Republic of Sakha (Central Siberia)
part of an ongoing cross-cultural research project in ritual healing
Izbekhov was a tall, lean man, hunched over and wearing a felt hat, traditional tunic, and pants. He wore felt boot liners on his feet. He shuffled out and ducked to exit the low door of his house. His eyesight was failing; his face was lined like an ancient, wise tree. When we shook hands his fingers were like twigs, his grip surprisingly strong. I asked him how he was he explained his legs and stomach were ailing him.
Then he said: “My soul has broken and is gone away. Now, I am just waiting for death.”
It was then I understood why he had told Isabella he was not a shaman. The shaman was no longer, only a man remained.
In Sakha shamanism the shaman has two souls: a shaman soul and a human soul. The shaman soul had left him and he was indeed, no longer a shaman. He was, in his eyes, simply an old man waiting to die, a husk without a seed. His soul was broken, his shaman's soul had left him, and so had his helping spirits. Though no longer a shaman he still held the knowledge and had lived the life of a shaman.
We sat with Izbekhov as my slow, carefully phrased questions were translated. Mindful never to ask questions about shamanism: “How did you learn to sing? What happens when you sing”?
He stared off into the distance as if into a memory. After several moments his kindly soft face smiled as if he had located the memory he was looking for and it pleased him.
“One day when I was young I began to sing and could not stop. I was young, not quite a man and I began to sing. I didn’t know where the singing came from but I could not stop it. I sang for many hours then my father put me in a skin tent by myself and there I sang for several days. I could not sleep because I had to sing. The spirits would not let me get tired. I did not eat or drink. It was then the spirits came to me and taught me how to sing. They were my teachers. They taught me how to call them by singing.”
He then closed his eyes and sang, his voice taking us to another world full of bird sounds, then low grovel singing and sighing. His vocalization led to horse-like sounds, his hand slapping his thighs as if a gallop. For nearly five minutes he created a dialog of raven ‘kahs’ followed by a mumbling and a wolf call.
We stayed with Izbekhov for nearly three hours, and though the Korean professor wanted to ask questions, Iza, was adamant in her refusal to translate her often inappropriate and insensitive questions.
On the ride back the Korean professor told me how disappointed she was with Izbekhov, “He was not so interesting.” She had gone with expectations of what she was going to find, harboring some pre-conceived notion of what and how a shaman should be and act. She didn’t see the regalia and Izbekhov didn’t go into a trance. She wanted a show.
Though I never asked him directly about shamanism, Izbekhov had answered all of my questions. Interviewing elders in Alaska had taught me never to ask a direct question, it is too disrespectful. Creating a personal relationship of ease and respect earns a response.
Their world is interconnected and like the earth all questions are answered if you are patient and willing to listen as we were leaving. Izbekhov honored me with a great compliment, "How was it that a person that has come from so far away understands about Sakha music and singing when my own people do not?"
I had simply done my homework. I asked him questions about growing up, knowing perfectly well that becoming a shaman would be a part of his reply.
Questions about the carvings in his compound led to a tour of explanation. Each one of the carved poles in a ritual semi-circle of Sergis, poles carved from trees, had a specific spiritual significance in relation to the moon and sun cycles. Izbekhov explained each in detail as I held his arm to steady and guide him. He told me more, but I am sworn to secrecy.
“You must lock this information in your heart,” he cautioned me, gripping my hand, his old eyes staring through my eyes into my soul.
When we first arrived I had walked the entire perimeter of Izbekhov’s compound, thinking I had seen everything. I hadn’t, and was caught by surprise when Izbekhov led us into a grove containing his magnificent shaman's tree.
The tree was stripped of its bark, carved and without leaves, its upper branches reaching like finger on a hand skyward as if alien antenna. Affixed to its central pole was a milchmare skull. At its base, to about seven feet off the ground, were several small, crudely carved totem spirits, representing ancestors, helping, and tutelary spirits. In the cracks, grooves and grain of the tree were stuffed coins and folded currency, offerings to the spirits.
Extending from the tree on weathered diagonal log, were perched, in line as if ready to take flight, nine bird carvings. Each carving was unique, each a different kind of bird and a different size. Each bird carving, going from largest to smallest represented another level of his advancement as a shaman. They signified, and were what remained, of Izbekhov’s great Shamanic powers. Through his frailty he strained to tell us, in detail, about each of the bird figures. He said it was important we knew.
His wife prepared lunch, and as we ate I continued to ask questions. While eating horsemeat, potatoes, rough bread, and tea, he sang a profoundly moving lament. We all stopped, the light cutting through the small window and illuminating Isbekhov as he sat on a wooden stool next to the fireplace.
Not understanding his words did not prevent my chest filling with emotion, my eyes watering with tears. His soul was pure and I understood why he was called a great shaman. It was his generosity of heart.
When we were saying our goodbyes he pulled me aside and brought his face close to mine. His calm face was lined with life and shaped by the elements. I felt what he had seen—he looked like an ancient tree. He searched and focused on me though the semi-opacity of his eyes and spoke as if an incantation.
I called for Iza to translate. “He says if you need him, just call him. He will come.”
I thanked him and we parted friends. It will take a lifetime to understand and appreciate what he has given me; words are sorely inadequate and inconsequential. His face taught me secrets. We left Izbekhov sitting on a rough-hewn wooden bench by himself basking in a sharp angle of the sun, his eyes squinting, his branch-like hand gently waving.
His wife, a small woman in a black headscarf and long dress came from the house and stood next to him, her hand lovingly placed on his shoulder.
On the way to the ferry we stopped at a sacred tree to feed it brandy and give thanks. I put a folded Russian ruble in a crevice of the tree giving my silent thanks for the opportunity to have met and spend time with Izbekhov. I wished him good health and peace.
In the vast, inestimable forests of Sakha there are few sacred trees. Their presence draws you to them and they are recognized immediately for what they are.
Trees set apart: old, beings full, and majestic, towering above all others. They are the trees reaching upwards straining to touch the sky.
excerpt from Village in the Sky
