by John Man
Inside there was the divinity himself, as a vast and shadowy marble statue, a Buddha figure 4 metres high, beneath a frieze of dragons. Darkhat Mongols in suits and brown trilbies stood watch, dour as guard dogs. A sign warned against photography. I felt my scepticism retreating in the face of their seriousness. Perhaps it is the show of faith in others, not the literal truth of that faith, that induces a sense of the sacred.
A young Darkhat, Bulag, guided us past the looming marble presence, which was set against a huge map showing the full extent of the Mongol empire. Respectfully we trooped into a back room, where three tents stood beneath an array of banners, like rather tatty Christmas decorations. This was the Mourning Hall, the three tents being for Genghis himself, for his senior wife, Börte, and for Gurbelchin, the Tangut princess, reviled elsewhere as a murderess but here adored for her loyalty. We laid our khatag and our bottle down. We knelt. We lit incense. Bulag muttered a prayer, in Mongol: ‘Holy Genghis Khan, John and Jorigt have come here today to pray at your tomb. We beg you to grant them good luck in their work.’
Then I regained my scepticism. I was amid relics as daft as any Splinter of the True Cross. Here were the Sacred Bow and Quiver, the Chamber of the Miraculous Milk Bucket, and the Holy Saddle, one of two on display, with pommels of chased silver. The one on the right, said Bulag – that was Genghis’s. The one on the left was given in the seventeenth century by Ligdan Khan, the last of the emperors who ruled in Mongolia after being thrown out of China and before Mongolia fell to their successors, the Manchus. Both saddles looked in suspiciously good condition.
Murals display the glories of Genghis’s rule in figures that reminded me of 1930s fashion plates, all suave elegance and fabrics falling in neat folds. Nothing mars the perfection of the costumes, the good looks of the men and women. Here Genghis presides over his united empire, there Kublai confers the title of dynastic founder upon his grandfather, who hovers, dragon-flanked, in the Blue Heaven. Musicians have never been happier to sing, maidens never prouder to present silk scarves. Foreigners cannot wait to offer tributes and products, for Genghis was the man who bridged east and west, stimulated a transfer of art, scholarship and trade, and assured the well-being of all.
Of dead bodies there is no trace.
For a decade, the temple served its purpose with increasing success, reaching a high point in the 1960s. In 1962 Mongolia declared the 800th anniversary of Genghis’s birth and proposed a great celebration. In Mongolia itself, this proved a disaster. At the time, the country was a Soviet satellite. To Russians, Genghis was a reactionary, a destroyer of culture. The celebration came to a sudden halt. Their instigator was banished. But China knew very well the benefits to be had from the cult of Genghis, and in the same year the Lord’s Enclosure hosted its largest rite ever: 30,000 people, mostly Mongols, participated in an excess of adoration that suited the official line perfectly. With the Mongols firmly behind the party, Inner Mongolia would be a stable bastion against the Soviet threat rolling its way across the Gobi.
But when Mao unleashed the Cultural Revolution in 1967, Genghis suddenly fell from grace. There could be no challenge from the past to the new ruler, who was about to usher in an era that would eclipse Genghis. In a wave of xenophobia, Mongols became victims, the prime political target being the so-called Inner Mongolian People’s Revolutionary Party, which had, it was claimed, wanted total independence for Inner Mongolia, with the long-term aim of reuniting with Mongolia itself and establishing, presumably, a new Mongol empire. Now the masses must unite against the threat of ‘pan-Mongolism’.
This was a hard time. In Cultural Revolutionary eyes, the mausoleum was a symbol of reactionary fervour, the seething heart of treason, the headquarters of pan-Mongolist plotters. In 1968 the Red Guards tore the place apart, destroying almost everything of value – the bow, the quiver, the miraculous milk bucket, the standards, the tents: all gone.
All these objects had a certain eminence, being at least a century, some perhaps several centuries old; but their destruction leaves the tantalizing thought that something among them might actually have dated right back to Genghis himself. Nachug, the head of the mausoleum’s Institute of Genghis Khan Studies, certainly believed this to be so. What, for instance, of the contents of the silver coffin, which Lattimore had been told held the Lord’s body, or ashes? Well, all Nachug knew was that it supposedly held ‘the last breath of the Lord’.
‘You mean – just . . .’ I struggled. ‘Just air?’
‘No, no. Inside the box was a clump of hair from a white camel. And it was this hair that held the last breath of Genghis Khan.’ I couldn’t follow. It still sounded like nothing but air. ‘You see, the hair had a little blood on it. And there was also the umbilical cord. That was what was in the coffin that we worshipped here.’
‘Were they really in there?’
‘Well, the box was never opened. Only worshipped.’
We were back to hearsay, legend, rumour, almost certainly myth. But perhaps there had been a little wisp of white camel-hair with its faint rusty stain and a shrivelled scrap of dried flesh – what tests might have been made, what theories spun. But now, as the result of revolutionary zeal, there would be no chance of DNA analysis and carbon-dating tests.
So the temple itself dates from the mid-1950s, the ‘relics’ were remade in the 1970s, the great marble statue finished in 1989 (as attested by the signature of the artist, Jiang Hun). It seemed that the only ‘genuine’ elements were the prayers, the songs, the rituals of the ceremonies themselves. Even these might have been lost, had it not been for the efforts of a few dedicated men, like Sainjirgal, once the chief researcher at the temple, now retired.
Sainjirgal was living in a nearby town, in a neat little house set round a tiny courtyard down a side-street. He made a charming contrast to the grim Darkhats at the temple, with twinkling eyes and a ready smile beneath a trilby which he wore permanently, even indoors. In his mid-seventies, he had the strength and looks of a man twenty years younger. He was from Shilingol, in the east of Inner Mongolia, and had come as a teacher, but had become intrigued by the worship of Genghis Khan and had found his life’s work as a local historian, collecting details of rites, prayers, songs and beliefs.
Sainjirgal’s work was well under way when Mao unleashed the Red Guards. He saw the kids – young Mongolians, of all people – turn on the temple, destroying whatever they could, all the artefacts, tents, relics, the lot, all except the saddles, which were hidden in the top of the dome.
‘What happened to you?’
‘During the Cultural Revolution, I was arrested.’ He said this as if he were describing a holiday, twinkling and smiling. ‘I was in prison for over a year, then sent to do manual labour, and that was sometimes worse than prison. They tied me with arms outstretched, and beat me with canes. They made me stand close to fires and burned me.’
‘But why?’
‘Because I worshipped Genghis Khan, and this had become a crime! They also said I was a spy for Mongolian independence fighters, and for the Russians. That was when things were very bad with Russia.’
‘You seem very relaxed about it. Do you feel no bitterness?’
He laughed. ‘My experience during the Cultural Revolution was good for me.’
When he was finally freed in 1974, after six grim years, he was not broken, but inspired.
‘Before, we had trusted that smaller nationalities would always have the same rights as everyone else. Now I saw the truth – that big nationalities can oppress little ones. That encouraged me. I knew I had to fight for our culture. I had to publish the history of my ancestor.’
It was an extraordinary commitment, given the state of the mausoleum in the 1970s, for it had been turned into a store for salt in case of war with Russia. But when Sainjirgal’s book, The Worship of the Golden Chamber, finally appeared, he had already decided that he had done his subject less than justice. So he ditched it and began again, gathering yet more material, which when I visited h
ad just been published in the book he now reached down from a shelf and signed for me. Mongolian Worship is his life’s work, distilled between golden covers in 600 pages, beautifully printed in the old, vertical Mongolian script that is still used in Inner Mongolia. Forty years ago, Sainjirgal would have been lucky to survive if he had tried to publish this book. Some things do improve with time.
Most worshippers are content to make offerings and pray to Holy Genghis as if he were a god himself. But Genghisid theology is not that easy, as Nachug revealed on our return to the mausoleum. Strolling round the immense courtyard in front of the temple, we came to a platform on which fluttered yak-tail war-standards, the symbol of Mongol military prowess. Nachug told the story of how Genghis came by them, adding a whole new element to this strange set of beliefs.
‘Once, when Holy Genghis was fighting to unite the Mongol tribes, he despaired, and addressed Heaven. “People call me the Son of God, but yet I fail! I beg Khökh Tenger, the Blue Sky, to give me the power to win!” At once, the heavens thundered, and something fell among some trees. He was unable to reach the object. So he commanded his generals to cut the trees and get it. It turned out to be a yak-tail standard. In thanks, Genghis sacrificed eighty-one sheep, leaving the remains for the “sky dogs” [wolves]. So the standard – the sult – became like a flag, a sign from the Blue Heaven uniting the Mongols, going before them in battle. That is why we worship the sult today.’
Then he added a conclusion that put the whole mausoleum and its ceremonies in a new light: ‘This is a form of worship even higher than that of Genghis Khan. If Genghis Khan himself worshipped the standard, then it must be higher than him. It is a symbol of Heaven itself.’ As such, it has a power of its own. Some people say that birds flying over it fall dead.
I had gained the impression in the Lord’s Enclosure that Genghis was a god. Now I saw that he was not at the pinnacle, only near it, a demi-god. And perhaps with a hint of something even more mystical, a sort of Mongolian Trinity, with God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit mirrored by Blue Heaven, Genghis and Standard.
This was a subject for the temple’s resident theologian, Sharaldai, who would be able to explain the next level of complexity. Sharaldai was in Ulaanbaatar, where, later, I found him.
Over our hotel tea, with the help of Erdene, an animal-husbandry expert, I tackled Sharaldai on the subject of Genghis’s divinity. Sharaldai did not suffer me all that gladly. He is a Darkhat, with the cult in his blood over generations, and impatient with those, like me, who pretend to a little knowledge.
When I asked whether the Lord’s Enclosure was ever associated with miracles, he became quite heated. My question implied a lowering of the purpose of the place. ‘The worship of Genghis Khan is a way of connecting us to the Eternal Sky.’
‘You mean he is an intermediary?’ I was trying to find an equivalent from my own experience. Was the worship of Genghis comparable to Christian worship of, say, the statue of a saint? You direct your prayers to a statue; but the real object is the invisible spirit of the saint; and that is a gateway to God.
‘Yes, there are three levels. Look—’ He forced himself to be patient. ‘The basic tenet of Eternal Heaven philosophy is that we on earth are part of Eternal Heaven, our system of nine planets. People say we human beings are the highest level of a hierarchy of life. That may be so in terms of biology. But in terms of philosophy, we are a part of Eternal Heaven. To think of ourselves as the top of a hierarchy is to separate ourselves from Eternal Heaven. Our task is to reintegrate ourselves with creation. That’s what people don’t appreciate today.’
‘So when one worships Genghis Khan, does one worship Eternal Heaven through Genghis?’
‘It is so. Also you can worship Eternal Heaven directly. You see, there are three components: Eternal Heaven, the power of Eternal Heaven and being subject to the power of Eternal Heaven.’
This was getting complicated. I had always been baffled by the Trinity.
‘Christians say that God is three in one: Father, Spirit, Son.’
‘There are similarities. But Eternal Heaven has real power. You can feel it, you can see its effects. That is the difference. Genghis knew that all living things owe their power to Eternal Heaven, and he was able to use it to lead. You can see how we Mongols did by looking at our three national sports, wrestling, horse racing and archery. A strong body, good horsemanship, accurate shooting. By these means, we conquered half the world.
‘But to use power in such a way was not Eternal Heaven’s true purpose. In conquering, we saw that this was not the way to live, bringing suffering to others. What we learned was that the time had come to stop fighting, and live by talking. Now we use our sports to sharpen our mentality, not to fight, but to talk.’
What does this mean for today?
‘We are in the process of discovering. I think there are many things we Mongols have not yet understood in The Secret History. Some words, some things are still unclear. If we can understand more, we can discover a philosophy that will help the world.’
He was warming to his theme, forgetting me, speaking to his fellow Mongol, Erdene.
‘In the world today, there is no philosophy of life! There is science, but science only looks at the surface of things. Science makes nuclear weapons – a stupid weapon, which cannot be used because the user destroys himself! Leaders use nuclear weapons to spread fear, but the power of the weapon does not prevent people like Bin Laden from doing what they want. All of them have forgotten about the existence of the power of Eternal Heaven.’
This was the real purpose of the mausoleum – to awaken not just Mongols but everyone to their place in the universe. ‘It doesn’t matter whether the objects are genuine or not. The real significance lies in the connection with the Eternal Sky. So in this sense, as I say in my book’ – he pointed to the page for emphasis – ‘Genghis Khan is a spirit for all of us. We are created by Eternal Heaven. If we follow the Way, then we shall all be eternal.’
It was an unlikely, extraordinary vision. I imagined a flow of priests through the mausoleum spreading the Word to the outside world, the formation of study groups and peace institutes and pressure groups, all the attributes of a new faith. If Sharaldai’s message spreads, there will be those who will teach that Genghis’s life was the first faltering line on a graph, which strengthens and soars over eight centuries to these astonishing conclusions: that violence, whatever its initial success, must ultimately fail; and that all conflict should be resolved in peaceful discussion.
This is surely the oddest of all Genghis’s transformations: in life, from a ‘louse’ on a mountain to world conqueror; after death, to demi-god; and now to a spirit of universal harmony.
fn1 As always, there are several transliterations of this from the Mongol. The Chinese version transcribes roughly as Yijin-huoluo.
fn2 Rihu Su, ‘The Chinggis Khan Mausoleum and Its Guardian Tribe’, University of Pennsylvania dissertation, 2000.
fn3 In 1941–4 the Japanese backed the construction of a Genghis Khan temple in Ulanhot. Its three white buildings, in a 6-hectare enclosure, were redeveloped in the 1980s, with a 3-tonne copper statue of the hero at its heart.
fn4 Ju Naijun, ‘The Coffin of Genghis Khan Passes Yenan’, National Unity, Vol. 6, 1986; quoted in Rihu Su, ‘The Chinggis Khan Mausoleum’ (see Bibliography).
Afterword
BACK TO THE FUTURE
ONCE UPON A time, Mongolia was poor and unknown. Then it was rich and very well known indeed because it sucked in wealth from most of Asia and parts of Europe. Then it was poor again. Now it’s richer by the day because of what lies beneath its grasslands, deserts and mountains. In 2013, Mongolia’s economy was the fastest growing in the world (17 per cent per annum). This is The Economist in early 2012, in Ulaanbaatar, or UB as it is known:
UB is a boom town on the frontier of global mining. Hotels are bursting; the Irish pubs, of which there are several, are heaving with foreign miners, investment bankers and young loca
l women with very long legs and very short skirts. French bistros serve steaks the size of tabloid newspapers. Dozens of cranes punctuate the skyline. The streets, empty 20 years ago, are now clogged.
Most of it is down to the vast mineral wealth that lies beneath the desert.
The most impressive of many mines is in the south Gobi, only 80 kilometres from the Chinese border. It is a copper-and-gold mine, Oyu Tolgoi (Turquoise Hill), which should over the coming years become the world’s third largest, contributing 30 per cent of Mongolia’s GDP. Nearby is an equally staggering amount of coal (6.4 billion tonnes). Both copper and coal, plus as yet untold amounts of other minerals, head south to help fuel China’s hungry economy, with interesting consequences that link directly back to Genghis, Kublai and the empire they created.
In Mongolia, of course, Genghis is resurrected. He symbolizes so much: the nation as an independent political entity; the nomadic, herding lifestyle; the spirit of rugged individuality; the feel of the landscape. The first time I attended a Naadam (National Day) celebration in 2002 – his 840th birthday – he led the parade round Ulaanbaatar’s stadium, in the form of the opera singer Enkhbayar, who played the lead in an epic film about Genghis. Horsemen bore Genghis’s yak-tail standards, black ones for war, white ones for peace. The great imperial tent-on-wheels, an ox-wagon 10 metres wide, made its cumbersome way round the track. A grandstand of troops displayed placards that spelled out a vast ‘Genghis!’ His face and name are on a grand hotel, a (German-made) beer, vodka, colleges and institutes. In 2012, the government celebrated his 850th anniversary with a conference and reception. A huge statue of him dominates a new wing of the parliament, backed by a 4-metre-high map of the empire on glass, reminding MPs of the glory days. On the once-open grasslands some 40 minutes east of the capital, the world’s biggest equestrian statue – the mane of which is a stairway to a viewing platform on the horses’s head – has him surveying his homeland. Babies bear his name. One day, Mongolia is going to be led by another Genghis.
