Paul Goble
Staunton,
February 25 – Last week the Russian media couldn’t get enough of a story coming
out of Buryatia where someone who styled himself “the deputy supreme shaman of
Russia” carried out what he said was a traditional ritual sacrifice of five
camels “for the good of the Russian state and its peoples.”
He was
immediately disowned by the real shamans in the region and by the Buryat people
as a whole who said that those who had done this were neither shamans nor
Buryats but rather “fake shamans” from outside the republic who were
discrediting Buryatia, its people, and shamans, Buryat ethnographer Radzhana
Dugarova says (sibreal.org/a/29789166.html).
The man who conducted the ritual
with the camels is named Artur Tsybikov, she continues. He and his associates don’t fit the standard
model of shamans: they look European, they live in a city that didn’t even
exist before 1945, and they came to the practice of shamanism late in lives in
which they had tried their hand at other ways to make money.
Judging from Tsybikov’s biography,
Dugarova says, he is clearly one of “’those who survived the 1990s.’” Although born in Buryatia, he worked building
roads in Ukraine, served int eh special forces, worked as a bodyguard, operated
a restaurant and was even an aide to Duma deputy Iosif Kobzon.
In addition, he bought a tea factory
in Georgia, laid gas pipelines in Adjaria, and was able to get two university
degrees: physical fitness and economics. Only then did he catch “’the shaman
disease,’” yet another way to make money.
“I think if Ostap Bender had lived in our time, he would have gotten
involved with extra-sensory activities rather than running a house.”
In 2010, she continues, Tsybikov as
“a newly minted shaman,” moved from Moscow to Angarsk and established a local
religious organization and training academy for shamans where he has trained
hundreds of shamans and apparently has a great deal of money in the process.
“In June 2018,” the ethnographer
relates, an international shaman conference took place in Tyva in the course of
which was first chosen a supreme shaman of Russia – Kara-ool Dopchun-ool” and
at which Tsybikov became his deputy. But “far from all shamans recognized these
elections as legitimate.”
“The majority of them, living in
their uluses and villages most probably have not heard about any supreme
shaman,” Dugarova continues. “Shamanism is today recognized as one of the
traditional religions of Tyva, Buryatia and Sakha.” But those who organized the
congress wanted it to be recognized as a state religion of Russia as a whole.
“Paraphrasing
Chernomyrdin,” she says, one can say that “they wanted to make neo-shamanism as
a world religion and instead and like always got the CPSU.” What that can lead to in turn is what
happened last week in Angarsk where those claiming to be shamans simply made
things up and ignored even modernized shamanistic practice.
She provides details of the many
ways that what Tsybikov and his fellows did has nothing to do with shamanism
either of the classical, pre-Soviet kind of the new shamanism that has emerged
since the 1980s. Those two kinds differ
from one another in importance respects, but they have a core belief in common,
one Tsybikov violates.
To give but one example, the
ethnographer says, sacrificing animals is not done at least on the scale he
engaged in, and animal sacrifices in Siberia, are usually conducted by others,
with shamans in attendance but not conducting any such ritual. And the way in
which shaman services are conducted has nothing in common with what Tsybikov
did.
“Shamanism today,” Dugarova says, “naturally is different from the faith
of our ancestors.” It was based in rural areas and villages not in the cities
where more than half of Buryats now live, something that has given rise to what
some call “urban shamanism,” something unthinkable earlier
“In Soviet times,” the ethnographer
says, “shams were forced to go underground, and as a result of the policy of ‘de-shamanization’
the tradition of transferring the shaman gift was broken” and many older
traditions were forgotten because they could not be practiced in public.
When shamanism began to be reborn “at
the end of the 1980s,” it turned out, however, “that despite the repressions
and forgetting, this faith remained alive and its ancient practices were again
revealed to people who received the shamanist gift,” Dugarova says.
“What distinguished the real shaman,
even a neo- on, from an adventurist and pseudo-shaman?” According to the ethnographer, it is “an understanding
of good and evil,” or “sin” and sinfulness” in the shamanistic sense of “the
violation of harmony” in the world and among people.
In the past, shamans “always knew
what it was possible to do and what must not be done … They knew in this regard
when ethical prohibitions were violated. Shamans, who support the tradition,
know this today.” Tsybikov in
all respects has completely “forgotten about this principle.”
What
he has done is not only a violation of the principles of shamanism, Dugarova
argues, but engaged in a kind of “black PR” that has blacked the reputation of shamans
and the Buryat people. And thus, “instead of the expected strengthening of
Russia and its peoples” he promised, some have been slandered and others have
come to look down on them.
Dugarova
says she doesn’t want to end her essay “on this sad note,” however. Her mother
was saved by a shaman after doctors had given up. The shaman not only saved her but her
children and her children’s children. After
this action, “I no longer could call myself an atheist.” And now that shamanism
is being misappropriated, I cannot remain silent, she adds.
Shamanism,
of course, “will survive this scandal, too small and insignificant in
comparison with the terror of de-shamanization, she insists. And real shamans
will continue to be born and to pass on their gift from generation to generation,
just as they did thousands of years ago.”
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