Reflections on Shamanism: Crisis

In addition to the blog, I've been working on a series of short essays that reflect on individual moments working with the shamans here.  This is the first of what I hope will be a series.

At first, there didn’t appear to be a problem.  Grandmother seemed more tired than usual, but it was to be expected after the number of people she had worked to heal that day.  I had seen Tulga [Name changed] shamanise several times before.  Grandmother, one of his primary spirits, was known for her abilities as a traditional bonesetter and the therapeutic effect of her massages.  The entire family had come to see Grandmother that day, and she had done intense healing massage on several members, myself included.  By the end, she was visibly exhausted.

Shamanising was finished for the day, and it was time to send Grandmother back to heaven and bring Tulga down into his own body again.  Tulga’s wife handed Grandmother the new hingirig (sacred drum), which has just been presented and enlivened that day. The hingirig is the shaman’s steed he rides on his journey and the bow which shoots his soul to the heavens. Yet grandmother was so tired that she could not sit fully upright. She asked the attendant to help her hold the drumstick and drum.  I had never seen this before. I was concerned that the attendant would not be able to achieve the same rhythm that the shaman achieved when he drummed his spirit in and out of heaven, but she had done this before.

The attendant wrapped her hand around the shaman’s drum hand.  She helped brace the drum properly against the shaman’s head and began to drum.  Initially the rhythm was weak and unsure, but after about a minute, the shaman animated and began to drum on his own.  The attendant let go and allowed the shaman’s natural energy and charisma to take over in the ecstatic trance of the drumbeat. 

The drumming peaked in a frenzy, then the final beats and the shaman went limp, dropping the drum.  This was what we were used to.  The attendant rushed to remove the drum from Tulga’s weary hand and swiftly pulled the ritual mask-headdress off his head.  We waited for the shaman to stir, knowing it would take him a few moments to recover from his spiritual descent from trance. 

“Tulga, Tulga” his wife gently prompted.  There was no response.  Oogii, Tulga’s two year-old son, ran over, excited that his father had returned from the heavens. “Aawa!” “Father”, he shouted with childlike excitement.  The cries became more questioning, then concerned, then panicked as Tulga remained slumped over.

We stood up, hovering over him with concern. 

“Tulga” his wife prompted again, lightly slapping his face with her hand.  Something was wrong.  An older brother rushed the children out of the room.  He slammed the door shut and blockaded it with his body. The two-year-old was unsure whether to be confused or hysterical, and his cries switched between the two.  A sister turned off the light and another brother grabbed the brother’s bartaga (a large stick used for beating and purification) and heavily beat the shaman on the back three times.  I flinched.  I’d been beaten with a bartaga twice before.  After the first time, I could not sleep on my back for four days.  His brother was not using a light hand. 

There was no response.  This was a crisis.  Grandmother had left, but the shaman’s spirit had not returned.  We didn’t know why; if he was lost, or worse.  One of the greatest spiritual dangers of shamanism is soul loss.  Everyone had heard of shamans dropping dead while shamanising if something happened to their soul while it’s out of the body.  The fear in the room was electrifying.  But stronger than the fear, was the sense of urgency and purpose. 

I moved to the side as the shaman’s wife pulled the headdress off of her shoulder, where she had slung it before, and jammed it back onto Tulga’s head, struggling with his limp neck.  She called to the brother to grab the drum.  Two men braced the shaman upright, forcing the drum into one lifeless hand and the drumstick into the other.  It took several tries to brace him in a way that didn’t allow the drum to drop.  Forcing the drum against his head, one brother moved the drumstick-hand again and again against the drum, trying to bring Tulga back. 

Nothing happened.  The attendants and family held the shaman like a limp doll, moving his body for him.  After a few tense minutes, the shaman suddenly animated and began drumming on his own.  We all stepped back and anxiously waited.  His drumming seemed to return to normal, speeding up, then slowing.  Then the final strikes.  He slumped forward again and the drum fell.  His wife grabbed the drum away and pulled off the headdress.  She called his name.  He weakly lifted a hand to his face, covering his eyes, moaning in recognition.