Mongolian Connections: Money Talks, and People Listen

This connection isn’t exclusively Mongolian, because it’s just related to Buddhism in general, but if it weren’t for Mongolia, I wouldn’t have learned about the life of Buddha, and thus wouldn’t be able to make this connection…

For those of you who haven’t been to Mongolia and thus haven’t read the Shakyamuni Buddha’s biography, Buddha was the prince whose father did his best to keep him isolated from the world in order to keep him from becoming a holy man instead of a king. (This is related to a prediction made on the day of Buddha’s birth.) Buddha was raised in incredible luxury, with several palaces, no work to do, and eventually, with a royal wife and child. Despite his father’s efforts, Buddha decided that material wealth was not enough and wanted to meet some of his subjects. When he left the palace confines, he encountered an old man and was so horrified, he decided to become an ascetic to avoid becoming old himself. (And I thought modern America had a problem with aging!) I’m simplifying a lot here, as other subjects came into play, but the gist of the story is that Buddha decided to renounce his royal power, his wealth, and his family in order to live as a beggar. After escaping the palace, Buddha became a mendicant, then a hermit, and finally, after adopting a lifestyle of moderation and meditation, he achieved Nirvana under the Bodhi tree.

Nothing about this story struck me as too remarkable, but as I continued to read about Buddha’s life, a pattern emerged. Another character in the story had a similar tale: Yasa, “the son of a millionaire,” was brought up in the most luxurious of lifestyles, but one day became so repulsed by the excess of his world that he ran away from his home and came upon Buddha teaching. When Buddha preached to him, Yasa became his disciple and eventually achieved enlightenment.

This story—the renunciation of wealth in pursuit of higher ideals—is a pretty common one, not only in Buddhism, but also in other ideologies. Probably the most famous Christian example is St. Francis, the son of a wealthy merchant who decided that charity and poverty were more fulfilling than his friends’ and family’s lives of luxury. He left behind his father (and his father’s wealth), first living as a mendicant, and then founding his own mendicant order. On the political scene, Engels was the son of a textile manufacturer, and if I remember the movies correctly, Che and Castro were both pretty upper-middle class. Though I’m not sure if these guys renounced their wealth exactly, they at least had to put down that sort of lifestyle a bit in order to lead their revolutions, I think. (I am not a historian, so the communism part could be grossly inaccurate, and Wikipedia is being less than helpful. Corrections welcome.) A google search on “renounced his wealth” doesn’t quite know which religion it wants to choose, so common is that theme. (Interestingly, “renounced her wealth” reveals mostly Christian saints, and I’m sure someone who knows better than I could analyze that.)

Buddha and St. Francis were both charismatic leaders who led by example when it came to worldly renunciation. They each gained a cult following and founded pretty influential and enduring movements… So what about this theme is so convincing? Is it just that seeing an example of renunciation leading to spiritual fulfillment makes others more likely to make the leap? (Clare of Assisi, one of Francis’s first and most devoted followers, was a common result for “renounced her wealth.”) Did Buddha and Francis serve as before/after pictures for adopting poverty as a lifestyle? Is this made more convincing because renunciation of property is seen as such a drastic action that it makes people take notice and makes people think, “If he gives up wealth for this cause, it must be a big deal”? I’m not sure, but rich people who choose to become poor seem to have quite a presence, and this theme endures across cultures and centuries.

At first, it may seem like a great thing that these religions glorify figures who give up the material joys that our society so values. They’re sticking it to the capitalist system, right? Except, as your own foray into hagiography may have shown you, (everyone makes a foray into hagiography at some point, right?), this has a major flaw: Only the wealthy have wealth to renounce. The poor that Buddha encountered in his journey? They don’t make much of a statement when they give up their BC equivalent of a cardboard box. In the medieval Christian world, the Church made a big deal about the wealthy devoting so much time and money to charity; this actually gave the upper class a spiritual leg up over the poor, because they had time and money to give. It may be harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but with enough money, all things are possible, and this was especially true if one aspired to sainthood. A boy who was born a beggar would probably be too busy trying not to starve to strive for spiritual enlightenment, and if he started preaching about the beauty of his lifestyle, I don’t think anyone would have cared. This is a complicated issue, and one that’s worth a bit of examination. (Keep in mind that not all grand religious figures follow this pattern; it’s significant that Jesus was born in the humblest of circumstances, and if I recall correctly, neither Mohammed nor Joseph Smith, both also from humble beginnings, took vows of poverty.)

That idea carries over into modern times; we value philanthropy on a grand scale, but you can’t be a philanthropist without being pretty rich first. Warren Buffet gives so much money to charity that his net worth dwindles into single-digit-billions, and he’s a hero. Brangelina adopt more foreign babies for their nannies to raise, and they start a trend. But the everyday families who can’t afford vacations, much less yachts, and still scrape enough out of their pockets to pay their taxes and give to their local shelter? They don’t usually get news stories. In fact, some of them sort of get a lot of flak, on a cultural level, because they aren’t necessarily educated, and they probably aren’t ambitious. And couples that give up their time and freedom to give foster kids an extra chance? Sure, our country values them in theory, but it doesn’t necessarily offer them too much support or encouragement. 

Imagine if People Magazine did a celebrity-free issue, where instead of covering the latest cheating husbands or movie-star elopements, they covered the guy who walks two miles in the rain to help his daughter change her flat tire, or a low-budget wedding only made possible by the help of friends and family. (Though good fathers and happy families are probably harder to come by than gross celebrity antics.) But of course, that’s not what people want to read about. And that is part of the problem; probably it’s not so much that the system values the rich better, it’s that the people in the system (and that means you and me) value the rich better. Once we start paying to hear good news about good people, the media would start covering it… But I guess if we want to read about that, we’re just going to have to wait until Madonna gives up her career and starts working at a homeless shelter.

Mongolia is Awesome: Talkh Ba Sercus

What could this funny round structure be? If you thought it looks like a giant blue billboarded ger, as I did when I first saw it, then you’ve probably been in Mongolia too long. In fact, it’s actually the State Circus. Like the State Department store, this was government controlled during communist rule, and I think that, like the Department store, it has been privatized. (Though I'm not sure about this.)

Generally the circus features acrobats and jugglers, and its specialty is Mongolian contortionists. (Most cultural performances here, even a little concert performed just for me at a restaurant, feature young contortionists.) One guy I talked to said he even saw a Russian circus traveling through (with elephants!) once a few years ago. Privatization or not, this is probably pretty much what went on here during communism, too.

It amuses me (and I think it’s Awesome) that the socialist state, along with education and health care and a department store, saw fit to fund something as whimsical and unnecessary as a circus. But, of course, I have to remember that authoritarian governments often choose the obvious and unnecessary over more practical but less people-pleasing endeavors. I guess the communists had been reading their Juvenal and thinking that literal “bread and circuses” might work for them, too.

But Juvenal never met a Mongol, and as the 1990 Revolution proved, Mongolia is Awesome enough to decide eventually that bread and circuses, (and education and health care) aren’t a fair trade for freedom.

Meditations: Evolutionary Mythology?

The National Museum of Mongolia has a floor dedicated to the very early history of Mongolia, from at least 5000 BC to the 9th century AD, and some of the earliest featured items are replicas of cave paintings, made by ancient peoples who lived in the Mongolian region. The oldest date from about 5000 BC, and Mongolians are proud of these prehistoric works of art.

While looking at these paintings, I thought to myself, “these look just like most cave paintings.” I don’t know what I expected, but I guess I figured that, separated by a vast distance, Mongolian cave paintings would be different from the paintings at Lascaux. But they aren’t, really. It’s a lot of the same: animals drawn without detail but with a skill unique to artists who spend a lifetime watching those animals, and figures that will eventually evolve into petroglyphs. But why shouldn’t the paintings be the same? The lifestyle of Mongolian cavemen must not have been too different from the lifestyle of French cavemen. I am aware of the gross anachronisms of this statement, and that sort of drives my point home. There was no Mongolia, there was no France, there was only land and people living on it. There was not even culture, really, so how could the cultures be different?

And it occurred to me—I tend to think of similarities in culture as derived from some universal human experience, a horizontal “sameness” that runs through people everywhere. But maybe I’m looking at it wrong; maybe our similarities are derived from the fact that our current cultures were all, at one point, the same. Not a horizontal line, but a fractal tree connects us to a single base. And from this single base derives so much of what we all have in common. From a scientific perspective, this kind of makes sense. Perhaps the greed of everyone, from Ancient Roman politicians to modern Mongolian mining execs, relates to the scarcity of food in our cave ancestors and the need to horde. Perhaps the success of the “dark triad” relates to the fact that the most self-centered got the most of the gazelle. And though I can’t figure out how “odi et amo” would be an evolutionary success, maybe that, too, can be traced back to the owners of same fingerprints found in the paints on those caves. On the one hand, I keep hearing that the world is flattening and cultures are growing ever more similar, but is this just after millennia of different peoples growing apart? Our similarities, perhaps, are not remarkable, but merely holdovers from the days when life everywhere, for all people, was pretty much hunting, keeping warm or cool, and desperately attempting to do two things: survive and reproduce.

Apparently evolutionary anthropology is already a field, but I don’t know how much it’s connected to literature, art, and culture, especially not in the sense of modern connections. The mad Pasiphaë, mother of the Minotaur, and the first Mongolian shamaness, who married a bull and had two shaman sons, perhaps are not odd anomalies, but the remnants of the prehistoric culture that relied very much on two things: Women and livestock. (Note the result of Pasiphae’s liaison in comparison to that of the shamaness, and then compare the implications of that to my earlier post on women in folk literature.) Maybe many more literary/artistic traditions common across cultures are also the result of a commonality that evolutionary anthropologists are examining, but not yet applying to other fields. And maybe anthropologists could research further the gradual branching off not only of the human genome, but of the human condition, and the culture that lies with it.

But I’ll bring up another point; I’m being very culturally egotistical here, assuming that all cavemen were the same just because their rock paintings were the same. They only had certain tools at their disposal, so they could only produce so much in terms of art. Maybe cavemen did have different cultures. Prehistoric means there’s no writing, no concrete records, only the vague but important results of archaeology. It could be (and my mother, a fan of those Geico commercials, will appreciate me giving Neanderthals their due) that the discussions and thoughts and day-to-day lifestyle of cavemen varied widely. Add to this the fact that, actually, a lot of genes have been pruned and pruned and pruned (Neanderthals being a great example), and maybe the diversity of peoples in 10,000 BC was as great as it is now. Maybe they had more cultural variation than we, living in a world of increasing internet and decreasing linguistic differentiation, will in 100 years.

I don’t know about all this, but if we got a bunch of evolutionary anthropologists and a bunch of true humanities scholars together in a room, they could make some pretty Awesome discoveries. But then, they might just get down to their evolutionary roots and throw poop at each other.

Mongolia is Awesome: Names Edition

I’ve mentioned illegal gold mining briefly before, but I didn’t include the most important detail of the movement. In some areas, illegal miners are referred to as “ninjas,” which is pretty cool, I guess. But why they are called ninjas launches this into some of the sheerest Awesomeness yet encountered.

You see, they often mine at night, and have to climb out with their great green bowls strapped to their backs. (The bowls/buckets are for panning, maybe?) Because of their resemblance to giant turtles, and their midnight activities, they were nicknamed (if you know where this is going, I love you) “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” and called “ninjas” for short.

That’s right, the TMNT are real and operating in the outskirts of Mongolia. Does this make the mining companies Shredder?

 Mongols or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Does it matter?

Mongolian Connections: Wrestle for Your Ring!

I came to Mongolia to study folk literature, and though my research quickly took off down a different route (the “religious studies” route—go figure), still I uncovered some folk tales that are strikingly similar to our own. One myth that Mongolians seem very fond of repeating is about the traditional costumes wrestlers wear.

Wrestlers don’t wear a lot of clothing, just a pair of briefs, a pair of boots, and a bolero-like jacket called a “jodag” or “zodag.” It pretty much just has sleeves and a back, and then ties around the belly. The exact story of why the jodag has an open chest varies from teller to teller, but it always has to do with a successful female wrestler. The most popular tale says that the costumes used to be full jackets, and at one festival, a mysterious wrestler defeated all the other wrestlers, and after receiving his reward (or after the final victory), he ripped open his jacket to reveal that he was indeed she. From that point on, jackets had to have the chest exposed so that women would no longer be able to compete. Another version says that Khutulun, a niece of Kublai Khan, challenged any suitors to a wrestling match. If she won, he had to give her 100 horses, but if he won, he could marry her. Supposedly she beat enough suitors to win 10,000 horses, and no man was ever able to defeat her so she remained single forever. Though I’ve heard that legend end with, “and since that time, women have not been allowed to wrestle, which is why men wear open-chested jackets,” I fail to see how one (Princess Khutulun) leads to the other (open-chested jackets), and I think two separate Mongolian girl-wrestler stories were merged into that one.

The idea of a woman defeating all the men isn’t confined to Mongolia—the first that comes to mind is the Greek tale of Atalanta, a young girl who beat all her suitors in footraces until one won through trickery. One Celtic myth tells the story of Macha, a woman who was able to run faster than the king’s fastest horses, and who gave birth during a race. The Iliad relates that Penthesilea defeated several heroes in battle before being killed by Achilles, the greatest Greek warrior. I’m sure there are tons of other stories like this, and they are just on the back of my mind, but I can’t quite remember them.

So this got me thinking—why do these stories exist and persist? Why are they so popular? Most of them probably were written by men, or at least recorded and handed down by men... So why did men delight in stories featuring women’s superiority over some men? Woolf, in A Room of One’s Own, points out that the same men who were demanding quiet and meek daughters and wives in real life were exalting heroines like Antigone or Rosalind in their literary works. And this is true in the legends, too—men liked being in power, demanded to be in power, yet read and re-told stories in which women were often the victors. What factors are at work here? Is it that these men, though they, for practical necessity, had to keep women under their power, truly wanted or admired strong heroines and thus put them in their poetry? Or is it the other way around—that though they fantasized that women could have power, the fantasy was best (for them) left as a fantasy, and they didn’t appreciate the reality of powerful women? (Is that even the other way around, or is it the same exact thing?)

But there are also cultural differences at work in these stories. Atalanta did eventually lose her race, and Penthesilea was killed by a man. (For Macha, the Celtic heroine, the story gets much more complicated.)  And not all stories of strong heroines are positive—Look at Lady MacBeth as a classic example, or many portrayals of Cleopatra. (Especially Roman portrayals of Cleopatra versus Octavia; though the reasons for hating one and loving the other might be political, which traits did they emphasize in each? Also, Horace's Ode 1.37 has a portrayal of Cleopatra that fits well into this post's theme of whether men admire or resent real powerful women.) Do the men who passed on these stories use them actually as catharsis, as a way to keep women down even in legends? That is, writing/reading the stories not as “Atalanta/ Penthesilea defeated many men,” but as “even the best woman Atalanta/ Penthesilea could eventually be brought down by a man.” In contrast, the Mongolian legend never has that moment of “But wait! She couldn’t beat all the men!” In fact, the legend of the jorba can be read as one that says that Mongol men still believe a female wrestler might be able to best them; thus they need to keep women out of the ring. This might reflect Mongol attitudes toward women generally; women had a lot of power, from Genghis Khaan’s wife in The Secret History of the Mongols to later queens who ruled when their alcoholic husbands or young sons could not. Marco Polo reported that women were trained as warriors, and though they no longer wrestle, girls are still allowed to compete in archery and horseback riding during Naadam. (There will be a later post, hopefully, about the Awesomeness of Mongolian women.) And there doesn’t seem to be any backlash against this, at least not that I’ve encountered.

What makes the difference here? Mongolia was traditionally a patriarchal society, just like most others, so why do its myths and history reflect more respect for women? Do its myths and history even reflect more respect for women, or am I reading them wrong? What is the relationship between attitudes toward women and women in myth? And finally—what do our myths say about women? (When I say “our myths,” take this however you like, from your religion to your culture to the movies you watch and show your children.) Disney’s Mulan might be an admirable girl, but she impressed her captain and defeated the Huns (who came, by the way, from Mongolia) through ingenuity, not through strength. (Though you'll need both to reach the arrow...) On the other hand, Disney’s Nala ceded to Simba’s authority as king, but she could still always pin him, and it was her advice sent him back to defeat Scar. (So now we know what I consider my mythology.)

You could apply these analyses to many women admired by our society, and look at which religious stories we choose to emphasize (Noah and David get a lot of press-Miriam, Deborah, and Jael? Not so much), which historical figures we exalt, even which celebrities we admire, and, just as importantly, what we admire them for. So how do we stack up? What sorts of girls are we looking back at, and thus, what sorts of girls are we bringing forth?

Meditations: Don't Tread on the Grass, Lam

“Bogd Khan” is not a term that is familiar to most people, but in Mongolia, the Bogd Khan is kind of a big deal. He was the Buddhist religious leader in Mongolia, and also functioned as a political leader after Mongolia declared its independence in 1911. He was the religious leader because he was the eighth reincarnation of the Jebtsundamba, the spiritual head of Mongolian Buddhism;  though he, the last official Jebtsundamba, died in 1924, an unofficial Jebtsundamba now lives in Tibet but is unable to enter Mongolia for some hazy political reasons. These reincarnations lead back to the first Jebtsundamba, Zanabazar, the greatest Mongolian artist of all time who was also Awesome in a lot of other ways, and who was, in turn, a reincarnation of some other big deal Buddhist leader.  

But this post is not about the Jebtsundambas; it’s about the Bogd Khan’s palace. Though the Soviets destroyed the Bogd Khan’s summer palace and temples, they left intact his Winter Palace. His Winter Palace complex also included many of his summer temples, so it’s a mystery why they didn’t tear it to the ground. His property (including religious artifacts) were all auctioned off to get money for the State, and when communism fell, supposedly all the buyers (or descendents of the buyers) donated his things so that they could be placed in the Winter Palace Complex as a museum. If this is true, it’s pretty Awesome. In any case, the Winter Palace is now a museum filled with religious artifacts, and the building of the palace itself is filled with all sorts of luxurious and lovely belongings of the Bogd Khan.

One quick interruption for a Mongolian Connection: It seems like everywhere I go, there are museums filled with the most beautiful luxurious things for the obscenely rich. There are the Crown Jewels in England and the giant diamonds and studded daggers of Topkapi Palace, and the lovely unicorn tapestries of the Cloisters that took 1,000 handmaidens 1,000 days to weave. (Okay, I made the 1,000 thing up. But that gets the point across.)  Everywhere you go, as a constant, there will be absurdly beautiful and expensive things for the top .0001% of society. And every time I see these things hanging on walls or encased in glass, I get the same exact “I want that! Why can’t I have that?!” feeling. Which just goes to show that some things are constant. And also maybe explains how exactly communism did manage to sprout where it did—a society collectively taking its “I want that!” feeling and turning it into a “If I can’t have it you can’t have it!” feeling and turning that into a rebellion. But I don’t know about history or communism, so I imagine I’m grossly oversimplifying everything. What I do know is that seeing the 25 silk cushions of the seat of the Bogd Khan, and his capelet made from 160 mink tails, and his cloth-of-gold del, and a fox fur cloak the size of a bed, and an embroidered silk hat for his pet elephant, and his wife’s peacock feather giant parasol that went above her litter (seriously?), I probably would have started a rebellion if I’d thought I’d get some cloth-of-gold, too.

That’s all just background. I’m really bringing up the Bogd Khan’s palace (and his wealth, and the Jebtsundambas) to talk about the grass. Something struck me as a little off about the grounds of his palace and the courtyards between the temples. It seemed a little shabby, and then I noticed: The grass isn’t cut. The grasses were allowed to grow tall, with some scrappy shrubs and shorter grass and maybe weeds poking through concrete. I tried to imagine it in its former glory, all maintained and sprinkled and shiny. And I thought, “I think, maybe, I like it just the way it is.” There was something nice, something peaceful and pretty about its overgrownedness. I figured maybe it’s just because I was used to Oxford, where they have OCD over grass quads down to an art form. (Ask me someday about their grass clippers that have a tray to collect the grass as they trim the edges of the quads.) A while later, I joined an Australian group and their guide, and one of the women asked, “Why don’t they trim the grass here? It would be so lovely if they trimmed the grass.” This was interesting to me, because though I’d had the first question, my reaction was the opposite.

But then it got really interesting. One of the guides explained, “Oh, that’s the Mongolian way. We don’t like to disturb nature. Maybe they take out the weeds, but they don’t cut the grass because nature is beautiful on its own.” Ohhhhhhhh… At first, this seems like such a nice sentiment, and my favorite gardens at Oxford are the ones that are carefully engineered to look “natural.” But then I thought about all the other parks in Mongolia. They are all like the Bogd Khan’s palace, but when the background is concrete or apartment blocks instead of Buddhist temples, it sort of loses its charm. In fact, I lament the lack of just a pretty space in UB to sit and read outside. There are a few parks, but most of them are overgrown and unkempt and add to the abandoned Soviet city feel of UB.

So why do Westerners prefer nature combed and cut and tame looking? And why do Mongolians prefer it wild? There can’t really be a version that’s objectively more beautiful, can there be? Is it just because of what we’re used to? I think of parks as ideally pretty and nicely cared for, but a Mongolian thinks of parks as beautiful when they are thick grasses pouring out of the sidewalk... Is that it? Or do our park preferences reflect some deeper social phenomenon or philosophy? From our perspective, I think it might have to do with wealth. Taking care of our gardens demonstrates labor and equipment, which cost money. Overgrown areas tend to be poorer areas, because they can’t afford the upkeep. So I see an overgrown park and think it’s overgrown because no one’s bothering to take care of it, which gives it that feel of abandonment/neglect. But what do overgrown parks symbolize for Mongolians? Is there an economic background for their preference, too? Or is it deeper than all that? Is it somehow related to a man vs. nature phenomenon, in which Westerners want to be the victors? Mongolians, on the other hand, are more comfortable with nature and accept their role as part-victim (in terms of nature’s sometimes harsh ways) and part-beneficiary (in terms of nature’s providing for them and its incredible beauty)… Is that it? Or am I reading way too much into this?

And lastly, it occurs to me that in fact there are circumstances in which Americans/ Westerners love natural beauty. The monasteries here with overgrown courtyards and the rock ruins poking through grass are beautiful, in contrast to the urban parks. And in America, sun-dappled meadows overflowing with wildflowers are idealized as nature’s untouched wonder; add a cottage to that meadow and it’s the setting for a heartwarming movie about the importance of family over financial success or something like that. So why are these types of overgrown nature considered good, while too much nature in our parks?—Get that under control! Does it have to do with the idea of things being out of place? We feel a need to control everything, from dirt to trash to our brains to our children’s brains to the weather, and nature fits into this. Having a well-maintained park keeps nature carefully in designated spots, but it’s okay for meadows to be overgrown because that’s what they’re for. That is, nature has its place, but it’s not where we live and work. (Unless, of course, we live in a cottage in a sun-dappled meadow overflowing with wildflowers, probably taking care of a handful of orphans, our senile mother, and a crippled dog, waiting to teach a stockbroker from the city how worthless money really is.)

And I think I’ve just hatched the plot for a new Kate Winslet movie.

Mongolia is Awesome: Medieval Freedom of Religion (Wait, What?)

The Mongol Empire doesn't exactly have a great reputation for mercy or compassion or pretty much anything that’s not, you know, conquering the known world and then conquering the unknown bits and then finding another known world to conquer. I can’t say they didn’t have a great PR department, though, because actually their reputation for brutality and total war was deliberately cultivated; as a result of it, some cities would raise a white flag just because they heard the word “Mongol” in order to avoid suffering the same fate as Baghdad. But centuries later, in an era with different values, people tend to remember the cruelty of the Mongols and the destruction they wreaked. One word that probably doesn’t spring to mind when we hear “Mongols”: Tolerance.

Yet the Mongol Empire was a member of a rare  breed of medieval society, the religiously tolerant one. The khans, because they conquered such vast expanses of land, governed peoples of many different religions, and they pretty much had no preference as to what religion their subjects practiced. All major religions were allowed to practice freely in lands the Mongols governed, with the result that many towns had populations and of several different religions, mostly sects of Buddhism, Islam, Confucianism, Nestorian Christianity, and (in certain areas) Judaism. There were no forced conversions, no purges, and the khans, to ensure stability in their realms, even had to ensure that they did not offend any particular religious community. Some khans did practice their own religion--Chinggis Khaan relied heavily on shamans, and many khans  (including the originally Nestorian Teguder turned Ahmad) converted to Islam. But most khans were decidedly unreligious, and they catered to multiple religions to gain favor with different religious communities. Kublai Khan, for example, sent messengers to Jerusalem with instructions to worship there on his behalf, and many wives and mothers of Khans were Nestorians, as I’ve pointed out. According to the European diplomat William of Rubrick, who visited Karakorum in the 1250s, the Great Khan actually asked him to participate in a religious debate at the court with a Nestorian, a Muslim, and a Buddhist. The Ilkhan Arghun is a near picture-perfect example of Mongol religious diversity, and the necessary flexibility of the Khans: He was a devout Buddhist married to a Byzantine Christian, and he had his son (who later converted to Islam) baptized into Nestorianism.

Of course, reading about the Mongol Empire of tolerance, my mind can’t help but draw comparisons between it and another tolerant realm—medieval Spain. There are plenty of differences between the nature of tolerance in the two kingdoms. The Mongol khans, as I pointed out, generally had no strong religious affiliations, and even if one did, a new khan would eventually replace him, and probably one of a different religion. In Spain, however, minority religions were usually ruled by the majority, with Christian kings allowing Muslims (and Jews) in their domains, or vice versa. This meant that although religions were tolerated, one was preferred. Furthermore, certain rulers or certain political climates would often have tragic results for minority religious communities, as eventually the reign of Ferdinand and Isabel did for tolerance itself in Spain. In the Mongol Empire, however, religiously motivated violence was not tolerated, keeping people mostly in line. Yet in both realms, the atmosphere could be tense, and outbreaks of religious violence did occur, though more frequently in Spain than in Mongol-ruled lands. Yet it was in the khans’ best interest to keep all religious communities happy, so the communities were, in a sense, forced to get along (or at least accept the existence of the others).

This is another similarity with Spanish tolerance—it was very much practically motivated. Simply put, the khans could not have held onto so much land if they insisted on a single religion. Their policy of tolerance was one meant to keep them in power, and their attempts to appease all religious groups (to gain their favor) demonstrates this. Khans who overstepped this boundary could be quickly ousted and replaced, while khans like Kublai who were careful not to step on any toes were more likely to last. The sparsely populated nature of both the Mongol realm and the Spanish meseta also necessitated this policy; there weren’t enough people to make any sort of religious demands, as everyone who could be spared was needed to work and protect the land. Furthermore, when people of certain minority religions had valuable skills or resources, it was in rulers’ best interest to accept these religions and keep these people around. This was the case with Jews in Medieval Spain; since they spoke Hebrew and often Arabic, and because of their vital position as money lenders (and their even more vital tax revenue), they were key figures in both Christian and Muslim Spanish courts. Similarly, educated Nestorian monks were valuable to Mongol khans, when neither literacy nor governance were strong suits of the Mongols. (This was likely behind Kublai’s request that Marco Polo send 100 Nestorian monks back to his capital so that they could “help convert people.”) And in both these cases, favoring minority religions could lead to unrest with the majority religions. In both Christian and Muslim-ruled Spain, courtiers often resented the presence and influence of Jews; this sometimes erupted in violence, as in the 1066 pogrom in Granada and the multiple pogroms of the fourteenth century. In the thirteenth-century Ilkhanate (the Mongol khanate governing Persia and sometimes, its surrounding lands), Islam was the majority religion, and Muslims often felt that the Mongols favored foreign religions, partially because courts were filled with educated members of the Nestorian clergy, and partially because most Ilkhans at that time were not Muslims.

So although the Mongol version of tolerance and the Spanish version of tolerance were different in significant ways, religiously diverse communities in the Middle Ages fell victim to the same sorts of woes: tension, outbreaks of violence, and a tolerance that was practical rather than ideological. I wonder if/how we have managed, in a modern world, to leave all of these woes behind.

But this isn’t a meditation; I just wanted to let everyone know that, though the Mongols may not have won Miss Congeniality at the pageant, while people (myself included) are looking to the “community of tolerance” in Spain for lessons, they may be missing out on something even more Awesome: an Empire of Tolerance.