Descendants of the Swan

In the remote, open land southeast of Lake Baikal, beyond where tourists typically venture, live most of Russia’s 370,000 Buryats. In this ancestral homeland, where Genghis Khan and his troops once roamed, modern Buryats meld their culture and history with the realities of life in modern Russia.

Typical Buryats

live in a small, one-story wooden home, which has replaced the once-common portable, felt-covered tents (yurts). They fetch water from a water tower using aluminum pails and a roll cart, and they usually bathe once a week, either in their own private wooden banya (bathhouse) or in a government banya. Wood-burning stoves that double as cookstoves keep them warm during the long winters. During the short, hot summers, there is no air conditioning and few fans. Many have a porch that serves as a summer kitchen or even a small second home in their yard, where they eat and sleep in the summer.

When one thinks of Buryats, the Republic of Buryatia is usually the place that first comes to mind. While the capital of that region, Ulan-Ude, serves as a center for Buryat art and culture, only 24% of the Republic’s population is ethnic Buryat. Perhaps symbolically, singers of the Buryat National Opera perform across the street from the world’s largest Lenin head, a surreal black stone reminder of the power of the Russian government.

Given its proximity to the Trans-Siberian route and as a result of heavy Russian immigration, the Buryats of the Ust-Ordinsk Autonomous Okrug have mostly integrated with Russians. Today, only 36% of the region’s residents are ethnic Buryats. Unlike Buryats elsewhere, they rejected Buddhism, retaining a strong belief in shamanism. A traditional lifestyle and lack of industry has prevented economic advancement, making the Ust-Ordinsk Oblast the poorest region in Russia today, with an average monthly income of just $20 in 2001.

The Buryats in the third region, the  Aginsk-Buryat Autonomous Okrug (ABAO), have most successfully retained their native language and culture. Only in ABAO do Buryats form an ethnic majority, accounting for 54% of the population. And only the Aginsk Okrug is headed by a Buryat politician, Bair Zhamsuev.

According to Zhamsuev, only six of Russia’s 89 subjects have ethnic groups that account for more than half of the population. He sees ABAO’s ethnic composition as a way to distinguish the region from other areas. “We’re small and we do not have a great economy, but we are an ethnic area. We can be different in our own unique language and culture. We are developing holidays, festivals, and things that show our uniqueness.”

Origins of the Buryats

According to legend, Buryats descend from a beautiful swan from Lake Baikal. The story goes that nineteen-year-old Khoridoy traveled to Olkhon, an island in Baikal. There he found swans that shed their feathers to swim, turning into women until they replaced their feather coats. He fell in love with one and stole her feather coat while she was swimming, so that she would have to remain a woman. They married and had 13 sons, two of whom went to China. The other eleven became the ancestors of the eleven Buryat tribes.

For centuries after this fateful meeting, Buryats and their cattle roamed the grasslands east of Baikal, looking up at the sky to watch their swan kin fly by. In reality, the Buryats’ ethnic origin is a mixture of Mongol, Turkic, Tugus, Saoyed and other peoples.

In the 13th century, the Buryats fell within Genghis Khan’s empire. When Russian explorers and colonizers began to extend into Buryat areas in the 1600s, they found the Buryats a more formidable enemy than the more primitive tribes of Central Siberia.

It took Russia almost three hundred years to fully incorporate the Buryat areas into the Russian state. Shortly thereafter, the Buryats found themselves caught in the middle of the communist revolution, and in 1923, the Soviet government formed the Buryat-Mongol Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, with borders that did not coincide with the geographic and ethnic limits of the Buryats.

In 1937, fears of pan-Mongolism and collaboration with Japan caused Soviet leader Joseph Stalin to split the former Buryat-Mongol ASSR region into the Republic of Buryatia and two autonomous okrugs: the Ust-Ordinsk Autonomous Ogrug, on the western shores of Baikal, and the Aginsk-Buryat Autonomous Okrug, located near the Chinese and Mongolian borders in southern Chita oblast. While the Supreme Soviet of Buryatia declared this division “illegal” in 1993 and proposals have since surfaced for a reunification of the three territories, the division remains to this day.

Birthplace of Genghis Khan

The mighty river Onon divides ABAO from surrounding Chita Oblast. Snaking around the edge of the okrug, it rings the area in historical legend — the story of Genghis Khan’s birth on the banks of this river is an active part of local lore. Hilly, forested steppe covers the north of the region, subsiding into wide, grassy plains near the Chinese and Mongolian borders.

Aginskoye, which sits quietly astride the narrow Aga river, surrounded by a ring of low mountains, was officially founded in 1811, thirty years after Buryats first began to centralize in the area. During that year, construction began on the Aginskoye datsan (temple) and Buddhist college, which were finished six years later. By the end of the nineteenth century, Aginskoye boasted a church, two streets, two schools, and fifty homes.

In 1921, Aginskoye became part of the Buryat-Mongol Autonomous Region. When Stalin divided the Buryat regions, Aginskoye was made the capital of the ABAO. By 1959 it had developed into an urban township and in 1965 it entered a rapid stage of modernization. Today it is a small, yet growing, town of 17,000.

Some 79,000 people live in ABAO. Despite being surrounded by Chita Oblast, the region is tied directly to Moscow, five days away by train, as an autonomous area. Analogous to a Native American reservation, the area possesses special rights and privileges. Two of the five schools in Aginskoye teach Buryat (a practice forbidden in the 1970s and 1980s), yet some “urban” Buryats are losing their native language, as Russian is considered to be more refined and practical. Meanwhile, some rural schools function almost entirely in Buryat, and Buryats can easily identify those who migrate from the failed rural collective farms to Aginskoye by their strong accents and poor Russian.

Daily life in the okrug

Residents of the okrug live far removed from the political action in Moscow, and the rapid social and economic changes following perestroika shocked many residents.

Nadezhda, 34, herds camel in a rural area that is arid and desolate. The collective farm she works for just barely survives and pays its staff with animal feed and staples instead of money. “Because we live so far from Moscow, we are in a forgotten area,” she said. “Chita gets additional federal money because it’s economically depressed, but they do not send it here.”

The farming population has not been the only sector to suffer from post-Soviet decline. “The early 1990s were terrible,” said Erzhena Raldina, 25, a teacher. “There was absolutely nothing in the stores. We didn’t even have candy, but would just dip our fingers in sugar. By the mid-1990’s, the economic situation had improved enough so my university classmates could begin to follow fashion and even get a new hat each winter.”

The regional government focused on economic growth through small business development. Bair Zhamsuev, head of administration, said that, when he first took power in 1997, “many people had not received their salaries for six months. People did not receive pensions, child credits, or unemployment assistance. There was no construction going on, and no business developing. We knew we needed quick results. Large businesses required big investments, which we did not have. We needed to give incentives to people to start businesses, so we made the development and support of small businesses a priority in the region.” ABAO became an offshore zone and used the profits to create a loan fund, helping 7,000 entrepreneurs begin small businesses.

Nonetheless, the unemployment rate remains high. Connections are often needed to find good work, and Buryats must tap wide networks of relatives to provide mutual assistance. Village cousins supply meat and products to urban relatives, while those who are employed share their incomes. Cattle-breeding provides the primary source of employment and income in the okrug, and the sight, smell, and sound of free-roaming cows are everywhere.

Looking back, people usually come to mixed conclusions about the changes of the past two decades. Svetlana Rinchinova, a middle-aged high school Russian teacher, welcomes the changes to her lifestyle, yet laments their impact on local culture. “When the Russians came here, we were rather wild, uncivilized people. Of course, the Russians brought us civilization, and that’s a good thing. But, on the other hand, we lost a lot. During Soviet times, we had maybe two or three drunks in the area. Now about 50 percent struggle with alcoholism.”

The slow pace of life frustrates some young adults, who complain that, between their families, livestock, and work, people do not have time for anything else. Cows, stray dogs, and goats amble down the poplar-lined streets. The most common noises are dogs barking, cows mooing, and the incessant hammering of home repair. With few social activities geared toward adults, it can be difficult to meet new people. Many young women, facing a shortage of eligible men and strong pressure to marry and have children, dream of better prospects in the larger cities.

One 28-year-old woman, who asked that her name not be used, was married and divorced in her early twenties. Childless, her family pressures her each time she goes home to visit. “Last time I went home, they all told me ‘It’s time for you to marry! It’s time for you to have kids! It’s about time.’ I told them that I know. I know.”

The calm streets belie the rapid change taking place in the region. Every month, several new stores, restaurants, and homes are built. Upscale Chinese and European restaurants join the small cafes serving the Buryat national dish, buzi (steamed, ground-beef and pork filled dumplings). Government officials work to develop tourism and create new economic opportunities, such as an oil pipeline from Russia to China, and a planned leather factory. Store shelves are now full and, as incomes slowly rise, more people can take advantage of their plenty. While the average monthly salary among workers is still just $72, more people are able to indulge in some of the small luxuries on offer, from dry cleaning their winter coats, to one-hour film developing or internet access.

Duma deputy Iosif Kobzon hopes that such improvements will continue. “I would like to see more signs of civilization here, so that the young people will stay,” he said. “I’d like to see more TV channels available [most families have two or three], better roads, and improved housing. This beautiful nationality can live much better while remaining respectful to its self.”

Return to the faith

Despite the strong anti-religion campaigns of the Soviet era, Buddhism and shamanism live on among the Buryats of this region. Even during Communist times, shamans secretly practiced and devout grandparents passed on Buddhist beliefs to their grandchildren.

A 34-year-old nursing home attendant said that, during the Soviet era, religion continued in her family, despite Communism. “My whole life, we all believed,” she said. “We just pretended to be good Communists, raising our fists as we spoke. When I was a young girl, my grandmother gathered us together and prayed for us every day before we went to school.”

Since the early 1990s, interest in religion has blossomed, as some Buryats attempt to embrace their cultural heritage, while others seek a spiritual salve for difficult problems, such as alcoholism, poor luck, and illness.

For many centuries, Buryats, like all Mongols, were shamanist. They revered the spirits of natural phenomena and had a pantheon of 99 divinities as well as their ancestors and offspring. In the late 16th century, however, Tibetan Buddhism spread among the Mongols, gaining speed in 1741 when Empress Elizabeth recognized Buddhism as an official Russian religion. Those who lived east of Lake Baikal, including the Aginsk region, adopted Buddhism. Those west of the lake, including Ust-Ordinsk, retained their shamanist traditions.

In the first half of the 19th century, 34 datsans operated in Buryatia. Founded in 1811, the Aghyn Datsan in Aginsk was one of the largest and most famous. By the mid-19th century, it was one of the major learning centers in eastern Siberia, boasting a medical college and a printing shop.

During Stalin’s purges (1929-1937), locals burned datsans and killed or persecuted lamas. Lamas who survived were sent to labor camps for ten years or more. Some with horses managed to escape to China and Mongolia. In 1946, when the Aghyn Datsan reopened, just ten of its more than 1000 former monks returned.

In 1960, the monastery resumed its activities. Together with Ivolginsk Monastery, just outside of Ulan Ude, in the Republic of Buryatia, it was one of only two datsans operating in the former Soviet Union.

Zhargalma Batoyeva, a music student in her early twenties, is an atheist. “But we absolutely go to the datsan once a year,” she said. “Also, we go each time before I depart for the university, in order to ask for a safe journey and successful studies.”

According to Batoyeva, Buryat parents are expected to receive approval from the lamas before naming their children. “I had a 20-year-old classmate who was having bad luck. The lamas had not originally approved his name. So he changed his name from Tsyren to Bair and that helped.”

Today there are 30 lamas and 50 novices at the datsan, as well as 100 students at the Institute of Tibetan Medicine, recently renamed the Buddhist Academy. Opened in 1998, it is the only institute of higher learning of its kind in Russia, training students in the philosophical faculty as monks and those in the medical faculty as Tibetan doctors.

Locals visit the datsan, with its Tibetan-style sloped roofs and colorful ornamentation, to pray, attend services and learn about the future.

“When I was going to get married, I went to a lama and he said, “do not bother,” said an energetic and serious young banker who spoke on condition of anonymity. “He knew right away that this wasn’t going to be a good marriage. And I look back on that and wonder why I didn’t listen to him.”

The burgundy-robed lamas play a visible role in marriages, funerals, and Lunar New Year celebrations. The datsan doesn’t count its visitors, but it is especially busy during the seven annual hurals, special ceremonies that help attendees go to paradise after death.

Despite the new freedom to practice religion, an aura of secrecy remains from Soviet times.

“People do not usually talk about these things,” said one 29-year-old new mother. “When I was pregnant and was having such a hard time, my mother wanted me to go to the datsan to see what the problem was. She was really embarrassed to speak about such matters to the doctor. Luckily, this was a doctor that understood and let me go for the day. A few years before, my mother had tried to get my sister out of the hospital to go to the datsan and the doctor refused. My mother said that times must be changing.”

The lamas told the young mother that she had gone into the forest in a prohibited spot and that she had offended the spirits.

“This must have been a long, long time ago, because I haven’t gone into the forest for ages,” she said. “My second offense was that, as a child, I swam in cold water. All that needs to be done is to say prayers to make up for these mistakes, but I found out too late. They told me to make 30 circles around the temple in order to pray and to get some physical exercise.”

After decades of secretive work, practicing in remote areas or in villages led by officials willing to turn a blind eye, shamans have also emerged into open practice in the last ten years. The most renowned have an unending line of hopeful clients outside their doors. Surprising numbers of these clients are Russians from the city of Chita.

“Our son has a serious heart problem and the doctor said he needs an operation,” said Olga Kalmakova, mother of a four-year-old. “We know that an operation is dangerous and we hope the shaman can cure our son so we can avoid the surgery.” She and her husband only managed to meet the shaman, Bair Rinchinov, on their seventh attempt, each time driving three hours from Chita to the village of Chelutai. Rinchinov instructed them to shoot 30 birds and to have their son eat a bird every day for 30 days. “We’ll have to hire a hunter to do this,” Kalmakova said. “But we’re willing to try. This is the treatment and we have to treat him.”

Lyuba Tsyrenzhapovna, a 49-year old shaman, has been practicing for just over a decade. “In 1976, I was told I should become a shaman, for I saw the spirit of a dead shaman. However, at that time there were few working shamans and I didn’t want to become one. I didn’t want to cure people and because I rejected this calling, my first son died.”

Tsyrenzhapovna now runs an active business, reading people’s ailments in bottles of vodka and curing them with a metal disc called a tul and through ceremonies, during which the spirits of her ancestors enter her body and tell her what must be done.

Together, Buddhism and shamanism form Buryats’ spiritual duality. Sometimes even those who adopt Buddhism do not entirely give up shamanism and practice them side-by-side. When asked if he believed in Buddhism, Tsyrenzhapovna’s husband, Damba Zhalsanov replied, “Of course! I am a Buddhist! That’s the nice thing about shamanism, it can be practiced alongside any religion.”

Popular local artist Sayana Shuhertueva descends from a line of shamans. Each morning she sprinkles milk tea on the ground as an offering to the spirits she sometimes sees. These spirits often direct her work, as they did during a summer trip to Mount Alkhanai two years ago.

“I could see, hear, and feel the spirits around me,” she said. “They directed me to paint ten works that day. I didn’t even have to think, but the scenes just appeared as I looked into the paint.”

At holy sites, such as where Shuhertueva finds inspiration for her work, blue and white ribbons flutter in the wind. To appease the gods, passersby toss rice and grains of wheat toward the sites as they drive by.

It is almost as if they were feeding swans.   RL