The Netherlands. She did
long-term ethnographic research in West Africa, Europe and India on the topics of lived religion,
material culture, gender, kinship and migration. She co-authored two books on pilgrimage: Moved by
Mary: The Power of Pilgrimage in the Modern World (2009) and Gender, Nation and Religion in European
Pilgrimage (2012). Publications in the field of gender and material religion focus on ex-votos, pilgrimage
souvenirs and religious remittances. Her most recent research is on people’s spiritual relationships
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with nature, which led to (international journal) publications on sacred groves in South India and
people’s bathing rituals in the Ganges in North India.
Albertina Nugteren has an academic background in South Asian languages and cultures.
She works as a Religion-and-Ritual specialist at Tilburg University, The Netherlands. Current
research topics include: (1) the nexus Nature-Culture-Religion (recent example: ‘Sacred Trees,
Groves and Forests’ in Oxford Bibliographies in Hinduism, 2018); (2) funerary rituals, particularly
environmental aspects (recent examples: ‘Consolation and the ‘poetics’ of the soil in natural burial
sites’, 2019, and ‘Wood, Water and Waste: Material Aspects of Mortuary Practices in South Asia’,
2017); (3) Critical discourses on the ‘greening of religion’ (recent example: ‘A Darker Shade of Green?
An Inquiry into Growing Preferences for Natural Burial’, 2015); (4) Object-centered studies of ritual
and material religion (recent example: guest editorship of this Special Issue on ‘Religion, Ritual and
Ritualistic Objects’).
Chuan Wang is a native of Taiwan. She graduated from Chinese Culture University, Taipei, Taiwan.
She worked part-time at Chinese Culture University before being transferred to the Department of
Applied Chinese at Ming Chuan University, Taiwan, where she is currently a professor. She was also
a visiting scholar at Harvard University (2010) and Peking University (2018). Her research interests
are: Dunhuang Studies, Buddhist Confession Rituals, Manichaeism, etc. Main publications: Studies in
Ritual Texts of Dunhuang Manuscripts (Dharma Drum Culture Press, Taipei, 1998); Studies in Unearthed
Texts of Buddhist Confession Rituals between Tang and Song Dynasties (Wenjin Press, Taipei, 2008) and
many articles concerning Buddhist history and culture.
Conflicts of Interest: The author declares no conflict of interest.
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Article
Matter in Motion: A Dogon Kanaga Mask
Walter E. A. van Beek
Department of Cultural Studies, Faculty of Humanities, Tilburg University, Warandelaan 1, 5037 AB Tilburg,
The Netherlands; W.E.A.vanBeek@uvt.nl
Received: 6 August 2018; Accepted: 29 August 2018; Published: 6 September 2018
Abstract: Dogon masks have been famous for a long time—and none more so than the kanaga mask,
the so-called croix de Lorraine. A host of interpretations of this particular mask circulate in the
literature, ranging from moderately exotic to extremely exotic. This contribution will focus on one
particular mask situated within the whole mask troupe, and it will do so in the ritual setting to which
it belongs: a second funeral, long after the burial. A description of this ritual shows how the mask
troupe forms the constantly moving focus in a captivating ritual serving as second funeral. Thus, the
mask rites bridge major divides in Dogon culture, between male and female, between man and nature,
and between this world and the supernatural one. They are able to do so because they themselves are
in constant motion, between bush and village and between sky and earth. Masks are matter in motion
and symbols in context. Within imagistic religions such as the Dogon one, these integrative functions
form a major focus of Dogon masks rituals—and hence, to some extent, of African mask rituals in
general. In the Dogon case, the ritual creates a virtual reality through a highly embodied performance
by the participants themselves. Then, the final question can be broached, that of interpretation. What,
in the end, do these masquerades signify? And our kanaga mask, what does it stand for?
Keywords: mask; Dogon; funeral; performance; symbol; embodiment
1. The Glory of Masks

The 16 May 1989 is full of high expectations in the village and feverish activity in Amani, for this
is the day when the masks perform not just for the village but for the ‘strangers’ as well, meaning
visitors from neighbouring villages.1 At the various dancing places throughout the village, groups of
masks, each from its own ward, perform for their own appreciative neighbours and family members.
Domo Pujugo, one of the youngsters of Amani, carefully prepared his kanaga mask long before the
start of the dances a week ago, and he is proud now to show off with all the other dancers wearing this
particular mask, and exerts himself as the antelope that this particular mask represents (see Figure 1,
below). After this local performance the spectators move with masks and drummers to the houses
where people have died in the previous years, because after all is danced and done, the masks are
to honour the departed and provide their means to become ancestors. Everywhere the dancers are
eagerly welcomed and, after the dance, hosted with large quantities of millet beer.
1 The data for this article come from personal fieldwork of the author in the Dogon area, starting in 1979 and lasting till 2016,
a total of two years of field experience. The particular ritual described happened in 1989, and the author was involved in the
proceedings as one of the visitors from the neighbouring village of Tireli. As the mother of his host was born in Amani, his
adopted family had a front seat in this particular dama.

Religions 2018, 9, 264
Figure 1. The mask of Domo Pujugo.
In the meantime, the visitors from the other villages arrive, first at the compounds of their
friends or distant relatives, and are also received with ample beer. Their presence in the village and
their assistance at the upcoming afternoon, which forms a crucial part of the whole mask festival,
is absolutely essential; they have to ‘shield’ the masks when they emerge from the plains. In particular,
the ones whose mothers came from Amani are in front, because as ‘sisters’ sons’ of the village, they are
in the perfect relationship to give ritual assistance at the high times of dama—the word for the mask
festival in fact means ‘taboo’.
The remainder of the morning is spent in what is, for the boys, one of the highpoints, a series
of performances that together form a sort of dancing contest. The boys form groups, usually per
ward, and go on to the other village squares for the remainder of the morning. There, they dance,
as they have done in the past week; and when the drums grow silent at noon, the various crowds
disperse, having come to some consensus as to who is the best dancer of the village. As this is Dogon,
there is no prize and no proclamation, just the recognition of being the most agile dancer—which will
undoubtedly help the winner later with the many admiring girls.
This particular day in the long sequence of the dama festival is called manugo sugo, ‘descent2 from
the plains’, and is one of the absolute highlights of the whole month of rituals. In the early afternoon,
the old men gather on the square, discuss the proceedings of the day, and move down to the village
rim, taking the drums with them. They seem nervous now, wary of any infractions on the liturgy,
2 The floor of the scree, where the dance is held, is the lowest point in the landscape.
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when they mark out the dancing ground at the foot of the scree. The yasigine, women who accompany
the masks, come down also—aided by some co-wives who help them carry pots of beer—and install
their brew at the rim of the grounds, sporting their long calabash spoons that define them as ‘sisters
of the masks’. They form the exception to the rule: masks are for men, and are taboo for women;
these particular women, however, have been initiated into the masks, either by choice (and investment)
or by birth.
Around three in the afternoon, the initiates come down, emerging from all over the village.
Yelling, the masks shout ‘hé hé hé’, and run down the slope as ‘naked masks’ without any head
covering. As such, they are all dressed more or less the same, as without headpieces, it is difficult to
distinguish between types of masks. Without giving bystanders a glance, they pass the people at the
grounds and run full speed into the dunes, halting just over the first one. Three elders, one with a
drum, follow them into the bush, as they have to head the procession later on. The other men set out
the perimeter of the dancing ground by walking in a single file along the rim, forcing the spectators
aside. By now, quite a crowd has assembled. Women keep their distance and just watch from the
houses near the grounds, but from this elevated position, they have a splendid view of the proceedings.
The men, who are initiated and do not have anything to fear from the masks anyway, come closer and
circle the grounds, while young boys climb the trees lining the spot.
The sun is lower at 16:30, when the sound of drumming comes from the dunes. The elders at
the rim make a last nervous round to make sure the dancing ground is spotless and free of people
(i.e., of young boys) and then join the crowd, who all look toward the dunes. From afar, a long, dark
line of masks slowly nears the village, following an S-shaped route that gradually brings them to the
dancing ground. At some distance, they gather the headpieces they had left at the start of the dunes
and don them. Those with plaited tops place them at the back of their heads and remain ‘naked’ for a
while longer, meaning they show their faces. For those with heavy wooden headpieces, like the kanaga,
this is not an option and they don them completely. The ‘foreigners’ now join them, men from Yaye in
the east and those from Tireli on the western side, and walk along with them, while praising the masks
in the ritual mask language, sigi so, see below Figure 2, for the western side.
Figure 2. Men from Tireli accompanying the kanaga section of the Amani masks, 1989. Note the ‘naked’
masks in front.
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The rationale for this arrangement is indeed protection: the two neighbouring villages shield the
masks from the envious glares of villages farther away and less friendly; well, the shielding, evidently,
is ritual.
The three elders in front with the drums show the whole column the way and move aside when
they reach the main dancing ground at the foot of the cliff, where all dancers adjust their headpieces.
There is tension in the air, for this is the time for the large dance, the time for a great performance with
everybody watching. It is still a time of taboo (dama); indeed, it is the peak of the collective taboo,
and the elders in charge stay on high alert.
The dancing ground has been marked off near a cone-shaped altar, with the mask pole, the dani,
erected next to it. This is the ritual centre, and the masks will dance toward it with the drummers
positioned next to it. The elders keep patrolling the grounds, chasing away anyone who does not
belong here, such as women or small boys; but no woman dares to come near anyway, for they are
genuinely frightened now—just some daring young boys who want to show off, dash over the grounds,
barely keeping out of reach of the sticks of the elders.
This is the first time that all of the masks show up in one dance. As usual, the εmna tiû (tree masks)
lead the way, and with eight of them, it is a small walking thicket of trees—a dancing forest, in fact.
The five-metre-high headpieces are difficult to manoeuvre, and any dancer who can pull this off is
highly regarded indeed, so they all sway their contraption up and down, in front and behind, and
swing the ‘trees’ around, with the audience at a respectful and wise distance. Sitting on a house near
the grounds, the εmna tingetange tie on their stilts and come in next. They always have to perform early
in the programme, as fatigue would make their dance dangerous. They represent water birds, and
their dance on stilts shows this: stepping daintily along the crowd, (see Figure 3, below) even standing
on one leg and tapping the two stilts together, a feat highly appreciated by the onlookers. If one falters,
all men rush to the rescue to catch the dancer; it sometimes happens, but rarely.
The large group of kanaga masks then makes its appearance, and only now does one see how
popular this mask is. There are more than twenty of them. They have already made quite an impression
in earlier appearances, but now they dominate the general dance: dancing, prancing, and sweeping
their ‘horns’ through the dust. The old men are everywhere, beating the earth with their sticks while
shouting at full force in sigi so: ‘Dance, dance well, be strong. If a woman shows up, beat her!’
This mask, topped with a Croix de Lorraine, features on all the tourist brochures and formerly on
Mali’s banknotes, and it has become the icon of Dogon masquerades. It is popular among the Dogon
youth—who are free to choose their own main mask—as it is quite a showy one, while still being
rather easy to dance in, compared with the first two at least. The kanaga line up and, following their
specific drum rhythm, cavort on the stage of the tei, shaking their torsos, jumping and twirling. After
some contortions, they bend over and swing the horns of their headpieces over the ground, stirring up
dust, see Figure 4, below. While the drums go full throttle, the old men keep shouting in sigi so that
they have to dance well. They perform in small lines of about four dancers, meaning that each of them
has enough stage time to wipe the dust off the dancing floor and show his prowess at this dance; they
can prove themselves real sagatara, strong young men, which is why this mask is so popular.
Then it is time for the other types of masks, in no particular order. Three young dancers in
goû (hares) masks appear, and the drums switch to a slower beat to accompany this more youthful
performance. One of the elders from the audience joins in with a spear and acts as the hunter, spotting
the three hares and dancing after them. The three masks look around, see the hunter, and flee to the
rim of the tei, continuously watching for other dangers as well. Thus, an amusing hunting scene is
played out, and the agile hares just manage to escape the wily hunter. Young initiates are expected to
dance a hare, an amusing piece of theatre that is appreciated by the admiring crowd. The hunter may
well be represented by a mask also, εmna dananu, a fierce-looking human, a real man of the bush—but
this time, no such mask appears and one elder happily joins in this play of the masks.
The hares have hardly left before a gazelle mask, εmna wiru, bursts onto the scene at great speed,
his long horns pointing backwards, running fast to the rapid beat of the drums. His is not a play of hide
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and seek, but a demonstration of speed and agility, fleet-footed and fast. He is usually alone; this is a
mask that demands a good runner to dance with it. Other masks follow, depending on the composition
of this ward’s troupe—in this case, it is an εmna jojongunu, a healer’s mask. Slowly walking with his
headpiece crowned with four human figures, the mask does not really dance but slowly perambulates
among the audience. From time to time, he halts, kneels down, takes some medicine stuff from his
pouch, and hands it to an onlooker, who is then expected to thank him and give some money. This is a
doctor making his rounds, a role for an older dancer in fact, less forceful and vigorous, but demanding
good judgement and some theatrical skills.
Some masks embody the gentle jokes of the Dogon to pull on their former masters, like the Fulbe
and the white man, the anjara. The Fulbe man is pictured on a hobby horse and never manages to stay
on top of it, continuously stumbling and falling, while his wife is always scooping up cattle dung;
they are hardly the severe slave raiders they used to be in the nineteenth century. The white man’s
mask, εmna anjara, is also suited for an older man, in European trousers just strolling around with
his huge red, bearded head and long flowing hair. His ‘dance’ resembles the one of the healer: he
walks around, writes out notes, and then collects some coins—the colonial officer raking in taxes.
Two recent versions are even more to the point. In one, the mask sports a wooden camera and bends
over backwards to take a beautiful shot, shoving other masks aside to get a perfect angle for his
photo: the tourist. The most pleasant variant, however, just sits on a stool, with two Dogon on the
floor next to him, and brandishes a notebook while asking the most stupid questions imaginable:
the anthropologist! In fact, the last εmna anjara I collected was made in my own likeness, (see Figure 5,
below) and my host Dogolu smilingly acknowledged: ‘That one is you!’
Figure 3. Tingetange performing.
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Figure 4. Kanaga dancing, Tireli 2008.
Figure 5. This is, thus, more or less the author.
The other masks take their turn performing, coming on stage in small groups by genre: the bull,
two gazelles, two hyenas, a monkey, the marabout, the healer, the waru antelopes, the sadimbe, mother
of the masks, and one pupil mask, bεjε—they are all there to be admired for their performance. As they
perform in smaller groups, the other masks join the spectators and sit down on the stones that line the
dancing place, so the masks dance for both the regular audience and their own colleagues.
The dance routines vary, up to a point. Three dance routines are performed by all masks;
when they show up as one whole troupe, as they will do at the end of the dance and during the next
day, they all perform this set of routines. Additionally, each mask has its own dance, its proper steps
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and drum rhythm, often mimicking the movement of the animals or people it represents: the bird
picking the earth, the hyena jumping to look at its prey, the antelopes fleet footed. Some basic steps
appear in all of them, as each dance is a variation of a general theme. The drums lead and follow the
dances; they introduce the three general ones and then follow closely the movements of the individual
masks, underscoring the specific steps and movements that mark the identity of the εmna in question.
The liminality of the performance becomes evident when small accidents happen. One of the trees
breaks, a fairly common problem with these long contraptions of light, soft wood. Immediately, all the
men in the audience start yelling and the elders swarm onto the dancing ground, running toward the
mask in question and dancing around it, effectively shielding the damaged mask from the eyes of the
audience—in particular, of course, from women. Surrounding the mask, they carefully lead it to the
entrance of the dancing grounds and whisk it away to change into a new headpiece. It will be repaired
later. When the kanaga wipe the soil, one of them may break off a ‘horn’, and they are treated the same
way: masks have to be perfect. Carefully, the elders take away the broken parts, as no part of a mask
may remain at the dancing place. As dancing is fierce and quite competitive during the peak of the
dama, such mishaps are to be expected. Yet, when a whole mask stumbles, perhaps inevitable given
the athletic prowess needed for a good performance, the reaction is one of mild amusement, and the
dancer simply has to regain his feet on his own.
After the first round of dancing, the drums stop, and the masks crouch in a large circle around
the mask altar, where Yedyè—the village speaker—addresses them, (see Figure 6) lauding their
performance and exhorting them to keep up the good work: ‘God bless you, keep up the good work.
This is not a thing of ourselves; it is a thing of old, a thing found. You have danced well, this which
we could not do. You are the force in the village that can dance.3 May God bless you, give you many
children.’ At intervals during his long speech (with as many repetitions as it should have), the dancers
stand up, wave their horsetail, and shout the mask cry, ‘hé hé hé.’ The whole address is in sigi so,
the mask language of the Dogon.
Figure 6. Yedyè, the ritual speaker, addressing the masks of Amani. The dani is on the left, the altar is
in the centre behind the elder in black. The mask headpieces are shoved back.
3 Such an expression of dependence of the old on the young inside rituals is quite standard in Dogon communal rituals.
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For about two hours, the masks dance constantly, in groups or individually. In the end, when dusk
is gathering, they end the masquerade in a final show in which all of them participate. Now, the long
line of masks performs as one, dancing one round; and finally, when nearing the entrance, each mask
type runs into the village—the last ones, the hares, leaving the dancing ground empty in the falling
dark. As a final farewell to this great day, the four yasigine form a group and slowly dance along the
whole perimeter of the grounds, with their calabash spoons in one hand and with the other hand
trailing their steps with their long soû duro, the fly whisks made of horse tails, the same many masks
use. Thus, they symbolically erase their own tracks, as well as those of the masks—an act called jaramu
(purification) by the Dogon—thus lifting the taboo from the dancing ground.
2. Apparitions from the Bush

A dama is a spectacle one never forgets, and 16 May 1989 is just one day out of a whole month of
rituals. However, it is the most important one, this large-scale arrival of the masks at the scree-side.
For what did we just witness, other than a captivating spectacle?
Religious studies, the craft that investigates some of mankind’s deepest expressions of ‘otherness’,
is based on observations such as we just have described, but observations that are always encompassed
in interpretative frameworks (Grimes 2014; Bell 1997; Steward and Strathern 2014). To observe is to
interpret, especially when it concerns ‘things’, such as these masks who are in fact strange objects.
Coming from a western culture that is extremely ‘thingy’, and where each individual lives in an
environment saturated with objects, we have a definite classification of ‘things’. The bulk of our
western objects are functional—or have been functional in the past, as a walk on one’s attic might
attest—and may carry remembrances or other associations, but are not highly symbolic in themselves.
On the other hand, we do have symbols, but in our culture, these are a separate class of objects,
which have changed their utility function into a purely symbolic one, such as the cross, a candle,
or a flag. Evans-Pritchard once remarked about the Nuer of Sudan, that all their ‘things’ could
bear a considerable symbolic load simply because there were so few of them, such as their spears
(Evans-Pritchard 1956, p. 233); in this materially austere pastoral culture, each of the few objects
in their possession formed the nexus of a relational and symbolic network, which obfuscated the
distinction between a symbolic object and an everyday thing. When we are confronted with ‘things in
rituals’, our first level of interpretation is that these are ‘symbolic things’, symbols, so doused with
meaning beyond any functionality. With masks, that seems a foregone conclusion, for they are, indeed,
special things, made for the occasion—even for one particular dama—and are used only in ritual,
kept away from prying eyes beyond liminal times. So our first analytic question is to the meaning of
the masks, expecting a symbolic signification of ‘things in action’. Symbols are objects that do not refer
to themselves but are ‘thrown together’—the literary meaning of the word: form and meaning are not
intrinsically connected (Grimes 2014, p. 344). Usually, they are polysemic and multivocal, signifying a
host of meanings at the same time; in Ndembu culture Turner’s example of the mudyi tree, with its
white effusion, is paradigmatic (Steward and Strathern 2014, p. 54; Bell 1997, p. 40).
So for our interpretation, a preliminary question should be whether these masks are symbols. Are
they? The inherent ‘strangeness’ of the masks presents a challenge for our analytic acumen, an offer
we cannot refuse; these are obvious pathways of interpretation for western observers, and both lead to
over-interpretation. Studies of individual masks routinely assume specific significations attributed by
the ‘West’: masks are thought to represent ancestors, deities, and spirits, or more exotic, cosmos or
creation. A different tack of western interpretation is that they are ‘art’, another category of objects
without function in our culture; in essence, this definition frees the analyst from attributing any
meaning at all, because ‘art’ exists for and in itself. These are stereotypical European interpretations,
which do not fit very well with emic insights gleaned from the field. It is impossible to make a
general case for African cultures, but at least in the Dogon example, the idea that masks refer to
deities, ancestors, or creation is not correct (Van Beek 1991b). Also, though Dogon do express aesthetic
21
appreciation quite easily, their language does not have a word that corresponds with the western
notion of ‘art’. Given these differences, what would be a more fitting interpretation of masks?
So let us see what these masks mean for the Dogon themselves. First of all, what we call masks
and the Dogon call imina or εmna, are not just the things the boys wear on their heads, but the
whole apparition, the dancer clothed in his costume, topped with the carved headpiece and with the
paraphernalia in hand, such as the horsetails. The African equation runs as follows: mask = costume
+ headpiece + paraphernalia. It is this whole, undivided, and complete being that the Dogon call a
mask—in fact, this is similar to all African masking groups—and we follow them in this. The costume,
with its red and black fibres and the long blue trousers, defines the whole as a mask; and the headpiece
stipulates what specific kind of mask is meant. This is by no means peculiar to the Dogon εmna,
but holds for the great bulk of African masks. For the Dogon themselves masks, are, first and for all,
masks, εmna, a class of beings in their own right.
These masks, therefore, are not so much symbols as apparitions, a presence instead of a
representation; they signify themselves as a category: a mask is a mask is a mask. To some extent,
they have an iconic side. For a large part, the masks portray animals from the bush, wild animals, very
seldom domestic ones—such as antelopes, water birds, hares, monkeys, and gazelles, and sometimes
also crocodiles, buffaloes, leopards, and hyenas. Another section concerns humans, because we see
in the masks healers, Fulbe, hunters, shamans, and the odd European. There is no association with
deities or ancestors, and only an indirect one with spirits from the bush. The latter is much stronger in
masquerades in other parts of Africa, but is hidden in the Dogon dama. Portrayal, though, does not
imply representations, the masks ‘are’ not animals, they rather portray the idea of the animal in
question; if Africans want to portray an animal as such, they are perfectly capable of doing so in quite
direct and recognizable ways.
If the performing masks mainly refer to themselves, any search for a more encompassing meaning
has to be at a higher echelon, of the mask ritual as a whole. Ritual objects attain their meaning
not from what they are, but what they do inside ritual. However, as Harvey Whitehouse’s modes
of religiosity theory indicates (Whitehouse 2004), this is a highly imagistic ritual inside a religion
dominated by imagistic processes. Whitehouse’s main distinction is between high frequency rituals
with limited emotional investment but subject to elaborate systematic exegesis, on the one hand,
the doctrinal religiosity, and on the other, an infrequent ritual with a large visual appeal that bears little
explanation—the imagistic religiosity. For the latter, there is no authoritative exegesis, no authority to
‘explain’ things, and the main challenge is to participate—and participate correctly—instead of a deep
understanding; this is exactly what is found for the participants in the Dogon masquerade, and most
exegesis is spontaneous, on the spot. But whatever its association with death, for the young boys who
are dancing, the dama is a feast, and feasts need no explanation.
Yet, the liturgy does give some pointers for an overall interpretation. The name of the day we
witnessed is manugo sugo: descent from the plains. The core of the dama, the whole complex mask
ritual, is in the arrivals in the village: from the four directions the masks enter the village, from each
direction on a consecutive day, and the last the one we just saw, from the plains. On the previous days,
they came from the mountainside and alongside the cliff from the north-eastern side. At the end of the
dama, the masks leave again, toward the south-west. Even if it is organised by one village only, the
ritual links a string of villages along the cliff. So the first interpretation is that the masks represent the
bush coming into the village. African thought attributes specific powers to the bush, as well as the
Dogon. From the bush stems wisdom, power, and fertility to be used inside the human village, and
the animals from the bush represent that power and wisdom. Masks are—and here, the Dogon are
typical—‘things from the bush’. Masks are often associated with bush spirits, though not so much in
Dogon; but then again, the implication is ‘bush’ first and spirit later. Myths of mask origin routinely
stress the provenance from the bush.
This distinction between bush and village is surprisingly stable in African masking in general,
whatever the specific ecological conditions of the various groups, from Senegal’s coast to the eastern
22
border of Congo, and from the Dogon here in Mali to the Zambian Ndembu, the nature of their
‘bush’ varies greatly, but the dichotomy remains the same. It is an opposition that is ‘good to think’,
in Levi-Straussian terms.
So in the ritual, the masks cross the border between bush and village, a crucial opposition in their
worldview; they are not imitations of animals but ‘fusions of worlds’, a mix of the human and the
animal world, the village plus the bush. The masks share human and animal characteristics, they are
‘therio-anthropic’ (Fardon 1990, 2007). They bridge these two separate realms not by being there, but
by movement, by journeying between the two worlds. The main thing a mask does is ‘to appear’,
as when we saw them come from the bush; the village waits motionless for a moving mask, walking,
dancing, or running at full speed. A mask is only a proper εmna when it appears, when it dances,
when it performs, and when it leaves again into the bush shouting its characteristic cries. A headpiece
in a museum may look good, but it is not a real mask—for two reasons; the first is the lack of costume,
and the second is the fact that it just hangs on its spot without any movement. To analyse such a static
mask is the same as analysing a ballet by focusing on a description of the ballerina’s shoes.
Masks do not just walk, travel, and run; they mainly dance, they perform—the second aspect of
movement, and the most spectacular one. Each mask in Dogon shares with all masks three standard
dances with their respective drum rhythms, while each individual mask also has its own proper dance
and drum rhythm. These dances often mimic the animal, like the high-stepping water birds, the shy
hiding of the hares, and the light-footed running of the gazelles. When they rest, the masks sit at the
rim of the square, watching their colleague-dancers perform, and then they are audience, not masks,
as they do not move.
The second major border is between the genders, and here, the opposition-cum-mediation is
more complex. It begins with the myth. As among many African groups, in the Dogon myth of the
mask arrival, it is a woman who found the masks first—which originated among bush animals, in
particular, among red ants according to the Dogon—and who danced with it, later to be appropriated
by the men. This reflects a dominant aspect of masks: they are heavily gendered. Masks accentuate
the line between the genders; all African masks do. The public secret, kept ‘hidden’ from the women,
is that there are men inside these weird apparitions. Of course, the emphasis here is on ‘public’, as
each woman knows this perfectly well, and they usually are well aware of who is dancing what mask.
Nevertheless, these εmna do form a threat for the women, especially for their fertility, and they avoid
any direct contact or close encounter. The reason is in the symbolic logic of the mask rituals.
A major interpretation of the whole liturgy of the Dogon dama states that this whole complex ritual,
with the masks at its very core, is a ritual way for the men to generate life out of death (Van Beek 1991a).
This is not too farfetched in a second funeral, wherein the dead have to become ancestors. For instance,
babies born after the dama are deemed to represent of the deceased and carry their name; the circle
of life is short among the Dogon, and it is the masks that close that circle. So the dama ‘produces’
life, because through their masks, the men appropriate the powers of life. Another clue for this
interpretation resides in the feminization of several masks. In Figure 2 the stilt dancers, who represent
wading water birds, sport ‘breasts’ made of baobab fruit halves—as is clearly shown on the close-up
photo below of Figure 7—while quite a few masks show a hairdo that is definitely feminine, or wear
feminine jewels. Also, the Dogon think that after the dama, many children will be born. So in the
dama, the masked men have ritually appropriated the sources of life, and thus during this short liminal
moment fertility, is transferred from the wombs of the women into the dance of the masks.
Now, fertility is not always the issue in African masks, but the Dogon masquerade operates in a
different ritual environment from usual. Most mask rituals elsewhere are about the initiation of boys,
but the dama functions as the second funeral in the first place. Almost immediately after death, the
corpse is buried in one of the caves that dot the cliff side. Depending on the person who died, the first
funeral can then be held either straight away or within a year; this is the so-called yu yana, a major
complex of rituals lasting five days and nights. This first funeral does feature some masks as one of its
many components, but in these rites, other elements—such as guns—dominate, not masks. However,
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in the second funeral, the dama, masks are everywhere and the link between death and fertility comes
into full focus (Van Beek 2006).
Figure 7. A stilt mask, having a smoke while resting.
So the opposition man–woman runs deep and incorporates the border between death and fertility,
a very fundamental one, and masks cross that border running at full speed. But here, the virtual
reality of the ritual and the mundane reality of biology contradict each other. Evidently, the ritual
self-sufficiency in male fertility is a chimera, just recognizable as a symbolic undercurrent in liminal
times, while the women are perfectly aware that they are the ones who actually create the new
generations. The wishful fertility of the men stands perpendicular to the real fertility of those excluded
from the masking. As these two fertilities are at odds with each other, masks are indeed dangerous for
female fertility, and that concern of the women makes perfect symbolic sense; the power that arrives
from the bush is inimical to the actual source of procreation. The ‘sisters of the mask’, the yasigine,
provide an ironic subtext—because even as masks, men have to drink and eat; and their very definition
of masculinity, and surely of masking masculinity, fully prohibits them from doing these mundane
tasks themselves. Masks may help men to gain procreative ascendancy, but that fleeting moment of
male glory lasts for just one month, once every twelve years—and then only by force of that essential
outsider: the mask.
3. Materiality, Performance, and Embodiment

Thus far, we have looked at the overall interpretation of the dama complex, featuring bush, death,
and fertility, but for the individual performant, this elevated and, inevitably, constructed view need not
to be relevant at all. For the observer, this is a spectacle with symbolic associations and interpretative
clues; for the dancer, the performer, or even the audience, this need not to be the case. The young
24
men dancing with the masks are ‘inside’ the ritual in a completely different way. They have to change
into the mask, they are the ones who dance in the thick costumes with heavy headpieces, in the
blistering heat of the afternoon, staying alert during the performance in order not to trip, as they see
very little of their surroundings when dancing. Ritual is always embodied, but these performances
take embodiment to a next level. As part of the dama, the young men change into masks, and thus we
did not speak of dancers or ‘maskers’ as sometimes is done in art circles, but simply of masks, εmna.
What appears are ‘masks’, not persons. The very material exigencies of the costumes and headpieces,
the driving rhythm of the drums, the constant exhortations of the elders in the ritual language, the
yelling colleague-masks, and the high ululations of the admiring women and girls all come together in
a new embodied persona for the performer. His very exertions identify him with the ritual setting,
aided by the long preparations, and his extensive practicing of the dancing skills that have led to
this moment. Thus, the ‘culturally in-skilled embodied schemas’ (Vásquez 2011, p. 318, Steward and
Strathern 2014, p. 119) converge in a crowning moment of glory.
Performance theory gives an additional angle into the masquerade, as two joined elements are
added, aesthetics and judgment. In many ritual contexts, masks may aim at shocking or frightening
their audience, but in this part of the dama, the mask performance is to be admired, liked, and emulated.
A mask means a correct, convincing mask, and dancing means dancing well, just as the whole collective
performance has to go well; Steward and Strathern call this ‘felicitous performativity’ (Steward and
Strathern 2014, p. 93). Ritual performance is judged. The village aims at a ‘good dama’, the individual
performer tries to stand out in his performance, in the gentle competition that is part of the masquerade
and is one of its motivational engines.
From this vantage point of performative embodiment, we now go back to Domo Pujugo; he has
danced well between all the other kanaga, just as he has danced other mask types too, as most
youngsters have done. However, we also mentioned that he wrote his name on his mask top, as did
several of his age mates that year in Amani—either their name or the year. A second example is the
following (Figure 8):
Figure 8. Another kanaga of 1989. Note the year on the base of the headpiece.
25
The boys saw this as enhancing their performance, their personal standing out. Schooling in this
part of the Dogon area came rather late; in neighbouring Tireli, the first school was founded in the
1970s, and some years later in Amani. So the boys of 1989 were among the first initiated who were
schooled, and they were proud of it—hence the writing of their names. I bought this particular mask
from Domo himself at the end of the dama. Masks are used only once for real dama, and after that
may be sold; some rituals objects have to be fresh and new, not old. At that moment, I thought the
writing on masks would be a new trend, which in itself is a normal feature of masquerades because
they change constantly, with small adaptations to new circumstances.4 But the elders of Amani were
not so pleased, because they immediately realized that not just boys could read and write, but girls as
well, if not now, then in the immediate future. There were probably already young women among the
public who could read who were ‘inside’ that kanaga; the public secret was out, for these women were
now forced to ‘really know’ and could no longer profess ignorance; and surely they would talk about
it, the one thing a public secret aims to avoid. Not just dances have to be performed, but public secrets
demand performance as well, by all parties.
So after the dama, the old men came together and issued a ruling that henceforth no one should
write his name or anything else on the mask; there was to be just the mask and no text, and this was
to be the case not only for the kanaga—which is well suited for writing—but for all headpieces. And,
indeed, this rule was followed in the later masquerades, as well as in other villages, which do not at all
fall under any jurisdiction of these particular elders. For instance, in 2008 in Tireli, with many more
schooled participants and a huge outpouring of kanaga masks, no writing appeared on any mask.
After all, the mask we started out with, the one of Domo Pujugo, has become quite unique—in
fact, it is a time piece, as it highlights a point in Dogon history where basic schooling had just started
and, for a short moment, could be used as a distinction. Only at this time could the schoolboys think
they were the only ones who could read and write and could stand out as such. They thought they
had found another way for the gentle competition that runs inside the masking festival, a notion that
could not have surfaced earlier. In itself, such a change fits well into the open system that masks are in
Dogon culture; masks show trends and fashions.
However, this novelty turned out to be a contradiction in itself, as they wrote their own name on
the mask, and the year—1989. Through their writing, the ritual object became part of another world,
not of the virtual reality of a funeral (Kapferer 2004, p. 46; Van Beek 2008), but of the real one of the
school and daily life. By the simple act of writing, the mask was ‘deliminalized’. A kanaga with a name
on it is not a mask but a personal billboard, endangering the construction of meaning of the whole
masquerade. The mask elders of Amani were thus completely justified, and their reaction shows their
very awareness of the essence of the mask festival, of the borders that should not be crossed, and of the
paradoxes involved in masking. Their well-reasoned rejection of this novelty showed how much they
were aware of the basic tenets of the mask ritual, how much they were intent on patrolling the borders
of the virtual reality, by safeguarding these moving objects as the raison d’être of the complex ritual.
Embodiment and performance presuppose materiality (Vásquez 2011), as especially in imagistic
religions, the material expressions are absolutely essential for any productive interpretation.
Dogon religion is very much a ‘religion of things’, just like many indigenous African religions with
their roots in imagistic processes; things ranging from guns to broken pottery, and from hoe handles to
stools. But few rituals are as ‘thingy’ as a masquerade, those apparitions coming from the bush into
the village, in a wonderful show that is a delight for the eyes while threatening for the women.
However, these mask-things generate one more reflection: they are not just a prime support for
our interpretation, but they also challenge our notion of a ‘thing’, of an object. Ingold (2011), in his
ecological approach, challenges the dichotomy between nature and culture, matter and mind, and he
does find the dama at his side. The first photograph shows the headpiece of Domo’s mask, very much
4 For an analysis how mask dances intertwine with village dynamics, see (Van Beek 2012).
26
an object and very much what we in the global North would call a mask; this is what we find in a
museum—or now in my collection. But for the Dogon, this may be an object, a thing in itself; but it is
not a mask, not a proper εmna—and as such, it is not ‘a ritual object’ at all. The ritual entity, the one that
moves and acts, is the material object plus the costumed dancer, and none of these elements can stand
on its own. It is the combination of man, object, and act that is the real ritual agent; so the material side
of religion is another fusion of worlds, those of matter and of man, inanimate and animate. Materiality
is a precondition for an embodied performance, and as such can bridge the divide between the world
in which we live and the ‘other side’, the final border crossing.
Funding: The overall research on the Dogon was financed by WOTRO (Netherlands Foundation for Tropical
Research, grant W 52-112), the field stay of 1989 by a travel grant of WOTRO (W 52-142) and by Utrecht University,
Faculty of Social Sciences.
References
Bell, Catherine. 1997. Ritual. Perspectives and Dimensions. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Evans-Pritchard, Edward Evan. 1956. Nuer Religion. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Fardon, Richard. 1990. Between God, the Dead and the Wild. Chamba Interpretations of Religion and Ritual. Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press for the International African Institute.
Fardon, Richard. 2007. Fusions: Masquerades and Thought Style East of the Niger-Benue Confluence, West Africa.
London: Saffron Books.
Grimes, Ronald L. 2014. The Craft of Ritual Studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Ingold, Tim. 2011. Being Alive. Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. London: Routledge.
Kapferer, Bruce. 2004. Ritual dynamics and virtual practices: beyond representation and meaning. In Ritual in its
own Right. Edited by Don Handelman and Galina Lindquist. New York: Berghahn Books, pp. 35–54.
Steward, Pamela J., and Andrew Strathern. 2014. Ritual: Key Concepts in Religion. London: Bloomsbury.
Van Beek, Walter E. A. 1991a. Enter the Bush: A Dogon Mask Festival. In Africa Explores; 20th Century African Art.
Edited by Susan Vogel. New York: Prestal Munich & Center for African Art, pp. 56–73.
Van Beek, Walter E. A. 1991b. Dogon Restudied: A Field Evaluation of the Work of Marcel Griaule. Current
Anthropology 32: 139–67.
Van Beek, Walter E. A. 2006. Boys and masks among the Dogon. In Playful Performers. African Children’s Masquerades.
Edited by Simon Ottenberg and David A. Binckley. New Brunswick and London: Transaction Publishers,
pp. 67–88.
Van Beek, Walter E. A. 2008. Heeft ritueel dan toch betekenis? Jaarboek voor Liturgie-Onderzoek Yearbook for Liturgical
and Ritual Studies 24: 23–49.
Van Beek, Walter E. A. 2012. To dance or not to dance: Dogon masks as an arena. In African Hosts and their Guests.
Dynamics of Cultural Tourism in Africa. Edited by Walter E. A. van Beek and Annette Schmidt. Oxford: James
Currey, pp. 37–57.
Vásquez, Manuel A. 2011. More than Belief: A Materialist Theory of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Whitehouse, Harvey. 2004. Modes of Religiosity. A Cognitive Theory of Religious Transmission. Walnut Creek:
Altamira Press.
27
religions
Article
‘Requiescat in Pace’. Initiation and Assassination
Rituals in the Assassin’s Creed Game Series
F. (Frank) G. Bosman
Department of Systematic Theology and Philosophy, Tilburg University, 5037AB Tilburg, The Netherlands;
F.G.Bosman@uvt.nl
Received: 16 April 2018; Accepted: 18 May 2018; Published: 21 May 2018
Abstract: The Assassin’s Creed game series (Ubisoft 2007, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013a, 2013b, 2014,
2015, 2017) revolves around an alternative interpretation of human history as an ongoing battle
between two rival factions: the Assassin Brotherhood (modelled on the historical Nizar Isma’ilis) and
the Templar Order (inspired by the historical Order of the Knights Templar). Both factions compete
over the possession of mythical artefacts, called the ‘Apples of Eden’, which once belonged to a now
extinct proto-human race. The possession of these artefacts gives the owner incredible knowledge
and the ability to manipulate large numbers of people. The Templars strive for world domination,
while the Assassins want to prevent this; their aim is to develop human consciousness and individual
freedom. Considering games as ‘playable texts’, I make an inventory of three in-game rituals, two
of the Assassin Brotherhood and one of the Templar Order. Both initiation and assassination rituals
are quite elaborate given the context of the games in which they are displayed. Progression and
regression can be observed in terms of ritual practices within the primary series of the game series,
which stretches from ancient Egypt to modernity. This article describes the three ritual practices
mentioned within the Assassin’s Creed series, and links them to the larger metanarrative of the series.
Keywords: ritual; rituality; ritualism; digital games; assassination; initiation; nizarism; Templar Order
One upon a time, we had a ceremony on such occasions. But I don’t think either of us are
really the type for that. You have your tools and training, your targets and goals. And now
you have your title. Welcome to the Brotherhood, Connor. (AC3)
The event described is rather minimalistic, at least materially, but for the young Native American
Connor (birth name Ratonhnhaké:ton) it constitutes his formal initiation into the Assassin Brotherhood,
a secret organization dedicated since the dawn of time to the protection of human freedom. After being
trained by an Assassin mentor called Achilles Davenport, Connor is given the task to find and slay
seven targets, all members of the American Rite of the Templar Order, while simultaneously conducting
his own personal quest to find those responsible for the destruction of his native village. To mark his
readiness for such a severe task, his mentor gives him the traditional clothing of the Assassins, strikes
him on the shoulder, and utters the strange little speech quoted above.
It is only one of several scenes with ritual overtones in the Assassin’s Creed series (2007–2017)
produced by Ubisoft. Ubisoft re-images world history as an ongoing confrontation between the
Assassin Brotherhood and the Templar Order over the possession and use of certain powerful artefacts,
the ‘Apples of Eden’, left behind by a now extinct superhuman race. Both secret organizations are
responsible for many historical revolutions, discoveries, and disasters, and they have their own
initiation rituals, while the Brotherhood also has its own assassination ritual.
In this article, I will investigate the various forms in which the three fictional rituals (two initiation
rituals and one assassination ritual) are depicted by Ubisoft in its Assassin’s Creed series, including
the changes that they undergo during the series. I take ‘initiation’ to mean a particular rite of

passage (Van Gennep 1909), defined by Eliade (1975, p. X) as ‘a body of rites and oral teachings,
whose purpose is to produce a decisive alteration in the religious and social status’ of the initiate.
The initiate’s ‘existential condition’ changes; once he has undergone the ritual ‘he has become another’.
In the Assassin’s Creed series, both Templar and Assassin ‘pupils’ are ritually initiated into their
respective fraternities.
The assassination ritual of the Brotherhood will be discussed in terms of human sacrifice,
‘a practice that once was near universal, but nowadays increasingly abandoned’ (Bremmer 2007,
p. 1). It has returned to our present collective consciousness in the context of Islamic inspired terrorism,
paradoxically applied to (or claimed for) both perpetrators and victims alike. Sacrifice, both human
and animal, is community-oriented, ritual in performance, and constitutive of a collective or individual
identity (Duyndam et al. 2017, p. 5). In the Assassin’s Creed series, ritual assassination is re-imagined in
a context that is both political and religious.
As we will discover, not all instances of the in-game rituals can be characterized as the elaborate,
stylized, more or less ‘classical’ rituals we know from institutionalized religion; the minimalistic
and/or abbreviated forms of the two rituals are also very informative about the nature of the rituals.
‘The possibility of making mistakes and of failure is a constitutive feature of rituals,’ as Hüsken (2007)
has already observed. And precisely the possibility of failure adds to the importance of the ritual: if
nothing is at stake, why bother at all? This is also the reason why I will construct an ‘ideal form’ of
both rituals, not to correct or differentiate between ‘successful’ and ‘failed’ forms of the rituals through
the series, but to show what is at stake in both cases.
In order to be able to carry out my investigation properly, I will start with a description of the
metanarrative of the Assassin’s Creed universe (Section 1), including a short overview of the Assassin
Brotherhood and the Templar Order, their historical inspiration (the Nizari Isma’ilis and the Templar
Knights) and a short characterization of the way in which Ubisoft has—rather critically—incorporated
the concept of religion into its series. Before turning to the actual rituals itself, I will briefly describe the
complex narratological structure of the game series to enable me to make my subsequent claim that
the player of the series is her- or himself also initiated into the Brotherhood or the Order (Section 2).
In Section 3, I will describe four different forms in which Ubisoft presents initiation into the
Brotherhood, and then the forms of initiation into the Order (Section 4). After some initial reflections
on both initiation rituals, I will discuss the assassination ritual that is performed by almost all playable
Assassins within the series (Section 5). After some short reflections on the assassination ritual, I will
argue that the gamer her- or himself is—virtually—initiated into the Brotherhood (or the Order) by
using the complex narratological structure of the series described earlier (Section 6). I will end with
my conclusions (Section 7).
A word on methodology: I consider games to be ‘digital (interactive), playable (narrative) texts’
(Bosman 2016a). As a text, a video game can be an object of interpretation. As a narrative, it can
be conceived as communicating meaning. As a game, it is playable. And as a digital medium, it is
interactive. Treating these video games as playable texts and using a gamer-immanent approach in
this article, I will use close reading of the primary sources of my research, the actual video games
themselves, as well as secondary sources, i.e., material provided by critics and scholars discussing
the game in question (Heidbrink et al. 2015). Close reading of the video game series is performed by
playing the games themselves (multiple times), including all possible (side) missions.
While the Assassin’s Creed franchise consists of primary and secondary games for multiple devices,
together with novels, comics, and (animated) films, I will concentrate exclusively on the main video
games (see Table 1). All games were played in their PC versions.
29
Table 1. Primary games. Overview of primary games within the Assassin’s Creed franchise, including
in-game time frame, dramatic period, main protagonists, and release dates. The games are listed in the
order of the game-internal time frame.
GAMES (Main) Ab. Period Title Protagonist Release

Ptolemaic Egypt ACO 49–43 BC Assassin’s Creed: Origins Bayek & Aya 2017
Third Crusade AC1 1191 Assassin’s Creed I Altaïr ibn La’Ahad 2007
AC2 1476–1499 Assassin’s Creed II Ezio Auditore da Firenze 2009
Renaissance ACB 1499–1507 Assassin’s Creed: Brotherhood Ezio Auditore da Firenze 2010
ACRe 1511–1512 Assassin’s Creed: Revelations Ezio/Altaïr 2011
AC3 1754–1783 Assassin’s Creed 3 Haytham Kenway/Connor 2012
Colonial Era AC4 1715–1722 Assassin’s Creed 4: Black Flag Edward Kenway 2013
ACRo 1752–1776 Assassin’s Creed: Rogue Shay Cormac 2014
French Revolution ACU 1776–1808 Assassin’s Creed: Unity Arno Dorian 2014
Victorian Age ACS 1868 Assassin’s Creed: Syndicate Evie & Jacob Frye 2015
1. Those Who Came Before. The Metanarrative of the Assassin’s Creed Series
The metanarrative of the Assassin’s Creed series is a multi-leveled allohistorical complex, ranging
up to four narratological levels.
1.1. On the First Level

Assassin’s Creed draws inspiration from the pseudoscientific ‘Ancient Astronauts Hypothesis’
(Feder 2002), popularized for instance in Von Däniken (1969) bestseller Chariots of the Gods?. Some
100,000 years ago, humankind was genetically engineered by a super-advanced, Earth-born race,
known in-game as the Isu, ‘Those Who Came Before’ or ‘the Precursors’. Originally designed
as a cheap and docile labor force for and by the Isu, humankind eventually rebelled against its
creators, at the instigation of two human-Isu hybrids Adam and Eve, who were unaffected by the Isu’s
mind-controlling apparatus, called ‘Apples of Eden’ or ‘Pieces of Eden’ in the game. The Isu-human
war ended with the victory of the far more primitive, but more resilient homo sapiens when a cosmic
disaster changed the Earth’s magnetic fields, known in-game as the ‘Toba Catastrophe’. Humankind
thrived, but the few remaining Isu could not hold out. They vanished into history, gradually
‘remembered’ as the gods and godheads of human civilization.
1.2. On the Second Level

Ubisoft re-imagines human history as a struggle between two secret factions, the Assassin
Brotherhood and the Templar Order, over the possession of the artefacts left by the Isu after their
extinction. Both factions, which have existed from the time of the Isu-human hybrids Adam and
Eve, have the same ideal: the ending of all conflict, the undisturbed development of humankind,
and everlasting world peace. The means they use are different, however: the Order wants to use the
Apples of Eden to force humankind into obedience, order, and discipline, while the Assassins want to
guard human freedom by keeping these artefacts out of their adversaries’ hands. All major conflicts
in world history are orchestrated by, or are a consequence of, the manipulations of one of these two
factions, including—for example—the rise and fall of Julius Caesar, the French Revolution, and the
moon landing.
The in-game Assassin Brotherhood is inspired by the historical Shi’ite sect of the Nizari Isma’ilis
(Bosman 2016b; Daftary 1998, 1994; Bartlett 2011; Mirza 1997). Before and after the Third Crusade,
the Nizaris occupied numerous mountain fortresses in Syria and Persia, of which Alamut and
Masyaf were the most famous. Political assassination was one of their main military tactics, used to
preserve their precariously independent position between a Sunni majority and the Christian crusaders.
The Assassin leader of Masyaf in AC1, Al-Mualim (Arabic for ‘mentor’) is a reference to the historical
Nizari leader Rashid ad-Din Sinan (1162–1192/3).
30
The Templar Order is based on the historical Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of
Solomon, also known as the ‘Order of Solomon’s Temple’, the ‘Knights Templar’ or simply as ‘Templars’
(Haag 2009). Founded by Huguess de Payens (1070–1136) and King Baldwin II of Jerusalem (reign
1118–1131) the Templar Order developed from a military group dedicated to the protection of pilgrims
in occupied Jerusalem and the surrounding area into a powerful international organization with
branches across Europe that possessed vast amounts of property and gold.
The sudden and spectacular end of this influential Order in 1307 has kindled several enduring
conspiracy theories and inspired many novels and films, the best known of which are the pseudoscientific
The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail (Baigent et al. 1982) and the fictional The Da Vinci Code (Brown 2003).
While both the Assassin Brotherhood and the Templar Order are thus inspired by historical
organizations with very clear religious identities, Muslim and Christian respectively, the Assassin’s
Creed series addresses the topic of religion very critically (Bosman 2016c). The miracle stories from Old
and New Testament are re-interpreted as tricks by the (possessors of the) Apples of Eden: Cain and
Abel, Joseph, Moses and ultimately Jesus of Nazareth.
The initiation and assassination rituals of the Brotherhood and the Order therefore have little
or nothing to do with the historical rituals of the Nizaris and the Templar Knights. The Assassin’s
Creed—‘Nothing is true, everything is permitted’—is not religious nor ideological, but represents
a radical, phenomenological approach to reality: all human knowledge is relative and contextual
(Bosman 2018). And the Templar’s ritual uttering—‘May the Father of Understanding guide us’—is
vaguely connected with the French deism of Maximilien de Robespierre (1758–1794), a Templar in the
Assassin’s Creed universe (Scurr 2014). I am not suggesting, however, that the in-game rituals are not
religious in nature, but only that they cannot be attributed to the two historical religious organizations.
1.3. On the Third Level

Every instalment tells the story of one (sometimes two) historical Assassins (and in two cases a
Templar), ranging from Ptolemaic Egypt to Victorian London.
1.4. On the Fourth Level

Every instalment also features a modern-day Assassin (in one case a Templar), who interacts with
her or his historical counterpart, in a rather complex narratological structure that I will discuss in
Section 4.
2. Playing the Animus. The Narratological Structure of the Assassin’s Creed Series
The vast metanarrative of the Assassin’s Creed universe gives scope to rather complex naratological
structures. In modern times, Abstergo Industries, the above-ground ‘face’ of the Templar Order,
has discovered the existence of ‘genetic memory’ within human DNA: the collection of memories of
one’s ancestors that are passed down to subsequent generations embedded in their DNA. With the
help of the Animus (Latin for ‘life’), a machine used to decode this genetic memory, it has become
possible for people to actively relive the memories of their genetic forefathers.
The Animus presents these memories in a kind of virtual environment in which the subject who
uses the Animus is able to control the movements of her or his ancestors. When the subject who uses
the Animus fails to ‘imitate’ the movements and other acts of her or his ancestors sufficiently closely,
the subject will be regarded as ‘out of synchronization’ and will be pulled out of the specific memory,
enabling them to try another time.
While this idea of ‘controlling an ancestor’ is a bit odd from a narratological perspective (reliving
memories suggests a passive spectator), ludologically it produces a very sound game mechanic
(activating the player to take action). Later on in the game series, the Assassins have developed their
own version of the Animus, which achieves precisely the same function as the Templar device. In the
second part of the series (from AC4 onwards), access to the memories of a specific historical figure is
also available to people who do not share their DNA.
31
Both the Order and the Brotherhood try to access the parental DNA of historical Templars and
Assassins to discover clues to the hidden locations of the Apples of Eden. Some Isu artefacts have
not yet been found, others were lost by accident or were hidden on purpose by men and women
(predominantly Assassins) to prevent misuse.
Three types of narratological structure can be found in the Assassin’s Creed game series: triple
layered, double layered, and merged layers (see Table 2).
Table 2. Narratological structures. Overview of the different narratological layers in the primary games
of the Assassin’s Creed series. They are listed in the order of narratological complexity (primary) and
game-internal time frame (secondary).
Ab. Actual Situation In-Game Situation

Actual Actual Contemporary Primary in-game Primary historical Secondary Secondary historical
player device Assassin device Assassin in-game device Assassin
A. Triple layered (PC, Animus, Masyaf Keys)
ACRe Player (PC) Desmond (Animus) Ezio (Masyaf Keys) Altaïr
B. Double layered (PC, Animus)
AC1 Player (PC) Desmond (Animus) Altaïr
AC2 Player (PC) Desmond (Animus) Ezio
ACB Player (PC) Desmond (Animus) Ezio
AC3 Player (PC) Desmond (Animus) Connor/Haytham
AC4 Player (PC) Employee 1 (Animus Omega) Edward
ACRo Player (PC) Employee 2 (Animus Omega) Shay
ACO Player (PC) Layla (Animus HR-8) Bayek/Aya
C. Merged layers (PC = Helix/Animus)
ACU Player (PC) = (Helix/Animus) Arno
ACS Player (PC) = (Helix/Animus) Evie/Jacob/Lydia
2.1. Double Layered

In AC1, AC2, ACB, and AC3, the story revolves around a present-day Assassin, Desmond Miles,
who is controlled by the player. Desmond is sent into the Animus (in AC1 of Templar origin) to
relive the memories of his genetic ancestors Altaïr ibn La’Ahad during the Third Crusade (AC1),
Ezio Auditore da Firenze in Renaissance Italy (AC2 and ACB), and Connor and Hatham Kenway
(a Templar) in colonial North America (AC3). Thus the player controls Desmond through his gaming
console; Desmond (and through him the player) controls his (mainly) Assassin and Templar forefathers
through the Animus. This is the double layered narrative structure.
When Abstergo manages to improve the Animus technology so that it is no longer necessary
for the present-day user and the historical figure to share the same DNA, the games follow other
modern-day persons who use the Animus Omega, and who unwittingly assist either the Assassins or
Templars. In most cases the persons in question are two nameless Abstergo employees (AC4, ACRo),
and on one occasion an obstinate Abstergo scientist called Layla Hassan (ACO). The double layered
narrative structure is maintained, however: the player controls Abstergo employees through his
gaming console; the employees (and through them the player) controls historical Assassins/Templars
through the Animus Omega.
2.2. Triple Layered

In ACRe, Ezio—an old man by then—acquires a certain object called ‘Masyaf Keys’, which allows
him to relive particular memories of his ancestor Altaïr, who used these ‘keys’ to send messages
to his unknown Assassin successors. The player, however, can control Desmond, Ezio, and Altaïr,
and desynchronization can occur even when he controls Altaïr. Thus the player controls Desmond
through his gaming console; Desmond (and through him the player) controls his forefather Ezio
through the Animus; Ezio relives Altaïr’s life, and the player and Desmond control Altaïr’s life
through Ezio). This is the triple layered narrative structure.
32
2.3. Merged Layers

When genetic memory technology no longer requires that users be descendants of historical
Assassins/Templars, Abstergo commercializes the Animus, producing a gaming console (still called
‘Animus’) that uses a cloud service (known as ‘Helix’ after the DNA structure with the same name).
In ACU, and ACS the suggestion is that the player is actually playing on the Animus/Helix instead of
their own gaming device. The player directly controls the historical Assassins Arno Dorian (ACU),
and Jacob, Evie, and Lydia Frye (ACS), thus merging the layers of the real-world and in-game gaming
devices. This is the merged layers narrative structure.
This suggestion of merging and emerging is enhanced by ‘hacks’ into the game carried out by a
mysterious group known as Erudito, which is allied with the Assassins, and which invites the player
(addressed as ‘Initiate’) to join the Brotherhood’s efforts to locate the Isu artefacts.
3. Nothing Is True. The Brotherhood’s Initiation Ritual

The Assassins’ initiation ritual does not appear in all instalments, but only in AC2, ACB, AC3,
and ACU, and then in rather varied forms and variations. I will differentiate between a ‘typical form’,
found twice (AC2 and ACB), a ‘minimalistic form’ (only found in AC3), and the ‘new form’ of the
French branch (ACU). I will conclude with the construction of a hypothetical full-fledged ritual.
3.1. Typical Form: Ezio and Claudia

In 1488, Ezio Auditore, the protagonist in AC2, ACB, and ACRe, is formally initiated into
the Brotherhood during a nocturnal ceremony at the top of a tower somewhere in Venice (AC2).
In attendance are seven of the highest-ranking Assassins of the Italian branch: Paola (leader of the
Florentine courtesans), Teodora Contanto (leader of the Venetian courtesans), Antonio de Magianis
(leader of Florence’s guild of thieves), Bartolomeo d’Alviano, Nicollo Machiavelli, Mario Auditore,
and Gilberto (known as La Volpe, ‘the fox’ in Italian).
All attendees are standing in a classical position of reverence: holding their folded hands before
the lower abdomen. All stand in a circle, while Ezio stands inside the circle, his hands beside his body.
Mario Auditore, Ezio’s Assassin mentor and uncle, presides over the ceremony, making the sacerdotal
orans gesture with his hands as he faces a big fire lit in one of the corners of the tower. He says:
Laa shay’a waqi’un moutlaq bale kouloun. These are the words spoken by our ancestors that
lay at the heart of our creed.
Mario is referring to the master Assassin Altaïr ibn La- Ahad (AC1), and the Arabic text of the
Assassin’s Creed: ‘Nothing is true, everything is permitted’. The Italian branch of the Brotherhood was
founded in 1269, by the famous Venetian travelers Niccolo and Maffeo Polo (the explorer Marco Polo’s
father and uncle, respectively) who had been initiated into the Brotherhood by the same Altaïr (ACRe).
The creed is broken down into a simple exchange of questions and answers between the initiate
and Niccolo Machiavelli (1469–1627), the famous Italian diplomat and author. At the end, all attendees
repeat the creed collectively.
Machiavelli: Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember . . .

Altaïr: Nothing is true.
Maciavelli: Where other men are limited, by morality or law, remember . . .
Altaïr: Everything is permitted.
Machiavelli: We work in the dark, to serve the light. We are Assassins.
All: Nothing is true, everything is permitted.
After this exchange, Ezio is branded with a mark on his left ring finger by Antonio. Mario
refers to the older form of the same ritual in which the finger was entirely amputated, both as a
33
token of dedication to the Brotherhood’s cause and as a practical measure, to be able to handle the
typical Assassin hidden blade. But this form was discarded by Altaïr as ‘a false promise of paradise’
(AC2), a reference to the Christian legends about the Nizaris that included stories about young men
being enticed into obedience to their leader by being drugged and brought into paradise-like gardens
(Bosman 2016c; Daftary 1994).
Machiavelli: It is time, Ezio.
Mario: In this modern age, we are not so literal as our ancestors. But our seal is no less
permanent. Are you ready to join us?
Altaïr: I am.
Antonio takes two long iron pincers and burns the mark onto Ezio’s finger. Although the older
form of amputation became obsolete after Altaïr’s takeover of the Order, Ubisoft traces its origin to
the proto-Assassin Bayek, who accidentally cut off his finger with his own hidden blade, and then
cauterized his mutilated finger on purpose to stop the bleeding, leaving him without his left ring finger
(ACO). Back to Ezio’s initiation, where Machiavelli continues:
Machiavelli: Welcome, Ezio. You are one of us now. Come! We have much to do!
All attendees, including Ezio, preform a ‘leap of faith’, a characteristic feature of the Assassins in
the Assassin’s Creed series. It enables the Assassin to jump from very tall buildings onto a haystack that
is frequently and helpfully found under such buildings. This leap is a further reference to a Christian
myth about the Nizaris: the death-defying obedience of the Nizaris to their leader was such that
they would fling themselves from the palisade of their mountain fortress into the depths below on
his command, just to impress the advancing armies. While the jump was more or less trickery, both
historically and in-game, the effect on the Nizaris’ enemies was understandably great (Bosman 2016c;
Daftary 1994).
Another initiation ceremony is found in ACB, the direct sequel to AC2. In 1503, Ezio is appointed
‘mentor’ (effective ruler) of the Italian branch of the Brotherhood during the initiation ceremony of
Claudia Auditore, Ezio’s sister, in their Roman hideout. The ceremony is attended by Bartolomeo
d’Alviano, Niccolo Machiavelli, Gilberto, Claudia, Ezio, and seven nameless assassins, whom Ezio
has inducted into the Brotherhood earlier in the game. Claudia, Ezio, and Machiavelli are standing
on a little platform like those found in Christian churches, all facing the rest of the room where the
other attendees are gathered, themselves facing the platform. All attendees have their arms beside
their body, except Machiavelli who speaks the first words in orans as he takes over Mario’s job after his
assassination by the Templar Order. Ezio takes over Machiavelli’s place in the ritual.
Machiavelli: Laa shay’a waqi’un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine. The wisdom of our Creed
is revealed through these words. We work in the dark, to serve the light. We are Assassins.
Ezio: Claudia. We here dedicate our lives to protecting the freedom of humanity. Mario, our
father and our brother, once stood around this fire, fighting off the darkness. Now, I offer the
choice to you. Join us.
Claudia does not speak, as Ezio certainly did at his own initiation ceremony. Her left ring finger
is branded by Machiavelli. The question and answer sequence does occur, but this time in the context
of Ezio’s elevation to the rank of mentor, which takes places directly after Claudia’s branding.
Machiavelli: Ezio Auditore da Firenze. You will now be known as il Mentore, the guardian
of our order and our secrets.
Ezio: Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember . . .
All: Nothing is true.
Ezio: Where other men are limited, by morality or law, remember . . .
All: Everything is permitted.
34
Again, a leap of faith is performed, but this time we only see Claudia jump off a high
building. Machiavelli and Ezio witness Claudia, but only Ezio follows her after a short discussion
with Machiavelli.
3.2. Minimalistic Form: Connor

It AC3, another initiation ritual finally appears in an Assassin’s Creed series. In an unknown year
after 1770, Ratonhnhaké:ton (also known as Connor) is initiated into the Brotherhood by mentor Achilles
Davenport. Connor is the illicit child of Kaniehtí:io, a Native American woman, and the English Templar
Haytham Kenway. Intriguingly enough (and it is illustrative of the high narratological complexity of the
Assassin’s Creed series), it was this same Kenway who crippled Davenport in 1760 (ACRo).
Together with an Assassin-turned-Templar, Shay Cormac, Haytham succeeds in eliminating the
Brotherhood presence in the New World, with the exception of Achilles, who is left to live with the
knowledge of his ultimate failure. Achilles becomes depressed and cynical after his crippling, until
Connor more or less forces him to train him as an Assassin. Connor’s initiation heralds the rise of a
new generation of Assassins.
After Connor has finished his training, and has returned from a naval expedition, Achilles takes
his apprentice to the basement of his Davenport Manor, near Rockport (Massachusetts). There, he
simply hands over the classical Assassin outfit to Connor, asking him to put it on. When Connor does
this, Achilles speaks a few simple words to him.
Once upon a time, we had a ceremony on such occasions. But I don’t think either of us are
really the type for that. You have your tools and training. Your targets and goals. And now
you have your title. Welcome to the Brotherhood, Connor.
After this somewhat minimalistic initiation, Achilles pats Connor on the shoulder in
encouragement, leaving the new brother to his own thoughts.
3.3. New Form: Arno

At the end of ACRo, in 1776, the rogue Assassin Shay Cormac performs a last assassination, of
the French Assassin Charles Dorian. Charles’s son, Arno, is left an orphan and, in a bizarre twist of
plot, he is raised by François de la Serre, the Grand Master of the Parisian Rite of the Templar Order.
When De la Serre is murdered by another Templar, Arno is framed for the deed and is sent to the
Bastille in Paris. In 1789, he escapes during the historical storming of the Bastille that marked the
beginning of the French Revolution. Arno reports to the Assassin Council in the Sainte-Chapelle,
where he is formally initiated into the Brotherhood.
This initiation is the most formal one. The Assassin Council stands on a balcony, towering over
Arno who stands in the large space between two staircases leading up. An unknown number of silent
and masked Assassins lurk in the shadows, ready to obey the council’s every word. Arno is still
wearing his simple prison clothes, while the council members are dressed in beautiful uniforms and
large, gray, hooded cloaks. The Council consists of Honoré Gabriel Riqueti (Comte de Mirabeau),
Pierre Bellec, Sophie Trenet, Hervé Quemar, and Guillaume Beylier.
Mentor Gabriel starts the inquiry, and Arno answers sarcastically.
Gabriel: Very well. Out of the dark, you have come to the light. From the light, you will
return to the dark. Are you prepared to travel the eagle’s path?
Arno: If that is a fancy way of asking ‘do I want your help’, yes.
Gabriel: Then drink.
Arno drinks from a golden chalice, engraved with the Latin word for ‘brotherhood’, Fraternitas.
The potion instantly induces psychedelic effects, and fractured dreams of Arno’s own past, including
the death of his biological and adoptive fathers. While this liquid in ACU primarily seems to produce
35
an introspective state of mind in which the initiate is forced to ‘face’ the demons of his past, the potion
is also another reference to the Nizari drug legend from medieval times (Bosman 2016c; Daftary 1994).
After the effects of the potion have worn off, Gabriel continues with the ceremony, now starting a
variation of the question and answer sequence.
Gabriel: These are the words spoken by our ancestors. The words that lay at the heart of
our creed.
Guillaume: Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent.
Sophie: Hide in plain sight.
Hervé: Never compromise the Brotherhood.
Gabriel: Let these tenets be branded upon your mind. Let these be branded upon your mind.
Follow them, and be uplifted. Break them at your peril. Rise, Assassin.
Gabriel obliquely refers to the ritual of the branding of the left ring finger—absent here—by using
the phrase ‘let these tenets be branded upon your mind’. It is also the first time that the so-called ‘three
tenets’ of the Brotherhood are used in the initiation ritual. While the tenets were already discussed in
AC1, they were never part of the initiation ceremony before. Afterwards, Arno is greeted by the council
members and his assassin’s clo thes are presented to him. Although the leap of faith is still an integral
mechanic throughout the game in ACU (especially for Arno), it is not part of the initiation itself.
3.4. Theoretical Structure

After the description of four of the Assassin Brotherhood’s initiation rituals, it is possible
to construct an ‘idealized’ form and identify its main constitutive elements as they appear in all
instalments of the series that have been mentioned.
(1) The initiate is presented to a ‘council’ of elder, experienced Assassin masters, in the presence of
other assassins of lower rank (if these are available). The atmosphere is solemn, resembling a
traditional religious (Christian) ceremony. Sometimes the attendees have their hands folded in
reverence, while the ‘minister’ recites the creed ‘Nothing is true, everything is permitted’ in orans.
Sometimes another ritual utterance is used, evoking the three tenets of the Assassin’s Creed.
The minister, usually the highest-ranking Assassin, the initiate, and the attendees perform a
simple question and answer ritual, which is also based on the creed or its tenets.
(2) The recitation of the creed is followed by a branding ceremony, which is physical and mental in
nature. The ring finger of the initiate’s left hand is branded by another high-ranking Assassin
as a symbol of their commitment to the Brotherhood and its creed. In later times, the branding
of the finger is replaced by a ceremonial draught from a chalice which induces visions that are
‘branded’ onto the initiate’s mind.
(3) After the recitation and the branding (in either form), there seem to be two possibilities. If the
initiate is already working with the Brotherhood (like Ezio and Claudia), they already wear their
distinct uniforms. In this case the initiate and/or the other attendees perform a leap of faith, as a
visible token of their acceptance and—again—of their dedication to the Brotherhood. (It takes
nerves of steel to ‘trust’ that the fall will not be deadly.) If the initiate is not already working for
the Brotherhood (like Arno), the leap of faith is replaced by the handing over of the Assassin’s
uniform. In Connor’s case, the handing over is the only part of the ritual that Achilles uses.
4. The Father of Understanding. The Order’s Initiation Ritual

The Templar Order’s initiation ritual is simpler and receives much less attention in the game
series, both qualitatively and quantitatively, mainly because the Brotherhood perspective is dominant
in the franchise (with the exception of ACRo and the first part of AC3). The Templar Order’s initiation
ritual comprises three elements: (1) the swearing of an oath, not unlike the ritual question and answer
sequence of the Brotherhood initiation; (2) the handing over of a ring; and (3) the ritual utterance.
36
4.1. Typical Form

In AC3 and ACRo, we find two initiation ceremonies which are quite similar in structure and
phrasing. In AC3, Charles Lee (1732–1782) is sworn into the Order by Grand Master Haytham Kenway
(the father of the Assassin Connor, discussed above) in 1755. In ACRo, the Assassin-turned-Templar
Shay Cormac (1731–?) is sworn in by, again, Grand Master Haytham, in 1757. Both initiations are
witnessed by numerous Templars, and in the case of Shay also by Lee. In both cases the Templars are
gathered at a large table, lit by candles. The grand master presides over the meeting at the head of the
table. All Templars have folded their hands in reference to the severity of the situation, just like the
Assassins in their ceremony. All the Templars have their eyes fixed on the initiate. In both scenarios
the questioning is as follows:
Kenway: Do you [Lee or Cormac] swear to uphold the principle of our order and all that for
which we stand?
Lee/Cormac: I do.
Kenway: And never to share our secrets nor divulge the true nature of our work?
Lee/Cormac: I do.
Kenway: And to do so from now until death, whatever the cost?
Lee/Cormac: I do.
Kenway: Then we welcome you into our fold, brother.
In AC3, Kenway adds to Lee:
Together we will usher in the dawn of a New World. One defined by purpose and order.
Give me your hand. Give me your hand. You are a Templar.
In ACRo, Kenway adds to Cormac:
You are a Templar now, a harbinger of the New World.
In both AC3 and ACRo, Kenway presents the initiate with the ceremonial Templar ring, to be
worn on the ring finger of the right hand (unlike the branding of the left ring finger performed by the
Assassins). The initiate puts the ring on his finger, and then Kenway utters the traditional formula
‘May the Father of Understanding guide us’, and all attendees respond with the same phrase.
The ring presented to the initiates is from a deceased Templar, thus suggesting a kind of
spiritual-hereditary succession between different Templar generations. The ring presented to Lee,
by Kenway (AC3), had been taken by the same Kenway from his rogue fellow Templar Edward
Braddock (1695–1755) in 1755 (without killing him). The ring presented to Cormac, also by Kenway
(ACRo), had been given to Cormac by the Templar George Monro (1700–1757), after Cormac rescued
him from a burning house (in vain though, because Monro died directly after the rescue).
4.2. Atypical Forms

There are two further references to the ceremonial rings of the Templar Order: in AC4 and in
ACRo. In AC4, the grand master of the Caribbean Rite of the Templars, Laureano de Torres y Ayala
(1645–1722), calls together a meeting of several important Templars to plot their next operations.
In attendance are, in addition to Laureano, Julien du Casse (1682–1715), Woodes Rogers (1679–1732),
and Edward Kenway (posing as the Templar Robert Walpole, whom Kenway had killed earlier). Before
the meeting starts, Laureano presents the attendees with a Templar ring. The presentation lacks any
other aspect of the initiation rite as described above. Laureano speaks:
Please, hold out your hands. Mark and remember our purpose. To guide all wayward souls
‘till they reach a quiet road. To guide all wayward desire until impassioned hearts are cooled.
To guide all wayward minds to safe and sober thought. By the Father of understanding’s
light, let our work now begin.
37
The last ‘ring ceremony’ can be found in ACRo, at the end of the game, when the nameless
Abstergo employee (with whom the player has relived Cormac’s past) receives the offer to join the
Order. Abstergo officials Melanie Lemay, Violet da Costa, and Juhani Otso Berg stand before the
player/the nameless employee, when Melanie offers him/her the ring, saying:
Join us, and a bright future will be all yours. Refuse . . .
The consequences of refusal are not spelled out, but no leaps of imagination are required to know
what it would be: death. The choice which the nameless Abstergo employee makes is not shown in
the game, thus also relieving the player of responsibility to choose. I will return to this situation in
Section 6 when discussing the initiation of the player.
The ritual utterance ‘May the Father of Understanding guide us’ sounds rather religious, but its
true meaning remains vague during the series. It is normally used in the Order’s initiation ritual
described, but also as a secret password (AC3), as a ritual saying for the opening of a secret meeting
(AC2), or more casually in letters and conversations (ACRo, ACU, and ACS). In ACU, which is set
in revolutionary France, the Assassin Elise Dorian comments on Robbespierre’s historical cult of the
Supreme Being as ‘a popularized version’ of the Order’s true doctrine (Bosman 2018).
The cult of the Supreme Being was a historical cult established by Robespierre during the French
Revolution, a form of classic deism intended to replace Roman Catholicism (and its competitor, the Cult
of Reason) as the state religion. Robespierre’s religion included belief in a Supreme Being, an eternal
human soul, and a life dedicated to ‘civil virtues’ (Scurr 2014). It lost its momentum with the execution
of Robespierre in 1794, and was abolished by Napoleon Bonaparte, an ally to the Brotherhood according
to Ubisoft, in 1802.

After examining these four examples of the Order’s initiation ritual (two in its typical, and two
in its atypical form), we can distinguish three constitutive elements: (a) the swearing of an oath in
which the initiate is asked to uphold the Order’s principles and to guard its secrets until death; (b) the
handing over of the Templar’s ring, often one that previously belonged to a now deceased Templar,
to be worn on the initiate’s right ring finger; and (c) the ritual utterance of the words about the Father
of Understanding, to be repeated by all present.
5. Requiescat In Pace. The Brotherhood’s Assassination Ritual

The second ritual frequently shown in the Assassin’s Creed series is the assassination ritual.
Although the presentation does cloud the ritual form somewhat, when all the primary games of the
series are examined, a definite ritual pattern can be distinguished, with diverse forms and constitutive
elements (see Table A1: Assassinations, in the Appendix A). I will start with the theoretical structure
and then differentiate between the different instalments and scenes (instead of the other way around,
as I did with the initiation rituals).
In every instalment of the Assassin’s Creed series, the protagonist is given the task of assassinating
certain high-profile targets, usually high-ranking Templars or their accomplices. When the protagonist
is about to attack (by striking with a hidden blade or sword, by firing a pistol, or by some other means),
the assassin and his target enter the so-called ‘memory corridor’. The memory corridor is a special
feature of the Animus (which the modern-day Assassin, and through him the player, uses to control
the historical protagonist) which slows time and intensifies contact between the assassin and his target.
The corridor shows blue and white lights and patterns in the background, leaving only the assassin
and the target in the scene.
Sometimes a high-profile target does not trigger the memory corridor, but certain ritual traits
similar to those which do trigger the corridor still occur. They have been included in this study. For all
other exceptions and anomalies, see Table A1: Assassinations (Appendix A).
38

In all instalments, assassinations include certain ritual characteristics, all with their in-game
origin and purpose: (1) the Assassin holds the head of his target in his arms, as the target lies on the
ground; (2) the Assassin and his target exchange last words, usually in the form of a confession by
the latter; (3) the Assassin closes the eyes of the dead person; (4) the Assassin collects a sample of
the victim’s blood; and (5) the Assassin ritually utters a final short prayer, usually ‘rest in peace’ or a
variation thereof.
The entire ritual evinces piety and respect for the victim, making the act less about personal
motives or vendettas and more about ‘something that has to be done’ for the greater good of the
Brotherhood’s long-term goals. This is shown particularly well in AC2, when the young (but
uninitiated) Ezio kills Vieri de’Pazzi, one of the murderers of his brothers and father. Ezio burns
with the desire to avenge their deaths, and he not only kills Vieri, but also shakes his dead body while
shouting angrily:
[In Italian] Piece of shit! I only wish you’d suffered more! You met the fate you deserved! I
hope you . . .
Then his uncle Mario intervenes, asking his nephew to show some ‘respect’ for the dead. When
Ezio responds that Vieri would not have shown either of them ‘such kindness’, Mario replies:
[to Ezio in English] You are not Vieri. Do not become him. [to Vieri in Italian] May death
provide the peace you sought. Requiescat in pace [Rest in peace].
Like all mentors, Mario teaches Ezio that their victims should not be killed out of emotion alone,
but through minuscule planning and deliberation.
5.2. Holding the Target

Approximately half of the assassination victims that trigger the memory corridor are first held
in their Assassin’s arms. Altaïr (AC), the younger Ezio (AC2, ACB), and Jacob Frye (ACS) often
provide some comfort to their victims in the last seconds of their lives by doing this, while the older
Ezio (ACRe), Connor (AC3), Edward (AC4), Shay (ACRo), Arno (ACU), and Bayek (ACO) do not
hold their victims, or only on rare occasions. There seems to be a connection between the emotional
involvement of the Assassin and his willingness to hold his victims. Altaïr, Ezio, and Jacob are rather
calculated in their manner, while Ezio very quickly learns to overcome his hunger for vengeance.
Connor, Edward, Shay, and Bayek are very much involved personally in the deaths of their targets,
as they hold them responsible for the deaths of loved ones (tribe, friends, or family), with the exception
of Shay (the Assassin-turned-Templar) who wants to prevent his former brothers from possessing the
Apples of Eden.
5.3. Confession
In the majority of the assassinations that trigger the memory corridor, a discussion between the
Assassin and his target takes place, and/or a confession in which the victim either pleads innocence,
ignorance, or steadfast belief in the Templar’s goals. In the cases of Altaïr (AC), Ezio (AC2, ACB,
ACRe), and the Frye twins (ACU), the discussion/confession is calm and ‘reasonable’: the Assassin
and his target exchange motives for their own choices and behavior, sometimes causing the Assassin
to doubt his own actions (AC1) or the victim to come to terms with his.
In the cases of Connor (AC4), Edward (AC4), Shay (ACRo), and Bayek (ACO), the exchanges are
often far more violent: the Assassin and his target(s) argue bitterly, shouting to each other, disagree
with each other, and constantly belittle each other. In the case of ACU, the memory corridor set-up
is slightly different than in the other instalments. When Arno assassinates a target, flashbacks from
the target’s life are shown, which allow both Arno and the player to understand the target’s motives,
and to obtain insight into the true nature of past events.
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5.4. Closing the Eyes

The closing of a dead person’s eyes is an old ritual known in many parts of the world as part of
wider ceremonies of death and dying. It is also used in the Assassin’s Creed series, especially as a token
of respect to the deceased (as Mario explains to Ezio). In a minority of the assassinations, the killer
does not close the eyes of his victims. Even Ezio hesitates, even though Mario explicitly instructs him
to do so. There are eight victims whose eyes are closed by their assassins throughout the primary
instalments of the series: Vieri (by Mario, AC2); four out of seven assassinations in ACB (by Ezio);
Leandros (by Ezio, ACRe); John Pitcairn (by Connor, AC3); and El Tiburón (by Edward, AC4). In three
instances, the protagonist is seen closing the eyes of fallen comrades: Bartolomeo’s mercenary (by Ezio,
AC2); Yusuf Tazim (by Ezio, ACRe); and George Monroe (by Shay, ACRo).
5.5. Collecting of Blood

The collecting of blood occurs in AC (9 out of 10 assassinations), ACS (11 out of 12 assassinations)
and—partially—in ACO (7 out of 12 assassinations). Altaïr (AC1) collects the blood of his fallen victim
by sweeping a white feather over their cut throat, and then putting it into his pocket. The same act
does not occur again until the penultimate instalment of the series, ACS. Evie and Jacob Frye take the
blood of their slain victims by wiping a white handkerchief over the victim’s open throat, and putting
this into their suits too.
Before the release of ACO in 2017, the use of a feather (AC1) is a reference to the name of the main
fortress of the Nizaris in Persia, called Alamut, which possibly means ‘eagle’s nest’. Other in-game
references are ‘eagle vision’, the ability of certain Assassins to ‘scan’ the environment, and ‘eagle
points’, the tops of tall buildings, mountains, and trees where the Assassins scout the perimeters of
designated areas.
In ACO, it becomes clear that the feather ‘originally’ stems from the Egyptian idea of the weighing
of the soul before entering the afterlife. The feather of the Egyptian god Ma’at is used as a counterweight
to determine the moral value of the individual soul (Allen 2004, pp. 115–16). The Assassin touches his
or her own head before touching the body of the target, which dissolves into a cloud of black dots.
The rationale behind this ritual is probably that the Assassin asks Ma’at not to ‘weigh’ the soul of his
victims against him when it is his own turn to enter the underworld.
5.6. The Ritual Prayer

The closing part of the assassination ritual is the utterance of a short religious phrase. In the case
of Altaïr, three victims are said to ‘be at peace (now)’ or to ‘rest now’. In Ezio’s case, he mostly uses the
Latin phrase Requiescat in pace, ‘Rest in peace’, although Ezio is not as consistent in using this phrase
later in his life (ACRe). Arno uses ‘Rest in peace’ once (ACU), while Evie Frye jokingly says ‘Rest in
peace’ as she throws her unwanted ball gown into the water (ACS).
In ACO, Requiescat in pace is heard again only after the last assassination (by Aya), of Julius
Caesar himself. Other ‘prayers’ also appear in ACO, all connected to Egyptian mythology. Bayek uses
‘May the Hidden One Greet you; the Lord of the Duat awaits’ twice, and ‘Apap, devour your fetid
heart’ once. The ‘Hidden One’ and ‘the Lord of the Duat’ are both references to Osiris, the lord of the
underworld in Egyptian mythology. Again, as was the case with the feather, the Assassin pleads to the
gods to judge his victim for his crimes, but not his executioner.
Sometimes, especially in AC1, AC2, ACB, and AC3, the short prayer is preceded by a longer quote,
in Ezio’s case in Italian, the content of which is usually closely connected to the victim’s life, and to the
reasons why he had to die. For example: ‘Your schemes are at an end’ (Altaïr, AC1); ‘Meglio essere
felici in questa vita che aspirare a esserlo nella prossima [Better to be content in this life, than aspire to
it in the next]’ (Ezio, AC2); ‘Che tu sia pari nella morte. [May you be equal in death]’ (Ezio, ACB) and
‘Your words may have been sincere, but that does not make them true’ (Connor, AC3).
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6. Welcome, Initiate. The Gamer as Initiate

Usually, it is the game’s protagonist, an Assassin (sometimes a Templar), who is initiated into the
Brotherhood (or the Order). In two cases however, the initiation is transferred from an in-game ritual
to a ritual on the level of the player himself. Once, the player is given the opportunity to join the Order
(ACRo), and on another occasion to join the Brotherhood (ACU/ACS). This is made possible by the
complex narratological structures Ubisoft uses in the series (see: Table 2).
In ACRo, the narratological structure provides the following sequence: the player, through his
game device, controls a nameless Abstergo employee, who—in turn—controls the historical Assassin
Shay Cormac through the in-game Helix Animus. (The same structure can also be found in AC4). At the
end of ACRo, the nameless employee is asked to join the Order Melanie offers him the ring, asking:
Join us, and a bright future will be all yours. Refuse . . .
While the outcome of the choice is not shown (the end credits are screened), acceptance is the
most likely outcome, since a refusal would probably result in the employee’s swift death. But because
of the complex narratological structure of ACRo, it is not only ‘numbskull’ who is asked to join the
Order, but the player, too, is offered this choice. Since it is the player who makes the actual choices in
the game, it is the gamer who ultimately has to decide whether or not to ‘join’ the Order.
This ‘capacity’ of the player of Assassin’s Creed is also played out in ACU and ACS, but then with
regard to the Brotherhood. The initial double narratological structure is broken by both ACU and ACS
in this sense that the player’s real-life gaming device and the in-game Helix Animus narratologically
merge into a single device. When the player of ACU and ACS starts the game, the Abstergo logo is
shown, as well as that of the Helix cloud service. The screen reads: ‘Developed by Abstergo; powered
by the Animus’. No contemporary Assassin of Templar is shown or used: the player directly controls
the historical protagonist. The player is directly using the Helix Animus.
At the beginning of ACU, the player is confronted with a brief narrative about the arrest and death
(at the stake) of Jacques de Molay (1244–1314), the historical last grand master of the Templar Order.
After the player has finished this little section of the game, which is clearly told from a Templar point
of view, an electronic interference appears across the screen of the gaming device (the Helix Animus).
An unknown woman is shown sitting behind a large computer desk communicating with other
unseen characters (although these can be identified by hardcore fans of the series as Desmond’s
fellow Assassins Shaun Hastings and Rebecca Crane). The woman identifies herself by the codename
‘Bishop’, asking the player to ‘join’ the Brotherhood by pressing the designated key on the game
device/Helix Animus.
Hey there . . . This is probably disorienting, so I’ll be brief. I’m Bishop, not my real name
obviously, but that’s as much as you’ll get today. ( . . . ) These guys [Templars] ( . . . ) have
their fingers in countless corporations, governments, and media outlets, and NGOs, but now
they want control over history itself. If that doesn’t frighten you, it should. But we’re here
to stop them. And I need your help. ( . . . ) This is where you come in. We are confident
that you are up to the task. ( . . . ) Are you willing to take up the fight and join us? ( . . . ) By
pressing “play” you’ll be joining the Assassins. If you want to fight the Templar menace,
or if you’re willing to save civilization from Abstergo’s clutches, press “play”. [When the
“play” button is pressed] Sit back and ready yourself for the truth.
The game does not proceed if the player does not press the ‘play’ button, and Bishop will wait
indefinitely for the player to answer her question. By pressing ‘play’, the player indicates (at least
in the reality of the game) that he is willing to join the Brotherhood in its fight against the Templars.
Bishop shows the ‘Initiate’, as she subsequently calls the player, the truth behind the Abstergo façade.
In the rest of the game, the player/Initiate ‘works’ for the Brotherhood by uncovering the life of the
historical Assassin of the French Revolution, Arno.
41
This narratological frame in which the real-life gamer is ‘initiated’ into the in-game Brotherhood,
is maintained in ACU (but not in ACO, where the old ‘double’ frame is re-installed). At the start of
ACU, the player is welcomed once more by the screen text ‘developed by Abstergo; powered by the
Animus’, again suggesting the merging of the in-game device (Helix Animus) and the real-life game
device the player is actually using to play the game. The screen is then blurred by static interference
and the logo of the Assassin Brotherhood is shown, with the text ‘welcome, Initiate’.
Bishop is seen again talking to the player, and her first words are, ‘Hello, Initiate’. The player is
then sent to Victorian London, but without being asked by Bishop to pledge his or her alliance (as was
the case in ACU), to re-live the lives of the historical Assassins Jacob and Evie Frye. The player does
not have to choose, as if Bishop (and the Brotherhood) already know what to think of her or him,
narratologically connecting ACU and ACS to each other.
Ultimately, of course it is the player who decides in the game. The assassinations are carried out
by means of the player’s direct input (pushing the ‘assassinate’ button), while the (historical) initiations
are indirectly triggered by the player (by reaching a certain point within the game’s narrative).
7. Conclusions
In this article, I have inventoried the occurrences of three fictional rituals in the Assassin’s Creed
series: the initiation rituals of the Assassin Brotherhood and the Templar Order, and the Brotherhood’s
assassination rituals. I have constructed a hypothetical and theoretical ‘ideal’ or ‘full-fledged’ ritual for
each of these three cases, based on the numerous and often varied occurrences within the different
instalments of the game series.
The initiation ritual of the Brotherhood proceeds as follows: (1) the initiate is ritually questioned
about his knowledge of and loyalty to the Assassin’s Creed; (2) the initiate’s left ring finger is branded
by fire; and (3) the initiate performs a leap of faith. The ceremony is presided over by the branch’s
mentor in the presence of other high-ranking Assassins and other initiates.
The Templar equivalent proceeds as follows: (1) the initiate is ritually questioned about his
knowledge of and loyalty to the Templars’ goals; (2) the initiate is offered a Templar ring, which has
to be worn on the right ring finger; (3) the ‘Father of Understanding’ phrase is uttered. The Templar
ritual is presided over by the grand master of the rite and witnessed by other high-ranking Templars,
but not by other initiates.
The assassinations carried out by the Brotherhood are accompanied by rituals too: (1) the assassin
holds his victim; (2) last words are exchanged; (3) the victim’s eyes are closed; (4) a sample of the
victim’s blood is collected; and (5) a short prayer is said, usually a variation of ‘rest in peace’.
Whereas the initiation rituals clearly mark the initiate’s transition from the outside world to the
confined group of the Brotherhood, the Assassins’ assassination rituals are more or less safeguards to
make sure that the killings are not due to personal dislike or vengeance, but to cold and calculated
long-term political plans. It is interesting to note that the Order does not have a comparable ritual,
although it carries out almost as many assassinations as the Assassins.
Ubisoft, it appears, uses the three rituals in its Assassin’s Creed series for four purposes,
(1) creatively, to add a sense of suspense and mysticism to both groups, but especially to the Assassins;
(2) morally, to imply that the Templars are more prone to assassinating people for personal motives than
the Assassins are; (3) socially, to mark the distance between the members of the Brotherhood/Order
and the rest of the world, and (4) epistemologically, to mark the difference between those how know
the true nature of human existence and evolution (the initiated), and the rest of the ‘people’, who do
not have this knowledge.
Ubisoft makes this even more compelling to the player by merging the narratological layers of the
real-life gaming device and the in-game device (Animus), thus successfully involving and initiating
the player of the series in initiation into Brotherhood or Order. In a certain way, playing the games
becomes a ritual practice in itself.
42
Appendix A
Table A1. Assassinations. Overview of all assassinations performed in the p rimary games of the
Assassin’s Creed series. The list includes (1) all assassinations that triggered the Animus’ memory
corridor; (2) high profile assassinations that did not trigger the memory corridor; and (3) allies to whom
the same rites are applied.
Holding Closing of Collecting Memory

Ritual Utterance
of Target Eyes of Blood Corridor
AC1 (performed by Altaïr)
Tamir y n y y Be at peace. (a)
Garnier y n y y ...
Talal y n y y ...
Abu’l Nuqoud y n y y Be at peace now.
William of Montferrat y n y y Rest now.
Majd Addin y n y y ...
Jubair y n y y ...
Sibrand y n y y ...
Robert de Sable y n y y ...
Al Mualim y n n y ...
(a) The collecting of blood is always done with afeather.
AC2 (performed by Ezio)
Uberto Alberti y n n y
Vieri de’ Pazzi n y n y Requiescat in pace. (a)
Francesco de’ Pazzi y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Bernardo Baroncelli y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Antonio Maffei y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Francesco Salviati y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Stefano da Bagnone y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Jacopo de’ Pazzi y n n y Requiescat in pace. (b)
Emilio Barbarigo y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Carlo Grimaldi y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Marco Barbarigo y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Silvio Barbarigo; Dante Moro n n n y Requiescat in pace.
Ludovico Orsi y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Checco Orsi y n n y Requiescat in pace.
The nobleman y n n y Requiescat in pace.
The preacher y n n y Requiescat in pace.
The priest y n n y Requiescat in pace.
The painter y n n y Requiescat in pace.
The merchant y n n y Requiescat in pace.
The farmer y n n y Requiescat in pace.
The condottiero y n n y Requiescat in pace.
The guard captain y n n y Requiescat in pace.
The doctor y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Girolamo Savonarola y n n y Requiescat in pace.
Rodrigo Borgia (1st attempt) y n n y Requiescat in pace, you bastard. (c)
Rodrigo Borgia (2nd attempt) y n n y Requiescat in pace. (d)
(allies)
Bartolomeo’s mercenary n y n n Requiescat in pace.
(a) Closing of eyes and prayer performed by Mario.
(b) Jacopo does not speak during the memory corridor.
(c) Assassination is interrupted.
(d) Ezio lets Rodrigo live.
ACB (performed by Ezio)
Il Carnefice y y n y Requiescat in pace. (a)
Malfatto (by apprentice) y n n y Requiescat in pace. (a)(b)
Silvestro Sabbatini (by apprentice) y y n y Requiescat in pace.
Juan Borgia the Elder y y n y Requiescat in pace.
Octavian de Valois y y n y Requiescat in pace.
Micheletto Corella y n n y . . . (c)
Cesare Borgia y n n y Requiescat in pace. (d)
(a) Il Carnefice and Malfatto do not speak during the memory corridor.
(b) Closing of eyes prevented by doctor’s mask.
(c) Micheletto is spared by Ezio.
(d) Cesare is thrown from wall by Ezio.
43
Table A1. Cont.

Ritual Utterance
ACRe (performed by Altaïr)
Haras n n n y ...
Abbas n n n y ...
(performed by Ezio)
Leandros n y n y Requiescat in pace, bastardo. (a)
Vali cel Tradat (by apprentice) y n n y Peace be with you. (b)
Tarik Barleti y n n y . . . (c)
Shahkulu n n n y/n . . . (d)
Manuel Palaiologos n n n y ...
(allies)
Yusuf Tazim n y n n Requiescat in pace.
Altaïr n n n n Requiescat in pace.
(a) Leandros is thrown back in anger by Ezio.
(b) All rituals are performed by the apprentice.
(c) Holding only commences after Ezio’s insight.
(d) Shahkulu’s assassination is interrupted.
AC3 (performed by Haytham)
Miko n n n n ...
Louis Mills n n n n ...
Cutter n n n n ...
Edward Braddock n n n y ...
(performed by Connor)
William Johnson n n n y ...
John Pitcairn y y n y ...
Thomas Hickey n n n y ...
Benjamin Church n n n y ...
Kanen’tó:kon n n n y ...
Haytham Kenway n n n y ...
Charles Lee n n n n ...
(performed by Desmond)
Daniel Cross n n n n . . . (a)
Warren Vidic n n n n . . . (a) (b)
(a) No memory corridor can be formed because target is not generated by the Animus.
(b) Desmond kills Warren by mind-controlling a guard through the Apple.
AC4 (performed Edward)
Duncan Walpole n n n n ...
Julien du Casse n n n y ...
Laurens Prins n n n y ...
Peter Chamberlain n n n y ...
Charles Vane n n n y ... (a)
Josiah Burgess; John Cockram n n n y ...
Benjamin Hornigold n n n y ...
Woodes Rogers n n n y ... (b)
Bartholomew Roberts n n n y ... (c)
El Tiburón n y n y ... (d)
Laureano de Torres y Ayala n n n y ...
(a) Charles is spared by Edward.
(b) Woodes is spared by Edward.
(c) Bartholomew’s corpse is taken away by Edward.
(d) El Tiburón’s eyes are closed by Edward out of respect.
ACRo (performed by Shay as an Assassin)
Lawrence Washington n n n y ...
Samuel Smith n n n y ...
James Wardrop n n n y ...
(performed by Shay as a Templar)
Le Chasseur n n n y ...
Kesegowaase n n n y ...
Adéwalé n n n y . . . (a)
Hope Jensen n n n y ...
Louis-Joseph Gaultier n n n y . . . (b)
Liam O’Brien n n n y . . . (c)
Charles Dorian n n n y ...
(allies)
George Monroe y y n n ...
(a) Haytham joins Shay in the memory corridor.
(b) Shay throws Louis overboard in the memory corridor.
(c) Shay puts Liam’s hood in place after he dies.
44
Table A1. Cont.

Ritual Utterance
ACU (performed by Arno)
Charles Gabriel Sivert n n n y . . . (a)
Roi des Thunes n n n y . . . (a)
Chrétien Lafrenière n n n y . . . (a)
Pierre Bellec n y n y Rest in peace.
Frédéric Rouille n n n y . . . (a)
Marie Lévesque n n n y ...
Louis-Michel le Peletier n n n y ...
Aloys la Touche n n n y ...
François-Thomas Germain y n n y . . . (b)
(a) The assassinations trigger relived memories from targets within memory corridor instead of a conversation.
(b) François is the only target with whom Arno has a conversation in the memory corridor.
ACS (performed by Evie)
David Brewster y n y y . . . (a)
Lucy Thorne y n y y ...
(the dress) n n n n Requescat in pace. (b)
(performed by Jacob)
Rupert Ferris y n y y ...
John Elliotson y n y y ...
Malcolm Millner y n n y ...
Pearl Attaway y n y y ...
Philip Twopenny n n y y ...
James Brudenell n n y y ...
Maxwell Roth y n y y . . . (c)
(performed by Jacob and Evie) n n y y .
Crawford Starrick n n y y . . . (d)
(a) The collecting of the with ablood is done by handkerchief.
(b) Evie repeats old phrase from Ezio after throwing her dress away.
(c) Maxwell kisses Arno in the memory corridor.
(d) After Crawford’s assassination, both Evie and Jacob collect his blood.
ACO (performed by Bayek)
Rudjek n n n n ...
May the Hidden One greet you. The lord
Medunamun n n n y
of the Duat awaits.
Gennadios n n y/n y Ditto. (a)
Eudoros n n y/n y Son of Apep, The lord of the Duat awaits.
Taharqa n n y/n y ...
Khaliset n n n y ...
Hetepi n n y/n y I have my gods, now face yours.
Berenike n n n y ...
Pothinus n n y/n y ...
Flavius n n y/n y . . . (b)
(performed by Aya)
Septimius n n y y May Apep devour your fetid heart. (c)
Julius Caesar y n n y Requiescat in pace, Caesar. (d)
(a) The target is touched by an eagle’s feather (no blood).
(b) Khemu handles the feather.
(c) Aya is the first to collect the blood of her target using a feather.
(d) The feather is used to open Caesar’s eyes in the memory corridor.
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46
religions
Article
Lamòling Bèaka: Immanence, Rituals, and Sacred
Objects in an Unwritten Legend in Alor
ID ID
Francesco Perono Cacciafoco and Francesco Cavallaro *
Linguistics and Multilingual Studies, School of Humanities, Nanyang Technological University,
Singapore 637332, Singapore; fcacciafoco@ntu.edu.sg
* Correspondence: cfcavallaro@ntu.edu.sg; Tel.: +65-65921710
Received: 8 June 2018; Accepted: 4 July 2018; Published: 7 July 2018
Abstract: This paper recounts a parallel story of the Lamòling myth. The original analysis of the
legend addressed the relationship between two gods, Lamòling and Lahatàla, from the Abui traditional
religion. The myth evolved from ancestral times to the arrival of Christianity in Alor, with the
resultant association of the ‘bad’ god as a demon and, finally, as the devil. This paper completes the
myth as handed down from traditional ‘owners’ of the narrative and storytellers by telling a parallel
version centered around an Abui ‘prophet’, Fanny, who was the only person able to travel to Lamòling
Bèaka, ‘the land of the Lamòling gods/servants’. We also focus on a number of sacred objects and
rituals associated with this religious myth and on their symbolic meaning for the Abui. This account
tells a different version of the killing and eating of an Abui child by these gods/supernatural entities
and of how Fanny came upon the gruesome feast. The paradoxical absence of Lamòling in this version
of the myth depicts him as an immanent being, pervading and sustaining all that is real and created
in nature, existing anywhere and nowhere at the same time.
Keywords: Abui; Alor; Lamòling; Alor-Pantar Archipelago; oral legends and myths; traditional religions
1. Introduction
This paper presents a parallel version and, therefore, a completion of an Abui oral legend,
the Lamòling founding myth. The original version was analysed (Perono Cacciafoco and Cavallaro 2017)
in the context of it being the origin and explanation for a number of toponyms and micro-toponyms
still existing in the Abui territory on the island of Alor (South-East Indonesia, Alor-Pantar Archipelago)
shown in Figure 1. Right up to today, the Abui believe that the tale of Lamòling is true and they claim
that it is a historical episode dating to before the arrival of the Portuguese and Dutch colonizers and,
therefore, concurrent with the arrival of Christianity. In this article, besides the reconstruction of a
parallel (still unpublished) version of the legend, we focus on a number of sacred objects and rituals
associated with this religious myth and on their symbolic meaning for the Abui.
Abui (ISO 639-3: abz; Glottolog: abui1241) is a Papuan language (Trans-New Guinea family,
Alor-Pantar sub-family) spoken by around 17,000 speakers in the central part of Alor, South-East
Indonesia, Timor area (Kratochvíl 2007; Klamer 2014, pp. 5–53). The local name for the language is
Abui tangà, which literally means ‘language of the mountain’. The Alor-Pantar languages are a set of
related Papuan languages spoken on a number of islands in the Alor Archipelago (Figure 2).

Figure 1. Location of Alor (Source: CartoGIS Services, College of Asia and the Pacific, The Australian
National University).
Figure 2. A linguistic map of the island of Alor and its neighbour Pantar (Source: Robinson 2015, p. 20).
2. Oral Traditions among the Abui

The legend of Lamòling was recorded and reconstructed during a period of language
documentation fieldwork conducted in Alor by one of the authors (1 June 2015–10 June 2015). The main
Abui villages involved in this linguistic investigation are Takalelàng and Takpàla, located in the Northern
coastal area of Alor. Six other places, villages and areas of those villages, are involved in the story
(Perono Cacciafoco and Cavallaro 2017, p. 59). The tale was told by a number of local storytellers.
The story, in all its versions, was recounted in Abui and translated with the help of local informants.
Traditionally, among the Abui, only the ‘owner’ of a story knows the full version and is authorized to
tell it in its entirety, both to the local ‘audience’ and to individuals not belonging to the community.
Other people who have heard the story from the ‘owner’ are allowed to recount it, but are only
authorized to tell an abridged version of it and not the full story or specific details. The story and the
plot of the story are not taboo in themselves.
48
This custom is akin to the anthropological concept of the ‘Big Man’ (Sahlins 1963). The similarities
between the ‘Big Man’ and the Abui story owner lie in the fact that, for the Abui, the owner of the
story is also the ‘moral owner’ of all the land and villages that are part of the story. So, for example, if a
man wants to marry a woman from another village, and both the villages are included in a story, they
need to ask permission to wed from the owner of the story. Or, if some people want to build a house in
one of the villages in the story, then they have to ask permission to do so from the owner of the story.
A notable example of this notion of the ‘ownership’ of oral traditional stories can be seen in the Abui
history of the recounting of the giant snake, Mon Mot, another founding myth belonging to the Abui
people. Researchers carrying out language documentation fieldwork in Alor in 2003 first reported the
story of Mon Mot as it was narrated by Anderias Padafani, and thought it was the complete version.
However, over time, they came to be aware of the practice of the ‘ownership’ of the oral stories (or
the ‘Big Man’ tradition) among the Abui and realized that the story they had was not the full version
of the original legend. It took researchers 11 years to finally track down the true owner of the story,
Mansur Maata (Kratochvíl and Delpada 2008, pp. 68–77).
We do not know who the original owner of any Abui story was. These stories are ancient.
We assume that the original, first owner may be the one who first told or ‘invented’ the story. It may
also have been someone involved in the ‘real events’ of the story, since, generally, a legend is not a
completely invented tale, but derives from possibly real and very ancient events (Tangherlini 1990,
pp. 371–90). The next owner of a story is chosen by the previous owner. The transmission is not
necessarily within the family of the owner. The owner is chosen because of her/his moral qualities and
because of her/his potential as a moral leader. Of course, the owner can be also a child of the previous
owner, but there may not be a ‘family lineage’ in the ownership.
The Abui ‘owner’ of the original Lamòling myth (the widespread, complete, version) is Markus
Lema, connected with the Delpada family, which shares and passes down that version generation
by generation. Moreover, the ‘owner’ of the parallel version (the ‘immanent’ one) has always been a
member of the Delpada family, with the current owner being Martinus Delpada.
Like for most indigenous oral rituals and cults, there are no written records of Abui traditional
religion. Unlike, among others, Christianity and Islam, which have records dating back hundreds
of years, the Abui only have songs, sayings, proverbs, and stories passed down as oral traditions
generation by generation, over centuries. One of the aims of the present paper is, indeed, to preserve
this noteworthy (and threatened) part of the Abui tradition and oral culture.
Due to the complex ‘ownership’ system among the Abui, that is, the fact that only the true ‘owner’
of the story can tell it in its entirety, with all the details, and with all the names of characters and
places, the legend of Lamòling exhibits various inconsistencies and different ‘chronological’ layers and
developments that compose a sort of ‘stratigraphy of the myth’ (Perono Cacciafoco and Cavallaro
2017, pp. 52–53 and 58). However, these ‘anomalies’ in the fabula of the legend do not detract from the
story itself, but authenticate it as a real and coherent oral tradition. Contradictions and inconsistencies
(Lord 1938), or variations and embellishments (Finnegan 1992), have been an accepted and often
debated characteristic of oral traditions all over the world and in different diachronic contexts, from
the Homeric epos to the oral myths of Africa and Australian Aboriginal people. Indeed, a ‘fixed’ story
can only be found in written texts and, even then (both in oral traditions ‘standardized’ by being
transcribed at a specific point in time and in stories originally written), examples of contradictions
and inconsistencies are not rare (Lord 1938). Foley (1991) takes this one step further and argues
that what readers of a text may consider gaps in a story as flaws are not flaws in the context of the
orally transmitted stories: “For if we understand that a literary reception of an oral traditional text
(whether unambiguously oral or oral-derived) must by its very nature fail to bridge all of the gaps of
indeterminacy in anything approaching a way faithful to the aesthetic reality of the work, then we
shall see that calling these gaps ‘flaws’ is itself a mistake” (p. 47).
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3. The Lamòling Myth

The Lamòling legend is a founding myth (Campbell 1976, 1990) centred on the opposition, or
dichotomy, between the ancient (originally animistic) primordial god, Lamòling, who was also seen
as a friend by the Abui people, and the ‘new’ god Lahatàla, who ultimately usurped Lamòling’s place
at the head of Abui’s hierarchy of gods and, eventually, became the personification of the God of
the ‘new’ Abui Christian faith (introduced by Western missionaries from around the XVI century)
(Aritonang and Steenbrink 2008; Schröter 2011), the ‘only and true God’. Semantically, we can see that
the name Lamòling has gone through distinct changes, over time, in the Abui language. The name
began being associated with the mightiest of local ‘gods’ (perhaps the ‘best’ of local gods and the one
more connected with humans). Then, it changed slowly to refer to a ‘demon’. With the arrival of the
rival character in this religious dichotomy, Lahatàla, the ‘other god’ (then become ‘the only and true
God’ of the Christian tradition), Lamòling became the personification of the ‘devil’.
Some of the intrinsic characteristics of the figure of Lamòling contributed in ‘making’ this change.
The Lamòling that the Abui identified with was a trickster deity, deeply connected with human beings,
but also living in a dimension beyond the understanding of humans (being a god), and becoming,
sometimes, a terrible punisher beyond human rationality (Perono Cacciafoco and Cavallaro 2017,
pp. 51, 53, 55, 57, and 58). In this, Lamòling could be identified with other figures (from other religious
contexts) of very important deities who were also tricksters, connected with the humans, but ‘located’
in a dimension oriented beyond the human understanding (a ‘feature’ foreshadowing the primordiality
of these gods), like Dionysus/Bacchus (in Ancient Greek and Roman traditions), Loki (in Old Norse
tradition), and, to some extent, Kokopelli (in Native American traditions) (Perono Cacciafoco and
Cavallaro 2017, pp. 52, 55, and 58).
The original or more ancient story (its ‘core’, coming directly from the mythopoesis process) can
be identified, therefore, in the earlier period of the tale, when Lamòling was the main god and had a
friendly and continuous relationship with the Abui people. Lahatàla only makes an appearance later in
the story (as a very spiritual god, living in the sky, not assuming anthropomorphous appearance, and
entering the body of individuals in order to communicate with the Abui people), if we consider the
story itself composed of several diachronic ‘layers’ (the aforementioned ‘stratigraphy of the myth’).
Before the arrival of Europeans (and, with them, Christianity), and in the early days of European
contact, the two gods coexisted for a while, both worshiped by the Abui people (Lamòling as the
god ‘friend’ of Abui people, Lahatàla as the transcendent and less ‘humanized’ god), until Lahatàla
supplanted Lamòling (telling the Abui that he was ‘the only and true God’—the ‘Christian God’—and
that the Abui people had to stop worshiping Lamòling and all other deities but Him). The coming
of the new god represents the more modern part of the tale, foreshadowing the introduction and,
then, the spread of Christianity in Alor and in the Abui community. Historically, as mentioned, this
happened with the arrival of the Portuguese and Dutch colonizers and their missionaries, beginning
from the XVI century (Aritonang and Steenbrink 2008, especially Chapter 4). To this day, the Abui are
still mostly Christian.
The story goes that Lamòling and the Abui people lived often together side-by-side. The ancestral
god seemed to prefer living among the humans over in the supernatural world. Lamòling spent his
time with the Abui people and shared their everyday life events. He danced with them. He dined
with them and taught them many things, including arts and crafts, introducing technology and music
to them. The Abui people had a sacred place for them to meet with Lamòling, called Karilìk. During
the meetings with the god, the Abui people danced a ritual dance, called lego lego dance (discussed
below). At that time and for a long time, Lamòling was seen as a benevolent god. However, something
happened to change this relationship. Lamòling showed a dark side of his character that the Abui
were not aware of (the ‘irrational’ side proper of atavistic deities like the aforementioned Dionysus
and Loki). This happened at the time that Lahatàla, the ‘alternative’ and ‘transcendent’ god, made his
appearance. At that time, Lahatàla lived in the sky, being a more metaphysical presence than Lamòling.
At one point, though, Lahatàla started to meet the Abui people more and more often, becoming part of
50
their lives, without ever showing himself, but always entering the bodies of people and speaking to
the Abui through them. The two gods lived side-by-side, apparently peacefully. However, the change
in relationship between the Abui and Lahatàla became a source of jealousy for Lamòling.
One characteristic of Lamòling was that he could take on animalistic and anthropomorphic shapes.
The original animal-appearance of Lamòling was that of a python, characterizing him as a primordial
chthonic god. Indeed, he could change himself into different animals, especially the snake, a very
typical and widespread hypostasis of chthonic deities, or even a human being. He had a number
of minor deities as his servants, who could also do the same, although, not being as powerful as he
was, they were able to assume only shapes of various animals. Lahatàla, instead, was more of a pure
spirit, a transcendent god who did not want to show himself and used to enter human bodies of local
individuals in order to talk to the Abui only for very important communications. We are not aware of
the Abui believing in ‘spirit possession’ (Laycock 2015). There are no traces of that in other records or
tales that we have come across. In this case, Lahatàla enters the bodies of people merely to talk, and
only on special occasions (he just ‘talks’ through them and does not ‘force’ them into any other act).
It is difficult, therefore, to see this aspect as a spirit possession in a classical form. It seems merely a
way for Lahatàla to ‘contact’ the Abui.
One day, the Abui people organised a party to celebrate both Lamòling and Lahatàla and their
valuable friendship with the humans. The gods and lesser gods were all present, and they all drank
and danced together (all but Lahatàla, who was attending the party as a transcendent spirit). The story
tells how, sometime during this party, Lahatàla entered the body of a woman and told the Abui people
that Lamòling was not a good god and that they would have had to end their relationship with him.
No Abui would have to worship Lamòling anymore. He instructed them that Karilìk would become the
sacred place only for him and used for his meetings with the Abui people only, excluding Lamòling.
He also told them that he would remain with them forever as their ‘only and true God’ (the Biblical
references of this part of the story are evident). The Abui people were very impressed by the power of
Lahatàla and accepted his ‘conditions’. However, Lamòling found out or heard of this conversation and
he was not happy, even if he pretended that nothing had happened.
As the evening unfolded, something terrible transpired. An Abui child went missing. The reason
why is not apparent. The story tells of a very jealous Lamòling out for revenge on what he deemed a
betrayal by the Abui people. The Abui people, naively, had no reason to think anything sinister had
happened because of the party and went looking for the missing child, thinking it was lost on the way
to the village. Their search took them from the very steep hill where Takalelàng and Takpàla are located
towards the coast. On the way to the coast, a group of searchers passed through a place normally used
by Lamòling to rest or meet with the Abui people on some occasions. At that time, that place did not
have a name, since it was not properly a ‘specific’ place, but just an ‘intermediate point’ on the road
between the villages and the coast. Upon reaching the place, the Abui met some of Lamòling’s servants
who were in animalistic form. These servants invited the Abui to join them for dinner. On sitting down
for supper, the Abui were horrified to see that the food offered to them was actually the dismembered
body of the missing child, including the head, which was placed in the middle of the table. Being mere
mortals and surrounded by minor deities, they could do nothing. They partook of the food offered,
but did not eat the meat. When they took their leave, they asked whether they could take the head of
the child back to the villages to eat later, cooked with potato leaves, and to share with the other Abui
people. They were given the head quite readily, which they took back to the villages. From that day on,
that place, where the gruesome dinner took place, was known as Lamòling Bèaka, ‘Lamòling bad/cruel’,
and it is from that episode that it got its name.
The enraged Abui immediately began to plan their revenge. They exacted their vengeance by
organising another party, to which they invited Lamòling and all his servants. From here, we can
start to see the downward spiral of Lamòling from ‘god’ to the status of a demon with his servants
as minor demons themselves. The party went on for days, with lots of food, dancing, and drinking.
The plan worked, as all the demons became tired and fell asleep. The Abui people, then, locked and
51
boarded up the house where the party took place and set it on fire. All the demons burned to death.
Lamòling, however, was only pretending to sleep and, changing into the semblance of a pregnant
woman, managed to escape.
On that day, Lamòling completed his descent from the status of god, to demon, to the devil. Lahatàla,
conversely, became the ‘only and true God’. The legend shows a ‘vertical’ passage of diachronic layers
from an animistic context (with Lamòling and his servants as the representation of chthonic, primordial
entities), to a sort of polytheistic—mainly dichotomous—context (with Lamòling, Lahatàla, and minor
deities), to a monotheistic context where Lahatàla is the ‘only and true God’ (the Christian God) and
the other ‘original god’ (Lamòling) has become the devil.
The roles of Lamòling and Lahatàla can be summarized as the scheme below (from Perono
Cacciafoco and Cavallaro 2017, p. 58).
Lamòling
↓
Original, primordial, ancestral, atavistic, and archetypal god, with anthropomorphous appearance, very close
to the mortals
↓
Demon
↓
Devil
------------------------
Lahatàla
↓
Originally a purely spiritual and transcendental god living in the sky, who communicated with humankind
and approached humans by entering the bodies of people
↓
Good spiritual god opposed (in dichotomy) to the ‘demon’ Lamòling
↓
The ‘only and true’ God in Christian tradition
There are a number of slightly different versions of the story, which enrich the ‘standard’ plot and
which are added to the ‘official’ version ‘owned’ by the Abui ‘Big Man’ in a juxtaposition. With the
arrival of Christianity in Alor, the story became ‘fixed’ in the version that depicts Lamòling as the ‘devil’,
and the opposition of Lamòling and Lahatàla became that of the devil versus the ‘only and true God’ in
Christian terms.
The unpublished variant of the story we are recounting in this article is one of the more important
and original versions we were able to acquire.
4. The Prophet Fanny’s Story and Lamòling Bèaka

An Abui man called Fanny, who, according to our informants, really did exist around two
generations ago, from Takalelàng, was said to have been able to live in two words: the real one and the
supernatural one. He was the only Abui to be able to go between the two worlds freely. Fanny was
recognized by the Abui people as a ‘prophet’ not because he was able to predict events, but because he
was connected with the story of Atèng Afèng. This is the name of the mythically original Abui village
from where, according to the Abui tradition, the Abui people first came into being. The story of this
village is another sacred Abui founding myth (indeed, the myth about the ancestral origins of Abui
people), and no one in the Abui community (apart from the ‘owner’ of the story, so far not found) is
allowed to tell it in its entirety. The little details we were able to get from those that had heard the
story are full of Biblical references, and the legend seems to be about a couple who gave birth to seven
children (a clear reference to the seven sons of Japheth in the Bible, Book of Genesis), who founded the
52
Abui village, and all Abui are descended from them. There is no precise documentation of this story
and, so far, it has been impossible to find the related storyteller/‘owner’. Fanny was supposed to be
the only one who knew the full story, being, in a way, the ‘owner’ of that sacred founding myth and a
sort of ‘proto-storyteller’ (or ‘principal storyteller’) of the community. The specific word ‘prophet’, if
applied to Fanny, could be considered ‘improper’. However, the Abui define the character this way
and we’ll keep this term to describe him.
Fanny, indeed, was not properly a ‘prophet’, but a man with a pure heart and whose eyes were as
innocent as those of a very young child. Most Abui use the name Fanny as a nick-name (or abbreviation)
for children called Franciscus. Fanny, indeed, was named after Saint Francis of Assisi (San Francesco
d’Assisi, in Italian, Sanctus Franciscus Assisiensis, in Latin, 1181–1226). Fanny is considered, in Abui
folklore, as an individual able to live in both the real world and the supernatural world. He is not
a ‘prophet’ and, much less, a shaman. His innocence and purity allow him to travel from the real
world and to meet the local gods/entities in the supernatural world. In this version of the story, it is
the supernatural world that goes by the name Lamòling Bèaka. Before the horrible and gruesome act
of killing the child and eating his meat was committed, that place had no name and there were no
connotations (good or bad) attached to its location. In the original version of the story, the name was
given to the real physical place where the child was killed, after the fact. The place was just a nameless
location between the villages of Takpàla and Takalelàng and the coast, nothing else. In this version,
Lamòling Bèaka is also the name of the supernatural world, a parallel world accessible only through
the ‘gate’ of pure eyes. Lamòling Bèaka is the land—or the ‘kingdom’—of the Lamòlings (see below)
and, at the same time, the ‘entrance’ of that land. These Lamòlings were, according to the variant of
the story, supernatural creatures, beyond the human laws and understanding, substantiated by the
‘soul’ of Lamòling, a god so ‘transcendent’ and ‘imperceptible’ (but substantiating of himself all things
and the creation) to become a purely immanent deity (he is nowhere, but he is in everyone and in
everything, anywhere). Fanny lived with the Abui people, in the common physical world, and also
in the supernatural metaphysical world, fraternizing with the supernatural beings, the ‘Lamòlings’,
entities which were emanation of the ‘anima mundi’ Lamòling.
This version follows the original story until the kidnapping and killing of the child. However,
this variant does not depict Lamòling as a ‘single god’ (as the Lamòling of the widespread version), but
takes the ‘Lamòlings’, his servants, as the representation/emanation of Lamòling himself. The legend
seems more precise in describing the figure of the child, telling of the day when an Abui woman and
her young son went down to the beach, from Takalelàng, in order to collect shells. That happened
at the same time of the ‘replacement’ of Lamòling (as an immanent god, or of the ‘Lamòlings’ as his
emanation, in this version) with Lahatàla in the Abui religion. Coming back to the village, the woman
was faster than the child. He lagged behind and was soon out of his mother’s sight. The child started
crying as he made his way slowly up the mountain path. While he was walking and crying, he arrived
at Lamòling Bèaka and, his eyes being pure, passed from the real world to the supernatural world of
Lamòling’s gods/entities. According to the Abui, those Lamòling deities could look at normal people,
without being seen, interacting with them without people being able to notice their actions (unless
they wanted to show themselves). They lived in a parallel world linked to the real world and were
able to act in both of them. The child’s innocence had allowed him to involuntarily cross between the
two worlds and reach Lamòling Bèaka and, because of that, his destiny was sealed. The inhabitants of
Lamòling Bèaka were supernatural entities and their behavior was beyond human laws, understanding,
rationality, and beliefs. The beings in Lamòling Bèaka were indeed very happy to see the child and said:
“Here, our grasshopper has come” (Abui people used to eat grasshoppers as a source of proteins).
They killed him and cut his body in small parts in order to cook and eat them.
By this time, the mother had reached the village and reported that her son was missing. The Abui
people looked everywhere for him, both on the mountains and at the seashore, village by village.
However, they were unable to find him. They consequently asked Fanny to help them. The ‘prophet’
went out searching for the child, without knowing that the child had already been killed. Looking for
53
him, Fanny, as was his habit, crossed into the supernatural world, Lamòling Bèaka, thinking he would
be able to get some help from the ‘Lamòlings’. They, as a sign of hospitality, asked him to join them
for dinner and offered him meat to eat. The man immediately noticed that it was human meat and
he understood that it was the body of the missing child. He did not do anything that would reveal
his horror and his pain. He simply told them he was in a hurry at that time and asked them to give
him the head of the child in order to bring it back to the villages, to cook it later with potato leaves.
“Please give me the head of the meal, so that I can bring it back to the villages and cook it to be eaten
with potato leaves”, were his words. The ‘Lamòlings’ gave him the head, which he was able to bring to
the villages, to organize a funeral. This way, the villagers discovered the truth. Since only Fanny was
able to travel to the supernatural world, the Abui people were unable to go to Lamòling Bèaka to exact
their revenge. So, they set their vengeance to take place in a village north of Takalelàng and Takpàla, Lù
Melàng (‘the village of the river’; in Abui, lù is ‘river’ and melàng is ‘village’), currently abandoned, a
place considered as the original ‘house’ of the Delpada family of Takalelàng and Takpàla.
From here, the story continues almost uniformly in both versions, but with the very significant
variant and/or inconsistency of the absence of Lamòling in the second one. In the second version,
the ‘Lamòlings’ are burned in the wooden house, and the Abui people are able to get their revenge,
but Lamòling does not attend the party, never appearing (since he never appears, in this variant of
the story, being a purely immanent deity). He does not change himself into a pregnant woman,
nor does he need to escape, since he is not there or, better, he is ‘also’ there, since he is considered
the entity substantiating not only the ‘Lamòlings’, but all of creation. Paradoxically, also the Abui
people who burn the ‘Lamòlings’ are substantiated by Lamòling, who appears, as mentioned, a sort
of Platonic (Plato, Timaeus, VI, 30b–30c) and Neo-Platonic (Plotinus, Enneads, IV, 4, 32) anima mundi
(ΜΙΛχ ΎϱΗΐΓΙ), the principle at the origins of all the ‘items’ in the world, pervading them of its essence.
The notion of this ‘soul’ that makes and keeps stable the world is also common in Hinduism with
the concept of ‘universal soul’, often identified with the Ātman, the principle of the individual and
inner ‘self’, inextricably joined with the Brahman, the principle of the outer world (Werner 2005, pp. 10
and 58). In the West, the Neo-Platonic tradition of the notion of anima mundi was continued, in the
Humanism and Renaissance times, by Marsilio Ficino (1433–1499) and Giovanni Pico della Mirandola
(1463–1494). The XVI century had in the work of Giordano Bruno (1548–1600) the most important
representation of the anima mundi intended as pure immanentism, with the identification of God and
Nature (the so-called Pantheism, ‘All is God’), emblematized by the famous sentence attributed to
Baruch Spinoza (1632–1677), Deus sive Natura (‘God or The Nature’) (Picton 1905). The Neo-Platonic
idea of an immanent god identified with Nature has also been recovered, in the Romantic age, by
Friedrich Schelling (1775–1854) (Grant 2010).
After the burning of the ‘Lamòlings’, the Abui people abandoned the primordial religion of gods
and entities, the ‘emanation’ of the immanent anima mundi Lamòling, to exclusively worship the
transcendent ‘only and true God’ (the Christian God), Lahatàla.
Both the versions of the story identify Lamòling as the one responsible for the taking and killing of
the child, even though in the first variant Lamòling himself does not appear as the kidnapper and the
killer (the action is accomplished by his servants, apparently) and in the second version Lamòling is a
purely immanent god who does not act directly in the world, since he completely substantiates it.
According to Loisa Delpada (a member of the Delpada family from Takalelàng and, originally,
from Lù Melàng), after Fanny passed away, his burial place rolled inside the river Kanaài Loohù because
of a flood, as if Nature wanted to take the ‘prophet’ again within itself (in a sort of cosmic Panism or
Naturism). However, people were able to recover his body. Another version tells of his wooden coffin
taken away during a flood, but directly returned by the river, which carried it uphill against the flow
of the current (the water reversed its course) to his final resting place. The belief of the Abui is that he
was dear to the creator and all mighty God, although they do not know if that god was the Christian
God, Lahatàla. However, since his story is entwined with that of Lamòling, it could be possible that he
(the forsaken god) saved his body from the flood.
54
5. Comparing the Two Versions

The main difference between the two accounts is the paradoxical absence of Lamòling himself
in the second version of the myth. The original story tells us that Lamòling is a god who is ‘real’
in every sense, materially, with his ability and penchant to take on animal or human forms and
physically consorting with his followers and believers, and metaphysically, in that he is their god and
is worshipped as such. Lamòling is a more ‘human’ (or ‘humanized’) god than a transcendent god
like Lahatàla, and spends most of his time with the humans. The second version, conversely, has no
mention of him, even if the speakers/storytellers ‘know’ that Lamòling is ‘there’ and exists, since they
interpret him as the ‘soul’ originating and substantiating the world and also the ‘Lamòlings’ and the
humans. The place where his ‘servant gods’ meet bears his name and even these ‘servant gods’ do
not have an individual name, but carry his name all together. The Abui refer to them, indeed, as the
‘Lamòlings’. This version depicts Lamòling as an immanent being, pervading and sustaining all that is
real and created in nature.
6. Abui Traditional Concept of Religion

The Abui religion and culture was originally characterized by animistic and, then, polytheistic
beliefs. Nowadays, the majority of the communities in Alor Island are Christians. They are predominantly
Protestant, with some Catholic groups. More recently, significant numbers of Muslims have migrated
to coastal areas in Alor from neighbouring islands (Kratochvíl 2007; Rodemeier 2010, pp. 27–42).
The legend of Lamòling is the mythical description of people’s passage to a monotheistic creed, Christianity
(characterized by the figure of Lahatàla, the Christian God introduced in Alor by Western missionaries)
(Perono Cacciafoco and Cavallaro 2017).
Little is known or written about the Abui earlier animistic practices. Their polytheistic beliefs
can be discerned, among others, from the legend of Lamòling, when we consider the coexistence of
Lamòling and Lahatàla, and the fact that the ‘servants’ of Lamòling are always referred to as some types
of deities at first and, later, as demons, although none of these lesser deities have individual names
in any version of the legend. In fact, also in the second variant, they are only known through the
collective name ‘Lamòlings’, derived from the name of the main god. This points not to a pantheon
of gods, as this implies a pluralism that is not apparent in historical data or in the legend, but to a
possible polytheistic order, also foreshadowed by other legends where other gods appear, like the
aforementioned giant snake Mon Mot (even though it is unclear if the snake could be defined ‘a god’ in
the proper sense of the word or if he could rather be a hypostasis of natural violent and catastrophic
phenomena). However, this context cannot be considered polytheism in the classic sense, as here the
gods are not independent from each other or have in any way equal status and power. This polytheism
has, apparently, a strict hierarchy, with Lamòling originally at the head. Negedu (2014) says of the
Igala in Nigeria: “This understanding of the concept of polytheism justifies the claim of the Igala
in monotheism, since what appears to be many is just a hierarchy of supernatural beings.” (p. 123).
Just like Igala’s god, Lamòling is not on the same level as all the other deities around him. He is the
Supreme Being and is beyond the realm of what is known by the Abui people. Lahatàla is a later
addition that does not affect the original interpretation of the Lamòling figure.
Both stories show how Lamòling was regarded as, possibly, the creator of all things. He was
connected with the origins of life and the guarantor of man’s actions on this world. According to the
widespread version, he displayed his anthropomorphic attributes by walking the real world in an
animal form (originally the snake, as discussed above, a typical and universal hypostasis of chthonic
deities) or human form, as did his entourage of lesser deities (only in animal form). In the second
version, he is, instead, above all beings, including his pantheon of lesser deities, and, in his absence,
reminds us that his immanence is also, to some extent, transcendent. It is complicated, indeed, to
understand, in the second version, if Lamòling is a purely immanent god (as he seems to be, in any
case) or if, besides generating and substantiating the world (immanence), he also tacitly spreads his
action in the creation (transcendence). The two contrasting variants make it difficult to understand
55
to what extent Lamòling is involved with the Abui people, what is his ‘real’ relation to the humans
in the widespread version and if he has part in the actions of the second version. When speaking
about West African religions, O’Connell (1962) put forth the concept that these religions “[ . . . ] have
a high-god who is also a sky-god. But he is often a withdrawn high god, a deus otiosus. There is an
apparent contradiction between the supremacy of the high-god and his withdrawal from concern
with the world” (p. 67). Is Lamòling, in the second version of his legend, purely an anima mundi or,
rather, a deus otiosus (‘idle god’), delegating the actions in the world to natural spirits or intermediate
entities? An example of deus otiosus is given by the notion of “first unmoved mover”, the primum
movens (϶ ΓЁ Ύ΍ΑΓϾΐΉΑΓΑ Ύ΍ΑΉϧ , ‘that which moves without being moved’) by Aristotle (Metaphysics,
XII, 1072a). Lamòling could also (and/or better) be identified with the notion of deus absconditus (‘hidden
god’), originally theorized by Saint Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274), but developed, in the context of
apophatic theology (or negative theology), by Nicolaus Cusanus (1401–1464) (Belzen and Geels 2003,
pp. 84–87). The deus otiosus, indeed, could be intended as a god who has created the world, but does
not want to be involved in it anymore, and who is often replaced by not original, lesser gods. The deus
absconditus, conversely, is a god who has consciously left this world, after giving shape to it, to hide
elsewhere, closed in his perfection (Eliade 1978).
7. Objects, Places, and Rituals

Lamòling Bèaka became for Abui people a sacred place linked inextricably to this story. In the
original telling, the name was given to the (real) place where the horrific dinner occurred after the
death of the child. This place was also the venue for the meetings of Lamòling with his servants. In the
other version, the place had always existed as a sort of ‘portal’ to the supernatural world (the world of
the ‘Lamòlings’, entities who were direct emanation of the anima mundi Lamòling). Only children with
very pure eyes were able to (involuntarily) enter the ‘portal’. Fanny, being pure in his heart like a child,
was the only adult Abui able to cross over to the other world. The place, being not a ‘human’ place, but
a ‘gate’ to the supernatural world, did not have a name (since Abui people—apart from Fanny—did
not perceive it as a significant place). It was, apparently, just an ‘intermediate point’ in the route from
the villages of Takpàla and Takalelàng to the coast. After the child was killed, the place itself (the ‘real’
and ‘physical’ place) was called Lamòling Bèaka, meaning ‘Lamòling the bad/evil’. The toponym, after
Fanny (crossing the border between the physical world and the metaphysical world) discovered the
terrible action committed by the ‘Lamòlings’, referred to the place in both the real and the supernatural
worlds. The place became part of the traditional religion of Abui people, inextricably connected with
the Lamòling myth.
There are a number of other places that are associated with this legend. They appear in both
versions. In the Takpàla village, two ritual houses, called Kolwàt (‘the dark house’) and Kanurwàt (‘the
bright house’), were (and are still) places of cult for Abui people and symbolize the passage from
the ‘old’ (‘dark’) religion, the animistic and, then, polytheistic traditional Abui religion, to the ‘new’
(‘bright’) one, Christianity. The Kolwàt house, in the eastern part of Takpàla, is linked to the cult of
Lamòling and is decorated with a geometric pattern symbolizing the primordial snake (the python),
Lamòling. Kanurwàt, instead, is deeply characterized by a white geometric pattern, representing the
ineffable and bright nature of Lahatàla
Karilìk, the place in which (according to the widespread version of the story) Lamòling and Abui
people met periodically (with an offer of food by the Abui to ‘trigger’ the arrival of the python/primordial
god to eat with them at the Karilìk altar and with the ritual lego lego dance), is located in front of the
two ritual houses and is characterized by the presence of an altar with three ritual stones, symbolizing,
according to the speakers, the skulls of enemies killed in war when Abui people were head-hunters.
The micro-toponym Karilìk derives from the cult of Lamòling and is traditionally associated with an offer
of rice, being the name of the ritual karilìk hè hàk, ‘offer to the big old stones’ (more popularly known by its
shortened name, karilìk) (Perono Cacciafoco and Cavallaro 2017, p. 53). These three flat stones are the
cultic referents of the karilìk ceremony. The Abui people would bring cooked rice to the ceremony. They
56
placed the rice on the altar offering it, symbolically, to the gods (in particular, to Lamòling) through the
three stones. Lamòling would have joined the ritual in the shape of a python. The rice was, then, eaten by
those attending the ceremony—and, symbolically, also by Lamòling—establishing, through this sacred
ritual, a connection with the god. In the original cult, the god joining the Abui people was Lamòling
(probably, sometimes, with his lesser gods). It is difficult to establish if, at the origins, also other gods
of the Abui people joined the ceremony. In the current versions of the story, the god joining the ritual
with Abui people is Lamòling. Later, the Abui symbolically offered the rice also to Lahatàla, configured as
a ‘newer’ god, as discussed earlier, who was more transcendental than Lamòling. Karilìk was, therefore,
the sacred name of the meeting venue of the Abui and Lamòling. Possibly, Karilìk was also the place
where the banquet hosted by the Abui set off Lamòling in his gruesome path and led to his abandoning
by the Abui after Lahatàla told Abui people he was the ‘only and true God’ and they decided to worship
only him. The original story says that Lamòling was angered by Lahatàla’s instructions to the Abui to
exclude Lamòling from the karilìk and from all other rituals, and asking that Karilìk be a place exclusively
reserved for Lahatàla. This led to the anger of Lamòling and to the tragedy that followed. Altars with ritual
stones are common in the traditional Abui inhabited centres, and they can also be found in currently
abandoned Abui villages. As mentioned above, the stones could be, according to the local speakers,
the ‘representation’ of the severed heads of enemies killed in war, when the Abui community was at war
against other clans in Alor and when the Abui people were head-hunters. At least from the time of the
introduction of Christianity in Alor, but, probably, also earlier, when a sort of ‘diplomacy’ was established
among Papuan communities in Alor, the practice of exposing the heads of enemies killed in war was
abandoned and stones were used in order to symbolize that specific past. Possibly, that is the reason of
the ‘power’ of the stones, considered, by the Abui people, to be able to connect, during the karilìk hè hàk
ritual, the humans with the god Lamòling. So far, it has been impossible to document the names of the
other altars with ritual stones (and of the related places) in other Abui villages.
The lego lego dance is a traditional ritual dance of Abui people, typical of the villages ‘touched’ by
the story of the Mon Mot giant snake, including also (because of ties of kinship among Abui families)
Takpàla and Takalelàng (Kratochvíl and Delpada 2008, pp. 68–77), and danced at the Karilìk, in the
Takpàla village, during the karilìk hè hàk ritual, when Abui people shared their rice with Lamòling
(and, then, with Lahatàla). Once, the Mon Mot snake, a primordial (but, paradoxically, mortal) god
comparable to Lamòling, descended from the Alor mountains, killed almost all of the Abui people, and
destroyed their villages. Only a woman was able to escape. She was pregnant and, hiding in a cave,
gave birth to twins. When the kids grew up, their mother told them the story of Mon Mot and they
decided to get their revenge. They prepared traps and weapons, and, then, they went to look for the
snake, on the mountains. They found him, and they told him they were the only two survivors of the
Abui people he had killed in the past. They challenged him to kill them as well. The snake started to
hunt them and, when they reached the place with traps and weapons, the twins started to fight the
snake. Nothing seemed able to stop him, but then the twins threw boiling oil in his mouth and the
snake started to burn from the inside. He became weak and, despite being a god, he noticed he was
dying. As he was dying, he told the twins that his life was in their hands and that he knew beforehand
that they would have killed him. Calling them “my children”, he added that, after his death, they
would have to cut his body in parts of flesh and skin and they would have to distribute those body
parts during the night in all the houses throughout all the villages he had destroyed, while killing all
the Abui people. Then, they would have to dance the lego lego dance all over those places. The twins
followed his instructions. After having killed him, they dismembered his body in parts of flesh and
skin and they brought all those parts to the destroyed villages, putting them in the ground, house
by house. Then, in the night, they started to dance the lego lego dance. As they were dancing, from
the houses, Abui people killed years before by the snake started to come out, without any memory of
having been killed, and joined the dance. All the Abui villages were suddenly populated again; the
Abui people were back.
57
The Mon Mot story is locally known as the Children of Mon Mot Legend, since the Abui people from
the villages ‘touched’ by this ancestral tale believe to be (re-)born from the flesh and the skin of Mon
Mot and to be, in a way, his ‘descendants’. The Mon Mot legend is, indeed, a founding myth and the
story shows points in common with other analogous myths in unrelated contexts. The legend of the
god snake killing all people is a sort of variant of the flood myths widespread in a number of different
cultures (Dundes 1988; Pleins 2010, p. 110). The same character of the snake can be considered as the
representation of a natural catastrophe (a big snake descending from the mountains and destroying all
the villages, killing all people, could, for example, foreshadow the eruption of a volcano in ancient
times). The ‘operation’ to bring back to life the Abui people through the spreading of the body parts
of the snake and the dance can be associated with the Ancient Greek founding myth of Deucalion
and Pyrrha (Ovid, Metamorphoses, I, 327; Pseudo-Apollodorus, Library, I, 7, 2), who, being the only
two survivors of the flood called upon by the gods to punish the corrupted humans (the myth of
the flood is widespread among cultures, be it enough to think of the Biblical story from the Book of
Genesis—Noah—and the flood myth—Utnapishtim—in the Epic of Gilgamesh), in order to populate
again the world had to throw stones (the ‘bones’ of the Mother Earth, Gaia) over their shoulders.
The stones gave birth to new people, with Pyrrha’s stones becoming women and Deucalion’s stones
becoming men. The Abui legend adds the element of the sacred dance, the lego lego dance, which could
be considered original. The dance, accompanied by chants with the value of spells, is the ‘catalyst’ of
the (re-)generation of the Abui people from the parts of the body of the Mon Mot snake. The myth, as
well as the story of Lamòling, is deeply connected with Abui genealogies and is used often by the Abui
in order to establish kinship relationships among people and hierarchies in the ‘antiquity’ of family
units among Abui clans.
The lego lego dance appears also in the Lamòling myth, danced at the site of the two Abui ritual
and ceremonial houses, Kolwàt, ‘the dark house’, and Kanurwàt, ‘the bright house’, in the center of
the Takpàla village, discussed above. The lego lego dance is usually performed not only during the
karilìk ritual, but also on the occasion of other religious and cultic ceremonies (Perono Cacciafoco and
Cavallaro 2017, pp. 53–55).
8. Transcendence and Immanence in the Lamòling Myth

As mentioned above, the notion of immanentism in the Lamòling myth seems to be a product of
the ‘stratigraphy’ of the Abui legend, residing in one of the ‘sides’ of the representation of this god.
From animistic and, then, polytheistic origins, to a ‘Christian interpretation’, to a version where the
god is possibly cause (origin) and principle (substance) of the world. The transcendence of Lamòling is
different from Lahatàla’s transcendence. However, in the widespread version of his myth, Lamòling
is transcendent to the extent of being a god who belongs to both worlds, the ‘real’ one and the
supernatural one, since it is he who decides to enter the ‘real’ world and to spend his time, often in
anthropomorphic shape, among the Abui people. In the ‘immanent’ variant, Lamòling is a sort of anima
mundi, or deus absconditus, probably cause (origin) of the creation and surely principle (substance) of
the world. In a way, he is also ‘transcendent’, through the action of the ‘Lamòlings’, his emanation
(even though, by definition, all the ‘items’ of the world should be his emanation), on the world.
This dialectic between transcendence and immanence of the immanent divinity and the intelligible
world (the creation) could find an interesting parallel in the second dialogue of De la causa, principio et
uno (1584) by Giordano Bruno. In that work, Bruno starts his reasoning from the Pythagorean doctrine,
describing the world soul (anima mundi) and universal intellect (ΑΓІΖ)—a single entity, indeed—as
immanent, position shared by the Neo-Platonic ontology (“The universal intellect is the intimate, most
real, peculiar, and powerful part of the soul of the world”, De la causa, principio et uno, II). This specific
definition, in truth, derives, more precisely, from the Stoics, who defined ‘immanence’ as the ‘world
soul’, while the Neo-Platonists considered it as a ‘hypostasis soul’, intermediary between the universal
intellect and the physical reality (the world) (Knox 2013, pp. 465–77). Bruno, in his dialogue, adopted
an originally Neo-Platonic distinction between the notions of ‘cause’ and ‘principle’, derived by the
58
concepts outlined by Saint Thomas Aquinas in his De principiis naturae. The aim was to explain the
simultaneous transcendence and immanence of the intelligible world. This philosophical issue was
addressed by Bruno in the second book of De la causa (Knox 2013, pp. 477–81), and shows analogies
with the representation of the divinity of Lamòling in the second variant of its legend in Abui oral
culture and tradition.
9. A Possible Etymology of the Lamòling Name

The name of Lamòling could be connected, in the Abui language, with the word mòling, which
indicates a specific part of the bride-price negotiation in Abui society, something needed to be paid for
‘clearance’ from a mother’s obligation. That is, the daughter has to pay her mother before marrying to
clear her mother’s obligation. According to Benny Delpada (one of the consultants of our language
documentation team and a member of the Delpada family from the Takalelàng and Takpàla villages), this
‘mother’s obligation’ can be connected, as far as its mythical and traditional origins, with the mother of
the killed child in the Lamòling story. It is possible, therefore, that Lamòling derives a section of his name
from this part of his legend, plausibly the original core of the myth itself. It is also possible, in any case,
the opposite option, that the word mòling derives from the name of Lamòling, since in Abui culture
the onomatopoesis of ‘common’ words (and toponyms) in many cases originates from traditional
stories. According to Benny, Lamòling could have been the surname of the child’s mother. The name
of Lamòling, therefore, could have been derived from her, starting to be used from this point of the
legend. Our consultant does not know of any other name that the god would have had before this
passage. As above, it is also possible that the surname Lamòling derives directly from the traditional
story. Interestingly enough, Lamòling is still an attested Abui family name among local people, but not
in Takalelàng, where it is considered inappropriate and also ‘sinister’. Benny remembers a little girl
attending middle school with him in Mebùng (4 km distant from Takalelàng, coming from Kalabàhi),
whose surname was Lamòling. She was from Forlèng, located in the central Abui area, in Alor.
10. Conclusions
The impact and relevance of the Lamòling story, a founding myth in Abui religion, can be found
not only in the consecration (and ‘invention’) of places (Karilìk, Kolwàt, Kanurwàt, Lamòling Bèaka),
rituals (karilìk hè hàk, lego lego dance), and artefacts (the three ritual stones), but also in the close relation
between Abui oral traditions and Abui original religion. By combining the two versions of the Lamòling
story, we can highlight a significant and unexpected passage in the representation of Lamòling from
a primordial god of animistic origins to a god inserted into a polytheistic context, then resolved in a
monotheistic cult by the clash between Lamòling and Lahatàla in the original story, with the demonizing
of the former and the deification of the latter, to an immanent context (in the alternative version),
where Lamòling is a spirit comparable to the notions of anima mundi and deus absconditus, substantiating
the world and all creation. Throughout the two versions of the story, Lamòling appears like a ‘god
among the humans’ (in its anthropomorphic ‘shape’), a transcendent god (less transcendent than
Lahatàla, but transcendent by definition, since, even if he likes to live among the humans, he is a god
acting in the world), and an immanent deity. The concept of the connection between transcendent
and immanent and the joined representation of transcendence and immanence of gods in aboriginal
contexts are not uncommon across the world, even if they appear according to many variants. Research
in Africa (Metuh 1973; Ushe 2017), for example, has struggled with the question of whether African
religions are purely anthropocentric, and the ‘African god’ is on the periphery of African world view.
Talking about Igbo religion, Metuh concludes that “God in Igbo religion is at once transcendent and
immanent. The transcendent God is the creator, the father of the Alusi, the consort of the Earth-Mother.
The immanent God is the Supreme Spirit, who sends sparks of himself in the form of chi into men,
natural phenomena, and things” (p. 9). The Lamòling myth, in its different versions, seems to share
similarities with the Igbo paradigm.
59
Our paper is the first record of the so far unpublished (and never documented before) second
version on the Lamòling legend in Abui traditional religion. Besides highlighting a significant pattern
in the development of the figure of the god from animistic origins, to polytheistic contexts, to the ‘clash’
with the introduction of a monotheistic religion (Christianity) in Abui culture, and to the representation
of the god as an immanent entity, the paper analyses specific rituals, places of worship and objects.
Moreover, as in our previous work on the widespread version of the Lamòling story (Perono Cacciafoco
and Cavallaro 2017), this paper shows how, in Abui culture and religion, places are indissolubly
connected with local myths, with the very significant link between mythopoesis and onomatopoesis in
the coinage of specific place names (and micro-toponyms) after the local legends.
With the Lamòling myth having been recorded and collected during language documentation
fieldwork, this paper is also a contribution to Field Linguistics and Anthropological Linguistics, with
the aim to shed light on Abui traditional religion and culture and to help preserve the Abui language
and oral intangible heritage and traditions.
Author Contributions: Conceptualization, Francesco Perono Cacciafoco and Francesco Cavallaro; Writing—original
draft, Francesco Perono Cacciafoco and Francesco Cavallaro; Writing—review & editing, Francesco Perono Cacciafoco
and Francesco Cavallaro.
Funding: This work was supported by the AcRF Tier 1 Research Project RG56/14, Nanyang Technological
University, Singapore.
Acknowledgments: We wish to acknowledge the two Abui native-speakers who recounted the story to us:
Markus Lema and Darius Delpada, both from Takalelàng; and the Abui native-speaker who operated as an
Abui-English translator/interpreter, Anselm Delpada, also from Takalelàng.
Conflicts of Interest: The authors declare no conflict of interest.
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religions
Article
When Children Participate in the Death Ritual of a
Parent: Funerary Photographs as Mnemonic Objects
Laurie M.C. Faro
Postdoc Researcher Department of Culture Studies, Tilburg School of Humanities and Digital Sciences,
Tilburg University, 5037 AB Tilburg, The Netherlands; l.m.c.faro@uvt.nl
Abstract: When children lose a parent during childhood this offers emotional and life changing
moments. It is important for them to be included in the death ritual and to be recognized as grievers
alongside adults. Recent research has shown that children themselves consider it relevant to be part
of the ‘communitas’ of grievers and do not like to be set aside because they are considered to be
too young to participate. In this case study, I describe how a Dutch mother encouraged her three
children, aged 12, 9 and 6, to participate in the death rituals of their father. She asked a funeral
photographer to document the rituals. In that way, later on in their life, the children would have a
visual report of the time of his death in addition to their childhood memories. The objective of my
case study research was first, to explore in detail hów children are able to participate in death rituals
in a carefully contemplated manner and in accordance with their age and wishes, and second, to
examine the relevance of funeral photographs to them in later years. The funeral photographs will be
presented as a visual essay of how and when the children took part in the rituals and which ritual
objects, such as the coffin and the grave, but also letters, poems and drawings were important in
creating an ongoing bond with their deceased father. The conclusion of this case study presentation
is that funeral photographs of death rituals may function as mnemonic objects later on in the life of
children who lost a parent in their childhood. These photographs enable children, when necessary, to
materialize how they participated in the death ritual of their father or mother. In this respect they can
be seen as functional means of continuing bonds in funeral culture, linking the past with the present,
in particular when young children are involved.
Keywords: children; objects; funerary photography; death ritual; continuing bonds
1. Introduction
Remember me
Though I have to say goodbye1
Remembering deceased family members by means of photographs is the leading theme in the 2017
Disney Pixar movie, Coco. Traditional Mexican death rituals, especially related to Día de los Muertos
(Day of the Dead), are presented in the movie. On this day, relatives come together and share stories
about family members who have passed away. Ofrendas (homemade altars created in honor of dead
family members) are decorated with valued photographs, favored foods and other objects symbolizing
the life of the family members (Dakin 2017, p. 12; Disney PIXAR 2017, p. 35). The entire family,
including young children, are involved in these traditional and culturally embedded rituals.
1 https://www.disneyclips.com/lyrics/coco-remember-me.html; Lyrics from ‘Coco’, written by Kristen Anderson-Lopez

and Robert Lopez, performed by Miguel, featuring Natalia Lafourcade.

The principal message of the movie, and the message that the main character, Miguel finally
understands is that your family is at the center of your life, it offers security and a basis for
development. Deceased ancestors still belong to the family and it is important to stay connected,
to reach out to them: not having a photograph on the ofrenda means you are forgetting the particular
family member. To Miguel, these photographs function as mnemonic objects as they help him in
keeping the memory of his ancestors alive. Zerubavel describes these type of photographs as
“physical mnemonic bridges”, as objects which create “tangible links between past and present.”
(Zerubavel 2003, pp. 43–44) Obviously, Coco is fiction, and an animation movie for children, but it
is interesting to see how Miguel seems to be at ease and comfortable with all matters related to
death, particularly, when nowadays in many western countries with less traditional and culturally
embedded death rituals, death is often a taboo subject when children are involved. Participation
of children in the death ritual has diminished as Western attitudes towards death have changed
(Ariès 1994; Søfting et al. 2016).
In the Netherlands in the twenty-first century, death has become a more publicly discussed subject
in a variety of media, including scientific publications, but also media targeted towards the general
public, for instance, in television programs or in glossy periodicals.2 However, it still remains difficult
to discuss the subject with children even though educational materials have been developed and are
distributed, for example by funeral directors. The Dutch Funeral Museum, ‘So Long’ has developed
educational material for children, including an educational program for pupils at elementary schools.
The objective is to lift the taboo and to offer tools to facilitate discussions with children about death.3
The focus of my qualitative and explorative research is on the position of Dutch children, aged six
to twelve years, during the death ritual. Ethnographic methods were used to collect data. The initial
fieldwork comprised of interviews with funeral directors, ritual coaches and families with young
children about issues related to death in the family context.
At the time of my fieldwork, in September 2017, I met Astrid Barten and her eighteen-year old
daughter Bente Stam.4 In 2009, the Astrid’s husband, and the father of Brechtje, Bente and Wytze,
Jan Leen Stam, died unexpectedly while they were on holiday in Austria. Notwithstanding the
immense grief, Astrid had no doubts about including their three young children in every element of
the death ritual.5 She decided to ask a funeral photographer to participate in the rituals because she
considered it important to create material memories for the children. These could help them later on in
life to remember what went on at the time of their father’s death.6
Astrid Barten’s actions were very much in line with the conclusions of the research by Søfting et al.
They argue that it is important for children to be included in death rituals and to be recognized as
grievers alongside adults. Being included meant an improved understanding of what was going on in
order to accept the reality of the loss (Søfting et al. 2016). These conclusions affirm the ongoing question
of whether young children should attend funerals (Hilpern 2013; Halliwel 2017). Already in 1976,
John Schowalter reported on this dilemma: “Although some young children can tolerate funerals well
if sensitively supported by their parents, the fact is that such support is more often absent than present.
A child no matter how young, who feels secure in attending should usually do so.” (Schowalter 1976,
p. 139) My field work results indicate that in the Netherlands children and the death ritual is still a
much-debated issue. This raises the question of how ‘death ritual’ is understood. Is it only attending
2 For an impression of this glossy see: http://www.later-alsikdoodben.nl/doelgroep/ (consulted on 18 June 2018).

3 http://www.totzover.nl/educatie/ (accessed on 10 June 2018).
4 This semi-structured interview took place on 1 September 2017. The interview was recorded and transcribed for analysis.
Informed consent was obtained for publication of the data.
5 Eldest daughter Brechtje Stam was twelve years old, Bente nine years old and Wytze six years old at the time of the death of
their father.
6 The photographs were made by Dasha Elfring, a Dutch funeral photographer with her own company Stilbeeld
Uitvaartfotografie: http://www.stilbeeld.nl/index.html. Permission was obtained to publish the photographs.
63
the funeral or should children participate in other rituals, for example, saying goodbye or closing
the coffin?
This case study on the Barten family contributes to the discussion in a threefold manner.
Firstly, it illustrates how a parent was able to support her children so that they felt confident in
participating in the death ritual when their father died, and secondly, it shows and describes hów the
children participated and which ritual objects and places were relevant to them. Lastly, the relevance
of funeral photographs as mnemonic objects later on in the life of children will be discussed.
2. Research Question and Method

Astrid Barten decided that it was important to document as much as possible for her young
children at the time of the death of their father. How were they included in the rituals? What happened
and what was their contribution in taking leave of their father? The photographs, put together with a
day-to-day description by Astrid and by her mother, the grandmother of the children, in a memorial
album could function later as a linking object with that time.
In the nineteenth century, in Western countries, death related photographs were socially and
publicly accepted and an acknowledged form of photography (Van der Zee et al. 1978; Ruby 1989,
1995; Linkman 2011). Later generations thought this kind of photography to be inappropriate, and
upsetting and as late as 2006, Hilliker acknowledged “the rarity of postmortem photography in
the twenty-first century”, although she appreciated the value of “using postmortem photographs
as an historical and cultural grieving ritual”. Like Ruby in 1989, she recommended that further
research would be appropriate to study the role of death related pictures in bereavement processes
(Hilliker 2006, p. 245; Ruby 1989, p. 1).
In this case study I focused on the linking function of photographs, how they served and have
become an effective means of memory. Every photo bears the potential of the punctum (Barthes 1981)
and “one look, one face, one name can “prick” the casual spectator, trigger a memory [ . . . ].”
(Tandeciarz 2006, p. 139) However not only photographs, but other objects may also act against
obliviousness, as described by Hirsch in the context of the memory of the Second World War:
Roland Barthes’s much discussed notion of the punctum has inspired us to look at images,
objects, and memorabilia inherited from the past [ . . . ] “points of memory”—points of
intersection between past and present, memory and post-memory, personal remembrance
and cultural recall. The term “point” is both spatial—such as a point on a map—and
temporal—a moment in time—and it thus highlights the intersection of spatiality and
temporality in the workings of personal and cultural memory. The sharpness of a point
pierces or punctures: like Barthes’s punctum, points of memory puncture through the layer
of oblivion, interpellating those who seek to know about the past. (Hirsch 2012, p. 61)
In this case study presentation, based on the funeral photographs of the death ritual of Jan Leen Stam,
in combination with the interview with both Astrid Barten and her daughter Bente, I considered the
meaning of the photographs of the death ritual, in particular when children lose one of their parents at
a young age. A description of the rituals and how the children participated, the places and objects
which were created and used during the rituals is given. The photographs, in combination with
the story told by Astrid and Bente thus present a visual essay, a “combination of spoken words and
visual images” which will, according to Sarah Pink, help me imagine how the events were at the
time of death and burial of Jan Leen (Pink 2008, p. 125). Also, the photographs would help me to
understand the participation of the children in the death ritual of their father which I was not able to
observe personally.
In cultural studies, analysis of the visual has always been integrated. Pink takes a three-fold
stand in situating the visual in her research method. The first is that “[ . . . ] both researcher and
research subjects’ uses of visual methods and visual media are always embedded in social relationships
and cultural practices and meanings.” (Pink 2008, p. 131). In this respect, I needed to reflect on the
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situation when children lose a parent in their childhood, which offers, according to Worden, a very
fundamental experience: “The death of a parent is one of the most fundamental losses a child can
face.” (Worden 1996, p. 9).
Secondly, Pink argues that “[ . . . ] no experience is ever purely visual, and to comprehend ‘visual
culture’ we need to understand both what vision itself is, and what its relationship is to other sensory
modalities.” (Pink 2008, p. 131). While I did not personally attend the death ritual and was unable to
grasp the emotions at the time, I needed the oral story to comprehend the situation when children lose
a parent. This is confirmed by the third argument of Pink in upholding the analysis of visual objects:
[ . . . ] we are usually actually dealing with audio-visual (for example, film) representations
or texts that combine visual and written texts. Thus, the relationship between images and
words is always central to our practice as academics. (Pink 2008, p. 131; 2007)
In compliance with these arguments, I audiotaped the interview and made a full transcript of the
recordings which I used for analysis.
Thus, I was able to reconstruct the social context of the death of Jan Leen Stam and consequently, gain
insight into the function and leitmotif of his death ritual.
3. Function and Theme of Jan Leen’s Death Ritual
3.1. Function
Both Astrid and Bente say that the death ritual was very important to them at the time of Jan
Leen’s death in 2009. Astrid explained that when he was Austria in a coma and the family understood
he was going to die, they initiated the first ritual acts. Together they had all very intensely said
goodbye to him. They sat down at his side and spoke to him. Astrid counselled the children to,
“Touch him once more, and have a good look at him” and so they did. They also cut a piece of his
hair. These were very intimate and private moments, and for that reason they decided not to take
pictures at that time. However, both the written diaries of Astrid and her mother on what happened in
Austria, and the stories told later on, allow for an embodied recall of the intimate events in the absence
of visual material.
During the interview both Astrid and Bente frequently used the term ‘ritual’ when they referred
to actions taken around the death of Jan Leen.
The rituals we discussed during the interview belong to a repertoire which Davies refers to as
the “mortuary ritual” or death ritual. In his view, this type of ritual should be considered as a form of
human response to death: “the human adaptive response to death with ritual language and its ritual
practice singled out as its crucial form of response” (Davies 2017, p. 4). At the time, Astrid considered
that rituals would help the family in coping with the death of Jan Leen. Davies argues that “having
encountered and survived bereavement through funerary rites and associated behavior, human beings
are transformed in ways which make them better adapted for their own and for their society’s survival
in the world.” (Davies 2017, p. 4). Having spoken extensively with both Astrid and Bente, I would
argue that this was the intention of Astrid in organizing, together with the children and closest of kin,
a comprehensive death ritual with the objective and focus on the children.
Astrid referred to the mourning process that she realized they all had to go through, a process of
adaptation to a life without the physical presence of Jan Leen. Worden defines mourning in terms of
the process of adaptation to loss (Worden 1996, p. 11). In order to adapt to the death of a near one he
developed what he called “a mourning task model” in which he builds on the concept of Freud’s grief
work: “The task model is more consonant with Freud’s concept of “grief work” and implies that the
mourner needs to take action and can do something [ . . . ]” (Worden 2009, p. 38). Astrid indicated that
she firmly believed that if the children could take action and participate, just like adults, in the rituals,
this would help them in their mourning process.
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Worden discerns four tasks of mourning which should be executed during the mourning process.
The first task concerns the acceptance of the reality of the loss (Worden 2009, pp. 39–43). As a family
they had been there when Jan Leen died and this has helped the children in the recognition of his death
and the finality of it. Worden’s second task relates to the charge of experiencing the pain resulting
from the loss and to facing the emotions (Worden 2009, pp. 43–46). Bente reflected on her mourning
process and said that there has always been room to grieve but also acceptance of how it was, there was
nothing they could do to change the situation:” We have been able to let him go, to accept his death
but at that time, being a young child, it was logical that we were standing beside him and saying:
don’t die, don’t die . . . ”.
The third task concerns the process of adjusting to an environment in which the deceased is
(physically) missing (Worden 2009, pp. 46–49). The fourth task is the process of emotionally relocating
the deceased within one’s life and finding ways to memorialize the person and consequently to move
on with life (Worden 2009, pp. 50–53).
Worden initially developed his model for adults. Other researchers in bereavement studies have
developed models with specific mourning tasks for children (Baker and Sedney 1992; Cook and
Oltjenbruns 1998). Worden, accordingly commented as follows:
Researchers who apply my “tasks of mourning” concept to children have suggested various
numbers of mourning tasks [ . . . ] Although their conceptualizations are interesting, I do
not believe we need to include additional tasks. The issues concerning bereaved children
can be subsumed under the four tasks of mourning described in my earlier work, but I have
modified them here to take into account the age and the developmental level of the child.
(Worden 1996, p. 12; 2009, pp. 230–36)
According to Worden, mourning tasks apply to children, but they should be understood in terms of the
cognitive, emotional and social development of the child (Worden 2009, p. 235). For example, a child
who has not developed the cognitive abstractions of irreversibility and finality will have difficulty
with the first task of accepting and realizing that death is final and irreversible.
Worden specifically mentions family rituals as “important mediators influencing the course and
outcome of bereavement.” (Worden 1996, p. 21) They can help children in a three-fold manner: as a
means of acknowledging the death, as a way to honor the life of the deceased and as a means of
comfort and support. However, Worden concludes that children should be given a choice as to whether
they want to attend, and for example, whether they want to view the body. In all cases they should be
clearly informed of what they are about to experience (Worden 1996, p. 21).
Astrid was very much in charge of organizing the rituals. She said that she knew what and how
she wanted it. She thought it was important that the children should decide for themselves whether
they wanted to participate: “The funny thing was that they wanted to participate in everything that
took place. They were not one moment scared of death.” She remembers one particular time when in
fact the children took the lead: “At the moment we were about to close the coffin, you (Bente) were the
first one to give dad a kiss to say goodbye. The others followed.”
3.2. Theme
Astrid explained that in Austria, when Jan Leen was in a coma, she had told him that it was
okay to go. It had been the ‘ultimate letting go’. This letting go of his physical presence became
a recurring element in his death ritual. Although the family believes him to be somewhere else,
he still remains a part of their life, and they treasure him within their hearts. They refer to his transfer
from being a physical presence to a presence elsewhere. This transfer turned into the leitmotif of his
death ritual and may be explained by applying the framework of so called ‘rites de passage’ (rites
of passage). In 1908, Arnold van Gennep described the way people passed from one social status
to another (Van Gennep 1960, pp. 10–11, 21). He recognized three stages in this process of transfer:
separation, transition and reincorporation. Using the Latin word limen (threshold) to describe these
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phases, he spoke of pre–liminal (separation), liminal (transition), and post–liminal (reincorporation)

phases in rites of passage.
These phases can be applied both to the transfer of the deceased but also to the position of the
family left behind who also have to adapt to the transfer from physical presence to another presence.
Herz, in his seminal essay on death and the collective representation of death, presented just
before Van Gennep, discussed the death ritual in a similar way too (Hertz 1960). In a commentary on
his work, Davies reflects on the change of status emphasized by Hertz:
Writing just before Van Gennep published his now familiar thesis of rites of passage in 1909,
Hertz speaks of funerary rites in a very similar way. These rites resemble initiation in that
the dead, like the youth who is withdrawn from the society of women and children to be
integrated into that of adult males, also change status. Poignantly, then, death resembles
birth in transferring an individual from one domain to another. (Davies 2000, p. 99)
Turner elaborates on the different phases identified by Van Gennep. The first phase of separation
comprises “symbolic behavior signifying the detachment”. During the dominant, second, liminal
period, the characteristics of the ritual subjects, which are the “passengers through this phase’”,
both the deceased and bereaved are ambiguous and in the third phase, the phase of reincorporation,
the passage has been completed and the ritual subjects should be in a sort of stable state, while the
deceased has made the transfer to the other world (Turner 1969, pp. 94–95).
Turner emphasized the liminal period and explored the dynamics of what happens to people
when thrown together in periods of stress and the change of identity caused by the death of a near
one. He developed the concept of communitas to describe this shared fellow-feeling, a feeling of
connectedness (Turner 1969, p. 96), and this was interpreted by Davies as “[ . . . ] a sense of unity and
empathy between people undergoing ritual events together” (Davies 2017, pp. 26–27, 94).
Although discerning the exact phases in the death ritual of Jan Leen is arbitrary, applying the
discussed concepts in a case where children participate may be useful in interpreting the process
and accompanying rituals. Bente commented that you might think that when you are nine years
old, you will remember everything but when she looks back on these days it seems like everything
happened in just two days: one day they got to know in Austria that Jan Leen was braindead and to
her it seemed as if the funeral was held the day after. In her view they really were in a sort of ‘liminal’
period where there was no comprehension of time.
In the next paragraph I will discuss six photographs of Jan Leen Stam’s death ritual.
These photographs were chosen in consultation with both Astrid, Bente and myself. The funeral
photographer advised on the quality of the pictures. In particular, these six photographs were chosen
because they create a comprehensive visual narrative and materialize the events that took place at
the time. The photographs have a two-fold function: the first is to illustrate how the Stam children
participated in the death ritual of their father and secondly, these photographs function as mnemonic
objects to memorialize the events at the time of the death of their father.
The first photograph (Photograph 1) was taken after Jan Leen had returned home from Austria.
At that time, they created a special place for him in order to welcome him back home.7 Astrid said:
“All together we organized the room where he would stay. I put up photographs of Jan Leen and the
children, there were flowers”. Other symbolic acts at this time included the objects they placed in his
coffin for him on his way to the other world.
7 Out of respect to Jan Leen, and because, obviously, he was not able to give his consent, Astrid decided not to include any
photographs of Jan Leen himself in the visual essay.
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Photograph 1. Saying goodbye—personalizing the coffin. © Stilbeeld Uitvaartfotografie.
Astrid asked the children: “What would you like to put in the coffin, when you think of dad,
what comes up, which things would you like to place with him?”.
Bente wrote a letter and put it in the coffin. Her older sister Brechtje made a drawing about how
she thought it would be up there in his future home in the clouds. There was also discussion and
they put things in the coffin which would remove again later, for example, a pickax that was his and
symbolized him as a mining engineer. Astrid thought the children were better off keeping the ax as an
object of memory, and instead they placed a stone in the coffin. They also took care that he had his
glasses with him as they very much belonged to him as the person he was.
In the photograph we see the children painting the coffin. They left their hand prints on top as a
personal sign of bonding with their father.
The objects they put into the coffin functioned as so called “transitional objects”. Winnicott
was the first to describe this term ‘as an object that becomes crucially important to the child in
the process of separation from the mother (Winnicott 1997, pp. 1–34). These objects seem to be
invested with a certain magical quality and offer comfort and security to the child (Gibson 2004,
p. 288). In this case there were two type of transitional objects: first, the objects belonging to Jan
Leen himself that they thought characterized him and that had to go with him, like his glasses,
and second, the objects the children especially created for him as memory objects. These objects
connect the world their father was leaving with the world he was about to enter and may be helpful
in the transition process of separation and acceptance of the fact that the parent has actually died
(Winnicott 1997; Worden 1996, 2009). Margaret Gibson argues that, “In grieving, as in childhood,
transitional objects are both a means of holding on and letting go” (Gibson 2004, p. 288).
These two aspects of a transitional object are illustrated by the pick ax which they first decided to
‘let go’ with him but consequently decided to ‘hold on’ to.
According to Turner, these are all ritualistic acts of “symbolic behavior signifying the
detachment” from Jan Leen which is part of the phase of separation from his physical presence
(Turner 1969, pp. 94–95).
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The male family members, including six-year-old Wytze, closed the coffin (Photograph 2).
Astrid remembered: “This was a very emotional moment because I knew “I am never going to see
you again”, the funny thing is that I sort of thought it was okay that the body would leave, but there
was also the understanding that this was really the end.” She did not think that the children had
a proper understanding of the finality of that moment. Bente confirms: “When I look back, I now
realize much more than I did at the time that that moment was really the last time that you actually
see someone. I think it is a very intense moment. But at the time I was just watching, fascinated how
they were putting the screws on.” Thus, the photograph functions as a reminder, a mnemonic object,
of the finality of the death of her father.
Photograph 2. Wytze closing the coffin. © Stilbeeld Uitvaartfotografie.
Astrid decided at the time that the actual burial should be focused on the family, a small intimate
group of close family members, so that the children could be with her, without having to worry about
other people. As Van Gennep points out, “[ . . . ] during mourning, the living mourners and the
deceased constitute a special group, situated between the world of the living and the world of the
dead” (Van Gennep 1960, p. 147).
They acted together as a communitas of dear ones, the next of kin of Jan Leen, to feel a sense of
unity and empathy in sharing their emotions and grief (Turner 1969, p. 96; Davies 2017, pp. 26, 94).
Astrid explained: “There was so much sorrow, I strongly felt the need to do the burial with the children
without a leaking of energy to other people who mattered less at that moment.” Hence, she held the
actual burial of Jan Leen separately, with a public service held in his honor a couple of weeks later.
Astrid decided that at all times during the burial ritual, they would be together in the communitas
of the family. That is why she decided to hire a coach used especially for funeral processions: “I did not
want him to be somewhere else than we were.” All together in the coach, they made a good-bye tour
through their village including the important places in the life of Jan Leen, for instance, they passed
the house where he was born and raised.
The day of the burial, they all dressed in white. Astrid explains: “Jan Leen was very much a bon
vivant, he lived so to say, as a “light life”. During his life, he did not spend one minute on the wrong
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energy, and that went hand in hand with a sort of lightness. I did not hesitate for a second; everything
would be in white.”
Before going to the graveyard, Astrid wanted to have lunch with the family but Jan Leen had to
be there as well. It was his day. The funeral director found a restaurant where they could take him
in his coffin with them. They had lunch as one family, and there was time for the children to play
(Photograph 3).
Photograph 3. Having lunch altogether, the children playing. © Stilbeeld Uitvaartfotografie.
The design, places and enactment of the burial rituals appear to be out of the ordinary. In this
respect, they seem to refer to the liminal zone in which they were positioned at that time. In the
words of Turner, “Liminal entities are neither here or there; they are betwixt and between the positions
assigned and arrayed by law, custom and convention, and ceremonial” (Turner 1969, p. 95). That is
why, maybe not unexpectedly, we observe children playing as if they are having a good time at the day
of their father’s burial, “betwixt and between”. Here, the rituals were designed and performed taking
into account the young age of the children. In Bente’s opinion they were celebrating his life. That is
how they experienced the ritual: “We have been celebrating, and we have not, well . . . of course we
were sad, but we did not despair so to say.” There are no tears, not in any photograph. However,
Astrid said: “Sometimes the photographs still frighten me because we all look so very much fatigued.”
Astrid explained that she and the children chose the actual place of burial (Photograph 4):
“What would be a nice place for dad?” They chose a place which would be easy for the children to
visit later on and so that they would not have to cross the whole graveyard on the way to their dad.
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Photograph 4. At the graveyard. © Stilbeeld Uitvaartfotografie.
A couple of months before his death, Astrid had discussed with her husband whether he wanted
to be cremated or buried. He had to have surgery and Astrid wanted to know, just in case. He preferred
to be cremated, but Astrid felt that at such a young age it would be important for their children to have
a place to go to: “When you have young children, I think that burial enables rituals, to experience their
father, also after his death.” Jan Leen had agreed.
Maddrell argues that maintaining bonds with the deceased may be experienced in different
forms, for example, through ritual but these bonds can also be sustained through material objects
such as graves, memorials or photographs (Maddrell 2013, p. 508). Hallam and Hockey argue that a
“material focus” facilitates relations between the living and the dead. As they state: “Past presence
and present absence are condensed into a spatially located object”, like the grave or photographs
(Hallam and Hockey 2001, p. 85).
At the moment of burial, they lit candles and put rose petals on the coffin. They sent up balloons
as a symbolic act of letting him go.
According to Astrid, the actual burial was essentially about seeing Jan Leen off to his last resting
place. In terms of Van Gennep and Turner, the phases of separation and transition had been achieved
by this time. There were no speeches at the graveyard. Jan Leen had a large social network and
Astrid also felt the need to show the children who their father was. Therefore, she asked all his
friends, colleagues and family to document his life on behalf of his children. At the public service
they celebrated his life and the children fully participated by lighting candles but also by presenting
(Photograph 5). Bente recited a poem written by herself, Brechtje recited an English poem and Wytze
read his self-written text, which was also in the death notice. The service turned out to be extremely
long; around 2.5 h. Astrid had bought pencils and coloring books and candy for the children who were
partly listening and partly playing, but they were present at all times.
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Photograph 5. The public service with family and friends. © Stilbeeld Uitvaartfotografie.
Grimes comments on the elements of a good funeral: “If deaths can be good or bad, so can
funerals. A good funeral is one that celebrates life, comforts the bereaved, and facilitates working
through grief” (Grimes 2000, p. 230). However, from Astrid’s perspective, the celebration of Jan Leen’s
life could not be done at his burial. That moment was in fact the closing of the period in which they
were separating themselves from his physical presence, a very sorrowful time. Celebration of his life
would be the start of incorporation into the new world without the physical presence of Jan Leen and
the ending of the liminal period defined by Van Gennep and Turner (Van Gennep 1960; Turner 1969).
Altogether, the rituals comprised a ‘good funeral’ in their eyes (Grimes 2000, p. 230).
Jan Leen’s grave is an important place to the family. When there are memorable moments, such as
passing exams, the family visit his grave and tell him. In the beginning, they would go every week
on their way to school, a genuine ritual, but now they go less. Yearly, on his birthday in January,
the family gather around his grave at 5 p.m (Photograph 6). Sparklers are lit, and there is room for
informal speeches. There may even be cheerful moments: one time a little nephew said that he wanted
to sing a Dutch birthday song, Lang zal hij leven (Long shall he live) for his uncle. They thought that
this was probably not a very good idea!
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Photograph 6. Celebrating dad’s 53d birthday, 12 January 2018. © Stilbeeld Uitvaartfotografie.
Astrid said: “On the day of his death, the children think it is important to do the same thing every
year.” They visit the grave and afterwards they all go and have Chinese food. This year, it is going to
be different because Brechtje, the oldest daughter, will be abroad studying in Vienna.
Davies reflects on the words of Herz and how the mourning process takes some time:
“Still, he speaks of the “painful psychological process” of separating the dead from the consciousness
of the living. Ties with the dead are not “severed in one day”, memories and images continue through
a series of “internal partings”” (Hertz 1960, p. 81; Davies 2000, pp. 99–100).
The rituals that the family performs on relevant days also relate to the mourning tasks described by
Worden and which are concerned with the process of emotionally relocating the deceased, in this case
Jan Leen as father of the children, within one’s life and finding ways to memorialize the person and
consequently, to move on with life (Worden 1996, pp. 10–17). Discussion on the issue of how to maintain
a relationship with the deceased without being too troubled in daily life, is topical in bereavement
studies. In 2018, more than twenty years after the term “continuing bonds” was introduced, Klass and
Steffen conclude that retaining bonds with the deceased is an accepted option in bereavement processes
(Klass and Steffen 2018). The Stam children cherish the bond they still have with their father. At the
time of the interview Bente was wearing one of his old fleece jackets.
Up until the 1990s, based on the philosophy and ideas of Freud, the “breaking bonds” approach
was dominant, that is, the bereaved should be freed from all ties with the deceased in order to
create energy for new relationships (Freud 1917). Now, in 2018 the continuing bonds paradigm is
supported by a reasonable amount of research and described practices (Stroebe et al. 1992; Shuchter
and Zisook 1993; Klass et al. 1996; Goss and Klass 2005). The bereaved may “retain the deceased”
(Walter 1996, p. 23) and the relationship does not have to be severed but may be transformed and
achieve a different character (Shuchter and Zisook 1993, p. 34). As Astrid says: “Jan Leen is always
with us. There is not a day when his name is not mentioned. The children have always had the
possibility to reach out to their father and to continue in bonding with him.” (Silverman and Worden
1992a, 1992b; Silverman and Nickman 1996; Worden 1996).
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Up until today, the leading research in this area is the Child Bereavement Study, which investigated
the impact of a parent’s death on children from ages six to seventeen (Silverman and Worden 1992a,
1993; Silverman and Nickman 1996; Worden 1996) Interestingly, in this study the children themselves
were interviewed and invited to express their opinion. Analysis of the data focused on how children
talked about the deceased near one. It appeared that relationships with deceased parents were
maintained rather than broken. The children kept all kinds of objects belonging to their parents
and created a continuing link. In time, when there was less grief and when the children grew older,
the relationship appeared to change and there was less need for such objects. A continuing relationship
appeared to be part of a normal bereavement process. At that time, such a conclusion was contrary
to what the researchers called traditional bereavement theory, that is, the breaking bonds paradigm.
It was observed that the construction of a continuing bond with the dead parent provided comfort
to the children and seemed to facilitate coping with their grief (Silverman and Nickman 1996, p. 73).
The advice was that children should learn to remember and to find ways to maintain a way of reaching
out to the deceased. This way should be coherent with the child’s cognitive development, how death
is understood, and the dynamics of the family in order to allow the child to continue living despite the
loss of the parent (Nagy 1948; Silverman and Worden 1992a; Worden 1996; Silverman 2000).
One of Astrid’s mantras when Jan Leen died was “to get back to a normal life as soon as possible
and do the things that the children used to do”, like going out and having dinner at the beach. She also
realized this would be very emotional because it would be the four of them instead of five, and their life
had been completely turned upside down. However, at the time of the interview she reflected that for
them the mourning process seems to have finished in the sense that they have all regained “an interest
in life, feel more hopeful, experience gratification again, and adapt to new roles. (Worden 2009, p. 77).
Worden describes the completion of the mourning process:
One benchmark of mourning moving to completion is when a person is able to think of

the deceased without pain. There is always a sense of sadness when you think of someone
you have loved and lost, but it is a different kind of sadness—it lacks the wrenching quality
it previously had. One can think of the deceased without physical manifestations such as
intense crying or feeling tightness in the chest. Also, mourning is finished when a person
can reinvest his or her emotions into life and in the living. (Worden 2009, pp. 76–77)
According to Astrid, when a parent dies at a young age you should see it as a life that was accomplished,
you should not live on with the thought of what could have been but instead try to be thankful for
what has been. Sometimes this is difficult, particularly for her youngest son, Wytze. Wytze was only six
years old when his father died. He does not have many of memories of him. Astrid tell him he should
try to remember the feeling of loving him and they have photographs and movies which they watch.
3.3. Function and Meaning of the Photographs

During the interview Astrid Barten, her daughter Bente and I looked at the photographs of
the death ritual of Jan Leen. Bente had not seen them for a long time. As her mother recalled the
time of her father’s death, the photographs brought back lost memories and not only provided a
bridge between past and present, but also (re)constructed this past, particularly for Bente. In this
way, the photographs seemed to construct a bond between emotional and important moments at
a time when she was young, and the present. In the context of this article, I would argue that not
only objects belonging to the deceased parents, but also objects, like photographs showing relevant
moments of the death ritual may serve as transitional or in the words of Gibson, “melancholy objects”,
recalling the memory of early grief and the grief of time passing” (Gibson 2004, p. 289). These may be
helpful in the construction of a new relationship with the deceased parent. In her book, Objects of the
Dead, Gibson discusses photographs in the context of transitional objects: “As children and parents
look at photographs together, a bridge between the past and the present is created, through stories,
conversations, questions and answers” (Gibson 2008, pp. 88–89).
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A memorial book was made with written stories about Jan Leen’s life and the death ritual
photographs were put together in an album with descriptions of what happened at the time of
his death.
However, the children do not seem to need these material objects at this time of their life.
Astrid explained, “I have made a wonderful memorial photo album, the children have never looked
at it, but that’s okay, it is there, so if they need it, it is there, but apparently they never felt they needed
it. They all have a book in their own room and they can take it with them when they are going to live
on their own.”
In line with Sontag and Gibson, the photographs may be considered as melancholy objects as
they create” the image of time, and the time of the image” (Gibson 2004, p. 286; Sontag 1977). At this
time of their life there is no need to reflect on the time of the death of their father. They have found
other ways, like visiting his grave and daily talking about him, to create a presence of what could be
an absence because of their young age at the time he died (Maddrell 2013).
Although the photographs do not seem to have an apparent function for them at this moment,
they have potential agency (Meyer and Woodthorpe 2008): intrinsically, they have the power to recall
emotional and difficult times in the past and they are right at hand, in the children’s rooms whenever
they need them.
They construct a visual narrative that displays traces of the family life through significant events
(Gibson 2004). In general, funerary photography may have this function (Ruby 1989, 1995; Hilliker
2006; Linkman 2011). For example, the value of having photographs of stillborn babies has been
expressed by bereaved parents and family (Meredith 2000). For children who lose a parent at a young
age, there might also be value in these photographs because they enable the children to construct the
history of the time of the death of their parent.
The photographs showed how the Stam children consciously participated in the death ritual of
their father and how they were recognized as grievers alongside adults, in particular, by their mother.
The importance of taking part in the ritual is shown by the study of Søfting et al. Their mother’s open
attitude and focus on involving them the whole time, contributed to their accepting and coping with
the death of their father (Søfting et al. 2016). This case study presentation helps to answer the question
of whether young children should attend funerals in the affirmative (Hilpern 2013; Halliwel 2017).
4. Conclusions
Dear daddy,
Make a nice tiny house on your little cloud. Go to your new life. We will pull through, daddy.
O daddy, daddy, we will miss you for ever and always.
You are the sweetest daddy of the whole world.
Wytze8
The sorrowful words of six-year-old Wytze also carry a powerful statement: we will manage daddy . . . .
And they did.
Jan Leen Stam died when the children were still at a young age and Astrid Barten will always
regret that the children lost their father: “I regret so very much that the children lost a wonderful father.
It is horrible that he has not been able to educate them with his esteemed spirit, with his “being”. But I
Lieve papa. Maak maar lekker een huisje op je wolkje. Ga maar naar je nieuwe leven. Wij redden onszelf wel, papa. O
pappa, pappa, wat zullen wij je voor eeuwig en altijd missen. Je bent de allerliefste pappa van de hele wereld.
Wytze
Text written by Wytze Stam to appear on the death announcement of his father.
75
know, as a family we went through a lot of good things together. I am very proud how the children
went on with their lives”.
The funeral photographs showed how they participated as a family in the death ritual of their
father. Presently, the funeral photographs of Jan Leen Stam do not seem to have a specific function.
However, these photographs may become effective media for remembering and learning about a
decisive moment in their life whenever the children feel the need to do so.
The conclusion of this case study presentation is that funeral photographs of death rituals can
function as mnemonic objects when children lose a parent during childhood. In this respect, they can
be seen as meaningful objects in funeral culture, particularly when young children are involved.
Funding: This research received no external funding.

Acknowledgments: The author wishes to thank the Stam–Barten family and Dasha Elfring (Stilbeeld
Uitvaartfotografie) for their kind cooperation in this project.
Conflicts of Interest: The author declares no conflicts of interest. The author declares that all privacy and
copyrights issues have been cleared.
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religions
Article
The Ritualizing of the Martial and Benevolent Side of
Ravana in Two Annual Rituals at the Sri Devram
Maha Viharaya in Pannipitiya, Sri Lanka
Deborah de Koning
Department of Culture Studies, Tilburg School of Humanities and Digital Sciences, Tilburg University,
5037 AB Tilburg, The Netherlands; d.d.c.dekoning@uvt.nl
Received: 29 June 2018; Accepted: 19 August 2018; Published: 21 August 2018
Abstract: Within the context of Ravanisation—by which I mean the current revitalisation of Ravana
among Sinhalese Buddhists in Sri Lanka—multiple conceptualizations of Ravana are constructed.
This article concentrates on two different Ravana conceptualizations: Ravana as a warrior king and
Ravana as a healer. At the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya, a recently constructed Buddhist complex in
Colombo, Ravana has become the object of devotion. In addition to erecting a Ravana statue in a
shrine of his own, two annual rituals for Ravana are organized by this temple. In these rituals we can
clearly discern the two previously mentioned conceptualizations: the Ravana perahera (procession)
mainly concentrates on Ravana’s martial side by exalting Ravana as warrior king, and in the maha
Ravana nanumura mangalyaya, a ritual which focusses on healing, his benevolent side as a healer is
stressed. These conceptualizations from the broader Ravana discourse are ritualized in iconography,
attributes, and sacred substances. The focus on ritual invention in this article not only directs our
attention to the creativity within the rituals but also to the wider context of these developments: the
glorification of an ancient civilization as part of increased nationalistic sentiments and an increased
assertiveness among the Sinhalese Buddhist majority in post-war Sri Lanka.
Keywords: Ravana; Sri Lanka; Sinhalese Buddhist Majority; ritualizing; procession; healing; ritual
creativity
1. Introduction
Every Sunday evening a group of around twenty five people gather together at the Sri Lankesvara
maha Ravana raja mandiraya for the weekly Ravana puja. In Sri Lankan Buddhism, the puja has to be
considered as ‘the formal act of worship carried out before a god or a Buddha image’ (Gombrich and
Obeyesekere 1988, p. xvi). The Ravana mandiraya (palace)—where this particular puja for Ravana is
conducted—is located at the premises of the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya, a recently constructed massive
Buddhist temple complex in one of the suburbs of Colombo (Pannipitiya). After the inauguration of
the mandiraya in 2013, the head monk of the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya (Kolonnave Siri Sumangala
Thero, hereinafter referred to as Sumangala Thero), has appointed a lay-custodian to take care of the
Ravana mandiraya.
The weekly Ravana puja is one of the public rituals performed for Ravana under the responsibility
of this lay-custodian. Although—compared to the annual rituals for Ravana organized by the Sri
Devram Maha Viharaya—the number of attendants is relatively small, the ritual itself is rather
extensive: it has to be conducted exactly in the way it has been prescribed by Sumangala Thero,
even if there is no public at all. Thus, every Sunday around five o’clock a group of volunteers starts
with the preparation of different types of semi-fluid herbal substances (which are stored in between

nine up to eleven different cups)1 , and prepares two plates with pieces of nine different types of fruits
and nine different types of traditional Sri Lankan sweets. The herbal substances prepared on Sunday
evenings for the Ravana puja are used by the main lay-custodian or his assistants to anoint (two of) the
statues of Ravana in the inner sanctuary of the mandiraya. This part of the ritual is called the nanumura:
the anointing or bathing of the statue (the verb nanava means to bathe). The nanumura is regarded
as the most important part of the ritual: according to the lay-custodian the weekly ritual for Ravana
would be incomplete without the performance of the nanumura (Lay-Custodian Ravana Mandiraya 2017c).
After the statues have been anointed and dressed behind a closed door, the plates with oil lamps
containing three different types of oil (mustard oil, sesame oil, and ghee), the plates with fruits and
sweets, a bowl with murethen (sweetened rice), and baskets with flowers are brought in a small
procession from the kitchen to the entrance of the mandiraya. The offerings are handed over by the
volunteers (and by the sponsor of the puja) at the entrance of the mandiraya to the lay-custodian and/or
his assistants, who place the offerings inside the inner sanctuary. The people outside the mandiraya join
the next element of the ritual: the chanting of some well-known Buddhist gathas (a gatha is a stanza,
to be recited or sung) followed by special songs and invocations for Ravana. After the chanting session
the plates with fruits and sweets, three bowls filled with different types of substances and the bowl
with murethen, are taken out of the mandiraya. The fruits, sweets, substances, and murethen are served
to the attendants of the puja after they have bowed in reverence to the freshly anointed and newly
dressed statue(s) of Ravana.
The liturgy for the Ravana puja includes 12 different elements such as poems, songs, and mantras.
These poems, songs, and mantras for Ravana are composed by Sumangala Thero. Without discussing
the layered imagery in detail, I would like to present here four out of the nine stanzas of the following
invocation for Ravana: Maha Ravana pujave di gayana kavi:
໵࿔ ༒໽༊໷༒ༀဒ ༂ྷ໷༊ ༒໵႐༒໿༞

໽༆༊ ໐࿝၄໭ ༂ྷ໷༊ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
Ⴋ႒ ༀ໥ ༒Ⴊ໷༊ ໐࿛ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
༂ྷပ ໽་ဓ႐ ༀ༊༂໱ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
1 The god who arrives on the dandu monara

The god who arrives on the great tusker
The god who owns the fourfold armies
May god Ravana arrive
ႴႪ ໵༆໿༦ ໐࿛ ໽༆ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
໎࿚ ႐Ⴊ༅༦ ໐࿛ ໽༆ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
໵໿ ໻༁໿༦ ໐࿛ ໽༆ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
༂ྷပ ໽་ဓ႐ ༀ༊༂໱ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
2 The great god with ten heads

The great god with twenty arms
The great god with ten powers
1 The number of substances used to anoint the statues on Sunday evenings seemed to vary between nine and eleven. I assisted
several times in the kitchen to prepare the necessities for the Ravana puja and I often counted nine big cups filled with
porridges made out of herbal substances (such as turmeric and sandalwood) and two small ones filled with milk and
king coconut. That for the latter two no ‘preparation’ is needed might explain the difference in the number of substances
mentioned to me.The number and ingredients used for different rituals for Ravana are also prescribed by Sumangala Thero
in for instance his book Sri Lankesvara Maha Ravana (Sumangala Thero 2014, pp. 45–47).
80
༒༂໵ ࿼ႆ ໽༆ ༀ໨ ໽༆ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
༒໠࿚ ༂࿝ ༅ႆ ໠༇ ໽༆ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
Ⴔႂ ໚Ⴝ༒໿ဒ ༒༂໯໢࿚ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
༂ྷပ ໽་ဓ႐ ༀ༊༂໱ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
3 The great god who’s a doctor and a great king

The great god who brought prosperity to paddy fields
The great god who received favors from the light of the sun
ၫႿ ༒༁༊༂ ໨໿໢࿚ ໽༆ ༒໵႐༒໿༞

༒༆༇໿໭ ໹໱ ࿼ဒ ໽༆ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
࿝ဒ ༒༁༊༂ ၆ཻ໳ ໽༆ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
༂ྷပ ໽་ဓ႐ ༀ༊༂໱ ༒໵႐༒໿༞
6 The great god who won the whole world

The great god who gave life to the land of Hela
The great god worshipped by the threefold worlds
The invocation for Ravana unveils some of the multi-layered conceptualizations directed at the
figure of Ravana within the current Ravana discourse in Sri Lanka: its imagery and ideas can be traced
back to the Hela movement, to rural lore, and to Hindu mythology.2 The Hela concept—which is
mentioned in the sixth stanza—became extensively employed in the early-twentieth century Havula or
Hela movement in Sri Lanka, a movement focused on the re-establishing of an indigenous language
(Hela). Cumaratunga, the leading representative of this linguistic movement, considered the Hela diva
(country) Hela daya (nation) and Hela basa (language) as the three constitutive elements of the nation
(Cumaratunga 1941, p. 394).3 The Hela concept is in the current Ravana discourse primarily employed
to denote the earliest inhabitants of Lanka who are divided in four different Hela tribes (siv Hela).4
Among these tribes the yaksha and naga tribes stand out. To underscore the presence of these tribes in
ancient Lanka references are made to the sixth century chronicle the Mahavamsa.5 These references
to the Mahavamasa, which became the foundational myth for the Sinhalese in the twentieth century
(Wickramasinghe 2014, p. 94), unveil the attempt to suture the current Ravana myth into well-known
Sri Lankan myths and chronicles.
In the first and second stanzas ideas which have been present in the ancient Hindu epic the
Ramayana are touched upon. Ravana is introduced as arriving on the dandu monara, which can be
loosely translated as ‘peacock made out of wooden bars’. In the Ramayana a flying machine (the
puspaka) used by Ravana is also mentioned (Dutt 1894, p. 1604). The idea of aircraft technology as
mastered by Ravana is one of the main focus points in the current Ravana discourse.
When it comes to his physical appearance, Ravana as believed to have ten heads and twenty
arms (second stanza) is also known already from the Ramayana. In the seventh book of Valmiki’s
2 The reference to Ravana in the third stanza as the one who brings prosperity to paddy fields also occurs in popular
publications in the Ravana discourse, for instance in one of the publications from the most famous writer in the Ravana
discourse Mirando Obeyesekere. Obeyesekere has elaborated upon an irrigation system which allegedly was extant in
Ravana’s time in the surroundings of Lakegala (Obeyesekere 2016, p. 79). According to him people in that area believe
that this irrigation system dates back to Ravana’s time. The interactions between Ravana imaginations from rural lore (and
Lakegala in particular) and imaginations from the Ravana discourse will be discussed in detail in my upcoming dissertation.
3 The role of one particular Hela representative for the current Ravana discourse with a special focus on the iconographic
representation of Ravana within the Ravana discourse will be discussed in more detail in the third section of this article.
4 The Hela concept also appears in Sinhalese perception prior to the Hela movement (Dharmadasa 1995, pp. 20–21).
5 The first parts of the Mahavamsa have been written in the sixth century and after that it was updated three times: in the
twelfth century, the fourteenth century, and the eighteenth century (Dharmadasa 1995, p. 4).
81
Ramayana (considered to be a latter addition) Ravana is referred to as born with ‘[ . . . ] having ten
necks, furnished with large teeth, and resembling a heap of collyrium, with coppery lips, twenty arms,
huge faces, and flaming hair’ (Dutt 1894, p. 1583). Ravana with ten heads and twenty arms became a
popular iconographic representation in temple iconography and is also employed in Hindu temples in
Sri Lanka.6
The terrifying representation of Ravana with ten heads and twenty arms is—as also becomes
evident in the poem—in the current Ravana discourse interpreted in a symbolic way: the ten heads
symbolize the ten powers or capabilities which Ravana allegedly mastered. Examples of these skills are
aircraft technology and medicine. In general, in the current Ravana myth under construction (story),
fragments and ideas from different sources are integrated as far as they contribute to the glorification
of Lanka’s ancient and indigenous civilization or can be re-interpreted as such. The current Ravana
myth under construction is drifting away from the well-known Rama Sita Ravana myth. In its
focus to exalt Ravana and Lanka and by suturing Ravana and the ancient tribes into well-known Sri
Lankan chronicles and myths, the current Ravana myth from the Ravana discourse cannot even be
considered as an anti-Ramayana:7 As I will show in this article by discussing fieldwork observations
and conversations,8 the display of positive Ravana conceptualizations in the two rituals helps to
construct this myth of Sinhalese-Buddhist national pride.
Most of the rituals, statues, and objects related to Ravana in the Sinhalese-Buddhist context are
recently invented and tend to promote positive Ravana ideas. To underscore the recent development
of these rituals I use Grimes’ concept of ritualizing: ‘the act of cultivating or inventing rites’
(Grimes 2014, p. 193). As I will discuss, in the two annual rituals two positive Ravana conceptualizations
are ritualized. The conceptualizations of Ravana as a warrior king and as a healer become visible and
tangible in objects, attributes, and sacred substances used in those rituals.
After a brief introduction of the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya in the next section, I will concentrate
in the third section on the iconographic elements of the sword and the scripture. The discussion of
the sword and the scripture, as part of the main statue of Ravana at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya,
serves as a starting point to further discuss the ritualizing of Ravana’s martial side (as warrior king)
and benevolent side (as healer) in the two rituals.
In the fourth and fifth sections I will analyze how the conceptualizations of Ravana as warrior
king and as healer are displayed in the two annual rituals: the maha Ravana perahera (perahera means
procession) and the maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya (mangalyaya means festival—together with
nanumura it can be translated as ‘festival of anointing’). By the use of certain attributes, objects, and
herbal substances conceptualizations of Ravana are constructed in these rituals. In the final section
I will evaluate how these rituals have to be understood in the current process of Ravanisation in
Sri Lanka’s post-war context.
2. The Sri Devram Maha Viharaya

The Sri Devram Maha Viharaya is a Buddhist complex located in Pannipitiya, one of the suburbs
of Colombo. The first part of the complex’s name (devram) refers to a monastery mentioned in for
6 Examples of Hindu temples in Sri Lanka where this particular iconographic representation of Ravana is employed are the
temples of Munnesvaram (visited 4 May 2016), Konesvaram (visited 23 March 2016), and the Nagapoosani Amman Kovil
located on the island Nagadipa (visited 2 February 2016).
7 As discussed by Velcheru Narayana Rao the common core in the anti-Ramayana discourse in India is its anti-Brahmanism.
The criticizing of pro-Brahmanic biases in Valmiki’s Ramayana appears for instance in retellings or rewritings of the Ramayana
in Telegu and Tamil (Rao 1991, p. 162). As pointed out by Paula Richman for instance E.V. Ramasami, who is sometimes
referred to as the founder of the Dravidian Movement, was more occupied with criticizing North Indians and the Ramayana
than by defining a South Indian identity (Richman 1991, p. 197). In contrast to this anti-Ramayana discourse in the Indian
context the Ravana myth under construction in Sri Lanka is not a retelling or rewriting of the Ramayana and the main focus
within the current Ravana discourse is to construct a myth of Sinhalese-Buddhist national pride.
8 I have participated in the annual and weekly rituals for Ravana from 2016 onwards and conducted extensive fieldwork
research at this Buddhist temple complex in 2017 and 2018.
82
instance the seventeenth century Rajavaliya. According to the Rajavaliya, the Buddha is believed
to have returned to the monastery of Devram (devuram vehera) after his second visit to Lanka
(Suraweera 2014, p. 168). Vihara is used in Sinhala to denote a temple, or the complex of monastic
buildings (Gombrich and Obeyesekere 1988, p. vx).
Sumangala Thero is the monk who initiated the construction of the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya.
He is well-known in Sri Lanka, especially because he was involved in politics. In 2004 he was one of
the three leading election candidates of the JHU (Jathika Hela Urumaya, National Sinhala Heritage
Party). The JHU—the first political party in Sri Lanka which was exclusively ran by monks—won nine
out of 225 seats in the parliament (Rahula 1974, 2011, pp. 380–82; Deegalle 2004, 2011, pp. 383–94).9
Despite the success of the JHU, Sumangala Thero had already resigned from the party in the very first
year (Sumangala Thero 2017b).
Sumangala Thero is highly venerated by most of the people who visit the Sri Devram Maha
Viharaya. Because he is believed to possess special powers, people come to the temple to ask Sumangala
Thero to bless and heal them and their relatives. Also, because of his experience in meditation he is
believed to have developed special mind reading skills. Therefore, he is also wanted for advice in
family and business related issues. These days it is, however, increasingly hard to get an appointment
with Sumangala Thero, since he is believed to have withdrawn himself from worldly matters.
The Sri Devram Maha Viharaya only came into existence around twenty years ago. With new
buildings regularly constructed and older ones restored, enlarged, or replaced by newer ones,
the complex is continuously in a process of transformation. On poya days (the full moon days)
and festival days the complex is visited by people coming from far and wide. They walk around
at the extensive site, pay a visit to the different shrines, the stupa, and Buddha statues for offering
lotus flowers and incense, do a baraya (place an intention) by tying a coin with a piece of cloth to the
branch of a tree or a fence (panduru), walk around the Bodhi tree, visit one of the informative buildings
pertaining to the temple, the role of Thai monks in the revival of Buddhism in Sri Lanka, and the
‘hell’ (these educational buildings are called museums) located on the site, wait to participate in a
special puja and to receive the blessing of the monk, participate in the chanting, listen to teachings
in the dhamma hall, watch the spectacles and rituals, enjoy the natural surroundings and luxurious
decorations, read the texts on the hundreds of stone slabs (including the hundreds of black marble
stone slabs on which the Tripitaka is inscribed), and enjoy the food which is on most poya days offered
for free.
In addition to a Bodhi tree, stupa, and shrines and statues constructed for devotional activities
for Buddha, there is also a section with shrines for the gods at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya.
Shrines for gods—for instance for Visnu, who is considered to be one of the four guardian gods in Sri
9 In the manifesto of the JHU—which contains twelve points for constructing a righteous state—it is formulated that it is
regarded as the duty of the government to protect Buddhism. Also, it states that the “[ . . . ] national heritage of a country
belongs to the ethnic group who made the country into a habitable civilization” (Deegalle 2004, 2011, p. 391). Around the time of the
opening of the Ravana mandiraya at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya in 2013, also twelve goals of the temple complex were
formulated by Sumangala Thero. These goals are put on display at one of the offices located at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya.
Roughly translated these goals are: (1) the protection/maintaining of the Sinhalese race/nation (to) protect/maintain the
rights of other races/nations, (2) to make the ancient history/pedigree known to the young generation, (3) to give new
life to agriculture, (4) to get the population used to the everyday living of Hela people, (5) to upkeep Ayurveda, (6) to take
care of language, (7) to take care of music, dance, and rituals, (8) to give aid to/support new developments, (9) to create a
young generation of bodhisattas (he who is going to become a Buddha), (10) to give aid/help to good intelligent children for
education, (11) to take care of the older generation who gave power to our race/nation and, (12) to give to the youth a sense
of ‘ourness’. Social activities organized by the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya such as housebuilding projects for poor people
and the organization of blood donation campaigns, bear witness to the social engagement of Sumangala Thero and this
temple complex.
83
Lankan Buddhism (Holt 2008, p. 145)—are present at most Buddhist temple complexes in Sri Lanka.10
These shrines for gods are taken care of by lay-custodians.11
On weekdays there is almost no ritual activity taking place around the shrines at the
Sri Devram Maha Viharaya. All the doors of the inner sanctuaries of the shrines are closed and
no lay-custodians—probably since most of the lay-custodians responsible for different shrines have
regular jobs—are around on weekdays. In the weekends there is, however, a lot of ritual activity at
the compound where the shrines are located. On Saturday evenings an extensive puja for Mahamaya
(the mother of Gautama Buddha) is conducted. This puja of around 1.5 h takes place in the mandiraya
for Mahamaya, the largest building at this part of the site which has been constructed in 2010.
Sunday evenings are reserved for the Ravana puja. As I was told by the secretary of Sumangala
Thero, unlike other Buddhist temples where the central place—after Buddha—is given to one god,
at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya prominence is given to both Mahamaya and Ravana (Secretary
Sumangala Thero 2018a).
The Ravana mandiraya constructed at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya (see Figure 1) is the second
largest building at this section. According to the stone slab which is immured in the front wall, it has
been formally inaugurated on the 19 September 2013 by Mahinda Rajapaksa, the president of the
previous government of Sri Lanka (2005–2015).
Figure 1. The Sri Lankesvara maha Ravana raja mandiraya (left side). This building is located at the
premises of the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya. On the right side: one of the chariots for Ravana.
This chariot is taken around in the annual perahera organized by this Buddhist temple. Picture taken by
author, 6 June 2017.
In contrast to most of the paintings of Ravana in Hindu temples in Sri Lanka (such as the Sita
Amman temple in Nuwara Eliya) in which the Ravana depictions are presented in the context of the
Ramayana, the paintings in the mandiraya concentrate on the extraordinary character of Ravana and his
10 In addition to shrines for gods located on the premises of a Buddhist temple complex there are also shrines in Sri Lanka not
located on Buddhist sites (Gombrich and Obeyesekere 1988, p. xvi).
11 Gombrich and Obeyesekere refer to the officiant at a Sinhala shrine as a kapuva or kapurala (Gombrich and Obeyesekere 1988,
p. xvi). At the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya the lay-custodian who is responsible for the Ravana mandiraya considered himself
not a kapurala or kapuva but a care-taker. That the words kapurala or kapuva are less used at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya is
probably because the job is not inherited and it is not the custodians’ full-time occupation.
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advanced civilization: multiple paintings show for instance the ten capabilities of Ravana and one side
of the mandiraya contains a painting in which the Ravana civilization is equated with the Maya and
Inca civilizations (see Figure 2). In addition to that, the ability of space travelling and the development
of aircraft technology is a topic on its own in the wall paintings. Only two depictions of the war-scene
(including Rama and his monkey army) show similarities with Hindu-temple paintings. Paintings
of the well-known couple Sita and Rama or devotional depictions of Hanuman (the famous monkey
devotee of Rama) as known from Hindu temple iconography are absent in the mandiraya.
Figure 2. Wall painting in the Ravana mandiraya. This painting shows (from left to right) depictions of
the Maya, Inca, and Ravana civilization. The latter is represented by a depiction of the famous Sigirya
rock. The painting between the two windows depicts books on medicine. Picture taken by author,
6 June 2017.
This shrine for Ravana constructed at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya is the most extensive shrine
for Ravana that I have encountered in Sri Lanka.12 Also, regular ritual activities for Ravana take place at
the shrine and these ritual activities attract people with an interest in Ravana from all over the country.
It is also the only shrine for Ravana in Colombo. The construction of the Ravana shrine and the ritual
activities for Ravana are not the only striking element at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya: the devotional
activities for Mahamaya and the outstanding role of the specially gifted monk are noteworthy as well.
Although the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya is exclusive in the veneration for Mahamaya and Ravana,
the autonomous positions of (political engaged) monks and idiosyncratic developments at urban
Buddhist temple sites in post-war Sri Lanka are not limited to this particular temple.13
During my fieldwork research I have encountered several Buddhist monks in Sri Lanka who show
an interest in Ravana. They consider him to be an outstanding king of ancient Lanka and some of them
12 Other shrines for Ravana at Buddhist temple sites are for instance constructed at Boltumbe Saman devalaya (visited May
6, 2016) and Rambadagalla Viharaya in Kurunegalla (visited 2 March 2016). Also in Katuwana, there is a Ravana image
enshrined in a cave and this is the only site where annually a small perahera for Ravana is organized. This perahera
concentrates on the performances of Angampora and there are no elephants or chariots included. The statue taken around in
the perahera is the Ravana statue from the shrine (Angampora Teacher 2018).
13 See for some recent examples of politically engaged Buddhist monks in Sri Lanka and the exceptional status of impunity
they enjoy—even if they use violence—Gunatilleke 2018, pp. 77–82.
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openly talk and publish about Ravana.14 The imagination of Ravana as believed to be the inventor of
medicine—whether Ayurveda or ‘traditional Sinhalese medicine’—is also widespread in the current
Ravana discourse: his knowledge of medicine is believed to be one of his ten outstanding capabilities.
The imaginations of Ravana as king of Lanka and Ravana as believed to have healing powers
are present in the broader Ravana discourse—and beyond. In general, positive Ravana imaginations
and ideas of an ancient and advanced civilization in Sri Lanka are primarily mediated through (social)
media. Newspaper articles, especially the ones written by Mirando Obeyesekere, are of central
importance.15 Also, in the past ten years, plenty of popular books on Ravana have been published and
several private research groups started to promote their Ravana ideas on Facebook and other webpages.
In addition to that, songs are written in praise for Ravana and special radio and TV-programs dealing
with Ravana occur.16
Sumangala Thero has written some popular books on Ravana as well. But it is the construction of
a shrine for Ravana and the inventing of Ravana rituals that makes the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya
outstanding in the way positive Ravana imaginations are actively promoted. The mandiraya is believed
to contain four Ravana statues (Lay-Custodian Ravana Mandiraya 2017b).17 Only two out of the four
statues are the object of ritual activities: the main black statue standing in front of the inner sanctuary
and a small black one behind it (hidden from public view). When the door of the inner sanctuary is
open, also a statue of Ravana seated on a platform at the back of the sanctuary can be witnessed (see
Figure 3). Since the black statue in front of the mandiraya is the object of the weekly and annual ritual
activities and (instead of the small one) can be witnessed by the audience, I will discuss this statue in
detail in the next section.
14 Examples are a monk from Vidurupola (Nuwara Eliya district) who delivered a speech on the day a movie about Rama and
Ravana was released in Sri Lanka (around 2014) and a monk from Galgamuwa area who is publishing about the ancient
yaksha language. Both monks consider Ravana the ancient king of Lanka. They did not conduct devotional activities for him.
The latter monk explicated that Ravana has not be considered a god (Monk Vidurupola 2016; Monk Galgamuwa 2017).
15 In several informal conversations with visitors of the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya conducted in 2018 I asked them how
and when their interest in Ravana started. They frequently answered that they learned about Ravana through newspaper
articles, especially the ones written by Mirando Obeyesekere.
16 In addition to interviews with so called Ravana experts in TV- and radio programs, it is archaeological sites, caves and
mountains which are discussed in length. These geographical spots allegedly proof the presence of Ravana and Lanka’s
highly advanced civilization. Although there is some overlap with sites developed for Ramayana tourism in post-war
Sri Lanka, in documentaries produced within the Ravana discourse mainly sites which are not storied within the Ramayana
are discussed. See for some details of the development of Ramayana tourism Spencer (2014).
17 At one of the upper levels of the ‘sanctuary tower’ there is allegedly another Ravana statue kept.
86
Figure 3. Statue of Ravana in the Sri Lankesvara maha Ravana raja mandiraya. The statue is richly
decorated after the annual maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya. Picture taken by author, 25 March 2018.
3. The Sword and Scripture of Ravana

The black stone statue of Ravana in the mandiraya differs from the popular iconographic representation
of Ravana with ten heads and twenty arms.18 The statue depicts Ravana with one head and two hands,
holding two attributes: the sword and the scripture (see Figure 3). A similar depiction of Ravana was
designed in Sri Lanka in the eighties according to the ideas of the famous writer and scholar Arisen
Ahubudu.19 At the start of his career Ahubudu (1920–2011) joined the Hela movement. As Coperahewa
suggests, there was also a nationalistic motivation within this linguistic movement to construct an
18 Also in Sri Lanka some of the recently erected statues for Ravana at Buddhist complexes, for example the statue at Boltumbe
Saman devalaya, depict Ravana with ten heads and twenty arms, This particular iconographic representation of Ravana is
called dasis Ravana in Sinhalese, a contraction of dasa (ten) and hisa (head).
19 This information was gained through Ahubudu’s daughter (Ahubudu 2018).
87
indigenous (Hela) identity (Coperahewa 2012, pp. 860, 879). In this context, Ravana was exalted as
king of an ancient indigenous civilization (Dharmadasa 1995, p. 264).
In the current context of Ravanisation some of the later publications of the Hela representative
Arisen Ahubudu are translated and reprinted to promote the story of Ravana.20 Also, the text of a song
in praise of Ravana originally written by Ahubudu in the eighties for the theatre play Sakwithi Ravana
(loosely translated as Ravana as world ruler) is now for instance duplicated in a popular song for Ravana
(Sakwithi Ravana) by the Ravana Soruyo (Ravana Brothers), an association conducting research on the
history of Sri Lanka with a focus on Ravana.21
At the time of the theatre performance (1987), Ahubudu also wanted to create a proper depiction
of Ravana (Ahubudu 2018). According to the president of one of the popular research groups on
Ravana (the Ravana Shakti) who discussed the particular depiction of Ravana with Ahubudu when
he was still alive, Ahubudu had appointed a young man who transferred his ideas into an actual
depiction of Ravana on a banner and also molded a Ravana statue (President of Ravana Shakti 2018).
Ravana in this depiction (see Figure 4) has only one head and two hands and holds two attributes in
his hands: a sword and a book.22 The banner is now duplicated in a moderate size on plastic by the
popular research group the Ravana Shakti. This research group gives the banners for free to people
who have a special interest in Ravana (President of Ravana Shakti 2018).
The statue of Ravana that has the most prominent position in the Ravana mandiraya at the Sri
Devram Maha Viharaya also holds these two attributes: the sword and the ola leaf book. According to
Sumangala Thero, the design of the black stone statue of Ravana was based on a statue of a bodhisatta he
has noticed at a place in Sri Lanka called Maligavila. This statue is by some people considered to be the
bodhisatta Avalokitesvara (Sumangala Thero 2018). Although the Ravana statue shows similarities with
this particular statue at Maligavila—especially the standing position and the adornments around waist,
hips, and neck—the two attributes of the sword and book are not part of the statue at Maligavila.23
That is why I asked Sumangala Thero explicitly about these particular objects.
[ . . . ] It is the ola leaf book and the sword. The sword signifies his power and bravery and
that there is nothing he cannot do. The ola leaf book signifies his wisdom or intelligence. [ . . .
] In the present day why we have given the statue a sword is because there is a lot of injustice,
crime and lack of peace around the world. We believe that these problems should be solved
and that king Ravana has the power to solve them. [The book symbolizes] knowledge about
peace, justice and ruling, as well as universal knowledge about war and medication. Since
the brain cannot be given to the hand, we have signified his great wisdom using this book
(Sumangala Thero 2018).
Most of the visitors of the Ravana mandiraya did not notice these two attributes and I only got
answers with regard to the meaning of these attributes by showing them pictures of the statue. Like the
monk, they gave different interpretations—or had no idea. With regard to the book, people frequently
mentioned Ravana’s knowledge on medicine or medical spells when I asked them to specify what
20 An example of this is his book Hela Derana Vaga which has been translated into English and published in 2012 under the title
The Story of the land of the Sinhalese (Helese).
21 http://ravanabrothers.com/open/ (accessed on 6 August 2018).
22 This is also the way the Ravana statue is molded in one of the earliest shrines for Ravana at the famous site of Kataragama.
This shrine at Kataragama has been constructed under president Premadasa in 1987 (Lay-Custodian Ravana Shrine
Kataragama 2018). At that time Ahubudu was appointed as consultant for president Premadasa (Coperahewa 2018).
23 I have not seen this statue at Maligavila myself and my observations of the statue are based on pictures published on
the internet. Interestingly, a few more people from the Ravana discourse I talked with considered Ravana to be the same
as Avalokitesvara. The particular objects (sword and scripture) are in Mahayana Buddhist iconography associated with
another bodhisatta: Manjusri. With Manjusri both objects are connected to wisdom: the sword symbolizes the awareness of
this bodhisatta which cuts through all delusion and the text indicates his mastery of all knowledge (Beer 2003, pp. 123–24;
Robinson and Johnson 1997, pp. 106–7). In my fieldwork research (conducted in Sri Lanka which is primarily but not
exclusively a Theravada Buddhist country) this bodhisatta was never referred to.
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knowledge the book represented.24 The sword is also open to multiple interpretations like justice,
power, bravery, fighting, and kingship.25 Though these objects are multi-interpretable they direct our
attention to two sides of Ravana: his martial side as warrior king and his benevolent side as healer.
Figure 4. Picture originally taken in the eighties of Arisen Ahubudu with the Ravana banner and statue.
This picture has been retrieved from the Official website of A. Ahubudu (n.d.).
4. The Ritualizing of Ravana as a Warrior King in the Annual Maha Ravana Perahera
The Sri Devram Maha Viharaya organizes two major festival ‘weeks’ each year: one in September
and one in March. September is regarded a special month at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya because
the head monk was born on the 24 September 1969, and the foundation stone of the complex was
laid on his 30th birthday (Most Ven. Kolonnawe Sri Sumanagala Thero n.d.; The History n.d.). It was
24 The word vedakama was used by the monk to denote this medicinal knowledge (Sumangala Thero 2018).
25 These interpretations are examples of answers given by people who were closely involved in the rituals performed for
Ravana at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya. Their answers show that a variety of interpretations even exists among the people
who are closely involved in the rituals for Ravana.
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also in September that the Ravana mandiraya has been inaugurated and in that particular year (2013)
the first perahera for Ravana took place in the month of September (Secretary Sumangala Thero 2017;
Lay-Custodian Ravana Mandiraya 2017a). From 2014 onwards, the Ravana perahera was organized
together with the Suddhodana Mahamaya perahera, a perahera devoted to the parents of Buddha, which
in previous years had already been organized in March (Lay-Custodian Ravana Mandiraya 2017a).26
The Medin maha perahera consists of three parts: the first part is the theruwan puja maha perahera.
This procession is held in reverence to the triple gem: the Buddha, the dhamma (teachings), and the
sangha (the monastic order).27 The Suddhodana Mahamaya perahera is dedicated to Buddha’s parents.
With between 60 and 70 different elements, the Ravana perahera constitutes the biggest part of the
Medin maha perahera. According to the website of the temple it is organized to ‘[ . . . ] felicitate Father of
the nation King shree Lankeshwara Rawana’ (Madin Maha Perahera (Procession)). In the Budumaga
(the monthly magazine published by the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya), an explanation for organizing
the Ravana perahera is given as well:
[The Ravana perahera] is dedicated towards all the kings of ancient Sri Lanka who sacrificed
not just their time, but also their lives towards protecting and bringing prosperity to the
nation and its people. The statue of king Ravana is taken as a representation of all the kings
of the country due to the great wisdom and holiness with which king Ravana ruled not
just Sri Lanka but the entire universe. He is considered the greatest among the kings in the
country [ . . . ] (N.A. 2018, vol. 4, pp. 18–19).
In one of the interviews with Sumangala Thero he explained that the Ravana perahera is organized
out of respect for the great talents Ravana had (Sumangala Thero 2017b). As mentioned before, the
talents or skills of Ravana are in the current Ravana discourse frequently connected to the iconographic
representation of Ravana with ten heads and twenty arms. The ten skills as formulated by Sumangala
Thero in one of his popular books on Ravana can roughly be translated as: (1) languages, (2) law,
(3) philosophy, (4) ruling, (5) technical wisdom/physical sciences, (6) spiritual wisdom, (7) astrology,
(8) medicinal science, (9) war skills, and (10) aesthetics (Sumangala Thero 2013, pp. 15–16).28
When it comes to the display of Ravana’s talents in the perahera, a prominent position is given to
war skills and fighting. This talent seamlessly fits the conceptualization of Ravana as warrior king.
In the remaining part of this section I will discuss how the imagination of Ravana as warrior king is
ritualized in this perahera by paying attention to some of the main objects in this particular perahera.
In addition to groups of drummers/dancers in one of the three Sri Lankan traditional dance styles,
the Ravana perahera includes some remarkable instruments: two enormous shields (maha pali) placed
on red-color decorated hand carts. These shields are used as gongs—creating a heavy noise which
carries across the streets. Also remarkable are the giant drums. These rana bera and yuda bera (war
drums) are believed to have been used to announce important happenings, especially in a war context.
As was explained by a volunteer of the Ravana perahera:
It [the rana bera] was used in fight and battle and it symbolized strength. When going to
war, the rana bera announced the arrival of the armies. It is also used as music in Angampora
[martial arts]. (Volunteers Perahera 2018).
26 The month March has been selected because the wedding of Buddha’s parents allegedly took place in that particular month
(Madin Maha Perahera Meritorious Activity n.d.).
27 The first approximately 45 elements of the perahera are part of the theruwan puja maha perahera. This part shows similarities
with the Kandy Esala perahera, the most famous perahera of Sri Lanka annually held in Kandy in honor of the sacred tooth
relic of the Buddha. The tooth relic of the Buddha in Kandy is believed to be connected with rainfall (Wickremeratne 2006,
p. 108). The tooth relic at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya also allegedly belongs to Buddha. During the Medin maha perahera
the relic is kept inside because taking it out is believed to cause extreme rainfall (Secretary Sumangala Thero 2018b).
28 An alternative symbolic interpretation of the ten heads is that Ravana is believed to have ruled ten countries.
This interpretation is in the contemporary Ravana discourse less widespread than the opinion that his heads symbolizes skills.
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The poundings of the drums and the shields—together with the exclamations of performers
in the perahera—creates a powerful soundscape resembling the sound of impending doom and war.
In addition to creating a particular soundscape these instruments—known as ‘war instruments’—also
contribute to the war-like scene by their visual outlook: the shield is generally known as a tool for
self-defense in a fighting context. Moreover, the massive size of these instruments—they have to be
taken around on hand carts because they are too heavy to carry—add to the impressive scenery of the
Ravana perahera.
In addition to this, in 2018, a sound system was taken around in one of the chariots. This sound
system continuously played songs in praise for Ravana, composed by the Ravana Brothers. Their music
compositions includes up-beating drum rhythms and their songs include loud exclamations.
The chorus of one of the songs repeats over and over again vira Ravana which means brave or
powerful Ravana (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cp_EhLcHSzc).
The most omnipresent objects in the Ravana perahera are weapons. Weaponry is displayed in a
variety of ways. In addition to an active use of weaponry in performances, there is also the display of
multiple types of weapons, and the weaponry as part of the royal ornaments.
The Ravana perahera includes performances which are not directly related to Ravana such
as fire ball dancers and performances related to specific village (exorcism or healing) rituals.
The performances exclusively related to Ravana are the Angampora performances. In the broader
Ravana discourse Angampora is believed to be one of the ten skills of Ravana (Sumangala Thero had
used war skills in his book instead) and some people say it has been invented by Ravana (Volunteer
Perahera 2018). Angampora is increasing in popularity in post-war Sri Lanka as the ‘traditional martial
art of Sri Lanka’, and has been promoted by the government of Sri Lanka as such as well. Although
there are different types of Angampora (Angampora Teacher 2018)—also a type of self-defense in which
no tools are used—the Angampora performances in the Ravana perahera mainly display the type of
Angampora in which weapons or tools are used. One of these Angampora groups closely related to the
Sri Devram Maha Viharaya consists of young men led by a charismatic leader who perform Angampora
in the perahera with different types of weapons. He and his students are all dressed in a red skirt and
carry with a bare torso weapons and/or shields around (see Figure 5).
The display of weaponry is closely related but not limited to Angampora performances in the
Ravana perahera. In 2017, another group of Angampora performers brought an enormous variety of
‘tools’ to the Ravana mandiraya, including swords, sticks, a walking stick, a knife which is used to cut
the paddy, and mace. These Angampora students just carried around these tools in the perahera.
Weaponry is also of central importance at one of the two chariots for Ravana which are taken
around in the Ravana perahera. In addition to a replica of the dandu monara, a bird shaped chariot
made out of wood resembling Ravana’s flying machine (an example of his talent of physical science
and technology), there is a rather tall chariot taken around. This chariot closely resembles a Hindu
procession chariot used for taking around the statue of a god.29 The objects taken around on this
chariot are referred to as abarana, which translates as ornaments or jewelry. These abarana include
Ravana’s royal ornaments but also symbols of the ten weapons that Ravana allegedly used. Some of
these weapons are believed to be from Ravana’s time and some of them are believed to be replicas
(Secretary Sumangala Thero 2018a). This combination of royal ornaments including jewelry and
swords contributes to the construction of the conceptualization of Ravana, not just as king, but as
warrior king.
29 I encountered a similar chariot with a depiction of the ten-headed Ravana on the front panel (knelt on one leg) and with
similar hand gestures in the Munnesvaram (Hindu) Kovil (visited 4 May 2016). The chariot used in the Ravana perahera
bears on the front panel also a wood carved image of the ten-headed Ravana who poses with various hand gestures and
holds various objects in his numerous hands (of which some are broken).
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Figure 5. A group of Angampora students and their master performing in the Medin maha Perahera
organized by the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya in Pannpipitiya on 24 March 2018. The picture was
published on the Facebook Webpage Sri Devram Maha Viharaya (2018a).
The culmination of the Ravana perahera is the tenth and final elephant who carries on his back a
Ravana piliruva (image or statue), as it was called by one of the monks involved in the organization
of the Medin maha perahera. As he explained in the live broadcasting of the perahera on ITN TV in
2017, all kings in the past had royal elephants—and consequently Ravana’s statue has to be placed
on an elephant as well (see Figure 6). The audience also rose to its feet to pay respect to this statue of
Ravana at the time it passed by. This ‘responding to representations as if they embody the things they
represent’ is according to Ronald Grimes one of the clearest signs of ritualization (Grimes 2014, p. 92).
This representation of Ravana who is dressed as a king, adorned with royal ornaments and a crown
on his head, seated on the back of the elephant is an outstanding example of the ritualization of the
imagination of Ravana as king: the statue is treated with respect as if king Ravana himself passes by.
The cloths used to dress the statue and also the decoration of the elephant on which the Ravana
statue is seated are red colored (see Figure 6). Most of the people in the Ravana perahera are dressed
in red as well (see Figure 5). Also, red is the dominant color for the decorations in this perahera.
The dominance of the red color for the Ravana perahera is related to power, blood, and war. In the
broadcasting of the Medin maha perahera in 2017 the monk involved in the organization of the perahera
elaborated in the commentary upon the use of red colors. According to him the red color is a color of
pride, symbolizing strength. It represents the strength, pride, and power of the nation, the power of
the Sinhalese (ITN Live Broadcasting of Perahera 2017).
In an informal conversation with the same monk he further explained that the red color used
in the perahera functions as a spiritual invitation for Ravana. It symbolizes Ravana’s braveness as a
warrior (Organizing Monk Medin Maha Perahera 2017). Like the objects in the perahera such as the
swords and the war instruments, the use of red contributes to the display of Ravana as a powerful
(warrior) king. It reinforces the war-like scenery of the perahera while the connection with blood—a
life-giving substance—connects the past to the present: red symbolizes the power of the Sinhalese both
back in Ravana’s days and in the present and it symbolizes the descendancy—or bloodline—of the
Sinhalese from Ravana.
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In 2018, even the crowning statue of Ravana was dressed in red fabric. High above the masses,
and wearing a crown and jewelry, the Ravana statue was richly adorned. Sumangala Thero explained
on the perahera day in 2017 that Ravana should better be dressed in a subtle and refined manner in the
perahera, to underscore his extremely peaceful character, instead of wearing all kinds of ornaments
(Sumangala Thero 2017a). The benevolent side of Ravana becomes increasingly prominent at the Sri
Devram Maha Viharaya or at least for the head monk. It is exactly this benevolent side of Ravana which
dominates the ritual that follows in the night after the perahera: the maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya.
Figure 6. The statue of Ravana taken around in the Medin maha Perahera organized by the Sri Devram
Maha Viharaya in Pannpipitiya on 24 March 2018. The picture was published on the Facebook Webpage
Sri Devram Maha Viharaya (2018b).
5. The Ritualizing of Ravana as Healer in the Annual Maha Ravana Nanumura Mangalyaya
In the night following the Medin maha perahera, preparations are made for a second annual ritual
for Ravana: the maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya. Compared to the weekly nanumura on Sunday
evenings not only a larger number of substances is used to anoint the statues; the substances are also
handed over to the audience in a different way. As I will discuss in this section these substances play a
major role in the ritualizing of the conceptualization of Ravana as healer in this ritual.
According to Sumangala Thero, there are multiple reasons for him to organize the annual maha
Ravana nanumura mangalyaya. As explained by him, similar to the maha Ravana perahera, it is a kind
of ‘counter ritual’ to oppose the negativity allegedly brought upon Ravana by the ritual of dasara.
Ravana is regarded as the ultimate representation of evil in the festival of dasara which is celebrated
among Hindus in India. The summit of dasara is the burning of massive effigies of the ten headed
Ravana.30 In the maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya, the negativity as allegedly brought upon Ravana
30 The annual ritual of dasara is according to Anita Shukla one of the most popular symbols of the victory of good
over evil in Indian culture (Shukla 2011, p. 175). However, as she also points to, the persona of Ravana is open
to multiple interpretations.Also in India Ravana was seen as a good person from time to time. In for instance the
nineteenth-century poem Meghanadavadha kavya (the slaying of Meghanada) composed by the Bengali poet Michael
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through the ritual of dasara is literally washed away by using different substances to anoint the statue(s).
As Sumangala Thero explained, the rituals for Ravana at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya are performed
to counterbalance the annual ritual of dasara:
This is done to pay tribute to all the talents and skills Ravana had. When 100 million people
consider Ravana a villain and curse and burn his image every year, it is our responsibility
to show the world his actual image and communicate the truth about him. We respect
Ravana greatly because he is not a person destroying the world, Ravana keeps the world
alive, Ravana is a person the world needs. If Ravana is allowed to come back to this
world and work among the people he will be able to find solutions for the problems
that prevail in the world. Ravana should be respected and loved more than this [ . . . ]
(Sumangala Thero 2017b).
The nanumura mangalyaya is rarely described in literature except by for instance Richard Gombrich
who defines this ritual as the ‘ceremony of bathing and anointing a Buddha image’ (Gombrich 2009,
p. 400).31 As I observed in Narangamuwa (one of the rural villages in Sri Lanka, visited 17 May
2017) the nanumura mangalyaya is not limited to the anointing of (Buddha) images. In this nanumura
mangalyaya—as part of the annual village ritual (yakkama)—attributes allegedly belonging to different
gods (mainly weapons and a shield for Kanda deviyo in this particular village) were the objects taken
out of the village shrine to be anointed (Fieldwork Visit Narangamuwa Village 2017).
The nanumura mangalyaya is also annually performed at famous religious sites in Sri Lanka such
as Kataragama, the Temple of the Tooth in Kandy and Bellanvila Raja Maha Viharaya in Colombo.32
In addition to an annual nanumura mangalyaya in Kandy a weekly nanumura mangalyaya is performed
for the tooth relic on Wednesday mornings by monks and by the lay-custodian. After they finish
the ritual in the inner sanctuary a custodian takes out one massive bowl which contains a warm red
coloured substance. When I was there observing the ritual (28 March 2018), the people who were
waiting in the queue for more than one hour were served this substance in the small cups or bottles
that they brought for this occasion. They applied the substance to their heads because they believe that
it will bring healing and protect them from illnesses.
The application of the substance to the head for the sake of healing after it has been used to bathe
a sacred object or statue is exactly what happens during the annual maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya.
But as a newly invented ritual for Ravana this ritual also has its own specific characteristics. In the
remaining part of this section I will therefore primarily focus on how the imagination of Ravana as
healer is ritualized in the maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya.
On regular Sunday evenings approximately eleven substances are used to bathe two of the Ravana
statues. For the annual maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya, more than twenty types of substances are
Madhusudan Datta both the characters Rama and Ravana are subject to transformation (Dutt 2005, p. 3). Ravana becomes in
this poem the hero and his son Meghanada the symbol of the oppressed Hindus under the British rule (Doniger 2010, p. 667).
Also, in the context of early twentieth century Dravidian nationalism (mainly 1930–1950) in India, E.V. Ramasami praised
Ravana in his work as the true hero of the Ramayana and as a monarch of the ancient Dravidians (Richman 1991, pp. 175–201).
A positive appropriation of Ravana can also be found among Tamils in Sri Lanka for instance in the temple literature of the
famous Konesvaram temple (Henry 2017, p. 172). As Henry points to, influenced by the presence of Tamils in Sri Lanka,
Ravana became accepted as a historical ruler in Sinhalese literature from the 14th century onwards, for instance in Kadayim
(boundary books) and the Rajavaliya (Henry 2017, pp. 60–61, 148).
31 As he described in the ritual which he observed no laymen were allowed to witness the ritual and an exception was made
for him as a researcher. As I also encountered, the information of the ritual is often not shared with outsiders. At several
shrines for gods at Kataragama (visited 17 April 2018) and Kandy (visited 27–29 March 2018) I tried to gather information
on the nanumura mangalyaya, but most of the lay-custodians were reluctant to give out information on this particular ritual.
The ones who did, stressed that they normally do not share the details of the ritual with outsiders.
32 At Bellanvila Raja Maha Viharaya they perform a nanumura mangalyaya for all the statues of the gods in the shrines thrice a
year: in January, around the time they have the annual perahera and with Sinhala New Year. (Lay-Custodian of One of the
Shrines of Bellanvila Raja Maha Viharaya 2018).
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used to bathe the statues.33 Also, a larger amount of each of the substances is prepared: instead of the
regular bowls used on Sundays, for this annual ritual, tubs in the size of rain barrels are used. For this
special occasion the lay-custodian is assisted by the main secretary of Sumangala Thero.
In the context of the maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya some of the volunteers used the term
Abhishekha to refer to the ritual: a ritual of anointing as part of the crowning ceremony for Indian
kings in the past. Abhishekha is also used to denote the ritual anointing of images in Hindu temples,
for instance the Shiva lingam. One of the volunteers explained why this maha Ravana nanumura
mangalyaya is special to her:
It is held just once a year [it is special] because it is the Abhishekha, like a crowning ceremony.
That makes it very special (Volunteer Sri Devram Maha Viharaya 2018).
Although the imagination of Ravana as king is touched upon in the maha Ravana nanumura
mangalyaya, it mainly ritualizes Ravana as healer. This becomes primarily evident in the substances
used within the ritual and the way the people interpret and employ these substances. The substances
are believed to get blessed during the ritual because the nanumura mangalyaya is done to show respect
to Ravana. This general explanation was, for instance, given by an attendant of the maha Ravana
nanumura mangalyaya:
[ . . . ] after the nanumura mangalyaya is completed, we believe that the gods are pleased and
that they are present. Bathing with the water and substances that were used will also do
some good for us because of this reason (Attendant A of the Nanumura Mangalyaya 2018).
In addition to a general reason the secretary of Sumangala mentioned another reason:
Firstly, Ravana is believed to be the founder of medicine. Therefore, when the statue is
washed it would evoke powers of healing; and generally when we show respect to any god
he will send blessings to the people (Secretary Sumangala Thero and Caretaker of Temple
Site 2018).
The first reason is related to the persona of Ravana in particular. As explained earlier, in the current
Ravana discourse Ravana is praised for his knowledge of medicine, whether Ayurveda or ‘traditional
Sinhalese medicine’. In this ritual the imagination of Ravana as someone who mastered extensive
knowledge of medicine in the past, is made vivid in the present. According to Sumangala Thero,
Ravana does not even want people to die in our contemporary world. In one of his lectures preceding
the Medin maha perahera in 2017 Sumangala Thero has set out his ideas on Ravana:
Have people found cures for certain diseases? Why do we let people die of sicknesses?
Ravana has constantly kept saying, “people in this world cannot die because of sickness,
they need to be cured.” Reasons behind why people get sick has to be looked into. Though
Ravana challenges the world: if a person is terribly sick in bed and drawing their last
breathes, we cannot let them die like that, that patient has to recover and then die. We are a
pride nation born of Ravana’s blood (Sumangala Thero 2017c).
The mandiraya for Ravana at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya is built with a special drainage system:
at the backside of the ‘tower’ of the mandiraya in which the sanctuary is located, there is a small space
where the ‘waste’ of the substances used for the bathing of the statues is collected during the annual
ritual (see Figure 7). Because a large amount of substances is used in this annual ritual some people
33 On a list I received from one of the main caretakers of the site in 2017, after the maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya,
23 ingredients were mentioned: sesame oil, rice flour, turmeric powder, raw turmeric, vada turmeric, sandanam, cows’
milk/buffalo milk, king coconut water, fruit sap, herbal leaves sap, lime juice, river water, lake water, sea water, rain water,
vibuthi, kunkuma, red sandalwood, white sandalwood, scented water (rose water), jasmine water, pure water, and honey.
95
anoint their heads with the substances instead of drinking just a small sip like the people do on a
regular Sunday evening. On a regular Sunday evening the substances also drain to this small space,
but it is only during the annual ritual that people collect the substances from the back side.
Figure 7. People queuing up at the back side of the Ravana mandiriya to ‘bathe’ themselves with
the substances used for the annual maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya. Picture taken by author,
26 March 2017.
One of the reasons why these substances are believed to contain healing powers is related to the
imagination of Ravana as an expert in medicines. As one of the attendants of the ritual explained, all of
the medicines in the world have been founded by Ravana. Although people referred to medicines as
one of the ten skills of dasis Ravana that he invented and/or mastered approximately 6000 years ago,
this imagination becomes tangible in the present through the substances used in this particular ritual:
Ravana was the first king in Sri Lanka and he had skills including medicine and dance [ . . . ].
When you look at his personality and power even the substances connected to him should
have some power (Attendant B of the Nanumura Mangalyaya 2018).
The ritual anointing performed with the substances in the inner sanctuary of the Ravana mandiraya
is believed to transfer the healing power (of Ravana) into the substances. The statue of Ravana (most
often only ‘one’ statue was mentioned by people, although two statues are actually anointed) plays a
significant role in transferring the healing power into the substances. That the substances have touched
the Ravana statue make these substances believed to contain healing powers. As one of the assistants
of the lay-custodian explained:
The substances are believed to contain healing powers because they are used to bathe the Ravana
statues. After these substances are used for the ritual, the substances are no longer ordinary:
they gather some sort of power (Assistant of Lay-Custodian Ravana Mandiraya 2018).
And as one of the attendants of the nanumura mangalyaya explained:
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After they bathe the statue, the water and the substances collect a power that heals us when
we bathe with it. The statue is first bathed. The power the statue gives, is used to heal us
(Attendant B of the Nanumura Mangalyaya 2018).
The stories and the beliefs of the around one hundred fifty people who queue up once a year in
the early morning to collect the substances enforce the ritualizing of the conceptualization of Ravana
as healer. Most of the people who come for the maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya actually suffer from
a ‘disease’: from cancer to childlessness. They come with the belief that Ravana will cure them. Others
attend the ritual to be protected from illnesses and/or were cured in one of the previous years.
Compared to the Maha Ravana perahera which took place only half a day before, another side of
Ravana is stressed in the annual nanumura mangalyaya: instead of his martial side as a warrior king,
this ritual shows Ravana’s benevolent side: a god who cares about his devotees and provides them
with healing.
The Maha Ravana perahera attracts a larger audience than the nanumura mangalyaya. A reason for
this is that the Maha Ravana perahera goes across the streets and the nanumura mangalyaya takes place at
the temple site itself. Also, the nanumura mangalyaya aims at a specific audience—those who suffer
from illnesses—whereas the perahera—like the famous Kandy Esala perahera—can be considered as a
pageant which celebrates the national identity.34
Also, the imagination of Ravana as king of Lanka is commonly accepted in the Ravana discourse
and beyond and can be found in recently published books on history and children’s books as well.
Although the imagination of Ravana as inventor of medicines—as one of his ten different skills—is
broadly agreed upon within the Ravana discourse too, Ravana is in the nanumura mangalyaya (a lesser
known ritual) treated like a god. The deification of Ravana is less widespread and considered by some
people as an excess.
6. Reflection
The Ravana imaginations constructed in the current Ravana discourse can be traced back to
various sources. From the fourteenth century onwards, an acceptance of Ravana as historical ruler of
Sri Lanka in Sinhalese literature can be noticed. These references, influenced by the positive rendering
of Ravana by the Tamil minority in Sri Lanka, are for instance present in Kadayim (boundary books) and
the Sinhalese chronicle the Rajavaliya (Henry 2017, p. 157).35 Although the South Indian version of the
Ramayana was known in early Sri Lanka it is not referred to in the earliest Sri Lankan chronicles such
as the Dipavamsa and Mahavamsa (Henry 2017, pp. 145–46). It is these chronicles which are well-known
in contemporary Sri Lanka.
In the early twentieth century, the imagination of Ravana as famous king of Lanka became part
of the nationalistic agenda of the Hela movement. This imagination of Ravana as the famous king of
Lanka did not find support among a wider public: the linguistic movement—with a focus on language
purification—never appealed to a broader audience. Also, as Nira Wickramasinghe points to ‘the Rama
Sita Ravana myth which saw the king of Lanka ultimately defeated by Rama did not give Ravana a
persona Sinhala people could easily identify with’ (Wickramasinghe 2014, pp. 96–97).
In addition to references of Ravana as historical ruler of Lanka in literature and in the Hela
movement, traces of the Ramayana story can be found in Sinhala folklore. The references to a Rama
and Sita story in, for instance, the folk ritual of the Kohomba yakkama are however unknown to a wider
34 The role of kings and the legitimization of political power in the history of the Kandy Esala perahera is discussed in detail by
Paul Younger. As he points to the Kandy Esala perahera aims to express loyalty to kingship and celebrates national identity
(Younger 2002, pp. 69–79).
35 In the seventeenth century Rajavaliya it is said that there were 1844 years between the end of Ravana’s war and the
enlightenment of Buddha (Suraweera 2014, p. 16).
97
public.36 References to Rama, Ravana, and Sita in literature and folk rituals in the past were rather
marginal, integrated as a side note within elaborated cosmological ideas, or special rituals, and their
story never became a fully-fledged myth: there is, for instance, no Sinhala Ramayana.
The large scale appropriation of Ravana as ancient king of Lanka among the Sinhalese-Buddhist
majority in Sri Lanka is quite recent. In post-war Sri Lanka, we see a process which I have coined as
Ravanisation: the current revitalization of Ravana among Sinhalese Buddhists in Sri Lanka. One of
the core conceptualizations of Ravana within the current Ravana discourse is that he is believed
to be the most famous king, not just of Lanka, but of an ancient and indigenous (Hela) civilization.
The Ravana discourse aims at the exaltation of Ravana and Lanka’s ancient and indigenous civilization.
The imagination of a glorious past and, more specifically, the revitalization of Ravana finds its
expression in multiple ways among Sinhalese Buddhists such as the publication of popular books
and articles, the production of TV and radio programs, songs and Ravana statues, and the promotion
of Angampora.
The newly invented rituals for Ravana at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya are another creative
expression of Ravana imaginations and the imagination of an ancient highly advanced civilization.
In addition to Ravana ideas as expressed in (social) media, these rituals appeal multiple senses: in the
annual maha Ravana nanumura mangalyaya—a small size ritual conducted at the temple site itself—the
substances used to anoint the statue(s) become visible and tangible expressions of Ravana’s benevolent
side as healer. The display of weaponry in the maha Ravana perahera, the use of the red color, and the
position of the Ravana statue on the back of the elephant help to construct the conceptualization of
Ravana as a warrior king.
As described in this article existing formats of rituals are used at the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya,
though they are completely adapted to Ravana. The perahera is a famous ritual in Sri Lanka and the
nanumura mangalyaya—although not studied in detail—is also conducted at famous religious sites in
Sri Lanka and as part of rural rituals.
I have employed the concept of ritualizing as it is defined by Grimes to denote this phenomenon:
‘the act of cultivating or inventing rites’. As he further explains:
The “-izing” ending is a deliberate attempt to suggest a process, a quality of nascence or

emergence. Ritualizing is not often socially supported. Rather, it happens in the margins, on
the thresholds; therefore it is alternately stigmatized and eulogized (Grimes 2014, p. 193).
Though both rituals (still) happen in the margins as an experiment by the Sri Devram Maha
Viharaya (a recently constructed Buddhist temple site) these rituals unveil key characteristics and
processes which are present in the broader context of Ravanisation in Sri Lanka.
First of all, the production of shrines and statues, and the performances of rituals for Ravana,
show that Ravana is appealing to a broader audience. As I have pointed to, Sumangala Thero is not
the only monk with an interest in Ravana, and people from different layers of the society show an
interest in Ravana. The latter becomes for instance evident in the fact that the perahera organized by
the Sri Devram Maha Viharaya attracts thousands of people. The ritualizing of Ravana also shows that
in the current Ravana discourse, Ravana is not an idea which only exists in the minds of the people: it
is a myth complex with multiple material expressions such as statues, shrines, and rituals.
Secondly, as these rituals show, multiple conceptualizations of Ravana are constructed in the
Ravana discourse. In addition to the imagination of Ravana as king of Lanka—which is also known
from earlier sources—plenty of efforts are undertaken to construct positive Ravana imaginations.
36 A village ritual from the Kandyan district, the Kohomba yakkama, contains a different and complex story of Rama, Sita and
Ravana from a Sinhalese perspective. This story is embedded into a particular Kuveni-Vijaya myth and, according to
Godakumbura, known by a limited number of people only (Godakumbura 1993, p. xcv). Although, it was through state
intervention by the end of the twentieth century turned into a kind of a heritage ritual (Reed 2010) it was never referred to
by people in my fieldwork conversations.
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With reference to the iconographic representation of Ravana with ten heads and twenty arms, Ravana
is believed to have exceeded in ten different skills. One of them, as discussed in more length in this
article, is the conceptualization of Ravana as healer which is related to his allegedly outstanding
knowledge of medicine.
Thirdly, although not discussed in detail in this article either, in addition to the multiple positive
Ravana imaginations, the construction of an extensive myth of an ancient, indigenous, and highly
advanced civilization is also of central importance in the context of Ravanisation. Ravana is in the
Ravana discourse disassociated from the Ramayana context and embedded within the Sri Lankan
chronicle tradition. An example of this are for instance the extensive references in the Ravana discourse
to the yakshas and nagas—mythical beings which are, with reference to the famous chronicle the
Mahavamsa, turned into highly advances tribes. With reference to the Mahavamsa, it is also frequently
stressed in the Ravana discourse that these tribes were present in Sri Lanka long before the arrival
of the Indian prince Vijaya. It thus unveils an anti-India sentiment by stressing that these tribes are
indigenous tribes.
That the Ravana myth should not be considered a version of the Ramayana becomes for instance
clear in the wall paintings of the Ravana mandiraya: These wall paintings concentrate on Ravana’s
skills and the ancient Ravana civilization (also referred to as Hela civilization in the broader Ravana
discourse). References to the Ramayana are also absent in the rituals for Ravana. Instead of a
defeated Ravana as known from the Ramayana, the pride of the nation and the national identity
(of the SinhaleseBuddhists)—which allegedly can be traced back to Ravana—is celebrated in the maha
Ravana perahera.
This glorification of Ravana—who is turned into a legendary national hero of the Sinhalese-Buddhist
majority—and his ancient civilization has to be understood in the context of increased assertiveness
and nationalistic sentiments among the Sinhalese Buddhist majority in post-war Sri Lanka. Although
not studied in detail, in the aftermath of the civil war (2009 onwards) a tendency similar to the
post-independence period can be noticed among the Sinhalese-Buddhist majority: fostered by
feelings of triumphalism there is an increase of feelings of majoritarianism, instead of the inclusion
of minorities.37
The glorification of an (imagined) ancient indigenous civilization in Sri Lanka is a way to express
feelings of triumphalism and superiority over minorities. Lanka belongs to the Hela and the Hela are
considered the ancestors of the Sinhalese. The recently invented rituals performed for Ravana at the
Sri Devram Maha Viharaya and the broader efforts undertaken in the Ravana discourse have to be
understood in this context: to help create an image of a glorious past. As also pointed to in this article,
in the rituals a connection with the present is made. In the contexts of both rituals, references are
made to power—not just of Ravana—but also of the nation (of the Hela or Sinhalese). In speeches and
comments the audience is addressed to as born from Ravana’s blood. Both the rituals and the speeches
are thus stimulating the audience to awaken a sense of the strong (imagined) heritage of Sri Lanka and
a pride of being Sinhalese.
Funding: This research is funded by The Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research (NWO). Additional
funding for fieldwork research in 2017 and 2018 was provided by J. Gonda Fund Foundation (KNAW).
Conflicts of Interest: The author declares no conflict of interest. The funders had no role in the design of the
study; in the collection, analyses, or interpretation of data; in the writing of the manuscript, and in the decision to
publish the results.
37 As formulated in a policy rapport on Dynamics of Sinhala Buddhist Ethno-Nationalism in Post-War Sri Lanka (Zuhair 2016) the
government under Rajapaksa nurtured a majoritarian mind-set among the Sinhalese majority which comprises between
70% and 75% of Sri Lanka’s population. Also, as pointed out by Gunatilleke, although Sirisena—who won the elections in
2015—expressed in his election manifesto a commitment to end ethno-religious violence, this promise has not been fulfilled
(Gunatilleke 2018, pp. 1, 11; Zuhair 2016). Communal violence is for instance still commonplace in Sri Lanka.
99
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religions
Article
On the Xiapu Ritual Manual Mani the Buddha of Light
Xiaohe Ma 1, * and Chuan Wang 2
1 Harvard-Yenching Library, 2 Dvinity Ave., Cambridge, MA 02138, USA
2 Department of Applied Chinese, Ming Chuan University, 5 De Ming Rd., Gui Shan District,
Taoyuan City 333, Taiwan; cwang@mail.mcu.edu.tw
* Correspondence: xhma@fas.harvard.edu; Tel.: +1-781-643-4263
Received: 30 May 2018; Accepted: 29 June 2018; Published: 9 July 2018
Abstract: This paper first introduces Mani the Buddha of Light—a collection of ritual manuals of
the Religion of Light from Xiapu county, Fujian Province, China and Diagram of the Universe—a
Manichaean painting produced in South China in the late 14th to early 15th century. It then gives
a detailed description of Mani the Buddha of Light with some illustrations of Diagram of the Universe.
This paper further compares Mani the Buddha of Light and Buddhist worship and repentance ritual
to demonstrate that the former utilized the form of the latter. It also analyzes the similarities and
differences between the pantheons of Mani the Buddha of Light and other Manichaean materials.
Ultimately it discusses the hypothesis that many pieces of the original texts in Mani the Buddha of Light
should have come into being during the 9th–11th centuries and have been handed down generation
after generation because of the strong vitality of its rituals.
Keywords: Manichaeism; ritual manual; Xiapu manuscripts; Buddhist worship and repentance ritual;
Diagram of the Universe
Mani the Buddha of Light, a manuscript from Xiapu County, Fujian Province, China, is undoubtedly
the most important collection of ritual manuals of the Religion of Light (i.e., Manichaeism in China).
First, we considered that the painting Diagram of the Universe in a private collection in Japan is perhaps
the important ritual object of the Religion of Light. Then we realized that we do not have enough
evidence. Many texts in Mani the Buddha of Light can be compared with the upper half of the Diagram
of the Universe. But almost no texts mention the lower half of the painting. So, we decided that the
main ritual object of our research should be the manuscript Mani the Buddha of Light and the Diagram
of the Universe is some kind of “illustration” to help us to understand the manuscript. When we
bring artistic and literary artefacts into dialogue with one another, we gradually realize that both
pictorial and written forms of evidence—especially the Diagram of the Universe—can be apprehended
as texts. The manual also can help us to understand the painting. This article will provide a detailed
analysis of the text of Mani the Buddha of Light in comparison to earlier Chinese Manichaean texts,
some of their Middle Iranian antecedents, external Chinese sources about the Manicheans and Chinese
Manichaean art, especially the Diagram of the Universe painting discovered a decade ago and fully
reconstructed and understood only recently (i.e., 2015). It demonstrates the strong continuity between
Tang-period Manichaeism and later forms of the Religion of Light, the latter’s continued assimilation
of Buddhist terminology and themes and the lasting vitality of Manichaean practice in later Chinese
history. It introduces Buddhist worship and repentance rituals (Kuo 1994) and shows how the authors
and compilers of Mani the Buddha of Light fit the Manichaean content into the Buddhist rituals.
1. Introduction of Xiapu Ritual Manual Mani the Buddha of Light

Ma Xiaohe did not know Mani the Buddha of Light when he reported the discovery of the Chinese
Manichaean materials from Xiapu in 2009 (Ma 2015a). In 2011, Yang Fuxue and Fan Lisha introduced
Mani the Buddha of Light and pointed out that some excerpts are from Dunhuang Chinese Manichaean

texts (Fan and Yang 2011). Yuan Wenqi revealed some important pieces of Mani the Buddha of Light
and carried out preliminary research (Yuan 2011). Gábor Kósa gave a list of important names of
Manichaean pantheon in Xiapu texts and translated some texts about Mani and his forerunners in
Mani the Buddha of Light into English (Kósa 2013, 2014a, 2014b). Ma Xiaohe collected his articles of
research on the texts of Mani the Buddha of Light revealed by Yuan Wenqi in a book (Ma 2014a).
Lin Wushu published the entire Mani the Buddha of Light in traditional Chinese with a postscript
in his books published in 2014 (Lin 2014, pp. 457–92). Yang Fuxue and Bao Lang published the entire
Mani the Buddha of Light in simplified Chinese with emendations and annotation in 2015 (Yang and Bao
2015). The number of column of Mani the Buddha of Light in this article follows the simplifed Chinese
version. We published an edited text of Mani the Buddha of Light in 2016 (Wang and Ma 2016).
83 pages (the 83rd page is blank, 673 columns (abbr. c. or cc.), about 10,000 characters) of Mani the
Buddha of Light are extant and the last part is missing. Mani the Buddha of Light with clear Buddhist
color is different from later Xiapu documents both in style and content and it should be considered an
early Xiapu document under the strong influence of the Manichaean documents of the Tang dynasty
(618–907) (Yang and Bao 2014). The content of the whole manuscript comprises ritual acts like invoking
the presence of Manichaean deities at the ritual service, praising these deities and confession of hearers
(lay followers). Its format is similar to the Buddhist worship and repentance rituals. Sometimes there
are specific instructions related to the rituals themselves, however, its main content is Manichaean.
This is a collection of ritual manuals for congregational cults and the basic goal of collective worship
is cooperative advancement in piety by means of the ritual. Such congregational cults followed the
established practice of group worship in Manichaeism in Central Asia.
The original front cover of this Xiapu manuscript is missing and a new cover page with the title
Moni guangfo 摩尼光佛 Mani the Buddha of Light was written by the owner—master Chen Peisheng 陳
培生 (Figure 1) (Yang and Bao 2015, pp. 74–75).
Figure 1. The front cover of Mani the Buddha of Light (Yang and Bao 2015, p. 74).
In 2016, Ma Xiaohe published an article comparing the text of Mani the Buddha of Light with the
painting entitled Diagram of the Universe, kept in a private collection in Japan (Ma 2016). Before we
give a thick description of Mani the Buddha of Light with the illustrations of the Diagram of the Universe,
we shall briefly introduce this painting in Japan.
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2. Introduction of the Diagram of the Universe in Japan

The Diagram of the Universe, kept in an anonymous private collection of Japan, should, in our view,
be considered the most important, extant painting of the Religion of Light.
Yutaka Yoshida published a Japanese article with photographs of five Manichaean color paintings
on silk in 2010. These paintings contain no inscription. Yoshida names the five as (a) Cosmogony
Painting (Japanese 宇宙図, 137.1 × 56.6 cm); (b) Realm of Light Painting (天界図) (A) (17.0 × 37.4 cm); (c)
Realm of Light Painting (B) (17.2 × 22.5 cm); (d) Hagiography Painting (1) and (e) Hagiography Painting (2).
Among them (a) Cosmogony Painting is the most intriguing in that it obviously depicts the Manichaean
cosmos as described in the Manichaean texts and as well as recorded by non-Manichaean authors.
Scholars of Manichaeism can recognize the ten firmaments supported by forty angels, the Sun and the
Moon and the eighth earth with Mr. Sumeru (須彌山). In his article, Yoshida argued that the painting
should be identified as the South Chinese version of Mani’s ārdhang. The Realm of Light Paintings (A)
and (B) are two fragments dismembered from a larger painting and depict the Father of Greatness and
his five attendant worlds or dwellings (Yoshida 2010).
Shōichi Furukawa also published a Japanese article in the same issue of Yamato bunka that explored
these Manichaean paintings. He compared the five Manichaean paintings with dated Buddhist
paintings and hypothesized that they had been painted during the late Yuan to early Ming Dynasty,
that is, late 14th to early 15th century by painters belonging to ateliers based in the area around Ningbo
寧波, China (Furukawa 2010).
Gábor Kósa published several English articles: he gave a general overview of the Cosmology
Painting (Kósa 2011), explored the figures of Atlas and the Keeper of Splendor in it (Kósa 2012)
(offering a new identification of the latter one), analyzed its upper section (Kósa 2015a), its judgment
scene (Kósa 2014b), as well as devoting an article to the motif of ships in the Cosmology Painting
(Kósa 2015b). He reconsidered the relation of the Cosmology Painting to Mani’s Eikōn (Kósa 2014a).
Yoshida and Furukawa published a Japanese volume entitled Studies of the Chinese Manichaean
paintings of South Chinese origin preserved in Japan in 2015 and did comprehensive research on the
Cosmology Painting and the Realm of Light Paintings. This book also includes Japanese translations
of Kósa’s research on the figures of Atlas, the Keeper of Splendor and the judgment scene in the
Cosmology Painting (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plates 4–13, pp. 99–127, 261–302).
In 2015, Zsuzsanna Gulácsi, partly with Jason BeDuhn, published English articles in which
she matched what turned out to be three fragments—the Cosmology Painting and the two Realm of
Light Paintings together as the Diagram of the Universe and did more research on it (Gulácsi 2015;
Gulácsi and BeDuhn 2015). This reconstruction permitted Gulacsi & BeDuhn to correctly identify
the New Paradise/New Aeon in the painting for the first time, which before had been mistakenly
identified as the Realm of Light. In the following year, she published an English book about Mani’s
Picture-book, which includes the Diagram of the Universe (Gulácsi 2016).
Based on this reconstruction, in 2016 Gábor Kósa published an article to research the upper
part of the Diagram of Universe and to analyze the Manichaean “New Paradise” in text and image
(Kósa 2016a).
The Diagram of Universe is about 158 × 60 cm (Figure 2) and can be divided into seven
major registers:
1. The uppermost part depicts the Realm of Light (49 figures).

2. The New Aeon (38 figures).
3. Liberation of light, that is, triad of the Sun, Moon and a third divine figure between them
(93 figures).
4. Ten Firmaments (ca. 195 figures).
5. Atmosphere: the “snake-cage” in the middle, the scene of the Virgin of Light on the left and the
judgment scene on the right (85 figures).
6. The Sumeru mountain surrounded by the four continents (59 figures).
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7. The eight earths (ca. 70 figures).
Figure 2. The Diagram of Universe. (Gulácsi 2016, Figure 5/14 [p. 248]).
There are totally more than 500 figures in the Diagram of Universe. The figures include divine
figures, monsters and animals but not the objects (Kósa 2011, pp. 21–22; Gulácsi 2016, Figures 6/36–39,
41–45 [pp. 439, 446, 448, 453, 460–61, 465, 470–71]).
The Diagram of Universe has so many figures and gives us vivid visual materials that help us
understand the manuscript Mani the Buddha of Light.
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3. The Ritual Manual Mani the Buddha of Light with the Illustrations from the Diagram of
the Universe
This extant manuscript Mani the Buddha of Light is divided into two parts. The title of the first part
(cc. 1–292) is “qing fu ke 請福科 (rituals for good fortune)”. The second part (cc. 292–695) is without
title and perhaps is a collection of rituals for the deceased.
3.1. [Rituals for Good Fortune] (cc. 1–292)

This part is divided into four shi 時 (periods) and an independent section.
3.1.1. [First Period] (cc. 1–148)

The content for the first period can be divided into six sections.
[Inviting Buddhas (qingfo 請佛) (Five Buddhas and Triratna)] (cc. 1–48)
First the priest recites the gatha (verse) of worship [for gods] and the hearers join in the chanting.
Then the priest invites Five Buddhas–Nārāyan.a, Zoroaster, Śākyamuni, Jesus and Mani and the hearers
sing. Then the priest recites two mantras (incantations) of Chinese transcription of Middle Iranian (the
second one is for Jingkou 淨口 “Purification of Speech”) and gatha of confession.
Inviting Triratna (sanbao 三寶) means inviting the Buddha, the Dharma and the Saṅgha.
The Buddha should be Mani because he is described as “eight forms of fearlessness and displaying
supernatural power” and “auspices nine-fold and surpassing the secular matters”1 which are similar
with the descriptions of Mani in the Compendium of the Doctrines and Styles of the Teaching of Mani, the
Buddha of Light (abb. Compendium) (Haloun and Henning 1952, p. 191).
The Dharma should be the Manichaean Living Gospel, because the priest invites “yinglun 應輪
[Pth./MP. ’wnglywn]) treasure—secret wonderful mysterious text which is the substitute of Mani”.2
“Pure Saṅgha Jewel—the saintly Masses in the light”3 should be Manichaean community of the
elect (i.e., monks).
[Venerating the Triratna (san guiyi 三皈依)] (cc. 49–66)

“Venerating buddhas, [the buddhas of] the past, present and future. [They are with] Unequalled
marks and busy with [human] souls. The one who smiles and sits on the lotus seat enters the realm of
Mani [and enjoys] ultimate bliss”.4
“Venerating the Dharma—yinglun 應輪 treasure excellent truth. The merits are inconceivable.
Indic writings as golden flowers are given extensively and write down all the two great principles—the
idea of the founder [of Manichaeism]”.5
“Venerating Saṅgha, clearly distinguishing two principles as usual. [They] think to save all
sentient beings from suffering. [Great] sages are willing to teach trillion students whose number is
as the number of grains [of sand] in the Ganges river and you can’t imagine”.6 The two principles
(of light and darkness) are the core doctrine of Manichaeism.
[Incense Offering Praise (xiangzan 香讚)] (cc. 67–85)

First the priest recites a gatha: “Fragrance, spreading as vapor, pervades the whole world, being
the pure, unalloyed sea of life; developing and fully extending without hindrance; and the wonder
1 八無畏而表威神 and 九靈祥而超世俗.

2 應輪寶藏，秘妙玄文，是恾（示）[ቄ] 之替身.
3 清僧寳，光中聖眾.
4 皈依佛，過去現在未來。無等相，營靈台。蓮花座上笑咍咍，便是摩尼境界，極樂最.
5 皈依法，應輪寶藏妙諦。功與ᗧ ，不思儀（議）。金華梵字廣弘施，載盡二大義理，祖師意.
6 皈依僧，分明二宗如故。思得度，眾生苦。[大]聖願意教生徒，萬億恆河[沙]數，弗爾思.
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of perfume gains perfection when the saintly Masses walk about”. (H. 301).7 Then the priest burns
incense and recites gathas to make offerings to the gods and the hearers join in the chanting. Then
the priest recites another gatha: “In those realms mountains of treasures amount to a billion and a
thousand varieties and scented vapors gush out in a million shapes: Bright within and without, clean
and pure are the substances, filled with the sweet dew overflowing with no limit”. (H. 303).8
This section ends with huixiang 回向 “to transfer one’s merit to another” including three fayuan 發
願—making a vow to save all beings.
[Inviting Buddhas (Buddhas of Five Directions)] (cc. 86–97)

The priest first uses H. 140 to invite gods: “I also petition all the persons in the complete Vacuity,
the herculean, respectful and trusted venerable Spirits and the sons of Heaven in many celestial realms,
The protectors and upholders of the clean and pure Right Teaching”.9
Then the priest recites a mantra with six names of Buddhas of Five Directions. Then the priest
invites the Buddhas of Five Directions and the hearers to join in the chanting. In Buddhism, the
Five Wisdom Buddhas are as follows: Vairocana in the center, Amoghasiddhi related to north,
Amitābha—west, Ratnasambhava—south and Akshobhya—east. Here the Buddhas of Five Directions
are Manichaean angels and related to four entities of calmness (Ma 2012, 2013a):
Four entities Middle Iranian English angel

Direction Chinese Angel name10
of calmness Angel name name
Purity North 嚧縛逸 (*luo-b‘iwak-iĕt)天王 (heavenly king) rwp’yl Raphael
ˆ ˆ
Light East 彌訶逸 (mjie-xâ-iĕt)天王 (heavenly king) mys’yl Michael
ˆ ˆ
Power South 業囉逸 (ngi5p-lâ-iĕt)天王 (heavenly king) gbr’yl Gabriel
ˆ ˆ
Wisdom West 娑囉逸 (sâ-lâ-iĕt)天王 (heavenly king) sr’yl S@ra’el
ˆ
Majestic 耶具孚 (jia-g‘iu-fjy@)大將 (Great General) y’kwb Jacob
Center ˆ
virtue 末秦皎 (muAt dz‘iĕn kieu) 明使 (envoy of light) ? ?
ˆ
Praising the King of [Ten] Heavens (Zan Tianwang 讃天王) (cc. 98–116)
As for the King of the Ten Heavens, his foreign (Iranian) name is 阿薩漫沙 (Pa-sat-muAn ùa < Pth
*’sm’n s̆’h = King of Heaven). This is why the Taoists call him the Jade August Great Emperor of the
Bright Heavens. He dwells in the seventh firmament, resides in a great palace and controls the good
and bad events of the ten firmaments. In this firmament, there is a jeweled mirror with twelve faces: the
upper face observes the nirvān.a[-land], the lower face reflects the netherworld and the ten (remaining)
faces inspect the rebellions of the various demons and similar events of change in the ten firmaments.
The four heavenly kings control the four worlds (continents): the heavenly king Raphael governs the
northern Uttarakuru, the heavenly king Michael rules [the eastern Pūrvavideha, the heavenly king
Gabriel rules] the southern Jambudvı̄pa, the heavenly king Sariel controls the western Aparagodānı̄ya.
If the four heavenly, great, luminous spirits notice that the evil demons of the various firmaments
launch(ed) evil plans to stir the saints of the celestial and earthly spheres, they immediately exhibit(ed)
their great majestic powers to restrain them (the demons) and make them surrender; they quickly
pacify them, swiftly make them surrender.11
7 The different characters of Hymnscroll are in parentheses: 香氣氤氳周世界，純一無雜性命海，迷（彌）綸充遍無障礙，圣

眾游中香最妙。Cf. (Tsui 1943, p. 203).
8 彼界寶山億萬眾（種），香煙湧出百萬般。 ‫ޗ‬ཆ 外光明體清淨，甘露充盈無邊畔。(Tsui 1943, p. 203).
9 ᗙ੺ߕ˄ヤ˅オа࠷⵮ˈབྷ࣋ᮜؑሺ⾎䕙ˈ৺䄨ཙ⭼䄨ཙᆀˈ䆧ᤱ␵␘↓⌅㘵Ǆ(Tsui 1943, p. 188).
10 In this article Middle Chinese forms are cited from Karlgren’s reconstruction, Cf. Hanzi ziyin da zidian 漢字字音演變大字典
Dictionary of Phonetic Evolution of Chinese Characters, Jiangxi jiaoyu chubanshe, 2012.
11 十天王者，梵名阿薩漫沙也。是故道教稱為昊天玉皇大帝，住在第七天中，處在大殿，管於十天善惡之事。此天 ‫ޗ‬ཆ 有十二
面寶鏡，上面觀於涅槃[國土]，下面照於陰司地府，十面鑒於十天諸∿（=魔）背叛等事化。四天王管四天下：嚧縛逸天王
管北鬱壇界，彌訶逸天王[統御東弗婆提，業縛囉逸天王管]南閻浮提，娑囉逸天王掌握西瞿耶尼。四天大神明，若見諸天
惡∿起奸計，搔擾天空地界諸聖，應時展大威神，折挫調伏，速令安定，急使調伏. (Ma 2010) I first put forward that 阿薩
108
Here, Manichaean King of the Ten Heavens—second son of the Living Spirit—is identified with
the Taoist Jade Emperor and the Buddhist four continents are ruled by four Manichaean angels.
Praise to Land’s Gods (Tudi zan 土地讃) (cc. 117–148)

This section is divided into six pieces. The first, third and fifth are mantras in a transcription
of Middle Iranian, the sixth is a transcription of Middle Iranian mixed with Chinese and the second
and fourth are in Chinese. From the Chinese text, we know that these hymns are used to praise
land’s gods. From the transcription of Middle Iranian, we can recognized the names of Buddhas of
Five Directions: 嚧縛逸囉 (*luo-b’iwak-iĕt-lâ = Raphael), 彌阿（訶）逸囉 (mjie-xâ-iĕt-lâ = Michael), 業
ˆ ˆ ˆ ˆ
縛囉逸囉(ngi5p-b’iwak-lâ-iĕt-lâ = Gabriel), 娑囉逸囉(sâ-lâ-iĕt-lâ = Sariel), 耶具孚 (jia-g‘iu-fjy˘@ = Jacob),
ˆ ˆ ˆ ˆ ˆ
味秦皎(*muAt dz‘iĕn kieu)明使(envoy of light) and two angles: Narses 能遏蘇思 (*n@η-PAt- suo-si
ˆ
<MP nrsws [narsus]) and Nastikus 能 ೟ 呴<蘇>思 (*n@η-siĕt-ťi-k@u-<suo> si<MP nstykws [nastikūs])
ˆ “
(Durkin-Meisterernst 2004, pp. 244–45).
3.1.2. Second Period (dier shi 第二時) (cc. 148–238)

The contents for the second period can be divided into three sections.
[Inviting Buddhas] (cc. 149–207)

The priest first invites all gods with fragrant flowers. Then he “invites with wholehearted
reverence (一心奉請)” Manichaean and Buddhist gods with fragrant flowers one by one and the
hearers join the chanting.
[Inviting Moluo 默羅] (cc. 159–163)

The priest invites “Moluo Purple Emperor Peerless Venerable Buddha whose Five Greatnesses
show immense benevolence”.12 Moluo 默羅 (m@k lâ) should be an abbreviation of Sahuanmoluo 薩緩默
羅 (sat Guan m@k lâ) (c. 427). We cannot decipher the Middle Iranian name of this god but we are sure
that this is the highest god of Manichaeism—the Father of Greatness. When he reviewed this paper,
Yoshida pointed out that 薩緩 representing such pronunciation as [sarwan] must be the transcription
of zurwan.
The uppermost unit of the Diagram of the Universe is the Realm of Light (Figure 3). The central
motif of the Realm of Light is the Father of Greatness and his assembly that includes the Twelve
Aeons and two additional attendants (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plates 11–13, pp. 120–21). Gulácsi
thinks that most likely, the two figures flanking God represent the Mother of Life and Living Spirit
(Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/37, pp. 444–47). The Five Greatnesses are (1) the Father of Greatness himself;
(2) The Twelve Aeons are called shi’er guangwang13 (Twelve Light Kings) (c. 641); (3) The Aeons of the
Aeons are called weichen zhu guotu14 (Various lands as fine dust) (c. 393); (4) The Living Air; (5) the
Land of Light (the diamond floor).
After the priest invites the highest god, he continues to invite the holy triad: Jesus, Virgin of Light
and Mani.
漫沙 < Sogdian sm’n xs̆yδ, Yoshida Yutaka suggested that it should be a Chinese transcription of the hitherto unattested
Parthian form ’sm’n s̆’h. English translation is based on (Kósa 2016b, pp. 151–52).
12 五大示洪慈之念，默羅紫帝無上尊佛.
13 十二光王.
14 微塵諸國土.
109
Figure 3. The Realm of Light (Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/37 [p. 446]).
[Inviting Yishu 夷數] (cc. 164–168)

The priest invites “great mercy true wisdom Yishu the Buddha of Harmony and wishes that the
white dove descends”.15 Yishu 夷數 (i-ùiu) < Pth./MP. yys̆w‘, yys̆w, ys̆w [jis̆ō] “Jesus”. As soon as Jesus
ˆ
was baptized, he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him.16
The New Aeon is depicted beneath the Realm of Light in the Diagram of the Universe (Figure 4).
The highest-ranking deity is shown enclosed in a mandorla (not only a halo) and accompanied by a
retinue of twelve attendants. The central seated figure is possibly Jesus and the twelve standing figures
are the twelve wisdoms which are Jesus’ light hours (Kósa 2016a, pp. 87–90).17
Figure 4. The New Aeon and Liberation of light, that is, triad of the Sun, Moon and a third divine
figure between them (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plate 5).
15 大慈正智夷數和佛。惟願現乘白鴿下騰空。It maybe 夷數和 belongs to the transcribed name (according to Yutaka Yoshida
and S. N. C. Lieu) and should not be translated.
16 Matthew, 3:16; Mark, 1:10; Luke, 3:22.
17 Gulácsi thinks that the central seated god is Third Messenger who is surrounded by 12 Virgins of Light. (Gulácsi 2016,
Figure 6/38, pp. 447–50).
110
[Inviting Jinni lushen 謹你嚧詵] (cc. 168–173)

The priest invites “Jinni lushen . . . great heaven true dominator Lightning Royal Buddha”.18
Jinni lushen 謹你嚧詵 ki@n:-ni *luo-ùiæn is Chinese transcription of Pth./MP. qnygrws̆n, which is not
“ “
seen in Dunhuang Chinese Manichaean texts and it means “Virgin of Light”.
The Virgin of Light is depicted in the atmosphere between the surface of the earth and the
firmaments as the Goddess of Lightning in the Diagram of the Universe. She is standing on and has six
arms. Her lower pair arms points toward the dark cloud. Her middle pair of arms grasps symbols of
light (souls of deceased Manichaean priests). Her upper pair of arms holds a red ribbon (Figure 5).19
Figure 5. Virgin of Light and Mani (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plate 9).
[Inviting Moni 摩尼] (cc. 174–177)

The priest invites “true calm wonderful body Moni the Buddha of Light”.20 Moni摩尼 (muA-ni)
<Pth./MP. m’ny [mānı̄] “Mani”.
Mani, clad in a white robe with a red stripe21 , appears a total of 17 times in the Diagram of the
Universe. He is depicted at least four times in the Paradise, ten times in the New Aeon and Ten Heavens
part of the painting and three times in the middle register (i.e., Atmosphere). In the New Aeon, the five
beings on the left side of the central assembly include Mani, who is shown receiving a book from the
Father of Greatness delivered by the middle of the three angels (Figure 6)22 .
[Inviting Sun and Moon Buddhas of Light] (cc. 178–181)

The priest invites “wonderful wisdom Sun and Moon Buddhas of Light which are great
light-ships”.23
18 謹你嚧詵 . . . . . . 大天真宰電光王佛.
19 Yoshida and Furukawa, Studies of the Chinese Manichaean paintings of South Chinese origin preserved in Japan, Plates 9, p. 114.
Gulácsi, Mani’s Pictures, Figure 6/43, p. 468. Gábor Kósa, “The Virgin of Light in the New Chinese Manichaean Xiapu
Material and the Female Figure beside Mount Sumeru in the Cosmology Painting” (Les femmes dans le manichéisme
occidental et oriental, 27–28 June 2014, organized by Madeleine Scopello).
20 真寂妙體摩尼光佛.
21 The red stripe is similar to the Roman clavus, a reddish-purple stripe on garments that distinguished members of the
senatorial and equestrian orders.
22 Gulácsi, Mani’s Pictures, Figure 6/38, p. 450.
23 运大明船於彼岸; 妙智妙惠日月光佛.
111
Figure 6. Mani the Buddha of Light (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plate 5).
The white and red discs between the New Aeon and the Ten Heavens (i.e., the Liberation of
Light) represent the Moon on the left with a white background and the Sun on the right with a red
background (Figure 4) (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plates 5, pp. 104–6; Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/39,
pp. 450–57).
[Inviting Lushena 盧舍那] (cc. 182–186)

The priest invites the “Diamond Column of Glory Lushena Buddha whose body is beyond Eight
Earths and Ten Heavens”.24 Lushena 盧舍那 (luo-Cia-na) is Chinese transcription of Sanskrit (abb. Sk.)
ˆ
Vairocana in Buddhist text and means Column of Glory in Manichaean text.
Between the Sun and the Moon, there is a gigantic, mustached and bearded head with a huge
green halo and a crown (damaged). Below this head, there is a kind of upper body consisting of
red, blue and green streams of light. This is the Column of Glory (Figure 7) (Kósa 2015a, pp. 186–87;
Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plates 5, pp. 121–23; Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/40, pp. 454–56).
[Inviting Venerable Buddha Who Upholds the World] (cc. 187–190)

The priest invites “the Venerable Buddha Who Upholds the World and carries the universe.
His body lives beyond the sahā world of the six conjunctions (the zenith, nadir and the four
directions—in other words, the whole world)”.25 The Venerable Buddha Who Upholds the World (持
世尊佛) should be identified with the Envoy of Light who upholds the world (持世明使)/Lord who
upholds the world (持世主) in Dunhuang documents, that is, the first son of the Living Spirit—Keeper
of Splendor (Lat. splenditenens).
Below Lushena, the Keeper of Splendor embraces the light-beams with his right arm (Figure 8)
(Kósa 2012, pp. 53–57; Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/40, pp. 450–57).
24 金剛相柱盧舍那佛. 唯願身超八地及十天.
25 荷載乾坤持世尊佛。唯願身居六合娑婆外.
112
Figure 7. The Keeper of Splendor embraces light streams that merge with the Column of Glory (Gulácsi
2016, Figure 6/40 [p. 455]).
[Inviting Four Great Venerable Buddhas] (cc. 191–194)

The priest invites “the Four Great Venerable Buddhas who establish religions and liberate
people”.26 The Four Great Venerable Buddhas should be Mani’s four forerunners: Nārāyan.a, Zoroaster,
Shakyamuni and Jesus according to the other parts of Mani the Buddha of Light.
In the New Aeon, the four on the right side of the central assembly represent the four Prophets:
Nārāyan.a, Zoroaster, Shakyamuni and Jesus (Figure 4).27
[Inviting the Jade Emperor] (cc. 195–198)

The priest invites “the precious radiant heavenly lord–Jade Emperor Venerable Buddha.
His jeweled mirror with twelve faces is bright and the Jade Emperor in hiddenness lives in the
seventh firmament”.28
This Jade Emperor can be definitively identified with King of the Ten Heavens—second son of the
Living Spirit, that is, the King of Honor (Lat. Rex honoris) as in “In Praise of the King of [Ten] Heavens”
(cc. 98–116).
26 設教度人四大尊佛.
27 Gulácsi believes that they should be Zoroaster, historical Buddha, Jesus and Mani. (Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/38, p. 450;
Figure 6/17, pp. 367–68). Kósa believes that they should be Vis.n.u (Naluoyan), Zarathus̆tra, Śākyamuni and Jesus. (Kósa
2016a, pp. 90–94). Yoshida once proposed that they are the four kinds of calmness of the Great Father: God (Divinity), Light,
Power and Wisdom. (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Figures 2–23, p. 119–120).
28 寶光天主玉皇尊佛. 唯願寶鏡明明十二面, 玉皇隱隱七重天.
113
In the seventh firmament, to the left, the King of Honor sits on a throne and flanked by his eight
soldiers, all facing toward the center, while Mani and his attendants face the deity. The right side
contains the King of Honor seated cross-legged on a lotus throne and his magic mirror with twelve
lenses, observed by Mani, who once again faces the deity (Figure 8) (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015,
Plates 6–8, pp. 101–4; Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/41, pp. 457–64; Kósa 2017).
Figure 8. Ten Firmaments of the Sky (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plate 6).
Then the priest invits various great Bodhisattvas (cc. 199–202) and all past and future Buddhas
(cc. 203–206). At last the priest recites a gatha to finish the invitation of the Buddhas.
[Worshipping Buddhas (lifo 禮佛) (Three Great Saints)] (cc. 209–229)

First, the priest worships the Lightning King and the hearers join the chanting. The Lightning
King (電光王) should be an abbreviation of the Lightning Royal Buddha (電光王佛)—Virgin of Light.
Then the priest worships “true wisdom Yishu [the Buddha of] Harmony who from Brahma’s
realm wipes out demons and descends from the heaves as a dove”.29 Then the priest worships Moshihe
by bowing his head to his feet and the hearers join the chanting. Moshihe 末尸訶 (muAt-Ci-xa) is the
Chinese transcription of Pth./MP. ms̆yh’ [mas̆ı̄hā], ms̆yh’h, ms̆yh” [ms̆ı̄hā], ms̆yh [ms̆ı̄h], which is not seen
in Dunhuang Chinese Manichaean texts and means “Messiah, Christ”, the title of Jesus.
At last the priest worships “Long Life Nectar King who from the region of truth descended to
Badi’s Sulin country in the West and showed the spiritual verifications nine-fold. [He was born] from
the chest of Moyan and was unmatched in the world. [He] achieved perfect enlightenment at the age
of thirteen”.30 Badi 跋帝 (b‘uAt-tiei) is the Chinese transcription of Pth./MP. ptyg [*pattēg], “Pattēg,
Pattı̄g”—the name of Mani’s father. Sulin 蘇隣 (suo-liĕn) means “Suristān”—a region of Seleucid and
ˆ
Ctesiphon. Moyan 末艷 (muAt-iEm) is Chinese transcription of Pth./MP. mrym [maryam], which is
ˆ
29 正智夷數和，從梵天界，殄妖魔，騰空如鴿下.
30 長生甘露王，從真實境下西方跋帝蘇隣國，九種現靈祥。末艷氏，㜧前誕，世無雙。十三登正覺.
114
written as 滿艷 (muAn-iEm) in Dunhuang texts and means “Maryam”—the name of Mani’s mother. So,
ˆ
this “Long Life Nectar King” definitely is Mani.
Then the priest recites a gatha from H. 42: “The Great Saint is no other than the auspicious hour,
Shining universally upon our many envoys of light, thy wonderful color finds no compare in the
world, thy divine power of transfiguration is just the same”.31
Reading the Scriptures (kangjing 看經) and Reading Goddess Incantation (nian tiannü zhou
念《天女咒》) (cc. 230–238)
We cannot decipher the whole incantation, only individual words: Nalisuohe yizai 那哩娑和夷口在
nA-lji-sA-ÈuAi-*dz‘Ai < MP. nrysh yzd [narisah yazad], Narisah-yazd, borrowed from Zoroastrianism (Aw.
“
Nairyōsaηha-); Yishu jinghe 夷數精和 i-ùiu tsiEη-ÈuA <Pa. yys̆w’ zyw’ [yis̆ō‘ zı̄wā] “Jesus the Splendor”;
“ “
Jinni lushen 謹你嚧詵 Virgin of Light; Humin huse 護冺護瑟 Èwo-min Èwo-ùiæt < MP. whmn wzrg [wahman
“ “
wuzurg] “great Wahman”, name of the Light-Nous; Mile pusa 彌勒菩薩 Maitreya Bodhisattva; qiedushi
伽度師 g‘ĭA-d‘Ak-ùi which was written as qielushi 伽路師 g‘ĭA-luo-ùi in Dunhuang texts and means “holy”
(Lin 2017; Ma 2016b).
3.1.3. Third and Fourth Periods (disan shi 第三時, disi shi 第四時) (cc. 238–247)
Both third and fourth periods include Purification of Speech, Reading the Scripture of Light (kan
Guangming jing 看《光明經》) and Praise of the Four Entities of Calmness (Siji zan 四寂讚) (cc. 239–247)
After reconstructing the original of this Chinese hymn Shiji zan, Yoshida found the fragments M
1367 and M 361 that only has few words that are different from the phonetically transcribed version in
the Mani the Buddha of Light (Yoshida 2014). We make emendations of the Chinese text according to M
1367. The first line is Chinese text, second line is Middle Chinese according to Karlgren, the third line
is the transliteration of the Middle Iranian and the fourth line is the transcription of Middle Iranian.
The fifth line is the English translation.
ྕ઼ ी䋰 ⴗ䂥 ఏ˄᎟˅叫೹ 堫ଙસ૶
‫ݦ‬a‫ܤ‬-ܵu‫ܤ‬ b‘iࡪuk-ܵ‫ܤ‬ luo-‫ݔ‬i࡬æn (dz‘‫)ܤ‬-·wat-l‫ܤ‬ *ᑪ‫ݣ‬i-lji-*pi࡬uˬt-t‫ܤ‬
’w’ bg’ rwšn’ z’wr’ jyryft’
ç-w-¬ ba·-¬ rçšn-¬ z¬war-¬ žÎrÎft-¬
To God, Light, Power, (and) Wisdom,
ఏ˄᎟˅ଙ 㜭⋣␑ ⑮␑᪙઼ ཧᮠ 䁆˄䅩˅֐

(dz‘‫)ܤ‬-lji nˬĎ-ܵ‫ܤ‬-d‘‫ܤ‬m ·uˬn-d‘‫ܤ‬m-mu‫ܤ‬ ·u‫ܤ‬ i-‫ݔ‬i࡬u (ki࡬ˬn‫)ޝ‬-ni
z’ry *ng’y’m’ wynd’m’ ’w’ yyšw knyg
z¬rÎ ni·¬y¬m-¬ wend¬m-¬ ç-w-¬ yišç kanÎ (g)
We pray humbly. We give praise to Jesus Maiden, (and)
䮰Ѿᕕ⢩ ౮♱ ᪙ቬ 䱯⢩ ᕇ䟼೟ᗧ‫ڕ‬
muˬn-·uo-mjieࡪ-d‘ˬk *mu‫ܤ‬t-l‫ܤ‬ mu‫ܤ‬-ni ‫ܤݦ‬-d‘ˬk pi࡬uˬt-lji-*dz‘‫ࡊܤ‬i-tˬk-g‘i࡬‫ܣ‬n
mnwhmyd mr’ m’ny ’wd frystg’n
mançhm¾d m¬r-¬ m¬nÎ ud fr¾stag¬n
Light-Nous, Mar Mani and the apostles.
ԓ䟟⑮˄▝˅哫䱯બ⢩խ ね೹㑋ት

d‘©i-xiei-(d‘©m)-ma ‫ܤݦ‬-xuo-d‘ˬk-g’i࡬a kiei-l‫ܤ‬-b’iࡪwk-ki࡬wo
dhydwm’ ’g’dg’ kyrbg
dah¾dum-¬ ¬·¬dag-¬ kirbag
Grant me (my) pious wish.
31 大聖自是吉祥時，普曜我等諸明使（性）；妙色世間無有比，神通變化（現）復如此.
115
䲓䛓ই ⌒[㙦⢩] [㖵]㐙 ↕堫

ᑟ‘i࡬¼n-n‫ܤ‬-n©m pu‫[ܤ‬-iࡪa-d‘ˬk] [l‫ܤ‬-]·u‫ܤ‬n b‘uo-*ᑪ‫ݣ‬i
*tnwm’ p’yd rw’n bwjyd
tanum-¬ p¬y¾d ruw¬n bçž¾d
Guard my body (and) save (my) soul.
䱯ᕇଙ⢩ 㨙઼ ౮♱ ᪙ቬ ֐㙦֐㙦೟
‫ܤݦ‬-pi࡬uˬt-lji-d‘ˬk b‘uo-·u‫ܤ‬ *mu‫ܤ‬t-l‫ܤ‬ mu‫ܤ‬-ni ni-iࡪa-ni-iࡪa-*dz‘‫ࡊܤ‬i
’’frydg bw’ mr’ m’ny ?
¬frÎdag baw¬ m¬r-¬ m¬nÎ ?
Blessed be Mar Mani, ?
䱯ᕇଙ⢩ [㨙઼] ౮┘ ᪙ቬ ֐ᴣ֐ᴣ೟

‫ܤݦ‬-pi࡬uˬt-lji-d‘ˬk [b‘uo-·u‫]ܤ‬ *mu‫ܤ‬t-l‫ܤ‬ mu‫ܤ‬-ni ni-iࡪ‫ܭ‬i-ni-iࡪ‫ܭ‬i-*dz‘‫ࡊܤ‬i
’’frydg [bw’] mr’ m’ny ?
¬frÎdag [baw¬] m¬r-¬ m¬nÎ ?
Blessed [be] Mar Mani, ?
[य䛓] 䱯૶(㖵)㐙૶(䛓) [㨙]઼ ၁[ൠ]

[mi࡬uˬt-n‫]ܤ‬ ‫ܤݦ‬-(l‫)ܤ‬-·u‫ܤ‬n-(n‫)ܤ‬ [b‘uo-]·u‫ܤ‬ sa-[d‘i]
[mn’] rw’n’ *bw’ š’d(yᒒ) (?)
[man-¬] ruw¬n-¬ *baw¬ š¬d(Îᒒ)
May my soul be joyful!
䚞Ժն խᓖᑛ
t‫ܨ‬iࡪa-‫ݦ‬ji-d‘an g’i࡬a-d‘‫ܤ‬k-‫ݔ‬i
j’yd’n k’dwš
ᑍ¬yd¬n k¬dĀš
(Be) holy eternally!
3.1.4. [Worship and Repentance]

The last part is an independent one.
First Purification of the Altar (shou jingtan 首浄壇) (cc. 248–255)

The priest recites three times a mantra mixed with Chinese and Chinese transcriptions of
Middle Persian:
␵␘ ‫ݹ‬᰾ བྷ࣋ Ცភ
૖೟ ೗䂥㰷䐟 ઼䟟
xji-*dz‘‫ࡊܤ‬I luo-‫ݔ‬i࡬æn suo-luo ·u‫ܤ‬-xiei
yzd rwšn zwr whyh
yazad rçšn zçr wehÎh
Purity (God) Light Power Wisdom
Then the priest recites, “North Purity, East Light, South Power, West Wisdom and Center
Immeasurable” and recites three times “yizai, lushen, sulu, hexi”. At last the priest circumambulates the
altar and recites H. 30: “Pray give me the fragrant water of emancipation, the twelve precious crowns,
the clothes, the fringes. Cleanse the altar from dust and dirt, strictly purify my speech and make it
graceful”.32
32 願施戒香解㝛水，十二寶冠衣瓔珞。洒除壇界（洗我妙性）離塵埃，嚴潔（餝）浄口（躰）令端正. Cf. (Tsui 1943, p. 178).
116
[Inviting Buddhas (North Heavenly King)] (cc. 256–264)

The priest invites North Purity, the heavenly king Raphael. The hearers join to chant a short mantra.
Penitential Mysterious Prayer (Chanhui xuanwen 懺悔玄文) (cc. 265–271)

I now repent whatever were my physical, verbal and mental activities; my craving, aversion and
ignorance; and had I encouraged the ‘robbers’ to poison my heart, or not restrained my sense organs;
or had I doubted the eternal-living three Treasures and the Two Great Lights; or had I injured the
body of Lushena and well as the five Light-sons; had I begot a feeling of slight and neglect against the
Priest-teachers, our fathers and mothers and against the wise intimates and had I accused and blamed
them; or had I imperfectly observed the seven kinds of almsgivings, the ten Commandments and the
three Seals: Gates of Teaching—I wish my sins may disappear! (H. 410–414).33
Reading Prayer, Praise to the Envoys of Light (xuanshu, mingshi zan 宣疏、明使讚) (cc. 271–282)
The priest recites a mantra of Chinese transcription of Middle Iranian.
Farewell Ritual for the Buddhas (songfo 送佛) (cc. 282–292)

This is the dismissal part of the Rituals for Good Fortune. The priest bids farewell to the Buddhas
with fragrant flowers and bows down to the Buddhas again. After huixiang “transfer”, the priest recites
a short mantra.
“The end of the Rituals for Good Fortune (qingfu ke zhong 請福科終)”.
3.2. [Rituals for Funeral (Jianwang ke 薦亡科)] (cc. 292–659)

The main content of the second part can be divided into ninteen sections.
3.2.1. Praise of the Descent (Xiasheng zan 下生讚) (cc. 292–312)

When Mani Buddha descended, he was incarnated in Sulin (Suristān). Pomegranates’ branches
brought auspiciousness. The garden manager ascended the vermilion steps leading up to the palace
hall and reported the unusual phenomenon to the throne. A-shi-jian ordered the garden manager
to pick them, put them on a plate and politely offer them up. Moyan 末艷 (Maryam) liked to eat
and her lovely face expressed great pleasure. The sage admonished her to rest in another palace.
By the time ten full months had transpired, the flower was born; the lovely *baby emerged from her
chest. Golden lotus flowers sprang up from the earth and nectar fell from the sky. Buddhas of the ten
directions were all pleased. The demon king of three poisons was grieving from afflictions. The lofty
precious manifestation was incomparable with this mortal world and looked up to by the court ladies.
All entreated the Crown Prince to come back the palace. He [the Crown Prince] renounced the secular
life at the age of four and entered enlightenment at the age of thirteen, then inflicted a defeat on the
[doctrine of the] Water-washing [Baptists]. The holy yanmo (<Pth. ymg [yamag] twin) subsequently
guided [him] to observe Three Epochs—past, present and future. All things were understood and
various phenomena were unobstructed. [He] gradually advanced to Bosi (Persia), Bolu and other
countries. Nāgas and the eight groups all respected his virtue. Everyone praised: “This is a unique
moment!” [His] prestige influenced Persia and [he] persuaded the *Persian King to comprehend the
*principles. The whole world followed him. The new monks and teachers followed [Mani] Buddha’s
travels and first transformed to long eyebrows. My Buddha (Mani) preached and completely retained
the teachings in the assembly of all human beings and celestials. [People] retained the Buddha’s
33 我今懺悔所，是身口意業，及貪嗔痴[行]，或乃至從（縱）賊毒心，諸根放逸；或宜（疑）常住三宝并二大光明；或損盧舍
那身及（兼）五明子；於僧師（師僧）父母、諸善知識起輕慢心，更相毀謗；於七世（施）十戒、三印法門，若不具修，
願罪消滅。Cf. (Tsui 1943, p. 215).
117
teaching about the fundamentals of the Two Principles and erased old sins through the Three Epochs.
Of years, five [times] nine (i.e., 450 years) had passed, the Teaching spread to the eastern land. Long
live the present emperor. Peaceful kingdoms of the earth were all converted. Everyone looks for and
obtains good fortune and everyone maintains safety and security. May almsgivers of the ten directions
live long and prosper!34
The Compendium written in 731 only tells us that Mani was born in the country of Sulin at the royal
palace of Emperor Badi by his wife Manyan 滿艷 (Maryam). Having sprung into existence from His
mother’s chest, He surpassed His age and excelled everyone (Haloun and Henning 1952, p. 190–91).
Based on this core scene, “Praise of the Descent” added a dozen scenes to the story of Mani’s birth
under the influence of the story of Sākyamuni’s birth. At the same time, Manichaeans composed the
Painting of the Birth of Mani which now is in Kyūshū National Museum, Japan (Yoshida and Furukawa
2015, Plates 14, pp. 128–37; Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/13, 6/20, pp. 386–93). It depicts approximately nine
scenes described in “Praise of the Descent” (Ma 2016c, 2016d).
3.2.2. Incantation of St. George (Jisi zhou 吉思咒) (cc. 312–331)

[We] wholeheartedly and respectfully praise Great Saint George (Yihuojisi 移活吉思). Because
Roman Empire (Folin 佛林 b‘iu@t-li@m< Sogdian (Sogd.) βr’wm) Caesar (Jisa計薩 kiei-sat < Sogd. kysr)
ˆ ˆ
issued an imperial edict to destroy Christianity (Yishu fo jiao 夷數佛教), [George] faced the Two Great
Lights, made vows to practice the orthodox religion and exterminate false gods. A ladder of knives
and iron matte, iron boots, caltrops and so forth, a wheel of swords, [all] the instruments of torture,
[he] endured willingly and was ready for any suffering. [He] recited [the name of] Jesus Buddha and
although he had died, he revived again. [He] recited Jesus Buddha and let dead wood luxuriate. [He]
recited Jesus Buddha and let all the fallen ones be liberated; recited Jesus Buddha and let the decaying
bones be resurrected. This body was imprisoned and [he] let the pillar in the house become a big tree.
The sick child prayed: “Please relieve my various pains”. [He] recited Jesus Buddha again and the
dumb and blind, deaf [child] could speak and hear, see. [He] broke that false god temple, by shouting,
[he] detained various demons, overthrew the clay idol in the niche; and the evil spirits and ghosts
were all exterminated. The Caesar angered again, as four poisons [snakes] wanted to torture and
execute [him]. What [he] did was all done and as soon as the fight against the army of demons was
finished, [he] wanted to return to calmness and extinction (nirvān.a). [He] supplicated Jesus Buddha
to make infinite vows together: “Whoever shall have a nightmare, or be jailed in a lawsuit, or have
severe drought all over the land, or live in misery and recite [the name of] St. George, [I] shall search
[their] voice and never fail to answer any call”. [George] finished arousing vows and returned to true
quiescence. Many people all confessed and begged to correct their mistakes: sought after to eliminate
various evils and all attained the supreme way.35
34 ǉл⭏䇊Ǌ˖᪙ቬ֋ˈл⭏ᰦˈᢈ㭝ᯬ㰷䳓Ǆ⸣ῤ⁩ˈ᷍੸⪎ˈൂᇈ䂓ѩະˈ㺘ཿᐼཷǄ䱯ᐸ‫ˈ∿ڕ‬ભᇛᇈˈ
᪈ᦗⴈˈ⇧៳ཹ⥞Ǆᵛ㢦∿ௌ伏ˈ㣡乿ௌ↑ˈ⾎Ӫ䃑䍓“࡛ᇛᆹ”Ǆ ॱᴸ┑ˈሶ㣡䃅ࠪ˗䂓ᄼษˈ⒗ॆ㜧䯃Ǆ
ൠ⒗䠁㬞ˈ{ᦗ}ཙ⍂⭈䵢Ǆॱᯩ䄨֋ⴑ↑ᘫˈй∂∿(冄˅⦻ᛢ➙ᜡǄᏽᏽᇍ⴨ˈࠒ䯃䳮∄ǄᅚླԠ→ˈ૨䗾
太子歸裏。年四出家，十三成道，便破水洗。於今閻默聖，引觀三際初、中、後，事皆通知，般般无凝(礙)。漸次前行，
薄(波）斯、波魯諸國，龍天八部咸仰徳，人人讃：“曹(遭)想”。威感波斯，䃚⌅ 勃(波）王悟里(理)，四維上中下，皆從皈
依。沙密(彌）、闍黎随佛遊，先化眉。我佛䃚⌅ 法，人天會裏總持。持佛二宗大義，三際消舊罪。五九数，法流東土。上
祝當今皇帝千秋萬萬，海清萬國盡皈依。各求福利，各保平安。惟願十方施主，崇福壽永綿綿！Yoshida’s comment: “波
斯䃚⌅勃：While I cannot explain 説, this is likely to transcribe Shabuhr. 説 is to be emended to 沙?” Kósa believes that “長眉
Long Eyebrowed” refers to one of the Arhats—Pindola.
35 志心敬稱讚：移活吉思大聖。為佛林計薩照（詔）滅夷數佛教，對二大光明，誓願行正教，殄滅諸妖神。刀梯
及䫱䤦，䫱靴、滅（蒺）藜等，劒輪刑害具，甘心不辞苦。称念夷數佛，᳘ （既）死而復甦。稱念夷數佛，枯木令茲
（滋）茂。稱念夷數佛，沉輪（淪）‫ء‬䀓㝛；稱念夷數佛，朽骨再甦<還>活。是身在囚繫，令彼所居舍，柱化為大樹。病
兒請乞願：“救我諸疾苦。”再念夷數<尊>佛，瘖瘂及盲聾，能言復聞見。破彼妖神厝，喝禁諸∿（魔）鬼；摧倒坭龕像，
邪祟殄滅。計薩復祚恕（作怒），四毒加刑害。所作皆已，戰敵∿軍<已>畢<日>，即欲歸疾（寂）滅。仰ஏ夷數佛，同弘
無盡願：“若人有惡夢，或被官司囚<繫>，及一天亢旱，苦難逼身者，稱念吉思聖，尋聲皆如應。”發願已竟還真寂，眾皆
懺悔求捨過：願求斷[諸]惡，盡成如（無）上道.
118
Yihuojisi 移活吉思 (ie-kuat-kĭĕt-si) is the Chinese transcription of Sogdian yw’rks “George”. Jisi is an
ˆ
abbreviation of Yihuojisi. The Incantation of Jisi (George) may be a Chinese summary of the Nestorian
Sogdian The Martyrdom of St. George (Ma 2017).
3.2.3. [Worshipping Buddhas] (cc. 331–365)

The priest recites “The Praise to heavenly king”, which is the Chinese transcription of a Middle
Iranian original. Yoshida found that it is the Chinese transcription of a Middle Persian text found in
M 19 when he reviewed this paper. It is our honor to get his permission to publish his research as
Appendix A of this paper.
Then the priest recites gathas in which there are several lines from the Hymnscroll (abbr. H.)
with a few different characters, for example: “I also petition the universal Light of Lord Mani, yanmo
(twin), Light-Nous and Sun of enlightenment, who came from that great Light-realm into this world,
distributed and exalted the correct teaching, rescuing the good Sons”. (H. 135)36 . “I also petition the
Sun and Moon buddhas of light, the safely-settled place of all the Buddhas of the three Generations,
the seven (and) the twelve great (Ship)-masters and all the Masses of Light”. (H. 127)37 “May all of
the souls go on to the right road and quickly gain Nirvān.a, the land of the Pure Kingdom. There
seven distresses and four hardships are naturally absent and it is therefore called the lace of eternal
happiness”. (H. 119)38 “I therefore, purifying my heart, worship, laud and praise, and, removing all
confused thoughts, speak truly: in the immediate past, I had unknowingly committed may iniquities,
tonight I repent beseechingly so that my sins shall disappear”. (H. 11)39 “I only wish now that they
will listen to my petitions, grant great invincible might and protect us, letting us have skillful means to
cover and defend ourselves, so that we shall gain peace and security and be away from the hateful
enemy”. (H. 206)40 .
The priest recites a gatha of huixiang “transfer” as the end of this section.
3.2.4. [Inviting Buddhas (Five Buddhas)] (cc. 366–373)

The priest invites Five Buddhas—Nārāyan.n, Zoroaster, Śākyamuni, Jesus and Mani and the
3.2.5. [Worshipping Buddhas] (cc. 374–388)

The priest worships the Five Buddhas: Nārāyan.a, Zoroaster, Śākyamuni, Jesus and Mani and the
Then the priest recites: “The first one, the unsurpassed Buddha of Light, the second,
wisdom—Good Mother Buddha, the third, constant victory—First Thought Buddha, the fourth,
happiness—Five Light (i.e., Ether, Wind, Light, Water and Fire) Buddhas, the fifth, zeal—Enjoyer of
the Lights Buddha, the sixth, truth—Creator of forms Buddha, the seventh, faith—Pure Wind Buddha,
the eighth, patience—Sun-radiance Buddha, the ninth, honest thought—She’na (Vairocana) Buddha,
the tenth, gratitude—Jesus Buddha, the eleventh, unanimous mind—Lightning Buddha, the twelfth,
splendid—Wise-Light Buddha. Who is the King of Teaching of the three Generations, who opens and
exalts all the secret things; of the Two Principles, the Three Periods and the meaning of the natures and
forms, he can reveal all clearly without doubt or hesitation” (H. 169–72).41
36 又ஏ普遍摩尼光（尊），閻默惠明警覺日，從彼大明至此界，敷揚正教（法）救善子。Cf. (Tsui 1943, p. 186).

37 又ஏ日月光明佛（宮），三世諸佛安置處。七級（及）十二大般（船）主，并諸（餘）一切光明眾。Cf. (Tsui 1943, p. 187).
38 普願靈魂（齊心）登正路，速㝛（獲）涅槃浄國土。七厄四苦彼元無，是故名為常樂處。Cf. (Tsui 1943, p. 186).
39 是故澄心礼称讃，除諸乱意真言。承前不覺造諸愆，今夜（時）懇懺罪消（銷）滅。Cf. (Tsui 1943, p. 176).
40 惟願今時听我，降大神威（慈悲）護我等。任巧方便自遮防，務得安寧離冤（怨）敵。Cf. (Tsui 1943, p. 193).
41 一者無上光明佛（王），二者智惠善母佛，三者常勝先意佛，四者懽（歡）喜五明佛，五者勤修樂明佛，六者真實造相
佛，七者信心凈風佛，八者忍辱日光佛，九者直意舍那佛（盧舍那），十者知恩夷数佛，十一者齊心電光佛，十二者莊嚴
惠明佛（惠明莊嚴佛）。自是三世法中王，開揚（楊）一切秘密事。二宗三際性相儀（義），悉能顯現無疑滯。Cf. (Tsui 1943,
p. 191).
119
3.2.6. [Purification of Speech] (cc. 388–394)

The priest recites a mantra transcribed from a Middle Iranian original as a small purification of
speech and a gatha as a great purification of speech.
3.2.7. [Inviting Buddhas (Heavenly Kings and Envoys of Light)] (cc. 394–403)
The priest invites the Four Heavenly Kings–Raphael, Michael, Gabriel, Sariel and other envoys
of light.
Mt. Sumeru is the center of the surface of the eighth earth of the Diagram of Universe. There is
a plateau on the top of Mt. Sumeru. The plateau contains an unidentified central figure, with four
supplicants kneeling before him, amid thirty-two gates that symbolize the thirty-two cities (Figure 9).
Figure 9. The Top of Sumeru mountain (Kósa 2016b, plate 2 [p. 182]).
In Buddhism, Śakra (Dishitian 帝釋天) is located on the top of Mt. Sumeru. In China, Śakra is
sometimes identified with the Taoist Jade Emperor. The Four Heavenly Kings serve Śakra and dwell
each on a side of Mt. Sumeru and who ward off the attacks of malicious spirits from the world.
According to Mani the Buddha of Light, the unidentified central figure on the top of Mt. Sumeru
of the Diagram of Universe can be understood as the Jade Emperor—King of the Ten Heavens and the
four supplicants kneeling before him perhaps should be understood as Raphael, Michael, Gabriel
and Sariel.
3.2.8. Praise of Preparing the Altar (kaitan zan 開壇讃) (cc. 403–419)
The priest worships and praises the Light-Nous with several different names: Great Nous
(Guangda zhi 廣大智), Good King of the Mind (Shanxin wang 善心王), Great Wise Light (Da huiming 大
惠明) (Ma 2015b).
120
3.2.9. Honoring Universal Permanent Triratna (gongjing shifang changzhu sanbao 恭敬十方常住三寶)
(cc. 420–425)
The priest worships two Bodhisattvas: Guanyin 觀音 (i.e., Call, deity of the second emanation;
Avalokiteśvara) and Shizhi 勢至 (i.e., Answer, deity of the second emanation, Mahāsthāmaprāpta); yanmo
閻默 (i.e., twin)—Light Treasure; Jesus—Sacred Treasure; Lightning (i.e., Virgin of Light)—Pure
Treasure; two Bodhisattvas: huiming 惠明 Wise Light and faxiang 法相 Glory of the Teaching
(i.e., the Light-Nous).
3.2.10. Venerating the Triratna (cc. 425–444)

“Venerating Buddha: Sahuanmoluo Holy Lord (i.e., the Father of Greatness). [He] lives out of this
world and is always secure. [His] Lofty spiritual marks are like precious jewels. The true essence of all
phenomena always exists and lacks any marks of arising or cessation. Trillion sages always look up at
[him]. Looking up at [him], wishing [him] to send down authoritative power to give divine protection.
The light is with a single determinable nature and with nothing to do with sunrise and sunset. This is
the place of peace and happiness for the true essence. Universally whishing that the light-souls of the
three realms (earth, atmosphere and heaven) become enlightened quickly and come back to the great
light together”.42 Its content is similar to that of “A Gāthā in Praise of the Unsurpassed Venerable Lord
of Light” in Hymnscroll (H. 222–34).
“Venerating the Teaching: Jesus first established the natural wonderful Truth which is most
valuable and a ferry (i.e., religion) for myriad worlds as numerous as the sands of Ganges.
Two principles and three times—subtle connotation is extensively and publicly stated. The enlightened
light-soul escape from the mundane world. Escaping from the mundane world, [the light-souls] come
back to the holy body of the absolute reality which continue in the future to turn the wheel of the
Dharma. Ten kinds of extraordinary are always refreshing . . . ”.43
“Venerating Saṅgha: arhats, true men, sages. The returned light-souls descended from the Ten
Firmaments. [They] drive light-ship to wander extensively in the sea of tortures, seek priceless
treasures to the Dharma assembly, save countless true good persons who are responsive to the Light.
Good persons who are responsive to the Light perfectly observe the five commandments and three
Seals. Marvelous teaching is most profound and extensively preached among the multitude of light.
Seven prayers daily are performed with most zealous inclination. The true teaching transmits and
continues in ten thousand years”.44
3.2.11. [Incense Offering Praise] (cc. 445–459)

The priest burns incenses of Love (lianmin 憐憫 lit. compassion), Faith (chengxin 誠信), Wisdom
(zhihui 智慧), Perfection (juzu 具足) and Patience (renru 忍辱) (five gifts of New Man, or five cardinal
virtues) and make offerings to Nārāyan.a, Zoroaster, Śākyamuni, Jesus and Mani respectively.
3.2.12. Great Praising Incense Offering (da zangxiang 大讃香) (cc. 460–481)
The priest burns various incenses and makes offerings to Buddha of Light, Wonderful Dharma,
Pure Saṅgha and an ocean-assembly of venerable saints.
Then the priest praises to Land’s Gods, reads the Scripture of Chaste Light (kan Zhenming jing 看
《貞明經》) and does the transfer (huixiang) (c. 482).
42 皈依佛：薩緩默羅聖主。居方外，永安固。巍巍靈相若寶珠。無生無滅、法體真常住。萬億聖賢，常仰瞻慕。仰瞻慕，願
降威神加護。一定光，無曉暮。真實元本安樂處。普願三界、明性早覺悟。盡向大明，相將皈去.
43 皈依法：夷數始立天真義，最可珍。遍周沙界作通津。二宗三際、妙義廣開陳。覺悟明性，㝛離凡塵。離凡塵，復本真如
聖身。續來世，轉法輪。十般殊勝永清新.
44 皈依僧：羅漢真人上佺。回光性，降十天。廣遊苦海駕明船。澇（撈）漉無價珍寶至法筵。救拔無數真善明㐓。善明㐓，
五戒三印全。微妙義，最幽玄。光明眾廣宣傳。七時禮懺，志意倍精專。流傳正法，相繼萬年。(Ma 2014b, pp. 254–67).
121
3.2.13. [Inviting Five Buddhas] (cc. 483–515)

The priest invites the five prophets: Nārāyan.a, Zoroaster, Śākyamuni, Jesus and Mani and hearers
join the chanting.
Then the priest sings “The Five Sons of Thunder” and hearers join the chanting “We wish . . . ”:
The first buddha was Nārāyan.a (Naluoyan 那羅延 nA-la-iEn), who descended into the country
ˆ
of the brahmins in the sahā world (=this world), made generations of people pure and honest;
saved the light-nature and liberated it from the sufferings of the birth and death (sam. sāra).
We wish that the deceased spirit would ride the buddhas’ majestic brilliance and bear witness
to the community of bodhisattvas!
The second buddha was Zoroaster (Suluzhi 蘇路支 suo-luo-tCie < Pth. zrhws̆t [zarhus̆t]), due
ˆ
to the great chain of causation, he preached the teachings (dharma) in Persia, liberated
innumerable people. On all the six ways (of rebirths) he stopped the torments and on all the
three unfortunate forms of rebirth he ceased the sufferings. We wish . . . .
The third buddha was Śākyamuni (Shijiawen 釋迦文 CiEk-kia-miu@n < Pth. s̆’qmn [s̆āqman]), the
ˆ ˆ ˆ
great merciful father of the four kinds of beings, who attained enlightenment in the Lumbinı̄
park [of Kapilavastu], liberated people from the sufferings of birth and death, he preached
holy words from the golden mouth, all the beings became enlightened. We wish . . . .
The fourth buddha was Jesus [the buddha of] Harmony, the son of the Highest Light Worthy
(the Father of Greatness), [he] descended to Fulin 拂林 (p‘iu@t-li@m < frwm, Roman Empire),
ˆ ˆ
became a loving father, revealed his true self for an instant in order to show the way to the
heaven. We wish . . . .
The fifth buddha was Mani [the buddha of] Light, the last envoy of light. After his incarnation
in a palace, [he] appeared as a crown prince. Preaching the teaching (dharma), he turned the
gold wheel and those who were responsive were rescued. We wish . . . .
[Let us] make obeisance towards our World-Honored Ones, who, due to the great chain of
causation by responsive manifestation, were born among us, who became the fathers of the
four kinds of beings and who, with merciful hearts, saved the sentient beings, so they would
forever be free from the sufferings of birth and death. We would like them to welcome and
lead the deceased souls with mercy, so that the souls would be reborn in the Pure Land.45
The priest recites a mantra with the name of the five prophets.
Gulácsi demonstrates that the four gods on the right side of the central assembly in the New Aeon
of the Diagram of Universe represent the Primary Prophets. Zoroaster can be identified by holding a
green barsom branch at the upper left and Śākyamuni can be identified by his ushnisha at the upper right
(Figures 4 and 10). She believes that Jesus at the lower right and Mani at the lower left (Gulácsi 2016,
Figure 6/17, pp. 367–68, Figure 6/38, p. 450; Kósa 2013, pp. 90–94). According to Xiapu manuscripts,
the god at the lower left can be identified as Nārāyan.a and the god at the lower right can be identified
as Jesus.
45 隨案唱五雷子：一佛那羅延，降神娑婆界；國應波羅門，當淳人代。開度諸明性，出離生死苦。願亡靈、乘佛威光，證
菩薩會。二佛蘇路支，以大因故；䃚⌅ 法在波斯，度人無數。六道悉停酸，三途皆息苦。願亡靈、· · · · · · 三佛釋迦文，四生
大慈父；得道毘藍苑，度生死苦。金口演真言，咸生皆覺悟。願亡靈· · · · · · 四佛夷數和，無上明尊子；降神下拂林，作慈
悲父。ࡾࡾ 露真身，為指通宵路。願亡靈· · · · · · 五佛摩尼光，最後光明使；托化在王宮，示為太子。䃚⌅ 法轉金輪，有蒙濟
度。願亡靈· · · · · · 稽首我世尊，以大因故，應化下生來，作四生父；悲心度眾生，永離生死苦。願慈悲、接引亡靈，往生
淨土。(Ma 2014a, pp. 196–319; Kósa 2013, pp. 20–21). “The Five Sons of Thunder” is the title of a Buddhist music melody.
122
Figure 10. Four Great Venerable Buddhas (Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/17 [p. 368]).
3.2.14. Rest (xieshi 歇時), Performing Worshipping (zuo xinli 做信禮) (cc. 516–540)
The priest worships the four prophets: Nārāyan.a, Zoroaster, Śākyamuni and Jesus. He praises
that the second [buddha], that is, Zoroaster, descended to Persia to save the Pure Wind nature, edified
idolaters (Yuduoxi 鬱多習 Piu@t-ta-zi@p < Sogd. yzt’ys “idol”). Because there were images of celestials,
ˆ ˆ
demons went to Babylon (Bopi 波毘 puA-b‘ji < Pth./MP b’byl) and ruined under the irradiation of
divine light. 46
3.2.15. Singing “Lotus Stand” (chang liantai 唱蓮臺) (cc. 540–565)

The priest worships the first great Tathagata of good aeon (bhadra-kalpa) (i.e., Nārāyan.a), the
second Tathagata of good aeon (i.e., Zoroaster), the third Tathagata of good aeon (i.e., Śākyamuni) and
the fourth Tathagata of good aeon (i.e., Jesus).47 The hearers join the chanting.
The priest praises the five buddhas who saved Ether, Wind, Light, Water and Fire.48
In the Liberation of Light, flanking the Column of Glory’s “neck” are two divine figures who can
be identified as the Call and the Answer. They hold five elements—Ether, Wind, Light, Water and
Fire on a scarf (Figures 7 and 8) (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plates 5, pp. 121–23; Gulácsi 2016, pp.
450–57).
3.2.16. [Leading the Deceased Souls to the Right Path (deng zhenglu 登正路)] (cc. 565–596)
The priest prays that the deceased souls should ascend through four palaces to the New Aeon
and World of Eternal Light. The hearers join the chanting.
46 第二蘇路支，救凈風性下波斯，開化鬱多習，· · · · · · 為有天神像，妖幻往波毘，放神光照盡崩隳。Ma 2016 “Tracing the

sources of Suluzhi ‘kaihua Yuduoxi’—Xiapu wenshu Moni guangfo kece yanjiu 蘇路支‘開化鬱多習’溯源 The Roots of
‘Converting Idolaters’ by Zoroaster: Study on Xiapu manuscript Mani the Buddha of Light”, Tianlu luncong 天祿論叢 Journal of
Society for Chinese Studies Librarians 6: 1–15. Yoshida’s comment: “鬱多習 may be compared with 烏瑟多習 of the 酉陽雑俎,
which stands for (king) Wishtasp, the first supporter of Zoroaster”.
47 賢劫一座大如來· · · · · · 賢劫二座大如來· · · · · · 賢劫三座大如來· · · · · · 賢劫四座大如來。“Lotus Stand” is the title of a
Buddhist music melody.
48 收救氣、風、明、水、火.
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[Ascending the Precious Palace] (cc. 566–572)

The deceased souls first “ascend to the Precious Palace, the path to refuge, First Thought meet
with Yama (Yanluo 閻羅) in the atmosphere”.49
A judgment after death appears on the right side of the Atmosphere of the Diagram of Universe
(Figures 2 and 11). The motif of the judge and his office occupies the upper half of this composition.
The judge seated behind his desk. He can be identified as Yama in Buddhism. In Manichaeism, this
judge can be identified as Impartial King (Pingdeng wang 平等王, Pth. d’dbr r’s̆tygr “Just Judge”).
A motif of the judgment scene is a small, seated figure traveling on a white-red cloud on the Judge’s
right side. The cloud seems to leave the Judge. This small figure possibly represents the soul of
a deceased hearer. In the sixth king’s court of Ten Kings sūtra P.2003 of Buddhism, the King of
Transformations (Biancheng wang 變成王) has two small figures on two clouds leaving him, which
represents the deceased soul ascending to the paradise (Ma 2016, p. 390).50
Figure 11. The judgment scene (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plate 6).
[Ascending the Glory Palace] (cc. 573–577)

The deceased souls then “ascend to the Glory Palace, are exposed to Shena and go through all the
twenty-eight halls”.51 Shena is abbreviation for Lushena—Column of Glory (Figure 8).
49 登寶宮，皈命道，先意太空見閻羅.
50 Gábor Kósa believes that the cloud might represent the verdict of the judge as the cloud leaving the mouth of Wudao
zhuanlun wang 五道轉輪王 “the King Who Turns the Wheel of Rebirth in the Five Paths” in P. 2003. (Kósa 2014b, pp. 102–3).
Gulácsi believes that the judge is shown issuing the verdict (personified as a small figure on a cloud issuing from his mouth).
(Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/43, p. 466).
51 登相宮，見舍那，二十八殿盡經過.
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[Ascending the Moon Palace] (cc. 578–582)

The deceased souls then “ascend to the Moon Palace, [meet with three treasures]: First Thought,
Lightning and Jesus [the Buddha of] Harmony”.52
Inside the moon of the Liberation of Light there are three deities. According to textual references,
they should be the First Man (i.e., First Thought), the Virgin of Light (i.e., Lightning) and Jesus. There
are seven pilots in it (Figure 12).
Figure 12. The Moon in the Liberation Light (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plate 5).
[Ascending the Sun Palace] (cc. 583–587)

The deceased souls then “ascend to the Sun Palace, [are exposed to Compassionate Mother,]
Sun-radiance and Pure Wind on their marvelous seats”.53
Inside the sun of the Liberation of Light, there are three deities too. According to textual
references, they should be the Mother of Life (i.e., Compassionate Mouther), the Third Messenger
(i.e., Sun-radiance) and the Living Spirit (i.e., Pure Wind) (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plates 5,
pp. 104–6; Gulácsi 2016, Figure 6/39, p. 454). There are twelve pilots in it (Figure 13). Seven pilots in
the Moon and twelve pilots in the Sun are called “seven and twelve great Ship-masters” (c. 341).
[Ascending the Three Constancies] (cc. 590–592)

The deceased souls then “ascend to the Three Constancies, meet with nine treasures, in New
Light[-world] on lotus seats of nine levels”.54 The Three Constancies are Trinity: the Father—the Father
of Greatness, the Son—Jesus and the Holy Spirit—the Light-Nous. The deceased souls should ascend
to the New Aeon (Figure 4) first and then ascend to the Realm of Light.
52 登月宮，（見慈母）[會三寶]：先意、電光、夷數和.
53 登日宮，(會三寶) [見慈母]、日光、凈風神妙座.
54 登三常，會九寶，新明九品蓮花座.
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Figure 13. The Sun in the Liberation Light (Yoshida and Furukawa 2015, Plate 5).
[Ascending Eternal Light] (cc. 588–589)

The deceased souls then “ascend to [world of] Eternal Light (the Realm of Light) and present
themselves before Moluo (Father of Greatness). They are collected by the Venerable One and get a lot
of blessings”55 (Figure 3).
3.2.17. [Worshipping the Five Buddhas] (cc. 597–630)

The priest worships the five prophets: Mani, Nārāyan.a, Zoroaster, Śākyamuni and Jesus.56
3.2.18. [Praise to Five Pleasures] (cc. 631–645)

The priest praises five kinds of pleasure:
“Pleasure of wisdom: Ah, homeward bound we go, ah, homeward bound we go! Who can
avoid the transmigration through the six kinds of rebirth? To ask where is the home? The
stūpa of hundred flowers in the precious world of light”.57
“Pleasure of light: [On] The bridge of seven treasures in the lake of seven treasures, all the
noble sons in the fragrant Air are invited. The noble sons held flowers and praise together
and sing together in the lake for miraculously-born”.58 Qibao chi 七寶池 (the lake of seven
treasures) reminds us of qibao xiangchi 七寶香池 (the perfumed lake of seven Treasures) in
H.391 and xiangkong 香空 (fragrant Air) reminds us miao xiangkong 妙香空 (wonderful and
fragrant Air) in H.123 (=miao shengkong 妙生空 “wonderful, animating Air” in H.389, one of
the five kinds of greatness).
55 登常明，覲默羅，蒙尊攝取恩具多.
56 Its content is similar to “The Five Sons of Thunder” (cc. 494–515). I will translate it completely into English and publish it in
the near future.
57 智慧樂:歸去來兮歸去來，誰能六道免輪迴？借問家䜹何處去？光明寶界百花龕。
58 光明樂:七寶池中七寶橋，香空聖子盡相邀。聖子把花齊讃詠，化生池裏齊唱饒。
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“Pleasure of power: The paradise cloud towers, villages of seven treasures, golden towers
and silvery watchtower, their number reaches three thousands. The palaces and stūpas of
beryl reflect each other, auspicious color is bright which is the light of sun and moon”.59
“Pleasure of purity (divinity): the twelve Kings of Light always assist and follow; endless
noble sons compete to come forward. Holy crowd in fragrant Air always circumambulate,
flower garlands and bejeweled crowns rain down”.60
“Pleasure of obeying the Buddha’s teaching: The vast sky is brimming over with the tinkling
of celestial music, the enchanting notes with the wind can be heard west and east. This should
be that the descended soul is saved recently and introduced to the Venerable Lord of Light
when the music is over”.61
3.2.19. [Gatha of the New Light[-World]] (cc. 648–658)

The priest praises the New Light-world (Figure 4):
“The New Light-world is near finished, [light-souls] should call each and come back. [You]
should not be fond of the human world which is not the place to live in peace. The light-souls
should be saved from the suffering and quickly leap over sea of eternal happiness. [ . . . ]
In the realm of treasure of the New Light-world there are jade palaces and golden gardens.
Should not be fond of the human world . . . .The *councilor on the throne of seven treasures
bestows sons who defeats the host of demons to you. The New Light[-world] already
commenced and bestows buddhas of one country to you. Should not be fond of the human
world . . . .One country is equal to thousand cities and one city is equal to a myriad of
villages. In the palaces of treasures of the New Light[-world] immeasurable lives are born
miraculously. Should not be fond of the human world . . . .Singing and chanting does not
stop all day long. The New Light[-world] is the best place to roam, enlightenment is attained
forever on the [lotus-]flower dais. Should not be fond of the human world . . . .When long
life with less pleasure, life is limitless”.62
The end of manuscript is missing and only left two titles: “Praise of the Four Entities of Calmness”
and “The Ceremony Held on the Last Day of the Month of Precept (Jieyue Jie 戒月結)” (cc. 659).
4. Mani the Buddha of Light and Buddhist Worship and Repentance Rituals
4.1. From Bema Festival to A Book of Prayer and Confession

Mani the Buddha of Light is a collection of ritual manuals for congregational cults. We may trace
Manichaean congregational cult back to the Bema festival. The Greek word bēma meant “platform”.
The bēma festival was dedicated both to the commemoration of the death of Mani and to the glorification
of his personality. During the bēma festival, Mani’s coming from the world of light was symbolized by
the adornment of the bēma (throne). So bēma became the name of the festival itself.
During the Bema festival, the community of all the elect and the laymen gathered together and
the main ceremonies included the confession of the hearers and the elect and a quasi-sacramental meal
in which the elect partook. Between or before these rites, the elect and the laymen usually recited
59 大力樂:極樂雲臺七寶莊，金臺銀闕滿三千。琉璃殿塔相交映，瑞色高明日月光。
60 清淨樂：十二光王常翊從，無邊聖子競來前。香空聖眾常圍遶，雨下花鬘及寶冠。
61 皈命樂：玲玲天樂滿長空，風散餘聲西復東。應是下凡新得度，引見明尊曲來終.
62 新明界欲成，相喚須歸去。莫戀此閻浮，不是安居處。救性離災殃，速超常樂海。[· · · · · · ]新明寶 ࡾ 中，玉殿金園裏。
莫戀此閻浮，· · · · · · 七寶座
ᓗ䑌蹭，賜汝降魔子。新明今已登，賜汝一國佛。莫戀此閻浮，· · · · · · 一國如千城，一城千萬
邑。新明寶宮衢，化生無量壽。莫戀此閻浮，· · · · · · 歌詠齊唱饒，終日無停息。新明最好遊，永證花臺上。莫戀此閻
浮，· · · · · · 長生少樂時，壽命無限度.
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canonical texts, sang hymns and kept vigil; moreover, there were also sermons, catechism classes and
telling of parables.
A Book of Prayer and Confession written in Middle Persian, Parthian and Sogdian was used in
divine services in Central Asia. The extant manuscript can be divided into two parts. The first part
is Bema liturgy which includes: Mani’s Letter of the Seal as canonical text, hymns for the beginning of
the Bema, praises of Narisah-yazd (the Third Messenger), Srōsh-Ahrāy (the Column of Glory), Jesus
the Savior, the Messengers, the Bema and hymns of the joyful. The second part is Confessional text for
the elect which includes: discussion of the five commandments (Truthfulness, Nonviolence, Behavior
in accordance with religion, Purity of the mouth and Blessed poverty), the five gifts (nous, thought,
mind, intelligence and understanding), the “closing of the five gates (eye, ear, nose, hand and feeling)”,
prayers and hymns, the four Monday prayers and “the divine table” for the quasi-sacramental meal
(Henning 1937; Klimkeit 1993, pp. 133–44). A Book of Prayer and Confession might be one of the sources
for the Chinese Mani the Buddha of Light.
But it is obvious that Mani the Buddha of Light is not a translation of a book in Middle Iranian. It is
under the cloak of Buddhist worship and repentance ritual.
4.2. Buddhist Worship and Repentance Ritual

Since Buddhism came to China, especially with the spread of the Mahayana tradition,
the popularity of virtue thought and the promotion of eminent monks, various ritual activities of
worship and repentance flourished. Many “Buddha-name” sutras (foming jing 佛名經) were popular
and widespread since the Jin dynasty (265–420) and established good foundation for the development
of worship and repentance ritual. The more extensive Foming jing are confessional texts: they consist of
an endless invocation of Buddhas, Bodhisattvas and even sacred scriptures, after each name or group
of names there is a confession of sins. For example, Foming jing “translated” by Bodhiruci contains
11,093 names (T 440).
From the sixth to tenth centuries, Buddhis rules for confession and pardon (chanyi 懺儀) can be
divided into four kinds: (1) sutra recitation and penitential offering (jingchan 經懺); (2) worship and
repentance rituals (lichan wen 禮懺文); (3) document of penitence (chanhui wen 懺悔文); (4) compilation
of rituals (zongji 總集), for example, Compilation of Worship and Repentance Rituals (Contained in) Various
Sutras (ji zhujing lichan yi 集諸經禮懺儀) compiled by Zhisheng 智昇 in 730 (T 1982).
The prominent example of jingchan is Confessional for realizing the Lotus Samâdhi (Fahua sanmei
chanyi 法華三昧懺儀, T 1941) compiled by Zhiyi 智顗 (538–598). We can find five stages of the
confession ritual in it: (1) chahui 懺悔 “repentance”; (2) quanqing 勸請 “invocation of the Buddha(s)”;
(3) suixi 隨喜 “responding with joy” (in observing the good behavior of others); (4) huixiang 回向
“transfer” (one’s merit to another); (5) fayuan 發願 “arousing the vow” (to save all sentient beings).
The worship and repentance rituals were used by both monks and the laity for six periods of
worship daily and focused on worship. We only know the authors of a few of them. Most of them are
Dunhuang manuscripts without names of the authors. Some are mainly for worshipping Buddha(s),
such as Ceremony of Dharma-body [of Buddha] (fashen li 法身禮), Ceremony of Descending [of Buddha]
(jiangsheng li 降生禮), Laudatory gāthās for Going to be Reborn in the Śukhāvati (wangsheng lizan ji 往
生禮讚偈) by Shan Dao 善導 in 662, Ceremony of Twelve [Buddhas of] Light (shier guang[fo] li 十二
光[佛]禮). Some are mainly for worshipping Buddhist teachings, such as Five Ceremonies of Diamond
(Prajñāpāramitā) (jinggang wuli 金剛五禮) and Seven Ceremonies of Lotus [Sutra] (fahua qi liwen 法華七禮
文). Some are mainly for worshipping sam . gha (community of monks and nuns), such as Ceremony of
[Maitreya’s] Ascent ([Mile] Shangsheng li [彌勒] 上生禮) and Ceremony of Avalokiteśvara (Guanyin li 觀音禮)
(Wang 1998, pp. 33, 75–114, 201–88; 2008, pp. 6, 21–60, 139–224, 259–304; Giles 1957, pp. 195–96;
Kuo 1994, pp. 229–32; Zürcher 1997).
Ennin (793–864), one of the famous Japanese monks visiting Imperial China, gave us a description
of the activities of worship and repentance. Ennin’s Diary: The Record of a Pilgrimage to China in Search of
the Dharma records the rituals of Koreans in Dengzhou, Shandong, in 839: “Men and women, monks
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and laymen, are gathered together in the cloister listening to lectures in the daytime and worshiping
and repenting and listening to scriptures and the order [of worship] at night. The monks and others
number about forty. The lecturing, worshiping and repentances are all done in accordance with the
customs of Korea. The worship and repentance at dusk and before dawn are in the Chinese manner
but all the rest are in the Korean language” (Ennin 1955, p. 151; 1992, p. 190).
4.3. Manichaeism under the Cloak of Buddhism

As early as the 8th century, Manichaean congregational cult might already be in the garb of
Buddhist worship and repentance ritual. The Compendium written in 731 informs us that one of the
five halls of Manichaean monastery buildings is a hall for worship and repentance (lichen tang 礼懺
堂) (Chavannes and Pelliot 1913, pp. 106, 109). This means that Manichaeans already used Buddhist
“worship and repentance” to name the hall for their congregational cult.
The original title of Xiapu manuscript Mani the Buddha of Light may have been [Ceremony of]
Mani the Buddha of Light (Moni guangfo [li] 摩尼光佛[禮]). We may take Mani the Buddha of Light as a
compilation of worship and repentance rituals of Manichaeism because homogeneous ritual stages
appear again and again.
We can find some traces of the relationship between Manichaeism and Buddhist repentance
rituals in a memorial submitted to the throne on 26 November 1120 which was called the “Wenzhou
Memorial” by Western scholars. The scriptures and the pictures and images of the followers of the
Religion of Light have titles recorded in this memorial includes The Grand Confessional (Guangda chan
廣大懺) (Xu 2014, v.14, p. 8325; Mou 1938, p. 134; Forte 1973, pp. 238, 243–44; Lieu 1992, pp. 276–77).
This may be a Manichaean ritual manual under the cloak of Buddhis confessional ritual.
4.4. Comparison between Mani the Buddha of Light and Buddhist Worship and Repentance Ritual
Most Buddhis worship and repentance rituals are made up of some of the twelve stages.
Three stages have nothing to do with Mani the Buddha of Light: remembrance of the Buddha[’s name]
(nianfo 念佛), purity while abiding in the world (chu shijie fan 處世界梵) and verse of impermanence
(wuchang ji 無常偈. Therefore, we will not discuss them in detail. We will discuss the other nine stages
(Wang 1998, pp. 313–53).
4.4.1. qingfo 請佛 Inviting Buddha(s)

A ritual can become of significance only when the Buddhas accept the invitation and descend to
the altar. So, inviting Buddhas appears in all rituals. The priest and the laity should kneel and worship,
hold flowers in hand and sing gathas.
In a few cases Mani the Buddha of Light just follows the Buddhist ritual to invite “various great
bodhisattvas” and “all past and future buddhas”, and so forth (cc. 199–206). Almost all the “Buddhas”
invited in it are Manichaean deities.
4.4.2. zanfo 讚佛Praising Buddha(s)

Praising Buddha(s) (also tanfo 嘆佛) means the priest and the laity recite gathas/proses to praise
the various merits of the Tathāgata.
In Mani the Buddha of Light, there is a long prose part to praise the birth of Mani (“Praise of the
Descent” cc. 292–312). Praise to five pleasures (cc. 631–645) actually admires the four Entities of
Calmness: wisdom, light, power and purity (divinity).
4.4.3. lifo 禮佛 Worshipping Buddha(s)

Worshipping Buddha(s) is the most important part of the ritual. It usually takes three steps: first,
the priest bows to Buddhas and invokes their names. Before the names, there are usually such words
as “namah. (nanmo 南無)”, “to pay homage to (jingli 敬禮)”, and “whole-hearted taking of refuge in the
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Buddha (zhixin guiming li 至心歸命禮)”. Then the priest recites gatha to praise Buddhas. At last the
laity join in the singing or chanting.
Worshipping Buddhas in Mani the Buddha of Light follows the same procedure. Of course, most of
“Buddhas” are Manichaean deities, prophets, saints and so forth. “Ascending [of the deceased soul]
through the Right Path” (cc. 565–596) are special. The text describes that the souls ascend through
Precious, Glory, Sun and Moon Palaces to the New Aeon and World of Eternal Light where many
deities reside.
4.4.4. wuhui 五悔 Five Kinds of Repentance

Buddhist five kinds of repentance are five steps in a penitential service: (1) confession of past sins
and forbidding them for the future (chanhui 懺悔); (2) appeal to the universal buddhas to keep the
law-wheel rolling (quanqing 勸請); (3) rejoicing over the good in self and others (suixi 隨喜); (4) offering
all one’s goodness to all the living and to the Buddha-way (huixiang 迴向, Sk. parı̄n.āma); (5) resolve or
vows (fayuan 發願).
In Mani the Buddha of Light, the confession is much simpler. In lieu of the hearers, the priest
pronounces a confession text which does not mention any specific misdeed but includes every “sin”
committed by human beings in the past, the present and the future. This confession text (cc. 265–271)
actually is a copy of “This Gāthā is a Penitential Prayer of Niyusha 你逾沙 (i.e., MP. niyōs̆āg: hearers)”
in Hymnscroll (H. 410–414). Such sins as doubting the two great Lights (Sun and Moon); injuring the
body of Lushena (Column of Glory) and as well as the five Light-sons (Ether, Wind, Light, Water and
Fire); imperfectly observing the seven kinds of almsgivings, the ten Commandments (the moral code
of hearers) and the three Seals (Seals of the mouth, hands and bosom) only can be understood from a
Manichaean point view.
In Mani the Buddha of Light, huixiang is similar to the Buddhist one. Some sections end with
huixiang. In huixiang, only few words betray the Manichaean content, such as new light(-world) (xin
ming(jie) 新明(界)) (cc. 648, 651, 653, 655, 657).
4.4.5. san guiyi 三皈依 Venerating the Triratna

Buddhist venerating the Triratna (also sangui 三歸) means the three surrenders to the three
treasures (sanbao 三寶), that is, to the Buddha (fo 佛), to the Dharma (fa 法) and to the Saṅgha (seng 僧).
The obeisance (henan 和南) usually follows venerating the Triratna.
Mani the Buddha of Light sometimes takes the Father of Greatness (Sahuanmoluo c. 427) as the
Buddha, sometimes takes the one who enters the realm of Mani (c. 50) as the Buddha; sometimes takes
The Living Gospel (yinglun c. 55) as Dharma, sometimes takes Jesus (c. 433) as the maker of the Dharma.
偈發願 Explaining in Verse and Making a Vow to Save All Beings

4.4.6. shuoji fayuan 䃚⌅
Buddhist shuoji fayuan actually has the double functions as fayuan and huixiang. fayuan is giving
rise to the intention to save all sentient beings.
In Mani the Buddha of Light, fayuan is similar to the Buddhist one. Only a few words have
Manichaean color, such as “sainthood of great light and eternal happiness” (daming changle shengguo
大明常樂聖果) (cc. 83–84).
4.4.7. liushi jisong 六時偈頌 Six Periods of Gāthās

Liushi jisong is established to act in concert with the six periods of worshipping and repentance
(liushi lichan 六時禮懺). The full day is divided into the three daytime periods of dawn (yinchao 寅朝),
noon (wushi 午時), and dusk (huanghun 昏), along with the three nighttime periods of the first watch of
the night (chuye 初夜), midnight (zhongye 中夜) and latter part of the evening (houye 後夜).
Manichaean elect performed four or seven prayers daily (qishi lichan 七時禮懺). Mani the Buddha
of Light also praises the monks who perform seven periods of worshipping and repentance. (c. 443)
There are second period (dier shi 第二時) and third and fourth periods (disan shi 第三時, disi shi 第
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四時) in Mani the Buddha of Light. There should be a first period (diyi shi 第一時) before the second
period. The relationship between these four periods and the Buddhist six periods or Manichaean seven
prayers daily should be studied in the future.
4.4.8. fanzhou 梵咒 Mantra

The mantra, recited, muttered or sung in a ritual as a general name for the verses, formulas or
sequence of words in prose, is believed to have religious, magical or spiritual efficiency. In Chinese
Buddhism, Sanskrit mantras were transcribed in Chinese characters. Usually the mantra was not
translated because the Sanskrit words themselves were thought to incorporate the essence of Buddhism.
There are many transcriptions in Mani the Buddha of Light. Besides names, terms and phrases
scattered through the manuscript, there are thirteen whole blocks of transcriptions (77 cc. = 936
characters) (Lin 2014, p. 491). While similar to transcriptions from Sanskrit in indigenous Buddhist
ritual and penance texts, they are in fact transcriptions from Middle Iranian according to what has
already been deciphered. There is more than one Chinese transcription for some Middle Iranian words
in the Xiapu documents, even in one hymn of a single manuscript. This phenomenon shows that
Middle Iranian prayer and confession texts were recited by foreign Manichaean elect such as master
Hulu (Uighur: ulug) fashi 呼祿法師 (great priest, active around middle of 9th century) in congregational
cults in South China and recorded in transcriptions by Chinese disciples who were not good at Middle
Iranian languages. Or foreign elect brought various Chinese transcriptions of mantra to South China.
These Chinese transcriptions of mantra were put into Mani the Buddha of Light without emendations
made by the elect who were good at both Middle Iranian and Chinese. More and more mistakes
were added in the procedure of copying such transcriptions again and again by transcribers who
were wholly unfamiliar with Middle Iranian and it becomes extremely difficult for modern scholars to
decipher the extant transcriptions.
4.4.9. (zhong)he (眾) 和 (Hearers) Joining in the Singing or Chanting

In Buddhist rituals, most verses (poetry) and proses were recited by priests. But the laity joined
in singing or chanting some simple but important verses. For example, “(We) wish that we with all
sentient beings will come back to the ocean of thusness”.63 (Ceremony of Dharma-body) “(We) wish that
we with all sentient beings will be born in paradise”.64 (Ceremony of Twelve [Buddhas of] Light)
In Mani the Buddha of Light, the hearers also join in singing simple verses. For example, they join in
singing again and again: “We wish that the deceased spirit would ride the buddhas’ majestic brilliance
and bear witness to the community of bodhisattvas!” (cc. 497, 500, 503, 505, 509)
Mani the Buddha of Light also has some rituals which are not formal stages of ritual.
4.4.10. jingtan 浄壇 Purification of the Altar and kaitan 開壇 Preparing the Altar (cc. 248–255, 403–419)
Chinese Manichaeans should called bēma as 齋壇 “altar” before Manichaeism spread from
Louyang to Mongolia around 762. So, in Turkish Manichean texts the equivalent of bēma appears
to be čaidan (Henning 1937, p. 9). This word may be derived from Chinese zhāitán 齋壇 (tùăi-d‘an)
(Müller 1910, p. 93; Asmussen 1965, pp. 226f.). In Sogdian texts, it appears to be c’yδ’n and j’yd’ny
which means “of the Bema” (Henning 1945, p. 155; Sims-Williams 1981, pp. 236–37). But we have no
evidence that tan 壇 “altar” still related to bēma in Mani the Buddha of Light.
63 願共諸眾生，同歸真如海。
64 願共諸眾生，往生安樂國。
131
4.4.11. da zangxiang 大讃香 Great Praising Incense Offering (cc. 460–481)

There are also other incense offering praises in this collection (cc. 67–85, 445–459). The Manichaeans
attached importance to incense offering. The prominent poet and scholar-official Lu You informs
us about some details of the Religion of Light of Fujian in his memorial in 1162: “Since they burn
frankincense (ruxiang 乳香), frankincense has risen in price” (Lu 2011, v.9, p. 125; Chavannes and
Pelliot 1913, pp. 351–52).
Other rituals include: Jingkou 淨口 “Purification of Speech”, kanjing 看經 “reading the scriptures”,
and songfo 送佛 “farewell ritual for the Buddhas”.
Mani the Buddha of Light shares most of the ritual stages with Buddhist worship and repentance
rituals but its content is almost totally different from Buddhist one. Even within Manichaeism, some of
its content is also different from that of other Manichaean materials. Here we only take the pantheon
as example.
5. Comparison between the Pantheons of Mani the Buddha of Light and Other
Manichaean Materials
Mani the Buddha of Light not only adopted Buddhist worship and repentance rituals as its form
and also changed a lot of Manichaean contents. Its pantheon on the one side is a heritage of the
pantheon of Dunhuang version, on the other side is different from Dunhuang version. (see the Table 1)
(Sundermann 1979; Bryder 1985, pp. 63–123; Van Lindt 1992; Ma 2013b).
Table 1. Table of Simplified Manichaean Pantheon.
Iranian and other Language

Dunhuang Version Mani the Buddha of Light
Versions
Unsurpassed Buddha of Light
Unsurpassed King of Light
1. Father of Greatness (❑к‫ݹ‬᰾֋)
(❑к‫ݹ‬᰾⦻)
(Pth. pydr wzrgyf‫)ڒ‬ Unsurpassed Venerable of Light
Unsurpassed Venerable of Light
Zurw¬n (MP. by zrw’n) (❑к᰾ሺ) (c. 125)
(❑к᰾ሺ)
Sahuan 㯙㐙
1.1. the Four-faced Father of
The Four Entities of Calmness The Four Entities of Calmness
Greatness (ϳ ΘΉΘΕ΅ΔΕϱΗΝΔΓΖ
(ഋᇲ) (ഋᇲ)
Δ΅Θ03AEΕ ΘΓІ ΐΉ·νΌΓΙΖ)
1.1.1. Divinity (Pth. bg’, MP. yzd) Purity (ཧ㯙, ␵␘) Purity (ी䋰, ૖೟, ␵␘)
1.1.2. Light (Pth./MP. rwšn,) Light (⛿ⴗ䂥, ‫ݹ‬᰾) Light (೗䂥, ‫ݹ‬᰾)
1.1.3. Power (Pth. z’wr’, MP. zwr) Power (⾊䐟, བྷ࣋) Power (᎟叫೹,㰷䐟, བྷ࣋)
1.1.4. Wisdom (Pth. jyryft’, MP. whyh) Wisdom (Ҿજ, Ცភ) Wisdom (堫ଙસ૶, ઼䟟,Ცភ)
1.2.1–5. The Five Dwellings of the Five limbs (ӄ億): nous (⴨),
Father of Greatness: nous, thought, thought (ᗳ), mind (ᘥ),
mind, intelligence and intelligence (ᙍ) and
understanding understanding (᜿)
(1) Twelve Aeons (Greek ΅ϡ
Twelve Light-Kings (ॱҼ‫)⦻ݹ‬ Twelve Light-Kings (ॱҼ‫)⦻ݹ‬
ΈΙΓΎ΅ϟΈΉΎ΅ ΅ϡЗΑ΅΍)
A. The Aeons of the Aeons (Greek Various lands as fine dust
Lands as fine dust (ᗞລ഻൏)
΅ϡ ΅ϡЗΑ΅΍ ΅ϡЏΑΝΑ) (ᗞລ䄨഻൏)
2.2. Mother of the Living (MP. mҴdr Good Mother Buddha (ழ⇽֋), Good Mother Buddha (ழ⇽֋),
ҵy zyndgҴn) Compassionate Mother (᝸ᛢ⇽) Compassionate Mother (᝸⇽)
3.First Man (Pth. mrd hsyng), First
First Thought Buddha (‫ݸ‬᜿֋), First Thought Buddha (‫ݸ‬᜿֋),
Enthymesis (MP. hndyšyšn
First Thought (‫ݸ‬᜿) First Thought (‫ݸ‬᜿)
nxwys‫ړ‬yn)
132
Table 1. Cont.

Versions
4.1.1. the Five Light Gods (Pth. pnj five light buddhas (ӄ᰾֋), Five Five Light Buddhas (ӄ᰾֋),
rwšn) light-sons (ӄ᰾ᆀ) Five light-sons (ӄ᰾ᆀ)
4.1.2. Living Soul (Pth. gryw
Light-nature (᰾ᙗ) Light-nature (᰾ᙗ)
jywndg)
4.2.1. Ether (MP. pr’whr) Ether (≓) Ether (≓)
4.2.2. Wind (Pth./MP. w’d) Wind (付) Wind (付)
4.2.3. Light (Pth. rwšn) Light (᰾) Light (᰾)
4.2.4. Water (Pth./MP. ’b) Water (≤) Water (≤)
4.2.5. Fire (Pth./MP. ’dwr) Fire (⚛) Fire (⚛)
5. The god of the Answer (Pth.
Mah¬sth¬mapr¬pta (ऒ㠣) Mah¬sth¬mapr¬pta (ऒ㠣)
pdwҴxtg)
Enjoyer of the Lights Buddha Enjoyer of the Lights Buddha
6. Friend of Lights (Pth. fryhrwšn)
(′᰾֋) (′᰾֋)
7. Great Architect (MP. rҴz ҵy wzrg) Creator of forms Buddha (䙐⴨֋) Creator of forms Buddha (䙐⴨֋)
8. The Living Spirit Pure Wind Buddha (߸付֋), Pure Wind Buddha (߸付֋), Pure
(Pth. wҴd jywndg) Pure Wind (߸付) Wind (߸付)
9. Five sons of the Living Spirit Five valiant sons (ӄㅹ偽‫ڕ‬ᆀ)
the Envoy of Light who upholds
9.1. the Keeper of Splendor The Venerable Buddha Who
the world (ᤱц᰾֯), Lord who
(Sogd. xšyšpt Ά·w) Upholds the World (ᤱцሺ֋)
upholds the world (ᤱцѫ)
9.2.1. King of Honor, King of Great King of the Ten Heavens (ॱ
King of the Ten Heavens (ॱཙ⦻)
Heaven (Sogd. sm’nšyΈ, ཙབྷ⦻), King of the Ten Heavens
King of Heaven (䱯㯙╛⋉)
Pth./MP. *’sm’n š’h) (ॱཙ⦻)
9.2.2. Jade August Great Emperor
(⦹ⲷབྷᑍ), Jade Emperor
Venerable Buddha (⦹ⲷሺ֋)
9.3. Adamant of Light, Victorious envoy who conquers
Verethragna (Sogd. wš·nyy Ά·yy) the demons (䱽冄ऍ֯)
9.4. King of Glory, the Earth Kᒲitigarbha Envoy of Light
Spenta Armaiti (Sogd. z’y spnd’rmt) (ൠ㯿᰾֯)
Envoy of light who urges
9.5. Atlas (Sogd. pΈf’ry Ά·yy)
enlightenment (ۜ‫ݹ‬᰾֯)
10. The god of the Call (Pth. xrwštg) Avalokiteïvara (㿰丣) Avalokiteïvara (㿰丣)
11.1. The Third Messenger (Pth.
Third Man (йиཛ), Third Envoy
hrdyg fryštg), Narisah-yazd (MP. Narisah-yazd (䛓ଙ၁઼ཧ೟)
of Light (й᰾֯)
nryshyzd)
Sun-radiance Buddha (ᰕ‫)֋ݹ‬, Sun-radiance Buddha (ᰕ‫)֋ݹ‬,
11.2. Sun (Pth. myhr (yzd))
Sun-radiance (ᰕ‫)ݹ‬ Sun-radiance (ᰕ‫)ݹ‬
The Twelve Hours (ॱҼᱲ),
12. The Twelve Virgins (Sogd. XII
Twelve Maidens of Transformation
Ά·pwryšt)
(ॱҼॆྣ)
Diamond Column of Glory (䠁ࢋ⴨
13.1. The Column of Glory (Pth.
ḡ)
bҴmystwn) Diamond Column of Glory (䠁ࢋ⴨
Perfect Man (ާ䏣иཛ)
The Perfect Man (Pth. mrd ҵspwryg) ḡ)
The righteous Sraoša (㰷䵢⋉㖵ཧ,
The righteous Sraoša (MP. Vairocana (㠽䛓֋, ⴗ㠽䛓֋, 㠽䛓)
ビ䐟⋉㖵ཧ)
srwš’hr’y)
Vairocana (ⴗ㠽䛓)
13.2. Final Statue (Pth. ҵs‫ړ‬wmynyzd)
D. The Sun and the Moon the Sun and Moon Buddhas of Light Sun and Moon Buddhas of Light
Luminaries (MP. rwšn rhy dw) (ᰕᴸ‫ݹ‬᰾֋) (ᰕᴸ‫֋ݹ‬, ᰕᴸ‫ݹ‬᰾֋)
14.1. Jesus the Splendor (Pth. yyšwҵ Jesus of Light (‫ݹ‬᰾ཧᮨ), Jesus Jesus the Splendor (ཧᮨ㋮઼),
zywҴ) Buddha (ཧᮨ֋) Jesus Buddha (ཧᮨ֋)
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Table 1. Cont.

Versions
14.2. Moon (Pth./MP. mҴ‫( ڤ‬yzd))
14.3. Jesus the Buddha of Harmony
(ཧᮨ઼֋)
E. Jesus the Child New Jesus (ᯠཧᮨ)
Virgin of Light (䅩֐೗䂥)
15. Virgin of Light (Pth./MP. Lightning Buddha (䴫‫)֋ݹ‬,
Lightning Buddha (䴫‫)֋ݹ‬,
qnygrwšn) Lightning (䴫‫)ݹ‬
Lightning (䴫‫)ݹ‬
Sadw¾s (Pth. sdwys) Lightning Royal Buddha
(䴫‫)֋⦻ݹ‬
Wise Light Buddha (ᜐ᰾֋), Great
16.1. The Light Nous (Parth. Great Mind (ᔓབྷᗳ), Wise Light
Nous (ᔓབྷᲪ), Good King of the
mnwhmyd rwšn) (ᜐ᰾), the Light-Nous (who is) the
Mind (Shanxin wang ழᗳ⦻)
Great Wahman (MP. whmn wzrg) Glory of the Teaching (ᜐ᰾⌅⴨)
Great Wahman (䆧ߪ䆧⪏)
16.2. The Holy Spirit (Pth. w’d The Living and Chosen Spirit
jywndg ’wd wjydg) (⍫ᱲ䴢ຮ兡Ҿ㘼ं)
17. Just Judge (Pth. d’dbr r’štygr) Impartial King (ᒣㅹ⦻) Yama (䯫㖵)
(3.1) Five Buddhas (Խ֋)
(3.2.1) N¬r¬yaᒤa (䛓㖵ᔦ֋), the
first great Tathagatas of good aeon
(䌒ࣛаᓗབྷྲֶ)
(3.2.2) Zoroaster (㰷䐟᭟֋), the
second great Tathagatas of good
aeon (䌒ࣛҼᓗབྷྲֶ)
(3.2.3) g¬kyamuni (䟻䘖᮷֋), the
third great Tathagatas of good
aeon (䌒ࣛйᓗབྷྲֶ)
(3.2.4) Jesus (ཧᮨ઼֋), the fourth
great Tathagatas of good aeon (䌒
ࣛഋᓗབྷྲֶ), Christ (ᵛቨ䁦)
(3.2.5) Mani (᪙ቬ‫)֋ݹ‬, Long Life
Nectar King (䮧⭏⭈䵢⦻)
(4) George (〫⍫ਹᙍ,ਹᙍ)
(5) Jacob (㙦ާᆊ)
(6.1) four heavenly kings (ഋཙ⦻)
(6.2.1–4) Raphael (೗㑋䙨೹),
Michael (ᕼ䁦䙨஠), Gabriel (ᾝ㑋
೹䙨೹), Sˬra’el (၁೹䙨೹)
(7) Narses (㜭䙿㰷ᙍ)
(8) Nastikus (㜭೟ ત<㰷>ᙍ)
It is no doubt that the pantheon of Mani the Buddha of Light inherited that of Dunhuang Chinese
Manichaean documents. For example, twelve great gods in “A Gāthā, being a list for the ‘Collection of
Offerings’” of Hymnscroll, Twelve Light-Kings, Various lands as fine dust, Ether, Wind, Light, Water,
Fire, Avalokiteśvara, Mahāsthāmaprāpta, The Venerable Buddha Who Upholds the World, King of the
ten heavens, Sun and Moon Buddhas of Light and Jacob and so forth. Sometimes one or two Chinese
character(s) of the names of same gods in Xiapu and Dunhuang versions are different but it is not hard
to see the similarity between the two versions.
It is more valuable that Mani the Buddha of Light preserved quite a few important names of gods,
prophets and saints which are not found in Dunhuang documents. For example, the transcriptions of
Zurwān, the Four Entities of Calmness, names of King of Heaven, Narisah-yazd, Jesus the Splendor,
Virgin of Light, Great Wahman, Yama, Zoroaster, St. George, four heavenly kings (archangels), angels
134
Narses and Nastikus and so forth. These terms all can be confirmed by Middle Iranian materials and
there is no doubt for their authenticity. We should not deny the fact that the pantheon of Mani the
Buddha of Light inherited that of Dunhuang documents based on non-Manichaean literature. In contrast,
we should judge the authenticity of non-Manichaean literature based on Mani the Buddha of Light and
other Xiapu documents.
W. Sundermann pointed out: “Manichean hymns and psalms, which are preserved in large
numbers in both the Coptic and the Iranian traditions, are mainly directed towards the deities and thus
constitute a rich source for the understanding of the role of the gods in the religious practice of the
community. In general, one can conclude that those deities to whom complete hymns are dedicated
are also the principal ones, while gods of minor rank, receive, at the very most, a mere mention in
invocative lists” (Sundermann 2002).
The compiler of Mani the Buddha of Light obviously knew the Hymnscroll and cited a lot of its
verses. He copied “A Gāthā, being a list for the ‘Collection of Offerings’” (cc. 380–387) but he changed
the status of the twelve gods in other places. Among the twelve great gods, the first one is the highest
god and other gods are arranged by three Evocations: First Evocation—Good Mother, First Thought
and Five Light Buddhas; Second Evocation—Enjoyer of the Lights, Creator of forms and Pure Wind;
and Third Evocation—Sun-radiance, Vairocana, Jesus, Lightning and Wise Light. The highest god is
still number one in the list of gods “invited with wholehearted reverence (一心奉請)” (cc. 159–163)
but the gods of First and Second Evocations faded. They, with Sun-radiance and Wise Light of Third
Evocation, are not in the list of gods “invited with wholehearted reverence”. No complete hymns
are dedicated to the Enjoyer of the Lights and the Creator of forms. On the other side, the status of
Vairocana, Jesus and Lightning of Third Evocation were obviously promoted. The status of Sun and
Moon Buddhas of Light, the Venerable Buddha Who Upholds the World and King of the Ten Heavens
which were not among the twelve great gods in the Hymnscroll were promoted too. They are all in the
list of gods “invited with wholehearted reverence” (cc. 159–198).
The most distinct change of the pantheon of Mani the Buddha of Light is that prophet Mani was
carried to the altar. The well-known triad in Manichaeism was composed of Jesus the Splendor, the
Virgin of Light and the Light Nous (Blois 2003, p. 11). Mani replaced the Light Nous and became one
member of the triad of the Religion of Light (Mani, Jesus and Lightning). At the same time, Nārāyan.a,
Zoroaster, Śākyamuni and Jesus were collectively called “Four Great Venerable Buddhas” in the list of
gods “invited with wholehearted reverence” (cc. 191–194).
Prophet Mani and four of his forerunners—Nārāyan.a, Zoroaster, Śākyamuni and Jesus were
collectively called five buddhas and occupy an important position in Mani the Buddha of Light (especially
in the second part).
6. The Vitality of Ritual

The extant manuscript of Mani the Buddha of Light was copied no earlier than the Qing Dynasty
(1644–1911) but it as a collection perhaps was compiled during the same period of the painting of the
Diagram of the Universe—the late Yuan to early Ming Dynasty, that is, late 14th to early 15th century.
Just as the Diagram of the Universe was copied Mani’s ārdhang with some modification, many pieces
of the original texts in Mani the Buddha of Light should have come into being from Later Tang to early
North Song Dynasties (840–1100). Because the original was copied repeatedly and each transcriber
might have added something to the text, we cannot deny its antiquity according to some content of
later times.
Some scholars believe that the original was compiled during the Qing Dynasty. It is almost
impossible, because the local priests already knew little about Manichaeism during the 17–20th
centuries. Mani the Buddha of Light and Dunhuang Manichaean Chinese texts share a lot in common
as well as being very different. Mani the Buddha of Light is not a copy of some Manichaean document
of the Tang Dynasty (618–907). Its complier used some Manichaean documents and at least two of
them (Hymnscroll and Compendium) are extant as Dunhuang documents, as materials and Buddhist
135
worship and repentance rituals as a form to compile a new collection of rituals of the Religion of Light.
We doubt that the local priests still had such materials and such ability to do so during the 17–20th
centuries. It is almost impossible for the local priests to have inherited Manichaean Middle Iranian
verses and proses orally for about one thousand years and transcribed them into Chinese during the
17–20th centuries.
If we recognize the hypothesis that many pieces of the texts in Mani the Buddha of Light were
written about the 9th–11th centuries, why was it handed down generation after generation? The answer
is the strong vitality of the ritual. Most of the followers of the Religion of Light were illiterate people
but they could attend the rituals, look at and watch the paintings, listen to various ritual texts recited
by the priests and join in singing and chanting. Various rituals were held annually, monthly, weekly,
during some festivals, or even daily.
We have some historical records about the rituals of the Religion of Light. “Wenzhou Memorial”
in 1120 describes the followers of the Religion of Light:
Each year, in the first (lunar) month and on the day of mi (密 mi@t < Pth. myhr ‘Sunday’) in
ˆ
their calendar, they assemble together the Attendants (shizhe 侍者 = male elect), the Hearers
(tingzhe 聽者 = male auditors), the Paternal Aunts (gupo姑婆 = female elect), the Sisters who
donate monastic food (zhaijie 齋姐 = female auditors) and others who erect the sacred space
(Daochang 道場) and incite the common folk, both male and female. They assemble at night
and disperse at dawn. (Xu 2014, v.14, p. 8325)
Lu You described in his memorial:
There are even official-scholars and the sons of educated families among their ranks and
they will openly say, “Today I am attending the vegetarian feast of the Religion of Light
(Mingjiao zhai 明教齋)”. I have chided them by saying, “These are ‘demon [worshippers]’;
why should [someone of your standing] keep such company?” They replied: “This is not the
case. The ‘demon [worshippers]’ do not segregate men and women but the followers of the
Religion of Light do not permit men and women to come into contact with each other. If a
[male] follower of the Religion of Light is presented with food prepared by a woman, he will
not eat it”. I sometimes manage to procure the scriptures of the Religion of Light for perusal.
Their contents are boastful and have nothing of value, precisely what one would expect to
find in the works of common and vulgar people who practice magic and sorcery. (Lu 2011,
v.11, p. 481; Chavannes and Pelliot 1913, p. 343)
The scriptures of the Religion of Light possibly included ritual manuals, which were used in
the vegetarian feast. Congregational cults continued to be held and ritual manuals of the Religion of
Light were handed down generation after generation until the Ming and Qing dynasties (1368–1911).
So today we fortunately have the chance to do research on a copy of one of the collections of ancient
ritual manuals of the Religion of Light—Mani the Buddha of Light.
Mani the Buddha of Light is a ritual manual and the physical object of this research. We do not take
the Diagram of Universe as a physical object of the ritual. But from the very beginning Mani used both
scriptures and drawings to preach his doctrines. The Manichaeans of Tang Dynasty (618–907) knew
the seven great scriptures and the drawing of the two great principles (Chinese version of Ārdhang) of
Mani. “Wenzhou Memorial” mentions not only various scriptures but also several drawings, such as
The Sūtra (or Book) of Illustrations (Tu jing 圖經), The Portrait of the Buddha the Wonderful Water (Miaoshui
fo zhen 妙水佛幀), The Portrait of the Buddha the First Thought (Xianyi fo zhen 先意佛幀), The Portrait of the
Buddha Jesus (Yishu fo zhen 夷數佛幀), The Portrait of Good and Evil (Shan’e zhen 善惡幀), The Portrait of
the Prince Royal (Taizi zhen 太子幀) and The Portrait of the Four Heavenly Kings (Si tianwang zhen 四天王
幀). The followers of the Religion of Light might use both artistic and literary artefacts in their rituals.
The Diagram of Universe is to be identified as the South Chinese version of the Mani’s Picture Book or
Ārdhang. Future research may prove that the Diagram of Universe is also a physical object of the rituals
of the Religion of Light.
136
Author Contributions: X.M.’s contributions are about Manichaeism and C.W.’s contributions are about Buddhism.
Funding: Ministry of Science and Technology Project Research Grants: “From the Dunhuang Manuscripts to the
Xiapu Documents: A study of the Connections between Manichaeism and Buddhism”, MOST 105-2410-H-130-045,
MOST 106-2410-H-130-045.
Acknowledgments: We are grateful to Yutaka Yoshida, Gábor Kósa and Joanna Wang for comments that helped
us to rethink some points. We are satisfied to simply cite Yoshida’s comments in this paper and will write another
article to introduce and discuss Yoshida’s research on Middle Iranian texts and words in Chinese transcription,
including these comments.
Conflicts of Interest: The authors declare no conflicts of interest.
Appendix A. By Y. Yoshida
A hymn called Tianwangzan “Praise of the Heavenly Lords” (l. 334–39) is to be identified with
a Middle Persian text found in M 19. It was published by E. Morano, “Manichaean Middle Iranian
incantation texts from Turfan”, in: D. Durkin-Meisterernst et al. (eds.), Turfan revisited: The first century
of research into the arts and cultures of the Silk Road. Berlin, 2003, pp. 221–27, in particular p. 222. The text
as edited by Morano’s reads as follows:
M 19
1 ’w frystg’n oo wyn(d)[’m ’w]
2 rwf’yl oo m(y)h’yl o wzr(g)
3 (g)br’yl sr’yl ’wd (wy)[sp’n]
4 frystg’n oo kwm’n ’rd’[w’n]
5 nyws̆’g’n h’m’g dyn qwny[nd]
6 r’mys̆[n] ’wm’n xwd p’ynd (p)[d]
7 s̆’dyh. ’w j’yd’n (q)’mys̆[n]
(i)
奧和弗裡悉徳健那
· âu γuâ piu@tlji siĕt t@k g’i5n nâ
“ “ “
’w frystg’n
ō frēstagān
To the Angels.
(ii)
渾湛 <＊奥>嚧縛逸彌訶逸罰悉勒去

γu@n tậm luo b’iwak iĕt mjie xâ iĕt b’iw5t siĕt l@k k’iwo
“ “ “ “ “ “
wynd’m ’w rwf’yl myh’yl wzrg
wendām ō rufaēl mı̄haēl wuzurg
We praise Rufael, Michael the Great
(iii)
墠[㑋]೹䙨 ၁೹䙨
ngi5p [b’iwak] lâ iĕt sâ lâ iĕt
“ “ “ “
gbr’yl sr’yl
gabraēl sraēl
Gabriel Sarael
(iv)
嗢特唯悉伴那弗哩悉徳健那
‘ut d’@k iwi siĕt b’uân nâ piu@t lji siĕt t@k g’i5n nâ
“ “ “ “ “
’wd wysp’n frystg’n
ud wispān frēstagān
and all the Angels.
137
(v)
滿阿囉馱緩你喩沙健那
kiu muân · â lâ d’â γuân ńi iu s.a g’i5n nâ
“ ˆ “
kwm’n ’rd’w’n nyws̆’g’n
kumān ardāwān niyōs̆āgān
May they give us, Electi and Hearers,
(vi)
訶降∿ 陣滿特囉彌詵
xâ kång muâ d̆iĕn kiu muân d’@k lâ mjie s.iεn
“ “ ˆ
h’m’g dyn qwnynd r’mys̆n
hāmāg dēn kunēnd rāmis̆n
the whole Church, peace
(vii)
烏{思}滿那 {哩} 忽特波引特沙地
· uo si muân nâ xu@t d’@k puâ iĕn pi@u d’@k s.a d’i
“ ““
’wm’n xwd p’ynd pd s̆’dyh.
umān xwad pāyēnd pad s̆ādı̄h
and protect ourselves with joy
(viii)
阿和遮伊但
· â γuâ tśia · i d’ân
’w j’yd’n
ō j̆āydān
for ever.
Corruptions of the Chinese text:
(a) Loss of *奥 in verse (ii); (b) In verse (vi) 降 and 玄 (=麼) are misplaced. Possibly 降 is an error
for some such character as 去 , cf. 罰悉勒去 for wzrg; (c) In verse (vi) 滿 is an error for a character
like 難 (*nân) or 年 (*nien) influenced by滿 of verse (v); (d) In verse (vii) neither 思 nor哩 is wanted.
The reason for this miscopying is hard to see; (e) The last word of M19, q’mys̆n, is not wanted either.
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141
religions
Review
Influences of Egyptian Lotus Symbolism and
Ritualistic Practices on Sacral Tree Worship in the
Fertile Crescent from 1500 BCE to 200 CE
J. Andrew McDonald
Department of Biology, The University of Texas—Rio Grande Valley, 1201 W. University Dr.,
Edinburg, TX 78539, USA; andrew.mcdonald@utrgv.edu
Received: 2 August 2018; Accepted: 23 August 2018; Published: 27 August 2018
Abstract: Many conventional features of world tree motifs in the ancient Near East—including
stalked palmettes, aureoles of water lily palmettes connected by pliant stems, floral rosettes, winged
disks and bud-and-blossom motifs—trace largely from Egyptian practices in lotus symbolism around
2500 BCE, more than a millennium before they appear, migrate and dominate plant symbolism across
the Fertile Crescent from 1500 BCE to 200 CE. Several of these motifs were associated singularly or
collectively with the Egyptian sema-taui and ankh signs to symbolize the eternal recurrence and
everlasting lives of Nilotic lotus deities and deceased pharaohs. The widespread use of lotus imagery
in iconographic records on both sides of the Red Sea indicates strong currents of cultural diffusion
between Nilotic and Mesopotamian civilizations, as does the use of lotus flowers in religious rituals
and the practice of kingship, evidence for which is supported by iconographic, cuneiform and biblical
records. This perspective provides new insights into sacral tree symbolism and its role in mythic
legacies of Egypt and the Middle East before and during the advent of Christianity. Closer scholarly
scrutiny is still needed to fully comprehend the underlying meaning of immortalizing plants in the
mythic traditions of Egypt, the Levant and Mesopotamia.
Keywords: Nilotic lotus; sacral tree; ankh; sema-taui; Bible; kingship; libation ritual
1. Introduction
As both a symbol and iconographic prop, sacral tree images on palace and temple reliefs, murals,
seals, jewelry and ritualistic implements of the Middle East continue to “provoke more discussion and
controversy than almost any other element in Mesopotamian art” (Black et al. 1992, p. 170). Portrayals
and historical uses of these motifs remain an enigma to most historians and evoke little agreement
with respect to their botanical identity and allegorical significance (Atac 2008; Giovino 2007, pp. 21–30).
While most recent commentators identify visual impressions of the motif as a date palm (Albenda 1994;
Black et al. 1992, pp. 46, 170–71; Mazar 1961, vol. 4, p. 71; Moldenke and Moldenke 1952, p. 191;
Parpola 1993; Porter 1993), this utilitarian plant was in fact a frequent feature in depictions of mundane
scenes of palace life and agricultural panoramas. The date palm is occasionally associated with various
gods and goddesses, sacrificial rituals and libation scenes in artistic media, but primarily among
specimens from the 3rd and 2nd millenia BCE and Achaemedian cylinder seals from the 6–5th c. BCE
(Danthine 1937, pls. 3–9, 16). In such examples, the plant exhibits clearly interpretable features of a
date palm: i.e., stout, singular trunks with persistent leaf bases, pinnate fronds, several pendent and
woody, spathate flowering stalks and date fruits.
On other occasions, historians have also identified a variety of stylized images of a Mesopotamian
sacral tree and its exuberant flowers with cedars, firs, oaks, pomegranates, roses, willows or members
of the sunflower family (Bonavia 1894, pp. 3–7, 44–45, 58; Danthine 1937; James 1966, pp. 13, 42, 75, 98,
106, 162; Moldenke and Moldenke 1952, pp. 191, 286). These wide-ranging interpretations notwithstanding,

a more recent botanical assessment of the issue challenges most of the aforementioned determinations
(McDonald 2002), noting that most sacral trees that post-date 1500 BC lack the aforementioned characteristics
of a date palm, while manifesting many vegetative and fertile characteristics that are categorically
inconsistent with palm tree morphology, such as pliant stems, an aureole of interconnected palmettes
with blue-pigmented appendages, the latter often surrounding a golden disk, fruits with prominent calyx
segments and close associations with a cone-like object. From a botanical viewpoint, these and other
characteristics of the plant suggest a species that once dominated marshes of the Nile, Tigris and Euphrates
River systems: the Nilotic lotus (Nymphaea nouchali Burm. f.). Blue-pigmented palmettes of these sacred
trees appear to represent lateral perspectives of water lily corolla, while trunk-like features signify a stout
and succulent water lily stalk. Although this perspective is by no means original (Coomaraswamy 1935;
Danthine 1937; Goodyear 1887, 1891; Jones [1856] 1995, pp. 22–23, 28–29), modern historians have
inexplicably ignored this interpretation during most of the 20th century.
The use of lotus symbolism throughout the Fertile Crescent and Egypt during the second and
first millennia BCE is one of many practices that reveals a long history of cultural contacts between
early civilizations of the Nile River and Fertile Crescent. While many of Egypt’s earliest written
records make direct reference to Middle Eastern peoples (Redford 1992, pp. 19–24, 33), the widespread
usage of Egyptian symbols (ankhs, djeds, uraei, lotus flowers, etc.), apparel (robes, sandals, crowns,
and staffs) and presentation of zoomorphic gods and chimeras of Egyptian origin (falcons, scarabs,
jackals, etc.) throughout the Levant and Mesopotamia during the Middle Bronze Age (2000–1700 BCE;
(Keel and Uehlinger 1998, p. 25, Figures 8a,b, 15c, 32c and 34c)), with a secondary peak of popularity
during the Middle Iron Age (ca. 1000 BCE; (Keel and Uehlinger 1998, pp. 210–81)), attest to significant and
enduring influences of Egyptian culture over peoples throughout the Fertile Crescent. It is well known
that Levantine communities in ancient Egypt exercised considerable influence over the Nile delta from the
19–16th centuries BCE (i.e., the Hyksos; (Shaw and Nicholson 1995, p. 136; Keel and Uehlinger 1998, p. 17)),
during which period various Canaanite gods and goddesses, such as Qadesh (Qetesh), Anat (Anthat),
Ashtoreth (Astarte) and Baal (Bar), joined the ranks of the Egyptian pantheon (Budge [1904] 1969, vol. 2,
pp. 278–81; Shaw and Nicholson 1995, pp. 32, 42, 237; Redford 1992, pp. 231–33). Pre- and post-exilic
biblical records of Judah reveal in no uncertain terms that Hebrew-speaking tribes of Canaan and their
neighbors embraced various pantheons and religious practices of both Egypt and Mesopotamia (Lang 1983,
pp. 18–26, 41; Patai 1990; Keel and Uehlinger 1998, pp. 2–3); hence iconographic forms and conventions of
ancient Egypt, the Levant, and Mesopotamia intermingle freely with one another in archaeological sites that
date from the second and first millennia BCE (Jones [1856] 1995, pp. 23–29; Merhav 1987; Frankfort 1970;
Black et al. 1992, p. 84; Cline 1995).
Differing schools of iconology and mythology have yet to reconcile whether or not shared symbolic
elements and mythological themes of distant civilizations in Egypt, the Middle East and Europe have
arisen coincidentally (independently) or by means of cultural diffusion. While either or both of these
explanations might apply to any particular motif, it is incumbent upon historians to argue their specific
perspectives on an individual basis and support their views by drawing equally from evidence in
archaeological and written records. Ideally, their interpretations should be compatible with ritualistic
and religious customs of each historical age. In the present study, botanical considerations on the use of
lotus symbolism in Egypt and the Near East focus primarily on iconographic evidence, and then tests
hypothetical interpretations of floral and vegetative imagery by matching their visually contextual
and mythical presentations with historical and scriptural records.
In the case of lotus symbolism, we are well-informed of the plant’s prominent role in Egyptian
mythology by a wealth of scriptural and artistic evidence from the distant past. This is not,
however, the case for lotus symbolism in the Fertile Crescent, which has yet to be explored
and examined comprehensively under these unique geographical and cultural circumstances.
This incongruency owes in no small part to the dominant role of linguistic fields of inquiry in
the study of Mesopotamian and Near Eastern history, whose ongoing contributions are often at
a loss to identify ancient plant names and highly stylized vegetative and floral motifs on a botanical
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basis (Darby et al. 1977, pp. 36–37; Giovino 2007, pp. 12–16; Moldenke and Moldenke 1952, pp. 2–9).
Furthermore, it has long been assumed by art historians that sacral tree imagery relates to
the cultivation, pollination, and sanctification of date palms (Black et al. 1992, p. 46), direct
botanical confirmation of which has been challenged in many cases by McDonald (2002) and others
(Giovino 2007, pp. 77–90; Goodyear 1887, 1891). Since the physical and behavioral attributes of date
palms have limited relevance to standard mythical features of the Fertile Crescent’s sacred trees, such as
aquatic origins, solar attributes or contacts, and close associations with divine serpents and eagles
(McDonald 2002), various authorities have concluded that literary references in cuneiform and biblical
sources have no direct bearing on sacral tree imagery in the visual arts (James; (Black et al. 1992, p. 171;
Parpola 1993)). This perspective seems to be at variance, however, with iconographic records in
palaces and temples, which afford ample visual and textual evidence of such a plant, many referring
explicitly to an aquatic, resplendent, flowering plant of the immortal gods. References to this
plant are encountered frequently in mythic records of the Sumerians, Akkadians, and Canaanites
(Pritchard 1969), and often in association with mythical creatures that agree with visual portrayals of
sacral trees in archaeological records. They simply defy the logic of suggestions that this ubiquitous
and focal symbol of kingship and religious ritual in Akkadia, Assyria, Babylonia and the Levant fails
to appear in 3000 years of mythical cuneiform records (Cooper 2000; Parpola 1993, 1997).
If the development of sacral tree symbolism in the Fertile Crescent springs from, converges
upon, or parallels the development of sacred lotus symbolism in Egypt (Coomaraswamy 1935;
Goodyear 1887, 1891; Jones [1856] 1995, pp. 22–23, 28–29; McDonald 2002), then it only follows
that the mythic and symbolic significance of Mesopotamian and Near Eastern sacral trees should share
both iconographic and mythic relations with the Nile’s ubiquitous water lily motifs. McDonald (2002)
explored this subject briefly, primarily by relating mythical attributes of the sacral tree to physical and
behavioral characteristics of the Nilotic lotus. But that inquiry hardly scratches the surface of a very
complex subject and therefore invites closer examination of the origin and historical developments of
sacred tree symbolism in the Middle East. To accomplish this goal, it is useful to consider from the
outset the mythic and religious significance of lotus symbolism on the banks of the Nile River.
This investigation approaches a popular and familiar topic from a unique perspective, insofar as
the fundamental premises for interpretations of the ubiquitous Nilotic lotus of Egypt and the Middle
East are based primarily on the author’s botanical background and observations on the distinctive
morphic and behavioral characteristics: a plant species that subordinates all other symbolic plants
in terms of frequency of use. The diurnal, blue Nilotic lotus, Nymphaea nouchali Burm. f. (s.l.), is a
member of the aquatic water lily family, and exhibits a natural distribution that ranges across tropical
latitudes of Africa and Asia. A related species of this same plant group is also known materially from
archeological records and occasionally in iconographic records of Egypt and the Middle East—the
nocturnal, white-flowered night lotus, Nymphaea lotus L.—but this species plays a relatively minor role
in symbolism and religious ritual. The large and blue, resplendent, sun-like flowers of the day-bloomer
seem to have captivated the imaginations of Egyptian and Mesopotamian peoples like no other for at
least three millennia, and accordingly dominated the use of plant symbolism in mythic and religious
traditions of distant human communities. Biological insights provide novel and somewhat heterodoxic
viewpoints on ancient iconographic records and, in so doing, highlight details in symbolic expression
that are rarely considered while also contesting a number of popular viewpoints of modern historians.
2. The Egyptian Lotus as a Symbol of Immortal Life

Lotus symbolism is a hallmark of religious expression in pharaonic Egypt and permeates most
temple complexes and mortuary sites of pre-Christian origin. Some of Egypt’s earliest written records
make direct reference to the plant, many appearing in early mortuary chambers of Old Kingdom dynasts
at Saqqara, particularly those of King Unas (ca. 2375–2345 BCE). A compilation of these hieroglyphic
records with English translations in “The Ancient Egyptian Pyramid Texts” (Faulkner 1969) is replete
with mythical references to the first living being to emerge from the life-giving waters of ancient Egypt,
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this being the Nilotic blue lotus. Arising in the sky from a mythical islet of the Nile known as On,
not far from the historical city of Heliopolis (modern Cairo) as a solar cum water lily god of creation
known as Atum or Nefer-Atum (=Nefertum, or “Beauty Come-to-be”; Figure 1a), this primordial
demiurge instigates living creation by breathing his flower’s sweet-smelling essence across the face of
the earth and shedding his creative seed into the Egyptian sky. Nefertum accomplishes these acts in
three symbolically equivalent forms: (1) a water lily shoot (Figure 1a), (2) an aquatic phallus whose
life-engendering ejaculum fills the earth and heavens with its procreative “spittle” (Figure 1b), or (3) a
scarab beetle (Khepri) with blue-pigmented wings that lifts Egypt’s immortal, golden sun-disk (Ra) on
a lapis lazuli boat into the heavens (Figure 1c,d). On a symbolic level, the primeval phallus apparently
symbolizes an emergent, budding water lily shaft with a swollen apical bud (Figure 2e), while the
blue-winged scarab with green calyptras and a golden disk represents a full-blown, blue water lily
(i.e., with green calyx, blue corolla and yellow ovarian disk, Figure 2d; (McDonald 2002)).
Figure 1. The cosmogenic Nilotic lotus. (a) Although Nefertum leads the Heliopolitan pantheon during
the Old Kingdom, personified images of the lotus god occur commonly during the New Kingdom and
Ptolemaic periods. Egypt, ca. 3rd c. BCE (Metropolitan Museum). (b) The Egyptian obelisk, a phallic
symbol of Osiris-Ra, frequently bears at its apex the avian image of his solar offspring, Horus. Here,
the pillar surpasses in height the massive papyrus columns of Karnak. Egypt, Karnak, 15th c. BCE.
(c) Khepri lifts the lapis lazuli boat of Horus’s solar eye out of a lotus grove. The divine scarab, a mythic
image of the lotus-god, Nefertum, also carries two symbols of immortal life within his talons: shen
loops and a cluster of two lotus buds and blossom. Thebes, Valley of the Kings, Tomb of Tutankhamen,
14th c. BCE (Cairo Museum). (d) A ram-headed scarab beetle with blue wings emerges from a lotus
blossom to push forth the flower’s golden disk. A pair of cobras (uraei) dangle from the solar-floral
disk, each upholding an ankh. The latter symbols complement the flanking pair of lotus buds to either
side of the blossom, as well as paired avian images of Horus (blue falcons) yet to take flight. Egypt,
coffin of Pameshen, ca. 10th c. BCE (Cairo Museum).
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Figure 2. The “Union” Symbol (sema-taui) of ancient Egypt. (a) Fertile stalks of the papyrus plant
present a cluster of chaffy bracts and a spray of slender shoots. Details of these complex structures are
often simplified as a campanulate motif in the visual arts (Figure 2c). (b) Papyrus stems are supported
at their base by long, chaffy bracts. (c) Early renderings of the sema-taui symbol portray a central lotus
stalk that is supported by knotted lotus and papyrus stems. Note that the central stalk arises from a
testicular base and supports a three-membered palmette (lotus flower) at its apex. Throne of Chephren,
Giza, 26th c. BCE (Cairo Museum). (d) The profile view of a polypetalous Egyptian water lily exhibits
three prominent green sepals and a palmate array of blue-pigmented petals. (e) Lotus stalks lack the
distinctive basal bracts of a papyrus shoot. Note that a new bud has arisen before a flower stalk has
finished its three days of anthesis.
The Heliopolitan perspective on natural creation does not culminate with the cosmogenic activities
of a divine flower, but proceeds to describe the subsequent creation of four successive generations of
gods and goddesses, the last of which includes two brothers and sisters—namely Osiris, Seth, Isis, and
Nephthys—whose conflictive interactions on the banks of the Nile immortalize the natural world’s life
cycles by establishing the everlasting processes of procreation and death. Nefertum’s fourth-generation
descendants experience a daily drama of fratricide and necromancy, whereby Seth, the envious brother
of the sun god, Osiris-Ra, submerges and drowns his sibling’s phallus on the banks of the Nile River at
the end of each day (Table 1, l. 1), thereby compelling his divine sisters, Isis and Nephthys, to seek out
and guard the virile member of their fallen, solar brother (Table 1, l. 2).
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Table 1. Citations from Egyptian Heiroglyphic Inscriptions. PT = Pyramid Texts (Faulkner 1969);
CT = Coffin Texts (Faulkner 2004); BD = Book of the Dead (Budge [1899] 1989).
1 PT 24, 615, 972, 1256, 1500

2 PT 616, 1255–56, 2144
3 PT 581–82, 632–633, 1636, 2018–2019
4 PT 766, 1068, 1799–800
5 PT 167–92, 1298, 2098, 2146
6 BD 264, 594
7 PT 198, 238, 976, 1056, 1146–48
8 CT 316, 351, 388–89, 455, 462
9 BD 315–16
10 PT 513–14, 776, 1833–37
11 PT 1624–26, 1824
12 PT 788–92
13 PT 788–92; PT 1180; PT 1227, respectively
14 PT 275, 1247, 1421, 1430
15 PT 1345–46
16 PT 145, 152, 156, 1686; CT 350, 169, 352
17 CT 188
18 PT 1164–67
19 PT 770, 961, 994, 1475
20 PT 632, 956–59, 1061
21 PT 1460–63
22 PT 535
23 PT 946–47
24 PT 792, 1066, 1781
25 PT 770
26 PT 513–14
27 PT 60–61, 264–66
28 PT 391
29 CT 335; 2: 292–300
30 PT 1962–67; CT 223; BD XLII. 10–14, LXXI. 3–8
31 BD XLII
32 PT 22–23, 43, 47, 73, 114, 1682, 1800–802, 2071–73; CT 607; BD CX, CXVI
33 PT 1801, 2071–2073
34 PT 1959
35 PT 1643, 1754, 1802, 2073, 2075, CT 530, 840, 861; PT 1241; PT 332, 1902–903, respectively
36 BD CX, CXVI
37 CT 167
Isis, a fertility goddess, eventually couples with the fallen phallus, conceiving by Osiris her one
and only son, Horus, who emerges from the Nile River at the dawning of each day in the image of a
golden-crowned, blue-winged falcon (Table 1, l. 3; Figure 4c). Horus, who is often described as the
eye of the sun, returns the seed of his father to its original source—an aquatic phallus in the aquatic
underworld of the Nile (Table 1, l. 4)—and in so doing revitalizes his own biological/paternal source.
In effect, the interactive roles of Horus and Osiris recapitulate the primordial acts of Nefertum’s virile
member on a daily basis (Table 1, l. 5) by resurrecting a cosmic phallus at the dawning of each day so as
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to conceive a solar-bodied offspring (Horus) in the form of a blue lotus: or symbolically, a blue-feathered
falcon that supports a golden solar disk on his head (i.e., cradled by his blue, outstretched wings).
Egyptians and members of the Heliopolitan pantheon recognized the sun and its animate
equivalent, the sun-like blossoms of the Nilotic lotus, as earthly and heavenly aspects of the Nile’s first
recorded Creator figure, Nefertum. Hence, the lotus flower was deemed as much a creator of life as an
incarnate aspect of the everlasting sun itself. The Pyramid Texts are full of refrains that describe the
lotus plant as the progenitor (i.e., as Nefertum) of the sun (Ra): not vice versa, as would be our intuitive
and modern biological perspective. And judging from historical accounts of the first-century Greek
historian, Plutarch, citizens of Greece were equally familiar with this traditional Nilotic perspective
on the natural world just prior to the Greco-Roman Periods of Egyptian history (332 BCE—395 CE).
In “Moralia: De Iside et Osiride” (V.355.11; (Babbitt 1936, p. 29)), Plutarch acknowledges that Nilotic
communities symbolized the sun’s aquatic origins by the image of a solar orb arising from a full-blown
lotus blossom.
This mythic image endured for thousands of years and appears as though it were transcribed
directly from the early dynastic tomb of Unas onto the walls of the famous Denderah temple complex
during Egypt’s Greco-Roman period:
The sun which exists since the beginning rises like a falcon out of the center of the lotus
blossom. When the doors of the petals open in the shine of sapphire, so He (the sun god,
Horus) has separated the night from the day. You are rising like the holy serpent as a living
spirit! Creating, you rise and shine in your magnificent body in the boat of the rising sun.
The divine master, whose image is kept hidden in the temple of Denderah, is becoming the
creator of the world by his work. Coming as the One, he multiplies by millions when the
light comes out of him in the form of a child. (translation of (Brugsch 1884, p. 103))
Here the lotus flower is mythically identified with the sun, a divine serpent, blue raptor, and solar
barge, all of which motifs echo earlier Heliopolitan themes and ostensibly reflect the solar aspect of water
lily blossoms: the serpentoid nature of water lily peduncles, the feathery features of the plant’s large
petals, and the flower’s tendency to float on water like a blue-petalled, sun-like boat (McDonald 2002).
The use of lotus imagery to symbolize eternal life was a standard practice in pharaonic Egypt
and successive dynasts were recurrently identified specifically as reincarnations of Horus during their
reigns as pharaohs and incarnate spirits of Nefertum, Osiris, and the Nilotic lotus in the afterlife.
It was widely believed that upon the death of a pharaoh, each sovereign was bound to arise as a lotus
flower “at the nose of Ra” within the paradisal “Fields of Peace” on the Nile (=“Fields of Offerings,”
“Underworld” or “Hidden Place” in the Book of the Dead, Table 1, l. 6; (Budge [1925] 1989, p. 319;
Budge [1904] 1969, vol. 1, p. 170)). This optimistic expectation was often represented in the
visual arts by the image of an aristocrat, priest or deity upholding a lotus bloom before his or
her nose (Lange and Hirmer 1968, Figures 74 and 83, pl. XXIII; El-Mallakh and Bianchi 1980, p. 112;
Keel and Uehlinger 1998, Figures 32c and 107), as though the sweet-smelling essence of the Nilotic
lotus was a source of his or her eternal life. The same general idea is communicated among the early
inscriptions of King Unas at Saqqara, which equate the pharaoh with deified lotus shoots, solar orbs
and serpent gods, as noted in the aforementioned translation of Brugsch from Denderah as well as
numerous Pyramid Texts (Table 1, l. 7) and funerary papyri known to modern Egyptologists as the
Coffin Texts (Table 1, l. 8). Needless to say, Egyptian allusions to an immortalizing plant that bears
close relations to the sun and a divine serpent foreshadow mythic themes that relate to various Middle
Eastern cuneiform texts and Biblical references to the tree of life (McDonald 2002; Pritchard 1969).
3. The Ankh, Sema-Taui and Lotus Plant

Given the aforementioned mythic roles of the Egyptian lotus, it is not surprising that the plant is
often associated with Egyptian hieroglyphs and symbols that relate to eternal life. Foremost among
these is the ankh insignia (Figure 3a–c), an enduring motif that eventually served Coptic churches
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in post-dynastic Egypt as the symbol of the Christian tree of life and sacrificial cross (i.e., the crux
ansata; see discussion below and Figure 7; (Lurker 1980, p. 27); Table 1, l. 9) before it disappears
from historical records a few centuries after Egypt’s adoption of Christianity. The ankh is one of the
older and more ubiquitous symbols of ancient Egypt and one that apparently symbolized the lotus
flower when it was held to the nose of gods and pharaohs (Figure 7b; (Lange and Hirmer 1968, pl. LI;
Schäfer 1974, Figure 20; El-Mallakh and Bianchi 1980, p. 44; Wilkinson 1992, p. 177)). While various
anthropomorphic, zoomorphic and chimeric gods and goddesses present the ankh to Osiris and
Horus as a means to affect their sanctification, resuscitation, and resurrection (i.e., eternal occurrence),
the sign is also employed as a symbol of the Nile’s ‘waters of life,’ usually by portraying a cascading
stream of ankh emblems from libation vases (Gillispie and Dewachter 1987, 1: pls. 10.2, 2, 11.A,
13.1; Wilkinson 1994, pp. 159–60) or by fashioning libation vases in the image of an ankh insignia
(Schäfer 1974, Figure 30). In either case, the ankh sign symbolized the vitalizing breath and creative
seed (i.e., ‘waters’ or ‘efflux’) of the sacred phallus and/or solar eye of various Egyptian lotus-gods,
whether Nefertum-Ra, Osiris-Ra or Horus-Ra.
Figure 3. Ankh and lotus. (a) Mirrors and mirror cases from Egyptian tombs are often fashioned in
the image of an ankh symbol and a flowering lotus stalk. Note that the stalked shen loop (an ankh)
contains a lotus blossom and three golden floral disks. The triad of disks presumably symbolizes the
natural three-day life span of a lotus flower. Thebes, Valley of the Kings, Tomb of Tutankhamen, 14th c.
BCE (Cairo Museum). (b) Horus and Seth grasp a lotus and papyrus stalk and sustain the immortal
phallus of Osiris-Ra. The phallic symbol takes the form of an ankh symbol and contains a hieroglyphic
reference to Seti I. Abydos, 13th c. BCE (Cairo Museum). (c) Unguent spoons were often fashioned in
the image of an ankh, stalked shen loop, and flowering lotus stalk. Note that the extended arms of the
shen loop terminate in lotus blossoms and that a lotus bud and blossom motif—a symbol of immortal
life—extends across the spoon. Thebes, Egypt, 13th c. BCE (Louvre Museum).
The origin of the ankh symbol has been debated for more than a century, but with little agreement as
to how the symbol was derived. Most dictionaries and encyclopedic works refer to a popular hypothesis
of the famous Egyptologist, Alan Gardiner (Gardiner 1928, vol. 8, pp. 19–25; 1950), who envisaged the
ankh as a sandal strap. Little support for this proposition can be found, however, in epigraphic and
iconographic records, as noted by Gardiner himself. While Budge (Budge [1925] 1989, pp. 315–16) and
Chevalier and Gheerbrant (1996, p. 27) speculate that the loop of the ankh sign likely symbolizes
the solar eye of the sun-god Ra emerging from an eastern horizon, and others attempt to derive the
distinctive emblem from the image of a cow vertebra (Gordon and Schwabe 2004, pp. 102–6) or a penis
sheath (Baines 1975), Egyptologists have yet to reach a consensus on the matter.
The ankh symbol is, in fact, a rather simple motif, and one that shares both direct and indirect
associations with the Nilotic lotus. Numerous mirrors, mirror cases and ‘unguent spoons’ discovered
in various reaches of the Nile River superimpose a flowering lotus stalk upon the ankh emblem
(Figure 3a,c; (Maspero 1913, pp. 190–91; Baines 1975; Wilkinson 1994, p. 161, Figure 127)), identifying
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the shaft of the emblem with a lotus stalk and the terminal loop with opposing arms (a shen symbol,
see below) with a lotus bud or blossom.
In a similar manner, the ankh sign is often associated with the sema-taui hieroglyph (Figures 3b,
4a,b and 7c), or ‘union’ symbol (zm3–t3wj = ‘union of the two lands’; (Wilkinson 1994, p. 90; 2003,
p. 107)). This motif portrays opposing bouquets of three lotus and papyrus stalks that uphold a
centralized, upright, flowering lotus stalk (Figure 2c). The term sema-taui (zm3 sm’w t3–mhjw, ‘Uniter
of the Upper and Lower Egypt’) is derived from a royal epithet that traces its origin to the Second
Dynasty (Budge [1904] 1969, vol. 2, p. 44) around 2800 BCE and connotes kingship over lands that lie
between the mouth and headwaters of the Nile River system. The concept is encountered repeatedly in
the Pyramid Texts, where numerous entries celebrate a deceased king’s assumption of dominion over
lands that lie between Nile delta and the cataracts at Philae (i.e., Upper and Lower Egypt), the natural
domains of Osiris (Table 1, l. 10) and Horus (Table 1, l. 11). We also encounter this phrase in association
with descriptions of the eternal recurrence of Osiris-Ra (an incarnation of Nefertum’s floral phallus) in
the aquatic ‘Fields’ of the sun-god, Ra.
The Nilotic ‘Fields of Ra’ are described mystically in the Pyramid Texts as an aquatic domain where
deceased Kings reincarnate themselves as the underworld phallic sun-god, Osiris-Ra, and return to life
upon flooded “serpent mounds” (Table 1, l. 12). The sun-god’s aquatic fields are identified in later
inscriptions of The Great Litany of Re (Piankoff 1964) as a locality where the King assumes a vegetative
aspect in the afterlife: “in the horizon and the Yaro Fields” (Piankoff 1964, pls. 20–21), like Ra himself, who,
“resting on his bank” (Piankoff 1964, pl. 3: 5) and “shining in the flood,” is manifest as “bodies (pl.) of the
Watery Abyss.” Or otherwise, the mythic sun, as the eyes (pl.) of Horus (Piankoff 1964, pls. 4: 19–24) and
“brilliant bodies (pl.) of the Flaming one from the Netherworld” (Piankoff 1964, pls. 5: 40–42), arises in
large numbers on a daily basis. These mythic images call to mind a plurality of golden eyes in an aquatic
habitat (i.e., lotus blossoms) rather than a solar orb, for solar disks arise solitarily on dry and stark, eastern
terrestrial horizons of Egypt rather than flooded riverbanks.
The Nilotic Fields of Ra are mythically equivalent to Ra’s “Fields of Khepri”, “Field of Life”,
and “Field of Strife” (i.e., between Seth and Osiris; Table 1, l. 13), and are just as commonly identified
as a Field of Reeds, Field of Felicity, Field of Peace, Field of Offerings, Field of Fire, the Tuat
(‘Underworld’) or Amentet (‘Hidden Place’; (Budge [1904] 1969, vol. 1, pp. 170–72)), all of which are
conventionally described in terms of, or depicted in images as lotus groves among floating papyrus
masses. Thus, Egypt’s floral sun-gods are said to bathe in the Lake or Field of Rushes (Table 1, l. 14)
and to moor their celestial boats among the Field of Rushes on the “Banks of the Lower Skies” (Table 1,
l. 15; (Budge [1904] 1969, vol. 2, p. 120)). Given that the identity of Ra is repeatedly conflated with
various lotus-gods known as Nefertum (as Ra-Atum and Nefetum-Ra; Table 1, l. 16), Horus-Ra and
Osiris-Ra, and is said to bathe within lotus tanks (Table 1, l. 17), much as deceased Kings in the Field
of Rushes on waterways, “like Ra on the banks of the Sky” (Table 1, l. 18), it seems apparent that the
sun-god, Ra, in his life-giving ‘Fields of Peace,’ embodies a dual, cosmic identity that unites the mythic
and theological roles of sun-like water lilies with the Egyptian sun.
A classic pictorial representation of the sema-taui symbol is observed on the throne of Sesostris I
(1291–1278 BCE), where two central figures in Heliopolitan mythology, Seth and Horus (the nemesis
vs. heroic offspring of Osiris, respectively), uphold an upright ankh emblem (=shen loop, symbol of
eternal life, subtended by a shaft) by pulling knotted shoots of an Egyptian lotus and papyrus stalk
(Figure 3b; (Lange and Hirmer 1968, Figure 88)). This image clearly represents the mythic interactions
of Horus and Seth on the Heliopolitan ‘mounds’ of the Field of Rushes (Table 1, l. 19) who perpetually
drown and then resurrect the phallus of Osiris-Ra.
Modern art historians usually interpret the central pillar and bi-lobed mound of this motif
(Wilkinson 2003, p. 107) as a lung and windpipe (Gardiner 1950, p. 465; Lurker 1980, p. 125;
Wilkinson 1992, p. 81), presumably because the central shaft often exhibits a series of horizontal
ringlets. But this interpretation is unconvincing, as Egyptian mythology never associates Horus,
Seth, or Osiris with a trachea or lungs. Rather, the focal ankh insignia seems to represent a phallic
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symbol that supports a terminal cartouche bearing the name of the king: the co-essence of Osiris-Ra or
Nefertum-Ra in the Nilotic underworld. Arising from a testicular motif, the ankh appears to embody
the phallus of either Nefertum- or Osiris-Ra, as we note its support is governed by the dual efforts of
Seth and Horus. The imagery apparently relates to mythic themes in the Pyramid Texts that speak
of the daily drowning of Osiris’ solar phallus (Table 1, l. 20), the daily loss of Horus’ solar eye and
dismemberment of Seth’s testicles (Table 1, l. 21), followed by the subsequent retrieval of Horus’s solar
eye, Seth’s testicles (Table 1, l. 22), and the rejuvenation of Osiris’s solar eye and testicles (Table 1, l. 23),
all of which themes relate symbolically to the central ankh or lotus motif (Figures 2c and 3b).
Some of the earliest depictions of the sema-taui during the 5th and 6th Dynasties originally
portrayed the central motif as a flowering lotus stalk instead of an interchangeable ankh sign, while the
upright stalk sometimes exhibits the same distinctive ringlets that are observed on the ankh shaft of
Sesostris I (Figure 3b, compare also Figures 1d and 4a; (Budge [1904] 1969, vol. 2, p. 131)). One of the
earliest-known portrayals of the sema-taui symbol appears on the famous marbled throne of an early
Old Kingdom pharaoh, Chephren (2558–2532 BCE), which exhibits side panels that emphasize the
same testicular element (Figure 2c). By convention, the centralized lotus stalk is supported on one side
by a papyrus stem whose campanulate stalks exhibit distinctive lanceolate leaf bracts at their bases
(Figure 2b,c), and by a collection of three flowering lotus stalks on the opposite side whose stems are
bundled basally by three or four horizontal bars (Figure 2c–e). The central, phalliform shaft of the
motif—the axis mundi of Egyptian kingship in the aspect of a flowering lotus stalk—supports the
enthroned, living image of Chephren. It is equally noteworthy that the sema-taui motif was employed
in the construction of dynastic thrones in a similar manner throughout Egyptian history, ostensibly
identifying the central lotus stalk as a phallic axis mundi to represent Egyptian dynasts and kingship.
As regards the symbolic significance of the motif, it is remarkable that the papyrus plant never
occurs in the central position of this configuration, as this role is assumed exclusively by a lotus
flower, an ankh symbol, or a realistic and/or symbolic image of a king (Gillispie and Dewachter 1987,
vol. 1, pls. 45.2, vol. 4, pl. 12), frequently as a cartouche bearing the hieroglyphic inscription of a
pharaoh’s name (Gillispie and Dewachter 1987, vol. 2, pls. 21.2, 22). Hence, the king was represented
iconographically as both an axis mundi and flourishing lotus stalk. Concomitantly, the combination of
lotus and papyrus elements symbolizes the blissful Fields of Ra in the upper and lower floodplains of
the Nile (Table 1, l. 24).
Since Chephren presided over Heliopolis (On), much as King Unas two centuries later, it is not
surprising that the symbolic relationship between the sema-taui symbol and lotus flower on the king’s
throne relates to verses regarding the interactions of Seth and Horus upon the Nile’s ‘serpent mounds.’
Early inscriptions at Saqqara identify the king’s throne as a prominent feature of Nefertum’s place of
origin on the sacred mounds of On (Table 1, l. 25) while also asserting that the deceased king would
cause the lapis lazuli plant (twn-plant of Upper Egypt) to sprout up (i.e., lotus) and tie the cords of the
smsmt-plant (papyrus or lotus?) to unite with the heavens and maintain his power over the southern
and northern lands (Table 1, l. 26). In essence, the pharaoh would become Osiris/Nefertum-Ra in the
afterlife, at which time he would lift the zŝzŝ-flower and place himself “at the nose” of the Great Power
(=lotus) while entering the Island of Fire (=Fields of Ra; Table 1, l. 27).
Although the ankh is occasionally employed as a support for the sema-taui motif, as may be
observed at Karnak and the Ptolemaic temples of Sobek and Haroeris at Kom Ombo (Baines 1975,
Figures 138, 139 and 142), the symbol normally serves as the central and therefore focal element of
the motif. Early executions of the sema-taui often place a lotus flower at the summit of the central
pillar with Horus and Seth as flanking elements of the central shaft. The symbol varies, however,
with respect to the terminal feature of the motif and the twin deities that support the central axis,
especially after the turn of the second millennium. In many instances the blossom is replaced with
either a pharaoh’s cartouche (Figures 3b and 4a; (Baines 1975, Figures 133, 153 and 165)), the realistic
image of a king (Figure 4b; (Baines 1975, Figures 128, 146b, 154, 155 and 166)) or and occasionally by
Horus (Baines 1975, Figures 140 and 162) or Egypt’s divine Ibis, Thoth (Baines 1975, Figures 128, 151
151
and 155). In later depictions, the sema-taui is sustained by Horus and Thoth or twin Hapy figures
(anthropomorphic gods that personify the Nile River’s annual inundations; Figures 3b and 4a,b;
(Baines 1975, Figures 51, 52, 76, 88, 133, 153 and 154; Gillispie and Dewachter 1987, vol. 3, pl. 60.2)).
A derived and more common rendering of the sema-taui motif during the New Kingdom is
observed on the hypostyle at Karnak of Seti I and his famous son, Ramesses II (1279–1212 BCE;
Figure 4b), where an anthropomorphized image of Horus (=Khonsu to worshippers of Amen at
Karnak) and Thoth, an ibis-headed figure, pull the vegetative ties of the sema-taui’s central stalk.
Although the lotus blossom of the central axis is now replaced by a kneeling image of Ramesses,
we note that the young king’s shoulder and chest are decorated with a blue-pigmented, petaloid lotus
collar, as was the practice of interring pharaohs during this age (Schweinfurth 1884), ostensibly to
identify a deceased king with his immortal lotus aspect in the afterlife. A similar image that decorates
the thrones of Ramesses II inside the temple entrance at Luxor presents a sema-taui sign with twin
Hapy figures (Figure 4a), these figures suggesting a Pyramid Text passage that identifies the Nile
River’s annual floodwaters (here personified by Hapy) as the unifier of the two lands of Ra (Table 1,
l. 28). This particular inscription identifies the two lands as the heavens and watery netherworld of the
Nile instead of Upper and Lower Egypt, suggesting a dual meaning to the sema-taui motif.
Figure 4. Union symbol (sema-taui) and ankh. (a) The cartouche of Ramesses II replaces a lotus flower
on the central shaft of the sema-taui motif in Thebes. Twin gods (Hapy figures) that personify the
floodwaters of the Nile River grasp the lotus and papyrus stems to support the axis mundi. Luxor,
13th c. BCE. (b) A kneeling image of Ramesses II replaces the sema-taui’s lotus blossom in Thebes.
Karnak, 13th c. BCE. (c) A winged disk that rises on an aquatic column in the Tomb of Ramesses IX
is clearly symbolic of a lotus blossom instead of a solar orb. Twin cartouches of Ramesses IX ascend
the lotus stalk and transform themselves into the living image of the solar/floral structure, inside of
which is observed the image of the resurrected king as Harpocrates (personified Horus). The floral
disk supports two cobras that dangle a triad of ankh symbols. Thebes, Valley of the Kings, Tomb of
Ramesses IX, 12th c. BCE. (d) Egyptians believed their kings were reborn as lotus blossoms in the
afterlife. Thebes, Valley of the Kings, Tomb of Tutankhamen, 14th c. BCE (Cairo Museum).
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The ribbed column (Figures 3a and 4a) and platform of the motif supports a collection of heraldic
symbols, marking yet another departure from early conventions in lotus symbolism. Among these
symbols is observed a stylized childish image of Ramesses as an alternative Egyptian symbol of eternal
life: a shen loop (a rope that is tied at its base with two loose ends) flanked by two dangling serpents
(uraei), each upholding a shen loop. As various historians have noted, the practice of placing a king’s
hieroglyphic birth or throne names inside a shen loop (the so-called ‘cartouche’ when elongated to
accommodate the king’s written name) identifies the pharaoh as both a god and possessor of eternal
life (Wilkinson 1992, pp. 193, 195; Lurker 1980, p. 38), while the supportive shaft ostensibly symbolizes
the lotus-god’s phallus and stalk.
4. The Shen Sign and King’s Cartouche as Symbols of a Lotus Bud and Cosmic Egg
Much like the ankh, the coiled rope that forms a shen loop is conventionally rendered in blue,
while the enclosed solar orb is typically rendered in yellow, orange or red. Two shen loops are
conventionally held by the talons of either Horus, the blue falcon, or Khepri, the ever-ascendant,
blue-winged scarab beetle, and thus conventionally present a triad of golden disks: one exposed disk
upon the head of the bird or beetle and two enclosed disks that are held in talons beside the creatures
(Figure 1c,d). Since these symbols are often associated with ankh symbols and paired lotus buds and
blossom, we are justified in interpreting this motif in terms of a recurrent lotus flower rather than a
recurrent sun, for Egyptians often portrayed an open lotus blossom between two buds in order to
symbolize the natural three-day blooming cycle of lotus blossoms (Figure 1c,d; (Emboden 1989a, 1989b;
McDonald 2002; Wiersema 1988)).
We observe in the tomb of Ramesses IX a pair of uraei (divine cobras) that dangle from a pillared
winged disk and support ankh symbols or shen loops (Figure 4c, also Figures 1d and 3a); here, the shen
may be envisaged as a bud-like incubus from which Egypt’s celebrated sun gods—as a blue-petalled
lotus, blue-winged god (note the aforementioned quotation from Denderah) or resurrected king—arise
in the Fields of Ra. To confirm this interpretation, we need only refer to coffin inscriptions that
speak recurrently of Horus, an earthly manifestation of Ra, hatching out of this cosmic egg within
the “Isle of Flame” (i.e., the emergent hillock of On) to take the form of a blue-winged disk (Table 1,
l. 29). Other coffin inscriptions associate the egg with Egypt’s divine ibis (Thoth) or another avian
god, the “Great Cackler” (Geb, a divine goose; Table 1, l. 30), the two birds sharing company with
Osiris-Ra in the Nile’s divine marshlands. In like manner, Horus is identified as a lord of eternity who
“sprouts forth” from the egg in a watery abyss (Table 1, l. 31), implying that the egg and lotus bud are
equivalent entities.
The oft-neglected connection between the shen loop and inscribed cartouches (shenu) connote,
therefore, a close relationship between the everlasting life of Nefertum’s primordial phallus, blossom,
and solar/floral “eye of Ra” and the eternal recurrence of Egypt’s celebrated dynasts. The emergence
of Horus from his cosmic egg (or lotus bud) symbolizes the birth of a new king and dynasty on one
level and yet also the passage of a king’s soul (ka) to the paradisal Fields of Ra, the former concept
applying to a famous rendering of Tutankhamen arising from a lotus corolla as an infant (Figure 4d)
and the latter relating to the aforementioned tomb painting of Ramesses IX, on which the king’s
cartouche ascends the phallus of Osiris-Ra to assume his personified identity as Harpocrates (Horus)
within a pillared winged disk (lotus flower; Figure 4c). This interpretation of the cartouche explains
why the centralized lotus prop of the sema-taui on Chephren’s throne (Figure 2c) is equivalent to the
vegetative support of a king’s cartouche or the king himself (Figure 4a,b). In both cases, the divinity
and everlasting status of the king is symbolized by the eternal recurrence of the lotus. This general
concept shares a close parallel in Mesopotamia, where a sacral lotus-tree is similarly identified with
kingship, both generally and specifically (Annus 2002, p. 156; Kramer 1974; Parpola 1993).
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5. Homologous Features of the Egyptian Lotus and the Fertile Crescent’s Sacred Trees
While acknowledging that the ankh emblem derives from, or at least shares a close symbolic
association with the sema-taui symbol, in that both images symbolize the lotus plant and immortal life,
it is notable that the latter sign shares essentially all the standard features with sacred tree images in
the Near East after 1500 BCE. Sacral trees of the Levant and Mesopotamia usually exhibit: (1) a smooth
and cylindrical central axis, (2) a terminal palmette, many bearing blue-pigmented appendages, (3) a
surrounding configuration of smaller palmettes or campanulate floral motifs, and (4) a series or cluster
of supple, lateral stems that tie directly to the plant’s central shaft (Figure 5a–d; (Frankfort 1939, pl. 33;
Giovino 2007, Figures 1–3, 13–18; Goodyear 1887, pl. 24; Jones [1856] 1995, pl. 15)). Such features
constitute classic Neo-Assyrian trees of Ashurnasirpal at Nimrud (Figure 5b) and those that decorate
the blue gates of Ishtar’s temple in Babylon (Figure 6a,b), where the knotted stalks and terminal
palmettes are linked by lotus buds. The resulting bud-and-blossom motif that links the canopies of
three sacral trees clearly follows the recurrent pattern of associating lotus palmettes with sacral tree
palmettes, as proposed by McDonald (2002, Figure 2a–d). Almost identical iconic trees are encountered
on cylinder seals and early Assyrian murals at Kar Tikulti Ninurta that date from 1500–1200 BCE
(Frankfort 1970, pp. 135–37).
The use of pigments in the execution of the early Assyrian trees at Kar Tikulti Ninurta as well
as ceramics from Ashur (Andrae 1925) follow a similar color formula on Ishtar’s gates of Babylon
(Figure 6a,b) by presenting the palmette appendages as blue, the sepals as either blue or green, and
the central disk as yellow. The use of pigments in the execution of early Assyrian trees at Kar Tikulti
Ninurta as well as ceramics from Ashur (Andrae 1925) consistently depict palmette appendages as
blue and/or white, the sepals as either blue or green and the central disk as yellow. The intensity
of these colors invariably fades over the course of time and almost disappears completely on pieces
in museum settings, but the full vitality of these color patterns is preserved on glazed bricks that
Nebuchadnezzar II used to construct one of several ‘gates’ (walled portals) that led to the inner
chambers of a principal temple complex in Babylon around 575 BCE. This structure was elaborated
during the pinnacle of Neo-Babylonian influences over Mesopotamia and the Levant, during an age in
which Nebuchadnezzar held Levantine tribes captive in the city, as is well documented in Hebraic
records. The famous king dedicated his bright blue gate to the Babylonian ‘Mistress of Heaven,’
Ishtar, and covered its façade with an eclectic array of radial and lateral portrayals of the Nilotic blue
lotus, a natural and often prominent denizen of marshy enclaves of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers.
Framed within variations on the Egyptian lotus bud-and-blossom motif (Figure 6b), depictions of
mythic animals that represented Adad, Marduk and the Goddess established a mythical ambience for
the practice of religion and kingship. The largest and most prominent representations of the stalked
water lilies (Figure 6a) conserve the basic features of earlier Neo-Assyrian that are observed in the
chambers of Ashurnasirpal II at Nimrud during the 9th c. BCE (Figure 5b), but with the unique
Babylonian nuance of linking the terminal flowers of each tree with a running bud-and-blossom motif.
Nebuchadnezzar’s conventional use of pigments clearly follows a precise pattern that reflects the
morphology of the Nilotic lotus (Figure 1c,d Figure 4c,d and Figure 7d) and mismatches with the
natural coloration of date palm features (cream, green and brown). Interestingly, the aforementioned
iconic trees share homologous characteristics with related symbolic trees from Persia and Central Asia
during the 1st millennium BCE, as observed on a Scythian pectoral of gold from the same time period
at Ziwiye, Iran (Figure 5c), which produces alternating lotus buds, blossoms and fruits.
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Figure 5. Shared features of the sema-taui symbol and Middle Eastern tree of life. (a) A Phoenician
tree of life that was excavated from the Mesopotamian temple of Ashurnasirpal exhibits prominent
Egyptian features: blue lotus palmettes, a blue-winged solar disk, and sun-bearing cobras. Yet the
central stalk displays features of Mesopotamian trees of life: lateral palmettes, trefoil at the apex of the
trunk, and corniculate lateral branches. Iraq, Nimrud, 9th c. BCE. (b) One of 170 sacral trees uncovered
among the ruins of Ashurnasirpal II. Iraq, Nimrud, 9th c. BCE. (c) A series of three Perso-Aryan
lotus trees of life terminate in a lotus blossom, solar motif, and lotus berry. The lateral branches of
each tree support a succession of lotus buds, blossoms, and fruits. Chimeric guardians of the trees
exhibit the combined aspects of a bull, lion, human, and eagle, suggesting the biblical features of a
cherub. Iran, Ziwiye, 8–7th c. BCE (Metropolitan Museum). (d) Early Egyptian sema-taui motifs
apparently served as a prototype to sacral tree imagery in the Fertile Crescent since both motifs exhibit
a central stalk, terminal palmette, supple lateral stems that tie off to the plant’s central column, and
surrounding palmettes. Tree of life motifs similarly graced the backs and side panels of Mesopotamia
and Levantine thrones and couches, usually as decorative ivory pieces (Barnett 1982, p. 25, pls. 18a,b,
52a,c; Crowfoot and Crowfoot 1938, p. 2; Parrot 1961, p. 155). Throne of Chephren, Giza, 26th c. BCE
(Cairo Museum).
The famous blue gates of Ishtar at Babylon portray lotiform trees of life without a hint of ambiguity,
but with Egyptian symbolic elements that now reflect the nuances of Mesopotamian iconographic
craftsmanship. An interlinking series of water lilies that encompass the interlinking, stout trees
conserve the ancient Egyptian bud-and-blossom motif by alternating flowers with opposing bud and
blossom elements with flowers comprised of opposing full-blown flowers (Figure 6b). A running
‘tendril’ of water lily peduncles creates a continuous chain of floral motifs. This stylized composition
is then reflected in a series of linked sacral trees at the center of the gates, in what may therefore be
deemed the symbol par excellence of the widely celebrated goddess. The stout trunks are surmounted
by a vertical configuration of three superimposed lotus tridents, the upper of which displays a bright
radiate display of petals (Figure 6a). This common exhibition of three flowers likely represents that
standard three-day duration of water lily anthesis. Between each of the stacked flowers is observed
a tridentate lotus bud, whose drooping stalks create a standard symbol of everlasting life in Egypt
and throughout the Fertile Crescent: recurrent water lily buds and blossoms. The sacral tree trunks
emerge from a water line in the lower register and exhibit the familiar collars around the trunks,
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which conventionally serve as a point of connection between sacral trees and water lily blossom
aureoles (Figure 5b,c).
Figure 6. Details of Ishtar’s gate. Babylon, ca. 575 BCE. (a) A row of lotiformed sacral trees with collared
trunks and three terminal corollas are linked by stalked buds, connoting the symbolic theme of eternal
recurrence, i.e., immortal life (Right Perspective Images/Alamy Stock Photo). (b) The linked trees are
framed on four sides by variations on lotus bud and blossom motifs (MuseoPics-Paul Williams/Alamy
Stock Photo).
Although various art historians have acknowledged Nilotic water lily imagery shares a common
origin with sacral tree imagery (Coomaraswamy 1935; Danthine 1937; Goodyear 1887, 1891;
Jones [1856] 1995, pp. 22–23, 28–29; McDonald 2002), modern commentators have yet to recognize an
apparent relationship between the tethering of cosmic tree pillars with the use of water lily peduncles
and knots to support the Egyptian lotus. Some historians have identified the lateral tethers as ‘ribbons’
or ‘festoons’ made of fabric (Garlick 1918; Giovino 2007, pp. 24, 87–88, 118), while others suggest
these features represent watery tributaries and irrigation canals (Andrae 1925, p. 5). A less convincing
interpretation identifies the knotted ropes as whirlpools (Porada 1945). Since a series of floral palmettes
are obviously linked to the central pillared palmette with these supposed ‘ribbons,’ there is ample
reason to ascertain these features as supple flowering stalks. And since the Egyptians employed the
same feature in supporting their lotus stalks, in the symbolic context of supporting a regenerative
life force, and often in association with winged disks and deities, we are obliged to recognize direct
Egyptian influences over Assyrian sacral tree imagery.
Near Eastern sacral trees are recurrently associated with a solar motif (winged disk), just like
their Egyptian homologues. And as noted by many authors and emphasized by McDonald (2002) and
Parpola (1993), the Egyptian lotus and Near Eastern tree of life share close iconographic associations
with winged and wingless serpents, lions, eagles, goats, humans, and bulls, often under the aura of an
Egyptian-styled winged disk.
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6. Roles of the Lotus in Funerary and Libation Ceremonials

Since images of Mesopotamian and Levantine sacral trees are usually encountered within closely
guarded sanctums of temples, it is abundantly clear that the symbol played a critical role in the
practice of religion and the assumption of kingship. The same practice applies to the ankh and
sema-taui signs among Egyptian temples and burial sites, and therefore compels us to question why
these vegetation symbols share so many physical characteristics and functional roles in religious
expression of the Nile and Fertile Crescent. Given the common occurrence of Egyptian symbols among
Mesopotamian sites, including the ankh and sema-taui, there is no question that the artistic conventions
of distant Egyptian communities were responsible for several developments in the evolution of sacral
tree imagery. We have yet to explain, however, why so many successive societies employed lotus
symbolism so frequently or why the palm tree and other Mesopotamian plant species played limited
roles in Egyptian symbolism. Perhaps more importantly, we are bound to question why the lotus plant
represented so many gods and goddesses in so many different times and places and how its form
and function relates to cross-cultural conceptions of immortal life and aspirations to join the gods in
the afterlife.
Although most references to the divine transformation of a king into a lotus flower apply to
deceased individuals, there is also substantial evidence that a divine rite of passage to paradise involved
a person’s metaphorical transformation into a lotus flower in a ritualistic context. The transformational
process and experiences were apparently performed within the inner sanctum of Egyptian temples.
Various Egyptian textual sources that span 3000 years of pharaonic history, from the Old Kingdom
to the Ptolemaic period, including the Pyramid Texts, Coffin Texts, and Book of the Dead (Table 1,
l. 32), describe the consumption of the solar eye of Horus by means of a libation or sacramental food
ceremony. Upon performing the rite, the consumer gains passage to the sun god’s riparian Fields
of Felicity. Imbibing the sun god’s vitalizing and immortalizing efflux (often translated as “water,”
“oil,” “ointment,” or “drippings”; Table 1, l. 33; (Piankoff 1964, p. 42, pl. 5.47)) makes little sense
if we consider the eye of Horus to be a solar orb, given that the god’s eye arises from the Nile’s
aquatic underworld (Table 1, l. 34). Moreover, the Nilotic sun has nothing but a profound desiccating,
if not lethal effect on inhabitants of the Nile River. On the other hand, the allusion seems sensible
if we envisage the solar eye as a lotus flower, given that lotus flowers produce copious amounts of
sweet-smelling nectar on their first day of anthesis (McDonald 2002; Schneider 1982; Wiersema 1988)
to wash pollen grains off their insect visitors. Countless friezes and paintings suggest that the king
imbibed a fluid that was identified with an “efflux” from the eye of Horus (Figure 1c,d), otherwise
associated with the solar semen or seed of Osiris-Ra and Ra (Figure 7a). Perhaps this is why the
Pyramid Texts refer to the ‘eye of Horus’ as the sweet-smelling, sweet-tasting, blossom of Isis (i.e., blue
lotus; Table 1, l. 35).
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Figure 7. Lotus extracts in funerary rituals. (a) A lotus-libation scene at Luxor suggests that the king
partook of a libation that was identified with the semen of the sun/lotus god, Min (an aspect of Amen).
Karnak, 13th c. BCE. (b) The famous heretical sun worshipper, Akhenaten, enjoys the breath of eternal
life (ankh to nose) as he upholds lotus blossoms to the sun during a libation ritual. El Amarna, 14th
century BCE (Cairo Museum). (c) The contents of unguent vessels in the tombs of Egyptian kings
were often identified with lotus stalks and flowers, life (ankh motifs), and everlasting sovereignty over
Upper and Lower Egypt (sema-taui symbol). Thebes, Valley of the Kings, Tomb of Tutankhamen, 14th c.
BCE (Cairo Museum). (d) Libation cups and goblets in Egypt and the Middle East were often decorated
with, or depicted as, lotus blossoms. Tanis, Tomb of Psusennes I, 10th c. BCE (Cairo Museum).
Lotus nectar may well have been the substance to which the mythology of On alludes in a
reference to the invigorating semen of the sun-god Nefertum, as we observe the king in reliefs at
Luxor and elsewhere partaking of an ithyphallic god’s ejaculum as it spills over lotus flowers and
libation vases (Figure 7a; (Gillispie and Dewachter 1987, vol. 3, pls. 36.5, 36.6, 47.1)). Similar images
occur throughout Egypt, and clearly relate to the ubiquitous associations of lotus stalks with libation
vases and urns that appear first during the Old Kingdom (2649–2150 BCE) at Saqqara during around
2500 BCE. Lotus libation scenes only increase in frequency during the Middle and New Kingdoms
(ca. 2050–1100 BCE) at Thebes, Abu Simbel and Abydos, and are encountered no less frequently at
Kom Ombo, Edfu and Meroe from 300–100 BCE. According to various textual sources, this rite allowed
priests to revive and refresh themselves with truth (maat), wisdom, and joy ((Piankoff 1968, p. 46);
Table 1, l. 36).
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A more personal and detailed account of a libation ceremony is described in a relatively late
Demotic text (3rd c. CE; (Betz 1986, PDM xiv. 1–92)) that describes a young initiate’s experience of
ecstatic exhilaration upon drinking the sacramental beverage. The initiate relates that he is transported
to the primeval waters and netherworld of the gods after transforming himself into a ram-lion-lotus
god known as Amun. Proclaiming the secrets of the underworld have been revealed to him and that the
libation has opened his eyes to the divine light of a lotus flower, his soul ascends from the netherworld
into a celestial sphere of light, upon which he shouts, “Oh Lotus, open to me heaven in its breadth
and height! Bring me the light which is pure” (Betz 1986, PDM xiv. 862–65). Euphoric experiences
of such type lend credence to the perennial hypothesis that psychoactive principles of water lilies
were possibly employed as a shamanic medium (Emboden 1979, 1981, 1989a, 1989b; McDonald 2002;
McDonald and Stross 2012).
Egyptian libation scenes are commonly observed on temple and tomb walls, papyri,
thrones, and coffins, suggesting that drinking lotus nectar (or perhaps extracts of water lilies,
as suggested by (Emboden 1989a, 1989b)) within the inner sanctums of Egyptian temples
was as common in burial rituals as it was in daily life (Lange and Hirmer 1968, Figure 226;
Gillispie and Dewachter 1987, vol. 3, pl. 15). Numerous lotiform libation cups and vases were
unearthed, for example, from the tomb of King Tutankhamen (Lange and Hirmer 1968, pl. xxxiii),
some alluding in script to the king’s achievement of immortal life (Assaad and Kolos 1979, p. 32;
Fox 1951, pl. 3). One such vessel is a long-stemmed alabaster drinking cup fashioned in the image
of a lotus corolla (Desroches-Noblecourt 1989, Figure xxiia), while another common vessel type is an
alabaster ‘oil vase’ fashioned as a sema-taui symbol (Figure 7c). The central axis of this receptacle is
decorated with a lotus perianth, implying that the vessel contains the essence (or semen) of the floral
eye of Horus. These vessels compare closely with libation lotus cups in a ritual scene on a golden
shrine of King Tutankhamen and Queen Ankhesenamen, where the convivial couple is observed
sharing a libation with lotus flowers and buds in their hands (Lange and Hirmer 1968, pl. xxxiii).
Only a few centuries later, in the Tomb of Psusennes at Tanis (11th c. BCE), we encounter a
distinctive lotus vessel made of gold, but this particular cup bears all the features of a Mesopotamian
vessel (Figure 7d). While it is difficult to say if the vessel was obtained as a gift or spoil of warfare,
the four-cornered lotus motifs in the center and the fluted walls of the vessel match closely with
libation implements and lotus-cup imagery at Nimrud, Iraq and throughout the Middle East. Since we
observe numerous examples of libation scenes with lotus flowers at Edfu, Kom Ombo, and Philae
during the later Ptolemaic and Greco-Roman periods, we can only conclude that lotus flowers played
a central role in libation ceremonies for thousands of years.
7. Lotus-Libation Scenes in the Near East

Almost identical lotus-libation scenes are observed on ivory plaques and steles at Megiddo
(Palestine) and Ras Shamra (Syria) from the 16th–13th centuries BCE (Loud 1939, pls. iv.2b, xxxii.160;
Keel and Uehlinger 1998, p. 65, Figures 65, 67 and 68a; McDonald 2002, Figure 7b,c), and frequently so
among friezes and art objects from the Near East, Mesopotamia and Persia during the first millennium
BCE (McDonald 2002, Figure 7d; Mazar 1961, vol. 2, p. 270; Roaf 1998, p. 163; Strommenger 1964,
Figures 194, 195 and 241). The ritual can also be linked indirectly to the cult of Yahweh during the age of
Solomon (ca. 1000 BCE), for the stone sarcophagus of the Phoenician Ahiram of Byblos, a predecessor
to the Phoenician builder of Yahweh’s first temple in Jerusalem, Hiram of Tyre, portrays the king in the
act of drinking a lotus libation (Mazar 1961, vol. 2, p. 143) while sitting on a seraphic/sphinx throne
that matches closely with biblical descriptions of Solomon’s “mercy seat.” A lotus bud-and-blossom
motif (an Egyptian symbol of immortal life) surrounds the lid of Hiram’s casket.
We can be sure that the practices of Solomon’s regional allies were not discouraged in Jerusalem
during this historical era, for biblical records make clear that Yahweh’s first temple was constructed in
part for the benefit of Egyptian, Canaanite, and Middle Eastern gods and goddesses (I Kings 11: 4),
despite prior prohibitions to such practices during the Mosaic age (Exodus 34: 11–13; Deuteronomy
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16: 21; Judges 3: 7; 6: 25, 28; Jeremiah 44: 3–6). Like many kings of his day, Solomon accepted female
concubines from distant lands to consummate peace accords with former or potential adversaries; since
these consorts were not expected to renounce the religious traditions of their homelands, Solomon
promoted the offering of incense and sacrifices to Astarte (Ishtar) of the Sidonians, Chemosh (=Shamash,
a Mesopotamian sun god represented iconographically as an Egyptian winged disk above sacral tree
motifs) of the Moabites, and Molech of the Ammonites (1 Kings 11: 5–8). Biblical records also indicate
that Yahwists participated in the worship of various Near Eastern goddesses and their vegetative
symbols during and shortly after Solomon’s reign (Patai 1990, p. 32; Keel and Uehlinger 1998, p. 152;
Wiggins 1993, p. 30; James 1966, p. 181), along with sacred prostitution in temple complexes (1 Kings
14: 23; 2 Kings 17: 10; 23: 5–7; Jeremiah 17: 1–2; Hosea 4: 12–13), all of which were practices employed
by contemporaneous religions of Mesopotamia and the Levant.
Hebraic records acknowledge that Solomon, just prior to his temple’s construction, accepted into
his harem the daughter of an Egyptian pharaoh (1 Kings 3: 1; presumably an offspring of Psusennes),
for whom altars were established on “high places” to honor the Egyptian pantheon. In Ezekiel’s vision
of Yahweh’s first temple, worshippers wept for Tammuz at its northern gate (Ezekiel 8: 14) and bowed
before the sun at the eastern gate while “putting the branch before their noses” (Ezekiel 8: 15–17).
The latter allusion can only refer to the Egyptian and Mesopotamian practice of worshipping the sun
while placing an aromatic lotus flower before the nose, as we encounter frequent portrayals of such
practices on scarabs and ivory etchings in ancient Canaan (Keel and Uehlinger 1998, p. 86, Figure 107).
Moreover, Hebraic devotions to Mesopotamia’s famous god of aquatic vegetation, Tammuz (=Dumuzi
of Sumeria), a close associate of the Mesopotamian sun god, Shamash of the Moabites, is of particular
interest in this connection, because this god was recognized mythically as a guardian of the blue-leaved
(=blue-petalled?) tree of life, the kiskanu plant of ancient Eridu and Ur (James 1966, pp. 8–10;
Langdon 1914, pp. 30, 114; Langdon 1928; McDonald 2002). It is also noteworthy that Eridu is
very close to the biblical garden East of Eden in the land of Ur and that Tammuz was the wife of
Ishtar, the Mesopotamian equivalent to Astarte in Sidon, where Hiram built temples in her honor
(Durdin-Robertson and Durdin-Robertson 1979, pp. 53, 126).
Around the age of Solomon, we are aware that the Assyrian “Myth of Adapa” was in circulation
and that this tale recognized Tammuz and his close associate, Ningizzida, as the “Lord of the Good
Tree” (Black et al. 1992, p. 138). This divine pair served as guardians to the gateway of heaven, in which
role they thwarted the efforts of mortal men to attain immortality by tricking the human offspring of
the god Enki, Adapa, the “seed of humankind” (the equivalent of biblical Adam; (James 1966, p. 72)),
into passing up an opportunity to consume the food and water of the gods (presumably from the tree
of life; (Pritchard 1969, p. 102)). Obviously, similar mythic themes are echoed in the book of Genesis.
8. The Hebraic Dimension

Numerous biblical scriptures allude to the erection of wooden idols and “pillars” known as
asherim and mazzeboth in the Temple of Solomon to pay obeisance to the creators of the Ugaritic
pantheon, El (Baal) and Asherah (1 Kings 15: 12–15; 19: 18; 2 Kings 10: 18–24; 2 Chronicles 15: 16; 33:
1–7). According to Hebrew tradition, these customs were outlawed by Moses after his epiphany on
Mount Sinai (Exodus 34: 13; Deuteronomy 12: 2–3; 16: 21; Judges 3: 7; 6: 25–28), but the prophet’s
divine edicts proved futile in discouraging religious tolerance and polytheistic inclinations of his tribal
associates and descendants. Biblical references to the erection of idols and asherim appear to relate to
sacral tree worship since, from a scriptural and iconographic point of view, the ‘poles’ (mazzeboth) of
Baal and ‘pillars’ (asherim) of Asherah (whose word-roots obviously share a common origin), were
undoubtedly plant symbols (Wiggins 1993, pp. 14–15, 93–97) and must surely relate to pillared sacral
tree motifs in archeological records of this day. Such practices were apparently shared by the Egyptians,
insofar as the famous pharaoh, Rameses II, had a pillar dedicated to Asherah’s daughter, Anat, at Beth
Shean during the 13th c. BCE (Cassuto 1971, p. 65). Not only did the idolizing of asherim relate to the
practice of “tree worship” (Deuteronomy 16: 21; 1 Kings 14: 23; Hosea 4: 12–13), but the erection of
160
these effigies is described in terms of a “planting” (Deuteronomy 16: 9) and their destruction as an
“uprooting” (Micah 5: 14) or a “hewing down” (Exodus 34: 13; Judges 6: 25, 28, 30; 1 Kings 15: 13; 2
Kings 23: 14; 2 Chronicles 14: 2–4; 15: 16).
Art historians are justified in drawing a direct link between the proto- and stereotypical images
of Near Eastern fertility goddesses and stylized images of the sacral tree (Keel and Uehlinger 1998,
pp. 199, 234, Figures 9–72, 214, 215 and 233a,b); or indeed, McDonald (2002) goes so far as to identify
Asherah as a lotus goddess (Patai 1990, p. 59, pls. 13, 15, 16, 27), if not the personification of the
Nilotic lotus. Not surprisingly, this goddess and her daughter, Anat, as well as Kadesh (Mazar 1961,
vol. 2, p. 66; Patai 1990, pl. 25) and Astarte/Ishtar (Patai 1990, p. 59), exhibit hairstyles and the general
aspect of Egyptian goddesses and are frequently associated with lotus flowers and serpents, which had
formerly and contemporaneously related iconographically to standard images of Isis, Nephthys and
Hathor of ancient Egypt. As earlier noted, these same goddesses were assimilated into the Egyptian
pantheon long before the age of Solomon. Because these effigies are conventionally executed in a
columnar form and occasionally wear lotus crowns, historians justifiably draw a direct connection
between the goddess Asherah and the Canaanite/Hebraic asherim. Moreover, many of these figurines
are charred, recalling Hebraic records that recommend the burning of false idols as an act of penitence
(2 Chronicles 15: 16).
Given that the Temple of Solomon was constructed by a Canaanite king to serve a host of
Egyptian and Near Eastern gods and goddesses, it should come as little surprise that Solomon’s
house of worship shared features with temple constructions in Egypt and the Middle East. Detailed
descriptions of the temple in the biblical books of Kings and Chronicles make clear that the rooms
were filled with images that relate to the Egyptian lotus and sacral trees of the Near East. Solomon’s
temple entrance was framed, for example, with two large pillars whose capitals were decorated with
“lily-work” (1 Kings 7: 16–22, 26; 2 Chronicles 4: 5). We can rest assured that the floral designs were
based on the Egyptian water lily because the Hebrew word for the flowery capitals, shushan (=susa,
shushan-eduth, shoshannim, shoshanah, (Moldenke and Moldenke 1952, pp. 41–43, 154; Walker 1957,
p. 226)), is clearly cognate with Coptic shoshen and Arabic sousan, deriving from an Egyptian word
for the Nile’s blue water lily, sheshen (Anthes 1959; Darby et al. 1977, vol. 2, p. 633; Wilkinson 1992,
p. 121). Predictably, the hieroglyph for sheshen, a logograph, is a lotus shoot. In all likelihood, pillars
with lotus capitals shared a symbolic relationship with the famous asherim. In this same connection,
Coomaraswamy (1935, p. 104) suggests the pillared lotus capitals of Egypt and Greece, with symbols
of Heaven above and Earth below, are essentially “cognate in form and coincident in reference.” And to
be sure, an image that marks the entrance to the Judaic holy of holies is of paramount importance.
In addition to the vegetative symbolism in Solomon’s temple, Near Eastern animal symbolism
associated with sacral trees also comes into play. The antechamber of Solomon’s temple contained,
for example, a giant bronze basin that bore Nilotic lotus petal engravings on its outer rim and was
supported by a base formed by twelve bronze bull figures. Triplets of bovine forms that faced the four
cardinal points of the cosmos (I Kings 7: 23–26) suggest that early Yahwists in Jerusalem held little
regard for the admonitions and warnings of Moses in the book of Exodus. Since biblical records state
specifically that the bronze basin symbolized the sea, and we know that Phoenician traditionalists
identified the goddess Asherah as a sea goddess and her consort, Baal, as a bull (Cassuto 1971, p. 58),
it seems clear that Solomon’s bath was fashioned in the image of mythic and iconographic themes that
were borrowed from Ugaritic associates in Tyre (Keel and Uehlinger 1998, p. 169).
It also seems more than coincidental that the most prominent images in Solomon’s sanctuary were
those of the cherubim, a mythical class of heavenly creature that Yahweh appointed as the protector
of Eden’s tree of immortal life (Gen 3: 24). Images of these creatures dominated the inner confines of
Solomon’s temple, including the Holy of Holies, where the ark of the covenant was guarded from
the outside world. Solomon received the voice of Yahweh directly from this mysterious container
(Patai 1990, p. 82), not unlike Moses before him (Numbers 7: 89) and as Ezekiel soon thereafter
(Ezekiel 10: 5). The Book of Kings emphasizes the fact that these creatures were rendered large
161
in scale and that they touched their outstretched wings (1 Kings 6: 26–27; 2 Chronicles 3: 7–12),
suggesting the Egyptian practice of portraying Isis and Nephthys, the sisters of Osiris-Ra, with their
wings held together on the ‘arks’ of Horus and Egyptian pharaohs (Gillispie and Dewachter 1987,
vol. 1, pl. 11.4; vol. 2, pl. 35.7; vol. 3, pl. 32.5; vol. 4, pl. 24.2), which were paraded around
temple grounds during religious holidays. Equivalent motifs are found among Levantine ivory
plaques (Frankfort 1970, Figure 378). Other scriptures note that cherubs occurred on blue curtains that
shrouded the Holy of Holies (2 Chronicles 3: 14)—a feature dating from the Mosaic age, when the
ark of the covenant was shielded in the tents of nomadic Hebrew tribes (Exodus 26: 1; Numbers 7:
89)—and on the ark of the covenant itself (2 Chronicles 5: 7), as well as the mysterious “mercy seat”
depicted on the ark (Exodus 25: 17–22; 37: 6–9; (Mazar 1961, vol. 1, p. 162)).
Although the latter verses do not specify the physical nature of the cherub, Ezekiel’s vision
describes this creature in terms of a chimera that bore the “faces” (aspects) of an eagle, lion, bull,
and man (Ezekiel 1: 4–11; 10: 14) or simply of a man and lion (Ezekiel 41: 18–23). Such descriptions
call to mind, of course, either an Egyptian sphinx or the two massive creatures that stood guard
at the entrance of Ashurnasirpal’s palace (Layard 1849, vol. 2, p. 464; Mazar 1961, vol. 3, p. 159;
Roaf 1998, p. 163; Ward 1910) and conventionally before the lotus-flowering boughs of cosmic trees in
the Middle East, as observed on Ziwiye’s lotus-trees of life (Figure 5c) and the armrests of Levantine
thrones (McDonald 2002, Figure 7b). At Til Barsip (Tell Ahmar), a similar creature with blue wings
is followed by a priest that upholds a blue-petalled water lily (Parrot 1961, Figure 110). Since these
figures are obviously based in part on Egypt’s ancient image of a sphinx and this creature’s close lotus
associations, we are given to identify biblical cherubs as the chimeric forms that flank lotiform trees of
life, usually in pairs, throughout the Near and Middle East (Frankfort 1970, Figures 187, 196, 218, 224,
380, 381, 391).
9. Felling the Asherim

The use of lotus and cherub imagery in the temple of Yahweh, along with the worship of vegetative
asherim, suggests that Hebrew communities likely employed sacral tree imagery to the same extent
as their historical associates in Assyria, Babylon, and Phoenicia. Such customs came to an end in
Judah, however, during the reign of Josiah (ca. 620 BCE), at which time prohibitions against the
manufacture and use of graven images were more strictly enforced (II Kings 23: 3–20). The historical
reason for this radical change in tradition is still a matter of debate, but the Old Testament is consistent
on the issue. In the original establishment of Mosaic law, it was stipulated that Yahweh would allow
no other gods be held before him, and that the Creator’s protection of Hebrew tribes against the
onslaughts of Amorites, Canaanites, Hittites, and Midianites would be withdrawn if they continued
to pay homage to foreign gods (Exodus 34: 11–13; Leviticus 26: 1; Judah 6: 25, 28). The same general
terms applied during the 7th c. BCE reformations of Josiah, and thus required of Hebrew communities
the abandonment of former religious practices. Paradoxically, the enforcement of Mosaic laws resulted
in the removal and destruction of the magical serpent-rod (nehustan) of Aaron and Moses (2 Kings
18: 4) “from high places.” That Hebrew communities would continue to hallow Mosaic doctrine and
yet destroy one of the patriarch’s most significant possessions is of considerable interest, in that it
demonstrates that post-exilic Hebrews were historically ambivalent to aspects of their past, some of
which were deemed sacred and others profane, at least in terms of post-exilic Hebraic perspectives on
Near Eastern history.
The destruction of Moses’ brazen serpent is of particular relevance to the present discussion on
two counts; first, the implement was likely Egyptian in origin, given that the priests of the pharaoh
employed the same sort of staff when they matched their powers of magic against the powers of
Moses (Exodus 7: 8–20); and second, the Egyptian staff was likely associated with the “lotus-scepter
of Ra” (Piankoff 1974, spell 1090), since Egyptian kings and priests frequently upheld a lotus staff
that was encoiled by a divine cobra during mortuary and religious rites (Budge [1931] 1970, p. 166;
Lange and Hirmer 1968, pl. li; El-Mallakh and Bianchi 1980, p. 44). These images relate, no doubt,
162
to the habit of associating Horus with a lotus flower and serpent (as noted in the aforementioned
inscription at Denderah; Table 1, l. 37; (McDonald 2002)). In this connection, it is interesting that
biblical records never state explicitly that the rod of Aaron was inherently evil, but that Jews had
sinned by presenting offerings directly to the staff. This particular detail compels us to wonder if the
destruction of the asherim resulted primarily from the worship of false idols instead of an aversion to
lotus-tree symbolism.
However strong the resistance to Canaanite idols and symbolism during Josiah’s reforms may
have been, there are no overt or even implicit biblical prohibitions to the traditional use of lotus
symbolism. This is somewhat surprising because the plant was widely employed as the principal
symbol of many prohibited gods and goddesses of Egypt, Canaan, and Mesopotamia. Similarly,
we encounter many negative references to the act of tree worship and idolatry in the Bible, but no
direct references against the associated practice of libation ceremonies per se. While it is stated that the
burning of incense and the pouring of libations in honor of the “Queen of Heaven” (Astarte/Anat)
was sinful (Jeremiah 44: 14–22), it is abundantly clear that similar practices played an important role in
Judaic ritual following the exile in Egypt. For, had not Jacob offered libations before a sacred pillar
in pre-Mosaic times (Genesis 35: 14)? And had not members in the tribe of Moses celebrated similar
practices in front of the ark of the covenant (Exodus 25: 29; 2 Chronicles 5: 5)?
During the advent of the post-exilic period, it is noteworthy that the famous Persian dynast, Cyrus
(Koresh), was glorified by the Jews on account of his role in releasing the Jews bondage in Babylon
and the repatriation of Jerusalem’s cherished libation vessels (Ezra 1: 7–11). Cyrus was therefore
promoted to the exalted status of an “anointed one” (messiah) of Yahweh (Isaiah 45: 1), ostensibly
placing him on equal footing with Jesse, David, and Solomon. This tribute seems exceedingly generous
when we consider that Cyrus did not worship Yahweh in Persia, but probably paid allegiance to
Ahura Mazda, the creator of the Zoroastrian pantheon. We can be sure that Cyrus worshipped Ahura
Mazda, for Cyrus had Median ancestry and sired children that bore the names of Gathic (Zoroastrian)
personages: Hystaspes/Vistaspa and Atossa/Hutaosa. Moreover, Zoroastrian fire altars have been
found among the ruins of Pasargade. That Hebrew communities would chastise all outsiders that
held a god before their own and yet recognize a Perso-Aryan dynast as a divine personage seems to
demonstrate, once again, a certain degree of compromise and ambivalence regarding the application
of reformation doctrines and foreign religious practices in post-exilic Judah.
In later days, pseudepigraphal works also make reference to libation ceremonies, as evidenced
by a hymn from the Odes to Solomon (number 11), which refers to a plant of the Lord that “spilt”
its holy spirit and its “living” and “speaking” waters, making Solomon drunk with knowledge and
filling his nostrils with the aroma of the Lord (Barnstone 1984, p. 273). Such reports appear to echo the
aforementioned Egyptian notion of imbibing truth (maat) from the waters that spill from the eyes of
Horus, a concept that is portrayed iconographically by streaming ankh symbols. Another song refers
to a sweet cup of milk as the delight and “Son” of the Lord; those who drink of this cup are near his
right hand, the traditional locus of Yahweh’s tree of life (Barnstone 1984, p. 279).
It is of considerable interest, therefore, that before the last vestiges of pharaonic Egypt were
eclipsed by religious and cultural traditions of Semitic origin (i.e., Christianity and later Islam) around
the 2nd c. CE, vestiges of Egypt’s traditional habits in ritual and symbolism persisted in a syncretistic
manner for several centuries. The earliest known visual impressions of the Christian cross and tree
of life derive from Coptic traditionalists along the Nile River around 200 CE and reveal a nascent
school of Christian artistic expression that continues to borrow conservatively from ancient Egyptian
lotus imagery and symbolism. An exemplary stele from the second century associates the cross of
Christ with the Greek letters alpha and omega, a Mediterranean symbol for immortal life, and thus
indicates growing European influences over Nilotic culture (Figure 8). While the symbolic relationship
between the cross, tree of life and Greek letters is biblical, art historians have yet to acknowledge that
a five-membered palmette that surmounts the cross derives from lotus blossom imagery and clearly
establishes a transition between Egypt’s traditional past and its Christian future. We note that the same
163
five-membered perianth reappears in a radial configuration on either side of the cross, each being
placed within the loop of the ankh symbols (or crux ansata = ‘cross with handle’), precisely where
Egyptians had traditionally placed the lotus flower (Figure 3a). In this case the two ankhs assume a
quasi-personified aspect by wearing Christian robes and upholding two additional crosses and stylized
grape leaves. The latter vegetative motif relates, of course, to scriptural passages that equate Christ
as the grapevine of life (John 15: 1, 4–5), much as his blood is equated with wine during celebrations
of the Eucharist, the imbibement of which confers immortality in the afterlife. Hence the ancient
Egyptian ankh symbol, now the Latin crux ansata, was identified with the Messiah, the sacrificial cross,
the Nilotic lotus, the blood of Christ (i.e., grape leaf as the source of wine), the tree of life and related
concepts of attaining eternal life. The practice of the eucharist may well have seemed consonant during
this age with earlier performances of lotus-libation rituals in ancient Egypt, as they both were esteemed
as religious expression of the highest order and apparently served a similar religious purpose, i.e.,
achieving immortal life. Such possibilities must be considered hypothetical, however, until connections
between the Christian concepts of the tree of life and the Nilotic lotus are explored more rigorously in
both written and iconographic records from Egypt’s Christian dawning. A key to such inquiries will
hinge, to be sure, on a more complete understanding of the time-tested role of water lilies in libation
ceremonies in ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia and the Levant.
Figure 8. Lotus, ankh, and Coptic cross. Early Christian communities in Egypt symbolized the cross of
Christ with their traditional ankh symbol. Note that the cross of Jesus—here identified with the Greek
letters alpha and omega—supports a five-petaled palmette, radial views of which are observed within
the “handle” (the Egyptian shen loop) of the crux ansata. The quasi-personified ankh signs, apparently
emblematic of Christ himself, wear robes and uphold crosses and dangling grape leaves. Cairo, 3rd c.
(Coptic Museum).
10. Discussion
Mythic and artistic themes that relate to an immortalizing plant of the gods are shared throughout
Egypt, the Levant and Mesopotamia. While one school of thought maintains that the biblical tree
of life bears no direct relation to sacral tree imagery in Mesopotamia (Black et al. 1992, p. 171;
Parpola 1993) and another admits to historical connections between mythic tree of life motifs in Egypt,
the Mediterranean and Mesopotamia (James 1966), resolution of these competing views requires
coherent arguments that explain both how and why so many distant human populations came to share
so many mythic and iconographic conventions.
164
A comprehensive consideration of lotus symbolism in ancient Egypt, the Levant and Mesopotamia,
in light of the plant’s unique biological attributes and behaviors, serves to accentuate the profound and
influential roles this iconic plant once played in early developments of ritual and religious expression
on an international basis. We have long been aware that the Nilotic lotus pervaded and dominated
iconographic and mythic records of ancient Egypt from 2500 BCE to the early centuries of the common
era, and that the plant served as a symbol for living creation and the everlasting life of the sun,
solar deities and pharaohs. But the degree to which closely related developments of lotus symbolism in
the Middle East borrowed from, or paralleled those of ancient Egypt from around 1500 BCE is poorly
explored. While less definitive evidence suggests that the plant played a critical role in mythic and
religious traditions in the Tigris-Euphrates Valleys around 2500 BCE (McDonald 2002), the abrupt and
abundant appearances of Egyptian lotus imagery among important Levantine urban centers around
1500 BCE, especially with respect to carved ivory decorations on thrones, aristocratic furniture and
temple walls, seems to anticipate the widespread adoption of Egypt-inspired lotus symbolism on
large scales in the guise of iconographic ‘sacral trees’ at Kar Tikulti Ninurta of Mesopotamia around
1200 BCE. The latter specimens exhibit features that are clearly homologous with elements of the ankh
and sema-taui symbols of Ancient Egypt, and share close association of mythic animals that similarly
seem to have Nilotic origins.
The ubiquity of this plant symbol and role in religious and ritualistic expression over such a broad
geographical range is no less remarkable than the critical role the plant played in modelling the cosmos
and defining the concepts of ‘first principles’ in ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. The Egyptians
identified the world’s Creator, Nefertum, as a personification of this sun-like, sweet-smelling plant,
and also identified the plant’s flowers as the source of the sun itself. Various central members of the
Heliopolitan pantheon were symbolized by the plant’s continual production of sun-flowers, and were
thus equated with the everlasting cycles of life. And by association, successive kings in pharaonic Egypt
were equated with these divine personages in life and after death. Like most ancient cosmological
concepts, these symbolic and metaphorical notions were communicated by use of various symbols of
everlasting life, such as the ankh, sema-taui and shen insignias, all of which migrated and transitioned
into closely symbolic forms of the Middle East that assumed the guise of a ‘sacral tree,’ large scale
depictions of which reached a pinnacle of popularity Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian traditions.
The relevance of an Egyptian plant in Mesopotamia owes in no small part to the abundance of this same
plant species in marshlands of the Tigris-Euphrates River system. The transition of a herbaceous lotus
plant into a sacral tree motif established one of the most pervasive and as yet enigmatic developments
in early Middle Eastern iconography which continues to mystify historians and connoisseurs of
ancient arts.
Present attempts to identify lotiform tree of life motifs in Mesopotamia with Hebraic concepts
of pillared vegetative fetishes known as asherim during Mosaic and post-exilic ages of the Old
Testament introduces a number of novel perspectives and underscores ritualistic relations between
early Judaic cultures and neighboring tribes. These associations are supported by biblical references to
iconography and historical images of libation ceremonies that trace from the Levant and Mesopotamia
from 1500–500 BCE, often in association with lotus flowers and lotus-related mythic figures, such as
sphinxes and ‘cherubim’ (chimeras of bulls, eagles, bulls and humans). A review of biblical scriptures
emphasizes an under-appreciated role of lotus imagery in the construction and implementation of the
temple of Solomon, the holy of holies, and the ark of the covenant, thus broadening our awareness of the
influence and religious impacts of Egyptian traditions and rituals among Levantine and Mesopotamian
peoples. These novel viewpoints pose new and compelling questions regarding the early developments
of religious expression that now seem far removed from our present-day practice of religions that
originated in these regions of the world. Perhaps foremost among these questions is the abandoned
role of a sacred/mythic plant that formerly played a central role in libation ceremonies, the result of
which culminated at times in transcendental experience.
165

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religions
Article
Continuity and Discontinuity in 17th- and
18th-Century Ecclesiastical Silverworks
from the Southern Andes
Andrea Nicklisch
Roemer- und Pelizaeus-Museum Hildesheim, Am Steine 1–2, 31134 Hildesheim, Germany;
a.nicklisch@rpmuseum.de
Received: 12 July 2018; Accepted: 15 August 2018; Published: 3 September 2018
Abstract: This article deals with interpretations of images on silver ecclesiastical objects from the
Southern Andes dating from the 17th and 18th centuries. The silverworks communicate contents on
a nonverbal level and are integrated into ritual acts in the context of church services; this facilitates
associations with non-Christian beliefs. If the images are studied by means of a combination of
various analytical levels, transcultural processes become apparent in the images on the objects
studied, and meanings emerge that would not have been brought to light by simple image analysis.
This applies particularly to the comparison with possible indigenous meanings of European images,
which enables a much more comprehensive interpretation. Depending on the beholder, the images
may be interpreted as expressing continuity, i.e., as representations of indigenous beliefs; as expressing
discontinuity, i.e., as representations of Christian beliefs; or as the result of a transfer of meaning
encompassing and combining both belief systems, thus enabling a new way of “reading” them.
However, a transcultural process of regional relocation and use of cultural elements is not only visible
in the images; it is also illustrated by the ecclesiastical silverworks in the Americas as such, given the
European influence manifest in them.
Keywords: South America; colonial period; religious transfer of meaning; multiple readings of images
1. Introduction
The continuity of pre-Hispanic/indigenous religions has its basis in transcultural processes.
These religions are witnessing a powerful renaissance in the context of the current political
developments in Bolivia, and can be viewed as the foundation of an emerging new concept of the self.
This article deals with the ways historical actors have used new media—such as ecclesiastical
silverworks of the new religious system—to configure new cultural orders and systems of meaning
within colonial power relations; another question addressed is whether the ecclesiastical silverworks
can be interpreted as media of a transfer of meaning.
The 17th- and 18th-century ecclesiastical silverworks from the Southern Andes region, particularly
the antependia and candle banks, are decorated with a multitude of angels, angel-like beings, and birds.
Hence, they are well suited for demonstrating the simultaneousness of continuity and discontinuity
on the one hand, and for illustrating the concept of multiple interpretations on the other. The focus
will be on two winged anthropomorphic beings on the altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe in Sucre (in
colonial times also called Charcas, Chuquisaca, and La Plata), Bolivia, in the southern Andes.
2. Region and Time under Study

The objects studied date from the 17th and 18th centuries. The Provincia de Charcas where they
come from was then a colonial contact zone that, at the same time, was also a cultural contact zone.
The latter term is used by Mary Louise Pratt to refer to social spaces where cultures meet and establish

spheres of action with each other.1 These encounters are often based on unequal power relationships
(Pratt 1991, p. 34). In the contact zone, transcultural processes unfold within a culture as well as in the
interplay of several cultures.
3. The Altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe in Sucre, Bolivia

The Virgin of Guadalupe (Figure 1) is the patron saint of Sucre, the constitutional capital of
today’s Bolivia. The original picture of the Virgin was painted in 1601 by the Spaniard Diego de Ocaña,
a member of the Hieronymite Order. Ocaña modeled the depiction in his painting on the sculpture of
the Black Virgin in the monastery of Santa María de Guadalupe in what is now the Cáceres Province in
Spain’s Extremadura region. Worship of the Virgin established itself quickly in 17th-century Sucre, and
believers presented her image with countless precious stones, pearls, pieces of jewelry, medals, coins,
and small watches to express their veneration. These gifts were attached to the canvas. The votive
gifts weighed so heavily on the canvas that the Madonna’s hands, her face, and the face of the divine
infant were cut out of the image and set into a cloak-shaped plate of silver and gold. The votive gifts
were subsequently transferred onto the cloak too (Figure 2). In addition, this devotional picture, which
is reminiscent of Byzantine icons, was given a so-called throne—a kind of frame. It has a glass front,
and its sides and back are made of massive silver.
Figure 1. Devotional image of the Virgin of Guadlupe, Sucre (photo: Andrea Nicklisch).
1 “[ . . . ] what I like to call the contact zones. I use this term to refer to social spaces where cultures meet, clash, and grapple
with each other, often in contexts of highly asymmetrical relations of power, such as colonialism, slavery, or their aftermaths
as they are lived out in many parts of the world today” (Pratt 1991, p. 34).
170
Figure 2. Detail, Virgin of Guadalupe (photo: Andrea Nicklisch).
As early as 1602, a chapel, which has since been the place where the Virgin is worshipped,
was added to the cathedral of Sucre.2 So popular was the Virgin that it became necessary to enlarge
the chapel as early as 1617. Mass is held there every day. In colonial times, it was mostly the elites of
Sucre who hallowed the Virgin; today, she is widely worshipped by the indigenous population as well.
Every year, nine days before the Virgin Mary’s birthday on September 8, the devotional image
is taken from the chapel and carried through the city in a procession, accompanied by secular and
church dignitaries and the sound of music and firecrackers (Figure 3), and eventually reentering the
cathedral through the main entrance. The image is then worshipped by the believers until the holiday
proper, the day of the Birth of the Blessed Virgin Mary (Figure 4). On September 8, an open-air mass
is held on the Plaza 25 de Mayo. After that, the Virgin is again carried through the city, this time
accompanied by a motorcade. The procession temporarily expands the sacred space, and the course of
the procession along various buildings of political institutions serves to conjoin and reaffirm worldly
and clerical power.
The continuity of pre-Hispanic religious ideas, as well as their association with Christian religious
ideas by means of winged anthropomorphic beings, becomes visible on the stairs of the altar of the
Virgin of Guadalupe. The candle banks—three wooden steps beneath the devotional image of the
Virgin—are decorated with silver plates of various sizes. On two steps, silver elements are mounted
to the left and to the right of the tabernacle, respectively; these elements are sides, and possibly also
supports and backs, of missal bookstands (Personal communication, Bernardo Gantier SJ, 15 August
2012, Sucre, Bolivia; Figure 5). The 1799 inventory of the chapel of the Virgin of Guadalupe lists
altogether eight missal bookstands, three of which were faced with silver. However, the inventory
merely mentions the value of the missal bookstands without giving a description of the depictions
on them. It is thus not clear whether the silver parts on the candle banks are one of the bookstands
listed. As a consequence, it is not possible to exactly date these plates. Judging from their decoration,
however, they were probably made in the 18th century.
2 Building of the cathedral itself was begun in 1559 and completed in 1712.
171
Figure 3. Procession of the Virgin of Guadalupe (photo: Andrea Nicklisch).
Figure 4. Worship of the Virgin (photo: Andrea Nicklisch).
Figure 5. (a,b) Tabernacle and candle banks, altar in the chapel of the Virgin of Guadalupe, Sucre,
Bolivia (photo: Andrea Nicklisch).
172
The parts of the missal bookstands are attached to the lowermost and uppermost candle banks.
The parts on the lowermost step, which are probably support surfaces, show a crown surrounded by
a garland, as well as rocaille-like3 ornaments on the former side parts. Rectangular silver plates are
attached to the left and right sides of the third and uppermost steps (Figure 6).
Figure 6. Tabernacle and candle banks, altar in the chapel of the Virgin of Guadalupe, Sucre, Bolivia
(photo: Andrea Nicklisch).
These are probably the backs of the missal book stands. Each of the two plates features an
anthropomorphic figure; these figures are almost identical in their postures: their arms are raised, and
they are holding a round object above their heads. Both figures look as if they have wings. The figure
on the left side has breasts and is thus probably a woman (Figure 7a) who, in addition, has an umbilicus.
From her wrists emerge two objects that look like snake heads. The figure on the right side has neither
secondary sexual characteristics nor an umbilicus. Twigs with leaves on them spring from its raised
arms. Like the female figure, it is holding a round object—which has a cross on top—above its head
(Figure 7b). Based on their attributes, their position on the altar, and Christian iconography, the two
figures can be interpreted as being Adam and Eve. According to Christian iconography, the figure on
the left side would be Eve. Her depiction with breasts and umbilicus is unusual. These features were
not usually present, particularly in medieval depictions, as Adam and Eve were created by God and not
born as mortal humans. Hence, they often lack both sexual characteristics and an umbilicus. From the
Renaissance onward, however, they were depicted with both umbilicus and sexual characteristics
(Poeschel 2005, p. 38; Menzel 1854, p. 21). The round object above their heads is probably the fruit
from the Tree of Knowledge.
3 Conchiform curved ornaments that first emerged in France in the first half of the 18th century. Available online: http:
//www.beyars.com/kunstlexikon/lexikon_7623.html (accessed on 28 June 2013).
173
Figure 7. (a) Silver panel with female figure on the altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe, Sucre, Bolivia
(photo: Andrea Nicklisch); (b) Silver panel with male figure on the altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe,
Sucre, Bolivia (photo: Andrea Nicklisch).
According to Christian iconography, the figure on the right side would be Adam. The leaves on
his arm may allude to an apocryphal tale: Adam is said to have brought a kernel of the fruit from the
Tree of Knowledge with him from Paradise to Earth. When Adam died and was buried, he had that
kernel in his mouth. From it grew the tree of which the cross of Christ was made (Menzel 1854, p. 114).
The round object above his head appears to be an imperial orb, a Roman symbol of sovereignty over
the world that later became one of the insignia of the Christian rulers.
The Bible says that God had Adam and Eve expelled from Paradise after the Fall. They found
themselves in a world where they did not have eternal life; instead, they had to suffer sorrow, pain,
and death. By sinning they had destroyed the harmony and peace of nature.
After expulsion from Paradise, Adam and Eve found themselves in a world unknown to them—a
disordered world like that with which the indigenous population had to cope after Conquest.
Iconographic analyses reveal the agency of transcultural processes in the images on the objects
studied. However, only the combination of various levels of analysis—analysis of historical
documents, and inclusion of pre-Christian European and pre-Hispanic contents of images—results in
interpretations that would not have been yielded by simple image analysis. This applies particularly
to the comparison with possible indigenous meanings of European images, which enables a much
more comprehensive interpretation. Depending on the beholder, the images may be interpreted as
expressing continuity, i.e., as representations of indigenous beliefs; as expressing discontinuity, i.e.,
as representations of Christian beliefs; or as the result of a transfer of meaning encompassing and
combining both belief systems, thus allowing for a new way of “reading” them. However, they may
also be viewed as being purely decorative.
4. Objects of Comparison
Several objects of comparison make the transfer of meaning on the silver plates visible:
pre-Hispanic petroglyphs from the Sucre region; a cloak from the colonial era (probably 17th century,
Roemer- and Pelizaeus-Museum Hildesheim, inv.-no. V 9.000); and contemporary textiles from
the Jalq’a region near Sucre. These modern textiles, which are almost exclusively in red and black,
show chaotic scenes (Figure 8a) referring to the absence of sunlight, the difficulty of seeing things
clearly (both in the literal and in the metaphoric sense), and the supernatural world (exhibition text
“Tejidos de Jalq’a”, Fundación Antropológos del Surandino, ASUR, Sucre, Bolivia, 2010). One of the
most prominent figures represented on the textiles is the so-called supay (Figure 8b).
174
Figure 8. (a) Textile from Jalq’a, Bolivia (Fundación Antropólogos del Surandino, ASUR, Sucre, Bolivia,
photo: Andrea Nicklisch); (b) Representation of the supay (Fundación Antropólogos del Surandino,
ASUR, Sucre, Bolivia, photo: Andrea Nicklisch).
The supay is a supernatural being associated with the world beyond the human world—that is,
with dangerous and disordered (i.e., noncivilized) places. The representations of the supay on the
textiles bear close resemblance to the two figures on the altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe. This type of
representation may have developed from pre-Hispanic petroglyphs showing a head with raised arms
(exhibition “Tejidos de Jalq’a”, Fundación Antropólogos del Surandino, ASUR, Sucre, Bolivia, 2010).
The abovementioned garment, which is probably the wedding cloak of a high-ranking woman (Phipps
et al. 2004, p. 194), shows a creature covered with black hair. With its arms raised and a long snout,
it appears among pre-Hispanic- and European-style images (Figure 9). The textile in the collection of
the Roemer- and Pelizaeus-Museum Hildesheim is only one half of the cloak; the other half is in the
Textile Museum Washington (Textile Museum Washington D.C. 1968.35.I). The latter features the being
covered with black hair, which can be linked to the two figures on the altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
Figure 9. Wedding cloak, southern Andes, 17th century(?), Roemer- und Pelizaeus-Museum
Hildesheim, inv.-no. V 9.000 (photo: Shahrok Shalchi).
175
The pre-Hispanic supay ranks among the ambivalent mountain deities of the Andes, and is
found in various regions under various names (Martínez 1983). Still today, the miners regard him
as the “Lord of Metals”, whom they need to put into a favorable mind (Salazar-Soler 1987, p. 197).
This establishes a connection between the supay and the silver plates. In addition, Martínez refers
to the mountain deities as double-gendered, “como marido y mujer”, due to their characteristics
(Martínez 1983, p. 98f.). This suggests that Adam and Eve, depicted separately on two matching missal
bookstands as well as on the wedding cloak, do not only express that aspect of the supay but also
one of the basic concepts of Andean dualism: the division of the world into masculine and feminine.
According to Constance Classen, Adam and Eve are referred to by the Quechua term of yanantin (“to
help each other”); they are two halves that belong together while at the same time containing within
themselves elements of the respective other sex (Classen 1993, p. 13). The indigenous population may
thus have interpreted Adam and Eve as the embodiment of a cosmos that, while divided by gender,
is essentially one. The representation of the supay on the wedding cloak from the collection of the
Roemer- und Pelizaeus-Museum can be seen in that context, too.
In addition, the positioning of Adam (at the right in depictions) and Eve (at the left in depictions)
in Christian iconography is in accordance with the Andean principle associating the male with the right
side and the female with the left (Classen 1993, p. 12).4 Both indigenous and European beholders could
thus interpret the images from the perspective of their respective faith—pre-Hispanic or Christian—,
and easily incorporate them into their belief system.
Since the colonial era, the term supay has largely been used synonymously with “devil” or demons
in general. The missionaries tried to transform the ambivalent concept of supay into an unambiguously
Christian concept, so as to establish a contrast between the Christian God and the Andean supay and
other deities and deified ancestors (MacCormack 1991, p. 257). A translation of the term from the
Quechua language is first found in Domingo de Santo Tomás’ 1560 dictionary Lexicón o vocabulario
de la lengua general del Perú. Santo Tomás translates the term into Spanish as “good or bad angel”,
“demon or household spirit”, and “good or bad demon”.5 Hence, his translation clearly alludes to
the dual, not exclusively evil nature of the supay. The dictionary by Antonio Ricardo, published in
1583, gives more translations into Spanish such as “apparition of a ghost” and “shadow of a person”.
The lexicon by Diego Gonzalez Holguin also has the translation “apparition of a ghost”, as well as
“ghost” and “vision” MacCormack 1991, p. 254f.).6 However, the term is given an exclusively negative
connotation in the example sentences included in these dictionaries. That negative meaning was taken
for granted by the Jesuit friar José de Acosta as early as 1577. He defined the supay as the antagonist
of God, and the following definition is found in the Catecismo Mayor of the Third Council of Lima:
“[ . . . ] chay mana alli Angelcunactam çupay ninchic” (“[ . . . ] these evil angels whom we call çupay”)
(Karlovich 2006, n.p.). Inca Garcilaso de la Vega reported in 1609 that the Inca used to distinguish
between good and evil, between God and supay; and Guaman Poma de Ayala refers to the Inca deities
in general as supay who had kept the indigenous population from practicing the Christian faith prior
to conquest by the Spaniards (MacCormack 1991, p. 255). The advanced Christian reinterpretation of
the concept of supay becomes apparent in both these statements.
With the figures of supay Adam and supay Eve, the altar thus features both pre-Hispanic and
Christian concepts that reveal a transfer of meaning: a nondominant system can instrumentalize a
dominant system unnoticed as a vehicle for its own ideas.
4 “Left” and “right” always refers to the position of the depictions, not to the perspective of the beholder.
5 “Çupay: Angel bueno o malo, demonio bueno o malo, demonios, trasgo de casa” (Eyzaguirre Morales, Milton. De Ancestros
y Muertos a Diablos Ángeles. La Resemantización del Supay en el Contexto Andino, La Paz 2011, n.p.).
6 “Cupay could be a vision, phantasm, or ghost. [. . . ] These included seeing evil phantasms or spirits, being possessed by a
demon or devil; speaking with the devil; and making oneself wicked, like a demon” MacCormack 1991, p. 255.
176
In addition, the existence of the concept of supay, as well as very similar depictions of that being,
can be traced from pre-Hispanic times (petroglyphs) to the colonial era (silver plates and textiles
V 9.000) and into the 20th century (textiles).
5. Theoretical Approaches
As mentioned above, the Provincia de Charcas was a colonial contact zone and as such the
scene of “transcultural processes”. The underlying term “transculturation” was first introduced
by Fernando Ortiz in 1940. Ortiz used the term to characterize the development of Cuban society
from the pre-Hispanic era until the modern period. He held the view that “acculturation” was an
inadequate term with regard to those historical events, of which European conquest was the most
massive encroachment on the existing cultures, as the term merely refers to the process of adaptation
of one culture to another (Ortiz [1940] 1947, p. 97). Bronislaw Malinowski supported that point
of view in his preface to Ortiz’s study, as he deemed the concept of acculturation an ethnocentric
notion with a pronounced moral connotation. According to Malinowski, that notion implied that “the
‘uncultured’ is to receive the benefits ‘of our culture’; it is he who must change and become converted
into ‘one of us’”. Malinowski, in contrast, viewed cultural contacts as “a system of give and take,
it is a process in which both parts of the equation are modified, a process from which a new reality
emerges, transformed and complex, a reality that is not a mechanical agglomeration of traits, nor even
a mosaic, but a new phenomenon, original and independent” (Malinowski [1940] 1947). Besides the
encounter between cultures, the cultural process called “transculturation” includes the deculturation
of all populations involved, as well as neoculturation. As defined by Ortiz, deculturation refers to
people’s separation from their culture of origin, which applied to all parties involved in the conquest of
the Americas: while the Spaniards or Europeans were the dominant power, they found themselves in
a completely different world inhabited by people whose languages they could not—and probably did
not want to—understand, and by animals and plants unknown to them. The indigenous population,7
in turn, usually continued to live in its respective region of origin but was forced not merely to arrange
itself with European/Christian culture but to make it their own. The black slaves deported from Africa
to the Americas were faced with deculturation as well. The next step, neoculturation, is the intentional
creation of a new culture. According to Ortiz, such a culture, while having features of its predecessors,
is to be viewed as a culture of its own (Ortiz [1940] 1947, p. 102f.).
The preconditions of transculturation were also found in the Provincia de Charcas in the time
period under study. Prompted by transculturation, structures of power and rule were established and
negotiated—depending on each party’s room for maneuver—between the Spaniards as the secular
conquering power, the Christian church as the religious power, and the indigenous population.
In the sphere of pictorial representation and its perception and interpretation, Margot Berghaus
has developed a thesis based on her engagement with Niklas Luhmann’s systems theory, which is
applicable to the silverworks studied. Berghaus states that, in contrast to pictorial representations,
language is completely defined in social terms; that is, it is socially learned and its use is subject to
social control by society. Pictorial representations, in turn, are defined by Berghaus as being “partially
extrasocial” (outside social systems, partiell außersozial) and “partially social” (inside social systems,
partiell sozial) (Berghaus 2010, p. 179f.). “Partially extrasocial” refers to pictorial representations or
parts of images that are decoded by means of cognitive potentials outside the realm of language.
These cognitive potentials can take effect regardless of the prerogative of interpretation in a given
society, as images defy any complete governing control; hence, they are only subject to partial
interpretational control by society. It is possible to understand pictorial representations directly,
7 This term is not to suggest that there existed a homogeneous population in the Viceroyalty of Peru. It is used here to refer to
the indigenous peoples as a whole as opposed to the Spaniards who, by the way, did not view themselves as a homogeneous
population either, making clear distinctions among themselves based on their respective regional origins in Spain.
177
without “social processes of learning, control, and translation” (Berghaus 2010, p. 180). “Partially
social”, in contrast, are parts of images that can only be understood from the perspective of a specific
society. The beholder cannot necessarily grasp the sociocultural meaning of a pictorial representation,
what it is supposed to express, and for what purpose it was made (Berghaus 2010, p. 180). This means
that pictorial representations can be partly understood “extrasocially” due to visible resemblance to
reality; other elements, however, are incomprehensible, and interpreting them in social terms is a
painstaking process (Berghaus 2010, p. 182).8
The validity of Berghaus’ thesis regarding the partially social and partially extrasocial character of
pictorial representations becomes evident in the images on Southern-Andes ecclesiastical silverworks.
The representations on antependia, tabernacles, and arches present the beholder with a definitely
familiar inventory of images, and the social component of their character reveals itself. However,
the setting of the depictions is a foreign cultural context, which renders it much more difficult to
decipher their extrasocial component: not only early modern Spanish-European but also indigenous
preconditions must be taken into account.
In addition, pictorial representations are associated with very diverse social acts or practices
that are inevitably linked to actors, and assign use of the images to a specific purpose (Kramer and
Baumgarten 2009, p. 21). The observations of the actors always go along with making a distinction
between “referring to something as this and not as that” (Berghaus 2010, p. 28). Distinctions are thus
decisive for describing reality, and any such description is inevitably constructed by the beholder.
This also means that reality is constructed by the beholder, which, in turn, raises the question as to
how something has been constructed (Berghaus 2010, p. 29), as it is the beholder who decides what
distinction is made (Berghaus 2010, p. 46).
In their approaches, Berghaus as well as Kramer and Baumgarten (2009), describe what has been
called the concept of multiple readings, or interpretations, by Margit Kern. That concept starts from the
assumption that, whenever different societies get into contact, one group adopts types of images that
have been handed down by the other; it then adapts these to its own realities based on its experiences,
horizon of knowledge, and way of thinking, and “reads” and processes them accordingly. It is the
beholder who decides on the extent of adopting or combining different visual systems. That is why
there exists not only one way of reading the new visual system; there are several ways (Kern 2010,
p. 251). With regard to the ecclesiastical silverworks, this implies questions such as: Do the pictures
play a role in church service, and, if yes, is it possible to reconstruct that role? What role is played by
which pictures for which strata of the population? What are the various possibilities of interpreting
the pictures among the indigenous and Spanish-European populations? As has been mentioned above,
the last point in particular raises problems, as there exist no colonial-period records of ways in which
images were perceived and interpreted. Iconographies, their contents, and the resulting connections
and new possibilities of interpretation are the only feasible approach to these issues.
6. Continuities and Discontinuities

One question arising in the context of studying transfers of meaning in a colonial contact zone
relates to cultural continuity or discontinuity that may find expression in the transcultural processes.
Cultural continuity is not identical with historical continuity. While both are often viewed as being
the same, the latter is actually a characteristic of nationalist and separatist ideologies. It is based,
among other things, on Johann Gottfried Herders’ concept of culture, according to which cultures
are closed orbs, each with its own spatial and/or linguistic territory.9 The basic assumption of this
concept is that cultures are static entities that do not enter into unions with one another. In my opinion,
8 For Problems with interpretation see also (Nicklisch 2013, pp. 155–71).
9 Transkulturalität: Interkulturell vs. transkulturell. Available online: http://www.ikud-seminare.de (accessed on
7 June 2018).
178
such a notion has at no time been applicable to cultures, as they are constantly changing and never
static. The cultural concept proposed by Herder and others has mainly been employed in constructs of
separatist and nationalist ideas that were far from reality. However, it has also played a role in the
emergence of nation states in the 19th century. In the present article, cultural continuity is defined as
the ability of cultures to change, to adapt to new conditions, to borrow, modify, or discard features of
other cultures, and to undergo changes within themselves; however, cultural continuity also relates to
the ability of cultures to preserve elements of themselves over long periods of time in spite of adverse
circumstances. Defined that way, the notion of cultural continuity implies neither subversion of the
conquered vis-à-vis the conquerors, nor agreement with Herder’s concept of culture; it implies the
possible continuity and, at the same time, changeability of elements of culture even in a situation of
colonial contact.
George Kubler, a renowned expert in ancient American studies, has vehemently spoken out
against cultural continuity (Kubler 1985). According to Kubler, continuity can manifest itself in
biological and ecological phenomena; in the sphere of the symbolic, however, there is too much
instability to allow for continuity over long periods of time (Kubler 1967, p. 11). Mainly using
architectural features as examples, Kubler maintains that indigenous iconographies were broken down
into incoherent fragments in the course of conquest. These fragments lost their content-related meaning
even though their origin was, in some cases, still recognizable (Kubler 1985, p. 68). Kubler claims that
while ancient European civilizations, for example, continued to exist in human memory even after
their demise, such persistence cannot be found in the Americas. According to him, conquest caused
an artificial “lack of culture” onto which the culture of the Spaniards was subsequently implemented
(Kubler 1985, p. 72).
Jeffrey Quilter takes a basically affirmative stance towards cultural continuity, assuming that
cultural elements can persist for a very long time in cultures that have supraregional concepts, as is
the case in Mesoamerica and South America. In addition, he believes that it is essential to look at
everyday culture, as elites are more prone than commoners to adapt to new conditions. However,
Quilter argues against a priori assumptions on both continuity and discontinuity (Quilter 1996,
p. 313f). He shows that, in retrospect, historical events may be interpreted as expressions of either
cultural continuity or discontinuity, depending on the perspective taken. While Quilter believes that
concepts are capable of surviving in societies for centuries or even millennia, he insists on considering
both possibilities—continuity and discontinuity—in analyses of transcultural processes (Quilter 1996,
p. 314f).
A similar conclusion is reached by Terence Grieder, who writes that “neither disjunction nor
continuity can be safely assumed” (Grieder 1975, p. 852). According to him, the traditions of
cultures include the latter’s practice of expressing themselves by means of symbolism in their material
legacy. His ethnological method starts out from the assumption that the symbolic content of a form
lives on for a long time in cultures that are characterized by continuity in other spheres as well
(Grieder 1975, p. 649). While Grieder believes that it is impossible to prove anything beyond doubt in
this context, he states that it is legitimate to speculate, and he calls upon culture historians to engage
in such speculation. According to him, analogy is the best tool, as it allows for conclusions that may
reveal, or at least suggest, meanings (Grieder 1975, p. 853).
With regard to the above example of representations on the silver plates on the altar of the Virgin
of Guadalupe, a continuity of the concept of supay can be assumed from the pre-Hispanic era until the
present. At first glance, this appears implausible, given the missionary endeavors of the Spaniards in
South America. However, there are arguments supporting the longevity of both iconography and the
religious ideas associated with it. Christopher Donnan and Donna McClelland have studied burial
rites of Moche culture by means of narrative representations on pottery. They succeeded in establishing
a concordance between scenes found on the vessels and shamanic rituals described by Fray Antonio de
Calancha in his 1638 Crónica moralizada (Donnan and McClelland 1979, p. 11f). Given that observation,
Donnan and McClelland assume that the contents of the scenes were known from the first century
179
BC until the colonial era (Donnan and McClelland 1979, p. 12). In addition, Christopher Donnan has
studied the motif of bird warriors in Moche iconography. Based on observations he made among
modern religious specialists in Peru, he interprets the bird warriors as curers in a state of trance,
flying in the air and combating supernatural beings (Donnan [1976] 1979, pp. 124–43). This suggests
the continuity of a religious concept from the time of Moche culture until the present.
In this context, it may be noted that examples of iconographic elements surviving for centuries
are found in Europe as well. The early Christian insular manuscripts (from Ireland, northern England,
and Scotland), for instance, which date from the seventh to the ninth centuries AD, feature animal
and spiral motifs that have their origin in Iron-Age, pre-Christian La Tène culture (Brown 2003, p. 237;
Netzer 1998, p. 227) that thrived from the fifth century BC until the first century AD.
These manuscripts are also an example of the longevity of pictorial, and particularly religious,
representations. In her study of the Lindisfarne Gospels, Michelle P. Brown writes that these
manuscripts reflect the ethnic and cultural conglomerate of the region, which includes influences of
Celtic, Pict, Germanic, Anglo-Saxon, and Mediterranean art. The latter, in turn, is composed of Roman,
Byzantine, Syrian, Armenian, and Coptic traditions. Brown believes that the results of such unions
survive for a very long time (Brown 2003, p. 272f).
7. Conclusions
It is essential, in my opinion, to allow for the possibility of both continuity and discontinuity;
in addition, their simultaneous existence needs to be kept in mind in any interpretation of transcultural
processes. This line of thought is inherent in the idea of multiple readings, or interpretations,
which enables very diverse interpretations—e.g., of pictorial representations—depending on the
beholder’s experiences and horizon of knowledge. However, this also means that ideas or pictorial
traditions that have been handed down for a long time are just as likely to exist as are new ideas that
merge with older concepts into something third.
Depending on the beholder, pictures can be interpreted as expressing cultural continuity (i.e.,
representations of indigenous belief systems), discontinuity (i.e., representations of Christian concepts),
or as the result of a transfer of meaning that includes both belief systems, combines them, and allows
for a new interpretation. Any solid assessment of the way representations were perceived would
require surviving records that, however, do not exist. The only viable approach is to base such an
assessment on as much information as possible. In the present article, this information pertained to
the respective iconographies of the Christian-Spanish and pre-Hispanic indigenous cultures, as well
as to the way the objects were historically integrated in their social contexts. This results in a new
interpretation of supposedly known picture contents.
In my opinion, the question of whether the transcultural transfer of meaning actually generates
something new or whether there is merely a transfer of content is difficult to answer. Cultures are
nonstatic entities that are constantly changing; at the same time, however, they pass down elements
and contents over long periods of time, locating them in changing contexts of meaning. This means
that cultural continuity and discontinuity are always parallel processes, and that not everything that
seems to be new is actually new. On the other hand, seemingly traditional elements can turn out
to be new, as new meanings are attributed to them over time. In addition, another fact needs to be
considered: depending on the beholder, either the “indigenous eye” or the “European eye” is blind
when it comes to analyzing iconography. This results in one-sided interpretations. This (in)visibility
and (dis)continuity needs to be taken into account in analyses so as to get a historical reconstruction
that is as accurate as possible, and to avoid essentialization.10 If the analysis is based on written
10 In this context, attention should also be paid to the so-called Rashomon effect, named after the movie directed by Akira
Kurosawa. The term describes the process in which various observers have different perceptions of an approximately
simultaneous reality, and describe that reality differently in retrospect (Gareis 2003, 103f). The point is not to acknowledge
180
sources, different perspectives on reality are taken by the various texts on a given event (or rather
by their authors) and the researcher. In the case of pictorial representations on which there exist (as
in the present study) no interpretative texts, the researcher needs to describe and interpret from all
possible perspectives.
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religions
Article
Prayers of Cow Dung: Women Sculpturing Fertile
Environments in Rural Rajasthan (India)
Catrien Notermans
Department of Cultural Anthropology and Development Studies, Radboud University, PO Box 9102,
6500 HC Nijmegen, The Netherlands; c.notermans@maw.ru.nl
Received: 5 December 2018; Accepted: 15 January 2019; Published: 22 January 2019
Abstract: In line with the special issue’s focus on material religion and ritualistic objects, this article
focuses on the multi-sensory prayers that certain groups of Hindu women craft in cow dung at the
doorstep of their residences during Divali. This yearly ritual of kneading and praying with cow dung
is known as the Govardhan puja (worship of Mount Govardhan). It is generally said to be the worship
of the popular cowherd god Krishna and the natural environment he inhabits. Ethnographic research
into the multiple meaningful layers of women’s cow dung sculptures in the rural villages nearby
Udaipur (Rajasthan) reveals the ritual is more than that. The cow dung sculptures not only reflect
Krishna’s body and sacred landscape but also the local environment women share with families,
animals and (other) gods. Therefore, the article seeks to answer the following questions: how are
women’s cow dung sculptures built up as ritual objects, what different images are expressed in them,
and what do these images reveal about women’s intimate and gendered connections with their human
and non-human environment? To answer these questions the article focuses on the iconography of
women’s sculptures, the performance of the ritual, and the doorstep as the location where women’s
beautification of the cow dung takes place.
Keywords: Hinduism; India; Govardhan puja; cow dung; gender; ritual art; nature; human-nonhuman
sociality; symbolic anthropology; ethnography
1. Introduction
On the fourth day of the annual Hindu festival Divali, women of the land- and cattle owning
castes in the rural villages near Udaipur city in southern Rajasthan knead two-dimensional sacred
sculptures out of large quantities of fresh cow dung (gobar) (Figure 1). The women’s ritual of making
and blessing the sculptures starts in the morning after sunrise and finishes about three hours later.
The sculptures, which the women call Govardhan, only exist in the creative and ritual process of
making them. Immediately after completion, women pray over the sculptures, take their cows from
the cow shed to crush and bless them, and then abandon the material to give it time to perish.
Two weeks later, they scatter it at their fields as manure and bringer of good luck. The crafting of the
cow dung is a joyful event in the villages. The women occupy the village streets and do the ritual
without help from temple priests. Male relatives also respect the women as ritual experts and wait for
the evening when it is their turn to honour their bulls and beautify them with red paint and henna
decorations (Figure 2).
This yearly ritual of kneading and praying with cow dung is known as the Govardhan puja (worship
of Mount Govardhan).1 It is generally said to be the worship of the popular cowherd god Krishna
1 Puja means Hindu ritual worship. It is often done by one person (priest or lay persons) and attended by others, in temples
or in home shrines (e.g., Burkhalter Flueckiger 2015, pp. 89–93). A puja can be directed towards gods, people, ancestors,

and the natural environment he inhabits (Entwistle 1987; Lodrick 1987; Toomey 1990; Vaudeville 1980;
Wadley 2000b, pp. 12–13). Mount Govardhan is a sacred hill in Braj, a region in the Indian state of
Uttar Pradesh. Braj, and particularly, Mount Govardhan, are the setting for many legends relating to
Krishna’s life: it is where he was born and raised, grazed his cattle, and played with his girlfriends.
The stony and oval shaped flat mountain is perceived as the natural form of Krishna himself and thus
as a living being (Haberman 1994, p. 126).2 Even beyond this sacred landscape, Hindus recognize
in every oval-shaped stone the aniconic form of Krishna’s body (Haberman 2017, p. 487). Krishna is
Govardhan and in this manifestation the protector of cattle and cowherd populations. The oval and
convex appearance of Krishna Govardhan is also the basic shape of the cow dung sculptures made by
the women in rural Udaipur, at 650 km from Braj.
Figure 1. Women kneading sacred cow dung sculptures, Badi 2017 (picture by author).
Figure 2. Farmer with his decorated and venerated bulls, Havala 2017 (picture by author).
animals, landscape elements or goods. The ritual takes a few minutes: a prayer is chanted while the object of devotion is
honoured with gifts of fire, smell (incense sticks), colour, pure water, food and/or sweets. After the prayer the gifts return to
the devotees as blessings.
2 The actual size of Govardhan Mountain sharply contrasts with its legendary fame. It is an eight kilometres long flat rocky
ridge that, at its highest, stands not more than 30m above the adjacent land. Not only the hill but also every stone or rock
from this hill is seen as Krishna’s natural form (Toomey 1990, p. 176 fn 11).
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When doing ethnographic fieldwork during the Divali festival in 2017, I observed women creating
the sculptures at the doorstep of their residences in two different villages. These women share with
Krishna a deep love for cows. They raise an average of two cows and two buffalos and spend most
of their (leisure and working) time in close proximity with them by sheltering them in or nearby the
house and taking them back and forth to the fields for grazing. The cattle are part of the family and
receive women’s unremitting care and attention. When observing the Govardhan worship, I noticed
that the women intensely enjoyed the kneading of cow dung. When questioning them about the form
and content of the sculptures afterwards, I realised even more the ritual was not restricted to the
worship of Krishna. Although it is generally said that the cow dung figure represents the Govardhan
hill and thus Krishna’s body (e.g., Vaudeville 1980), women’s own iconography revealed many more
figurative layers. The sculptures also reflect the local environment women share with families, animals
and (other) gods.
In line with the special issue’s focus on material religion and ritualistic objects, this article seeks to
answer the questions: how are women’s cow dung sculptures built up as ritual objects, what different
images are expressed in them, and what do these images reveal about women’s intimate connections
with their human and non-human environment? Concentrating on the iconography of women’s
sculptures I aim to understand how the ritual—with its mythical origin in the sacred landscape of
Braj—finds its local expression in rural Udaipur that is meaningful to women’s daily religious and
economic lives.
Women’s sensory engagement with cow dung took me right into the core business of the women in
the villages. Working with cow dung turned out to be daily routine rather than exceptional religious
practice. What in a series of Divali rituals is festively set apart from everyday life in fact reflects women’s
daily operations with this material: they collect it in the cow shed, carry it on their heads to the fields to be
used as manure, and process it into various products vital to their daily lives. The cow dung is not ‘dirty
shit’ nor animal ‘waste’ but the most precious gift women receive from their cows. For me as a researcher
it was core material too because it offered me an entrance into the realm of human–nature relationships
which appeared to be crucial to women’s daily lives. The focus on cow dung made me realise that
women, cows and cow dung are intimately connected and constitute the vital link in the ecological
equilibrium of land, humans, animals, plants and water; a link that guarantees the villager’s well-being.
The cosmology women express in their cow dung sculptures challenges any nature–culture and
nature–supernature divide that is recently discussed in anthropology (e.g., Descola 2014; Hastrup 2014;
Ingold 2000, 2011); as well as the stereotypical domestic-public, female-male divide that is often said to
characterize people’s segregated social lives in North India. Wadley (1989, p. 73) for example, stated in
her work on women’s ritual in a North Indian rural community:
Whereas men’s rituals are aimed primarily at general prosperity or good crops and at the
world outside the house itself, women’s rituals focus more specifically on family welfare
and prosperity within the walls of their homes. ( . . . ) Essentially, men and women in
Karimpur occupy separate worlds. For the most part, women live and work in their homes
and have little mobility outside of them. ( . . . ) The courtyard and the rooms around it
form the women’s world. ( . . . ) In many aspects of life, even in the content of songs and
the way they are sung, men and women express their separate worlds. It is not surprising,
then, that women’s desires, as expressed in their rituals, are those of their world—the
household—while men’s concerns are focused primarily on the outer world.
Such a gender divide resonates in the literature on Govardhan puja in Braj. Although this may be the
outcome of local research on gendered divisions of tasks and responsibilities in private and public
spaces in the 1980s and 1990s, it also may reflect dominant (traditional) western and (priestly) male
assumptions about Hindu women’s confinement to the home. To this perspective I would like to
add a gender perspective that connects with (feminist) anthropologists’ scholarship challenging the
stereotype image of the subordinated and secluded North Indian woman (e.g., Gold 1988; Harlan 1991;
Jeffery 1979; Jeffery and Jeffery 2018; Pintchman 2005, 2007; Raheja and Gold 1994) and is based on my
185
research in Rajasthan (e.g., Notermans and Pfister 2016). In my opinion, women’s Govardhan puja
in rural Udaipur today, in both its public location and its outward orientation towards the natural
environment, allows a gender perspective that goes beyond women’s domestic domain and values
the vital contributions women make to the rural economy and the sustenance of the environment that
humans and non-humans share. It also reveals a gendered view of the human–nature relationships
that is part of women’s cosmology.
I will first describe the fieldwork location and the research methodology employed. Then I will
explain how the research connects to the existing literature on the Govardhan puja in particular, to the
women–cows–cow dung connection in North India, and to women’s ritual art more generally. Then I
turn to the context of the Divali festival before focusing on the material form and ritual sequence of
women’s Govardhan worship in rural Udaipur. The description of Govardhan as a ritualistic object
will follow the analytical distinction between the various meaningful layers I found to be present
in women’s cow dung sculptures. In addition to the iconographic layers and before turning to the
conclusion I will add to the analysis two more dimensions by describing the performance and the
ritual space.
2. Fieldwork in Rural Udaipur

My qualitative study of Govardhan puja took place against the background of 10 years of recurrent
research in the same region. My long-term involvement in women’s religious lives in Udaipur and
nearby villages started in 2008 and continued with yearly revisits ever since. Studying the meaning of
women’s rituals and symbolic activities requires longitudinal commitment because women express
their religious knowledge in a year-round cycle of festivals. During a total of 17 months of fieldwork,
I studied a variety of these calendrical festivals (like Holi, Sheetala Mata, Dasha Mata, Gangaur,
Raksha Bandhan, Navratri, Karva Chauth, and Divali) and often seized an additional meaning of
a recurring symbol in another ritual than that under study at an earlier moment. Moreover, religion in
everyday practice is often about doing not saying and, therefore, difficult to access through interviews
alone, especially when the ritual (or festival) is still taking place (Pink 2009). Revisits make it possible
to look back, get detailed explanations, and take multiple perspectives into account.
As the Govardhan puja occurs in a short time on one particular festival day, I focused my attention
on women’s ritual activity in two neighbouring Hindu villages, Havala and Badi.3 In both villages,
a vast majority of the population belongs to the land- and cattle owning castes: the Brahmin (priestly)
and Sutar (carpenter) castes in Badi, and the Rajput (warrior) and Teli (oil presser) castes in Havala.
In Badi, the dominant caste is Sutar (40 percent of the population). Together with the Brahmin who
are almost equal in size they make up 75 percent of the village population; leaving 20 percent for
scheduled tribes and 5 percent scheduled castes.4 In Havala, the dominant caste is Rajput (75 percent of
the population). Together with the Teli caste they make up 85 percent of the village population; leaving
15 percent scheduled castes. Nearly all houses in Havala have a cowshed inside their compound,
right opposite or next to it. With an average of 5 people and 4 cattle per household Havala village is
populated by almost an equal number of human and animal inhabitants.5
3 According to the India Census from 2011 (http://censusindia.gov.in/2011-Common/CensusData2011.html) Havala (at 8 km

from Udaipur) counts 1159 inhabitants and Badi (at 10 km from Udaipur) 2712 inhabitants. In both villages the households
contain an average number of five people. Havala and Badi belong to Tehsil Girwa in district Udaipur.
4 The tribal Bhil people in Badi also used to have land and cattle (mainly goats, some cows, no buffalos) but many sold
their costly land to property dealers and invested the returns in luxurious housebuilding and weddings. As scheduled
caste people they also profit from the job reservations offered to them by the government. Class thus not always overlaps
with caste.
5 In 2018, I conducted a survey with a sample of 10 percent of the households in Havala. This revealed an average of 4 cattle
and 0.5 acres land per household. The ratio between human and animal inhabitants of households is 95:80. Scheduled caste
people in Havala neither had land nor cattle but seemed to live good lives due to high degrees of education and well-paid
jobs in the city.
186
Cows occupy a vital position in women’s daily lives: they are simultaneously perceived as
children of the family, demanding constant care, and as mothers because they give milk and nourish
the human family. In this position they are venerated as Gaumata (Mother Goddess Cow). The cow
helps the human mother to sustain the family: by providing milk (which women process in various
nutritious products like curd, butter, cheese, buttermilk, and sweets), urine (used as medicine and
insecticide, and as a purifier in rituals because it is considered as pure as sacred water from the Ganges),
and cow dung. Cow dung has several uses: as an organic and ecologically sound manure for the
fields, or processed into cow dung cakes as fuel (for cooking or heating when temperatures get cold,
and because of its pureness for sacred sacrificial fire ceremonies (havan)), as a disinfectant in homes,
and for coating walls and floors because of its capacity to absorb malignant energies, to purify the
space, and to cool the house in summer times.6 The intimacy and good feeling people have with cow
dung is also experienced when eating the most favourite local bread which is baked directly in cow
dung cakes and consumed with lentils (a dish called dahl bati). Because of all these nourishing and
life-giving capacities the cow is a symbol of prosperity and fertility, which applies, par excellence, to the
cow dung as well.
The traditional caste occupations in the villages are largely replaced by agriculture and animal
husbandry; by work in dairies oriented at the urban market, and by wage labour in Udaipur
(government or tourism-related jobs). When asked about the gendered division of labour, people say
both men and women engage in agriculture and cattle breeding. In practice, however, the women
do most of the work: they feed, milk and care for the animals, decide about crossing their female
cattle and care for the baby animals; clean the stable and collect the dung; carry water; cultivate the
fields (for subsistence and marketing); and collect fodder and firewood. Men assist in the fields when
necessary, help with transportation and marketing in town, and take over women’s animal care mainly
when running a commercial dairy (with 4–8 buffalos). Men doing wage labour commute between the
village and the city, leaving the bulk of agriculture to their wives but boosting the household economy
with cash money, often used for house construction and luxury goods. The women studied state that
they love their work and appreciate the husband’s financial contribution. Only a few women received
no support from their husband; some were widowed, others complained about their husband’s
drinking habits. These women helped themselves out with sharecropping.7
Altogether, the village women appear to live a prosperous and independent life, enjoying the daily
freedom to move around in the village and between their house and their field, often in cheerful company
of neighbouring female friends and relatives. The villagers in general seem to be well off. They have
land and cattle that secure their lives; their land is fertile and extremely valuable; there is sufficient
groundwater for irrigation; and at a stone’s throw from Udaipur (with half a million inhabitants and
a flourishing tourist industry), a surplus of milk and vegetables is easily sold at the urban market,
enhancing the household income as well.
To study Govardhan puja, I initially stayed for one month during festival time in 2017. I focused
on the women of the land- and cattle-owning population (Brahmin, Sutar, Bhil in Badi; Rajput and
Teli in Havala) as they have cows and fields to honour and ample cow dung for doing the puja.
I made observation tours through the villages at the specific festival day of Govardhan puja. I had
small talks with the women doing the ritual and recorded their activity on photos and videos. When
I returned to the field in 2018 (two visits of one month each) I used this visual material for small
talks about the event and during in-depth photo-elicitation interviews with 15 women I observed
6 Despite the fact that women process the cow dung into multiple products, women do not experience serious shortages of
cow dung for manuring the field. Cow dung cakes for fuel are made only in the hot season (April–June) for using them in
the humid monsoon season (July-September) when brushwood is too wet for being used as fuel. In the remaining nine to
ten months of the year, cow dung is mainly used (and stored) as manure in agriculture. As also the dung of goats, horses
and camels is used on the fields, women are generally not short of manure during the rainy season.
7 This means they make an agreement with a landowner who offers them land, water and manure to use. Together they buy
the seeds. The women do the agricultural work and deliver half of the harvest to the landowner.
187
doing the ritual before. Walking through the rural environment as ‘participant sensing’ (Pink 2009)
allowed me to observe people’s engagement with nature from a different perspective. From the height
of the mountains I saw how the connections between the different landscape elements (mountains,
fields, and lakes) reflected the composition of women’s cow dung sculptures. I also made grand tour
observations in the villages to observe women during daily activities and to learn about the gendered
division of tasks as this could deviate from the spoken information in interviews. Two male and two
female local residents helped me translating between English, Hindi and the local language Mewari.
As the Census of India from 2011 lacks quantitative information on land- and cattle ownership and
caste composition, I conducted a survey with a sample of 10 percent of the households in Havala
and interviewed the block development officer at the Panchayat in Badi. I also asked men about the
meaning and stories behind women’s cow dung figure but they said they could not help me because
‘it was a ladies’ concern’. While cattle raising and agriculture was said to be (in principle) gender
neutral, praying with cow dung was unanimously defined as women’s work.
3. Govardhan Puja in the Literature

Considering the fact that the Govardhan puja is said to be an ‘all-Indian (although predominantly
northern Indian) cult’ (Vaudeville 1980, p. 1), recurring every year, and involving large numbers of
female cattle farmers in North India, remarkably little scholarly attention has been paid to it. Braj scholars
clearly dominate the literature on Govardhan puja (e.g., Entwistle 1987; Vaudeville 1980). They explain
the ritual from the Govardhan myth, known as “govardhana-dharana” (the lifting of the Govardhan
hill) (Vaudeville 1980, p. 1). This story goes that Krishna saved the cowherd people in Braj from heavy
rains by lifting the Govardhan mountain with his left hand and sheltering the people together with their
cows under the mountain. Putting much emphasis on the mythical and scriptural context, little attention
is paid to the women doing the ritual and the social-economic context in which the ritual takes place.
Braj scholars also tend to equate the Govardhan puja with the ritual of Annakut (mountain of food),
happening at the same day of the Divali festival. During this temple ritual people offer huge amounts
of cooked food to Krishna, usually under priestly supervision (Entwistle 1987, p. 283; Toomey 1990,
p. 165; Vaudeville 1980, p. 1). Emphasising temple religion rather than women’s lived religion, women’s
sacred sculptures produced in or nearby the home remain neglected. Moreover, Braj scholars found the
Govardhan puja to be a private and domestic ritual, done by the women of the household in the inner
courtyard of their residence (Vaudeville 1980; Toomey 1990). In rural Udaipur, however, I found today’s
ritual taking place in the public domain of the village streets. This made me wonder whether the Braj
literature pictured a regional rather than a general North-Indian image and how a contemporary and
deviant local expression in rural Udaipur relates to the classical North Indian myth.
In the Rajasthani villages, I found the ritual to be different in many aspects. Besides the Govardhan
myth local stories about Krishna appeared to be meaningful. The women neither spoke about Annakut
nor cooked huge amounts of food. Although Vaudeville’s article ‘The Govardhan myth in Northern
India’ (Vaudeville 1980) offers detailed information on both legend and ritual, only one of the three
essential features of the ritual she raises corresponds to my observations, namely that it entails ‘a cow
dung anthropomorphic representation of the Govardhan hill’ (1980, pp. 3–4). Although Vaudeville (1980)
mentions the ritual to be an exclusively women’s activity, I believe the gender perspective would deserve
more attention in the literature on the Govardhan puja. In this study, I would like to focus on such a gender
perspective by offering a study of lived religion. In my approach gender matters because women are the
sole practitioners, the cow dung figure itself is gendered, and also the cattle and the natural environment
are locally perceived in gendered terms.
I intend to show that Govardhan worship in rural Udaipur responds to the age-old myth and
simultaneously integrates local realities and women’s present-day matters. It is likely that the
Govardhan puja varies across North India and takes its peculiar form in each specific context of
oral and ritual traditions, gender relations and human–nature relationships. Lodrick (1987, pp. 109–11)
confirms the variation across the country and states that the Govardhan puja varies from being
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strongly related to Krishna in Braj to being less associated with Krishna elsewhere, or lacking such
a link altogether. According to Lodrick, when the connection with Krishna is weak and the focus
more on the dung, “an alternative etymology of Govardhan sees the word being derived from gobar
and dhan, meaning “dung-made,” which in village usage becomes “cow-dung wealth”” (1987, p. 109).
This interpretation comes close to the popular etymologies I found in rural Udaipur: “go-vur-dhan”
is “cow-increase-wealth”—thus remaining true to the Sanskrit noun vardhana (increasing; bringing
prosperity)—but also: “gobar-dhan” is “cow dung-wealth”—a delightful spin in which the vernacular
pronunciation of v as b produces a direct association with gobar, cow dung. The local ritual involves
the worship of cow dung and Krishna, and simultaneously honours women and cows who increase
wealth in mutual cooperation.
4. The Women–Cows–Cow Dung Connection in the Literature

In contrast to the Braj literature paying explicit and extensive attention to the Govardhan puja,
the (feminist) ethnographic literature on women and religion in rural North India hardly mentions
women’s ritual handling of cow dung. Wadley (1989, p. 75) briefly r efers to the Govardhan ritual in
her study of a calendrical cycle of 20 rituals practiced by high-caste Hindu women in a rural village in
Uttar Pradesh. For detailed description, however, she selects five rituals in which, she states, women’s
male kin (brothers, husbands and sons) are the focus of worship. In her contribution to the longitudinal
study of Wiser and Wiser (2000); Wadley (2000a, p. 319) briefly mentions the Govardhan puja as one of
the rituals occurring during the fall festival season but again does not pay analytical attention to it.
Notable is the picture at the first page of this book’s appendix showing two women kneading a cow
dung sculpture for Govardhan puja (which appears to be a variation to the ones in Braj and Udaipur).
Its caption provides the sole information on Govardhan puja in this extensive ethnography on the lives
of rural women in North India.
In her work on women’s religious rituals in Benares (Uttar Pradesh), Pintchman (2005, pp. 63–66)
instead dedicates a complete section on Govardhan worship and Annakut, complemented with
a picture showing two women worshipping a cow dung figure (ibid., p. 65). Although her description
largely follows the Braj literature by emphasizing the importance of the Govardhan myth and Krishna,
she also found that “celebrants place the image at their front gate so that Govardhannath will safeguard
the home for the upcoming year” (ibid.). This is confirmed in the picture showing two women sitting
on the sidewalk in front of their residence. Pintchman, however, does not analyse the positioning
and iconographic content of women’s cow dung figures, but focuses on the textual interpretation of
women’s songs and narratives accompanying the ritual.8
I found the most detailed elaboration of women’s cow dung sculpturing in Raheja (1988) work
on rituals of gift-giving and intercaste relationships in a rural village in north-western Uttar Pradesh.
She describes a ritual called godhan takkarpurat (ibid., pp. 166–68, picture on p. 190) which she analyses
in the context of Divali, the sugar cane harvest, and people’s crucial relationship with cattle. She notes
a link with the Govardhan myth and observes women doing the ritual in the cattle pen and placing
small figurines of cow dung into the takkarpurat (a square frame made of cow dung) (ibid., p. 167).
Both aspects of the takkarpurat come close to women’s practice in rural Rajasthan. Even more interesting
is that the takkarpurat would absorb the inauspiciousness of the cattle, the family and the harvest and
bring auspiciousness and wealth for the upcoming year. This corresponds with the meaning of women’s
doorstep designs in rural Udaipur that are also meant to attract fortune and protect the home against
8 The same emphasis on women’s poetic language of song and story can be found in the work of feminist scholars focusing
on women’s ritual practices and oral traditions (like songs, folktales, and personal narratives, and everyday talk) in North
India. To reveal women’s critical voices and ‘poetic resistance to structures of power’ (Raheja and Gold 1994, pp. xv–xvi;
see also Harlan 1991; Pintchman 2005, 2007; Wadley 2008, p. 330), their work is mainly speech-oriented and makes little
explicit references to women’s cow dung practices or other artistic aspects of the rituals.
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misfortune. In line with Raheja’s emphasis on the functioning of the ritual, I will focus on cow dung as
the central material that makes women’s sculptures work as purifiers and bringers of good luck.
The aforementioned studies which (more or less) refer to women’s cow dung ritual pay little or no
attention to the cow dung material as well as its unique properties. Some descriptions of women’s rituals
indirectly (mainly through the pictures included; e.g., (Pintchman 2005, p. 105)) reveal that sculpturing with
cow dung, and also with (river) clay, regularly occurs in women’s worship (Pintchman 2005, pp. 103–4;
Wadley 1989, p. 76). Pintchman says about clay that women declared the Ganges mud to be “not only
readily available, but also pure, and hence an appropriate substance to use to make divine images.
The Ganges is a goddess, and the mud along the river’s bottom is continuously cleansed by her sanctifying
presence” (2005, pp. 103–4). This aspect of being plentiful, pure and sacred applies to cow dung
as well, which makes it a proper substance for ritual sculpturing. Because of its cleaning property
of absorbing evil and inauspiciousness, women also use cow dung for plastering houses, floors and
doorsteps (e.g., Elgood 2000, p. 223).
Taking into account the capacity of cow dung to make things clean and auspicious, I follow
Ingold’s plea “to take materials seriously” (Ingold 2007, p. 14). I will explore the cow dung and study
its properties, “not as fixed, essential attributes of things ( . . . ) but as processual and relational” (ibid.)
and study how women, in processing the material, shape and establish their relationships with their
human and non-human environment. I will show that via the processual and relational properties of
cow dung, women play a vital role in village economics and environmental care.
In addition to the scarce descriptions of women’s Govardhan puja in the ethnographic literature
on women’s rituals in North India, I found relevant comparative information in the ethnography of
women’s ritual art in India. This art includes terracotta figurines, wall and floor paintings which are,
like the cow dung figures, “largely ephemeral, made to endure the time of the ceremony and only
efficacious if combined with ritual performance” (Elgood 2000, p. 188) and closely linked to people’s
residences. In women’s artistic activities, ethics and aesthetics are closely related (ibid.; Nagarajan 2019).
What looks good and is beautified (places, humans, animals, gods) entices good luck and abundant life.
During Divali in particular, women purify and beautify places to attract divine attention and to invite
Lakshmi and her auspicious energies into their house.
Nagarajan (2019) recently published ethnography on women’s art in kolam rituals in the South
Indian state of Tamil Nadu comes closest to my observations of Govardhan rituals in rural Rajasthan.
In Tamil Nadu, women paint a kolam (ritual design made with ground white rice flour) on the front
threshold of the house: the place where the private domestic world encounters the outside world.
Women make this sacred drawing “to do something beautiful, to banish misery and bad luck, and to
encourage the auspicious entry of Lakshmi who brings wealth and good luck” (2019, p. 4). The design
also acts, Nagarajan states, “as a bridge between inner and outer world, between what can be controlled
and what cannot be controlled, and between domestic and public space” (2019, p. 10). Women’s
doorstep rituals during Divali in rural Udaipur resemble women’s daily kolam rituals in Tamil Nadu.
The Govardhan, like the kolam, serves as a bridge and ‘as a marker of gender’ (2019, p. 33). By making
the doorstep pure and beautiful with Govardhan, women celebrate their identity as auspicious wives
and mark it as a crossing—not a divide—between domestic and public space; a crossing where women
together with their cows play an important role as protectors of the house and providers of wealth
and prosperity.
By saying that women’s socio-religious and economic participation goes beyond domesticity and
stretches out into the wider environment, I do not deny that the domestic domain highly matters for
the women studied. Their daily orientation and activities certainly contain the domestic but are not
confined to it.9
9 In this article, the public domain refers to the physical space of village streets, shops and meeting places, fields and
‘jungle’. In the locations studied, women’s participation in the public space does not (yet) comprise political engagement or
environmental activism. As long as the women keep control of land, cattle, seed selection, and methods of irrigating and
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5. Divali, a Celebration of Wealth

The Govardhan puja is one in a sequence of various rituals, each connected to a specific day of
India’s nationwide and biggest religious event Divali (see Burkhalter Flueckiger 2015, pp. 127–29).
At new moon, on the third and main festival day, Hindus celebrate the material world, with Lakshmi,
the goddess of abundance, money, and material wealth, at the centre of their devotion. Popular images
of Lakshmi depict her as the provider of money and gold and as such people want her to cross their
threshold on Divali evening. In the build-up to the festival, people thoroughly clean their residences
(to brush away old and negative energies), renew the paintwork (and other decorations), and then
shop for gold and silver coins and all kinds of consumer goods (devices, vehicles, home appliances) to
beautify the house and home shrine. Women in particular shop for new furniture, kitchen utensils,
clothes and golden jewellery. They also clean and paint the doorstep of their residences before
decorating it with colourful geometrical designs (alpana or rangoli) to attract Lakshmi’s attention
(Figures 3 and 4).10 On the main festival day they dress up nicely to welcome Lakshmi into their
purified houses with Lakshmi puja and numerous small candle lights (diya).
Figure 3. Alpana made of cow dung-paint and chalk, at the doorstep of a residence in Havala during
Divali 2017 (picture by author).
Figure 4. Young woman colouring her peacock rangoli design at the doorstep of her house, Badi 2017
(picture by author).
manuring their fields, it is unlikely they take political action. It is possible such a move takes place when women’s balanced
subsistence economy becomes threatened by the increasing and disturbing growth of urban elites purchasing rural patches
of land for constructing villas, resorts, swimming pools and/or golf courses. Besides land shortage for the villagers, this
change of land use in the countryside will increase the amount of non-recyclable waste and the exploitation of ground water.
These businesses run on an immense water consumption that the desert area can hardly provide.
10 Alpana is a design of white chalk applied to the red base of cow dung paint. Rangoli is a brightly multi-coloured design of
(mostly) synthetic paint.
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In Udaipur and surroundings, the clay lamps lit for Lakshmi contain a grain of corn, a wild red
stone fruit called bor, and cotton for fuse.11 Together with the red earth colour of the lamps, they refer to
the fact that Divali is originally a rural harvest festival, honouring the land and the wealth of food that
people gain from it. The festival still demarcates the transition from harvest to sowing season. It combines
people’s monetary wealth—the ‘harvest’ of consumer goods in shops—and people’s natural wealth –the
harvest of crops in the fields. While Lakshmi reigns over the third day, Krishna reigns over the fourth day,
the day of Govardhan puja. Together they cover people’s economic life that stretches between rural and
urban activities. The two festival days also publicly celebrate women’s vital contributions to society:
they are honoured as married women and providers of domestic happiness in their identification with
Lakshmi, and as farmers and cattle raisers in their identification with Krishna.12
Lakshmi and Krishna are closely related to each other in their symbolic relationship with cows
and cow dung, the earth and fertility.13 While in the popular urban image, Lakshmi’s gold is depicted
as money, in the rural areas, the precious cow dung and sugar cane are considered to be her ‘gold’
(which will be explained later on). Lakshmi’s reference to riches, abundance, fertility and the potency
of the earth finds expression in women worshipping her in the form of cow dung (Elgood 2000, p. 76).
The Divali festival thus provides, next to the age-old Govardhan myth, an important symbolic context
for understanding women’s cow dung rituals in their lived religious lives.
6. The Govardhan Puja

On an early morning in 2017, I observed the women of the land- and cattle owning castes doing
Govardhan puja in the streets of the two selected villages. The women’s main activity is kneading the
sculpture. Govardhan is jointly made by the married women of a patrilineal family who together enjoy
the artistic process of beautifying the cow dung. When asking both women and men why only women
make Govardhan, everyone answered it was because of the beautification work: “Only ladies know
how to make Govardhan beautiful. Gents don’t know, they don’t have the techniques to make things
beautiful.” Only the married women do the kneading because they enjoy the auspicious position to
bring fertility and prosperity to the family.14 The women make the Govardhan at the entrance of the
house or the cattle yard, depending on whether there is only one entrance for people and animals or
two separate ones. This entrance demarcates for both humans and animals the transition between
inner and outer space; a transition that needs to be protected against bad energies and to be beautified
to let positive energies enter.
It is the same transit space that was beautified to welcome Lakshmi in the house the day before.
The beautification of Govardhan is in fact the third layer of auspiciousness that women apply to the
doorstep. After cleaning the doorstep on the third festival day, women paint the floor with a mixture
of cow dung, red earth and water. Cow dung thus is “the primary ritual ingredient in the creation
of an auspicious and unpolluted basis, a sacred space that acts as a ‘canvas’ for the ritual designs
that follow” (Nagarajan 2019, pp. 44–45). The second layer is the alpana or rangoli design made
on the purified and sacred canvas to attract Lakshmi’s attention in the evening. The next morning,
11 The official name for the bor tree is zizyphus. This wild tree grows in the mountains and supports high temperature and little
water. The fruits mature at the time of Divali and recur in women’s ritual actions during festival time because of their red
color and round shape that resemble women’s bindi: a dot of red sindoor powder placed on the forehead to mark women’s
auspicious married status.
12 The latter mainly counts for female cattle raisers in the villages. In Udaipur, I also came across (high-caste) families keeping
five to six cows into their house and noticed cow dung sculptures in the streets; however, not with the same regularity as in
the villages. See Wadley (2000b) for an elaborate discussion of the contested use of sacred cow dung in modern urban and
global culture.
13 With Krishna being the reincarnation of Vishnu and Lakshmi being Vishnu’s consort, the two gods also have an intimate
divine relationship. They represent the divine connection of land and cattle as Lakshmi is the goddess of the earth and
Krishna the god of cows. The connection between land, cattle and wealth counts for women in the villages as well.
14 Hindu sexual morality prescribes that female sexuality and reproduction are confined within the social institution
of marriage.
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the Govardhan is added as a third layer on top of the cow dung-painted and colourfully decorated
doorstep (Figure 5).
Figure 5. Women kneading Govardhan on top of the cow dung-painted canvas and the brightly
coloured rangoli’s, Badi 2017 (picture by author).
When modelling the sculpture, women sit on the doorstep of the houses in the village streets.
Tens of kilos of freshly collected cow dung are processed in the Govardhan that vary in size between
a 0.5 and 2 square metres. The more cows and cow dung women have, the bigger the size of their
sculpture. I often heard the expression that ‘cow dung is like pure gold’ which explains women’s
pleasure of working with big amounts of this material. The gift of ‘gold’ women get from their cows,
is subsequently offered to the gods to beautify and please them and pray for prosperity and good luck.
“Cow dung is so pure, it doesn’t smell,” a 35-year-old Teli woman in Havala explained to me, “that’s
because our cows get good and organic food, no chemicals or artificially processed food. We collect
the fodder in the mountains and in our fields.” When beautifying and protecting the doorstep as
a transition place with Govardhan, the pureness and cleanliness of the cow dung matters because it
absorbs inauspiciousness and appeals good luck.
The figure women carve in the precious and fertile cow dung material roughly shows two oval
human bodies with head, nose, arms and legs. A proportionally big hole in the belly demarcates the
navel and two smaller holes the eyes. On top of the body parts, there are flat round balls. The two
human bodies are joint with a half circular strip of cow dung. The figures may vary in size, details,
decorations, and finishing, but the two connected human figures recur in all village streets observed
(Figure 6).15 After finishing this basic figure, different natural materials, like the freshly harvested
cotton, corn, sugar cane, wheat, hay, and flowers, are added to beautify the figure (Figure 7). Corn and
wheat seeds are used to mark off the mouth, fingers, toes and the midriff. Tufts of raw white cotton do
for dress-up, and fresh flowers and red coloured strings of spun cotton serve as jewellery. To make
the design complete, two other major attributes are added to the figure: a freshly harvested sugar
cane stick and an old door string made of hay. The sugar cane symbolises wealth and money. It is the
main attribute of Lakshmi during Divali and refers to the natural ‘gold’ recently harvested in the field.
An 80-year-old woman told me that in former times, before money entered the village economy,
women used the sugar cane as a currency. The door string is part of the doorstep as a crossing place.
15 This may be the case at district level as well. When I asked people living within a radius of about 100 km from Udaipur
city whether the women in their village made the same designs as I had photographed in the two villages observed, they
happily recognized the Govardhan and positively confirmed.
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Placed above the doorway, it saves the inner space from destructive forces coming from outside.
The old door string is replaced by a fresh one at Divali. When throughout the year a member of the
household dies, the string is taken off and burnt with the corps on the stake. Offering the old string as
an ornament to the cow dung figure, is a gesture of thanksgiving and a sign of prosperity as it shows
that no one died in the household that year.
Figure 6. Two figures connected by a half circular strip of cow dung, Havala 2017 (picture by author).
Figure 7. Govardhan beautified with corn, cotton, hay, flowers and an old door string, Havala 2017
(picture by author).
The kneading and the decorating work take most of the time of the ritual. In a calm and joyful
atmosphere, women work quietly though with a non-stop energy towards the end result. Only in
Badi did I observe the women of the Brahmin caste singing songs while kneading (I will return to
this later on). When satisfied with the result, the women worship the figure with puja. This only
takes a few minutes. Some of the women then want to have their picture taken together with the
beautified and blessed sculpture. The result of several hours of meticulous work is not meant to stay
for exhibition. Immediately after the finishing, a cow is taken from the shed to cross the doorstep and
bless the Govardhan by trampling it. This brings the event to an hilarious end as the cow often refuses
to step through her own shit. She prefers to jump over it but the women insist till she crushes the figure
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with her hoofs, even if it is just a little part. The women then leave the sculptures behind and go inside
their houses to resume their daily activities. Eleven days later, on the auspicious lunar day of ekadeshi,
women sweep the dried cow dung aside and decorate the spot with a swastika (Figure 8) or rangoli.16
Herewith, they renew the doorstep as a symbolic place where good luck enters the home. Two days
later, at full moon, women bring the dried-up cow dung to the fields to scatter it as blessed manure.
Figure 8. Dried-up Govardhan, completed with a swastika: a good luck design made of flour, turmeric
and sindoor (vermilion red powder) on the lunar day of ekadeshi, Havala 2018 (picture by Francine Jain).
Although the ritual sequence and the visual form of women’s Govardhan puja is very similar
across the villages, I noticed differences in performance and narrative as well. While the women in
Havala brought up a shared local story behind their Govardhan, there was not such a strong narrative
consensus among the women in Badi. The women in Badi, however, had a repertoire of songs for
Govardhan which I did not find in Havala. While the women in Badi wore red wedding saris and
excessive jewellery, and did not always involve the cows in their ritual; the women in Havala were
less exuberantly dressed, did not observe a common dress code, and took their cows from the shed
without exception. Even within the villages variation seemed to occur when newly married-in women
from other locations brought their own habits and interpretations along.
7. Reading the Cow Dung

Women’s sculptures represent many things at the same time: various images conflate to capture
a complex reality. In order ‘to read the cow dung’ and to understand women’s prayer, I will look
at it from different perspectives. I disentangle five symbolic layers, each offering a different image.
In explaining the five images moulded together in each sculpture, the emphasis will not be on
the differences between or within the two villages nor on women’s multiple voices and diverse
interpretations.17 My aim is to represent the story that these farmer women share about their intimate
relationship with cows and land, their crucial role in the rural economy, and their cosmology. In the
16 This special lunar day is called dev uthani ekadashi, the awakening of god Vishnu, or choti Divali (small Divali). It is said to be
a special day because Lakshmi and her divine husband Vishnu give blessings to all people that day.
17 A focus on the differences within and between different villages and castes would certainly add to our understanding
of the variations in Govardhan puja in rural Rajasthan. If only with a view on the performance of Brahmin women
in Badi, still more images, narratives and prayers come to the fore. However, in this article, extending the range of
images would not add to the analysis of what the images together tell about women’s connections with the human and
non-human environment.
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following description, I will mainly rely on the narrative information of the women in Havala. Women’s
songs from Badi will be used to interpret women’s narrative performance in the next section.
7.1. Father and Son

With loving devotion and meticulous care the women knead two connected human figures.
When asking them who these figures are and what they represent, the women in Havala unanimously
answered: a father and his son. The story behind this is a story related to the cowherd-god Krishna
and located in Braj. A 65-year-old woman told me that the story goes as follows:
One day [about 5000 years ago], a married woman of the Gujjar caste [cattle breeders] left
the house to sell curd. She was very good-looking: pretty and strong. Krishna bhagwan
(god) noticed her, he immediately felt attracted by her and tried to snatch her. When he
seized her sari, she responded: “Leave me”, but he didn’t let her go because he wanted to
marry her. She then told him to come on Divali night. Then he could take her and marry her.
This beautiful woman was married and had a little son.
On Divali night, Krishna bhagwan came with his crown, to take her. The woman was sleeping
in the cow shed while her husband and son were resting under a tree at the foot of the
mountain. When Krishna bhagwan appeared at the top of the [Govardhan] mountain to go
down and take the woman in the village, his cows were frightened that someone came out
so abundantly dressed in the night. He’d put on many decorations and a huge headdress,
because he wanted to enchant the beautiful woman who was waiting for him. The cows
didn’t expect to see him like that and, scared by his outfit, they ran down the hill in panic
and trampled the two men resting there and killed them.
The woman told to Krishna bhagwan: “You may take me but I want my husband’s and my
son’s name to be honoured. You have to do something.” Then, in the morning after Divali,
Krishna bhagwan came to the village and told the women in the village to make the father
and son in cow-dung and to worship them and remember them with puja.
With only some minor variations, the same story was told by all women I spoke to in this village.
They said that in remembrance of the two men killed by Krishna’s cows, and observing Krishna’s
instructions, they repeat the kneading and trampling every year.
7.2. Krishna Govardhan

Besides local stories, the village women recall the “govardhana-dharana” (the lifting of the
Govardhan hill) myth when explaining the figure. This myth remembers the day that Krishna defeated
Indra, the god of thunder and rain. Still a child, Krishna protected the people in the Govardhan area
from heavy rains and floods supposedly caused by god Indra who was angry with the people for not
venerating him (see also Haberman 1994, p. 111; Eck 2012, p. 359). Krishna sheltered some in a cave
inside the mountain and others by lifting the entire mountain with his left hand, and holding it up like
an umbrella. All inhabitants, along with their cows, took refuge under the mountain. This image of
child Krishna lifting the mountain with one finger and the people and cows hiding underneath, is very
popular through North India (Figure 9).
A particular manifestation of Krishna lifting the Govardhan mountain is Shri Nathji. He is very
much loved and worshiped as the god of wealth in Rajasthan. According to the legend, Sri Nathji
manifested himself in stone when he emerged from the Govardhan hill, first showing his arm and then
his mouth (Vaudeville 1980, p. 36). Thereupon, the local inhabitants started to worship Shri Nathji
and placed the stone image in a temple on the hill in 1501 (ibid., p. 37). More than a century later,
this image was brought to Rajasthan to protect it from the hands of the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb
who in 1665 was vandalizing Braj by destroying Hindu temples. Sri Nathji fled and went on a journey
to Mewar which took several years before he reached Nathdwara near Udaipur. A temple was built
in which the god took refuge in 1671 (Vaudeville 1976; Eck 2012, p. 377). When in the late 18th and
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early 19th century, the temple of Shrinathji was attacked, the stone image body was shifted again and
protected at Udaipur. As Udaipur and its adjacent area was home to Sri Nathji for centuries, people’s
devotion to this manifestation of Krishna is immense. Typical iconographic characteristics of Sri Nathji
are his rich headdress, his exuberant jewellery, expensive clothes, and his raised left hand (Figure 10).
Figure 9. Krishna lifting Mount Govardhan18 .
Figure 10. Shri Nathji19 .
18 http://radhanathswamiyatras.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/govardhan.jpg.
19 www.nathdwaratemple.org/manorath/shakghar-samagri-shriji.
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Related to the Govardhan myth are thus two images of Krishna: Krishna as the convex and
oval shaped natural form of Mount Govardhan and Krishna as the god child Shri Nathji lifting the
mountain. Both images are visible in women’s cow dung sculptures. Each of the two male cow dung
figures represents the rocky hill in Braj and the abundantly dressed and decorated Sri Nathji lifting
that hill. Concerning the first image, the flat round balls of cow dung put on top of Krishna’s body
are said to represent the stones located at the rocky hill (which again are natural forms of Krishna).
The twigs of hay that women upwardly fix into the cow dung mountain give the mountain its trees
and greenery. Concerning the second image, Shri Nathji emerges from the cow dung figure through its
excessive jewellery (cotton strings and flower necklaces), his pronounced headdress, his raised finger,
and the balls of cow dung now representing the hill he lifts up.
7.3. A Fertile Natural Environment

A striking and meaningful element of the cow dung figures is the semicircle connecting the two
human/divine figures at the bottom (Figure 6). The inner arms of the two figures also often touch,
creating in this way a closed space which is said to be a water basin. Some women explain this part of
the figure to be ‘a river’ (the sacred river Yamuna) others say it is ‘a lake’. Inside this river/lake basin
women put small cow dung figures that represent the buffalos bathing in the water. When women,
during the puja, pour water and other precious liquids like milk and curd in the basin, the image of
cattle bathing in the river fully emerges.
From this perspective, the image changes from being a father and a son, and being Krishna
Govardhan and Sri Nathji into the image of a fertile sacred environment: an environment of a sacred
mountain and a sacred river, of earth and water. The image’s orientation also turns into another direction:
Mount Govardhan is on top of the figure and the river Yamuna at the foot of it. The geographical
connection between the hill and the river goes back to ancient times, when the sacred Yamuna used to
flow nearby the Govardhan hill. Nowadays, the sacred river Yamuna still winds her way through Braj
(Entwistle 1987; Haberman 2006). Also in the imagery of Sri Nathji the Yamuna often flows at the foot of
the sacred hill (Vaudeville 1980, pp. 9–10).
Besides the geo-physical connection between mountain and river, there is also an aesthetic and
gender connection: mountain and river together form a good-looking, and well-balanced landscape
(see Eck 2012, pp. 125–26). In view of beauty, harmony, fertility and prosperity male and female
natural elements need to be joined. In India, sacred rivers are generally considered female and sacred
mountains male. In addition, the Yamuna river is said to be the natural female form of Krishna
(Haberman 1994, p. 14); but also Krishna’s lover or bride, particularly in his form as Sri Nathji
(Haberman 2006, p. 102). This means the river and the mountain are worshipped as a divine couple,
with the female river being seen as a liquid form of love, and the male mountain as a condensed form
of love (ibid.). The divine world includes male and female elements as fertility and prosperity are said
to arise from the union of both genders. Rivers need mountains to flow and to reach the earth without
damaging it; mountains need rivers to live and have green overgrowth. It is only in the complementary
of male and female landscape elements that life exists.
Approaching the top of the Aravalli Hills during the observation tours, I recognized these two
landscape elements carved in women’s cow dung sculptures: the lakes situated in between the
mountains. It is not the mountain-river couple of Braj that counts here, but the pairing of mountain
and lake. Lakes are the hallmark of Udaipur’s natural landscape and from the height of the mountains,
I realised how vital the mountain–lake union is for the villagers. In this desert area people largely
depend on ground- and rainwater for drinking, cooking and irrigating. Only once a year, during the
monsoon season, the lakes are filled with rainwater. The precious water runs down the mountains
by intervals, regulated by the government. Although bigger in size, the shape of the Aravalli Hills
appeared to come close to the mythic form of Mount Govardhan. In fact, the sacred mountain in Braj
and Aravalli mountains in rural Udaipur belong to the same mountain range (Haberman 2017, p. 486).
The sacred landscape of Braj thus resonates in the villagers’ natural environment: the mountain and the
198
lake, and the cattle in the enclosure. Even the cow dung stones and the twigs of hay that women add
to the cow dung mountain reflect their own environment of dry stony soils and rocky hills, covered
with the hay that women collect as fodder ‘in the wild’ (in the mountains) right at the time of the
Govardhan puja.
In the image of the sacred and fertile environment, the gender of the cow dung also matters.
With the earth being female, the cow dung is said to be male; male, because of the two men and god
Krishna emerging from the cow dung and because it is scattered as male seed at the female earth to
make it productive (see for symbolism of seeds and earth also (Dube 1986)). Fertility results from
impregnating the fields with cow dung. Both genders again need each other to produce life and food.
7.4. The Fertile Family

Looking more closely at the cattle in the water basin and listening to what the women tell about
this image, I learnt there was another meaningful layer in the Govardhan that concerned prosperity and
fertility in the family. When pointing at the small cow dung figures in the river/lake, some women said
these were the bathing buffalos, others said they were the children in a mother’s womb. When asked,
they confirmed they could be both. Through this material visualisation of the family in the cow dung
figure, we come to see different aspects that are vital to women’s lives: (1) women’s families include
both humans and animals; (2) women consider their cows and buffalos to be their children, sharing
with them the same intimate space and giving them the same amount of care; (3) women’s fertility
and the family’s prosperity is expressed in having cattle in the yard and children in the womb; and (4)
women not only work on the reproduction of the human family; as breeders of cattle, they also work
on the reproduction of their livestock. Crossing cows and elevating calves are main occupations in
women’s daily life.
At first sight, the figures of father and son represent patrilineality. Both men and women desire
having sons because male offspring carries on the family line. Sons used to stay with their wives and
children after marriage while daughters will move out to their in-laws’ place. The importance of male
sexuality for family fertility is made visible through an often well-articulated penis (and testicles) of
cow dung in between the legs of the male figures. Simultaneously, women’s sexuality and reproductive
power are expressed in the water basin. The babies in the womb and the cattle in the water refer to
women’s reproductive capacities as mothers and cattle breeders. The Govardhan, on second thoughts,
thus shows that besides men’s sexual power in patrilineal descent, women actively contribute to the
patrilineal family by bearing children and breeding cattle, and nurturing humans, animals and land.20
Similar to the image of Krishna being male and female, mountain and river, the Govardhan blends
male and female sexuality that together produce offspring. This mixing is also evident in women’s
ritual action when they worship the completed Govardhan. By putting (or ‘sowing’) seeds of grain in
the basin, pouring water, milk and curd into it, and adding red sindoor powder and fire—as a ritual
way of feeding, washing, and blessing the figure—the warm reproductive womb manifests herself in
the blood-red and sperm-white liquid that together with the seeds fill the round space of the water
basin: an image of sexuality and family fecundity that goes without saying (Figure 11).
20 See Smedley (2004) for a comparative study in West Africa. Smedley also argues that women’s active contribution to the
creation and maintenance of patrilineality has generally been underestimated by ascribing to women an exclusively passive
and subordinate position in patrilineal systems.
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Figure 11. Mixing seeds and liquids during the ritual worship of Govardhan, Havala 2017 (picture by author).
7.5. Penis, Vagina and Navel

When elaborating on the visual image of fertility that women carve in the cow dung, we cannot
ignore three Hindu key symbols present in the sculpture: the penis (linga), the vagina (yoni) and the
navel (nabhi). Unmistakably visible in the Govardhan is the stick. When all kneading and decoration
work is done, the woman go inside their house to get a tall and solid sugar cane (Lakshmi’s main
attribute that is offered to her at the home shrine the day before) and subsequently put it in the navel
of one of the male figures (Figure 12). From a aesthetic viewpoint, the cane is disproportionally big in
relation to the flat and much smaller size of the body that holds it. It fits, however, from the perspective
of fertility. The sugar cane shows himself as the phallus symbol linga. The interpretation of the cane
as linga is confirmed in some of the sculptures in which smaller sugar canes are put right on top
of the penises of the two male figures.21 With Lakshmi being the earth herself, her main attribute
is the male sugar cane which penetrates the cow dung sculptures during Govardhan puja (see also
Elgood 2000, p. 76). The red and white coloured water basin represents the vagina, yoni, another
Hindu key symbol. Linga and yoni, stick and womb, associated with the colours white and red
respectively, are inextricably linked to one another and together abundantly recur in the material
culture of temples and home shrines, as well as in the design of allegedly profane constructions such
as water pumps (Figures 13 and 14).
What is more, women do not put the tall sugar cane at a random spot in the cow dung figure
but right in the middle of an equally disproportionally big navel (nabhi). Rising up from the navel,
the cane looks like an umbilical cord, feeding and sustaining new life. Although the women did not
explicitly mention this, and some even said they put the cane there for no other reason than that it was
the most solid part of the cow dung figure, the navel is a recurring key symbol in Hinduism as well;
it generally refers to the birth of the universe and the divine world. The navel is also one of the seven
chakra’s, energy centres in human bodies which are considered in Hindu health and yoga practices.
It is significant that this particular navel chakra is linked to the goddess Lakshmi who reigns over
Divali, refers to riches and abundance, and is associated with fertility and the potency of the earth
(Elgood 2000, pp. 75–76). Putting the sugar cane into the navel is thus an act of visualising Lakshmi,
making her strong and beautiful, and activating her as a bringer of good luck and fertility.
21 Gold found a similar analogy between penises and sugarcane in the songs of Rajasthani high caste women
(Raheja and Gold 1994, pp. xxxi, 61). While singing about craving for sweet sugar cane and equating that craving for
sweet sugarcane with a desire to have sex, women expressed in their lore a positive image of female sexuality.
200
The reference to fertility and family building is explicitly visible in the variations some women
made on the figure of two male figures. Instead of two male figures, there sometimes was a male
figure (with a penis) and a female figure (with breasts) with the sugar cane put in the woman’s navel.
One woman deviated from the two-figure composition by modelling three human figures representing
a complete family: a father, mother and male child in between (Figure 15). These deviations show how
women translate the mythical images of gods and landscapes into familiar images of family prosperity
and fertility.
Figure 12. Sugar cane stick in Govardhan’s navel, Badi 2017 (picture by author).
Figure 13. Woman’s worship of linga-yoni, Udaipur 2013 (picture by author).
201
Figure 14. Water pump in Badi, 2017 (picture by author).
Figure 15. Govardhan representing a human family, Havala 2017 (picture by Author).
7.6. Five Images Conflating in One Cow Dung Figure

By focusing, not only on mythical or verbatim explanations of the Govardhan, but also on material
forms, ritual gestures, and key symbols in the ritual, I disentangled five meaningful images. The changing
faces of the figure vary in the same way as Lodrick (1987, pp. 109–11) found that the ritual varies across
North India: from being explicitly associated to Krishna (the first two images described, with the
first being connected to a local myth and the second to the pan-Indian myth), to being less directly
associated to Krishna (the third image described), and to not at all being associated to Krishna (the last
two images described). Women’s Govardhan puja in Rajasthan thus entails more than ‘a cow dung
anthropomorphic representation of the Govardhan hill’, as is argued by Vaudeville (1980, pp. 3–4).
The multiple imagery also transcends the dominant explanation of the ritual being uniquely based on
the myth of “govardhana-dharana.” Women’s lived religion does not exclude Sanskritic classical and
authoritative texts (see also Pintchman 2005, p. 12) but it entails much more.
Taken all five images together, the constant factor is what the figure is: cow dung; and what the
cow dung generates: fertility and abundant life. Women’s material prayer thus is a prayer for fecundity.
All that women knead in the dung are signs of prosperity: access to natural resources (cattle, land,
water, mountains and forests), a healthy and beautiful family, and plenty of food. This prosperity
is based on a moral economy in which the women are central actors but not the only ones. During
Govardhan puja they express their dependence on cows, fields, lakes and mountains, their husbands,
and their beloved gods, in attaining this prosperity. The ritual puts women’s work with cow dung
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central and celebrates it as the vital link in the village economy. Cow dung is not just a useful crafting
material, the very substance itself is divine and god-like and an object of loving care and devotion.
8. Women Performing Beauty and Solidarity at the Doorstep

After the iconographic interpretation of the visual layers of Govardhan, I want to focus on
two more dimensions of the ritual to complement my analysis of women’s Govardhan puja: (1) the
performative dimension of women singing songs, and (2) the doorstep as the location where both
kneading and singing take place. Women’s prayer is not restricted to the puja at the end of the ritual
(merely being a standardized ending of the ritual); it is articulated in the cow dung as well as the
songs accompanying the kneading of cow dung. The songs women sing add to the kneaded prayers of
‘fertile natural environment’ and the ‘fertile family’ (described above).
8.1. Singing Beauty and Solidarity

In the process of tenderly kneading and beautifying the figures of father and son, some women
sing about family beauty and prosperity and thereby confirm bonds of solidarity. In Badi, I found
Brahmin women expressing unity by beautifying themselves as brides (wearing red coloured saris
and plentiful jewellery) and collectively singing songs for Govardhan (Figure 16). Sitting in a (half)
circle in front of the gate, each woman works on a different part of the cow dung figure and follows
the (often older) woman who broke into a song. These songs are articulated over Govardhan and
alternately directed to all women of the patrilineal household (those present and absent). The singing
is an intimate women’s affair. When women knead the two male figures with penises and testicles
complete, and praise the fruits of male and female sexuality, men discretely withdraw. While creating
solidarity between the women of the household, the ritual draws a spatial boundary between men and
women though simultaneously celebrates their complementarity.
Figure 16. Women doing the Govardhan puja together, Badi 2017 (picture by author).
In the repertoire of songs I recorded during the event, four thematic songs recur across the different
families. Together they illustrate women’s view of a beautiful and fertile family. A first song directs
a prayer for the fertility of fields, families, and cows and briefly runs as follows: ‘may the field be full of
crops, may the bullock cart leave the field full of good grain, may we have sons and daughters, may no
one remain unmarried, may we have daughters-in-law and sons-in-law, and may we have good cows
producing lots of milk, so we can do the churning every day.’ A second song is sung for the in-married
women of the family: ‘Give me good fields, good cows, good wealth, my mother-in-law is doing all
the work and I become the owner of the house.’ A third song remembers and praises the out-married
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daughters of the family: ‘you are far away, all alone, who cares for you, who will bring you home for
festival?’ This is answered by women responding: ‘my younger brother will come and bring me beautiful
sari and beautiful blouse, bring me colourful jewellery, and bring me back home for festival.’ A fourth
songs is sung for the unmarried daughters: ‘Please marry me in a wealthy family so I can wear a half
kilo gold and I live in a big house, all my jewellery is gold, marry me to a rich family with many cows
and I become the head of that family.’ Rather than deploring a subdominant position in the household,
women express in their songs their ambitions and the high demands they make on their conjugal home.
Although daily practice may of course deviate from these ideals, the songs express that women do not
expect receiving little gold, being cut from the natal house or staying subordinate to the mother-in-law.
These songs also reveal that an auspicious house accommodates a good (=beautiful) family
which means complete with humans and animals, sustained by animals and fields, and balanced
by heterosexual marriage and offspring of both sexes. The absence of married-out daughters has to be
balanced by the presence of married-in daughters-in-law, caring brothers travelling between the houses
of parents and sisters, and sons-in-law complementing the family at a distance. While daughters-in-law
aim for being the head of the family, the out-married daughters aim to return to the natal family as
special guests at festive occasions. This female-centred view on the fertile and well-balanced family adds
an important perspective to the visual image of father and son sculptured in cow dung and representing
patrilineality. It underlines women’s important position in building a patrilineal family, women’s multiple
belongings in houses of birth and houses of marriage, and that gender complementarity—in and outside
the household—looks beautiful and entices good luck and abundant life. Women’s perception of a good
family thus points at the continual links of inside/domestic and outside/public domains and the need
to keep them connected.
8.2. The Doorstep as Crucial Crossing

All ritual activities during the Govardhan puja occur at the doorstep which manifests itself as
a crossing between the intimate interior of the household and the public space of the street and
community. Like the threshold design of kolam in South India, the Govardhan “exists where the
house meets the outside world, where the private and familial realm encounters the community and
the shared public common” (Nagarajan 2019, p. 8). By celebrating with Govardhan the doorstep as
a crucial place, women show they have multiple outward orientations—as wives, daughters, cattle
raisers and farmers—and do not confine their lives to the domain inside.
During the ritual women sing about women’s auspicious mobility over that crossing, leaving as
out-married brides or entering as in-married brides. Also, a family’s nostalgia for the out-married
daughters and the daughters’ wish for return visits is expressed in the songs at the doorstep.
The doorstep is also a crossing of gods, cows and wealth, made possible by the women of the
household. In their daily outdoor activities as farmers and cattle breeders, women cross the doorstep
to procure economic security. Women and cows share the crossing as they together produce the
wealth that goes out to the field in order to bring the wealth of the fields back home. During Divali
women invite Lakshmi to cross the threshold on the third day and take the cows out of the shed on the
fourth day. Lakshmi ritually enters the house to bring money and wealth. Cows enter the house to
give birth and to give milk; their dung leaves the house to bring fertility to the fields and subsequently
prosperity to the household.
Married women also share with Lakshmi their positioning at the crossing. The doorstep as
transition place is dangerous and precarious and needs constant care and protection as not only
positive but also bad energies may enter. As ‘Lakshmi’s of the house’, married women master the
inward flow of auspiciousness and the outward flow of inauspiciousness. Together with Lakshmi,
they play a central role as gatekeepers. By doing Govardhan puja women celebrate and sanctify their
roles as protectors and caretakers of the household as well as their efforts to master the erratic natural
environment on which they depend.
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9. Conclusions
In this article, I have analysed women’s cow dung sculptures as multi-sensory prayers and showed
that women craft in the sacred cow dung an affectionate intimacy with their human, natural and divine
environment. By taking a material approach and looking at the figures from shifting perspectives,
I found women’s Govardhan to be multiform and polysemic. Depending on the perspective one
takes, the Govardhan changes his face while symbols of fertility recur. The central meaning of the
Govardhan puja is situated right in the cow dung and its purifying and nourishing properties, bringing
fertility to land, people and animals. The figure women knead in the cow dung reveals what makes
people’s environment fertile: women’s careful attention, their bodily and devotional work, the gods
and their blessings, human sexuality, and the material gifts of the natural world. The cow dung links
the human, the natural and the divine world, as well as the male and female elements of those worlds,
in a continuously repeated lifecycle. Cow dung travels as a gift between the human, the non-human
and the divine world and connects them to each other in order to produce wealth: from cows to
women to fields to food for family and cows. It also travels in a cycle of life: the fresh cow dung has to
perish and resolve in order to grow and produce life again, which is visible in the ritual sequence of
the Govardhan puja.
By studying the ritual from the perspective of gender and lived religion I disclosed women’s
cosmology and their profound ritual and ecological knowledge that is captured in the cow dung
sculpture. To date the ritual of cow dung kneading has been overlooked, either because of women
mastering it, the waste material central to it, or perhaps its brief duration. My analysis points to
the ritual as a gendered mode of communication. Women speak through their cow dung sculptures,
not only to Govardhan and god Krishna, but also to each other and the wider society. They express
their ideas about gender and human–nature relationships, and highlight the importance of their daily
economic work. By embellishing the divine cow dung sculpture, women articulate how their family
and natural environment should look like to be beautiful and balanced and consequently entice luck
and prosperity. By jointly performing the ritual in public space, they confirm that women—together
with cows—are key actors in achieving and maintaining the society’s wellbeing.
Rather than a divide between private–public, female–male, or subdominant–dominant, it is the
distinction between inner and outer space that matters in the Govardhan puja. This distinction is
symbolically and materially captured in the doorstep. Inner and outer space are distinguished but
not divided. By doing the ritual right at the crossing women stress their position as gatekeepers,
caring for and connecting the spaces. Both spaces are occupied by women and men, animals and gods.
What matters is not that in one of these spaces certain genders are excluded or subjugated, but that in
both inner and outer spaces negative forces and bad luck need to be expelled and positive energies and
good luck introduced. To achieve this, men and women, animals and gods need to unite, not divide,
in the balanced and ethical ways that are expressed in women’s cow dung sculptures.

Acknowledgments: I thank Francine and Dinesh Jain, Narani Gameti, Fateh Lal Choubisa, and Christine
d’Rozario for supporting me in this research. Without their willingness to interpret my constant questions
and conversations and respond to my ceaseless need for additional information, the research would not have
been possible.
205
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religions
Article
Bare Feet and Sacred Ground: “Vis.n.u Was Here”
Albertina Nugteren
Department of Culture Studies, Tilburg School of Humanities and Digital Sciences, Tilburg University,
PO Box 90153, 5000 LE Tilburg, The Netherlands; a.nugteren@tilburguniversity.edu
Abstract: The meaning of a symbol is not intrinsic and should best be seen in relation to the symbolic
order underlying it. In this article we explore the ritual complexities pertaining to the body’s most
lowly and dirty part: the feet. On entering sacred ground persons are admonished to take off their
footwear. In many parts of Asia pointing one’s feet in the direction of an altar, one’s teacher or
one’s elders is considered disrespectful. Divine feet, however, are in many ways focal points of
devotion. By reverently bowing down and touching the feet of a deity’s statue, the believer acts out a
specific type of expressive performance. The core of this article consists of a closer look at ritualized
behavior in front of a particular type of divine feet: the natural ‘footprint’ (vis.n.upāda) at Gayā, in the
state of Bihar, India. By studying its ‘storied’ meaning we aspire to a deepened understanding
of the ‘divine footprint’ in both its embodiedness and embeddedness. Through a combination of
approaches—textual studies, ritual studies, ethnography—we emplace the ritual object in a setting in
which regional, pan-Indian, and even cosmogonic myths are interlocked. We conclude that by an
exclusive focus on a single ritual object—as encountered in a particular location—an object lesson
about feet, footsteps, foot-soles, and footprints opens up a particular ‘grammar of devotion’ in terms
of both absence and presence.
Keywords: Hinduism; India; material culture; ritual; Vis.n.u’s footprint; place of pilgrimage; sacred
geography; imaginative embodiment
1. Sacred Ground
1.1. The Object and Its Emplacement

The object is an octagonal basin, encased in silver. It stands on a low pedestal in the center of the
shrine. Pilgrims flock around it and obscure my view. Some devotees make gestures of reverence,
touch the basin, hold out a baby to receive a blessing, and scatter rose petals. Mourners throng
around it and have their priest perform ancestor rituals. He pours milk in a conch-shell, then empties
the conch-shell container in a longish dent in the middle of the basin. More flowers. Powdered
sandalwood. Emerald-green basil leaves. White rice. A tray of fruits. Garlands strung of delicate white
jasmine buds. Balls made of dough. Sesamum seeds. Kuśa grass. Brass water vessels. Marigolds.
It is only when temple assistants briskly remove all the stuff that for a moment the inside of the
basin becomes visible and shows, vaguely, an uneven rock surface with a slight indentation in the
center. It is perceived as a footprint. Lord Vis.n.u’s footprint: Vis.n.u Himself was here and left a tangible
trace around which pilgrims and mourners gather. With the Lord Himself in their midst, would not all
prayers, all wishes, all vows be successful?
The place is the Vis.n.upāda temple in Gayā, in the eastern state of Bihar, India. The location is
known from ancient times, and is glorified in a wide range of literature, from appropriated references
in the R, gveda to personal comments in TripAdvisor. Although it must be said that today the eyes
of most international travelers are focused on its neighbor, traveler-friendly Bodhgayā with which
it shares part of the name. A Google search will almost always redirect to the Buddhist complex,

and Lonely Planet India (Lonely Planet 2015, p. 520) admits: ‘Truth be told, the whole of this region is
off the beaten track. Outside Bodhgaya, foreign tourists are almost nonexistent, so if you are looking
up to sidestep mainstream travel, this unfashionable pocket could be an unexpected highlight.’
It may be true that Gayā for foreign tourists merely serves as a transit point on the way to its
Buddhist neighbor, ‘Destination Enlightenment’ (Geary 2008), but the town of Gayā, as one of the
main ritual centers of Hinduism, on a normal day draws a steady stream of visitors who go there
to perform ancestor rituals for the recently deceased. In special calendrical moments huge crowds
of locals and pilgrims alike flock to the river to bathe at the most auspicious time, pour out water
offerings to the Sun, perform simplified or elaborate ancestor rituals, and visit one or more of the
sacred places in and around the town: particularly the ‘immortal tree’, the ponds, the hills, and of
course Vis.n.u’s footprint (see Figure 1).
Figure 1. Gayā—the footprint with traces of milk, petals and pin.d.as (Albertina Nugteren).
1.2. Introduction
The narratives told about places of pilgrimage in India have a variety of sources. These may
consist of (1) written references made to a particular event or place in ancient texts. Although these
may be no more than cryptic fragments, they are cherished as authenticating perspectives on myths,
miracles, divine agency, and the special power with which a specific location is said to be imbued.
(2) On a secondary level a place of pilgrimage may be mentioned and ‘storied’ in the great epics,
Rāmāyan.a and Mahābhārata. One of the epic heroes or heroines may have visited this place, or better
still, may have had a life-changing experience here. (3) On a tertiary level a long laudatory poem may
have been composed, a māhātmya or sthalapurān.a, in praise of the sacred geography and glorifying its
merits for anyone who visits such a place with a pure heart.1 Although these panegyrics are often
in Sanskrit, locally available copies in cheap print tend to be abridgments in vernacular languages.
(4) And fourthly there are the local experts, ranging from long-established brahmanic families who
tend to keep themselves aloof from the pilgrims’ bustle but are excellent storytellers, to a special
1 Of this genre, Glücklich (2008, p. 146) wrote: ‘The earliest promotional works aimed at tourists from that era were
called mahatmyas.’
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class of priests who serve as pan.d.as. Pan.d.a is a shortened form of pan.d.ita, a learned person. Together
they form a class of hereditary religious guides (and ritual fixers) at the major north Indian places of
pilgrimage (Lochtefeld 2011, 2017). Their exclusive rights to serve certain families in the wider region
are often protected by detailed genealogical records and the hand-written so-called pan.d.a-ledgers.
They facilitate any necessary ritual actions, particularly rituals intended to help the transition of the
recently dead to the state of ancestors.
Although Gayā’s track record is richly established in all four types of sources mentioned above,
in this article we will only briefly touch upon them, as our focus is not on the archaic pilgrims’ town
as such, but on one of its main features, the footprint. In Section 2.1 we introduce the fascinating world
of feet, foot-soles, and footsteps in the Indian subcontinent. In section two (Section 2.2), we follow a
particular form of divine embodiment, the rare footprint of the divine. In Section 2.3 we wonder how to
qualify such an alleged footprint and discuss footprints (and their derivatives) as relics, representations,
and reminders. In doing so we have crossed over from human-made objects to the naturally sacred, or,
as ancient Indian custom has it, the self-born (svayambhū), self-existing, self-revealed theophany of a
divine manifestation. In section four (Section 2.4), we trail—literally, in this case—Vis.n.u’s footsteps
through cosmogony, mythology and sacred topography, and stop in Gayā, where his divine footprint
on a natural rock has become a center of devotion and ancestor rituals. By selecting three textual
passages (Sections 2.4.1–2.4.3) a patchwork of ‘storied’ evidence and local appropriation of pan-Indian
myths unfolds. We began this article with a brief sensory impression of the bustle around the footprint
and pick up the trail anew by describing, analyzing and categorizing the ritual behavior in the direct
presence of the footprint (Section 2.5.1). We further structure this section by zooming out to include
its wider setting: a natural ensemble of sacred river (Section 2.5.2), tree (Section 2.5.3) and hills
(Section 2.5.4), and, on another level, solar alignment. Finally, in part 3, we use the object lesson we
learned from feet and the ritual behavior displayed around the footprint—both in its direct presence
and in the sense of its narrative meaning—to discuss the embodiedness and embeddedness of a divine
footprint in what we found to be a vast, layered and interlocked cultural complex.
2. Bare Feet
2.1. Of Feet and Footsteps

In Indian literature, performance art, religious life, and everyday social etiquette the human foot
is both ambiguous and polyvalent. Generally, feet are humble, impure and even polluting (Moss 2016).
In a hierarchically ordered society, feet both literally and figuratively are the human body’s most
modest and dirty part. This is particularly true in India where an ancient body symbolism—of
the First Man, Purus.a—once connected the social order with the human physique, and vice versa.
The division of the First Man’s physical body into a hierarchy of varn.as (hereditary classes) is one of the
first delineations of the Hindu social body. Its four castes or classes (caturvarn.a) were said to correspond,
in descending order, both literally and symbolically, to the four domains of the human body: the head;
the shoulders and arms; the stomach area; and the legs, including the feet (cf. Smith 1994).
India may long have been a barefoot country but also has a strong culture-specific etiquette
concerning feet and footwear. Putting off one’s footwear before entering a home or a temple has
many grounds. The first is a basic one: hygiene. The second is: a sign of respect. Crossing the
threshold between the streets or fields and the house, while leaving one’s footwear outside, denotes an
acknowledgement of traversing from one domain to another. From the public and potentially dusty
and dirty ambiance of the outside world one crosses over and steps into the domestic domain, where
more subtle and possibly more rigid etiquette is required. Some may see this as an acknowledgement
of the feminine domain where cleanliness and ritual propriety should rule, others simply refer to it as
‘this is our custom.’ In another way, home is supposed to be a more relaxed place than work or traffic,
and it may be a relief to let one’s shoes outside and free the feet from their day-long captivity. In some
Hindu households, leather shoes and sandals are not allowed, and it is seen as a sign of respect when
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one leaves any offensive leather article outside, be it shoes or belt or briefcase. For some, home is
traditionally also the place where one’s elders live. Entering their presence in most cases no longer
requires the ‘touching of their feet’ as a gesture of respect, humility, and submissiveness, but entering
their premises may still trigger the act of leaving one’s shoes outside. In some households there are,
almost imperceptible to the outsider, zones of ‘foot etiquette’. Families who can afford to do so may
prefer to have a zone in which behavior is liberal—including footwear, smoking, eating non-vegetarian
food and sitting with one’s feet up—whereas there is a more private zone behind this where such
things are rejected if not strictly prohibited (cf. Lamb 2005).
While in the domestic domain many traditional rules regarding feet and footwear may have
disappeared, this is rarely so in temples and at other sacred sites. The threshold experience—indeed
liminal in both a literal and a symbolic sense—of shedding one’s footwear and walking on bare feet
into the cool and shaded interior of an ancient temple may be an effective way to leave the glaring
sunlight and bustle of the street behind. On the other hand, the receptiveness to another dimension
may be counteracted by the feelings of vulnerability or downright helplessness upon entering ‘modern’
temples: slippery tiles wet with oblations, wilting petals, rotting fruit peels and sacrificial leaves.
Walking around barefooted, especially in the form of a pradaks.in.a (ritual circumambulation) before
one enters the sanctum (garbhagr.ha), may be a prolonged liminal experience. It prepares the devotee,
through the senses—a clair-obscur for the eyes, ages of incense in the air, and bare feet grounded
on stone—as well as inwardly by surrender and anticipation, for the encounter with the divine
(cf. Eck 2007; Vidal 2006; Huyler 1994). Many are the temples and shrines where one devoutly touches
the feet of the deity—or the living guru, for that matter. Full prostrations may not be possible because
of the pressing crowds, but most of the faithful at least try to touch the mūrti (icon). The feet of a
statue are often elaborately hennaed, circled with ankle-bells, and decorated with toe-rings; they thus
invite the flow of emotions (rasa) and visitors may respond by laying gifts of flowers and incense at
the divine feet. Moreover, as in many temples devotees find themselves at eye level with the feet of
the Lord, this is the level where they can ritualize privately, intimately, without the need for a priest.
In other moments of the daily ritual procedure devotees witness how the image of the deity is washed,
including its feet, and subsequently dressed, decorated and fed. It should come as no surprise that this
bath-water is feverishly collected as reputedly having healing and protective properties.
In some shrines, however, there may be no iconic deity or image of the revered guru or the
local ruler, but merely an empty seat carrying a pair of divine feet, or a glass case holding a pair of
used shoes or sandals. When asked about the origin and meaning of such objects and the ritualized
behavior they evoke, some devotees refer to passages in the Rāmāyan.a where the rightful ruler, Rāma,
was replaced by his brother Bhārata and sent into exile. When Bhārata unsuccessfully begged his
elder brother to return, he took Rāma’s pair of ‘paduka’ with him and placed them on the king’s
throne in Ayodhyā, to serve as his proxy. A saint’s sandals, especially the toe-knob sandals popularly
known as ‘paduka’ (Hindi pādikā or pādukā)2 , are particularly popular in the visualization of the sacred,
so much even that they may be carried around in a garland-covered palanquin (pālkhı̄), such as is
the case with the saint Dnyaneswar (Jñāneśvara) whose ‘padukas’ are carried in a silver bullock cart
from Ālandi to Pan.d.harpūr or reverse (cf. Shima 1988; Stanley 1992; Glushkova 2015).3 A beautifully
detailed depiction of ‘paduka’ on a stone sculpture’s feet is to be seen in the Odisha State Museum in
Bhubaneswar. Here the deity, Kr.s.n.a—easily recognizable by his flute-playing pose (natavarāsana)—is
2 In this article, in which Indo-ethnography (a combination of ethnographic, textual and comparative approaches) moves
between the Sanskrit of ancient texts, written Hindi, anglicized spelling inherited from the colonial era, and vernacular
pronunciation, I use spelling suited to the particular contexts. This implies that I need to alternate, such as in the case of
‘paduka’, used along with pādakā, or Vishnupad Temple along with vis.n.upāda.
3 One of the other regional Sants for which this may be performed is Tukaram (Tukārām, 1568/1608–1649/1650),
the saint-singer whose deeply devotional songs are still sung during Mahārās.trian pilgrimages. A relevant fragment
from verse 1165 goes: ‘God [is] a stone; a step [is] a stone/the one [is] worshipped, the other is trodden under a foot’
(Tukaram 2003).
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wearing the typical platform shoes. Not only are the ‘paduka’ intricately detailed, as if the ‘stilts’ are
placed on lotus-petalled standers, his feet and ankles are covered with jewelry. A dwarfish devotee
(possibly a gopāla or gopı̄, cowherd) reverently touches the soles of Kr.s.n.a’s high-heeled sandal and
looks up at him in ecstatic fervor.4
One often finds a pair of divine feet chiseled in stone, and resting on a round lotus pedestal,
sprinkled with yellow kunkum (curcumin) and red sindur powder (vermilion, cinnabar), and covered
with flowers and coins, in front of temples inside which the deity is portrayed in full iconic
splendor. Feet or footwear replacing statues may symbolize both presence and absence, form and
formlessness, and evoke gestures of devotion as intense as the human or divine figure would have
done.5 Perhaps even more so, since such stone feet are approachable, within reach of one’s hands
and eyes, free-standing so that one may make a reverent circumambulation, without priests rushing
the devotee through.6 The touching of divine feet is experienced as a full encounter, a tactile ‘cross-over’
possibly even richer than mere seeing (darshan; darśana) since this reaching out, kneeling and touching
includes various physical gestures of devotion involving multiple senses and the entire human body
(cf. Howes and Classen 2014).
Another way of weaving the divine into embodied acts of devotion is the common practice of
making raṅgolı̄ (raṅgāvalı̄), respectively ālpanā (ālimpana, ālepanā) or kōlam or any other regionally specific
name for colorful intricately patterned designs on temple floors and at one’s doorsteps.7 This is mostly
done by women, who may have a large repertoire with patterns and colors fitting the seasons and
calendrical occasions (Nagarajan 1993; Tadvalkar 2015). Or their repertoire may consist of one single
intricate pattern they apply anew every morning. It is an art form practiced in the belief that these
decorative paintings—applied directly to the earth, Bhūdevı̄ (Nagarajan 1998)—keep the dwelling,
the village, or the city safe and prosperous. The making of these ‘painted prayers’ (Huyler 1999) may
be a ritual in itself, or may accompany specific ritual vows (vrata). Such decorative patterns may be
made with paint, ground flour, rice powder or colored chalk. Intricate floral-geometrical designs
mostly have a dot or a series of dots in the center but some may instead have a pair of divine feet in
the middle. On special days richly decorated feet (pagla, pagliya) may appear, especially on festival
days associated with goddess Laks.mı̄, who is considered the deity that protects the home. The painted
feet may be in pairs, statically positioned in the center of a rich decoration, but some women produce
feet that seem to be moving, ushering the goddess into the house where she will bring happiness and
prosperity to the family. At night, especially during Diwali (Dı̄pavāli) the series of footsteps may be
lighted with oil lamps. Goddess Laks.mı̄ may also be represented together with her consort Vis.n.u.
Both symbolize happiness, auspiciousness, and prosperity. They are painted in the form of plants,
creepers, and flowers, especially the lotus, or cornucopias and vases of plenty and other symbols
of prosperity and domestic happiness. The divine couple may also be represented by their feet,
sometimes in juxtaposition, as in southern India. Another type of moving feet belongs to Bāla-Kr.s.n.a,
baby-Krishna, lovingly produced on the occasion of his birthday, janmās..tamı̄ (or gokulās..tamı̄). Small
4 A study of Indian footwear (Jain-Neubauer 2000) may easily detract us from our main topic. Yet it is worth noting here
that the ‘paduka’ is mostly associated with mendicants and an ascetic lifestyle. This may have its roots in the non-violent
origin of the material (it is usually made of wood, not leather), and its special construction. Although these platform shoes
may be very impractical for walking—let alone dancing, as Kr.s.n.a does—they are designed in such a way that they prevent
accidental trampling on insects and vegetation. As both ambiguity and polyvalence are key concepts in our analysis of feet
and footprints it is worth pointing out that a pair of ‘paduka’ used to be part of a bride’s trousseau, hinting at the eroticism
of the foot and the length high-heeled shoes add to the lady’s legs.
5 For a more systematic discussion of this, especially in the light of the iconicity and non-iconicity debate, see further on,
Section 2.3 (Of relics, representations, and reminders).
6 The term ‘defiant religiosity’ (Larios and Voix 2018) may be too strong here, but obviously two of the affective qualities of
pavement shrines, tree shrines and foot-pedestals right at the entrance of temples are their accessibility and informality.
7 Anyone who happens to have been caught in pre-wedding frenzy in India may be aware of the ‘haldi’ (Bengali: holud)
ceremony traditionally held for the bride. Turmeric paste is applied to her face and body in sensuous patterns akin to raṅgolı̄
and especially her feet are objects of artistic attention: intricate decorations made of henna (mehendi, mendi) covering the
entire foot and ankle (cf. Huyler 2008).
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footsteps made of rice flour may be drawn on doorsteps but also inside the house, especially leading
from the domestic altar to the kitchen, where baby Krishna is invited to gorge on butter and sweets.
Another type of divine feet we need to mention here are reproductions of deities’ feet as portable
devotional articles. They may be made of any material: carved in wood or stone, plastic, or paper,
painted or left bare. They may come as cheap paper reproductions merely showing simple outlines of a
pair of anonymous feet—as a tentative empty container, to be filled in with whatever divine name one
imagines—or with the foot-soles filled, literally to the brim, with auspicious symbols pertaining to a
particular deity. In the case of Vis.n.u, such foot-soles would contain his four major attributes: the conch
shell (shankh; śaṅkha), war discus (chakra; cakra), mace (gada; gadā), and lotus flower (Hindi: kamal;
Sanskrit: padma, pus.kara, pun.d.arikā). In addition, one can typically find the ammonite, a fossilized
spiral shell (śālagrāma), or the primeval serpent (Nāgarāja, Śes.anāga, Ādiśes.a, popularly referred to as
Shesh). Such foot-soles, inscribed with his most evocative attributes, may be museum pieces, but may
also be sold as cheap prints or amulets in any street stall (cf. Bhatti and Pinney 2011). As we will
see below, visitors of Vis.n.u’s footprint in Gayā sometimes make use of such plastic forms to deploy
them as bright and conspicuous overlays covering the rather indistinct ‘real’ footprint (Figure 2). Of a
special type of mobile (and marketable!) footprints are those facsimiles reproduced on textile or strong
fibrous paper (such as the handcrafted lokta paper from Nepal) by rubbing the original footprints off.
By affixing a piece of paper or thin cloth over the stone footprints, and rubbing the contours of the
feet with wax, paint or charcoal, a close copy of the minuscule elevations and depressions is produced.
It may serve as an easily portable relic.8
Figure 2. Gayā—the footprint decorated for evening worship (Albertina Nugteren).
2.2. Of Divine Footprints

Whereas so far we have introduced man-made representations of feet and footsteps, there
is a crucial distinction to be made between those manufactured ones (mānus.a) on the one hand,
and divine (daivya) footprints supposedly left on natural rocks by the gods themselves, on the other.
8 A photograph of a Tibetan monk preparing a colorful copy of the sacred footprints of the Buddha impressed on stone in
front of the Mahābodhi temple in Bodhgayā is shown on p. 131 of (Leoshko 1988).
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With self-manifested ‘footprints’ we emphatically mean ‘imprints’—perceptibly sunken, concave

(hollow) impressions made on a surface by the pressure of body weight—in order to distinguish them
from manmade depictions of foot-soles and feet in whatever material, which are raised, carved and
convex (cambered). South Asia’s topography, in the experience of believers, is brimming with such
material traces of epic heroes, Hindu gods, Buddha’s footprints and foot-soles (Kinnard 2000, 2014)
and even footprints of the Prophet Muhammad (Hasan 1993; cf. Schimmel 1980). They are mostly
natural holes, dents, and depressions more or less in the form of a foot imprint, with or without
distinct indications of toes. Some of them are huge, but their size is normally not experienced as
crucial; that gods supposedly leave giant footprints is normally not a barrier for believing in their
authenticity. The size of the footprint in Gayā is not gigantic, a ‘naturalistic’ divine size of about 40 cm.9
Our main interest here is in divine footprints—hollow imprints—in their natural and ‘original’ state.
The confusion, even among scholars, about what is imprecisely referred to (and lumped together) as
footprints, is obvious. This lack of precision and categorical fuzziness made us decide to use the term
‘footprint’ exclusively for the hollow indent in natural rock, of which it is claimed that a god or the
Buddha made this with his foot.
2.3. Of Relics, Representations and Reminders

In a composite culture (Alam 1999; Mohamed 2007) we find innumerable salvific spaces woven
into a web of myths, stories, and sacred topographies. Objects like divine footprints confirm the
presence of the gods and goddesses (or of the historical Buddha, as in Sri Lanka, cf. Skeen 1870) not
only in national history but also through personal encounter in pilgrimage.10 Hyperbolic sayings
about local icons being considered absolutely and completely Vis.n.u should be seen in the perspective
of the Vais.n.ava theological tradition. Moreover, oral traditions of popular piety ascribe a cumulative
significance to their ‘own’ icon (arcā): not only is it interwoven with ‘puranic’ origin, the image has
its own personality and is treated as a distinct person (Narayanan 2011, p. 569). Such images may
also be cumulative in another way; it is often believed that an iconic statue of a deity, a half-figurative
and half-non-figurative ‘relic’ such as a footprint, or an aniconic object such as a śālagrāma fossil,
collects ‘energy’ over the years, absorbing not only layers of grease, milk, soot, turmeric, and vermilion,
but also the waves of devotion radiated by generations of pilgrims. Having been the object of intense
devotion ‘for as long as one can remember’ is considered to have charged both the material object and
the place of pilgrimage with an almost tangible power and spiritual magnetism (Preston 1992, p. 33).11
In contrast to what is prescribed in sacred texts about images of the divine ‘properly’ housed in
temples (Kramrisch 1976) many representations of the divine are found elsewhere, such as beneath
trees, at the outer edges of religious compounds, on kitchen shelves and in wildernesses. Whatever
rules there are about formal consecration of buildings and statues, believers also have a tendency to
build intimate relationships with organically grown (i.e., self-revealed, svayambhū) embodiments of the
9 There is considerable confusion and contestation about the vis.n.upāda qualifying as (1) either a natural footprint; as (2)
a manmade sunken foot-sole; (3) an ‘engraving of his right foot in the basalt’ (Vidyarthi 1978, p. 4); (4) a reproduction
(Asher 1988, p. 74); (5) a ‘replica in stone’ (idem); (6) a ‘sculptured impression’(idem); (7) a man-made raised foot or
foot-sole; (8) or a carved pair of feet, in plural. Yet it seems safe, based on its present appearance, to copy the term
Glücklich (2008, p. 3) used, ‘a footprint-like indentation’. See further footnotes 10, 19, and 20. This confusion may be partly
due to (possibly) later replacements, partly to the situation that most of the time the silver-coated basin is filled with offerings
all over, obscuring any view one might need ‘to see for oneself.’
10 Although it might seem more relevant here to refer to the many forms in which Buddha’s feet occur in neighboring
Bodhgayā (about intricate relations between the footprint in Gayā and the sculptured pairs of feet in Bodhgayā, see Paul 1985;
Asher 1988; Kinnard 2000), the allusion to his footprint on natural rock at the summit of Mount Sumanala (Adam’s Peak in
Sri Lanka) is deliberate. Based on morphological considerations these two single depressions in natural rocks are much
more on a par; on the same footing, as it were.
11 I borrow this term from James Preston (1992, p. 33), but find that his scholarly caveat (‘It is not an intrinsic “holy” quality of
mysterious origins that radiates objectively from a place of pilgrimage; rather, spiritual magnetism derives from human
concepts and values, via historical, geographical, social, and other forces that coalesce in a sacred center.’) should not obscure
the literal meaning of śakti-power-energy attributed to devotional objects in India. Or, as Preston adds: ‘Folk explanations of
the spiritual magnetism attributed to a sacred center are valid from the participant’s point of view.’
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divine. Natural forms of divinity have this innate appeal, and as ‘representational modes’ and markers
of divine presence such objects combine a visual-tactile encounter with a natural element. This poses
the question of iconicity versus aniconicity. Gaifman (2017, p. 338) defines ‘aniconic’ as indicating
‘a physical object, monument, image or visual scheme that denotes the presence of a divine power
without a figural representation of the deity (or deities) involved.’ It appears that divine footprints
are neither completely anthropomorphic nor completely non-figural. Allowing the notion of a range
or spectrum between the strictly iconic and the strictly aniconic may allow us to reflect on what
Hindus experience as a god’s divine pervasiveness. Hinduism is known for its unabashedly figural
materiality but also has a rich and profound tradition in aniconic—or, rather, semi-iconic—imagination
and representation of the divine. In popular cults aniconic and anthropomorphic elements blend
and co-exist easily. A pair of anthropomorphized footsteps—originating as holes, dents, or hollows
in natural rock, but adapted to look like imprints of ‘real’ feet—may tell us a different story of the
footprint than those man-made cultic feet and foot-soles used in regular worship. These, in their turn,
should be distinguished from portable second-order ‘facsimiles’ produced by rubbing off the original
form onto a piece of paper or textile.
The scholar may make a distinction between hollow imprints, however shapeless, as more
authentic than ‘imitative’ representations, being artifacts and clearly the work of an artisan. But in
a spiritual sense both are signs of a transitive exchange: it is man who sees the divine in a stone
(cf. Aktor 2017a) or in a light indent in a rock, and it is man who chisels out a pair of divine feet
from stone after having imagined the feet as pre-existing in the stone. The index of divine presence
may be higher in the first form, lower in the second form, and still the devotional tendency to
anthropomorphize aniconic or half-iconic objects is ubiquitous. We may also speak of the co-existence
of various modes, as in a spectrum (Aktor 2017b): divine feet are found to be present in this world
as non-figural, semi-figural, and fully figural. In Hinduism, feet may function as recognizable
embodied forms of divinity, but the extent to which they are literally or figuratively embodied
(i.e., anthropomorphized in form or ‘merely’ in the mind) may vary. One might logically expect that
naturally revealed (svayambhūta, svarūpi, ekibhūta-rūpi) objects are accorded a higher mode of denoting
divine presence, but this is not necessarily so. The purely non-figural often invites and draws out
the iconic from the aniconic (Haberman 2017): devotional practices of worship tend to transform an
aniconic object into an iconic one, or at least a half-iconic one, as is the case with footprints. Naturally
manifested footprints, however storied and celebrated, are ‘barely there’: a vague outline, an indication
of toes, merely a heel. In the experience of the devout, such footprints, being merely what they are,
invite being ritualized, and in that process receive reconfiguration: an emphasized outline here, a slight
impression hollowed out to more effect there, and toes tend to become neatly compartmentalized.12
What on one scale may count as an act of devotion—lovingly helping the divine to manifest more
clearly—may, on another scale, count as a lack of faith. Or, as Gaifman (2017, p. 350) aptly concludes:
‘the realia of practice and worshippers’ perspectives may not fit scholarly paradigms.’
Another pressing question is: are they relics? In Buddhism, with its long-lasting discourse on the
early aniconicity of the Buddha image (Tanaka 1998; Kinnard 2000), there appears to be a consensus
that the existing natural footprints13 of the Buddha, among which we merely mention the Śrı̄ Pāda
12 In this regard the antiquity of Vis.n.u’s central footprint at Gayā was argued by Paul (1985, p. 140) as follows: ‘[ . . . ]
indicated by a simple outline the sacred object is neither encumbered with conventional auspicious marks nor entangled by
inscriptional paraphernalia.’ Since the objective of Paul’s discussion was the comparison with Buddha’s neatly carved-out
slightly hollow pair of feet on a lotus pedestal by the side of the Mahābodhi Temple in Bodhgayā, her argument is only
partially relevant here. But there is no denying that, once bared of its decorations and the plastic overlay (bearing Vis.n.u’s
emblems for the evening worship), the silver-enshrined imprint in the nucleus of the Vishnupad Temple looks archaic,
even if only as a result of the frequent anointings and rubbings. See also what O’Malley wrote more than a century ago,
in 1906 (O’Malley 2007, p. 63): ‘The outline of these footprints [sic] are still to be seen [ . . . ] on a large granite stone with an
uneven top, which is much worn with the frequent washings it daily undergoes.’
13 In some sources we read that Gautama Buddha left three footprints: two in what is now Afghanistan (or Pakistan?), and one
on the Samantakūt.a of Samanala Mountain. In Sri Lanka it is speculated that he left his left footprint on the Samanala
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in Sri Lanka, are pāribhogaka relics. Such relics are objects that are sanctified by having been used
or owned by the historical Buddha. An imprint of his foot thus counts as a relic-of-use, or rather,
a relic-of-touch. Could we likewise consider the svayambhū footprint ascribed to Vis.n.u as a relic
testifying to the god’s physical presence in this particular place, once in primeval times, and the
footprint as a depression that had been produced by the pressure of his (anthropomorphic even if in
some cases of giant proportions) foot on rock? Whatever dialogic imagination (Bakhtin 2008, p. 276)
we may use, we enter a tension-filled discourse in which Hindu theology, Hindu on-the-ground
devotionalism, and possibly our own distanced position ‘brush up against thousands of living dialogic
threads, woven by socio-ideological consciousness around the given object’. Or, as Kinnard (2000, p. 36)
writes: ‘On the one hand, a footprint14 is considered to be the actual mark left by Vis.n.u or the Buddha
and thus has been regarded as a kind of corporeal extension, even an actual embodiment. On the other
hand, a footprint is not a foot but rather simply the empty mark left by a foot.’
At the very least, for the faithful it acts as a contact zone. In Hinduism the gods can be highly
visible, tangible, and audible, and especially the ritual interaction with objects evokes anthropomorphic
aesthetics. Yet also the formless (nirgun.a) is highly revered, and exists in a parallel relation with the
explicit form (sagun.a).15 On the other hand, Vais.n.ava Hindus conceive the pādas as the actual abode
of Vis.n.u. According to the Gayāmāhātmya (109.20, pp. 43–5) Vis.n.u is vyaktāvyakta, both manifest and
unmanifest, in the footprint. Any artisan-produced footprint, properly inaugurated, is, essentially,
a mūrti. A mūrti is a man-made image in which, through ritual consecration, the deity is invited to
dwell. A svayambhū mūrti is more: it is a mark created by Vis.n.u himself.
2.4. How a Divine Footprint Became Embodied and Embedded

After this long prelude we now look more closely at the footprint in Gayā. Its pedigree is
impressive, well-attested, and traceable through all four categories of sources (see above, page 2).
Just as we may need a vivid imagination to see a footprint in a dented piece of rock, we need a
narrative gaze (Morgan 2012, p. 67) to intuit what the faithful see. Accordingly, we first follow
the track of three different textual motifs that are often presented as explaining, justifying as well
as adding the prestige of antiquity to the existing cult. The scenes are patchworks of various text
passages. We begin (Section 2.4.1) with a Vedic creation scene in which the world was created by
sacrifice. The sacrifice took place in primeval (empty, unordered) space. A mysterious footprint was
all there was. It was this shallow pit that served as the first sacrificial altar around which the gods
gathered. Then, in Section 2.4.2 we see Vis.n.u taking three giant steps, thus ordering space. In scene
three (Section 2.4.3), we see a ritual re-enactment of both, at Gayā.
2.4.1. Scene One: The First Footprint, the Place of Sacrifice

In the beginning, when the earth was still soft, someone left a first footprint: was it the footprint
of a cow, of goddess Iᒜā, or of Speech? They were triple and one. Together they ensured the flow
of abundance, of milk, of the cosmic order (r.ta). Or was it Vis.n.u’s footprint (Vis.n.oh. pada), whose
three strides had resulted in a footprint on Earth? His footprints are containers of sweetness and
summit (also known as Adam’s Peak) and his right footprint in Anurādhapura, a feat that may well be an intended parallel
to Vis.n.u’s wide strides (cf. Paul 1985, p. 140). Both Myanmar and Thailand claim to have real footprints in natural
rock too (cf. Sailer 1993; Sailer’s website on www.dralbani.com/buddhafootprint; Guerney 2014; and various entries on
‘Buddha’s footprints’ or ‘buddhapāda’ in Encyclopedias, such as in Keown and Prebish (2013, p. 113) and Buswell and
Lopez (2014, p. 154)). For a categorization, see my unpublished paper presentation ‘Of feet, footsteps, foot-marks, foot-soles
and footprints of the Buddha’, EASR annual conference, Bern, 17–21 June 2018 (www.easr2018.org/program/session S37
‘Plurality and Materiality’).
14 Kinnard seems to speak deliberately of footprints without distinguishing between feet, foot-soles, footsteps and footprints.
15 See, for instance, verse 33 in the popular Vis.n.ucālı̄sā, the forty couplets written in praise of Vis.n.u by Sundardās: ‘agan.it rūp
anup apārā/nirgun. sagun. svarūp tumhārā //’ (‘your forms are countless, incomparable and infinite; you are both personal
and impersonal’, or translated in a more philosophical vein: ‘with and without qualities/attributes’).
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abundance. This is how the gods used ‘ghee-dripping’ Iᒜā’s footprint or wide-reaching Vis.n.u’s
footprint as an altar into which oblations were poured.16 Man knows this because seers and poets,
as ‘knowers of the track’, told them so. A pada-jña knows that footprints serve as trails, to be traced
by them and their descendants; it is they who show the newly deceased their way. In the words
of Gonda (1969, p. 176), Iᒜā’s hands and feet drip with butter, and leave a trail of footprints, a track
of goodness; or of Sandness (2010, p. 519) who concludes: ‘A footprint is a trace, a track or sign by
means of which one has visible evidence of an invisible presence.’ And both have ghee-dripping feet
(ghr.tapada) for it is through sacrifice that the living and the dead find their way beyond by following
the ancient footsteps.17
2.4.2. Scene Two: The Division of Primeval Space, Vis.n.u’s Three Steps
Creation myths in Hinduism are practically innumerous, but here we select a single motif, that of
Lord Vis.n.u creating the cosmos by dividing it into three distinct realms. Although in the disguise of a
dwarf, by taking three giant steps he could claim the space he had covered with his three strides as
his own. He thus brought order in empty space by his strides. This is how Vis.n.u became the god of
ordered space:
From the ‫ٮ‬ggveda: ‘I will proclaim the heroic deeds of Vis.n.u, who measured apart the earthly realms,
who propped up the upper dwelling place, when the wide-striding one stepped forth three times. [ . . .
] All creatures dwell in his three wide steps. [ . . . ] he alone has supported three-fold the earth, the sky,
and all creatures.’
From the Śatapathabrāhman.a: ‘[ . . . ] the demons thought, ‘All this world is ours.’ They said, ‘Let us
divide this earth, and when we have divided it let us live upon it.’ Then they set out to divide it
[ . . . ]. The gods heard about this and said, [ . . . ] Let us go where the demons are dividing it, for who
would we be if we did not share in it?’ They placed Vis.n.u [ . . . ] at their head and went there and
said, ‘Let us also share in this earth; let a portion of it be ours.’ The demons, rather jealously, replied,
‘As much as this Vis.n.u lies on, so much we give to you.’
From the Vāyupurān.a: ‘[ . . . ] O king, you should give me the space covered in three strides.’
‘I grant this,’ answered the king, [ . . . ] and since he thought him to be just a dwarf he himself was
very pleased about it. But the dwarf, the lord [i.e., Vis.n.u in his dwarf incarnation] stepped over the
heaven, the sky, and earth, this whole universe, in three strides [ . . . ]. He revealed that the whole
universe was in his body; there is nothing in all the worlds that is not pervaded by the noble one.’ 18
16 The sacrificial altar (vedi) traditionally is not a raised altar as such, but a sacrificial pit—a shallow depression in the
ground—around which the gods were invited to sit down. In Gayā most of the places where mourners are to offer pin.d.as
to their ancestors are referred to as vedis. Both footprints and vedis share the same symbolic order as the navel, a parallel
we find in ‫ٮ‬g gveda 3.29.4 (the footprint as the ‘navel of the Earth’). In Gayā one of the parallel stories told of the giant
Gayāsur, and sometimes portrayed in popular colorprints sold to pilgrims, is that the fire sacrifice referred to in scene three
(Section 2.4.3) had taken place in the asura’s navel (nabhi).
17 This summary is based on various cryptic passages in the ‫ٮ‬g gveda, mainly ٤V 3.23-29. See also Śatapathabrāhman.a 1.8.1.
18 These translations are taken from chapter five (on Vis.n.u) in Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty’s Hindu Myths. A sourcebook translated
from the Sanskrit (Doniger 1978, pp. 176–9). The locus classicus for ‘the three strides of Vis.n.u’ (trı̄n.i padāni vis.n.oh.) is R, gveda
1.22.17–21; additionally 1.154.1–5. Although these three text passages are wide apart in time and context they are selected on
the basis of their narrative strands, together forming a fabric that is locally told and retold, as well as used to authenticate
the ritual practices. From a text-historical perspective the key question would be: when were such myths revolving around
Vis.n.u woven into the fabric of Gayā as a place of pilgrimage famous for its śrāddha rites? Text passages such as Vis.n.usūtra
85.40 and Vis.n.upurān.a 3.45, where the vis.n.upāda is casually mentioned, may provide links between narrative motifs and the
specific location, but a full study in which the third key textual element, Gayā testified as a famous śrāddhatı̄rtha, would
nicely fit in, is far beyond the scope of this article.
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2.4.3. Scene Three: Vis.n.u’s Footprint on Earth: Gayā

Vis.n.u’s divine footsteps may spiritually be traced in every place where the sacred is encountered,
but in the perception of many there is one particular footprint that is in precise alignment with the
celestial path: Vis.n.u’s footprint (vis.n.upāda) at Gayā, in the contemporary state of Bihar, eastern India.
According to myth (Vāyupurān.a chapters 105–106; Gayāmāhātmya) it is here where Vis.n.u touched Earth
in his three strides, and left the imprint of his right foot on natural rock.19 That alone would make it
a formidable place, but the ancient cosmogonic myth, in which the global term ‘earth’ had not been
specified or made geographically-topographically explicit, got blended with place-specific myths and
local lore. We thus have a universal cosmogonic myth, that of Vis.n.u’s three giant steps, on the one hand,
and two versions of a local myth, on the other.20 The most basic version of the local narrative tells us of
a demon (asura) by the name of Gaya (m.) who had been engaged in such extreme austerities that this
interfered with the power of Yama, the deity who presides over death. The three main gods, Brahmā,
Vis.n.u and Śiva, were willing to intervene and came down in the guise of brahmans. They asked
the asura for a sacred place where they could perform yagya, sacrifice. As a boon it was agreed that
they could use the body of Gayāsura (Gaya the asura) as the location for a sacrificial fire-pit. For this,
the demon had to lie completely still, without moving, for a full seven days. It was in fact a plot to
kill him. At the beginning of the final day Lord Śiva took the form of a rooster and crowed already
at midnight. Immediately, the demon, deluded by the ‘false dawn’, got up and disturbed the yagya.
The three brahmans-in-disguise revealed their true identity and told Gayāsura he now had to be killed.
Accordingly Vis.n.u stepped his foot on the demon’s chest and subdued him. In an alternative version
they had placed a heavy piece of rock on him in order to keep him immobilized. This large stone
could also serve as a fireplace to make the sacrificial fire. To make sure that he would not get up,
Vis.n.u kept his foot firmly on the stone’s surface.21 The powerful demon had thus been tamed into
immobility forever, but compassionate and fair Lord Vis.n.u still granted him his boon: his giant body
would become the eminent sacred place, Gayā (f) where the dead would gain salvation and would
never need to return in another incarnation. And indeed, the town of Gayā grew into one of the main
places of pilgrimage, especially famous for its ancestral rites (śrāddha). In its centre is the awe-inspiring
trace, enshrined in silver: the footprint.
2.5. Rituals around the Vis.n.upāda in Gayā22

In this way, the contemporary town is linked into a chain of ancient text passages, myths,
and sacred geographies. As a town it has a documented history that goes back to the Enlightenment of
19 Some authors refer to Vis.n.u ‘planting his foot at the Vishnupada on the Gaya peak’ (emphasis added, AN) (Jaiswal 1964);
Bhattacharyya (1964, p. 91) writes: ‘Some natural crevices in the rocks which were originally fetishistic objects of worship
were later recognized as the footmarks [sic] of Vishnu.’ [emphasis added, AN]. Anil Kumar maintains that the practice
of ‘footprint worship’ started with the worship of the footprint of Vis.n.u at the Vishnupad Temple since the fourth century
(emphasis added, AN) (Kumar 1987). None of these authors are able to establish full chronological evidence for the rise
of vis.n.upāda-pūjā or vis.n.ucaran.a-pūjā in Gayā. This matter of footprint-worship is further complicated by the historically
sensitive and area-specific issue which was first: reverence to Vis.n.u’s footprint in Gayā or to Buddha’s feet in Bodhgayā.
20 In association with the remarks made in notes 18 and 19 the Gayāsura legends form yet another narrative strand. According
to O’Malley (2007) the legend of Gayāsura was invented around the fourteenth or fifteenth centuries. See also the
sixteenth-century text on pilgrimage Tristhalı̄setu (Salomon 1985); and Gayāmāhātmya (Jacques 1962), a pilgrimage guide to
Gayā replacing some older chapters of the Vāyupurān.a.
21 This alternative version is based on locally available pilgrim’s documentation, such as found in illustrated bazaar booklets.
In informal conversations and on Internet one finds further variations. For an impression of public relations found in digital
media, such as of online services (‘Online Services for After Death Rituals of Pinddaan’), a list of pan.d.as, photos, or services
to be reserved online, see www.pinddaangaya.in. For local and regional maps, see Singh 2009 (as well as some other of his
publications on Gayā).
22 This part is based on various field visits since 1979, the most recent being in 2016 (see Figures 1 and 2). Because of the crowds
of worshippers, the solemn nature of the sapin.d.ikaran.a, but particularly because officially ‘non-Hindus are not allowed‘,
I had to avoid making myself conspicuous and refrained from photographing people. More recently, Deborah de Koning,
MA, managed to make a picture of ritual activities going on around the vis.n.upāda (Figure 3). I gratefully acknowledge her
permission to use it here.
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Gautama Buddha who may have been drawn there because of the fame of its ascetics. One of the most
frequently given references to Gayā as a place where śrāddha was performed is based on a passage in
the Rāmāyan.a (2.99) where Rāma, Sı̄tā, and Laks.man.a are said to have gone to Gayā for pin.d.a-pradāna,
the offering of food to the ancestors, after the death of King Daśaratha. Gayā’s fame additionally
rests on having received one of the drops of amr.ta (the immortality drink), and partly on its locational
‘topomorphic’ significance. The main elements of this local fame consist of the sacred river on its way
to join the Ganges; of having an ‘immortal’ banyan tree, the Aks.ayavata; and of being surrounded by
sacred hills in a meaningful astrological alignment with Sūrya, Sun.23 When exactly the cosmogonic
myth about Vis.n.u’s strides and about the very first footprint that served as a sacrificial pit began to be
connected with this place is uncertain. Today it is emphasized that the present vis.n.upāda has always
been in the place where it is now, and that the present eighteenth-century temple was built around the
much older footprint—whether that footprint be the result of the act of subduing the demon Gayāsur,
with Vis.n.u’s foot holding the piece of rock in place, or of Vis.n.u’s right foot firmly stepping on Earth
in his three all-encompassing cosmogonic strides (trivikrama).24 But for most, the various elements,
interlocking multiple traditions, form the composite culture on which the fame of the town is based.
2.5.1. The Footprint

From a spatial and ritual perspective, the divine footprint at Gayā has to compete with many
other objects and other centers of attention. Formally, those who come to Gayā to perform ancestor
rituals have to start close by or in the Vishnupad Temple. In fact, in preparation they should have
fasted for a day, undergone ritual shaving, taken a bath in the river Phālgu and donned ritual garments.
Directed by their pan.d.a and his assistant(s), relatives come to the Vishnupad Mandir and the cluster of
other shrines with the offerings they have freshly prepared, especially the pin.d.as, balls made of wheat
and oat flour, rice powder, sandalwood, sesame and water or milk. The offerings, representing the
paternal and maternal ancestors, are offered to the deities, the sages, Yama (the god of Death) and the
manes in various places in town. The encounter with the footprint is given form in the ritual that is
popularly called charan pooja25 (caran.apūjā): paying respect to the footprint. Traditionally, the fixed
formula with which the footprint is greeted is from R, gveda 1.22.17:
‘We bow to this, thou Vis.n.u’s circular basement, Chakra.’
In its most basic form, this ritual consists of circumambulation, gestures of respect, a fixed form of
greeting, and a statement of what one’s intentions for worship and offering are, such as health and
prosperity. Devotees can also make a vow or state their gratefulness after the fulfillment of a vow.
People may come with specific problems for which they seek healing. More elaborate rituals, apart
from the usual ancestor rituals, may be in the form of other life-cycle rituals such as a child’s first
hair-shaving (mun.d.ana) or initiation (upanayana). In a place like Gayā many people may come in order
23 The town’s connection with the sun (in relation to the four hills) would deserve a research of its own. Here it should suffice
to refer to authors such as Paul (1985) and Singh (2009). It has been stated that Vis.n.u’s three strides not only spanned the
universe, they also symbolize the three positions of the sun throughout the day: dawn, noon and dusk. Paul (1985, p. 84)
added: ‘The single footprint of Vishnupad, as opposed to an immobile pair of prints, suggests that Vishnu was indeed moving
[emphasis added, AN] sun-like across the cosmos and placed his (right) foot momentarily on the head of the demon Gaya.’
24 The late-Pāla period saw a great popularity of the Vis.n.u cult in Bihar, and the Trivikrama-Vis.n.u became one of the 24 icons
(caturviṁśatimūrti). Even as the ‘wide-strider’ the god is mostly depicted standing firmly on two legs, and holding four
attributes in his hands. There is a variation, however: when he is depicted stretching his left leg to an almost straight line
with his right leg, in 180◦. Such an image is often part of a daśāvatāra temple representing his ten incarnations. Among those
I saw being the center of lively worship was one in the ancient part of Bhaktapur, Nepal. Typically, while stepping wide,
he has his right foot firmly planted on a pedestal surrounded by adorants.
25 Vis.n.u’s footprint has an astonishing number of parallels in other local shrines. I counted at least 18 deities whose shrines are
listed as ‘Rudra pad’, ‘Brahma pad’, Surya pad’, ‘Indra pad’ etcetera. As I have made no further study of those, I leave them
out of my article here; also because I assume they are not footprints but artifacts. Traditionally, these ‘pad’ shrines should all
be visited for pin.d.apradāna. Together with other sacred places these constitute a full pilgrimage circuit numbering 45, 48, 51
or 54 ‘vedis’, including a pipal tree (and sometimes Buddha’s foot-soles as well) in the Mahābodhi Temple compound in
Bodhgayā (cf. Barua 1975).
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to earn merit for the next life, as all kinds of scriptures promise that the site brings many blessings,
ablution of sins, liberation for the recently deceased, and even immortality. At night and during
festival time there may be recitation of sacred texts (kathā) and sankirtan (saṁkı̄rtana), the collective
singing of devotional songs in local dialects and the regional language. At festival times there may
even be artistic and dramatic performances, mostly in the form of lı̄lās, plays re-enacting episodes
from the lives of the epic heroes and deities such as Rāma. Gifts offered at the footprint, and given
into the hands of officiating priests, may include water, milk, ghee (ghr, ta, clarified butter), flowers,
sandalwood powder, fruits, sindur, kunkum, garlands, oil lamps, and money. Similar to the iconic
deities the footprint is accorded the usual sixteen services (upacāra), such as offering a symbolic seat,
water, garments, camphor, and a sacred thread; the footprint is anointed and offered flowers, food,
betelnuts, money, and lighted lamps.
Vis.n.u’s footprint, like other sacred marks, serves as an ‘omphalos’, the navel of the universe—or
at least of the entire territory, the sacred landscape of Gayā, encompassing the other shrines,
the river, the sacred trees, the cremation ghāt.s, the hills and even the wider pilgrimage circuit
(pañcakrośi-gayāks.etra). This serving of the footprint as a ritual ‘navel’ (or in other versions, ‘head’,
Gayāśı̄ra) becomes evident especially on days or nights of a particular astrological constellation, such as
during the winter solstice, the vernal equinox, on full moon days (especially during pitr.paks.a-melā,
October-November), on new moon days and during eclipses. There is a special connection between
Vis.n.u and the solar order. He is imagined to have established the threefold division of space and thus
determines the journey of the sun across the firmament. This becomes manifest during the annual
sun festivals when offerings of water, milk, flowers, and flour cakes (pakvan) are made around the
Sūryakun.d., the well (often referred to as a ‘water tank’ or pool) named after Sūrya, the sun god.
Ritual baths in the river include arghya, offerings of water to the sun, to be distinguished from tarpan.a,
the elaborate libations of water for the manes.
2.5.2. The River

The river Phālgu (Falgu, Falguni; Sanskrit Nairañjanā) is sometimes, to add to its sacredness,
called a tributary of the Ganges, but the regional reality is quite different. The Phālgu empties itself
in the Ganges flowing through the Gangetic plain further to the north-east. The river is formed by
the confluence of the Niranjan (Nilanjan, Nilajan) and the Mohanā rivers. At Gayā the river reaches
a considerable breadth. Here it passes high banks consisting of a rocky outcrop from which paved
stairs, the ghāt.s, lead down to the riverbed. The Vishnupad Temple thus stands high above the river,
surrounded by countless minor shrines and narrow alleys. The river is sacred to Hindus, and it is
traditionally26 in the river that pilgrims performing śrāddha make their first offering. However, since
the riverbed is almost completely dry in the winter months, it may at times be no more than a wide
expanse of sand and mud. Locally it is said that this state is due to a curse made by Sı̄tā, when she
had visited Gayā to perform ancestor rituals for her father-in-law king Daśaratha. This incident is
relevant for our topic for at least two reasons. First, it refers to a passage in the Rāmāyan.a and various
Purān.as that is used to explain the lack of water today from an ancient curse instead of natural causes or
anthropogenic impact. Secondly, it indicates that at the times these ancient texts were written the town
of Gayā already functioned as an eminent place where the threesome had gone in order to perform
ancestor rituals. The pin.d.as are preferably offered in a circular movement from vedi to vedi, starting
from the Punpun river bank, and ending beneath the Aks.ayavat. Although today many use shortcuts,
the final donation to the overseer priest at the Gāyatrı̄ ghāt. is inescapable.
26 Although in some special cases the entire traditional sequence may still be followed, most śrāddha performances today are
shortened to last merely a single day. Through e-ethnography (see, for instance, comments on TripAdvisor) we learn that
some families now travel to Gayā in their own vehicle, have the rituals done with in less than two hours, and return in time
to post online comments from home. As could be expected, these middle-class visitors tend to complain about the fees
demanded by the priests and the squalor of the place.
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Figure 3. Gayā—rituals around the footprint (picture made by Martijn Stoutjesdijk and Deborah de
Koning, 10 July 2018).
The town and most temples are facing the river. The river serves as their point of orientation
in many ways. This becomes especially obvious during festival days, when additional platforms
are constructed in order to serve as tempory ghāt.s. On such occasions the river banks are teeming
with people, both locals and pilgrims from far and wide. Many stand in the water, performing their
water rituals. Although there is a constant use of the river in all kinds of lifecycle and calendrical
events in which the river is the central point, Chhath Pooja (chathā/śās..tı̄ pūjā) should be mentioned
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as a special case, indicated already in the Mahābhārata (3.16.31). People even refer to it as Mahaparv
(mahāparva), the great festival. Especially women throng to the river (as well as to the Sūryakun.d.)
and perform ablutions and water offerings (arghya) for the sake of children, skin diseases in particular.
The four-day festival, during which devotees fast and subject themselves to other forms of austerities,
is dedicated to the life-giving powers of the sun. It takes place twice a year, in October-November
and March-April, following the luni-solar calendar. Interestingly, no icons are used, and the sun is
worshiped directly. Some may direct themselves to a goddess, lovingly referred to as Chhathi Ma or
Chhathi Maiya (‘Mother Sixth’, ‘Mother Sun’), but there is no form of mūrti or mūrti-pūjā at all. This is
part of the reason why this festival has been called the most eco-friendly festival of India: no polluting
stuff floating in the river, no waste on the river banks.27
2.5.3. The Tree

In archaic places of pilgrimage sacred trees are often part of an ensemble, along with water bodies
such as a well, a pond, a river, or the ocean; and in many cases there are hills or a mountain, or at least
a central temple of which the towering form provides the vertical element. Gayā is one of those ancient
places where we find not merely sacred trees in abundance, it hosts a tree with a special reputation,
the Aks.ayavata, or as tourist-pilgrim literature calls it, ‘Immortal Banyan Tree’. It is a sacred fig tree
(botanical name: ficus indica), characterized by its feature of sending down aerial roots, which over the
course of time may become massive trunks of their own. It is commonly referred to as banyan (a name
from the colonial era: ‘the tree beneath which merchants used to do business’), vata (‘surrounded’ by
its own aerial roots), and in literary sources as bahupada (‘having many feet’, this being an apt epithet
in an article on feet). According to myth, legend, and pilgrims’ lore, it was this tree that could be seen
as the only point of reference above the water level when in primeval times a cosmic flood (pralaya)
had covered the entire world. It is stated that this tree has always been there, and will always be: it is
truly indestructible.28 Other famous aks.ayavatas are found in ancient pilgrimage towns such as Prayāg
(today’s Allahabad), Kuruks.etra, Varan.ası̄, Gayā and Purı̄. Needless to say that quite a few places all
over India claim that their banyan is also an aks.ayavata.
In some esoteric circles it is said that these trees symbolize the eternal regeneration cycle of the
universe and that human bodies are the reverse image of that tree, with its roots above and tip below
(ūrdhvamūlavr.ks.a). India’s geography is particularly blessed, in this regard, as its upper half is stated to
be formed by one gigantic banyan tree, with its roots in Prayāg, its trunk in Varan.ası̄, and its tip in
Gayā (cf. Bharati 1963; Eck 1981, 1998). The Aks.ayavata in Gayā is thus seen as the crown, and this is
especially relevant for those who come to perform ancestor rituals and offer their final pin.d.as at the
feet of the great banyan. Its crown, with branches ‘reaching out to heaven’, is said to point the newly
deceased their way to the world of the ancestors.29 Famously, it was under a banyan like this that
Savitrı̄ tricked the god of death, Yama, into bringing her husband back to life.30 The tree is likewise
associated with all kinds of ‘family problems’ (pitr.-dos.a), such as finding a marriage partner, progeny,
and other aspects of family life. In this way it attracts not only mourners but many others who come
27 See Piyush Tripathi’s article in the Times of India (Patna edition), 6 November 2016 (https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/
patna/Chhath-the-most-eco-friendly-festival-Environmentalists/articleshow/55266563.cms) (last accessed 22 May 2018).
28 See Bhagavatapurān.a 12.9. Although the banyan in general is often associated with Śiva, the aks.ayavata is mythologically
linked with Vis.n.u in various ways as well. It is the tree in which Vis.n.u sleeps during the cosmic dissolution, safely tucked
away in one of its strong leaves (Naradapurān.a 47.6–8; Matsyapurān.a 167.31–67). The detail that Vis.n.u, in the form of a
sleeping child, was perched on a branch of this tree, rolled into one of its leaves while sucking his toe—a charming detail in
an article on feet—is found in Brahmapurān.a 49.53 and 54.14–18.
29 A verse in the Matsyapurān.a (106.11) promises that anyone who dies beneath an aks.ayavat.a (literally: at the root of this tree,
vat.amūle) goes to Lord Śiva’s abode. Compare this to Brahmapurān.a 54.17–18 where merely worshipping the tree will lead
the devotee to Lord Vis.n.u’s abode.
30 Matsyapurān.a 208.14. Although in this passage the type of tree is not identified, in a much-quoted work on the banyan,
Vata-Savitrı̄-vratakat.hā, a Sanskrit guideline to vows undertaken in relation to the banyan, particularly by wives for the long
life of their husbands, is specific about the type of tree.
222
here to make a vow or pay tribute to the tree after a prayer has been successfully answered.31 In that
sense, the tree is a wishing tree (kalpavr.ks.a),32 certain to fulfill its promises. Ancestor offerings are
often made on banyan leaves (sold to mourners by the priests). Visitors—mourners and other pilgrims
alike—are instructed to circumambulate the tree three times, chanting softly
‘OM Śrı̄ Kara-Aks.ayavata-Vr.ks.aya Namah.’ or more elaborately ‘O banyan tree, you are
immortal, surviving all throughout time. You are Vis.n.u’s abode. O banyan tree, take away
my sins. O wish-fulfilling tree, obeisance to you’.
On the wall behind the tree another promise is written: ‘The Lord makes immortal that place where
the Immortal Tree/Tree of Immortality is praised by the priests and food is given to the ancestors.’
According to the Gayāmāhātmya (a portion of the Vāyupurān.a):
‘Whatever is given to the ancestors at the Vata tree in the pilgrimage town Gayā will be
indestructible (aks.aya). By looking at, bowing to, and making obeisance to the Lord of the
Banyan (Vateśa), with a calm and composed mind, that pilgrim will guide his ancestors to
the indestructible eternal World of Brahmā.’ 33
2.5.4. The Hills

Hills are plentiful in and around Gayā. Although Bihar in general is a flat and flood-prone state,
it has hills in various regions. The town of Gayā is enveloped by temple-crowned hills on three sides
and the river flowing by the fourth (i.e., eastern) side. For some, these rocky hills are the mythical
body of Gayāsura whose body became locked in the landscape as it served as an altar for the gods’
sacrificial offerings. Pilgrims and sacrificers may opt for a visit to merely some of them, whereas
others are determined to make the full round, an itinerary already referred to in ancient sources
such as the Gayāmāhātmya, and today available in abridged form in vernacular languages. Although
the hills may be important destinations for all types of visitors, for the purpose of this article it
may suffice to include the hills merely because they are considered to form a natural ensemble
of sacred tree, river and hills, of which Vis.n.u’s footprint is the gravitational center. Just as the
Aks.ayavata is considered to symbolically, with its branches, point the way for the departing souls of
the newly deceased, so the surrounding hills (being linking ladders between earth and heaven) are
considered as assisting the departure to the great beyond. Especially the hills form a spatial symbolic
order of transcendence. More practically, it is crucial that souls successfully make the transition
from the unsteady and potentially harmful state of preta (ghost) to that of ancestor (pitr.). Rana P.B.
Singh even spoke of Gayā not only as a ‘sacredscape’ and a ‘ritualscape’ but also as a ‘manescape’,
‘ancestorscape’, and even ‘ghostscape’ (Singh 2009; Marshall et al. 2009). The entire complex of antyes..ti
rituals, traditionally lasting thirteen days from the moment of death, is meant to ease that transition,
and metaphorically the hills, in their vertical dynamics, are perceived as assisting this process. On the
eleventh day, Vis.n.u is requested to liberate the dead person. On the twelfth day sixteen śrāddhas
are performed, with the express purpose of the incorporation of the deceased with the previously
departed ancestors: sapin.d.ı̄karan.a. The hill Pretashila (Pretaśı̄la, the rock of the ‘ghosts’) expresses this
concern vividly.
31 The first impression of the Akshayavat is often determined by its many almost horizontal branches from which colorful
strips of cloth are suspended, often in shades of red, pink and yellow.
32 Although ‘kalpavr.ks.a’ (Naradapurān.a 52.66–67) is commonly translated as ‘wishing tree’, it gets a deeper meaning here, since
kalpa also means ‘eon’ or vast stretch of time; after a period of dissolution a new kalpa will set in. Since an aks.ayavata is said
to survive the period of dissolution, the ‘wish’ expressed in front of such a tree may be considered to either go beyond the
present kalpa or may be an explicit prayer for immortality.
33 In various Purān.as there are slight variations of this passage, cf. Vāyupurān.a 49. 93 and 96–97 and Naradapurān.a 47, 3–4.
This latter passage promises the abode of Brahmā for the ancestors. Although there may be a pre-eminence of Vis.n.u in Gayā,
and the local narratives around Gaya (the asura) may even be perceived as establishing the position of Vis.n.u over the other
two gods involved in the deception, Brahmā and Śiva, the tree is impartial and promises a variety of heavenly abodes.
223
3. Discussion: Embodiedness and Embeddedness

In this article we have explored a particular place-specific cultic object and traced its embodiedness
by first focusing on feet, footwear, foot-soles, footsteps, and footprints. We tracked its embeddedness
by following some elusive trails through myth and tradition. In all instances we found ourselves
dealing not with biology in itself but with symbolic classification. We witnessed ritual practices and
browsed through online travel reports. We found that divine feet are objects of devotion in a special
dynamic between nature and manufacture, between presence and absence, between actual topography
and elusive traces of divine embodiment, between this-wordly needs and the great beyond after
death. There may be cognitive ambiguity, but the faithful seem to find a third space, where they
ritually interact with things seen and unseen. Their narrative gaze envelops the footprint in a ritual
choreography that spans from the minuscule empty space of the footprint to the universe through
which Lord Vis.n.u strode with his three cosmogonic steps.
The sacred footprint in Gayā does not stand alone. It appears to be woven into a rich fabric
of textual references; ancient recommendations of Gayā as the eminent place to perform rituals for
the dead; place-specific myths and topographical-geographical features; special veneration for Vis.n.u in
the state of Bihar; and long-lasting associations with its twin sister, Bodhgayā. This fabric, in fact, is so
rich that the pilgrim may easily lose track and forget about the footprint itself. Although the footprint
may appear dis-embodied—being merely a slight depression on a rocky surface—it appears to be both
embodied and embedded. It is embedded in ancient scriptures, cosmogonies, geographies, a number
of overlapping symbolic orders, and a grammar of devotion. And it is embodied in elaborate systems
of iconography, symbolism, esoteric interpretations, and narrative traditions of divine embodiment.
In a way, ancient text passages about a mysterious primeval footprint serving as the sacrificial altar
around which the gods gathered, are ritually re-enacted in the vis.n.upāda until today, fulfilling the
ancient promise that the place will always be ‘dripping with ghee’.34
First of all, we found feet to be both dirty and divine; both disgusting and erotic; both directly
physical and highly elusive. They are not only staggeringly ambivalent, they are confusingly polyvalent.
They are objects of hygiene, aesthetics, social ordering mechanisms, material culture and spiritual
techniques. What would Indian classical dance be without the tapping of bare feet? How different
would be the disembodied experience of Indian temples with one’s shoes on, or a temple in which
one would not be allowed to reverently touch the feet of the deity. Would not the world be a darker,
heavier place without that light and almost imperceptible footfall of the divine? The bare calloused
feet of a peasant; exquisite footwear worn by royals; delicate patterns applied to the feet of a bride;
an empty throne carrying Rāma’s sandals during the years of exile, serving as his proxy. All these
indicate a rich culture of the senses and imaginative embodiment.
Secondly, there are footsteps. All over the subcontinent people go on pilgrimage in the footsteps
of the great ones. The devotional traffic is immense. But divine footsteps are not merely for
following them. Footsteps can be imagined and actively shaped, such as in expressive webs of
painted prayers, in the uninterrupted lines of raṅgolı̄, in intricate patterns of auspicious symbols on
the foot-soles of deities. Footsteps can invoke: come, Laks.mı̄, come, bless this house, this family,
with your presence. Come, baby Kr.s.n.a, enjoy sweets in my kitchen. Artisans are constantly at work,
chiseling away at blocks of stone, carving out pairs of divine feet, covering foot-soles with the god’s
emblems. Whose feet? Does it matter? Feet and footsteps and foot-soles are empty containers, to be
filled in with longings and projections. Devotees literally pour out their feelings over them, envelop
34 There are even three ancient and partly interrelated associative clusters here: the hands and feet (of ٤gvedic Il, ā or Vis.n.u)
dripping with ghee; the ancient place Gayā where in the course of the cosmogonic fight between deities and demons a drop
of ambrosia fell down; and Gayā as the spot where Gaya the demon-cum-ascetic was given the promise, by Vis.n.u himself,
that food offerings—dripping or solid—would be continuous. Whether this implies, in the perception of both priests and
mourners, an equation (ghee equals amr, ta equals tarpan.a water offerings) deserves further study.
224
them in enigmas of absence and presence, form and formlessness, here and there. Feet and footsteps
indicate mobility; transitions and transformations. They are also transient: hands and minds try
to grasp them, hold them, fix them in place, yet they are elusive, as their very nature is movement.
Finally, wet footsteps on the ghāt.s: how long do they last? And where do the footsteps of the dead go,
once they are cremated and beyond the reach of the living? Just like the smoke of the cremation pyre,
their footsteps vanish in thin air.
Thirdly, there are footprints, however rare. Humans may fabricate feet and footsteps, but they
cannot manufacture natural footprints. Yes, they can help, and fake. They can produce facsimiles.
They can outline and decorate. They can theologize and devotionalize. But it is their imagination
of the divine that sees a footprint in a piece of rock, and it is the devotee’s sensory and synaesthetic
experience that continues to make the chunk of rock into a relic. Generations of priests may earn their
livelihood from such an imprint. Entire pilgrims’ towns may be based on it, oblivious of the finer
distinctions between concavities and convexities. How much water, clarified butter, milk, oil, herbal
substances are poured into it, how many flowers and sacred leaves are scattered over it? How many
words of praise are spoken in front of it, how many prayers silently expressed, how many vows
taken with the footprint as witness? And then, who today continues to believe that the gods actually
have feet, feet that walk this earth and leave footprints, feet that look suspiciously very much like
our own, only perhaps just a tiny bit bigger?35
On the human body as a symbol of society Douglas (1976, p. 115) wrote:
‘The body is a model which can stand for any bounded system. Its boundaries can represent
any boundaries which are threatened or precarious. The body is a complex structure.
The functions of its different parts and their relation afford a source of symbols for other
complex structures. We cannot possibly interpret rituals [ . . . ] unless we are prepared to
see in the body a symbol of society, and to see the powers and dangers credited to social
structure reproduced in small on the human body.’
This may be true and valid but let us reverse it for the sake of this article: humans may use their
own body as a symbol and cipher for the social values a society wishes to inscribe on it, but they
obviously ascribe more or less the same body to the gods. Pāda veneration, in Hinduism, may thus
cynically be regarded as an all-too-human all-too-anthropomorphic projection, yet it could also be
seen as a transitive encounter, an exchange. Especially when such a footprint is ascribed to Vis.n.u,
whose name literally indicates his ‘all-pervading’ nature, to devotees the elusive imprint may rightfully
remind of the god’s divine pervasiveness. And, indeed, the empty mark left by his foot, thus implies
both absence—he was here, once, but is gone now—and all-pervasive presence.

Conflicts of Interest: The authors declare no conflict of interest.
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Religion, Ritual and Ritualistic Objects

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Religion, Ritual

Special Issue Editor

MDPI • Basel • Beijing • Wuhan • Barcelona • Belgrade

ISBN 978-3-03897-752-0 (Pbk)

About the Special Issue Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii

Preface to ”Religion, Ritual and Ritualistic Objects” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

Walter E. A. van Beek

Francesco Perono Cacciafoco and Francesco Cavallaro

Laurie M.C. Faro

Xiaohe Ma and Chuan Wang

Received: 13 February 2019; Accepted: 25 February 2019; Published: 6 March 2019

If an object-centered volume on religious ritual is anything, it is a collection of contributions on material

Religions 2019, 10, 163; doi:10.3390/rel10030163 1 www.mdpi.com/journal/religions

3. Figuration, Iconicity, Aniconicity

4. The Ritual Setting

6. Contents (in Alphabetic Order)

7. List of Contributing Authors

Conﬂicts of Interest: The author declares no conﬂict of interest.

Received: 6 August 2018; Accepted: 29 August 2018; Published: 6 September 2018

Keywords: mask; Dogon; funeral; performance; symbol; embodiment

1. The Glory of Masks

Religions 2018, 9, 264; doi:10.3390/rel9090264 14 www.mdpi.com/journal/religions

Figure 1. The mask of Domo Pujugo.

Figure 3. Tingetange performing.

Figure 4. Kanaga dancing, Tireli 2008.

Figure 5. This is, thus, more or less the author.

2. Apparitions from the Bush

Figure 7. A stilt mask, having a smoke while resting.

3. Materiality, Performance, and Embodiment

Received: 16 April 2018; Accepted: 18 May 2018; Published: 21 May 2018

Religions 2018, 9, 167; doi:10.3390/rel9050167 28 www.mdpi.com/journal/religions

GAMES (Main) Ab. Period Title Protagonist Release

1.1. On the First Level

1.2. On the Second Level

1.3. On the Third Level

1.4. On the Fourth Level

Ab. Actual Situation In-Game Situation

2.1. Double Layered

2.2. Triple Layered

2.3. Merged Layers

3. Nothing Is True. The Brotherhood’s Initiation Ritual

3.1. Typical Form: Ezio and Claudia

Machiavelli: Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember . . .

3.2. Minimalistic Form: Connor

3.3. New Form: Arno

3.4. Theoretical Structure

4. The Father of Understanding. The Order’s Initiation Ritual

4.1. Typical Form

4.2. Atypical Forms

Join us, and a bright future will be all yours. Refuse . . .

4.3. Theoretical Structure

5. Requiescat In Pace. The Brotherhood’s Assassination Ritual

5.1. Theoretical Structure

5.2. Holding the Target

5.4. Closing the Eyes

5.5. Collecting of Blood

5.6. The Ritual Prayer

6. Welcome, Initiate. The Gamer as Initiate

Join us, and a bright future will be all yours. Refuse . . .

Conﬂicts of Interest: The author declares no conﬂict of interest.