#ANTHROPOS
Internationale Zeitschrift
für Völker- und Sprachenkunde
International Review
of Ethnology and Linguistics
Revue Internationale
d'Ethnologie et de Linguistique
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Anthropos 85.1990
ANTHROPOS 85.1990/4-6
Artikel
Victor C. de Munck: Choosing Metaphor. A Case
Study of Sri Lankan Exorcism........................... 317
Andreyr Duff-Cooper: The Multilingualism of a Bali-
nese Community in Western Lombok....................... 329
Martin Rössler: Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens.
Zur Theorie und Praxis der ethnographischen Beschrei-
bung .................................................. 345
Gregory Forth: From Symmetry to Asymmetry. An
Evolutionary Interpretation of Eastern Sumbanese Re-
lationship Terminology................................. 373
Nancy McDowell: Intergenerational Exchange in Dia-
chronic Context. A Melanesian Example.................. 393
Holger Jebens: Cargo-Kulte und Holy Spirit Move-
ments. Zur Veränderungs- und Widerstandsfähigkeit
der traditionellen Religion im Hochland von Papua-
Neuguinea ............................................. 403
John Chariot: Aspects of Samoan Literature I: The
Structure of the Samoan Single Story Form and its
Uses................................................... 415
Christopher B. Steiner: Body Personal and Body
Politic. Adornment and Leadership in Cross-Cultural
Perspective............................................ 431
Peter Probst and Brigitte Biihler: Patterns of Control
on Medicine, Politics, and Social Change among the
Wimbum, Cameroon Grassfields .......................... 447
Robert K. Herbert: Hlonipha and the Ambiguous
Woman.................................................. 455
Leslie G. Desmangles: The Maroon Republics and
Religious Diversity in Colonial Haiti.................. 475
Christoph Antweiler: Das eine und die vielen Ge-
sichter kultureller Evolution. Eine Orientierung zum
begrifflichen Handwerkszeug des Neoevolutionismus . 483
Berichte und Kommentare
Irenaus Eibl-Eibesfeldt und Marie-Claude Mattei-
Müller: Yanomami Wailing Songs and the Question of
Parental Attachement in Traditional Kinbased Societies 507
Rolf Gehlen: Werner Müller (22. 5. 1907 - 7. 3. 1990) 515
John W. Burton: On T. O. Beidelman’s Reply {An-
thropos 85.1990:192-194)............................... 517
Franz Gieringer: “To Praise the Sun.” A Traditional
Nyaturu Hymn of Praising God and Asking for His
Blessings.............................................. 518
H. Ekkehard Wolff: 150 Jahre Hausaforschung .... 523
Paul Geraghty: Austronesian Root Theory ............... 530
Ulrike Krasberg: Zeremonien, Etikette und das Ver-
hältnis von Mann und Frau in einem griechischen Dorf 537
Matthias Mersch: Das neue Völkerkunde-Museum der
Stadt Lugano in Castagnola. Kritik eines soziologischen
Ausstellungskonzeptes? .............................. 546
Bernd Mitlewski und Sylvia M. Schomburg-Scherff:
Das Problem des Anderen in der Darstellung ethnolo-
gischen Verstehens................................... 558
Heike Behrend: Rückkehr der gestohlenen Bilder. Ein
Versuch über „wilde“ Filmtheorien.................... 564
Rezensionen
Anderson, Martha G., and Christine Mullen Krea-
mer: Wild Spirits Strong Medicine (René Devisch) . . 571
Andrews, Peter Alford (ed.): Ethnie Groups in the
Republic of Turkey (Werner Schiffauer)........... 572
Barber, Karin, and P. F. de Moraes Farias (eds.);
Discourse and its Disguises (Jan Vansina)........ 573
Barnes, Sandra T. (ed.); Africa’s Ogun (William W.
Megenney)........................................ 574
Beck, Kurt: Die Kawähla von Kordofan (Richard
Rottenburg)...................................... 576
Bischof-Okubo, Yukiko: Übernatürliche Wesen im
Glauben der Altvölker Taiwans (Erika Kaneko) .... 578
Brandstetter, Anna-Maria: Herrscher über tausend
Hügel (Marcel d’Hertefelt)....................... 579
Bruinessen, M. M. van: Agha, Scheich und Staat
(Erhard Franz)................................... 581
Burkhart, Louise M.: The Slippery Earth (Munro
S. Edmonson)..................................... 582
Colleyn, Jean-Paul: Les Chemins de Nya (Henryk
Zimoh)................................................ 583
Currie, P. M.: The Shrine and Cult of Mu’In al-DTn
Chishtî of Ajmer (Apama Rao).......................... 584
Dalmia, Yashodhara: The Painted World of the Warlis
(Günther-Dietz Sontheimer) ........................... 584
Day, A. Grove: Mad about Islands (Renate von Gizycki) 586
De Montmollin, Olivier: The Archaeology of Political
Structure (Wendy Ashmore)............................. 587
Dettmar, Erika: Rassismus, Vorurteile, Kommunika-
tion (Hugo Huber)..................................... 589
Dhavalikar, M. K., H. D. Sankalia, and Z. D. Ansari:
Excavations at Inamgaon (Paul Yule)................... 590
Dissanayake, Ellen: What is Art for? (Sylvia Schom-
burg-Scherff) ........................................ 591
Donald, Leland (ed.): Themes in Ethnology and Cul-
ture History (Uwe Johannsen).......................... 592
Eibl-Eibesfeldt, Irenaus: Human Ethology (Peter K.
Smith)................................................ 594
Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi, Gabriella: The Self-milking
Cow and the Bleeding Lingam (Georg Berkemer) . . . 595
Erlmann, Veit et Habón Magagi: Girkaa (LM. Lewis)
Ferdon, Edwin N.: Early Tonga (Renate von Gizycki)
Gianinazzi, Claudio e Christian Giordano (eds.):
Culture Extraeuropee (Matthias Mersch)..............
Goddard, Yves, and Kathleen J. Bragdon: Native
Writings in Massachusett (Uwe Johannsen)............
Gomes, Mémo Pereira: Os indios e o Brasil (Peter
Schröder)...........................................
Grenand, Françoise: Dictionnaire wayapi-français (Wolf
Dietrich) ..........................................
Hanchett, Suzanne: Coloured Rice (Gabriella Eichin-
ger Ferro-Luzzi) . . "..............................
Handwerker, W. Penn: Women’s Power and Social
Revolution (Maria-Barbara Watson-Franke)............
Harris, Marvin: Kulturanthropologie (Justin Stagl) . .
Hauser-Schäublin, Brigitta: Leben in Linie, Muster
und Farbe (Eva Ch. Raabe)...........................
Hissink, Karin und Albert Hahn: Chimane (Alicia
Fernández Distel)...................................
Holm, John: Pidgins and Creoles, vol. 2 (Darrell T.
Tryon)..............................................
Holmberg, David H.: Order in Paradox (Gérard Toffin)
Jacobson-Widding, Anita, and David Westerlund
(eds.): Culture, Experience, and Pluralism (H. Sheikh-
Dilthey)............................................
Kendall, Laurel: The Life and Hard Times of a Korean
Shaman (Clark Sorensen).............................
Krengel, Monika: Sozialstrukturen im Kumaon (Apar-
na Rao).............................................
Kuper, Adam: The Invention of Primitive Society
(Georg Pfeffer).....................................
Kurbjuhn, Kornelia (comp.): Maya (Ute Schüren) . .
Lana, Feliciano: Der Anfang vor dem Anfang (Jörg
Helbig).............................................
Levine, Nancy E.: The Dynamics of Polyandry (Mel-
vyn C. Goldstein) ..................................
Levinson, David: Family Violence in Cross-Cultural
Perspective (Emest Brandewie).......................
Lewis, I. M.: Ecstatic Religion (Hartmut Zinser) ....
Luhrmann, T. M.: Persuasions of the Witch’s Craft,
Ritual Magic in Contemporary England (T. O. Beidel-
man) ...............................................
McCay, Bonnie J., and James M. Acheson (eds.) The
Question of the Commons (Michael J. Casimir) ....
McClain, Carol Shepherd: Women as Healers (Ruth-
Inge Heinze)........................................
McDaniel, June: The Madness of the Saints (Robert
Deliège)............................................
Maybury-Lewis, David, and Uri Almagor (eds.): The
Attraction of Opposites (Anthony Good)..............
Mitzlaff, Ulrike von: Maasai-Frauen (Hugo Huber) . . 628
Moreira Neto, Carlos de Araujo: Indios da Amazonia
(Peter Schröder)................................... 629
Moyle, Richard: Traditional Samoan Music (Artur
Simon)............................................ 630
Münzei, Mark: Die Mythen Sehen (Jörg Helbig) ... 631
Nunley, John W., and Judith Bettelheim: Caribbean
Festival Arts (Iris Gareis)....................... 632
Nutini, Hugo G.: Todos Santos in Rural Tlaxcala
(Ulrich Köhler)................................... 634
O’Hanlon, Michael: Reading the Skin (Terence E. Hays) 634
Perrot, Claude-Hélène (éd.): Sources orales de l’his-
toire de l’Afrique (Jan Vansina)......................... 573
Pillai-Vetschera, Traude (Hrsg.): Indische Märchen
(Stephen Fuchs) ......................................... 635
Preston, Laurence W.: The Devs of Cincvad (Günther-
Dietz Sontheimer)................................. 636
Price, Sally: Primitive Art in Civilized Places (T. O.
Beidelman)........................................ 638
Raheja, Gloria Goodwin: The Poison in the Gift
(Apama Rao)....................................... 614
Ross, Malcolm D.: Proto Oceanic and the Austronesian
Languages of Western Melanesia (Bernd Nothofer) . . 639
Runciman, Walter Garrison: A Treatise on Social
Theory, vol. II (Andreas Bruck)................... 641
Schak, David C.: A Chinese Beggars’ Den (Wing-sam
Chow)............................................. 642
Sellato, Bernard: Nomades et sédentarisation à Bornéo
(Olivier Sevin)................................... 643
Seitmann, Friedrich: Die Kalang (Wolfgang Marschall) 644
Sontheimer, Günther D., and Hermann Kulke (eds.);
Hinduism Reconsidered (Othmar Gächter)............ 647
Spicer, Edward H.: People of Pascua (Peter Bolz) . . 649
Spittler, Gerd: Handeln in einer Hungerkrise (Peter
Fuchs)............................................ 649
Spittler, Gerd: Dürren, Krieg und Hungerkrisen bei
den Kel Ewey (Peter Fuchs)........................ 649
Stoller, Paul: Fusion of the Worlds (Jean-Paul Colleyn) 651
Ströbele-Gregor, Juliana: Dialektik der Gegenaufklä-
rung (Sabine Speiser) ................................... 652
Taylor, Penny (ed.): After 2000 Years (Gerhard Schlatter) 654
Van Maanen, John: Tales of the Field (Eberhard Berg) 655
Vikör, Lars S.: Perfecting Spelling (Dédé Oetomo) . 657
Neue Publikationen............................ 659
Zeitschriftenschau............................ 675
Miszellen..................................... 658
Mitarbeiter dieses Heftes..................... 693
Index......................................... 697
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604
606
607
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611
612
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Anthropos 85.1990
Anthropos 85.1990: 317-328
Choosing Metaphor
A Case Study of Sri Lankan Exorcism
Victor C. de Munck
Abstract. - An exorcism of a Sri Lankan woman is examined
in two parts: (1) a discussion of factors which influence succes-
sive recourse to different cures leading up to a full scale exor-
cism and (2) an analysis of the symbolic/dramaturgical structure
of the exorcism. The first part shows that treatment choices are
based on availability and resource constraints, graduate from
simple to complex, that illness is perceived as sociocentered
rather than patient centered, that exorcism complements other
medical systems, and that exorcism is a treatment of last resort.
The second part examines exorcism in terms of contrasting
paradigmatic sets of metaphorical statements. [Sri Lanka, ex-
orcism, treatment choice, metaphor, purity, pollution]
Victor C. de Munck, Dr. phil.; Research fellow, Anthropology
Dept., Univ. of California, Riverside; visiting Assistant Prof.,
Dept, of Anthropology, Univ. of South Carolina, Columbia. -
Publications in Journal of South Asia, Journal of Development
Studies, Central Issues in Anthropology, etc.
Introduction
Fieldwork for this paper was carried out in the
Moneragala District of Sri Lanka in the hamlet of
Monderavan. It is a case study of one woman’s
illness which eventuated in an exorcism. Through
an in-depths diachronic analysis the following ar-
gument will be fleshed out: (1) exorcism should
be viewed as one of a series of treatment al-
ternatives included within a pluralistic medical
system rather than outside this system; (2) illness
is perceived as a collective, interpersonal concern
and therapy decisions are made by the family
head; (3) when illness symptoms are non-specific,
treatment choices tend to graduate from simple
to complex and low to high in terms of expense,
distance, and treatment; (4) an exorcism is a so-
ciocentered rather than patient centered form of
therapy (Kapferer 1983: 60; Crapanzano 1977;
33); (5) exorcism functions as a rhetorical/dra-
maturgical form of treatment that systematically
articulates culturally shared values and ontological
presuppositions through a metaphoric paradigm of
similar and contrasting symbols.
This study has two distinct but interdependent
foci: (1) a discussion of factors which influence
successive recourse to different cures leading to
a full-scale exorcism and (2) a descriptive analy-
sis of the symbolic/dramaturgical structure of the
exorcism itself. The conjunction of these foci em-
phasizes my interest in contextualizing exorcism
within a temporal frame proceeding from onset of
illness to its cure.
This paper is organized as follows: (1) a
discussion of previous studies of exorcism; (2) a
discussion of metaphor; (3) a descriptive analysis
of treatment choices prior to exorcism; (4) an anal-
ysis of the metaphoric structure of the exorcism.
1. Previous Studies
Case studies of exorcism usually involve the ante-
cedent condition of a patient exhibiting episodes of
trance-possession. This implies a one-to-one caus-
al relationship between trance-possession (symp-
tom) and exorcism (cure). The consequent theo-
retical-analytic perspective focuses on the psycho-
social causes underlying trance-possession and the
therapeutic effect of exorcism. Hence, the em-
phasis on the susceptibility of women to enter
trance-possession states as a result of problems
arising out of their marginal, subordinate, submis-
sive, and/or procreative roles in a culture (Lewis
1971: 84 f.; Obeyesekere 1970: 101; 1977: 242 f.;
AmaraSingham 1978: 114; Kapferer 1983: 100-
110; Skultans 1987: 675 f.). Trance-possession is
typically viewed as a culturally institutionalized
means to project repressed or otherwise unattain-
able desires (Spiro 1967; Obeyesekere 1970, 1977,
1981; Southall 1969; Saunders 1977).
From this perspective, exorcism is an indige-
nous form of psycho-therapy that effects a tempo-
rary cure through catharsis or a permanent cure if
the psycho-social dimensions of the disease are
effectively restructured. The exorcism may also
transform the patient’s role into a socially accepted
one as healer (Obeyesekere 1981; Zempleni 1977)
318
Victor C. de Munck
or as member of a spirit cult (Constantinides 1985:
688; Garrison 1977).
The above theoretical-analytic paradigm pre-
supposes a causal link between spirit possession
and exorcism. Indeed, the purpose of an exorcism
is “... to exorcise demons, to restore individuals
to a sense of well-being, and to return to normal-
ity the order of a world threatened by demonic
intrusion” (Kapferer 1983: 1). It is the diagnosis
of demonic aetiology that eventuates in exorcism.
A wide range of minor to major afflictions may
be diagnosed as the result of demonic intrusion.
While trancing behavior is a sufficient cause to
hold an exorcism, it is not a necessary cause. Any
(incurable) ailment diagnosed as demonic in origin
may entail an exorcism, whether or not the patient
behaviorally manifests demonic possession.
The above perspectives are neither wrong nor
misguided, they may be appropriate for instances
when patients exhibit trance behavior. However,
they limit exorcism to a particular illness do-
main analogous to the assumption that all West-
ern psychiatric treatments apply only to healing
the “mad.” By extending the range of illnesses
treated through exorcism, even if but one case,
its complementary relationship with other Western
and indigenous medical practices can be examined.
2. The Metaphoric Structure of Exorcism
Both Kapferer and Crapanzano have commented
on the metaphoric structure of exorcism: “Exorcist
diagnosis in itself can facilitate the construction
of a patient’s illness as a metaphor and a sym-
bol of wider social problems extending around
a patient” (Kapferer 1983: 62). “The Sinhalese
encounter with the demonic ties the disturbance
in individual experience into its wider cultural and
social context, and is a metaphor for the personal
struggle of Sinhalese within an obdurate social
world” (Kapferer 1983: 232). “At a formal level
of analysis, the transformation effected within the
spirit idiom appears to be isomorphic with the
metaphor-metonymy transformations within any
linguistic system .... Spirit possession may be
conceived as a complex series of transformations
of (usually negative) metaphorical statements in-
to (occasionally positive, at least ritually neutral)
metonymous ones in a dialectic play of identity
formation” (Crapanzano 1977: 19). Others have
made similar observations. In the second half of
this paper, the rhetorical and dramaturgical con-
tent of the exorcism is analyzed in terms of its
metaphoric properties.
The present analysis posits that exorcism is
metaphorically structured in terms of culturally
conventionalized symbolic binary polarities and
identities. Lakoff and Johnson define metaphor as
“.,. understanding and experiencing one kind of
thing in terms of another” (1980: 5). Kronenfeld
1988a, 1988/?; Kronenfeld, Armstrong, and Wil-
moth 1985; and Langacker 1987 have pointed out
that metaphors are purposive and are constituted
from a cognitively based grammar. Conventional,
that is publically salient, metaphors are grounded
in shared experiences. Conventional metaphors are
telegraphic in the sense that members of a culture
will foreground similar attributes or associations
from the referential features of the lexical domains
presented. Thus, in Aristotle’s famous example
- “the sunset of life” - attributes of sunset are
extensionally mapped onto those of life. Sunset
connotes the end of the day, the completion of a
cycle, and a time of calm before night. Implicit-
ly, it also evokes its binary opposite, “sunrise.”
These two terms - sunrise and sunset - frame the
beginning and end of life.
Lakoff and Johnson write that metaphor “...
unites reason and imagination ... [and] ... Reason
... involves categorization, entailment, and infer-
ence. Imagination ... involves seeing one thing in
terms of another kind of thing - what we have
called metaphorical thought” (1980; 193). In the
above example, the metaphor works because of
our imaginative capacity to contrast sunrise with
sunset and to extensionally map the metaphor, and
its binary opposite, onto the shared experiences of
infancy and old age.
Exorcism metamorphosizes illness into su-
pernatural entities. The experience of illness, ap-
parently incurable by pharmaceutical remedies, is
now conceptually transposed to a cultural system
of metaphoric adversarial relationships between
agents of good and evil. The exorcistic ritual dra-
matizes the interaction, the battle between these
two paradigmatic or contrastive sets by signalling
or calling up the symbols and values entailed by
each and processually replacing the symbols of
evil with those of good. The metaphorical content
is grounded in Sinhalese history and culture thus
making the exorcism linguistically and emotional-
ly salient and accessible to spectators and partici-
pants alike.
3. Choosing Exorcism
Foster (1976, 1984), Garro (1987), Young and Gar-
ro (1981), and others have observed that patients
Anthropos 85.1990
Choosing Metaphor
319
in the Third World prefer Western over traditional
forms of treatment for most illnesses. In his work
in Zaire, Janzen (1978) noted that at the onset
of illness the aetiology will first be attributed to
“natural causes” and then, if the disease continues,
to “unnatural causes.” Thus, forms and options
of therapy are complementary rather than com-
petitive. The therapeutic decision-making process
depends both on native logic and social context
as patients use an eclectic strategy to select an
effective treatment.
At the time of the exorcism, Loku Manike was
twenty-four years old. She lived with her husband,
four years old son, and one and a half year old
daughter in a tidy four room mud-brick house
in the hamlet of Monderavan. Their house lay
adjacent to a poorly paved road along which a bus
passes three times daily. The bus provided direct
access to the two nearest towns, Medagama and
Bibile, three and ten miles away respectively. Both
towns possess hospitals and private practitioners of
Western and traditional medicine.
Loku Manike and her husband are cross-
cousins and native to the area. They cultivate
two acres of rain-fed paddy fields and annually
slash-and-burn an acre of chena land on which
they grow maize, millet, manioc, and long bean.
In addition, they also owned approximately thirty
banana trees, six coconut trees, and one or two
jak, lime, papaya, and mango trees. Paddy was the
main cash crop, supplemented by chena crops and
banana bunches which were sold at local markets.
Sudhu Bandha, Loku Manike’s husband, estimated
that they annually harvested one hundred bushels
of paddy of which fifty were sold for cash. Their
annual income was estimated at 7,500 rupees (ap-
proximately $300 in 1982).
Sudhu Bandha and Loku Manike are both
quiet, industrious, and well-liked members of their
community. Sudhu Bandha neither drinks nor
smokes. There was no evidence that he had at
any time physically or psychologically abused her
or that there were marital tensions. He openly
expressed concern and affection for his wife.
Prior to the onset of her illness, a typical daily
routine for Loku Manike consisted of collecting
and chopping firewood, fetching water, washing
clothes, processing food, cooking, cleaning the
house, visiting and/or assisting nearby relations,
and taking care of the children. Shortly after her
illness began her younger sister moved in to assist
with these tasks.
4. Onset of Illness
In October 1980, shortly after the birth of her
second child, Loku Manike complained of sharp
stabbing pains rising from her stomach to her
chest and of general weakness. She became unable
to perform daily chores and was said to become
withdrawn. She and her family considered this to
be a temporary malaise due to giving birth and
breast-feeding. The family first treated her illness
by buying her protein tonics and supplementing
her diet with eggs and other high protein foods.
When in-house treatment failed the family re-
convened. Her uncle (mother’s brother) diagnosed
her illness as caused by the evil eye of a supernat-
ural demon (yakka). This is a common tradition-
al diagnosis for ailments, particularly for women
after childbirth (Obeyesekere 1963a; Gombrich
1971). Like most older Sinhalese villagers, her
uncle knew a few charms (mantra). He charmed
water for her to drink, free of charge.
In December, Loku Manike’s condition re-
mained unchanged. With her mother and sister she
went to the government hospital at Medagama for
treatment. Government hospitals dispense medi-
cine free of charge. The medicines were said to
provide slight, temporary relief. Total cost for this
trip was approximately ten rupees for the bus fare.
In February 1981, she visited the larger local
hospital in Bibile. Again the medicine provided
only temporary relief. The trip cost approximately
twenty rupees.
At the request of Sudhu Bandha the author
visited Loku Manike in April, 1981. She com-
plained of chest pains and fatigue. She had no
temperature nor apparent trouble breathing. She
was listless, her speech was slow. I recommended
a general check-up at the hospital and gave her a
vitamin and mineral syrup. She reported a tempo-
rary relief of her symptoms.
In May, Sudhu Bandha consulted a profes-
sional charmer (katadhi) who lived three miles
away. He came to her house, fastened thread col-
ored with turmeric, and tied into seven knots (apa
nul) around Loku Manike’s neck. Prior to tying it,
he recited several mantra over the thread. This is a
customary procedure resorted to by most villagers
if a lingering indisposition is thought to have been
caused by the evil eye (as wah) of a yakka. The
rationale is that the turmeric is a purifying agent
and the seven knots, like fence posts, serve as a
boundary warding off or reflecting back the gaze
of a yakka. The total cost for this treatment was
fifteen rupees; it did not provide any long-lasting
relief.
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320
Victor C. de Munck
In September, Loku Manike, with her hus-
band, mother, and elder brother, visited the gov-
ernment hospital in the provincial capital of Badul-
la, forty miles from Monderavan. This is the only
regional hospital equipped to deal with serious
illness: operations can be performed, bones set,
X-rays taken. She received a full medical check-up
plus chest X-rays. According to Sudhu Bandha,
the doctors were unable to diagnose her disease
and dispensed both liquid and pill medicines. I
was unable to determine the kinds of medicines
provided or the doctor’s diagnosis.
Prior and subsequent to her visit to the hos-
pital in Badulla, Loku Manike consulted private
western doctors in the Medagama-Bibile region.
Private doctors usually work in government hos-
pitals and villagers believe that they hoard the
best medicines for their private practice. Villagers
said that doctors have a greater financial stake in
curing patients in their private practice and, thus,
spend more time diagnosing ailments and dispense
better medicines than when they are working in
government hospitals.
In November, Loku Manike’s uncle advised
her to consult a well-known female soothsayer
(vedarala) in the town of Mahayongana, thirty
miles away. The soothsayer, while in trance, re-
ported that an unknown neighbor had placed a
curse (hooniyam) on Loku Manike and she was
“caught” in the “gaze” (yaksa disti) of Kalu Yakka
(the Black Demon). A small exorcism, hathadi
toovil, was recommended and proved ineffective.
The entire proceedings cost two hundred rupees.
Shortly thereafter, another male charmer was
consulted in the neighboring village of Arateme-
dilla, six miles away. This charmer agreed with the
previous diagnosis but said a larger exorcism need
be performed. He explained that Loku Manike
had inadvertently eaten charmed rice which had
remained undigested in her stomach. The rice had
been given by an enemy of the family and had
attracted the gaze of Seeri (or Riri) Yakka (the
Blood Demon). He said that Seeri Yakka was more
powerful than Kalu Yakka and would eventually
kill her if a larger exorcism was not performed.
Loku Manike’s family agreed and a February date
was set for a full-scale hooniyam tovil.
This concludes the description of the series of
treatments sought by Loku Manike and her family
and sets the stage for the exorcism. Before turning
to the exorcism, conclusions drawn from the above
data are discussed.
5. Analysis of Treatment Choices
Three conclusions seem clear from the series of
choices Loku Manike and her family took to find a
cure for her lasting illness. First, the determination
of which treatment to choose was always a family
decision. The extended family becomes the mean-
ingful decision unit, with Loku Manike acquiesc-
ing to their choice of treatment. The subordinate
role of women and the hierarchical relations within
the kindred empower males, particularly senior
male relatives, with decision-making status. Loku
Manike’s illness affects and involves her consan-
guineal and affinal kin. The decision-making unit
seems to be limited to males, with Loku Manike’s
mother’s brother being the primary decision mak-
er. This is due to his seniority and social and
self-acknowledgement of his greater knowledge of
folk medicine than other family members.
While women participated in the decision
making process, their role was limited to peripher-
al advice and informal “backstage” influence. Lo-
ku Manike’s mother and Sudhu Bandha’s mother
expressed their opinions freely around male family
members but, from my observations, they could
not initiate a particular treatment decision. This
decision making structure reflects the Sinhalese au-
thority structure based on males as dominant over
females and senior males dominant over younger
males. In addition, as each family member brings
to bear different resources and knowledge of cures,
such a collective decision-making process implies
the likelihood of employing multiple, or eclectic
therapeutic strategies for treatment should each
preceding treatment option fail (Kleinman 1978).
Second, treatment choices, as shown in Fig. 1,
were ordered in accordance with availability and
resource constraints.
Fig. 1: Sequence of Treatment Choices and Their Approxi-
mate Costs and Distance
Treatments Cost (in rupees) Distance
Self treatment 0 0
Local folk healer 5/= 0
Local government hospital 10/= 3 miles
Larger nearby government hospital 20/= 13 miles
Private western doctors 20-30/= 13 miles
Distant Provincial govern- ment hospital 50/= 36 miles
Private western doctors 20-30/= 13 miles
Distant folk healer 200/= 30 miles
Nearby folk healer 0 6 miles
exorcism 3000/= 0
Anthropos 85.1990
Choosing Metaphor
321
A general pattern emerges in which subse-
quent treatment choices are both more costly and
distant. The data also demonstrates the eclectic
nature of the choice of treatments as both folk
and western treatments were used. The ultimate
goal was seeking a cure and the means to obtain
the cure was not predicated on an exclusive belief
in one form of therapy over another. Treatment
choices were predicated on cost, distance, avail-
ability, and accessibility to the treatment rather
than on a preference of one medical system over
another. The sequence of treatment choices also
tends to graduate from the simple (self treatment)
to the complex (exorcism). In this sense “choice”
is constrained by assessments of family resources.
The third conclusion inferred is that the diag-
nosis of exorcism involves sociocentric relations
with the illness being symptomatic not only of de-
monic possession but of interpersonal animosities.
The illness was a symbolic gesture of opposition
directed not only at Loku Manike, the victim, but
at her family. Ultimately the demonic possession
had its origins in human agency.
Loku Manike’s case suggests that the choice
of an exorcism should be seen within the context of
the spectrum of therapeutic alternatives available,
rather than, as Kapferer (1983) argues, distinct
from other therapeutic treatments. Kapferer writes
that ”... demonic illness and exorcism ritual have
greater significance than just being seen as prob-
lems for medical anthropology or as parts of a
system of health care. Demonic attack, and espe-
cially the major rituals which address it, take as
problematic the principles upon which a cultural
and social world and a wider cosmic unity are
based” (1983: 91).
The above statements relegate medicine to
biologically-based illness. Kleinman and Good
(1985), Janzen (1988), and others argue that the
task of medical anthropology is directed “... at
illness realities as these are socially and culturally
constituted” (Good 1988: 694). Browner, Ortiz de
Montellano, and Rubel (1988) have argued that too
many medical anthropologists focus on the cul-
tural rather than biological components of illness.
All curing transactions are grounded in the whole
cultural and social world, and, therefore, medical
anthropology as a field has to be. Skultans, for
example, in a study of a Maharashtrian healing
temple, shows how the high incidence of women
afflicted with trance-possession is explained in
terms of their social roles as care-givers, which
extend to their desire to transfer illness from their
family onto themselves: “... Women cultivate
trance as a sacrificial device to ensure the health
and well-being of the rest of the family” (1987:
661).
Loku Manike’s case differs, but retains sim-
ilar cultural presuppositions: (1) her care-giver
role is taken over by her sister; (2) her extended
kin group provides resources, support, and makes
decisions in her behalf; (3) the diagnoses by the
last two katadhis imply that she has been victim-
ized (i.e., “sacrificed”) by enemies of the family;
(4) Loku Manike, as a young, innocent, and pretty
woman, is the weak link in the family group.
Women in Sri Lanka, as noted by AmaraSingham
(1978), engender demonic possession unintention-
ally, because of their female properties. Social
disorder is, thus, manifested in the demonic pos-
session of females and extends to the family. The
aetiology of Loku Manike’s illness is grounded
in interpersonal conflicts, most likely involving
men. In accord with Skultan’s explanation, Loku
Manike is perceived as, unintentionally, sacrificed
for the well-being of her family.
6. The Exorcism
Loku Manike’s uncle, husband, and elder brother
had consulted with an exorcist living in a village
near Monderavan. As noted he agreed to perform
a hooniyam exorcism and charged one thousand
rupees for the performance and five hundred ru-
pees for materials. On the appointed day the chief
exorcist accompanied by four others (his younger
brother, son, and son-in-law plus a drummer) ar-
rived at Loku Manike’s house in the afternoon.
The three male relatives were of the farmer (goi-
gama) caste while the drummer was of a lower
drumming caste (berewaya).
Other expenditures incurred by Loku Ma-
nike’s family included: the building of a tempo-
rary wood shed, buying foodstuffs, coffee, tea,
cigarettes, bidis (local cigarettes wrapped in bidi
leaves), betel chew, and various other items. Su-
dhu Bandha estimated the total expenditure came
to five thousand rupees, however, three thousand
rupees seemed a more accurate estimate.
A week prior to the exorcism, preparations
were begun both by the exorcists and Loku Ma-
nike ’s family. The exorcists erected a miniature
palace (sinhasana vidiya) made of banana bark.
This miniature palace represented the home of
Mahasona, the king of the yakkas. The palace
stood about five feet high, it had three triangular
gables in the front. Each gable had a particular
design. On the leftmost gable was painted the
sun, the central gable depicted the earth crowned
Anthropos 85.1990
322
Victor C. de Munck
with a spiritual structure signifying the eightfold
path of Buddhism, on the rightmost gable was
a rabbit signifying the moon. In the center pan-
el mythic half-beast/half-man figures were drawn.
These represented Rakshas and Nagas, the former
being ape-like giants who served as legendary sen-
tries and guardians to Sri Lankan kings, the latter
figures were snakes with human faces who were
said to live in the underworld (Naga loka) and
were instrumental in providing medicinal herbs to
Odissa, the first exorcist.
The area behind the palace facade was used as
a dressing room for the exorcists. A yantra (mag-
ical design) was drawn in front of the entrance to
demarcate the boundaries and maintain the purity
of the palace.
For the week prior to the exorcism, Loku
Manike was to purify herself by abstaining from
eating meat, fish, or eggs. She was also to abstain
from sex, bathe daily with turmeric and lime (pu-
rifying agents), and observe pan sii, the Buddhist
pentalogue - one should not kill animals, tell lies,
commit adultery, steal, or take intoxicants.
Loku Manike’s family built a shed and roof
which would cover the palace in case of rain,
and foodstuffs were bought, gathered, and pre-
pared. The exorcists were also busy, they purified
themselves, washed their clothing, practiced their
performance, and built three wooden platformed
structures called pidineyas. Each pidineya func-
tioned as a kind of dining room for yakkas. Game
meats such as deer, blood, and red-dyed rice were
set on spikes or on plates on the pidineya platforms
during the exorcism. A red rooster - its color is
said to attract demons - was also needed for the
exorcism.
The exorcism began at 7:30 p.m. The de-
scription below divides the exorcism into tempo-
ral-functional divisions somewhat similar to those
used by Kapferer. Each descriptive functional
phase will outline the main performance events
within the phase and an extrapolation of the sa-
lient functional properties and attributes expressed.
These phases, like acts in a play, are terminated
by the exorcists as they take respites for nour-
ishments and/or to introduce new items into the
performance.
Phase I: Commencement
At 7:30 p.m., the four exorcists and the drummer
assembled in sarongs and undershirts in front of
the palace. The audience was arriving and some sat
in a semi-circle around the stage area, while others
chatted and walked about in the garden compound.
The chief exorcist (gurunanse) commenced the ex-
orcism by folding his hands in prayer while facing
the audience and asking varam (permission and
authority) to proceed from the triple gem (tripata-
ka): the Buddha, dhamma (the Way), and sangha
(the order of Buddhist monks). Varam was sepa-
rately requested from the society of gods (deiyo
sabawa). This took about ten minutes after which
the exorcists adjourned for dinner. Rice, manioc,
bean, and pumpkin curries had been prepared.
Family members and invited guests were also fed
(approximately twenty people). Coffee, cigarettes,
and betel chew were supplied after dinner.
After dinner, the exorcists put on their cere-
monial clothes: a long white cloth wrapped three
times around the waist and bound by a red sash,
each wore a visor decorated with colored button;
round brass bell bracelets were looped around the
big toe of each foot and tied to the ankle. The chief
exorcist wore a mica studded belt. Talc was applied
to the face with a red dot set on the forehead. All
were bare-chested. A bed was placed slightly east
of the palace in the central stage area.
At 9:15 the exorcists and Loku Manike’s fam-
ily assembled and the exorcists formally requested
permission from the family to hold the exorcism. A
guru pandaru (“master’s offering”) was presented
by Sudhu Bandha to the chief exorcist and the
drummer. The offering of five rupees was honor-
ifically presented in a betel leaf and was a token
of acceptance rather than actual payment. This
concluded the commencement.
The salient functional features were the re-
questing of varam from first the Buddha and
second the pantheon of gods. This is a formal
recognition of the hierarchical order of the Bud-
dhist/Sinhalese pantheon (see Ames 1963, 1966;
Obeysekere 1963a).
The dinner break served as a temporal sepa-
ration of Buddhism and gods from the exorcism
itself and as a recognition of the social/commu-
nal context in which the exorcism is to proceed.
The presentation of guru pandaru after dinner
expressed both formal assent by the family and the
honored status of the exorcists. In addition a hier-
archical linkage of alliance between Buddhism, the
gods, and human beings is consolidated as the ex-
orcists request and assumptively obtain permission
from each of these three groups. Buddha and the
gods represent the supernatural, Loku Manike and
her family represent the natural. The exorcists by
requesting permission from all three have bound
them together through a treaty of alliance.
Metaphorical linkages are also consolidated
Anthropos 85.1990
Choosing Metaphor
323
as Buddha and the pantheon of deities personify
the highest ideals and powers in Sinhalese culture.
The official request of varam links the exorcists
directly with these spiritual agents of good and
power; the presentation of guru pandaru, in turn,
links Loku Manike and her family with the exor-
cists. A symbolic and hierarchical social system is
reified with the Buddha at its apex and the patient’s
family as his suppliants. The hierarchical order is
made explicit through the temporal sequence of
requesting varam from the Buddha, the gods, and,
finally, Loku Manike’s family.
Phase 2: The Invitation of Yakkas
At 10:30, the four exorcists positioned themselves
in front of the palace. The drummer stood off to
the side. A member of the audience volunteered to
play finger cymbals and stood next to the drum-
mer.
The chief exorcist held a torch in his right
hand and a tree resin in his left hand. His son
held a whistle. The drummer beat out a slow
steady rhythm and the exorcists began to dance in
slow rhythmic movements. The dancers bend their
knees outward, straightened up, and then whirled
on one leg, all the while their hands moved in elab-
orate stylized patterns. This Kandyan dance style
was repeated at various tempos throughout the
evening. Typically, dance sequences started slow
with the tempo gradually increasing and abruptly
stopping.
During the dance sequence the chief exorcist
recited as follows:
The meat is ready Siri Yakka, now come and eat. Friend Siri
Yakka come immediately and eat. Yakku [the plural of yakka\
you all come and eat. Come friend, come, and then go to the
cemetery. Siri Yakka if you are in the North, Siri Yakka if you
are in the South, Siri Yakka if you are in the East, Siri Yakka if
you are in the West, come. As you came and entered [referring
to the curse] so you must leave and take this food. Siri Yakka,
if you are in a graveyard you must come, if you are at a bathing
place you must come, if you are at a junction you must come.
We have a rooster for you [he picked up the red rooster and
waved it around], you can suck its blood, look at it and come.
Come into the pidineya [picks it up], my friend. Come.
As he recited this, the other exorcists served as a
chorus, repeating softly, “come, come, come ....”
This invitation was repeated numerous times with
only minor variations.
Kapferer explains that this dance form, similar
throughout Sri Lanka, has both aesthetic and enter-
tainment appeal for the audience. It also signifies
the role of the exorcists. The rhythmic stylized
music, dance, and verbal repetition function as
a kind of hypnotic-trance-inducing code. It is a
medium of communication expressly designed to
contact supernatural agents, and it is recognized as
such by those present.
The invitation addresses the demon said to be
responsible for Loku Manike’s illness. Siri Yakka
may be anywhere, but he is more than likely in
those places he favors: places that are both pollut-
ing and populated.
The theme of pollution is expanded on by
mentioning and picking up the rooster and pi-
dineya (the platform on which polluting foods
such as meats and red-rice had been placed). Siri
Yakka’s attention is solicited through the aesthetic
form of the performance while his interest in com-
ing is solicited through the presentation of “gifts.”
The red rooster and the meats are to be exchanged
as sources of nourishment for the clot of blood
stagnating in Loku Manike’s stomach which cur-
rently holds Siri Yakka’s gaze. The exorcist offers
a transaction in which polluting substances are
negotiated for a return to purity and health of the
patient.
Pollution is thus personified in Siri Yakka and
equated with disease, graveyards, crowded places,
meats, the color red, and blood. Demons - that is
danger, sickness, and pollution - have a metonym-
ic function which is reiteratively communicated by
the exorcists.
Phase 3: Loku Manike’s Arrival
At 11:10, Loku Manike was led by her brother and
husband to the stage and seated on a cushion on
the bed. She was dressed in a new wrap-around
skirt (lungi) and a white blouse, the typical dress
of upcountry Sinhalese women. Her hair was tied
in a bun. She appeared tense. The chief exorcist
placed a coin wrapped in a white cotton cloth on
her head. Chanting, he explained that this had been
done to the queen of king Mahasomata, said to be
the first person exorcized. The largest of the three
pidineyas was placed in front of Loku Manike and
again Siri Yakka was called. Loku Manike sat still,
her hands folded in her lap.
Subsequently, a smaller pidineya was placed
in front of Loku Manike as well. Siri Yakshini, Siri
Yakka’s female counterpart, was called in the same
manner as before. Loku Manike leaned forward,
her eyes fixed on the smaller pidineya. She began
to tremble. Her husband and brother came and
held her tightly as she struggled to stand and pre-
sumably eat from the pidineya. Trance-possession
Anthropos 85.1990
324
Victor C. de Munck
had been induced and was said to signify that Siri
Yakshini had arrived.
The chief exorcist, seemingly flirting with
symbolic danger, picked up a piece of raw meat
and held it just over Loku Manike’s head. He then
forcefully, without chanting, said, “Siri Yakshini,
you must come. Only after you leave can you eat.”
After about five minutes, Loku Manike’s
trance-possession ended and she remained passive-
ly sitting on the bed. The gurunanse subsequently
explained that if she had eaten from the pidineya,
the demons would have become more attracted
to her and thus more reluctant to leave, thus the
exorcism could have ended in failure.
Both pidineyas were removed and the rooster
was placed before Loku Manike. The chief ex-
orcist, dancing in front of her, held a lit torch
throwing tree resin onto it, producing a bright crin-
kling burst of orange flames. Once more, he called
Siri Yakshini. Immediately Loku Manike became
possessed, swaying side to side and staring at
the rooster. The drumming and dancing increased
in pitch and tempo inducing Loku Manike into
more fevered trance-possession. Her husband and
brother rushed to hold her down, but she struggled
with such force that four additional men from the
audience helped them hold her down.
The chief exorcist faced Loku Manike, who
was twisting and turning on the bed, he pointed his
forefinger at her and commanded Siri Yakshini to
depart. Abruptly, without any noticeable change in
the music or dancing of the other exorcists, Loku
Manike’s trance-possession ceased.
Loku Manike’s trance-possession (her first
such experience) validated the need for an ex-
orcism and the chief exorcist demonstrated his
ability to call, control, and command the demon.
The exorcists are both mediators and manipulators,
producing and controlling this interface between
the supernatural and the natural. They are able to
summon the demons because of their ritual knowl-
edge and power temporarily provided by Buddha
and the gods through varam.
The lower half of the supernatural order, the
yakkas, are polluting and powerful but less power-
ful than and subordinate to the upper order of the
supernatural pantheon. Humans, the natural order,
stand between these two, a mixture of both purity
and impurity and interacting with both supernat-
ural realms. Thus, ultimately, the metaphorical
theme unfolding and being impressed on actors
and audience is that of people at the fulcrum or
epicenter between two active and opposed para-
digms of existence or experiential gestalten. Be-
tween these two paradigms the symbolic domains
are internally structured in terms of metaphorical
correspondences. For example, purity, Buddhism,
order, good, and health as a paradigmatic set of
associated concepts are singularly or multiply sig-
nified through verbal utterances, gestures, items,
and colors.
Those items signifying, for example, purity
may also be extensionally mapped onto other se-
mantic domains within the purity paradigm but
never with domains within the pollution paradigm.
The exorcism tells us, in a kind of Zoroastrian
parable, that good and evil are engaged in an
eternal struggle but the agents for good (and puri-
ty), represented by Buddhism and the pantheon of
gods, are stronger and will win out over the agents
of evil (and pollution).
The stage is now set for the final phase of the
exorcism.
Phase 4: The Removal of the Curse
At 2 a.m., the exorcists came onto the stage area
with the chief exorcist holding a betel leaf, wooden
sword, three wooden knives, a red flower, and a
lime pierced by a sharpened stick. The sword and
knives represent the weapons of the yakkas; the red
flower is symbolic of cemeteries; the betel leaf is
symbolic both of purity and invitation; the pierced
lime represents the “cutting of the curse.”
Dancing to a steady rhythm, the chief exorcist
began to chant asking the yakkas to leave with
their gifts and weapons: “We have given you all
you wanted; on behalf of myself and my teachers
you must go now!” he repeated this several times.
He then set these items to the side and picked up a
staff said to represent the legendary founder of the
Sinhalese race, Vijaya. On his arrival in Sri Lanka,
Vijaya was said to have slain thousands of yakkas.
As the exorcists danced, the chief exorcist
drew a line on the ground with the staff. Seven
lines were drawn between Loku Manike, sitting
on the bed, and the palace. On each line the
chief exorcist placed a ring made of coconut fibre.
Thereafter, within each ring he sequentially set a
lotus flower made of banana bark, a betel leaf
and coin offering, and seven vessels containing
water and honey, turmeric, sandalwood, coconut
oil, milk, and lime juice.
This portion of the dance took approximately
two hours and all the while the exorcists danced
with the chief exorcist reciting stories of irshus
(holy men), the Buddha, and various deities.
At 4:30, the work was completed and the chief
exorcist recited as follows:
Anthropos 85.1990
Choosing Metaphor
325
Listen to Buddha’s doctrine. The Dhamma is on my forehead;
the Sangha is on my breast. Now on Vishnu’s orders you
[referring to the yakkas] will let me [speaking for Loku Manike]
enter the palace.
The Buddha came to Mahayongana and controlled the
vas yakkas [literally, evil-eye demons] even though they looked
angrily at him. Lord Buddha spread his rays and all yakkas lost
their powers. Vishnu’s power is here. Saman’s power is here.
Nata’s power is here. Kataragama’s power is here [These are
the four protective deities of Sri Lanka].
Yakkas now you have no choice, you must go.
The chief exorcist then beckoned Loku Ma-
nike to him. He placed an areca-nut cutter (gereya)
on her forehead and let it drop to the ground. He
examined it and then recited a mantram which was
to return the curse to its originator. Thereafter,
he cut 108 limes. Limes and the gereya are the
food and tools recognized throughout Sri Lanka
for cutting curses. In this sequence, there is a
change in the metaphoric and symbolic content
of the exorcism. Only items which are symbolic
of virtue, purity, legendary heroes, and references
to the Buddha and deities are presented. This
paradigmatic set of culturally valued and potent
symbols contrasts with the earlier paradigmatic set
of symbolic elements associated with demons. In
other words, the forces of good as understood by
Sinhalese are being convoked.
PhaseS: Avamangalle (Funeral Time)
Avamangalle is literally translated as “death time.”
It opens with the chief exorcist laying down at
the feet of Loku Manike and being covered by a
white cloth, as if he was a corpse. Saffron string
was placed in his hand and wound three times
around the palace, the other end was given to Loku
Manike. A pidineya was placed on his stomach and
the audience, cued by the other exorcists, began
to wail, “Oh beloved leader, when will we see
you again?” This plaint was repeated for about
ten minutes. Then the chief exorcist, lying prone,
chanted as follows:
Bille (sacrificial body) is ready for all yakkas, come and take it.
I belong to all yakkas, do not be stingy with this decaying body,
eat my nerves and joints, eat my flesh and suck my blood. All
of you must come and feed yourselves “now.”
He repeated this basic chant a number of
times. Thereafter a pumpkin was lain on his stom-
ach and cut open with a machete by another ex-
orcist. The avamangalle ended at 7 a.m. and the
exorcists took a short tea break.
The avamangalle involved a number of sym-
bolic transformations. Corpses are highly polluting
and, thus, a favourite “food” of the demons. The
chief exorcist, as trickster, offered his own body as
sacrificial “polluted” food. Saffron is a sacred, pure
substance, serving to protect the chief exorcist,
Loku Manike, and the palace. The purified string
functions as a conduit between exorcist, arena,
and patient, protecting and uniting them with its
current of purity.
Concomitantly, other role transformations
took place: the audience became co-conspirators
with the exorcists in deceiving the yakkas while
Loku Manike became a passive rather than ac-
tive participant. These role transformations can be
viewed as both metaphorical and therapeutic. They
are metaphorical in the sense that both the chief
exorcist and the audience engaged in a collective
deception by adopting “fake” roles: the chief ex-
orcist as corpse and the audience as the bereaved,
Loku Manike as spectator. In a therapeutic sense,
Loku Manike was given a moment to witness the
exorcism and observe the “sacrifice” made in her
behalf as well as the display of public support by
the audience. Exorcists and audience are jointly
participating in helping her get well.
Phase 6: Concluding Exorcistic Rites
At 7:30 a.m., the chief exorcist walked over to
Loku Manike and beckoned her to stand. He then
placed two bands made of branches over each of
her shoulders so that they criss-crossed her chest
and back. He recited some mantrams and then cut
both bands.
He led her to the ring of seven flowers and
while reciting mantrams he removed each of the
flowers, concurrently saying that the yakkas were
departing. With the removal of the last flower, the
chief exorcist avowed that all the yakkas had now
departed.
Loku Manike was then told to enter the pal-
ace. She had to crawl through the small and narrow
entrance. Inside, she sat with her legs stretched out
and the soles of her feet just outside the arched en-
trance. Her husband had been led around the back
of the palace and sat beside her. A rice pounder
was placed to the side of the palace entrance, and
various fruits, nuts, and gourds were cut by the
soles of Loku Manike’s feet.
The chief exorcist then recited a mantram
warning the yakkas never to enter Loku Manike’s
house again for she was now under the protection
of the triple gem and Vesamuni, a deity placed in
charge of the yakkas by Buddha.
After mantrams were recited the exorcists
picked up machetes and with Loku Manike and
Anthropos 85.1990
326
Victor C. de Munck
her husband still seated in the palace proceeded
to hack the palace to shreds as they danced. At
10:30 a.m., the chief exorcist recited pirith (Bud-
dhist prayers) which concluded the exorcism.
During this concluding phase there was a shift
in the rhetoric of the chief exorcist from impera-
tive to declarative statements. The cutting of the
bands signified the cutting of the curse which had
constrained Loku Manike. Her squeezing into the
palace signified a rebirth to health as she was
allowed to enter a sacred and pure place. The
gurunanse explained that the palace had to be
destroyed because after the ceremony it was no
longer a sacred place, but merely an attractive
place that might subsequently attract yakkas. The
rice pounder reiterates the theme of a “return to
purity” as the pounder signifies the transformation
of an inedible, raw substance (paddy) into a po-
tentially edible and ready-to-cook substance. The
presence of her husband signifies a reintegration
into the normal domestic order.
The destruction of the palace marks the com-
pletion of the exorcism and the successful rebirth
of Loku Manike as spouse and member of society.
Her purity and safety is no longer depended on
being confined to a sacred place. She has been
restored to health, to family, to society, and to
Buddhism. She is no longer ill, alone, outside the
social pale, and captive to the world of demons.
Phase?: Post Exorcist Instructions
The chief exorcist called Loku Manike and her
family and provided them with a set of preventive
therapeutic instructions. Loku Manike was to carry
an areca-nut cutter with her for three days; she was
to wear a yantra (magical design) placed in a brass
cylinder around her neck; she was not to use a
knife or leave the house for three days. Medicinal
remedies were also prescribed - she was to drink
charmed lime juice for seven days; drink a herbal
tonic mixed with papaya juice for seven days; and
herbs mixed with cow’s milk left overnight was to
be applied to her hair each morning for three days.
Two weeks after the exorcism Loku Manike
told me that her stomach pains had completely
vanished and that she felt fine. Two months later
the village headman wrote me that Loku Manike
appeared completely cured.
Conclusion
In the first half of this paper I showed that ex-
orcism should be viewed as inclusive of the cat-
egory of feasible and available medical options.
Loku Manike’s family collectively decided upon a
series of eclectic therapeutic strategies. Resources
were pooled and the main treatment decisions were
made by the senior male of her extended family,
her MoBro (her father was deceased). The treat-
ment strategy, in general, proceeded according to
cost and distance considerations with progressively
more costly and distant treatments selected.
Faith or belief in the efficacy of one kind
of medical treatment over others appeared to be
a secondary consideration. That her family con-
tinually sought to find a cure for Loku Manike’s
ailment suggests an over-arching belief that the
disease was curable. The folk concepts of disease,
diagnoses, and treatment indicate a diverse plural-
istic understanding of the aetiology and cure of
diseases. When the initial, usually self, treatments
fail the most common recourse is a progressive
strategy with the cheapest and easiest treatments
attempted first. Treatment choices are made by
males, usually the de facto family head. This
strategy reflects the Sinhalese local-level author-
ity structure and, as such, medical practitioners
have little effect on determining personal treatment
strategies.
Exorcism represents the extreme end of the
medical continuum, the rite of last resort. It is by
far the most costly and involved of the treatments
selected by the family, and it is unlikely that Loku
Manike’s family could afford subsequent costly
treatments. The recognition by the patient of the
expense invested in the exorcism and that this may
be the final treatment provided, may, in itself, spur
recovery from ailments rooted in psychological
distress.
The exorcism was viewed as structured in
terms of two contrasting and hierarchically nested
metaphoric paradigms. This may be modelled as
follows.
Buddha
deiyos (gods)
SUPERNATURAL---
PURITY
healthy people
------------ NATURAL
yakka (demons)
sick people
POLLUTION
Anthropos 85.1990
Choosing Metaphor
327
This model can, potentially, be further elab-
orated as purity is also equated with social inte-
gration, order (up) and pollution with anomie, and
disorder (down). These overarching conceptuali-
zations are, in effect, the gestalten, or cognitively
structured schemata, derived from shared expe-
riences. The link between experiences and con-
cepts (or ideas) are metaphorical in essence. The
two paradigmatic sets or constellations of symbols
identified in the exorcism were:
Set 1: pollution, demons, uncontrolled desires,
illness, red/black, raw meat, death.
Set2: purity, Buddha, deities, abstinence/control
over desires, health, white, vegetables, life.
These paradigmatic sets contrast with one
another at each node within the set. The drama-
turgical performance begins with an invoking of
elements of set 2, proceeding to introducing ele-
ments of set 1 which are subsequently replaced or
defeated by their “good” correspondences in set 2.
It is, I believe, this metaphoric schemata that is
generalizably salient to Sinhalese. Psychodynamic
processes of exorcisms involve a more psychoan-
alytic analysis of exorcisms. The final point being
that exorcism can be analyzed or interpreted at
various levels of abstraction each extending rather
than contradicting the validity of other approaches.
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1963 Ideological and Social Change in Ceylon. Human Or-
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Segregation in a Muslim Society. Social Science and
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Crapanzano, V.
1977 Introduction. In: V. Crapanzano and V. Garrison (eds.),
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Foster, George M.
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Anthropos 85.1990
Anthropos 85.1990: 329-344
The Multilingualism of a Balinese Community
in Western Lombok
Andrew Duff-Cooper
Abstract. - The study is descriptive and theoretical. It consid-
ers Balinese ideas that include sound, and find that “Sound,” a
complex notion, is such that speech is one kind of “sound”
among others. The study then considers forms of sound in
the village, examining in turn the uses and their contexts of
Sasak, Old Javanese, Sanskrit, English, Dutch, Indonesian, and
Balinese. To analyze speech and language other ideas have
to be taken into account because all Balinese social facts are
Maussian social facts. It then considers language accretion. This
is not considered under “active” or “passive” but as processes of
local redintegrations which are a key to the kind of community
the processes are involved in forming - a form that does
not compromise earlier versions of it. [Bali, Lombok, sound,
language(s), contexts of use, local redintegration]
Andrew Duff-Cooper, D. Phil., until recently a Research Fel-
low and Visiting Lecturer at the Institute of Cultural and Lin-
guistic Studies, Keio University, Tokyo, is the Cosmos Fellow
of the University of Edinburgh for 1989/90 and a Professor at
Saitoku University, Japan. Since living on Lombok in 1979-81,
he has published numerous articles about the Lombok Balinese.
He has also published studies about Japan. A book about
Balinese life on Lombok as a totality is in preparation. See
also References Cited.
“Speaking a language fluently is very different
from understanding it.” (E. E. Evans-Pritchard
1965: 7)
1. Introduction
The community referred to in the present title
is the village (kaklianan) Baturujung, one of the
Balinese kampung of the lurah Pagutan, kecama-
tan Ampenan, which lies about 4 km southwest of
Cakranegara, now an important commercial cen-
ter, and some southeast of Mataram, the
provincial capital of Nusa Tenggara Barat. Until
recently Baturujung had a population of about
375.1 We will also be concerned with the Gria
Taman, three or four minutes to the southwest of
Baturujung through the gardens, in the village Be-
latung, where about 30 people, mainly Brahmana,
reside.2 In 1980, the population of Pagutan was
14,225; of this number 10,689 are recorded by the
lurah office as Sasak Muslims, 3,300 as Balinese
Hindus. 7,292 people are reported as never having
attended school. Of those that had attended ele-
mentary school (S.D.) - of which there are four
in Pagutan with a staff in 1980 of 43 serving 480
pupils - 4,000 did not complete the course, 2,570
did. Only 163 have gone to a higher school in
town, and only one person had received a form of
higher education (perguruan tinggi).
Occupations of the residents of Pagutan are
in the main non-professional, only 562 having a
white-collar, administrative, or professional job.
Most people are more or less directly involved
in agri- and horticulture and in the husbandry of
animals and/or chickens and ducks.
The languages we will be concerned with
are: Sasak, Old Javanese (kawi), Sanskrit, Dutch,
English, Indonesian, and Balinese. Language in
itself was not a prime focus of the field research
on which the present study is mostly based, but
naturally I acquired some knowledge about these
languages as they are in evidence in Baturujung
1 Sadly this figure may be much lower now: in a letter
dated 30 Dec. 1987 which I have his permission to cite,
I Nyoman Kanten, a younger brother of my friend I Wayan
Care, writes that “all my families,” except his father and
a younger brother, are to leave the village on January
20, 1988, for southern Sulawesi as transmigrants. Lombok
joined Bali and Java as donor areas for the Indonesian
government’s transmigration program in 1973.
2 I conducted field research in Pagutan for about 21 months
in 1979-81 with the financial support of the Social Sci-
ence Research Council of Great Britain and of the Emslie
Homiman Anthropological Scholarship Fund of the Royal
Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Northern
Ireland with the sponsorship of Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan
Indonesia, to which bodies I am gratefully obliged. I lived
for about 11 months in the Gria Taman as the guest of Ida
Pedanda Gde Made Karang (Pedanda Gde), the rest of the
time in Baturujung. The four estates of the Balinese are,
in descending order of fineness: Brahmana, Ksatrya, Vesia,
Sudra. To conserve space references to my work have most
often been omitted in the text; fuller treatment of many
of the aspects of Balinese life touched on in this study
will be found in the articles listed under my name in the
“References Cited.”
330
Andrew Duff-Cooper
and the Gria Taman (as opposed to knowledge of
them) during residence there.
My proficiency in these languages is recorded
below; but any competent social anthropologist
will be able to gauge my linguistic competences,
at least impressionistically, from among other mat-
ters - what follows in sections 2 and 3 - being
more in the nature of an ethnographical survey
than minute, intensive analysis along the lines of,
for instance, Jacob’s article (1986) on the deliber-
ate use of foreign vocabulary by Khmer.
The present study has a number of aims, some
of them descriptive, some, to use the cant term,
more theoretical. The former include placing on
record some Balinese ideas concerning the nature
of language and speech. These are important in
themselves, as a part of the ethnographic record,
and especially so as the analysis of dialogue or dis-
course increases in favor (cf., e.g., Sherzer 1987:
297) in some quarters at least.3 It may also be
useful to others if the complex linguistic situation
that an ethnographer can find him- or herself in
somewhere like Lombok, which has been open
to centuries of influence from east and west,4
is recorded, as well as the writer’s professional
response to that situation; not only are the data,
even though presented only in passing, pointers to
in this case Balinese attitudes and ideas about the
foreign, but they will preclude my inclusion among
that band of social anthropologists who manage
to convey by implication or by what is not put in
print a crooked impression of linguistic confidence
and ability, which is not only pointless, for such
charlatans are always found out (see, e.g., Hobart
1986m 145), but is also damaging to the scholarly
standing of our subject.5
After recording these data, we move on to
consider one of the four “structural core elements”
that in 1935 J. P. B. de Josselin de Jong (1977:
174 f.) highlighted as being heuristically important
in the comparative study of Indonesian forms of
3 Critical questions are raised about the recording, reporting,
and analysis of dialogue and discourse by, e.g., Marcus and
Cushman 1982, Tyler 1982, Clifford 1983, and Bachnik
1987, though the latter maintains (p. 27) that the investiga-
tion of dialogue is “crucial.”
4 For the little that is known about the history of Lombok,
which at some time has been under the jural control of
the Balinese (from Karangasem), of the southern Sulawesi
kingdom of Gowa, of Makassar (via Sumbawa), the Brit-
ish, the Dutch, the Australians, and the Japanese, and, as
villagers have it, now the Javanese, see, e.g., Vogelsang
1922, Goris 1936, de Graaf 1941, van der Kraaj 1975, and
Duff-Cooper 1983: 8-16.
5 Agreeable exceptions include Bateson 1932, Evans-Prit-
chard 1940, Fortes 1945, and Maybury-Lewis 1967.
life that have a pronounced family resemblance
one to another, viz., the special type of “reaction
of indigenous culture to certain powerful cultural
influences from without.”6
These elements have never been intended to
characterize these forms of life; as indeed they
could not have been: as Barnes points out (1985:
94), J. P. B. de Josselin de Jong’s comments about
Indonesian societies’ resilience to outside influ-
ences are reminiscent of similar observations about
elsewhere such as India, and, one could add, Japan
where Japanese scholars such as Suzuki Takao
(e.g., 1987: 133) often emphasize the way in which
foreign influences are Japanified as they become a
part of Japanese life and thought (cf., e.g., Dale
1986: 49-53). But in any case Lombok has not
generally played a part in such comparative anal-
ysis, though Bali and Java of course have if often
without direct reference to these “structural core
elements.” That three elements are not discernible
in or are not evinced by Balinese forms of life
(see note 6) may account for this; but whatever the
reasons, it is timely to remedy this deplorable state
of affairs, and a start is made on this in section 4
below.
2. Ideas Concerning Language and Speech
“Speech” may be rendered into Balinese as “sah-
da.” Sahda, hayu, and idep constitute what my
instructor and friend Ida Ketut Sideman termed
the three (tri) paramana or kaya (but cp. Hooykaas
1964: 26; Hobart 1986«: 148). These tags refer to
the three “Powers” (Zurbuchen 1987; 129). Bayu
which is crudely glossed “energy” (Hobart 1985:
125; cf., 1986a: 148) is predicated of all aspects of
the material and generally visible (sakala) world
that live (urip) in the sense that they are capa-
ble of either self- or other-directed action. (The
emphasis here is upon action as mere “natural”
movement without intention.) Such aspects include
plants, trees, ploughing-oxen, houses, tractors, and
6 The other three structural core elements or bases for com-
parison, as P. E. de Josselin de Jong now prefers to call
them (1984: 240), are; socio-cosmic dualism, double uni-
lineal descent, and circulating connubium (sc. asymmetric
prescriptive alliance). As far as Balinese forms of life are
concerned, these elements are not appropriate heuristics:
they do not evince simple socio-cosmic dualism, but various
modes of classification by partition are discernible in them;
double unilineal descent as defined by one authority and
which is distinguished from “cognatic kinship” (P. E. de
Josselin de Jong 1985: 203 f.) is inconsonant with Balinese
notions about descent; while Balinese marriages are in no
technical sense prescriptive (e.g., Needham 1984: 221).
Anthropos 85.1990
The Multilingualism of a Balinese Community in Western Lombok
331
motor-bikes. (The phrase “energy-systems” [Ho-
bart 1985: 125] is not applied to these and other
such aspects because it has a mechanistical tone
that does not well accord with the predominantly
“mythic” ideology of the Balinese [cf., e.g., Need-
ham 1983: 89-92].) Bayu and sabda, here “sound,”
are predicated of aspects that live, in the same
specified sense, and that are capable of sound, e.g.,
animals and birds; and bayu, sabda, and idep, the
capacity to act intentionally, i.e., thought (but see
note 7), of human beings.
These three concepts are connected with the
idea that there are three kinds of action (tri kaya
parisudha): thoughts, words, and deeds, the fine-
ness or coarseness of which during one’s material
life affect the kind of spiritual (niskala) and ma-
terial futures that one brings upon oneself and/or
one’s dependants.
Consonant with the attribution of bayu, sabda,
and idep as just indicated are the social facts that
the realm of thought (cita) is prior metaphysically
to the five (panca) tanmatra, one of which is
Sabda, from which are formed the five elements
(panca maha buta), one of which is “gas” (bayu),
that variously combine to form things (in a prag-
matic sense) that are material;7 that of the aspects
7 Hobart (1985: 117) writes that “in popular Balinese thinking
there are three elements: water, fire, and air, from which all
visible form is composed.” He also writes: “Old Javanese
texts refer to there being five perceptible elements (from
the Sanskrit pahcamahdbhuta\ cf. pahcatanmdtra, the five
immaterial elements from which the former are produced),”
but adds that “the Balinese reduce these [the five per-
ceptible elements] to three by treating the remaining two,
ether and earth, as spatial domains” (1985: 130 note 12).
That “ether” (akasa) and “earth” (pertiwi) are terms for
spatial domains does not mean that the five tanmatra are
legitimately reduced to three, however: “akasa” refers to
everything that is predominantly empty or vacuum-like, so
to say (such as the rafters-area of a pavilion or house),
“pertiwi,” to anything that is solid and hard, like the earth,
“bayu,” to anything gaseous, “teja,” fire, to anything hot
or shiny, and “apah,” water, to anything that is liquid. Ho-
bart’s instructors appear to be confusing metaphysical and
mundane references of “ether” and “earth.” The reference
to “visible form,” also, ignores the fact that some beings
such as leak, witches, are material and visible but may
become invisible. The impact of this transformation is that
they are invisible although material (sakala). “Material”
is preferable to “visible.” Hobart, incidentally, asserts that
‘“witches’ is a poor gloss ...” for people who “may inherit
or learn unusual skills, putatively or actually, from either
parents or strangers ... [who] ... may or may not fly, use
technical aids, work by night, or attack friends and family
or enemies ... [and whose] ... powers [sakti] ... are often
shared by doctors (balian), princes ... [which] may be used
to uphold as well as subvert the moral order” (1987: 46
note 12, 35). Apart from Hobart not suggesting a gloss that
he considers preferable to witch, this seems all to be very
of the syllable ongkara when it is written in the
vertical dimension ( i ) (that is, from the top to
the bottom on the line, the nada [primeval sound],
the bindu [dot], the ardacandra [half moon], and
the sound U) the highest aspect is the represen-
tation of sound; and that this is equated with the
Supreme Siva, Parama-Siva (cf., e.g., Goudriaan
and Hooykaas 1971: 413-415). In other contexts,
also, the attribution of capacities indicated is con-
gruous with other Balinese ideas about the nature
of human and other beings; for instance, in con-
nection with the three qualitities ([guna] tamas,
rajah, and sattva) and with the three “ways” or
“paths” ([warga] arta, karma, and darma), bayu,
sabda, and idep are associated with the least fine,
the intermediate, and the finest quality and way
respectively (i.e., with the qualities and ways in
the order listed here).
Yet, the attributions of bayu, sabda, and idep
indicated are not absolute. Stones, for instance,
generally are possessed of none of these three at-
tributes, and are hence padem, but some are: these
are area upon or in which gods sit; some stones
can grow bigger and may engender progeny in the
form of smaller stones (which may also grow).
These stones are possessed of bayu and I have seen
a stone pronounced as living (urip)-, and although
they do not make sounds, they can communicate
with people through, for instance, dreams. And
some humans, nominally possessed of the three
attributes but whose language the Balinese cannot
make out and whose ways of of living, perhaps,
run counter to what are locally considered prop-
er contemporary Balinese ways are judged more
animal-like, especially monkey-like, than human.
Nor should it be forgotten that humans are related,
one group (bangsa) to another, as closer and more
distant and correlatively finer and coarser versions
of the genus, the Balinese being the apotheosis (in
this context), and of them, Pedanda and kings, of
fineness.
Bayu, sabda, and idep, further, can be in finer
and less fine states. Especially when involved in a
formal rite, but properly always, a person should
ensure that these attributes are in harmony one
much a straw-man: I know of no past or present student
of Balinese life who has suggested in print, or otherwise,
that all these beings can be lumped together as witches -
which they cannot. “Witch” is an odd-job word used solely
to gloss “leak” as far as I know. What a particular witch,
as indeed a doctor, prince, etc., is capable of, is a matter for
explication in each case. All Balinese witches, however, are
the apotheosis of a moral stance that should not be adopted
by any right-minded Balinese, as indeed, mutatis mutandis,
are witches globally (cf. Needham 1978: 34).
Anthropos 85.1990
332
Andrew Duff-Cooper
with another and that they are all in a hne or pure
(suci) state. To render sabda pure or fine, one may
invoke the utpatthi and sthiti mantra, while the
astra mantra can do the same for idep; a mudra
will help with hayu.8
In material people, sabda takes the form of
intelligible speech or of the tongues that a mad
person may declaim in9 or the sometimes unintel-
ligible speech that people possessed by the bebai,
a malignant spirit, may involuntarily give vent to
(Suryani 1984: 102). That these latter forms of
speech do not disqualify the person who produces
them from the status of human (manusa) as, for
instance, people of the forest are disqualified from
it in the Balinese Chain of Being by among other
things their grunts, is explained by insanity being
a misfortune (sial or aget Incur), as shown by
the forefinger that some place diagonally (Ind.,
malang) across their brows to indicate another’s
madness, a more or less temporary impediment
akin to the “polluted” states sebel or kumel.
As noted, though, sabda has a meaning that is
wider than just “speech.”10 Animals and birds, we
know, can produce sounds - the barking of dogs,
the cooing of doves and pigeons -, and these can
be used to communicate in a rudimentary way with
humans, as humans can communicate with them
similarly. Some snakes, too, that do not themselves
produce sounds can understand them: those at the
temple of Batu Belong on the coast northeast
of Cakranegara will leave people staying there
8 These mantra are respectively: OM I-Ba-Sa-A / OM ya na
ma Ciwa\ OM Sa Ba Ta A 11 OM ya na ma CiWa-ya; OM
Um Phat astrdya namah.
9 Dr. David Napier: personal communication.
10 “Bayu” similarly may have referents other than “energy”;
e.g., “wind” (angin), the bodies of gods. This is especially
so on Lombok on the foothills of Mount Rinjani, the Ma-
hameru of the Balinese there, where more learned pilgrims
to the summit remark on the continued presence of the
gods where the wind seems always to blow. “Thought,”
also, can take various forms (see, e.g., Hobart 1985; 121;
Duff-Cooper 1988a). These social facts suggest that gods
do not “shade off into pure thought” in the Balinese Chain
of Being as Hobart has it. Apart from “pure thought” not
being readily intelligible, that the gods are one set to another
more or less capable of influencing the course of events
in the middle world to humans’ benefit or discomfiture,
that they are more or less all-knowing, and that they are
“wind,” “sound,” and “thought” suggests rather that they
are the apotheoses, more or less, of beings possessed of
the three kaya - a suggestion that is consonant with many
gods, of course, being simply humans who have died and
have been cremated and so belong to the invisible, essential
realm rather than the visible, material realm of humans
possessed of and exercising the potential of their three kaya
to various degrees (which is where the three qualities [see
above] come in [Duff-Cooper 1985b]).
(maturan) be if the snakes’ permission (pamitan)
to be there is requested in fine Balinese. Cikcak,
geckoes, are also said by villagers to be able to
understand- what they say and these reptiles may
signify their agreement with what they hear by
making their characteristic “cik-cik-cak” sound.
Sound, of course, is also an aspect of cer-
tain natural phenomena (as “we” understand them)
such as volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, and light-
ning. All these may of course be destructive
in which case it is inferred that the gods are
displeased. The sounds accompanying the de-
structive phenomena are considered an indication
of the gods’ anger as much as the destruction
wrought, perhaps, by the phenomenon in ques-
tion. These sounds are “hot” (panes) and may be
contrasted with silence which under one aspect,
when contrasted with the noise and bustling excite-
ment of times that are ramé, is boring and weighs
heavily; but which under another aspect is calming
and cool (etis) like the sound (nada) of Sarasvati’s
goose (angsa) which figures in important rites at
“state” temples, and of the bamboo flute (suling).
The sounds produced by a metalophone or-
chestra (gamelan [usually called gong on Lom-
bok)) also are far more than just sound. The five-
tone scale (sléndro), it is well known, is taken by
Balinese theorists to be an aspect of the five gods
(panca déva) of the five cardinal directions ka-
ja/kelod, kangin/kauh, and pungsed which for con-
venience may be glossed north/south, east/west,
and center (cf., e.g., McPhee 1947: 40). The
sounds produced by the various combinations of
these tones are combinations of these gods (in the
same way as the colours red, black, and white are
the tri murti, the gods Brahma, Visnu, and Iswara
[Siva]); and Sanger reports (1985: 59) that villag-
ers where she did field research on Bali “believed
that God (Ida Betara) in the form of Iswara, the
deity for breath of life [bayu], was seated (meling-
gih) in the gong and that it was his presence that
caused sound (munyi [also, significantly, voice,
utterance, speech among other things]) to emanate
from the gamelan.”
Leaving aside the numerous questions that
could be asked about this formulation in the light
of the work of, for instance, Needham (1972)
and the present writer (e.g., 19877?), and whether
other villagers believe that Iswara breathes life,
so to say, into the instruments so that they pro-
duce sounds, in Pagutan villagers averred that
the sounds of the various compositions, generally
played on tape or infrequently by an orchestra
from a nearby Balinese village (désa) only during
the preparations for or during a very elaborate
Anthropos 85.1990
The Multilingualism of a Balinese Community in Western Lombok
333
(utama) rite, were able to purify in that they kept
demons (buta) and witches away. They are also of
course offerings to the gods (and the other guests)
attending the rite, as well as a much-appreciated
entertainment; and they may be likened to the
other offerings given to them all which, including
the meals served to “material” guests, employ
the same ideas either directly or in analogue as
those that musical composition is based on; and
the sounds that are produced to the arrangements
of even such simple-seeming offerings as canang
(“betel-chewing ingredients”) which may be said
without exaggeration to portray the entire universe
in various ways.
The same goes for the mantra OM, of course.
This formula, indeed all formulas, is not a prayer
but what Parry calls (1985: 209) “a kind of sound
form” of the deity that it embodies (in this case,
all deities). Thus the rhythmical ringing of a Pe-
danda’s prayer-bell is also the sound of OM, the
body of all that is not born.
One tradition has it that mantra were sent to
such people as Pedanda in four ways by the god
Brahma in the guise of the god of sound (Deva
Sabda): as the sound of the echoing prayer-bell
- the echo is the syllables A, U, and M which
constitute OM (also suara nada) - which gave the
meaning of sounds and words to people; through
a medium; straight into the minds of such people,
again, as Pedanda; or the god of sound took on
a form and gave advice, as Kresna to Arjuna,
say. The letters (aksara) in which formulas are
written were revealed by the goddess Sarasvati
(cf. Hooykaas 1964: 37), so that on Sarasvati’s day
{[rahine]: Saniscara Umanis Watugunung) nothing
may be read or written.
Letters are powerful (cf. Bagus 1980) and so
are their sounds when expressed in mantra. But the
sound of mantra being declaimed by a Pedanda
or other qualified person is never idiosyncratic,
but expresses the fact that knowledge contained
in mantra is like the gods that revealed them and
the gods that are instantiated in them eternal and
unchanging (cf. Wallis 1980: 125). Doubtless an
argument could be made, here, about the “politi-
cal” uses to which such ideas can be put and such
like, but I am sure that if Balinese scholars were
asked what they thought about such fashionable
verbalisms they would respond that nothing of
lasting value is to be learnt from such arguments
(cf. Parry 1985: 206). What would strike them as
far more interesting and significant (as it does me)
is that these two characteristics - the eternalness
and unchangingness of the knowledge contained in
mantra - are also among the characteristics of Ida
Sang Hyang Vidhi, the high god of the Balinese
or the “One God” (McVey 1986; 43 note 12),
from Which formulas and ultimately everything
that exists derives and Which pervades everything
that exists in one form or another.
The sounds of mantra, and of a Pedanda’s
prayer-bell, I was told by Pedanda Gde, may not
be tape-recorded; nor are they supposed to be
accessible to people who by birth and then by age
and training are not fit to know and use them.
Other sounds, of course, such as gamelan music
and performances of drama may be recorded; when
played these recordings appear to be correlated
with the same results - entertainment, offering,
protection - as a live performance is generally
correlated with. In these respects, they are akin to
photographs of people (potret) that in very many
ways replace an absent person, and, perhaps, to the
drama which as theater reenacts truths about the
past (tattwa) (cf. Hobart 1986«: 147, 156 note 86).
In any case, the upshot of this very brief
survey, which could be lengthily extended, is that
speech is one kind of sound among others; “sound”
is a complex notion and it is closely associated
with other such notions. The sounds that constitute
language are the domain of humans. In the next
section we consider some forms of it that are more
or less familiar to people in the Gria Taman and
in Baturujung.
3. The Languages Concerned
Sasak, the language of the Islamic Sasak who
constitute about 95 percent of the 2m or so people
who live on Lombok, comprises with Balinese and
Sumbawanese subgroup IV of the Malayo-Polyne-
sian languages group (Esser 1938: Map 9b). In
Pagutan, as generally do Moslems on Bali, the
Sasak live separately from the Balinese in their
own relatively large villages (kampung).
Villagers say that Sasak is an easier language
than Balinese (cf. van den Heyden 1936: 174).
This assertion can be taken to signify in part
at least that they consider Sasak to be not so
beautiful (alus) as Balinese, consonant with the
physical coarseness that is attributed to the Sasak
([and other non-Balinese] in part because they do
not generally use holy water [matirtha]) and with
the way in which the Balinese consider that the
Sasak reverse the proper order of things, when, for
instance, they pray with their heads to the ground
and their bottoms to the sky, in the direction of
Mecca that is “westwards” (kauh). The paramount-
cy of Moslems in the political and economic affairs
Anthropos 85.1990
334
Andrew Duff-Cooper
of the village and of the island (and more broadly
Indonesia), moreover, is taken to be a sign (sipta)
of the way in which the proper relationship of the
Balinese and the Sasak, in which the former should
have authority over the latter, has been reversed,
a sign that the country has been ruined.
Villagers and the residents of the Gria have
little to do with Sasak, and indeed say that the
opposition (as “we” might term it) between them,
which can take the form of fierce staged fights in
which people are killed, is “flesh and blood” (getih
be). In Baturujung, though, Sasak women plant
the rice-fields with the seedlings and some villag-
ers employ particularly strong and hard-working
Sasak in their harvesting-teams (kelompok) or in
other ways have commercial dealings with reliable
Sasak; some may be invited to buy the crop of a
mango tree, for instance, or may be asked to pro-
vide an entertainment of jepung, Sasak music and
singing, in exchange for cash and liberal refresh-
ments. Jepung is a most popular entertainment in
the village, and is thus often used to pay off the
granting of a boon (bayur sot) from the gods or in
entertaining the gods and other guests at a rite such
as “marriage” (nganten) or at other rites intended
for material people.
In these dealings, Sasak is employed as the
language of communication; and my impression is
that many of the older and younger villagers (male
and female) have a command of spoken Sasak that
is sufficient for these purposes. (I have no Sasak,
so it is a little hard to gauge.) Whether Sasak is
employed because the Sasak, consonant with their
low position relative to the Balinese and hence
their imputed ignorance, cannot generally speak
Balinese, and certainly not fine Balinese, or for
some other reason, is a moot point. In any case,
it avoids the possibility of Balinese people being
addressed (and referred to) improperly (as they see
it) which could lead to unpleasantness.11
Masinambow asserts (1984: 217) that Islam
“has not exercised any influence” on Bali, but
this is not exact: Hooykaas (1976: 56) remarks
upon the many times that he has come across
Muslim formulas (mantra) in manuscripts that are
11 When I remarked to my friend Pak Care who was then
about 19 years old and unmarried, that he had addressed an
older, married Sasak very familiarly while he had addressed
Pak Care as such (as he now properly is), Pak Care said that
he would kill him if he (or any other Sasak) did not. Even
allowing for hyperbole - a Balinese allows someone three
opportunities to apologize before taking physical action -
the response is telling. Also, I once addressed Pak Care as
“kamu” (Ind. “you”) and, as I had intended, he was very
insulted and became very angry.
otherwise 100 percent Hindu; and of course there
are numerous Arabic words in Indonesian. On
Lombok, in spite of the influence of Islam there,
that there has been little linguistic influence upon
Balinese by Sasak, though the reverse has occurred
(van der Kraan 1975: 96, 97), is readily explicable:
the Balinese consider themselves in every way
superior to the Sasak, and are unlikely therefore
to take up the latters’ linguistic and other customs
and conventions.
One interesting exception is the word hantong
(Bal. bancih). This word is frequently employed
to refer to sexual practices that are taken to be
out of the ordinary, such as those of Caucasians
(turis), as they are understood to be, and to such
fine beings as transvestites. The former, at least,
may be an instance of not just a foreign word
being adopted but some of its original associations
too, in this case, Islamic ideas connected with
shame and sexual mores, being adopted. Naked or
topless sunbathing, for instance, is now regarded
as immoral by the Balinese whose women, unless
married and then infrequently and only in private,
do not go topless but cover themselves from the
top of the breasts down, as they used not to, though
Balinese men often do not cover their chests, at
least when in the village of the Gria. And male
homosexuality (bantong may refer to those who
have such sexual relationships) once admired for
eschewing the pollution of women now engenders
mixed reactions, the old generally condoning and
perhaps encouraging them, the young, especially
young men, considering it often something to com-
ment ill upon.
These moves in the direction of strictly Mus-
lim norms of physical shame and sexual mores
cannot, however, be put down to Sasak, as opposed
to Muslim, influence. It may be, moreover, that
Islam has influenced in some way what Pigeaud
(1967-70/1: 56) would probably call the religion of
the Balinese, because “in Lombok [Balinese] con-
tact with Islamic religious traditions was unavoid-
able.” But this influence, if any, is not discernible
in the “religious” vocabulary nor performances of
the Balinese and must have been very subtle - one
might say insidious - giving Balinese ideas about
Divinity, say, and its aspects a more monotheistic
color than in many parts of Bali.
Old Javanese, next, is known to some villag-
ers and naturally to many of the residents of the
Gria, but in common with many other Balinese
communities it is only among the learned (sc.,
generally, aged) males that an ability to read and
declaim kawi and to render it in modem Balinese
is claimed.
Anthropos 85.1990
The Multilingualism of a Balinese Community in Western Lombok
335
Unfortunately, no occasion presented itself
when I could have tested these claims. Pedanda
Gde, however, has an extensive library of palm-
leaf manuscripts that he would often consult, more
or less openly, though I do not know how many
of these books are in kawi. What is of interest,
however, is that I gained the strong impression that
those who rendered Old Javanese into florid mod-
em Balinese, when an occasion to do so arose, are
supposed not to understand the texts so much as
to have learnt them and their Balinese renderings,
which translate, not interpret, the Old Javanese.
Perhaps I misunderstood the relationship of
the two because Hobart reports (1986b: 22) that
“the relationship between the original kawi version
which was read out (kebasaan), the translation
(ngartiang ... [or mabasanin]) and villagers’ vari-
ous renditions all differ”; or of course the situation
may be different on Lombok. But in any case
I do not have the superlative commands of Old
Javanese, florid Balinese, and ordinary Balinese
that would seem necessary to allow me to make
the kind of assessment that this authority feels
confident enough to make. But it would be inter-
esting to see whether this disjunction between the
kawi and the Balinese versions is also evinced in
performances of shadow theater (wayang) where
the same pattern of Old Javanese and Balinese
occurs (cf., e.g., Keeler 1975: 113).
Sanskrit, the language of the gods, is also
known as a language in the village among a very
few older men, and, of course, in the Gria. Here
there exists a slight tension between Brahmana and
Sudra accounts: the former aver that only they, and
of them only the twice-bom Pedanda, and to a
limited extent Ksatrya Pedanda Resi, should have
access to such mantra, should maweda or mayoga.
One or two senior villagers take a version of the
line, though they do not know as much, of the
Yajur Weda (26.2) that these mantra “are meant
for everyone.”
Analytically this might be construed as con-
flict over access to power, or something similar,
but the participants to the debate (if such it can
be called) do not cast matters in such terms,
but in terms that basically concern purity. The
Brahmanic contention, wholly properly from one
point of view, is that to deal with such high gods
as those connected with Sanskritic mantra one
should be of the greatest possible purity, and in the
nature of Balinese life this requirement restricts
mantra to Brahmana and Ksatrya and, of them,
to Pedanda and Pedanda Resi; others would put
themselves in much danger by placing themselves
in such proximity to the high gods, including the
highest god, Vidhi. I Nengah Semer, the Sudra
Head (Kliang) of Baturujung, does not deny these
contentions. He does, however, say that people
like himself - aged, knowledgeable, and morally
very fine (though he does not claim these latter
characteristics for himself) as almost all villagers
and many from other villages, including Sasak,
aver - should also have access to such knowledge
because they have achieved through life the purity
that a Pedanda achieves through birth and such
rites as madiksa (from *diksa, rosary); and Pak
Semer does now officiate in Sanskrit and fine
Balinese, I gather, in rites in the village temple
(pamaksan) as elsewhere.
But in any case it is not obvious that either
he or others who are able to recite in (archipel-
ago) Sanskrit understand what they are reciting,
although books such as Pudja’s “Wedaparikrama”
(1976), in which formulas are accompanied by a
translation into Indonesian, are now obtainable.
But it is not important that the meanings be under-
stood, for these words are not only the words of
the gods (sabda [Ind.firman]), but, we have seen,
they are gods. The important points are that those
using them should be in a state that does not make
their employment of them dangerous, and that they
should be used in all respects correctly.
As for Sanskrit more generally, Gonda has
of course written about the many words that have
a currency in modem Balinese that derive from
Sanskrit (e.g., 1952: 219-311 passim). The der-
ivations of these words are probably not known
by almost all villagers; and those Brahmana at
the Gria who are aware that many Balinese words
connected with “religion,” mortuary rites, and so-
cial groupings derive from Sanskrit are unable to
expatiate on the etymologies of the words. This is
wholly expectable: few native speakers of English,
say, could explicate the derivations of most if any
of the words that they habitually employ.
English, the next language to consider, was
not spoken or understood by anyone in Baturujung
and the Gria while I was there. But when I first
arrived in Pagutan, and for a little time afterwards
(until I reluctantly put my foot down), some of
the younger, perhaps more status-conscious Brah-
mana (and Sudra from other villages in Pagutan)
appeared to think that they could communicate
with me by making sounds that approximated what
they took to be the sounds of English but which
were devoid of sense; another used to sit for long
periods seeming to read an English book of mine
which he was incapable of understanding.
There is more to this, though, than people
simply trying to impress others (or themselves) by
Anthropos 85.1990
336
sitting reading a foreign book or being seen walk-
ing and conversing with a foreigner who was per-
haps more respectable looking than most tourists;
nor is it wholly explicable by my then rudimen-
tary command of Indonesian and almost complete
lack of Balinese. It indicates, among other matters
concerning the mystical attraction (or repulsion)
of things and people from distant parts (cf., e.g.,
Helms 1987), what is borne out by the recitations
of Old Javanese and Sanskrit referred to: that in
Balinese thought there is a disjunction between the
sound of words (sabda) and their meaning (artha),
though letters are the symbols (nyasa) of both. One
learns the sound of words first, and then perhaps
their meanings. Thus for weeks after my arrival
in the Gria, Pedanda Gde, most generously, would
talk to me literally for hours, day after day, in the
local version of Indonesian (which dispenses with
many of the prefixes and suffixes of what McVey
calls [1986: 28] “proper Indonesian”) even though
my Balinese “counterpart” had explained to the
Pedanda that I had almost none of the language,
which was anyway apparent from my inability to
say anything by way of reciprocal entertainment
or in response to questions.
Meaning may change and is in any case
dependant upon desa kala patra, what is taken
to be the case at a particular time in a certain
place. Meaning is thus perishable and constitutes
the “material” body (sarira) of a word; sound
and letters are, like the suksma and antakarana
bodies of a person (cf. Duff-Cooper 1985c), eter-
nal (nitya) and unchanging (stham), and imper-
ishable (cf. Hooykaas 1964; 37). This, of course,
is connected with the use of the sloka style by a
Pedanda in which, we have seen, self-expression
(voice quality or idiosyncratic tonal and rhythmical
interpretations) is ruled out. What is important is
not what is said, in this context, but how what is
said is said.
Now, at least one person in the village, I
Nyoman Kanten (see note 1), appears to have a
fair command of written English. It irritates me a
little, to be frank, that he insists on writing to me
in English though Pak Care, Nyoman must know,
writes to me, and I, to him, in Indonesian and
Balinese (using Roman letters). But it is a point of
interest which is explicated below chap. 4).
Villagers “remember” the times when the
Dutch ruled them as the best of all times when
they have been subjected to others. It is therefore
a little surprising that nobody, not even among
the very old, including Brahmana, spoke or read
Dutch; and that, as far as I know, only two words
that derive from Dutch are regularly employed:
Andrew Duff-Cooper
opname and stanplat. The former refers not only
to admission to one of the hospitals in town, but
also describes the situation, explained fully else-
where (Duff-Cooper 1985d: 25), where a person
requests or is advised a period of full- or part-time
residence at the Gria because of some more or less
serious disturbance to his or her normal psychical
functioning. Stanplat refers in Pagutan to the place
at the center of the lurah where one can hire a
sidomo (horse-drawn carriage) or take a mini-bus
to town or further afield.12
We now come to Indonesian. This is the lan-
guage that Pedanda Gde and, following his lead,
others in the Gria and in Pagutan chose to address
me in and to make my language of communication
for about the first six months of my stay in the
Gria. Later the Pedanda instructed me in spoken
and written Balinese. He could have done so from
the start, but he did not.
It is tempting, perhaps, here to correlate this
preference for dealing with me (and, in the cir-
cumstances, for deciding a most important aspect
of my dealings with others) in Indonesian with the
ideological distance of all Caucasians, and others,
from the Pedanda and to a slightly lesser degree
from all Balinese (but see Duff-Cooper 1987a: 76
note 40).
It is, of course, the case that Malay is the
language of trade (cf. Hobart 1986a: 146); that
much Malay has been incorporated into “prop-
er” Indonesian; that Indonesian is regarded most
generally as the language of officialdom; and that
trade and officialdom are associated with the town.
“Town” is associated in villagers’ thought, as in
the Gria, with values that run counter to what is
most valued in village life - communality, perhaps,
encapsulates this best, compared with the individ-
uality of the norms of town life; and villagers and
others feel much distance between themselves and
officials and traders.
This may partly elucidate the use of Indone-
sian with me. But “distance” seems not always to
be able to play this heuristic role: Sherzer reports
(1987: 301 f.) the joking duel of words between
a buyer and a seller in a market over the price
of some fish eventually purchased in which at
one point the buyer employs Indonesian. It is not
obvious that the buyer does so because of the
distance of the seller; indeed, each knows that the
other is Balinese and their employment of fine
12 The direction one asks the driver to take compounds, in
“our” terms, practical and mystical considerations, like so
much else in Balinese life (cf., e.g., Duff-Cooper 1983:
52 f.).
Anthropos 85.1990
The Multilingualism of a Balinese Community in Western Lombok
337
and ordinary Balinese, which they intermingle, is
premissed on the fact. Sherzer does not explicate
this use of Indonesian; nor does Hobart’s report
(19867?: 6 f.) about a meeting to decide the criteria
for a new bendesa greatly help: the discussion was
largely in Indonesian mixed with Balinese, though
a few speakers kept to Balinese and some switched
into it if they wanted to contest an important point.
At one stage in the discussion, held in the village
office, an influential priest said that the Balinese
meaning of “cacad,” not the Indonesian, was what
mattered.
An explication of why Indonesian is used
now, now Balinese, cannot probably be given,
except by describing the context of their use, as in
the situations described above, though a possible
line of explication is sketched out below (chap. 4).
But one important fact does emerge: that what
is taken to matter most is expressed in Balinese.
Perhaps when it seemed to Pedanda Gde that it
mattered how my living in the Gria went and that
he would be judged on how it turned out, he then
began to teach me Balinese (a modicum of which,
more literary than spoken, I was later to acquire in
the normal ways; through dictionaries, grammars,
vernacular translation of the “New Testament,” and
other such aids, and through living closely with
Balinese people).
Bilingualism, at any rate, is, I should say,
respected as a useful and intelligent qualification,
and many villagers, except the very old, some
younger women, and the very young, are adept
in the local versions of spoken and written Indo-
nesian, while quite a few appear to be able to
understand newspapers and television and radio
broadcasts in “proper” Indonesian. But a command
of this language is not allowed to take precedence
in any way over a person’s command of Balinese.
Some younger Balinese - one a member of
a “caste” (see note 2; Hobart 1986a; 156 note 76),
the other a non-”caste” Balinese - may use Indone-
sian to converse. Here, interestingly, the reason for
doing so may be interpreted not as their distance,
but closeness: its use gets over the fact that the
former should be addressed in fine Balinese, the
latter, in at best ordinary Balinese. Older members
of the community deprecate this departure from
proper order (and do not engage in it themselves,
even when they find themselves, if Sudra, address-
ing Brahmana toddlers in fine language), but youn-
ger people appear to be at ease with it. A corollary
of the use of Indonesian in such situations is that
the social distance of such interlocutors is less-
ened, an idea that is favored by many, however,
in other ways and which is expressed by saying
that the tall should try to be shorter, the shorter
should be made taller; and the use of Indonesian
saves the face of young people who are not adept
with fine Balinese. Few people on Lombok address
“caste” Balinese in Indonesian, except in official
circumstances in town or, say, the village office;
and if they did, they should expect a sharp rebuke
(all be it a humorous one).13 Those who cannot
speak fine Balinese, however, are considered stu-
pid (belog), afar from flattering epithet that has
connections (see below) with demons and hence
darkness and ignorance.
Finally, Indonesian is very often used in the
composition of pantung, a Malay quatrain, that
may be given to one’s special friend or broad-
casted to him or her over local radio.14 What if
anything can be pinpointed as influencing people
to compose in Balinese or in Indonesian I did not
regrettably enquire into. However, it is expectable
that pantung broadcast should be in Indonesian;
the radio station situated in town serves urban
and non-urban areas, and the Balinese and Sasak
(and others) of Lombok. Indonesian, like the two
contingent parts of the Taman Narmada (about
11km east of Mataram), built in 1727 by Anak
Agung Gde Ngurah Karangasem as a replica of
Mount Rinjani, is supposed to unite them; and
then to integrate them into the nation Indonesia.15
As Baumann remarks, “the adoption of a common
language is evidently a key factor in all processes
aimed at ‘national integration’,” and local radio
(and television) stations play a crucial role in the
task of “nation building” (1987: 143; cf. 26 f.). Vil-
lagers’ little pantung are an aspect of this process.
None of what has gone before, however,
should be allowed to detract from the fact that,
13 A young Balinese who in Singaraja addressed Pedanda Gde
as Pak Pedanda received the retort, “Why call me Pak? I am
not your father [genitor]!” Ida Ketut Sideman, a younger
brother of the Pedanda and Deputy Kepala Desa of Pagutan
(to a Sasak Kepala Desa) is regularly addressed as Pak Tut
outside purely Balinese circles.
14 One such, composed by I Wayan Care (see notes 1 and 11),
runs: Saya senang kendara / makan guling kering-kering /
saya paling senang sama Kak Indera / Kakak saya seeing
di kuliling. [I like travelling by sidomo or hemo / eating
crackly spit-roast pig / I like it very much with Kak Andrew
/ my “elder brother” (Kak Andrew) is often out and about
(and I go with him).]
15 The “function” of the Taman Narmada is closely akin to that
of the Taman Mini Indonesia, a tourist attraction in Jakarta
that depicts the whole of Indonesia created by the wife of
the present President as a part of the new ritual structure
that is being created by the New Order Military Regime
(cf. Evers 1984: 147-149). It is no coincidence that in the
Taman Narmada the eastern part represents the Balinese,
the western part the Sasak: “east” is finer than “west” in
Balinese ideology.
Anthropos 85.1990
338
Andrew Duff-Cooper
when the Balinese wish to communicate with other
Balinese, they nearly always do so in their own
language. That Balinese consists of “several lexi-
cal sets with ranked terms for the same object or
act” (Hobart 1987: 39) is well-known; it has also
long been recognized that using the inappropriate
term, i.e., the term from the wrong lexical set, is
not just impolite, but is an offence against what
in Balinese theology (sarva-tattva) is depicted as
the divinely instituted order of the cosmos (e.g.,
Swellengrebel 1950). This is still very much so in
Pagutan, where the Balinese are quietly satisfied
with what might be called their linguistic (and so-
cial) conservatism, that is, in their behaving more
in accordance with what are taken to be the prop-
er linguistic and social customs and conventions
than many Balinese on Bali (cf. van den Hey den
1936: 168).
The mystical aspects of politeness are also
readily intelligible in the light of the ideas briefly
expounded above (chap. 2); and these ideas go
some way in suggesting why people such as Pe-
danda Gde lament sadly more than contemptuously
the ignorance of many young people in spoken
Balinese (though not in written Balinese which is
not their nor most others’ province, though it is
now taught at one of the local elementary schools).
For the ignorant are assigned by their stupidity
to the realm of darkness (awidya). Only people
possessed of “knowledge” (widya), and who live
their lives in ways that are based upon it, are able
to attain the realm of the high gods, and perhaps
even freedom from rebirth and (re-)union with
Vidhi or the sun god, Surya.
One of the ways in which the order of the
Balinese universe is often conceived is hierarchi-
cally, i.e., as an organization of grades or classes
ranked one above another in a series with a top
and a bottom (cf., e.g., Needham 1987; 128, 136).
This image is implicit in Hobart’s phrase cited
above, for instance, as in Sherzer’s note (1987:
89 note 6) which refers to language “levels”; and
it is epitomized in Guermonprez’s reference to “a
hierarchical principle that informs all aspects of
Balinese society” (1985: 66).
Yet these formulations and others like them
leave out of account the fact that in many con-
texts classes are not ranked in a series with a top
and a bottom (like the three aspects into which
a human physical body [sthula sarira] may be
divided [Duff-Cooper 1986c: 122-125]), but are
juxtaposed or are contingent in the horizontal
plane, like the courts of a temple or indeed a
reclining human body. Here the relationships of
the courts or of the aspects of the body one to
another are not represented by the familiar device
of elevation, but by their closeness to or distance
from a point of reference. The formulations, also,
leave out of account the fact that languages do not
have levels, and that lexical sets are not ranked;
that only about 100 Balinese words have fine and
other forms; and that a principle of equality (as it
has been called [cf., e.g., Duff-Cooper 1985zz and
c; Sanger 1985: 57]) is also discernible in aspects
of Balinese life and thought.
This is worth following up in relation to the
Balinese language. It would be going too far to
suggest that because there are various words for,
say, “eat” which are properly applied to different
specific classes of being, and even to beings of one
class that what each of these classes or specific
being does when he, she, or it “eats” is different
(cf. Hobart 1987: 39): this is not borne out by my
enquiries (Duff-Cooper 1985^: 126), and such a
suggestion runs counter to the spirit of what I was
taught about such matters in the Gria and, later,
Baturujung. Take compound temples: a “caste”
compound temple (mrajan) and a Sudra compound
temple (sanggah) differ in various ways but rather
as different kinds of lamp are still all lamps, so
they are both compound temples. The form they
take (and much else) is correlated with certain
classes of being, as indeed are all temples which
constitute the class “pura.” This class is polythetic
in that the members of it have a sporadic or family
resemblance one to another. (This goes, too, for
other classes of action and being such as “eat,”
“sleep,” “think,” and “god.”
But temples are not ranked one on top of
another, with one at the top and one at the bottom;
nor are they contingent or juxtaposed; they are
related, and the relations are represented in var-
ious ways that include ranking and juxtaposition.
This, I suggest, goes for all aspects of Balinese
life; and rather as the relations that obtain among
temples, say, may be more or less asymmetrical
(Duff-Cooper 1985/), so the relations that obtain
among the words of the lexical sets that differ
in form but which signify the same thing (in a
pragmatic sense) or action may be more or less
asymmetrical depending upon the point of ref-
erence and the criteria adopted for their relative
assessment. In some cases, i.e., the vast majority of
Balinese words that do not possess a fine, coarse,
or other form, the relations that obtain among
the sets are symmetrical. In the cases where the
words possess different forms (as many as ten or
more), the relations among the sets are more or
less asymmetrical depending upon the forms of
the particular words chosen for assessment. These
Anthropos 85.1990
The Multilingualism of a Balinese Community in Western Lombok
339
relations are also, of course, symbolized in various
ways - for instance, by reference to fineness and
coarseness, to related colours, or by ranking them
- for as Levi remarks (1933: 79), “il n’y a de
noblesse que dans le symbole.”
In these respects, I suggest, the Balinese lan-
guage or the lexical sets that compose it, do
not differ (expectedly) from any other aspect of
Balinese life. It may therefore be that to isolate
language as an object of study is to distort it.16 In
any case, it is no surprise that to discuss speech
and language, as to analyse a chunk of dialogue,
other apparently disparate aspects of Balinese have
to be taken into account; and in the stress on such
formal notions as symmetry, asymmetry, and point
of reference in considering Balinese lexical sets
as a whole, the scene is at once set for more
detailed analysis and for comparison, while the
limitations imposed by the spatial metaphor of
ranking are transcended. This move to greater ab-
straction, further, has the advantage that it accords
with what Balinese life should consist of, viewed
under the aspect of metaphysics (sarva-surya),
namely a gradual progress away from the material
toward the essential, the apotheosis of which is of
course Ida Sang Hyang Vidhi, the goal of all who,
knowledgeably, aspire to the paradisical state of
freedom from rebirth and complete release from
the material.
4. Concluding Remarks
The fourth core element - resilience in the face
of outside influences - that J. P. B. de Josselin de
Jong propounded the heuristic value of in 1935 is
much less specific than the other three elements
(P. E. de Josselin de Jong 1985: 199), but he was
nonetheless (or perhaps thereby) able to show that
the forms that this element took in the Hinduiza-
tion and later Islamization of Java were different
one from another. He also was led to suggest,
plausibly, that the resilience referred to could be
active or passive (1977: 180); in the latter case,
we can interpret this as “resistance,” though the
participants in it may not have seen or see what
they did in that way. For the present purpose,
however, such a possibility does not weigh.
Forty years later, and without apparent ref-
erence to de Josselin de Jong’s “structural core
16 Perhaps that language is the principal mode of cognition
upon which much of an ethnographer’s other data depend
(cf. Baumann 1987: 24), and the reasons given by Sherzer
(1987) justify its isolation for study.
element,” van der Kraan wrote (1975: 97) that it
was striking “the extent to which the island [Lom-
bok] played a passive and receptive, rather than
a dynamic [active], role in its relations with other
powers in the archipelago.” True, these remarks
are addressed at the early history of the island, but
they might also be thought applicable to its later
history as after the Balinese the Dutch first (from
1843 when the ruler of Mataram acknowledged by
treaty the sovereignty of the Netherlands over the
island to March 1942), then the Japanese (until
October 1945), and then briefly the Australians,
and then again the Dutch, and, finally, the Javanese
and other Muslims like Sasak (from around July
1946) successively exercised jural authority over
the island’s population.
Of course, there was resistance (“active” re-
silience) to some of these outside influences: in
1894 a Dutch punitive expedition led by generals
Vitter and van Ham was repulsed and van Ham
was killed; and between October 1945 and July
1946, when the Dutch flag again flew over the
island after the capitulation of the Japanese, and
with their assistance, there were (I was told) cells
of resistance on Lombok, armed by the Japa-
nese, to the Dutch (cf., e.g., Dennis 1987). Less
spectacularly, perhaps, when the Balinese came
to realize that the arrival of Japanese troops in
the village usually meant the theft of rice, eggs,
and other foodstuffs and the abduction (and sub-
sequent rape)17 of young women, they took the
precaution (I was told) of hiding both when a
visitation from the Japanese seemed immanent. Yet
some people now much older, such as I Nengah
Semer, supported the arrival of and collaborated
with the Japanese on Lombok; and others admitted
that they knelt at the side of the road as Japanese
soldiers passed (as they had to, otherwise they
would have been beaten) and passively submitted
to being chain-ganged in support of the Japanese
war effort.
All of that raises numerous questions. What
exactly is meant by “active” and “passive”? Not
only can these words each convey different ideas
in English, but it is far from obvious that these
ideas would correspond with Balinese (or Sasak)
notions of the active and the passive, which are
connected with the relationship of a married man
and woman (kuren), enjoyer (“active,” purusa) and
enjoyed (“passive,” pradhana) respectively. They
might also be rendered into Balinese by hard-
working (rajin) and lazy (mayus) or pig-like (kiul),
17 On Balinese ideas connected with rape (ngosa), see, e.g.,
Duff-Cooper (1985c; 416 f.).
Anthropos 85.1990
340
Andrew Duff-Cooper
but again these words do not convey what “active”
and “passive” in their normal English acceptations
convey. Which pair, if any, are we to adopt?
Then, the notions employed by J. P. B. de
Josselin de Jong and later by van der Kraan imply
a scale of evaluation against which a process or
an activity can be set. But neither provides such
a scale, and it is not self-evident. Presumably
“active” and “passive” would have to be separately
assessed in each instance, though by what criteria
is obscure, except that presumably these must not
be relative but absolute. And will the assessment
be in terms of an “external” criterion, e.g., of, say,
an example of “active” resilience? If so, then the
questions already raised again arise. Or is it to be
an “internal” criterion, for instance, the resistance
to the Dutch by Lombok in 1894? If so, then
another question arises: Is kneeling on the road
before passing Japanese soldiers resilience, and, if
so, active or passive? Coincidentally, in Japanese
terms it could qualify as “active” resilience, but
we should perhaps have to think hard before so
assessing it by English or American standards of
resistance. What about hiding goods and women?
Is this resilience? If so, is it active or passive?
There is one major problem, moreover: Talk
about Lombok does not take account of what may
be differences between different parts of the island
and between different communities in those parts
and indeed between Balinese and Sasak commu-
nities in the same part of the island.
A comparative example, finally, can usefully
be taken into account here. The Miri of the Nuba
mountains in the Sudan could be viewed as a
case, like Lombok, of a peripheral area subject to
outside influence from, in this case, the national
Sudanese polity. Bauman writes (1987: 5) that
“while national integration as an aim of policy
tends ... to be defined at the centre of a state, its
constituent processes take place not in the centre,
but on the peripheries ...” - in local communities
which might look passive such as where Baumann
did field research and as Pagutan but which are in
fact very active.
The processes involved in response to such
outside influence as a national integration policy
have two characteristics that are relevant here:
first, “they cut across conventional domains of
economics or politics, religious, secular values, or
music”; this is encouraging: none of these dis-
tinctions is indigenous to Balinese ideology and
we should not therefore expect processes to be
describable in terms of them - if we recognize
(this is the second relevant characteristic) that
the converse of policies of national integration,
which in one guise or another is what Lombok
has been the butt of throughout its describable
history at least, is what Baumann exactly terms
“local redintegration,” which refers to the pro-
cesses that “aim at restoring and renewing a local
community to its state of wholeness as its members
perceive it. ... When national integration aims at
making local communities part of a new whole,”
for instance, part of (a new) Karangasem, or of
a new Netherlands, Japan, or Indonesia, “local
redintegration consists of processes aimed at pre-
serving, restoring, or renewing that community’s
sense of wholeness, however it is locally defined”
(1987: 3).
It is not, of course, claimed that J. P. B. de
Josselin de Jong was discussing, by reference
to Hinduization and Islamization, processes that
are on all fours with the processes in the Sudan
described and discussed by Baumann; nor is it
claimed that the Miri and the Balinese of Lom-
bok are at all similar (though comparison might
well reveal significant similarities between them).
What is claimed is that Baumann’s notion “local
redintegration” avoids the problems with “active”
and “passive” encountered above, and suggests
that we might profitably enquire whether processes
associated with local redintegration have been at
work on (passive!) Lombok. This is especially
so when, as Hooykaas phrases a contention that
is familiar to students of forms of Balinese life,
“times change and the Balinese change with them;
but: the more they change, the more they remain
the same Balinese” (1976: 60).
The epigrammatic assertion may be inter-
preted in at least two ways: (1) that although
the material (sakala) aspects of Balinese forms
of life change, the essential (niskala) aspects do
not (learned Balinese that I know would gener-
ally concur in this view of changes that occur
in Balinese life); and (2) that processes of local
redintegration maintain the integrity (wholeness)
of these forms of life, where by wholeness is meant
not a whole with rigidly defined boundaries, but
one in which there obtains a very large measure at
least of internal consistency and dependency with-
in flexible and resilient boundaries of an ideolog-
ical kind. Balinese life may be said to exemplify
the latter kind of whole, as is well shown by, for
example, the incorporation of reliefs of “Hollan-
ders drinking beer and cranking a motor-car” on
the walls of north Balinese temples (Covarrubias
1937; 202 f., plates, 7) and all the technological
and other changes that have been taken up by
the Balinese in their various ways, including, of
course, the foreign languages described above.
Anthropos 85.1990
The Multilingualism of a Balinese Community in Western Lombok
341
Naturally it would require a study of mono-
graph length to explicate the processes of local
redintegration concerned. Here it can only be sug-
gested that a key idea in these processes is that
everything in the Balinese world has its place (go-
nah/linggih/tongos). By place, of course, is here
meant not one physical location, but a structur-
al position that one thing (again, in a pragmatic
sense) occupies in relation to another such thing,
and, where these things are of an even number,
relative to a point of reference. This point may
(does) take a variety of forms.
This notion would satisfy the criterion that
Baumann alludes to, namely the way in which
processes of local redintegration cut across “our”
categories of politics, economics, religion, and the
rest, for the notion of “place” (sc. position) is one
that pervades so many aspects of Balinese life,
including what we might term “economics,”18 that
it has been referred to as an “absolute presupposi-
tion” of Balinese ideology (Duff-Cooper 1984b: 3,
35 f.).19 The question now is: Can this idea help us
better to appreciate the significance of the social
facts described in chap. 3 above?
I think it can. Generally, it is well-known,
the lexical sets that constitute Balinese are to
be employed according to rules (deduced from
linguistic practice and admirably expounded by
Kersten [1970: 13-25] and Zurbuchen [1987: 41-
81]) which in general correlate lexical sets with
position: the finer the language, the finer (or the
higher or to the more to the right or the east or the
closer to a chosen point of reference) the auditor
or person referred to.
In the case of the other languages that are
employed to a greater or lesser degree in Pagutan,
as described, the fact that they derive from those
who at one time or another have exercised jural
authority over the Balinese is readily explicable:
as Hocart pointed out some time ago, the desire
“to emulate one’s betters has been a most potent,
perhaps the most potent, force in the diffusion of
customs” (1970: 212). This process is evinced in
18 See, e.g., Duff-Cooper (1985/: 30). - The treatment that
“economics” here receives tends to refute much of the
burden of P. E. de Josselin de Jong’s contention (1977:
26) that “structuralists have been unable to find a suitable
approach to this aspect of culture,” though he was of course
writing some years before the study by the present writer
appeared in 1986.
19 Much needs to be said about Hobart’s arguments against
“absolute presuppositions which somehow lie behind, or
govern, surface manifestations” for they are very much off
the mark (1986a: 137-139), but space precludes it being
said here. They will be addressed on another occasion.
Baturujung by Sudra coming gradually to do and
to explain what they do in relation to twins by
reference to what the “castes” have for long done
(as it is evinced, though in different connexions,
in the influence that centers have upon the tastes
and interests, if not more, of peripheries [cf. Duff-
Cooper 1988&]). It is only expectable that language
should also be so diffused.
Although these languages are those of the
jural betters, so to say, of the Balinese, it is
noteworthy that their employment is almost wholly
limited either to the very finest or oldest members
of the community (Old Javanese, Sanskrit) or, else,
that they are mainly restricted in practice to places
outside the centers that the compound and the vil-
lage represent, as were and are the peoples whose
languages have thus far been assimilated into Ba-
linese life. That is, peoples and their languages
(sc. inferior sounds) are relegated by the Balinese
to “inferior” places with which the peoples are
correlated (cf., e.g., Hobart 1986a: 136 f.); while
the textual authority of Old Javanese and Sanskrit
(as indeed the other ideas that surround them and
Balinese, but which do not surround the other
languages) render them fit only for the finest and
most learned of Balinese to employ; and although
the jepung (we have seen) is a favored means of
entertainment and of offering, it is noteworthy,
first, that performances for Balinese people are
limited to Sudra (Pedanda Gde told me that he
would not countenance a performance in the Gria
and implied that I had commissioned one for the
wedding of Pak Care only because I had been
tainted by the coarseness of village life which is
“dirtier” physically often and ideologically always
than life in a Gria or any “caste” compound);
and, second, that the Sasak are (apart from In-
dian Hindus) taken to be the group (bangsa) of
people closest of all non-Balinese to the Balinese,
on Lombok at any rate, though for some classi-
ficatory purposes the Sasak are included among
Anak Java, i.e., Indonesians.20 The performance
of jepung in Sudra compounds is thus consistent,
especially as the money which is exchanged with
other things for the performance may purify it as
on one account (Hobart 1980: 55) anything that is
exchanged for money is “‘purified by the market’.”
Incidentally, I see no tension between the
above and the fact that “opname” is employed
for an important mystical operation, the cleansing
of a person’s disturbed soul, that is based on the
20 One of the Pedanda’s closest friends (Ind. sahabat) was an
“anak Java saking Flores,” i.e., an Indonesian from Flores
and, incidentally, a Christian.
Anthropos 85.1990
342
Andrew Duff-Cooper
Gria. The times when the Dutch ruled the Balinese
are considered the best they have enjoyed (we have
already noted) under foreign rule; images of Queen
Wilhelmina of the Netherlands are still revered and
are kept on the top shelf of the cupboard where
a “family’s” purest and finest belongings such as
unused sarongs, waist-cloths (slempot), and gold
and jewellery (the god Sedana) are kept; Pedanda
Gdé’s late father, the Pedanda Bhatara, who is said
to have lived over 120 years [as everyone used to
live “before” (sané dumun), i.e., before Moslems
and such like gained control of the island and it
became ruined], used often to fly to Holland to
visit her; and, as a mighty compliment, I was said,
by some, to be a reincarnation of the Dutch Resi-
dent Liefrinck, by others, a Brahmana, all be it an
illegitimate (astra) one. These facts all suggest that
the Dutch were in some ways admired, and that the
use of a word like opname for such an important
mystical operation signifies that admiration, rather
as conscious use of French vocabulary by Khmer
appears in some contexts to indicate admiration
(Jacob 1986: 128).
None of this, though, is an explanation of our
data; it is a way of ordering the data, however,
which is consonant with the principles that order
other disparate aspects of Balinese life. In this we
have done no more than have the Balinese who
have taken up these languages without compromis-
ing their local integrity. What, of course, we have
not been able to do is to say why a particular word
like “stanplat” has been taken up. Such explana-
tions would in all likelihood have to be conjectural,
for the employment of individual words such as
this is probably a facet of imaginative inclinations
that may not be amenable to analysis.21
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Anthropos 85.1990
Anthropos 85.1990: 345-372
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
Zur Theorie und Praxis der ethnographischen Beschreibung
Martin Rössler
Abstract. - This paper examines the application of both cog-
nitive and symbolic/interpretive approaches to the analysis of
specific cultural domains, in particular to the analysis of ritual.
The data sources, referring to a most significant ritual in a rural
Makassar community, are subdivided into three categories,
namely various verbal statements, an indigenous written text
describing form and contents of the ritual, and information
resulting from participant observation during its actual per-
formance. The argumentation shifts from a formal analysis
of the ritual schema to a discussion of the question to what
extent verbal statements as well as the written text have to be
conceived of as indigenous interpretations of the local culture,
which in turn are interpreted by the ethnographer. It is sug-
gested that both cognitive and symbolic/interpretive approaches
should complementary be referred to for a fruitful analysis of
at least some domains of cultural knowledge. [Sulawesi, ritual,
cognition, interpretation, text analysis, ethnographic texts]
Martin Rössler, Dr. phil. (Köln 1987), Hochschulassistent am
Institut für Völkerkunde der Universität Göttingen. Interessen-
gebiete; Soziale Organisation, Religion; Wirtschaft, Linguistik,
Theorie und Methode; Indonesien. 1984/85 Feldforschung in
Süd-Sulawesi. - Veröffentlichungen: Die soziale Realität des
Rituals: Kontinuität und Wandel bei den Makassar von Go-
wa (Süd-Sulawesi/Indonesien) (Berlin 1987); (mit B. Röttger-
Rössler) Sprache und soziale Wertschätzung; Soziolinguistische
Aspekte des Makassarischen (in: K. H. Pampus und B. Notho-
fer [Hrsg.], Die deutsche Malaiologie. Heidelberg 1988).
1. Einleitung
Die aktuelle ethnologische Theoriendiskussion
konzentriert sich im wesentlichen auf Bereiche,
die in ihrer Interdisziplinarität mehr und mehr
fortzuführen scheinen von den unmittelbaren Er-
fahrungen, die Ethnologen im Verlaufe ihrer em-
pirischen Forschungen machen, d. h., von ihrem
Leben in einer fremden Kultur und den alltäglichen
Situationen, innerhalb derer sie diese Kultur zu
erlernen und zu verstehen versuchen. Die Begriffe
des Erlemens und des Verstehens weisen hierbei
schon auf zwei bedeutende Richtungen der heuti-
gen Theoriendiskussion hin, die von unterschiedli-
chen Ausgangspositionen her darauf abzielen, das
innerste Wesen, das Charakteristische einer Kultur
zu erfassen, indem entweder vornehmlich analy-
siert wird, wie das Denken bzw. die mentalen Pro-
zesse der Menschen in dieser Kultur strukturiert
sind, oder unter expliziter Einbeziehung des exter-
nen Beobachters der Versuch unternommen wird,
Kultur als Ganzes zu „verstehen“ und verständlich
zu machen.
Die neuere kognitive Ethnologie bezieht ihre
methodischen Anregungen dabei in immer stärke-
rem Maße aus der kognitiven Psychologie und der
Künstlichen-Intelligenz-Forschung (s. den Über-
blick von Kokot et al. 1982). Der Mangel an über-
zeugenden Studien, die solche theoretischen und
methodischen Grundlagen mit empirischer Feld-
forschung in nicht-westlichen Kulturen verbinden
- wie etwa Hutchins’ (1980) Analyse kognitiver
Prozesse auf Trobriand -, scheint die Problema-
tik dieser Entwicklung aus ethnologischer Sicht
eindeutig zu belegen. Trotz zahlreicher gegen-
seitiger Berührungspunkte (s. Colby etal. 1981)
bildet die symbolistische Ethnologie wohl, zu-
mindest im Hinblick auf den Grad der Forma-
lisierung des methodischen Vorgehens, den Ge-
genpol zu diesen Ansätzen, wobei die Versuche
einer systematischen Mikroanalyse des Symboli-
schen wie etwa bei Turner (z. B. 1967), Sperber
(1975) oder Strecker (1988) in der rezenten Dis-
kussion mittlerweile von der (US-amerikanischen)
Betrachtungsweise verdrängt werden, welche von
der Gesamtkultur als Symbolsystem (Schneider
1976) oder Bedeutungssystem (D’Andrade 1984)
ausgeht. Dieses Verfahren, das essentiell auf her-
meneutischen Prinzipien basiert, wird sicherlich
in den Arbeiten von Clifford Geertz am konse-
quentesten reflektiert und gleichzeitig am offen-
sichtlichsten einer breitgefächerten Kritik ausge-
liefert (z. B. Shankman 1984; Munson 1986; Wat-
son 1989). Das „Verstehen“ der Kultur, oder -
davon ausgehend - das Verstehen des Wesens,
der kulturspezifischen Erfahrungen und Motiva-
tionen der in ihr lebenden Menschen (Shweder
and LeVine 1984; Turner and Bruner 1986) ein-
schließlich aller damit einhergehenden “fashion-
able postmodem relativisms” (Keesing 1989: 459)
346
Martin Rössler
wird darüber hinaus in wachsendem Maße durch
die Diskussion der Rolle des Ethnologen als Autor
erweitert, welche ihrerseits heute die Diskussion
um seine Rolle als Feldforscher in den Hintergrund
stellt (z. B. Marcus and Cushman 1982; Clifford
and Marcus 1986; Strathem 1987; Geertz 1988).
Dilthey und Rickert, Gadamer und Ricoeur,
Shakespeare und James Frazer, Roger Schank und
seine Computersimulationen sind - neben zahlrei-
chen verwandten - die Ideengeber eines großen
Teiles der rezenten theoretischen Diskussion, und
zu vielen bereits vorhandenen -ismen trat auch
in der Ethnologie der „Postmodemismus“ in das
Zentrum der Aufmerksamkeit (s, z. B. Ardener
1985; Sangren 1988). Es ist hier weder meine Ab-
sicht, diese Ansätze einem detaillierten Vergleich
zu unterziehen, noch, der umfangreichen Debat-
te um eine einzelne dieser Richtungen und ihre
Anwendbarkeit in der Ethnologie einen weiteren
Beitrag hinzuzufügen. Es soll vielmehr um die
Frage gehen, inwieweit die mit diesen Ansätzen
einhergehenden generellen Standpunkte einander
ergänzend verwendet werden können, um ein kon-
kretes Fallbeispiel zu analysieren und zu repräsen-
tieren, so daß Stärken und Schwächen, Vor- und
Nachteile, Möglichkeiten und Grenzen der zitier-
ten theoretischen und methodischen Foci reflek-
tiert werden können. Das Fallbeispiel ist ein Ritual,
das innerhalb der makassarischen Kultur auf Süd-
Sulawesi/Indonesien einen zentralen Stellenwert
einnimmt, und das, wie ich ausführlicher erklären
werde, in seiner Komplexität den gesamten Verlauf
unseres Feldaufenthaltes in dieser Kultur entschei-
dend mitgeprägt hat.1 Treffender formuliert, prägte
das Erlernen aller mit diesem Ritual in Verbindung
stehenden Aspekte des lokalen Überzeugungssy-
stems und der sozio-politischen Organisation ei-
nen großen Teil des Aufenthaltes in der von uns
untersuchten Gemeinschaft, wobei sich das Erler-
nen auf drei komplementäre Dimensionen bezog,
die im folgenden von Bedeutung sein werden:
Es vollzog sich 1) in Form von zahllosen, meist
nicht kohärenten Informationen von verschiedenen
Dorfbewohnern, 2) in Form eines Textes, einer
schriftlichen Abhandlung des Ritual-Ablaufes und
-Inhaltes von seiten eines Einheimischen, und 3) in
Form der Beobachtung dieses (sehr seltenen) Ri-
tuals, zu der wir glücklicher- und zufälligerweise
die Gelegenheit bekamen.
1 Die Feldforschung in Süd-Sulawesi führte ich gemeinsam
mit meiner Frau vom April 1984 bis März 1985 durch.
Sie wurde von der indonesischen Forschungsbehörde LIPI
unterstützt, und von der Universitas Hasanuddin in Ujung
Pandang gesponsert.
Im folgenden soll nun der Versuch unter-
nommen werden, die sich aus den zitierten drei
Dimensionen ergebenden Informationen unter An-
wendung von Verfahren der kognitiven, symboli-
stischen und interpretativen Ethnologie analytisch
zu verarbeiten, und zwar nicht unter dem Schwer-
punkt, daß allein Ablauf, Gegenstand und Komple-
xität des Rituals selbst dargestellt werden, sondern
vor allem in Gestalt einer kritischen Reflexion
1) des Lernprozesses des Ethnologen, 2) des Cha-
rakters der zur Verfügung stehenden Informationen
und 3) der Art der Präsentation dieser Informatio-
nen in einer Weise, die sowohl ihnen selbst mög-
lichst gerecht wird als auch dem Leser das Nach-
vollziehen der Präsentation erlaubt. Die mit die-
sen drei eng aufeinander bezogenen Faktoren ver-
bundenen Überlegungen sind der hier vertretenen
Auffassung gemäß Gegenstand der Ethnographie,
wie sie heute vorwiegend im englischen Sprach-
gebrauch verstanden wird (ethnography), nämlich
sowohl als ein Prozeß, innerhalb dessen ein um-
fassendes Verstehen der Kultur einer menschli-
chen Gemeinschaft angestrebt wird, als auch als
Produkt in Gestalt des Textes, der Repräsentation
des Erlernten mit der Intention, Kultur zu deuten
und dadurch ein Verstehen zu vermitteln (s. Agar
1980a: 1 f.; Sperber 1989: 22 f. zur Abgrenzung
gegenüber der verallgemeinernden Ethnologie).
Der Stellenwert des betreffenden Rituals er-
laubt darüber hinaus die Einbeziehung themati-
scher Bereiche, die aus methodisch oder theore-
tisch bedingten Gründen meist nicht ausreichend
in ihren gegenseitigen Zusammenhängen analy-
siert werden (s. Schweizer 1988: 61), nämlich
die Beziehungen zwischen kognitiven Mustern /
kulturellem Wissen und ihrer Umsetzung in ri-
tuelle Handlung, sowie zwischen den darin ein-
begriffenen Domänen des Überzeugungssystems
und der sozio-politischen Organisation. Die Tat-
sache, daß die Bereiche „Ritual“ und „sozio-po-
litische Organisation“ zum klassischen Arbeitsbe-
reich der symbolistischen und interpretativen Eth-
nologie zählen, während sich die kognitive Ethno-
logie primär mit Handlungen und Überzeugungen
als Teil kulturellen Wissens befaßt, weist bereits
darauf hin, daß sich hier die komplementäre An-
wendung dieser verschiedenen Ansätze anbietet.
Ziel der folgenden Ausführungen soll nun sein, zu
untersuchen, wie sie konkret auf ein empirisches
Fallbeispiel bezogen werden können, ohne für sich
zum Selbstzweck zu geraten.
Das hier präsentierte Ritual wird im Rahmen
einer Gemeinschaft vollzogen, die meine Frau und
ich unter anderen Zielsetzungen als der hier ge-
stellten beschrieben haben (Rössler 1987; Röttger-
Anthropos 85.1990
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
347
Rössler 1989). Es handelt sich um ein makassari-
sches Dorf im östlichen Hochland des kabupaten
Gowa in der indonesischen Provinz Süd-Sulawesi,
dessen etwa 800 Einwohner nahezu ausschließlich
vom Naßreisanbau leben, der noch weitgehend auf
traditionelle Weise vorgenommen wird. Die sozia-
len und religiösen Verhältnisse in dieser Region
sind heute geprägt von einem sich sehr rasch voll-
ziehenden Wandel; in allen Bereichen des Lebens
sind durch administrative Reformen, intensivierte
Islamisierung, Ausbau der schulischen Erziehung
und vielfältige städtische Einflüsse aus Ujung Pan-
dang in den letzten 30 Jahren Veränderungen zu
verzeichnen. Dennoch treten die traditionelle poli-
tische Führung (in Gestalt des aus vier Ämtern
bestehenden Adat-Rates), die soziale Organisa-
tion, deren wichtigstes Charakteristikum regional
weit verbreitete Netzwerke von Verwandten auf
der Basis bilateraler Deszendenzgruppen (rama-
ges) sind, sowie Konzeptionen der prä-islamischen
Religion insbesondere im Vollzug von Riten als
Faktoren zutage, die zum größten Teil noch heute
einen bedeutenden Stellenwert im dörflichen Le-
ben einnehmen. Bei dem im folgenden beschrie-
benen Ritual handelt es sich also weder um ein
anachronistisches Relikt einer von den Dorfbe-
wohnern schon fast vergessenen Tradition noch
um eine religiöse Handlung in einer „traditionellen
Gemeinschaft“, die von ihrer offiziell propagierten
Einbindung in eine fortschrittliche Nationalgesell-
schaft unberührt ist. Dieser Hintergrund ist ins-
besondere für das Verständnis der Art und Weise
wichtig, in welcher der unten wiedergegebene in-
digene Text formuliert ist: Ablauf und Inhalt des
Rituals sind im Dorf noch gegenwärtig und für
die hier lebenden Menschen wichtig, werden je-
doch durch ihre heutige Lebenssituation beständig
herausgefordert.
2. Gelübde und Ritual: Das Erlernen erster
Zusammenhänge
Die erste Phase einer ethnologischen Feldfor-
schung bringt wohl häufig das Problem mit sich,
daß sich der Beobachter mit einer ihm zunächst un-
durchdringlich erscheinenden Fülle von teils mehr,
teils weniger kohärenten Detailinformationen kon-
frontiert sieht, die sich nicht selten auf bestimm-
te Aspekte der betreffenden Kultur konzentrieren.
Bei den Makassar im Hochland von Gowa war
der Hauptgegenstand der Unterhaltung zu Beginn
unseres Aufenthaltes das Gelübde (tinja ) und -
neben den vielen kleineren daran gebundenen Ri-
ten (s. Rössler 1987: 181-231) - vor allem die
Riten des „Bewachens“ (a’jaga) und des Bestrei-
chens des lokalen Heiligtums mit Opferblut (ac-
cera kalompoang). Bei den kalompoang (wört-
lich „Größe“) handelt es sich um Gegenstände
sehr unterschiedlicher Gestalt, wie etwa Fahnen,
Schwerter, Porzellangefäße etc., die ursprünglich
sowohl für die sozio-politische als auch für die re-
ligiöse Organisation makassarischer Fürstentümer,
Dorfverbände und einzelner Dörfer eine wichtige
Rolle spielten. Einem kalompoang wohnt der loka-
len Vorstellung zufolge stets eine besondere Kraft
inne, die meist mit dem Geist der Gründerin der
betreffenden politischen Einheit, einem aus dem
Götterhimmel herabgestiegenen Wesen, assoziiert
wird. Die politische Führung, durch das Heiligtum
legitimiert, wird traditionell von Männern aus-
geübt, die als direkte Nachfahren des göttlichen
Wesens angesehen werden, jedoch nur als irdische
Sachwalter der politischen Autorität gelten und
gleichzeitig für die Pflege des kalompoang ver-
antwortlich sind. Im Gegensatz zur heute bedeu-
tungslosen Rolle der kalompoang im politischen
Bereich ist ihr Stellenwert im religiösen Kontext
nach wie vor hoch.2
Der dem Heiligtum innewohnende Geist
nimmt eine Mittlerposition zwischen den Men-
schen, d. h. meist den Mitgliedern einer Dorfge-
meinschaft oder einer Verwandtengruppe, und der
höchsten Gottheit ein, die heute in oberflächlicher
Anlehnung an islamische Konzepte häufig mit Ala-
ta’ala bezeichnet wird.
Was uns in diesem Zusammenhang in der er-
sten Phase unseres Aufenthaltes mitgeteilt wurde,
läßt sich wie folgt zusammenfassen: Ein Mensch
kann sich mit einem Gelübde an eine höhere Macht
wenden, um bestimmte Wünsche in Erfüllung ge-
hen zu lassen oder um die Hilfe dieser Macht zu
erbitten. Neben einer Reihe von anderen Gelübden
ist es besonders wirkungsvoll, sich dabei an das
kalompoang zu wenden. Entsprechende Anlässe
können beispielsweise sein, daß man dem Heilig-
tum verspricht, ihm einige Bananen, Hühner, eine
Ziege oder gar einen Büffel zu opfern, wenn es
eine in der Familie grassierende Krankheit abzu-
wenden helfe, oder auch - im städtischen Rah-
men -, wenn es zum Erwerb eines neuen Autos
oder zum Ablegen eines guten Examens beitra-
ge. Ist das Erbetene eingetreten bzw. das Unheil
abgewendet, so wird das Einlösen des Gelübdes
2 Zu diesen Unterschieden im religiösen und politischen Be-
reich siehe Rössler 1990a. Zu den kalompoang im allgemei-
nen s. Eerdmans 1897: 63-65; Friedericy 1933: 491-501;
Mattulada 1977: 62; Rössler 1987; 84-90.
Anthropos 85.1990
348
Martin Rössler
zwingend erforderlich, weil der Geist dem Betref-
fenden ansonsten Unheil zufügt. Da insbesondere
das Einlösen eines auf das Opfern eines Büffels
bezogenen Gelübdes mit hohen Kosten verbun-
den ist, werden die entsprechenden Riten in aller
Regel erst dann durchgeführt, wenn der Geist die
Säumigen durch das Zufügen weiteren Unheils an
ihr Versprechen „erinnert“ hat. Einen besonderen
Stellenwert- im Rahmen dieser Riten nimmt das
erwähnte a’jaga ein.3 4 Der uns mitgeteilte ideal-
typische Anlaß für die Durchführung eines a’jaga
ist ein Gelübde mit etwa dem folgenden Wortlaut
(wobei es sich hier auf ein krankes Kind bezieht):
„Wenn du mit Hilfe des Allmächtigen gesund und
herangewachsen bist, werde ich dich zu deinem
Heiligtum nach N. bringen und ihm einen Büffel
opfern.“
Von einem Ritual, dem ein solcher Anlaß zu-
grundeliegt, muß prinzipiell das accera kalom-
poang abgegrenzt werden, das ursprünglich peri-
odisch (einmal jährlich) zur Puriiikation und Stär-
kung eines Heiligtums durchgeführt wurde. Ob-
wohl beide Riten außerordentlich viele strukturelle
Gemeinsamkeiten aufweisen, bestehen im Detail,
vor allem im Hinblick auf den damit verbundenen
organisatorischen Aufwand, doch einige Unter-
schiede, die, soweit sie hier von Bedeutung sind,
im folgenden Erwähnung finden werden. Wichtig
ist allerdings, daß aufgrund der heute kaum mehr
zu bewältigenden Schwierigkeiten bei der Durch-
führung eines a’jaga4 die Intention dieses Rituals
der Praxis eines accera kalompoang angeglichen
wird. Das letzte accera kalompoang vor 1984
wurde in dem von uns besuchten Dorf im Jahre
3 Das a’jaga war aller Wahrscheinlichkeit nach ursprünglich
ein dem Adel und der dörflichen politischen Führungs-
schicht vorbehaltener Rite de passage, der erst vor wenigen
Jahrzehnten unter Nicht-Adligen üblich wurde (eigentlich
unberechtigterweise, wie heute noch von Adligen betont
wird). Dem a’jaga in Adelskreisen entspricht das tompolo’
der Freien, das auch eine Reihe von Parallelen zum a’jaga
aufweist (s. Rössler 1987: 205-217). Früher schlossen die
Riten, die sich auf ein Heiligtum bezogen, auch Kriegs-
und Inaugurationsriten ein (s. Niemann 1889). Das accera’
kalompoang wird meinen Informationen zufolge nur in den
Dörfern so benannt, deren kalompoang aus einer Flagge
besteht.
4 Ein a’jaga erfordert die Einladung von Vertretern der
„12 Adat“, d. h. der politischen Führung des ehemaligen lo-
kalen Fürstentums, das aus zahlreichen Dorfgemeinschaften
bestand, heute jedoch in mehrere administrative Einheiten
zersplittert ist (s. Rössler 1990a). Darüber hinaus finden
sich heute keine Leute mehr, die zur Aufführung der für
ein a’jaga notwendigen Tänze bereit wären. Schließlich ist
der Rahmen der Teilnehmer an einem a’jaga wesentlich
größer als bei einem accera’ kalompoang, da im Prinzip
Gäste aus dem gesamten Gebiet des ehemaligen Fürsten-
tums teilnehmen müssen.
1964 durchgeführt, das letzte a’jaga lag noch we-
sentlich länger zurück.
Vom Beginn des Feldaufenthaltes an berichte-
ten uns verschiedene Individuen, egal ob sie dem
Islam näherstanden oder der „Tradition“, unabhän-
gig voneinander immer wieder von den Phäno-
menen des Gelübdes und des „Dinges“ im Hause
des traditionellen Führers (karaeng) - gemeint war
das Heiligtum, dessen Erwähnung heute nahezu
tabuisiert ist -, sowie vom Ritual des a’jaga. Häu-
fig ging es beim letzteren Punkt um schwärmeri-
sche Schilderungen von Details - um das Toben
des Büffels vor seinem gewaltsamen Ende, die
Emotionen mutiger Männer beim Vorbringen des
Treueschwurs gegenüber der Dorfregierung, den
Liebreiz der Mädchen beim pakarena-Tanz, die
Tausende von Gästen aus allen umliegenden Dör-
fern, die endlosen Nächte, die man mit Kartenspie-
len und Erzählen verbringt. Es wurde berichtet von
der Macht, der Unheimlichkeit des Geistes, der
dem Heiligtum innewohnt, von großen Erfolgen,
die es sowohl dem Dorf in längst vergangenen
Kriegszügen als auch vielen Menschen beim Able-
gen von Gelübden gebracht habe. Da die meisten
dieser Schilderungen auf (besonders beeindrucken-
de) Einzelheiten beschränkt waren, und da ohne-
hin nur wenige Individuen heute das erforderliche
Wissen besitzen, um kohärente Aussagen über den
betreffenden Komplex zu machen, war über Mo-
nate hinweg ein latentes Problem gegeben: Wir
verstanden nicht, worum es dabei nun eigentlich
ging, obwohl es sich augenscheinlich um einen
bedeutenden Aspekt der lokalen Kultur handelte.
In dieser Situation bat ich Ngalle, einen da-
mals etwa 45jährigen Bauern, von dem ich den
Eindruck hatte, daß er aufgrund seines großen
Interesses für die lokalen Überlieferungen dazu
in der Lage und bereit sei, um eine möglichst
geordnete Schilderung eines a’jaga. Um eine Dar-
stellung zu erhalten, die möglichst wenig spon-
tan und von zufälligen externen Umständen der
Aufnahmesituation beeinflußt war (wie es etwa
bei einer Tonbandaufnahme der Fall gewesen wä-
re), wünschte ich eine schriftliche Fixierung des
Geschehens. Ngalle war dazu in der Lage, da er
ein verhältnismäßig gutes Indonesisch spricht und
auch schreibt, und weiterhin, da er selbst drei
a jaga-’RÄi&n miterlebt hatte. Für die schriftliche
Fixierung wählte er die Beschreibung des Ritu-
als, das sein Großvater (MF) Ceko vor Jahrzehn-
ten hatte durchführen lassen und dessen Details
innerhalb der Familie noch recht genau überlie-
fert sind. Ngalle brauchte etwa zwei Wochen für
diese Aufgabe, die er vorwiegend während der
Abendstunden mit großer Hingabe erfüllte. Das
Anthropos 85.1990
349
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
Ergebnis waren 10 sehr eng beschriebene Seiten
(etwa 17 Schreibmaschinenseiten entsprechend) in
einem recht fehlerhaften und zum Teil mit makas-
sarischen Wendungen durchsetzten Indonesisch.5
In Zusammenhang mit den von mir bis dahin
gesammelten Informationen erlaubte diese Darstel-
lung nun ein besseres „Verstehen“ (so war ich
zunächst überzeugt) des Komplexes Heiligtum-
GelübdQ-a’jaga. Der glückliche Zufall wollte es
jedoch, daß wenige Wochen später ein ajaga im
Dorf angekündigt wurde, welches dann allerdings
aufgrund organisatorischer Probleme in ein acce-
ra’ kalompoang umgewandelt werden mußte, des-
sen wesentliche Aspekte ich unter einer bestimm-
ten Zielsetzung an anderer Stelle beschrieben und
analysiert habe (Rössler 1987: 186-205).
3. Theoretische Einordnung von Gelübde und
Ritual
Der Stellenwert, den der Komplex des Gelübdes
und der damit verbundenen großen Riten des a ja-
ga und accera’ kalompoang innerhalb der makas-
sarischen Kultur einnimmt, legt die Schlußfolge
rung nahe, daß es sich hierbei um ein zentrales
Thema dieser Kultur handelt. Der Begriff des The-
mas soll in diesem Zusammenhang nicht - wie in
der neueren kognitiven Ethnologie üblich — so ver-
standen werden, als ob es sich dabei um eine Reihe
von aufeinander bezogenen Zielen, individuellen
Handlungsstrategien (s. Schank and Abelson 1977.
131-149; Quinn 1985; 315) im theoretischen Rah-
men des “information-processing”, oder um eine
Dimension innerhalb individueller Erzählstruktu-
ren (Agar 1980b: 229 f.) handle. Er soll hier viel-
mehr im Sinne eines kognitiven Prinzips (d. h. als
etwas, das die Personen in einer gegebenen Kultur
als wahr und gültig akzeptieren) benutzt werden,
das sich gleichzeitig auf verschiedene Domänen
der betreffenden Kultur und auf unterschiedliche
Situationen bezieht und das verschiedene unter-
geordnete Bedeutungssysteme einer Kultur mit-
einander verbindet (Spradley 1979: 185-201, vg .
D’Andrade 1984). Das Gelübde nimmt innerhalb
der makassarischen Kultur eine entsprechende Po-
sition ein, indem es sich gleichermaßen auf as
5 Ich schrieb den Text nochmals in korrigiertem Indonesisch
ab. Um mich zu vergewissern, daß ich keine von ga es
Formulierungen falsch verstanden hatte (einiges war auc
fast unleserlich), sprachen wir den Text dann noc ma s
gemeinsam durch. Für die hier zitierten Passagen a e
ich jedoch ausschließlich das Original herangezogen, a
her auch die etwas „holperigen“ Formulierungen, ie ic
möglichst wortgetreu übersetzt habe.
Überzeugungssystem, auf die Weltanschauung und
das „Ethos“ (Geertz 1973: 126 f.) und auf zahl-
reiche Aspekte der sozialen Organisation bezieht,
und zwar auf einer überindividuellen Ebene, da
dieses Thema ein hohes Maß an Generalität besitzt
und somit weitgehend gemeinsames oder geteiltes
Wissen darstellt (s. u.; vgl. Abelson 1973: 325).
Die einem Gelübde zugrundeliegenden Prin-
zipien werden zur Organisation von Verhaltens-
weisen, zur Interpretation individueller und kol-
lektiver Erfahrung und als Hilfsmittel für das
Erstellen von „Lebensstrategien“ herangezogen,
so daß das Gelübde innerhalb des makassari-
schen Überzeugungssystems6 an der Seite solcher
Aspekte wie Weltanschauung, Ethos, Normen und
Werte eines der wichtigsten Themen darstellt. Die
Einbeziehung der sozialen und politischen Orga-
nisation ist insbesondere in Gestalt der Riten des
ajaga und des accera’ kalompoang gegeben, da
zu diesen Anlässen die Repräsentation der Prinzi-
pien der Deszendenz, der Dorfregierungs-Struktur
und - bei einem a’jaga - der gesamten politischen
Struktur eines (ehemaligen) Fürstentums vollzogen
wird.
Nach der Klassifizierung des Gelübde-Kom-
plexes einschließlich der daran gebundenen gro-
ßen Riten, um die es hier primär gehen soll, als
ein zentrales Thema in der makassarischen Kultur
bleibt die Frage bestehen, wie der Bezug eines sol-
chermaßen abstrakten Konzeptes zum Moment der
Handlung, d. h., wie die Umsetzung des Themas
in die komplexen Handlungsabläufe des Rituals
einzuordnen ist. Für den hier verfolgten Ansatz
bietet sich diesbezüglich eine Reihe von Begrif-
fen aus der neueren kognitiven Ethnologie an,
die exakt voneinander abzugrenzen jedoch nicht
Gegenstand dieses Aufsatzes sein kann. Die der
Umsetzung eines Gelübdes in rituelle Aktion zu-
grundeliegenden Prinzipien stellen sich hier in
zweierlei Form dar: in der von Ngalle schriftlich
fixierten Version sowie in der Gestalt, die sie im
Verlauf des von der Gemeinschaft vollzogenen und
von mir aufgezeichneten Rituals annahmen. Die
gemeinsame Ebene dieser beiden Versionen, die
ich aus heuristischen Gründen zunächst als äqui-
valent betrachte, läßt sich meines Erachtens am
deutlichsten dadurch hersteilen, daß wir auf beide
im folgenden den Begriff des Schemas anwenden,
6 Ein Überzeugungssystem beinhaltet sowohl persönliche als
auch öffentliche Überzeugungen, d. h., als wahr erachtete
und akzeptierte Eigenschaften von und Zusammenhänge
zwischen allen Phänomenen der Lebenswelt (s. Good-
enough 1981: 68-73; Black 1973). Zum lokalen Überzeu-
gungssystem s. Rössler 1990b.
Anthropos 85.1990
350
Martin Rössler
wie er, ursprünglich der Psychologie entstammend,
in den letzten Jahren auf verschiedene Formen der
Wissensrepräsentation im Rahmen der “cognitive
Science” angewandt wurde.7
Ein Schema ist zunächst ein Mittel zur akti-
ven Organisation und Rekonstruktion vergangener
Erfahrungen und/oder Erlebnisse, sowie gleichzei-
tig ein Konglomerat aus bestimmten Regeln und
Strategien „ zur Ordnung solcher Erfahrungen im
individuellen Gedächtnis (Rice 1980:153). Aller-
ings sind bestimmte Schemata auch genereller Na-
tur, so daß wir hier ein Spektrum von Organisa-
tionsprinzipien des Wissens über stereotype Situa-
tionen vorfinden, welches vom Idiosynkratischen
bis zum Universellen reicht: Schemata werden
auf verschiedenen Abstraktionsebenen angewandt,
was sie von den sogenannten “scripts” unterschei-
det, die sich vornehmlich auf Denkprozesse in
ganz spezifischen, unmittelbar mit konkreter Ak-
tion verbundenen Situationen beziehen (Rice 1980;
153 f.; Kokot 1982: 26; Kokot etal. 1982: 339;
Schweizer 1988). Schemata sind dabei keineswegs
statisch, wie der Begriff an sich und sein Be-
zug auf stereotype Situationen vermuten ließe; sie
werden vielmehr in Entsprechung neu auftretender
Umstände modifiziert, miteinander verwoben oder
ersetzt: “they are, so to speak, both structures and
processes. Not only do they serve as a way of
economically organizing experience, but they also
contain rules for behavior in the situations they
refer to” (Kokot et al. 1982: 340). Das Konzept des
Schemas kann folglich sowohl auf das Erfassen
von Wissensrepräsentationen in Texten angewen-
det werden (z. B. Kokot 1982; Rice 1980) als auch
auf das Erfassen von Organisationsprinzipien de-
taillierter praktischer Handlungsweisen (Hutchins
1980: 51-54, 113-116).
In dem hier vorliegenden Fall besteht die Aus-
gangssituation darin, daß wir es mit zwei Versio-
nen eines Schemas zu tun haben, das sich auf das
Arrangement zahlreicher Wissenselemente im Hin-
blick auf die Organisation eines spezifischen Ritu-
als bezieht: Ngalle rekonstruiert eigene Erfahrun-
gen unterschiedlichen Ursprungs (eigene Beobach-
tung; Berichte anderer; Vergleiche), fügt Regeln
und Handlungsstrategien auf der Grundlage dieser
Erfahrungen zu einer sinnvollen Ordnung zusam-
men, die gleichzeitig auf unterschiedlichen Ebenen
der kontinuierlichen Skala vom Idiosynkratischen
7 Zahlreiche Literaturhinweise und die Abgrenzung des Sche-
ma-Begriffes gegenüber anderen, benachbarten Termini
(wie plan, script, frame, prototype etc.) finden sich bei
Kokot 1982: 25 f.; Kokot etal. 1982: 339-341; Holland
1985; Rice 1980, bes. 152-154.
zum (intrakulturell) Universellen einzuordnen ist.
Die Allgemeingültigkeit beanspruchende Struktur,
der stereotype Ablauf des Rituals, die er auf mei-
nen Wunsch hin erstellen wollte, werden an vielen
Stellen erweitert durch die Schilderung konkreter
Handlungsweisen von benannten Personen, wie
etwa der seines Großvaters.
Auf der anderen Seite muß aus Sicht der
kognitiven Wissenschaft davon ausgegangen wer-
den, daß ein entsprechendes Schema ebenso der
tatsächlichen Umsetzung vergangener Erfahrun-
gen, von Regeln und Strategien in eine konkrete
Anwendung auf neue Situationen zugrundeliegt,
daß also der tatsächliche Vollzug des Rituals,
wie er von mir einige Wochen nach der Lektüre
von Ngalles Abhandlung aufgezeichnet wurde, im
Prinzip auf dem gleichen Schema basiert. Bevor
wir auf diesen Punkt näher eingehen, sei hier
vorweggenommen, daß es zu jenem Zeitpunkt nur
sehr wenige Individuen im Dorf gab, deren dies-
bezügliche Erfahrungen, deren Wissen über Re-
geln und schematische Handlungsstrategien für die
Durchführung des accera’ kalompoang so detail-
liert und konsistent waren wie diejenigen Ngalles.8
Die speziell auf die Umsetzung von Wissen in
Aktion bezogenen theoretischen Ansätze, die soge-
nannte “action plans” zum Gegenstand haben, sind
im Detail hier nicht anwendbar, da entsprechende
Daten nicht zur Verfügung stehen.9 Jedoch handelt
es sich dabei ohnehin um nichts anderes als um
eine spezielle Kategorie von Schemata, nämlich
solche, die eine konkrete Zielsetzung in spezifisch
definierten Handlungsabläufen einschließen.
Einige zusätzliche Anmerkungen zu den zahl-
reichen für die folgende Darstellung erforderlichen
Einschränkungen sind an dieser Stelle erforderlich.
Das accera kalompoang dauert drei Tage, wobei
in der von mir beobachteten Abfolge insgesamt
54 deutlich voneinander abgrenzbare Handlungs-
sequenzen unterschieden werden können, ohne
daß die zahlreichen Vorbereitungs-, Nahrungszu-
bereitungs- und andere Rahmenhandlungen schon
einbegriffen wären. Diese Komplexität erfordert
zwangsläufig eine Beschränkung auf einige für
unsere Zielsetzung besonders aussagekräftige Se-
quenzen.10 Weiterhin ist festzuhalten, daß sich
Ngalles Darstellung auf ein a’jaga (= aj) bezog,
8 Über ein solches Wissen verfügen vor allem alte Leute,
insbesondere Frauen, die jedoch aufgrund der Tatsache,
daß sie des Schreibens unkundig sind, für ein entsprechen-
des Experiment nicht geeignet waren.
9 Solche Analysen erfordern in jedem Fall ein entsprechendes
methodisches Vorgehen vor Ort. S.z. B. Gatewood 1985;
White 1985; vgl. Abelson 1973; Kokot etal. 1982; 340f.
Anthropos 85.1990
351
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
das sich in einigen Punkten (die in der nachste-
henden Tabelle gekennzeichnet sind) vom acceia
kalompoang (= ak), wie ich es beobachten konnte,
unterscheidet. Beide Sub-Schemata sind dennoch
miteinander vergleichbar, ja zu einem generellen
Schema kombinierbar, da sie 1) auf demselben
Thema des Gelübdes beruhen und 2) in den ent-
scheidenden Sequenzen, die wir hier betrachten
wollen, weitestgehend identisch sind. Dabei ist
bereits berücksichtigt, daß Ngalle natürlicherweise
nichts über diejenigen Sequenzen mitteilt, die im
a’jaga nicht verkommen (insbesondere ak 11-13,
25, 28-30). Dem ajaga vorbehaltene Sequen-
zen sind demgegenüber die Vorführung von Tän-
zen {aj 8-10, 44-46) zur Unterhaltung der Gäste
während der Nahrungszubereitung und die Spei-
sung nach dem eigentlichen Abschluß des Rituals
{aj 56-60). Bei einigen Sequenzen bin ich mir
nach wie vor nicht sicher, ob sie auf jeweils einen
der Riten beschränkt sind {aj 32-39, 42; ak 35, 38,
43). Ein gezieltes Nachfragen brachte wenig Er-
folg, da die Antworten seitens verschiedener Pei-
sonen sehr widersprüchlich waren und man allem
Anschein nach entweder unsicher war oder die von
mir „erwartete“ Antwort gab. Die weitreichende
Übereinstimmung zwischen beiden Riten ist im
vorliegenden Fall auch so zu erklären, daß der
Anlaß für die Durchführung des accera kalompo-
ang im Jahre 1984 ja ein Gelübde gewesen war,
das sich eindeutig auf ein ajaga bezog, welches
dann jedoch aus organisatorischen Schwierigkei-
ten nicht vollzogen werden konnte. Es handelt
sich also im Grunde um die Durchführung eines
ursprünglich periodischen Stärkungsrituales (des
accera' kalompoang), in welches das Prinzip des
Gelübdes integriert wurde.
Vorwegnehmen möchte ich auch, daß es sic
bei den für die Diskussion relevanten Sequenzen
um die folgenden handelt:
aj 18-23
24-28
31-49
50-54
ak 19-25
26/27, 31-33
39-^6
47-50
All die hier aufgeführten Handlungen stimmen bis
auf die Elemente ak 38, 40, 43 / aj 42, 44-46, 53
in beiden Riten vollständig überein, wobei diese
zuletzt genannten Sequenzen entweder von ne en
10 Vgl. die ausführliche Darstellung des „großen Rituals de
Mentawaier bei Schefold 1988. Die Unterteilung der Se-
quenzen erhebt keinen Anspruch auf absolute u ie ■
sondern entspricht meiner persönlichen Entsc e'
enger Anlehnung an Ngalles Text und an die Durc u
des Rituals.
sächlicher Bedeutung sind oder aus Gründen, die
im folgenden deutlich werden, für die abschlie-
ßende Analyse keine Rolle spielen. Für eine aus-
führlichere Darstellung der einzelnen Sequenzen
verweise ich auf Rössler 1987.
4. Zusammenfassung des Handlungsablaufs
Die folgenden Punkte sollen der möglichst knap-
pen Erläuterung des Schemas eines accera’ ka-
lompoang dienen, wobei ich auf Detailabweichun-
gen zum ajaga zunächst nicht eingehe, da sie in
Ngalles Text oder in meinen Anmerkungen zum
Ausdruck kommen werden, sofern dies im hier
diskutierten Zusammenhang relevant ist. Ich wähle
bewußt das accera’ kalompoang für diese Darstel-
lung, da ich es im Gegensatz zu einem a’jaga
vollständig miterlebt habe.
Die Ausgangssituation bestand darin, daß eine
Frau aufgrund zahlreicher Krankheits- und Todes-
fälle in ihrer Familie das lange zurückliegende
Gelübde einlöste, welches ihr Vater einst abgelegt
(dann aber vergessen) hatte, als sie im Kindesal-
ter erkrankt gewesen war. Diesen Zusammenhang
hatte ein Seher erkannt.
Die Handlungen des ersten Tages haben allein
vorbereitenden Charakter. Im Verlauf der Eröff-
nungssequenz (5) wird ein spezielles Ritualgestell
purifiziert. Die Worte des Gelübdes werden vom
Priester (sanro) auf ein Betelpäckchen (mama)
gesprochen, das dann auf das aus seinem Platz
herausgeführte Heiligtum gelegt wird. Weitere Se-
quenzen zur Purifikation und zum Verjagen böser
Mächte (6, 7) schließen sich an.
Am nächsten Morgen wird das Heiligtum,
hier eine Fahne, aus dem Haus getragen (11)
und nach einem vor der Dorfregierung vorge-
brachten Treueeid {angngaru, 12) in den Boden
eingeschlagen (13). Nachdem die Mitglieder der
Dorfregierung ihre Plätze eingenommen haben und
das Opfertier von einem Menschenzug fünfmal
umkreist worden ist (16), wird dieses vom Prie-
ster unter Verwendung von Weihrauch auf seinen
Tod vorbereitet (18). Hiernach wird ihm das ma-
ma auf den Rücken gelegt, welches am Abend
zuvor mit dem Heiligtum in Kontakt gebracht
worden war. Die Frau, auf die sich das Gelüb-
de bezogen hatte, steigt auf die Schultern eines
Mannes und stößt das Päckchen mit dem rechten
Fuß herunter (19). Nun werden (dem Büffel zu-
gewandt) festgelegte Worte gesprochen, durch die
das Einlösen des Gelübdes gegenüber weltlichen
und übernatürlichen Mächten bezeugt wird (20).
Man schlägt dem Tier ein rohes Ei und anschlie-
Anthropos 85.1990
352
Martin Rössler
Vereinfachte Darstellung der Handlungsabläufe im a’jaga und im accera’ kalompoang
Ngalles Text (a’jaga) Beobachtung (accera’ kalompoang)
1- Tag
1) 2) 3) 4) 5) 6) 7) 8) 9) 10) Rituelle Ankündigung Gästeplattform bauen Büffel vorbereiten Heiligtum vorbereiten Vorbereitende Nachtwache Eröffnendes gemeinsames Essen Klingeln und Öffnen der Blätter pasalonreng-Tänze X pakarena-Tänze X Nachtessen X 1) 2) 3) 4) 5) 6) 7) Rituelle Ankündigung Gästeplattform bauen Büffel vorbereiten Heiligtum vorbereiten Vorbereitende Nachtwache Trommeln; Weihrauch 5x Klingeln und Öffnen der Blätter
2. Tag
11) Trommeln rufen zum a’lili’ (= 16) 8) Trommeln rufen zum a’lili’ (= 16)
12) Adat-Vertreter nehmen Plätze ein 9) Adat-Rat nimmt Plätze ein
13) Weihrauch um Heiligtum 5x 10) Weihrauch um Heiligtum 5x
11) Herausführen d. Heiligtums X
12) Treueeid X
13) Befestigen der Fahne X
14) Adat-Vertreter nehmen Plätze ein 14) Adat-Rat nimmt Plätze ein
15) Klingeln 15) Klingeln
16) Umkreisen des Büffels 7x 16) Umkreisen des Büffels 5x
17) Treueeid
17) Weihrauch auf Büffel 18) Weihrauch auf Büffel
18) Herunterstoßen des mama 19) Herunterstoßen des mama
19) Worte des Freisetzens 20) Worte des Freisetzens
20) Ei werfen 21) Ei werfen
21) Fackel schlagen 22) Fackel schlagen
22) Treueeid 23) Treueeid
23) Büffel töten 24) Büffel töten
25) Heiligtum mit Blut bestreichen X
24) Reisch zerteilen 26) Heisch zerteilen
25) Rechtes Hinterbein ins Haus 27) Rechtes Hinterbein ins Haus
28) Treueeid X
29) Heiligtum einpacken X
30) Zug ins Haus, 5x Umkreisen des
Ritualgestelles X
26) pangadakkang für Adat-Rat bereiten 31) pangadakkang für Adat-Rat bereiten
27) käme ada’ 32) käme ada’
28) Heisch in die Adat-Häuser 33) Heisch in die Adat-Häuser
29) Heisch bewachen 34) Heisch bewachen
35) bungasa’ bereiten X ?
30) Essen bereiten 36) Essen bereiten
3. Tag
31) Adat-Rat nimmt Plätze ein 37) Adat-Rat nimmt Plätze ein
32) Aufbau der Kerzen X ?
33) Einsammeln der Kerzen X ?
34) Ausblasen der Kerzen X ?
35) 2. Aufbauen der Kerzen X ?
36) 2. Einsammeln der Kerzen X ?
37) 2. Ausblasen der Kerzen X ?
38) 3. Anzünden der Kerzen X ?
39) Endgültiges Aufstellen X ?
38) Trommeln schlagen X ?
40) käme /owpo-Aufbau 39) käme /ompo-Aufbau
40) Trommeln schlagen
41) Lampen/Opfer auf Ritualgestell 41) Heiligtum auf Ritualgestell
42) Essen anrichten X ?
43) Klingeln, Weihrauch 7x 42) Klingeln, Weihrauch 5x, Trommeln
44) pasalomeng-Tänze X
Anthropos 85.1990
353
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
45) Adat-Vertreter fordern Volk
3x zum Essen auf
46) pakarena-Tänze
47) Fürst beginnt das käme lompo
48) Essen der Adat-Vertreter
49) Essen rangniedrig (Volk)
Trommeln: Hinunter zum Wasser
Weihrauch 5x
Zug zum Fluß
Floß auf den Kopf legen
Eintauchen
Zurück zum Haus
Treueeid
Umkreisen des Gestells 7x
Gemeinsames Essen
Treueeid: Ritual beendet
Süßspeisen für die 12 Adat
Geldspende
Zurückbringen der Sachen
X
X
X
X
X
43) Blut auf Adat-Rat und Individuum
44) Adat-Rat beginnt das käme lompo
45) Essen ranghoch
46) Essen rangniedrig
X ?
50) Eintauchen
51) Zurück zum Haus
52) Gebet des Priesters
53)
54)
Geldspende
Zurückbringen der Sachen
X bezeichnet dem betreffenden Ritual vorbehaltene Sequenze
ßend eine brennende Fackel an den Kopf (21, )•
Nach weiteren Treueeiden wird der Büffel vom
Imam nach islamischer Vorschrift getötet ( )•
Mit dem zuerst austretenden Blut wird der Fu es
Fahnenmastes bestrichen (25); anschließend wir
das Fleisch zerteilt und der Kopf sowie dasrec
te Hinterbein in das Haus des karaeng ge rac
(26, 27). Die nächsten Kemhandlungen bestehen m
der gemeinsamen Mahlzeit der Dorfregierung ( )
mit speziell zubereiteten Fleischportionen (31), 16
anschließend in die jeweiligen Häuser der Mitg ie
der der traditionellen Regierung, des Adat- ates,
gebracht werden (33). Das zuerst vom Optertier
genommene Fleisch {bungasa , s. u.) wird für as
Heiligtum speziell zubereitet (35) und am
nach diversen vorbereitenden Sequenzen (3 )
zusammen mit dem restlichen Fleisch sowie em
der Dorfregierung zustehenden Teil im Ra naen
des „großen Essens“ (käme lompo, 44—46) von er
gesamten Gemeinschaft gemeinsam verspeist, n
schließend (43) bekommen die Frau, auf die sicn
11 Das bei Rössler 1987: 195 erwähnte einleitende Huh-
neropfer über dem Büffel gehört nicht zum eigen
Schema des accera’ kalompoang, sondern ste t eine
mehreren begleitenden „Neben-Opfem“ in Zusammenhang
mit den Gelübden anderer Leute dar, die sich vom 1
gen ihrer Opferhandlung in das große Ritua eine g
Wirksamkeit versprechen.
das Gelübde bezogen hatte, sowie die Mitglieder
des Adat-Rates vom sanro Opferblut auf Schläfen
und Handinnenflächen gestrichen.
Am Morgen des dritten Tages begibt sich ein
langer Zug von Menschen aus dem Haus, um
nach einigen vorbereitenden Sequenzen (47, 48)
ein kleines Bambusfloß zum Fluß im Tal hinunter-
zubringen (49). Das Floß enthält Reis in den Far-
ben Weiß, Schwarz und Rot, Früchte, mama, Ko-
kosnuß sowie je ein gebratenes und ein lebendes
Huhn. Nach einigen Weihehandlungen wird das
Floß im Wasser versenkt (50). Den Abschluß des
Rituals bilden abermals Weihehandlungen (52),
eine allgemeine Geldspende (53) und das Zurück-
bringen der aus vielen Häusern entliehenen Hilfs-
mittel und Zutaten (54).
5. Formale Analyse des Schemas anhand des
Textes
Das Schema des a’jaga, wie es von Ngalle in
schriftlicher Form festgehalten wurde, ermöglicht
zunächst die Anwendung von Verfahren der kog-
nitiven Textanalyse, mit Hilfe derer ein Überzeu-
gungssystem „rekonstruiert“ werden kann oder die
vielfältigen Zusammenhänge zwischen Schemata
als Ordnungsprinzipien kulturellen Wissens auf
der einen, und der Erstellung des Textes selbst
Anthropos 85.1990
354
Martin Rössler
auf der anderen Seite erfaßt werden können.12 Da
es hier nicht primär um inhaltliche, textstruktu-
relle oder mentale Grundlagen der Textproduktion
geht, sondern vielmehr um das darin dargestell-
te Schema und sein Verhältnis zur beobachteten
Handlung, kann die folgende Analyse auf den
Aspekt der Rekonstruktion eines Ausschnittes des
Überzeugungssystems und der darauf bezogenen
Implikationen des Textes beschränkt werden. Die
Besonderheit des hier vorgestellten Falles liegt
darin, daß der Text von einem Informanten ange-
fertigt wurde, der an der Umsetzung des im Text
dargestellten Schemas in rituelle Handlung einige
Wochen später selbst unmittelbar beteiligt war, und
des weiteren darin, daß ich während des gesamten
Aufenthaltes im Dorf Gespräche über das Schema
eines a’jaga / accera’ kalompoang mit Ngalle und
zahlreichen anderen Dorfbewohnern führte. Die-
se Umstände heben die Datengrundlage über die
rein idiosynkratische Ebene hinaus und erlauben
die Analyse des Schemas als Repräsentation eines
überindividuellen kulturspezifischen Standards (s.
Boster 1985; Rice 1980: 153 f.; vgl. Freeman etal.
1987).
Eine der bedeutendsten Sequenzen - diese
Formulierung sei zunächst ohne kritische Refle-
xion gestattet - des Rituals ist diejenige, im Ver-
laufe derer das mama, in das der Priester zuvor
die Worte des Gelübdes eingebracht hat, durch
die Frau, auf die sich dieses bezieht, vom Rücken
des Büffels hinuntergestoßen wird. Ngalle schreibt
dazu:
aj 18-23 = Text A13
Dann kommt ein Priester mit einem Betelpäckchen, das mama
susung barani genannt wird, und Cekos Ehefrau (Basse) steigt
auf die Schultern eines starken Mannes und wendet sich dem
Büffel und dem mama zu, das durch den sanro herbeigebracht
und auf den Rücken des Büffels gelegt wurde. Cekos Ehefrau
schiebt dieses mama mit ihrem rechten Fuß, so daß es vom
12 Vgl. Kokot 1982; 29-37 zur Abgrenzung diverser Metho-
den, die sich mit der Analyse eines Textes als Grundlage
ethnographischer Aussagen befassen. Der hier verfolgte
Ansatz ähnelt am ehesten der “text ethnography”, wenn-
gleich auch in diesem Bereich heute der Einfluß der com-
putergestützten Verfahren nicht zu übersehen ist (s. z. B.
Colby and Colby 1981: 1-26). Zu einer detaillierten Dar-
stellung interdisziplinärer Verfahren der Textanalyse s. de
Beaugrande 1980.
13 Ich bin bei der Übersetzung so wörtlich wie möglich vor-
gegangen, um ein Höchstmaß an Authentizität (bei Erhalt
der Lesbarkeit) zu wahren. In runde Klammem gesetzte
Wörter entsprechen den von Ngalle in Klammem gesetzten
Teilen; meine erläuternden Zufügungen stehen in eckigen
Klammem.
Rücken des Büffels herunterfällt. Daraufhin stellt sich der sanro
wieder vor dem Büffel auf und legt ein Betelpäckchen (mama
lompo) auf den Kopf des Büffels, und dann geht er drei Schritte
zurück und dann nimmt er ein Ei und spricht: .[erster Teil
weggelassen, s. Rössler 1987: 385] Freigesetzt sind die Worte
von Ceko aus der Zeit, da sein Kind sehr krank war und er
sagte: Wenn du stark geworden bist, werde ich dich drei Nächte
bei deinem kalompoang bewachen und dein Adat vereinen.4
Daraufhin wird das erwähnte Ei auf den Kopf des Büffels
geworfen und unmittelbar darauf eine brennende Fackel aus
Bambus darauf geschlagen. Und während ihr Feuer brennt, wird
durch mehrere Leute der Treueeid vorgetragen, als letztes von
einem sanro, als Zeichen, daß das angngaru abgeschlossen ist.
Nachdem der erwähnte Büffel getötet wurde ...
Abb. 1: Das Herunterstoßen des marna (aj 18/aj 19)
Unter Zufügung von ergänzenden Informatio-
nen, die Ngalle und andere mir vor, während und
nach der Durchführung des accera kalompoang
gaben, ließe sich diese Handlung samt der sich
anschließenden Sequenz ak 25 (die im a’jaga nicht
enthalten ist, aber hier das Einlösen des Gelübdes
stärker betont) formal so darstellen:
Anthropos 85.1990
355
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
ak 19-2514
19) mama (= Gelübde) auf Büffel legen
[ermöglicht:]
mama (= Gelübde) von Büffel herunterstoßen
[resultiert in:]
T
ZUSTAND: Gelübde eingelöst
[ermöglicht:]
20) Bezeugung vor Göttern sprechen
[—> Zustand —* ermöglicht;]
21) Ei auf Büffel werfen
[—► Zustand —* ermöglicht:]
22) Fackel auf Büffel schlagen
[—* Zustand —> ermöglicht;]
---------------►-Treueeid sprechen
23) f~
24) Büffel töten
[ermöglicht;]
25) kalompoang mit Blut bestreichen
| [resultiert in:]
ZUSTAND; Schuldfreiheit
Diese Art der Darstellung soll (in sehr vereinfa
ehender Form) aufzeigen, welche Kausalzusam
menhänge zwischen verschiedenen Handlungen,
Materien und übernatürlichen Wesen im e*"au
dieses Teiles des Rituals bestehen, bis schließlich
der Zustand der Schuldfreiheit erreicht ist, durch
den für die Initiatoren des Rituals dessen P^ri^iar^
Zielsetzung eigentlich schon erreicht wäre, e oc
bilden die hier präsentierten Sequenzen ja erst en
Auftakt für eine andere Kategorie von Han un
gen, im Verlaufe derer der Fokus des ^itua s ^on
der Frau, die das mama vom Rücken des u e s
herunterstößt, weggeführt und auf die Einbin ung
14 Ich verzichte hier auf eine formale, ausführliche Notation,
wie sie auf der Basis von Schanks Theorie der conCp
dependency” (z. B. 1973) in der neueren kognitiven ui -
logic verwendet wird, da mentale Prozesse au er 1
ebene hier nicht im Mittelpunkt stehen sollen. J u so c
Anwendungen siehe z. B. Kokot 1982: 39 f.; Schank and
Abelson 1977; Hutchins 1980: 50 f.
der Gemeinschaft, ihrer Regierung und einiger
weiterer, meist übernatürlicher Komponenten hin-
gelenkt wird. Sehen wir uns an, wie die Bereitung
der speziellen Fleischportionen für den Adat-Rat
(pangadakkang) und die Einbeziehung der nun
immer mehr in den Mittelpunkt rückenden so-
zio-politischen Organisationsprinzipien dargestellt
werden kann.
Ngalle schreibt dazu:
aj 24-28 = Text B
Nachdem der Büffel getötet wurde, wird er der Vorschrift
gemäß zerteilt, wie z. B. das rechte Hinterbein als Teil für die
Vornehmen [pemuka] des Adat, der ins Haus gebracht und auf
eine saubere Matte gelegt wird. Dann teilt ein Vornehmer der
Gesellschaft, der sich darauf versteht (ahli), dieses Fleisch in
vier Teile, die er jeweils auf ein Tablett legt, und zwar so,
daß dieses von einem Hautring umgeben ist; und das Fleisch
muß vollständig sein, wie auch Leber, Gedärme und Lunge
enthalten. Dazu kommt ein Maß Reis (herasa’ cupa') und vier
Teller tole (verschlungenes s/nTi-Blatt) als Zeichen der Ehrer-
bietung gegenüber dem Adat. Dann setzen sich die vier Adat
des Dorfes nieder, daraufhin verbrennt der sanro Weihrauch
als Zeichen der Darbringung. Nachdem das [käme ada’] fertig
ist, wird das erwähnte Fleisch in die Häuser der Adat-Führer
gebracht, also in die Häuser des karaeng, gallarang, ana’
karaeng und pinati, und zwar durch deren Stellvertreter, in
der Weise, daß einer nach dem anderen geht.
Es hätte sicher nur illustratorischen Wert, diese
Sequenz analog zum oben aufgeführten Beispiel
auch in Gestalt einer formalen Notation darzustel-
len, ebenso wie es wenig sinnvoll ist, eine Überset-
zung von Ngalles Schema der Sequenzen aj 31^4-9
folgen zu lassen, die mit außerordentlich vielen
Details versehen sind, die jeweils einer ausführli-
cheren Erläuterung bedürften und darüber hinaus
im accera kalompoang gar nicht Vorkommen. Wir
werden auf einige dieser Passagen, die ich (aus
eben diesem Grunde) hier als Text C bezeichne, an
späterer Stelle zurückkommen, um sie aus einem
anderem Blickwinkel zu analysieren.
Im hier zur Diskussion stehenden Kontext ist
jedoch eine Darstellung der Sequenzen aj 50-54
angeraten, da diese Handlungen von großer Bedeu-
tung für das Schema des Rituals selbst, wie auch
für die daran geknüpften Rückschlüsse auf das
Überzeugungssystem und die sozio-politische Or-
ganisation der Gemeinschaft sind. Ngalle schreibt:
aj 50-54 = Text D
Am nächsten Morgen werden die Trommeln wiederholt ge-
schlagen als Zeichen des Aufrufes, um zum Wasser [dem
Fluß im Tal] hinunterzusteigen. Nachdem die Vornehmen des
Adat (die ,vier Adat1) des Dorfes alle versammelt sind, dann
auch die gesamte Familie des Ceko anwesend ist, geht der sanro
an der Spitze [des Zuges] und hält ein Bündel Blätter (pa’ha-
basang) in der Hand; und ihm folgen alle Menschen; einige
tragen das Floß (raki’), auch Trommeln und papi und dengkang
und ana' haccing, giring-giring [Klapper-Instrumente], Zwei
Kinder aus der Adat-Familie werden auf Schultern getragen
und von kain panjang umhüllt. Vome sind zwei Fahnenträger,
Anthropos 85.1990
356
Martin Rössler
eine weiße Fahne, eine rote Fahne, begleitet von Klängen [der
oben genannten Instrumente] streben sie dem Ruß zu, dessen
Wasser klar und rein ist und der noch niemals versiegt (tot)
war. Am Ufer des Russes angekommen, fordert der sanro Ceko
und Basse auf, hineinzusteigen; dann werden das Floß und die
anja’-anja’ [Körbchen mit Opfergaben] auf Cekos Kopf gelegt;
dessen [des Floßes] Inhalt aus drei Arten gekochten Reises
besteht: schwarz, rot, weiß; und es sind auch zwei Hühner
darin, ein lebendes, ein totes [d. h. gebratenes] Huhn (jangang
akkayu), es ist Ananas darin, Betel und alle Arten von Früchten.
Daraufhin taucht Ceko unter mit der Absicht, daß sein Gelübde
schon freigesetzt ist. Die Kinder drängen sowohl nach dem Reis
als auch nach dem toten Huhn, und das lebende Huhn wird mit
Wasser besprenkelt als Zeichen der Begeisterung. Der sanro
geht [auf dem Rückweg] an der Spitze des Zuges ...
Aufgrund des hier beschränkten Platzes ist na-
türlich, wie oben bereits erwähnt, eine Einbrin-
gung aller eigentlich für eine vollständige Darstel-
lung des Schemas notwendigen Sequenzen nicht
möglich, doch lassen sich aus Ngalles Text in
Verbindung mit seinen zusätzlichen Kommentaren
zum Geschehen (sowie den Kommentaren anderer
zum gleichen Geschehen) zahlreiche dem Schema
des a’jaga und des accera’ kalompoang zugrunde-
liegende Ordnungsprinzipien und Handlungsstra-
tegien ablesen, die wiederum Rückschlüsse auf
entscheidende Komponenten der sozio-politischen
Organisation und des überindividuellen Uberzeu-
gungssystems der lokalen Gemeinschaft erlauben.
Das folgende schematische Diagramm, das sich
aus zahlreichen komplementären Informationen er-
geben hat, faßt die in den dargestellten Passagen
enthaltenen Komponenten zusammen, indem hier
sowohl das Prinzip des Gelübdes als Anlaß des Ri-
tuals, die beteiligten Personengruppen als auch die
Kategorien übernatürlicher Wesen, diverser pflanz-
licher und tierischer Materie in Zusammenhang
mit den Kemhandlungen aufgeführt sind.
Das Diagramm 1 bezieht sich konkret auf das
accera kalompoang, da ich mich nach wie vor
nicht in der Lage sehe, eine ähnlich komprimierte
Darstellung eines a’jaga vorzunehmen, ohne an ei-
nem vollständigen Ablauf desselben teilgenommen
zu haben. Die doppelten Linien verbinden die Per-
sonen(-Kategorien), die als Mitglieder derselben
Verwandtengruppe aufgefaßt werden, miteinander,
sowie mit dem an die mythische Dorfgründerin
Bombong Koasa gebundenen Heiligtum.
Bezüglich des Überzeugungssystems wird nun
deutlich, daß wir es mit einer rituellen Kommu-
nikation zwischen einzelnen Individuen und der
gesamten beteiligten Verwandtengruppe auf der
einen, sowie verschiedenen übernatürlichen Mäch-
ten auf der anderen Seite zu tun haben, die sich
hier in sehr differenzierter Form präsentiert.15
Der Gehalt des Gelübdes wird in pflanzliche
Materie (mama) eingebracht und somit rituell ma-
Diagramm I: Organisationsschema eines accera' kalompo-
ang
nipulierbar. Untrennbar verbunden damit ist auch
das durch das Vergessen des Gelübdes provozierte
Unheil, das nun endgültig vernichtet werden soll.
Durch das Herunterstoßen des mama, das Spre-
chen der Freisetzungsworte, mit denen gegenüber
diversen übernatürlichen Mächten das Einlösen
des Versprechens bezeugt wird, sowie durch das
Werfen von Ei und Fackel wird der Zustand der
Schuldfreiheit auf seiten des Individuums erreicht,
das den Vollzug des Rituals veranlaßte.16 Darüber
hinaus wird jedoch bereits hier die gesamte Ge-
meinschaft miteinbezogen, wie auch die Tatsache
zeigt, daß der sanro, der für die Kommunika-
tion zwischen Gemeinschaft und übernatürlichen
Mächten Sorge tragen muß, die Freisetzung des
Gelübdes übernimmt.
Diese Dimensionen erschließen sich insbe-
sondere anhand der abschließenden Sequenz, in-
nerhalb derer das Floß ins Wasser versenkt wird.
Dieses Floß enthält nun neben pflanzlicher und tie-
rischer Materie alles Unreine und Böse, das auf der
Familie lastete. Um die bösen Kräfte zu bannen,
begleiten Schlaginstrumente und das zur Purifika-
tion verwendete Blätterbündel des sanro den Zug,
15 Auf die zahlreichen Besonderheiten, die mit dem Überzeu-
gungssystem und der sozio-politischen Organisation ver-
bunden sind, gehe ich hier nicht ein. Im a’jaga werden
auf jeden Fall noch die Vertreter der „12 Adat“ , die
den sozio-politischen Bezug auf das gesamte (ehemalige)
Fürstentum ausweiten, in das Schema aufgenommen (s.
Texte A und F).
16 Im Fall des accera’ kalompoang gehörte noch das Bestrei-
chen des Fahnenmastes mit dem Blut des Opfertieres dazu,
das aber eigentlich nicht Bestandteil des auf ein a’jaga
bezogenen Gelübdes gewesen war (vgl. Text A).
Anthropos 85.1990
357
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
ebenso die weiße Fahne, die mit „Reinheit“ asso-
ziiert wird. Das Wasser des Flusses ist laut Ngalles
ext rein und klar; es entspricht dem Leben, da es
niemals versiegte: niemals „tot“ war. Entscheidend
1St’ es sich hierbei um denjenigen Fluß handelt,
n* J^ern ^er Überlieferung zufolge die mythische
0 gründerin Bombong Koasa vom Götterberg
P° ^er Flnß entspringt) heruntergetrieben kam.
r ist also die direkte, reine und klare Verbindung
zum Reich der Götter, in dessen Fluten das Böse
vernichtet wird. Das lebende Huhn, das im Verlauf
• GS !n en§er Verbindung mit dem Bösen
lm (käfigartigen) Floß aufbewahrt wurde, wird
nac drücklich mit dem reinen „Lebenswasser“ be-
sprenkelt und anschließend von den Initiatoren des
Uuals bis zu seinem natürlichen Tode gepflegt.
Hin weiterer Komplex erschließt sich durch
as Einbringen des Heiligtumes und des Opfer-
leres 1° dis Handlungen des accera’ kalompoang,
wenngleich einige der damit verbundenen Sequen-
zen nicht zum Schema des a’jaga gehören und
ßa e sie in seinem Text daher auch nicht er-
r r i! ^aS Retelpäckchen, in das der Priester das
d C eln§ebracht hat, wird in Sequenz 5 mit
1 T ln Berührung gebracht und schließ-
J,C. Lücken des Tieres gestoßen, dessen einer
61 (°ungasa’)X1 nach der Tötung dem Heiligtum
zuge ührt wird. Dem accera’ kalompoang vorbe-
a ten ist die zusätzliche Vereinigung des ersten
u ge angenen Blutes mit dem Heiligtum {ah 25),
ec es seinerseits wiederum mit der göttlichen
nnzessin und damit mit dem reinen, klaren Was-
ser sowie mit dessen Ursprung, dem Götterberg,
n usammenhang steht. Da die Dorfgründerin als
AHC Vorfahrin des ranghöchsten Mitgliedes des
• at'Rates (karaeng) betrachtet wird, erschließt
lc hieraus die Verbindung zur sozialen Kompo-
nente des Schemas.
t ^ie lübl sich aber nun das in Form des Tex-
es und ergänzender Informationen repräsentierte
issen über das zugrundeliegende Prinzip und den
rgamsatorischen Ablauf eines solchen Gelübdes
ealjypisch und formal darstellen?
nabhängig von den unterschiedlichen Anläs-
sen und Formen, in denen ein Gelübde abgelegt
er en kann, ob es vor Zeugen laut ausgesprochen
0 er „im Herzen“ still formuliert wird17 18, liegt ihm
17 Bungasa’ bedeutet „das Erste“, „die Quintessenz
Vornehmste“ (vgl. Cense 1979: 147). ..... korre-
18 Das laute oder stille Formulieren eines eu • j jn
liert meist mit seinem Inhalt. Ein Bänanenopter
der Regel laut formuliert versprechet
Büffelopfer seltener, da es so - ohne Ze g
„vergessen“ werden kann.
auch im Zusammenhang mit den großen Riten des
a’jaga und des accera’ kalompoang ein einfaches
Prinzip des direkten Austausches zugrunde: Einem
Mittler (in diesem Fall dem Heiligtum) wird ein
Opfer versprochen, wenn es in einem spezifischen
Problem (z. B, einer Krankheit) die Hilfe höherer
übernatürlicher Mächte aktiviert und somit ent-
scheidend zur Lösung des Problems beiträgt. Die
Leistung erfordert eine Gegenleistung, bei deren
Ausbleiben weitere oder - falls die erbrachte Lei-
stung etwa im Zugänglichmachen von Reichtum
oder Examina besteht - erstmalige ernste Proble-
me wie Krankheit oder unerklärliche Todesfälle
verursacht werden. Durch die Umsetzung dieses
wichtigen Aspektes des Überzeugungssystems in
rituelle Handlung ist folglich jedem Individuum
der lokalen Auffassung nach die Möglichkeit gege-
ben, sein Schicksal in nicht unwesentlichem Maße
selbst zu dirigieren. Die im Verlauf des Rituals
aktivierten Mechanismen beziehen eine ganze Rei-
he von Komponenten ein, die schematisch geord-
net ein fest definiertes, nahezu invariables System
von Regeln und Kausalzuammenhängen ergeben.
Dieses System ist im individuellen Wissen, un-
abhängig von Kriterien wie Lebensalter, Bildung,
religiöse oder soziale Affiliation etc., so allgemein
verbreitet, daß es als ein abstraktes Schema als Teil
kulturellen Wissens bezeichnet werden kann, das
außerordentlich häufig dazu verwendet wird, per-
sönliche Erfahrungen zu erklären und gleichzeitig
alle Arten von Plänen und Lebenszielen gleichsam
strategisch zu lenken.
Diagramm 2: Kognitives Schema des Gelübdes
Es ist somit nur von untergeordneter Bedeutung,
ob der Zyklus von [a] zu [d] tatsächlich bei [a]
oder auch bei [c] einsetzt. In jedem Fall ist er erst
Anthropos 85.1990
358
Martin Rössler
dann bei [d] beendet, wenn das Ritual durchgeführt
wurde. Die Problemlösung [b] stellt folglich nur
ein Übergangsstadium dar, das die Gegenleistung
von seiten des Menschen für die ihm erwiesene
Hilfe noch nicht miteinbezieht.
Das Ritual selbst, im Grunde nur der Aspekt
der Gegenleistung im obenstehenden Schema, be-
zieht nun - wie in Diagramm 1 dargestellt - Kom-
ponenten ein, die weit über die Belange des Indi-
viduums und sein Ausgangsproblem [a] hinausge-
hen. Der weiterreichende Bezug zur sozialen Ge-
meinschaft und deren kollektive Auseinanderset-
zung mit übernatürlichen Mächten wird folglich
nur in einem Teil des in Diagramm 2 dargestellten
Gelübde-Schemas vollzogen, nämlich in dem der
Gegenleistung, doch ist hervorzuheben, daß eine
solche rituelle Präsentation der sozio-politischen
Einheit einer Verwandtengruppe ausschließlich in
Zusammenhang mit dem Freisetzen eines indivi-
duellen Gelübdes erfolgt - zumindest nachdem
das accera’ kalompoang nicht mehr periodisch
durchgeführt wird (siehe Rössler 1987: 186-217).
In einem a’jaga wird darüber hinaus (s. Texte A
und F) die sozio-politische Einheit des gesamten
ehemaligen Fürstentums repräsentiert: die Adat
des veranstaltenden Individuums werden vereint.
Dieser Sachverhalt läßt sich in abstrahierter Form
wie folgt schematisieren:
Endgültiges Vernichten
des Unheils
Individuum |
Gelübde-Schema
Gegenleistung
[)urchFührung, impliziert:
» Floß versenken Reinheit 1 kanre ada’ Treueeid kanre ompo
f V
r
Ursprung der Dorfregierung
Regierung
Dorfgemeinschaft
ootter *
Diagramm 3: Das Ritual als Teil des Gelübde-Schemas
Die komplexen Zusammenhänge, die im Verlauf
des a’jaga und des accera kalompoang in rituelle
Aktion umgesetzt werden, lassen sich in dieser
Form adäquat als abstrakte Prinzipien darstellen,
die Ngalles niedergeschriebenen Text und alle
zu diesem Bereich gesammelten zusätzlichen In-
formationen zusammenfassen. Von diesem Stand-
punkt aus können wir schließlich zu folgenden
Erkenntnissen gelangen:
1) In der makassarischen Kultur stellt das Gelübde
ein zentrales Thema dar, das neben seiner Be-
zogenheit auf das Überzeugungssystem auch (in
ritualisierter Form) Aspekte der sozio-politischen
Organisation einschließt;
2) Das Prinzip des Gelübdes wird in Handlung
umgesetzt, um die Gestaltung des individuellen
Febens strategisch zu lenken (Diagramm 2);
3) Dem Gelübde liegt ein klar definiertes Schema
zugrunde, das eine Repräsentation kulturellen Wis-
sens auf einer überindividuellen Ebene darstellt
und von daher generelle Rückschlüsse auf das
Überzeugungssystem erlaubt;
4) Eine Komponente dieses Schemas bezieht sich
unmittelbar auf Organisationsprinzipien zur Durch-
führung des Rituals, innerhalb dessen das Gelübde
freigesetzt wird (Diagramm 1);
5) Das Schema dieses Rituals verdeutlicht, in wel-
chem Ausmaß im Thema des Gelübdes die Berei-
che des Überzeugungssystems und der sozio-po-
litischen Organisation miteinander verwoben sind
(Diagramme 1 und 3);
6) Idiosynkratische Strategien zur Bewältigung
persönlicher Probleme werden folglich im Verlauf
einer komplexen rituellen Handlung zu Belangen
der Gemeinschaft, ihrer politischen Führung und
ihrer kollektiven Kommunikation mit übernatürli-
chen Mächten in Beziehung gesetzt (Diagramm 3);
7) Als erstrebtes Ziel wird sowohl die persönliche
Schuldfreiheit, die Purifikation und Stärkung der
gesamten Gemeinschaft, als auch die Festigung der
Integration und Solidarität der sozio-politischen
Organisation angesehen.
Ngalle schreibt zu diesem letzten Punkt bezüglich
der Sequenzen aj 24-28 im Anschluß an TextB:
Text E
Was dieses Fleisch (pangadakkang) betrifft, so muß es aufbe-
wahrt werden, bis das Ritual [upacara] beendet ist (bis nach
dem Hinuntersteigen zum Wasser). Der Erklärung der Adat-
Vertreter zufolge wird das Fleisch absichtlich zu diesem festge-
legten Zeitpunkt überbracht, weil das Fleisch (pangadakkang)
gemeinsam mit denen verzehrt werden muß, die es überbracht
haben, sowie mit der engeren Verwandtschaft, die nicht am
a’jaga teilnimmt [d. h. verhindert ist], damit die Familien- und
Verwandtschaftsverbindungen gefestigt werden.
Und ganz zum Schluß seines Textes:
Text F
Das a’jaga ist ein Teil der gegenseitigen Zusammenarbeit
[kegotong-royongan] und wird von Familiengeist in vollem
Bewußtsein getragen; daneben festigt es die Verbindungen
zwischen den [traditionellen] Regierungsvertretem mehrerer
Dörfer, zwischen der fernen Familie und der nahen. So ist es
auch mit der Verbundenheit [kasih sayangnya] zwischen der
Regierung und ihrem Volk, zwischen den Fürsten und ihren
Untertanen.
Anthropos 85.1990
359
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
Insofern hat also die Analyse einiger Ausschnitte
aus Ngalles Text (die hier nur exemplarischen Cha-
ra ter haben konnten) an der Seite zahlreicher Zu-
satzinformationen zum Thema des Gelübdes und
pUm Schema seiner rituellen Umsetzung zu dem
rgebnis geführt, daß ein bedeutender Ausschnitt
u tureHen Wissens in einer makassarischen Dorf-
fenieinschaft systematisch und formal dargestellt
beiden konnte. Wir haben die wichtigsten Aspekte
er zugrundeliegenden organisatorischen Prinzipi-
en erfaßt, die in Gestalt eines Schemas auf die
atsächliche Durchführung eines a’jaga / accera’
a ornP°ang angewendet werden können.
6- Ngalles Interpretation des Rituals
Obwohl dieses Schema nicht nur auf meinen ei-
genen Folgerungen und Aufschlüsselungen von
usammenhängen beruht, sondern in weiten Be-
fei.c en in schriftlicher Form von seiten eines Ein-
lennischen belegt, also gewissermaßen durch eine
F. esser qualifizierte“ Autorität gestützt ist, indem
,ler die persönliche Erfahrung eines Mitgliedes
er etretfenden Kultur aus erster Hand unmittel-
ar miteinfließt (vgl. Roth 1989; 557 f.), so wird
o0c 1 recht deutlich, daß die bisherigen Ausführun-
gen nur einen Teil dessen repräsentieren, was der
0 zug eines solchen Rituals für die Bewohner
emes makassarischen Dorfes heute bedeutet und
ewirkt. Ich will an dieser Stelle nicht darauf
inaus, daß die bisherigen Ergebnisse vielleicht ei-
.em Idealstandard entsprechen, der infolge multi-
UTiensionalen kulturellen Wandels in zahlreichen
etails nicht mehr der Wirklichkeit entspricht19;
son ern es soll um zwei andere, wenngleich auf
le e^en genannten Phänomene indirekt bezogene
'iietiodische und theoretische Aspekte gehen, und
2^ ) Urn die Qualität der verwendeten Daten
und 2) um ihre Umsetzung in die ethno-
graphische Analyse, d. h., um die Art und Form
er epiäsentation dieser Informationen in Gestalt
^uies ethnographischen Textes. Von diesen beiden
u Sf?e^ten ausgehend sollten sich Möglichkeiten
lln Gienzen zeitgemäßer ethnologischer Ansätze
zur Analyse eines Problems wie des vorliegenden
aurzeigen lassen.
Abgesehen von der Tatsache, daß eine detail-
lierte formale Darstellung der entsprechenden
Schemata, wie sie in der neueren kognitiven
Ethnologie üblich ist (s. o.), bei der Komplexität
der hier zur Diskussion stehenden Riten mit 54
bzw. 62 (in sich relativ umfangreichen) Einzelse-
quenzen kaum praktikabel wäre, und auch abge-
sehen von der häufig formulierten Kritik, daß bei
solchen und verwandten Verfahren ein immenser
methodischer Aufwand einem verhältnismäßig tri-
vialen Ergebnis gegenübersteht, bzw., daß Kultur
in jedem Fall mehr als „nur“ individuelles Wissen
umfaßt, welches zudem nicht von allen Personen
geteilt wird20, sehe ich auch ganz naheliegende,
weil aus meiner Erfahrung während des Aufent-
haltes im Dorf selbst resultierende Probleme. Eine
willkürlich herausgegriffene Auflistung von Punk-
ten, die direkt weder mit dem „Thema des Gelüb-
des“ noch mit dem „Schema des Rituals“ etwas
zu tun haben, umfaßt beispielsweise die folgenden
Aspekte:
1) Das Problem der spontanen Umwandlung des
a’jaga in ein accera’ kalompoang aufgrund orga-
nisatorischer Schwierigkeiten (s. o.) fließt in die
formale Darstellung nicht ein, ist aber für die
rezente Wirklichkeit in der lokalen Kultur äußerst
relevant und aussagekräftig;
2) Teil des kulturellen Wissens über den gesamten
Komplex ist heute unbedingt auch die immanente
Furcht vor Verwaltungs- und islamischen Funktio-
nären, die sowohl die Inhalte des Schemas als auch
des Themas selbst als Hemmnisse des Fortschritts
auffassen und rücksichtslos bekämpfen, bzw. das
Ritual in eine folkloristische Kultur-Show umwan-
deln wollen (vgl. Acciaioli 1985; Atkinson 1983;
Rössler 1990ö);
3) Zahlreiche Abweichungen bei der praktischen
Durchführung des accera’ kalompoang modifizie-
ren das Schema in einem Ausmaß, das nicht mehr
als der vorgegebenen Variabilität von Schemata
entsprechend betrachtet werden kann. Der karaeng
übernimmt Aufgaben, die dem Ausgangs-Schema
gemäß (ak 19-23, 39, 45) nur vom Priester (san-
ro) oder einem speziellen traditionellen Funktionär
durchgeführt werden dürfen; der amtliche Dorf-
chef übernimmt die Rolle des karaeng (ak 12,
17, 23, 37, 44); rituelle Texte werden im falschen
Wortlaut vorgetragen (ak 12, 20); manche Sequen-
zen werden einfach weggelassen (ak 22, 33) oder
19 Dies war meine Hauptintention bei der Pf^tr^irh auf 20
accera’ kalompoang in (Rössler 1987; l80f-). v(jr aUem
dieses Ritual auswirkende Wandel bezieh sjc^
auf den wachsenden Einfluß des Islam un au
fortwährend verändernde lokalpolitische ltua 1 ’ p0pti-
einer allgemeinen Unsicherheit über die rate
sehen Autorität resultiert.
S. z.B. Rice 1980: 168; Geertz 1973: 11 f.; Colby etal.
1981. Obwohl in diesen Quellen hauptsächlich die “Ethno-
science” im Mittelpunkt der Kritik steht, beziehe ich hier
auch die neuere kognitive Ethnologie ein, deren methodi-
scher Aufwand zum Teil noch erheblich größer ist (siehe
D’Andrade 1984: 90).
Anthropos 85.1990
360
Martin Rössler
falsch durchgeführt (ak 49/50): Das Floß wird
nicht im Fluß versenkt - wie es für die Konsistenz
des Schemas entscheidend ist (s. Diagramme 1
und 3) - sondern in einem stehenden Wasser
vermodern gelassen, welches zwar weder „rein
und klar“ ist noch „niemals versiegt“, jedoch we-
sentlich schneller, ohne stundenlangen Fußmarsch
erreichbar ist;
4) In Ngalles Schema ist ein wichtiger Faktor
enthalten, der seinen gesamten Text über die for-
male Darstellung hinaus in ein höchst interessantes
Licht rückt: Sein Großvater Ceko war erwiesener-
maßen ein Sklavennachfahre, der nicht aus dem
Dorf stammte und somit eigentlich in keiner Weise
berechtigt war, in einem so bedeutenden Ritual
eine - wie aus dem Text hervorgeht - Schlüssel-
position einzunehmen, geschweige denn, es selbst
durchzuführen.
All diese Punkte finden keinen Platz im for-
malen Schema des Rituals, doch liegt es auf der
Hand, daß sie für ein Vermitteln dessen, was das
Thema des Gelübdes und das rituelle Schema heu-
te für die Dorfbewohner bedeuten, unbedingt in die
Analyse miteinfließen müssen. Es stellt sich folg-
lich die Frage, welche Grenzen formale, nur vor-
dergründig objektive Analysen von Arrangements
kulturellen Wissens in einem bestimmten Bereich
haben, bzw., ob nicht andere Formen der Analy-
se und Präsentation fremdkulturellen Wissens und
Handelns eine Bereicherung und Verbesserung für
ein erweitertes Verständnis dessen bieten können,
welchen Stellenwert kulturelle Schemata in der
Praxis besitzen. Ausgehend von den gerade auf-
geführten Punkten spielen hier zwei Faktoren eine
bedeutende Rolle, und zwar 1), inwieweit es sich
bei Ngalle’s Darstellung überhaupt um auf die
empirische Wirklichkeit beziehbare Äußerungen
handelt, und 2), welchen Stellenwert die Schluß-
folgerungen des Ethnologen einnehmen.
Von grundlegender Bedeutung ist hier, daß
beide Kategorien von Stellungnahmen nicht nur
Repräsentationen von Wissen und Erfahrungen be-
inhalten, sondern auch gleichzeitig Interpretatio-
nen dieses Wissens und dieser Erfahrungen darstel-
len. Mit anderen Worten, es wäre zu untersuchen,
auf welche Art und Weise Inhalt und Ablauf des
Schemas durch Ngalle konstruiert und mir mitge-
teilt werden, sowie auf welche Art und Weise ich
sowohl seine Interpretation als auch die von mir
beobachtete Handlung (einschließlich der zahlrei-
chen ergänzenden Informationen) selbst in Gestalt
eines Textes interpretiere:
Thema
v
I-----Schema--------1
T I
Ngalles Beobachtete
Interpretation Handlung
1—»-Interpretation
\
Text
Die Diskussion dieses Problemfeldes soll sich im
wesentlichen auf die zitierten Passagen aus Ngalles
Text sowie auf die entsprechenden Beobachtun-
gen der rituellen Handlungen stützen; also auf die
Texte A (aj 18-23), B (aj 24-28), C (aj 31-49), D
(aj 50-54), E (aj 24-28) und F. Die entsprechende
Beobachtung stützt sich analog auf die Sequenzen
ak 19-25, 26/27, 31-33, 39-46, 47-50.
Augenscheinlich handelt es sich bei Ngalles
Ausführungen in weiten Bereichen um nicht-deu-
tende oder nicht-interpretierende Beschreibungen
- im Gegensatz zu den deutenden, nicht beschrei-
benden Darstellungen (s. Sperber 1989: 24-28)
-, d. h., um eine Darstellung von Handlungsab-
läufen in teilweise immenser Detailfülle, die bar
jeder Form von Interpretation und daraus resultie-
renden Kausalerklärungen sind. Dies bezieht sich
insbesondere auf seine Darlegung der Sequenzen
aj 31—49, die in einem solchen Ausmaß aus Detail-
schilderungen (und sehr speziellen makassarischen
Termini) bestehen, daß eine Wiedergabe hier nicht
sinnvoll war. An anderen Stellen verwendet Ngalle
indes explizit Formulierungen, die auf eine Inter-
pretation oder Erklärung von seiner Seite schließen
lassen. So spricht er wiederholt von der zeichen-
haften Funktion einzelner Handlungen (pertanda,
tanda, menandakan, Texte A, B, D). Diese Formu-
lierungen decken sich in der Regel mit den Erklä-
rungen und Interpretationen, die ich von anderen
Dorfbewohnern im gleichen Zusammenhang hörte
(wie bei den Texten B und D), in einigen Fällen
jedoch auch nicht, wie in Text A zum Beispiel:
„... als Zeichen, daß das angngaru abgeschlossen
ist.“ Auf meine Nachfrage bei anderen Personen
herrschte diesbezüglich entweder Ratlosigkeit oder
ich bekam eine Art von Bestätigung, die von
vornherein erkennbar war als eine solche, „die
mich nicht enttäuschen sollte“. Eine äquivalente
Formulierung finden wir in Text D, wo Ngalle
der Handlung seines Großvaters eine „Absicht“
zuspricht (dengan niatnya bahwa ...).
Als nächstes sei auf die in Text F vorge-
Anthropos 85.1990
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
361
nommene Charakterisierung der sozio-politischen
Bedeutung des a’jaga verwiesen, die sich hier
meines Erachtens kaum von einer zusammenfas-
senden, deutenden Stellungnahme eines Ethnolo-
gen unterscheidet, obwohl dabei natürlich nicht
ausgeschlossen werden kann, daß Ngalle solche
Formulierungen durch die bis dato bereits mona-
telange Kommunikation mit uns (auch durch ent-
sprechende „Test-Fragen“) erlernt und an dieser
Stelle in den Text eingebracht hat.
Andere Wendungen beziehen sich eindeutig
auf Kausalerklärungen, denen Ngalle eine zusätz-
liche Autorität dadurch verleiht, daß er sie kompe-
tenten Kennern - „Adat-Experten“ (s. u.) - der lo-
kalen Kultur kollektiv zuordnet, wie in Text E die
„Erklärung der Adat-Vertreter“ (keterangan para
adat), daß eine Handlung innerhalb des Schemas
vorgenommen wird, „weil“ (karena) bzw. „damit“
(untuk) bestimmten Erfordernissen der sozialen
Ordnung entsprochen werden kann.
Wieder andere Äußerungen haben einen in-
terpretativen Charakter, ohne daß eine explizite
Darlegung einer persönlichen Meinung oder eines
kausalen Zusammenhanges vorliegt. Solche impli-
ziten Interpretationen präsentiert er zum Beispiel
in Text B, wo er die Ämter des Adat-Rates in
einer bestimmten Reihenfolge auflistet, die sei-
ne eigene genealogische Position in der Dorfge-
meinschaft aufwertet: 1) karaeng, 2) gallarang,
3) ana karaeng und 4) pinati. Er stellt hier (und
auch, um den Vorwurf der Haarspalterei gleich
zu entkräften, in allen übrigen Gesprächen) den
gallarang vor den ana karaeng und nimmt somit
eine Hierarchisierung vor, die von vielen anderen
Dorfbewohnern als falsch dargestellt wird, denn
eigentlich gehöre der ana karaeng auf jeden Fall
vor den gallarang gestellt und aufgeführt. Ngalle
gehört über die Seite seines Vaters zu derjenigen
Deszendenzgruppe, aus der die gallarang gewählt
werden.21
Ein weiteres Beispiel ist, daß er in Text D
von „zwei Kindern aus der Adat-Familie“ spricht,
die (zunächst um den Büffel herum und später)
im Zug mit dem Floß hinunter zum Wasser auf
der Schulter getragen werden. Diese Kinder, stets
ein Knabe und ein Mädchen im Alter von etwa
10 Jahren, entstammen der engsten Verwandtschaft
der Veranstalter-Familie, welche hier im Text als
21 Diese Problematik ist eng mit den rangbezogenen Rivali-
täten zwischen den betreffenden Deszendenzgruppen ver-
bunden (s. Röttger-Rössler 1989). Zu den Aufgaben der
einzelnen Ämter und zur Sukzessionsregelung s. Rössler
1987: 64-69.
„Adat-Familie“ in eine herausgehobene Position
gebracht wird. Da jedoch nur Mitglieder der De-
szendenzgruppe des karaeng (pattola karaeng)
überhaupt ein a’jaga oder ein accera kalompoang
veranstalten dürfen, wird diese Deszendenzgruppe
kollektiv mit dem Adat gleichgesetzt. Ngalle selbst
rechnet sich über seine Mutter ebenfalls dieser
Deszendenzgruppe zu und stellt so die in die-
ser Gruppe generell verbreitete Analogie pattola
karaeng = Adat her: in Ergänzung zu der oben
dargestellten Betonung der Deszendenzgruppe des
gallarang eine weitere Heraushebung der eigenen
genealogischen Position (vgl. Rössler 1987: 64 f.).
Bemerkenswert ist dies, wie oben bereits erwähnt,
vor allem deshalb, weil Ngalle innerhalb des Dor-
fes allenfalls ein mittlerer Rang innerhalb der De-
szendenzgruppe des karaeng zugesprochen wird,
und zwar aufgrund der Tatsache, daß sein Groß-
vater (MF) Ceko, der Veranstalter des Rituals, ein
Sklavennachfahre gewesen war. Angesichts der
immensen Bedeutung, welche die Stigmatisierung
als Sklavennachkomme, die Ngalle natürlich eben-
so betrifft, heute noch besitzt (s. Röttger-Rössler
1989: 172 f.), kann dieser Aspekt der Darstellung
als Versuch gewertet werden, negative Äußerun-
gen, die uns als externen Beobachtern der Gruppe
notwendigerweise zu Gehör kommen müßten, zu
kompensieren.
Andere implizite Interpretationen nimmt
Ngalle vor, wenn er beispielsweise in Text D die
Worte „... Fluß ..., der noch niemals versiegt
war“ durch das in Klammem eingefügte „(tot)“
ergänzt. Er hat auf diese Weise den Bezug des
„reinen“ Flußwassers zum „Leben“ als Gegen-
stück zum „Tod“ hergestellt, der mir als eine von
mehreren miteinander verbundenen symbolischen
Oppositionen wie den folgenden von vielen Seiten
immer wieder genannt wurde (vgl. Nooy-Palm
1979: 112; 1986; Crystal and Yamashita 1987: 51):
gut _ kalt _ rein _ Osten _ Leben
schlecht heiß unrein Westen Tod
Es fällt sofort auf, daß vergleichbare Darstellungen
zu den Standards in den Texten der symbolisti-
schen (und strukturalistischen) Ethnologie gehö-
ren, wobei symbolische Oppositionen sicher häufig
in Form impliziter Interpretationen von seiten der
Einheimischen erkannt und festgehalten werden.
Schließlich ist gleichermaßen interessant, daß
Ngalle zahlreiche Aspekte, die mir im nachhinein
als außerordentlich wichtig für den „Sinn“ des
Rituals mitgeteilt wurden, überhaupt nicht inter-
pretiert oder auch nur aufführt. Darunter fällt bei-
spielsweise in Text A das Auslassen der Betonung
Anthropos 85.1990
362
Martin Rössler
des Zustandes der Schuldfreiheit, der durch das
Herunterstoßen des mama (aj 18, ak 19) eintritt
und in der darauf folgenden Sequenz in Gestalt
eines rituellen Textes (den Ngalle zitiert) bestätigt
wird. Er mag das Niederschreiben dieser letztge-
nannten Worte als ausreichend für die Darlegung
des Gelübde-Prinzips erachtet haben, doch fällt
auf, daß er diesen speziellen Aspekt, dessen Be-
deutung innerhalb des Gelübde-Schemas (s. Dia-
gramm 2) aus der kognitiven Analyse klar hervor-
geht, im Verlauf seiner gesamten Darstellung nicht
näher betont. Ähnliches gilt für die Beschreibung
des hier nicht wiedergegebenen „großen Essens“
{käme lompo, Text C, aj 31-49), die von immenser
Detailfülle ist, aus der jedoch in keiner Weise
hervorgeht, daß es sich hierbei um die wichtigste
Sequenz des Rituals in Bezug auf die Vereini-
gung der Dimensionen der sozio-politischen Or-
ganisation und des Überzeugungssystems handelt.
Daß dem trotz der fehlenden Interpretation von
seiten Ngalles so ist, wird im Text anhand der
diesem Abschnitt verliehenen Überschrift deutlich;
Ngalle betitelte diese Sequenz als „Kemhandlung“
(acara inti) und erachtete damit anscheinend ihre
Bedeutung für ausreichend betont.
Schließlich fällt bei einigen Passagen auf,
daß er nicht auf eine Interpretation von Handlun-
gen eingeht, die - so darf man wohl behaupten
- die Aufmerksamkeit eines Ethnologen nahezu
automatisch erwecken (s. u.), wie z. B., was es zu
bedeuten hat, daß in Sequenz 16 die erwähnten
zwei Kinder aus der „Adat-Familie“ auf Schultern
zunächst fünfmal {aj siebenmal) um das Opfer-
tier herum-, und später zum Fluß hinuntergetragen
werden. Er spricht in einer bisher nicht zitierten
Passage, die Text A unmittelbar vorausgeht, nur
davon, daß „während man ihn siebenmal umkreist,
der Büffel fortlaufend von einem Mann mit einer
Lanze bedroht wird, damit [supaya] er sich an
seinem Platz hin und herbewege.“
Nun stellt diese Sequenz zweifelsohne einen,
wenn nicht den spannungsgeladenen Höhepunkt
innerhalb des gesamten Rituals dar, jedenfalls
aus „westlich-ethnologischer“ Sicht: Der Zug der
festlich gekleideten Frauen und Männer, die alle
Arten von Opfergaben entgegen dem Uhrzeiger-
sinn in einer festgelegten Anzahl von Runden um
das gereizte und tobende Tier herumtragen, dar-
unter die von einem Baldachin beschirmten Kinder
auf den Schultern zweier Männer, das Geklingel
und Geklapper der Instrumente, der Adat-Rat zu
Füßen der im Winde flatternden heiligen Fahne,
darum herumstehend die Hunderte von in diesem
Augenblick von größter Spannung erfüllten passi-
ven Teilnehmer .... All dies ist sicher “wonderful
Abb. 2: Das Umkreisen des Büffels (aj/ak 16)
stuff for symbolic analysis” (Keesing 1987: 164).
Ngalle scheint sich indes dieser Auffassung nicht
anzuschließen, wie ich auch überhaupt niemanden
fand, der auf meine Fragen zu dieser Szene In-
terpretationen oder Erklärungen abgeben konnte,
geschweige denn ohne eine direkte Frage meiner-
seits von sich aus abgab, wie es etwa bezüglich
der sozialen Bedeutung des Rituals (siehe Text E)
laufend der Fall war.
Die einheimische Darstellung des Rituals ent-
hält also aus der Sicht des Ethnologen einige
Lücken, nicht-deutende Beschreibungen, explizite
und implizite Interpretationen sowie Kausalerklä-
rungen, wobei bereits jetzt deutlich wurde, daß be-
züglich dieser Arten von Repräsentationen kul-
turellen Wissens sowohl Übereinstimmungen als
auch Divergenzen zwischen dem Text Ngalles,
ergänzenden Informationen und meinen eigenen
Interpretationen bestehen. Diese Tatsache weist
ebenfalls darauf hin, daß die Aufmerksamkeit des
Ethnologen offensichtlich von anderen Phänome-
nen geweckt wird als diejenige der Einheimischen.
Wie kann ein außenstehender Beobachter folg-
Anthropos 85.1990
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
363
lieh mit solchermaßen diskrepanten Foci verfah-
ren, um zu einer adäquaten Präsentation dessen
zu gelangen, was es mit dem umfangreichsten
Ritual in einer Gemeinschaft auf sich hat? Wie
kann er hier die Interpretation von seiten eines
Einheimischen mit seiner eigenen Deutung einer
vollzogenen Handlung zusammenfügen, um darzu-
legen, daß das Ritual mit der größten Teilnehmer-
zahl, dem größten ökonomischen Aufwand und der
längsten Dauer auch gleichzeitig das „bedeutend-
ste“ Ritual in der betreffenden Kultur ist?
7. Einheimische und ethnologische
Interpretation
Als praktikables Verfahren zur Klärung dieser
Punkte bietet sich zunächst eine Gegenüberstel-
lung einiger Übereinstimmungen bzw. Widersprü-
che zwischen Ngalles Text, ergänzenden Informa-
tionen und meinen daraus resultierenden eigenen
Schlußfolgerungen an. Ich bin der Auffassung,
daß der Aspekt der oben erwähnten nicht-deu-
tenden Beschreibungen des schematischen Ablau-
fes ritueller Handlungen diesbezüglich eine se-
kundäre Rolle spielt, da die Durchführung eines
jeden Rituals in der makassarischen Kultur (und
sicher auch in anderen Kulturen) von zahlreichen
Variationen geprägt ist, die größtenteils sponta-
ner oder pragmatischer, situationsbedingter Natur
sind. Auslassungen, Zufügungen, Zeitverschiebun-
gen, Ausdehnungen oder Verkürzungen einzelner
Sequenzen sind folglich nur Aspekte innerhalb ei-
nes als selbstverständlich betrachteten Spielraumes
an Variationen. Insofern erlaubt ein Vergleich von
Reihenfolge und internem Ablauf der einzelnen
Handlungssequenzen kaum Rückschlüsse auf un-
terschiedliche Interpretationen des Rituals; Über-
einstimmungen oder Divergenzen haben hier einen
hochgradig zufälligen Charakter.22
Bezüglich der expliziten Interpretationen
22 Das Element des Fackelschlagens (ak 22) wurde bei dem
beobachteten Vollzug des accera kalompoang z. B. einfach
vergessen. Wie oft das Ritualgestell umkreist wird, hängt
oft von spontanen Entscheidungen ab, auch laufen die ge-
meinsamen Essen alles andere als „geregelt“ ab. Wichtig ist
dabei, daß solche Formfehler zahlreichen Dorfbewohnern
zufolge das Ritual eigentlich ungültig machen, so daß die
Gegenleistung als Teil des Gelübde-Schemas (Diagramm 2)
nicht erfüllt ist. Wiederholt wird es natürlich nicht ohne
weiteres, allenfalls wird das Eintreffen erneuter Probleme
auf die Fehler bei der ersten Durchführung zurückgeführt.
Formfehler/Abweichungen vom Ablauf-Schema entspre-
chen also faktisch der Nicht-Durchführung der Gegenlei-
stung.
Ngalles habe ich bereits darauf hingewiesen,
daß sie sich zum Teil mit anderen, ergänzenden
Informationen decken, zum Teil jedoch auch nicht.
Besondere Aufmerksamkeit muß hier dem häu-
figer verwendeten indonesischen Terminus tanda
- einschließlich der davon abgeleiteten Formen
- zukommen, der in diesem Zusammenhang das
Begriffsfeld „Zeichen, Signal, Hinweis, Symbol,
Anzeichen“ abdeckt (vgl. Karow und Hilgers-Hes-
se 1978: 405), ohne daß im Indonesischen ad
hoc zwischen den definitorischen Nuancen dieser
Übersetzungen unterschieden werden kann, wie es
ja gerade in der Ethnologie einschließlich diverser
Nachbardisziplinen seit geraumer Zeit von ent-
scheidender Wichtigkeit zu sein scheint (s. z. B.
Singer 1983; 1-31). Das gleiche gilt im übrigen
auch für das makassarische Äquivalent des Wor-
tes, nämlich tanra bzw. ebenfalls tanda23, womit
eine Beziehung zwischen Bezeichnendem und Be-
zeichnetem aufgrund bestimmter kultureller Kon-
ventionen gemeint ist, ohne daß in der lokalen
Sprache differenziert wird, ob diese Beziehung
nun semiotischer, semiologischer, indexikalischer,
ikonischer, symbolischer oder irgendeiner ande-
ren Natur ist (vgl. u. a. Singer 1980: 491; 1983:
32 f.; Spradley 1972: 11-18; Geertz 1973: 14,
der die entsprechenden Unterscheidungen generell
als “provincial usages” abqualifiziert). Im lokalen
Denken ist die Realität der Beziehung, die Korre-
lation als solche entscheidend, nicht ihre Kategori-
sierung auf abstrakter Ebene.
Besonders deutlich wird dieser Sachverhalt
anhand solcher Formulierungen wie „ein Huhn mit
Wasser besprenkeln als Zeichen der Begeisterung“
(.menandakan kegembiraan, Text D), oder bei der
Herstellung des pangadakkang „als Zeichen der
Ehrerbietung gegenüber dem Adat“ (sehagai tanda
penghormatan kepada adat, Text B), wobei ähnli-
che Wendungen, die sich auf den zeichen-/sym-
bolhaften Charakter einzelner Handlungen, verba-
ler oder non-verbaler Äußerungen oder materieller
Gegenstände beziehen, sehr häufig - auch ohne
direkte Fragen von seiten des Ethnologen - an-
getroffen werden. Daß sich hierbei Divergenzen
zwischen den Äußerungen einzelner Informanten
ergeben, wird in der Ethnologie anscheinend nicht
immer in ausreichendem Maße berücksichtigt (s.
Keesing 1982: 5, 198 f., 243 f.; 1987: 162 f.; vgl.
Freeman et al. 1987), allenfalls werden Widersprü-
che zwischen den Erklärungen/Deutungen „der“
Einheimischen und denen des Ethnologen als sol-
che an den Tag gelegt (Schefold 1988; 556). Auf
23 Siehe Cense 1979; 767, 770. Tanra ist ursprünglich makas-
sarisch, entspricht aber eindeutig dem malaiischen tanda.
Anthropos 85.1990
364
Martin Rössler
das Problem der „indigenen Exegese“ symboli-
scher Handlungen und Materialien im weitesten
Sinne soll hier nicht näher eingegangen werden,
da dieser Komplex mittlerweile hinreichend aus-
führlich diskutiert wurde (s. z. B. Turner 1967:
19-58; dazu die Kritik von Strecker 1988: 18-22).
Ein Überprüfen dieser Diskussion ergibt ohnehin,
daß die Interpretationen, welche durch die Mitglie-
der der betreffenden Kultur selbst vorgenommen
werden, in der Präsentation im ethnologischen Text
zwar prinzipiell eine vorrangige Position einneh-
men, daß sie jedoch im Endeffekt aller Regel nach
nur das Ausgangsmaterial für die Interpretation
(„zweiter oder höherer Ordnung“) des Ethnologen
darstellen (vgl. Geertz 1973: 15; Schefold 1988:
39, 556, 633).
Ich bin generell der Meinung, daß die detail-
getreue Wiedergabe einer einheimischen Exegese,
wie im vorliegenden Fall (nur ausschnittsweise) in
Gestalt von Ngalles Text, einen wertvollen Beitrag
leisten kann für die Transparenz einer Ritenanaly-
se, da hierdurch gewährleistet ist, daß die indi-
gene Interpretation überhaupt zugänglich und für
den Leser eigenständig beurteilbar ist. Besonders
deutlich wird dies meines Erachtens in Text F, des-
sen Ähnlichkeit mit einem nahezu Durkheimschen
Erklärungsansatz der integrativen Funktion religi-
ös-ritueller Handlungen ich bereits angesprochen
habe. Nichtsdestoweniger ist sich natürlich auch
Ngalle bewußt (wie ich später erfuhr), daß das
Ideal, das er hier beschreibt, in vielerlei Hinsicht
nicht mehr der Wirklichkeit entspricht, daß viel-
mehr gerade im Verlauf des accera kalompoang
(1984) zahlreiche Konflikte zwischen den Beteilig-
ten eine unübersehbare (und während des Verlaufs
auch vieldiskutierte) Rolle spielten; ein Phänomen,
auf dem ich wiederum meine Interpretation des
accera’ kalompoang als Spiegelbild der durch ad-
ministrativen und religiösen Wandel provozierten
Konflikte innerhalb der Gemeinschaft aufgebaut
habe (Rössler 1987: 200-205). Für die Makassar
trifft eher zu, daß sie bezüglich dieser Problematik
selten das Bedürfnis haben, Interpretationen anzu-
stellen oder die gewandelte Wirklichkeit zu reflek-
tieren (vgl. Schefold 1988: 625), während explizite
Interpretationen anderer Art (wie in Ngalles Text)
durchaus üblich sind.
Es erscheint daher angemessen, dem außen-
stehenden Beobachter die Rolle des vorrangig
Deutenden, Interpretierenden, Erklärenden nur in
solchen Bereichen zuzusprechen, in denen es an
einer expliziten „Interpretation erster Ordnung“
durch die Einheimischen mangelt. In allen anderen
Fällen ist es demgegenüber angeraten, sorgfältig
zu prüfen, inwieweit eine Möglichkeit oder Be-
rechtigung besteht, die Interpretationen der Ein-
heimischen zu beurteilen, zu modifizieren oder gar
anzuzweifeln. Schwieriger gestaltet sich die Lage
zweifelsohne bei den zitierten impliziten Interpre-
tationen und bei der Identifizierung „nicht inter-
pretierter, aber eine Interpretation erfordernder“
Handlungen, von denen wir oben einige aufführ-
ten. Implizite Interpretationen werden vom Ethno-
logen als solche etikettiert, was aber nichts an-
deres bedeutet, als daß er eine Kategorie von (in
diesem Fall niedergeschriebenen) Aussagen mit
anderen Kategorien von Aussagen zum gleichen
Gegenstand und mit wieder anderen Kategorien
von Aussagen zu komplementären Gegenständen
vergleicht, um aus einem solchen Vergleich von
Äußerungen seine eigenen Schlußfolgerungen zu
ziehen. Nur auf diese Art und Weise ist es möglich,
die erste Kategorie von Aussagen als idiosynkra-
tisch geprägt zu erkennen und ihren Aussagewert
im gesamten Kontext zu beurteilen. Widersprüch-
liche Aussagen, wie z. B. bezüglich der Hierarchie
der Adat-Ämter oder genealogischer Positionen
(s. a. Röttger-Rössler 1989: 116 f., 188 f.), geben
allein durch eine vergleichende Betrachtung Auf-
schluß über den Modus, in dem indigene Interpre-
tationen vorgenommen werden, und gegebenen-
falls auch über die Motivationen, die auf genereller
Ebene allen Interpretationen zugrundeliegen. Die
Interpretation des Ethnologen beruht also hier pri-
mär auf einer komparativen Analyse komplemen-
tärer, wenngleich häufig widersprüchlicher Aussa-
gen.
Ganz ähnlich ist das Verfahren bei den „feh-
lenden, aber doch zweifelsohne erforderlichen“
Interpretationen (vorausgesetzt ist hier natürlich,
daß man überhaupt an ihnen interessiert ist). So
war ich sofort erstaunt, daß Ngalle bis auf den
kurzen Hinweis in der Überschrift nicht auf die
„Bedeutung“ des kanre lompo (Text C, s. o.) einge-
gangen war, als ich bei der aktuellen Durchführung
des Rituals zahlreiche spontane Stellungnahmen
darüber vernahm, die mich später zu der Interpre-
tation veranlaßten, daß diese Sequenz die eigent-
lich wichtigste oder „bedeutendste“ des gesamten
accera’ kalompoang sei, da hier der intensivste
Bezug zwischen der sozio-politischen Organisa-
tion und übernatürlichen Mächten in Gestalt des
gemeinsamen Verzehrs der verschiedenen Kom-
ponenten des Opfertieres hergestellt wird (s. Dia-
gramm 1; vgl. Rössler 1987; 197). Ebenso ver-
hielt es sich bei dem Moment der „Schuldfrei-
heit“, welches ja auch in die formale Darstellung
des Gelübde-Prinzips (Diagramm 2) einfloß. Zwar
schreibt Ngalle nichts darüber in seinem Text,
doch hatten meine Übersetzung der vorgetrage-
Anthropos 85.1990
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
365
nen Worte (ak 20 / aj 19, s.Text A) aus dem
Makassarischen ins Indonesische (in Anwesenheit
Ngalles und anderer Dorfbewohner) sowie die sich
daran anschließenden Fragen eine ganze Reihe
von Antworten und Kommentaren zur Folge, die
eine Interpretation des Phänomens „Schuldfrei-
heit“ als integralen und bedeutenden Bestandteil
des Gelübde-Schemas zuließen oder, besser ge-
sagt, unbedingt erforderten. Meine Interpretation
war folglich aus Aussagen und Interpretationen
erster sowie zweiter Ordnung abgeleitet, die erst
durch das Besprechen von Ngalles Text stimuliert
worden waren.
Allerdings gab es auch Handlungen, bezüg-
lich derer auf seiten der Einheimischen anschei-
nend kein Bedarf oder aber auch nicht das kul-
turelle Wissen vorhanden ist, um Interpretationen
vorzunehmen, wie insbesondere bei Sequenz 16
deutlich wurde. Da weder Ngalle auf die „Bedeu-
tung“ dieser oben kurz zusammengefaßten Hand-
lungen eingeht, noch Aussagen anderer dazu ge-
troffen wurden, beschränkte ich die Interpretation
dieser Sequenz auf ein Minimum (Rössler 1987:
191). Einander nicht widersprechende Informatio-
nen erhielt ich nur über die Tatsache, daß das
Tragen und Beschirmen der Kinder eine „Her-
ausstellung“ bedeute, um allen Teilnehmern (die
Ethnologen einmal ausgeklammert) den Sinn (bat-
tuang)24 des Rituals in dieser Handlung klar vor
Augen zu führen. Interpretationen, denen zufolge
solche und vergleichbare Handlungen häufig auf
einen Übergang und/oder eine liminale Phase hin-
weisen (van Gennep 1960: 185; Turner 1969: 94-
130), entsprechen mehr oder minder Konventio-
nen in der ethnographischen Beschreibung, die mit
einheimischen Interpretationen nicht notwendiger-
weise übereinstimmen: Es sind „verallgemeinern-
de Deutungen“ oder „interpretative Verallgemeine-
rungen“, die weder beweis- noch widerlegbar sind
(Sperber 1989: 49-53).
Solche Interpretationen von seiten des Ethno-
logen vor Ort zur Diskussion zu stellen und auf
Bestätigung oder Widerspruch durch die Einhei-
mischen hin zu überprüfen, erweist sich als in
der Praxis nur sehr eingeschränkt möglich und
sinnvoll (vgl. Schefold 1988: 625-646). Ein wei-
teres Beispiel wäre etwa die Frage, warum es
immer eine Frau ist, die das mama vom Rücken
des Büffels herunterstößt (16), oder inwieweit die
Reihenfolge beim Essen mit der subtilen sozia-
len Differenzierung in Beziehung steht {aj 48/49,
24 Vgl. allein schon die differenzierten Bedeutungen des Wor-
tes battuang einschließlich der davon abgeleiteten Formen,
die bei Cense 1979: 91 aufgeführt sind.
ak 45/46). Auch hatten meine Fragen nach der
Bedeutung des sieben- bzw, fünfmaligen Umkrei-
sens des Opfertieres entgegen dem Uhrzeigersinn
dementsprechend stets Antworten zur Folge, de-
nen ich aufgrund ihrer offensichtlichen Willkür
und Widersprüchlichkeit jede Relevanz absprechen
mußte, wenngleich symbolistische Analysen der
Zahlen fünf und sieben oder von Repräsentationen
der Himmelsrichtungen in vergleichbaren Kontex-
ten Parallelen aufzuzeigen scheinen (s. z. B. Ha-
monic 1987: 186 f.), und obwohl sich diese Fragen
auch während des gesamten Rituals immer wieder
stellen, da z. B. bestimmte Zahlenwerte (u. a. 3,
5, 7, 9, 12) sehr häufig auftauchen. Offensichtli-
che Willkür bei solchen indigenen Interpretationen
äußert sich in Assoziationen wie „fünf entspricht
der Anzahl der wichtigsten Adat-Führer“, wobei
deren Zahl in diesen Situationen „je nach Bedarf“
auch auf vier verringert oder auf sechs oder sie-
ben erhöht werden kann.25 Aussagen wie „Das
Abb, 3: Das kalompoang wird vom Fahnenmast gelöst {ak 29)
25 Zu den zitierten vier Hauptämtern der Adat-Regierung (s.
Text B) können in solchen Fällen noch der baku', der sanro
oder der palapa barambang treten. S. hierzu Rössler 1987:
68 f.
Anthropos 85.1990
366
Martin Rössler
ist eben unser Adat“, „Das muß so sein, weil es
der Ordnung entspricht,“ oder „So haben es die
Alten überliefert“ deuten eher auf das Problem
kulturellen Wissens im allgemeinen sowie auf
den diesbezüglich erfolgten Wandel im speziellen
hin.
8. Bedeutungen von Text und Handlung
Der Faktor kulturellen Wissens, der ja auch der
Darstellung des Organisationsschemas zugrunde-
lag, führt uns schließlich zu dem Problemfeld
zurück, das den Ausgangspunkt der Diskussion
bildete: zur Situation des Ethnologen im Pro-
zeß des Erlernens einer fremden Kultur (bzw. eines
Ausschnitts derselben) in Zusammenhang mit der
Art und Weise, das Erlernte zu präsentieren und ei-
ner Leserschaft zugänglich zu machen. Wir waren
von der Frage ausgegangen, inwieweit theoreti-
sche Ansätze aus der kognitiven, symbolistischen
und interpretativen Ethnologie einander ergänzend
auf die Analyse sowie auf die Präsentation eines
spezifischen Ausschnittes einer Kultur angewendet
werden können, wobei der Aspekt der Präsenta-
tion ethnologischer Analysen in Form eines Textes
mittlerweile Gegenstand einer Diskussion gewor-
den ist, die sich als „postmodem“ versteht und sich
von den „klassischen“ oder „modernen“ Richtun-
gen in der Ethnologie abzugrenzen sucht (s. z. B.
Ardener 1985; Rabinow 1986: 247 f.; Strathem
1987: 258 f.; Sangren 1988). In Ergänzung zu der
beinahe auch schon klassischen Subjektivität-Ob-
jektivitäts-Debatte bezüglich der ethnologischen
Feldforschung geht es hierbei unter Heranziehung
unterschiedlicher, häufig philosophischer und lite-
raturwissenschaftlicher Argumentationsweisen es-
sentiell um die Ausweitung der Problematisie-
rung des Verhältnisses zwischen Beobachter und
Beobachtetem hin zu einer Diskussion des Ver-
hältnisses zwischen dem Beobachter und seiner
(späteren) Leserschaft. In diesem Zusammenhang
wird untersucht, inwieweit ethnographische Texte
als literarisches Genre betrachtet werden können,
bzw., welche neuen rhetorischen Wege beschritten
werden können/sollten, um die dialogische Dimen-
sion der Feldforschung wirksam in geschriebene
Sprache umzusetzen und somit dem Publikum / der
Leserschaft ein „wahres Verstehen“ zu ermögli-
chen - ohne daß daraus notwendigerweise eine
“textualist meta-anthropology” hervorgehen muß,
wie Paul Rabinow (1986: 243) die Arbeiten James
Cliffords (z. B. 1986) charakterisiert. Der rezente
Fokus auf den ethnographischen Text entspricht
einer kritischen Analyse der Repräsentation kultu-
reller Phänomene in verbalisierter Form und weist
von daher Parallelen zu einer Betrachtungsweise
von Kultur auf, welche die gesamte Kultur oder
Ausschnitte daraus einem Text gleichsetzt, der all-
gemein zugänglich ist (nämlich den Mitgliedern
der Kultur selbst wie auch dem externen Beobach-
ter), gelesen, interpretiert und verstanden werden
kann: der folglich den Schlüssel zu Erklärungen
bildet (s. z. B. Geertz 1973: 412-453).
Kultur als Text, “as a structure or grammar
of mies and Communications” (Brown 1987: 119),
wird dieser Auffassung nach sowohl vom Ethno-
logen als auch von den Handelnden innerhalb
des Textes selbst auf ihre inhärenten Bedeutun-
gen hin untersucht. Allerdings stellt sich hier die
Frage, was diese doppelte Form des Lesens für
den Forschungsprozeß und die Repräsentation der
sich daraus ergebenen Folgerungen im ethnogra-
phischen Text letztendlich bedeutet (s. Marcus
and Fischer 1986; 26; Errington 1984: 27). Hier
liegt eines der Hauptprobleme der interpretativen
Ethnologie, das ich anhand des vorliegenden Fal-
les bereits mehrfach angesprochen habe und des-
sen praktische Implikationen deutlich geworden
sein dürften: nämlich, was es mit dem Verhältnis
zwischen den Interpretationen der Einheimischen
und denjenigen des Beobachters auf sich hat. Es
liegt auf der Hand, daß die Schlußfolgerungen
des Ethnologen oder gar die von ihm auf der
Grundlage seiner Daten erstellte Theorie nur in
begrenztem Maße der indigenen Repräsentation
der Wirklichkeit folgen können. Daneben kann
eine schriftliche Repräsentation von Phänomenen
und ihren Bedeutungen, wie sie hier in Gestalt
von Ngalles Text vorliegt, nur teilweise als “native
reality” erfaßt und vom externen Beobachter wie-
dergegeben werden, da er für seine Interpretation
der indigenen Interpretation auf Konzepte zurück-
greifen muß, die seiner eigenen Kultur entstammen
(Basso and Selby 1976: 4). Die Frage nach dem
Verhältnis beider Arten von Interpretation zuein-
ander wird jedoch in dem Moment modifiziert,
in dem man von der simplen Korrelierung kul-
tureller Phänomene mit lesbaren und „Interpre-
tation automatisch erweckenden“ Texten Abstand
nimmt, weil es offensichtlich zahlreiche Aspekte
von Kultur im allgemeinen gibt, die unter Zuhilfe-
nahme der Text-Metapher nicht zufriedenstellend
erfaßt werden können. Ein zentrales Problem ist
hier die Frage, wie die Begriffe Beschreibung, In-
terpretation/Deutung, Erklärung definiert werden,
inwieweit sie einander aussschließen und welcher
für die ethnologische Analyse von vorrangiger Be-
deutung ist: ein Problem, das vor allem anhand der
Arbeiten von Geertz in letzter Zeit aufgeworfen
Anthropos 85.1990
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
367
wurde (s. Shankman 1984: 263, 270; Marcus and
Fischer 1986: 29; Watson 1989; vgl. Sperber 1989:
24-28; Parkin 1982; xiii-xv) und das insbeson-
dere im Hinblick auf die Staffelung der Interpre-
tationen der Einheimischen bis hin zu derjenigen
soundsovielter Ordnung des Ethnologen Anlaß zu
kritischer Reflexion gibt.
Der hier dargestellte Fall weist darauf hin,
welche Ungereimtheiten, Widersprüche und ge-
nerellen Schwierigkeiten bei der vergleichenden
Analyse solcher Interpretationen auftreten, so daß
sich hier das Problem stellt, wo überhaupt die Be-
deutungen liegen (sollen), die vom Einheimischen
wie vom Ethnologen interpretiert werden, ob sie
in „kulturell produzierten Botschaften“ oder im
Geiste derjenigen liegen, die solche Botschaften
interpretieren (D’Andrade 1984: 101 f.; vgl. Jar-
vie 1976: 689). Nehmen wir das hier vorgestellte
Exempel des Rituals, so werden diese Schwie-
rigkeiten besonders deutlich, da das Ritual sicher
derjenige kulturelle Ausschnitt ist, der aufgrund
seiner Ausgrenzung vom „Alltag“ in der ethnolo-
gischen Literatur die Interpretation der ihm schein-
bar inhärenten Bedeutungen nahezu herauszufor-
dern scheint, wenngleich - wie das Beispiel von
Sequenz 16 zeigte - die Herausforderung für den
Einheimischen sehr oft nicht besteht. Es ist also
offensichtlich eine Fehlannahme, daß Bedeutun-
gen materieller Symbole oder ritueller Handlun-
gen „da sind“ und „erkannt“, „aufgedeckt“ werden
müssen, damit sich für den Beobachter wie für den
Einheimischen, den beiden Lesern eines kulturel-
len Textes, der Sinn einer Handlung erhellt (vgl.
Schefold 1988: 633).
Handlungen wie das Herunterstoßen des Be-
telpäckchens vom Rücken des Büffels, das ge-
meinsame „große Essen“ oder das Versenken des
Floßes im Wasser schaffen nicht aus sich selbst
heraus eine symbolische Realität; sie stehen weder
„für etwas“ noch evozieren sie eo ipso irgendwel-
che Bedeutungen in den Köpfen der Teilnehmer.
Sie teilen in ihrer schematischen Abfolge nicht
einem passiven Publikum Bedeutungen mit, durch
die sich letzteres grundlegender Prinzipien seines
Überzeugungssystems und seiner sozio-politischen
Organisation bewußt wird. Die Passagen, in denen
Ngalle auf den zeichenhaften Charakter von Hand-
lungen und Materien eingeht, weisen - ebenso wie
zahlreiche ergänzende Informationen - vielmehr
darauf hin, daß in solchen Momenten keineswegs
die Entfaltung einer bedeutungsschweren Erfah-
rung für die Handelnden und die passiven Teilneh-
mer vorliegt, sondern daß der Aspekt der Aktion
selbst, die sozialen Verbindungen zwischen den
Akteuren und die formale Charakterisierung der
Situation im Mittelpunkt stehen (vgl. Schieffelin
1985; Atkinson 1987; 353).
Von daher erweist es sich als problematisch,
das Ritual als Ausschnitt einer Kultur einem Text
gleichzusetzen, dessen inhärente Bedeutungen „da
sind“ und nur darauf warten, interpretiert zu wer-
den: Der literarische Text mag in dieser Intention
geschaffen werden, aber das Ritual wird von Men-
schen durchgeführt und erlebt, die in ihrer Gesamt-
heit keine einheitliche Bedeutungsstruktur empfin-
den und erfassen können, da die einem Ritual inhä-
renten Bedeutungen nicht in den Botschaften selbst
liegen (oder mit den Bedeutungsträgern identisch
sind), sondern weitaus diffuser lokalisiert sind (s.
Keesing 1982: 181 f.; Lewis 1980: 34; Jarvie 1976:
689 f.; Sperber 1989: 27; D’Andrade 1984: 103 f.).
Im Ritual wie in der gesamten Kultur liegen Be-
deutungen - im Unterschied zu ihrer Position in
der Sprache, im Text - nicht gleichförmig unter
einer Oberfläche, die Einheimische und Beobach-
ter nur erkennen müssen, um unter sie zu gelangen
und um sich somit die Bedeutungen erschließen
zu können, sondern sie bewegen sich auf sehr
unterschiedlichen Ebenen.
Die im Ritual geschaffenen Bedeutungen als
„Quintessenz“ der Kultur aufzufassen, ist anschei-
nend von jeher eine unreflektierte Prämisse der
symbolistischen Ethnologie gewesen, wodurch die
kollektive Konstruktion von Bedeutungen im all-
täglichen Leben, im sozialen Miteinander aus der
Analyse ausgeklammert wurden, obwohl in diesem
Bereich ein weitaus größeres Maß an gemein-
schaftlichem Schaffen und Verstehen von Bedeu-
tungen als während der sehr speziellen und darüber
hinaus vergleichsweise seltenen rituellen Situa-
tionen vorliegt (Keesing 1987: 164 f.; Schneider
1976: 206-208). Erinnern wir uns der Tatsache,
daß das accera kalompoang früher jährlich (wie
die meisten anderen periodischen Riten auch) und
heute in Abhängigkeit vom Einlösen eines Gelüb-
des in weitaus größeren Abständen vollzogen wird,
so erhält die Frage, inwieweit sich hier Charakteri-
stika und verborgene Bedeutungszusammenhänge
der gesamten Kultur erhellen sollen, noch stärkeres
Gewicht. Wieso sucht der Ethnologe gerade in
einem so seltenen Ritual weit unter der Oberfläche
nach Bedeutungen? Frederick Errington führt die-
ses Suchen nach dem Unbekannten, Versteckten,
nach der Tiefe der Bedeutung auf eine essen-
tiell westliche Denktradition, auf eine “Western
aesthetic which equates adequacy of Interpretation
with depth of Interpretation” zurück (1984: 31).
Das Konzept des Symbols selbst veranlaßt den
Ethnologen offenbar, nach tieferen Bedeutungen
dort zu suchen, wo sie in den Augen der Einhei-
Anthropos 85.1990
368
Martin Rössler
mischen entweder gar nicht oder in - westlichen
Konventionen nach - anderer, etwa nicht symboli-
scher, sondern zeichenhafter Gestalt (1984: 32 f.)
vorliegen.26
Andererseits sahen wir, daß dieses Suchen
nach Bedeutungen, wie es z. B. Ngalle in seiner
Interpretation des makassarischen a’jaga zeigt, of-
fenbar auch den Einheimischen zu eigen ist, und
zwar charakteristischerweise in den Bereichen, wo
ein geringes Maß an gemeinschaftlichem Schaf-
fen und Verstehen von Symbolen und ihren Be-
deutungen gegeben ist, also im Ritual. Anhand
der oft widersprüchlichen Informationen, die der
Ethnologe hier erhält, spiegelt sich in diesem Be-
reich am deutlichsten die lange Zeit nicht ausrei-
chend berücksichtigte ungleichmäßige Verteilung
von kulturellem Wissen wider, die auf den unter-
schiedlichsten (sozialen, ökonomischen, psycholo-
gischen) Faktoren beruht und die letztendlich dafür
verantwortlich ist, daß Ethnologen einen Großteil
ihres Wissens aus demjenigen von Experten, ja
“philosophier informants” beziehen, von denen ei-
nige in der Geschichte der Ethnologie beachtliche
Berühmtheit erlangt haben (s. Keesing 1982: 5,
198 f., 243 f.; 1987; 162 f.; Errington 1984: 32;
Schieffelin 1985: 720). Durch seine detaillierte
Beschreibung des a’jaga zeigt Ngalle - wie be-
sonders in einigen Passagen mit stark interpreta-
tivem Charakter deutlich wird -, daß es sich bei
ihm um einen solchen Experten handelt; was im
übrigen keine nur für den Ethnologen geschaffene
und relevante, sondern auch im intrakulturellen
Kontext außerordentlich bedeutende Eigenschaft
ist, wie die Analyse der sozialen Wertschätzungs-
position Ngalles im Dorf beweist (Röttger-Rössler
1989: 179 f.).
9. Interpretation und Repräsentation
kulturellen Wissens
Vor dem Hintergrund dieser Überlegungen wird
zweierlei klar vor Augen geführt, nämlich er-
stens, daß sich Interpretationen seitens der Ein-
heimischen in vielerlei Hinsicht von denen des
Ethnologen unterscheiden müssen, und zweitens,
daß weder die einen noch die anderen in der La-
ge sind, über Bedeutungen, über die Wirklichkeit
in der betreffenden Kultur letzten Aufschluß zu
geben. Gerade wenn es um die Analyse eines
26 Oft wird der Ethnologe durch die ihm mangelhaft er-
scheinenden Erklärungen/Interpretationen der Einheimi-
schen zum Suchen nach Bedeutungen angehalten (s. Lewis
1980: 1, 20; Keesing 1982: 183 f.).
Rituals geht, eines Bereiches, bezüglich dessen
das indigene kulturelle Wissen notwendigerweise
ungleich verteilt und widersprüchlich ist und wo
die Interpretation nahezu zwangsläufig provoziert
wird, scheint die Einbeziehung anderer Faktoren,
als sie die symbolistische und interpretative Eth-
nologie in der Regel berücksichtigt, notwendig.
Eine weitreichende Transparenz aller Interpreta-
tionen, eine Verdeutlichung der Umstände, unter
denen sie entstanden sind, sowie ihrer Kontext-
gebundenheit kann nur gewährleistet sein, wenn
die ethnologische Hermeneutik nicht zum Selbst-
zweck wird. Sie ist sinnvoll und notwendig, um
einen wichtigen Bereich der Analyse abzudecken,
weil ja z. B. ein Ritual zweifelsohne „Bedeutun-
gen“, einen „Sinn“ hat, doch sollten die Gren-
zen des Interpretations Vorganges, die Grenzen des
Verstehenkönnens, klar auf gezeigt statt eloquent
verschleiert werden. Eine Möglichkeit, die sich
hier bietet, besteht darin, auch über der zitierten
Oberfläche zu arbeiten und alltägliches soziales
Leben, Handlungsstrategien, ihre schematische Or-
ganisation und pragmatische Zielsetzung als sol-
che zu akzeptieren und zu analysieren, ohne nach
Bedeutungen unter der Oberfläche zu suchen; ein
Verfahren, das in der kognitiven Ethnologie seit
längerem erfolgreich praktiziert wird.
Wir stellten fest, daß Ngalle und andere Be-
fragte bei vielen Handlungen keine Veranlassung
sehen, sie als „für irgend etwas stehend“ zu be-
trachten; daß es weiterhin den Beobachter sofort
irritiert, wenn bestimmten Objekten oder Aktionen
ad hoc kein Zeichen- oder symbolhafter Charakter
zugesprochen wird, daß vielmehr die Handlung
selbst, die persönliche Erfahrung (etwa des Gelüb-
des) und die diesen zugrundeliegenden Regeln im
Vordergrund stehen (vgl. Keesing 1982: 186-190).
Genau solche Regeln waren es auch, die mir gleich
zu Beginn und während der gesamten Dauer des
Aufenthaltes im Dorf von allen Seiten mitgeteilt
wurden, und nicht die Bedeutungen, welche Ob-
jekte und Handlungen innerhalb des Rituals be-
sitzen. Das Ritual selbst bildet ja in diesem Fall
auch nur einen kleinen Teil des Schemas (hier
des Gelübdes, in anderen Fällen zum Beispiel
der Krankheit einschließlich des Heilungsrituals;
s. Atkinson 1987; Schieffelin 1985), einen Teil, der
zumindest für die Veranstalter nicht primär von zu
interpretierenden Handlungen und bedeutungsge-
ladenen Symbolen geprägt ist, sondern auch von
beträchtlichen Sorgen, da man sich in der Regel
für die Durchführung des Rituals auf viele Jahre
hinaus verschulden muß.
Über der Oberfläche liegen die Informatio-
nen über die Regelhaftigkeit des Gelübde-Sche-
Anthropos 85.1990
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens
369
mas, über den persönlichen Schmerz, den man
bei Krankheit und Tod in der Familie empfin-
det, über die Hoffnung, die sich auftut, wenn als
Ursache dafür ein vergessenes Gelübde erkannt
wird, über die Sorge, wie das Geld für das teure
Opfertier Zusammenkommen soll. Über der Ober-
fläche liegt auch das Lachen in den Augen des
Einheimischen, wenn er erzählt, daß die an das
Opfern eines Büffels gebundenen Gelübde ganz
gerne „vergessen“ würden (um eine Menge Geld
zu sparen), - und die sich verdunkelnde Miene
bei der darauf folgenden Aussage, daß sich die-
ses „Vergessen“ eigentlich immer rächen würde
(s.o.). Hier liegt also, kurz gesagt, das pragma-
tische Leben. Ein accera kalompoang (wie wohl
jedes andere Ritual auch) wird nicht vollzogen,
um von den Teilnehmern interpretiert und verstan-
den zu werden, sondern um durch die Umsetzung
spezifischer Regeln und Wissenskomponenten in
Handlung einen bestimmten Effekt zu erreichen
(s. Lewis 1980: 35). Eine Analyse dieser Regeln
und Wissenskomponenten in formaler Weise, wie
ich sie oben vorgenommen habe, sagt, wie Lewis
(1980: 21 f.) meint, (nur?) etwas über die Gesell-
schaft und die Handlung selbst aus; doch halte ich
sein Argument für nicht zutreffend, daß wir über
die im Ritual handelnden Individuen allein dann
etwas erfahren können, wenn man ihre über das
öffentliche Wissen hinausgehenden (Experten-)In-
terpretationen und Informationen über das Anwen-
den der Regeln hinzuzieht. Hier scheint wieder die
Interpretation der alleinige Schlüssel zur Erfassung
der Kultur zu sein, ohne daß berücksichtigt wird,
daß die Regeln selbst, der den Ausgangspunkt für
die Interpretation bildende Kontext, ebenso auf-
schlußreich im Hinblick auf die gesamte Kultur
sein können, wenngleich, wie wir oben sahen, die
formale Darstellung der Regeln, des Schemas, für
sich alleine ebenfalls sehr viele Fragen offenläßt.
Schematisches „Schritt-für-Schritt-Wissen“
über die Handlung sowie ihre „symbolische Gram-
matik“ (Keesing 1982: 208 f.) sind die beiden Ebe-
nen, auf denen ein Ritual vollzogen wird. Anders
ausgedrückt, es muß die interne Organisation des
Wissens in Form von Schemata, die als individu-
elle Bedeutungssysteme analysiert werden können,
abgegrenzt werden von den externen Botschaften,
die im Ritual vermittelt und davon ausgehend in-
terpretiert werden (s. D’Andrade 1984: 103-105).
Von daher bieten sich Verfahren der kognitiven
wie der interpretativen Ethnologie an, um in kom-
plementärer Weise darzustellen, wie dieses Wissen
organisiert ist, wie es von persönlichen Erfahrun-
gen geprägt ist, wie es seinerseits Erfahrungen
prägt und wie es mitgeteilt wird. Auf diese Weise
können gleichermaßen die - zumindest rhetori-
schen - Schwächen jedes der theoretischen Ansät-
ze ausgeglichen und zu einer fruchtbaren Synthese
geführt werden, nämlich auf der einen Seite die
in sich geschlossenen formalistischen Modelle, die
oft nur mehr logisch äquivalente, aber substan-
tiell andersartige Simulationen des Denkens sind
(Geertz 1973: 11), und auf der anderen Seite die
der abendländischen Hermeneutik verpflichteten
interpretativen Versuche, deren “open-endedness”
mittlerweile kaum noch angezweifelt wird (s. Mar-
cus and Cushman 1982: 45; Marcus and Fischer
1986: 29 f.; Colby etal. 1981: 433, 440 f.).
Ein Vorteil des interpretativen Ansatzes ist
sicher, daß nur hier der Begriff des Dialogs, und
zwar sowohl zwischen Beobachter und Einheimi-
schen als auch zwischen letzteren und ihrer eige-
nen Kultur, in die Analyse und ihre Präsentation
in Form des Textes einfließt, indem vor allem bei
der Wiedergabe von indigenen Interpretationen in
Form von Originaltexten die Auseinandersetzung
des Einheimischen mit seiner eigenen Kultur in
die Darstellung aufgenommen wird.27 Der Dia-
log zwischen Beobachter und der beobachteten
Kultur, der einen Hauptfokus der neueren theo-
retischen Diskussion über die Feldsituation selbst
sowie über die Rhetorik des ethnographischen
Textes bildet (z. B. Marcus and Cushman 1982:
42 f.; Marcus and Fischer 1986: 30 f., 67-69; Sin-
ger 1980: 499 f.; Strathem 1987: 264 f.), ist eng
verknüpft mit dem Problem der Selbstreflexion
des Ethnologen in seiner Auseinandersetzung mit
der von ihm untersuchten Kultur und mit einer
potentiellen Leserschaft seiner Texte. Die rezente
Kritik an der „postmodemen“ Konzentration auf
literaturwissenschaftliche Debatten über ethnogra-
phische Texte (Sangren 1988; Roth 1989) weist
darauf hin, daß die Authentizität des vom Ethno-
logen vermittelten Wissens durch solche Ansätze
nicht garantiert werden kann, ja daß das Wissen
des Ethnologen und seine persönliche Erfahrung
in der fremden Kultur letztendlich immer der ent-
scheidende Faktor bleiben, ohne den die weiter-
führende Problematisierung der Rhetorik der von
ihm produzierten Texte belanglos ist. Hier besteht
in hohem Maße die Gefahr, daß der Text die
Gestalt einer “poetry of the analyst rather than of
the culture and people being described” annimmt
(Colby etal. 1981: 439; vgl. Roth 1989: 560).
27 S. Watson-Franke and Watson 1975: 249, die diese letz-
te Art des Dialogs hauptsächlich auf die Erhebung von
Lebensgeschichten beziehen. Ich denke jedoch, daß ein
solcher Dialog ebenso bei jeder anderen Art indigener
Interpretation vorliegt, auch bei den hier vorgestellten. Vgl.
Scheff 1986: 408.
Anthropos 85.1990
370
Martin Rössler
Interpretation, Selbstreflexion im Text wie
auch formal-schematische Darstellungen laufen,
für sich selbst genommen, gleichermaßen Gefahr,
auf eine Exotisierung und Verfälschung fremd-
kultureller Phänomene hinauszulaufen (s. Keesing
1989), so daß die Ansätze für eine wirklich-
keitsnahe ethnographische Darstellung bereits an
der Basis überprüft werden müssen. Ein Überge-
wicht an theoretischen Debatten über die Rolle
des Ethnologen als vom Dialog gebannter Forscher
und Autor, ohne von den praktischen Implika-
tionen dieser Rolle auszugehen, scheinen daher
in nicht wünschenswerter Weise abzulenken von
dem, was er erbringen kann und sollte (s. Sperber
1989: 22): nämlich darzustellen, was es für die
Menschen heißt, in einer bestimmten Kultur zu
leben, und davon ausgehend kulturelle Variabilität
zu erklären.
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Anthropos 85.1990
Anthropos 85.1990: 373-392
From Symmetry to Asymmetry
An Evolutionary Interpretation of Eastern Sumbanese Relationship
Terminology
Gregory Forth
Abstract. - This paper concerns a hypothetical change from
symmetric to asymmetric principles of classification in systems
of prescriptive alliance in the Austronesian-speaking world. As
a test of this hypothesis, features of the terminology of eastern
Sumba, and especially usages found in the first ascending level,
are analysed, and component terms are compared with cognates
in related eastern Indonesian languages. As well, attention is
given to the question of how changes in the meanings of
particular terms may have come about. A focal issue is the
equating of spouses and of opposite-sex siblings in the first
ascending and other levels of the terminology, and in this
as in other regards it is argued that the present pattern of
relationship terms in Sumba, as compared to what is found in
closely related languages, is best explained by the hypothesis
of a former classification of symmetric prescriptive alliance as
a general property of alliance systems in this part of eastern
Indonesia. The paper also bears upon the issue of terms that
may have equated affines and cognatic relatives in various
proto-terminologies, particularly in view of the fact that at
present spouse’s parents are mostly designated with distinctly
affinal terms throughout Sumba. [Indonesia, eastern Sumba,
relationship terminology, symmetric and asymmetric principles
of classification, prescriptive alliance systems, Austronesian
languages]
Gregory L. Forth, D. Phil, in Social Anthropology (Oxford
1980); since 1986 Dept, of Anthropology, Univ. of Alberta,
Canada; since 1989 Associate Prof.; fieldwork in Indonesia
(1975-76 and 1983 in eastern Sumba; 1983, 1984, 1985, 1988
in Flores). - Publications include: Rindi: an Ethnographic Study
of a Traditional Domain in Eastern Sumba (The Hague 1981);
The Language of Number and Numerical Ability in Eastern
Sumba (Hull 1985); articles in Anthropos, Ethnos, Man, So-
ciology, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, and
other journals and collections (e.g., in A. R. Walker [ed.]:
Contributions to Southeast Asian Ethnography, vol. 7, 1988;
and in J. J. Fox [ed.]: To Speak in Pairs, 1988).
Over twenty years ago, Rodney Needham pro-
posed a “typological scale of social evolution”
which had as its initial stage a system of exoga-
mous moieties with symmetric alliance. The suc-
ceeding stages were, consecutively, “a simple two-
section system (without the exogamous moieties);
symmetric prescriptive terminology plus asymmet-
ric alliance; prescriptive asymmetric alliance; and
finally the divergent possibilities of double de-
scent (without prescriptive alliance) or cognation”
(1967: 45 f.). Since then, Needham has developed
aspects of this hypothesis in a series of papers
(see, e.g., 1973, 1980, 1984, 1986) that have
dealt mostly with the simultaneous appearance of
symmetric and asymmetric features in eastern In-
donesian systems of social classification, systems
which, moreover, in most cases combine sym-
metric features of terminology with the practice of
asymmetric alliance. With specific regard to clas-
sification, therefore, Needham’s scheme implies a
regular development in prescriptive terminologies
from symmetry to asymmetry, and, indeed, he has
on more than one occasion argued against the
possibility of a symmetric terminology developing
from an asymmetric one (see, e.g., 1980: 70).
Despite recent interest in the evolution of
Austronesian kinship systems (see Blust 1980),
however, thus far little attention has been given
to specific processes of classificatory change that
may be involved in the kinds of transformation
to which Needham’s hypothesis refers. More par-
ticularly, his evolutionary interpretation has yet
to be reviewed in the light of lexical data from
any single group of related languages and dialects
displaying terminological variation of the sort rel-
evant to the hypothesis, in order to assess how far
it can illuminate this variation. In other words, the
hypothesis, as it concerns relationship terminolo-
gy, has yet to be tested against the evidence of
language in any particular instance.
This essay is written with the conviction that
such a test is possible. The general question I
pose is whether the hypothetical assumption that a
development from symmetric to asymmetric ter-
minology has taken place in a given language,
or language region, can account for similarities
and differences among cognate relationship terms
as between this language and closely related lan-
guages. In other words, I ask whether the semantic
variations accord with such a change, as well as
how changes in the application of particular terms
might have come about. The language I take as
my focus is that of eastern Sumba, in eastern
Indonesia, and comparative data are derived from
languages spoken in western Sumba and on neigh-
374
Gregory Forth
bouring islands.1 Partly for analytical reasons, and
partly because it will not be possible in the space
available to explore all areas of the eastern Sum-
banese terminology, I shall concentrate on terms
in the first ascending genealogical level applying
to parents’ opposite-sex siblings and their spouses
(MB, FZ, FZH, MBW), and to affines.2
1. Preliminary Matters
At present, the eastern Sumbanese terminology
(see Table 1) reveals a quite consistently asym-
metric classification of prescriptive alliance and
coexists with a set of rules requiring a unilateral
transfer of women in marriage (see Forth 1981).
My objective, therefore, is to determine how the
words composing the present eastern Sumbanese
relationship terminology and their specifications
are consistent with, and are best accounted for as
developments from, a former classification of sym-
metric alliance. Stated another way, the question is
whether comparative evidence indicates a deriva-
tion of present asymmetric usages from symmetric
protoforms. In this regard, I further consider that
a symmetric classification may once have been
characteristic not only of eastern Sumbanese, but
of the Sumbanese language region as a whole and
of other, related eastern Indonesian languages.
Although predominantly symmetric classifi-
cations are not found at present on Sumba itself,
1 This paper has quite a long history and has been in exis-
tence, in one or another form, for nearly five years. I first
began to think about the possible evolutionary course of
particular eastern Sumbanese terms in 1980, after reading
Blust’s article, published in the same year. It was not,
however, until 1983 that I began to research and write
in earnest, and it was in 1984 that the basic argument of
the paper was developed. Since then various other tasks
have prevented me from revising the essay so as to make it
suitable for publication, although, in the meantime, I have
published three shorter pieces (Forth 1985, 1988a, 1988ft)
which deal with related issues and which make reference to
the present investigation. (In Forth 1988ft, the paper is listed
under the title “An Evolutionary Interpretation of Eastern
Sumbanese Relationship Terminology”.) As it turns out,
the delay has been beneficial in that it has allowed me
to incorporate additional data and has given me more time
to ponder the arguments.
2 When I speak of “eastern Sumbanese” I refer to the
language of all of Sumba’s eastern language region, with
the exception of those dialects spoken in the extreme west-
ern part of this region (e.g., Anakalangu, Wanukaka), the
terminologies of which display features in common with
western Sumbanese languages. For present purposes, we
need not be concerned with the question of whether vari-
ations within eastern Sumbanese, thus defined, constitute
separate languages or only dialects of a single language.
eastern Sumbanese terminology in many ways pro-
vides an ideal case for this type of investigation.
Not only is the island located in a part of Indone-
sia where asymmetric marriage alliance is widely
attested, but related languages, particularly ones
spoken on the islands of Flores and Timor, display
a variety of terminological features ranging from
symmetric to fully asymmetric classifications (see
Hicks 1981, 1986; Needham 1984). On Sumba
itself, there is moreover a general division into
an eastern group of languages and dialects, the
terminologies of which for the most part evidence
a classification of asymmetric prescriptive alliance,
and a western group which reveals terminologies
that are non-prescriptive in that they consistently
distinguish cognatic relatives from affines.3 Within
the eastern group, the number of terminological
equations expressing prescription become fewer
as one moves from east to west, while the ter-
minologies of Anakalangu and Wanukaka in the
westernmost part of this eastern region are alto-
gether lacking in such equations. In view of this
pattern, therefore, and because the languages of
Sumba appear to form a unitary group in relation
to languages spoken outside the island (Onvlee
1973: 165), there is reason to suppose that western
Sumbanese terminology may have undergone a
further development, namely from a prescriptive
to a non-prescriptive classification.
All languages spoken on Sumba have been
classified, together with Bimanese, Savunese, and
the languages of western and central Flores, as
members of a “Bima-Sumba” group (Esser 1938).
Recently, Blust (1980: 208) has included both
the Bima-Sumba group and the “Ambon-Timor”
group of languages, which are spoken in eastern
Flores, the Solor region, Timor, and the Moluccas
(Esser 1938), within a Central Malayo-Polynesian
grouping. It is primarily from these Central Ma-
layo-Polynesian languages, and more particularly
the Bima-Sumba languages, that I derive compara-
3 I use “cognatic relatives” (or “cognatic kin,” “cognates”)
and “affines” in a purely formal way that is now quite
standard, to distinguish the typical genealogical denotata
of relationship terms. In this regard, I do not imply that
the contrast necessarily coincides with any that is present
in the thought or language of those who use (or used) the
terms. “Affines,” moreover, refers specifically to ego’s own
affines, related through ego’s own spouse; thus MBW and
FZH, for example, are treated as cognatic relatives of ego,
even though they are linked to ego through marriage. The
notion of a term “equating” relatives or specifications is
also an expository convenience; what it in fact means is
that the analyst can distinguish genealogically defined types
as denotata of a single term. Thus the “equation” strictly
speaking does not exist apart from the analysis.
Anthropos 85.1990
From Symmetry to Asymmetry
375
tive data relevant to the hypothetical development
of eastern Sumbanese relationship terminology.
Even so, I often prefer to speak, somewhat less
specifically, of eastern Indonesian languages, since
there is not always certainty that the conclusions
I draw relate to Blust’s grouping as a whole or to
some less inclusive set of languages from eastern
Indonesia. At the same time, the discussion will in
places bear upon proto-languages at more inclusive
levels, particularly Proto-Austronesian (PAN) and
Proto-Malayo-Polynesian (PMP).
be a common radical, *yia (or ia, iya), in eastern
Sumbanese terms that apply both to affines and
cognatic relatives, in both wife-taking and wife-
giving positions, in a way consistent with symmet-
ric alliance (see Table 1, s.v. yianu, HP [FZ, FZH];
layia, FZS, ZH; wayia, SW).4 Another suggestion
of an earlier symmetry is at once more general
and less obvious than the preceding. A glance at
Table 1 reveals a tendency to apply the same term
to alters of opposite sex, both spouse and sibling
pairs, in lines adjacent to ego’s. Thus, MB =
Table 1: Eastern Sumbanese relationship terms (based on the
dialect of Kambera) (data drawn from Fischer 1957, Kapita
1976, and Forth 1981)
bokua
dpu
ama
ina
tuya
mamu
ama yeraüna y era
ama yianu/ina yianu
angu paluhu
anawini
anamini
angu kawini
yera
halu
layia
rai (or rii) anamini
mangàlu
papaba
lei
ana mini
ana kawini
laleba
dawa
rai (or rii) ana or
wayia
umbuku
FF, MF
MF, MM
F, FB, MZH
M, MZ, FBW
MB, MBW
FZ, FZHb
WF/WM
HF/HM
B, FBS, MZS (m.s.), WZH
Z, FBD, MZD, FZD (m.s.)
B, FBS, MZS, MBS (w.s.)
Z, FBD, MZD (w.s.), HBWC
MBS (m.s.), WB, WBW
MBD (m.s.), BW (m.s.), WZ,
FZS (w.s.), ZH (w.s.), HB
FZS (m.s.), ZH (m.s.), HZH, DH
MBS (w.s.), BW (w.s.)
FZD (w.s.), HZ
W
H
S, BS (m.s.), ZS (w.s.)
D, BD (m.s.), ZD (w.s.)
ZS, ZD (m.s.), HZS, HZD,
FZDS, FZDD
BS, BD (w.s.), WBS, WBD,
MBSS, MBSDd
swe
SS, SD, DS, DD
MBW, FZ = FZH, MBS = MBSW, WB = WBW,
ZS = ZD = ZDH, WBS = HBD = WBSW, and
so on. As I have noted before (Forth 1981; 316),
one can therefore conclude that alliance status reg-
ularly overrides sex as a principle of classification
in the eastern Sumbanese terminology. Yet this
observation does not explain how the pattern might
have come about. Certainly it is not essential to an
asymmetric prescriptive system. Nor is it clearly
characteristic of eastern Sumbanese classification
in general, for as I have abundantly demonstrated
in my monograph on Rindi (1981), the opposition
of “male” (mini) and “female” (kawini) is of major
social and symbolic importance in this society.4 5
The practice of equating relatives of opposite
sex, however, is found not only in eastern Sum-
ba, but appears to be a fairly widespread feature
of predominantly asymmetric terminologies else-
where in eastern Indonesia, and it occurs in the
non-prescriptive terminologies of western Sumba
as well. By contrast, in symmetric systems, both
in this part of the world and elsewhere, the pattern
is uncharacteristic; that is to say, in a symmetric
classification of prescriptive alliance one typically
finds that MB, for example, is called by a sep-
arate term from MBW, FZ is distinguished from
FZH, and so on.6 Yet in one respect, asymmetric
In addition to the occurrence of symmetric
features of terminology in related languages, cer-
tain features of Sumbanese terminologies them-
selves suggest a development from a former
symmetric classification. One of these is the ap-
pearance of what I have argued (Forth 1985) may
a Umbu in Rindi, Mangili, and Wai Jilu.
b For FZH in Rindi and neighbouring domains see Table 2.
c In Kambera, HBW is specified as angu riina, roughly
“fellow wife.”
d In Rindi and Umalulu, dawa is also employed for ZC and
HZC. The more specific term for ZC and HZC is laleba.
e SW is wayia only in some parts of eastern Sumba.
4 The use of dawa for BC (w. s.), WBC and ZC (m. s.), HZC,
at least in Rindi and Umalulu (see Table 1 note d) is of
course itself a symmetric usage. It is not entirely clear,
however, whether it can be regarded as a remnant of a
former symmetric classification.
5 When necessary, male and female members of all categories
that do not themselves specify gender can be indicated with
the modifiers mini, “male,” and kawini, “female.” It is not,
therefore, that the distinction cannot be made, or that it is
not sometimes important or useful, but only that the terms
themselves do not do so.
6 That these distinctions are not always made is shown by
the Atoni (western Timor) term bahaf which, in the dialects
of Amanuban and Amarasi, is applied to MB, FZH, WF,
HF, FZ, MBW, WM, HM (Fischer 1957: 25). This term is
also interesting in that apparent cognates occur in various
other eastern Indonesian languages, where they refer either
to F and FB or to MB. See, e.g., Mamboru mbapa, MB,
MBW; Kodi (western Sumba) bapa, F, FB, MZH; Ende
Anthropos 85.1990
376
Gregory Forth
terminologies such as that of eastern Sumba and
typical symmetric classifications are fundamental-
ly similar, since in both instances the number of
terms for cognatic kin- in the first ascending level
- to retain this example - is the same, namely
four. Thus, owing to the fact that opposite sex
relatives in adjacent lines are not distinguished, in
the eastern Sumbanese terminology we have: ama
(F, FB, etc.), ina (M, MZ, etc.), tuya (MB, MBW),
and mamu (FZ, FZH).
My use of the first ascending level as an
illustration here is of course quite deliberate, as it
is particularly terms for relatives in this part of the
terminology that are the subject of this analysis. To
anticipate the argument somewhat, it may be noted
that since symmetric systems commonly operate
with the same number of terms in this level as do
asymmetric systems like the eastern Sumbanese,
all that need be done in order to transform one
into the other is to alter the specifications of the
existing terms. With certain qualifications, this is
what I argue has happened in eastern Sumba.7 In
order to sustain the argument, however, it will be
necessary to demonstrate the precise operations
involved in the hypothetical changes and to show
that these changes of meaning are reconcilable
with variations among the specifications of cognate
terms in related languages.
baba, F; Ma’u Nori (central Flores) bapa, F, FB, FZH;
Northern Tetum (central Timor) baba, MB, FZH, WF (HF
not given), and Pantar (Bemusa; Barnes 1973) bapa(ng),
MB, WF, FZH, ZHF (and see Blust 1980: 212 note 13 for
possible cognates in other parts of Indonesia).
7 There are, to be sure, other means by which asymmetric
distinctions could be produced in a symmetric terminology.
These include the use of descriptive compounds; extending
existing terms upwards or downwards to effect vertical
equations; extending parent, sibling, and child terms hor-
izontally to distinguish wife-giving from wife-taking lines
(e.g., MB=M*FZ; FZH=F*MB; FZD=Z*MBD, etc.); bor-
rowing terms from other languages and dialects; and using
words not previously employed as relationship terms. For
the most part, however, usages that reflect these processes
are absent in modern eastern Sumbanese terminology. More
particularly, there is no evidence that they are relevant to the
present classification of relatives in the first ascending level.
Extending terms vertically is discussed by Allen (1976),
in reference to Sherpa, as a possible means of converting
a symmetric prescriptive terminology into a non-prescrip-
tive one. Allen does not, however, consider that the same
operation might produce an asymmetric classification of
prescriptive alliance.
2. Eastern Sumbanese mamu, FZ, FZH
The most convenient place to begin a review of
the evidence is the term mamu (FZ, FZH). In a
sense, this term is also the origin of the present
analysis. Some years ago (see note 1) it came to
my attention that mamu closely resembled words
in related languages outside Sumba, which, how-
ever, were most often applied to MB. Since the
equation FZ=MB is rather unusual, I began to
consider how, if mamu were indeed cognate with
the other eastern Indonesian words, these divergent
specifications might have come to be associated
with reflexes of a single protoform. An answer
was first suggested by the idea that the term, or an
earlier form thereof, might once have been applied
to FZH but not to FZ. It was then a short step
to the hypothesis that the present specifications of
mamu represented a further development from a
former equation of FZH and MB on Sumba, an
equation that was part of a general classification
of symmetric prescriptive alliance.8
It is clear that this particular development
did not occur in every part of Sumba. Especially
in the western language region other, unrelated
terms are at present used for FZ and FZH, while
in the most westerly part of the eastern region
(Anakalangu, Wanukaka, Rua) descriptive com-
pounds predominate (see Table 2). Nevertheless,
the idea that mamu derives from a word that once
equated MB and FZH seems well supported by
the evidence from non-Sumbanese languages. This
evidence is presented in Table 3, which lists words
from 12 eastern Indonesian and 12 other Austro-
nesian languages and dialects. Both the form and
specifications of these terms suggest that the ma-
jority reflect PAN (Proto-Austronesian) *mama’,
“maternal uncle” (Wurm and Wilson 1975: 228;
Dempwolff 1938: 105).
A number of terms are problematic in re-
lation to PAN *mama’, and one cannot be cer-
tain that all reflect a single protoform. For ex-
ample, Atimelang mama, as it includes F among
its specifications, possibly derives instead from
the similar Austronesian word for “father” which
Dempwolff reconstructed as *ama’ (1938; 15; cf.
Blast’s PMP [Proto-Malayo-Polynesian] *[t]ama,
F; 1980: 216), while in respect of phonology,
though not of denotata, the same might also be said
8 Not being a linguist, I shall not try to determine the phonetic
shape of mamu in an earlier symmetric classification, nor
indeed shall I attempt a phonetic reconstruction of Sumba-
nese or other protoforms of the other terms I discuss.
Anthropos 85.1990
From Symmetry to Asymmetry
377
Table 2: Terms for FZ and FZH in eastern and western Sumbanese languages (the sources for the terms in the following tables are
given in the Appendix)
FZ FZH
(a) Eastern languages
Kambera and elsewhere in eastern Sumba mamu mamu
Rindi, Umalulu, Mangili, Wai Jilu mamu kiya (or kia)
Mamboru tiama tiama
Anakalangu anawini amaa ubua
Wanukaka inab liya (or Iia)c
Rua anawini amaa lia amad
(b) Western languages
Lauli, Wewewa, Laura tiama kia (or ki’a)
Lamboya nama kia
Kodi kia (or kiyo) laghina i kia (or kiyo)e
a anawini ama, “sister of father.” Ubu is a variant of the
general respectful vocative for men in Sumba.
b ina, M, MZ. The use of this term for FZ follows Fischer
(1957). According to Mitchell (1981: 256, 261), FZ is
anawini ama as in Anakalangu.
c Liya or lia appears to be related either to layia (ZH) or to
kiya, or perhaps to both,
d lia ama, “ZH of father.”
e laghina i kia (kiyo), “husband of FZ.”
of Central Manggarai amang (MB, FZH, WF).9 A
genetic connection is even more doubtful between
Balinese тётёп and the other words in Table 3.
Indeed, since this term is applied only to female
relatives, including M, it can almost certainly be
ruled out as a reflex of PAN *mama (MB). I
include it mainly because, like eastern Sumbanese
mamu, it refers to FZ, and to the extent that it
appears to be unrelated to the terms for MB it
might be considered as counter-evidence to the
hypothesis advanced here. There are also a number
of terms in Table 3 that apply to FB as well as to
MB. Yet, whereas it is difficult to see how a term
specifying MB could come to be applied to F (see
9 The question of whether PAN or PMP *ama’ l*tama, F, and
PAN/PMP *mama’, MB, might yet derive from a single
protoform at a higher level has yet to receive a definite
answer. Fox’s statement that the terms for MB in Mangga-
rai, Ngadha, and Ende, in western and central Flores, “all
... appear to derive from ama/ame (F)” (1984—85: 42) is
therefore rather premature, at least as far as Endenese mame
is concerned (see also Nage mame, FZ, in relation to ame,
F). I do not rule out that mame may be cognate with the
“father” term ame, but if one were derived from the_other,
evidence from other parts of Indonesia suggests that this
occurred at the level of PAN or PMP, and not separately
on Flores. With no less justification, and with no more, Fox
might have made the same claim for Sumbanese mamu (FZ,
FZH) in relation to ama (F). The term pame, which denotes
MB in some dialects of Ngadha, is an entirely separate
matter, as perhaps is Central Manggarai amang. It might
just be noted that terms for MB also resemble the local
word for F in a number of Bornean languages, where they
further denote FB (see LeBar 1972; s. v. Rungus Dusun,
Idahan Murut, Maanyan).
Atimelang mama) or M (see Balinese memen), the
extension of such a term to include FB is far more
conceivable.
Despite these several qualifications, what mat-
ters in the present context is that mamu (FZ, FZH)
resembles words in a great variety of Austronesian
languages that refer to MB, and in some cases
to FB, FZH, WF and/or HF as well. In respect
of both phonological and semantic considerations,
there is thus no better candidate than PAN *mama ,
“maternal uncle,” for the protoform of the Sum-
banese word. Accordingly, I shall regard eastern
Sumbanese mamu as cognate with the majority of
words included in Table 3.
We should now look more closely at the
specifications of these terms. Of the 26 words
from 24 languages and dialects, no fewer than
22 denote MB. Even more significant is the fact
that 10 of the 12 words from the eastern Indo-
nesian languages include this specification. Also,
six of these twelve words, like Sumbanese mamu,
designate FZH, and five of the six equate this
relative with MB. It seems probable, therefore, that
a common protoform of these eastern Indonesian
terms also equated MB and FZH. Interestingly, the
equating of these two specifications under a reflex
of PAN *mama’ appears not to occur in other
sub-groupings of Austronesian languages. Quite
possibly, therefore, it is a development peculiar
to eastern Indonesia.
Male relatives far outnumber females among
the specifications of terms in Table 3. The most
common female specification of the eastern Indo-
nesian words is FZ, which occurs in three cases. As
I have argued elsewhere (Forth 1988a), however,
Anthropos 85.1990
378 . Gregory Forth
Table 3: Possible cognates of eastern Sumbanese mamu, FZ, FZH (some of these data have been published in Forth 1988a: 49
Table 1)
(a) Eastern Indonesia3 Komodo Lamba-Léda Tenggara (region in central Manggarai) Central Manggarai (western Flores) Rembong (western Flores) Ngadha (central Flores) Nage (central Flores) Ma’u Nori (Keo region, central Flores) Ende (ngaó dialect, central Flores) mamo, FZ, FZH, HF, HM mama, MB amang, MB, FZH, WF (cf. ema, F, FB, MZH) mama, MB, FZH, WF mame, “uncle” (Arndt 1961: 312); FB, MB (Barnes 1972)b mame, FZ, MBW, sometimes MZC mame, MB mameh, MB, FZ, “aunt older or younger than mother” (van Suchtelen 1921: 384 f.)
Tana ‘Ai (eastern Flores) Tanebar-Evav (Kei Islands) mame, MB, FZH, WF, HF memen, MB, FZH (see also Proto-Ambon *meme, MB; Blust 1980: 212 n. 1)
Tanimbar (northern dialect of Yamdena) Atimelang (Alor) memi, MB, FZH, WF, HF mama, F, FB, MB
(b) Western Indonesia and the Philippines Bahasa Indonesia/Malay Minangkabau Ngaju Karo Batak mama, mamak, “maternal uncle, aunt” mama-k, MB mama, MB mama, MB, WF mami, MBW, WM
Redjang mama, MeB, FeB mamang, MyB, FyB
Balinese Tagalog Tiruray (Mindanao) Cotabato Manobo (Mindanao) mémén, M, MZ, FZ, FBW, MBWd mama, MB momo, FB, MB momo, FB, MB
(c) Formosa Atayal Sedeq mama’, FB, MB mama, FB, MB
(d) Other Ikiti (New Hebrides) mama, MB
a Following Blust 1980, the four language groupings included here can be classified as Central Malayo-Polynesian (east- ern Indonesia), Western Malayo-Polynesian (western Indo- nesia and the Philippines), Atayalic (Formosa), and Oce- anic (Ikiti). b The exact specifications of Ngadha mamé are unclear. Arndt (1961: 312) glosses the word as “uncle,” as he does another word, parné (1961: 400), which Barnes (1972: 85), citing Arndt in this connection, gives as “FB, MB.” In a terminology from the Ngadha district of Mataloko which I recorded in 1985, parné is given as FB, MZH, MB, FZH. As mamé is not included in this terminology, it probably belongs to another dialect of Ngadha. c In Nage MZ is also classified as iné (M), as, according to some accounts, is MBW as well. The least equivocal specification of mamé is therefore FZ. d In Forth 1988a: 49 Table 1 s. v. Balinese mémén is given incorrectly as “mémém”.
one of these terms, Komodo mamo (FZ, FZH, HP), may reflect borrowing from a Sumbanese source, so its significance in this context is reduced. The specifications of Nage mame are somewhat prob- lematic, as informants disagreed on whether this term could be applied to MBW and MZ as well as to FZ, the former two relatives alternatively be- ing designated with the “mother” term, ine (Forth n. d.). On the other hand, the application of mame to FZ in Nage is not in doubt, so that the real ques- tion is how this term, if it reflects a protoform that designated MB and FZH, came to be applied only to a female relative. One possibility, of course, is that the current specifications of mame reflect a development essentially similar to what I argue has taken place in parts of Sumba, particularly in the island’s southeastern region. Of especial interest in this general connection is the appearance of mame for MB (^FZH) in the dialect of Ma’u Nori, in the Keo region just to the south of Nage. Indeed, taken together, the Nage and Ma’u Nori usages would appear to reflect two possible routes from symmetry to asymmetry since, proceeding from an initial equation of MB and FZH, according to the general interpretation advanced here Ma’u Nori has retained mame for MB while designating FZH with the “father” term, hapa (Forth n. d.), while Nage has introduced another term for MB and,
Anthropos 85.1990
From Symmetry to Asymmetry
379
eventually, following an equation with FZH, has
reserved mame for FZ.10
Turning to affines, it should be noted that just
seven terms in Table 3 designate spouse’s parents,
and five of these are from eastern Indonesian
languages. All of these terms, moreover, denote
spouse’s father. WF is a specification in three
cases, and HF also in three, while WF and HF are
equated in just two instances (Tana ‘Ai and Tane-
bar-Evav). In contrast, no eastern Indonesian term
applies to WM, and the only term denoting HM is
Komodo mamo, which, as already mentioned, may
have been borrowed from Sumba. The application
of reflexes of PAN *mama’ to spouse’s parents
thus appears to be a development more or less
confined to eastern Indonesian languages. What is
more, in all but one language (Komodo) where a
term has this meaning, it equates spouse’s parents
with cognatic relatives in a way that is symp-
tomatic of a symmetric prescriptive system. The
only non-eastem Indonesian language in which
hypothetical reflexes of *mama denote spouse’s
parents is Karo Batak (see mama, MB, WF; mami,
MBW, WM), but in this case the equations are
indicative of an asymmetric system.
In summary, therefore, we can say that words
from eastern Indonesian languages comparable to
Sumbanese mamu are applied exclusively to matri-
lateral and patrilateral cognates in the first ascend-
ing level and to spouse’s parents. Spouse’s parents,
however, are rather less often designated than are
cognatic relatives. In the twelve eastern Indonesian
terminologies for which data are available, the
most frequent specifications of the terms are MB
(in ten cases), FZH (in six cases), and FZ (in three
cases). At the same time, of the four types of
spouse’s parent, WF and HF are far more common
specifications than are WM and HM; indeed, the
latter hardly appear at all. These comparative data,
then, are generally consistent with the hypothesis
that eastern Sumbanese mamu (or an earlier form
thereof) once applied to male relatives alone and
only later came to include FZ.
The question now is; how does one account
for the fact that at present mamu refers to FZ and
FZH but not to MB? As indicated earlier, this is
most readily done by positing an earlier form of
10 In the light of the Nage and Ma’u Nori usages, I am inclined
to regard van Suchtelen’s listing of Endenese {ngad dialect)
mameh, MB, FZ, “aunt older or younger than mother” (see
Table 3) as reflecting, in this neighbouring region as well,
the varying application of this term to either MB or FZ. Fox
(1984-85), who does not cite a source, in contrast gives
mame for MB and no'a for FZ in Ende.
mamu that denoted both MB and FZH, as a com-
ponent of an earlier system of symmetric alliance
in which FZ=MBW, FZ^FZH and MB^MBW.
What I am arguing, then, is that in the process of
change from a symmetric to an asymmetric system
on Sumba, the term for FZH, a form of mamu,
ceased to be applied to MB, while at the same
time it came to include FZ. Concomitantly, FZ
and MBW, which specifications were previously
equated, became distinguished, with MBW sim-
ilarly being designated by the new term for MB,
which throughout eastern Sumba at present is tuya.
In this connection, it is interesting to note that with
the exception of one area in southeastern Sumba,
FZ and FZH are equated in all parts of Sumba
where a classification of asymmetric prescriptive
alliance is found. Conversely, in all regions where
the terminology is non-prescriptive, FZ and FZH
are distinguished (see Table 2).
One circumstance that may appear to count
against the foregoing interpretation is the fact that
modem eastern Sumbanese mamu refers primarily
to FZ rather than FZH, in the sense that FZH is
more often specified with a gender modifier (mini,
“male,” thus mamu mini) than is FZ (Forth 1981:
307 note 2). However, in a scheme of asymmetric
alliance where FZ=FZH, it is only to be expected
that the term in question will more often be used
for, and thus will come to be more closely iden-
tified with, the relative who, both genealogically
and socially (and perhaps affectively as well), is
the closer of the two, namely FZ. By the same
token, in a scheme of symmetric alliance where
MB=FZH, the common term will have MB as
its principal referent, as accords with both PAN
*mama’, “maternal uncle,” and the data given in
Table 3. Of course, this raises the question of why,
according to our hypothesis, eastern Sumbanese
mamu was retained for FZH in an asymmetric
classification rather than for MB. This matter is
treated in Section 4 below.
3. Sumbanese kiya (kia, kVa), FZH/FZ
The foregoing interpretation raises two other ques-
tions. The first is which term was formerly applied
to FZ and MBW. The second concerns the deriva-
tion of tuya, which would have replaced mamu as
the term for MB as part of a development towards
asymmetry. I shall deal with these in this order.
The best candidate for FZ and MBW in an
earlier symmetric classification on Sumba is the
term currently reflected as kiya, kia or kVa in var-
ious Sumbanese languages. Variants of kiya occur
Anthropos 85.1990
380
Gregory Forth
in all parts of Sumba’s western language region,
while in the eastern region the word appears only
in the far eastern dialects of Mangili/Wai Jilu and
Rindi/Umalulu, where it distinguishes FZH from
FZ (mamu). Since the latter dialect is far more
closely related to the dialect of Kambera, which
is spoken over a large part of eastern Sumba, it
is moreover likely that in Rindi and Umalulu the
usage was borrowed from Mangili, located imme-
diately to the south of Rindi. At the same time,
there is no reason to suppose that Mangili and Wai
Jilu adopted kiya (FZH) from the western group of
languages. This discontinuous distribution of the
word on Sumba therefore suggests that it was once
more widespread in the eastern part of the island,
and even that an earlier form of kiya may once
have been common to all parts of Sumba.
As I have noted elsewhere (Forth 1985: 129,
1988b: 177), kiya is comparable to relationship
words found in a number of other eastern Indo-
nesian languages. These are listed, together with
all Sumbanese variants of the term, in Table 4.
The word tiama, FZ, FZH (Mamboru), FZ (Lauli,
Wewewa, Laura), is included on the basis of com-
parison with eastern Tetum ti, a dialectual variant
of ki, FZ (Hicks 1978: 121 note 71); Wailolong tia
(MBW); Rotinese tedk/te’o (FZ; cf. Ndao teto, FZ,
MBW, WM, HM; Fox 1987: 199; Forth 1988b:
177); and Tanebar-Evav te (PM, WM, HM, SW).
Viewed in this light, tiama more specifically sug-
gests a variant of kiya, namely tia or ti, which has
perhaps become fused with a form of the word
currently reflected as mamu or with the common
Sumbanese word for F, ama. The only other single
lexical item applied to FZ or FZH on Sumba is
Lamboya (western Sumba) nama, FZ (^FZH, kia),
which also suggests a possible link with mamu or
ama. In this connection, it may be relevant that the
final syllable of both tiama and nama is the same
as that of PAN *mama’ (MB).
As Table 4 shows, Sumbanese variants or cog-
nates of kiya denote FZ in three instances and FZH
in three instances, while the equation FZ=FZH
occurs just once, under Mamboru tiama. Kiya
and variants thus appear to apply to male and
female relatives about equally in different parts
of Sumba. If we look at the eight languages from
outside Sumba, however, the picture changes, for
among these FZ is a specification of a hypothetical
cognate of kiya in six instances whereas FZH
appears only once. What is more, in this single
case, Mambai kai (FZ, FZH, HM, HF), the term is
simultaneously applied to FZ in a generally asym-
metric prescriptive system. In this regard, then, kai,
like Mamboru tiama (FZ, FZH), conforms to the
general association noted above, of equations of
this type with an asymmetric prescriptive termi-
nology. Also consistent with its occurrence in a
quite consistently prescriptive classification is the
fact that the Mambai term is one of just two that
denote HP, the other being Tanebar-Evav te (see
Table 4) which applies only to female specifica-
tions. The final thing to note is that the Wailolong
and Northern Tetum terms both refer to MBW, and
that the latter equates this relative with FZ.
This evidence, I suggest, is quite consistent
Table 4: Variants and hypothetical cognates of Mangili/Wai Jilu and Rindi/Umalulu kiya, FZH
(a) Sumbanese
(i) Eastern language group
Mamboru
(ii) Western language group
Lauli, Wewewa, Laura, Lamboya
Lauli, Wewewa, Laura
Kodi
tiama, FZ, FZH
kia (or ki’a), FZH
tiama, FZ
kia (or kiyo), FZ
(b) Other eastern Indonesian languages
Ema (central Timor)
Mambai (central Timor)
Northern Tetum (‘northern Belu’)
Eastern Tetum
Rotinese
Ndaonese
Tanebar-Evav
Wailolong (eastern Flores)
ki’i (or inar ki’i), FZ
kai, FZ, FZH, HF, HM
ki’i, FZ, MBW
ki or ti, FZ
teók (or te’ó), FZ (cf. ama teôk/te’o, FZH; ama, F)
teto\ FZ, MBW, WM, HM
te:
renan te, WM, HM (renan, M);
yanan te, SW (yanan, C);
ubun te, PM (ubun, PP)
tia, MBW, WM, MBSW, WBW, MBSSW, WBSW
a In respect of the second /t/, Ndaonese teto, as a derivative of Rotinese te’o, possibly reflects the influence of Rotinese feto, Z,
etc. (Forth 1988b: 177).
Anthropos 85.1990
From Symmetry to Asymmetry 381
Table 5: Terms for spouse’s parents in different Sumbanese languages and dialects
WF WM HF HM
Eastern Sumba (including Mamboru) ama yera ina yera ama yianu ina yianu
Anakalangu ama yera ina yera yianu yianu
Wanukaka ama yeraa ina yeraa yanu (or ama yanu) yanu (or ina yanu)
Lauli yera ina yera mato mato
Wewewa wera ina wera mato mato
Kodi ghera ina ghera yano yano
a Mitchell 1981. According to Fischer 1957, WF and WM in Wanukaka are era and ina era.
with an earlier use of some form of Sumbanese
kiya as the term for FZ and MBW in a classifi-
cation of symmetric prescriptive alliance. In that
case, however, we need to account for the fact that,
especially in western Sumba, kiya at present refers
exclusively or in part to FZH. This is most easily
done by supposing that, after it ceased to refer
to MBW, the term was retained for FZ and then
extended to include FZH. The present distinction
of FZ and FZH found in many western Sumbanese
languages (Lauli, Wewewa, Laura, Lamboya, and
Kodi) would then have appeared at some later
stage, probably through borrowing from Mamboru
in the case of all languages except Kodi. What I
am suggesting, therefore, is that the development
of mamu into a term for FZ and FZH in eastern
Sumba was largely paralleled by the development
of kiya in western Sumba. In this respect, the inter-
pretation entails that the transformation from sym-
metry to asymmetry, while affecting both eastern
and western terminologies, proceeded somewhat
differently in the two language regions, or, stated
another way, that the change took place, in whole
or in part, after Sumbanese had divided into two
language groups undergoing separate, yet partly
parallel, developments in respect of terminology.
Consistent with this is the fact that, at present,
mamu, although apparently cognate with relation-
ship terms in many eastern Indonesian languages
outside Sumba, is entirely absent from the western
Sumbanese languages and dialects, while in the
eastern group kiya occurs only in the Mangili/Wai
Jilu and Rindi/Umalulu dialects.
This of course still leaves us with one or two
loose ends. For example, it does not quite explain
how it is that kiya should turn up as the term for
FZH (but not FZ) in Mangili and a few other places
in southeastern Sumba. There is also the question
of why, apparently everywhere in western Sumba
at present, FZ and FZH are terminologically dis-
tinguished, although the possible means by which
this could have been done are clear enough and the
distinction is consistent with the previously men-
tioned association of opposite-sex equations and
asymmetric classifications of prescriptive alliance.
But whatever the solution to these particular prob-
lems, the interpretation of kiya proposed here is far
better supported by the evidence than is an alter-
native hypothesis that might suggest itself, namely
that mamu has always applied to FZ and kiya
to FZH, as is presently the case in southeastern
Sumba. Most important in this respect is the fact
that all comparative data point towards mamu as
a term that originally denoted only male relatives,
and kiya only female relatives, which is exactly
the inverse of what the alternative interpretation
requires.
4. Terms for MB, MBW, and Spouse’s
Parents
We may now turn to the derivation of tuya (MB,
MBW), which the above interpretation of mamu
and kiya suggests did not apply to MB, MBW,
FZ or FZH in a classification of symmetric al-
liance on Sumba. Also bound up in this is the
question of which terms designated WP and HP in
this earlier classification. In what follows, I argue
indeed that a form of tuya was the term for these
first ascending level affines, and that, while in a
symmetric system the word may have been applied
to cognatic relatives as well, it took over as the
distinct term for MB and MBW as part of a change
to asymmetry.
At present, matrilateral cognates and parents-
in-law are equated as tuya only in Mbolu Bokatu
and Langga Liru, two small districts in the far
western part of the eastern language region, where
the term is used to address WF (Fischer 1957;
14).11 For the most part, then, MB and MBW are
11 Needham (1987: 9, 127) gives loka for both MB and WF
in the terminology of Mamboru as well as in a combined
terminology for the districts of “Ve Saluri” and “Tana Rivu”
which are located to the south of Mamboru and not far west
of Mbolu Bokatu. This listing is curious, particularly since
Anthropos 85.1990
382
Gregory Forth
Table 6: Hypothetical cognates of eastern Sumbanese tuya, MB, MBW
Bima-Sumba group
Eastern Sumbanese dialects of Lewa, Mangili, Tabundungu
Central western Sumba (Lauli, Laura, Wewewa)
Manggarai (western dialect)
Manggarai (central dialect)
Manggarai (“S/h” region, north central dialect)
Mbae (western Flores)
Rembong (western Flores)
Ngadha (central Flores)
Nagé (central Flores)
Endenese (djaö dialect; central Flores)
Ambon-Timor group
Sikanese (eastern Flores)
Rotinese
Ndaonese
Eastern Tetum (Timor)
Tanebar-Evav (Kei Islands)
toya, MB, MBW (Wielinga 1917: 18)a
mato, HF, HM (cf. Lamboya maduu)
to’a, MB, MBW, WF, WM
to’a, ZS, WBS, ZD, WBD
tu’a, MB, MBW, WF, WM
to’a, ZC, WBC
tuqa, WF, WM, HF, HM
tua, WF, WM, HF, HM
tua cana xaki, SW
tua cana fad, DH
tua cedza, “wife’s male relatives”
tua cipa, “husband’s female relatives”
tu’a, WF, WM, HF, HM, SW, DH
ana tu’a, SW, DH
see also ta’u, MB and, sometimes, FZH
inc tu’a, MBW, WM (ine, M)
tu’ang, FZH, HF
to’o, MB (¡na to’o, MBW; ina, M)
to’o, MB, FZH, WF, HF
tuan oan, ZC (oan, C, BC, ZC, MBC)
turan: yaman turan, WF, HF (yaman, F)
yanan turan, DH (yanan, C)
ubun turan, PF {ubun, PP)
a Onvlee (1984: 511 s. v. tuya) seems to indicate that toya is known in the Sumbanese dialects of Mamboru and Anakalangu as
well.
distinguished from WP, and FZ and FZH from
HP, even in those eastern dialects that otherwise
equate cognatic kin and affines in accordance with
an asymmetric system of alliance. Tuya and the
slightly variant form toya (see Table 6) are more-
over encountered only in the eastern language
area. Thus in the western region, and the western
extremity of the eastern region (Anakalangu, Wa-
nukaka), MB and MBW are called loka, while the
Fischer (1957), whose data were supplied by Onvlee, the
foremost western expert on the languages of Sumba, does
not list loka as a Mamboru term, nor does he give WF as a
specification of the word in any of those dialects where
it does occur (see, e.g., Anakalangu loka, MB, MBW).
It may also be relevant to an assessment of Needham’s
report that, while the majority of the Ve Saluri population
are reputed to hail from Mamboru, the language of which
belongs to the eastern group, nearly all the inhabitants of
Tana Rivu are from “Waijewa” (Wewewa), where a western
Sumbanese language is spoken (Needham 1987: 8-10).
The terminology Needham provides for the two districts is
moreover very incomplete and contains at least one other
curious equation, viz., B, FBS=FZS, which is not found
anywhere else on Sumba. It is perhaps also unusual that
the terminology he gives for Mamboru contains no fewer
than four terms for WF, three of which are listed as equating
this relative with MB (see further Forth 1989).
Mamboru term is mhapa,n Whether western Sum-
ba mato (HP) is cognate with tuya is somewhat
doubtful. Blust’s PAN reconstruction *ma(n)tuqaS
(MB, parents-in-law; see Section 5) would suggest
both words to be reflexes of a single protoform
(1980: 212 f.). However, particularly in respect of
the initial Imal, the form of mato differs markedly
from that of other cognates of tuya (see Table 6),
and the fact that it is exclusively employed by
women also makes it unusual. Instead of reflecting
a former Sumbanese, or proto-Sumbanese, term
that denoted both WP and HP, therefore, mato may
represent a borrowing from outside Sumba, for ex-
ample from Malay (see Malay mantu, “in-law”).12 13
12 As regards Mamboru, I follow Onvlee’s data as reported
in Fischer (1957). As mentioned in note 11, Needham lists
three terms for MB in Mamboru, namely mhapa, loka, and
pulangai, and indicates that all apply as well to WF. In
contrast, Fischer gives mhapa only for MB and MBW, and
lists WF as ama yera. He also notes that pulangai refers to
all members of “one’s mother’s agnatic group” (1957: 14
note 8 s. v.).
13 Needham’s report that mato (transcribed as “mato”) means
“aged” (1987: 10), while seemingly in accord with the
suggestion that the term is not cognate with tuya, may
reflect confusion with matua, which means “aged” in the
languages of both eastern and western Sumba. Interestingly,
Anthropos 85.1990
From Symmetry to Asymmetry
383
Whatever the status of mato, the present di-
versity of terms for MB and MBW in different
parts of Sumba, and the present terminological dis-
tinction of cognatic kin and affines in the first as-
cending level in almost all languages and dialects,
lend support to the idea that tuya did not - or did
not primarily - denote matrilateral or patrilateral
cognates in an earlier symmetric terminology. The
variety of terms for matrilateral cognates is also
one indication that the terminological change to-
wards asymmetry proceeded separately in eastern
and western Sumba. In contrast to these, terms
for WP display a noticeable uniformity across the
island, since all are variants of eastern Sumbanese
ama yera (WF) and ina yera (WM), as can be
seen from Table 5. A similar situation obtains with
the terms for HP, for although the term in central
western Sumba is mato, everywhere else it is a
variant of yianu or ama / ina yianu. Although
this uniformity might be taken as an indication
of an ancient usage, it can also be seen as a
result of different Sumbanese languages and dia-
lects adopting the same solution to the problem of
distinguishing affines from cognatic kin following
the developments involved in the transformation
to asymmetry (see further Section 6 below). In
this regard, it is important that ama yera and ina
yera are glossable as “father and mother of yera,”
and that comparative evidence indicates that yera
(MBS, WB at present in eastern Sumba) reflects an
eastern Indonesian term that once denoted MBS,
FZS, WB, and ZH in a classification of symmetric
alliance.14 Thus, ama yera and ina yera could have
been used to distinguish a man’s parents-in-law in
the present manner only after yera had itself been
adapted to suit an asymmetric system. The same
evidence suggests that the use of yera alone for
WF in Lauli and other parts of western Sumba (and
thus the equation WF=WB) is similarly a relatively
recent development.
Comparative evidence for the interpretation
of tuya advanced here is contained in Table 6.
All these terms are from other Central Malayo-
Polynesian languages spoken outside Sumba, and
more particularly from languages belonging to
Esser’s Bima-Sumba and Ambon-Timor groups.
These data are relevant to two questions. The first
is whether they support WP and HP as former
specifications of tuya, and this can be answered
in Onvlee’s dictionary (1984: 283) matua appears directly
after matu (voltallig, compleet, toegerust), a word which
Needham, who cites Onvlee’s entry, suggests should be
compared with mato in this context.
14 I plan to discuss the comparative evidence for eastern
Sumbanese yera in a future publication.
in the affirmative. Even if we leave western Sum-
banese mato (HP) out of the reckoning, as many
as eleven of the other 13 terms in Table 6 denote
affines, and four terms do so exclusively. Further-
more, these latter four designate both WP and HP,
and indeed, if all the terms are viewed together
it can be seen that HF and HM are nearly as
common specifications as are WF and WM. Since
a number of terms (for example, those from Nage,
Ngadha, and Tanebar-Evav) are further employed
for affines in other levels, there is also the sug-
gestion that they reflect a common protoform that
had a more general affinal meaning and may have
been used reciprocally.15 However that may be,
the evidence of other eastern Indonesian languages
provides strong support for the hypothesis that
Sumbanese tuya once denoted both a man’s and
a woman’s parent-in-law, as part of a generally
symmetric classification.
The second question is whether the data in Ta-
ble 6 indicate a terminological distinction between
spouse’s parents and matrilateral and patrilateral
cognates in a former symmetric system. In this
regard, the first thing to note is that while the
affinal specifications of the terms point towards a
protoform consistent with symmetric alliance, the
cognatic specifications are almost entirely indica-
tive of an asymmetric system. In fact, only one
term, Ndaonese to’o, equates MB and FZH, and
this is a demonstrable borrowing from Rotinese
(see to’o, MB). Also noteworthy in this regard
are the facts that none of the terms in Table 6
applies to FZ (hence FZ=MBW does not appear),
and that, in addition to Ndaonese to’o, only one
term, namely Sikanese tu’ang, equates FZH and
HF. The overall asymmetry displayed by these
terms in respect of their non-affinal specifications,
it is important to note, is in accord with the fact
that none of the societies which employ the terms
currently maintains a symmetric system of mar-
riage alliance. But this still leaves the question of
why asymmetry is expressed far less in the pattern
of affinal specifications.
The answer, I suggest, is that, as part of the
transformation to asymmetry, in eastern Sumba
and indeed in other parts of the region, a first
ascending level affinal term came to be applied
exclusively to those cognatic kin who, according to
15 Further evidence for this interpretation would be available
if it could be shown that Boleng (western Manggarai) ko’a,
ZC, DH (Hicks 1984: 519), and Rembong (central Flores)
koaq, SW, DH (Verheijen 1977-78; Needham 1985: 278),
were also cognates of tuya. The most relevant comparison
in this regard is with Central Manggarai and Mbae to’a,
ZC, WBC (see Table 6).
Anthropos 85.1990
384
Gregory Forth
an asymmetric rule, were potential affines, namely,
for a man, MB and MBW. At the same time,
the terms used previously for these relatives - the
protoforms of mamu and kiya - were retained for
those other cognatic relatives, particularly FZ and
FZH, who were now prohibited as parents-in-law.
As a further part of this development, the new
term for MB was then extended to include MBW,
so as to distinguish this relative from FZ and,
moreover, to consolidate the overall asymmetry
of the classification; and in the same way, FZ
came to be equated with FZH. This of course
answers the question raised earlier, of why, if
mamu formerly applied to MB and FZH, it was
retained only for FZH in eastern Sumba, and then
extended to include FZ, with the development of
an asymmetric system. That this interpretation is
relevant to a larger grouping of eastern Indonesian
languages, and not just to Sumba, is further shown
by the fact that reflexes of PAN *mama (MB)
seem not to occur anywhere among Central Ma-
layo-Polynesian languages as terms equating MB
and WF where MB is distinguished from FZH, or
stated another way, that the equation MB=WF un-
der a reflex of *mama in these languages always
entails MB=FZH (see Table 3). This circumstance
is, of course, consistent with the common use of
cognates of tuya for both WP and HP.
The idea that a Sumbanese protoform of tuya
that once applied to affines later came to be applied
primarily to MB, and hence to MBW, assumes
what Blust has called “sex dominance in Ego-
viewpoint.” This entails that “in the evolution of
a kinship system the male point of view will tend
to dominate the female point of view where these
conflict” (1980: 243). If, as suggested, in a general
development towards terminological asymmetry in
this part of eastern Indonesia, the word previously
used for both WP and HP came to be applied
to certain cognatic relatives so as to produce a
distinctly asymmetric classification, then clearly
the term could have been so applied by either
males or females - that is, to either matrilateral or
patrilateral cognates - but not both. The evidence
for tuya indicates that it was the male usage that
prevailed in most parts of eastern Indonesia, the
one clear exception being Sikanese tu’ang (HF,
FZH). At the same time, it is worth noting that
the equation WP=HP, as expressed for example in
the Rembong, Ngadha, Nage, and Tanebar-Evav
terms, is not in itself inconsistent with asymmetric
alliance, for the simple reason that the terms are
necessarily used for either WP or HP by speakers
of different sexes. That is, asymmetry is violated
only when both sexes apply them simultaneously
to cognatic kin who are prospective affines as well
as to actual affines. It may be significant, therefore,
that nowhere in Table 6 where WP=HP do the
terms also denote cognatic relatives.
While not constituting definite disproof, the
comparative data for tuya provide no good reason
to believe that the term was employed for cognatic
relatives in a symmetric classification on Sumba,
thus confirming more general indications to this
effect discussed earlier. Furthermore, they tend to
support the same conclusion for a protoform of
tuya applying to a larger group of eastern Indo-
nesian languages. In other words, the fact that
cognates of tuya in several languages designate
both matrilateral relatives and WP, but in only one
case patrilateral relatives and HP, indicates that the
former equation especially may have developed as
part of a general movement towards asymmetry in
other parts of eastern Indonesia, outside of Sumba,
as well. That is, we may be dealing here with par-
allel developments in several separate languages,
though not of course ones effected everywhere in
exactly the same ways.
A further point of interest in this connection
is that the data in Table 6, plus the Sumbanese
case, indicate that the use of tuya and cognates for
matrilateral relatives in the first ascending level is
associated with marked asymmetry as a general
feature of a given terminology as well as with an
absence of prescriptive features. Thus, the dialects
of Manggarai in which such terms equate MB
and WF (^FZH) and MBW and WM (^FZ) have
terminologies that are preponderantly asymmetric
(see Needham 1980: 56 f.), as of course does
eastern Sumbanese. In contrast, cognates of tuya
(and Manggarai to’a/tu’a) do not occur as first
ascending level terms in central Manggarai which
for the most part has a symmetric terminology
(1980: 56, 62). The only other eastern Indonesian
languages in which MB or MBW are designated
with apparent cognates of tuya are ones with ter-
minologies that lack prescriptive features, namely
Rotinese (see to’o) and Nage (see ta’u, MB, etc.,
and tu a). In this regard, then, one possibility
is that these non-prescriptive terminologies have
evolved from asymmetric prescriptive ones (as
the marriage rules of the Nage, at least, would
suggest). Of course, eastern Sumbanese tuya (MB,
MBW) is in a sense associated with both asymme-
try and non-prescription, since it is one of the
few terms in an otherwise asymmetric prescriptive
terminology that does not equate cognatic relatives
with affines.
Anthropos 85.1990
From Symmetry to Asymmetry
385
5. Tuya and Austronesian and
Malayo-Polynesian Protoforms
The hypothetical development of tuya proposed
here should further be considered in the light of
evidence relating to more inclusive groupings of
Austronesian languages. Of particular relevance in
this connection are data adduced by Blust (1980;
212 f.) for his reconstruction of PMP *ma(n)tuqa,
MB, WF (and, the author adds in a footnote,
possibly WM, HF, and HM as well), and PAN
*ma(n)tuqaS, provisionally defined as MB and
“parents-in-law.” Both reconstructions are made as
part of an argument for an ancient Austronesian
social order based on prescriptive alliance and,
more particularly (though Blust is not always clear
about this), asymmetric prescriptive alliance. In
looking at tuya in this context, I am assuming, as
seems reasonable, that Blust would also regard this
word and the other eastern Indonesian terms listed
in Table 6 as evidence for his PAN and PMP forms
and therefore as cognates of the terms, mostly
from western Indonesian and Philippine languages,
which he does adduce in this connection.
In so far as both of Blust’s protoforms include
MB among their hypothetical denotata, they might
appear to contradict the derivation of Sumbanese
tuya (MB, MBW) from an exclusively or primarily
affinal term. In fact, Blust’s argument does not
detract from my interpretation of tuya at all. To
begin with, it should be stressed that the protoform
of tuya that designated WP and HP may have been
present only in a Sumbanese protolanguage, or
otherwise one ancestral to some larger grouping
within the Central Malayo-Polynesian group. Con-
ceivably, therefore, MB may have been a specifica-
tion of the PAN and PMP forms which disappeared
at the level of Proto-Central-Malayo-Polynesian or
Proto-Sumbanese. A second and somewhat more
important point is that the specifications of Blust’s
Austronesian and Malayo-Polynesian protoforms
are themselves highly contestable. Indeed, it is
especially questionable whether they included MB
among their denotata.
In support of his reconstructions, Blust (1980:
212 Table 4 s. v.) cites data from 13 Non-Oceanic
Austronesian languages. One of these (Bunan) is
Formosan, while the other twelve are all Westem-
Malayo-Polynesian. The languages yield a sample
of 17 relationship terms, but since two of these are
demonstrable borrowings from Malay, the total is
reduced to 15. Taken together, Blust claims, these
terms provide a “representative cognate set” in
relation to PAN *ma(n)tuqaS.
In the present context, the most significant
feature of the 15 terms is that no fewer than nine,
in 13 separate languages, refer simultaneously to
WP and HP. Just one, Nias matua (WF, WM),
refers to WP but not to HP. Furthermore, although
five terms include MB as a specification, not one
of these distinguishes this relative from other par-
ent’s siblings; nor does any apply exclusively to
MB and FZH, or to FZ; and no term designates
MBW. In these respects, then, Blust’s evidence is
clearly supportive of the hypothetical derivation
of Sumbanese tuya from a prototerm denoting
both male and female affines in the first ascending
level. At the same time, it actually provides very
little support for the idea that the Austronesian
and Malayo-Polynesian protoforms applied as well
to MB, and even less does it support a decisive
equation of MB and WF (or HP) at these levels.16
Somewhat ironically, therefore, Blust’s da-
ta appear to lend weight to my interpretation
of Sumbanese tuya precisely to the extent that
they contradict his own arguments for *ma(n)tuqa
and *ma(n)tuqaS as PMP and PAN terms that
formed part of a classification of asymmetric al-
liance. As Aberle has noted (1980: 228 f.), the
evidence adduced by Blust for an early Austro-
nesian classification of prescriptive alliance is, on
the contrary, more indicative of a terminology in
which a symmetric principle dominates. In this
respect, the evidence is thus generally in accord
with Needham’s “typological scale of social evo-
lution” which begins with a symmetric system, as
well as with the interpretation of Sumbanese re-
lationship classification proposed here. Of course,
any suggestion that the Austronesian or Malayo-
Polynesian protoform of words like tuya included
only affinal specifications would not support the
idea that early Austronesian society incorporated
prescriptive alliance, whether symmetric or asym-
metric. In the present context, however, I am not
concerned to argue this matter one way or another.
As I have already noted, the forerunner of tuya
in various Central Malayo-Polynesian languages
may have been a general term for affinal relatives
(that is, one that referred to affines both in the
first ascending and in other levels), and as such
it may have coexisted with terms composing a
16 It is curious that Blust does not include eastern Indonesian
data in the evidence he adduces for PAN *ma(n)tuqaS,
although he does claim in a brief discussion of terms from
Tanimbarese languages and Manggarai that “a consideration
of cognate forms in eastern Indonesia further supports [his]
reconstruction” (1980: 213). In fact, as I hope to have
shown, I do not think they do, especially as regards the
inclusion of MB as a specification of this protoform.
Anthropos 85.1990
386
Gregory Forth
classification of prescriptive alliance without itself
expressing prescriptive relations.17
A final point that should be made regarding
Blust’s thesis concerns his rejection of * *mama’
as the Proto-Malayo-Polynesian term for MB, a
term which in this connection he describes as a
“serious competitor” of *ma(n)tuqa (Blust 1980:
212 note 13). *Mama, Blust asserts, “while assig-
nable to Proto-Malayo-Polynesian in the meaning
of ‘mother’s brother,’ evidently was a vocative or
address form used by small children” (ibid.). Since
he provides little support for it, this conclusion is
in fact far from “evident”; more evident by far
is the advantage accruing to Blust’s argument for
his PMP and PAN forms if *mama is rejected
as a candidate. In contrast, the eastern Indonesian
data included in Table 3 above lend a good deal of
support to the interpretation of *mama that Blust
wishes to reject, while those relating to Sumbanese
tuya, in Table 6, are at best equivocal in regard to
his arguments for the protoforms he favours.
6. Further Considerations
Admittedly, the interpretations advanced in pre-
ceding sections leave several questions unanswer-
ed. These can now be discussed briefly, although
I shall not attempt final solutions for any of them.
The first concerns whether Sumbanese pro-
toforms of mamu (=MB, FZH) and kiya (=FZ,
MBW) ever equated cognatic relatives and affines
in the first ascending level in a way consistent with
symmetric alliance. On this point, the comparative
data are inconclusive. Of the twelve hypothetical
cognates of mamu from eastern Indonesia (see
Table 3) only five denote WF, HF, or both, while
only two of the 14 words from other Austronesian
languages have affinal specifications, and these
(Karo mama and mami) equate only matrilateral
relatives and WP. Similarly, the data in Table 4
provide very little support for a former application
of a protoform of Sumbanese kiya to WM or HM.
At the same time, some significance might be
attached to the fact that all but one of the five
eastern Indonesian terms in Table 3 which denote
17 Blust’s reconstructions raise other questions as well. One
of the most interesting of these concerns how *ma(n)tuqaS/
*ma(n)tuqa might be connected with the PAN form Blust
reconstructs as *tuqaS, “ripe, mature, developed; old”
(1980: 212; cf. Dempwolff’s *tuha’, 1938: 141). In the
present context, it is worth noting that in Sumbanese lan-
guages the latter is reflected at present as tua and matua
(see note 13), which are phonetically quite distinct from
tuya\ the Imal in matua is the relative pronoun.
WF or HF, or both, also denote both MB and FZH.
One therefore cannot entirely rule out the possi-
bility of a former affinal use of mamu and kiya in
a symmetric terminology on Sumba. Nor in fact
would it necessarily contradict my interpretation
of tuya, for it would simply mean that, at one
time, this term and mamu and kiya shared some of
the same specifications. Such seeming redundancy
is not unknown in classifications of prescriptive
alliance. Indeed, the modem eastern Sumbanese
terminology of Rindi reveals instances of it, as for
example when ama / ina yera (WF, WM) and ama
/ ina yianu (HF, HM) are applied before marriage,
by male and female ego respectively, to members
of the categories tuya (MB, MBW) and mamu (FZ)
/ kiya (FZH) (Forth 1981: 314), in other words to
prospective, as opposed to actual, parents-in-law.
Even so, it still seems likely that, in a symmetric
system, the principal affinal term was a protoform
of tuya, and that forms of mamu and kiya primarily
denoted cognatic relatives rather than in-laws.
Assuming that symmetric prototerms of ma-
mu and kiya might once have included affinal
specifications, it is fairly obvious why they would
have lost these meanings in the change to an asym-
metric classification. If the original specifications
of mamu, for example, were MB, FZH, WF, and
HF, then the affinal denotata WF and HF could not
appropriately have been retained after mamu came
to be applied to FZ, as well as to FZH. Although
the change of sex seems decisive enough in this
regard, the point applies with especial force to WF,
since retaining this specification would have left
in place the equation FZH=WF, which is clearly
contrary to asymmetric alliance. Indeed, only a
female speaker could have continued to use the
term for first ascending level affines, and then only
by admitting HM as another new specification.
Mutatis mutandis, the same considerations apply
to kiya.
The question raised above in respect of mamu
and kiya should also be addressed to tuya', and
in this regard, as well, I would leave open the
possibility that in a former symmetric system this
term too may have been applied to cognatic kin
as well as to affines, indeed in a manner close-
ly resembling the use of ama / ina yera (MB,
WF; MBW, WM) in eastern Sumba at present.
Even more likely is a sort of interim phase in the
transition to asymmetry, in which tuya equated
MB, MBW with WP, a usage that is still bare-
ly discernible in parts of the eastern Sumbanese
language region (see Section 4).18 Of course, this
would have required a revision of the women’s
terminology, since, as MB and MBW, tuya could
Anthropos 85.1990
From Symmetry to Asymmetry
387
no longer be used by a woman for actual or
potential parents-in-law in an asymmetric system.
In designating first ascending level affines, women
then would, so to speak, have had two options:
1) equating patrilateral cognates and HP by radi-
cally revising the specifications of either mamu or
tuya, which would have resulted in a usage very
different from the men’s, or 2) introducing a new
term for HP. In view of the present practice on
Sumba, it would seem that the second alternative
was adopted, and that it was at about this stage that
yianu or ama / ina yianu (see Table 5) came to be
employed to specify a woman’s parents-in-law.18 19
In another place (1985), I discussed the possible
derivation of yianu from a hypothetical radical
*yia (see Table 1, s. v. layia, wayia) that includ-
ed affinal specifications in an earlier symmetric
classification on Sumba. The combination of yianu
with the parent terms, ama (F) and ina (M), which
appears in many Sumbanese languages, might then
be explained as a way of indicating affines in the
ascending generation. Otherwise, this application
of the parent terms could have developed under the
influence of ama yera (WF) and ina yera (WM).
Indeed, according to our hypothesis, these latter
terms would have come into use at about the
same time as yianu - when the transformation to
asymmetry was well advanced - and for similar
reasons. As mentioned earlier, in this case the par-
ent terms produce descriptive usages translatable
as “father” and “mother” of yera (MBS, WB), in
contrast to their appearance in ama yianu and ina
yianu, which are clearly not translatable as “father”
and “mother” of yianu.
18 This argument would be somewhat strengthened if it could
be shown that western Sumbanese loka, MB, MBW, was
also once a primarily affinal term and that its development
has therefore paralleled that of tuya. With the reservations
indicated in note 11, the specifications which Needham lists
for this term in Mamboru and neighbouring areas might
be used in support of this interpretation. Perhaps of more
relevance, however, is the fact that in various western
Sumbanese languages, loka is also employed in the sense of
“wife-giver,” in which respect it is obviously used to refer
to affines. Likely cognates of the word in other eastern In-
donesian languages appear to be lacking, though loka does
occur as the term for H in Mbae and Rembong in western
Flores. Some connection with eastern Sumbanese kaloka,
especially in the sense of “group, lineage” (Forth 1981:
271; see Onvlee 1984: 148) is perhaps also a possibility.
19 The exception here, at present at least, are those parts of
western Sumba where HP is mato. In this regard, I leave
it to the reader to judge whether it would be too fanciful
to suggest that mato might derive from a combination of
mamu and tuya (or the dialectal variant toya).
Of course, if tuya were once applied both to
MB, MBW and WF, WM in an asymmetric clas-
sification on Sumba, there would then remain the
question of why the affinal specifications should
have disappeared at a later stage. Apart from the
obvious fact that, even in prescriptive systems, it
can be useful to have ways of distinguishing cog-
natic relatives or prospective affines from actual
affines, it is difficult to see a reason for this. One
possibility, however, is that the distinction of MB
and WF was influenced by the distinction of FZ
and HM, the development of which was accounted
for just above. Moreover, the further question of
why, then, tuya was retained for MB, MBW and
not for WP might be answered with reference to
the circumstance that tuya is, and was, used by
both male and female speakers for matrilateral
cognates, whereas in an asymmetric system the
affinal specifications WF and WM are relevant
only to males. Certainly, it would be difficult
to argue decisively that the current distinctions
MB^WF and MB^WM are symptomatic of a gen-
eral breakdown or erosion of prescription, either as
a principle of classification or a rule of social or-
ganization in eastern Sumba. As can be seen from
Table 1, terms equating cognatic kin and affines are
numerous in the eastern Sumbanese terminology.
Furthermore, it should not be forgotten that the two
sets of specifications in question (MB, MBW and
WF, WM) are in fact equated to a degree, under
the terms ama yera and ina yera.
As this discussion could be taken very much
further, it is necessary to bring it, somewhat
abruptly and arbitrarily, to a close. Obviously,
any hypothesis concerning the development of a
relationship term has implications for all other
terms, not just terms in the same language or
dialect but cognate terms in related languages as
well, so in a sense there is no natural limit to this
kind of analysis. Logically, of course, the general
line of interpretation pursued here, involving a
hypothetical transformation from a symmetric to
an asymmetric form of classification throughout
Sumba, should in future be applied to other areas
of eastern Sumbanese terminology, notably to the
ego and first descending levels, and moreover to
an analysis of the terminologies of the western
Sumbanese languages, which, as noted, appear to
have taken a rather different evolutionary course.
To cite just one example in this latter regard, the
foregoing interpretation of tuya, as the modem
reflex of a term once found in all Sumbanese lan-
guages and dialects (that is, in Proto-Sumbanese)
is incomplete in so far as it has yet to be explained
why reflexes no longer appear in western Sumba,
Anthropos 85.1990
388
Gregory Forth
or, if mato is taken as such a reflex, why this term
applies to a woman’s affines rather than a man’s
matrilateral kin. These and other issues I hope to
explore elsewhere.
7. Conclusions
The principal aim of this essay has been to show
how the specifications of various eastern Sum-
banese relationship terms, as cognates of words
in other eastern Indonesian languages, can be ac-
counted for as reflections of a hypothesized change
from a system of symmetric to one of asymmetric
alliance in this part of Indonesia. To the extent that
the argument carries conviction, it constitutes a
positive test of the hypothesis, and hence supports
Needham’s “typological scale of social evolution”
as it applies to the development of terminologies of
prescriptive alliance. Advancing this interpretation
does not, however, require a commitment to all
aspects of the evolutionary scheme that Needham
proposes, at least not as far as Austronesian-speak-
ing societies are concerned. In particular, I would
reserve judgement regarding its point of depar-
ture, which, it will be recalled, is a system of
exogamous moieties with symmetric alliance. In
this respect, Needham’s interpretation is of course
similar to that of Blust (1980), who argues for a
system of prescriptive alliance - either symmetric
or asymmetric - as a fundamental property of ear-
ly Austronesian social organization. As indicated
earlier, and as other critics have indeed shown,
Blust’s analysis suffers from several defects, es-
pecially in regard to the Proto-Austronesian and
Proto-Malayo-Polynesian reconstructions he pro-
poses, thus leaving the form of early Austronesian
society very much an open question.
In a recent paper, James Fox adopts quite a
different view of the development of Austrone-
sian relationship terminologies, by focussing on
ways in which the various forms of classifica-
tion attested at present might be derived from
a single pan-Austronesian matrix. Although this
interpretation disavows any “stagelike progression
in ‘types’ of social organization” (Fox 1984-85:
37), in a way that recalls the position of Kroe-
ber (1919), Loeb (1933), and Murdock (1949),
Fox nevertheless argues that the earliest Austro-
nesian kinship systems were likely to have been
“generationally organized” (1984-85: 42) and that
the general movement has been from cognatic
to lineal terminology (see also Fox 1987; Forth
1988b: 179-181). Fox’s position therefore differs
considerably from that of Needham who, on the
contrary, regards cognatic systems as subsequent
to both forms of prescriptive system, and as one
of the possible final positions in his evolutionary
scheme.
As I have noted elsewhere (Forth 1988b; 181),
it is indeed possible that early Austronesian so-
ciety operated with a non-prescriptive and even
a non-lineal terminology. I have also suggested
that, in the course of their particular histories,
some Austronesian terminologies may have “lost
prescriptive features only to regain them at a later
date” (ibid.). Even so, I would still hold that, in
eastern Indonesia at any rate, asymmetric forms
of classification regularly develop from symmetric
ones, regardless of whether the latter may have
been derived from cognatic, or non-lineal, systems.
In fact, although this is not the place to make
the argument, I would further suggest that asym-
metric prescriptive terminologies, that is systems
of classification that regularly equate cognatic kin
and affines in a way consistent with the practice
of asymmetric marriage alliance, may always and
necessarily be preceded by prescriptive terminol-
ogies that are symmetric in form — or put another
way, that prescriptive equations arise specifically
as a function of a symmetric, or two-line, classi-
fication of alliance. In respect of the relationship
between symmetric and asymmetric classification,
then, I am fundamentally in agreement with Need-
ham. But my position on this particular issue is not
therefore inconsistent with that of Fox, who in fact
has nothing to say either way on the matter of sym-
metry and asymmetry. Indeed, Fox phrases his dis-
cussion entirely in terms of the contrast of “cogna-
tic” and “lineal” systems and does not distinguish,
within the latter category, between symmetric and
asymmetric classifications of prescriptive alliance.
In this regard, it is instructive to note how Fox
(1984—85), employing some of the same evidence
as I have above, endeavours to account for vari-
ations in eastern Indonesian terms for MB with
reference to different ways this relative has been
distinguished from F in different societies, as part
of a hypothetical change from cognatic to lineal
forms of organization. In contrast, I have argued
that such variation may reflect different ways in
which eastern Indonesian terminologies have, in
varying degrees, moved from a classification of
symmetric to one of asymmetric alliance.
At the same time, Fox’s treatment of the east-
ern Indonesian data is similar to mine in that both
consider terminological variation and similarity in
the light of broad trends operative within a group
of closely related Austronesian languages. My ap-
proach has thus been to interpret the terminology
Anthropos 85.1990
From Symmetry to Asymmetry
389
of eastern Sumbanese and other eastern Indonesian
languages in the context of a general, directed
change from one form of marriage alliance to
another. Blast’s approach is quite different, for his
thesis assumes a single ancient system of marriage
alliance that has to varying degrees broken down in
different Austronesian-speaking societies. In this
regard, it might be said, Blust is not so much
concerned with evolution as with devolution.
It cannot be overstressed that the present anal-
ysis is principally concerned with the possible
developmental course of relationship terminolo-
gies in a group of eastern Indonesian languages
closely related to eastern Sumbanese. At most, the
conclusions I draw apply to the grouping Blust
calls Central Malayo-Polynesian, and although I
have made reference to reconstructions of Ma-
layo-Polynesian and Austronesian protoforms, the
analysis is not dependent on assumptions made
regarding prototerminologies existing at these lev-
els. This follows from a point made by several
critics of Blust, which is essentially that termi-
nological reconstructions should proceed from the
bottom up, by comparing cognate terms from the
smallest sub-groupings before positing prototerms
for such inclusive groupings as Proto-Austrone-
sian and Proto-Malayo-Polynesian (see Fox 1980:
234, 1984-85: 36 f.; Aberle 1980: 226-228; also
Forth 1985: 137). Blust, in contrast, attempts to
build an Austronesian protoclassihcation as it were
from the top down. One pitfall of this procedure
is well demonstrated in the present case by the
comparative data for tuya (MB, MBW). If one
were to posit a prescriptive classification, either
asymmetric or symmetric, for PAN or PMP, then
tuya would undoubtedly be counted as evidence
for a protoform that included at least MB and WF
among its specifications, as does Blust’s *ma(n)tu-
qaS/ma(n)tuqa. But, as the analysis of all terms in
the first ascending level in Sumbanese and closely
related languages has shown, there is reason to
doubt that a protoform of tuya was applied to
any non-affinal specification, in PAN and PMP
as well as in the proto-terminology of Central
Malayo-Polynesian.
The case of tuya also illustrates the need
to formulate particular courses of terminological
change in advancing an evolutionary interpreta-
tion, rather than simply assuming (as Blust impli-
citly does) that current usages will directly reflect
a single, original system at the most inclusive lev-
els.20 Here, too, comparison with the most closely
20 This relates to the point made by Grace who, in his
comments on Blust (1980), notes that, because different
related languages is shown to be decisive. Thus,
especially if one were to accept Blust’s argument
for PAN *ma(n)tuqaS and PMP *ma(n)tuqa, one
might be inclined to regard a form of tuya, as the
present word for MB, as the term equating MB
and FZH in a former classification of symmetric
alliance. Yet, as has been demonstrated, this inter-
pretation is unlikely, to say the least. A related
point is that any interpretation of the possible
course of change in a relationship terminology
is strengthened to the extent that it is able to
demonstrate the logic by which the specifications
of particular terms are subject to transformation.
In other words, preferred interpretations are those
that identify definite processes of development,
in contrast to ones that represent terminological
changes teleologically, as something like a de-
liberate sorting of cards or rearranging of pieces
of a mosaic all at once so as to compose the
new pattern. As I hope is clear, identifying such
a process has been a principal objective of the
present analysis.
The results of this investigation bear upon
several other matters of comparative and method-
ological interest. One is the indication that in the
process of change from symmetric to asymmetric
classification, certain terms that previously equat-
ed cognatic and affinal specifications may cease
to do so. An example of this possibility was of
course tuya in respect of MB, MBW and WF,
WM. Indeed, as I have noted previously (1985:
137), in some languages prescription, as a principle
of classification, may have been lost altogether
before a complete transformation from symmetry
to asymmetry was achieved. This circumstance
might then explain the appearance of symmetric
features (e.g., the equating of matrilateral and pa-
trilateral relatives) in non-prescriptive terminolo-
gies, such as those of western Sumba and central
Flores. (In the latter case, I refer particularly to
the Nage and Keo regions, where, traditionally
at least, asymmetric alliance was practised.) On
the other hand, in these circumstances symmetric
features might alternatively be accounted for as a
negation of asymmetry and thus as part of a shift
towards a non-prescriptive system. Nevertheless,
the comparative analysis of eastern Sumbanese
terms has shown how cognatic and affinal rela-
tives can become terminologically distinguished in
societies have in the course of their evolution developed
different “types” of terminology, “the original meanings
of some of the original (PAN or PMP) terms must have
not been preserved under any name in many Austronesian
languages” (1980: 235).
Anthropos 85.1990
390
Gregory Forth
the transformation from one to the other type of
prescriptive system.
The same evidence also sheds light on the
possibility that earlier Classifications of prescrip-
tive alliance existing at various levels of proto-
language may not have been prescriptive in every
respect. That is, in PAN or PMP, for example,
there may have been some terms that specifically
denoted either affines or cognatic relatives in a
terminology otherwise symptomatic of prescrip-
tive relations. This situation should come as no
surprise, since it is a common feature of present
terminologies of prescriptive alliance and certainly
does not always signal a breakdown of the system.
In attempting to reconstruct prototerminologies as
classifications of prescriptive alliance, therefore,
one should not expect to be able to produce the
typical equations for each and every relationship
word.
Finally, it is worth stressing that processes
other than changes in the application of existing
terms may have been involved in the transforma-
tion of Sumbanese relationship terminologies.21 In
particular, the adoption of terms from other lan-
guages and dialects may well have been a factor,
as perhaps in the appearance of separate terms for
FZ (mamu) and FZH (kiya) in Rindi, Mangili, and
neighbouring districts, and in the central part of
western Sumba, where the terms are tiama (FZ)
and kia (FZH).22 Indeed, the introduction of terms
from elsewhere may well have been a major factor
in the development of the terminology of central
western Sumba (Lauli, Wewewa, Laura). As I
have had occasion to mention before (Forth 1985:
132-135), the appearance of a number of terms
in this region, forms of which occur in languages
of western and central Flores but not elsewhere
on Sumba, suggests that the variation between
eastern Sumbanese and central western Sumbanese
terminologies can be fully accounted for only by
positing an infusion of relationship words from
21 See note 7 concerning the various other ways a change from
symmetry to asymmetry might be effected.
22 It seems probable that tiama, which is used for FZ in Lauli,
Laura, and Wewewa, has been taken from Mamboru, where
the term applies to both FZ and FZH. Mitchell (1981: 277),
in contrast, states that Mamboru “... has borrowed the West
Sumba term tiama for FZ.” She does not, however, indicate
on what evidence she bases this claim, nor why, in that
case, the term would have been extended to include FZH
as well. It seems to me unlikely that Mamboru would ever
have needed to adopt a term for both of these relatives from
another language. A more likely situation, then, is that the
term was borrowed by western Sumbanese speakers as a
way of distinguishing between the male and the female
relative.
outside Sumba. That this may have occurred is
further supported by Onvlee’s judgement (1973:
165) that, generally speaking, the languages of
Sumba form a distinct unity, and the fact that, in
respect of relationship terminology, the language
of Kodi, in the far western part of the island, more
closely resembles eastern Sumbanese than it does
the other languages of western Sumba.
Appendix: Sources of Relationship Terms
Atayal LeBar 1975, Mabuchi 1960
Atimelang (Alor) Nicolspeyer 1940
Bahasa Indonesia/Malay Echols and Shadily 1963
Balinese
Cotabato Manobo
Eastern Sumba
Eastern Tetum
Ema
Endenese
Ikiti
Karo Batak
Komodo
Mambai
Mamboru (Sumba)
Manggarai
Mbae
Ma’u Nori
Minangkabau
Nage
Ndaonese
Ngadha
Ngaju
Northern Tetum
Redjang
Rembong
Rotinese
Sedeq
Sikanese
Tagalog
Tana ‘Ai
Tanebar-Evav
Tanimbar
Tiruray
Wailolong
Western Sumba
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Anthropos 85.1990
Anthropos 85.1990: 393^101
Intergenerational Exchange in Diachronic Context
A Melanesian Example
Nancy McDowell
Abstract. - Although anthropologists have long appreciated
the central role of exchange and reciprocity in Melanesian
sociocultural systems, they have not adequately recognized
its significance in ordering society and culture over time. It
is argued here that complex exchanges that continue for at
least four generations among the Mundugumor of the East
Sepik Province of Papua New Guinea provide the structure
and context for the expression of major cultural concerns and
for the regeneration and reconstitution of the system through
time. [Papua New Guinea, East Sepik Province, Mundugumor,
intergenerational exchange]
Nancy McDowell, Ph. D. (Cornell University, Ithaca, 1975);
1975-82 Assistant Prof., since 1983 Associate Prof. (Franklin
and Marshall College, Lancaster); field research among the Bun
and Kinakatem, East Sepik Province, P. N. G.; - for publica-
tions see, a. o., References Cited.
Anthropologists have long appreciated the impor-
tance of exchange in Melanesia. Certainly, since
Malinowski’s (1922) classic description of the
ceremonial exchange system of the kula in the
Trobriand Islands, there has been little doubt about
the centrality of reciprocity in the region (for
more contemporary treatments, see, for example,
Gewertz 1983, Lederman 1986, Schwimmer 1973,
Sillitoe 1979, Weiner 1976). But not until more re-
cently have anthropologists begun significantly to
examine the process of exchange in Melanesia in a
broader diachronic context. I would like to suggest
that in some cases an examination of exchange
over time reveals the structures and processes
through which many social forms are shaped and
cultural concerns expressed and controlled if not
resolved. I mean more here than the old truism
that exchange is important in Melanesia (although
it is); the suggestion is that intergenerational ex-
change can be a complex mechanism that both
gives shape and meaning to peoples’ lives over
time and also regenerates - and potentially trans-
forms - the sociocultural system and its meanings.
Not only can it provide the structure and context
for the expression and resolution of major cultural
concerns, but it can also act as the mechanism by
which the system is regenerated and continually
reconstituted. The aim of this paper is to describe
this process in one Melanesian society and illus-
trate the power that it has to create order and
meaning, its ability to frame as well as generate
culturally significant events.
Weiner (especially 1980) has been a leader in
the call for more dynamic treatments of reciproc-
ity. All systems must, somehow, recapture energy
and regenerate themselves in the face of dissipa-
tion over time, that is, they must in some ways
resist entropy,1 and this may be accomplished
through exchange, particularly intergenerational
or diachronic exchange and the way(s) in which
it articulates with synchronic exchange. Weiner
(1976: 212 f.) suggests that because exchange has
two functions, that it both mediates and reinforces
opposition, it is a natural and logical brake on
the process of schizmogenesis. Certainly Bate-
son’s (1936) pioneering analysis of what he called
schizmogenesis is at least partly a recognition
and discussion of this aspect of transaction. Of
special relevance is his analysis of the ways in
which schizmogenesis, the splitting and breaking
apart of dyads due to transactions both material
and intangible between them, is halted by built-in,
counterbalancing braking systems.2 Exchange pro-
vides an ideal means of keeping things separate
and sorted out and thereby ordered while at the
same time keeping things together and related to
one another.
Although I did not recognize the full signif-
icance of schizmogenesis and did not incorporate
the concept of entropy, in previous publications
(see McDowell 1977, 1978a, 19787?, 1980, and
especially 1984), I did argue that these themes
1 I thank Deborah Gewertz and Dan Jorgenson for suggesting
the relevance of the concept of entropy.
2 Bateson’s formulations and the development of his ideas
about schizmogenesis, entropy, and order and organization
are fascinating but beyond the scope of this paper (see
Bateson 1936, 1972, and 1979).
394
Nancy McDowell
constitute the essence of Bun culture, that inter-
generational exchange and concepts of person and
self provide the framework within which meaning
is produced and society and culture are generated
over time. Here I demonstrate that although the
precise constellation of structures and meanings
is not identical, the same is also true for the
Mundugumor, close downriver neighbors of the
Bun. Research is needed on the extent to which
this pattern and its various permutations pertain
in other areas of Melanesia and elsewhere (e.g.,
Banaro; see Thumwald 1916).
Margaret Mead and Reo Fortune conducted
fieldwork among the Mundugumor (now locally
known as the Biwat) of the East Sepik Province of
Papua New Guinea during 1932. The major source
of published data on this culture is Mead’s “Sex
and Temperament in Three Primitive Societies”
(1963; first published in 1935), but I use the addi-
tional source of their raw field notes for the discus-
sion here. Much of the material presented below
is included and analyzed in McDowell (n. d.), and
additional information on the Mundugumor can be
found there as well.3
Traditional Mundugumor society comprised
six recognized villages, four along the banks of the
Yuat River, a lowland tributary of the Sepik River,
and two located inland from the river in more bush
territory.4 Although the river villages were along
relatively high and dry ground in tropical rain-
forest, the surrounding environment was replete
with sago swampland. The staples of sago and fish
were supplemented by hunted game (such as pigs,
cassowaries, and marsupials) and swidden garden
produce (such as yams, sweet potatoes, bananas,
and coconuts). The Mundugumor produced both
betel nuts and tobacco, which they consumed as
well as traded with their neighbors. Warfare and
raiding were central activities in men’s lives while
women turned their attention more to subsistence
concerns.
Mead (e.g., 1963) recognized the centrality of
exchange in Mundugumor life - a phenomenon I
believe to be the key to understanding the society’s
social organization - but she did not go far enough,
at least partly because she was impressed by the
extent to which seeming prescribed exchanges did
3 For permission to use these notes I would like to thank
Mary Catherine Bateson (and the estate of Margaret Mead)
and Ann McLean (and the estate of Reo Fortune).
4 I am using the past tense to describe the nature of Mundu-
gumor life and society as Mead and Fortune recorded it in
1932. The society has changed considerably since then, and
use of the ethnographic present seems inappropriate here.
For a discussion of these changes, see McDowell n. d.
not always or even ordinarily take place.5 It is my
contention that exchange and reciprocity were the
central conceptual focus for the sociocultural orga-
nization of the society even though the elaborate
four-generation pattern was rarely executed per-
fectly (see McDowell 1977 n. d.). The conceptual
frame clearly structured and drove behaviors even
though the ideal was rarely achieved.
Mead’s and Fortune’s field notes indicate that
there were basically three kinds of exchange: mar-
ital, kamain, and intergenerational. The first two
of these, both intragenerational, were very similar
to comparable exchanges in Bun (see McDowell
1976, 1977, 19787?, 1980, n. d.). Mundugumor
marriages were ideally executed by brother-sis-
ter exchange, and such exchanges were a cen-
tral feature of sociocultural life (see Mead 1963,
McDowell n. d.). Not only was exchange the ideal,
but raw data in Mead’s and Fortune’s field notes
indicate that at least 60 % of extant marriages in
1932 had in fact been accomplished by this means.
Its central feature was that of equality and balance
among the participants. Affinal relationships were
formal and restrained ones, but same-generation
affines, especially of the same sex (e.g., sister’s
husband/wife’s brother) were supposed to assist
one another in work and other endeavors.
The kamain relationship was also one of bal-
anced and equal transaction. It was a relation-
ship similar to that between exchange partners
elsewhere in Melanesia, but the exchanges were
not explicitly competitive nor were they predomi-
nantly political (although clearly some competition
and political concerns were expressed). Exchanges
took place primarily on ceremonial occasions, and
the transactions between these partners were ide-
ally balanced and equal. Kamain were required
to show the utmost respect for one another and
were forbidden to engage in marital transactions or
sexual relations or innuendo. Formality and respect
were the central behavioral components. (For more
information on this relationship, see McDowell
1976, n. d.)
These two same-generation exchanges - mar-
ital and kamain - were similar even if the first
involved marriage partners and the second goods
and intangibles; both were ideally egalitarian and
between people of (again, ideally) the same gener-
ation. The behavioral correlates were alike as well
5 It is interesting to note that Mead also recognized the
existence of entropy in Mundugumor culture. Although she
did not call the dissipation of structure and organization by
that name, she frequently in her raw field data notes that
things were breaking down or falling apart in the area. See
McDowell n. d. for further discussion.
Anthropos 85.1990
Intergenerational Exchange in Diachronic Context
395
and included formality, distance, name taboos, and
respect.
Intergenerational exchange contrasted with
that of marital and kamain transactions. It usu-
ally marked a variety of ceremonial occasions
such as birth feasts, first achievement offerings
(which sometimes evolved into more elaborate
feasts, which Mead called “crocodile-yam” feasts),
initiation rites, rituals to release taboos, enemy
skull gifts, and mourning rites. All of these sig-
nificant events in the life of a person were marked
by feasting and/or exchange. Furthermore, all of
the transactions on these occasions shared certain
characteristics that contrasted markedly with those
of affinal and kamain exchanges: (1) formally,
they were between people of different genera-
tions, although if one of the central figures were
still a child, parents acted on his or her behalf;6
(2) the main transactors were usually either moth-
er’s brother and sister’s son, or father’s sister and
brother’s daughter,7 relationships not characterized
by a great deal of formality, distance, or respect,
especially when classificatory (as was common-
ly true for the major exchanges); (3) the things
exchanged were not the same or identical, i.e.,
one did not relinquish a sibling and get someone’s
sibling in return as in marital exchange, or give
a feast of sago grubs and receive a feast of sago
grubs as a kamain might; if one gave pigs, for
example, he or she was likely to receive yams in
return; (4) although the goods exchanged between
any particular dyad (e.g., mother’s brother-sister’s
son) were not the same, there was always a delayed
balancing out; if, for example, a man received
yams from his mother’s brother in return for a
pig, he would later act as mother’s brother and
give yams to a descendant of his mother’s brother
(his own classificatory sister’s son), from whom
he would receive pigs.
Although these transactions took place on a
variety of occasions, they all had the same struc-
ture, involved the same people, and continued
through generations. From a male perspective, all
of them were in a sense matrilateral exchanges,
that is, with mother’s brother or sister’s son. From
a woman’s point of view, they were with father’s
sister and brother’s daughter. If one looks from the
perspective not of the transactors but of the inter-
vening relative, a woman observed and mediated
exchanges between her brother and her son, a
man between his sister and his daughter. On some
occasions (e.g., birth and death), the sex of the
younger generation participant was not relevant,
and the exchanges were between mother’s brother
and sister’s child and between father’s sister and
brother’s child.
There were thus two contrasting modes of
exchange: intragenerational (affines, kamain) and
intergenerational (mother’s brother/sister’s son, fa-
ther’s sister/brother’s daughter). The first was ba-
sically an exchange of identical items between
the same structural position or equals, and the
second an exchange of disparate items between
unequals or those in different structural positions.
Respect and formality were required in the first,
and informality and perhaps jesting in the second.
Thus, the two modes contrasted in several ways:
intragenerational
formality/respect
same goods
equality
symmetry
intergenerational
informality/jesting
contrasting goods
inequality
asymmetry
However, because the diachronic transactions con-
tinued for more than two generations, there was
an eventual balancing out at the end; in this sense,
even these were balanced and equal.
What is especially significant is that, ideal-
ly, a whole complex of exchanges united both
modes: an exchange marriage in one generation
was followed by diachronic transactions among
the descendants of those unions, and the whole
series of transactions ended with another exchange
marriage, thus at once bringing the series to clo-
sure, balancing and equalizing the unequal dia-
chronic/disparate exchanges, and at the same time
beginning another series.8 * Indeed this was the
schema by which the Mundugumor conceptually
ordered their society and which embodied signif-
icant values and precepts. Through the process of
intergenerational exchange, what had begun as a
marriage in one generation was allowed to evolve,
but only to a limited extent: the end result was
to recapture the elements and pull them back into
6 The fact that parents were expected to act on behalf of the
child is significant because it transformed many of these
transactions into ones between classificatory brother-sister
pairs. See the discussion below.
7 Sometimes other combinations were relevant, such as
mother’s brother and sister’s daughter or father’s sister and
brother’s son.
8 In Bun, these transactions are the way in which people de-
fine themselves as human - both as autonomous individuals
and social persons. Autonomy is, I argue (see McDowell
1980, 1984), a seminal issue throughout Melanesia. Ex-
change allows for both separation and connectedness and
is thus almost a natural means for expressing and possibly
resolving problems of autonomy and self (see also Weiner
1976).
Anthropos 85.1990
396
Nancy McDowell
the system, thereby stopping the fragmentation and
dissipation.
The nature of these intergenerational ex-
changes and how they articulated with intragen-
erational ones must be examined in detail. The
basic and essential relationships are presented in
Diagram 1 (adapted from a diagram in Mead’s
field notes). These twelve people represented the
core of Mundugumor social organization and pro-
cess. Among them were both modes of exchange,
intragenerational and intergenerational. The first
mode (intragenerational) is here basically marriage
exchanges in Generations I and IV.9
I 1 A = Ó 2 3 A= 04
II 5 A 0 6
III 7 O A 8
The nature of the intergenerational exchanges
is complex here: there were two kinds of intergen-
erational exchange that complemented and in some
senses opposed one another. The first was cen-
tered on males, particularly on the mother’s broth-
er/sister’s son relationship (although occasionally
sister’s daughter entered in), while the second
9 The role of the kamain in this entire complex is not at
all clear. Mead played with the idea that it introduced
social organizational complexities such as dual structures,
but there are simply not enough data to be certain. See
McDowell 1976 and 1980 for a discussion of how the
kamain relationship pertains to transactions in Bun. Mun-
dugumor kamain were generated from cross cousins and do
undoubtedly fit into this whole complex.
focused on females, particularly the father’s sis-
ter/brother’s daughter relationship (although, simi-
larly, sometimes brother’s son was also relevant).10
It is important to underscore, however, that each
of these did not exist in isolation, that male and
female here opposed and complemented one an-
other, and that each was inextricably related to and
intertwined with the other. Indeed, the opposition
and complementarity between female and male, a
common Melanesian theme, was one of the key
threads in Mundugumor conceptual thought and
was deeply embodied in the social organization.11
Although there was no terminological differ-
entiation, there was a behavioral difference be-
tween actual and classificatory mother’s broth-
er and sister’s son. Real mother’s brothers were
treated with some measure of respect and formal-
ity, and they were “too close” to receive a boy’s
first achievement offering. Classificatory mother’s
brothers, however, were treated with informality,
and relations were generally easy and friendly.
Nonsexual joking and light horseplay were also
typical. Thus the relationship between 3 and 5
(in Diagram 1) was somewhat formal and respect-
ful, whereas that between classificatory mother’s
brothers and sister’s sons (5 and 8, 8 and 10) was
more relaxed and informal. It is significant that
almost all intergenerational exchanges between
mother’s brothers and sisters’ sons took place be-
tween classificatory, not true or close, relatives.
These relatives marked a variety of occasions
with exchanges. Initiation especially provided a
context for significant transactions. The mother’s
brother scarified his classificatory sister’s son (in
Diagram 1, 5 scarified 8), and in return for this
service he received a pig. (As most boys were
mere youths when they were initiated, the boy’s
father was likely to be the actual donor of the pig.)
However, in the following generations, the roles
were reversed, and the boy, 8, now an adult, acted
10 In discussing the complexities of the “atom of kinship”
among the Mundugumor, even Lévi-Strauss (1976: 88-90)
was required to incorporate female actors. He found that
he especially needed to include father’s sister as well as
mother’s brother; furthermore, he found it necessary to
distinguish the sex of the child (and not assume male or
“generic”). This indicates a two-fold significance: first, that
women were important social actors among the Mundugu-
mor, just as Mead described in “Sex and Temperament”
(1963), and second, that the opposition between male and
female (and, I suggest, between these two kinds of inter-
generational exchanges) was important in the conceptual
system.
11 The relationship between complementarity and opposition
is not necessarily a simple one. See McDowell 1984 for a
discussion of it.
Anthropos 85.1990
Intergenerational Exchange in Diachronic Context
397
as mother’s brother to his classificatory sister’s
son. But it was not any classificatory sister’s son
who played the role; the appropriate partner for
exchange, the boy who was scarified and returned
a pig, was the grandson (daughter’s son) of the
man who scarified his mother’s brother. Thus, in
Diagram 1, if 5 scarified 8 and received a pig in
return, it was the obligation of 8 to play the role
of mother’s brother to his classificatory sister’s
son (daughter’s son of 5) - who was 10. In this
way, the exchange was eventually balanced. It is
important to note here a terminological identifica-
tion between a man and his mother’s father (see
McDowell n. d.). Because of this identification,
10 was identified with 5, and thus in an identifica-
tory sense the exchange was completely reciprocal.
If 5 scarified 8 and received a pig in return, then,
later, 8 scarified 10 (identifed with or as 5) and
received a pig in return.
The same pattern of reciprocation held in
the ritual to release initiates from some taboos.
One phase of the ritual to release novices from
a taboo on breadfruit required a mother’s brother
(presumably classificatory) to give his sister’s son
(perhaps sister’s daughter as well) tobacco and
betel nut on a shell ring, and later when the recip-
ient was mature, he was obligated to reciprocate
when his mother’s brother’s daughter’s child was
initiated. Thus, again looking at Diagram 1, if 5
gave goods to 8, then 8 reciprocated when 10 (and
perhaps 9) was released from the taboo imposed by
the initiation. The same two elements are critical
here; matrilateral transaction, especially, but also
identification with mother’s father.
The inheritance of enemy skulls was some-
times incorporated into initiation transactions. A
man’s own children never received his skull tro-
phies; only his sister’s children were allowed to do
so. The pattern of this inheritance also continued
down generations in exactly the same way as rights
to scarification and the reciprocation of a pig.
If a man scarified his classificatory sister’s son
in initiation, it was to this sister’s son that he
gave his enemy skulls, and in return the sister’s
son gave him a pig. (It is not clear if the pig
given in return for these services during initiation
was the same pig or if an additional animal were
required.) Thus, in Diagram 1, 5 gave his enemy
skulls and the rights to homicidal decoration to 8
and received a pig in return. But the same pat-
tern then continued: when 8 matured, he acted
as mother’s brother and passed on these enemy
skulls to his classificatory sister’s son, again not
any sister’s son but the grandson (daughter’s son)
of the man from whom he had received them,
10 - his classificatory sister’s son but also his
classificatory mother’s brother’s daughter’s son.
The skull inheritance pattern was thus completely
isomorphic with the scarification during initiation
pattern, with the same matrilateral substance and
the same significant identification with mother’s
father. A man’s trophy skulls were thus inherited
only by sister’s children and then returned to his
daughter’s children.
If this transfer of enemy skulls did not take
place during initiation, then when the mother’s
brother died, the sister’s son inherited them. No
reciprocation of a pig was necessary, but later
the inheritor did transfer a skull to his mother’s
brother’s daughter’s son. Sister’s children also in-
herited a man’s net bag, bows and arrows, and
spears. If a joking relationship had developed with
a particular set of sister’s children, that is, a set of
classificatory sister’s children, then these relatives
took precedence in inheritance. If a man died , it
was also possible, if unlikely, that these items were
inherited not by a sister’s son but by a mother’s
brother, a fact which fits well with the pattern
of identification between a mother’s father and a
daughter’s son.
A sister’s son (or mother’s brother if the
deceased were a child) performed several services
at the death of his relative. He put totemic leaves
on the roof of the house (along with the accom-
panying ghost of the dead), he did the initial skull
decoration, he ate the final feast, and escorted the
ghost from the village. Unfortunately Mead’s and
Fortune’s notes are not clear about whether these
actions were performed by real or classificatory
relatives or if they were conceived to be any sort
of reciprocation or payment for items inherited.
There is one fact about transactions during
mourning rituals that presents a puzzle. If a sister’s
son, for whatever reason, did not inherit the enemy
skulls, spears, etc., then sister’s daughter did. This
does fit well with the established pattern of ma-
trilateral exchange, but Mead noted that she then
passed these items on to her son. In Diagram 2,
1’s possessions would ordinarily have gone to his
classificatory sister’s son, 3, but in the exceptional
circumstance (such as 2 having no sons), these
then went to classificatory sister’s daughter, 4, who
gave them to her son, 5. In one sense, this is strict
matrilateral inheritance, for the items went as if
from mother’s brother to sister’s son, as if 3 had
inherited them and passed them on to his sister’s
son, 5. The problem and potential puzzle is that
if 3 had inherited, he should have passed on at least
the enemy skulls to his own classificatory sister’s
son, not his real sister’s son, or his classificatory
Anthropos 85.1990
398
Nancy McDowell
mother’s brother’s daughter’s son (not shown on
Diagram 2). There are two possible explanations
for this anomaly: (1) it is an alternative way to
pass on enemy skulls,, a different kind of thing
altogether even though it is still fundamentally
and essentially matrilateral; (2) Mead and Fortune
were frequently imprecise about whether relatives
referred to were real or classihcatory. It is possible
that the goods were given not to 3’s real sister but
to a classihcatory one, who then passed them on
to her son. Or it is possible that 4 acted as if she
had been her brother, 3, and passed them on to his
classihcatory sister’s son - her own classihcatory
son. Unfortunately, there is no dehnitive way to
determine which of these alternative explanations
is the better one.
1 A 02
3 A 0 4
Diagram 2
Significant transactions also took place be-
tween classihcatory mother’s brother and sister’s
son in the context of hrst achievement offerings.
Boys presented their mother’s brothers with hrst
kills of pig, cassowary, cuscus, and bandicoot.
The notes do not contain references as to wheth-
er the mother’s brother reciprocated these hrst
prestations immediately, but it is clear that this
exchange ideally developed into a more elaborate
one between these two kin in which the moth-
er’s brother reciprocated with what Mead called
a crocodile-yam feast. The sister’s son presented
hrst kills (and, by extension, meat in general) to
his mother’s brother, and the latter reciprocated
with a predominantly vegetable feast. The moth-
er’s brother built a large model crocodile, adorned
it with a large triangular palm spathe painting, and
filled it with yams. Unfortunately, there are no
data to indicate if sister’s son behaved as mother’s
brother for his mother’s brother’s daughter’s son,
as was the case in initiation.
Finally, it must be noted that not all interac-
tions between mother’s brother and sister’s son in-
volved transactions of a material and complemen-
tary nature. On some occasions (e.g., initiation),
they shared food rather than exchanged it. During
the ceremony to launch a war canoe, they were
opposed and even in challenging and antagonistic
positions vis-à-vis one another, and there are no
data to suggest that the event included material
transactions.
This brief survey of the mother’s brother/sis-
ter’s son relationship indicates that it was cen-
tral in the pattern of intergenerational exchange.
Furthermore, it highlights the critical role of ma-
trilateral exchange among the descendants of in-
ter-marrying pairs of siblings. The fundamental
significance of the identification between a man
and his mother’s father is also apparent. But these
transactions, basically matrilateral, are only half
of the story of intergenerational exchange among
the Mundugumor: there is another whole side that
revolved around the tie between father’s sister and
brother’s daughter (and brother’s son), and it is to
this phenomenon that attention must now turn.
The behavioral components of the relation-
ship between father’s sister and brother’s children
were basically friendly and informal. Nonsexual
joking was a significant aspect, especially between
classificatory father’s sister and brother’s child.
More jesting occurred between father’s sister and
brother’s son than between father’s sister and
brother’s daughter.
Neither Mead nor Fortune paid as much atten-
tion to the transactions involving father’s sister as
to those with mother’s brother, but the significant
role she played is evident from their diagrams
(see also McDowell n. d.). They highlight a re-
ciprocal transaction between father’s sister and
brother’s daughter in the context of ear piercing:
a woman (acting asi classificatory father’s sister)
was in charge of piercing the ears of her brother’s
daughter. In the next generation, the girl (now
grown) acted as father’s sister and pierced the
ears of her classificatory brother’s daughter, the
original father’s sister’s son’s daughter. In Dia-
gram 1, 6 pierced the ears of her classificatory
brother’s daughter, 7, and in the following genera-
tion, 7 pierced the ears of 11 (6’s son’s daughter).
According to Mead’s and Fortune’s diagrams, this
series of transactions was the exact mirror image
of that between mother’s brother and sister’s son.
Although one probably would not describe it as
matrilateral, it did concern the opposite or cross-
sex relative. Furthermore, the same identification
with grandparent was central: a woman (e.g., 11 in
Diagram 1) identified with her father’s mother, and
thus again in an identificatory sense the exchanges
were between the same structural positions and
thus balanced.
The narrative textual description of ear pierc-
Anthropos 85.1990
Intergenerational Exchange in Diachronic Context
399
ing in Mead’s field notes makes it clear that fa-
ther’s sister was central in this context, especially
for brother’s daughter but also for brother’s son.
Father’s sister received a feast in return for her
services, and it was the child’s father (the brother
of the woman acting as father’s sister) who actu-
ally provided the feast. A man thus paid his sister
for services rendered. There is also the puzzling
note that sometimes father himself actually did the
piercing; what this means and what it says about
the actual role of father’s sister is impossible to
determine. Finally, although the details are sparse,
it must also be mentioned here that on the occasion
of nose piercing, father’s sister received a feast
as well, so it is likely that the structural and
transactional alignments in nose piercing were the
same as in ear piercing.
Father’s sister also played a significant role
in the process of birth. She cared for the newborn
child (her brother’s child) and the new mother (her
brother’s wife), cooked for them, etc. Usually it
was a classificatory father’s sister of the newborn
who assumed this role, and in return she was
given a feast, which included at least pork, to
“wash her hands.” This feast was provided by
the baby’s father, her classificatory brother, and
she reciprocated the feast by giving rings; whether
these rings were offically given to the new baby
or the father is not clear.
The same pattern appeared in the context of
performing taboo-releasing activities for a child.
Newborns and toddlers were subject to a variety
of food taboos, and it was the child’s father’s sister
who released her or him from these restrictions by
ritually passing the food under her armpit (then
the child either ate the food or, if still too young,
the father’s sister touched it to the child’s lips).
When describing this event, Mead notes something
which probably applied to all situations involving
father’s sister: if a man were lazy, he would ask
his own real sister to perform the activity so that
he would have few obligations to reciprocate. Ide-
ally, however, a classificatory father’s sister of the
child performed the ritual, which then became an
important feasting event. The child’s father gave
a large feast (including meat) to this classificatory
sister, and she returned rings.
Young girls also made first achievement of-
ferings (e.g., first fish caught, first sago processed)
to their classificatory father’s sisters who recipro-
cated with small feasts. There seems to have been
no escalation of these transactions comparable to
the crocodile-yam feasts between mother’s brother
and sister’s son.
The notes do not indicate if birth, taboo-re-
leasing, and first achievement transactions contin-
ued on into the next generation. I think it is pos-
sible that they did, as did ear piercing exchanges,
but there is no certain confirmation of it.
Finally, there is some indication of naven-\\k.Q
behavior on the part of father’s sister, that is, a
celebration by father’s sister of achievements of
brother’s child (see Bateson 1936, McDowell
n. d.).
The transactions between classificatory fa-
ther’s sister and brother’s daughter (and broth-
er’s son) were basically consistent. Father’s sister
performed services for her brother’s child, and in
return her brother (and his child) gave her feasts
(predominantly of meat). In at least one ritual
context (ear piercing), this pattern continued into
the next generation as did that between mother’s
brother and sister’s son. This second intergener-
ational exchange pattern, predominantly but not
exclusively between women (father’s sister and
brother’s daughter, with brother/father mediating;
sometimes with brother’s son) acted as a comple-
ment and counterbalance to the first intergenera-
tional exchange series between men (with moth-
er/sister mediating).
At the core of social organization were these
two series of intergenerational exchanges. In both,
a central task of the elder generation (mother’s
brother or father’s sister) was to provide ritual
services (scarification, taboo releasing, etc.); they
also gave items of value (skull trophies, shell
rings). On only two occasions did they give food:
mother’s brother gave yams to sister’s son in the
crocodile-yam feasts, and father’s sister recipro-
cated brother’s daughter’s first achievement offer-
ings with a small feast. The second generation
(sister’s son, brother’s daughter) reciprocated these
services and prestations predominantly with gifts
of food, especially meat (never garden produce).
There were only two exceptions to this general
rule, both somewhat expectable. Brother’s daugh-
ter gave first offerings to her father’s sister that
were appropriate to her sex, e.g., fish and sago
pudding (not red meat). Sister’s son performed
services on the death of mother’s brother, when
he inherited mother’s brother’s personal posses-
sions (spears, etc.). In general, then, both series of
exchanges were similar in that senior kin provided
services and gave items that were reciprocated
with food, especially meat. The two series were
also similar in that they continued for at least
two generations, and both employed the significant
identification between grandparent and grandchild
(father’s mother with son’s daughter, mother’s fa-
ther with daughter’s son).
Anthropos 85.1990
400
Nancy McDowell
These two series then were in some ways
opposed but in other ways similar. One of the
most significant ways in which they were struc-
turally the same was that cross relatives were
profoundly significant. In each transaction, the
official transactors were of the same sex but were
connected by a member of the opposite sex (a male
connects father’s sister and brother’s daughter,
a female connects mother’s brother with sister’s
son). (The exceptions may be insignificant, e.g., a
father’s sister would attend to the birth of brother’s
daughter or brother’s son.) It is also interesting
to note the same pattern in the identification with
the grandparental generation - again, those who
were identified together were of the same sex but
the intervening link was of the opposite sex. The
directionality and content of presentations were
also similar in these two series of exchanges.
Furthermore, they formed complementary parts of
one entire complex that began with brother-sister
exchange marriage in the generation before the
transactions begin and ended with a second broth-
er-sister exchange marriage that completed the old
cycle and began another.
But these two series were more inextricably
related than just being structurally similar yet con-
ceptually opposed or complementary parts of the
same whole. If one looks predominantly at the for-
mal arrangements, the transactions “in name,” then
the pattern appears to be the binary zig-zag down
generations. However, if we shift attention to who
was actually doing and producing and giving, then
another highly significant fact emerges: the central
and overriding importance of the brother-sister tie.
The two cases of brother-sister exchange marriage
in the total complex are obvious, but it is also
true that in the generations which intervene be-
tween the two marriage exchanges (on Diagram 1,
Generations II and III), the classificatory brother
and sister in each are actually performing ritual
services (which are reciprocated) for one another’s
children. It is not the child who reciprocated with
a feast or meat on these ritual occasions, but his
or her parents. Only in the case of first offerings
(which, in the case of boys, might have contin-
ued into adulthood as crocodile-yam feasts) does
the junior generation member actually assume the
responsibility for producing the goods (he or she
does, however, reciprocate in the next generation
when he or she becomes the senior relative). In
Generation II on Diagram 1, 5 and 6 (classificatory
brother and sister) reciprocate ritual services for
one another’s children, and these children (also
themselves classificatory siblings) do the same in
the next generation. It is the brother-sister rela-
tionship that continues down the generations and
provides the pivot on which all other exchanges
hinge. Finally, affines are brought into the- picture
as well - the spouses of 5 and 6 are also involved
(e.g., when 8 gives a pig to his mother’s brother
in return for initiation services, it is surely his
father, 6’s husband, who actually produces the
pig). Thus these two series of exchanges are fur-
ther intertwined because in Generations II and III
these classificatory siblings are exchanging with
one another.
I wish to stress two further points about this
whole complex represented in Diagram 1. The first
is the significance of the identification with the
grandparental generation. If we begin in Gener-
ation II (Diagram 1), 5’s significant possessions
(e.g., skull trophies, etc.) are first given to 8 who
then gives them to 10. The same pattern obtains
with 6: she gives rings to 7 who passes rings on
to 11. There are two remarkable aspects here: first,
the goods eventually end up with the grandchild
who is identified with the grandparent who be-
gan the transactions, and thus, in an identificatory
sense, they end up where they began. Second, if
one were to ignore the intervening transactions,
the inheritance of these objects would appear to
be through alternating sexes.12 It is also worth
mentioning again here that because of this identifi-
cation with a particular grandparent, the marriage
between third cross cousins 10 and 11 in Gener-
ation IV (Diagram 1) is, again in an identificatory
sense, between first cross cousins.13
The second major point is the behavioral
distancing that occurs down the generations. The
classificatory brother-sister pairs in Generations II
and III are, in Mundugumor thought, too close to
marry, but the behavioral components of these ties
change down the generations and generate enough
distance to allow the marriages in Generation IV.
The classificatory brother and sister in Genera-
tion II are too close - they not only may not marry,
but also they may not jest with one another. The
classificatory brother-sister pair in Generation III
are more distant from one another; they too ideally
were not to marry, but they did joke with one
another. Finally, in the last generation (IV), the rel-
atives were distant enough for marriage to occur,
and ideally these were the most proper marriages.
12 This is partly what Mead (1963) meant when she said that
descent among the Mundugumor went along “ropes” or
lines of alternating sex. See McDowell n. d. for a discus-
sion of descent and the phenomenon of ropes, including a
reanalysis and reinterpretation.
13 If more data were available, it might be possible also to
discuss the significance of replacement here.
Anthropos 85.1990
Intergenerational Exchange in Diachronic Context
401
But note that if they did marry, all joking ceased.
Here it is apparent that jesting was either a force
for, or reflection of, distance, and it was opposed
to the intimacy of marriage. The transactions of the
intergenerational exchange system certainly helped
to generate the necessary distance by defining
these kin as structurally opposed and apart so
that they could operate as separate identities and
exchange goods and services.
This system of intergenerational exchange,
articulated with the intragenerational exchange (es-
pecially marital transactions) probably provided
the Mundugumor with the context in which to
express and resolve basic issues such as autono-
my/control, male/female, self/other, etc. - at least
such a system does so in nearby Bun. What is
clearly evident from these data is that the exchange
system as a whole did act as a way in which to
mediate and reinforce opposition as Weiner (1976)
suggests. Furthermore, it provided a means of
sorting and controlling the processes of dissolution
over time. The system allowed differentiation and
distance - in fact, it facilitated distancing but only
in order to control, limit, and circumscribe it. The
process of entropy was controlled, dissipation was
stopped, and the continuance of sociocultural life
for the Mundugumor was assured.
This article is a revised version of a paper prepared
for Wenner-Gren International Symposium, 101, “Sepik
Culture History: Variation and Synthesis,” held in Mijas,
Spain, February 15-24, 1986. I would like to thank the
Wenner-Gren Foundation for the opportunity to attend
this conference and conference participants for their
comments on that earlier version. Portions of this article
are also included in McDowell (n. d.). I would also
like to thank the National Science Foundation (Grant
No. BNS-8017287) and the Institute for Intercultural
Studies for financial assistance while I was working
with Mead’s and Fortune’s original field notes on the
Mundugumor which I use here.
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Anthropos 85.1990
Paul Veyne
Peter Mason
Daniel Fabre
Anne-Marie Losonczy
Pascale Bonnemère
Propagande expression roi, image idole oracle
De l'Articulation
Carlo Levi au pays du temps
La Maîtrise du multiple
Corps et espace dans le chamanisme embera
du Choco (Colombie)
Considérations relatives aux représentations
des substances corporelles en Nouvelle-Guinée
A PROPOS
Jacques Pouchepadass Politique, religion et société en Inde.
Une approche ethnohistorique
Gérard Toffin Hiérarchie et idéologie du don
dans le monde indien
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Anthropos 85.1990; 403^113
Cargo-Kulte und Holy Spirit Movements
Zur Veränderungs- und Widerstandsfähigkeit der traditionalen Religion im
Hochland von Papua-Neuguinea
Holger Jebens
Abstract. - In the Papua New Guinea Highlands Cargo Cults
as an expression of traditional religion have been superseded
among others by so-called Holy Spirit Movements as probably
genuine Christian phenomena. This transition seems to sub-
stantiate the claim that traditional religions since contact with
Western civilization are doomed to decline, being unable to
resist the Western influence. The article examines the relation
between Cargo Cults and Holy Spirit Movements with regard
to the underlying needs and beliefs. It is argued that its potential
to change enables traditional religion to cope with colonization
and to retain its identity at the same time. [Papua New Guinea,
culture change, religion, cargo cults, mission, identity]
Holger Jebens, M. A. (1989); Studium der Ethnologie und
Religionswissenschaft (Berlin); Mitarbeit an Ausstellung und
Katalog „Die ethnographische Linse. Photographien aus dem
Museum für Völkerkunde Berlin“, 1989; - Artikel in: Cancik
etal. (Hrsg.), Handbuch religionswissenschaftlicher Grundbe-
griffe (Stuttgart) und Diesseits. Zeitschrift für Kultur, Politik
und Freidenkertum\ Rezensionen in; Zeitschrift für Ethnologie,
Das Argument u. a.
1. Einleitung
Die Kulturen und Religionen jener Gruppen, die
man früher unter anderem als „Naturvölker“ und
später als „Stammesgesellschaften“ bezeichnet hat,
büßen mit der Einwirkung der westlichen Zivilisa-
tion ihre Identität ein, - diese Klage ist nicht erst
seit Adolf Bastians 1881 erschienener Schrift „Der
Völkergedanke“ bis heute immer wieder geäußert
worden (s. Kohl 1988; 252)1. Wenn sich die tra-
ditionalen Religionen2 gegenüber den Einflüssen
der Kolonialisierung nicht behaupten können, dann
ergibt sich daraus für die Religionsethnologie eine
deutliche Konsequenz: mit dem Untergang ihres
Gegenstandes ist ihre Auflösung vorherbestimmt.
Die folgenden - auf das Hochland von Pa-
pua-Neuguinea beschränkten - Überlegungen be-
handeln die Frage, ob dort die traditionale Reli-
gion3 4 wirklich beim Widerstand gegen kolonia-
lisierungsbedingte Identitätsbedrohungen versagt,
das heißt, ob dort die traditionale Religion tat-
sächlich bei der Bewältigung der Kolonialisierung
scheitert und damit zum Untergang verurteilt ist.
Zur Beantwortung dieser Frage erscheint es als
sinnvoll, das Verhältnis zwischen den sogenannten
Cargo-Kulten und den sie gewissermaßen ablö-
senden Holy Spirit Movements zu untersuchen.
Während Cargo-Kulte noch weitgehend von der
traditionalen Religion geprägt sind, stellen die sich
erst später entwickelnden Holy Spirit Movements
zumindest für einige Missionare rein christliche
Bestrebungen4 und damit eine Art von religiösen
Bewegungen dar, für die im Grunde die traditiona-
le Religion schon keine Bedeutung mehr hat. Die
Schlußfolgerungen, die sich aus der Gegenüber-
stellung von Cargo-Kulten und Holy Spirit Move-
ments ergeben, werden dann mit einer kurzen -
ebenfalls auf das Hochland von Papua-Neuguinea
konzentrierten - Beschreibung der traditionalen
1 Kohl führt entsprechende Zitate von Malinowski, sowie von
Lévy-StrauB, an und weist darauf hin, daß bereits 1724 La-
fitau bei den Bewohnern Kanadas den Verlust überlieferter
Gewohnheiten und Sitten konstatierte.
2 Hier wird als „traditional“, also als „aus der eigenen Tradi-
tion heraus sich entwickelnd“, all das bestimmt, was einer-
seits offensichtlich nicht auf westliche Einflüsse zurückzu-
führen ist (etische Sicht) und was andererseits die Einheimi-
schen selbst ihrem eigenen Überlieferungsbestand zuordnen
(emische Sicht). Es erscheint dagegen wenig sinnvoll, als
„traditional“ das zu bezeichnen, was vor dem Kulturkontakt
existierte. Eine solche Rekonstruktion ist nur unzureichend
möglich, da der Kulturkontakt als Vorbedingung jeder Re-
konstruktion selbst bereits Veränderungen auslöst und da
die Religionen der Einheimischen auch schon zuvor in ei-
nem beständigen Wandlungsprozeß begriffen waren (s. u.).
3 Der Begriff „traditionale Religion“ bezieht sich hinsicht-
lich des Hochlandes von Papua-Neuguinea wegen der dort
herrschenden kulturellen Heterogenität vor allem auf die
typischen Grundzüge, die die Religionen der dort lebenden
verschiedenen Gruppen gemeinsam haben (s. u.).
4 Generell betrachten die meisten Missionare “Holy Spirit
Movements” als Zeichen für das Wirken Gottes und da-
mit für den Erfolg ihrer eigenen Bemühungen. Ahrens
sieht in diesen Bewegungen das Streben der Einheimischen
nach einem „Rückhalt in der weltweiten Familie Christi“
(19867z: 138).
404
Holger Jebens
Religion und der Kolonialisierung in Zusammen-
hang gebracht. Traditionale Religion und Kolonia-
lisierung bilden gewissermaßen Subjekt und Ob-
jekt des Bewältigungsversuchs, dessen Ergebnis -
Untergang oder Identitätsbehauptung - es hier zu
diskutieren gilt.
2. Der Rückgang von Cargo-Kulten
Cargo-Kulte fanden in ganz Neuguinea und in
ganz Melanesien etwa seit Beginn dieses Jh.s statt,
besonders häußg aber in den 30er und 40er Jahren,
um danach allmählich immer mehr in den Hin-
tergrund zu treten. Sie gehören zu jenen religiös
begründeten Protestbewegungen, mit denen man
in den verschiedensten Regionen der Welt auf
Konflikte mit der westlichen, technologisch und
damit machtmäßig überlegenen Zivilisation rea-
gierte. Solche Phänomene sind als „Krisenkulte“
und als „Revitalisationsbewegungen“ bezeichnet,
sowie durch die Adjektive „millenaristisch“, „chi-
liastisch“ und „nativistisch“ charakterisiert worden
(s. Jebens o. J.)5.
Eine Gemeinsamkeit von Cargo-Kulten be-
steht in der in den Cargo-Mythen geäußerten Vor-
stellung, „transzendente Instanzen“ hätten die Gü-
ter der Weißen, das “Cargo”, hergestellt. Dabei
kann es sich um die eigenen Ahnen, um Kultur-
heroen oder aber um den christlichen Gott der
Weißen handeln. Auch die Elemente der tradi-
tionalen Kultur wurden ja überlieferten Ansich-
ten gemäß einst von „transzendenten Instanzen“
gestiftet. Die Schilderung einer mythischen Ver-
gangenheit - sei es das Schöpfungsgeschehen, sei
es die Herstellung des Cargos - dient also bei
traditionalen wie bei Cargo-Mythen gleichermaßen
zur Erklärung und Begründung der Gegenwart. Im
Rahmen der traditionalen Religion soll der relativ
genau geregelte und sich in Form von Ritualen
vollziehende Umgang mit den „transzendenten In-
stanzen“ Wohlstand gewährleisten, den man ins-
besondere im Hochland von Papua-Neuguinea als
5 Der Begriff „Cargo-Kult“ ist insofern problematisch, als
daß man ihn auf außerordentlich viele und unterschiedliche
Einzelphänomene angewendet hat. Eine Einheit und damit
eine Begrenzung des Gegenstandes ist aufgrund dessen
nicht immer leicht zu erkennen (s. McDowell 1988). Die
Einheit des Gegenstandes besteht vor allem in den im
folgenden zu schildernden, jeweils wirksamen Glaubens-
vorstellungen und Bedürfnissen (s. auch Jebens 1989). Ei-
ne weitere Schwierigkeit hegt darin, daß Cargo-Kulte aus
westlicher Sicht noch nicht von Anfang bis Ende beobachtet
werden konnten. Die bislang vorliegenden Beschreibungen
von Cargo-Kulten beruhen durchgehend auf Rekonstruktio-
nen.
materiellen Wohlstand begreift. Analog dazu soll
bei Cargo-Kulten der Verkehr mit den Produzenten
des Cargos in Form von Cargo-Ritualen bewirken,
daß die westlichen Güter in den Besitz der Einhei-
mischen gelangen. Die Erklärungen der Herkunft
des Cargos und die Hinweise, wie man es beschaf-
fen könne, basieren also auf Glaubensvorstellun-
gen, die in der traditionalen Religion begründet
sind.
Cargo-Rituale enthalten häufig die Nachah-
mung von bei den Weißen beobachteten Hand-
lungen sowie die Zerstörung von Gegenständen
der traditionalen Kultur - aber auch den Rückgriff
auf Elemente der traditionalen Kultur. Zuweilen
schildert man die erhoffte und angestrebte An-
kunft der westlichen Güter - ob in Begleitung
der eigenen Ahnen oder der mit messianistischen
Zügen ausgestatteten Kulturheroen - in Aufnahme
eschatologischer Motive aus dem Christentum als
ein Weitende. Angesichts dessen begannen einige
Hochlandbewohner zum Teil ihre Gartenarbeit zu
reduzieren und in großen Festen ihre Schweine zu
verzehren. Die in den Cargo-Mythen geäußerten
Erklärungen und Handlungsanweisungen beruhen
mitunter auf der Abwandlung traditionaler Schöp-
fungsmythen6 und werden oft von sogenannten
„Cargo-Propheten“ formuliert. Diese berufen sich
auf „direkte Kontakte“ mit den für die Produk-
tion des Cargos zuständigen „transzendenten In-
stanzen“. Außergewöhnliche Bewußtseinszustän-
de, die sich unter anderem in Anfällen von Glie-
derschütteln äußern, gelten als Hinweis auf derar-
tige direkte Kontakte und damit als Bekräftigung
und Legitimation für das, was man von den Pro-
duzenten des Cargos erfahren hat. Dementspre-
chend können solche „Schüttelanfälle“ von den
Kultanhängem übernommen werden und offenbar
sogar die Weitergabe der Kulte an andere Gruppen
erleichtern7 *. Auch für die traditionale Religion
ist der in Träumen oder in Trance- und Beses-
senheitszuständen erfahrbare direkte Kontakt mit
den „transzendenten Instanzen“ nicht ungewöhn-
lich (s. u. sowie Stephen 1979).
Der Wunsch der Einheimischen nach den
westlichen Gütern erklärt sich durch die Werte,
die insbesondere im Hochland von Papua-Neu-
guinea für die traditionale Kultur charakteristisch
6 Vgl. für die Nordostküste Papua-Neuguineas (heutige Ma-
dang Province) Lawrence 1964.
7 Dies trifft unter anderem auf Cargo-Kulte in der Umgebung
von Kainantu (heutige Eastem Highlands Province; Bemdt
1952/53) zu, sowie auf den sogenannten “Sun Shaker Cult”
oder “Ain’s Cult” in der heutigen Enga Province (Meggitt
1973).
Anthropos 85.1990
Cargo-Kulte und Holy Spirit Movements
405
sind: die Werte der „Stärke“ und der „Äquiva-
lenz“ regulieren die Tauschbeziehungen, durch die
die Einheimischen individuell und kollektiv mit-
einander verbunden werden (Stagl 1974: 85 f.).
Gemäß dem Stärke-Ideal versucht jeder einzel-
ne unter anderem durch eine hohe Produktivi-
tät, sowie durch das Aufnehmen von „Krediten“,
Schweine, Muscheln und Schneckengehäuse, die
im Hochland als „Prestigegüter“ gelten können, zu
akkumulieren, um im Rahmen von Tauschketten
oder Schweineschlachtfesten mit möglichst gro-
ßen Gaben den eigenen Status zu erhöhen. Der
Gebende gewinnt gegenüber dem Nehmenden an
Prestige, solange dieser nicht zu einer - möglichst
größeren - Gegengabe imstande ist. Das Streben
nach Stärke wird durch den Wert der Äquivalenz
balanciert. Dieser verlangt nach der Reziprozi-
tät aller Tauschbeziehungen, nach der „Rückzah-
lung“ aufgenommener „Kredite“ und damit nach
der Gleichwertigkeit der Tauschpartner. Indem der
Wunsch nach Äquivalenz so die Möglichkeiten
der Prestigeerhöhung und die Entwicklung von
Statusunterschieden einschränkt, begrenzt er das
Streben nach Stärke. Durch diese für die traditio-
nale Kultur charakteristischen Werte wird das Be-
dürfnis nach dem Cargo verständlich: die Einhei-
mischen wollen - ob bewußt oder nicht - mit der
Erlangung westlicher Güter Stärke demonstrieren
und ihren Status erhöhen, um in der Beziehung
zu den Weißen Äquivalenz herzustellen8. Dabei
geht es also nicht immer primär um die westlichen
Güter als solche - wichtiger ist das, was man mit
ihnen zu erreichen hofft, wozu sie verhelfen sollen.
Die Bedeutung des Cargos besteht demnach vor
allem darin, daß es im Verhältnis zu den Weißen
die Verwirklichung von Stärke und Äquivalenz
symbolisiert.
Die das Bedürfnis nach dem Cargo begrün-
denden und für die traditionale Kultur charak-
teristischen Werte werden von der traditionalen
Religion geprägt, die ja sozusagen ein „sinngeben-
der“ Aspekt der traditionalen Kultur ist (Laubscher
1983: 233). Gleichzeitig sind es die traditionalen
Glaubensvorstellungen, die erklären, woher das
Cargo stammt und wie man es erlangen kann. Die-
se fortdauernde Wirksamkeit überlieferter Glau-
bensvorstellungen und Bedürfnisse berechtigt da-
zu, Cargo-Kulte als Ausdruck der traditionalen
Religion zu betrachten9.
8 Diese auf das Hochland übertragbare These haben für das
Tiefland Papua-Neuguineas vor allem Burridge (1960) und
Lawrence (1964) entwickelt.
9 Damit verbindet sich keinesfalls die Ansicht, daß das Cargo
auch schon in der Zeit vor dem Kulturkontakt zur Religion
Die traditionalen Glaubensvorstellungen und
Bedürfnisse bilden zusammen gewissermaßen den
Hintergrund, der zwar in Form von Cargo-Kul-
ten sozusagen sichtbar wird, der aber auch dort
wirksam ist, wo es nicht zur Entstehung von Car-
go-Kulten kommt. Zur Erfassung dieses Hinter-
grundes hat man die Begriffe “myth-dream” (Bur-
ridge 1960: 27) und “cargo ideology” (Lawrence
1964: 269, 272) entwickelt, die jedoch zusammen
mit “‘cargo’-cult type of behaviour” (Firth 1955:
131) und “cargo mentality” (Essai 1961: 55) zu-
gunsten der Bezeichnung “cargoism”10 aufgegeben
wurden. Von „Cargoismus“ zu reden, heißt indes,
den Glaubensvorstellungen der Einheimischen ei-
ne Kohärenz und eine innere Widerspruchslosig-
keit zuzuschreiben, die bei der traditionalen Reli-
gion nicht durchgängig auszumachen ist11. Des-
halb erscheint der Begriff „Cargo-Denken“ als
treffender, wobei es allerdings gilt, die Bedeutung
traditional begründeter Bedürfnisse im Auge zu
behalten. Cargo-Kulte sind dann als Ausdruck der
traditionalen Religion eine mögliche Manifestation
des gleichfalls in der traditionalen Religion ver-
wurzelten „Cargo-Denkens“.
Im Rahmen der wissenschaftlichen Auseinan-
dersetzung mit Cargo-Kulten kommt Peter Wors-
ley (1957) einige Bedeutung zu. Worsley machte
als erster Cargo-Kulte zum Gegenstand einer brei-
ter angelegten, synoptischen historischen Untersu-
chung, während man sie vorher hauptsächlich als
Einzelphänomene und beschränkt auf ihren jewei-
ligen Hintergrund gesehen hatte. Solche Berichte -
meist veröffentlicht in allgemein schwer zugängli-
chen Missionsjoumalen oder in internen Berichten
der Kolonialverwaltung - waren vor Worsley nur
in einigen kürzeren Aufsätzen zusammengefaßt
worden12 *.
Mit dem Bezug auf Melanesien insgesamt
vertritt Worsley die These, daß sich bei den Ein-
heimischen aufgrund des Kulturkontaktes erst-
mals gemeinsame Interessen entwickeln, die die
Grenzen der sogenannten „Stämme“ überschreiten.
Waren die Einheimischen früher aufgrund ihrer
der Einheimischen gehört habe. Die Art und Weise, in der
das - an für sich neue - Cargo in das Denken und Wollen in-
tegriert wird, in der also überlieferte Glaubensvorstellungen
und Bedürfnisse die „Verarbeitung“ des Cargos bestimmen,
ist dagegen in der Tat wesentlich von der traditionalen
Religion geprägt.
10 Harding 1967: 21 f.; Ploeg 1975: 198; Ahrens 1986h: 124.
11 Eine entsprechende Kritik am „Cargoismus“-Begriff äußert
Young (1971: 43).
12 Chinnery and Haddon 1917; Eckert 1937, 1940; Höltker
1946; Beishaw 1950; Bodrogi 1951; Guiart 1951a, 1951
Lommel 1953.
Anthropos 85.1990
406
Holger Jebens
segmentären Sozialorganisation und ihrer - im
Hochland sehr ausgeprägten - sprachlichen und
kulturellen Heterogenität stärker voneinander ge-
trennt, und nicht in größerem Maßstab zu kollek-
tivem Handeln imstande, so geben nun, Worsley
zufolge, Cargo-Kulte gegenüber den Weißen den
neuen gemeinsamen Interessen der Einheimischen
Ausdruck. Damit tragen Cargo-Kulte für Worsley
(1957: 228) zur Zusammenführung, zur Integration
der Einheimischen bei13.
Seit Beginn der 50er Jahre gingen Cargo-
Kulte allmählich immer mehr zurück, während
gleichzeitig als Ergebnis der australischen ko-
lonialen Entwicklungspolitik eher politisch und
ökonomisch erscheinende Bestrebungen an Be-
deutung gewannen. Diese Ersetzung von Car-
go-Kulten durch Aktivitäten, die zwar vermeint-
lich gleichfalls auf Integration zielen, die aber
nach Worsley realistischer und erfolgversprechen-
der sind, verweist - so Worsley - auf eine generelle
Entwicklungsrichtung “... away from apocalyptic
mysticism towards secular political Organization,
a trend from religious cult to political party and
cooperative” (Worsley 1957: 231). Hier werden
Cargo-Kulte als Übergangsphänomene begriffen,
die sich zwar noch religiös artikulieren, die aber
bald säkulareren politischen und ökonomischen
Unternehmungen weichen oder sich in diese ver-
wandeln, um in der interkulturellen Auseinander-
setzung mit den Weißen mehr Effektivität zu ge-
währleisten. Damit verknüpft sich auch die Über-
zeugung, bei den Einheimischen im allgemeinen
und bei den Cargo-Kultteilnehmern im besonde-
ren werde aus einer religiösen eine eher säkulare
Orientierung. Bodrogi (1951: 278) und Lommel
(1953: 20 f.) konstatieren einen psychischen Ver-
änderungsprozeß, Uplegger und Mühlmann (1961:
187) eine „... zunehmende ,Verweltlichung4 ...“.
Die Tatsache, daß mit Cargo-Kulten eine Aus-
drucksform der traditionalen Religion verschwin-
det, scheint für den Verlust einer religiösen Orien-
tierung zu sprechen. Der Eindruck, daß sich die
traditionale Religion auflöst, verstärkt sich ange-
sichts der in weiten Teilen Melanesiens bereit-
willig erfolgten Konversion oft ganzer Siedlungs-
gemeinschaften zum Christentum, vor allem aber
angesichts des Versuchs der Missionare, besonders
zu Beginn der Kolonialisierung, die traditionale
Religion zurückzudrängen. So hat man im Hoch-
land des heutigen Papua-Neuguinea unter anderem
13 Diese „Integrationsthese“ ist vor Worsley unter anderem
von Guiart (1951b), Bodrogi (1951: 282) und Burridge
(1954: 252) vertreten worden.
sakrale Ahnenschädel und -knochen aus den Män-
nerhäusern entfernt, Tänze, Gesänge und Feste
verboten (Read 1947; 112) und den Uneingeweih-
ten religiöse Geheimnisse enthüllt (Bemdt 1965:
101).
3. Holy Spirit Movements als Ausdruck der
traditionalen Religion
Die Christianisierung Neuguineas beschleunigte
sich unter der Mitwirkung einheimischer Missions-
helfer gleichzeitig mit dem allmählichen Rück-
gang von Cargo-Kulten. Die Zahl der Missiona-
re, der verschiedenen Denominationen und der
Konvertiten wuchs stetig an. Außerdem entstanden
immer mehr unabhängige Kirchen. Seit Mitte der
50er Jahre gewannen fundamentalistische Gruppen
amerikanischer Herkunft an Bedeutung. Für diese
wie für die seit den 60er Jahren aktiven charismati-
schen oder pfingstlerischen Glaubensgemeinschaf-
ten ist die besondere Betonung der Evangelisation
charakteristisch. Im Rahmen solcher neuerer reli-
giöser Verbände, zu denen viele Einheimische von
katholischen oder lutherischen Missionen überge-
treten sind (Ahrens 1986h: 146), kam es ebenfalls
seit den 60er Jahren zur Durchführung von Holy
Spirit Movements14. In der dem kolonialen Zugriff
vergleichsweise spät ausgesetzten Southern High-
lands Province hat man erst Mitte der 70er Jahre
derartige Bewegungen beobachtet, die sich zum
Teil unter rascher Ausbreitung auf verschiedene
Siedlungsgemeinschaften etwa alle zwei bis drei
Jahre wiederholten (s. dazu Robin 1981, 1982).
Holy Spirit Movements bestehen im we-
sentlichen aus einer Folge von meist mehrtägi-
gen Versammlungen, an denen unter der Leitung
von fundamentalistisch, beziehungsweise pfingst-
lerisch eingestellten Missionaren die Einheimi-
schen oft zu Hunderten oder gar zu Tausenden
14 Holy Spirit Movements lassen sich grob als “... collective
ecstatic experiences in Christian contexts ...” (Barr 1983b:
109) bestimmen. Auch die Bezeichnungen “revivals”, “re-
vival movements”, “evangelical awakenings”, “charismatic
renewals” und “pentecostal movements” (Barr and Trompf
1983: 49) sind gebräuchlich. Solche Phänomene fanden
bislang bei weitem noch nicht das Interesse, das man lange
Zeit Cargo-Kulten entgegengebracht hat. Dies mag da-
mit Zusammenhängen, daß die für Holy Spirit Movements
wichtigen Quellen zum größten Teil von Missionaren stam-
men. Neben einem Aufsatz von Barr (1983b) und einem
Sammelband von Ahrens (1986a) verdienen besonders die
Zeitschriften Point und Catalyst Beachtung, die vom “Me-
lanesian Institute for Pastoral and Socio-Economic Service”
(Goroka, Papua-Neuguinea) herausgegeben werden.
Anthropos 85.1990
Cargo-Kulte und Holy Spirit Movements
407
teilnehmen. Von Klatschen und Fußstampfen be-
gleitete Gesänge sollen bei den Anwesenden Emo-
tionen freisetzen, die in der Regel in außergewöhn-
liche Bewußtseinszustände einmünden. Diese kol-
lektiv auftretenden Zustände sind durch Zitier- und
Schüttelanfälle, durch Wein- und Schreikrämpfe,
durch Visionen und Träume, sowie durch Trance-
und Ohnmachtsanfälle gekennzeichnet - insbeson-
dere aber durch das „Reden in Zungen“ (Glossola-
lie). Derartige außergewöhnliche Bewußtseinszu-
stände betrachtet man zuweilen als Hinweis auf die
Besessenheit durch „Dämonen“, was dann die An-
wendung exorzistischer Praktiken nach sich zieht
(Robin 1981: 160). Häufiger indes erscheinen die
angeführten Phänomene als Beweis für die als
„Erweckung“ (Barr 19837z: 111), als „Empfang
von Segen“ (Ahrens 1986c: 242 f.) oder als „Geist-
taufe“ bezeichnete direkte Verbindung mit dem
Heiligen Geist.
Holy Spirit Movements beinhalten demnach
ebenso wie Cargo-Kulte außergewöhnliche Be-
wußtseinszustände, die - unter anderem in Schüt-
telanfällen zum Ausdruck gebracht - als Zeichen
für den direkten Kontakt mit einer „transzendenten
Instanz“ gelten, selbst wenn es sich hier nicht um
die Produzenten des Cargos, sondern um „Dämo-
nen“ oder um den Heiligen Geist handelt.
Die „Geisttaufe“ hat als Erfahrung der Kon-
version und als Voraussetzung für die Heiligung
des einzelnen im pfingstlerischen Denken eine
zentrale Bedeutung. Dementsprechend wird sie
besonders dramatisiert - so zum Beispiel durch
öffentliche Bekenntniserklärungen, in denen die
Bekehrten sich und andere der Sünde bezichtigen.
Im Rahmen von pfingstlerischen Versamm-
lungen kommt es bisweilen zu Gerüchten über
Wunderheilungen, über die Wiederbelebung der
Toten, über Levitationen und über am Himmel ent-
standene Lichter. Ferner entwickeln sich an bibli-
schen Vorbildern orientierte Prophezeiungen, die
von einer unmittelbar bevorstehenden, bzw. von
einer bereits angebrochenen Endzeit künden. Bei
Holy Spirit Movements des Tari-Gebietes (South-
ern Highlands Province) führte, wie schon bei ei-
nigen Cargo-Kulten, die Erwartung des Weitendes
zur Einschränkung der Gartenarbeit15 *.
15 Robin 1981: 156. - Beim Vergleich zwischen Holy Spirit
Movements und Cargo-Kulten lassen sich auch eher mar-
ginale Ähnlichkeiten auffinden: Aus Anlaß von Holy Spirit
Movements entstand im Nipa-Gebiet (Southern Highlands
Province) die Vorstellung, einst werde eine Leiter vom
Himmel herabhängen, an der die Menschen dann herauf-
kletterten, um die Erde hinter sich zu lassen (Barr 1983a:
151). - Die mit den Bewohnern des Nipa-Gebietes durch
Handelsbeziehungen verbundenen Waka-Enga hofften drei-
Einer Bemerkung von Andrew Strathem zu-
folge versprachen sich einige Bewohner des Mt.
Hagen-Gebietes (Western Highlands Province) von
der direkten Begegnung mit dem Heiligen Geist
auch materiellen Erfolg (Ahrens 1986c: 243). Be-
wohner des Nipa-Gebietes (Southern Highlands
Province) haben im Zusammenhang mit pfingstle-
rischen Versammlungen einem einheimischen Pro-
pheten Schweine und Wertgegenstände gegeben,
um unter anderem in den Besitz von Motorfahr-
zeugen zu gelangen (Robin 1981: 151 f.). Holy
Spirit Movements können demnach dem aus Car-
go-Kulten bekannten Wunsch nach westlichen Gü-
tern Gestalt geben. Selbst dort, wo dieser Wunsch
nicht deutlich wird, geht es den Teilnehmern von
Holy Spirit Movements nicht weniger als den
Teilnehmern von Cargo-Kulten um Stärke und
Äquivalenz in der Beziehung zu den Weißen: den
von den Missionaren propagierten direkten Um-
gang mit dem Heiligen Geist nachzuahmen, heißt,
das zu übernehmen, was die Weißen den Einhei-
mischen voraushaben. Die Konversion zum fun-
damentalistischen, bzw. pfingstlerischen Christen-
tum soll also Unterschiede ausgleichen und damit
durch die Erhöhung des eigenen Status Äquivalenz
her stellen.
Die von Worsley für Cargo-Kulte konstatier-
te Integrationsfunktion wird auch von Holy Spi-
rit Movements erfüllt, bei denen die gemeinsame
Erfahrung der Rituale die Teilnehmer gleichfalls
zusammenschließt und bei denen man vielleicht
aus westlicher Sicht ebenso von einem „Teilnah-
mezwang“ reden könnte, wenn diejenigen, die sich
ablehnend verhalten, die Verantwortung für das
eventuelle Mißlingen der Unternehmungen tragen
müssen (s. Schwarz 1984: 258 und Robin 1981:
159).
Die Gegenüberstellung von Cargo-Kulten und
Holy Spirit Movements zeigt, daß bei beiden Ar-
ten von religiösen Bewegungen gleichermaßen die
Vorstellung existiert, es sei möglich, durch den in
ritualisierter Form ablaufenden direkten Umgang
mit einer „transzendenten Instanz“ Veränderun-
gen zu bewirken. Dabei bürgen außergewöhnliche
Bewußtseinszustände - ausgedrückt unter ande-
rem durch Schüttelanfälle - für die Direktheit der
Verbindung zum Produzenten des Cargos, bzw.
zum Heiligen Geist. Von einer solchen Verbin-
dung versprechen sich die Einheimischen - ob
über die Erlangung westlicher Güter oder über
die Nachahmung der Religion der Weißen - die
ßig Jahre zuvor im Rahmen eines Cargo-Kultes, man werde
die Erde an vom Himmel herabhängenden Schnüren verlas-
sen können (Meggitt 1973: 35).
Anthropos 85.1990
408
Holger Jebens
Erfüllung ihres Wunsches nach Prestigeerhöhung
und nach Äquivalenz in der Beziehung zu den
Weißen. Sind im Rahmen von Holy Spirit Move-
ments die bereits für Cargo-Kulte bestimmenden
Glaubensvorstellungen und Bedürfnisse weiterhin
wirksam, so ist damit die Frage nach dem Ver-
hältnis zwischen beiden Phänomenen beantwortet:
Cargo-Kulte wie Holy Spirit Movements stellen im
Grunde gleichermaßen Manifestationen des Cargo-
Denkens und damit der traditionalen Religion dar.
Holy Spirit Movements enthalten zwar Elemente
des Christentums, deren Bedeutung bleibt jedoch
gegenüber der prägenden Rolle der traditional be-
gründeten Glaubensvorstellungen und Bedürfnisse
eher zweitrangig. Aufgrund dessen muß man die
von einigen Missionaren vertretene Ansicht, es
handele sich hier um rein christliche Bewegungen,
wohl als oberflächlich bezeichnen (s. Anm. 4).
Im Lauf der Nachkriegsgeschichte tritt mit
Cargo-Kulten allmählich eine Ausdrucksform der
traditionalen Religion in den Hintergrund, dafür
entsteht jedoch mit Holy Spirit Movements sozusa-
gen eine geänderte, eine neuere Art von religiöser
Bewegung, die letztlich ebenfalls aus der tradi-
tionalen Religion gespeist wird16. Insofern deutet
das Verschwinden von Cargo-Kulten allein noch
nicht auf den Verlust einer religiösen Orientierung.
Die Kontinuität der für das Cargo-Denken grund-
legenden Glaubensvorstellungen und Bedürfnisse
erweckt vielmehr den Eindruck, daß die traditio-
nale Religion keineswegs in einem Untergangspro-
zeß begriffen ist. Sie scheint statt dessen durchaus
zum Widerstand gegen kolonialisierungsbedingte
Identitätsbedrohungen und damit zur Bewältigung
der Kolonialisierung in der Lage zu sein.
Dem Versuch der Selbstbehauptung, der Ab-
sicht, die eigene Identität zu bewahren, entspricht
der im Rahmen von Cargo-Kulten und Holy Spirit
Movements unternommene Versuch, in der Bezie-
hung zu den Weißen traditionale Werte zu ver-
wirklichen und damit letztlich Autonomie zurück-
zugewinnen. Das Streben nach Autonomie und
Selbstbehauptung - einst in dem Wunsch nach
westlichen Gütern verkörpert - hat auch bei der
Gründung unabhängiger Kirchen eine Rolle ge-
spielt. Es bildet jedoch vor allem den Grund, der
erst - bewußt oder unbewußt - zur Teilnahme
an Holy Spirit Movements veranlaßt und der den
16 Robin (1982: 341) weist daraufhin, daß Holy Spirit Move-
ments nicht generell Cargo-Kulte ablösen, sondern daß sich
umgekehrt Holy Spirit Movements auch in Cargo-Kulte
wandeln können.
Anstoß zu deren Ausbreitung und Wiederholung
gibt17.
4. Variabilität der Religion und koloniale
Beeinflussung
Wenn die traditionale Religion zur Bewältigung
der Kolonialisierung in der Lage ist, wenn sie,
anstatt unterzugehen, ihre Identität behauptet, dann
stellt sich die Frage, wodurch sie dazu befähigt
wird.
In Mythen gekleidete Glaubensvorstellungen
und Handlungsanweisungen müssen ebenso wie
die dazugehörigen Rituale, um bei nachfolgenden
Generationen auf Akzeptanz zu stoßen, auf deren
Fragen und Bedürfnisse antworten, das heißt, sie
müssen deren Lebensverhältnissen entsprechen.
Um eine gewandelte Wirklichkeit weiterhin erklä-
ren und begründen zu können, sind beispielsweise
Schöpfungsmythen gezwungen, sich ebenfalls zu
ändern. Die Bindung des religiös Überlieferten
an die soziale, ökonomische, politische und kul-
turelle Realität hat man als „Anpassungsdruck“
bezeichnet (Schaeffler 1986: 243). Da die Lebens-
bedingungen der Einheimischen auch schon vor
dem Kulturkontakt nicht statisch waren, ergibt
sich aus diesem Anpassungsdruck zwangsläufig,
daß sich die traditionale Religion bereits früher in
einem fortdauernden Wandlungsprozeß befunden
hat18. Die dazu notwendige Variabilität wird durch
das Fehlen einer in kanonisierter Form schriftlich
fixierten Offenbarung ermöglicht: der kollektive
Konsens der Glaubensgemeinschaft muß gewisser-
maßen immer wieder neu die Frage entscheiden,
was als Tradition zu gelten hat und wie mit Innova-
tionen umzugehen ist. Demnach ergibt sich theo-
retisch unablässig Gelegenheit, die Tradition zu
modifizieren. Impulse der Neuerung finden dabei
ihre Legitimation durch jene vorgeblich direkten
Kontakte mit „transzendenten Instanzen“, auf die
dann die außergewöhnlichen Bewußtseinszustände
hinweisen19, die - wie bereits festgestellt - auch
17 Diese Motivationsschicht wird zuwenig beachtet, wenn man
Holy Spirit Movements als rein christliche Bestrebungen
auffaßt.
18 Die Veränderung von religiös Überliefertem muß indes
nicht immer ausschließlich durch die Anpassung an gewan-
delte Lebensbedingungen begründet sein. - Die Variierung
von Schöpfungsmythen kann beispielsweise auch ein Aus-
druck für politische Forderungen und Ansprüche - etwa in
bezug auf Landbesitz - sein.
19 Bourguignon (1972) zählt zu solchen „direkten Verbin-
dungsmöglichkeiten“ Besessenheits-, Trance- und Traum-
zustände, die sie durch eine emische Sicht zu trennen
versucht; während bei Trancezuständen und Träumen der
Anthropos 85.1990
Cargo-Kulte und Holy Spirit Movements
409
im Rahmen von Cargo-Kulten und Holy Spirit Mo-
vements eine Rolle spielen. Andererseits sind bei
den Versuchen, angesichts von Innovationen einen
kollektiven Konsens herzustellen, Entscheidungs-
kriterien wirksam, die die Veränderungsmöglich-
keiten real einschränken. So dürfen Neuerungen
den von der Mehrheit der Glaubensgemeinschaft
geteilten Grundsätzen und Vorstellungen nicht wi-
dersprechen, das heißt, sie werden um so eher
akzeptiert, je weniger - oder je weniger offensicht-
lich - sie im Gegensatz zu dem stehen, was bereits
allgemein als Tradition gilt20.
Die - wenn auch eingeschränkte - Verände-
rungspotenz der traditionalen Religion ist für sie
gewissermaßen die Voraussetzung, die es ihr erst
erlaubt, sich einer gewandelten Realität anzupas-
sen. Ohne eine solche Anpassungsfähigkeit müß-
ten geänderte Lebensverhältnisse sozusagen zum
Untergang führen.
Die Variabilität und damit die Widerstandsfä-
higkeit der traditionalen Religion zu postulieren,
heißt nicht, die zu bewältigenden Auswirkungen
der Kolonialisierung zu unterschätzen.
Hier kann - am Beispiel des Mt. Hagen-Ge-
bietes (Western Highlands Province) - nur ange-
deutet werden, daß diese Auswirkungen bereits in
der Frühphase des Kulturkontaktes angelegt und
erkennbar sind. Die Weißen führten beispielswei-
se von Anfang an große Mengen an Muscheln
und Schneckengehäusen, also an traditionalen Pre-
stigegütem, mit, um Nahrungsmittel zu „kaufen“
und um Arbeiter zu „entlohnen“. Derartige Gü-
ter erreichten insbesondere die in der Nähe der
Missions- und Verwaltungsstation von Mt. Hagen
lebenden Gruppen (Strathem 1971: 262 f.). Diese
hatten vor dem Kulturkontakt Steinäxte angefertigt
und dafür Muscheln und Schneckengehäuse von
den weiter im Süden lebenden Gemeinschaften
eingetauscht. Indem die Mt. Hagen-Leute nun ih-
re Prestigegüter von den Weißen erhielten, ver-
schlechterte sich die Situation ihrer Tauschpart-
ner: sie konnten für ihre Erzeugnisse nur noch
schlecht Abnehmer finden und aufgrund dessen
kaum noch Werkzeuge oder auch Schweine aus
einzelne von einem Teil seiner Seele verlassen wird, „er-
greift“ ihn bei Besessenheitszuständen etwas ihm Über-
geordnetes. - Diese Ansichten Bourguignons sind hier nach
ihrer Wiedergabe bei Stephen (1979: 10) - dort ohne Seiten-
angabe - zusammengefaßt. Stephen (1979: 14) schreibt zu
den genannten „Verbindungsmöglichkeiten“: “In providing
a means of direct communication with the ancestors and
deities, they provide a continuing source of validation for
new knowledge and cultural innovation.”
20 Zu weiteren Faktoren, die bei der Tradierung von religiösem
Wissen Veränderungen einschränken, s. Kohl 1988: 264 ff.
dem Mt. Hagen-Gebiet beziehen, da man es dort
zudem vorzog, die Schweine den Weißen zu geben
(Hughes 1978: 317).
Solchen Prozessen ohne angemessene eigene
Handlungsmöglichkeiten ausgesetzt zu sein, war
für die Einheimischen gleichbedeutend mit einem
Verlust an Autonomie21 und mit einer Bedrohung
ihrer traditionalen Identität. Vergleicht man jedoch
die Gruppen des Mt. Hagen-Gebietes mit ihren
südlicheren Nachbarn, dann wird die Notwendig-
keit der Differenzierung deutlich: es zeigt sich,
daß die Kolonialisierung bei den Einheimischen
- also intrakulturell - Unterschiede an Wohlstand
und damit an Prestige verstärkt22. Dem intrakul-
turellen Status entspricht im allgemeinen auch der
Grad an kolonialer Beeinflussung. Lebt eine Ge-
meinschaft in größerer Entfernung zu den von den
Weißen ausgehenden Impulsen, so ist - gemessen
an den Gruppen, die durch den engeren Kontakt
mit den Weißen bessere Gelegenheiten zu ökono-
mischem Erfolg erhalten - ihr Prestige geringer,
und ihre Lebensverhältnisse haben sich gleichzei-
tig - gegenüber der Zeit vor dem Kulturkontakt -
weniger deutlich verändert.
Diejenigen, die weiter entfernt von den er-
sten Verwaltungsstationen siedelten, die also in-
trakulturell über einen niedrigeren Status verfüg-
ten und die sich den kolonialen „Entwicklungs-
möglichkeiten“ nur in kleinerem Maße ausgesetzt
sahen, waren am ehesten zur Durchführung von
Cargo-Kulten bereit23. Ein ähnlicher Hintergrund
läßt sich auch bei den Anhängern von Holy Spirit
Movements vermuten, da die Southern Highlands
Province als Schauplatz vieler entsprechender Be-
wegungen hinsichtlich der Gesundheits- und Aus-
bildungsentwicklung in einer Rangliste von Papua-
Neuguineas Provinzen den vorletzten Platz ein-
nimmt24. Besitzen die Teilnehmer von Cargo-Kul-
ten und Holy Spirit Movements ein intrakulturell
21 Den Verlust von Autonomie hat auch die später einsetzende
Entwicklung zum Ergebnis, die tendenziell von der traditio-
nalen Subsistenzökonomie über die Einführung von Kon-
traktarbeit und “cash crops” auf die Abhängigkeit von exter-
nen Märkten zielt. Siehe zur Western Highlands Province
Strathem 1984: 146 und zur Eastern Highlands Province
Bemdt 1965: 99.
22 Strathem konstatiert für das Hochland der beginnenden 80er
Jahre allgemein die Herausbildung einer „Klassengesell-
schaft“ (1984: 111). Brown sieht in der Chimbu Province
die Entstehung einer “national underclass” (1982: 543).
23 Zum Mt. Hagen-Gebiet, Western Highlands Province, s.
Strathem 1971: 263 und zum Kainantu-Gebiet, Eastern
Highlands Province, Berndt 1952/53: 52.
24 “According to a National Planning Office document (Infor-
mation Paper, 11. 10. 77), the Southern Highlands Province
ranks 18th out of 19 provinces in terms of relative health
status and educational services” (Robin: 1982: 322).
Anthropos 85.1990
410
Holger Jebens
geringes Prestige, dann richtet sich ihre Absicht
der Verwirklichung von Stärke und Äquivalenz
nicht nur gegen die Weißen, sondern gleichfalls
gegen andere, statushöhere Einheimische. Damit
aber haben zum Beispiel Cargo-Kulte neben ih-
rer Integrations- auch eine Desintegrationsfunk-
tion, indem sich die Kultanhänger potentiell gegen
die nichtteilnehmenden Einheimischen wenden (s.
Burton-Bradley 1973; 391 f. und Brunton 1971:
125). Eine derartige - von Worsley und anderen
übersehene - Desintegrationsfunktion ist ebenso
für Holy Spirit Movements zu konstatieren - schon
aufgrund der Tatsache, daß Mitglieder der Groß-
kirchen zu fundamentalistischen, bzw. pfingstleri-
schen Glaubensgemeinschaften überwechseln, was
für Ahrens (1986c: 257) „... ein Schisma in den
Gemeinden, eine Spaltung innerhalb der Dörfer“
nach sich zieht25. Sowohl bei Cargo-Kulten als
auch bei Holy Spirit Movements entfaltet sich
demnach die Integration nur auf Kosten einer Des-
integration, einer Abgrenzung zwischen Teilneh-
mern und Nichtteilnehmern.
Wenn mit Cargo-Kulten und - später - mit
Holy Spirit Movements Ausdrucksformen der tra-
ditionalen Religion vor allem bei den Gruppen
auftreten, die im Zuge der Kolonialisierung we-
niger Möglichkeiten zur Prestigeerhöhung erhal-
ten, dann liegt das daran, daß diese Gruppen da-
mit zugleich in geringerem Maße der kolonia-
len Beeinflussung unterliegen, daß also bei ihnen
die traditionalen Produktions- und Sozialstrukturen
noch vergleichsweise intakt bleiben, während zum
Beispiel die Regierung als ein „neueres“ Phäno-
men kaum zum Gegenstand alltäglicher Erfahrung
wird. Gerade in entlegeneren Regionen steht häu-
fig die Subsistenzökonomie - obschon mit anderen
Geräten - weiterhin im Vordergrund, wohingegen
der Anbau von “cash crops” oder die Kontraktar-
beit eher dem Kauf von „Luxusgütem“ dient, von
denen das Überleben nicht unmittelbar abhängt26.
Dementsprechend behalten auch die an die tra-
ditionale Gartenarbeit gebundenen religiösen Vor-
stellungen und Praktiken ihre Wirksamkeit.
Gerade in größerer Entfernung zu den von
den Weißen vermittelten „Entwicklungsmöglich-
keiten“ wandeln sich die Lebensbedingungen nicht
so, daß sich ihnen die in der traditionalen Religi-
on begründeten Glaubensvorstellungen mit Modi-
fikationen nicht angleichen könnten oder daß die
25 Zu desintegrierenden Konflikten kann auch die bei pfingst-
lerischen Versammlungen geübte Praxis Anlaß geben, sich
selbst und andere im Rahmen von Bekenntniserklärungen
bestimmter Verfehlungen zu bezichtigen.
26 S. in bezug auf die Western Highlands Province Gordon
1983: 219.
für die traditionale Kultur charakteristischen Werte
und Bedürfnisse ihre Bedeutung verlieren müß-
ten. Die als Identitätsbedrohung und als Einbuße
von Autonomie aufgefaßte koloniale Veränderung
der sozialen, ökonomischen, politischen und kul-
turellen Realität ist mithin im allgemeinen nicht
derartig tiefgreifend, daß die traditionale Religion,
um ihr auch weiterhin zu entsprechen, zum Iden-
titätsverlust, zum Untergang genötigt wäre. Dies
wird nach Maßgabe der durch die Kolonialisierung
verstärkten intrakulturellen Differenzierungen bei
verschiedenen Gruppen in unterschiedlichem Ma-
ße sichtbar.
5. Schluß
Ein Grund für die Teilnahme an Holy Spirit Mo-
vements besteht unter anderem darin, daß die Ein-
heimischen in den Lehren der Missionare Ele-
mente sehen, die scheinbar Parallelen zur eige-
nen Tradition aufweisen. Als eine solche Parallele
gilt beispielsweise - wie schon gesagt - die in
außergewöhnlichen Bewußtseinszuständen erfahr-
bare direkte Verbindung mit dem Heiligen Geist,
das heißt, mit einer „transzendenten Instanz“. Die
Unmittelbarkeit der „Geisterfahrung“ - als Garant
für deren „Wirksamkeit“ - veranlaßt viele Mitglie-
der der älteren Großkirchen, sich pfingstlerischen
Gemeinschaften anzuschließen27. Es sind also vor
allem die vermeintlichen Ähnlichkeiten mit der
traditionalen Religion, die für die Einheimischen
die Wahrheit und die Anziehungskraft der fun-
damentalistischen, bzw. pfingstlerischen Botschaft
ausmachen. Dabei ist es zunächst zweitrangig, ob
die Missionare die von den Konvertiten wahrge-
nommenen Parallelen ebenfalls als solche betrach-
ten.
Die Einheimischen untersuchen, deuten, be-
urteilen und übernehmen die christliche Verkündi-
gung nach Maßgabe der scheinbaren Übereinstim-
mung mit der eigenen religiösen Überlieferung.
Auch schon früher durften ja Neuerungen, um
Akzeptanz zu finden, der Tradition zumindest nach
außen hin nur möglichst wenig widersprechen.
Wird gewissermaßen die Aufnahme des „Neu-
en“ durch das bereits vorhandene „Alte“ geprägt,
wirken beispielsweise im Rahmen von Holy Spi-
rit Movements traditionale Glaubensvorstellungen
und Bedürfnisse weiter, so entsteht der Eindruck,
daß selbst die oft bereitwillig erfolgten Übertritte
27 Siehe - auch zu weiteren Parallelen zwischen dem pfingst-
lerischen Christentum und der traditionalen Religion - Ah-
rens 1986c.
Anthropos 85.1990
Cargo-Kulte und Holy Spirit Movements
411
vieler Einheimischer zum Christentum oder die
früher von Missionaren ausgehenden Zerstörungen
und Verbote es nicht zu verhindern vermochten,
daß die traditionale Religion durch die Nachkriegs-
geschichte hindurch ihre Identität und ihre Wirk-
samkeit bewahrt hat.
Dabei ist das Verhältnis zwischen der tradi-
tionalen und der christlichen Religion nicht durch
ein „entweder oder“ zu bestimmen. Elemente aus
beiden Zusammenhängen können auch in einem
pragmatischen Dualismus nebeneinander stehen,
so daß die Einheimischen je nach der gerade ge-
gebenen Situation auf die eine oder auf die andere
Überlieferung zurückgreifen28.
Bei Holy Spirit Movements und bei den ihnen
vorangehenden Cargo-Kulten handelt es sich um
unterschiedliche Manifestationen des in der tra-
ditionalen Religion verwurzelten Cargo-Denkens.
Die traditionale Religion, die ja auch schon vor
dem Kulturkontakt in einem beständigen Wand-
lungsprozeß begriffen war, demonstriert, indem sie
ihre Ausdrucksformen wechselt, daß sie nichts von
ihrer Variabilität eingebüßt hat.
Ein derartiger Wechsel der Ausdrucksformen,
eine derartige Transformation, stellt eine Anpas-
sung dar, das heißt, eine „schöpferische Bewäl-
tigung“ der Probleme, die sich aus der Kolonia-
lisierung ergeben29. Veränderung und Anpassung
ermöglichen dabei die Bewahrung der eigenen
Identität30. Durch den Wechsel seiner Ausdrucks-
formen vermag es sozusagen der Inhalt, sich zu be-
haupten. Auf das Gelingen einer derartigen Selbst-
behauptung, die ja das Ziel von Cargo-Kulten
und Holy Spirit Movements ausmacht, deutet die
Kontinuität der für das Cargo-Denken charakteri-
stischen Glaubensvorstellungen und Bedürfnisse31.
Damit beweist die traditionale Religion - beson-
ders in den von der Kolonialisierung verhältnismä-
ßig wenig betroffenen, „entlegeneren“ Regionen -,
28 S. in bezug auf die Western Highlands Province Doetsch
und Jentsch 1986, 573 ff., sowie Ahrens 1986c: 237.
29 Der hier verwendete Anpassungsbegriff entspricht der Auf-
fassung Königs, der „Anpassung“ „... im Sinne einer
schöpferischen Bewältigung vielseitiger materieller, sozia-
ler, kultureller und psychischer Situationen ...“ begreift
(1972: 34). Insofern ist Anpassung nicht mit Assimilation
zu verwechseln, die Mühlmann als „... ethnische Selbst-
entfremdung ...“ definiert (1972; 57).
30 Zur These, daß die Veränderungsfähigkeit traditionaler Re-
ligionen die Voraussetzung für die Bewahrung ihrer Identi-
tät darstellt, s. Kohl 1988.
31 Damit ist natürlich nicht gesagt, daß die traditionalen Glau-
bensvorstellungen und Bedürfnisse gänzlich unverändert
blieben, daß also der Wandel der Ausdrucksformen nicht
auch eine modifizierende Rückwirkung auf den Inhalt habe.
Der Inhalt ändert sich jedoch vergleichsweise weniger als
seine Formen.
daß sie keineswegs zum Untergang bestimmt32,
sondern durchaus zum Widerstand gegen kolo-
nialisierungsbedingte Identitätsbedrohungen in der
Lage ist.
Die Auffassung, die traditionalen Religionen
büßten insgesamt unter der Einwirkung der west-
lichen Zivilisation ihre Identität ein, müßte - wie
eingangs geschildert - zur Auflösung der Reli-
gionsethnologie führen. Auch die hier vertretene
These von der Widerstandsfähigkeit der traditiona-
len Religion bleibt indes nicht ohne Konsequenzen
für diese Disziplin - wenn auch mit entgegen-
gesetzten Vorzeichen: die Religionsethnologie hat
in bezug auf das Hochland von Papua-Neuguinea
nicht den Untergang ihres Gegenstandes zu bekla-
gen. Es kommt vielmehr darauf an, dessen Verän-
derungen zu konstatieren und zu untersuchen.
Frühere Fassungen dieses Textes habe ich im Rahmen
des Mainzer Symposion „Religionsethnologie“ (Juni
1989) und bei der Marburger DGV-Tagung (Oktober
1989) vorgetragen. Wichtig waren für mich außerdem
Diskussionen mit Prof. Hartmut Zinser und Prof. Gerd
Koch.
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Barr, J., and G. Trompf
1983 Independent Churches and Recent Ecstatic Phenome-
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32 Grundsätzlich ist es natürlich problematisch, bei histori-
schen Entwicklungsprozessen genau den Punkt angeben zu
wollen, an dem die Veränderung einer Religion zu ihrem
Identitätsverlust führt, an dem sozusagen ihre Transforma-
tion in ihren Untergang umschlägt. Dazu wäre es erforder-
lich, die Identität einer Religion - womöglich in Rekon-
struktion - genau „abzumessen“, um so gewissermaßen die
Grenze festzulegen, die Selbstbehauptung und Untergang
voneinander scheidet. - Auf diese Problematik weist Colpe
1986 hin.
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1971 Cargo Cults and Systems of Exchange in Melanesia.
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1951a “Cargo Cults” and Political Evolution in Melanesia.
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1946 Schwarmgeister in Neuguinea während des letzten Krie-
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Hughes, lan
1978 Good Money and Bad: Inflation and Devaluation in the
Colonial Process. Mankind 11: 308-318.
Jebens, Holger
1989 Eine Bewältigung der Kolonialerfahrung. Zur Interpre-
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1972 Anpassung. In: W. Bemsdorf (Hrsg.) 1972; 33-34.
Kohl, Karl-Heinz
1988 Ein verlorener Gegenstand? Zur Widerstandsfähigkeit
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schaft. Eine Einführung; pp. 252-273. Berlin.
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1983 Religionsethnologie. In: H. Fischer (Hrsg.), Ethnologie:
Eine Einführung; pp. 231-256. Berlin.
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1964 Road Belong Cargo. Manchester.
Lommel, Andreas
1953 Der „Cargo-Kult“ in Melanesien. Ein Beitrag zum Pro-
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1988 A Note on Cargo and Cultural Constructions of Change.
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1973 The Sun and the Shakers: A Millenarian Cult and its
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1972 Assimilation. In: W. Bemsdorf (Hrsg.) 1972: 57-58.
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1975 Wok Kako and Wok Bisnis. In: W. E. A. Van Beek and
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Anthropos 85.1990: 415-430
Aspects of Samoan Literature I
The Structure of the Samoan Single Story Form and Its Uses
John Chariot
Abstract. - Polynesian literatures are important in themselves
and as a means of understanding Polynesian cultures. As a first
step in the study of aspects of Samoan literature, the author
analyzes the structure of the single story form on the basis
of a wide reading in the published Samoan-language texts.
That structure is found to consist of a title or titular sentence,
an introduction, an optional time reference connection to the
narrative, a narrative, an optional conclusion, and an optional
terminal phrase or sentence. This form, found also in Hawaiian
literature, can be used in a wide range of genres and can be
identified within larger complexes, making possible a closer
analysis of their construction. [Polynesia, Samoan literature
and language]
John Chariot, Dr. Theol. (in Religious Studies, University
of Munich, 1968). He worked as Scholar-in-Residence for the
government of American Samoa in 1972-1973 and created a
sequence of courses in Polynesian Religions at the University
of Hawai’i. He has worked in culture and the arts at the East-
West Center, Honolulu, Hawai’i. - Publications: see References
Cited.
Literature is one of the most important elements
of Polynesian culture. It is used in a wide range
of activities, employs a large number of literary
forms, and is considered a prestigious social ac-
complishment.
Polynesian literature is of very high quality,
employing many literary devices and requiring a
good deal of education, training, and expertise.
The finest achievements of Polynesian literature
are comparable to the classics of other literatures
and are therefore worthy of worldwide recognition.
Moreover, Polynesian literature was the fa-
vored medium for the expression of personal emo-
tions, social relations, political and religious senti-
ments, and views of the world. Literary works are
primary sources for understanding and perpetuat-
ing Polynesian culture.
Literature is also the means of transmitting
historical traditions, which are primary sources
of both precontact and postcontact history. Also,
postcontact changes in literature - both modifica-
tion of precontact elements and the assimilation of
foreign ones - are valuable for the study of culture
contact and change.
Polynesian literatures are therefore important
subjects of study because of their intrinsic quality,
their importance as sources for understanding the
cultures in which they are created, and as means
of perpetuating those cultures.1
Traditional Samoan literature is available in
a wide range of publications extending well over
a hundred years. Moreover, it is still being prac-
ticed: chants and songs are composed and per-
formed, tales are told, proverbial expressions used,
speeches given, and genealogies recited. Among
old and new works are many that command respect
for their artistic quality and expression of human
thinking and emotions.
Literature is of exceptional importance in Sa-
moan culture, and a more adequate understanding
of it is valuable for a wide range of fields, such
as anthropology, history, religious studies, and
comparative literature. For instance, the similarity
between Samoan and Hawaiian story structures
adds a further argument for the close connection
between Polynesian literatures and cultures. The
contents of Samoan prose and poetry provide nu-
merous points of interest, many of which may not
be available elsewhere, such as differing concep-
tions of the land of the dead.
Even more important, literature is crucial, I
would argue, for a better understanding of Samoan
thinking. A consciously literary people, Samoans
understand themselves, each other, and even for-
eigners through literary forms. When I told a chief
that an anthropologist had told me he did not need
to study the Samoan language because he was
doing his research on agriculture, the chief replied,
“They do not know their own literature, and they
want to understand us.”
In a review of “Transformations of Polynesian
Culture” (Hooper and Huntsman 1985), George E.
1 The above paragraphs were written with the aid of Futa
Helu, ’Atenisi Institute, Tonga, for a proposal on Polynesian
literature.
416
John Chariot
Marcus offers important criticisms of the authors’
approaches to Polynesian studies: “these papers
do not place in the foreground concerns with
genres, narratives, the conditions for the produc-
tion of knowledge, or the like as being problemat-
ic” (Marcus 1988: 115). Of one author he writes,
“Without turning his full attention to rhetorical,
performative, poetic aspects of Maori discourse,
about which he has hedged, the kind of genuine
rethinking he calls for is not likely” (118). Where-
as classical studies enjoy “a deep and sophisticated
historiographical tradition that any scholar must
assimilate, if not master, in entering these fields;
significantly, no such tradition bars the gate as a
prerequisite for structuralists who enter the field
of ethnology devoted to primarily oral cultures”
(113).
Polynesian literature is being used without
being studied. But if sources are to be used cor-
rectly, they must first be accurately understood.
This involves all the work on language, texts,
literary devices, genres, settings in life, and so on,
recognized as indispensable for other literatures.
Such work is necessarily microscopic, but it is the
prerequisite for macroscopic projects.
The oral character of much Polynesian litera-
ture cannot be used as an excuse to proceed with
less rigor than demanded in other fields. Methods
have been devised for dealing with various aspects
of oral literatures and of the written literatures
based on them. Much work has in fact already
been done in the field.
The student of Samoan literature is fortunate
in the quantity and quality of the texts available
to him. Early German scholars, such as Augus-
tin Krämer (1897: 77 f.) and Werner von Billow
(1898a: 6; 1898d: 258 f.), were convinced of the
importance of native-language texts and collected,
translated, and published much valuable materi-
al. Information on informants, performance, col-
lecting, translating, and editing was sometimes
provided.2 Such information is of course provid-
ed in modern publications.3 Along with internal
evidence, this information enables the student to
2 Stuebel 1896: Illff., by F. W. K. Muller; 1973: O Upu
Tomua (placed on different pages in different printings),
by John Chariot. I will give references to both editions of
Stuebel. Billow 1898c: 102; Kramer 1902: 3-6 (see Moyle
1981; 7); Sierich 1900: 223-226, information supplied at
the end of the stories throughout the series; 1902: 179, 193;
1904: 88, 94.
3 Moyle 1981: 7-15; Hovdhaugen 1987; 11-15. Moyle
(1981: 7) reports that Brother Herman’s Samoan-language
texts are in fact his rewritings from several sources; they
can be used, therefore, only with caution and as additional
evidence for points based on other texts.
evaluate the fidelity of the published texts to oral
performance and the extent of the subsequent edit-
ing process; editing usually made necessary by the
pronunciation changes of the Samoan language.
For instance, O. Sierich’s texts retain the frequent
replacements of n by g and overcorrections or re-
placements of g by n.A I would place Sierich’s texts
along with those of Richard Moyle and Hovdhau-
gen at the more faithful end of the spectrum and
Krämer’s at the more edited end. Oskar Stuebel’s
occupy a middle position. Billow’s vary. In fact,
the similarity of the edited to the more faithful
texts is remarkable for the points under discussion
in these articles; and of special interest for the
transition of oral Samoan traditions to a written
literature (Chariot 1988b: 206 f.). I concentrate
on Samoan-language texts, using foreign-language
ones only for additional support.
Texts will be reproduced as published - that
is, usually without diacritical marks - except that
the different marks used for the long vowel have
been regularized to a macron and the italics used
by Billow for some accented letters (not words)
have been romanized. When the acute accent ap-
pears to mark final stress rather than lengthen-
ing (as well as in a few ambiguous cases), it
is retained. Spelling variations and misspellings
are common in the texts; I have used “sic” only
when necessary, but have occasionally supplied
corrections in brackets.
When discussing a text, I retain its spelling
except for well-known names and titles, such as
the Tuli, Fe’e, Mälietoa, and Näfanua, and often-
used words, such as mävaega, fänau, and agäga.
Words will of course be regularized when they are
being referred to themselves or reference is not
being made to a single text. Students of Samoan
literature badly need a reference work in which
place names, personal names, and titles are pro-
vided with their correct diacritical marks.
All translations are mine, unless otherwise
noted. For example, glosses in single quotation
marks are mine; those in double quotation marks
belong to the source cited. In translations, name
forms will follow the text - capitalized names in
roman and non-capitalized in italics - with the
exceptions noted above. In some cases, the use
of more than one form has been unavoidable -
for example, Afimusaesae and afi müsaesae - but
4 Common speech is used in Sierich’s stories numbered V-
XVII, XXI, XXIV, XXVI-XXVII. Overcorrecting: 1902:
180, 183; 1904: 90, 105. Note the interchangeable use of n
and g, 1904: 109; 1905: 186; and of t and k, 1904: 90, O
Tuimanua ma Kuimanua ma lala tama o Tulelel
Anthropos 85.1990
Aspects of Samoan Literature I
417
the reference should be clear in the context. Any
available information on sources of the Samoan -
language texts is given in the works in which they
appear.5
I have tried to use ordinary language, avoid-
ing technical terms and specialized senses, and
to define the few I need; for instance, the noun
narrative, as opposed to narration, is used in the
special sense of the part of a story structure after
the introduction and optional transition and before
the optional story conclusion. To avoid confusion,
I sometimes use the clumsy non-narrational in-
stead of non-narrative.
I have provided more references than will
be needed by most readers, but hope they will
help those interested in particular points to find
their way through the profusion of available, but
possibly unfamiliar, materials. Moreover, I felt it
important to show that the structures studied are
found in a wide range of sources and are not the
accidents of collection or edition. Finally, I have
confined myself largely to a detailed analysis of
some aspects of a limited number of texts to the ne-
glect of more general themes, theoretical concerns,
and controversies to which they might pertain. My
training in New Testament exegesis has convinced
me - I repeat - that such microscopic work on
primary sources must be done before macroscopic
subjects are broached.
1. The Structure of Samoan Single Story
Forms
In this article I will identify the structure of the
Samoan single story form and discuss various
elements that constitute it. I use the word story
in a broad sense because the structure discussed is
found in a variety of genres, including historical
accounts. The range of the use of the structure will
be discussed below.
The methods I use to identify and describe
the structure and its uses are those of Form and
Redaction Criticism, which I have already applied
to prose and poetry in other Polynesian litera-
tures (Chariot 1977, 1983, 1985, 1987#). Put most
simply, those methods enable one to identify the
literary forms and describe their structures in a
given literature and to analyze how they are used.
I will demonstrate from a wide variety of texts
that the basic structure of the Samoan single story
form can consist of the following elements: title
5 For the texts collected by Powell, see Editors 1892: 273;
Fraser 1898: 28 f.
or titular sentence, introduction, time reference
connection to the narrative, the narrative itself,
one or more conclusions, and a terminal sentence.
Simple working definitions of these terms are:
1) Title or titular sentence: a phrase or sen-
tence that announces the work about to be told by
mentioning it or naming it; e.g., “This is my story,”
“This is the story of Nafanua,” or “The Story of
Nafanua.”
2) Introduction: a section that provides gen-
eral information necessary for the understanding
of the work, such as characters, names, positions,
location, historical situation, and habitual activity.
3) Time reference connection to narrative; a
phrase that connects the general information of the
introduction to the particular events narrated.
4) Narrative: a section in which the action or
the events of the story are recounted.
5) Conclusion: a section that states the point
or the usually abiding results of the action narrated.
6) Terminal phrase or sentence: a sentence
that states that the story is finished or a phrase
that expresses the same point.
All these structural elements can be expressed
with the aid of traditional, stereotyped expressions.
I have already identified and defined these
elements in Hawaiian literature (Chariot 1977).
All the above elements need not be present in
a single text, but they occur frequently enough
to be recognized as traditional. Their presence in
texts collected from around 1835 (Pratt 1889: 447)
to today and their use even in a nonsense story6 *
demonstrate their importance.
Story forms and structural elements are used
in a story-telling process that is creative, that is,
they are subject to personal and even idiosyncratic
variation. The description of an individual’s use
of forms and elements is an important part of
the definition of his or her style. One of Even
Hovdhaugen’s informants, Moti Afatia, uses a tra-
ditionally formulated introduction delimited by a
time connection to the narrative; whereas Hov-
dhaugen’s main informant, Ali’imalemanu Fale,
groups his introductory material in the traditional
place, but can formulate it with unusual informal-
ity. A story-teller can also adapt his tale to his
audience.
I will give first some short, simple examples
of story forms and then discuss each structural ele-
ment in more detail. The reader is asked to consult
the original texts along with this article; I will
6 Moyle 1975: 244; the first sentence is the introduction
followed by the narrative.
Anthropos 85.1990
418
John Chariot
usually quote only the Samoan, but translations
are provided in the references.
Moti Afatia’s “The story about Tagaloalagi and Pava” contains
an introduction (’O aso lä .. . ma Pava), time reference con-
nection to narrative (Ona o’o lea i le tasi aso), narrative (’ua
soli... Iona atali’i), and conclusion (’ O le ala ... ’ava Samoa),
with terminal sentence (la, ’o lea) (Hovdhaugen 1987; 89 ff.).
“Der Aitu Soesä in Aleipata / O le aitu Soesä i Aleipata”
contains a titular sentence (O le tala ... Soesä), introduction
(o Sagaia ... o le samatauanuu), time reference connection to
narrative (ona ... lea), narrative (ona sau lea ... faasauä o le
aitu), and conclusion (ua leai ... o le saualii; note the typical
stereotyped phrase ua oo mai lava i ona po nei ‘until today’ or
‘to this very day’) (Stuebel 1896/1973; 173/13).
“() le gafa o Talaga ma Tiitii” contains a long introduction (()
Talaga ... i laid Talaga-, note that the actions described are
habitual, masani), a time reference connection to the narrative
(ua oo i le isi aso ona [alu] ai lea), narrative ([ona] alu [ai lea]
o Tiitii ... motumotu i laau), and conclusion (o le mea lea ...
pea sia; ’o le mea lea ‘Therefore’ is a traditional expression in
conclusions) (Stuebel 1896/1973: 227/67).
“O le uluga[a]lii Salailua” contains a short introduction (O la
igoa o Lea ma Lea), a narrative (Ua la faalogo ... sa sau ai
nei le malaga), a conclusion (ua tonu lava ... lava lena fur,
note the stereotyped expression ua oo mai i ona po nei ‘until
today’), and a terminal sentence (Ua iu le tala).1
“Die Geschichte von Lautivunia und Leutelele’i’ite (’O le tala a
Lautivunia ma Leutelele’i’ite)” contains an introduction (E to’a-
lua ... Lautivunia), a time reference connection to the narrative
(Ona [ula] lea), narrative ([ona] ula [lea] ’o Lautivaunia [sic]
... ’o Leutelele’i’ite lenei), and conclusion (Ona fa’apea ai lea
Leutele ’ua maua Iona igoa ’o Leutelele’i’ite; the conclusion
thus identifies the preceding as an origin of the name story)
(Krämer 1902: 302 f.).
“Die Geschichte vom Bruderkrieg (’o le tala o le taua o le
uso)” contains an introduction (Sa nonofo ... latou äiga), a
time reference connection to the narrative (’Ua o’o i le tasi aso
with ona [fa apea mai] lea), and narrative ([ona] fa’apea mai
[lea] ’o Saga till the end) (Krämer 1902: 27 f.).
“Die Geschichte von Tu’uleama’aga (’O le tala ia Tu’uleama’a-
ga)” contains an introduction ('O le tautai ... feagaiga; note
the emphasis on habitual activity, i aso ’uma ‘every day’), time
reference connection to narrative (Ona o’ o lea i le tasi aso), and
narrative (’o le afa’a’a’e to the end).8
Discussion of Individual Elements
I will now discuss in more detail the structural
elements of the single story form, with attention to
their regularity and use of stereotyped phrases. I
will include examples of these elements as used in
a wide range of genres, a subject discussed below.
7 Stuebel 1896/1973: 230/70; for other easily recognizable
examples, see 166/6 f., 167/7 f„ 186/26 f„ 194/34, 233/73 f.
8 Kramer 1902: 457 f.; see 352 f. for another story without a
conclusion.
1) Titles and Titular Sentences
Titles and titular sentences are found widely, are
easily recognizable, and have been noted by col-
lectors.9 Stories are often referred to by title in
Samoan-language discussion.
All the stories collected by Hovdhaugen from
Ali’imalemanu have a titular sentence (Hovdhau-
gen 1987):
20, '0 le tala lenei ’ole’ä o’u faiatua 'o le tala i le ulugali’i
’o ’ Olo ma Lau “This story which I am going to tell is
the story about the couple ’Olo and Lau.”
34, ’O le tala lenei ’o le tale [sic: tala] iä Näfanua “This is
the story about Näfanua.”
46, ’O le tala lenei ... Papatea.
54, ’O le tala lenei ... Papa.
68, ’O le tala lenei ... Säpapali.
The stereotyped character of these titular sen-
tences is apparent. Of the seventeen stories pub-
lished by Richard Moyle, seven have easily recog-
nizable titles.10
The regularity of use of titles and titular sen-
tences is greater in these exactly transcribed oral
performances than in earlier, more edited texts,
suggesting that in the latter they may have been
cut or modified before publication. Titles and tit-
ular sentences can, however, be found in earlier
publications.
For instance, Stuebel 1896/1973: 167/7, O le tupuga o niu o
Samoa uma; 170/10, O le tala i le aso o Malietoa; 173/13, O
le tala i le aitu i Aleipata e igoa o Soesä and O le tala i le fee;
177/17, O le tala i le Gege; 197/37, O le tala i Manono; and
Sierich 1904: 101, O le Fagogo ia Tafitofau ma Ogafau ma la
la tama.
In many cases, I would argue that the title
or titular sentence of the original Samoan text has
merely been published in the format of a Western
title, thus introducing an element of doubt as to its
authenticity.11 Augustin Krämer seems regularly
to absorb the titles of his Samoan texts into a
Western format.12 The problem is compounded
9 Moyle 1981; 19, 29, 35 ff. Moyle prefers not to call them
“titles as such.”
10 Moyle 1981: 50, 56, 110, 196, 264, 274, 284; 90, ’O Tuiva-
lea ma Tuiatamai could be a title or part of the introduction.
11 Sierich 1900: 230, 232; 1902: 167; note that the first sen-
tence of the text in its present format is senseless without
the title - this is often the case in earlier published texts;
169, the last two words of the “title” are in fact the first
two words of the next sentence. Billow 1898c: 112, “O le
mavaega a Feepö”; 1900: 62, “O le tupuga a fale fägafua
a Safune”; Stuebel 1896/1973: 181/21, the first sentence of
the text makes sense only as an explanation of the title.
12 E.g., Krämer 1903: 245, a perfect Samoan title printed as
a Western one; 156, the first sentence makes sense only in
reference to the title - this is significant for all the accounts
in this section; similarly, 175, 199, 201.
Anthropos 85.1990
Aspects of Samoan Literature 1
419
when a mixture of translation and Samoan text
seems to have been used.13 But the undeniable
evidence of the authenticity of Samoan titles and
titular sentences permits us to judge most such
examples as either part of the original text or only
slight modifications of it.
2) Introductions
Introductions are used in all but a very few Sa-
moan stories (several examples of such excep-
tions will be analyzed below). All the stories in
Moyle (1981) have introductions. I will identify
and characterize them briefly and note some of
the stereotyped elements used in them.
Moyle himself has called attention to stereo-
typed phrases - ’o le ulugali’ i, fanau la Idfdnau,
’o le teine ’o Sina - and examples of the same
can easily be found in earlier publications.14 15 Ex-
amples of more such phrases can be found in the
literature. For instance, parents can be introduced
with the formula: [name] ma [name] la Ienei.]5
Similarly, parents can have the same or corre-
sponding names.16 Moreover, the same names are
used widely in Samoan literature.
The introductions in the stories of Moyle
(1981) are usually quite clear and are especially
valuable as records of the oral tradition;
100, ’ O le ulugali i, fanau la la tama ’o le teine ’o Sina. Mdsani
o le tamdloa e usua’iina lava ia 7 lefa’ase’e ’ae nonofo ’o
le fafine ma lana tama i le fale “There was a couple who
had a child, a girl called Sina. It was the man’s practice
to get up early and go surfing, while the woman stayed
home with her child.” The characters are introduced along
with their habitual activity, Mdsani and nonofo.
182, '0 le ulugali’ i .. '0 la la fanau ...’o Sina “There was a
couple, Tala’ilemanu and Tala’ilevao; Tala’ilemanu was
the man and Tala’ilevao the woman. They had three
daughters; the eldest girl was Mele, the second was Felila,
13 Fraser 1897: 118, the first sentence of the Samoan text
depends on the title, which is in English.
14 Moyle 1981: 37; see also 21, 29, 35 f. For ’o le ulugdli’i,
see, e.g., Stuebel 1896/1973: 163/3, 166/6 f. For '0 la Id
fanau, see, e.g., Fraser 1897: 118.
15 Sierich 1902: e.g., 181, 187, 196; 1904: 91, 105; 1905:
185; cf. 183.
16 Examples of parents with the same names: Stuebel 1896/
1973: 230/70; Fraser 1891: 254, 258; 1900: 128; Krämer
1902: 124, 434 ff., 441; Sierich 1902: 174; 1904: 88, 94,
98; 1905; 183; cf. Brown 1914: 431.
Examples of parents with corresponding names:
Bülow 1899: 143; Stuebel 1896/1973: 163/3 f., 174/14 f.;
Sierich 1900: 230, 233, 236; 1901: 15, 20; 1902: 174, 181,
187, 196; 1904; 91, 101, 105; 1905; 185 f.; Krämer 1902;
124, 140, 382, 427; 1903; 245. See also Moyle 1981: 21 ff„
50, 90, 120, 196, 220, 284. -Cf. the use of numbered
names, e.g., Sierich 1900: 233 f.
and the third was Sina.” The characters are introduced,
and the introduction is clearly delimited by time reference,
'O ona po ia.
50, Nonofo ... Pipitala. Nonofo. The names of the characters
are provided and their relation to each other. The names
of the parents are found in the preceding title, a common
practice. Note the stereotyped phrase, fanau la Idfdnau.
The repetition of nonofo ‘dwell,’ expresses habitual ac-
tivity.
56, ’o lana tama ... nonofo lea; delimited by time reference
connection to narrative, i le tasi aso. The names of the
characters are provided - the name of the parent is given
in the preceding title - along with their habitual activity,
nonofo. The name of the mother is explained, an unusual
element.
90, Ona nofonofo lea ’o nei uso; unusually short. The fol-
lowing reference to their planting of a banana plant I
would characterize as narrative because it is the planting
of an individual plant, not a habitual activity. Names
and relations are supplied in the preceding title. Phrases
similar to ’o nei uso can be found elsewhere, e.g., O le
uso and Le ud (Sierich 1904: 110; 1905: 182, 184).
110, na’o la’ua extending without clear limit to the first line
of second paragraph, as indicated by the time reference
connection, i le isi aso. That is, the introduction slips
informally into narrative. The names of the characters
are given in the preceding title. Their nature and habitual
activity are described, nonofo, Nofonofo.
120, ’O le ulugdli’i ma la Id fanau ... Ona nonofo d lea,
nonofo, nonofo. The characters are introduced along with
their relation to each other and habitual activity.
144, ’O le lo’omatua ... o lenei teine ’o Sina. The characters
are introduced, and the fame of the daughter’s beauty is
mentioned.
152, ’O le ulugdli’i ... ma la Id tama ... fo’i le teine. Char-
acters are introduced with habitual activity, nonofo. An
unusual element is the saying mentioned to characterize
the daughter’s behavior.
162, ’O le ulugdli’i ... nofonofo ... ma la Id tama . The
characters are introduced, and the scene is set by the
mention of the fact that they are on a trip.
196, ’o le ulugdli’i ... ma la Idfdnau. The characters and
their location are given along with mention of their living
together, nonofo.
208, first paragraph. The characters are introduced and char-
acterized. The mother’s disposition of their work, tofiga,
is used to create a situation rather than as a particular
narrative action or event.17
17 The other examples in Moyle 1981 are:
220, ’O Lauago ... le fanau a le ulugdli’i; delimited by
the time reference la, o’o loa 7' le isi aso . This
is an example of a genealogical introduction, a type
discussed below.
254, ’O le ulugdli’i ... le teine ’o Sina (first paragraph);
delimited by time reference ’Ua o’o 7' le tasi aso ;
characters and habitual activity, mdsani.
264, '0 le ulugdli’i ma la Id fanau ...’ o latou mdtua; de-
limited by ’ua o’o ina; characters and habitual activity,
’O le olaga, nonofo.
274, ’o le ulugali’i ... o lo latou ’diga; characters and
habitual activity, Nofonofo, nonofo, olaga .
284, '0 le ulugdli’i ... la Id tama; delimited by O’o lea
ina. A genealogical introduction of characters and their
habitual activity (the repetition of tausi).
Anthropos 85.1990
420
John Chariot
Introductions in traditional formulations can
also be found regularly in the earlier published
literature. The following are selected examples
from Stuebel 1896/1973:
164/4, O Mataiteite o le afafine ia o Tagaloaalagi (com-
plete); the characters and their relation to each other.
165/5, O Talaga ... Iona tama; delimited by ua oo i le isi
aso; characters and habitual activity.
166/6, O le Ulugalii ... o la la tama ... matagofie a Sina;
characters and the beauty of the daughter.
170/10 f., o le Alii nei ... aai lava i tagata; delimited by ua oo
foi ina; characters and exceptionally long description
of habitual activity.
194/34, O le alii nei ... i aigofie; delimited by ua oo i; char-
acters, blindness of one, habitual activity, i aso uma,
masani; an exceptionally large amount of material.
227/67, O Talaga ... alu i laid Talaga; delimited clearly by
ua oo i le isi aso; characters and habitual activity,
masani.
227/67, O Savea ... Falealupo; time reference, ona ... ai lea;
characters and place.
229/69, O le tagata ... Sepo; the subject and his origin.
230/70, O la igoa o Lea ma Lea (complete); characters and
their names.
230/70, O Saoolevao ... Asau; delimited by ona ... a; lea ;
the subject, his nature and habitual activity.
Examples from other publications demon-
strate, I emphasize, the regularity of introductions
and also their traditional formulations:
Pratt 1889: 455, O Pua ... le uluga alii... tamaloa; characters.
Fraser 1897: 118, O la la fanau ... Masina-au-’ele; the intro-
duction seems to depend for the name of the parents
on a title that has been provided only in an English
version; the characters are introduced along with their
relation to each other.
Fraser 1898; 21, E toalua ... toalua; characters.
23, O Tui-Toga ...i Toga; characters, relation to each other,
and place.
Fraser 1900: 128, 'O Veu ... i Fiti-uta; characters, parentage,
place, and situation.
Billow 18986: 80, Ona po ... mdnu; time, place, characters,
and situation.
Bulow 1898c: 112, O le Feepo ... o le Atiogie; characters,
relation to each other, and the fact that one is blind.
Billow 1900: 67, O Tigi ... o le uluga alii. Fanau o la ta-
ma...tama tane; delimited by time reference, Ona ...
lea; characters, genealogical introduction.
Sierich 1900: 232, O Malu ... Auleaga; delimited by time
reference, Ona ’o’o lava lea i le isi aso; the names
of the four brothers are given; the introduction seems
dependent on the title, which provides the information
that they are brothers.
Sierich 1902: 170, O le Id (complete); perhaps the shortest
introduction possible; only one character is mentioned.
185, O le no e toatolu ... le uga; characters.
196, O Soa agautala ma ... la lenei. O le uso toalua; char-
acters and their relation to each other.
Sierich 1904: 98, O Pai... la lelei; characters and their relation
to each other.
110, O le uo ... manualii; characters and their relation to
each other.
Sierich 1905: 182, O le usö ... Vea; characters and their relation
to each other.
184, Le uo ma le pea ma le isumu (complete); the text may
be defective; characters and their relation to each other.
The sentence published as a title in Krämer
(1903: 201) appears to be an introduction. That is,
the same problems of identification can arise with
short introductions that have been found with titles
and titular sentences.
I have mentioned already a type of introduc-
tion I call genealogical.18 These could be consid-
ered as narrative because they can refer to the
events of becoming pregnant and giving birth. But
genealogies constitute a separate literary form in
Samoan literature, and their special terminology
and expressions can be found in genealogical in-
troductions. Indeed, some of them are simply small
genealogies. Moreover, genealogical introductions
can be identified by their position in a story,
their use of stereotyped expressions of introduc-
tions, and their division from the narrative by the
traditional structural element of a time reference
connection. These characteristics can be found in
numerous examples from a wide range of sources.
Billow 1898a: 7, O le alii... Sina; delimited by time reference,
Ua ... lea; genealogy expressions, usu, etc.
Billow 1899: 141, O le ulugaalii ... Ua fanau o la Id tama ...
pipili; typical introduction expressions and information
provided.
Billow 1896: 326, Hier ist Tahtofäü ... Sina; in German.
Sierich 1900: 230, O Tafitofau ... Maludsamoa; delimited by
time reference, la ona o’o lava lea He isi asa (sic: aso;
I will not make further note of spelling in Sierich’s
texts); uses typical introduction expressions.
233 f., OVi... Sinatalau; delimited by time reference, la ona
’o’o lava lea i le isi aso; use of genealogy expressions.
Sierich 1901: 15, O Tafitofau ... Sinafagaifata; delimited by
time reference, Ona ... lea; genealogy expressions.
Sierich 1902: 167, A o Safea [“title”] ... Sina; delimited by time
reference, Oga ... lea; offspring identified by number.
169, Tafitooa [title] ... o lefai; delimited by time reference,
oga ... lea; introduction expressions used.
174, O Lauago ... o Sina; genealogy expressions.
181, Ogapealeofe ... To! Ha’Ha; with description of child.
Sierich 1905: 185, O Tafitofau ... unu; genealogy and intro-
duction expressions.
Krämer 1902: 114, Usu ... Samata; uses genealogy expression
usu ... id; delimited by time reference, Ona ... lea.
131, ’O le ulugdli’i, ’o Vi ma Vo. Ona fanau lea ’o la laua
tama ’o le teine e igoa ia Sindusuimanu (complete).
18 E.g, Bülow 1900: 67; Moyle 1981: 50, 220, 284.
Anthropos 85.1990
Aspects of Samoan Literature I
421
264, Usu Fuaoleto’elau id ... fa’a’e’e le gafa ... i le
lau'ele’ele net, genealogical expressions; introduces
characters, place, and political situation.
Genealogical introductions can be turned eas-
ily into narrative. For instance, the circumstances
of the conception or birth can be narrated.19 A
simple sequence of births could form part of a
genealogy, but if the first child eats the subsequent
ones, narrative results.20
A number of stories begin with the travel of
the protagonist(s) to a certain place, that is, their
travel is mentioned before their names or any other
introductory material.21 Such beginnings can be
found in Hawaiian literature (e.g., Chariot 1977:
489 f.; 1987«: 39), and I would argue that they are
traditional.
Stories can be found of the circumstances of
the original announcement of a mdvaega, an oral
last will and testament of an historic chief. Some
of these are in the ordinary story form or have con-
ventional introductions.22 Other stories belong to a
separate type with a different sort of introduction:
they begin with the simple statement that the chief
was sick, often mention the location, and then nar-
rate the circumstances of the announcement - the
gathering of the extended family and sometimes
the district representatives, and so on - and provide
the mdvaega itself and its historic consequences or
results. The initial statement seems to be a special
19 E.g., Sierich 1902: 187, 196; 1904: 91 f., 105.
20 Stuebel 1896/1973: 163/3, O le ulugalii ... nonofo ...
fanau la la tama ... Tapuitea, the introduction; toe fanau
... Seuea, uses genealogical language but interrupts it by
narrating the eating of each birth by Tapuitea. See also
Sierich 1905: 186, Tafitofau ... toe fanau, ua ai Liava’a.
21 E.g., Krämer 1902: 261, Na ö mal ...; ’Ua tu’u le So’opili
...; 263, Na alu le maimoaga ...; 305, Na sau le ali’i ...;
354, Na sau le folauga ... Fagasd; 357, Na sau le folauga
a le ulugdli’i e to’alua ... ’o Toie ma Toipata (note use
of introduction expressions); 427, Onafolau lea ’o le va’a
...; 452, Na a’au mai sasa’i ...; see also 119 f., andcf.
253; Krämer 1903: 200, Na alu Iona faiva ... Samataw,
245, Ona dlu atu lea ’o le va’a ona tagata e to’alua ...
’ua o’o i ... Tula-, Stuebel 1896/1973: 173/13, O le fee
o le aitu e sau i Fiti ua taunuu mai i Apia ...; Billow
1899: 144, Ua alu o le malaga ... i Fiti\ the text may not,
however, be intact; Fraser 1897: 114, Ua o’o mai le toalua
... Fale’ula-, Fraser calls this one of two “fragments,” 113.
The above is different from the mention of travel within
a regular introduction, Moyle 1981: 162. John Mayer felt
travel was conventionally associated with certain figures,
such as Tuifiti, Tuitoga, and Tigilau.
22 For the use of a complete conventional story, see Stuebel
1896/1973: 186/26 f.; Krämer 1902: 255. For mdvaega-sto-
ries with conventional introductions, see Bülow 1898c: 116,
O Tamasese ... i Lujilufi (cf. 112, O le Feepo ... Atiogie
and the non-story account, 113 f.; contrast 1900: 60, Safai
... Faleula). Mdvaega can also be used as part of larger
texts; e.g., Krämer 1902: 114 f.
type of scene-setting introduction. The fame of the
chief is such that his name suffices to identify
him.23 This type of story is distinctive enough
to warrant a label, the mdvaega-story, and can
be recognized as a unit inserted into complexes,
as will be seen below. Moreover, its distinctive
beginning can be used even when the mdvaega is
not central to the story, as in that of the origin of
kava and sugar cane inserted into a complex, ona
mai ai lea (Stuebel 1896/1973: 168/8).
In a small number of published stories, no
introduction can be found. This may at times be the
result of editing. “Die Geschichte von Lefaoseu” in
Krämer begins with a stereotyped time reference,
Na o’o i le isi aso, that could have connected an
omitted introduction to the following narrative.24
But in other cases the text seems intact and
the reason for a lack of introduction can be sought.
Introductions may be omitted when the title suf-
fices. In two stories in Krämer a boat is mentioned
in the title, and the next sentence begins, ’Uafau
le va’a i ... or Nafau i____25
The protagonists of a story might be so unim-
portant in themselves that no special introduction
is required, as in an animal story.26 On the other
hand, the characters and the story may be so well
known, especially in the social setting of the story-
telling, that an introduction would be considered
otiose.27 “Die Bestimmung der Familie Satalo”
(Krämer 1902: 310) reads almost like a legal brief
or a case abstract; that is, the personages, their
relationship, and the story that recounts its origin
are so well known that they can be presented in
extremely summary form.
Samoan story-telling is naturally personal and
creative, not mechanical, and so even an important
structural element like an introduction is subject to
23 Krämer 1902: 217, Na gasegase Taufaw, 310, Ona ta’oto
lea ’ o le gasegase o Salamasina i Mulifusi i Lotofaga (this
is the story of the origin of a certain privilege, apparently
an extension of the genre); cf. 207 f.; Billow 1898c: 114,
Sa taoto gasegase o Salamasina i Lotofaga. Ua vaivai o
le tupu ...; 115, O Galumalemana sa mai, sa taoto i le
falemoe i Mulinuü i Lufilufi; cf. Krämer 1902: 118 f. John
Mayer stated that the relative fame of the persons mentioned
could generally be a factor in the length of the introduction.
Moreover, certain names raise expectations in the audience
because of their conventional associations.
24 Krämer 1902: 308; cf. 249; Stuebel 1896/1973: 226/66; the
first piece seems to be the introduction to the second, which
begins appropriately with a time reference.
25 Krämer 1902: 358, 455; cf. Stuebel 1896/1973: 229/69, title
and O Gagaemalae.
26 Sierich 1904: 90; an introduction is, however, provided for
the animal story on 110.
27 Krämer 1902: 118, 197, 203; cf. the mention of Sina within
the narrative, Sierich 1904: 93.
Anthropos 85.1990
422
John Chariot
negligence and manipulation. At the beginning of
two stories in Biilow, genealogical information is
presented in narrative form rather than in that of
a genealogical introduction.28 I have noted above
the ease with which the genealogical introduction
form can be turned into narrative; in these two
cases, that is done with the unusual omission of
standard introduction elements. This was probably
a stylistic decision, perhaps with the purpose of
entering more rapidly and smoothly into the action
of the narrative.
The omission of an introduction may be one
reason for the displacement of introductory mate-
rial (e.g., Kramer 1902: 214). Such material can
be supplied when a person or an object is first
mentioned29 and at the beginning of an appropriate
episode or passage.30 One example of displace-
ment seems to be the result of the combination of
a regular introduction with a travel beginning.31
Most examples of introductory material being
provided later in a text are due, I would argue,
to Samoan methods of constructing larger stories
or complexes. As in Hawaiian literature, such
complexes can be constructed by joining originally
independent stories by various devices; some of
the structural elements of the stories are retained
with or without modification inside the complex,
especially introductions and conclusions (Chariot
1977: 483-490). The same methods can be used
as artistic devices in presenting a sequence of epi-
sodes. In “O Saolevao” the narrative of the killing
of the traveling party ends with the conclusion, o
le mea lea ... uma pola. This is followed by a new
introduction, O le tamà ... Mataulufotu, clearly
delimited by time reference connection to the next
narrative, ua oo i le taeao?2 The construction of
such complexes will be discussed briefly below.
28 Billow 1900: 61 f.; note the typical genealogical expression,
o le afafine a Tuitoga.
29 Stuebel 1896/1973: 228/68, le tasi atalii ...a Sina; 229/69,
o le igoa o le vaa o Luu o se mataeemo.
30 Moyle 1981: 164, 'Ua to’afd le malaga ... {’o Masei le
igoa o le teine)... ulugdli’i, at episode; Stuebel 1896/1973:
171/11, ua igoa ... Polualeuligaga.
31 Stuebel 1896/1973: 227/67, “Savea Siuleo. Pulotu/O Savea
Siuleo. O Pulotu.” The regular introduction ends at Falea-
lupo. The narrative resembles a travel opening: ona alu ai
lea o le alii .... Shortly thereafter, the name of the chief is
provided, o le igoa o le alii o Toovalu.
32 Stuebel 1896/1973: 230/70; see also Sierich 1900: 230, la
ona nonofo ... fo’i fale; delimited by Ona o’o lea i le isi
aso ...; Biilow 1898a: 17, Sa nofoai ... ia Tuiaana.
3) Time Reference Connection to the Narrative
A number of usually stereotyped time reference
connections to the narrative have already been
mentioned. The device is found frequently in mod-
ern recordings - for instance, in eleven out of the
seventeen stories of Moyle’s collection33 - as well
as in the older published literature.34 Its use seems
to have been a question of style, as, for instance,
in the precision of Sierich’s informant, Caecilia
Anae.35 Such time references are used frequently
to link episodes,36 even in non-story contexts.37
A less often used time connection does not
refer to a particular day or moment; rather it
describes in narrative terms the new situation from
which the narrative will develop: the child or
children grow up or the parents become sick or
die.38
4) The Narrative
The narrative of which I have already identified a
large number, is naturally an indispensable struc-
tural element of a story. Narratives can be per-
formed with varying degrees of fidelity to tradition
and of personal style, as a comparison of different
versions of the same story demonstrates. Most ob-
viously, stories can be told short or long.39 In fact,
Samoan stories can include a very large number
of incidents.
33 Moyle 1981; 56, i le tasi aso; 110, i le isi aso (somewhat
irregular, as seen above); 144, la, ona ... lea; 152, Ona ...
lea; 182, ’O ona po ia; 196, ’ua o’o loa ’ina; 220, la, o’o
loa ’i le isi aso', 254, ’Ua o’o 7 le tasi aso; 264, ’ua o’o
ina; 274, ’A onapofo’i ia; 284, O’o lea ina.
34 E.g., Stuebel 1896/1973: 165/5, ua oo i le isi aso; 161/1, ua
oo i le isi aso; 171/11, ua oo foi ina; 180/20, ona oo lea i
isi ona po [ona ... ai lea]; 186/26 f., ua oo mai ina; 227/67,
ua oo i le isi aso [ona ... ai lea] and ona ... ai lea; Krämer
1902: 349, Ona o’o lea i le tasi aso; contrast the preceding
expression of habitual activity, ’ua fa’apea i aso e tele.
35 Sierich 1900: 230, la ona o’o lava lea He isi asa (sic: aso);
232, Ona ’o’o lava lea i le isi aso [ona ... lea]; 234, la ona
’o’o lava lea i le isi aso [ona ... lea].
36 E.g., Stuebel 1896/1973: 165/5, 171/11, 173/13, 181/21;
Billow 1898a: 11, 15, 18; 1898c; 113; 1900: 68; Sierich
1900: 230 f., 232, 234, 236 f.; 1902: 180, 182; 1904: 92,
101, 104; 1905: 186; Moyle 1981: 124, 190, 210, 236, 278.
37 E.g., Krämer 1903: 51, 63, 72 f„ 93, 182, 189, 199, 234.
38 E.g., Stuebel 1896/1973: 171/11, ua oo foi ina matua o le
alii nei; 194/34, ua oo i Iona matua; Moyle 1981: 100, ’Ua
matua la ’o le teine; 196, ’ua o’o loa ’ina vaivai le toea’ina;
264, ’ua o’o ina ’ua mäliliu mätua o tama; 21 A, Mea nei lä
lea ’ua mätutua tama; 284, O’o lea ina ’ua matua.
39 Compare Krämer 1902: 302 f. to 343-348. Note the extreme
abbreviation of the last paragraph of Sierich 1902: 195.
Anthropos 85.1990
Aspects of Samoan Literature I
423
Despite this inescapable creativity, various
traditional literary devices can be found in nar-
ratives, such as motifs, symbols, and dialogue,
presented with and without introductory phrases.40
Other literary forms, such as chants, genealogies,
sayings, and mävaega ‘testaments or last or parting
words,’ can be incorporated into a narrative by
traditional means. There are also devices that help
unify a sometimes very long narrative, such as
story patterns (e.g., Moyle 1981: 45 ff.).
A particularly clear unifying device is the
series, which can be found also in Hawaiian lit-
erature. A sequence of events is structured as a
series by such devices as using the same pattern
for most or all of the events, using words such as
toe ‘again’ and fo’i ‘also,’ and using the same or
similar language in narrating each event.41 Series
using chants or variations of the same chant are
frequent in fägogo42 as are series of short episodes
with conclusions discussed below.43
Series can themselves be structured, often as
a set of three sometimes leading to a climax.44
Several series can be used in a single work.45
Whole complexes can be structured as series (e.g.,
Krämer 1902: 443—446). Series can also be used
in chant (Krämer 1902: 417 f.).
An unusually extensive and symmetrically
constructed series can be found in the account of
Pili’s moving from Manu’a to ’Upolu and Savai’i,
a section of the complex, “Die Einführung des
Kava. Die Geschichte des Pili. / O le tupuga o le
40 E.g., Pratt 1889: 456-462; Sierich 1901: 19; 1902; 168 f.,
171, 179, 182, 188, 190, 192, 196-199; 1904: 92, 105, 107;
1905: 183, 186.
41 E.g., Pratt 1889: 460f.; Krämer 1902: 122, 131 ff., 142,
200 ff., 206, 217, 257 (two), 266 (similar language, e le
mafai le tama e alofa i lona tamä), 303, 345 f.; Sierich
1901: 18 f., 20f., 22, 22f.; 1902: 167 f. (language, e.g.,
Sina, olea ou alu, ua fai ...), 169 (Ua sau le fai [twice],
Ua leal sau le fai ...), 176 f.; 1904: 101 f.; 1905: 182, Ua
nonofo [i] le nu’w, Bülow 1898c: 113, e.g., toe fai atu [lea]
o le Atiogie: Sena e, seisei mai ia, ...; Moyle 1981: 238 ff.,
is a particularly good example of similar language in a
series.
42 E.g., Moyle 1981: 66-80, 90-94, 146-150, 198-202, 228-
232, 254-258, 276-282.
43 Bülow 1899: 138-140, 141-144; 1900: 61 f.; Krämer 1902:
303, 306.
44 Stuebel 1896/1973; 174/14f.; Krämer 1902; 122, 131 ff.,
217,266, 303, 306, 345 f.; Sierich 1901: 18 f.; 1902: 167 f.,
169, 176 f.; 1905: 187; Bülow 1898c: 113; Moyle 1981:
146-150; see note 6 to Story 7, pp. 303 f., and note 17,
pp. 310 f.
45 E.g., three different series are used in one story, Sierich
1901; 20 f., 22, 22 f.; Krämer 1902: 447 f., two series of
two sections each.
’ava. O le tala ia P/7/.”46 * The four-part series takes
place in Manu’a, Tutuila, ’Upolu, and Savai’i. In
each place, much the same events are related.
Pili arrives (he is already in Manu’a), marries the
daughter of the holder of the highest title (but
not on Tutuila), and performs gigantic feasts of
horticulture and fishing (’Upolu). The chiefs of
the place beg him to accept the highest title and
offer to serve him (not on ’Upolu). He refuses,
but then accepts. The population, however, proves
incapable of satisfying him by understanding and
using properly the tools, now traditional, required
to provide him with his needs (Blilow 1898a:
12). Pili scolds them and departs in anger (he
seems to leave ’Upolu because of the fear of the
highest chief). On Savai’i, Pili arrives, farms, and
accepts the title, and dies. His marriage seems to
be assumed in the later mention of his children.
The parallelism of events is expressed in extensive
verbal parallels. The travel transitions are the same
- ona teva [mai] ai lea o Pili i ... - as is much
of the expression of the action in the different
locations. I quote only those verbal parallels at the
beginnings of the sections; ona nofo ai lea o Pili i
... (Manu’a and Tutuila); ua fai ma ana ava o le
afafine o ... and ona fai ava ai lea o ia i le afafine
o ... (Manu’a and ’Upolu); ona fai ai lea o lana
faatoaga (Manu’a, Tutuila, Savai’i; ’Upolu: ona
fai ai lea o ona maumagaf, ufitia, uma (Manu’a
and Savai’i); onafilifili ai lea o alii Ho ... (Manu’a
and Tutuila; Savai’i: ona filifili ai lea o Aopo).41
The discussion of further devices used within
narratives goes beyond the subject of this essay.
5) The Conclusion
The conclusion is usually easily recognizable be-
cause it breaks the narrative, contains information-
al material, is often begun by an expression that
means ‘Therefore’ - such as, ’o lea, ’o le mea lea,
’ o lea lava, or ona ... ai lea -, and often contains
an expression meaning ‘up to the present time’ -
such as, i ona pd nei or ua o’o mai i ona po nei.
46 Stuebel 1896/1973: 168/8 f. I analyze the structure of the
whole complex later in this series.
47 For other examples of series, see Krämer 1902; 110 f.,
125 ff., 257; Sierich 1904: 101 f.; and Moyle 1981: 100 ff.,
162 ff., 168 ff., 184 ff., 212 ff., 264-268.
A number of other devices can be found in narratives,
such as explanatory flashbacks: Stuebel 1896/1973: 168/8,
the mävaega of Tuifiti; 237/77, the orders of Matuna to the
children. The parallel to the latter, 234/74 f., ua peiseai ...
talo, is placed in the middle of introductory material, which
necessitates the repetition of the account of Näfanua’s
arrival, ua sau le teine ... ua sau le tamaitai.
Anthropos 85.1990
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John Chariot
The following selection of conclusions notes their
limits, points made, and traditional phrases:
Pratt 1889: 463, Leld lava le i Matapalapala le au-a-mala
(complete); the fish-hook of adversity is still there at
Matapalapala.
Stuebel 1896/1973; 173/13, ua leal ni tagata ... ua oo mai lava
i ona po nei... saualii; human beings no longer live at
Malaela.
174/14, o le mea lea ... ua oo mai i ona po nei; the origin of
a custom.
177/17 f., o lana mavaegafoi ua oo mai lava i ona po nei... na
fasia e Gege; the origin of some stones and a custom.
181/21, ua taunuu lena mavaega ua oo mai i ona po nei
(complete); the conclusion of a historical account;
the parting words have been operative up to today.
181/21, o le upu lea ... ua oo mai i ona po nei; as above.
227/67, o le mea lea ... sia; the origin of fire from rubbed
wood.
230/70, ua torn lava ... ua oo mai i ona po nei ... lava lena
fue; the origin of an unusual plant phenomenon.
231/71, ua igoa i ona po nei ... Lata ma maa; the origin of a
name and some stones.
234/74, ua i ai foi le muagagana ... i ona po nei ... faatusa
lea; the origin of a saying.
Btilow 1898a; 14, ua e i ai lava nei onapo (complete); current
condition.
18, O lena tofiga toafd oo lava i ona po nei (complete);
current condition.
Blilow 18986; 81, / le faamanatu ... i Samoa; the origin of a
name.
Biilow 1900: 64, O le mea lea ua taua ai... Safune; the origin
of a name.
69, Ua e i ai i Amoa i nei onapo ... o Ae, the origin of
a land feature (cf. Biilow 1895: 365, 366, origin of a
name and a practice in a German text).
Kramer 1902: 197, 'A ’o le a Tufugapule ma Tufugato’atamd i
(complete); the origin of the names.
209, ’o le taua lenei nafa’ato’a maua ai le igoa ... uso; the
origin of a name.
261, ’O le mea lend ...fa’atafuna; the origin of a name.
303, Ona fa’ apea ai lea ... Leutelele’i’ite; the origin of a
name.
305, '0 le mea lea ... i ona po nei lena masani ... pud a;
the origin of a custom.
306, ’O le tama lenei na fa’ato’a maua ai le igoa ’o Lufilufi
(complete); the origin of a name.
309, E i ai le ’upu ... ni misa; the origin of a saying.
355, E pei ona tu ... e fa’apea lava i ona po nei; the origin
of a custom.
Kramer 1903: 247, E o’o mai i ona po nei ... ma Tutuila; the
origin of a practice.
Hovdhaugen 1987: 38, lea ’ua igoa ... Ndfanua; lea is short
for ’o lea ‘therefore’ (compare Sierich 1900: 231); the
origin of a name.
The conclusion is a frequent, but not a nec-
essary structural element. A story can end simply
with the completion of the narrative (Sierich: 1900:
230 ff.). A known conclusion can be omitted in
the telling of a story48 or can be mentioned after
the story has been told.49 A conclusion can even
be presented dramatically in performance (Sierich
1904: 100, note 13).
Some story genres are more conducive than
others to the use of conclusions, such as origin
stories. A conclusion such as Ona mafua ai lea
’o le igoa o le nu u ’o Fitiuta ‘Therefore orig-
inated the name of the village, Fitiuta,’ seems
most appropriate and satisfying as an ending and
recapping of the story (Krämer 1902: 420). On
the other hand, fägogo seldom have conclusions,
but some story-tellers seem to have developed an
appropriate type: some reference to the characters
“living happily ever after,” so to speak, or to the
present state of affairs (Moyle 1981: 150, 160).
John Mayer (personal communication) has argued
in conversation that the point or moral of a fägogo
is implied in the narrative and its results, even if
no explicit conclusion is provided.
More than one conclusion can be given at
the end of a story. In a text published by Biilow
(1898c: 115 f.), two conclusions are clearly differ-
entiated from each other: O le igoa o Aloalii ...
ua oo lava i nei ona po (the origin of a name) and
Ona po nei foi... faatasi i ai o latou (the origin of
a custom).
Very characteristic of Samoan literature is the
use of conclusions at the end of episodes within
the narrative:
Biilow 1898a: 9, [iniga] o le mea lea ua ... a au; the origin of
a name.
Krämer 1902: 198, Ona maua ai lea ... Sanameauta; the origin
of a name.
199, ona fa’ato’a igoa ai lea ... Tamdlelagi; the origin of a
name.
202, ’o le aumoega na fa’ato’d maua ai le igoa Mata’utia-
fdatulotulou (complete); the origin of a name.
204, na maua ai fo’i le tofiga ... Tuisamau; the origin of a
saying.
208 f., ’o le mea lea ... tumua; the origin of a name.
344, Ona maua ai lea... ma le ’ ie; the origin of a name.
408 f., ’o le mea lea na igoa ... ma le ’ava; the origin of a
name.
Such episode conclusions can be given in
series, often in stereotyped form.50
48 Biilow 1899; 138; see also Krämer 1902: 209 and note 7.
John Mayer believes that the conclusion is often omitted
when the story is told to knowledgeable adults.
49 Sierich 1902: 183, 184, 186 (cf. 180, where the ending of
the story itself is supplied after the performance); 1905:
184.
50 Stuebel 1986/1973: 231/71 f., o le mea lea ua igoa ai le aau
e lata i ... Faumea; o le mea lea ua igoa ai le aau e lata
mai i ... La’ulu; o le mea lea ua igoa ai le aau e latalata
i ... Aaufaaee; o le mea lea ... punifaga; ona faaigoa ai
Anthropos 85.1990
Aspects of Samoan Literature I
425
Just like other structural elements, the con-
clusion is an opportunity for the story-teller’s cre-
ativity. Conclusions or rather conclusion materials
can be given in narrative form (Billow 1900; 63)
or in dialogue (Sierich 1902: 168; 1905: 184).
Two conclusions can be combined, for instance
the origin of the name and the origin of the gene-
alogy or provenance of a famous fine mat.51 One
conclusion seems to be based on a New Testa-
ment story ending of the fame of Jesus’ actions
spreading throughout the surrounding countryside,
a rare example of Western influence on stories.52 A
curiosity is the use of typical conclusion language
as the first line of an introduction!53
6) Terminal Phrases or Sentences
Terminal phrases and sentences occur even more
regularly than titles and titular sentences. For in-
stance, of the stories told by Ali’imalemanu to
Hovdhaugen, all but one end with a terminal
sentence or expression.54 Of the seventeen stories
published by Moyle (1981), all have terminal sen-
tences, the formulaic character of which is evident:
Moyle 1981: 54, la, le fdgogo ’ua ’uma.
98, '0 le i’uga o le tala; ’la soifua lo tdtou aso.
108, ona ’uma mai ai lea i ’i le fdgogo.
118, la, ona pau lea ’ o le fdgogo.
142, la, ’ua ’uma.
150, ’Ua ’uma le fdgogo.
160, la, ’ua ’uma le fdgogo.
180, 252, 272, la, ’ua ’uma le tala.
194, la, ’o le tala ’ua ’uma.
206, la, ’ua 'uma la tdtou tala.
218, la, ’ua ’uma mai ai ma le fdgogo.
262, la, ’ua 'uma nei le tala.
282, la, ma ’o le fdgogo ’ua i'u.
296, la, ’ua ’uma mai ai.55
lea ... le masina. See also Billow 1899: 138-140, 141-143;
1900: 61 f„ 66, 69; Krämer 1902: 214 f., 306, 331, 333.
51 Billow 1899: 143, e i ai o le igoa o le ie, etasi ae afe aua
o le gafa ta i le lagi. Cf. this version to the previous one,
136-141.
52 Sierich 1900: 233, la ua ’a ave solo ... lalelei lava.
53 Krämer 1902: 451, ’O lenei igoa na mafua i le taua o
Olosega ma ’Ofu; the line is dependent on the title, “’O
le tala la Fo’isia.”
54 Expressions: Hovdhaugen 1987: 26, la; 38, Fa’afetai; cf.
Moti Afatia’s phrase, 90, la, ’o lea; sentence; 78, la, ’ua
'uma le tala; the exceptional ending without a terminal
element, 48.
55 Moyle 1981: 88, ’la manuia le ’aufa’afofoga mo lo tdtou
fdgogo, is an oratorical variant; see 301. Cf. Stuebel
1896/1973: 164/4, O lefaamatalaga lena i le taofi o Samoa i
lefetu o Tapuitea. John Mayer stated that such complicated
formal conclusions indicated that the story was being told
to peers or foreigners, whom the story-teller wished to
impress.
This regularity and formulaic character can be
found in some older publications, although others
seem to have regularly suppressed this structural
element. Stuebel (1896/1973) carefully separates
the terminal sentence and places it where one
would expect “The End”: Ua iu (170/10, 181/21,
228/68); Ua iu le tala (228/68, 229/69 [twice],
230/70 [twice], 231/71 [twice], 232/72 [thrice],
233/73). Kramer (1902) records the very similar
’Ua i’u le tala ia Sina (127) and Ona pau ai lea
’o le tala ia Lata (455). Sierich (1904) records Ua
uma le fagogo (94) and Ua uma ai lenei Fagogo
(104). More complicated terminal sentences can
of course be devised. Two recorded by Billow
resemble titular sentences.56 *
2. The Identification of Stories within Larger
Complexes
The recognition of the structural elements of a
story makes possible its identification when used
within a larger complex (Chariot 1977: 482 f.). I
list selected examples from Stuebel (1896/1973):
164/4, the complex consists of the story, which ends at the
terminal sentence that refers back to it, O le faamata-
laga lena ... Tapuitea, and explanatory material that
has been added at the end.
194/34, “(9 le tala i tagata sa nofo i Aele o Iona igoa o
Feepo,”; conclusion, ua faia pea lena ... i ona po
nei... ma lefaafetai; the last paragraph reports on a
particular instance of the use of the proverbial saying
discussed.
230/70 f., the story ends with the stereotyped expression ua oo
mai lava i ona po nei. A short explanation is then
added, nei sa tele ... ma Samoa.
232/72, “Die neunköpfige Taube / O le lupe uluiva,” the
first paragraph provides information before the story,
which begins with the titular sentence, O le tala
... faapea; introduction, O le alii ... ona ulu; time
reference connection, ona ... lea; narrative, [ona]
leva [lea] ... malosi o ia; and terminal sentence, Ua
iu le tala (cf. 232/72 f.).
233/73, a story is enclosed within an account of the entrance
to the underworld; it can be delineated by its titular
sentence/introduction, o le tasi tala ... Tofoipupu and
the end of its narrative, ... toe sola a e.
The earlier identification of the mävaega-sto-
ry enables one to recognize such a form when
inserted into a complex. In “Tamafaigä. Malietoa
Tavita,” the story of Le’iataua’s mävaega begins
with ona gasegase ai lea, quotes the mävaega,
and ends with ua maliu Leiataua ‘Le’iataua died’
(Stuebel 1896/1973; 175/15 f.). Later in the same
complex (177/17) the story of Malietoa Tavita’s
56 Biilow 1898c: 113, O le gafa lea o le ufi; 116, O le mavaega
a Galumalemana lena. See also the previous note.
Anthropos 85.1990
426
John Chariot
mävaega begins with ua vaivai o Tavita and ends
with the last words of his testament, o le a Ma-
lietoa. The story of the famous mävaega of Pili
is attached by a time transition, Ua oo lea i se isi
aso, to its complex, begins with ua vaivai ai o Pili,
quotes the testament, and ends with the conclusion,
O lend tofiga toafä oo lava i ona po nei ‘Those four
assignments have lasted to the present day.’57
This delineation of stories is important in the
analysis of complexes constructed from originally
independent stories (Chariot 1977: 483-490). For
instance, in “Die Geschichte von Talaga und Tiitii.
Die Aitu Mafui’e, Fe’e und Salevao. Das Reiben
von Feuer / O le tala ia Talaga ma Tiitii. O aitu:
o Mafui’e ma Fe’e ma Salevao. O le si’aga o le
afi” (Stuebel 1896/1973; 165/5 f.) can be found
two distinct stories with an added paragraph on
firemaking: introduction, O Talaga ... Iona ataliv,
delineated by the second time reference, ua oo i le
isi aso (the section after the first use of the phrase
is an account of habitual action and thus a part of
the introduction); narrative, which continues until
the end of the paragraph, lefaafetai i Iona atalii. A
time transition leads to the next story, Ua oo i le isi
aso\ introduction, sa i ai... ave ifo e ai; narrative,
ma ia ua iloa ... o le aitu o Saolevao\ conclusion,
o le mea lea a agi ... o Tiitii. The last paragraph
is an account of traditional Samoan methods of
making fire. Many examples of such complexes
can be found:
For instance:
Krämer 1902: 349 f., “Die Geschichte von Magea (’O le tala
ia Magea),” consists of two independent stories with
the same hero: introduction, Sa nofo Magea ... 'ua
fa’apea i aso e tele (habitual activity); time reference,
Ona o’o lea i le tasi aso\ narrative, ’ua alu ane le
tama ... faitalia ’ oe\ time transition to next story, Ona
[sauni] ai lea-, p. 350, § 1, could be narrative or, more
likely, a scene-setting introduction; narrative reaches
until ’ua pogä i vao, ’a e Ha’Una i ala. This is the
saying derived from the story, Brown 1914: nr. 75;
Schultz 1965; nr. 104, here presented as dialogue. The
last sentence of the complex is an explanation of the
saying.
Krämer 1903: 201 f., consists of two separate stories, each of
a different chief trying to catch the same fe’e. The
published title seems to include the introduction to
the first story: ”’0 le tasi fo’i ta’i na fe’e na i Siumu;
’o Ta’avao, le igoa o le ali’i”', narrative, Na alu Iona
paopao ... ’ua sola i uta\ I would argue that ’Ua
ola ’o ia is a conclusion, providing the result of the
action. A time transition leads to the second story: Ona
57 Biilow 1898a: 18. See also Krämer 1902; 339, Ona vaivai
lea ’ o Gaoteote ... Ona igoa ai lea ’ o Olomänu ia Gaoteote\
the last sentence is a good example of a conclusion for
a wävacga-story. The next sentence leads to the closing
genealogy.
[nofo] lea\ introduction, [Ona] nofo [lea] ’o le ali’i e
igoa i Fitiao\ narrative, ’ua mafaufau ... ma ona ’ave\
conclusion, Ona mate ai lea ... le va’a.
For another clear example, see Stuebel 1896/1973: 168/8 f.
3. The Range of the Use of the Story
Structure
I have taken my examples from a wide range of
genres, from those which most Samoans would
consider fictional, fdgogo, to those which most
would consider historical.58 Even non-story ac-
counts and descriptions were seen to be formulated
with the structural elements of a story.59
This sharing of structural elements among
genres is important for understanding Samoan
thinking. For instance, not just the story structure
but story interests and emphases can be found in
Samoan historical traditions. An account of the
war between Tongans and Samoans can be told as
a complex of trickster and aitu ‘god,’ stories and
episodes (Stuebel 1896/1973: 182/22 f.). Fabulous
elements, such as raisings from the dead, can be
added (Biilow 1895: 365 f.). A story that contains
an important mävaega, ‘testament,’ can have the
origin of a name and title as its main point (Krämer
1902; 255).
In an opposite tendency, narratives can be
so subordinated to introduction and conclusion
materials that the resulting text is more of a de-
scription than a story; that is, the narration of the
sequence of events has been so subordinated to
the description of the relations, consequences, and
so on, connected to those events that a new, if
related, genre is created.60 The same process will
be described below for aitu descriptions developed
from aitu stories.
This over-arching unity of means of expres-
sion may be one reason why such a heterogeneity
of materials can be found in traditions like those
of Pili, which combine - for Western thinking -
58 E.g., Stuebel 1896/1973: 170/10 f„ 181/21, 186/26 f.; see
also 180/20 f.: introduction, O ono po ... tupulaga; time
reference, ona oo lea i isi ona po [ona ... ai lea]-, narrative,
[ona] sauni [ai lea] ... nonofo Samoa-, conclusion, ua
taunuu lena mavaega ua oo mai i ona po nei. Cf. Chariot
1977: 495^198.
59 For another example, see Stuebel 1896/1973: 232/72, “Foge
und Toafa, die Regen-Aitu / O Foge ma Toafa, o aitu o le
timu.”
60 E.g., Billow 1898c: 113 f. Krämer 1902: 342, 454 f., 452 ff.,
appears transitional between the two. Cf. below, aitu de-
scriptions as opposed to aitu stories; the historicity of
Samoan texts on historical subjects will be discussed in
the third article in this series.
Anthropos 85.1990
Aspects of Samoan Literature I
427
arguably historical with obviously fabulous ele-
ments. The Pili traditions and other Samoan texts
on historical subjects will be discussed in the third
article in this series.
4. The Identification and Description of
Literary Forms
A complete study of Samoan literary forms is
clearly a vast undertaking. A number of incom-
plete lists and short remarks can be found in the
earlier literature, but the only extended studies, to
my knowledge, have been published by Richard
Moyle.61 A number of Samoan genres are obvious,
have long been recognized, and are provided with
Samoan names. In other cases, a careful examina-
tion is needed to identify them.
For instance, there are a large number of texts
that include aitu - a word with many referents,
from major gods to family gods, ghosts, and spir-
its, and even to human beings with an itu aitu,
an ‘aitu side’ to their family. These texts include
historical accounts in which aitu are mentioned,
multigenerational complexes with one or more aitu
figure, and stories in which an aitu is not the center
of interest.62
A common and - as suggested by its wide
distribution - archaic type of aitu text is a single
story that has an aitu as its main character.63 These
stories can be divided into those of an aitu - its
aetiology - and those about one. The former can
provide its background, origin, name or names, the
key events that established its character, its current
or habitual activity, and the customs surrounding
it (e.g., Stuebel 1896/1973: 173/13 f., 177/17 f„
61 On fägogo, Moyle 1981: 6^-9; on genres connected to
music, 1988. For an early list of chant types, see Pratt
1960: 105-117. On speeches, see Marsack 1961: 71: “Once
it is understood, the pattern is an easy one to follow. The
framework of a speech in reply to an address of welcome
would be this; ..see also 72. A good deal of such
information is scattered in manuscripts and publications and
needs to be assembled. J. W. Love presents some analyses
in his unpublished dissertation. See also Luomala 1955.
62 Historical: Stuebel 1896/1973: 182/22 f. Multigenerational:
Stuebel 1896/1973: 164/4 f.; Krämer 1902: 403—409. Not
center: Stuebel 1896/1973: 163/3 f., 174/14 f„ 232/72. On
a late example of an aitu story, see Chariot 1988a.
63 Two exceptions are instructive. In Herman 1955: 57 f., “O
le Tala ia Moso ma Sepo,” the two traditional names of a
single aitu are taken to refer to two separate ones. On the
names, see Stuebel 1896/1973: 229/69 f.; 230 f., a version
of the Herman story is told of a single aitu. Indeed, in the
Herman version, the two aitu act as one. See also Stair
1895: 47, where a Saueä and Si’uleo are treated as separate
aitu.
229/69 f.). Once the aitu exists, stories can be told
about it: its relations with other aitu, its appear-
ances to human beings, and so on (e.g., Stuebel
1896/1973; 227/67 f., 229/69).
The amount of non-narrative information
about the aitu can vary widely in such stories,
increasing to the point that it intrudes on the narra-
tive (Stuebel 1896/1973: 230/70 f.). I would argue
that a new genre is created - an aitu description
rather than an aitu story - when narrative elements
are either completely suppressed or clearly sub-
ordinated to the non-narrative information of the
text.64
The structure of these aitu descriptions often
is a practical grouping of all personal information
at the beginning and habitual activity and customs
at the end. Information about customs and prohibi-
tions related to an aitu was so useful that it could
be expanded even to the point of raising the sus-
picion that the aitu has been displaced as the center
of interest. Aitu descriptions can be grouped redac-
tionally in a complex, either through the traditional
coupling of the aitu (Stuebel 1896/1973: 232/72)
or through some chosen theme. For instance, the
first line of an account of Nifoloa and Sauma’eafe
states that they are two aitu currently known in
Samoa; the two aitu descriptions are then simply
set side-by-side (Stuebel 1896/1973: 178/18 f.).
Aitu descriptions belong to the large, gen-
eral category of Samoan literary descriptions: of
customs, words, ceremonies, and so on. Such de-
scriptions were not invented merely for foreigners,
but are important means of cultural transmission
and instruction among Samoans themselves up to
the present day. The abstraction and separation of
description from story is an important intellectual
achievement (Chariot 1977: 490; 1985: 179 f.).
A large number of texts can also be found
that include muagagana ‘proverbs’ or ‘proverbial
sayings,’ a major form in Samoan literature. For
the purpose of this discussion, muagagana can be
divided into those formulated from narrations and
those from non-narrational sources, such as obser-
vations and customs (e.g., Billow 1899: 131-135).
64 E.g., Stuebel 1896/1973: 172/12, 178/18 f. (the story of
Sauma’eafe’s conception is a subordinate part of the de-
scription of her background), 232/72 f.; Krämer 1902: 450 f.
Some subordinate narrative materials can be used, as in the
above account of Sauma’eafe, and narrative and non-nar-
rative must be weighed against each other to decide the
category; for instance, is the short narrative a mere illustra-
tion of the first sentence in Stuebel 1896/1973: 228/68? A
Samoan gave Robert Louis Stevenson’s wife Fanny a good
aitu description of Sauma’eafe; Stevenson and Stevenson
1955: 56.
Anthropos 85.1990
428
John Chariot
The explanation of a muagagana of the latter
type is exemplified by “Das Fafa in Falealupo”
(Stuebel 1896/1973: 164/4): two sayings are cited,
the social situation in which they are used is
described, and the special terms employed are
explained. This simple and practical form has been
used by Samoans to explain muagagana to me -
at times with a fuller discussion of the possible
interpretations - and underlies, I believe, much of
the non-Samoan literature on proverbial sayings.65
Such explanations are useful for Samoans them-
selves because muagagana are often obscure and
their connections to their sources unclear.
Proverbial sayings formulated from narrations
are often quoted when the relevant story is told.66
In such cases, the muagagana quoted is clearly
subordinate to the whole narrative and does not
noticeably interrupt it.
A story can, however, be told for the express
purpose of explaining a muagagana. In “Die Ge-
schichte von Lelei und Leaga und dem Aitu im
Aoa-Baum / O le tala ia Lelei ma Leaga ma le
aitu i le aoa,” the title in the Samoan text reads, O
sina tala i le muagagana efaapea sei mamalu mai
pea le Atua i le aoa ‘A tale about the saying: “Let
the god in the banyan tree continue shining.’”67
The long narrative is then given in detail. At the
point in the narrative from which the saying was
formulated - ua pupula pea le aitu i le aoa ‘the
aitu continued to shine in the banyan tree’ - the
story-teller states as an episode conclusion, o le
mea lea e fai i ai le muagagana a fai lauga o
Samoa e faapea ia mamalu mai pea le Atua i le
aoa ‘For this reason, the saying is used when
Samoans orate, thus: “Let the god in the banyan
tree continue shining.’” The narrative is clearly
65 E.g., Turner 1884; 22-77, who omits information uninter-
esting to his non-Samoan readers, such as genealogies, and
expresses a Christian perspective.
66 E.g., Stuebel 1896/1973: 169/9, net of Pili; 236/76. Ex-
amples are numerous.
67 Stuebel 1896/1973: 174/14 f. The given sense of mamalu
is not listed in the dictionaries, but is used in the German
translation, 77, and is clear from the narrative, ua pupula
tele mai le aitu e pei se masina i le aoa ‘The aitu shone
brightly like a moon in the banyan tree’; na ona mamalu
lava o ia i le aoa ‘it only shines in the banyan’ (see also
text). High Chief Togiola Fuaga, who spoke from a different
version of the story, explained to me that the atua perched
in the tree with the moon (or sun) behind it so that it
seemed to be shining. Mamalu can mean to overshadow or
protect, which would fit the context of the narrative. High
Chief Togiola’s interpretation seems to combine shining
with shadow. For an example of the story without the
emphasis on the muagagana, see Herman 1955: 40. For
a different story with a similar emphasis on a muagagana,
see Stuebel 1896/1973; 194/34.
based on the saying, but the more common aitu
and pupula have been substituted respectively for
atua and mamalu. An explanatory expansion is
provided: a e fai pea upu o lo tatou itu maid ‘but
the words [decisions, orders] of our district will
continue to be done’ (this may be the traditional
completion of the saying as used). The emphasis
on the proverb in this case clearly goes beyond
the mere citation found in narratives in which a
saying is subordinate. At the end of the narrative,
two further muagagana are explained by their
connection to the final section of the narrative and
by the social situation in which each is used.
I would argue that the shift of emphasis from
the story to the muagagana formulated from it
can be so extreme as to constitute a new genre:
Proverb Stories, similar to Proverb Explanations.
In “Sina und Tinae,” a cursory narrative precedes
a detailed discussion of the derived saying: its
ancient character, formulation, two situations in
which it is used, possible interpretations, and an-
alogical character.68 Despite the abbreviated pre-
sentation of the narrative, details are still provided
that are not relevant to the saying, as in the story
discussed above. That is, Proverb Stories remain
stories despite their non-narrational emphasis.
The predominant interest in proverbial say-
ings is clear in “(9 le tala faa-Samoa.”69 They are
mentioned in the title: O le tala ua i ai upu taua
faa-Samoa ‘The story in which there are important
Samoan words/sayings.’ Five are then listed and
numbered. A conventional introduction follows, O
Pulotu ... Tama uma, providing information on
place and characters and using stereotyped expres-
sions: o le ulugalii lea and la laua fanau. A stereo-
typed time reference, Ua oo i le tasi aso, connects
the introduction to the narrative, which consists
of episodes with conclusions of the origins of the
previously listed words or sayings. The narrative
continues past the last listed to a summary version
of the story of the origin of the names of the
Samoan islands.
“Die Geschichte von Lelei und Leaga und
dem Aitu im Aoa-Baum” and “(9 le tala faa-Sa-
moa” have similar structures: a title expressing the
emphasis on the sayings or words, a narrative with
elements irrelevant to the emphasis, and episode
conclusions of the origin of the sayings or words.
This is another example of a very practical Samoan
form.
68 Stuebel 1896/1973: 233/73 f. For a version of the story with
less emphasis on the proverbial saying, see Herman 1955: 8.
69 Stuebel 1896/1973: 163/3; Cain 1979: 320 ff.
Anthropos 85.1990
Aspects of Samoan Literature I
429
This article is the first in a series of three; it will be fol-
lowed by “Genealogies, Multigenerational Complexes,
and Texts on the Origin of the Universe” and “Texts
on Historical Subjects and Bodies of Literature.” These
articles - as well as Chariot 1987Ö, 1988«, and 1988c
- are the results of my stay in American Samoa from
August 1972 through July 1973, first as Curator of the
Museum of American Samoa and then as government
Scholar-in-Residence. In the latter position, I concen-
trated on Samoan literature, conversing with knowledge-
able chiefs, collecting tapes and manuscripts, leading a
Seminar in Samoan Literature at the Community Col-
lege of American Samoa, and editing an all-Samoan
language reprint with introduction of Oskar StuebeTs
“Samoanische Texte”: “(9 Tu ma Tala Faa-Samoa mai
le Tusi a Oskar Stuehel 1896” (1973). I also composed
a book on Samoan literature and art, which I completed
on my return to Hawai’i. I have now thoroughly re-
written the chapters of that book on the basis of my
later work in Hawaiian and Tahitian literature and have
divided them into the separate articles mentioned above.
Unfortunately, some materials, such as Moyle 1988 and
the later work of Thomas Bargatzky, reached me after
I had completed my work.
I wish to thank all those who helped me in Sämoa,
especially the members of my seminar, the staff of the
Library of American Samoa, and those chiefly families
that allowed me to learn something of their traditions.
One of the great experiences of my life was hearing
from High Chief Togiola Fuaga the tale of Taemä and
Tilafaigä that his grandfather had told Augustin Krämer,
while we were seated next to the very sands of Sa’ilele
on which those goddesses had landed. I have learned
also from my Samoan students in Hawai’i, especially
Dixie Crichton Samasoni, Happy Williams, and Fatu
Taofi.
I thank John F. Mayer of the University of Ha-
wai’i for his comments on a draft of this article; all
references to him are personal communication. Mayer
also showed me portions of J. W. Love’s unpublished
dissertation, which discusses a number of pertinent is-
sues, but which I was unable to use. In that dissertation
and in another communication, Love proposes the use
of Vladimir Propp’s work for the analysis of Samoan
story structures. He suggests briefly some possible lines
of approach in the typescript I was shown, and I have
seen two student papers that use Propp’s work. I have,
therefore, no published materials to which I can respond
and feel it unfair to come to any firm conclusions
without being able to study a full-scale, completed, and
professional attempt to use Propp’s work in the field.
My initial reaction is negative. Propp’s analytical tools
seem so general and flexible that they can be applied
arbitrarily. They depend more on content analysis than
actual language, which is my own basis of analysis.
Propp’s work would have to be adapted to Samoan
literature rather than imposed as is from Russian folk
literature (for which the usual claims made for it strike
me as inflated; see also Pavel 1989: 105 ff.). This is
particularly clear in the case of Samoan origin stories
and multigenerational complexes. Certainly folk stories
do not exhaust the forms of Samoan literature, and
even in those, a general pattern of, say, transgression,
punishment, and restoration of equilibrium cannot be
found universally without some special pleading; that
pattern is itself so common in world literature that
Propp’s work does not appear necessary for the point.
A wide variety of proposed approaches is available for
the study of oral and oral-based literatures. I prefer to
derive my analytical tools from a direct examination
of the literature in question, using secondary materials
eclectically and only when necessary.
Mayer himself emphasized especially the influence
of the social setting and audience at the story-telling
performance and also the relationship of the single story
structure to different literary forms; for instance, the
story introduction resembles the naming of participants
and statement of purpose in a formal speech (which can
become as formal as a fa’alupega).
Even Hovdhaugen gave me valuable criticisms and
comments (such as his remarks on final stress) on all
three articles and was unfailingly supportive. Michael
Macmillan proofread the articles with his characteristic
acuity.
Finally, I would like to thank all those interested
and knowledgeable about Samoa who helped, criticized,
and encouraged me in my work, especially Horst Cain,
Thomas Bargatzky, and two anonymous journal refer-
ees.
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Gain, Horst
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Chariot, John
1977 The Application of Form and Redaction Criticism to
Hawaiian Literature. The Journal of the Polynesian So-
ciety 86: 479—501.
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1985 Four Society Islands Creation Texts. Journal de la So-
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1987a The Kamapua’a Literature: The Classical Traditions of
the Hawaiian Pig God as a Body of Literature. Lä’ie,
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19877? The Influence of Polynesian Literature and Thought on
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Editors
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Fraser, John
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1955 Tala o le Vavau: Samoan Legends. Pago Pago: The
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1987 From the Land of Näfanua: Samoan Oral Texts in Tran-
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1961 Samoan Medley. London: Robert Hale.
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1981 Fdgogo: Fables from Samoa in Samoan and English.
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1989 The Feud of Language: A History of Structuralist
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1889 The Genealogy of the Sun - A Samoan Legend. In:
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Anthropos 85.1990
Anthropos 85.1990: 431^445
Body Personal and Body Politic
Adornment and Leadership in Cross-Cultural Perspective
Christopher B. Steiner
Abstract. - In an effort to discover why particular body deco-
rations are practiced in certain societies, this essay attempts to
demonstrate that specific forms of adornment are often corre-
lated with types of political leadership. Drawing on a range of
ethnographic examples, the analysis explores the relationship
of four types of body arts (body painting, tattooing, masking,
and crowning) to the political systems in which they are found.
[Melanesia, Polynesia, West Africa, personal adornment, polit-
ical organization, body painting, tattooing, masks, crowns]
Christopher B. Steiner, earned a joint honors BA/MA degree
in history and anthropology from the Johns Hopkins University
in 1984. He is currently a Ph. D. candidate in anthropology at
Harvard University where he expects to complete his disser-
tation in 1990. He is the co-editor of “To Dance the Spirit.
Masks of Liberia” published in conjunction with an exhibition
at Harvard’s Peabody Museum. He is also the author of a
number of articles on the anthropology of visual arts.
The relationship between the human body and the
social collectivity is a critical dimension of con-
sciousness in all societies. Indeed, it is a truism
that the body is the tangible frame of selfhood in
individual and collective experience, providing a
constellation of physical signs with the potential
for signifying the relations of persons to their
contexts (Comaroff 1985: 6).
The adornment of the social body consists of
the construction of the individual as social actor.
Encoded on the skin are a wide variety of signs
communicating information about such things as a
person’s rank, authority, ethnicity, group member-
ship, gender, and ritual condition. “The surface of
the body,” writes Terence Turner, “as the common
frontier of society, the social self, and the psycho-
biological individual, becomes the symbolic stage
upon which the drama of socialisation is enacted,
and bodily adornment ... becomes the language
through which it is expressed” (1980: 112).
Much of the literature on the decoration of the
human body has tended to emphasize the most fan-
tastic and exotic elements of self-decoration. In a
manner often glossed as “Frazerian anthropology,”
studies of this sort have attempted to explain one
society’s form of body mutilation or ornamentation
by demonstrating the existence of what appears to
be a similar practice in another part of the globe.
Edmund Leach has rightly criticized studies of this
sort that disaggregate cultural practices from their
ethnographic context and compare them among
far-separated societies across the world. In so do-
ing, Leach has emphasized the arbitrary nature of
the symbolism of the body, and has argued that in
body decoration the relationship between signifier
and signified has no necessary, “natural,” or prede-
termined logic that can apply across the boundaries
of different cultures. In his famous essay on “Mag-
ical Hair,” Leach argues against the significance
of worldwide similarity of certain symbol-referent
configurations, and dismisses from consideration
the question of why a culture chooses one item and
not another for its symbols. He writes: “Europeans
wear black for mourning. Chinese wear white. In
each case the special status of the mourner is
indicated by the wearing of special dress. But the
question of why one culture selects black for this
purpose and another white is surely both irrelevant
and unanswerable” (1958: 152).
Leach’s point serves as a useful critique of
studies that rely for their data on the exercise of
mindless globe-trotting. I would argue, however,
that his point may unfairly dismiss the possibility
that the details of some practices of ornamenta-
tion may be something less than arbitrary. In an
essay entitled “The Meaning of Body Ornaments,”
Anthony Seeger has taken up the very challenge
that Leach sets out, and has attempted to show that
when viewed within the total context of a culture
it may be possible to postulate that certain body
decorations have similar meanings in different eth-
nographic milieus. “If instead of lifting a single
trait out of a society for examination,” argues
Seeger, “one looks for structures of interrelated
symbols, then the problem of why one culture uses
black and another white can perhaps be explained
432
Christopher B. Steiner
and an underlying logic uniting the two symbol
systems may come to light” (1975: 211).
The purpose of this essay is to offer some
possible answers to why particular body decora-
tions are practiced in certain societies. Specifically,
I will attempt to show that forms of body adorn-
ment are correlated to different political types. The
evidence for this sort of analysis emerges from
consideration of a few ethnographic examples. In
order to demonstrate the relationship between type
of body adornment and type of political leadership,
I will examine four distinct forms of self-decora-
tion: (1) body painting, (2) tattooing, (3) masking,
and (4) crowning. In the first section of the essay, I
compare the sociopolitical significance of the art of
body painting in Melanesia to that of tattooing in
Polynesia. In the second, I concentrate on several
societies in West Africa, and compare the socio-
political implications of an artform that conceals
(masking) to one that reveals (crowning).
1. Body Painting and Tattooing: Contrasting
Arts of Leadership in Melanesia and
Polynesia
In an essay in comparative political anthropology,
“Poor Man, Rich Man, Big-Man, Chief: Politi-
cal Types in Melanesia and Polynesia,” Marshall
Sahlins draws some basic contrasts between two
abstracted sociological types of political leader-
ship among neighboring populations in the South
Pacific Islands. According to Sahlins, the political
leadership of Polynesia is characterized by central-
ized chiefdoms that rule large populations covering
a vast territorial region. It is a system organized
in a pyramidal structure in which local groups are
subunits of a more inclusive political body. The
leader or chief, who is situated at the pinnacle
of this pyramidal organization, has incontestable
right of rule and his authority is given by social
ascription. In Polynesian political systems, leader-
ship is vested in title. Power resides in office and
is not derived from the leader’s demonstration of
personal superiority.
In Melanesia, by contrast, political leadership
is organized in the form of a “big-man” system. A
big-man rules a small number of groups across a
restricted territorial extent. This type of organiza-
tion consists of politically unintegrated segments
made up of small, separate, and equal political
blocs. A big-man’s authority derives from his per-
sonal power. In the traditional Melanesian system
of government, there are no political offices, little
or no authority is given by social ascription, and
leadership is largely achieved through the creation
of a followership. As Sahlins summarizes, “Big-
men do not come to office; they do not succeed
to, nor are they installed in, existing positions of
leadership over political groups. The attainment
of big-man status is rather the outcome of a series
of acts which elevate a person above the common
herd and attract about him a coterie of loyal, lesser
men” (1963: 289).
From Sahlins’ study of South Pacific political
types, and from the work of others who have
followed with similar attempts to produce general
or theoretical analyses of political types on a Pacif-
ic-wide basis (e.g., Douglas 1979), it would appear
that one of the most salient differences between
the political systems of Melanesia and Polynesia
consists in the extent to which political authority
and social rank are fixed in a hierarchical fashion
or, put slightly differently, the contrast rests on the
difference in the intensity of social stratification.
While Polynesian societies are typified by fixed hi-
erarchy and minuscule amounts of social mobility,
Melanesian societies are characterized by a more
fluid social structure with a great deal of individual
mobility and changes in status. In the former sys-
tem, both groups and individuals are related to one
another in permanent dyadic relations of superior
to inferior; in the latter system, the power or status
differential between both groups and individuals
continually shifts.
It is on the basis of these differences in levels
of social stratification that I will argue that the
ephemeral art of body painting, which is found
throughout Melanesia, is a logical correlate to a
system of political and social organization with a
high degree of status mobility, while the indelible
art of tattooing, which is typical of many parts of
Polynesia, is best suited to a system of political and
social organization with fixed and rigid hierarchy,1 *
Tattooing is a form of body decoration found
among many societies in Polynesia. The word
“tattoo” is derived from the Tahitian word tatu,
meaning “to mark the skin,” and was first intro-
duced into the English language by Captain Cook
on his return from the South Seas (Teilhet 1973:
1 On this point my argument takes issue with Lévi-Strauss’s
famous essay on the structuralist interpretation of art.
Although Lévi-Strauss discusses at some length the dif-
ferences among certain motifs of body decorations, he
finds insignificant the fact that while the Caduveo Indians
temporarily decorate themselves with paints, the Maori
permanently imprint themselves with tattoos. “The differ-
ence due to the fact that Maori design is tattooed whereas
Caduveo design is painted may be dismissed” (Lévi-Strauss
1963: 257).
Anthropos 85.1990
Body Personal and Body Politic
433
83). The techniques of tattooing are fairly uniform
throughout the Polynesian islands, and consist of
inserting ink or some other coloring agent into the
skin with the use of a needle or sharp instrument.
Tattooing is an ineffaceable art which leaves an
intradermal mark that cannot easily be removed.
For this reason, I will argue, tattooing is an art
which is associated both with permanent events
and with forms of political organization character-
ized by fixed hierarchy.2
Throughout Polynesia tattooing has served as
a mark of rank. In Samoa, tattooing functioned to
distinguish the chiefly class from the commoners.
Tattooed designs of small bands and stripes were
restricted to persons of high status, while persons
of lower status were allowed to wear only tattoos
of solid black which covered a person from the
waist to the knees (Teilhet 1973: 87). Besides
these broad distinctions between chiefly class and
commoner, tattoos also signaled distinctions in
rank within the Samoan ruling class itself. The
number of triangles down the back of a man’s leg
proclaimed rank. And two variations of a pattern
known as aso tali tu served to distinguish a chief
and a “talking man” from all others of high rank
(Handy and Handy 1924; 21).
In Tahiti, tattooing was used as a symbol of
status within the ’Arioi Society. Members of the
Society are said to have functioned as entertainers
in the fields of sports and dancing; the Society
drew its membership from the chiefly class (Fer-
don 1981: 138-141). Within the ’Arioi Society
there were seven different ranks of membership,
and each one was distinguished by its particular
tattoo motif. A traveller to the region in the early
nineteenth century reported: “A number of dis-
tinct classes prevailed among the Areois, each of
which was distinguished by the kind or situation
of the tatauing [sic] on their bodies. The first or
highest class was called Avae parai, painted leg;
the leg being completely blackened from the foot
to the knee. The second class was called Otiore,
both arms being marked, from the fingers to the
shoulders. The third class was denominated Ha-
rotea, both sides of the body, from the armpits
downwards, being marked with tatau. The fourth
class, called Hua, had only two or three small
figures, impressed with the same material, on each
2 Although the focus of this essay is concerned with the
relationship between tattooing and political leadership, it
ought to be pointed out that tattooing is a form of body
decoration that is also typically associated with a permanent
change of status brought about, for instance, by a rite of
passage (for some examples of these type of markings see
Hambly 1925: 197-210; Rubin 1988: passim).
shoulder. The fifth class, called Atow, had one
small stripe, tataued on the left side. Every in-
dividual in the sixth class, designated Ohemara,
had a small circle marked round each ankle. The
seventh class, or Poo, which included all who were
in their noviciate, was usually denominated the
Poo faarearea, or pleasure-making class, and by
them the most laborious part of the pantomimes,
dances, etcetera was performed” (Ellis 1831: 238).
In the Marquesas Islands, tattoos functioned
to indicate rank and tribal affiliation. Although
not as strictly confined to the upper or ruling
classes, the art of tattooing in Marquesan society
was a very costly one, and tattoos served therefore
to demarcate socioeconomic position. A complete
covering of the finest work was limited to the
wealthy “who could afford to employ the best
artists and stand the attendant expense of feeding
them and their assistants as well as the large band
of ka’ioi who erected the special house for the
occasion” (Handy 1922: 3). At the turn of the
last century, a traveller in the region noted the
following: “The poorer islanders who have not a
superabundance of hogs to dispose of in luxuries,
but live chiefly themselves upon breadfruit, are
operated upon by novices in the art, who take them
at a very low price as subjects for practice. The
lowest class of all, the fishermen principally, are
often not able to afford even the pay required by a
novice, and are therefore not tattooed at all” (cited
in Handy 1922: 4).
In Hawaii, tattooing differentiated between
free men and slaves.3 Specific tattoo designs were
used to designate the status of slave. These includ-
ed, “a round spot in the middle of the forehead,
a curved line over the nose, and curved lines
resembling parentheses outside the eyes” (Teilhet
1973: 99).
Finally, among the Maori, one of the most
fiercely class-structured societies of the Polynesian
complex, the art of tattooing reached its highest
and most sophisticated form (Goldman 1970). Un-
like the tattooing of island Polynesia which was
3 It is not at all uncommon for tattooing to be associated
with a mark of either slavery or criminality. The ahhuttum
or Babylonian slave-mark, for instance, was a tattoo mark
imprinted on the forehead or the hand that identified slaves
in the ancient Near East (Driver and Miles 1952; 422).
In both Japan (Richie 1973) and Thailand (Terwiel 1979),
tattooing was the brand of the criminal. “The [Japanese]
criminal,” writes Richie, “was marked on the forehead
or around the eyes, so that proof of his crime would be
clearly visible” (1973: 50). During the eighteenth century,
the Japanese criminal code, Gojogaki Hyakkajo, codified
approximately one hundred tattoo patterns, each indicating
a separate offense {ibid: 50).
Anthropos 85.1990
434
Christopher B. Steiner
done with the use of a needle puncturing the skin
and introducing pigment, Maori tattooing (known
as moko or whakairo) consisted of a low relief
design carved into the skin, with a black pigment
rubbed into the incisions (Phillips 1948).
As in other Polynesian societies, tattooing
among the Maori symbolized hierarchy (fig. 1).
“Moko was a status symbol and the right to wear
it was strictly controlled. ... Chiefs usually had
more tattooing ... [and] the quantity, quality and
many of the patterns of moko would not be applied
except to ranking individuals” (Simmons 1983:
229-236). Early travellers and missionaries in the
region were greatly impressed by Maori tattooing.
In some cases, they have left careful descriptions
of the techniques and patterns of moko, and have
noted the relationship between moko and rank.
One such example comes to us from a Catholic
missionary writing in the early nineteenth century:
“The distinctive mark of the chiefs is not only
the face tattooing, for subordinate chiefs and even
people of lower class have this tattooing in com-
mon with them, but the very distinct mark of the
chiefs is the tattooing on the inside of the thigh,
descending in varying degree towards the knee
according to their greater or lesser standing. This
mark is called puhoro” (cited in Simmons 1983:
234). Commoners among the Maori only received
minor tattoos, while slaves were branded with a
tattooed marking on the back which was known
as papa (Simmons 1983: 235).
Together with limited social mobility, another
Fig. 1: King Tiawhiao, Maori,
New Zealand, 1902. Photograph
by Woodworth. Peabody Muse-
um, Harvard University.
Anthropos 85.1990
Body Personal and Body Politic
435
feature of Sahlins’s model of Polynesian society is
a high degree of specialization. According to Sah-
lins’s argument, “the extent of specialisation could
be taken as an indication of the degree of social
stratification” (Nooy-Palm 1976: 87). Tattooing is
a form of body decoration which is appropriately
suited to a social system stratified along lines
of specialization. Throughout Polynesia, tattooing
was done by highly skilled specialists. In Samoa,
the tattooers were of the artisan class called tufuga.
They were organized in guilds with tightly restrict-
ed memberships (Marquardt 1899: 6). “A trainee’s
membership in the guild had to be approved by
the other members, who met to pass judgment
on his ability” (Teilhet 1973: 85). Among the
Maori, “tattooing was done by professional artists
called tuhunga” (95). A moko artist learned his
profession as a young apprentice. If he became
successful at his craft, it was not uncommon for
men of high status to secure the services of such
an expert tattooer by showering him with gifts of
guns, canoes, clothes, and slaves (Robley 1896;
98-101).
To summarize, then, whether distinctions in
social status were marked by the absence of tattoos
(i.e., in those societies where the costs of tat-
tooing were so great that only the wealthiest were
adorned) or whether status was symbolized by the
presence of specific markings (i.e., in those soci-
eties where slaves or members of the lower classes
were identified by certain tattooed patterns), Poly-
nesian tattooing was a form of permanent body art
that invariably functioned to signal (and maintain)
class and rank differences in the highly stratified
social systems of the region.4
While tattooing is a permanent body marking
associated with the rigid class hierarchies of Poly-
nesian chiefdoms, body painting is a temporary
form of self-decoration found among uncentral-
ized, acephalous societies in Melanesia. It is a type
of art that has attained its most sophisticated form
in the Highlands of New Guinea, especially among
the Hageners of Central Melpa. Consistent with
4 It is interesting to note that the function of tattooing could
remain so constant whether the tattooed pattern took its
meaning from its absence or from its presence. Parallels
to this sort of duality of meaning in body markings can
be found in other regions of the world. With regard to
slave-marks in Africa, for example, Orlando Patterson has
noted that “Sometimes it was the absence of marks that
identified slaves, as among the Yorubas who forbade slaves
to scar themselves with Yoruba tribal marks; at other times
it was the presence of such tribal marks that immediately
betrayed the slaves, as among the Ashanti, who did not
tattoo themselves like the many neighboring peoples they
captured and enslaved” (1982; 59).
Sahlins’s model of the “ideal” Melanesian politi-
cal type, Hagen society has no hereditary offices
of chiefship nor any rigid hierarchical relations
(Strathem 1971). Leadership is not organized in a
permanent or hereditary manner but is structured
around the authority of a big-man whose power is
tenuous and volatile. Big-men fall from power as
rapidly as they rise. Godelier has decribed the fall
of a big-man in the following terms: “Undermined
and cracked, his social and material base collapses
beneath him and his faction disperses, to rally
around one or other of his rivals, who is thus raised
by his fall” (1982: 4).
Andrew and Marilyn Strathem, who have
studied extensively the “big-man” political sys-
tems of New Guinea, have pointed out that there
are two sorts of relationships in Hagen society that
are affected by the sort of competition which leads
to shifting relations of authority. The first is the
relationship among groups. During the moka or
ceremonial exchange of shell valuables and pigs
(an event which is a focus of political activity in
Hagen society) the group which is presenting the
gifts (the donors) will, for a time, have a relative
position of superiority. On another occasion, how-
ever, this same group will assume a position of in-
feriority, when they become the recipients of gifts
from another group. Changing body decorations
are correlated with such shifts in a group’s status.
“Decorations do not mark out lasting relations of
superiority and inferiority, but are assertions that
one’s own group has succeeded in a current bout
of exchanges” (Strathem and Strathem 1971: 3).
The second shifting relationship in Hagen so-
ciety is that between leader and follower. Because
Hagen leadership is ever-changing, the symbols
of rank that distinguish a big-man from men of
ordinary status are ephemeral and are not indelibly
etched on the holders of power. One might say that
the paints and feathers which are used to adorn
the body of a big-man are as easily removed as
the authority that they are meant to represent. The
Strathems summarize their argument on this point
in the following way: “There are no formalised
offices of leadership nor any indigenous form of
centralised government which could establish per-
manent relations of super- and sub-ordination in
the society. Concomitantly, there are no items of
ornamentation or ‘regalia’ which could belong to
such offices and thus be the perquisites of those
who held them. Individual big-men who have
achieved eminence can display this by the wearing
of numerous King of Saxony feathers and by an
overall magnificence of their decorations. But they
have no prerogative over these features. Other men
Anthropos 85.1990
436
Christopher B. Steiner
are their rivals, and may supplant them as leaders:
a big man can decline in status and become like
an ordinary man, whereas an ordinary man may
rise to become a leader” (1971: 105).
While status distinctions between groups and
individuals are relatively fluid, the Strathems point
out that the distinctions between males and females
in Hagen society is irreversible: i.e., it is an abso-
lute category opposition rather than a relative one.
In this regard, it is especially interesting to note
that the only people in Hagen society to receive
tattoos are women. At a young age, girls are
permanently tattooed on the face. The marks are
made by pricking the skin and rubbing in charcoal
and blue dye. The design consists primarily of dots
over the forehead or arching over the eyebrows,
and under-eye dots or short streaks at the top of
the cheek (Strathem and Strathem 1971: 40-43).
Finally, in contrast to the high degree of spe-
cialization which correlates with the multi-tiered
hierarchy found in Polynesia, Melanesian societ-
ies are characterized by an egalitarian ideal with
a much smaller amount of specialization. Hagen
body painting is an artform that is consistent with
this type of sociopolitical organization. “The skill
required for making [body paint] is not a spe-
cialized one,” write the Strathems, “... and we
may remark in general that although skill enters
the construction of other items, such as spears
and shields, Hageners lay no great emphasis on
technological expertise or craftsmanship. The one
area in which specialist skill is recognized is in
the making of particular types of wig[s], and even
here the specialists do not gain high social status
because of their skills” (1971: 26).
Body painting, then, is a type of adornment
that is characterized by ¿¿//-decoration in which
individuals are not required to rely on the expertise
Fig. 2: Hagen man decorating
his face with body paint, Central
Melpa, New Guinea, 1964—1968.
Photograph by Andrew and Ma-
rilyn Strathem. Reproduced by
courtesy of Andrew J. Strathem.
Anthropos 85.1990
Body Personal and Body Politic
437
of a class of trained specialists (fig. 2). “It is them-
selves that they decorate,” conclude the Stratherns,
“for it is through men’s personal achievements that
renown is brought to them and their clan alike”
(1971: 173).
2. Masks and Crowns: Contrasting Arts of
Leadership in West Africa
Like the political systems of Oceania which were
typologized by Marshall Sahlins in an essay dis-
cussed above, traditional African political orga-
nization can be classified according to types that
then can be placed on a continuum ranging from
centralized and highly differentiated kingdoms -
with a sacred king at the apex of a ranked court - to
undifferentiated or segmentary systems of political
organization with few easily identified leaders (cf.
Eisenstadt 1959). This sort of classification was
first proposed by Fortes and Evans-Pritchard in
what has become a classic monograph in com-
parative political anthropology; “African Political
Systems” (1940). In this work, the authors describe
both centralized and uncentralized political types
for Africa as a whole. Typologies of this sort have
continued to be produced, although in later works
the categories of sociopolitical types have become
somewhat more diverse in order to better account
for the complexity of African political organization
(Brown 1951; Middleton and Tail 1958; Forde and
Kaberry 1967).
As in the previous section of this essay, I
will use as my starting point a comparative socio-
political typology of the region and will attempt
to show that each of these political types can be
correlated with a different form of art that func-
tions to legitimate a particular style of leadership.
Specifically, it will be argued that while the arts
of centralized African kingdoms tend to be arts
of display that serve to make visible the leader
and the wealth and power of his court, the arts of
uncentralized African political systems tend to be
arts of masking that function to conceal rather than
reveal a potential locus of authority (cf. Fraser and
Cole 1972: 296-299; Adams 1980: 30).5
5 The distinction between masks and crowns finds some
parallels in the contrast drawn by Simon Ottenberg between
masking and charisma. In an essay on the psychology
of West African masquerades, Ottenberg has written the
following: “It is fruitful to contrast masking in West Africa
with the concept of charisma ..., for they are at opposite
ends of a scale. ... The charismatic person or leader has
as his social role his personality fully projected; he puts
his individual behavioral characteristics strongly into his
While crowns and masks may both be classi-
fied as decorations of the head, they are in fact
very different from one another. In contrast to
crowning, which draws attention to the head and
face of the wearer, masking hides a person’s iden-
tity. Because of its capacity to disguise the human
face, masking, in the broad spectrum of body
decoration, should be classified as a unique form of
adornment. In his essay on “Split Representation in
the Art of Asia and America,” Lévi-Strauss over-
looks the uniqueness of masking, and concludes
instead that all societies which create decorations
for the face and head should be described as “mask
cultures.” He writes; “All the cultures considered
here are, in fact, mask cultures whether the mask-
ing is achieved predominantly by tattooing (as is
the case for the Guaicuru and Maori) or whether
the stress is placed literally on the mask, as the
Northwest Coast has done in a fashion unsurpassed
elsewhere” (1963: 261 f.). In a mode of reasoning
similar to the one which led him to conclude that
the arts of body painting and tattooing were in-
distinguishable, Lévi-Strauss blurs the distinction
between masking and tattooing. Writing on Poly-
nesian tattooing, one author has criticized Lévi-
Strauss in the following way6 *; “Facial tattooing is
in opposition to a true masking tradition because it
becomes an intrinsic sign of the individual, a part
of his or her physiognomy. ... In a tattooing situ-
ation, such as Polynesia, the individual represents
a fixed position in the social hierarchy. The tattoo
does not disguise or conceal the person’s basic
social identity; it signifies an addition of new social
roles or transitions in status. A masking situation is
significantly in contrast to this. Instead of being a
marker of additional new features of social identi-
ty, it represents the disguising, the ‘masking’ of the
old social identity in order to signal some cultural
form. A mask disguises as well as symbolizes.
Marks of status do not disguise; they embellish”
(Teilhet 1979: 198 f.).
role so that his personal qualities predominate and become
his attractiveness to others. ... On the other hand, the
masker is in a highly structured role situation in which, to
the audience, the individual personality disappears, almost
totally masked in the social role portrayed” (1982: 157).
6 A similar critique has been put forth by Ogebenin in his
article on “Mask in the Light of Semiotics” (1975). He
too directly addresses Lévi-Strauss’s point regarding the
similarity of masks and tattoos, and concludes contra Lévi-
Strauss that “The mask is ... only a temporary instrument,
not permanently fixing as the tattoo does the social class of
a person; although also an instrument of transformation of
a social type, the mask leaves undisturbed the distribution
of social roles, creating only the semblance of another
hierarchy” (1975: 3).
Anthropos 85.1990
ишмн
438
Although some forms of masking are found
in a few of the more centralized kingdoms of
West and Central Africa,7" the primary domain of
elaborate masking traditions is in the uncentral-
ized societies of West Africa (most notably in
the present-day nations of Nigeria, Côte d’Ivoire,
Burkina Faso, Mali, Liberia, and Sierra Leone).
Masking in this region tends to be coupled with
secret societies which are structured along the lines
of lineages. Secrecy in these situations functions
to protect those engaged in judicial and policy-
making deliberations against pressure from their
various lineages (Jones 1979: 48). “This makes it
easier for them to consider any situation on its
merits, and to avoid taking up positions inspired
by purely sectional interests” (Horton 1976: 96).
In societies organized on the basis of secret
sociopolitical organizations, the mask is a well-
suited form of body adornment since it hides the
face in social intercourse and protects a person’s
identity. Among students of African masks, one
of the earliest to draw a meaningful connection
between the politics of segmentary societies and
the art of masking was George W. Harley (Stei-
ner 1986). In his monograph “Masks as Agents
of Social Control in Northeast Liberia” (1950),
Harley demonstrated how the functioning of law
and politics among the Mano and Dan depended
on the use of wooden masks that were owned by
ritual specialists and judges referred to collective-
ly, under the Mano name, Gonola (1950: 12). The
masks, Harley wrote, were “practical implements
[that served to] guarantee the smooth working of a
system of government founded on strict adherence
to custom” (vii). Each type of mask served a dif-
ferent function and was ranked along a hierarchy
ranging from the most feared and powerful ones
to the most benevolent (fig. 3). The connection
between masking and political organization has
also been taken up in the writings of Robin Horton,
who argues that the masking of the society’s ex-
ecutives “makes immediate sense when considered
7 The Yoruba and Kuba have masking traditions that operate
in a separate domain from centralized royal authority. The
Asante, however, one of the most powerful kingdoms in
nineteenth-century Africa, present a powerful contrast to
acephalous societies with masking, since it was their policy
to strictly outlaw masking in their territory. “Unlike several
of their neighbours,” explains McLeod, “the Asante have
no tradition of masks and masquerade. ... It is possible
that Asante rulers actively discouraged the importation of
masks as these would undermine their political control.
It is striking that the only nineteenth-century masks were
recorded in the 1880s when the Asantehene’s [paramount
chief] powers were diminished” (1981; 67).
Christopher B. Steiner
as a device to ensure acceptance of the harsh-
er sanctions applied by the society to offenders
against community laws - sanctions which may
include death, corporal punishment, or confiscation
of properties. Where the executives are masked, it
is possible for the public to accept their actions,
however harsh, as impersonal manifestations of
the collective will. If they were unmasked and
identifiable, their actions might cause dangerous
resentment through suspicion of sectional interest”
(1976: 97).8
In his research among the Mandinka of the
Gambia in West Africa, Peter Weil has put forth
an argument suggesting that masking functions to
reduce political tensions in communities character-
ized by lineage rivalry and factionalism. “Masked
figures in this context,” writes Weil, “provide a
mechanism through which the probability of sus-
tained, divisive conflict is decreased by converting
secular actions of rule-application into sacred, su-
pra-social actions” (1971: 279).
The Mandinka communities which were stud-
ied by Weil are made up of two potentially fac-
tious groups: members of the patrilineage that
founded the village (dinsara), and members of all
other patrilineages in the village who are termed
“strangers” (falifo). Stranger lineages are clients to
founding lineages which grant them use-rights to
land in return for political and public economic
support. Rules in the village are established by the
village senior founders at village-wide meetings.
The established rules and decrees are then enforced
by members of the young men’s age grade.
Because the age grade recruits its members
from both founder and stranger lineages, the en-
forcement of rules by young men of all lineages is
potentially challenging to the principle of lineage
ranking since it cuts across stratification based
on lineage membership. Weil explains this when
he writes, “In the process of applying rules, the
young men’s age grade must punish or be able to
make a fully credible threat to punish malinger-
ers, adulterous women, sorcerers, gossips, and the
like - anyone from any level of the stratification
system” (1971: 285). The chances of conflict in
the application of rules is lessened by the use
of masked and costumed figures. On communal
work projects, for example, where equal labor is
8 In this form of political organization, the hierarchy of the
masks forms a separate status system which is conceptually
distinct from the individuals who actually exercise author-
ity. By identifying the source of power outside society,
an image of diffuse, impartial social control is maintained
within the community.
Anthropos 85.1990
Body Personal and Body Politic
439
expected of all participants, a young man wearing
a mask calls out the workers, strikes even the
foreman, and punishes shirkers (Adams 1980: 30).
“The masked figure and its secret association,”
concludes Weil, “offer this age grade a mechanism
to establish its credibility, impartiality, and flexi-
bility as a rule-applying structure” (1971: 285 f.).
Among the Afikpo Ibo of eastern Nigeria,
Simon Ottenberg describes a situation in which
masks are used by the young men in the commu-
nity to criticize the behavior of the village elders.
Like other Ibo communities, the one studied by
Ottenberg has never formed itself into a highly
centralized political system. “The male elders rule
the village by common agreement amongst them-
selves. There are no formal village chiefs or heads;
consensus is the rule” (Ottenberg 1972: 100).
Young Afikpo men organize an annual festival
known as Okumkpa that consists of a series of skits
and songs presented before the entire village. The
performers wear painted wooden masks and cloth
and fiber costumes that hide their identity. Because
Fig. 3: Mask (gonola) associat-
ed with judgment, Dan/Mano re-
gion, Liberia, early 20th centu-
ry. Collected by George W. Har-
ley. Photograph by F. P. Orchard.
Peabody Museum, Harvard Uni-
versity.
Anthropos 85.1990
440
Christopher B. Steiner
the identity of the players is not known, “the young
men are essentially free from the usual authority
of the elders” (107). The masked skits serve to
comment on the need to follow proper procedures
and etiquette, as well as to criticize and ridicule
named elders of the villages. Some dramas, for
instance, reveal “that certain elders are foolish men
who make unwise decisions for their own personal
goals rather than for the whole community” (110).
Ottenberg emphasizes that it is only by using the
masks that direct criticisms like these are possible.
“The kinds of comments these masked figures -
young and middle-aged men - make concerning
their leaders,” writes Ottenberg, “would be, Afikpo
admit, impossible to utter, unmasked, in public.
The political structure of the village is such that no
young or middle-aged man would normally dare
to make such statement at village councils” (111).
And, further on, he concludes: “The secrecy of
the dancers, achieved through the use of masks
and costume as concealing forms, is a method
of publicly revealing what persons gossip about
privately, or simply do not know. The masked
players, through a ritual role reversal of leadership,
become devices through which the secrets of the
‘other world’ are revealed and explained” (119).
While masks conceal the face and head of
the wearer, crowns, headdresses, and other forms
of coronal regalia function to draw attention to a
named leader. “Personal regalia, elaborate archi-
tecture and furnishings, and various objects used
by leaders render them more conspicuous and thus
enhance their superior status and power to control”
(Fraser and Cole 1972: 309). Rather than hide the
wearer’s identity, headdresses serve to “establish
direct identity” (Biebuyck and Abbeele 1984: 49).
In many instances, the crown itself is one
of the most important defining features of the
institution of kingship. In the African kingdom of
Ngoyo in western Zaire, for example, the royal
insignia consists primarily of a cap and a throne or
stool. The cap is said to be the most vital symbol
of kingship. At the conclusion of the investiture
of the Ngoyo king, the newly invested leader is
reminded: “It is the cap/crown which makes nsi
[king] live and last” (Van Wing 1959: 110). In fact,
“the cap [which is] received as his foremost piece
of regalia and the invested chief himself become
conceptually identical” (Volavka 1981: 46).
Although most kingdoms in Africa share
many of the same characteristics, there is some
variation in the degree to which the ruler is thought
to be divine (Vansina 1962: 325). In divine king-
ship, it is not the individual who is sacred or
who holds power, but rather it is the office of
royalty which represents the ruling authority. In
those African political systems that place the most
emphasis on the special supernatural powers of the
king, the ruler tends to be enveloped in the most
layers of regalia which serve to reveal his office
by hiding his person.
Among the Yoruba of Nigeria, the divine na-
Fig. 4: The Ore of Otun with
his wives, Yoruba, Nigeria, 1900-
1910. The King’s face is not only
covered by a veil of beads affixed
to the crown but is also concealed
by a beaded shield held over his
mouth. Photographer unknown.
Foreign and Commonwealth Of-
fice, Library and Records Depart-
ment, London. Reproduced by
courtesy of John Pemberton III.
Anthropos 85.1990
Body Personal and Body Politic
441
Fig. 5: Asante Paramount Chief Nana Akyano Akowuah Da- Eliot Elisofon. National Museum of African Art, Eliot Elisofon
tehll and his court, Kumasi, Ghana, 1970. Photograph by Archives, Smithsonian Institution.
ture of kingship is strongly felt. Because the king’s
divine powers are thought to emanate from his
head, crowns are considered to be the most pow-
erful aspect of the Yoruba king’s regalia (Ogunba
1964; Blier 1985; Euba 1985; Drewal and Pem-
berton 1989). The Yoruba crown consists of a tall
conical cloth form which is covered with different
brilliantly colored glass beads (Thompson 1972:
230). At the bottom edge of the crown are strings
of beads that hang in front of the wearer’s face
(fig. 4). As a result, the king’s identity is partially
masked behind a veil of heavily beaded fringe
(Thompson 1976: 81). “The function of the [Yor-
uba] crown,” Ulli Beier has written, “is to elimi-
nate the individual personality of the wearer and
supplant it with the divine power of the dynasty.
... Once a king is installed, it is imperative that
he never shows his face to the public. The crown
thus becomes the mask that transforms him into
the ‘brother of the gods’” (1982: 24-26).
Not all crowns or royal headdresses func-
tion to hide the divine leader’s secular body. In
some African kingdoms, especially those where
the king’s functions are principally administra-
head ornaments identify individually named lead-
ers and subordinate members of the king’s en-
tourage. In what is now the present-day republic
of Ghana, the ruler of the Asante Confederacy,
the Asantehene, represented directly the visual
grandeur of his court. The Asante Confederacy
was a highly centralized political system with a
named leader at the summit of a well-developed
court administration (Wilks 1975). In Asante, Cole
reports, “regalia became hierarchical, with ‘first-
class’ chiefs allowing their subjects certain items,
and so on down the organizational pyramid which
had at its apex a divine king - the dispenser of gold
and other riches” (1970: 21). In “The Sacred State
of the Akan,” Eva Meyerowitz describes the king
(fig. 5) in the following way: “He sat under the
enormous double state umbrella of his ancestors.
He wore full regalia; a purple cloth of heavy
velvet richly embroidered with the royal emblems,
necklaces, armlets, bracelets, finger-rings, anklets
and toe-rings of gold, and round his head a chaplet
covered with triangles of gold” (1951: 53).
Like the tattoos of the centralized kingdoms
of Polynesia which functioned to signal rank in
Anthropos 85.1990
442
Christopher B. Steiner
the political hierarchy, crowns and other regalia
in African kingdoms served to differentiate lead-
ers according to status. During the annual state
festivals in Asante, for example, hundreds of re-
galia-laden rulers assembled in the Asante capital.
According to Cole, “All were visually differenti-
ated according to rank. The more elaborate, rare
and expensive the regalia, the more important the
leader. Lesser chiefs were restricted to more com-
mon materials like brass or wood instead of gold,
cotton instead of silk, and horse tails instead of
elephant tails” (1970; 22). In fact, even textiles
in the Asante Confederacy were ranked along the
lines of political hierarchy. Denise Paulme tells us
that Asante “silks and cottons have designs which
identify the origin, social status, and sex of the
bearer; in earlier times all new designs were the
property of the king who either reserved them for
his own use or else made a gift of them to those
whom he wished to honour” (1973: 12).
The contrast between coronal ornaments that
reveal (Asante) and those that partially conceal
(Yoruba) is even more interesting when one con-
siders evidence of changes through time in the
symbolism of royal regalia within a single African
kingdom. To return, for a moment, to the Yoruba,
it has been discovered in archaeological finds at
Ife that fourteenth-century Yoruba crowns were
very different from those described in contem-
porary accounts. Of greatest significance is that
none of the uncovered Ife heads or figures that
bear crowns appear to have strings of beads that
hide the wearer’s face. If these heads are indeed, as
Frank Willett (1967) has argued, representations of
deceased kings, then the concept of royalty among
the Yoruba has changed drastically since the four-
teenth century. Exploring the contrast between
present-day Yoruba crowns and earlier ones, Ulli
Beier concludes that “[Today] the individuality of
the oha ... is not something to be remembered
and preserved. His face is hidden from the public
throughout his life and it is unthinkable that it
should be preserved with naturalistic detail for
posterity. But the crowns of ancient Ife do not
attempt to hide the face of the king. Instead of
the mask-like supernatural mystique of the beaded
crown and its highly stylized frontal face, we see
the idealized, naturalistic feature of a serene, but
definitely anthropomorphic face. Somewhere be-
tween the fourteenth century and the seventeenth
or eighteenth century Yoruba kingship developed
from the splendours of a wealthy, cultured lead-
ership to the mysteries and complexities of divine
kingship” (1982; 33 f.).
From these examples of adornment and lead-
ership in West Africa, it is possible to conclude
that there exists a continuum of body ornamen-
tation associated with political authority which
ranges from adornments that help the leader be
seen to those that serve the leader as screen. In
societies with uncentralized political organization
it has been demonstrated that masking disguises
the source of authority. In some cases masks allow
lawmakers to remain anonymous (and presumably
impartial) while carrying out the enforcement of
rules. In others, masks permit those in subordi-
nate positions to criticize superiors without risking
punishment or retaliation. In societies with cen-
tralized political organization crowns make visible
the locus of authority. Crowning can be divided
into two separate categories. The first, which falls
somewhere in the middle of the overall continuum,
partially masks the wearer. In a divine kingdom,
this type of crowning hides the secular form of
the leader in order to focus full attention on the
sacred office which he represents. The second type
of crowning draws attention to the individual in
power. Characteristic of administrative kingdoms
like that of the Asante, this sort of crowning frames
the leader in a panoply of regalia: a stool at his
feet, a state umbrella above his head, and a ring
of attendants all around.
Conclusion
There exists in social anthropology a tradition
of what Durkheim called the study of “concom-
itant variation.” This sort of analysis aims to
investigate the relationship among a given cul-
tural practice and particular features of the cul-
tures in which it appears. In “Child Training and
Personality” (1953), for example, John Whiting
and Irvin Child analyzed across many societies
the statistical correlation of child-training practices
and beliefs about the causes of illness. Working
in a similar tradition, S. F. Nadel, in his essay
on “Witchcraft in Four African Societies” (1952),
suggested that witchcraft beliefs were causally
related to specific anxieties and stresses arising
in social life. Through cross-cultural analysis of
concomitant variation, he discovered that societies
with particular forms of tension brought about
through aspects of their cultural beliefs or social
organization were likely to have more incidents
of witchcraft accusations than societies in which
these tensions were absent.
By asking whether a society’s degree of po-
litical differentiation is reflected precisely in its
artistic forms, Douglas Fraser and Herbert Cole, in
Anthropos 85.1990
3ody Personal and Body Politic
443
their edited volume on “African Art and Leader-
ship” (1972), raised for the first time the possibility
of analyzing concomitant variation in the realms of
ornamentation and politics. “Are the nuances and
complexities of the leadership sphere sufficiently
related,” they ask, “to those of the visual domain to
link the two in a cause-and-effect manner?” (299).
In this essay I have taken seriously the challenge
put forth by Fraser and Cole. In so doing, I have
demonstrated that at least in some instances there
is a significant correlation between art form and
style of leadership, and that certain arts are suited
by design to certain types of political organization.
In recent years, historians and social scientists
have become increasingly aware that important
clues to uncovering the mechanics and meaning of
political systems lie not only in the formal struc-
tures and actions of political groups, but also in the
less obvious realms of language, gesture, posture,
and art. Hegemonic relations are perpetuated not
merely through the direct application of rules and
codes of conduct, but also less directly through
the control of vocabularies, grammars, and a host
of other symbolic materials (Cohen 1986). Body
decoration, it has been argued herein, is a key
symbol in the structuring and unfolding of political
life. Though sometimes silent in its direct political
manifestations, body decoration has been shown to
be so central to political organization that its forms
may indeed covary with diverse political types.
One of the results of discovering political
messages in the minutiae of both everyday and
ritual life, has been the realization that the flow
of information which establishes, modifies, and
comments on major sociopolitical categories is not
limited to particular moments or isolated spatial
domains, but is present, often in unarticulated
ways, at all times all around us. In a recent book
on the history of colonial Virginia, Rhys Isaac
takes up this very point: “A society necessarily
leaves marks of use upon the terrain it occupies.
These marks are meaningful signs not only of the
particular relations of a people to environment but
also of the distribution and control of access to
essential resources. Incised upon a society’s living
space appears a text for the inhabitants - which
he who runs may read - of social relations in
their world. Moving more slowly, anthropologists
for present societies, and historical ethnographers
for past ones, must understand the relations of
production inscribed upon the land and decipher
as much as they can of the meanings that such
relations assumed for those who were part of
them” (1982: 19). It is but a small analytical
leap from the physiography of the meaning of the
land to the social geography, as it were, of the
human body. Like a map with marks of social and
political terrain, body adornments provide a chart
of the cultural anatomy which structures relations
of status, hierarchy, and power.
I am grateful to Professors Monni Adams, Sally Falk
Moore, Stanley Tambiah, and Nur Yalman for having
read an earlier draft of this essay. I wish also to thank
Christraud Geary, Barbara Isaac, Kathleen Skelly, and
Carol Thompson for their assistance in making available
the photographs and artifact which illustrate this article.
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Anthropos 85.1990
COLLECTANEA INSTITUTI ANTHROPOS
OROMO
RELIGION
LAMBERT BARTELS
8
COLLECTANEA
INSTITUTI ANTHROPOS
Lambert Bartels
Oromo Religion - Myths and Rites
of the Western Oromo of Ethiopia -
An Attempt to Understand
411 pp., ISBN 3-496-00671-4, DM 62,-
2nd edition 1990
This book is ... a treasure-house of carefully and lovingly gathered detail on the rituals
and beliefs of the western Matcha Oromo, in the main as they are reconstructed as “tradition”
in conversations with both younger and older informants ; . . . this study, dedicated to the
Oromo people, is a valuable document of their current quest for an authentic and self-
Wendy James in Journal of Religion in Africa 1987
identifying past.
This book is a pathbreaking and absorbing survey of the religious life, concepts, and
worldview of the Matcha Oromo of Wállaga province. - Pathbreaking, because it contains
the first substantial study of Oromo religion that has appeared for a long time, taking the
views and statements of the Oromo themselves as the first source; absorbing, because this
book is an inspired, sincere, and very interesting account, that evokes deep admiration. . . .
It is an invaluable sourcebook containing many new data (prayers, texts, native explanations,
stories, ritual formula, etc.) and as such it is a work to read and consult many times. It is
destined to become a classic. J. Abbink in Anthropos 1985
This is in many ways an admirable book. It demonstrates the author’s command of the Oromo
language, and his love for the Oromo people. This together with his choice of able assistants
and the considerable latitude he gave them to articulate their own religious concepts, his
fascinating observation of numerous ceremonies and his excellent interpretation of them, all
make this an invaluable and much needed work of reference on the study of Oromo society.
Mohammed Hassen in Man 1985
Orders to: Dietrich Reimer Verlag, Unter den Eichen 57, 1000 Berlin 45
West Germany
Anthropos 85.1990: 447-454
Patterns of Control on Medicine, Politics, and Social
Change among the Wimbum, Cameroon Grassfields
Peter Probst and Brigitte Biihler
Abstract. - This article investigates the role of medicine as
a category of politics. Starting from two different concepts of
efficacy of medicine among the Wimbum in the northeast of
the Cameroon grassfields, we show the political and ideological
nature of health and healing in this society. We argue that
within a centralized political system as the one of the Wimbum,
popular healing is closely bound up with basic political and
economic processes. Changes of these processes illuminate,
therefore, the importance of control over medicines and control
over healing, as the two crucial issues we focus on in this paper.
[Africa, Cameroon, medicine, politics, witchcraft]
Peter Probst, M. A., M. Phil; studied Ethnology at the Freie
Universität Berlin and the University of Cambridge (1978—
1985). Between 1985 and 1986 fieldwork on literacy and social
change among the Wimbum, Cameroon grassfields. At present,
attached to the Institute of Ethnology, Freie Universität Berlin,
where he just submitted his dissertation on “Writing, the State,
and Symbolic Capital in the Cameroon Grassfields.”
Brigitte Biihler, M. A.; studied ethnology, sociology, and ed-
ucation at the University of Bonn and the Freie Universität
Berlin (1978-1983). Several visits to the Cameroon grassfields
including a longer field study (1985-1986) on the social and
political implications of oral history among the Wiya-Wimbum.
At present, writing up her dissertation on history and politics
among the Wiya-Wimbum at the University of Münster.
1. Introduction
Back in 1915 and 1916 W. H. R. Rivers delivered
four lectures before the Royal College of Physi-
cians in London. Some years later they appeared
in a book entitled “Medicine, Magic, and Religion”
(Rivers 1924). The book has become a milestone
in the field of medical anthropology not the least
because of River’s early and influential attempt
to make a qualified distinction between the idea
of medicine and those of magic and religion.1
Since then the debate about the validity of such
arguments has been a constant one in anthropol-
ogy.2 3 The bulk of ethnographic material on Afri-
can society gathered in the heyday of structural
Functionalism has shown the semantic difficulties
the anthropologist has when he wants to translate
the idea the Yoruba, the Zande, the Lodagga, or,
as we will still see, the Wimbum have in mind,
when they speak of ogun, ngua, tii, or mshep.
Speaking with them in pidgin, they themselves
talk of “medicine,” the anthropologist, on the other
hand, tends to think of “magic.”
The argument we will elaborate in the fol-
lowing starts with a similar theme. During our
research among the Wimbum, a culturally and
linguistically homogeneous group of three autono-
mous chiefdoms in the northeast of the Cameroon
grassfields, we had little interest in the study of
medicine. It was only later when we received the
invitation to a conference that we started to reflect
upon the meaning of medicine in the society we
had lived in.3 Rather unexpectedly, our material
lead us into a field quite apart from the established
questions of medical anthropology. Politics instead
of illness, conflict instead of health turned out to
be the main issues we became confronted with.
As we will try to show in the present paper the
reason for this lies to a great deal in the subject
itself. Thus the Wimbum know and speak of two
kinds of medicine, mshep, “good” medicine and
1 “Magic and religion are thus differentiated from one another
by their attitude towards the means by which man seeks
to influence the universe around him. Medicine, on the
other hand, is a term for a set of social practices by
which man seeks to direct and control a specific group
of natural phenomena - viz. those especially affecting man
himself, which so influence his behaviour as to unfit for the
normal accomplishment of his physical and social functions
- phenomena which lower his vitality and tend towards
death” (Rivers 1924: 4).
2 For a recent contribution to this discussion, see Pool (1989)
to whom we thank for a critical reading of this paper.
3 This was a conference on “Ethnomédical Systems in Sub-
Sahara Africa” which took place in June 1988 at the African
Studies Center Leiden. The present article is a revised
version of our contribution. It is based on our research
on oral tradition and local politics (B. B.) and literacy and
social change (P. P.). Respective fieldwork was carried out
between March 1985 and August 1986.
448
Peter Probst and Brigitte Bühler
“bad” medicine.4 In fact, there exists a grammat-
ical distinction reflecting the difference - mshep
denotes the “good,” the singular form nshep the
“bad” medicine. In everyday life, however, such
verbal distinctions are hardly made. It is rather the
specific social context which gives the appropriate
meaning of the term.5 In this way the term mshep
signifies different concepts of efficacy with the
“good” medicines referring to public and harmless
objects and the “bad” medicines denoting the se-
cret and dangerous realm of “magic.” In addition,
however, these semantic nuances include also a
number of important political implications which
can be read as expressions of the moral legitimacy
of social relations, thus indicating the ideological
nature of health and healing in Wimbum society.
As we will see, within a centralized political sys-
tem as the one of the Wimbum, popular healing is
closely bound up with basic political and economic
processes. Control over medicines and control over
healing are, therefore, the crucial issues we will
focus on in this paper.
2. The Setting
The Wimbum live in the northeast of the Cam-
eroon grassfields, approximately 120 km off the
provincial capital Bamenda.6 Consisting of three
autonomous chiefdoms, the Wiya, Tang, and War,
4 The attributes “good” and “bad” should be read with
caution. Among the Wimbum, they do not have the eth-
ical connotations, we are inclined to think of. Rather, they
correspond with different categories of diseases, similar
to Mallart Guimera’s (1977) distinction between “simple,”
“diurnal,” and “nocturnal” health problems among the Beti
in the forest belt of Southern Cameroon. The “simple”
diseases are said to be caused by what a medical doctor
would call “natural” agents, to be fairly easily diagnosed
and cured by mostly herbal pharmacopoiea. The “diurnal”
health problems are said to be caused by a breach of social
norms regulating relationships within and between kin and
descent groups including the dead. They can be diagnosed
through divination. The cure is effected by straightening
matters between the conflicting parties, whether alive or
dead. The “nocturnal” ailments, on the other hand, are
believed to be caused by sorcery, witchcraft, or magic. They
can be diagnosed and cured by counter-sorcery specialists
who are supposed to possess a powerful principle of witch-
craft (evu among the Beti), and are able to overpower the
magic or witchcraft ability of other people in the course of
exacting occult fights.
5 The actual circumstances resemble somewhat the situation
discussed by van der Geest (1988) and Pool (1989).
6 For historic and ethnographic information on the Wimbum
see the works of Chilver and Kaberry (1967), Mafiambe
(1969), Warnier (1985), and Jeffreys (1962).
they comprise between 60,000 and 70,000 people.7
As settled agriculturalists raising mainly maize,
yams, and beans, they reside in scattered villages
strung along the rolling hills and deep valleys
which dominate the environment. The villages are
essentially the homes of patrilineal, patrilocal de-
scent groups (ndap) which, by way of a quarter
structure, are grouped together into single central-
ized political units under the rule of a paramount
chief commonly labelled as fon.8
The Wimbum fon has his place in the palace,
ntosi, where he is assisted in his governmental
and judicial tasks by the queen mothers, ya, the
councillors, kibai, and a number of other important
personalities selected intermittently from the dif-
ferent strata of the society: Generally, they can
be grouped together in (a) members of the ruling
dynasties, (b) members of retainer lineages among
whom the personal attendants of the fon and the
members of nwarrong (see below) are recruited,
and (c) descendants of other groups of immigrants
who, in the course of time, became voluntary
allies to the fon many generations ago. Interwoven
with these social categories is a complex system
of titles and offices documented most vividly in
the different colourful designs of the caps worn
by the men. They all denote different titles and
offices and hence different kinds of behaviour
within the realm of social relations. These titles
and offices are vested in the lineages and in the
various men’s fraternities such as nwarrong, the
regulatory society insuring the claims of authority
of the fon; ngirri, the society of the princes; and
the two warrior and hunting societies nfuh and
samba. The endeavour to climb up within these
institutions with the aim to acquire a position of
influence and prestige is common throughout the
population and thus provides the internal flexibility
and vividness of this otherwise strongly stratified
social system. Flexible and alive as the system may
be, there remains the fact that power is neverthe-
less unequally distributed. Called forth by envy,
jealousy, and rivalry, latent tensions and conflicts
are immanent in this situation. Within Wimbum
7 The figures stem from the early seventies (ORSTOM 1973).
A new census was carried out during the time of our
research in 1986. Up to the time of writing this paper, we
couldn’t get hold of the results.
8 The acutal Limbum term is nkfu. While talking with strang-
ers the Wimbum prefer, however, to use the term fon. This
practice is common throughout the area. On prestigious
grounds, the Wimbum have taken over many titles and
institutions from their powerful neighbours, the Nso, and
adapted them to their own system (cf. the kibai, aya, afai,
etc.).
Anthropos 85.1990
Patterns of Control on Medicine, Politics, and Social Change
449
society these sentiments are expressed through the
idiom of witchcraft, tfu.
The idea of witchcraft, tfu, among the Wim-
bum is far from being clear cut. There exists a
great number of diverse and often contradictory
stories explaining the nature of tfu. The content
of all these informations differs of course with
respect to the status and profession of the person
with whom one is discussing the subject. Talking
about tfu with a kibai is something different than
conversing with the small boy from the market.
The discourse differs not only in terms of technical
precision but also in terms of seriousness. For both,
however, the expert and the lay man, tfu is a field
in which imagination runs riot. It is a topic of
general interest, not without some value of enter-
tainment to which everybody is eager to contribute
his own opinions and experiences. Nevertheless,
there are certain basic elements all Wimbum agree
upon. These elements form the imaginary structure
of the //«-concept which can be outlied as follows.
The Wimbum conceptualize tfu as a hidden,
non-hereditary, and non-purchasable force both
men and women are bom with.9 So the situation
is; either one has tfu from the start or never will.
The potencies of tfu are said to always be used
conciously. Once one has found that one inheres
tfu, one begins to leam it, i.e., one leams to handle
its peculiar qualities with the help of special medi-
cines. “Learning” tfu includes two options: one can
use tfu in a constructive way (tfu jebu), that is, to
divine and to protect people without this power
from the attacks of those who use it in a malicious
way.10 In this version, known as tfu jibi, the witch
is believed to deliver the life of a member of her
surroundings to her fellow witches by stealing the
victim’s hong (meaning “life,” “breath,” “soul”).
This is then eaten in a hideous cannibalistic ritual
resulting in the victim’s death or gradual illness,
depending on how much of the hong is already
consumed.
9 Even though the Wimbum localize tfu in the stomach area,
they have never practised any post-mortem operations. Ac-
cording to Jeffreys (1962), there existed the institution of
the sasswood ordeal. It has been given up, however, long
ago under the pressure of colonial administration.
10 From this it can be seen that tfu is basically a morally
neutral concept. Thus it does not fit into the orthodox
views, which - in the tradition of Evans-Pritchard - label
witchcraft always as the idea of the anti-social in general.
From a careful reworking of Evans-Pritchard’s account on
the Zande Harwood (1982: 125 f.) has shown that even the
Zande concept mangu itself denotes essentially a morally
neutral power which only by way of a biased ethnographer
has become to be labelled negatively. For similar findings
related to the northwestern Bantu area see Geschiere’s work
(1982) on the Maka.
As the power of such a “bad” witch (tfu
njingnwe) is said to reach only rarely beyond the
limits of the compound (la) or quarter (la) where
she/he resides, supervision over the investigation
into witchcraft cases falls either under the authority
of the respective quarterhead (tala) or the fon,
depending on the seriousness of the case. Together
with the other authorities of the quarter or of the
palace, these persons decide which diviner will
be consulted and which steps will be taken to
prevent further harm. To these measures belong
for example the banishment of eventual culprits
from the community by nwarrong or the decree to
activate the two anti-witchcraft institutions pso and
shihngong which serve to protect the Wimbum ter-
ritory from the mystical attacks of internal as well
as external enemies and in which the quarterheads
and the fon occupy leading positions.
What is conspicious in this setting, is that
the validation of witchcraft allegations obviously
depends upon the approval or disapproval of the
traditional authorities supervising the appropriate
investigations. It seems therefore reasonable to
suspect that within the hierarchical structure of
Wimbum society the actual politics of witchcraft
might act not so much as a levelling force in
terms of an expression of protest articulated by
those who sit at the bottom of that hierarchy,
but rather reverse, that is as a means to maintain
and uphold the positions of those who already are
in possession of power and who want to defend
their privileged positions.11 However, if this is
the case, the question arises how this system is
socially legitimated. To eclucidate this argument
more clearly it is best to investigate the relation-
ship between witchcraft and traditional authority
under the perspective of medicine.
3. The Politics of Secrecy or Medicine and
Authority
As we mentioned in the introduction, the Wimbum
distinguish between “good” and “bad” medicine.
To the former belong the modem drugs available
in the near-by mission hospital or in the local
health centers as well as the traditional herbs and
potions against gastritis, malaria, fractures, head-
ache, obstipation, dysenteria, etc. All of them can
11 With respect to witchcraft accusations, further examples of
this ideological link between a centralized political system
and a centralized public opinion can be found in McLeod
1972 and Kohnert 1983.
Anthropos 85.1990
450
Peter Probst and Brigitte Bühler
be obtained openly at the market from certain
known men specializing in their production. The
latter, that is “bad” medicine, includes all kinds of
charged objects for the achievement of personal
aims as well as special remedies against ailments
whose cause is suspected in the realm of the super-
natural.12 To acquire them the customer has to visit
a “medicine man,” commonly known throughout
the region as ngambe man, privately in his house
where the appropriate treatment will be found out
by divination, sing.
Common to both sorts of medicine is the idea,
that medicine invariably consists of a substance
or an object which anyone knowing the necessary
components and ingredients can gather or buy
and make effective by relatively simple means.
By definition, medicine is then first and foremost
“knowledge” which - in theory - is possible to be
transferred by tuition or purchase. Closely linked
with this issue is the idea that medicines, in con-
trast to tfu, are always visible, and since they are
visible their effects are - again in theory - always
comprehensible, at least to the professionals in this
business.13
At first sight, this seems to contradict the
general opinion which considers real medicine al-
ways as “bad” medicine, thus always as something
which is surrounded with the aura of witchcraft
and secrecy. In this latter case “bad” medicine
is an object or a substance which is believed to
exercise magical effects upon the efficacy of other
objects, e.g., tools, weapons, masks, etc., upon
the result of human efforts in particular and upon
human fate in general. The hidden logic in the
link between witchcraft and medicine may perhaps
be best illustrated with the help of a metaphor.
Imagine a person who uses skis to ride down a
snow covered hill. Now, in this image tfu can be
seen as the law of gravity which makes the skis
run down the hill while the skis themselves can be
understood as “bad” medicines. Even though our
person has no actual physical knowledge of the
principle of gravity, he empirically acknowledges
its existance as an aspect of his everyday life and
utilizes this knowledge for his own purposes. It
is just this instrumental aspect which characterizes
12 The Wimbum idea of “bad” medicine thus seems to cor-
respond with what Mallart Guimera (1977) calls “diurnal”
and “nocturnal” health problems (cf. note 4).
13 The pidgin label doctor for a person dealing with medicines
as well as the pidgin-term scientific juju for the masked
figure ngang, which is said to be able to detect “bad” med-
icine buried in the ground, reflect these ideas of knowledge,
specialization, and visibility.
the Wimbum concept of “bad” medicine most ap-
propriately. However, there is yet another aspect
this kind of reasoning throws light upon: That is,
in contrast to an abstract principle like gravity or
tfu, skis or “bad” medicine can be seen. In fact,
besides its instrumental aspect another character-
istic feature of “bad” medicine is its visibility,
or more precisely, the socially restricted access
to this quality in terms of secrecy. Let us now
illustrate the implications of these findings in the
ethnographic context.
The category of secrecy operates against the
idea of the theoretical availability of all kinds
of medicine implying thereby the notion of the
principal visibility of medicines as well. What
we have here is a matter of political importance
and what is at stake is the issue of power. This
becomes apparent when one takes a look at the
most important men’s secret societies among the
Wimbum. All of them have been taken over from
other groups. Nwarrong, for example, comes from
the Nso in Bui division. Ngirri and nfuh have
been imported from the Bamum, samba has been
brought from Baba in the Ndop plain, and pso
and shiringong probably stem from Kaka area. All
these societies are in possession of powerful mshep
over which they have a monopoly. The objects and
substances classified as “bad” medicine in these
fraternities vary, but all are thought to inhere spe-
cial powers which can be activated via appropriate
rituals which are known only by the members
of the different lodges to which they belong. So,
in Wimbum society access to the knowledge and
the use of medicines is hierarchically restricted to
certain people bearing certain offices within certain
institutions. In fact, the political importance of a
traditional office among the Wimbum correlates
with the importance of its medicine which again
is rated by the grade of its social restrictedness.
Similar to Evans-Pritchard’s famous description of
the Zande relationship between witchcraft, oracles,
and magic, the situation can be visualized in form
of a triangle in which all three domains are in-
trinsically linked with each other, so that within
the traditional political ideology one indicates the
others and vice versa:
medicine
t
authority/status
\
Keeping in mind that tfu in contrast to mshep
is invisible, this close association between medi-
cines and traditional authority and prestige is not
Anthropos 85.1990
Patterns of Control on Medicine, Politics, and Social Change
451
accidental. As we have seen, tfu is basically a
morally neutral power including the options to use
its potencies either destructively or constructively
with the help of special medicines. A prominent
example in this context is the above mentioned
ngambe man, himself mostly a lineagehead (fai) or
another elder (lingnwe) who holds ritual authority
within the family. Despite his highly ambivalent
reputation he is said to utilize his tfu in a con-
structive manner which enables him to help other
people affected by witchcraft through his knowl-
edge of medicines. In the same direction goes the
general assumption that all people bearing high
ranking traditional offices in which they take care
of the medicines attached to the office are in one
way or the other always in possession of tfu even
though, if one asks directly, the persons concerned
never really confirm such opinions openly. The
whole issue is rather like a play in which the office
holders are fond of being viewed as powerful nga
tfu, i.e., people who have witchcraft, but reject any
such convictions when they become confronted
with them directly. The point we need to em-
phasize here is that these offices, and therefore
also the medicines attached to them, are said to
always fulfill a social function in the sense that the
duties which define the purpose of that office and
its respective medicines are for the benefit of the
society in general. To see what this means in de-
tail, we must make some few explanatory remarks
concerning the traditional features of authority in
Wimbum society.
Traditional political ideology defines a man
of power and prestige as a man holding an office
and a title either in one of the different men’s
societies, in his lineage, or in both of these cor-
porate institutions. As such his office and title
qualifies him to know and to use certain parts of
the secret medicines over which these institutions
have a monopoly. Remember that we stated the
existence of a direct relationship between the status
of an office, the power of its attached medicines,
and the latters’ grade of secrecy. Now, within this
system it is important to note that to hold an
office and hence to know the medicines attached
to it, always demands an oath not to misuse the
acquired position for one’s own selfish purposes.
The oath is addressed to the ancestors (quvibsi)
and the most important divinities of the Wimbum,
nyu ngong and nyu la, who are said to watch over
the observance of the oath and are capable of
punishing the person in case he breaks the oath.
The underlying logic in this act is obvious. Just as
the office is only part of a wider body which itself
is for the benefit of all, the attached medicines
over which the office takes care are also meant
to serve the group as a whole and not its leading
members. Consequently, the “bad” medicines of
the Wimbum, i.e., those which are monopolized
by lineages and secret societies, serve not so much
to enhance the power of their office holders, but
rather as a focus of corporate life whose cohesion
is mobilized in the fashion of corporate rituals set-
ting the effect of the common medicine in motion.
(We follow here Nadel’s [1954] remarks on Nupe
religion.)
Coming back now to the connection between
witchcraft and traditional authority, it becomes
clear that such witchcraft ascriptions based on the
holding of a high ranking office and hence on
the possession of powerful medicines are primarily
positively defined. People of this sort are thought
to use their power constructively, for they have
made an oath to use their position and prestige for
the benefit of all. Nevertheless, the Wimbum know
very well that moral standards are an ambiguous
affair, and there is a lot of gossip that certain
traditional authorities do in fact use their tfu for
personal enrichment, but it is a difficult matter
to discuss because everybody avoids expressing
such speculations in the public. The reason for
this lies not only in the fear of the powerful secret
medicines the suspects are in possession of but
also in the still valid social ethos which legitimates
the connection between medicines, witchcraft, and
traditional authority by the moral obligations each
office holder is bound to obey.
In former times, this kind of moral obligation
demanded from the traditional authorities to spend
their time exclusively for the exercise of their of-
fice. Because paid labour was and, to some extent,
still is incompatible with traditional status many
lineageheads had to stay at home and, therefore,
could not pursue any of the new careers offered
at the dawn of national independence. The result
is well known: in the course of time these cultural
restrictions which forbade traditional authorities to
take up positions in the modern capitalist con-
text gradually encroaching on Wimbum society
gave rise to a new “modern elite” whose basis
of power and prestige depended no longer on the
access to secret medicines and rituals but on the
access to money and political influence within the
modem institutions of the nation state. This raises
the question of how the Wimbum adapted their
concept of the political implications of witchcraft
and medicines to these modem conditions in which
power and prestige are no longer integrated into
the hierarchical structure of corporate institutions
and hence legitimated by an office which puts the
Anthropos 85.1990
452
Peter Probst and Brigitte Biihler
holder under a moral spell, but are so to speak
“free-floating,” i.e., obtainable by everybody and
free from formal restrictions.
4. Changes
History means change. This applies equally to the
history of the Wimbum. Beginning with the early
migration from their mythical homestead Kimi to
their present habitat, over the gruesome raids of
the Fulani followed by the time of colonial dom-
ination until the period of national independence,
the Wimbum have witnessed a great number of
changes taking place not only around them but
also within Wimbum society itself. From a hand-
ful of scattered hamlets at the beginning of this
century, Ndu, the capital of the Wiya-Wimbum,
for example, has become the commercial centre
of the whole administrative division. Bush taxis to
and from the provincial capital Bamenda drive fre-
quently. They stop at the main road, a dusty piste
of some 500 meters in length, with a considerable
number of off-licences hidden behind mountains of
empty beer crates and rusty car wrecks. A bit apart
is the market. Its relatively small size conceals its
importance, for every week it attracts customers
and sellers from far as Bamenda and Foumban.
There is quite a lot of capital around, thus making
the Ndu marketday a bustling and hectic event for
everybody participating.
Ndu owns this position to the “Ndu Tea Es-
tate.” A large plantation right at the border between
the Wiya and their powerful neighbours, the Nso,
gives work to about 1,500 men and women all
living in the vicinity of the estate. The plantation
was established in 1957, a date which, in the eyes
of the Wiya, marks a milestone in their modem
history (see Njilah 1984). Today, there are schools,
churches, industries, cars, motorcycles, coldstores,
hotels, discothecs, healthposts, and numerous other
signs of “development.” Yet, there is still a palace,
still a fon, still a ya, still a fai, still a nformi,
and many other titles denoting the hierarchical
structure of traditional authority. At first sight then,
one might get the impression that modernity did
not affect the traditional power relations all too
much; but the situation is more complex than it
appears from only a superficial glance.
Today, the actual policy makers among the
Wimbum are the members of the local “Devel-
opment Committee,” an informal body of people
who have made a successful career as teachers,
business-men, party-officials, soldiers, and so on.
With their wealth and influence they act as ad-
visors to the fon, who himself is not seldom a
former teacher or university graduate. Compared
with their position, the members of the traditional
elite, i.e., the state councillors, the lineageheads,
and the leading men of the secret societies, still
play only a minor role. Even though they formally
participate in the decisions of the council, illiterate
as most of them are, their role in the decision
making process remains marginal. The strategy
to resolve this discrepancy within the indigenous
definition of power and prestige as outlined above
lies in the incorporation of the modem elite into the
traditional authority structures. By conferring titles
to the modem parvenus their existence is brought
back in line with the cultural axiom according to
which status and power are intrinsically connected
with the holding of an office and the thereby
implied access to secret medicines which again
forces the office holders to fulfill their acquired po-
sitions for the benefit of the community in general.
Evidently, this strategy works in favour of both
sides. Not to mention the economic effects in terms
of distributing wealth within the society by the
periodical providing ceremony mlaa, the members
of the traditional elite are keen to maintain the
institutions on which the whole system is based,
while the members of the modem elite are equally
keen to counteract the suspicion that they owe
their position to witchcraft - a conjecture which is
not devoid of logic for power without title is not
socially legitimated and its existence hence allows
no explanation other than situating its presumed
cause in the realm of witchcraft.
However, as neatly functional as this strategy
might seem, it can’t cope with the fact that the
modem power structures legitimated by the nation
state elude the seizure of traditional authority. In
the attempt to make the experience of social re-
ality plausible, this acute gap is substituted by an
appropriate change of the concept of witchcraft.
In fact, parallel with the rise of the modem elites
in Wimbum society the concept of witchcraft has
changed as well. Whereas in the past witchcraft
was primarily confined by the rule of co-residence,
thus limited to the compound or the quarter, today
it is said that the new form of witchcraft, generally
known throughout the grassfields as kupe , recruits
its victims from all over the place.14
Space limitations do not allow us to elucidate
here the various correlations manifest between the
14 For further literature on the nature of the relationship be-
tween economic transformations and changes in the belief
of witchcraft, see Ardener 1970, Rowlands and Wamier
1988, and Geschiere 1988.
Anthropos 85.1990
Patterns of Control on Medicine, Politics, and Social Change
453
concept of kupe’ and the conditions of present
day life. It should suffice to note that the marked
emphasis on money ascribed to kupe’ is obviously
modelled after the closely structured njangis (sub-
scription societies) of the modem big men in which
sums circulate of which an ordinary Wimbum can
only dream of. Against this background, witchcraft
rumours and hidden allegations are quickly at hand
whenever an accident occurs in which a number
of people get killed. Often, these events are then
thought to go on the account of kupe’, whose enor-
mous lust for flesh correlates with its enormous
wealth. Similar changes can be observed in the
realm of medicine. Parallel, for instance, to the
growth of schools, the improvement of communi-
cation, and the increasing degree of literacy, new
forms of “bad” medicine such as the notorious
“Sixth and Seventh Book of Moses,” “The Great
Napoleon Book of Faith,” or “Powerful Hindu Tal-
ismans, Rings and Preparations Capable to Solve
All Your Life Problems,” the latter being a quota-
tion from one of the various Nigerian magazines
which circulate widely among the Wimbum, have
found entrance in the society.15 Even though there
is a marked resemblance between such modem
objects used for medical purposes and the modem
social and economic environment the Wimbum are
nowadays living in, many of these items are not
actually “new” to Wimbum. The ability to take
over and integrate foreign elements into one’s own
network of cultural organization forms an old and
characteristic feature of Wimbum society. What is
new, however, is their effective spread among the
population so that, today, “bad” medicines are not
anymore in the hands of corporate institutions in
which certain men act as their caretakers but are
available by everybody, given that he has enough
money to acquire them.
In such a state of flux, the fear to become a
victim of witchcraft is a matter of general concern.
In fact, the demand for cures and remedies against
health problems, whose cause is suspected to lie
in the realm of witchcraft and sorcery, is steadily
increasing. Yet, people still consult and listen to
the local authorities whose reputation is closely
linked with the possession of titles and the holding
of an traditional office. Up to now, newcomers in
the therapeutic profession still have difficulties to
establish themselves among the population. During
our time of research we came across a number of
cases where young “doctors” had to give up their
“clinic” because they couldn’t win the confidence
15 On the role and the history of these writings in Western
Nigeria, see also Probst 1989.
of their patients. The still largely unbroken family
relations in the domestic sphere with a clear hi-
erarchy of roles and a strict pattern of behaviour
seem to be the basis on which the elders are yet
able to maintain their authority and control over
the therapeutic process. However, if one day all
the plans and hopes of the members of the local
“Development Committee” will eventually come
true, it might well be that in a few years’ time
the situation in Ndu will be similar to what one
can find today in urban centers like Kumba or
B amenda, the provincial capital of the area. The
broad range of therapeutic alternatives which co-
exist in these culturally and socially heterogeneous
milieus includes herbalists and faith healers, Mus-
lim teachers and Christian prophets: specialists in
sorcery and diviners of all kinds to name only a
few of all those who offer their services in the
newspapers and along the streets.
Considering the current conditions among the
Wimbum, this prospect might seem rather unre-
alistic. Nevertheless, the coming into being of a
new form of witchcraft like kupe’ seems to make
such a development at least conceivable. As we
have seen, control over medicines and control
over healing, the power to name an illness and to
identify its causes are crucial issues in the politi-
cal sociology of health and illness (see Feierman
1985). In times of change struggles to maintain
as well as struggles to gain control over these is-
sues find their articulation often through the idiom
of witchcraft. Under this perspective, the idea of
kupe’ apparently tends to work still more in favour
of the traditional elite than for the modem évolués
in the sense that investigations in witchcraft cases
are still supervised by the former. But it should
be kept in mind that witchcraft is - after all -
a “clumsy and double edged weapon” (Douglas
1963: 126). The future features of popular healing
among the Wimbum are thus difficult to anticipate.
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Anthropos 85.1990
Anthropos 85.1990: 455-473
Hlonipha and the Ambiguous Woman
Robert K. Herbert
Abstract. - The practice of “respect through avoidance” (hlo-
nipha), widespread among the Nguni peoples, includes a per-
vasive avoidance of personal names. The avoidance language
practiced by wives is different in important respects from
more general name taboos. This paper offers principled means
for distinguishing isihlonipho sabafazi (“women’s respect lan-
guage”) from other avoidance languages on both purely lin-
guistic and interactional grounds. An interpretation of this
avoidance is linked to the function of the personal name in
drawing attention to the speaker and to the social position
occupied by wives within the Nguni household, recognizing
two factors which impose hlonipha upon a wife, (a) her ritual
impurity as a menstruating woman and (b) her status as an
outsider, i.e., a threat to social harmony of the homestead. The
work concludes with some comparative remarks on the process
of name avoidance and taboo in S. Sotho and other societies.
[Nguni, name avoidance, respect behavior, women’s studies]
Robert K. Herbert, Ph. D.; Visiting Prof, of Linguistics at
Witwatersrand Univ. and Associate Prof, of Anthropology at
the State Univ. of New York at Binghamton. He has taught
previously at the universities of Aarhus, Warsaw, Calgary, and
Michigan State. - Publictions include: Language Universals,
Markedness Theory, and Natural Phonetic Processes (Berlin
1986); Sex-based Differences in Compliment Behavior (Lan-
guage in Society, in press); Sociolinguistics and Psychopathol-
ogy (Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development
1984).
1. Introduction
The prescriptions and proscriptions governing
everyday life, channeling performance behav-
ior into acceptable and unacceptable manifesta-
tions, are innumerable. While individual evalua-
tive terms may differ from one situation (within
and cross-culturally) to another (e.g., correct/incor-
rect, good/bad, acceptable/unacceptable, remark-
able/unremarkable), such evaluative schemata for
social performance seem to be universal features
of cultural organization.
Ethnographic descriptions of the role played
by women in traditional southern African Bantu-
speaking societies have detailed the socially infe-
rior status of women and the numerous prohibi-
tions governing the everyday life of these women.
particularly wives (e.g., Kuper 1982).1 * Marriage
is patrilocal within southeastern Bantu societies,
and the code of behavior taught to young wives
upon arrival in their husband’s homestead is in-
dexical of the socially inferior status of the wife,
which status is reinforced with the daily practice
of this code. In this paper, I wish to consider
in particular the position of women within tra-
ditional Nguni societies, which include the Zulu,
Xhosa, and Swazi as the major representatives,
with special attention to the role of language and
linguistic avoidances or taboos, often known as
hlonipha. Descriptions of hlonipha in the literature
are usually brief mentions of the practice, and they
are widely scattered in linguistic, ethnographic,
and other works. There is very little that is new
from an ethnographic descriptive point of view
here. Rather, a new interpretation is offered for
the linguistic practices associated with women; this
interpretation is linked to the position of women
generally in these societies, to the specific position
1 Two terminological notes: (1) “Bantu-speaking” is the term
used to refer to those societies characterized by the use
of Bantu languages, as opposed to Khoisan and non-in-
digenous European or Asian languages. By and large, the
groups referred to are South African Negroes, as opposed
to the Khoi (Hottentot) and San (Bushmen) populations.
The description is cumbersome, but the term “Bantu” as
an ethnographic label is offensive to those peoples to
whom it is applied, particularly within the Republic of
South Africa. (2) The term “inferior” as applied to the
social position of women is obviously a value-laden term,
reflecting what some researchers see as a male bias in
traditional ethnographic description. In this case, however,
the relative social positions of women and men involve not
only strict segregation of labor but also rights of inheritance,
property, etc. This position has occasionally, and loosely,
been described as “quite like that of slaves” (Laydevant
1952: 71), though this is a misrepresentation. The position
of women is more accurately described as that of “perpetual
minors” (Hammond-Tooke 1962; 68; Ngubane 1981: 91),
i.e., women are held in “perpetual guardianship” (Marwick
1940: 66) by males, first by their fathers and then their
husbands, eventually their sons.
456
Robert K. Herbert
of the wife within her husband’s homestead, and
to the functions associated with naming.
2. Southeastern Bantu-speaking Societies
The present-day distribution of the southeastern
Bantu languages includes the eastern and south-
ern parts of the Republic of South Africa, Le-
sotho, Swaziland, and adjacent areas of Botswa-
na, Zimbabwe, and Mozambique. These languages
are bordered to the west by indigenous Khoisan
languages (“Bushman and Hottentot”) and to the
north by other Bantu language groups.2 Southeast-
ern Bantu is generally taken to correspond to a
historical subunit within the Bantu language fami-
ly, based on linguistic evidence. This linguistic-
ally-based classification has in large part been
assumed in cultural classification, though there
are cases where one population clearly affiliates
with one group on a linguistic basis and with a
different group on a cultural basis, e.g., the Love-
du are classified as a Sotho group on linguistic
grounds, but Krige (1981: 1) classes their social
structure with the Venda. The modern descendants
of this hypothesized single subunit include five
subdivisions: Nguni (Zulu, Swazi, Xhosa, Ngoni,
Ndebele), Sotho (Tswana, S. Sotho, N. Sotho),
Tsonga (Tsonga, Ronga, Tshwa), Venda, and In-
hambane (Chopi, giTonga); some linguists would
include Shona (Karanga, Kalanga, Manyinka, Ze-
zuru, Ndau, Korekore) within a larger Southern
Bantu unit. Shona, the most northerly of these
groups, exhibits numerous features not found else-
where within the southeastern zone; claims to an
ancestral unit are considerably stronger for the first
five mentioned groups, which is not to say that
the hypothesized ancestral unity can be proven in
any sense. A precise preliminary statement of the
relationships among the southeastern Bantu groups
is not possible: “the history of the region is a histo-
ry of continuous migration, local adaptation, bor-
rowing, and innovation” (Kuper 1982: 5). Indeed,
specific arguments, other than geographical, for
some Proto-Southeastern or Proto-Southem Bantu
group are unconvincing.
2 For purposes of discussion, the distribution of the languages
spoken by descendants of European colonists and imported
Asian labor communities is ignored.
3. Some Organizational Aspects of Everyday
Life
Social organization among the Nguni is strongly
partriarchal and, as noted above, marriage is pa-
trilocal. Polygyny was common historically and
continues to be found in more rural areas, though
its incidence has declined significantly.3 Lobolo,
bridewealth cattle, is exchanged with the house
providing a daughter for a marriage, and this bride-
wealth will then enable a son from that same house
to marry. The exchange of bridewealth provides
that descent is patrilineal as is inheritance. The
traditional Nguni (and Tsonga) homestead (Xhosa
umzi; Zulu, Ndebele umuzi; Swazi umuti\ S. Af-
rican English kraal) is occupied by a man and
his wife/wives, their young children, their mar-
ried sons with their families, and their unmar-
ried daughters. This extended family may be of
a significant size, especially when grandsons of
the head of the homestead bring their wives and
families to join the unit. Hoemlé (1937: 75) noted
that it was not uncommon traditionally for twenty
to forty married men, related in the male line, and
their families to live in a single homestead; by the
time of Hunter’s fieldwork in 1931, the average
Pondo homestead consisted of four to five adults
and four children (Hunter [1936] 1979: 15). The
homestead may fragment into smaller ones, partic-
ularly at the death of the patriarch; it is common
that sons of the same “house,” i.e., of the same
mother, may establish a new homestead together,
particularly if one of the sons is unmarried.
Each “house” (Zulu indlu) will normally be
associated with one or more huts (living quarters
for wife and children, kitchen, granary) within the
homestead. These huts are traditionally arranged
in circular or semi-circular formation with the
doors facing the cattle kraal. The kraal is thus
of central importance in the physical organization
of the homestead. Great importance is attached to
the homestead’s cattle. Not only do they provide
food, skins, and dung to be used as fuel, they are
the primary medium of exchange (e.g., in marriage
3 In this discussion and what follows, descriptions of social
organization and patterns of behavior should be read as
generalizations about Nguni groups. There is some variation
from one group to another (e.g., between Zulu and Cape
Nguni) and within individual groups (e.g, from one clan to
another), but these differences do not affect the analyses to
be offered here. The present interest is in traditional Nguni
practices, many of which have undergone considerable
change under the influences of normal internal change, cul-
tural contact, and acculturation. The ethnographic present
tense is used throughout.
Anthropos 85.1990
Hlonipha and the Ambiguous Woman
457
transactions) and they provide means for maintain-
ing good relations with ancestral spirits via ritual
killing. The cattle kraal also has a ritual signif-
icance for it is here that sacrificial killings take
place and where men meet for secret discussions.
The head of the family may be buried within the
kraal. Adjacent to the kraal is the men’s meeting
place where they gather daily to exchange gossip,
to feast, to exercise their authority, and to receive
strangers (Shaw 1974: 94).
The Nguni prohibit marriage between all kin
related through the clans of any of the four
grandparents (Hoemle 1937: 74; Hammond-Tooke
1962: 62; Preston-Whyte 1974: 192). Large home-
steads will include affinal ties spread widely
throughout the society. Clan exogamy thus insures
that the bride brought into a homestead is always
“an outsider” since there is an absolute distinction
between consanguineal and affinal kin.4 Hoemle
(1937: 75) defines the Nguni homestead as “a
group of close-knit relatives guarding their lin-
eage traditions against ‘outsiders,’ i.e., the women
brought by marriage into the lineage.” As one of
Mqotsi’s informants (1957: 29) noted: “A wife is
a great thing; she is a stranger; she must not be
treated lightly.” Indeed, the view of the wife as
“outsider” or “stranger” is central to the expla-
nation for hlonipha to be put forward later.
The initial position of the young wife is one
of subservience to her mother-in-law. She often
lives with her mother-in-law, cooks for her, and
is under her constant surveillance and supervision.
This situation may continue until the birth of the
first child when her husband will build a hut for
the new “house.” Release from many of the service
chores may be effected only upon the arrival of
a younger wife in the homestead, though these
chores may simply be shared among the several
daughters-in-law. The supervision and surveillance
do not cease; the wife operates under an extensive
system of proscriptions known as hlonipha. The
definition of the term most often given is “respect
by avoidance” (Raum 1973: 5). Cf. also Doke and
Vilakazi (1948: 334 f.). “[The young wife] has to
hlonipha her in-laws, i.e., treat them with respect
and deference; but this is by no means servitude
as is popularly believed. It is the hlonipha customs
which build her up in the family, that show her as
a well-behaved and successfully socialized person;
which show the kind of home she was brought
4 The positions of the wife as an “outsider” has been partially
overplayed in the ethnographic literature given the prefer-
ence among many groups for polygynous marriage with
sisters and classificatory sisters.
up in and which ensure that she shall not offend,
in ignorance, against the ancestral spirits and thus
bring upon herself the anger of the family gods”
(Vilakazi 1962: 26). Hlonipha customs are not
restricted to daughters-in-law, and infractions are
associated with a wide range of actual and magical
sanctions.
In its most general form, hlonipha includes
proscriptions of action, space, and language. The
actual descriptions in the literature vary some-
what. Raum (1973: 15) lists the following among
the customs expected of a daughter-in-law within
the homestead. She must not: appear improperly
dressed (bare head and breasts) before her par-
ents-in-law, establish eye contact with the in-laws,
touch their belongings, enter the father-in-law’s
hut, talk directly to the father-in-law, point at
in-laws, use the personal name of the in-laws,
eat in the presence of her parents-in-law, eat sour
milk in the homestead, eat food left over from
the father-in-law, or carry wood and water through
the kraal. Indeed, she must avoid the cattle kraal
entirely; she should have nothing to do with the
homestead’s cattle (cf. also Marwick 1940; Wilson
etal. 1952; Child 1968; Cook 1931; Reader 1966;
Hunter [1936] 1979; Hammond-Tooke 1962). As
Reader (1966: 210) notes, one of the functions of
hlonipha is to serve as a constant reminder to the
daughter-in-law that she is “merely a graft upon
her husband’s descent group,” i.e., to reinforce
her status as someone who is an outsider. The
behavior prescribed to the daughter-in-law applies
not only to her husband’s father, but to all senior
male affines, including the husband’s elder broth-
ers, husband’s father’s elder brothers, etc. The
husband himself is included within the group of
hlonipha restrictions for certain purposes and not
others. Hlonipha customs do not affect only the
daughter-in-law, though the system of avoidances
is most extensive between the daughter-in-law
and her husband’s father. A subset of avoidance
customs is practiced between the husband and
his mother-in-law. These avoidances are fewer in
number and infractions are not viewed as severely
as infractions by the wife; further, there is less
occasion to engage in these avoidances since mar-
riage is patrilocal and the husband does not see his
mother-in-law or any of his wife’s kin on a regular
basis. Some authors use the term hlonipha to refer
to any respect practices within the society, e.g.,
to prescribed behavior between siblings, between
parent and child. It is preferable to reserve the
term for respect shown by avoidance, i.e., by the
absence of certain behaviors.
There is a further terminological confusion in
Anthropos 85.1990
458
Robert K. Herbert
the literature with certain authors preferring to use
hlonipha to refer to patterns of verbal performance
(e.g., Laubscher 1937; Wilson etal. 1952). Even
within this latter group, there are differences in
terms of the aspects of verbal behavior included
under the term. For some, abstention from shouting
(at children, animals, etc.), loud talking, offensive
language, etc., are proscribed by hlonipha. Davies
and Quinche (1933: 282-284) include both pat-
terns of address as well as the use of euphemisms
in place of “coarse” or direct language. Among the
Ndebele hlonipha rules they cite are the following:
“When anyone dies do not say U file, but U bubile
or Ka seka (He no longer exists). In the case of
a child say U swelekile (It is lacked).” Similarly,
“do not speak of the testicles of a man as masentle
but as mapambile (the fronts).” Child (1968; 105)
also includes indirect reference under the rubric
of hlonipha: “in a court case one may hear this
statement: Wa zimbula isidwaba sake sa bonakala
isito - he lifted her dress and her leg was visible
- meaning something more intimate.” For other
authors, hlonipha refers only to patterns of address
and reference, particularly to the avoidance of a
personal name and the substitution of an alternate
form. This latter is the most narrow use of the term,
and this name avoidance is the origin of references
to the “special language” or “secret language”
said to be characteristic of Nguni women. Hloni-
pha language (isihlonipho) is also used to name
the substitute vocabulary employed in initiation
rites and individual word taboos. The relationship
among these linguistic avoidance practices will be
discussed below.
4. Isihlonipho
In its most general form, isihlonipho,5 the “lan-
guage of avoidance,” involves a proscription
against pronouncing a particular word or name.
Such “word taboos” are common among the lan-
guages of the world, and many of the examples
5 The prefix isi- (or its cognate reflex) is used by most
of the southeastern Bantu languages to indicate names
of languages, e.g., isiZulu, siSwati, seSotho, shiTsonga,
siNdebele, etc. It is here used with the nominal stem
-hlonipho to identify the verbal aspects of the system of
avoidance customs, i.e., that which is often called “language
of avoidance” in the literature. Doke and Vilakazi (1948:
335) note a different meaning for isihlonipho, namely a
word used as a hlonipha substitute, with the corresponding
plural izihlonipho meaning a list of such words. Both uses
of the term isihlonipho are appropriate, and both are used
in the relevant literature.
cited from southeastern Bantu languages are un-
remarkable in this regard. For example, Werner
(1905: 352 f.) reported that certain Zulu animal na-
mes enjoyed near-universal avoidance, e.g., ingwe
‘leopard’ was replaced by isilo ‘wild beast’; imfene
‘baboon’ and impaka ‘wild cat’ were similarly
avoided. Cattle occupy a central position within
Nguni economic and ritual life, and among the
Ndebele the word for ‘cattle,’ inkomo, is not used;
cattle are spoken of as insitha ‘a secret’ (< ukusi-
tha ‘to hide, screen’) (Davies and Quinche 1933:
284). Mncube (1949: 49) reports that animals as-
sociated with witchcraft are not named by the
Zulu, especially at night, the time when witches
operate, e.g., imfene ‘baboon’ will be replaced
by indanzala or imbuzi-mawa (lit. ‘goat of the
cliffs’). The mythological creature tikoloshe will
not have this name pronounced: he will be called
indoda emfushane ‘the short man.’ Similarly, the
names of dread diseases are not pronounced, e.g.,
isithuthwana ‘epilepsy’ is replaced by umvundla;
iqondo ‘a species of sexual disease’6 is referred to
as ukufa kwendlu ‘a disease of the house’ (Mncube
1949: 51 f.). Personal names of great chiefs were
also avoided; thus, the name Shaka was not pro-
nounced by many Zulu during and after his reign.
Junod ([1927] 1962: 384) notes that the name
of the Thonga chief could not be pronounced on
any occasion. Words which closely resemble the
chief’s name are also taboo, e.g., in order not to
offend Maphunga, the verb kuphunga ‘to sprinkle’
became taboo and was replaced by ku kweba ‘to
drink. ’
The avoidance of common words resembling
a taboo name is a common feature of certain name
avoidances in southeastern Bantu, but not all name
avoidances are of this kind. As a general principle,
it is useful to distinguish between three types of
name avoidances, viz. (1) that in which only the
name/word itself is taboo, and (2) that in which
both the name and words employing the same root
are taboo, and (3) that in which the actual name,
other words built from the same root, and any
similar phonological strings involving the root syl-
lable^) are equally taboo. In the first case, a simple
name must be avoided in address and reference,
but the word(s) upon which the name is based
may be pronounced. This is distinguished from
the second type, where, for example, Cook (1931:
39) notes that the wife of Mehlo does not use
the word amehlo ‘eyes’ from which the name is
6 The relevant citation from Doke and Vilakazi (1948: 711) is
“3. Stone in the bladder (believed to be result of witchcraft
or illicit sexual indulgence).”
Anthropos 85.1990
Hlonipha and the Ambiguous Woman
459
derived, substituting amakangelo ‘lookers.’ In the
third instance, Raum (1973: 58) cites the example
of informants who must avoid the two syllables
si and swa on account of their father-in-law be-
ing named Siswani; these women say isicundelo
instead of isisu ‘stomach,’ itsiwa instead of iswayi
‘salt,’ etc. A variety of mechanisms are used to
avoid prohibited syllables, these mechanisms will
be discussed briefly below. All types of avoid-
ance occur in the Nguni languages; for purposes
of discussion, I will refer to the first as “name
taboo,” to the second as “word taboo,” and to the
third as “word avoidance” (a better term might be
“syllable avoidance”) with the understanding that
the second includes the first, and the third includes
both previous types.
There are two features which make Nguni
hlonipha unusual among the world’s word taboos.
(For a cross-cultural study of personal naming
practices and taboos, see Alford 1988: 105-118).
First, the relative prominence of word avoidance,
in particular the avoidance of certain personal
names, is such that the investigator is struck by the
centrality of this process within speakers’ everyday
lives. Second, as might be expected, the process
does not uniformly affect all speakers, and the
process of avoidance is indexical of social status,
both the status of the person who must avoid
certain words and the status of the individuals
whose names are avoided.
Most descriptions of hlonipha avoidance de-
scribe it as an avoidance custom practiced by
women (read: wives) toward the personal names
of senior male affines. The central name to be
avoided is that of the father-in-law (in whose
homestead the young wife was traditionally resi-
dent), but the names of other senior males must al-
so be avoided, including the father’s brothers, hus-
band’s elder brothers, husband’s paternal grandfa-
ther, brothers of the latter, etc., i.e., all senior males
of the father’s-in-law clan. In practice, the avoid-
ance does not generally reach beyond the second
ascending generation, though there is variation on
this point. Some speakers assert that they hlonipha
the name of the husband’s great-grandfather; other
speakers claim that not even the grandfather’s
name is avoided. All words which are identical
with the root of the name or which resemble it
must also be avoided by the wives. Nguni personal
names are often taken directly from the names
of everyday objects/events/states, e.g., Mandala
(‘Strength’), Siqandulo (‘Grindstone’), Mdumazi
(‘Disappointed < -dumaza ‘disappoint’), Zwelabe-
lungi (‘Country of White People’ < izwe ‘country’
and abelungu ‘white persons’), Langelihle (‘Nice
Day’ < ilanga ‘day’ and -hie ‘nice’). Given this
name typology and the potential number of se-
nior male affines whose names must not be pro-
nounced, the wife operates under a considerable
linguistic constraint in her everyday conversation
and the effect of such name/word taboos/avoid-
ances may be quite extensive on an individual’s
everyday speech. As noted above, the wife is con-
stantly under surveillance, especially during the
first year or so of her residence in the husband’s
homestead, and infractions of this name taboo
are not taken lightly. An initial infraction of the
rules may result only in a verbal reminder/rep-
rimand (unless it occurs in the presence of the
father-in-law), but regular infractions result in the
wife’s being returned to her parents’ homestead;
her return to her husband’s homestead must be
accompanied by a beast or gift of some sort to
“cleanse” the home. The idea of cleansing is cen-
tral to the rite of repairing hlonipha infractions.
According to Mncube (1949: 49), a woman who
violates the taboo should spit on the ground, report
the incident to other wives in the homestead, return
home, and report the incident to her own family.
Representatives will accompany her back to her
husband’s homestead to apologize, and a goat will
be given and ceremonially slaughtered to appease
the ancestors. Further infractions may involve two
or three goats. Continued infractions will involve
the wife’s sent home branded as a witch; lobolo
(bridewealth) will be returned to the husband’s
family. Raum and de Jager (1972: 78) report
that offenders must brew beer and make bread
for ceremonial consumption by lineage members
in order to satisfy the ancestors. In all cases, it
is most particularly the ancestors who must be
appeased. Hlonipha in its ritual aspect “means
showing reverence for the sacred” (Vilakazi 1962:
73). A young wife must leam all the hlonipha
words in use at her husband’s homestead “... for
to use words which contain even a particle which
appears in the name of an ancestral spirit, or one
of ‘the [classificatory] fathers’ of the boy’s family,
is to be guilty of sacrilege” (Vilakazi 1962: 73).
Other punishments traditionally believed to be as-
sociated with infractions of the name taboo include
incurring the wrath of ancestors, upon whose good
will offspring depend, insanity (Mncube 1949: 47),
baldness (Soga 1932: 209; Hunter [1936] 1979:
44), and stillborn children (Raum 1973: 12). Mza-
mane (1962: 231) lists the penalties for taboo in-
fraction as “risk of death, madness, maladjustment
to life, or some kind of tragedy or malady.”
As has often been noted in the anthropological
literature, the existence of taboos does not result in
Anthropos 85.1990
460
Robert K. Herbert
social paralysis or inactivity. Individuals who are
subject to extensive taboos must do something in
place of the forbidden action, and this is particular-
ly evident in the case where what is forbidden is to
utter the personal names of individuals with whom
one lives and the names of everyday objects/states
phonologically resembling those personal names.
Nguni women exploit a variety of strategies in or-
der to maintain communicative efficiency in light
of the severe strictures under which they operate.
These strategies may be divided into what have
elsewhere been termed “phonetic” and “nonpho-
netic” (or lexical) processes (Herbert 1986). Three
processes render a prohibited word acceptable by
phonetic deformation, i.e., by altering the phonetic
shape of the word:
(1) constant substitution, wherein one conso-
nant is substituted for another, e.g., Zulu
ulunya ‘cruelty’ > ulucha
qahuka ‘wake up’ > xabuka
umuhla ‘day’ > umugca
(2) phonetic deformation by morphological
means, i.e., a grammatical process such as the
transfer of a noun from one class to another ini-
tiates a consonant change, e.g., Xhosa
usano ‘baby’
lu+sanal Cl. 11
usapho ‘family’
/u+sapho/
> intsana
UN+sana! Cl. 9
> intsapho
HN+sapho/
(3) a prohibited syllable may be deformed
by deleting the consonant within the syllable; this
process seems to be restricted to Xhosa and Them-
bu speakers (Mzamane 1962: 244; Mncube 1949:
239), e.g.,
hleka ‘laugh’
umlenze ‘leg’
qhitsa ‘bully’
umkhono ‘foreleg
> ’ eka
> um’ enze
> ’ itsa
> um’ono
Five lexical strategies exist for word avoidance:
(4) synonymy, the use of a semantically sim-
ilar word, e.g., Swati
inja ‘dog’ >
inkhukhu ‘dom. fowl’ >
kufa ‘to die’ >
kuhlala ‘to sit’ >
imphitsa
incwayela
kushona ‘to set; to die’
kutinta ‘to sit at ease’
(5) derivation, the use of a newly coined
word produced according to regular patterns of
lexical derivation, e.g., Swati
umhaso ‘thing for kindling’ for umlilo ‘fire’
(< kuhasa ‘to kindle’)
inkhuleko ‘thing for tethering’ for imbuti ‘goat’
(< kukhuleka ‘to tether’)
inyatselo ‘thing for treading’ for indicia ‘road’
(< kunyatsela ‘to step, to tread’)
It should be noted that the semantic connection
between the word to be avoided and the newly
derived form may not be immediately transparent,
e.g., Zulu
ebhodwe ‘in the cooking pot’ for enzansi ‘at the coast’
(< bhodwe ‘cooking pot’)
icathamo ‘thing which walks softly’ for ilanga ‘sun’
(< ukucathama ‘to walk softly’)
ubucwanta ‘quietness’ for utshwala ‘beer’
(< cwanta [ideophone] ‘of quietness’)
(6) neologism, the use of an invented word,
e.g., Zulu
inhlendla
umgaceka
ingqumathi
ukukhathula
for isizense
for umusa
for ishumi
for ukuxosha
‘scissors’
‘kindness’
‘ten’
‘to drive away’
(7) archaicism, the use of a word no longer
in general usage, e.g., Xhosa
inombe *ngombe ‘cow’ (Xh. inkomo)
inkumba *nyumba ‘house’ (Xh. indlu)
(8) borrowing, the use of a synonymous word
from another language, e.g., Xhosa
umilisi ‘maize’ < Afrikaans mielies
ukupeya ‘money’ < English pay
izambane ‘potato’ < Zulu izambane
Although it is not possible at this time to state
definitively which of the above strategies operated
originally in Nguni hlonipha, there is a prefer-
ence for lexical strategies among younger speak-
ers. Phonetic deformation seems to have already
been eliminated from the hlonipha process in some
areas.
The above strategies of word avoidance op-
erate upon words which “sound like” a person-
al name which must be avoided. These strate-
gies generally do not operate upon the personal
name itself. Rather, alternate forms of address
and reference are employed. For example, tek-
nonyms are common among Nguni speakers, i.e.,
“father/mother of X,” uYise-ka-Mathola ‘father of
Mathola,’ Nina-ka-Mathola ‘mother of Mathola’
in address and reference. Kinship terms are also
available; a Zulu daughter-in-law may refer to her
husband’s father as Babezala ‘father-in-law,’ the
classificatory uBaba ‘father’ or umZala, the rank
term umNumzana ‘homestead owner,’ usoKhaya
‘father of the home,’ etc. (Raum 1973: 59). Clan
names (Z. izihongo), courtesy names (izithakaze-
lo), and regimental names (amabutho) are also
employed. Actual patterns of reference and address
Anthropos 85.1990
Hlonipha and the Ambiguous Woman
461
between particular kin vary rather widely; the most
detailed treatment is that of Raum (1973; 42-84),
who describes naming among the Zulu (cf. also
Koopman 1976 for a discussion of the structure of
Zulu names).
It should be noted that name taboo is wide-
ly practiced among Nguni speakers. The list of
persons who must avoid others’ names is long.
In addition to the daughter-in-law’s prohibition
towards the names of senior male affines, the
following persons operate under name taboos: chil-
dren do not pronounce their parents’ names and
the names of their parents’ siblings; siblings use
each others’ personal names until puberty, after
puberty the names are avoided; a wife does not
pronounce her husband’s personal name (though
she does not avoid words which sound similar); a
husband generally does not pronounce his wife’s
personal name; the names of spouse’s siblings
and their spouses are generally not pronounced
(exceptions: a man does not avoid the personal
name of his sisters’s husband nor the names of his
wife’s sister and her husband); spouses avoid the
personal names of their parents-in-law (as noted,
hlonipha applies to the name of the husband’s
father and, to a lesser extent, to the wife’s mother);
parents do not use their son’s wife’s personal
name; a woman avoids the name of her daughter’s
husband. All of these name taboos fall under the
heading of hlonipha since respect is shown by
avoidance; note, however, that with the exceptions
already noted these taboos do not involve the ex-
tensive avoidance strategies for (near-)homonyms
described above.
The hlonipha customs affecting a Nguni bride
do not continue to operate through her life. Most
of these prohibitions are gradually relaxed by a
special release ritual or by a verbal order from the
mother-in-law. Meat avoidances are often the first
to be dispensed; others follow after the birth of the
first child. Raum (1973: 302) notes that the avoid-
ance of the husband’s cattle is theoretically never
removed since the cattle represent the authority of
the homestead. Linguistic avoidances are among
the last to be removed. Mzamane (1962: 234) and
Mqotsi (1957: 30) both report that women hloni-
pha throughout their lives; according to Hoemle
(1937: 77), a woman continues to hlonipha in her
speech until she becomes head of the umzi. By
contrast, the end of hlonipha is set at the end of
child-bearing years by Ngubane (1981: 84) and
Raum (1973: 493), i.e., at the point where she
is called “a man” herself; Mncube (1949: 30)
dates the end of name avoidance when the first
of the woman’s sons marries: “The rigidity with
which the hlonipha custom is observed diminishes
with every child bom, and in cases where there
is no offspring the calculation is based on that
of contemporary brides. By the time a woman’s
eldest son gets married she is usually at a stage
in her life when she is fit to pass into the realm
of the hloniphaed” (Mncube 1949: 45). Kuckertz
(1984; 268 f.) suggests that women in mourning
for deceased husbands (re-)adopt the hlonipha cus-
toms of a newly married woman; such a period
of mourning typically lasts for one year. A wife
who did not observe the period of mourning shows
disrespect for the family of her husband, and she
will be made responsible for all misfortune in the
homestead.
The primary avoidance throughout the hloni-
pha period is that of the husband’s father; some in-
formants claim that he, although living, is classed
with the ancestors. This avoidance is unlike that of
the husband toward his mother-in-law in a number
of important ways; the latter is not characterized
by the fear which a wife feels toward the se-
nior affines. Further, the strength of the taboo
son-in-law/mother-in-law vs. daughter-in-law/fa-
ther-in-law taboos is quite different. Raum (1973:
58) noted that a man does not spit on the ground
when he violates a name taboo. A man who uses
his mother-in-law’s name in vain is unlikely to
be fined: “All that happens is that he is called a
‘senseless’ person” (Raum 1973: 456). In urban
areas, men generally do not bother to hlonipha the
name of their mother-in-law although women do
observe the verbal hlonipha custom; other avoid-
ance practices (e.g., spatial avoidance) are sus-
pended (Levin 1947; 68). Indeed, women’s verbal
avoidances seem the most resistant of the range of
hlonipha customs, e.g., Raum and de Jager (1972:
78 f.) found that name avoidance and food taboos
were maintained in their acculturating Ciskeian
community whereas spatial, attire, and personal
property taboos were not. Hellmann, conducting
her research in an urban area in 1934, reported that
“the avoidance of the name of the parent-in-law
of the opposite sex seems to be the whole extent
of the urban Native’s observance of hlonipha”
(Hellmann 1948: 86). Note too that the relationship
between the mother-in-law and son-in-law is re-
ciprocal: neither may mention the other’s personal
name nor the roots upon which the name is based.
E.g., if a woman’s son-in-law is named Umanzi
(‘Water’), she will avoid the word amanzi ‘water’
and say amayiwa or amajilinda\ if the son-in-law’s
name is Undlu (‘Home one’), she will not say
indlu ‘house,’ substituting inkatheko or incumba
instead (Raum 1973; 61). It does not appear that
Anthropos 85.1990
462
Robert K. Herbert
the name avoidance reaches the same extent it does
with the daughter-in-law’s avoidance patterns, i.e.,
avoidance extends to the root of the name but not
to all words containing one of the root syllables.
The daughter-in-law’s avoidance behavior is far
more extensive, involving all words incorporating
any of the root syllables of the hlonipha names.
“Men are said not to hlonipha in the sense that
they do not avoid the use of the chief syllables
of certain names and have to use substitutes as
the women do, but as has been shown in the
use of names above men do have to hlonipha
in a certain general sense” (Cook 1931: 39). The
mother-in-law and son-in-law are each bound by
other avoidance customs, e.g., the mother-in-law
must cover her head and breasts in the presence
of her son-in-law. The two cannot eat the meat
of ritual killings made for the other, cannot touch
one another, nor receive a dish of food directly
until gifts have been exchanged (Hunter [1936]
1979; 50). Cook (1931: 36), writing of the Bom-
vana, reports that a son-in-law will yield a path
to his mother-in-law: “He greets her, however,
in a very dignified manner and may even shake
hands.” The Nguni husband does not regard his
wife’s mother as a potential ancestor whereas the
wife is gradually incorporated into the husband’s
lineage and herself becomes an ancestor for her
husband’s lineage members, i.e., incorporation is
complete only upon her death: “Eventually, after
years of residence in her husband’s umti, the wife
becomes to all intents and purposes assimilated
into his lineage, although this is not entirely so
and there is always the link with the amathfongo
(shades) of the maternal home who might cause
sickness or even death to her children. Eventually,
on her death, she is finally incorporated into the
group, although on another, invisible plane, and
becomes, in her turn, an ithfongo to the children of
the homestead”7 (Hammond-Tooke 1962; 119f.).
The relationship between the daughter-in-law
and her father-in-law and other senior male affines
whose names she avoids is not reciprocal. General-
ly speaking, respect and avoidance are shown only
by the daughter-in-law. She is generally addressed
not by her personal name but by Prefix + Father’s
Name or Prefix + Clan Name, eventually by Prefix
+ Child’s Name. In some communities, there are
7 It should be noted that this incorporation of wives into the
clan of their husband is not universal among the Southern
Bantu. For example, among the Tsonga and Chopi, wives
join their natal ancestors upon death. This eventual incor-
poration into husband’s lineage may help to explain the
gradual release from hlonipha customs for Nguni wives.
no fixed rules regarding the choice of a new name
for a bride by the groom’s relatives. Soga (1932:
241) notes that there is a wide range of possible
names since “the names of animate and inanimate
objects and mere words coined for their sounds
are taken advantage of.” Similarly, Levin (1947:
53) reports that any name may be chosen, often
after an event associated with the time of the mar-
riage. She cites examples such as Nojaji (< English
judge), Nofo (< English four, for the fourth wife
to join the husband’s homestead), Nomesi (< Af-
rikaans mes ‘knife’) (108), Nomile ‘possessor of a
gain,’ and Nobantu ‘mother of the people’ (112 f.).
The avoidance of the daugher-in-law’s birth name
is not restricted to the senior males; all members of
the homestead will use the above address patterns.
Even the husband’s younger brothers, whom the
wife does not hlonipha and with whom she enjoys
a generally relaxed relationship, avoid her birth
name; the wife may address the younger brothers
by their personal names. The names and composite
syllables of the names of senior male affines are
scrupulously avoided by a wife. Only the daugh-
ter-in-law offers gifts as avoidance customs are
relaxed toward the senior males; there is not the
exchange of gifts that characterizes the son-in-
law/mother-in-law relationship. The hlonipha re-
lationship is decidedly asymmetrical.
Hammond-Tooke (1962: 114), writing of the
Bhaca, was the first to note that the behavior of the
husband’s family toward his wife may be charac-
terized by two sets of opposing attitudes. Assim-
ilation-oriented attitudes aim at incorporating the
wife into the homestead; these attitudes stress the
break with the wife’s birth group, often indicated
by the giving of a new name upon her arrival in the
new homestead. Her labor for the mother-in-law
and for the homestead are the beginning of this in-
corporation. Progress in assimilation is marked by
gradual relaxation of restrictions. These processes
of assimilation contrast with hostility-oriented at-
titudes, most markedly observed in hlonipha cus-
toms practiced by the young wife and described
above. Although avoidance customs apply only
to senior male affines, including the husband’s
elder brothers, every brother claims authority over
the wife of another. “A man’s brothers, even his
younger brothers, claim the right to order about
his wife, and to beat her if she annoys or disobeys
them, ‘because she has been ukulobola with the
cattle of the mwz/’” (Hunter [1936) 1979: 30; cf.
also Hammond-Tooke 1962: 49). As noted above,
the process of incorporation into the homestead is
a gradual one. Marriage, for the young bride, is
not only a union between two individuals; it is
Anthropos 85.1990
Hlonipha and the Ambiguous Woman
463
a union with the new homestead: .. marriage
signifies the girl’s affiliation to a new group and
its ancestors. Informants emphasized that this is
not a single event but a process which takes place
gradually. She is initiated into her new home and
made known to her husband’s people, and the
ancestors. In this process the customs, collectively
known as hlonipha, play a very important part
and in it the keynote is that of respect” (Raum
and de Jager 1972: 77). Myburgh (1974: 307)
describes marriage as “transfer of authority over
the bride. This involves giving her person into the
custody of her suitor’s group ....” Such transfer
does not, however, terminate the woman’s mem-
bership in her birth group; rather, marriage confers
membership (or potential membership) in a second
group. She maintains links with the birth group,
particularly with the ancestral shades of that group,
and she may return to her father’s homestead if
she is expelled or seeks to escape from her hus-
band’s homestead. Members of the latter are acute-
ly aware of the wife’s dual membership, which is
the basis for the view of wives as “strangers” and
“outsiders” throughout their lives.
5. Izihlonipho, Other Avoidance Languages
The links between taboo behavior and periods of
transition or liminality have long been noted in
the anthropological literature. Periods of transi-
tion are, by definition, dangerous insofar as they
are periods in which systems of classification are
challenged or suspended. Individuals in transition
from one status to another are problematic since
normal rules of behavior associated with full so-
cial categories are inoperative during the period
when the individual is neither a member of one
category nor the other. Typical examples of such
periods of transition include birth, marriage, and
death; perhaps the most often discussed example
of such periods of transition is the initiation period
associated with the transition from childhood to
adulthood (more accurately to either manhood or
womanhood, as initiation ceremonies seem to be
always sex-specific).
Initiation ceremonies are widely, though not
universally, practiced by the southern Bantu.
Among the Nguni groups, initiation of both males
and females is common at least to the extent that
certain ceremonies are associated with puberty;
absence of initiation and/or puberty rites are gener-
ally taken to be a response to acculturation in these
groups. Even in populations with relatively inex-
tensive puberty rites, there is a period of transition
during which an individual must exhibit avoidance
behavior. Raum (1973: 278 ff.) notes that both
boys and girls are enjoined from speaking during
their puberty rites; at the very least, the individual
should whisper, say only what is necessary, and
refrain from shouting and laughing.
Some Nguni, including the Xhosa and other
Cape Nguni groups, display fairly elaborate ini-
tiation ceremonies (e.g., Cook 1931; Laubscher
1937; Raum and de Jager 1972). One of the more
complete descriptions of abakhwetha and inton-
jane, the male and female initiation ceremonies re-
spectively, is found in Laubscher (1937: 113-153).
Both ceremonies are characterized by isihlonipho,
i.e., by the substitution of certain vocabulary items.
“From the moment of circumcision the ahakweta
[initiates] are not allowed to smoke, drink water
or feed themselves until after the third sacrifice.
At this stage of the ceremony they are given new
names by the chief kankata [instructors]. The new
names are given to various eating and cooking
utensils also. This rite is known as hlonipha, for
the new life demands that there be no trace of the
old” (Laubscher 1937: 123). It should be noted that
the isihlonipho sabakhwetha, the avoidance lan-
guage of the male initiates, is essentially a list of
lexical substitutes. The vocabulary items which are
replaced derive from a series of semantic clusters
relating to: animals and birds, clothes and personal
effects, parts of the body, body functions, people
and relationships, food and cooking utensils, shel-
ter and lodging, and circumcision rites (Finlayson
1986: 133). It is worth mentioning that all of the
examples employ lexical substitution rather than
phonetic strategies of substitution. Cook’s (1931:
65) examples from Bomvana, Gcaleka, and Ngqi-
ka speakers as well as Soga’s (1932: 259) and
Mncube’s (1949: 336-338) examples are all of
this sort. At the end of the initiation period, which
may last up to eight months or so, there is a ritual
purification rite after which the boys (now men)
“are allowed to use those names for household
utensils which they learned from their mothers and
the hlonipha is at an end” (Laubscher 1937: 129).
Intonjane names the initiation of a girl into
womanhood. Decorous behavior is expected of the
initiate, who is given a new name until the end
of her ritual seclusion (Hunter [1936] 1979: 170).
There is some question as to whether there is an
avoidance vocabulary employed by initiates during
this period. Hunter (ibid.) explicitly notes that
there are no words which must be avoided. Cook
(1931: 68 f.), however, reported that the avoidance
of certain words was observed by one clan only,
described on several occasions by an old woman
Anthropos 85.1990
464
Robert K. Herbert
who never varied in her description of the process.
The list of words reproduced is broadly similar
to the semantic clusters noted by Finlayson; the
list includes words for the following: hut, mealies,
dish, sun, spoon, kaffir com, man, woman/wife,
dog, ash, smoke, boy, girl, and cattle kraal. Such
avoidances among female initiates seem uncom-
mon within the Nguni language groups, although
they are certainly found elsewhere within southern
Bantu, e.g., by Krige (1940: 159) on the Lovedu.
The hlonipha languages used by male and fe-
male initiates share certain features with each other
which distinguish them from isihlonipho sahafazi
‘wives’ avoidance language.’ First, the initiates’
avoidances are contrived by lexical means exclu-
sively whereas wives resort to both lexical and
phonetic substitution processes. Second, the range
of words to be avoided by initiates is semantically
determined, i.e., they name objects and events
associated with the initiation period itself. Words
to be avoided by a wife, on the other hand, are de-
termined on a nonsystematic basis by the personal
names of senior male affines in the homestead
and lineage. Third, it is only the actual seman-
tically-determined words which must be avoided
by initiates, not homonyms, near-homonyms, or
words employing the same root syllables. Fourth,
on account of the preceding, it is theoretically pos-
sible to provide a complete list of words avoided
by initiates whereas the list of words avoided by
wives is by nature open-ended and theoretically
infinite.
There are other mentions of the literature
of avoidance vocabularies, occasionally appearing
under the heading of hlonipha. For example, Ham-
mond-Tooke (1962: 249) mentions an “extensive”
hlonipha vocabulary used by itangoma, diviners.
There are few examples, but they all seem to in-
volve lexical substitution or periphrasis, e.g., cattle
are called iincamazana ethi mho ‘animals that say
mho' Fourie (1921: 205) gives a word list for
a “secret language” (geheime taal) of Transvaal
Ndebele which also fits the above pattern. All of
these extended examples of avoidance vocabular-
ies are like the “languages” used by initiates in
that the substitute vocabulary is sharply delimited,
it is standardized in the sense that the vocabu-
lary to be avoided is identical for all individuals
making use of it. This latter feature also contrasts
with ‘wives’ avoidance language,’ which cannot
be entirely standardized since different women,
depending on their husband’s relatives’ names,
will necessarily differ in the list of words to be
avoided, though words may be standardized within
particular homesteads. There is, then, a basic dis-
tinction to be made between the hlonipha behavior
of wives and the hlonipha vocabularies of all other
groups within Nguni society. Only the former is
randomly determined (by the names of affinal kin),
open-ended (involving the avoidance of partic-
ular words and all words showing phonological
similarity), achieved by both lexical and phonetic
means of avoidance. References in the literature to
the “secret language” of Nguni women are quite
inaccurate if we understand secret languages to
function as badges of group membership. The lan-
guage of initiates, the language of izangoma, the
languages of particular professions, etc., all serve
to mark the user as a member of some particular
group. Finlayson (1986: 133), for example, has
noted how the language of Xhosa initiates func-
tions “to establish a level of relationship with other
men and may be used as a code to indicate that
one has been through the initiation process.” One
man greets another using a word from the initiation
vocabulary in his speech; should the second use
another in his replay, the two individuals recognize
that they share a “common fellowship” of having
been through the initiation school. Isihlonipho sa-
hafazi, the wives’ avoidance language, serves no
such function.
6. Explaining Isihlonipho Sabafazi
Despite the unpopularity of “functionalist” expla-
nations in certain quarters, it is not inappropriate
to ask in this context what Nguni women are
actually doing when they hlonipha the names of
male in-laws. Surely their actions are quite dif-
ferent from those of other individuals who avoid
particular personal names in Nguni society, e.g.,
children, mothers-in-law, brothers-in-law, etc. As
noted earlier, the latter avoidances are typically
reciprocal and involve only the personal name
itself or the word upon which the name is based;
the women’s avoidances involve the composite
meaningless syllables of that word. The latter
avoidance is thus phonological, i.e., based upon
sound, whereas all others are semantic, based upon
meaning. The women’s avoidance language differs
then in kind, and not merely in degree, from other
name avoidances. The identification of one with
the other in the literature is based on the fact
that both operate as name avoidances, but without
considering the larger social contexts within which
the avoidances operate.
The most outstanding difference between wi-
ves’ avoidance language and all other varieties of
name avoidance is that the latter avoid the personal
Anthropos 85.1990
Hlonipha and the Ambiguous Woman
465
name qua personal name just as, for example, Xho-
sa initiates avoid the names of particular objects
qua words which name those particular objects.
Wives, on the other hand, avoid the names of affi-
nal kin both as personal names and as phonological
strings. The avoidance of composite syllables oc-
curs in no avoidance vocabulary other than that of
Nguni wives.
Nguni women, then, avoid the personal names
of senior males qua personal names; recall that
the women’s names are avoided by all individuals
within the husband’s homestead, and to this extent
the reciprocity of the hlonipha is similar to all
name avoidances in the society. What are these
women doing when they avoid all words in the
language which “remind” of the personal names
that they avoid?
There are suggestions throughout the liter-
ature that the daughter-in-law’s respect for the
father-in-law’s name functions in some sense as a
means of incest avoidance: ”... elaborate system
of rules and prohibitions which regulate the life
at her husband’s kraal of a young wife shortly
after marriage, and which are summed up in the
two words ukuhlonipa ‘behave with respect’ and
ukuzila ‘abstain from,’ both on account of tabu. -
The former takes its origin in the horror of incest,
and the latter in the fear of strangers. - For the
first reason (fear of incest) hlonipa rules operate to
prevent familiarity between persons who, if they
were to become intimate, would be committing
incest. Therefore the young wife must hlonipa her
husband’s father and brothers, just as her mother
must hlonipa her son-in-law” (Kohler 1933: 90 f.).
Similarly, Laydevant (1946; 83) notes that “la
défense faite à la bru de ne pas prononcer le nom
du beau-père n’est qu’une façon détournée de faire
éviter l’inceste.” Such a view seems without great
merit. Respect and distancing processes may be
related to such a notion, but such processes are
typically reciprocal, reminding both parties of the
incest taboo. The only possible merit in this sug-
gestion here would relate to the reciprocal name
avoidances that operate between father-in-law and
daughter-in-law and between mother-in-law and
son-in-law. Avoidance behavior in this sense is
not confined to the avoidance of an individual’s
personal name but includes a wide range of stric-
tures operating between parent- and (opposite sex)
child-in-law. Processes of respect and social dis-
tance in this sense are exhibited not only within
Nguni society but very widely throughout Africa
(cf., e.g., Willoughby 1932: 166-170; Murdock
1949) and elsewhere. Also arguing against the
incest interpretation of wives’ linguistic behavior
is the fact that wives avoid the names of husband’s
deceased ancestors, continuing the avoidance of
the father-in-law’s name after his death, and, oc-
casionally, the names of the mother-in-law and
the mother of the father-in-law; clearly, an incest
taboo cannot explain these latter cases. Finally,
the incest explanation is incompatible with the
observation that wives, upon the death of the
father-in-law, hlonipha the name of the husband
avoiding words with the same syllables. For a wife
to hlonipha her husband’s name in this manner
during the life of the father-in-law is “tantamount
to wishing her HF [husband’s father] dead” (Raum
1973: 58).
Other explanations in the literature are equal-
ly unsatisfactory. Mncube relates the process of
hlonipha to magical functions associated with per-
sonal names. “The roots of the practice of avoiding
people’s names are closely interwoven with an
attempt to conceal one’s name” (1949: 15). He
notes a close association between an individual’s
name and “the soul” and likens isihlonipho to
the fact that among the Zulu no one responds
when a personal name is spoken after sunset,
the time when witches are most active. “No one
conversant with Zulu beliefs would dare shout a
person’s name after sunset unless he had evil inten-
tions” (13). Similarly, Davies and Quinche (1933:
279) list the following within their list of taboos:
“Do not call anyone at night, he will be called by
ghosts.” Soga notes a similar reluctance to shout
a person’s name after sunset among the Xhosa,
but he relates it to a general respect pattern: “The
objection is on the score partly that it is derogatory
to the dignity of a man to shout out his name.
To do this, they [the Xhosa] hold, is to ncipisa
them - ‘make them small’ (in the estimation of
others). Likewise to shout a child’s name at night
is disapproved of’ (Soga 1932: 355 f.). Were the
magical view of names widely held among the
Nguni, one would expect reluctance on the part of
speakers to reveal their personal names. As noted
in discussions of witchcraft and sorcery, “If a man
can hide his name from people, he can hide from
much evil” (Berglund 1976: 291). While it is true
that false names are often given to strangers, such
deception is based upon suspicion of the stranger’s
motives, e.g., a suspicion that he is employed by
the police or government, rather than any mystical
association between the individual’s name and his
soul. Note that the function of the name which
seems to be operative in such practices is that
of “calling attention to” its referent, i.e., to the
one named rather than the one naming. This is an
important distinction, which is taken up below.
Anthropos 85.1990
466
Robert K. Herbert
Frequent reference is made to the sacred-
ness of names, a notion partially overlapping with
the above, to explain name avoidance. Several
instances were noted in the earlier sections of
this paper where the name of a particular chief
becomes taboo for an entire tribe. Soga cites the
example of one Xhosa clan, the AmaBamba, for
whom the name of a distinguished ancestor named
Tangana ‘Little Pumpkin’ is taboo: “Hence ev-
ery Bamba woman, whether she be by blood of
the clan or has married into it from some other
clan, observes the hlonipa custom in connection
with the name ‘tanga - ‘pumpkin.’ So that no
woman of the clan ever speaks of the pumpkin
vegetable as ‘itanga’ but as igahade” (Soga 1932:
209). Two important points deserve noting from
Soga’s description. First, it is only the word itanga
(modern orthography it hang a) itself, not all words
showing the composite syllables tha and nga, that
is taboo. Second, the taboo is reserved to women
of the clan, both those who are born into the clan
and those who marry into it. In this respect, the
Bamba taboo is remarkable among the southern
Bantu; in all other reported instances of this sort,
i.e., of a clan-wide taboo on the name of a chief or
distinguished ancestor, the taboo applies equally
to all members of the clan, male and female.
Doke (1935: 116) noted that the “whole tribe
indiscriminately” may avoid an ancestor’s name:
Zulus “hlonipha’d the words i-mPande (root) and
i-nDhlela (path) owing to certain great individuals
of their tribe having been called u-Mpande and
u-Ndhlela.” The Bamba taboo may be instructive
in the reconstruction of the origin of the hlonipha
process within early Nguni. As a synchronic expla-
nation for the practice of hlonipha, the sacredness
of a personal name contributes little. While one
could maintain that the names of male ancestors
and their direct living representatives, i.e., senior
male agnates, may be sacred, it is surprising that
the strictest observations of the name avoidance
operate in the names of the living, most notably the
father-in-law, his brothers, and the husband’s se-
nior brothers. Sacredness seems to diminish among
the ancestors’ names and to disappear after the
second ascending generation; the names of these
ancestors are remembered, but wives do not avoid
their composite syllables. More importantly, if sa-
credness explained name avoidance, one should
expect that it is the name qua label of a particular
individual that is being avoided; in this case, there
is no reason for words merely “sounding like” the
name to be avoided. E.g., for the Xhosa woman
described by Finlayson (1982) whose husband’s
paternal grandfather was called Saki, sacredness
of the name does not seem to explain why she
must say ukumamela ‘to listen’ for ukusabela ‘to
answer’ and intlabathi ‘sand’ for iswekile ‘sugar.’
The sacred name is neither ukusabela nor iswekile.
7. Dangerous and Ambiguous Women
Two concepts seem crucial to an understanding of
Nguni women’s verbal avoidance behavior. The
first is the status of wives within the husband’s
homestead, and the second relates to the attention
calling function of names and words. As noted
earlier, the ethnographic literature is replete with
mentions of wives as “outsiders” or “strangers”
within the husband’s homestead. The process of
incorporation is a long one, beginning with a
ritual introducing the new arrival to the ances-
tors. As Hammond-Tooke (1962) noted, however,
the process of incorporation is counterbalanced
by a pervasive hostility towards the wife: it is
not only that she is a stranger that explains her
social position, she is also of a different clan
and therefore associated with a different set of
ancestral shades. In this sense, the wife is clear-
ly a threat to the well-being of the homestead.
“Marriage being exogamous a wife is necessarily
of another clan and responsible to other ancestral
spirits than her husband, and in the new group she
is always something of an outsider, and therefore
dangerous” (Hunter [1936] 1979: 43). Similarly,
Ngubane (1981: 85) writes: “Outsiders are not part
of its social and moral order but are looked upon
as possible aggressors.” These foreign ancestral
shades are believed capable of causing a variety
of illnesses and misfortunes. It is the person of the
wife who is responsible for introducing these alien
shades, and the wife is the single most frequent
recipient of accusations of witchcraft. As Wilson
et al. (1952: 173) noted, “the relations between a
wife and her in-laws, with whom she lives, are
fraught with tensions.” In 52 cases of witchcraft
and sorcery between in-laws studied by the re-
search team, women were the accused in 45 cases,
“symptomatic of degree of tension surrounding pa-
trilocal marriage” (174), whereas in 48 non-in-law
cases women were the accused in 28 instances
and men in 20. It was a wife (and her relatives)
who were held responsible for fully 34 % of the
total cases studied; the next most frequent category
was “unrelated persons” (e.g., neighbors, lover) at
18 %. Apart from the wife, the most frequently ac-
cused person is the mother-in-law, who is accused
of directing her witchcraft against the wife.
Against this background of wives as scape-
Anthropos 85.1990
Hlonipha and the Ambiguous Woman
467
goats for a host of social ills, it is difficult to eval-
uate the claim that wives are gradually integrated
into the homestead’s lineage, for the hostility does
not seem to diminish markedly. Throughout her
life, the wife maintains links with her birth com-
munity, returning home for various rituals and to
be involved in a variety of important decisions
concerning the affinal homestead. The ties with the
birth community are thus not cut upon marriage,
and the husband’s homestead is acutely aware of
this fact. In fact, the ties with the birth community
disappear only at death when the woman is finally
incorporated into the lineage of her husband.
Much has been made in the literature of the
observation that a post-menopausal woman be-
comes “like a man,” which has been equated with
incorporation into the male lineage. It is noted,
for example, that spatial taboos are dispensed with
at this point and that the woman may officiate
at certain ritual feasts. One of her primary ritual
roles, however, simply continues her customary
wifely role, i.e., she provides the ancestors with
sustenance. As Brindley (1982; 277) noted, in
most respects the woman is not “like a man” for
she cannot officiate at ritual slaughter or touch
the meat intended for the ancestors. More tell-
ingly, she may not address the ancestors within
the cattle kraal and she may not name the an-
cestors or praise them. Brindley argues that the
removal of restrictions does not mean that the
woman has become part of the male ancestral
group; rather, as post-menopausal she is “clean,”
the ritual impurity associated with menstruation
has ceased, and for this reason her impurity no
longer threatens; she is, however, still a stranger.
This view is compatible with observations such
as that of Wilson etal. (1952: 78): “A woman
who marries, as permitted, into an unrelated clan
is never fully absorbed into her husband’s clan,
but is always regarded partly as a stranger.” There
are two factors, then, which operate to impose the
system of avoidances and taboos upon a young
wife, viz., her ritual impurity as a menstruating
woman and her status as an outsider, a threat to
the social harmony of the husband’s homestead.
The first of these factors derives from biology, and
the social strictures associated with it end with the
onset of menopause. The second factor, the status
as outsider, continues until death when the ties
with the woman’s birth ancestral group are finally
severed and she becomes an ancestral shade within
the husband’s lineage. Ngubane (1981: 84) noted
the difficulty of translating the word “marriage”
into Zulu, which arises because the notion of mar-
riage in Zulu is not a contractual union between
two indivuals. She describes Zulu use of the word
umendo, derived from the verb -enda ‘go on a
long journey’8: “When she dies, her spirit joins
the ancestral realm as a member of her husband’s
group. In other words, when the Zulu people speak
of a woman as ‘going on a long journey’ they mean
it in every sense; at the end of her married life
she is fully integrated into her husband’s descent
group” (Ngubane 1981: 85). During the course of
that “journey,” the wife straddles two identities,
that of member of her natal group and that of future
member of her husband’s lineage. While it is true
that the former recedes over time, the formal link is
not dissolved. This ambiguity is thus characteristic
of her position from marriage until death.
It remains to relate this status of wives to
their striking linguistic behavior with regard to the
names of male affines. Recall that it is not the
proper name per se which is taboo to them; rather,
it is the name, its root, and its composite syllables.
As we have noted, the taboo is not semantically
based, i.e., it is not the meaning of the word from
which the name is derived that must be avoided.
On the contrary, one of the strategies for effecting
the avoidance is the substitution of a synonym.
The taboo is, rather, phonologically based: it is
the “sound” of the name which must be avoided,
and the phonetic strategies described in Section 4
minimally disguise the word by substituting one
consonant for another.
What seems to be crucial to an understanding
of this process is the “attention calling” function
of personal names, i.e., the fact that the uttering
of someone’s personal name directs their attention
to the speaker. Nguni men will not have their
attention called by the “outsider” living within
their midst, i.e., they will not be forced to focus
upon this potential threat to the harmony of the
homestead. The avoidance of all words containing
any of the syllables of the male names that is
enforced upon a wife ensures that a senior male’s
attention, including the attention of the ancestral
shades, will not be focused upon her. That it is
8 Doke and Vilakazi (1948: 188) define umendo as “married
life (used of women); wedlock.” Bearing in mind the limi-
tation of the term to women’s marital state, their example
Umendo ngumthohisi wamagagu ‘Wedlock is the tamer of
the cheeky’ is telling. Three separate meanings are listed
for the verb -enda (187): (1) to go on a long journey, travel
on a main road; (2) journey in order to marry, be on the
way to her wedding (used of a bride); (3) marry, take a
husband. The most common term used to describe the act
of marriage for a husband as a passive form -ganwa ‘marry,
be chosen as a husband (used only of males)’ (232), e.g.,
Indoda iganiwe yintomhi kaSenzangakhona ‘The man has
been married by the daughter of Senzangakhona.’
Anthropos 85.1990
468
Robert K. Herbert
this particular function of personal names which
underlies the avoidance system is suggested by
the interpretation of the ritual gesture of spitting
on the ground which may accompany a violation
of the avoidance. The gesture of spitting “means”
that the name was not uttered with the intention
of calling the person named, Angimbizanga T did
not call him’ (Raum 1973: 68; cf. also Mzamane
1962: 238). A woman will spit when she utters her
father-in-law’s name, but not her husband’s; a man
does not spit when he violates a name taboo (Raum
1973: 58), although he may spit upon uttering the
name of the daughter-in-law, so as not to focus
his attention on her, i.e., ‘he did not call her.’
Although the wife avoids the taboo personal names
at all times, some wives suspend its extension to
roots and syllables “when the Hjusband] and the
old people of his lineage are absent” (Raum 1973:
52), presumably because their attention cannot be
focused upon her in their absence. This distinction
between the two aspects of hlonipha, between the
avoidance of the name qua name and the avoid-
ance of its root and syllables, is also made by
some informants who claim that the violation of
the latter taboo is less serious than the avoidance
of the name itself. Such a distinction parallels that
made earlier in this paper where it was claimed
that the avoidance of the name itself needed to
be seen in the context of the widespread respect
avoidance of personal names among the Nguni and
the particular case of root and syllable avoidance
by wives in a different context, such as the prin-
ciples suggested above.
There are related patterns of behavior that
support the claim that it is the particular ability of
a name to focus attention upon the speaker under-
lying wives’ verbal avoidances. First, any behavior
which calls attention to the wife is disallowed, e.g.,
a wife may not call out in a homestead for a child
or talk loudly. She must ask someone else, often
a child, to shout for her own child’s attention. To
shout would be to call to herself the attention of the
homestead. Second, this interpretation of wives’
verbal avoidances is compatible with the general
interpretation of other verbal taboos operating in
Nguni society, e.g., the taboos against uttering the
name of dread diseases and the names of animals
being hunted. To speak the names would be to
draw attention to the speaker, something perceived
as undesirable in both instances.
The above analysis succeeds in separating
the two aspects of wives’ verbal avoidances and
offering an “explanation” for each. In the case of
root and syllable avoidance, the taboo is tied to the
ambiguous position of the wife in the husband’s
homestead and the danger inherent in her status
as an outsider. There is no way to prove the
correctness of such a view, but it is instructive
to consider the operation of similar cases of name
avoidance. We can consider first a similar taboo
within southeastern Bantu and then proceed to
similar taboos elsewhere.
8. A Comparative Perspective
8.1 Southern Sotho
The only non-Nguni language to exhibit a pro-
cess of name avoidance in southern Africa is
Southern Sotho. This language is distantly related
to the Nguni languages, but its closest relatives
are Northern Sotho and Tswana, neither of which
exhibits any form of hlonipha. The process of
name avoidance in S. Sotho is known as hlonepha
or hlompha. In light of the facts that no other
language of the group exhibits the process, that
the S. Sotho are geographically adjacent to large
Nguni-speaking areas, and that there is historical
evidence for contacts and intermarriage between
Nguni speakers and S. Sotho, it seems reasonable
to conclude that the S. Sotho borrowed the process
of hlonipha from Nguni speakers.9
The process of hlonepha is similar in broad
outline to the Nguni process: it is manifested in the
language of married women, with reference to the
names of senior males, including the father-in-law,
his brothers, and husband’s elder brothers. The fa-
ther-in-law is the central figure for respect behav-
ior, and “from him this honour radiates to some of
his male relatives” (Kunene 1958: 161). According
to some informants, the process is further extended
to husband’s younger brothers, husband’s sisters’
husbands, and even the mother-in-law. The process
of hlonepha is not recorded in all S. Sotho areas,
and its form is generally said to be less extreme
than its Nguni counterpart.
There are, in fact, several important differ-
ences between the process in Nguni and in S. So-
tho, which warrant mention. First, taboo proper
names in Nguni are avoided entirely whereas in
Sotho they may undergo one of the processes
mentioned in Section 4 above in order to make
them acceptable. Sotho names, like Nguni names,
are most often formed from everyday words of
9 Such a conclusion is in keeping with Jacottet’s (1896: 114)
description of Sotho hlonepha as “une coutume d’origine
cafre qui est, depuis quelques années, entrée dans les
moeurs des Ba-Souto.”
Anthropos 85.1990
Hlonipha and the Ambiguous Woman
469
the language. The hlonepha substitutes for those
everyday words can substitute for the name base
within the proper name itself, e.g., Mojalefu is de-
rived from the words ja ‘eat’ and lefu ‘inheritance’
and may be replaced by Mofutaletlotlo formed
from futa and letlotlo, the hlonepha words for ja
and lefu, respectively. This widespread practice of
rendering personal names pronounceable by wives
is unknown among Nguni speakers. A second
important difference between Sotho and Nguni
hlonipha is that strategies of phonetic deformation
are unknown in Sotho; all word avoidance is ac-
complished by lexical means. Third, a violation of
hlonepha is not accompanied by any punishment
in Sotho society. Observation of the custom is
simply taken to be a sign of good upbringing and
respectful behavior. There are no supernatural con-
sequences associated with its non-practice (Ashton
1952; Kunene 1958), although Ashton (1952: 76)
records that women will spit if they violate the
avoidance. Fourth, among many speakers, there is
no association between the hlonepha vocabulary
used and the names which should be avoided by
a particular woman. That is, some speakers “find
substitute terms for as much of the Southern Sotho
daily vocabulary as they possibly can, and leave, in
the main only affixal formatives and syntagmemes
unchanged. This may, indeed, be due to an exag-
gerated loyalty to the custom, or to a competitive
spirit, in order to outdo So-and-So, or to a desire
to make assurance doubly sure that in no circum-
stances will she pronounce the unpronounceable.
And in fact, for this reason solely, it will be found
that there are many avoided words without any
corresponding personal names on account of which
they are avoided” (Kunene 1958: 162). What this
means, of course, is that a special women’s “regis-
ter” develops, one which marks respect and honor
in a wife. This register is quite independent of the
names of the husband’s senior relatives. There is
simply a list of respect terms, which terms are used
by wives when they “hlonepha” the male affines.
The operation of hlonepha in S. Sotho is quite
different, then, from Nguni hlonipha, although the
processes are universally equated in the anthropo-
logical and linguistic literatures. Most importantly,
in its Sotho transformation the process gives no
indication of being associated with the “attention
calling” property of personal names - to the extent
that the central focus of avoiding particular names
is replaced by a respect register reminiscent of
those reported for some East and Southeast Asian
societies. It is no longer particular “sounds” which
must be avoided; rather, it becomes a matter of
showing respect through language.
The question then arises as to why, having
incorporated this sociolinguistic process from their
Nguni neighbors, the Southern Sotho then redi-
rected its force (and function). The answer lies, I
believe, in basic organization differences between
Sotho and Nguni marriage patterns. As noted in
the introduction, the Nguni are exogamous, prohib-
iting marriage between members related through
any of the four clans of the grandparents, thus
insuring that kin and affinal categories are distinct.
The Sotho, on the other hand, practice preferential
cousin marriage. The preferred marriage relation is
between a man and his father’s brother’s daughter
because such a union keeps lobolo cattle within
the family. In the absence of such a relationship,
preferred unions are with cross-cousins and with
the mother’s sister’s daughter (Ashton 1952: 63).
There is disagreement as to the basis for this
preference; it has been linked to the different set-
tlement patterns observed in Sotho “villages” and
to political organizational differences. Whatever
the basis, the effect is that the wife in such a union
is not an outsider in the sense that the Nguni bride
is necessarily outside the husband’s lineage. On
the contrary, preferential cousin marriage brings
into the homestead a wife who already shares in
some part of the husband’s ancestral group. Also,
brides are often betrothed early in Sotho society,
occasionally being “bom for” a particular boy.
There is no sudden arrival within the homestead
of a bride; this also contrasts with the Nguni
pattern. Kuper (1982: 127 f.) points out a further
difference in the two marriage patterns, one which
is marked linguistically, viz., Nguni women are
said to choose their husbands whereas Sotho men
do the choosing. As noted above (note 8), the non-
active role of the Nguni husband is reflected in the
word used for his marriage, either the passive or
causative of an appropriate verb. E.g., Zulu women
-gana ‘marry, choose a husband’ whereas men
-ganwa (passive) ‘marry, be chosen as a husband.’
Similarly, Kohler (1933: 32) notes that “a girl
is said to choose (qoma) a sweetheart, while the
lad is said to ‘cause to choose’ (qomisa) the girl
in question. A male’s courting is referred to as
ukuqomisa intombi ‘to court a girl’ (lit. ‘cause a
girl to choose’).”
These differences in marriage patterns relate
directly to the differential practice of hlonipha
in Sotho and Nguni societies. Specifically, if the
Sotho bride is not an outsider, she is not danger-
ous on account of her ambiguity as Nguni brides
are. There is then no particular reason why the
former must avoid calling attention to herself at
all costs. In preferred marriage unions, the bride
Anthropos 85.1990
470
Robert K. Herbert
does not present a threat to the peace of the
husband’s homestead; she may have been born in
the same homestead. Her ancestral spirits are the
same as the husband’s. For this reason, the practice
of hlonipha, borrowed on account of extensive
intermarriage between the goups, is necessarily
transformed within S. Sotho. Sotho brides show
respect, as do all southern Bantu brides, to their
fathers-in-law just as husbands show respect to
their mothers-in-law. They do not, however, avoid
the attention of senior males and ancestors at all
costs.
8.2 Mongolian
The system of name taboos practiced by Mon-
golian wives described by Humphrey (1978) is
strikingly similar to the system of Nguni prohi-
bitions. There are both general taboos applicable
to names of the dead, predatory animals, and
certain spirit-inhabited locations. A further taboo
applies to the her, the wive of a younger brother,
of a son, or of an agnatically related nephew;
she is forbidden to pronounce the names of her
husband’s older brothers, his father, his father’s
brothers, grandfather, etc. Further, she cannot use
any word in ordinary conversation which shares a
stem with the prohibited names or which sounds
like them. There is a separate taboo, more widely
applicable, wherein the names of senior of either
sex related through the agnatic line cannot be
used in address. In the latter instance, names are
minimally disguised by phonetic deformation, e.g.,
Dugar becomes Diiger, Gombo becomes Ombo.
Daughters-in-law, on the other hand, operate with
different strategies; phonetic deformation is not
sufficient in this case. The examples of daughter-
in-law avoidances provided by Humphrey (1978:
95) are very like hlonipha avoidances, e.g.,
Name Taboo Word Substitute
Shar shar ‘yellow’
Bayadaa bayan ‘rich’
Galzuud gal ‘fire’
Xazai xazaar ‘bridle’
angir ‘yellow colored duck’
uyen ‘ermine’
tsutsal ‘spark’
nogt ‘halter’
The husband avoids his parents-in-law’s names in
address, as all juniors avoid the names of seniors,
but he was not required to avoid the names in
reference or to avoid similar sounding words. De-
spite minor differences, the Mongolian system of
avoidance is strikingly like Nguni hlonipha.
The description and analysis of social organi-
zation given by Humphrey is entirely compatible
with the analysis of Nguni given above. Resi-
dence is patrilocal, and Humphrey notes that the
period of women’s verbal taboos corresponds to
the middle stage of their lives when “their own
loyalty and interests are divided” (1978: 106).
“Sociologically and psychologically, however, the
important point is that a young married woman
is already an adult. She lives independently from
her natal unit and has control of her own property.
There is an imbalance here with the position of
a young married man, who still lives near his
father and is under the authority of the seniors
of the local group. The imbalance constitutes the
structural aspect of the daughter-in-law’s power.
- The threat to the father-in-law is constituted not
so much by the daughter-in-law’s own ambiguous-
ness of feelings as by her emotional power over her
husband .... Conjugal sentiment must therefore be
trodden down .... She must not focus attention on
herself by saying the xadam’s name, so that he
should not be betrayed into revealing an interest
in someone whom his own agnatic ideology insists
on suppressing” (1978: 106 f.). Mongolian society,
like Nguni society, is strongly patrilineal, and per-
sonal names in the two societies are alike (a) in
that they are often coined from everyday words of
language and (b) in that most names are unique.
The extent to which name uniqueness correlates
with name taboos is an interesting issue, which is
beyond the scope of the present paper.
9. Conclusion
Name taboos are relatively common among the
world’s languages. The most common taboos ap-
ply (in decending order of frequency) to the names
of parents, parents-in-law, spouses, the dead, and
one’s own name (Alford 1988: 105). Numerous
theorists have linked name taboos to the use of
names in magic (e.g., Clodd 1968: 37), noting the
correlation between unique names and the use of
names in exuvial magic. There is, however, little
reason to pursue that link in the cases of name
taboos and avoidance described above.
Several facets of hlonipha were distinguished
on the basis of the rules operating in particular
name avoidances. To an extent, hlonipha is a wide-
spread process of “respect by avoidance,” which
includes a pervasive avoidance of personal names
in Nguni society. Despite many such claims in the
literature, name taboo is not confined to women.
For example, a son-in-law owes his mother-in-law
respect and he avoids her name. Similarly, children
hlonipha the names of their parents, and whole
tribes may hlonipha the names of a distinguished
Anthropos 85.1990
Hlonipha and the Ambiguous Woman
471
ancestor or powerful chief. Isihlonipho sabafazi,
the avoidance language practiced by wives, is,
however, different in important respects from the
more general processes of name taboo. A distin-
guishing feature of the above avoidance processes
is that the avoidance extends beyond the name
itself to words related to the name, to words sound-
ing like the name, and to words merely sharing
root syllables with the name. It is, then, not the
name itself which is at issue, but rather the name
as a device which attracts the attention of its bearer
and focuses upon the person uttering the name.
Social prescription for a wife to avoid such
attention was related to the ambiguous position
filled by Nguni women within their husband’s
homestead. These women continue links with their
natal group and their own paternal ancestral shades
and thereby represent a threat to the harmony of
the husband’s homestead. Life for a Nguni wife
is a “long journey of incorporation,” but that in-
corporation into the husband’s lineage is effected
only upon her death. In the meanwhile, wives are
dangerous and they avoid drawing attention to
themselves, i.e., avoid reminding the agnates of
the danger which they pose, by not pronouncing
any word which is likely to call the attention of
senior males and the ancestral shades.
Finally, it may be possible that avoidance
practices such as hlonipha occur only in socie-
ties with a high incidence of unique names and
where names are derived from ordinary words of
language. Examples in the literature are often an-
ecdotal, but they are compatible with such an inter-
pretation. Simons (1982) cites numerous examples
of name taboo and avoidance within Austronesian
languages. For example, in Owa, a language of
the Solomon Islands, there is a strong name taboo
operating between son-in-law and parents-in-law,
which, if broken, is associated with shame and
requires that compensation be paid. Words even
resembling the name are taboo, e.g., Mafuara
means ‘stranger,’ and any word beginning with
ma is also taboo if Mafuara is the name of a
taboo relative. In Toradja, an Indonesian language,
personal names are formed from everyday words
and the names of superiors are avoided. The taboos
are reinforced by supernatural (e.g., disease) and
social sanctions: the use of a parent-in-law’s name
or a word sounding like the name is grounds for
divorce (Alford 1988: 112).
Ethnographic descriptions often neglect to
mention the existence of name avoidances and
taboos or mention such processes only in passing
with no detail on their operation. It may well turn
out that avoidances such as hlonipha are more
widely occurring than the present literature attests.
Further research and description will provide the
testing ground for the analysis offered here relating
ambiguous social status and the attention-calling
function of personal names to the existence of
extensive word avoidance practices.
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Anthropos 85.1990
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Anthropos 85.1990: 475^482
The Maroon Republics and Religious Diversity
in Colonial Haiti
Leslie G. Desmangles
Abstract. - Anthropological literature about Vodou suggests
that African religious traditions brought by the slaves remained
intact throughout the colonial period in Haiti. This article pre-
sents two theses: first, the nature of the ethnic compositions of
the Maroon republics throughout the island, new environmental
factors, and the socio-political situation in the colony would
have resulted in radical transformation of African traditions;
second, culture contact between Africa and Europe in Haiti
caused Vodou to incorporate Roman Catholic beliefs and prac-
tices in its theology. This subterfuge resulted in a religious
symbiosis, the juxtaposition of religious beliefs and practices
from two different continents. [Haiti, Maroon republics, Vodou,
Rada, Rétro, symbiosis, confréries]
Leslie G. Desmangles, Ph. D. (Philadelphia, Temple Univ.,
1975); Assoc. Prof., Director of the Area Studies Program at
Trinity College, Hartford, Conn.; field research on the religions
of Africa and the Caribbean; - publications include articles and
book reviews in different journals (see also References Cited).
The African slaves who came to Saint-Do-
mingue, as Haiti was called during the colonial
period (1492-1804), were a mixed group of people
who possessed different cultural and religious her-
itage. Tom from their homelands and transplanted
in a new milieu, they left much of that heritage
behind them. In many parts of the New World,
however, they managed to salvage some of that
heritage from the wreckage that was left of their
old way of life. Under the weight of slave labor,
they dinged tenaciously to their traditional African
beliefs and practices, to their gods, and to their
ritual ceremonies which were sources of inspira-
tion and comfort to them. In these ceremonies,
the slaves danced, tended offerings in homage to
these gods, and became spiritually possessed by
them, a non-material achievement which allowed
the slaves to embody divine powers whom they
believed would free them from their oppression
and brutal displacement.
These ceremonies had a profound effect not
only on colonial plantation life, but on the history
of Saint-Domingue as well. Many of the slaves
believed that they were the elect of their gods and
that, while they were spirit possessed, these gods
would appear in large ships to take them back to
Africa. Under the guidance of slave leaders viewed
as messiahs, they conducted countless raids on the
plantations, often brutal and costly in human lives
and materials. Because the planters perceived the
slaves’ religion as a threat to the economic and
political stability of the colony, they were quick to
enact a number of edicts to regulate the religious
lives of slaves throughout the colony. One of such
edicts, the Code Noir of 1685, made it illegal for
the slaves to practise their African religions openly
and, as we shall see later, under stiff penalties
to the contrary, ordered all masters to have their
slaves converted to Christianity within eight days
after their arrival to the colony (Gisler 1965; 79).
The severity of such laws drove African ritu-
als underground. To circumvent the officious in-
terference in their rituals by their masters, the
slaves learned to overlay their African practices
with the veneer of Roman Catholic symbols and
rituals. They used symbols of the church in their
rituals as “white masks over black faces,” veils
behind which they could hide their African prac-
tices. Moreau de Saint-Méry, an eye-witness of
Vodou during the eighteenth century, reported that
makeshift altars and votive candles concealed the
Africanness of their rituals (1958/1: 55). The pres-
ence of these symbols not only prompted the slaves
to use them in these rituals, but their inclusions of
prayers revering the Catholic saints caused them to
establish a system of correspondences between the
African gods and these Catholic saints. These cor-
respondences consisted of a system of reinterpre-
tations described by Herskovits and others (1937;
Simpson 1980; Métraux 1958). Particular symbols
associated with the gods in African mythology
were made to correspond to similar symbols asso-
ciated with the saints in Catholic hagiology. Thus,
for example, the Dahomean snake deity Damballah
was made to correspond with St. Patrick because
of the Catholic legend about Saint Patrick and the
snakes of Ireland. Hence, the slaves succeeded in
476
Leslie G. Desmangles
achieving what students of negritude have termed
a syncretism, that is the fusion of various eth-
nic religious traditions from Africa which, when
separated from their African cultural milieu, were
made to correspond to European doctrines (Simp-
son 1980; Jahn 1961; Courlander 1960; Price-Mars
1928).
In their descriptions of the formation of Vo-
dou, these students made two suggestions about
syncretism. First, as Laguerre (1974) suggests,
these students noted that the slaves’ struggle for
freedom necessitated that they achieved racial sol-
idarity and political unity. In their commitment to
freedom, Vodou served as a cohesive force in that
struggle against white domination. They put aside
their ethnic differences and hammered out for
themselves religious practices shaped largely by
the similarities between their religious traditions.
By a process of acculturation they learned to em-
phasize their common beliefs gradually throughout
the period of their active revolts in the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries, so that by 1802, on the
eve of the Haitian Revolution, what we now know
as Vodou emerged. Vodou is thus a composite
of various African ethnic traditions which, for
social and political reasons, fused with one an-
other. Hence, scholars have assumed that because
Vodou beliefs served as a cohesive force for racial
solidarity and political unity for the slaves and
maroons alike, African religious traditions not only
remained intact in colonial Haiti, but the religious
beliefs which were so diverse during the seven-
teenth century became increasingly less so by the
time of the revolution in the eighteenth century
(Laguerre 1974). Second, the slaves’ contact with
Christianity caused Vodou to become syncretic,
that is, African traditional beliefs not only fused
with one another but also fused with Christian
beliefs and practices as well.
In light of the foregoing analyses, this paper
has two main purposes:
First, it maintains that religion like culture is
shaped not only by socio-political and economic
forces, but environmental factors as well. The
striking dissimilarities not only in the environ-
ments between the Old and the New World, but
also in the socio-political and economic structures
of colonial Haiti, would have caused African reli-
gious traditions to be transformed in the plantation
milieu in the New World (Laguerre 1974). The
need for the slaves to adapt to a new environment,
and find appropriate solutions to a new situational
crisis, engendered changes in the old native be-
liefs and practices. Hence, African ethnic traditions
could not have survived in complete integrity in
Haiti, nor could they have fused with one another.
Indeed, as we shall see later, the nature of the
maroon republics, runaway slave settlements in
the interior of the island, and their geographical
isolation from the plantations contributed to the
formation of what Bastide called ethnic niches
which helped to maintain the religious diversity of
African traditional beliefs in colonial Haiti (1971).
Such diversity in beliefs and practices will shed
light on the diversity of Vodou theology as it exists
currently in Haiti.
Second, this paper suggests that the promi-
nence of Catholic doctrines in Vodou was not a
fusion of African and Catholic doctrines, but a
symbiosis. The term symbiosis is not taken in its
biological but etymological denotations. Etymo-
logically, symbiosis from cruv means “with,” and
(3iog, “life” (life together with). In its ethnological
sense, it refers to a spatial syncretism, or what
Roger Bastide called a “syncretism in mosaic”
(1971: 154 f.), that is, a coexistence, a juxtapo-
sition of religious traditions from two continents
which do not fuse with one another. Just as tiny
pieces of a stained-glass window are juxtaposed to
form a whole, so too are parts of the Catholic and
African religious traditions juxtaposed in space to
form the whole Vodou theology. Symbiosis then
refers to the process by which certain symbolic el-
ements from the church shared the same space with
African symbols, and hence were incorporated in
Vodou rituals simply by juxtaposition. As Laguerre
(1974) noted, such Catholic elements served as
parallel symbols whose preternatural powers were
believed to strengthen the magical machinations of
the devotees.
From Africa to the New World
When African slaves transplanted their religious
traditions in Haiti, these underwent radical chan-
ges. African religions, like all religions today, re-
flected the socio-political and economic structures
of the various cultures to which they belonged.
A number of observations concerning the na-
ture of African religions explain their characteristic
nature. First, African traditional religions were by
and large ethnic; membership to an ethnic group
was acquired by birth and, living within its geo-
graphical boundaries, one was permitted to partic-
ipate fully in the religious life of the community.
Second, religion was rooted within the extended
family where members of one household gathered
around the family altar to tend offerings to the
gods and to the ancestral spirits. Third, ancestral
Anthropos 85.1990
The Maroon Republics and Religious Diversity in Colonial Haiti
477
reverence too was significant. Kinship meant that
members of the same clan shared common myth-
ological accounts recounting significant exploits
in the lives of ancestral heroes. As a member of
a family, one viewed oneself as a single-branch-
ing organism which retracted through one entire
lineage to cosmogony, and one’s duty was to
transmit the family’s oral traditions to one’s proge-
ny. Fourth, as Laguerre (1974) suggests, religious
functionaries occupied an important place in the
community. As “religious virtuosi,” albeit priests,
shamans, or medicine men, they were expected
to lead the community in religious rituals, to dis-
pense the wisdom of the gods and ancestors, and
to use the local vegetation of their surrounding
environment for healing purposes. Moreover, these
functionaries were extremely powerful individuals
whose political influences were often based upon
their lineages. Chiefs too were seen as ruling their
subjects by divine appointment.
Slavery destroyed traditional communal Af-
rican life and fractured socio-political structures
which maintain African religious traditions. As
noted above, the Code Noir of 1685 prevented the
slaves from practising their religions freely. The
authority of priests and the sacred status of mem-
bers of the chiefs’ lineages brought as slaves to the
New World were diminished in the eyes of their
compatriots since they were subjugated equally to
servitude. The plantation milieu destroyed African
communal ties; under a slave economy, members
of the same family were dispersed throughout the
colony, and those belonging to the same ethnic
group speaking the same language were separated
from each other in an effort to circumvent slave
uprisings (Bastide 1971: 23). In short, slavery
weakened African religious traditions by destroy-
ing the social and political fabric of African reli-
gious life.
But if slavery caused the disintegration of Af-
rican traditions, it also contributed to the preserva-
tion of whole enclaves of them. Such preservation
was made possible largely by the formation of
confréries or secret societies early in the colony.
Although these societies probably existed among
the slaves on the plantations, they were especially
predominant in maroon communities on the remote
hills in the interior of the island, where they were
geographically isolated from European cultural in-
fluences on the plantations.
During the early period of the formation of
these communities in the sixteenth century, the
plantations were small and required a moderate
labor force. The masters’ treatment of their slaves
was not as cruel as it became later, and relatively
few slaves escaped from the plantations to join
the maroon communities (Laguerre 1974). Hence,
these communities were small, but were formed
initially by Africans who congregated along ethnic
lines. As the plantations increased in size and re-
quired a larger labor force, the number of maroons
increased proportionately so that, by the end of the
eighteenth century, representatives of other eth-
nic groups joined them and, soon, they federated
to form what Bastide called “maroon republics”
(1971; 51). By and large, the various ethnic groups
represented in each republic formed separate secret
societies or fraternities based on ethnic origins.
These met often for religious ceremonies or for
work to be done. Each secret society possessed
its own ancestral traditions which it poured in the
religious and cultural fabric of the republic. In
the contact between these different ethnic cultures,
the maroons hammered out for themselves new
religious beliefs and practices based on the eth-
nic religions represented in each republic (Bastide
1971: 24). Hence, maroonage can be seen as a
phenomenon which bears witness not only to the
slaves’ political and social resistance to slavery,
but also to the preservation and maintenance of
ethnic religious traditions in Haiti.
Although religion in these republics was shap-
ed by a subterfuge of African beliefs and practices,
the forms that it took in these republics depended
upon a number of contingent variables. First, as
it currently exists today in the case of the Vodou
hounforts (temples) throughout Haiti, the religious
practices of the religious leaders in each of the
republics had a profound influence on the theology
of the religion. Consequently, the degree to which
Vodou incorporated particular beliefs and practices
in its theology depended upon the ethnic identity
of the leaders of each of the republics. Second,
the uneven distribution of ethnic groups in each
republic caused the prominence of the theology of
some over others. Hence, the practice of Vodou
in each republic was shaped largely by its ethnic
composition (Laguerre 1974), the particular ethnic
groups represented in each republic, and the demo-
graphic composition of these secret societies. This
significant diversity in belief and practices in each
republic most certainly contributed to the marked
geographical divergences in beliefs and practices
which existed during the colonial period and still
exist in Vodou today.
This diversity in Vodou did not go unnoticed
by writers of the colonial period. Around the end
of the eighteenth century, Descourtilz alluded to
two prominent Vodou sects that emerged in the
colony: the Rada whose pantheon and religious
Anthropos 85.1990
478
Leslie G. Desmangles
traditions derived from the region of Arada in
Dahomey, a form of Vodou which Moreau de
Saint-Méry mistakenly identified as ophiolatry be-
cause of the presence of a sacred snake in the
rituals which he attended, and the Rétro (or Dom-
pete) whose “creole” deities were a tertium quid,
New World creations bom out of the slaves’ rage
against the cruelty of their masters (Descourtilz
1809: 116-179; Moreau de Saint-Méry 1958/1:
64-69). In the days of the colony, as with Vodou
today, the Pétro loas (deities) were known to be
bitter, aggressive, and forceful, their characteristics
deriving from the oppressive conditions of slavery
and the spirit of revolution which they inspired.
In contrast, the Rada loas have been identified tra-
ditionally with benevolent forces. The mythology
which surrounded the Pétro loas was not African
but Haitian for, as this mythology exists today in
Haiti, they relate stories about the slaves’ struggle
for liberation.1
Both sects formed two families of loas or
pantheons called “nations,” a term which, during
the time of the formation of the maroon republics,
referred to the different African ethnic religious
traditions represented in the colony. These princi-
pal sects have maintained peculiar characteristics
which correspond to the mythological personae,
the functions, and the ritual practices associated
with their respective “nations.”2 By and large, a
loa in one “nation” is also represented in the
other, but his personae and functions in each sect’s
“nation” have operated to represent two natures of
the same deity, each of these being the inverse of
the other. Hence, despite the notable differences
in the personae and functions of each loa in each
“nation,” Vodouisants have not understood them to
represent two distinct divine entities, but believed
both personae and functions to be attributes of
the same divinity. Their conceptions of their loas
correspond to those found in traditional African
beliefs today, that is, the notion of coincidentia
1 While it is generally true that Vodouisants regard the Pétro
loas as maleficent and the Rada as beneficent, these distinc-
tions are not absolute, however. The Pétro loas can still
protect a person from danger, while the Rada can inflict
disease on a recalcitrant devotee. In short, in each, its
Rada and Pétro characterizations, a loa is both beneficent
and maleficent. In their ritual characterizations, the Pétro
loas are associated with the sound of gun powder and
the cracking of the whip, sounds which echo the masters’
treatment of their slaves and the spirit of the revolution and
nationalism.
2 The Pétro and Rada are the principal sects in Haiti today,
but there are others among which are the Congo and the
Nago with their own “nations” and ritualistic forms.
oppositorum (Desmangles 1975: 187). On the one
hand, the loa expressed the diametric opposition
of two divine personae spmng from the same
godhead, and on the other, it was the- nature of
these personae to present themselves in spirit pos-
session or in a devotee’s imagination by turns,
or even sometimes simultaneously, as beneficent
or terrible, as creative or destructive (Desmangles
1975: 187). In short, the emergence of the Pétro
“nation” and the distinctions in the nature of the
personae and functions of each of the loas in both
“nations” reflect the nature of the religious diver-
sity in Vodou during the colonial period. But the
Pétro “nation,” although an extension of the Rada,
clearly bore little resemblance to that of Africa but
reflected the socio-economic conditions in colonial
Haiti. Such dissimilarities can also be seen partic-
ularly in the hizango secret society which exists in
Haiti today and whose origins probably date back
to the colonial period. The bizango is a Pétro secret
society of sorcerers whose art includes among
others the phenomenon of zombification amply
described by Davis (1988) and others (Craan 1988;
Douyon 1980).
Moreau de Saint-Méry noted the diversity of
Vodou during the colonial period. He reported
that, by the end of the eighteenth century, an
overwhelming number of new slaves arriving in
the colony were coming from many regions of
Africa other than merely Dahomey. He noted that a
large majority of them came from locations which
ranged from Angola to Guinea (1958/1: 45-59).
Commenting on the African religious diversity in
Vodou on the eve of the revolution, Métraux noted
that the new arrivals “introduced divinities and
rites which they [the slaves! poured as best they
could within the [existing religious] system that
blacks from the gulf of Guinea had created for
themselves” (Métraux 1958: 32). Vodou theology
was thus inclusive in that it incorporated African
beliefs and practices from diverse geographical
areas represented by the ethnic secret societies in
each republic.
But the subterfuge of African religious tradi-
tions did not occur between the maroon republics,
for they were not only isolated geographically
from each other, but contact between them were
rare in order not to reveal their geographical lo-
cations and to ensure the physical safety of their
residents (Bastide 1971: 51). Such lack of contact
between the republics permitted them to emerge
organizationally as “sects,” that is autonomous and
decentralized “cells” (Gerlach and Hines 1970:
41).
By the end of the seventeenth century, the
Anthropos 85.1990
The Maroon Republics and Religious Diversity in Colonial Haiti
479
Western portion of the island which, from the fif-
teenth century, had been a Spanish colony, became
a French possession with the Treaty of Ryswick
in 1697, and this change brought a new “breed”
of businessmen to Saint-Domingue. Between 1730
and 1790, French merchants discovered that high
profits could be made from the sale of indigo,
tobacco, sugar, coffee, and cacao. The French
built complex irrigation canals which increased
the amount of arable lands. A new system of
roads too gave access to previously unexplored
territories that might be used as potential sites
for new plantations. What had been a subsistance
economy during Spanish rule had given way to an
economy oriented toward mass exportation.
So significant was the colony’s agricultural
yield during the latter half of the eighteenth cen-
tury that it exported annually 163 million pounds
of sugar alone, a figure which represented 60 % of
the world’s sugar consumption (Davis 1988: 18).
Its combined crop production filled the holes of
4,000 ships with cargo annually, and comprised
two-thirds of France’s tropical produce (Rotberg
1971). Such concentration of wealth undoubtedly
made the colony the most valuable for France and
the most coveted by her European neighbors.
As the number of plantations and their ag-
ricultural yield increased, so did the slave labor
force, a fact that provoked a black demographic
explosion which, by 1791 submerged the white
population. Statistics of the period indicate that
during the first one hundred years of French rule
(1697-1797), the slave population multiplied itself
several fold. In 1681, the ratio of blacks to whites
was 2:1 (Ott 1973: 14); in 1697, 3:1; and by
1790, 11:1 (Davis 1988: 18). On the plantations
themselves, the blacks outnumbered whites 100:1
(Thompson 1983). Shortly before the revolution,
there were 700 ships and seven maritime compa-
nies which carried some 20,000 slaves into the
colony annually (Moreau de Saint-Mery 1958/1:
111). The official 1780 census, reputed to be the
most accurate, revealed the following demographic
distribution (1958/1: 28 f.):
French Europeans
Africans
Affranchis (mulattoes)
Ratio of black slaves to
whites
Ratio of whites to
affranchis
Ratio of slaves to
affranchis
Total population
40,000
452,000
28,000
11 3/10 per white
10 to 7 per white
16 per 1 white
520,000
The figures for manufactures and places of
business for the same year are as follow (1958/1:
111):
Sugar Manufactures 793
Indigo Manufactures 3,150
Cotton Processing Plants 789
Coffee Processing Plants 3,117
Distilleries 182
Brick Factories 36
Tanneries 6
Pottery Manufactures 29
Cacao Processing Plants 50
As the French settlers’ wealth increased, so
did their prospects for new European markets.
Less concerned about the slaves’ welfare than crop
production, plantation overseers drove their human
chattels to near exhaustion from hard labor. Flog-
gings and other punishments for indolence became
more frequent, and so were the slaves’ desertions
from the plantations. Thousands sought asylum
in the maroon republics as they became more
aware of their economic exploitation, an aware-
ness which engendered in them a need for social
solidarity and political unity (Laguerre 1974). Vo-
dou meetings which served as a catalyst for such
solidarity became more frequent. Slaves joined the
maroons whenever they could for secret ceremo-
nies after which they organized raids on near-
by plantations, their brutality increasingly more
threatening to the economic and political stability
of the colony. Moreau de Saint-Mery noted that by
the eighteenth century, the raids were particularly
devastating to the plantations in the northern par-
ishes. He remarked that several of the garrisons on
the prominent plantations had to be reinforced to
protect the planters and their families from harm
(1958/11; 484-487, 589-608). The planters soon
perceived the danger of the Vodou meetings. In an
attempt to suppress them, they enacted a series of
Police Rulings which curtailed the slaves’ move-
ments, prohibited their gatherings, the sounding of
drums and singing save for field labor, and the sale
of suspicious objects that might have ritualistic use
in Vodou ceremonies. Every infraction to these
rules was punishable by whipping or by death
(Moreau de Saint-Mery 1780/IV: 384).
Eyewitnesses inform us that shortly before
the revolution, these rulings had little effect on
the slaves’ practice of Vodou. In 1797, Moreau
de Saint-Mery noted that slaves’ meetings were
held “when the evening cast its shadows in an
enclosed area hidden from all profane eyes ....
When they have made sure that no curious intruder
has gained admission to the enclosure, they begin
the ceremony” (1958/1: 63 f.). Similarly, a letter
Anthropos 85.1990
480
Leslie G. Desmangles
written by M. Blaru, a resident of the colony, to a
friend in France, remarked that once he was ill and
the slaves “danced without uttering a sound around
him” in order to obtain healing power from their
deities (de Vaissiere 1909/1: 204).
In short, the formation of Vodou as it exists
today was a gradual process of acculturation which
occurred during a period of more than two hun-
dred years. Nurtured in secret, Vodou provided
the moral force and a common identity which
fueled the Haitian revolution and national inde-
pendence in 1804. But Vodou rituals were neither
uniform nor were they standardized during the
entire colonial period. Indeed, just as Vodou exists
today in Haiti, there was no Pope, no hierarchy
of priests, no official bureaucracy to decide on the
orthodoxy of its teachings. Each Vodou cell shaped
its theology independently according to its own
social and organizational structures and, without
being strict, maintained diverse ethnic beliefs and
practices (Laguerre 1974).
But if Vodou’s theology was shaped by a
subterfuge of African religious traditions, this sub-
terfuge did not only include African but Catholic
beliefs and practices as well. As early as the sev-
enteenth century, the church worked assiduously
toward disbanding these African practices and re-
placed them with those of Christianity. But what
displeased missionaries about Vodou was its appar-
ent syncretism. In 1722, Father Labat observed that
Vodou assemblies intermixed often sacred things
of “our religion with profane objects of an idola-
trous cult.” He continues, “The negroes intermix
Dagon’s ark and secretely keep all the superstitions
of their ancient idolatrous cult with the ceremonies
of the Christian religion. All the negroes have
much devotion for the communion wafer. They
eat it, only when they are ill, or when they are
afraid of some danger. In regards to the blessed
water, the little bit that is consecrated during the
Sunday Mass, it is rare that one finds one drop of it
when the ceremony has ended; they carry it in little
calabashes and drink some drops when they rise
(in the morning), pretending that it will guarantee
their welfare against all the witchcraft that might
befall them” (1722: 330 f.).
Likewise, Moreau de Saint-Mery also de-
scribed the religious behavior of the slaves when
he wrote, “If they go to church, they mumble
a few prayers which they know badly or they
sleep. They have however their devotees, whose
grimaces would be envied by certain European
devotees, who would not be able to teach them
anything about hypocrasy” (1958/1: 55).
Other Catholic writings of the period do not
omit comment on the discouragement of Catholic
missionaries who took their task seriously. For
all too often the baptism of their converts was
followed by lapses from the faith into African reli-
gious practices. Such lapses were unavoidable, for
the slaves did not embrace Christianity genuinely
but nominally; as noted earlier, it was a veneer, a
veil under which the slaves could practice their
religions. Moreau de Saint-Mery observed this
phenomenon when he noted that slaves used the
Catholic faith as a scheme under which primitive
practices could be performed; he reported that bap-
tism was an occasion for feasting and that slaves
sought to have it conferred upon them several
times with the intention of mimicing the work of
the Catholic priest (1958/1; 55).
Moreover, Father Labat’s comments suggest
that the symbols of the church, particularly water
and the sacred elements used in the Eucharist, did
not have the same significance to the slaves as
they did to Catholics. These symbols took African
religious meanings. The slaves manipulated them
as parallel magical symbols so as to insure the
successful outcomes of their machinations.
The presence of Catholic symbols in the Vo-
dou rituals therefore cannot be interpreted as a
syncretism, but precisely as a spatial symbiosis,
a syncretism in mosaic in which these symbols
representing Catholic beliefs were juxtaposed in
time and in space to those representing African
gods and ancestral spirits.
In order to understand this symbiosis, one not
only needs to observe the meaning of the Catho-
lic symbols in Vodou rituals among Vodouisants
in Haiti today, but also to analyze the slaves’
(and maroons’) attitudes toward the church dur-
ing the colonial period. Historical accounts note
that during the Haitian revolution, the slaves were
not fearful of supernatural retributions when they
burned churches (Laguerre 1974). Their attitudes
toward the church during the colonial period shed
light on Vodouisants’ relationship to Catholicism
throughout history. During the first half century
after independence (1804-1860), the early years of
the formation of the politically powerful Catholic
elite, the church remained the official religion of
the country but exercised little influence in the
daily lives of Haitian peasants (Mintz 1975). His-
torically and until recently, Vodouisants have made
many distinctions between Catholicism and Vodou,
one of which has been that a Catholic priest must
be white, and a Vodou priest (houngan) black. It is
not surprising therefore that in the history of Haiti,
Vodouisants have accorded little respect for black
Catholic priests, and that from time to time many
Anthropos 85.1990
The Maroon Republics and Religious Diversity in Colonial Haiti
481
have been stoned by their parishoners (Desmangles
1976: 75).
These observations about the slaves’ behav-
ior suggest that Christianity was perceived as a
religion whose divine forces could be used effi-
caciously for magic (Laguerre 1974). The power
of the Christian God was secondary to that of the
has, that of the Catholic symbols being manipu-
lated in the slaves’ magic to ensure its successful
outcomes.
Conclusions
By piecing the details of the slaves’ religion during
the colonial period, one can draw the following
conclusions;
1. Because African traditional religions were
rooted in the socio-political and economic struc-
tures of the slaves’ ethnic cultures, they could not
have survived in their original forms in Haiti. The
differences in political and social organizations
between Africa and those of the New World would
have not permitted African religious practices to
remain intact in colonial Haiti. Similarly, differ-
ences in the fauna between the two worlds would
have not allowed African religious virtuosi to prac-
tice their healing art in the same manner, and
hence many of the religious traditions associated
with that art would have disappeared (Laguerre
1974). But if some African traditions did survive in
Vodou, it was because of the physical isolation of
the maroon republics and because of the frequent
Vodou ceremonies which inspired blacks to resist
European domination. But the religions of these re-
publics formed autonomous cells which remained
diverse, their diversity caused by the widely di-
vergent ethnic groups which congregated in these
republics. Moreover, the African pantheons and
the religious rites associated with them could not
remain intact since they expanded to include not
only diverse groups of deities from various regions
of Africa, but also the Petro “nation,” a creole
phenomenon which bears little resemblance with
African religious traditions.
2. The contact between African religions and
Catholicism on colonial Haiti did not result in the
religious syncretism of the two. For despite the
articles of the Code Noir and other Police Rulings,
the slaves rejected Christianity and resisted the
church’s efforts to convert them. Their incorpora-
tion of Catholic symbols in the Vodou rituals was
intended not only to ensure efficacious results in
magic, but to circumvent the officious interference
in their rituals by authorities. Hence, the contact
between African traditions and Catholicism did not
cause a formal fusion of the two, but a symbi-
osis. Such a symbiosis corresponds to a material
religious acculturation which can be seen in two
ways: first, in the parallel use of Christian and
African religious symbols in magic (Desmangles
1975); and second, in the spatial juxtaposition of
Catholic and African symbols in the same Vodou
rituals.
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Anthropos 85.1990
Anthropos 85.1990: 483-506
Das eine und die vielen Gesichter kultureller Evolution
Eine Orientierung zum begrifflichen Handwerkszeug des
Neoevolutionismus
Christoph Antweiler
Abstract. - The main interests of Cultural Evolutionism in gen-
eral are outlined first (directionality, societal complexity, ex-
tent, velocity, continuity, time scale, determinacy of long-term
change). Six central neoevolutionistic concepts are critically
analysed and compared in detail. A multidimensional structural
model of the dimensions of cultural evolution is outlined in
order to show the one (increase of societal complexity) and
the many other “faces” (Cameiro) of cultural evolution sys-
tematically in order to overcome the terminological muddles
of the current debate. It is concluded that Neoevolutionism
has discovered serious scientific problems, which are largely
unsolved up to now. Evolutionists in cultural anthropology
should attempt at a far more intensive collaboration especially
with historians, sociologists and prehistorians. A renewed dis-
cussion of the whole context of evolution-diffusion innovation
is considered necessary. [Cultural evolution, Neoevolutionism,
directional change, interdisciplinarity]
Christoph Antweiler, Dr. phil. (Ethnologie), Dipl.-Geol., Pro-
motion 1987 (Köln); seit 1987 Assistent am Institut für Völker-
kunde in Köln; Regionalinteressen: Nepal, Inselsüdostasien; -
Theoretische Interessen: Kulturwandel, Evolutionismus, Kog-
nition, Städte; - Publikationen: Tamang Settlement and Sub-
sistence Economy (Contributions to Nepalese Studies 1984);
Ethnologie als Praxis {Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 1986); Wie läßt
sich das Verhalten in Bürokratien erforschen? (In: Künsting,
Bruck und Tschohl [Hrsg.], Mit Theorien arbeiten. Münster
1987) ; Kulturevolution als transgenerationaler Wandel (Berlin
1988) .
0. Auslöser und Ziel: Klärung der Diffusität
im Neoevolutionismus
Den Anlaß für die folgende Untersuchung gab die
Undeutlichkeit im Gebrauch derjenigen Termini,
die innerhalb der neoevolutionistischen Diskus-
sion gängig (und meist auch wichtig) sind. Dies
betrifft Vertreter wie Kritiker des Neoevolutio-
nismus gleichermaßen und setzt schon mit dem
Wort „Evolution“ selbst ein, dessen Gebrauch in
den Sozialwissenschaften es als “umbrella term”
(Stocking 1968: 143) erscheinen lassen.
Termini sind Werkzeuge, die die gedankliche
Arbeit mit und den Austausch über begriffliche In-
halte erleichtern sollten. Wenn sich innerhalb einer
Forschungsrichtung die Unklarheiten durch Un-
deutlichkeit der Termini, z. B. durch Homonymien
und Synonymien, häufen, müssen die Termini be-
reinigt werden, damit wieder klar über die Inhalte
diskutiert werden kann. Ansonsten ergeben sich
dauerhafte und sich anhäufende Behinderungen in
der wissenschaftlichen Auseinandersetzung.
Ein beispielhaftes Indiz für die Diffusität in
der neoevolutionistischen Literatur ist - im univer-
sitären Umgang mit dem Thema -, wenn Prüflinge
sich bei ihren Prüfungsthemen auf die Beschäf-
tigung mit einzelnen Autoren kaprizieren, statt
sachsystematische Themen zu bearbeiten. Um ge-
nau zu wissen, worum es hinsichtlich Erkenntnis-
ziel, Gegenstandsausschnitt und Art der verwen-
deten Daten in vielen neoevolutionistischen Un-
tersuchungen eigentlich geht - geschweige denn,
welche Annahmen dahinterstehen -, müssen sie oft
erst aufwendig rekonstruiert werden.
Zwei Tatbestände, die die Diskussion neben
der mangelnden Forschungssystematik zusätzlich
erschweren, seien hier nur genannt: 1. die Zersplit-
terung in verschiedene Disziplinen mit geringem
Austausch und 2, die über das sonst übliche Aus-
maß hinausgehende Emotionalität der Diskussion
(Antweiler 1988: 40-46; vgl. Herda 1988 als aktu-
elles Beispiel). Die oben benannten systematischen
Untersuchungsaspekte müssen jeweils vollständig
geklärt werden. Nur dann kann ein ethnologischer
Neoevolutionismus - mit seinen weiter unten an-
gesprochenen berechtigten Forschungsinteressen -
wieder in den so notwendigen Zusammenhang
mit ähnlichen Diskussionen der Geschichtswissen-
schaft und der Prähistorie gebracht werden. Diese
Klärung ist die Voraussetzung für einen fruchtba-
ren Dialog neoevolutionistischer Konzepte mit em-
pirischem Material, der dann zu den angestrebten
fundierten Verallgemeinerungen führen kann.
Ich werde mich in diesem Aufsatz ausschließ-
lich mit gängigen Konzepten des Neoevolutionis-
mus auseinandersetzen; insofern reaktiv auf die
Literatur des Neoevolutionismus eingehen. Eine
systematische interne Kritik neoevolutionistischer
484
Christoph Antweiler
Theorie und ein neuer Ansatz wurde an anderer
Stelle versucht (Antweiler 1988: Kap. 2 bis 4).
Teil 1 gibt einen gerafften Überblick über
Kulturevolution als Forschungsfeld. In Teil 2 wer-
den die wesentlichen theoretischen Gehalte anhand
der Termini technici des Neoevolutionismus abge-
handelt (verändert nach Antweiler 1988: Kap. 1.3).
Teil 3 bietet darauf aufbauend eine systematische
Ordnung des Forschungsgegenstandes mittels ein-
facher Matrizen. Im 4. Teil werden daraus Konse-
quenzen abgeleitet; abschließend versuche ich, ei-
nen breiteren Ausblick auf die Erfordernisse einer
Weiterverfolgung neoevolutionistischen Forschens
zu geben.
drittens die Untersuchung der diese Verläufe
und Typen bedingenden Mechanismen langzeiti-
gen Wandels. Hierzu gibt es sehr viel weniger Un-
tersuchungen als zur Verlaufsrekonstruktion und
zu Typen, obwohl sich gerade hier eine Anknüp-
fung an Kulturwandelstudien seit den 20er Jahren
angeboten hätte.
Durch die gesamte evolutionistische Diskus-
sion zieht sich die Tendenz, Sachverhalte mit-
tels dichotom unterscheidender Termini zu cha-
rakterisieren; leider aber häufig in völlig unter-
schiedlicher, sich oft widersprechender Weise (vgl.
Raum 1983: 282; Schott 1960: 62; Schuster 1980:
97, 111).
1. Kulturevolution: Grundbedeutungen und
Einzeldimensionen
Ganz allgemein geht es im Rahmen kulturevolu-
tionistischer Untersuchungen um langzeitigen kul-
turellen Wandel. Oft sind aber spezielle Aspek-
te bzw. Herangehensweisen zu diesem Phänomen
gemeint.
Es lassen sich drei Grundbedeutungen von
Kulturevolution (= „kulturelle“ bzw. „soziale Evo-
lution“) herausschälen (vgl. Antweiler 1988: 12-
38), auf die immer wieder rekurriert wird:
Erstens wird Kulturevolution ganz allgemein
mit langzeitigem Kulturwandel gleichgesetzt.
Zweitens versteht man darunter gerichteten
Kulturwandel, meist qualitativ als „Höherentwick-
lung“ oder „Fortschritt“ oder quantitativ als Kom-
plexitätszunahme.
Drittens existieren viele, zumeist neuere, Kon-
zepte von Kulturevolution als Anpassung von Ge-
sellschaften an ihre natürliche oder sozietäre Um-
welt.
Der erste Begriff ist weit weniger mit theore-
tischen Annahmen zu historischen Gesetzmäßig-
keiten und Mechanismen befrachtet als die beiden
anderen.
Quer durch diese drei Gegenstandsauffassun-
gen existieren drei für neoevolutionistische Arbei-
ten grundlegende Forschungsinteressen:
Erstens die Rekonstruktion von Verläufen
langfristigen Kulturwandels mit besonderem Au-
genmerk auf Richtungen, Kontinuitäten, Wende-
punkten, „evolutionären Wasserscheiden“;
zweitens die Erstellung von (evolutionär auf-
gefaßten) Typologien von Gesellschaften oder an-
deren Kultureinheiten mit besonderem Augenmerk
auf universalhistorisch auseinander hervorgehen-
den oder sich voraussetzenden Stufen („Stadien“,
„Ebenen“, “levels”, “grades”, “sequences”);
1 Gerichtetheit langfristigen Kulturwandels
ungerichtet
gerichtet
•c
history/change ■
change -
EVOLUTION -
3, 7-►EVOLUTION
3 -►history
3 —► development/ growth
history
\ 6
development EVOLUTION
EVOLUTION
EVOLUTION-**Klevolution
4
EVOLUTION-**-Revolution
involution
growth
a
Revolution
EVOLUTION development
EVOLUTION
Abb. 1: Dimensionen langzeitigen Kulturwandels anhand di-
chotomer Begriffe aus der Literatur
Die dichotomen Unterscheidungen von lang-
zeitigen kulturellen/gesellschaftlichen Wandelpro-
zessen, z. B. in „Evolution“ und „Geschichte“,
können aber gleichzeitig als erste Orientierung
über zentrale Interessen im Kulturevolutionismus
als ganzem (klassischer Evolutionismus wie Neo-
evolutionismus) genutzt werden. In Abb. 1 sind
diese Interessen als Wandeldimensionen (mit deren
polar formulierten Ausprägungen) mit folgenden
Zahlen gekennzeichnet:
Anthropos 85.1990
Das eine und die vielen Gesichter kultureller Evolution
485
1. Gerichtetheit (gerichtet / ungerichtet)
2. Komplexitätsentwicklung (zunehmend / abneh-
mend)
3. Umfang bzw. Ausmaß (Struktur- bzw. typus-in-
tern / -übergreifend)
4. Geschwindigkeit (langsam / schnell)
5. Kontinuierlichkeit (kontinuierlich / diskontinu-
ierlich)
6. Zeitmaßstab (kurz / lang)
7. Gesetzmäßigkeit (gesetzmäßig / nicht gesetz-
mäßig)
2, Neoevolutionismus: Systematik und
Vergleich der zentralen Konzepte
Neoevolutionismus läßt sich allgemein wie folgt
charakterisieren: (1.) Er setzt wissenschaftsge-
schichtlich ca. um 1940 ein. Er ist (2.) stärker
empirisch fundiert, als es der klassische Evolu-
tionismus war, der bis etwa 1900 die Ethnologie
beherrschte und in dessen Rahmen sie überhaupt
als Disziplin entstand. (3.) Nur wenige Neoevolu-
tionisten nehmen soziale Komplexitätssteigerung
als unweigerlich, weil gesetzlich vorherbestimmt,
an. (4.) Schließlich werden die empirisch belegten
Fälle von Komplexitätssteigerung nicht mehr -
zumindest nicht mehr explizit - als „Höherent-
wicklung“ positiv bewertet. Diese Unterschiede
zum klassischen Evolutionismus existieren trotz
vieler Kontinuitäten und trotz vieler sehr „modern“
anmutender Ideen im klassischen Evolutionismus
(vgl. Hildebrandt 1985; Koloß 1986), z. B. der der
Selbstorganisation.
Für die folgende Klärung der Hauptkonzepte
des Neoevolutionismus ziehe ich explizite Defini-
tionen der Neoevolutionisten wie auch Begriffs-
bestimmungen von Kritikern des Neoevolutionis-
mus heran. Ich gehe davon aus, daß eine direk-
te Konfrontation von Äußerungen verschiedener
Autoren besonders gut geeignet ist, zu einer an-
satzweisen Klärung der Frage zu führen, ob die
hinter den Termini stehenden und als grundlegend
angesehenen Konzepte noch geeignet sind, einen
spezifischen Forschungsgegenstand zu umreißen,
spezifische Fragen zu diesem zu formulieren und
dies - zumindest teilweise - in empirische Ar-
beiten umzusetzen. Ich habe mich bewußt auf die
Kernideen konzentriert und die Beispiele auf ein
Mindestmaß reduziert.
Die Abfolge der Behandlung der Hauptbegrif-
fe ist ein Kompromiß, weil einige als Gegensatz-
paare eingeführt wurden, so zunächst unilineare
vs. multilineare (Steward) und später allgemeine
vs. spezifische Evolution (Sahlins and Service),
diese aber z. T. ähnliche Aspekte abdecken und die
beiden Gegensatzpaare außerdem in ihrer Relation
zueinander oft ungeklärt blieben. Schließlich ent-
halten die klar abgegrenzt erscheinenden Konzepte
viel mehr Komponenten, als zur dichotomen Un-
terscheidung und Benennung herangezogen wur-
den (vgl. Binford 1972: 110 ff.; Harris 1969: 643).
Folgende Fragen leiteten die Analyse;
1. Welches sind die Grundannahmen zu kultureller
Evolution?
2. Welches ist die jeweilige Analyseeinheit in Zeit
und Raum?
3. Wieviele Entwicklungslinien werden angenom-
men?
4. Welche pragmatischen (Ziele), ontischen (Ge-
genstand), epistemischen (Erkenntnisprobleme)
und methodischen (Verfahren) Annahmen stecken
hinter den Untersuchungen im Detail (vgl. ähnlich
Bruck 1990: 46 f.)?
2.1 Unilineare Evolution
Vorstellungen einer unilinearen (= unilinealen),
d. h. einlinig gerichteten oder gar geradlinigen
(“rectilinear”, Dole 1973: 262) Kulturevolution
werden von Neoevolutionisten meist nicht mehr
explizit vertreten. Drei Gründe lassen ihre Behand-
lung aber hier als angebracht erscheinen;
Erstens werden sie von Neoevolutionisten zur
Abgrenzung gegenüber den klassischen Evolutio-
nisten, wie z. B. gegenüber Lewis Henry Morgan,
Henry Sumner Maine oder Herbert Spencer, ver-
wendet.
Zweitens behaupten Kritiker der Neoevolutio-
nisten häufig, daß jene selbst unilinearen Konzep-
ten verhaftet blieben, weil diese eben den Kern
eines jeden Kulturevolutionismus ausmachten.
Schließlich hängt drittens das Konzept einer
universalen Evolution (vgl. 2.2) eng mit dem der
unilinearen Evolution zusammen. White schreibt
in einem seiner für das Wiederaufleben des Evo-
lutionismus nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg maß-
geblichen Aufsätze: “... what evolutionist ever
said that every people had to pass through all
the stages of development? They have said that
culture must pass through certain stages of de-
velopment, but they have not said that ‘different
groups,’ ‘every people,’ etc., have to go through
these stages” (1945: 345). Als Absetzung gegen-
über früheren Vertretern unilinearer Vorstellungen
und gegenüber mutwilligen Fehlinterpretationen
ist diese Aussage für White sicherlich zutreffend,
nicht jedoch für andere Konzeptionen der unilinea-
ren Evolution. Steward (1955: 27 f.) als ihr Kriti-
Anthropos 85.1990
486
Christoph Antweiler
ker kennzeichnet unilineare Evolution deutlich als
.. universal scheme into which all individual
cultures may be fitted.” Diesés Schema bestehe aus
“developmental stages applicable to all cultures”
[Hervorhebung C. A.]. Er betont, daß in unilinea-
ren Konzeptionen alle Gesellschaften parallele und
historisch-genetisch nicht miteinander verbundene
Sequenzen durchlaufen. Steward macht auch die
dahinterstehende Grundannahme der Konzepte der
unilinearen Evolution deutlich: Es werden univer-
sell gültige Stadien der Kulturentwicklung ange-
nommen, die für einzelne Gesellschaften gelten
sollen (vgl. dazu kritisch Steward 1953; 315 f. und
Yoffee 1979: 7).
Die Analyseeinheit ist jedoch die einzelne Ge-
sellschaft. “First, unilinear evolution, the classical
nineteenth-century formulation, dealt with particu-
lar cultures, placing them in stages of universal se-
quence” (Steward 1955: 27). Leider verwendet er
hier den Terminus “universal” in der Beschreibung
der unilinearen Evolution, was leicht zu Verwechs-
lungen mit dem Konzept der universalen Evolution
(der Weltkultur) führen kann. Ähnlich wie Steward
bestimmt Murdock (1965: 131) unilineare Evolu-
tion als parallele und unabhängige Entwicklung
historisch nicht verbundener Gesellschaften durch
eine Serie ähnlicher Stadien.
Carneiro schwächt das Konzept der unilinea-
ren Evolution ab, indem er von einer “main se-
quence” spricht und postuliert, daß nur die über-
wiegende Zahl, nicht aber alle Gesellschaften einer
Sequenz, folgen würden: “This main sequence is a
developmental series which most societies appear to
have followed most of the time. There are excep-
tions to it, but the existence of exceptions should
not be allowed to obscure the fact that regularity
predominates. The idea of a main sequence of
cultural evolution is closely related to the fa-
miliar notion of unilineal evolution. According to
both there is a discernable regularity in the way
in which societies develop, and this regularity is
substantially duplicated by all societies if and as
they evolve. But there is also difference. Instead of
saying that societies tend to go through the same
stages, we say that societies tend to evolve certain
traits in the same order” (1970: 839). Zum einen
werden hier Ausnahmen zugelassen; Einzelne Ge-
sellschaften können sich in anderer Abfolge als
die der Hauptlinie wandeln oder dies zumindest
zeitweise tun. Zweitens wird der Aussagebereich
vom Insgesamt der Kultur einer Gesellschaft auf
einzelne Kulturelemente eingeschränkt. Carneiro
kennzeichnet aber auch die unilineare Evolution
in solch eingeschränkter Weise. Er schreibt: “...
unilinear evolution is that line of development
which a preponderent number of societies have
followed most of the time”, was fast wörtlich
seiner obigen Bestimmung der “main sequence”
entspricht (1973: 91).
Aus kritischer Sicht halten Greenwood and
Stini (1977: 412) auch Whites Theorien für “uni-
linear”; sie benutzen aber dabei ein ganz anderes
Merkmal seiner Theorie, nämlich seinen monokau-
salen Erklärungsansatz (so auch Bargatzky 1986:
185, „lineare Evolutionstheorien“). Sie unterstellen
ihm also nicht die Annahme einer einzigen Abfol-
ge der Kulturentwicklung, sondern erachten Whi-
tes Annahme der Technologie als des Hauptmotors
der Evolution für ein unilineares Konzept. Diese
Annahme ist gewiß umstritten (vgl. Services Kritik
1972: 15-26), jedoch verwechseln die Kritiker hier
zweierlei Dinge: erstens Annahmen zu Verläufen
der Kulturentwicklung (eine oder viele Linien)
und zweitens Annahmen zu den Ursachen dieser
Wandlungen (ein oder mehrere Faktoren). Diese
Kritik verwechselt also unilineare (Verlaufs-) mit
monokausalen (Ursachen-)Annahmen. Die Erklä-
rung für diese Verwechslung mag darin liegen,
daß viele Theoretiker einer unilinearen Evolution
tatsächlich auch monokausale Erklärungen für die-
se vertreten; dies ist jedoch logisch nicht zwin-
gend.
White trug jedoch auch selbst zur Verwirrung
der Diskussion bei, womit eine Überleitung zur
universalen Evolution gegeben ist (vgl. Steward
1953: 317).
2.2 Universale Evolution
White meint, daß die Sequenzen der universa-
len Evolution den typischen Verlauf langfristigen
Kulturwandels als Resultat einer Durchschnittsbil-
dung darstellen.
Es ist ein Unterschied, ob eine Abfolge des
Kulturwandels (1) als typischer Fall, (2) als Sum-
me von Fällen oder (3) als Durchschnittsbildung,
also als zeitliche Drift der statistischen Häufigkei-
ten (vgl. Bühl 1982: 433) über alle Fälle, oder
schließlich (4) als Entwicklung der Weltkultur als
System behandelt wird. White (wie auch Childe)
war in Wirklichkeit nicht primär am Wandel
einzelner Gesellschaften interessiert, sondern an
der globalen Gesamtentwicklung (vgl. Bee 1974:
131; Service 1977: 17 und Steward 1953: 313).
Eben diese Gesamtheit ist die Analyseeinheit der
universalen Evolution, und man kann sie daher
ähnlich der allgemeinen Evolution auch als „Kul-
turstufentheorie“ oder als „Zivilisationsgeschich-
te“ bezeichnen (Bühl 1982: 433). Steward arbeitete
Anthropos 85.1990
Das eine und die vielen Gesichter kultureller Evolution
487
dies klar heraus: “Second, universal evolution -
a rather arbitrary label to designate the modem
revamping of unilinear evolution - is concerned
with culture rather than with cultures ...” und
im weiteren, noch deutlicher: .. relating these
stages to the culture of mankind as a whole ...
cultural ecological adaptations to special environ-
ments are excluded as irrelevant” (1955: 14, 16).
Die Unterscheidung der Untersuchungseinheiten,
einerseits culture (= Weltkultur) und andererseits
cultures (= eine Gesellschaft, “a culture”), wur-
de in der Diskussion um kulturevolutionistische
Fragestellungen immer wieder vernachlässigt. Hier
seien deshalb zwei recht klare Formulierungen
angeführt. Steward (1955: 28) meint, universale
Evolution sei “world culture history”, und Otter-
bein (1972: 240) schreibt: “... universal evolution
is concerned with the world and one sequence”,
und im weiteren: “Universal evolution, likewise, is
not coterminous with any of the other categories.
It deals with the growth and elaboration of culture,
as it is created by the members of all cultures. Thus
logically one, and only one, developmental se-
quence exists” (1972: 241 f.). Für Ribeiro, der von
Gesellschaften als „Zivilisationen“ spricht, ist „so-
ziokulturelle Evolution“ weitgehend mit dem glo-
balen zivilisatorischen Prozeß gleichzusetzen, in
dem die verschiedenen Gesellschaften unterschied-
liche Entwicklungen durchlaufen, .. aber immer
eine große kulturelle Tradition weiterführen und
so dazu beitragen, eine einheitliche menschliche
Zivilisation zu schaffen, die sich in der Welt unse-
rer Tage zu profilieren beginnt“ (1971: 43). Dies
bezeichnet er als Sequenz „allgemeiner zivilisato-
rischer Prozesse“ im Unterschied zu den konkreten
historischen Äußerungen in einzelnen Gesellschaf-
ten als „besonderer zivilisatorischer Prozesse“. In
diesem Konzept liegt das hauptsächliche Interesse
in der weltweiten schrittweisen Anhäufung (Ku-
mulation) der wichtigen Fortschritte und Stufen
der Kulturevolution. In ähnliche Richtung gehen
die Überlegungen von Rollwagen (1980: 128),
die Entwicklung des seit ca. fünfhundert Jahren
bestehenden Welt(wirtschafts)systemes nach Wal-
lerstein evolutionistisch zu deuten. (Er wiederum
nennt dies “general [!] evolution”.)
Innerhalb des Konzepts der universalen Evo-
lution unterscheidet Cameiro (1973: 97 ff.) zwei
Herangehensweisen, die sich, wie gesagt, auf Kul-
turelemente beziehen:
(a) Initial-appearence-view: Wenn eine Erfin-
dung 1 eine notwendige Voraussetzung für ein kul-
turelles Merkmal 2 ist und dieses wiederum Vor-
aussetzung für ein weiteres Merkmal 3, dann ist -
auf die Globalentwicklung bezogen! - die Abfolge
1-2-3 eine kausal notwendige Abfolge. Dies gilt
aber nicht für eine jeweilige Gesellschaft, z. B. D.
Diese kann nämlich z. B. das Stadium 2 oder 3 der
Merkmalsentwicklung überspringen, weil sie das
Merkmal 3 direkt von einer anderen Gesellschaft C
erhält (Abb. 2a). Vergleiche die Unterscheidungen
zwischen der (globallogisch) notwendigen evolu-
tionären Sequenz und der (lokalhistorisch-einzel-
gesellschaftlichen) Abfolge in Abb. 2b.
(b) Predominance-of-cases-view: Wenn 1
nicht Voraussetzung von 2 ist, muß die Anzahl der
A, B, C, D= Gesellschaften
1, 2, 2, 4 = Kulturmerkmale
E = (globallogisch-evolutionär) notwendige Sequenz
--------► = (lokal-einzelgesellschaftliche) historische Abfolge
= Innovation
--------►- = Diffusion
Abb. 2: Evolutionäre Sequenz und historische Abfolge von
Kulturmerkmalen (2a verändert nach Cameiro 1973: 100,
2b ein hypothetischer Fall)
Anthropos 85.1990
488
Christoph Antweiler
Fälle untersucht werden, wo im historisch doku-
mentierten Ablauf tatsächlich Merkmal 1 vor
Merkmal 2 auftrat, weil sonst jede Redeweise von
einer Abfolge sinnlos wäre. Dabei handelt es sich
um eine rein statistische Untersuchung der empi-
risch bislang studierten Kulturentwicklungen.
Neuerdings bezeichnet Carneiro trotz dieser
Differenzierungen wieder die Wiederkehr ähnli-
cher gesellschaftlicher Lösungen für ähnliche Pro-
bleme als universale Evolution oder “... evolution
at its broadest gauge” (1987: 767), obwohl dies
m. E. eher multilineare Evolution darstellt.
2.3 Multilineare Evolution
Multilineare Evolution wurde von Steward als
komplett neuer Ansatz vorgestellt (durchgeführt
schon 1949, als Terminus 1953: 315, 1955: 4). Die
folgenden Ausführungen werden zeigen, daß es
sich dabei jedoch eher um einen Kompromiß zwi-
schen der Suche nach Gesellschaftstypen einerseits
und nach Regelmäßigkeiten des Wandels einzelner
Gesellschaften andererseits handelt; also zwischen
generalisierender und partikularisierender Frage-
stellung (vgl. Carneiro 1979: 295; Dole 1973:
271; Harris 1969: 643; Sabloff and Willey 1967:
311 ff.; Segraves 1974: 530 ff.). In der marxisti-
schen Ethnologie wird ein ähnlicher Gegensatz in
Form „lokal- und universalgeschichtlicher Bewe-
gungsgesetze“ gesehen (Gingrich 1987: 133; vgl.
zu chinesischen Auffassungen Chao 1986: 130—
164).
Steward interessierten vor allem die durch
ähnliche Umweltsituationen situativ bedingten Re-
gularitäten des Wandelverlaufes historisch nicht
miteinander verbundener Gesellschaften. So kann
man mit Otterbein (1972; 241) sagen, daß multili-
neare Evolution den Wandel verschiedener Gesell-
schaften mit ähnlichen ökologischen Anpassun-
gen betrifft. Steward beschreibt diesen Ansatz als
Theorie mittlerer Reichweite: “Third, multilinear
evolution, a somewhat less ambitious approach
than the other two [unilineare und universale Evo-
lution], is like unilinear evolution in dealing with
developmental sequences, but it is distinctive in
searching for parallels of limited occurrence in-
stead of universals” (Steward 1955: 14 f.). Im
folgenden hebt er die einzelnen Charakteristika
hervor (1955: 18 f.): erstens das Interesse an hi-
storischer Rekonstruktion, zweitens das Interesse
an einzelnen Gesellschaften, drittens die Annah-
me begrenzter Parallelen der Form, der Funktion
und der Abfolge und schließlich das Bestehen auf
der empirischen Belegbarkeit, bzw. der Induktivi-
tät der Gewinnung der Verallgemeinerungen (vgl.
South 1977: 4). Zu „Parallelen der Form, Funktion
und Abfolge“ ist zu sagen, daß es sich bei den
Parallelen der Form und Funktion um typologisch
wichtige und bei den Parallelen der Abfolge um
eine genuin diachrone Fragestellung handelt.
Steward erforschte weniger grundlegende Re-
gelhaftigkeiten und allgemeine Gesetze, als viel-
mehr die Kausalität kulturellen Wandels mehrerer
einzelner Gesellschaften. Multilineare Evolution
“... conçoives culture as the concrète forms of
behavior that characterize societies in different
times and places. It therefore seeks explanations
of why particular cultures develop and not of
why culture in general changes” (Steward 1955: 1;
vgl. Carneiro 1979: 288). Steward untersuchte also
eher Gleichförmigkeiten der Verläufe des Wandels
von Gesellschaften (“regularities”), die zwischen
verschiedenen Linien der kulturellen Entwicklung
festzustellen sind, als Gleichartigkeiten innerhalb
der einzelnen Linien (“uniformities”, besonders
1949, 1955: 88; vgl. Rouse 1964: 465; Service
1971; 98).
Man kann viele Arbeiten im Rahmen der
multilinearen Evolution als komparativ-diachrone
Erforschung von Kulturwandel bezeichnen.
Es erscheint aber irreführend, multilinea-
re Evolution mit der vergleichenden Methode
schlechthin gleichzusetzen, wie das Service (1977:
43) tut. Dies kann sich allenfalls auf vergleichende
Methoden im allgemeinen beziehen (vgl. Eggan
1954; Schweizer 1978). Der Kern der sogenann-
ten „Vergleichenden (komparativen) Methode“ im
Evolutionismus seit Morgan besteht in der Anord-
nung von einzelnen synchronen Kulturmerkmalen
oder ganzen rezenten (i. w. S.: ethnographischer
Präsens!) Gesellschaften als formaler Repräsen-
tanten der geschichtlichen Stufenfolge der Kultur
der Menschheit (Bock 1960; 269; vgl. Herskovits
1974: 433; Raum 1983: 294 f.; Service 1971: 135—
157). Dieses Verfahren stellt eher eine allgemeine
Methode des Kulturevolutionismus dar.
Offensichtlich waren bei Steward aber ver-
schiedene Interessen an Kulturevolution vermengt;
er selbst hat diese nicht immer deutlich unterschie-
den, sondern zusammen unter multilinearer Evolu-
tion abgehandelt. Das Studium mehrerer einzelner
Gesellschaften war bei ihm verbunden mit dem
Ziel, Typologien von Gesellschaften aufzustellen.
Er führt aus: “Cross-cultural regularities are ...
conceived as récurrent constellations of basic fea-
tures - the cultural core - which have similar
functional interrelationships resulting from local
ecological adaptations and similar levels of socio-
cultural intégration” (1955: 5 f.). Wenn mehrere
Anthropos 85.1990
Das eine und die vielen Gesichter kultureller Evolution
489
dieser Kulturkeme in kulturvergleichender Sicht
Ähnlichkeiten zeigen und die jeweiligen Gesell-
schaften ein ähnliches Integrationslevei aufweisen,
spricht Steward von „Kulturellen Typen“, die man
heute als Ökotypen oder Typen adaptiver Strategie
in ähnlich strukturierten Makrokontexten (politisch
oder wirtschaftlich) bezeichnen könnte. Es zeigt
sich, daß er einzelne Sequenzen untersucht und
dabei Ähnlichkeiten zwischen diesen Abfolgen
durch Vergleich von Sequenzen in einer Serie von
bestimmten abgrenzbaren Kulturen in verschiede-
nen Regionen feststellt. Diese Ähnlichkeiten in
den Verläufen des Kulturwandels führen ihn zur
Annahme einer in Grenzen verallgemeinerbaren
Abfolge kultureller Formen, die einander im Pro-
zeß der Kulturevolution ablösen, nicht aber zum
Postulat einer notwendigen Abfolge (vgl. Erasmus
1969: 24). Helbling (1985: 90) kennzeichnet die-
se komplexe Vermischung verschiedener Interes-
sen bei Steward treffend, wenn er schreibt, das
Steward die Gesellschaft nomothetisch und die
Geschichte idiographisch behandle.
Leider hat die aufgezeigte Vermischung ganz
unterschiedlicher Perspektiven auf Kulturevolu-
tion, die schon mit dem Untertitel von Stewards
Buch (1955), wo er multilineare Evolution als
„Methodologie“ bezeichnet, einsetzte, zu vielen
Verwirrungen Anlaß gegeben. Oft wurde nicht
deutlich, was eigentlich mit multilinearer Evolu-
tion gemeint ist. So wurde multilineare Evolution
sowohl mit der unilinearen als auch mit der allge-
meinen, und vor allem mit der spezifischen Evo-
lution gleichgesetzt! Hierfür seien einige Belege
angeführt.
Cameiro setzt multilineare mit unilinearer
Evolution in Beziehung, indem er beide als Phasen
eines Prozesses auffaßt, wobei Gesellschaften sich
zeitweise zusammen und/oder gleich wandeln und
a
Z-D
ZD
Orange
Schwarz Weiß —|roi|— Grün Gelb Gelb Grün Juiauj Jßraun Grau Rosa
Purpur
b -------------------------------------------------
Abb. 3: Die Relation von unilinearer und multilinearer Evo-
lution in der Verallgemeinerung und an einer postulierten Ent-
wicklung von Farbtermini in verschiedenen Sprachen
zeitweise verschieden. Dies wird in Abb. 3 ver-
deutlicht. Abb. 3a zeigt das Verhältnis von unili-
nearer zu multilinearer Evolution nach Cameiro.
Abb. 3b gibt ein bekanntes und empirisch umstrit-
tenes Beispiel anhand der Evolution von Farbter-
mini in verschiedenen Sprachen nach Berlin and
Kay 1969.
Cameiro schreibt dazu: “Multilinear evolu-
tion, then, is the residue left after we have at-
tempted to find unilinear evolution and discovered
exceptions” (1973: 102). Hier ist jedoch Vorsicht
geboten. Es wird nämlich nicht deutlich, ob es
sich bei den Ausnahmen um ganze Gesellschaften
handelt, wie seine Abbildung suggeriert, oder um
einige Aspekte bzw. Einzelmerkmale der Kultur
einzelner Gesellschaften, wie das folgende Zitat
nahelegt: “... unilinearity and multilinearity in
cultural evolution are not mutually exclusive pro-
cesses, but in fact go hand in hand. In evolving,
each society develops uniquely in some respects
but like every society in other respects” (1970:
852). Diese Aussage entspricht formal dem, was
Santley and Arnold III (1984: 212) als parallele
Evolution wie folgt umschreiben: “Parallel evo-
lution is assigned to communalities in cases that
exhibit differences.” Hier sind, wie bei der multi-
linearen Evolution, mehrere Linien (hier mehrerer
Gesellschaften, nicht, wie bei Cameiro, innerhalb
einer einzelnen Gesellschaft) gemeint, die ähnliche
Verläufe des Kulturwandels zeigen, obwohl sie
historisch voneinander unabhängig sind.
Dole hebt eher auf die „Ebenen der sozio-
kulturellen Integration“ bei Steward als Charak-
teristikum der multilinearen Evolution ab. Dieser
hat diesen Terminus jedoch für verschiedene Sach-
verhalte verwendet: 1. die größte soziopolitische
Einheit, die gemeinsam handeln kann, 2. die me-
thodische Trennung nationalstaatlicher von nur auf
Subgruppen bezogenen Kulturmerkmalen (1951:
377). Steward verwendete dies für Akkulturations-
vergleiche. So zeigen Murphy und Steward ver-
gleichend anhand der Mundurucu und der nord-
östlichen Algonkin, wo Einflüsse besonderer Um-
weltsituationen einerseits und situativer Formen
soziokultureller Integration ethnischer Gmppen in
größere Systeme andererseits analysiert werden.
Dole kommt zu dem Schluß, daß sich mul-
tilineare Evolution nur im Grad der Verallgemei-
nerung von der allgemeinen Evolution (2.4) un-
terscheide, weil ebenfalls Regularitäten gesucht
werden. “Like White and other evolutionists he
[Steward] selects general diagnostic traits for the
various levels of complexity by examining the
archeological and historical content of specific
cultures at various periods to discover those traits
Anthropos 85.1990
490
Christoph Antweiler
that are common to the various sequences (1973:
272). Der Unterschied zur allgemeinen Evolution
liege also nur im Schwerpunkt und in der Be-
tonung. Multilineare Evolution betone detaillier-
te Regelhaftigkeiten in begrenzter Weise und sei
damit induktiv; allgemeine Evolution betone Re-
gelhaftigkeiten aus einer größeren Auswahl von
Kultursequenzen (Dole 1973: 272).
Stewards schillerndes Konzept der multili-
nearen Evolution deckt sich in einem Punkt sogar
mit dem der universalen Evolution: beide Kon-
zeptionen wandten sich gegen (rein relativistische)
Argumente, die Konvergenzen der kulturellen Ent-
wicklung verschiedener Gesellschaften ausschließ-
lich durch Diffusion erklären wollen (vgl. Yoffee
1979: 8). Beide wenden sich auch gegen jede
Reduktion der Forschung auf minutiöse Einzel-
heiten der Kulturevolution (Steward and Murphy
1977: 91).
Schließlich ist multilineare Evolution auch
mit der spezifischen Evolution gleichgesetzt wor-
den. Eder schreibt z. B. (1980: 185): „Multilineare
Evolutionspotentiale zu analysieren bedeutet, den
historischen Entwicklungsgang von Kulturkreisen
zu rekonstruieren. Dieselbe Verfahrensweise cha-
rakterisiert auch die Konzeption der spezifischen
Evolution.“ Diese Aussage trifft jedoch - abgese-
hen von der anderen Analyseeinheit: „Kulturkrei-
se“ - nur zu, wenn man die anderen Aspekte der
multilinearen Evolution unberücksichtigt läßt, z. B.
deren Betonung von Typologien bzw. Ebenen der
sozialen Organisation, die sie von der spezifischen
Evolution unterscheidet.
Die aufgezeigten Überlappungen mit den an-
deren Kembegriffen des Neoevolutionismus zei-
gen, daß im Konzept der multilinearen Evolution
verschiedene Ideen zusammenfließen.
Dies sind 1. die Suche nach Kausalfaktoren
des Kulturwandels, bei Steward vor allem ökoti-
scher Faktoren; 2. die Feststellung von Regularitä-
ten des Verlaufes kulturellen Wandels in voneinan-
der unabhängigen Gesellschaften; 3. die Erstellung
von Typologien (bzw. Klassifikationen, Taxono-
mien, vgl. dazu Lehmann 1964) von Gesellschaf-
ten und 4. schließlich das Herausstellen des Ma-
krokontextes („soziokulturelle Integration“), inner-
halb dessen sich ethnischer Wandel vollzieht.
Die Untersuchungseinheit bei Arbeiten im
Rahmen der multilinearen Evolution sind fast
immer mehrere Gesellschaften. Das Konzept der
multilinearen Evolution bestand insgesamt vor al-
lem in einer vehementen Zurückweisung unilinea-
rer Evolutionsvorstellungen (vgl. als neuere An-
wendungen Steward 1953: 318; Johnson and Earle
1987; Maiseis 1987).
2.4 Allgemeine Evolution
Wohl die meisten Ethnologen und auch die Prä-
historiker (vgl. z. B. Flannery 1972; Renfrew and
Cooke 1979; Segraves 1974) unter den Neoevo-
lutionisten seit Mitte des 20. Jh.s waren an ei-
nem Phänomen interessiert, das als allgemeiner,
langzeitiger, gerichteter Kulturwandel zusammen-
gefaßt werden kann. Dies etwa wird seit Sahlins
(1960: 20 f., 44: “grand-movement perspective”)
unter der Bezeichnung „allgemeine (synonym: ge-
nerelle) Evolution“ im Schrifttum geführt.
Diese allgemeine Evolution, die man mit Val-
javec (1985: 48) auch als „linear-progressive“
Evolution bezeichnen kann, hat folgende Charak-
teristika mit der unter 2.1 abgehandelten unilinea-
ren Evolution gemein: 1. sie untersucht Gesell-
schaften und nicht, wie die universale Evolution,
die Weltkultur; 2. sie postuliert eine Richtung der
Kulturentwicklung, bzw. versucht diese aus der
Vielfalt der Verläufe kulturellen Wandels zu de-
stillieren.
Wenn man die Arbeiten verschiedener Auto-
ren genau untersucht, zeigen sich auch hier gravie-
rende und nicht geklärte Unterschiede in den Kon-
zeptionen. Die wohl allgemeinste Bedeutung von
allgemeiner Evolution als Höherentwicklung findet
sich bei Sahlins (1960: 12 f.): “[General evolution]
generates progress; higher forms arise from, and
surpass lower ...,” Im folgenden spricht er dann
von umfassendem Fortschritt (“overall progress”).
Hier ist allgemeine Evolution also nicht weiter
spezifiziert, sondern einfach als Höherentwicklung
beschrieben. Diese Vorstellung von Höherentwick-
lung impliziert noch nicht unbedingt ein Stufen-
konzept; sie könnte ja auch kontinuierlich erfol-
gen. Bei Sahlins (1960: 33) sind die Stufen wie
auch die typologische Methode (“... exemplified
...”) jedoch explizit eingeschlossen: “... a se-
quence of stages exemplified by forms of a given
order of development”.
Auch eine historische Beziehung zwischen
den verglichenen Gesellschaften fordern Service
und Sahlins nicht; Service bedient sich bei seiner
Abgrenzung des biologischen Begriffes der Phy-
logenese: “[general evolution] is the directional
advance or progress stage by stage, measured in
absolute terms rather than by criteria relative to the
degree of adaption to particular environments. The
systems are also assigned to stages irrespective
of their phylogenetic relationship” (Service 1960:
94 f.; Hervorh. C. A.), “[general evolution] is the
emergence of higher forms of life, regardless of
particular lines of descent or historical sequences
of adaptive modification. In the broader perspec-
Anthropos 85.1990
Das eine und die vielen Gesichter kultureller Evolution
491
tive of general evolution organisms are taken out
of their respective lineage and grouped into types
which represent the successive levels of allaround
progress that evolution has brought forth” (Sahlins
1960: 16). Die von mir hervorgehobenen Stellen
sollen darauf verweisen, daß im Konzept der all-
gemeinen Evolution ebenfalls ein starker Hang zur
Typisierung von Gesellschaften liegt. Man könnte
allgemeine Evolution sogar als Typologisierung
von Kultur mit diachronen Beispielen bezeich-
nen. Dabei werden aus der vielfältig verästelten
Entwicklung der Gesellschaften auf der ganzen
Welt die jeweils, also pro Zeiteinheit, höchstent-
wickelten herausgefiltert, bzw. eine Klasse daraus
entwickelt (Rollwagen 1980: 137). In einem drit-
ten Schritt werden dann Beispiele heutiger Gesell-
schaften ermittelt, die jeweiligen früheren Höchst-
ständen der Kulturentwicklung entsprechen, und
ebenfalls eingestuft (vergleichende Methode, sie-
he oben), womit die Feststellung von Evolution
auf die Festlegung auf „höher“ und „niedriger“
beschränkt wird.
Allgemeine Evolution kann als „kategorial
taxonomisch“ (Giesen 1986: 89) bezeichnet wer-
den: Allgemeine Evolution bezieht sich auf ei-
ne Stufenabfolge bestimmter Typen von Gesell-
schaften, wobei diese Typen bezüglich bestimm-
ter Merkmale definiert sind“ (Bargatzky 1985:
139). Die dafür verwendeten Merkmale sind z. B.
die politische Organisation (Sahlins 1961; 1963)
oder z. B. die soziale Ungleichheit (Adams 1975:
203 ff.; Fried 1960; 1967). Einige, meist neuere,
Ansätze der allgemeinen Evolution gehen aber
vom Stufenmodell (“staircase model”, “ladder
stereotype”) ab und sehen die allgemeine Evo-
lution eher als langfristig gleichmäßigen Verlauf
(“slope model”, Claessen and Van de Velde 1985;
137 ff.; Friedman and Rowlands 1977: 201-276;
Harris 1979: 77-114).
Um die Besonderheit des Forschungsinteres-
ses bei allgemeiner Evolution zu verdeutlichen, ist
es sinnvoll, sie mit Konzepten aus der biologischen
Evolutionstheorie zu vergleichen. Dort werden die
Termini, wenn auch nicht immer einheitlich, je-
doch meist präziser gehandhabt und umschreiben
außerdem ausdrücklich ein sehr spezielles Teilin-
teresse der Evolutionsbiologie. Dabei handelt es
sich nicht etwa um den Kern des Darwinismus,
dem es nicht in erster Linie um den Verlauf der
Höherentwicklung (Anagenese), sondern um die
Durchleuchtung der Mechanismen der Evolution
im einzelnen geht.
Was ist genau gemeint und welcher biologi-
schen Analogie bedient sich Sahlins (1960: 22),
wenn er schreibt: “... general evolution is the pro-
gressive emergence of higher life ‘stage by stage”’?
Auch in der Evolutionsbiologie wurde lange Zeit
angenommen, daß die Organismen im Verlauf der
Evolution immer komplexer würden. Diese An-
nahme kann sich aber auf drei verschiedene - bei
Sahlins’ Analogisierungen mit der Bioevolution
nicht deutlich getrennte - Aspekte beziehen, also
nicht nur auf einzelne Verwandtschaftslinien:
1. Die Gesamtheit der irdischen Biosphäre
ist kumulativ größer (Biomasse) und komplexer
(Organisationsgrad) geworden.
2. Die Angehörigen der Artenlinien sind im
Durchschnitt immer komplexer geworden.
3. Im Lauf der Evolutionsgeschichte wurden
verschiedene „evolutionäre Erfindungen“ gemacht
- wie z. B. die Warmblütigkeit, die Lungenatmung,
der Flug -, die aufeinander aufbauend zuneh-
mend komplexere Organisationsniveaus erreich-
ten. Präziser formuliert: Das pro Zeitschnitt jeweils
existierende komplexeste Organisationsniveau war
komplexer als das aller vorherigen komplexesten
Niveaus (vgl. Sahlins 1960; 17, Diagramm 1).
Die dritte Aussage ist viel vorsichtiger, als
die ersten beiden, weil sie nicht die Behauptung
beinhaltet, jede einzelne Linie habe einen Trend
hin zur Komplexität. “... general evolution deals
with the frequency distribution of different groups
or societies. To disconform a hypothesis such as
the directionality of increasing population size on
the level of general evolution, requires that there
be no trend with respect to the central tendencies
or the upper limit of frequency distributions” (Wil-
ligan and Lynch 1982: 382).
Um Mißverständnisse zu vermeiden, ist un-
bedingt sorgfältig zwischen Linien und Ebenen
der Evolution zu unterscheiden, wie Abb. 4 ver-
deutlicht. Darin werden historisch spezifische Li-
nien (L) und Ebenen der Organisationskomple-
xität (E) unterschieden. Die Ebenen können von
LI L 2 L 3 L 4 L 5
Abb. 4: Evolutionslinien (L) und Komplexitätsebenen (E) in
der Evolution
Anthropos 85.1990
492
Christoph Antweiler
verschiedenen historischen Linien zu verschiede-
nen Zeiten erreicht werden und müssen nicht in
der Abfolge E1-E2-E3-E4 durchlaufen werden.
Die jeweils gefundenen Komplexitätsniveaus kann
man zeitlich ordnen. Das Ergebnis dieser Opera-
tion nennt man in der Evolutionsforschung “sta-
ges”, “grades” oder “stegies” (Babin 1980: 379,
Abb. 19.5). Dabei sind die Linien in der biotischen
Welt die Abfolgen von Organismen, die durch Ver-
wandtschaft ein zeitliches Kontinuum aufspannen;
die Ebenen (“grades”) sind Niveaus der Organi-
sationskomplexität, unabhängig (!) von Verwandt-
schaftslinien. Diese Ebenen können also von meh-
reren Linien, die völlig unabhängig voneinander
sind, erreicht bzw. erfunden werden. Ein Beispiel
dafür ist die polyphyletische, d. h. aus mehreren
Ursprüngen unabhängig erfolgte, Entwicklung von
Kreislaufsystemen im Tierreich.
Wenn nun diese jeweiligen Höchstausprägun-
gen der Komplexität aneinandergereiht werden,
erscheint die Gesamtevolution dem Betrachter als
notwendig gerichtet hin zum Komplexeren. Hier-
bei handelt es sich aber eben um ein Konstrukt.
Wie im Kulturevolutionismus implizieren diese
biologischen Termini oft auch die Annahme eines
Gesetzes der Entwicklungsrichtung oder sogar die
Annahme, die Evolution sei in ihrem Verlauf ge-
nau durch Anfangsbedingungen vorherbestimmt.
Solche Postulate (Autogenese, Orthogenese) wer-
den aber in der darwinistischen Evolutionstheorie
gerade nicht vertreten.
Für die allgemeine Evolution innerhalb des
Kulturevolutionismus unterscheidet Dole (1973:
263) zwei Verfahrensweisen der Analyse von Ein-
zelfällen:
Zum einen kann die komplexeste Gesellschaft
einer Periode mit der komplexesten einer anderen
verglichen werden, um festzustellen, ob ein Trend
zur Komplexität vorliegt.
Zum anderen kann man eine Auswahl von
einzelnen Gesellschaften jeweils diachron unter-
suchen und fragen, ob die Anzahl der Gesell-
schaften mit einer Zunahme der Vielfältigkeit im
Zeitverlauf größer ist als die Zahl derer mit einer
Komplexitätsabnahme.
Eine Vermischung von Komplexitätsfragestel-
lungen mit ökodeterministischen Annahmen ver-
wendeten einige Prähistoriker mit ihrer speziellen
Verwendung von “general evolution”. Sanders and
Price z. B. untersuchen, anders als Sahlins, eine
ganze Region, nämlich Mesoamerika, als Beispiel
zunehmender Komplexität. Dabei setzen sie all-
gemeine Evolution ausdrücklich mit den “grades”
gleich und schreiben (1968: 317): “A grade, then,
is a stage of physical adaptation to a special way of
life.” Das Ergebnis ist also eine zeitlich geordnete
Abfolge der Gesellschaften in Mittelamerika, die
mittels immer komplexerer sozialer Organisation
auf die allgemein ähnlichen Umweltanforderungen
und Umwelttrends reagierten. Ein Manko dieser
Untersuchungen ist, daß nicht genau zwischen der
Größe der Gesellschaften und ihrer Komplexität
unterschieden wird und die Komplexität nicht auf
verschiedene Kulturbereiche hin spezifiziert wer-
den kann, was nur z. T. an Datenmängeln liegt.
Im Unterschied zu Sahlins und Service wer-
den in den genannten Untersuchungen also solche
Gesellschaften untersucht, die 1. ähnliche Anpas-
sungsprobleme zu lösen hatten, 2. historisch mit-
einander verbunden waren und 3. eine zumindest
teilweise auseinanderstrebende (divergente) Ent-
wicklung durchschritten.
In dieser Forschungstradition steht auch die
Untersuchung von Flannery und Marcus, die allge-
meine Evolution und divergente Evolution zusam-
men untersuchen. Flannery definiert allgemeine
Evolution so: “This is the evolution of succes-
sively higher levels of sociopolitical intégration -
the appearance of new plateaus of human cul-
ture, qualitatively different structures when con-
trasted with earlier or simpler forms” (1983: 1).
Durch die ausdrückliche Berücksichtigung diver-
genter Evolutionsrichtungen wird der ökodetermi-
nistische Ansatz spezifiziert. Die genannten qua-
litativ unterschiedlichen Strukturen sollen sich im
archäologischen Material einer spezifischen Regi-
on zeigen (hier ebenfalls Mittelamerika), z. B. im
Wachstum differenzierter räumlicher Muster (“site
hiérarchies”), also der materiell faßbaren Kultur
in der frühen formativen Periode Oaxacas (vgl.
Santley and Arnold III 1984: 222).
Die Verwendung des Begriffes der allgemei-
nen Evolution sowohl bei Prähistorikern als auch
bei Ethnologen wirft die Frage auf, welche Krite-
rien zur Einordnung der einzelnen Gesellschaften
in Stufen (bzw. levels, grades, Niveaus) benutzt
werden. Solche Kriterien für Entwicklungsstufen
sind ja wählbar, weshalb Giesen und Schmidt
(1978: 188) von „nicht empirischen Reihenfol-
gen“ sprechen. Hierüber hat Sahlins, obwohl er
allgemeine Evolution so breit definiert, wie oben
besprochen, genaue Vorstellungen, indem er drei
Kriterien aufstellt; “General cultural evolution, to
summarize, is passage from less to greater energy
transformation, lower to higher levels of intégra-
tion, and less to greater all-around adaptability”
(1960; 38). Als Fortschrittskriterium nennt Sahlins
(1960: 21), ähnlich der Whiteschen Effizienz der
Energienutzung von Gesellschaften (“energy har-
nessed”), die absolute Menge des Energiedurch-
Anthropos 85.1990
Das eine und die vielen Gesichter kultureller Evolution
493
satzes bzw. der thermodynamischen Leistung
(“dissipation”, “thermodynamic achievement”).
Ganz ähnliche Kriterien zieht auch Ruyle
(1973: 212) heran, nämlich 1. die Erhöhung des
allgemeinen Niveaus der Komplexität, 2. die Ver-
einnahmung zunehmender Mengen von Negentro-
pie (also der zunehmende Aufbau von geordneter
Struktur), 3. die zunehmende Freiheit von Begren-
zungen seitens der Umwelt und 4. zunehmende
Anpassungsfähigkeit. Trotzdem bezeichnet er auf
derselben Seite allgemeine Evolution unspezifisch
als “évolution in the long run”.
Sowohl Service als auch Ruyle bedienen sich
des problematischen Gedankens der Anpassungs-
fähigkeit (Adaptabilität). Aber weder in der bioti-
schen noch in der Kultursphäre ist eine allgemei-
ne Adaptibilität unabhängig von einer speziellen
Umweltsituation denkbar. Im Bios bezieht sich
Anpassungsfähigkeit immer auf eine artspezifische
Umwelt. Konsequenterweise können Anpassungs-
fähigkeiten immer nur relativ zu bestimmten Um-
weltsituationen beurteilt werden (vgl. den aktuel-
len Überblick von Borgerhoff Mulder 1987).
Segraves (1974: 532 ff.) versucht, Sahlins’
and Services Konzept der allgemeinen Evolution
expliziter als diese zu fassen. Strukturelle Trans-
formationen von Gesellschaften sind nach ihr Ver-
änderungen der absoluten Menge der Information
und der Energie, sowie des Grades struktureller
Differenzierung (= Anzahl spezialisierter Subsy-
steme). Fortschritt bemißt sich dann nach der Po-
sition einer Gesellschaft auf einer Skala. Wenn
die drei genannten Variablen korrelativ variieren
und relativ stabil sind, spricht sie von „Ebenen
soziokultureller Integration“ (1974: 533 f., Fig. 1).
Dies ist etwas ganz anderes als Stewards oben
behandelte soziokulturelle Integrationsebenen.
Die meisten Ethnologen unter den Neoevo-
lutionisten vertreten also vereinfacht gesagt ein
Verständnis von allgemeiner Evolution als zusam-
mengefaßter Tendenz mehrerer einzelner bzw. ei-
ner Auswahl von Gesellschaften zu größerer Kom-
plexität. Dole (1973: 262) faßt den Begriff noch
weiter und umschreibt dies so: “... a considéra-
tion of the évolution of cultural forms without
regard to particular places, particular times, par-
ticular societies and individuai with which those
forms are associated.” Ihr Vorschlag, universale,
allgemeine und unilineare (rectilinear) Evolution
gleichzusetzen und sie unter der Überschrift “gen-
eral évolution” zu vereinen, steigert jedoch m. E.
die ohnehin vorhandenen Verwirrungen um dieses
Konzept ins Extrem. Diese Vermengung führt die
Autorin zu einer unverständlichen Auflistung von
Definitionen aus der Literatur, die fast alle univer-
sale Evolution, also globale Komplexitätssteige-
rung (Weltmaßstab), behandeln; sie faßt dies unter
der Überschrift “general evolution” (!) zusammen.
Hier wurde der Unterschied der Untersu-
chungseinheiten - die Kultur der Welt bei uni-
versaler Evolution und einzelne oder eine Gruppe
von Gesellschaften bei allgemeiner Evolution -
vernachlässigt. Dies geschieht ebenfalls bei Eder,
wenn er generelle (allgemeine) Evolution als „ein
universales Entwicklungsmuster, das nicht einzel-
ne Gesellschaften, sondern die menschliche Gat-
tung insgesamt zum Bezugspunkt hat ...“ (1973;
171) bezeichnet und damit allgemeine Evolu-
tion ebenfalls mit universaler Gattungsgeschichte
gleichsetzt.
Zusammenfassend erscheint allgemeine Evo-
lution als eine gegenüber den Konzepten des klas-
sischen Evolutionismus etwas präzisierte Vorstel-
lung. Sie ähnelt der unilinearen Evolution sehr,
weil sie ebenfalls Elemente einer Kulturstufen-
theorie bzw. einer Zivilisationsgeschichte (Bühl
1982; 433) enthält. Sie ist jedoch
1. stärker mit ökologischen Vorstellungen behaf-
tet;
2. wird Höherentwicklung als Komplexitätszu-
nahme spezifiziert (z. B. Populationsgröße oder
-dichte, Energie-bzw. Informationsmenge), und
nicht ausdrücklich und gewollt mit Wertungen be-
haftet;
3. wird nicht immer angenommen, daß diese Rich-
tungen des langfristigen Kulturwandels gesetzhaft
vorgegeben seien.
4. Außerdem betonen einige Autoren, daß jede
Stufe die vorangegangenen enthalte (z. B. Kuli
1979: 169, Abb. 16). Selten (z. B. bei Adams 1975:
209, Fig. 14) findet sich eine Präzisierung dahinge-
hend, ob die jeweiligen Stufen alle oder nur einige
Elemente der vorherigen enthalten.
5. Die Theoretiker der allgemeinen Evolution in-
teressierten sich außer für die große Entwicklung
speziell (a) für den jeweiligen institutionellen Fo-
kus einer Gesellschaft (z. B. Verwandtschaft vs.
politische Organisation) und (b) für die Zeitpunkte
und Systemkrisen, an denen es zu größeren evolu-
tionären Sprüngen kam (sogenannte „evolutionäre
Wasserscheiden“, vgl. Greenwood and Stini 1977:
414, Fig. 20-1).
2.5 Spezifische Evolution
Das Konzept der spezifischen Evolution (syn-
onym: spezielle E.) ist wohl das einzige neo-
evolutionistische Konzept, das der Darwinschen,
mit sparsamen Annahmen argumentierenden Evo-
Anthropos 85.1990
494
Christoph Antweiler
lutionstheorie nahekommt. In einem historischen
Kontinuum von Vorläufern und Nachfahren passen
sich einzelne Gesellschaften mit ihren jeweiligen
spezifischen kulturellen Mitteln an ihre spezifi-
sche Umwelt an. Dadurch, daß sich im Laufe
der Zeit Modifikationen ansammeln, können sich
ursprünglich verbundene Gesellschaften auseinan-
derentwickeln (divergieren). Durch diese Prozesse
entsteht laufend die Diversität der Gesellschaften
auf der Erde.
Die einzelnen Theoretiker im Neoevolutio-
nismus haben unterschiedliche Schwerpunkte der
spezifischen Evolution betont. Das liegt daran,
daß Sahlins und Service, die dieses Konzept ein-
führten, spezifische Evolution nie genau definie-
ren. Als Pionier stellte Sahlins die Charakteristika
der Anpassung und der historischen Verbundenheit
heraus. Spezifische Evolution “... creates diversity
through adaptive modification, new forms differ-
entiate from old ... perspective of adaptation ...”
(1960: 12 f.). Dabei präzisiert er jedoch nicht,
was genau unter Anpassung zu verstehen sei (vgl.
Abercrombie 1972: 48). Im folgenden betont er
(1960: 33), daß spezifische Evolution die verbun-
dene, historische Abfolge von kulturellen Formen
sei. Dies entspricht dem Kern der darwinistischen
Konzeption Abstammung-mit-Modifikation (“de-
scent-with-modification”).
Die zweifache Spezifität, die der jeweiligen
Umwelt und die der jeweiligen kulturellen Mittel,
drückt Sahlins so aus: “... viewed specifically,
the adaptive modifications occurring in different
historical circumstances are incomparable; each
is adequate in its own way, given the adap-
tive problems confronted and the available means
of meeting them” (1960: 26). Außerdem zieht
der Autor eine ausdrückliche Parallele zum bioti-
schen Prozeß der Phylogenese (Stammesgeschich-
te): “‘Specific evolution’ is the phylogenetic, ram-
ifying, historic passage of culture along its many
lines, the adaptive modification of particular cul-
tures” (1960: 36). Dies entspricht weitgehend dem
Bedeutungsgehalt des von Habermas (1976: 154;
vgl. auch Lenhart 1987: 16-46) verwendeten Ter-
minus einer „Entwicklungsdynamik“ als Verlauf
der konkreten Geschichte einzelner Gesellschaften
im Gegensatz zur nachträglich rekonstruierten ver-
allgemeinernden, also von einzelnen Gesellschaf-
ten absehenden „Entwicklungslogik“. „Wenn wir
Entwicklungslogik von Entwicklungsdynamik, al-
so das rational nachrekonstruierbare Muster einer
Hierarchie von immer umfassenderen Strukturen
von Vorgängen trennen, mit denen sich die empi-
rischen Substrate entwickeln, brauchen wir weder
Unilinearität, noch Notwendigkeit, noch Kontinui-
tät, noch Nichtumkehrbarkeit der Geschichte zu
fordern“ (1976: 155). Bisher wurde herausgearbei-
tet, daß die namengebende Spezifität der spezifi-
schen Evolution erstens in der jeweilig besonderen
Umwelt und zweitens in den kulturspezifischen
Mitteln der Anpassung einer Gesellschaft besteht.
Habermas stellt in seiner Formulierung der spe-
zifischen (bei ihm; „speziellen“) Evolution außer-
dem (drittens) die jeweilig besonderen historischen
Umstände heraus, worunter man auch die soziale
Umwelt subsumieren könnte. Er versteht die Be-
rücksichtigung dieser drei Aspekte zusammen als
„funktional gerichtete Untersuchung der speziellen
Evolution“ (1976: 192).
Eder (1973: 371) hebt den Faktor fremdkultu-
reller Kontakte hervor: „Spezifische Evolution be-
schreibt die Adaptionsleistungen, die die einzelnen
Gesellschaften als spezifisch organisierte Teile der
menschlichen Gattung im Rahmen vorgegebener
ökologischer Umweltbedingungen und kulturellen
Kontaktes erbracht haben.“ Diese Aspekte arbeitet
auch Bargatzky heraus, wenn er spezifische Evo-
lution in ein umfassenderes kulturtypologisches
Konzept folgendermaßen einordnet: „Im Rahmen
einer spezifischen Evolution passen sich Kulturen
mit Hilfe ihres jeweils besonderen und charakte-
ristischen kulturellen Inventars an ihre natürlichen
und kulturellen Umweltgegebenheiten an, und die-
ser Anpassungsprozeß führt zur Herausbildung je-
ner überwältigenden Vielfalt von Kulturformen,
wie sie in der Welt vor Beginn der europäischen
Expansion vorhanden waren und auch heute noch
vorhanden sind. Spezifische Evolution ist also da-
für verantwortlich, daß sich auf jedem typologi-
schen Niveau ganz unterschiedliche Ausprägungen
des jeweiligen Typus entdecken“ lassen (Bargatz-
ky 1985: 140 f.). Der entscheidende Gedanke liegt
hier darin, spezifische Evolution als denjenigen
Mechanismus zu begreifen, der die Diversität in-
nerhalb der einzelnen typologischen Niveaus der
allgemeinen Evolution erzeugt. Schwartz and Me-
ad (1964: 328 f.) sprechen hierbei von „mikro-
resp. makrokulturellen“ Modellen der Kulturevo-
lution; dies lädt allerdings zur Verwechslung mit
Modellen unterschiedlichen Raum- oder Zeitmaß-
stabes ein.
Neben der Anpassung als Prozeß (1) und
der Spezifität der jeweiligen Umwelt und Ge-
schichte (2) einzelner Gesellschaften, steht die
Verschiedenartigkeit mehrerer verglichener Ge-
sellschaften (3) als weiterer Forschungsgegenstand
im Mittelpunkt der Arbeiten zur spezifischen Evo-
lution. Diese Verschiedenheit kann als Zustand
(Diversität) oder als Prozeß (Diversifizierung) un-
tersucht werden.
Anthropos 85.1990
Das eine und die vielen Gesichter kultureller Evolution
495
Greenwood and Stini (1977: 413) wollen ins-
besondere den im Neoevolutionismus vernachläs-
sigten Aspekt der Divergenz herausstellen und
fassen spezifische Evolution demgemäß als: ..
the continuai development of diversity, a product
of the ongoing process of adaptation” (vgl. auch
Flannery and Marcus 1983: 3). Dies schlägt sich
in einigen Synonyma nieder, die für spezifische
Evolution vorgeschlagen werden, z. B. bei Raum
(1983: 284) „Verzweigungstheorie“ oder bei Val-
javec (1985: 48) „adaptiv-verzweigende Evolu-
tion“ und in Cohens (1981) Vorschlag, “branching”
(Verzweigung) von “succession” (Abfolge) zu un-
terscheiden. Weil man sich zwischen etwa den
Jahren 1955 und 1975 mehr für allgemeine Evo-
lution interessierte, wurden die genannten Aspekte
vernachlässigt; sie finden jetzt aber mehr Beach-
tung, vor allem bei Prähistorikern (z. B. Flannery
and Marcus 1983: 1; Hunt 1987; Kirch and Green
1987; Renfrew et al. 1982; Segraves 1974: 535 ff.).
Nun stellen sich zwei Fragen; 1. Was unter-
scheidet die spezifische Evolution von der multili-
nearen Evolution? 2. Welcher Unterschied besteht
zwischen spezifischer Evolution und der Kulturge-
schichte einer Gesellschaft, bzw. zu Kulturwandel?
1. Obwohl Sahlins an obengenannter Stel-
le (1960: 36) von der historischen Passage von
Kultur entlang ihrer vielen Linien spricht und dies
sehr der multilinearen Evolution ähnelt, sind die
folgenden Unterschiede festzuhalten. Im Konzept
der multilinearen Evolution gibt es zwar mehrere
Linien der Entwicklung (im Gegensatz zur unili-
nearen E.); bei der spezifischen Evolution werden
jedoch ebensoviele Linien, wie es Gesellschaften
gibt, angenommen (vgl. Harris 1969: 652 ff.; Ot-
terbein 1972: 241).
Im Gegensatz zur multilinearen Evolution
geht es bei den meisten Autoren im Rahmen der
spezifischen Evolution nicht darum, Gesellschaf-
ten in sukzessive Ebenen der Integration (Steward)
einzuordnen.
Ein dritter und m. E. wesentlicher Gegensatz
zur multilinearen Evolution ist, daß dort zwar an
viele Linien gedacht wurde, aber der Gedanke der
baumartigen Verzweigung der Linien kulturellen
Wandels noch fehlte. Dies wird durch die Untersu-
chungen von Blute untermauert: “However none of
these varieties of multilinealisms have made socio-
cultural evolutionism a descent with modification
theory. To employ Harris’ imagery again (1968),
multilineal evolutionism is still talking about a
group of Unes, plural, not one big branching tree”
(1979; 49).
2. Spezifische Evolution ist aber auch nicht
einfach mit dem Wandel der Kultur einzelner
Gesellschaften („Kulturwandel“) gleichzusetzen.
Ethnologen oder Prähistoriker, die sich mit spezifi-
scher Evolution befassen, untersuchen Kulturwan-
del im mittelfristigen und langzeitigen Zeitmaß-
stab, und nicht die kurzzeitigen (z. B. die täglichen
oder über wenige Jahre hinausgehenden, vgl. Eddy
1984; 35: “year-to-year vs. decadal changes”) Ver-
änderungen in Gesellschaften. Wenn Ruyle (1973:
212) spezifische Evolution als “evolution in the
short run” bezeichnet, ist dies als Gegenüberstel-
lung zu langen makroevolutiven Kulturverände-
rungen z. B. über Jahrtausende hinweg zu sehen.
Gemeinsam mit den Bemühungen im Rah-
men der Kulturwandelstudien und der multilinea-
ren Evolution sind die im Rahmen des Konzep-
tes der spezifischen Evolution erstellten Studien
eher empirisch-deskriptiv. Das unterscheidet sie -
trotz der Unterschiede im einzelnen - insgesamt
von den mehr kategorial-taxonomischen Untersu-
chungen, die in den vorangegangenen Abschnitten
behandelt wurden. Allerdings beruhen fast alle
Untersuchungen im Rahmen der spezifischen Evo-
lution (Ausnahme z. B. Murphy and Steward 1977)
auf Sekundäranalysen vorhandener Daten. Darauf
führt Erasmus (1969: 25) zurück, daß psychische
Faktoren im allgemeinen und die Ziele von Ak-
teuren im besonderen in den neoevolutionistischen
Erklärungsansätzen vernachlässigt wurden.
In einem neueren Buch charakterisiert Service
(1972: 3, 12, 97 f.) Involution als einen Prozeß,
der von Evolution als absolutem Fortschritt zu
unterscheiden sei. Die Merkmale, die er dabei
angibt, kommen m. E. der spezifischen Evolution
sehr nahe, ohne daß Service dies sagt: (a) Involu-
tion sei Fortschritt relativ zur Umwelt und bezogen
auf die spezifischen Probleme einer Gruppe (vs.
Evolution als absolutem Fortschritt); (b) die Ein-
heiten der Involution seien Populationen (die der
Kulturevolution „Formen als Formen“); (c) diese
Einheiten der Involution seien historisch mitein-
ander verbunden und ergäben eine historisch-phy-
logenetische Taxonomie (vs. evolutionistische Ta-
xonomien nach Stufenkriterien). Diese terminolo-
gische Neuerung ist aber m. E. nicht notwendig,
weil das Konzept der spezifischen Evolution eben
diese Vorstellungen relativen Fortschritts schon
enthält, wenn auch implizit, z. B. in der Betonung
der relativen „thermodynamischen Effizienz“ als
gewonnener zu eingesetzter Energie im Gegen-
satz zur absoluten thermodynamischen Leistung
(“achievement”) der allgemeinen Evolution (vgl.
Segraves 1974: 537 ff.). Außerdem sind mit dem
Terminus „Involution“ seit Geertz (1963; 82) spe-
zielle Merkmale (interne Elaboration, “shared po-
verty”, Nischenbildung) verbunden (vgl. Abb. 1).
Anthropos 85.1990
496
Christoph Antweiler
Abschließend sei eine programmatische For-
mulierung der spezifischen Evolution von Flannery
and Marcus angeführt. Sie-läßt spezifische Evolu-
tion zugleich 1. als echtes Analogon der organis-
mischen Evolution erscheinen (“isolation”, “adap-
tation”, “drift”; vgl. Blute 1979; 50) und ermög-
licht 2. eine Verwendung des Konzeptes für die
empirische Untersuchung generationsübergreifen-
den (“multigenerational”) Wandels in ethnischen
Gruppen; 3. wird herausgestellt, wie wenig reprä-
sentativ dieses Konzept der spezifischen Evolution
für den Kulturevolutionismus - auch den Neoevo-
lutionismus! - war: .. [specific evolution] refers
to the pathway taken by a given human culture
through time. Partly through adaptive change, part-
ly through isolating mechanisms and drift, partly
through the influence of their neighbours, specific
cultures play out a history of multi-generational
evolution. But this is not the type of evolution
that hindled so much interest and controversy in
the 1950’s and 1960’s” (Flannery and Marcus
1983: 1).
2.6 Differentielle Evolution
Differentielle Evolution, teilweise auch als “multi-
directional evolution” bezeichnet, ist ein vor allem
von Carneiro verwendeter Terminus, der zwei ganz
verschiedene Sachverhalte zusammenwirft:
1. Verschiedene Bereiche der Kultur einer
Gesellschaft, z. B. die Wirtschaftsweise oder die
religiösen Vorstellungen, wandeln sich (a) in ver-
schiedener Geschwindigkeit oder (b) in unter-
schiedlichem Ausmaß. Dem liegt die Erkenntnis
zugrunde, daß Kultur sich nicht als Ganzes und mit
gleicher Geschwindigkeit wandelt (vgl. Guksch
1982: 163), ja daß die verschiedenen Sphären der
menschlichen Handlungen und ihrer Effekte trotz
funktionaler Verbundenheit ihre eigene Dynamik
haben können (Britan and Denich 1976: 69; allge-
meiner: Bühl 1987).
2. Mehrere miteinander verglichene Gesell-
schaften haben hinsichtlich bestimmter Kriterien,
z. B. der Anzahl bestimmter Merkmale, eine un-
terschiedliche Evolutionshöhe erreicht.
Carneiro führt zu den beiden Sachverhalten
folgendes aus: “Differential evolution, in one sen-
se, is the tendency of societies to evolve the va-
rious aspects of their culture - economic, soci-
al, political, legal, etc. - at various rates and to
different degrees. ... The expression ‘differenti-
al evolution’ may be applied to another aspect
of cultural development: the difference in degree
to which entire societies have evolved” (1973:
104). Wenn beispielsweise Harris (1969: 240 f.)
postuliert, daß sich die technoökonomische Basis
(Infrastruktur) einer Gesellschaft schneller als die
soziale Organisation und das Überzeugungssystem
(Suprastruktur) wandle, so nimmt er grundsätz-
lich eine differentielle Evolution im ersten hier
unterschiedenen Sinne an. Der zuerst angeführten
Lesart von differentieller Evolution entspricht -
auf verschiedene Kulturbereiche bezogen - auch
das aus der Soziologie bekannte Konzept der
kulturellen Verzögerung (“cultural lag”, „kulturel-
le Phasenverschiebung“, „kulturelles Zurückblei-
ben“, „ungleichgerichtete Entwicklungen in Ge-
sellschaften“) seit Ogbum (1969: 134-145, ähn-
lich Service 1977: 394 ff.: „Diskontinuität“): „Eine
kulturelle Phasenverschiebung findet statt, wenn
von zwei miteinander in Beziehung stehenden Kul-
turelementen das eine sich eher oder in größerem
Ausmaß verändert als das andere, so daß der Grad
der Anpassung zwischen den beiden Elementen
geringer wird als zuvor“ (Ogburn 1969: 134; vgl.
245).
Ein Beispiel für den zweiten - gänzlich an-
deren - Sachverhalt, den Carneiro als differentiel-
le Evolution bezeichnet, wird durch seinen Ver-
gleich der Gesellschaften der Kayan auf Borneo
mit den Bewohnern des Acoma-Pueblos im Süd-
westen der Vereinigten Staaten deutlich. Diese bei-
den Gesellschaften werden bezüglich der Anzahl
der in ihrer Gesellschaft vertretenen Kulturmerk-
male innerhalb von sieben Kategorien (Subsistenz,
Wirtschaft, Sozialorganisation, politische Organi-
sation, Recht, Kriegführung und Religion) vergli-
chen. Dies ist ein rein synchroner Kulturvergleich
der Komplexität zweier Gesellschaften. Dies als
Kulturevolution zu bezeichnen, weist auf eine
der wichtigen Traditionen im Kulturevolutionis-
mus zurück: das Bestreben, Gesellschaften in eine
Rangordnung einzureihen, bzw. auf einer Skala
zu fixieren. Im genannten Beispiel wird eigentlich
nur der Grad der Evolviertheit - gemessen an der
Merkmalshäufigkeit - als Zustandsbeschreibung
einer Gesellschaft untersucht. Daraufhin wird die-
se selektive Beschreibung einer Gesellschaft mit
der einer anderen Gesellschaft verglichen: “With
such a body of traits we can construct a scale
that permits us to rank societies objectively and
quantitatively: the more of these cumulating traits
a society has, the more evolved it is” (Carneiro
1973: 105).
„Differentielle Evolution“ sollte nicht mit ei-
ner Differenzierung ursprünglich einander ähnli-
cher Gesellschaften durch verschiedene ökologi-
sche oder technologische Faktoren verwechselt
werden. Sahlins untersuchte dies in einer weniger
Anthropos 85.1990
Das eine und die vielen Gesichter kultureller Evolution
497
bekannten Arbeit anhand der Sozialorganisation
(Abstammungseinheiten) polynesischer Gemein-
schaften und nannte den Prozeß „Differenzierung
durch Anpassung“ (1971: 46; vgl. 1958: 247 ff.).
Dabei handelt es sich um eine Aufspaltung ur-
sprünglich einheitlicher Gesellschaften, also diver-
gente Evolution, die ihre biotische Parallele in
der sogenannten adaptiven Radiation hat (Dob-
zhansky et al. 1977: 186 ff.; Stanley 1979: 65-74;
vgl. Berreman 1960: 787 ff.). Solche divergenten
Evolutionsvorgänge sind im Neoevolutionismus
zugunsten konvergenter und paralleler Evolution
weniger untersucht worden (vgl. jedoch Kottak
1980: 267). Selbst in den angeführten Arbeiten
geht es Sahlins mehr um parallele kulturelle Wand-
lungen auf verschiedenen Inseln und dabei um
Kovariation von Umwelt einerseits und sozialer
Stratifizierung andererseits mit der Technologie als
intermittierender Variable, wie Erasmus (1969: 23)
deutlich macht.
3. Eine Formenkunde der Kulturevolution:
Auf dem Weg zu einer umfassenden
Begriffssystematik jenseits gängiger
Termini und Schulen
3.1 Otterbeins Systematisierung
Einige Neoevolutionisten haben versucht, die Ge-
samtheit des Kulturevolutionismus inklusive des
Neoevolutionismus zu ordnen. Präzise Systemati-
sierungsvorschläge zu den unter 2.1 bis 2.6 ab-
gehandelten Grundbegriffen der Neoevolutionisten
sind dagegen selten geblieben; sie erscheinen je-
doch bei der aufgezeigten Verschiedenartigkeit der
Neoevolutionismen besonders wichtig (vgl. Yoffee
1979: 9). Eine einfache Kategorisierung wurde
von Otterbein (1972) vorgeschlagen; sie blieb je-
doch weitgehend unbeachtet. Auch im m. E. besten
(Newson 1976) und anderen neueren Überblicken
zum Thema, so bei Bee (1974: 120-171), Cameiro
(1973), Dole (1973), Raum (1983) und Valjavec
(1985) wurde dieser Versuch Otterbeins nicht be-
rücksichtigt. Darum sei er hier kurz ausgeführt und
um einige fehlende Aspekte erweitert.
Otterbein geht von drei zentralen Stellen bei
Steward und bei Sahlins aus, die oben in 2.4 und
2.5 schon bei der Analyse der Kulturevolutionsbe-
griffe ausgewertet wurden, aber hier noch einmal
im Zusammenhang wiedergegeben sind: “Cultural
evolution, then, may be defined broadly as a quest
for cultural regularities or laws; but there are three
distinctive ways in which evolutionary data may
be handled. First, unilinear evolution, the classical
nineteenth-century formulation, dealt with particu-
lar cultures, placing them in stages of a universal
sequence. Second, universal evolution - a rather
arbitrary label to designate the modem revamping
of unilinear evolution - is concerned with culture
rather than with cultures. Third, multilinear evo-
lution, a somewhat less ambitious approach than
the other two, is like unilinear evolution in dealing
with developmental sequences, but it is distinctive
in searching for parallels of limited occurrence
instead of universals” (Steward 1955: 14 f.). “It
appears almost obvious upon stating it that in both
its biological and cultural spheres evolution moves
simultaneously in two directions. On one side,
it creates diversity through adaptive modification:
new forms differentiate from old. On the other
side, evolution generates progress: higher forms
arise from, and surpass, lower. The first of these
directions is Specific Evolution, and the second,
General Evolution. ... Any given change in a
form of life or culture can be viewed either in
the perspective of adaptation or from the point of
overall progress. ...” “The fundamental difference
between specific and general evolution appears in
this: the former is a connected, historic sequence
of forms, the latter a sequence of stages exempli-
fied by forms of a given order of development”
(Sahlins 1960; 12 f., 33).
Otterbein sucht nun die in allen Beschreibun-
gen auftretenden Elemente (“attributes”) heraus
und kommt zu dem Ergebnis, daß es die folgenden
sind: 1. die Analyseeinheit: ist es eine Gesellschaft
oder die Kultur der Welt? 2. Die Anzahl der Se-
quenzen (Linien): gibt es eine oder mehrere oder
viele Linien der kulturellen Entwicklung? Darauf
aufbauend konstruiert er mit der einfachen Dar-
stellungsmethode des Merkmalsraumes eine Ty-
pologie, indem er die beiden Attribute zu Spal-
ten resp. Zeilen einer Matrix macht. Nun können
fünf der sechs Evolutionsformen (unilineare, uni-
versale, multilineare, allgemeine, spezifische) in
die entsprechenden Zellen eingeordnet werden. In
einem abschließenden Schritt werden diese dann
reformuliert.
Das einfache Ergebnis ist in Abb. 5 darge-
Anzahl der angenommenen Linien (Sequenzen)
Eine Linie Einige Linien Viele Linien
Analyse- einheit Einzelne Gesell- schaften unilineare allgemeine multilineare spezifische
Weltkultur universale
Abb. 5; Typologie der Hauptbegriffe kulturevolutionistischer
Theorien (leicht verändert nach Otterbein 1972: 241)
Anthropos 85.1990
498
Christoph Antweiler
stellt. Die zwei leeren Zellen der Matrix können
nicht gefüllt sein, weil es für die Gesamtmensch-
heit natürlich nur eine realisierte Linie geben
kann. Das Ergebnis zeigt Otterbeins Absicht, zu
einer einfachen Typologie zu gelangen, um wieder
fruchtbar mit den Konzepten arbeiten zu können.
3.2 Eine mehrdimensionale Systematisierung
Die obige Typologie erfaßt jedoch einige der in
2.1 bis 2.6 unterschiedenen Sachverhalte nicht
und soll deshalb hier erweitert werden (Abb. 6).
Vor allem bedarf es einer Ergänzung, um diejeni-
gen verwendeten Analyse- bzw. postulierte oder
gefundene Evolutionseinheiten unterscheiden zu
können, die weder unabhängige soziale Einheiten
(„Gesellschaften“, „ethnische Gruppen“, „soziale
Formationen“) noch die Kultur aller Gesellschaf-
ten auf der Welt insgesamt meinen.
global
RAUM
regional
lokal
^^s^JLinien (angen./empir.) Einheiten (a./i.) Eine Linie Viele Einige Linien Alle Linien
Eines/mehrere Kulturmerk - male oder Institutionen 1 2 3
Einzelne Gesellschaft 4 5 6
- Kulturmerkmal(e) 4.1 5.1 6.1
- Institution(en) 4.2 5.2 6.2
- Population 4.3 5.3 6.3
- Sozialverband 4.4 5.4 6.4
Andere systemische Ein- heiten (s. Text) 7 8 9
Welt 10 -
- Summe 10.1 -
- Durchschnitt 10.2 -
- Weltsystem (Wallerstein) 10.3 -
- Kultur (White) 10.4 — ,
Abb. 6: Erweiterte Typologie zur Charakterisierung der im
Neoevolutionismus untersuchten verschiedenen Sachverhalte
Manche Untersuchungen behandeln z. B. Kul-
turbereiche unterhalb oder quer zu Sozialeinhei-
ten („z. B. Evolution der Schrift, des Handels“).
Andere Arbeiten gehen von einzelne Gesellschaf-
ten übergreifenden Einheiten oder gar regionalen
Systemen aus. Mit einer solchen erweiterten
Matrix können auch Untersuchungen, die eine
erschöpfende regionale Auswahl von Gesellschaf-
ten als Untersuchungseinheit heranziehen (Me-
soamerika: Sanders and Price 1968; Price 1977;
Südostasien: Dünn 1970), berücksichtigt werden.
Friedman (1981: 179; vgl. Ekholm 1981) z. B.
plädiert im Hinblick auf die Transformationen so-
zialer Strukturen (sensu Leach) dafür, statt ei-
ner Gesellschaft oder einer sozialen Institution
die „strukturelle Totalität verschiedener Reproduk-
tionszyklen“ als Evolutionseinheit zu betrachten.
Auf den Reproduktionszusammenhang (und
die ähnliche Umwelt) stellen auch Giesen und
Schmidt (1987: 189 f.) ab, argumentieren da-
bei aber im Hinblick auf eine echt-evolutionäre
Kulturevolutionstheorie, die Mechanismen (Varia-
tion-Auswahl-Beibehaltung, vgl. Antweiler 1988;
Kap. 3.1, 4) statt Verläufe analog der Bioevolu-
tion im langzeitigen Kulturwandel sucht. Sie ar-
gumentieren, das Potential der Evolutionstheorie
liege weniger in der Erklärung einzelner Kultur-
gemeinschaften, weil deren spezifische Strukturen
aufgrund der Zufälligkeit von Innovationen kaum
evolutionär erklärbar seien. Vielmehr solle man
mehrere ökologisch und reproduktiv abgegrenzte
Populationen in evolutionärer Konkurrenz unter-
suchen (vgl. ähnlich Abruzzi 1982; Denell 1983:
10-15: Subsistenz vs. Reproduktionsgruppen).
Weiterhin gibt es Untersuchungen, die ganz
andere intersystemische Einheiten zugrundelegen,
bzw. empirisch aufgezeigt haben. Lind (1983: 2 ff.)
z. B. fand, daß für die Erklärung politischer Evo-
lution in eurasiatischen Steppengebieten als evol-
vierende Einheiten sogenannte Tributsysteme an-
zusehen sind. Dabei handelt es sich um Organi-
sationsprinzipien zur Verlagerung des Surplus in
über einzelne ethnische Gruppen hinausgehende
Einheiten.
Schließlich könnte mittels einer verfeinerten
Typologie auch eine Brücke zu wissenschaftlichen
Ansätzen geschlagen werden, deren Analyseein-
heiten einzelne oder mehrere Kulturelemente sind.
Das gleiche gilt hinsichtlich Untersuchungen, die
Gesellschaft als System sinnhafter Kommunika-
tionen (statt als Menschengruppe) begreifen und
deren Analyseeinheit die jeweiligen Einheiten die-
ser Kommunikationsgebilde sind (Luhmann, z. B.
1983: 197).
Dieser Matrixdarstellungsweise sind jedoch
enge Grenzen gesetzt, weil nicht mehr Dimensio-
nen unterzubringen und z. B. Selbstorganisations-
einheiten, die sich verändern (Adams 1988; 148—
152), nicht abbildbar sind. Auf eine Benennung
der einzelnen Zellen wurde bewußt verzichtet, um
den Wust der Termini im Neoevolutionismus nicht
noch zu steigern.
Die Analyse des Konzeptes der multilinearen
Anthropos 85.1990
Das eine und die vielen Gesichter kultureller Evolution
499
Evolution in 2.3 hat ergeben, daß dieses verschie-
dene Komponenten enthält, im Kern aber einen
prozessualen (bzw. diachronen) Kulturvergleich
darstellt. Es werden Veränderungsverläufe ver-
schiedener Gesellschaften angesichts unterschied-
licher oder ähnlicher Intégrations- bzw. Ökositua-
tionen verglichen.
Wenn man diese Merkmale langfristiger kul-
tureller Wandlungen um den Aspekt divergieren-
der (= divergenter) Kulturentwicklungen und um
den häufig unterschlagenen Faktor des Kulturkon-
taktes ergänzt, läßt sich die folgende Fallunter-
scheidung machen (Abb. 7; durch Kottak 1980:
256 ff. angeregt):
Materielle Bedingungen (natürliche Umwelt) oder Kulturkontakt (soziale Umwelt)
gleich oder ähnlich unterschiedlich
Kulturelles gleich oder ähnlich parallele r T Evolution 1 I divergente Evolution »
Erbe (Tradition) unter- schiedlich konvergente 4 Evolution spezifische 4 T Evolution(en) / }
Abb. 7: Aus diachronem Vergleich gewonnene Verlaufsfor-
men kultureller Evolution
Fall 1: Wenn das kulturelle Erbe zweier Ge-
sellschaften ähnlich ist und die Einwirkungen der
natürlichen und sozialen Umwelt ebenfalls, wird
sich eine parallele Evolution ergeben, wie sie z. B.
Kottaks adaptive Typologie ethnischer Gruppen
auf Madagaskar (1980: Kap. 2) beschreibt. Dies
entspricht den „parallelen Sequenzen“ bei Gold-
man (1955: 688 f.). Davon unberührt bleibt die
Feststellung, daß es auch in historisch nicht mitein-
ander in Kontakt stehenden Gesellschaften paral-
lele Wandlungen gibt, was Santley and Arnold III
(1984: 212) als parallele Evolution bezeichnen; es
handelt sich ja um eine Formkategorie.
Fall 2: Wenn die Traditionen zweier vergli-
chener Gesellschaften ursprünglich verschieden
sind, sie aber danach mit ähnlichen materiellen Be-
dingungen der Umwelt und/oder ähnlichen Kultur-
kontakten (soziale Umwelt) konfrontiert werden,
und sich daraus ähnliche Verläufe ihrer Kulturevo-
lution ergeben, kann dies als konvergente Evolu-
tion beschrieben werden. Es muß betont werden,
daß es in der organischen Evolution auf überart-
licher (transspezifischer) Ebene ein Ähnlichwer-
den reproduktiv isolierter Populationen geben kann
(= Konvergenz), nicht aber, wie in der Kulturevo-
lution, eine Verbindung von nicht verwandten Evo-
lutionslinien (vgl. Hill 1971: 62, “convergence” vs.
“juncture”).
Fall 3: Wenn zwar die kulturellen Traditionen
gleich oder ähnlich sind, aber die Einwirkungen
der sozialen und der natürlichen Umwelt verschie-
den, führt das zu divergenter Evolution, einer Ver-
laufsform, die im Neoevolutionismus - trotz der
Anregungen Stewards und Childes (1975: 171 ff.)
- vernachlässigt wurde, aber heute verstärkt un-
tersucht wird (Flannery and Marcus 1983; Sahlins
1971).
Fall 4: Wenn schließlich sowohl das kulturelle
Erbe als auch die materiellen und/oder Kontaktum-
stände ähnlich sind, liegt spezifische Evolution im
engsten Sinn vor.
Der Vorteil dieser präziseren Typologien evo-
lutionärer Wandelformen ist folgender: sie geben
beschreibende Kriterien für die in den Theorien
gemachten Annahmen ab und sie beziehen sich für
Vergleiche auf konkrete Referenten, nämlich Ana-
lyseeinheit, Anzahl der Evolutionslinien, kulturel-
les Erbe, materielle Umweltsituation oder Kultur-
kontakte.
4. Ergebnis, Conclusio und Ausblick:
Für eine reflektierte Weiterführung
kulturevolutionistischer Forschung
Die an den gängigen Termini orientierte Analyse
in Abschnitt 2 hat Folgendes ergeben:
1. Die gängigen neoevolutionistischen Kon-
zepte überschneiden sich in starkem Maß.
2. Sie sind im Gebrauch in der Fachliteratur
viel bedeutungshaltiger, als ihre dichotome Ein-
führung als Terminipaare (unilineare vs. multili-
neare, allgemeine vs. spezielle Evolution) sugge-
riert.
3. Es werden verschiedene Gegenstandsfel-
der des Gesamtphänomens langfristigen Kultur-
wandels, z. B. dessen Geschwindigkeit und Rich-
tung, vermengt (a) mit verschiedenen Annahmen
über die Art und Anzahl der Faktoren und (b) mit
unterschiedlichen wissenschaftlichen Zielen, z. B.
beschreibender Rekonstruktion bzw. Retrodiktion
vs, Erklärung.
4. Hinzu kommt eine Vermischung unter-
schiedlichster Maßstäbe in (a) Raum, (b) Zeit und
(c) jeweiliger Analyse- bzw. Vergleichseinheit.
Hinter dem oft totgesagten Unternehmen des
Evolutionismus stehen berechtigte Ziele und stek-
ken weitgehend ungelöste Forschungsfragen. Ich
Anthropos 85.1990
500
Christoph Antweiler
Gesellschaften unterschiedlicher
Komplexität
regionale Systeme
Weltsystem
Populationsbewegungen
Kolonialismus
Konflikte, Kriege
Diffusion
global notwendige Sequenz
(vgl. Abb. 2)
durch Daten abgedeckt
Zeit
Genozid
-|* Ethnozid
K
D
P
A
konvergente
Evolution
divergente Evolution
parallele Evolution
Assimilation,
Akkulturation
E
Ethnizität,
Dissimilation
Abb. 8: Grundformen und Vielfalt im Muster kultureller Evolution (synoptisches Schema)
Anthropos 85.1990
Das eine und die vielen Gesichter kultureller Evolution
501
halte folgende Schritte zur beschreibenden Klä-
rung der Grundformen kultureller Evolution für
notwendig:
1. sollte die jeweilige angenommene Evolu-
tionseinheit in räumlicher und zeitlicher Ausdeh-
nung spezifiziert werden;
2. sollte die angenommene bzw. empirisch
nachgewiesene Anzahl und das Verhältnis von Li-
nien kultureller Evolution angegeben werden;
3. ist die relative Ähnlichkeit von kulturellem
Erbe und materieller, bzw. sozialer Umwelt bei
Gesellschaften (oder anderen Einheiten), die im
diachronen Vergleich gegenübergestellt werden,
festzustellen.
Wenn mit solchen klaren beschreibenden Kri-
terien die Vielfalt kulturevolutionärer Verlaufs-
formen deutlich gemacht ist, kann der wichtige
Zusammenhang zur ethnologischen Theorie des
Kulturwandels, die selbst bislang Stückwerk ist,
und zu Geschichtstheorien, wieder hergestellt wer-
den. Das Phänomen langzeitigen kulturellen Wan-
dels mit seinem universalhistorischen Gesicht der
Komplexitätssteigerung - von White und Carneiro
am konsequentesten verfolgt - und seinen vielen
anderen (der Komplexitätssteigerung teilweise zu-
widerlaufenden) Gesichtem ist 1. ein allgemein
empirisch gut belegtes Phänomen der Geschich-
te, 2. in der Einzelfallanalyse mit methodischen
Problemen belastet und 3. weitgehend ungeklärt
in seinen Ursachen.
Abb. 8 soll diese verschiedenen Gesichter kul-
tureller Evolution zum einen im Gesamtzusam-
menhang, auch mit den welthistorisch z. T. al-
ten Phänomenen des Kolonialismus, der Staaten-
bildung, der Akkulturation, der Ethnizität (bzw.
Dissimilation), sowie des Geno- bzw. Ethnozides,
plastisch machen. Zweitens soll die Abbildung das
methodische Hauptproblem der - meist spärlichen
- abgegrenzten Daten (discreteness, vgl. Dunnell
1982: 11) gegenüber der Kontinuität der tatsäch-
lichen Verläufe kultureller Evolution vor Auge
führen.
Abschließend möchte ich skizzenhaft einige
Desiderata für die zukünftige Forschung postulie-
ren. Ich beschränke mich auf Vorschläge im Rah-
men des Zieles der Erforschung von Verläufen der
Kulturevolution. Das eigentliche Desiderat besteht
m. E. in der Erforschung der zugrundeliegenden
Mechanismen (vgl. Antweiler 1988, 1989; Antwei-
ler and Adams n. d.):
1. Es sollte wieder gefragt werden, welches
die im langzeitigen Wandel historisch wirkungs-
vollen Einheiten der Kulturevolution sind (und
waren). Dafür braucht man sinnvolle Abgren-
zungen von Menschengruppen als Populationen.
Ethnologen stellen hierzu wohl Hypothesen auf,
beteiligen sich aber kaum am Test evolutionisti-
scher - wie auch migrationistischer (Rouse 1986:
162) und diffusionistischer - Hypothesen. Ein
Grund dafür ist in der zwar fruchtbaren (!), aber in
ihrer Ausschließlichkeit behindernden Sicht ethni-
scher Einheiten als Identitätsgebilde seit den maß-
geblichen Arbeiten von Barth zu sehen. Ethnizität
war als Phänomen eine theoretisch (Dynamik der
Gruppengrenzen, Dissimilation vs. Assimilation,
Rolle in Nationalstaaten) wie praktisch (Minder-
heitenunterstützung) wichtige ethnologische Ent-
deckung, aber Ethnizität selbst läßt keine materiel-
len Spuren zurück. Also braucht man für die Re-
konstruktion der Geschichte von Populationen als
Handlungseinheiten auch nichtkognitive Merkma-
le. Außerdem brauchen wir Daten zur Beziehung
kleiner Gesellschaften zum globalen Makrokon-
text. Für beide Punkte müßte endlich wieder mehr
mit der Soziologie und der politischen Ökono-
mie (z. B. Dependenz-, Weltsystem- und Artikula-
tionstheorie) für die Abgrenzung der Populationen
zusätzlich mit Prähistorikem, zusammengearbeitet
werden.
2. Neoevolutionisten sollten zur Erforschung
von Migrationen und Diffusionen, deren Zusam-
menhang seit dem verqueren Streit der Evolu-
tionisten mit den (Extrem-)Diffusionisten weitest-
gehend aus dem Blickfeld der Ethnologie ver-
schwunden ist, wieder aufnehmen. Das beinhal-
tet die Nutzung der verschiedenen Lösungen von
Galtons Problem. Für beide Themen müßte neben
der Prähistorie auch die Geographie herangezogen
werden, weil dort die entscheidenden theoretischen
Arbeiten zu Diffusionsprozessen geleistet worden
sind, allerdings weniger zur Diffusion unter ethni-
schen Gruppen.
3. Die Diskussion um die Vergleichende Me-
thode im Evolutionismus (Comparative Method)
sollte wieder aufgenommen werden. Die berech-
tigte Kritik am häufig naiv vereinfachenden Ge-
brauch dieser Methode diskreditiert keineswegs
das Verfahren als solches: nämlich eine Paralleli-
sierung der Grundformen (nicht etwa aller Einzel-
heiten!) rezenter mit historischen Gesellschaften;
dies ist einer der wesentlichen (denk-)methodi-
schen Beiträge des Evolutionismus in der Ethno-
logie überhaupt. Im Rahmen der experimentellen
Archäologie und der Ethnoarchäologie wird diese
Methode in konkreter und meist vorsichtiger Weise
längst eingesetzt.
4. Es könnten die mittlerweile stark verfei-
nerten Verfahren der Rekonstruktion und Retro-
diktion in neoevolutionistische Studien eingebracht
werden. Hier könnten wir aus dem Methodenfun-
Anthropos 85.1990
502
Christoph Antweiler
dus zweier Disziplinen mit ähnlichen Problemen
profitieren, einerseits der quantitativen Geschichts-
wissenschaft und andererseits der Phylogenesefor-
schung in der Evolutionsbiologie (grundlegend:
Gould 1986).
5. Ebenfalls aus der Evolutionsbiologie, wo
die Probleme damit in den letzten Jahrzehnten
starke Aufmerksamkeit erfahren haben, könnten
wir Kenntnisse zur Erstellung polythetischer Ty-
pologien nutzen.
6. Als langfristiges Ziel wäre der Aufbau
einer diachwn kulturvergleichenden Datenbank
sinnvoll, welche die weitgehend synchronen Hu-
man Relation Area Files mit archäologischen,
ethnohistorischen und Daten aus der Kulturwan-
delforschung zu mittel- und langzeitigem kulturel-
len Wandel ergänzt.
7. Aufgrund der Spärlichkeit der Daten ist die
Weiterentwicklung einer - möglichst wenig speku-
lativen - Theorie kultureller Evolution besonders
wichtig: erstens, weil jede Datenanalyse theoriege-
leitet ist und diese Theorie also explizit gemacht
werden sollte; zweitens, um Lücken in den Daten
begründet zu füllen. Damit rechtfertigt sich erst der
Aufwand einer Bereinigung theoretischer Konzep-
te, wie sie in diesem Aufsatz versucht wird.
Kulturevolution ist als Thema der Ethnologie
zu wichtig, um es (a) nur noch wissenschaftshisto-
risch als Schule „Evolutionismus“ zu behandeln,
(b) ohne wirklichen interdisziplinären Konnex an-
deren Disziplinen zu überlassen, denen oft der kri-
tische Zugang zu den entscheidenden empirisch-
ethnologischen Daten fehlt, oder, was zur Zeit
besonders in der Ethnologie der Bundesrepublik
festzustellen ist, um es (c) bei der synchronen
(oder in Ansätzen diachronen) Analyse einzelner
kleiner Gruppen oder einzelner Ausschnitte von
Großgesellschaften zu belassen - auch wenn das
sicher weiterhin den Kern der Ethnologie ausma-
chen wird.
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Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
Yanomami Wailing Songs and the
Question of Parental Attachment in
Traditional Kinbased Societies
Irenâus Eibl-Eibesfeldt und Marie-Claude
Mattei-Müller
The Yanomami have been portrayed as “The Fierce
People,” and this image sticks to them. In the
context of a longterm project of cross-cultural
documentation of unstaged social interactions and
rituals (Eibl-Eibesfeldt 1989, 1975), the first au-
thor has visited the Yanomami twelve times since
1969, collecting 51.400 m 16 mm film and many
hours of tape. Amongst others the films document
parent-child, sibling, and other instances of adult-
child interaction. Upon comparison with those
of other cultures, the films and tapes document
a considerable number of behavioral patterns of
mother-child interaction which are practically alike
in all cultures and which are to be interpreted as
phylogenetic adaptations. The patterns have been
described and the films have partly been published
(Eibl-Eibesfeldt 1983, 1989; Eibl-Eibesfeldt and
Herzog 1985, 1987a, 19877?). Amongst others,
John Bowlby’s biological attachment theory finds
our support (Bowlby 1958). A preferential moth-
er-child bond also exists among the Yanomami.
In March 1989 the first author taped a wailing
song of a Yanomami father and a mother who
had lost their little daughter approximately three
months prior to our visit. The tape was transcribed
and translated by the co-author with the help of the
Yanomami informant Serowe. It provides interest-
ing as well as touching insight in the Yanomami’s
way of thinking and feeling. And together with
the already published documentation on parental
behavior, it can be helpful to correct the so far
one-sided views about the “Fierce People.” In a
wider context these documents may help to correct
some recently propagated views as to the origin of
maternal affection and love.
The Question of Parental Attachment
Recently, Aries (1978) and Badinter (1981) have
put forward the thesis that mother love only occurs
as a result of late civilization and that in traditional
kinbased societies mothers do not form strong
attachments to their children, since child mortality
is high and mothers are accustomed to losing chil-
dren. Badinter’s theses as announced on the book
jacket reads: “This ‘History of Motherlove’ proves
that mother love is not an instinct of a ‘Female
Nature’ but a social behavior which changes with
time and societal conditions.” Both voice the opin-
ion that in traditional societies mothers are much
less emotionally attached to their children than are
mothers in our society. In support of this idea,
Aries and Badinter maintain that in traditional
societies mothers readily kill their newborns if they
do not wish to raise them. Schmidbauer (1971)
went as far as to argue that they would do that
“light-heartedly.” Aries and Badinter furthermore
point at the fact that in the 18th and 19th century
it was customary in western Europe for mothers to
give their children away to wet-nurses who killed
their own children in order to obtain the salary of a
wet-nurse. In addition, many wet-nursed children
were badly neglected and their mortality rate was
accordingly high. Apparently, there was not much
mother love involved in this procedure. It did not,
however, occur to Aries that only a small fraction
of the French population was financially in a po-
sition to give children to wet-nurses, and that this
phenomenon might perhaps better be considered
a pathology of a certain stratum of the urban
population who had undergone a process of moral
self-negligence due to prosperity (“Wohlstandsver-
wahrlosung”). Certainly, the landfolks raised their
children, except those few who participated in
wet-nursing the offspring of the well to do in order
to help support their own families.
Badinter’s writings are clearly motivated by
the desire to convince her readers that the human
female is not better adapted for child care than
Anthropos 85.1990
508
Berichte und Kommentare
the human male, and that accordingly both should
share the burden of child care equally. I fear, how-
ever, that the denial that mother love is part of our
biological heritage could persuade parents to put
the burden of responsibility onto the shoulders of
caretakers outside the home. And sometimes gov-
ernments seem all too willing to gather children
as early as possible in their institutions in order
to socialize their future citizens in a certain way.
The theses of mother love being a result of
cultural achievement and not a primary biolog-
ical disposition secured by phylogenetic adapta-
tions sounds absurd to ethologists who know the
phenomenon and its physiological underpinnings
from numerous other vertebrates. In particular,
the idea that “primitives” might not love their
children seems too outrageous to acknowledge or
even mention, were it not for the possibility that
such generalizations are echoed in the secondary
literature and can be abused as an excuse for emo-
tional child neglect by parents. It seems necessary
therefore to bring this situation to our attention
and to point to the need of the child, particularly
during its first three years of life, to have steady
reference persons at its disposal.
The idea that in some traditional societies
collective childrearing is customary dates back to
Margaret Mead. She wrote “In Samoa the child
shows no emotional allegiance to its father and
mother” (1935). On the first day that I was in Sa-
moa, visiting Derek Freeman in 1967, he showed
me how a small boy who desperately wished to
follow his mother on her fishing excursion had
to be forcefully restrained by his siblings. Mead’s
statement is derived from superficial observation.
As in most other tribal societies, Samoan children
are embedded in a social web. A child has many
contacts during the day with people other than
the parents - children, adult males, and females
alike. Small children are thus taken care of by
many people, but this does not mean that they
are bonded to all of them equally. Mothers and
fathers remain the preferred reference persons. In
G/wi and !Ko Bushmen, Eipo, Yanomami, Himba,
and Trobrianders, where I have documented social
interactions during the last 25 years, mothers were
always the preferred reference persons in situations
of distress, and the safe basis from which the
toddlers ventured out and to whom they returned
when in doubt or fear.
What about the fathers? From Margaret Mead
we have the well-known statement that fathers are
a biological necessity, but a social accident. Again,
from what I have observed amongst tribal people,
the bellicose Eipo and Yanomami as well as the
allegedly peaceful Bushmen tell us a different
story. Fathers are also preferred reference persons.
I often observed that toddlers and small children
amongst the Yanomami protested when their father
left in the morning to go out for a hunt, even
though the mother was present. And what about
the affective attachment of the mothers and fathers
to their small children? Are there indications that
they love them less than parents do in our society?
To make it short: There are non whatsoever!
It is true that parents in these societies often
lose their children, usually in the first five years
of life, but P. Wiessner (personal communication)
in interviewing !Kung San mothers and fathers
about the loss of children was told by most parents
interviewed that it took 6 months to a year after
the loss of a child before they felt that they had
stopped grieving and began to feel emotionally
stable again. Death of children in such societies is
only facilitated by the knowledge that almost every
family experiences it, and by the great support
given to the parents by the community.
But what about infanticide? Is its occurrence
not in clear contradiction to what I have stated
above? In those cultures which we have studied,
infanticide is not carried out “lightheartedly” at all.
There are strong inhibitions to be overcome. In the
vast majority of cases, infanticide is not a question
whether a child should live, but of which child
should live, a slightly older sibling, who still needs
breastmilk to survive, or the newborn. With high
mortality in the first year of life and one or two
years of love and care already invested in the older
sibling, the outcome of this decision is usually in
favor of the older child, particularly if it is strong
and healthy.
Napoleon Chagnon provides a moving ex-
ample of such a decision: A pregnant woman
whom he knew well had given birth, but she
reappeared without the baby. He inquired what
had happened. I quote: “‘What happened to the
baby?’ I whispered to Bahimi. We sat huddled
under the eaves of the great sloping roof in the
circular village. ... Bahimi’s cheeks were smeared
with black ‘sadness,’ a crust of dirt mixed with
tears, to signify her mourning. Across the village,
women were returning home with firewood. Bahi-
mi gazed at them without seeing. ‘She exists no
more. ... I ... I ..more tears welled up her
soft brown eyes, and I knew then that she had
killed her daughter at birth. Kaobawa, her husband,
the village headman, pressed my arm gently and
whispered softly: ‘Ask no more of this my nephew.
Our baby is still nursing, and he needs the milk’”
(Chagnon 1976: 211).
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
509
There are a number of regulations controlling
infanticide. In essence, they stipulate that infan-
ticide is only permitted immediately after birth,
before the mother-child bond is formed. For ex-
ample, some Polynesians considered infanticide as
murder only if the child had already been nursed
from her mother’s breast. Infanticide has to take
place immediately after birth, since inhibitions in
the mother grow with the exposure to her child.
This was dramatically illustrated in the case of a
birth which was documented by Crete and Wulf
Schiefenhdvel (1978) amongst the Eipo of high-
land Irian Jay a, a group of neolithic horticulturists
who our research group contacted in 1974. Before
giving birth, the woman had declared that she pro-
posed to kill the child should it be a girl, since she
had already girls. A girl was bom and the mother
prepared for infanticide, wrapping the child in
fem leaves for abandonment and preparing a cord
to bind the package, the usual form of disposal.
But, due to the presence of Crete Schiefenhdvel
who was handling the camera, the woman did not
proceed fast enough. The fists and little feet of
the protesting baby struggling for its life pushed
through the ferns, and the mother simply stood
up and went away. She returned two hours later
to unpack her infant. She cut the umbilical cord,
cleaned the baby and accepted it. As if excusing
herself for the change of mind she said: “It is such
a strong baby.”
There is little doubt that mothers and fathers
in traditional societies love their children, and
there are not the slightest indications that they
do less so than parents in our societies. On the
contrary, I have the feeling that, in our society
with a very low birth rate, we become increasingly
a society without warmth and love. It are the chil-
dren that activate and evoke tender feelings, and
they nurture by their presence our affiliative dispo-
sitions. In addition, the community breakdown and
isolation of the nuclear family plays a significant
role, as Polly Wiessner (personal communication)
pointed out to me. What is particularly lacking is
affection for other people’s children, for children
in general. In small individualized communities
not only the own children are loved, but also the
children of aunts, uncles, cousins, and other fellow
community members.
Over the years, I have spent many months
in Yanomami villages, and I was again and again
deeply touched by their tenderness and affection
for children. This attachment was also reflected
in their wailing songs which I often heard in the
early morning hours, when the chill of the night
woke parents up, who had experienced such a loss.
Then parents and grandparents alike remembered
their deceased children in their wailing songs. I
documented some of them in 1989. With the help
of the Yanomami informant Serowe, the co-author
Marie Claude Mattei-Muller transcribed and trans-
lated the songs* 1 * *.
We would first like to present the song of the
father. He started to sing spontaneously at dawn.
His song refers to episodes in the child’s life, how
he had in vain tried to cure her under the influence
of a native drug, which is customarily used to
achieve a state of trance, and, interrupted by bouts
of crying, he remembers the excursions that the
child took with her mother to fish and to collect
fruits. He complains: “Little girl, you abandonned
your father, here I am totally alone,” and referring
to the mother he finally sings: “Oh mother, oh my
poor mother.” Such a touching statement indeed
documents a deep affectional bond between the
parents.
People certainly experience and use the same
range of emotions. But since some cultures stress
particular aspects of our emotional repertory, and
since these most dramatically meet the eye, certain
societies are portrayed in a very one-sided manner.
The Yanomami have entered the literature for ex-
ample as the “Fierce People.” Careful observation
of all activities in a culture, including everyday
activities which find the interest of the ethologists,
can correct one-sided views presented in some
studies.
I would like to present the songs in this con-
text to convey a balanced view. The tapes (original
and copies) are stored within the “Humanetholo-
gisches Filmarchiv der Max-Planck-Gesellschaft”
(Heeschen 1986).
Wailing Song of Yoreshiawe for the Death of His
Little Daughter
Dawn 18.03. 1989
The little girl the headman Yoreshiawe had
with his second young wife, died approximately
three months before. The child was approximately
two or three years old.
1 The signs used for the transcription correspond with the
symbols and conventions of the International Phonetic As-
sociation as documented in 1949 in “The Principles of the
International Phonetic Association” (University College,
Gower Street, London WC1E 6BT).
à, ô, ë, î indicates nasalization of these sounds
i marks “short” ///
ë is used as the symbol for the Schwa; it is pronounced
like a in English about.
Anthropos 85.1990
510
Berichte und Kommentare
Pushikami iha
For my little child2
yae wayu preai ta kuram
I became inebriated several times’with drugs (epena).
Yaiyo.. .o, yaiyo.. .o
Alas me! Alas me!
Pushikami iha
For my little child
yae wayu wai preai
I became inebriated several times with drugs indeed,
heai ta kupiyeni
staying alone.
Hei ketipa e si pe
Here are the ketipa-trees.3
he wdri wate tou re kddrati
Further away, the day will break again
[The sun will rise again - or - day will break again].
5 Pushikami, pushikami
My little child, my little child,
Ya kdi wai hua ha shoaroherini
once I went away with you, indeed
[in order to cure her with the shamanic practice],
Hei kakamawe e u no poupi
Here the Kakamawe brook runs,
wakarai wakarai re kod yahi
the dawn is breaking, breaking again.
Pushikamini mo mo ketipapi taepou hukema
My little child, carried by her mother, went away to look for
the ketipa-fruit.
6 oesimi, oesimi
My little one, my little one,
a wai, a wai,
poor girl! poor girl!
yaiko.. .o, yaiko.. .o
Alas me! alas me!
hit, hii, hii, ...
hii, hii, hii, ...
Pushikami, pushikami.. .kami
My little child, little child.. .child,
hei Wishapraope e si ki
Here are the Monkey-Palms [name of a place].
2 Yoreshiawe uses, to refer to his little daughter, three terms;
pushikami, oesimi, shetemi. All have the same basic mean-
ing of “little child” with a marked connotation of familiar
tenderness. Here I have used the English terms “little child,”
“little daughter,” and “little one” although it would have
been possible to use a number of other terms that convey
familiar tenderness.
3 Ketipa is a tree the leaves of which look like those of the
banana-trees (Ravenala guianensis). Children and women
eat the seeds of its fruit. The most common word for this
plant is mokohe.
he wdri re kushai kod yahi
The day is just breaking again.
The no yaopi yakapoma
You slept with your little cat in your arms,
Oesimi
Little darling,
a wai,
poor girl!
yaiko.. .o, yaiko.. .o
Alas me! Alas me!
Shetemi, shetemi, shetemi
My little daughter, little daughter, little daughter,
hei Pasho poko yakaopope e u
Here is the rivulet of Monkey-arms,4
wdri re kushai re ma yahi
the day does not yet really break.
Oesimi
My little darling.
Theki eieini pi keprarai
Both [your mother and you] went to fish the small eiei [a kind
of small catfish],
heai kdpe
you will not fish again,
kuno mai
no more!
Shetemi, shetemi
My little daughter, my little daughter,
Shetemi, Shetemi
little daughter, little daughter,
Pushikami.. .yo.. .o, .. .kami.. .yo.. .o
My little child, ...
7 Pushikami.. .yo.. .o, .. .kami.. .yo.. .o
My little child,
Pushikami.. .yo.. .o, .. .kami.. .yo.. .o
My little child,
them, them5
beloved, beloved child,
yiko.. .o, yaiko.. .o
Alas me! Alas me!
Oesimi, oesimi
Little one, little one,
them, them
beloved, beloved one,
them, them
beloved, beloved one,
4 This is the name of the small river called literally: the place
where the monkeys have their arms laid down.
5 This term of tenderness is, according to Jacinto, only used
to refer to a dead person.
Anthropos 85.1990
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511
hii, hii
hii, hii.
Oesimi haahe a tapita
Little one, you abandoned your father,
hei ya totihiheri
here I am totally alone.
Pushikami
My little child,
them, them
beloved child, beloved child,
hii, hii
hii, hii.
Napemi, napemi
Oh mother, oh mother,
naye the yaiko.. .o, yaiko.. .o
oh my mother, oh my poor mother,
hii, hii
hii, hii.
Oesimi
Little girl,
a wai yaiko.. .o
poor girl, poor girl.
Pushikami
My little child!
Mourning for the Death of the Little Girl by Her
Mother
Hapokashithatheri, at nightfall, between 6.30 and
7.30, 12.03. 1989
Shopanarima, second wife of Yoreshiawe,
headman of Hapokashithatheri, mourns for the
death of her first bom daughter. When the girl died,
approximately three months ago, she was hardly
three years old. In this mourning song, the mother
of the child is accompanied by Aroaema, Yore-
shiawe’s first wife. Although this song is dedicated
to Shopanarima’s daughter, there are also refer-
ences to other dead relatives - some of them died
many years ago, such as Aroaema’s mother and
sister. Usually, both women sing simultaneously.
From time to time, one of them cries while the
other is singing. Thus begins a kind of counter-
point between the two singers: they chant one after
the other, repeating the same litany. Beyond the
rhetorical aspects of this ritual text, it is impossible
not to be impressed by the moving intensity of
these laments and by the force of the realistic
remembrances. In addition, the particular relation
which binds these two women - both are wives
of the headman of Hapokashithatheri, Yoreshiawe
- makes the text even more interesting: Aroaema,
the first wife and the elder of the two, takes ad-
vantage of this situation to express some reproach
and/or resentment against the young Shopanarima.
Unfortunately, the first part of this tape, in
which the grandparents - Krihisiwe, Shopanari-
ma’s father, and Kanina, her mother - mourn the
death of their grand-child, was not understandable.
Shopanarima [while Aroaema is crying]:
Pushikami yuuuu, pushikami yuuuu
Oh! my dear little girl, my dear little girl,6
the wai yaiko
oh! my poor child!
pehe ki no wai preaai tharei
you and I, we used to wander together, but it was in vain,
pushikami thuuuu, pushikami thuuuu
my little girl, my little girl.
Aroaema:
Amiye, amiye
Oh, my sister, my sister!7
Shopanarima:
Shanishani e u he weri pathetheo re koore
The sources of the Shanishani-River are darkening once more,
pushikami sho, yahe ki kuprarou tharei
my little daughter and I, we used to talk together,
Aroaema:
yahe the ki tehimi waprarai tharei
we used to eat only meat, nothing more,
Shopanarima:
pushikami ipa
dear daughter, my little one,
ya no kai wai preaparou tharei
I wandered everywhere in vain,
pushikami uuuu, pushikami uuuu [crying]
dear little girl, dear little girl,
pushikami, pushikami
dear daughter, dear daughter,
pushikami, pushikami
dear daughter, dear daughter,
pushikami, pushikami
dear daughter, dear daughter,
Aroaema:
moroshikawe ke yaipi, yaipi
little sister, little sister of my dear son,8
6 Pushika is a special vocative term which connotes kindness
and affection; it is used by the elders to speak to the
children. The suffix -mi marks the female sex; therefore,
we choose “girl” or “daughter” in the translation.
7 Aroaema remembers her elder sister who died many years
ago, in Sheroana.
8 Aroaema remembers, here, the son she had with Yore-
shiawe. The boy died one year ago, when he was about
five years old.
Anthropos 85.1990
512
Berichte und Kommentare
Shopanarima:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
wa wa no wai naikiripi preo shao tharei
you always wanted to eat meat, poor child,
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
Aroaema:
pushikawe the, pushikawe the
this little child, this little child,9
pushikami, pushikami the wai, yaiko
this little girl, poor little girl!
yaiyai ta köö kurake
they [the hekura-spmts] encountered, unfortunately, one more
child [i.e., they killed another child in the same family],
wahe ki wai kowwaprarou tharei
both [mother and daughter], you used to go along, everywhere,
pushikami
dear little girl,
wa the puhi wai hathukeprarou
you must really cherish your memories,10
pushikami, pushikami ta yairawe
dear little girl, oh poor little girl,
pushikami uuuu, pushikami uuuu
dear little girl uuuu, dear little girl uuuu,
wahe ki wai kowwaprarou tharei
both, you used to go along, everywhere,
Shopanarima:
pata wama e the pee ha weri thai ha katitou yaiyoni
you should have reproved, first of all, the elders,
e pe weri höre kuu ha maoni
not her; she should not have received any reproach,
pushikamiye, pushikami
my dear child, my little one,
ya no wa wai ye the mapou shoao tharei
they usually reproved me and her, too,
pushikami, pushikamiye
my little one, my dear child,
Aroaema:
thai mai, ya the waiha ta yakapou
don’t slap her, take her in your arms, be patient,
taani wae kuu ha maoni
that’s what I said to you, but you didn’t take any notice,
Shopanarima:
pushikamiye, pushikamiye
my dear daughter, my little one,
9 Here the suffix -we marks the male sex; Aroaema is proba-
bly thinking of her own young son we mentioned before.
10 According to the Yanomami belief, the dead must remember
their lives, their families, their houses, etc.,... so that, after
death, they can keep on existing, in a way, among the living.
This assumption recurs several times in this text.
pushikamiye, pushikamiye
my dear daughter, my little one,
Aroaema:
pushikawe, yaihe a kdi ta horepo
dear son, come back again with your little sister,
Shopanarima:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
pushikami, pushikami [crying]
dear little girl, dear little girl,
Aroaema:
moroshikawe yai he a kdi ta horepo
dear son, come back again with your little sister,
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
ei Thorita e the he weri titi a re koikutuhe
far from here, in Thorita, the dusk is falling again,
Shopanarima:
a no preaai heparoparuhai ke
she struggled so hard to live, but it was in vain,
Aroaema:
moroshikami a we no tayoprarou he parokei ta kuhawe
the voice of the little girl who shouted has ended,
Shopanarima:
pushikamiye, pushikamiye
my dear little child, my dear one,
Aroaema:
a we no tayoprarou heai koope kuno mai
the girl will not shout again, no more,
Shopanarima:
pushikamiiii, heeee
dear little girl, heeee
Aroaema:
pushikamiye [crying]
my little girl,11
Shopanarima:
pushikawe [crying]
dear little boy [she refers to Aroaema’s son],
Aroaema:
moroshikawe, moroshikawe
my dear son, my dear son,
yahe the ki niipi taepou piyekope hami
she and me, we both looked for food, walking everywhere,
Shopanarima:
pushikamiye [crying]
my dear daughter,
Aroaema:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
11 She refers to Shopanarima’s daughter as if she were her
own daughter.
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
513
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
Shopanahma:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
wa puhi ki horiprou heparopario tharei
you must have suffered so much there, downstream [in She-
roana],
Aroaema:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
Shopanarima:
pushikami, pushikami [crying]
dear little girl, dear little girl,
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
Aroaema [while Shopanarima is crying]:
pushikamiye, pushikamiye
my dear little girl, my dear little girl,12
yaiyo, yaiyo
poor, poor child!
yaiyo, yaiyo
poor, poor child!
moroshikawe ke yesipi
grand-mother of my son,13
Shopanarima:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
Aroaema:
ke kipi wai ta horeahaiparushe
come back again together, you both,14
Shopanarima:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
Aroaema:
pushikami, yaipi
dear girl, little sister,
pushikawe ke yesipi wai
oh, poor grand-mother of my son [her own mother],
Shopanarima:
nayo ku yahaprarotihe
there are many of your traces all over, far and wide,
Aroaema:
wa puhi ki hathukeprarou ta yairawe
you must really cherish your memories,
12 Once more she refers to Shopanarima’s child as if she were
her own daughter.
13 She refers to her own mother, who died many years ago.
14 She refers to the two dead children, her own son and
Shopanarima’s daughter.
Shopanarima:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
Aroaema:
pushikami, pushikami, heeeee, heeeee
dear little girl, dear little girl, heeee, heeeee,
Shopanarima:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
Aroaema:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
Shopanarima:
wa the ki e hirapou shoao tharei
your grand-father was still teaching you how to speak,
Aroaema:
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
puhi ki no preaprarou nareope hami
I feel sad in all the places where you accompanied me,
pushikami, pushikami
dear little girl, dear little girl,
yami totihiwe the ki ihirupi nohi toape taani
let him [Yoreshiawe] love other children,15
Shopanarima:
pushikami
dear little girl,
puhi ki wai hori hiprarou shoao tharei
you must have suffered so much,
pushikami, kamiye ya yakapou totihiona
my dear little one, I took you in my arms lovingly,
pushikami
dear little girl,
Aroaema:
ya nohi wai iyoprarai hea ta kupiyeni
now, I feel sad, remembering all the places where I brought
you.
The Fierce People Reconsidered
We have presented wailing songs of a father and a
mother which prove the existence of strong affec-
tional bonds between parent and child as well as
between parents. This documentation may help to
correct the stereotype which depicts Yanomami as
“The Fierce People.” There is no doubt that vio-
lence and warfare is a characteristic of Yanomami
life, but certainly not the sole. Our observations
on parent/child interactions and the translations
of the wailing songs can serve to balance our
15 It seems that Shopanarima is jealous because her husband,
Yoreshiawe, shows too much affection, according to her,
towards Aroaema’s children.
Anthropos 85.1990
514
Berichte und Kommentare
views, and this seems timely, since the descriptions
of Yanomami violence seem to have detrimental
consequences for the Yanomami in Brazil. The
Brazilian Government is about to break up the
Yanomami Reserve in 21 isolated Yanomami res-
ervations, separated by lands used by Brazilians
(Booth 1989). Within the Yanomami reservation
only the garden land is considered legally as prop-
erty of individuals or of the community. The intent
is clear: powerful interest groups seek control of
the rich resources in the Yanomami area. Since
native land is under protection by law, they seek
for excuses to take possession of it. One of the
excuses to divide up Yanomami land into small
territories which would be isolated from each other
is that they are very aggressive, warlike people.
Separation, it was argued, would help them to
live peacefully. If this plan is put in operation,
the consequences would be fatal to the Yanomami,
since this would lead to gradual starvation. Trop-
ical soil is quickly exhausted by cultivation, and
gardens must be shifted continually to allow for
long follow periods. In addition, Yanomami need
hunting territories for protein supply.
In this context it must be emphasized that
the Yanomami have developed some degree of
ritualization of conflict. These do not begin as all
out wars, but in formalized manner in order to
avoid unnecessary bloodshed. The usual procedure
is to destroy the tobacco gardens of another group
as a warning. If this does not lead to movement,
then destruction escalates to staple crops such
as bananas and so on, until all out warfare is
proclaimed. Through time, such ritualization will
probably increase if the situation is not disturbed.
However, if Yanomami land is given to strangers,
increased ritualization of conflict would have lit-
tle chance of occurring, to the contrary, conflicts
would worsen.
Yanomami warfare serves to space popula-
tions in a delicate rain forest environment. As soon
as the Yanomami sense that productivity of an
area is declining, they move on and leave the area
to recover. Harris (1979) and Good (1982) have
pointed out that irritability rises, when the hours
required for successful hunting increase. This leads
to intergroup conflicts which cause movements of
the group and spacing. In view of this function
of Yanomami warfare, to space populations in the
rain forest, the expropriation of much of their land
for non-Yanomami populations will hardly lead to
a reduction in warfare.
Chagnon (1968) has concentrated on the vi-
olent aspect of the Yanomami society, since the
study of warfare in kinbased societies has been of
particular interest to the scientific community. It
is a legitimate interest, and he could hardly have
foreseen how his publications could be abused.
We can only learn that one-sided presentations
can do harm. In other parts of the world, such
as Southern Africa, there have been attempts to
expropriate land of the Kalahari San on the basis
that anthropologists described them as the “harm-
less people” who were not territorial, owned no
land, and thus had no traditional rights to land.
Whether people are presented as fierce or peaceful,
they thus stand to lose. One-sided presentations
therefore must be avoided. People universally ex-
perience the same emotions, they feel alike. May
our documentation help to balance the views.
Summary
Phylogenetic adaptations secure the bonds between
parents and their offspring in a variety of ways.
Amongst others, strong emotional attachments
exist. The two wailing songs presented in this
paper document the strong concern, and they
may serve to counteract the widespread stereotype
of the Yanomami as fierce people. In a wider
context our documentation disproves some recent
statements which maintain that motherlove is less
developed in traditional kinbased societies.
Wailing Song of the Father
(musical transcription; Ingrid Holland)
Shë-të-mi shë-të-mi - shë-të-mi shë-të-mi - shë-të-mi
My little daughter ....... .......
hei hei hei Pa-sho po-ko ya-kao-po-pë e u
Here is the rivolet of Monkey-arms
wa-ri - re ku- shat - re ma - ya- hi ma ya- hi
the day does not yet really break . . .
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
515
Wailing Song of the Mother
(musical transcription: Ingrid Bolland)
Pu - shi - ka - mi
Dear little girl
pu - shi - ka - mi
References Cited
Aries, Ph.
1978 Geschichte der Kindheit. München: dtv Wissenschaft.
Badinter, E.
1981 Die Mutterliebe. München: Piper.
Booth, W.
1989 Warfare Over Yanomamö Indians. Science 243: 1138-
1140.
Bowlby, J.
1958 The Nature of the Child’s Tie to His Mother. Interna-
tional Journal of Psycho-Analysis 39: 350-373.
Chagnon, N.
1968 Yanomamö, the Fierce People. New York: Holt, Rine-
hart & Winston.
1976 Yanomamö, the True People. National Geographical
Magazine 150: 211-222.
Eibl-Eibesfeldt, I.
1970 Liebe und Haß. Zur Naturgeschichte elementarer Ver-
haltensweisen. München: Piper.
1975 Ethology. The Biology of Behavior. New York: Holt,
Rinehart, and Winston.
1976 Menschenforschung auf neuen Wegen. Wien; Molden.
1983 Patterns of Parent-Child Interaction in a Cross-Cultural
Perspective. In: A. Oliverio and M. Zappella (eds.),
The Behaviour of Human Infants; pp. 177-217. London:
Plenum Publishing Corporation.
1989 Human Ethology. New York: Aldine de Gruyter.
Eibl-Eibesfeldt, I. und H. Herzog
1985 Yanomami, Patanoetheri (Venezuela, Oberer Orinoko) -
Mutter-Kind-Interaktionen (männlicher Säugling). Film
E2860 des IWF, Göttingen. Publ. Wiss. Film, Sekt.
Biol., Ser. 17, Nr. 28/E 2860, 30 S.
1987a Yanomami, Patanoetheri (Venezuela, Oberer Orinoko)
- Interaktionen eines weiblichen Kleinkindes mit Mut-
ter und anderen Bezugspersonen. Film E2861 des
IWF, Göttingen. Publ. Wiss. Film, Sekt. Biol., Ser. 19,
Nr. 7/E2861, 32 S.
19876 Yanomami, Patanoetheri (Venzuela, Oberer Orinoko) -
Männer im Umgang mit Säuglingen. Film E2862 des
IWF, Göttingen. Publ. Wiss. Film, Sekt. Biol., Ser. 19,
Nr. 9/E 2862, 24 S.
Good, K. R.
1982 Limiting Factors in Amazonian Ecology. [Paper pre-
sented at the 81st Meeting Amer. Anthropol. Assoc.,
Washington, 4 December, 1982]
Harris, M.
1979 The Yanomamö and the Causes of War in Band and
Village Societies. In: M. Margolis and W. Carter (eds.),
Brazil: Anthropological Perspectives. Essays in Honor
of Charles Wagley; pp. 121-132. New York: Columbia
University Press.
Heeschen, V.
1986 Das Tonarchiv der Forschungsstelle für Humanetholo-
gie. Anthropos 81: 292-298.
Mead, M.
1935 Sex and Temperament in Three Primitive Societies.
New York: William Morrow.
Schiefenhövel, Grete und Wulf Schiefenhövel
1978 Eipo, Irian Jaya (West New Guinea). Vorgänge bei der
Geburt eines Mädchens und Änderung der Infantizid-
Absicht. Homo 29: 121-138.
Schmidbauer, W.
1971 Jäger und Sammler. München: Selecta.
Werner Müller (22.5.1907 - 7.3.1990)
Rolf Gehlen
„Todesanzeigen zu schreiben, ist nicht jedermanns
Sache.“ So schrieb Werner Müller vor nunmehr
22 Jahren an gleicher Stelle. Der Tod, den er
damals diagnostizierte, betraf die Ethnologie. Wie
sonst wohl in keiner seiner zahlreichen Schriften
hat er gerade in diesem Aufsatz seine Auffassung
über das Fach Völkerkunde so scharf und pointiert
formuliert. Das Erkennen der inneren Ordnungs-
prinzipien einer Kultur - insbesondere der indiani-
schen Kulturen - war sein Thema. Die Richtung,
die er dabei einschlug, trennte ihn jedoch deut-
lich von den meisten seiner Fachkollegen. Gerade
ihren Methoden und theoretischen Erwägungen,
die seiner Meinung nach „alles aufs Funktionie-
ren einengten“, galten Werner Müllers Attacken.
Dabei verstand er es meisterhaft, mit Sprache um-
Anthropos 85.1990
516
Berichte und Kommentare
zugehen, einer Sprache, die ihn eher als ein Kind
des 19. Jahrhunderts auswies. „Ödes Begriffsge-
klapper“, „Rechenverstand“, „Meinereien“, „Wirk-
lichkeitsverdunstung“ warf er den Feldforschern
vor, die es angesichts der oft persönlichen Erleb-
nisse im Feld - Erlebnisse, die nicht selten an
die Substanz gingen - nur „mühsam“ schafften,
„sich auf die treibenden Planken der Ismen zu
retten“. Diese Ausklammerung des Erlebens aus
den Feldberichten war es, was Werner Müller
vermißte. Gerade die Einbeziehung des Erlebens
aber wäre am ehesten geeignet gewesen, etwas
von dem „Pulsschlag“ dieser Kulturen vernehmen
zu lassen, uns ihrem Verstehen näherzubringen.
Das Anschauliche war es, das Werner Müller stets
forderte und das er in seine Schriften konsequent
einbrachte, ohne selbst je Feldforschung betrie-
ben zu haben. Fließ es noch bei Kant in seiner
„Kritik der reinen Vernunft“: „Anschauungen oh-
ne Begriffe sind blind“, so lesen wir bei Werner
Müller: „Der Begriff ist nichts, die Anschauung ist
alles.“ Prägnanter läßt sich seine Vorstellung vom
Fach Völkerkunde, dem er den größten Teil seines
Lebens widmete und an dem er gleichzeitig litt,
nicht zum Ausdruck bringen. An dieser Einschät-
zung hielt er bis an sein Lebensende fest.
Aus seiner Ablehnung gegen alles Theoreti-
sche hat Werner Müller nie einen Hehl gemacht.
Ja, er entschuldigt sich sogar beim Leser, wenn
in einer von ihm gebrauchten - eher harmlo-
sen Formulierung - noch „ein Küchlein Theorie
stecken sollte“. Diese Abneigung hat ihm auch
die schärfsten Kritiken eingetragen. Was seinen
Schriften abgeht, war die theoretische und metho-
dische Durcharbeitung des Stoffes. Er selbst hatte
freilich darüber seine eigene Meinung. Gleichwohl
hat dies dazu beigetragen, daß er stets als Außen-
seiter betrachtet wurde. Die Art und Weise, wie er
seine Themen vortrug, ließ den Romantiker in ihm
erkennen - der er zweifellos war -, und auch dies
war dazu angetan, Skepsis auf Seiten der Fach-
kollegen hervorzurufen. Hinzu kam, daß Werner
Müller nie ein Lehramt bekleidet hat - bis zu sei-
ner Pensionierung war er Oberbibliotheksrat an der
Universität Tübingen -, und diese „Kleinigkeit“,
wie Mircea Eliade einmal gesagt hat, ist sicher mit
ein Grund für die zunächst bescheidene Resonanz
auf seine Arbeiten gewesen. Dies änderte sich mit
dem „Indianerboom“ Ende der 70er, Anfang der
80er Jahre. Auf einmal erinnerte man sich seiner
Schriften, einige konnten sogar respektable Auf-
lagen erreichen. Werner Müller sah dies mit einem
lachenden, aber auch mit einem weinenden Auge.
Froh darüber, endlich Gehör zu finden, sah er doch
gleichzeitig auch, daß die Aufmerksamkeit, die
ihm plötzlich widerfuhr, nur zum geringeren Teil
dort zu hnden war, wo er selbst beheimatet war -
in der Wissenschaft. Dies ließ ihn nicht unbeein-
druckt, besonders in seinen letzten Lebensjahren,
die - ausgefüllt mit Arbeit - immer wieder von re-
signativen Phasen gekennzeichnet waren. Glaubte
er in seinem großen Buch „Glauben und Denken
der Sioux“ von 1970 noch, daß „Resignation kein
Leitbild wissenschaftlicher Arbeit“ sei, so meinte
er 12 Jahre später, diesen Satz widerrufen zu müs-
sen. Sein hintergründiger Humor ließ es jedoch
nicht zu, sich solchen Stimmungen länger hinzu-
geben, und unermüdlich nahm er seine Arbeit stets
wieder von neuem auf.
Seine Arbeitsweise war penibel und gewis-
senhaft. Unübersehbar der Berg von Literatur, den
er für seine Arbeiten bewältigt hat. Davon zeugen
auch zahlreiche Exzerptbände, insgesamt mehrere
tausend Seiten handgeschriebener, auf unliniertem
Papier in gestochener Schrift verfaßter Zeilen, teil-
weise noch in Sütterlin. Seinen Texten fügte er
häufig Zeichnungen bei, fein säuberlich in Tusche
ausgeführt, die er manchmal noch aquarellierte.
Diese Bände - auch das kennzeichnet seine Per-
sönlichkeit - waren mitunter in Pergament ge-
bunden, Rückenprägung, Kaptalband, Vorsatzblatt
und Farbschnitt durften nicht fehlen. Auf diese,
durchaus zitierfähigen Bände griff er immer wie-
der zurück.
Werner Müller war wohl der letzte Vertreter
einer Richtung innerhalb der Völkerkunde, die im
vorigen Jahrhundert ihren Ursprung hatte. Erst
spät, in den 50er Jahren, begannen seine Veröf-
fentlichungen über die Indianer. Die Vorarbeiten
für diese Schriften gehen freilich noch auf die
Jahre vor dem 2. Weltkrieg zurück. Nur so ist zu
erklären, daß in drei aufeinanderfolgenden Jahren
- 1954/55/56 - je ein Buch von ihm erschei-
nen konnte - sehr zum Erstaunen der damals
nur wenigen Nordamerikanisten. Ein Titel, „Welt-
bild und Kult der Kwakiutl-Indianer“, war be-
reits 1950 fertiggestellt. Walter Krickeberg kannte
das Manuskript, und er sprach sich 1951 in ei-
nem Gutachten nachdrücklich für seine Veröffent-
lichung aus. Weitere vier Jahre mußten jedoch bis
zur Drucklegung vergehen. Mit den „Religionen
der Waldlandindianer Nordamerikas“, die 1956 er-
schienen, legte Müller seine dann schon über 10
Jahre alte Habilitationsschrift in überarbeiteter und
erweiterter Fassung vor. Wiederum einige Jahre
später, 1961, erschien seine umfangreiche Arbeit
„Die heilige Stadt. Roma quadrata, himmlisches
Jerusalem und die Mythe vom Weltnabel“. Auch
hier wird sein Interesse deutlich, „Sinnbildern“
nachzuspüren, auch hier wurden wieder alle nur
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
517
greifbaren Quellen genutzt. Im Jahre 1982 erschien
seine letzte große Arbeit, „Amerika - Die Neue
oder die Alte Welt?“, in der er einen Teil der ame-
rikanischen Mesolithiker nach Europa abwandem
ließ, und ihm war nur zu bewußt, wie provozierend
seine Thesen wirken mußten.
Werner Müllers große Leidenschaft galt im-
mer den archaischen Kulturen, vor allem den In-
dianern, in denen er ihre eindrucksvollsten Vertre-
ter sah. Bis zuletzt arbeitete er an einem abschlie-
ßenden Buch über sie, das er nicht mehr vollenden
konnte. Was immer man über seine Schriften sa-
gen wird: sie haben den unbestreitbaren Vorzug,
stets nahe am Selbstverständnis derer zu liegen,
über die er schrieb. Er suchte, wie er selbst sagen
würde, das „seelische Zentrum“ jener Kulturen in
ihren Mythen, ihren Ritualen, ihren Visionen und
Träumen. Auf seine Art war er selbst ein Visionär,
offen für große Gesten, bisweilen wehmütig, aber
immer auch ein wenig verschmitzt.
On T. O. Beidelman’s Reply
(Anthropos 85.1990: 192-194)
John W. Burton
I welcome the invitation to respond to T. O. Bei-
delman’s comment on my review of two ethnog-
raphies of African religions recently re-issued in
paperback. It would be a waste of precious journal
space to acknowledge and address his ad hominem
slander, so I will respond only to matters of fact
rather than his own views. The suggestion that
“Lugbara Religion” is not even about religion
(Beidelman 1990: 192) is lifted directly from the
preface of the re-issued study where it is written
(viii) that the book is neither about organizational
politics “nor religious systems.” Beidelman’s ar-
gument really seems to be with the editor rather
than with me. My intent was not to systematically
assess the many and rich essays Middleton has
written on the Lugbara but to contrast two styles
in the appreciation of African systems of thought.
A long time ago, Robin Horton raised similar
questions about Lugbara religion. To correct the
inaccurate portrait of Lienhardt’s work (Beidelman
1990: 193), it should be noted that while he may
not have been as prolific as his peers, his diverse
essays are singular in their clarity, interpretation,
and mode of presentation. I hope Beidelman con-
tinues to profit from his reading of Lienhardt’s
work. I am uncertain why Beidelman mentions
some of my writing on the Atuot. I certainly did
not compare my work to either Middleton’s nor
Lienhardt’s. Indeed, in my first book on the Atuot
I suggested that it should be regarded at best as
an appendix to Lienhardt’s masterly work. In any
event, a different view of the value of that study is
provided by Lienhardt’s review (.Africa 56. 1986:
249-251) and more recently by Baxter {American
Ethnologist 16. 1989: 170 f.). I did not intend this
brief review to be an occasion for an extended ap-
preciation of Evans-Pritchard’s study of religion.
Nonetheless, Beidelman charges that I produce a
“grotesque” presentation of his thought. At least
I am in good company since he argues that the
essay I cite is “surely the most muddled essay that
Evans-Pritchard ever published.” But to correct
Beidelman, I am not the least bit confused on the
matter of differences between Evans-Pritchard’s
earlier and later works (if one wants to make
such a crass dichotomy). Quite in the manner that
Michael Kenny (1987) perceived, the commentary
on Evans-Pritchard’s work has produced a series
of self-projective images, with one author and then
another arguing a case about what he really meant.
I did not attempt to “mock” (Beidelman 1990: 194)
Ortner’s idealized model of human nature but only
raised concern about how an ethnocentric image
of that sort should or should not be adhered to
in a study of the moral and religious values of
one or another African religion. In that light it is
laughable that Beidelman (1980: 1420) is critical
of Evans-Pritchard for failing “to discuss ritual
activity as a manipulated field of strategies.” A
number of concerns attend this statement. Lirst,
by his own account (Beidelman 1990: 194) Beidel-
man asserts that Evans-Pritchard was fully aware
of the way in which “Zande princes manipulate
such beliefs and practices in order to confirm their
own power and authority.” Surely it would be
helpful if Beidelman would make up his mind.
It is also curious that he should be critical of
Evans-Pritchard for failing to do what he never at-
tempted, particularly in “Nuer Religion.” Perhaps
Evans-Pritchard did not view Nuer religion as a
“manipulated field of strategies” because he was
uncertain how such a peculiar construction might
be phrased in the Nuer language.
If these few remarks seem to have followed
in a random fashion this is only because I have
written them with Beidelman’s text close to my
side.
Surely I owe Professor John Middleton a pub-
lic apology for lauding one important study of an
Anthropos 85.1990
518
Berichte und Kommentare
African system of thought over his own. I do so
now. But it is Beidelman who has inflated the issue
out of proportion, generating considerable heat
but precious little light. If there is one important
matter that survives this sterile and otherwise ac-
rimonious dialogue, it is found in Beidelman’s
assertion (1990: 193) that professed faith has no
role to play in the way in which an alien observer
understands or interprets the religious convictions
of some other people. In these days marked by
a heightened awareness and sensitivity about the
ways in which personal and “reflexive” issues
color ethnographic writing, his remark might give
rise to the renewed consideration of this complex
issue Evans-Pritchard earlier addressed.
References Cited
Baxter, P. T. W.
1989 Review of J. W. Burton, A Nilotic World. The Atuot-
speaking Peoples of the Southern Sudan, 1987. Ameri-
can Ethnologist 16: 170 f.
Beidelman, T. O.
1980 The Ethnographer as Translator. Review of M. Douglas,
Evans-Pritchard. The Times Literary Supplement 12 De-
cember: 1420.
1990 Reply to J. W. Burton’s “Two Studies of African Reli-
gion.” Anthropos 85: 192-194.
Kenny, M.
1987 Trickster and Mystic: The Anthropological Persona of
Evans-Pritchard. Anthropology and Humanism Quarter-
ly 12; 9-15.
Lienhardt, R. G.
1986 Review of J. W. Burton, God’s Ants. A Study of Atuot
Religion, 1981. Africa 56: 249-251.
“To Praise the Sun”
A Traditional Nyaturu Hymn of Praising
God and Asking for His Blessings
Franz Gieringer
Introduction
The casual observer casting a judicious eye on the
waNyaturu in North-Central Tanzania may be for-
given, if he finds their material culture singularly
lacking in for instance comfortable huts, colour-
ful attire, well made household goods, musical
instruments, beautiful items of handicraft or art, or
a sophisticated agricultural production. However,
the Turn tribe is quite unique, at least among the
tribes of the region, in having composed during
days long before anybody’s living memory a ritual
prayer, which is of great emotional and spiritual
beauty and which is addressed to God on some
very few occasions in life, primarily at the time of
a betrothal.
In its importance and significance it may well
be compared to the first Sura of the Koran, the
Lord’s prayer in the Gospels, or with the Rig Veda
of Hinduism.
In the kiNyaturu language the prayer is called
“Ukuta Yuva,” which means “To praise the Sun,”
and I first came across it in “A Long Path” by
Marguerite Jellicoe, where it is briefly mentioned,
but not presented as such. Partly out of a general
interest in the culture of the people I live and
work with, partly because I was curious, whether
I could incorporate elements of “Ukuta Yuva” in a
somewhat more African approach to the Kerygma
of the Christian Good News, and partly as a reac-
tion to the challenge that motivates the seafarer in
uncharted waters, I endeavoured to get hold of a
full and complete rendering of the prayer. Needless
to say that there did not exist any such text in
published print or - as far as I am aware - in form
of a manuscript hidden away in someone’s drawer.
Former President Julius K. Nyerere once re-
marked that with the death of every old man part of
Tanzania’s heritage irretrievably disappears. Well,
I set out to catch at least some of the old waNya-
turu, before it was too late, and by questioning
them personally or by having them narrate the
prayer to some trusted literate relative of his, I
eventually accumulated a number of handwritten
or tape recorded versions of the prayer which
differed in their individual quality of style, pre-
sentation, and language, but only very marginally
in their content. In its Kiswahili form, in which
the prayer is presented below, it is culled, as it
were, from the notes 1 had taken myself and of
the accounts that had been collected for me by
friends who assisted me as well in translating the
original spoken words of kiNyaturu into Kiswahili.
I owe a great debt to these friends of mine and to
the elderly tribesmen who helped me with unfail-
ing availability, patience, and generosity. While it
would be impossible to mention all, special thanks
are due to Ntui Njiku, Mateo Mwendwa, Saidi
Muna, Hadu Ng’imba, Emanuel Kijanga, Simon
Njiku, and Margaret Matthew, who assisted me in
compiling the definitive account of the prayer.
Finally, a few comments about form and
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519
content of the prayer itself. In actual life it is
recited in the form of a dialogue. Two, usually
old men sit facing each other in a room of a
Nyaturu temhe style hut, one of them recounting
slowly and solemnly the “Ukuta Yuva,” while his
counterpart bows his head and listens interrupting
every now and then by murmering his assent in a
low voice: “ehee, ehee” and “trute,” which mean
respectively “yes, yes” and “very true, Sir” until
the end of the prayer.
The prayer entails an hommage to the power
and goodness of God who is perceived under the
symbols of the Sun (Yuva in kiNyaturu), the Moon
(Mweri), and the stars, more precisely the Pleiades
(Gimea), that appear on the southern horizon in the
latter stages of the dry season heralding another
cycle of rain, the sowing of the seed, of growth
and harvest, in short, the continuity of life itself.
The prayer tells of the journey of the Sun, the most
powerful of the divine symbols, from its rising to
its setting in the West, and of the many blessings
it bestows on its children while on the way. The
Moon is then addressed and paid tribute to. It is
seen as the creative element of God keeping the
world of man and animal in balance and making
the earth a safe and orderly place to live in; the
Moon becomes, as it were, an apotheosis of an
omnipotent master and director of the ecology. The
Pleiades complete the divine blessings by pouring
“holy water,” to use another metaphor, on the work
begun by Sun and Moon. Rain is, what nature
thirsts for, what the mNyaturu peasant longs for
most desperately after six dry and increasingly hot
months, while his grain reserves slowly dwindle.
Rain equals food and food means that life contin-
ues.
I personally found it an unforgettable and
deeply moving experience to observe some old
mNyaturu, his face lined and wrinkled from the
hardships and joys of countless days turning once
again in confidence to the Divinity in praise and
humble pleading.
The Text of the Prayer
Sun, you have risen. You were preceded by the
cock and the honeybird, who announced your
praises; also by the eland, which eats the wild
fruits of the Mutumba tree and shows, that every
creature will get food.
Sun and God, when you awake, put your
hands into water, so that all people and even the
beasts of the bush will wake up safely.
Now is morning; shine brightly like white
butter, when you throw your light at the root of
the tree and at the mountain.
Stretch out your four staffs, look after all the
four regions: East and North, South and West. Get
hold of the staff in the middle and go with it to
the West.
Cut a tree, that has four branches; sweep be-
fore you all evil and carry it westward. Take away
sickness and ill health, put them into a calabash
adorned with burnt-in designs. Take great care, that
you do not leave behind any illness on your way.
When you arrive at your halfway house [i.e.,
the zenith], have a rest there. Do not enter with
that calabash of illnesses, leave it outside, hang it
on the beams of the house. Take your waterpipe
and smoke, while you rest. May they give you
honey beer and, if you see these things are slow
in coming, smoke a cigarette, exchange greetings
with your people, and bestow on them your divine
blessings.
Stretch out your four staffs: South, North,
East, and West. Stay with the one that points
westward and continue your journey. Please take
that calabash where you have put the illnesses;
don’t scatter them on the way, proceed carefully
to the West, until you come to a huge rock with a
deep hole, there throw them down. Take cow dung
and wax, close the hole on top, that the evil things
do not come out, man does not lay his hand on
them, and nothing will be able to unearth them. If
you do this, it is good; this is my request to you.
When you arrive at your western house [i.e.,
sunset], may you be given millet porridge and milk
from a young white cow and butter; this is my
request. Greet kindly your children, may you be
given a stool to rest. Sleep there and wake up
before dawn.
Slaughter a black ram, slaughter a black ox.
Kill them together with an elephant that has not yet
grown his tusks. May you be given the entrails of
a hornless steer, mix them with elephant dung. Dig
for the medicinal roots of the Mforio tree, make
yourself a wooden plate from the liver sausage
tree and mix everything on this plate with white,
liquid butter. When you return to the East, sprinkle
this mixture all over the earth blessing East, West,
South, North. Thank you, you have done well.
Sprinkle it over the graves of our fathers and
all our ancestors and over the homesteads of all
people; throw it into the well and into the big lake,
where all people draw water and the cattle drink.
Sun, this is my request to you. Splash the medicine
with a cow’s tail over all the houses of the rich and
the poor; let them all have a share, so that they
do not quarrel. Splash downward, splash upward,
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and say: “My God, may all illnesses, that are here,
come to an end.” Take away sickness from children
and from grown-ups. May the strangers that come
from afar not get sick, nor “the cattle, when they
go to the water, may it not get sick.
Moon and God, I salute you. You Moon are
the creator. Create two kinds, do not create three
kinds. Create male and female for every creature.
Create two, a girl and a boy, a steer and a cow,
a billy goat and a she-goat, a ram and a sheep, a
female and a male donkey. Also, with regard to
the beasts of the bush like elephants, buffaloes,
and giraffes, create them male and female. Of
small chicks there are boundless numbers, but you
will always find them to be of two kinds: male
and female. All animals and all insects, may they
bring forth two kinds only. Create the wild buffalo
with fine horns, so that, when people blow these
horns at the occasion of the male and the female
initiation ceremonies, they may hear fine music.
Create birds, fishes, elephants with precious white
tusks. Do not forget the wild beasts of the bush:
create fierce ones and harmless ones, create the
lion of the bush and the zebra.
Cat keep to the house, watch out for the rats,
that they do not eat from the household utensils.
May a male ass be bom with a broad back, so that
the loads may not fall down on the journey, but
arrive safely. May there also be a government car,
to bring people in time to the end of their journeys.
May the honey bee go to the tree that holds the
beehives, and deposit there lightcoloured honey,
so that, when our daughter is taken away by her
husband, we can go to greet him with a calabash
that contains a present. Give us goat milk and
sheep milk, give us milk from the donkey. May
there be many a fowl with long feathers. Create
the beautifully shaped and coloured eland antilope;
may it browse on the Mutumba tree, but leave
some food for other animals also.
May everywhere a mNyaturu medicine man
be born, so that the sick receive medicine and
recover. May there be all sorts of other medicine
men too, to devine all things and to bring rain.
May a Tatum medicine man be bom, a Rangi
medicine man, one of the waGogo, and, finally,
may a European doctor be born, so that all people
have their medicine man to heal them, and they
don’t start to quarrel. May there be a doctor and
may there be a nurse; let them dispense their
medicine with gentleness and may God help them
to be merciful to the sick. May God bless their
hands, that they don’t fail to treat them, but heal
successfully. May there be healers both women
and men, to look after us. May one child be born,
to become a medicine man with a long nose to
sniff the evils of witchcraft which may have been
hidden underground in our huts; may he put this
witch to shame. May there be both a male and a
female circumciser, so that the secrets of men and
women do not get mixed up.
May there be a potter with dexterous fingers.
Create a blacksmith with strong arms. People like
these we need. May there be some who know
how to make grinding stones. May a mNyaturu
blacksmith be born to forge an axe with sturdy
hands. And, as we are living nowadays with people
of various kinds, we want a foreign blacksmith to
be bom, who has great strength, who repairs cars,
plough-shares, and airplanes; may all these people
be born. May a potter be born, who makes light
pots that do not break when a woman goes on a
journey to draw water, nor should the water spill,
while she is on her way. May the smith forge an
axe to clear the bush, and a bell to attach to the
child’s leg, and also a bell for the cattle, and a bell
for the goat too. May he then make a branding
iron and bracelets. May he then make rings for
women’s legs. May another bell be made for the
night watchman. May this watchman stand on a
termite hill and look to the East, the West, the
South, the North, and, whenever danger arises, let
him warn us.
May the old woman sit in the front room
of the house sowing her clothes and minding the
small children, that they don’t get burnt in the fire.
May she place there three hearth stones to prevent
the small child from falling into the fire, when the
little one lies on his sleeping mat. May he cry out,
that people hear and rescue him. When his mother
returns from the bush and finds the child crying,
she will console it saying: “Hush, my child, spit
[into my hand], I shall beat him.”
You father, go to the grazing grounds in the
valley, go and sit near the well of water. Staff in
hand whistle slowly, that the cattle rejoice in the
music, when it comes to drink. May the herdsman
return his calabash intact. Let there be a goat
among the herd, that was born on the pasture and
is carried by the herdsman in his hands. Let there
also be a heifer bom on the pasture, carried by the
herdsman, who comes and lets it down carefully in
the cattle kraal. When people come to see it, may
they say: “Thank you, our child has brought us
guests.” May the mother’s brother, who is a brave
herdsman, not be threatened by wild beasts like the
lion, the snake, or the leopard. May he bring the
cattle to a pond of water that does not dry up; may
the cattle drink their water on the eastern shore of
the pond.
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And you, grandfather, watch over the young
herdsmen, that they do not hurt each other with
their fighting sticks. During daytime let all the
dangerous things be far away, so that people can
walk in safety, while the wild beasts, like the lion
and the snake, are resting. May they be far from
people who go to collect firewood, draw water or
go on some journey; may people go in peace and
return in peace. You, wild beasts, hide in the deep
bush and by the rivers there; if you disobey man,
you shall be killed. You too, dung beetle, hide
yourself in the thicket, because when you breathe
on the grazing cows, their stomachs will expand
and they will die. And you, chameleon, climb on
the thorn trees, because you also have a bad breath.
You breathe on things and they die. May you creep
around at night, because then we sleep. All of
you, dung beetle, chameleon, and snake, let us
not meet each other. My pastures and yours, be
they far from one another, because you are very
disagreeable. God give us our grazing grounds and
to you yours, as we entertain no friendship for you,
since you are so disagreable. I am giving you an
order!
Pleiades and God, go and get pregnant. Give
us water of grace. Cleanse all seeds that grow good
or bad fruits, so that I, the creature, choose a good
seed that brings forth good fruits.
Bring much rain that will suffice the entire
earth. Bring gentle rain to water the whole land,
that is, the land of the waNyaturu. Don’t forget
even one area. Bring us cool water, that people
may get enough food, so that we don’t fight over
ugali [i.e., the staple food of the country: a stiff
millet porridge].
Pleiades and God, please, hear this, because,
if you do not listen to us, when we beg you, there
will be pangs of hunger every year. May there be
much rain; may the young calves rejoice in the
light drizzle of the rain. When the rain stops, may
the sun shine; may its rays brighten the South, the
North, the East, and the West with your light, that
is not fierce. Shine on the flowers of millet, maize,
and of the pumpkins.
Pleiades and God, bring us all your seeds; we
ourselves shall choose between them. Bitter seeds
will find who eat them and good seeds will find
who eat them.
May we see the flowers of the Mugwauro tree
and of the Mudahasi tree; let us have a good har-
vest of millet and pumpkins, which have ripened
well. May there also be cucumbers; those will be
eaten by the children. May everything come to
fruition, things bitter and sweet. If we cannot eat
what is bitter, we shall put it aside, because even
tobacco, which is bitter, is asked for by the stranger
and he receives it.
Pleiades, you are like millet that has been
heaped together; you are also like small pumpkins;
and all these things are our food. Go and get the
heifer, let him suck and drink milk; may he drink
enough and grow fat and be of good health. I’m
coming to the end now.
All of you, Sun and our Creator God, the
Moon, and the Pleiades, listen to my prayer. I am
not very clever in asking you for a favour, but I
beg of you, that you listen to my plea. Thank you
very much!
The Kiswahili Text
Jua umechomoza; umetanguliwa na jogoo na
mlembe, waliotangaza sifa zako; pia na pofu
mwenye kula matumha na kuonyesha viumbe vyote
watapewa chakula.
Jua na Mungu, mtakapoamka muweke mikono
katika maji, watu wote na hata wanyama wa porini
waamke salama.
Sasa ni asuhuhi, mulika vizuri na mafuata
meupe ukilenga shina la mti na mlima.
Tokeza jimbo zako nne, uchunge sehemu zote
nne: Mashariki na Kaskazini, Kusini na Magha-
ribi. Chukua firnbo yako ya katikati, uende nayo
magharibi.
Ukate mti mwenye matawi manne, uzoe taka-
taka zote, upeleke magharibi. Chukua magonjwa,
weka kwenye kibuyu chenye urembo wa moto; ang-
alia sana, usije ukayaacha njiani.
Ukifika katika mji wako wa katikati, upumzike
hapo. Usiingie na kibuyu kile chenye magonjwa,
kiache nje, kitundikwe juu ya miti ya nyumba.
Uchukue kiko, uvute ukipumzika, upewe pombe
iliyotiwa asali, na, kama ukiona wamechelewa ku-
kupa vitu hivyo, chukua sigara uvute, uamkiane na
wana wako, uwape baraka zako za kimungu. Nyo-
sha Jimbo zako nne: Kusini, Kaskazini, Mashariki,
Magharibi; bakiza moja ya kuendela safari yako
ya kwenda Magharibi.
Chukua kile kibuyu, ulichoweka magonjwa,
usiyaweke njiani; nenda taratibu Magharibi mpa-
ka kwenye jabali defu lenye shimo defu, ukaya-
tupe hapo. Chukua matope ya ng’omhe na nta,
uzihe juu, Hi vitu vihaya visije kufunua, mtu asiu-
fikishe mkono wake, chochote kisipate nguvu ya ku-
fungua hapo. Ukifanya hivyo ni vema, nakuagiza
hivyo.
Ukifika Magharibi penye nyumba yako, upewe
ugali wa mtama na maziwa ya ndama mweupe
na siagi, nakuagiza hivyo. Usalimiane vizuri na
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watoto wako, upewe kitì ukae. Lala pale na uamke
alfajiri mapema.
Chinja kondoo dame mweusi, chinja masai
mweusi, ukaue na temho, ■asiye na pembe. Upewe
matumho ya njiku asiye na pembe, changanya na
mavì ya lembo. Chimba mforio, kata soni ya mti
uitwao Mungungu, changanya na mafuta ya siagi
nyeupe; halafu changanya yote katika sori hiyo.
Urudipo Mashariki, lupa huo mchanganyiko pande
iole, ukibariki Mashariki, Magharihi, Kusini, Kas-
kazini. Asante, umefanya verna. Mwagia makahu-
rini pa baba zeta na babu zeta wote na miji ya
watu wote; utupie kwenye kisima na kwenye ziwa
kubwa, wanamochota watu wote na wanapokuny-
wa ng’omhe. Jua ninakuagìza bivi. Nyunyiza dawa
kwa kutumia mkia wa ng’omhe kwenye nyumba
zote za matajiri na za maskini, uwagawie wote,
wasije kugomhana. Rusha chini, rusha juu, sema:
“Munga wangu, magonjwa yote yaliyomo hapa,
yaishe.” Ondoa magonjwa ya watoto na ya watu
wazima. Wagenì kutoka mhali wasìpate maradhi,
wala ng’omhe, wakìja репу e majì wasipate ma-
radhi.
Mwezì na Munga ninawasalimu ninyi. Wewe
Mwezi ni Mwumba; amba uwili, usiumhe utatu,
amba marne na mke kwa kila kiumbe. Umba wa-
wili, msichana na mvulana, na ng’ombe dame na
jike, na mhuzi dame na jike, na kondoo dame na
jike, na panda jike na dame. Wanyama wa pori
kama temho, nyali na twiga dame na jike.
Vifaranga ni wengi mno, lakini utakuta wawili
wawili, wakike na wa kiume. Wanyama wote na wa-
dudu wote wazae wawili wawili tu. Umba mbogo,
amhaye ana pembe nzuri, watu wakipiga pembe
hizo za nyali, wanasikia vizuri katika michezo ya
jando na unyago wa akina marna. Umba ndege,
samaki, temho mwenye pembe nyeupe za mali. Usi-
sahau wanyama wa pori: umba walio wakali na
walio wapole, umba simha wa porini na punda-
milia.
Рака wewe nenda ndani ya nyumba, angalia
panya wasile vyomho vya nyumba.
Dame la punda lizaliwe lenye mgongo тра-
па, ili isianguke mizigo ìfike salama. Cari liwepo
la serikali, ili kuwasafirisha watu wafike mapema
katika safari zao.
Gisamu aje kwenye mti wa mizinga, akaweke
mafuta meupe, ili, mtoto wa kike akichukuliwa na
mume wake, tuende tukamsalimu na kibuyu cha
zawadi. Тире maziwa ya mhuzi na ya kondoo, lupe
maziwa ya punda. Kuku wazaliane wengi wenye
manyoya marefu. Umba pofu mwenye umho mzuri
wa rangi, aje akume miti uitwao Mintumha awaa-
chie na wanyama wengine wale.
Mahali potè mganga azaliwe wa kinyaturu,
mgonjwa apewe dawa na apone. Waganga wote
wengine wawepo, waague vitu vyote, walete mvua.
Mganga wa kitaturu azaliwe, mganga wa kirangi,
wa kigogo na mwisho wa kizungu azaliwe, Hi watu
wote wawe na waganga wao wa kuwatibu, wasi-
gombane. Daktari awepo, nesi awepo, watoe da-
wa yao kwa upole, na Mungu awasaidie wawe
na huruma kwa wagonjwa; Mungu aibariki mi-
kono yao, wasije wakakosea kutihu na kuponya
kabisa. Waganga wazaliwe wote wa kike na wa
kiume watakaotuagua. Azaliwe mtoto mmoja awe
mganga mwenye pua ndefu yenye kunusa makafara
ya uchawi, yaliyochimbiwa katika nyumba zetu, Hi
amfedheheshe huyo mchawi. Ngariba awepo wa
kiume na wa kike, siri ya kike na ya kiume tusi-
zichanganye.
Mfinyanzi awepo mwenye mikono mizuri. Um-
ba mfua vyuma mwenye mikono migumu. Hao ndio
tunawataka. Watengenezaji wa mawe ya kusagia
wawepo. Mfua vyuma wa kinyaturu azaliwe, Hi aje,
afue shoka kwa mikono iliyokomaa. Kwa sabahu
siku hizi tumechanganyika na watu wa aina mha-
limbali, tunaomba mfua chuma wa kigeni azaliwe,
awe na nguvu nyingi, atengenezaye magari, ma-
jemhe na aunde ndege. Wote wazaliwe. Azaliwe
mfinyanzi, atakayetengeneza vyungu vyepesi, visi-
vyovunjika mwanamke anapokwenda safarini ateke
maji na yasimwagike njiani.
Fundi chuma atengeneze shoka la kufyeka
pori na kengele ya kumfunga mtoto mguuni na
pia kengele ya ng’ombe na vilevile kengele ya
mbuzi. Halafu atengeneze chuma cha kuwawe-
kea ng’omhe alama, atengeneze na hangili. Ha-
lafu awatengenezee wawanake hangili za miguu.
Kengele nyingine itengenezwe kwa ajili ya mlinzi
wa usiku. Mlinzi huyu asimame juu ya kisuguu;
atazame Mashariki, Magharihi, Kusini, Kaskazini;
panapotoka hatari atujulishe. Mzee wa kike akae
sehuleni awe anashona nguo zake, Hi kuwatunza
watoto wasiungue moto. Aweke mafigwa matatu,
Hi kumzuia mtoto asiangukie motoni, mtoto mdogo
akiwa kitandani. Abe Hi watu wasikie wamchukue.
Mama yake atakaporudi kutoka porini, akimkuta
mtoto analia, atamhembeleza akimwambia: “Nya-
maza mwanangu, tema mate, nitampiga.”
Wewe, baba, nenda mhugani machungani,
nenda ukakae karibu na kisima cha maji. Shika
fimbo, piga mluzi taratibu, Hi ng’omhe zinywe maji
zikifurahia muziki. Mchungaji arudishe kihuyu sa-
lama.
Katika kundi la mifugo awepo mbuzi, aliye-
zaliwa machungani, na abehwe na mchungaji ka-
tika mikono. Pia awepo ng’omhe, aliyezaliwa ma-
chungani, abehwe katika mikono ya mchungaji, aje
amteremshe kwenye zizi la ng’omhe. Watu waki-
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523
ja kuangalia, waseme: “Asante sana, mtoto wetu
ametuletea wageni.”
Mjomha, amhaye ni mchungaji hodari, asi-
tishwe na wanyama wakali kama vile simha, nyoka,
chui. Awapeleke ng’ombe kwenye lambo au bwawa
la maji yasiyokauka; ng’omhe hao wanywe ma-
ji upande wa Mashariki ya bwawa. Nawe, babu,
uwaangalie watoto machungani, wasiumizane na
fimho zao.
Makali yote wakati wa mchana uyafukuzie
mhali; watu watembee saìama na wanyama wa-
kali walale kama simha na nyoka; waende mhali
na watu, wakienda kukata kuni, kuchota maji au
kwenda safari yoyote; waende sa lama na warudi
salama.
Wanyama wote wakali mjifiche kwenye mapori
makubwa na mito mikuhwa; mkifanya kibure kwa
mwanadamu, mtauawa.
Kitonono nawe ukajifiche kwenye kichaka ki-
kuhwa kwa sababu humpulizi ng’ombe malishoni,
tumbo la ng’omhe hujaa na kufa.
Gutagho nawe nenda kwenye mti wa miiha,
maana una pumzi yako mbaya. Unapulizia vita
na kufa. Kutembea kwako kuwe kwa usìku, maa-
na huwa tumelala. Ninyi, kitonono na gutagho na
nyoka tusikutane nanyi; malisho yangu na yenu
tuwe mhali nanyi. Sababu ninyi ni wachungu sa-
na. Mungu atupe sisi malisho yetu nanyi malisho
yenu. Sababu sisi hatuna urafiki nanyi, maana mu
wachungu sana. Nawaagizeni hivyo.
Kirimia na Mungu nendeni, chukueni mimha.
Mutupe maji yenye neema mutakase mhegu zote
zenye wema na uhaya, ili mimi kiumhe nichague
mbegu nzuh yenye wema.
Miete mvua nyingì, amhayo itatosha dunia
mima, leteni maji yaliyo mapole, mweneze dunia
yote, yaani Urimi, usisahau sehemu hata moja.
Leteni maji ya bandi, watu waenee chakula, tusije
kugomhania ugali.
Kirimia na Mungu mnasikia hivyo, maana ka-
ma hamtusikii, tunapowaagiza, tutahangaika na
njaa kila mwaka. Mvua nyingi ije, watoto wa
ng’omhe wafurahie manyunyu ya mvua. Baada ya
mvua kwìsha, jua liwake, limulike Kusini, Kas-
kazini, Mashariki, Magharibi kwa mwanga wako,
amhao si mkali.
Mulikeni maua ya mtama, mahindi, mahoga.
Kirimia na Mungu, miete mhegu zenu zote sisi
tutazichagua wenyewe; mhegu chungu ina mlaji
wake na mhegu muri zina walaji wake.
Ua lako la Mugwauro na Mudahasi lìone-
kane, tupaie mavuno mazuri ya mtama na mho-
ga yaliyokomaa; pia yawepo matango, yanayoliwa
na watoto. Yote yakomae, machungu na matamu.
Tukishindwa kula yaliyo machungu, tutayaweka
pemheni, kwani tumbako nalo huwa chungu, lakini
mgeni huomha na kupewa.
Kirimia nyinyi ni mfano wa mtama uliolundi-
kana pamoja, pia ni kama maboga madogo, yote
pamoja ni chakula chetu.
Menda ukamchukue ng’omhe mdogo, umnyo-
nyeshe ashibe, amenepe, awe na afya muri; nama-
lizia hapo.
Nyinyi nyote, Jua na Mungu Mwumha we-
tu akina Mwezi, na Kirimia mnisikilize maomhi
yangu. Mimi si mjanja sana wa kuwaagiza ninyi,
lakini naornha maomhi yangu myasikilize. Asanteni
sana!
150 Jahre Hausaforschung
H. Ekkehard Wolff
Vor fast genau 150 Jahren erschien mit James
Frederick (Jacob Friedrich) Schöns “Grammati-
cal Sketch of the Flausa Fanguage” die vermut-
lich erste quasi professionelle wissenschaftliche
Auseinandersetzung mit der Struktur des Hausa,
der neben dem Swahili wichtigsten afrikanischen
Verkehrssprache unseres südlichen Nachbarkonti-
nents. 80 Jahre später verließ ein gewisser Frede-
rick William Parsons die Universität Oxford, um
als junger britischer Kolonialbeamter in Nordnige-
ria Dienst zu tun. Dieser zweite Frederick sollte,
nach Schön, Robinson, Bargery, Abraham u. a.
die britische Hausaistik zu einer weiteren Blüte
führen. Aus Anlaß des 80. Geburtstages von F. W.
Parsons liegt uns nun eine von Graham Furniss und
Philip J. Jaggar 1988 herausgegebene Festschrift
vor, die den Anspruch erheben könnte (und laut
Klappentext in der Tat auch recht unbritisch un-
bescheiden erhebt), selbst ein „Meilenstein (land-
mark)“ der Hausaforschung zu sein.
Diese in ihrer Form sehr ansprechende Fest-
schrift für eine herausragende Persönlichkeit der
School of Oriental and African Studies der Univer-
sität Fondon vereint 16 wissenschaftliche Artikel,
dazu eine äußerst willkommene Ergänzung der
Hausa-Bibliographie Baldis aus dem Jahre 1977,
zusammengestellt von Nicholas Awde, und einen
Beitrag zu (Hausa) Sprachanforderungen und -Prü-
fungen im British Empire zwischen 1902 und 1962
aus der Feder A. H. M. Kirk-Greenes.
Wie bei derartigen Veröffentlichungen üblich.
Anthropos 85.1990
524
Berichte und Kommentare
finden sich bio- und bibliographische Angaben
zum Jubilar (die m. E. etwas üppiger hätten aus-
fallen können) und mehr oder minder nützliche
bibliographische Daten zm den einzelnen Kontri-
butoren.
Herausgeber von Festschriften sehen sich fast
immer einem Dilemma gegenüber. Die Ehrung des
Jubilars gebietet es, möglichst viele mehr oder
minder „große Namen“ (in deren Schatten dann
auch die Herausgeber Platz finden) zu versam-
meln, unabhängig davon, wie gut oder schwach
der schließlich eingereichte Beitrag auch sein mag.
Auch der vorliegende Band enthält solche „ty-
pischen Festschriftartikel“, deren einzige raison
d’être der festliche Anlaß ist. Die Herausgeber
scheinen in ängstlicher Ehrfurcht vor bekannten
Namen unterschiedliche Maßstäbe angelegt zu ha-
ben; zum einen legten sie offensichtlich Wert auf
konservative Beiträge, denn Innovatives und da-
mit auch Widerspruch Provozierendes findet sich
allenfalls in Ansätzen dort, wo der Name des
Autors dies rechtfertigt, zum anderen lassen sie an-
deren bekannten Namen Beiträge von recht schwa-
chem Gehalt durchgehen.
Von den 16 wissenschaftlichen Artikeln ent-
fallen 9 auf die Abteilung “Language and Lin-
guistics”, 7 auf “Language and Literature”. Nur
zwei dieser Artikel stammen aus der Feder afri-
kanischer Kollegen, die alle Vorteile eines “native
speakers” mitbringen: Dauda Muhammad Bagari
(“The Use of Linguistic Devices in Hausa Poet-
ry”) und Ibrahim Yaro Yahaya (“The Language of
Hausa Riddles”). Da es unmöglich ist, im Rah-
men eines nicht ausufemden Rezensionsartikels
alle 18 Beiträge dieses Bandes einzeln und im
Detail zu besprechen, soll im folgenden nur auf
die 9 Beiträge der ersten Abteilung eingegangen
werden. Auch zu den 7 Literaturbeiträgen wäre
vieles, und durchaus Positives, in einer eigenen
Würdigung anzumerken, für die hier leider kein
Raum ist.
J. Carnochans “The Vowels of Hausa” ent-
hält wenig Neues außer des Autors Bekundung,
daß er sich in seinen epochalen Beiträgen von 1951
und 1952 über Vokallänge und Glottalisierung im
Hausa offensichtlich in dem Maße geirrt hat, in
dem R. Ma Newman und V. J. van Heuven (1981)
eine dreifache Längenunterscheidung von Vokalen
in präpausaler Stellung etabliert haben.
C. Gouffés Beitrag «La diathèse dans le verbe
haoussa» stellt den durchaus interessanten Versuch
dar, mit dem Begriff der Diathese - eingebettet
in ein hierarchisches System, in dem noch „Mo-
dalität“ (= thematische Ableitung) und „Rektion“
(transitiv vs. intransitiv) eine Rolle spielen - ein-
mal mehr Ordnung in den Formenreichtum des
Hausaverbums zu bringen. Gleichzeitig handelt es
sich um eine konservative Replik auf die Arbeiten
P. Newmans der letzten 15 Jahre, in denen letzterer
sich bemüht hatte, das Parsons’sehe Modell quasi
vom Kopf wieder auf die Füße zu stellen. Ist das
Parsons’sehe System der “verb grades” schon von
zweifelhafter Komplexität, weil es phonologische
Verbalklassen und thematische Verbalableitungen
unzulässig vermengt, trägt Gouffés Ehrenrettung
plus Diathese-Ansatz eher zu weiterer Verwirrung
als zur Klärung bei.
Da mit der diathetischen Dichotomie ak-
tiv/passiv im Hausa wenig zu gewinnen ist, arbei-
tet Gouffé zunächst mit der Dichotomie non-me-
dial vs. medial («diathèse interne»), wobei letztere
durch das Tonmuster (T-)T-H und kurzen Auslaut-
vokal (gr. 2 -/, gr. 3 -a, gr. 7 -u; interessanterweise
nennt Gouffé in diesem Zusammenhang auch die
sogenannten Zustandsnomina auf -e) gekennzeich-
net seien. Unklar bleibt aber, welche morphologi-
sche Bedeutung dieser formalen Übereinstimmung
allein zukommen soll - denn als „Morphem“, wel-
ches die Kategorie „Medium“ markiert, kann sie
ja wohl kaum ernsthaft angesprochen werden -
und welche Unterschiede dann mit der Qualität
des „Endungsvokals“ signalisiert werden. Daß die
“grades” 2, 3, 7 gewisse formale Gemeinsamkeiten
aufweisen, war ja bereits Parsons aufgefallen.
Bei den Verben der “grades” 1, 4, 5, 6 spricht
Gouffé selbst von einer «situation hétérogène».
Sein Ansatz hilft zunächst auch nicht, die Verhält-
nisse bei denjenigen Verben, die in mehreren “pri-
mary grades” auftreten, zu klären - mal ist für ihn
gr. 1 unmarkiert = «diathèse neutre», mal markiert
= «diathèse externe». Im Falle der gr. 4 und 6 fän-
de gar eine Neutralisierung der Kategorie Diathese
statt, denn das Hausa erlaube nicht, „Modalität“
(d. h. Einsatz thematischer Verbalableitungen) und
«diathèse interne», also Medialität, gleichzeitig in
einer Verbalform zu markieren (37). An dieser
Stelle aber widerspricht sich Gouffé nun selbst,
hat er doch gerade zuvor (36) die Form des gr. 7
identifiziert als sowohl medial als auch zugleich
modal markiert!
Da wohl in jedermanns Systematik den For-
men des gr. 5 eine Sonderrolle zukommt, trifft dies
auch für Gouffé zu, der hier «la forme linguistique
par excellence de la diathèse externe» manifestiert
sieht. Damit läßt sich folgende graphische Syste-
matisierung aus dem Artikel gewinnen:
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
525
Diathese Modalität
Grade -intern +intem -extern -extern -intern +extem
la + - - -
1b - + -
2 + - -
3 - + - -
4 neutralisiert +
5 - + -
6 neutralisiert +
7 - + - + ?
Wenn diese Systematik korrekt Gouffes Ideen
wiedergibt, bliebe - neben dem bereits genannten
Widerspruch bei gr. 7 (Unvereinbarkeit von Me-
dialität und Modalität) - das Verhältnis der beiden
„externen“ Formgruppen zu betrachten, d. h. die
eventuellen Gemeinsamkeiten von gr. 5- und jenen
gr. 1-Verben, die zugleich noch in gr. 3 auftreten.
Hier stimmen weder Tonmuster noch „Endung“ in
irgendeiner Weise überein! Gouffe sagt dazu kein
Wort. So wird am Ende nicht recht deutlich, wo
eigentlich der Gewinn der Einführung der Katego-
rie „Diathese“ im Hausa läge.
Sehr viel interessanter ist eine kurze Passage
(40), in der Gouffe eine neue historische Erklä-
rung für prä-pronominales -ee (gr. 2 und 5, hier
in der Sequenz ~[äsh]sh-ee) aus seiner Kenntnis
nordwestlicher Hausadialekte liefert. Er hält dies
für die Petrifizierung und analoge Ausbreitung der
Verbalendung -a in Kombination mit -y, einer
Form des Pronomens der 3. sg. m., vgl. für das
Verb säy- „kaufen“
gr. 2 säy-a-y > säy-ee (shi)
gr. 5 säy-s-a-y > sai-sh-ee (shi)
P. J. Jaggar, “Discourse-deployability and In-
definite NP-marking in Hausa: A Demonstration of
the Universal ‘Categoriality Hypothesis’”. Was der
Titel von der “High-Tech”-Diktion her befürchten
läßt, bestätigt sich leider in seinem Beitrag, der ei-
ne frühere Arbeit des Autors (Jaggar 1983) gleich-
sam auf den neuesten Stand bringt. Es geht um
die durchaus interessante und durch Häufigkeits-
zählung untermauerte Beobachtung, daß und wie
die Verwendung der drei indefiniten Pronomina
wani 3. sg. m.
wata 3. sg. f.
wa(öan)su 3. pl. c. g.
in Hausatexten (bei Jaggar handelt es sich da-
bei stets um Abubakar Imams „Magana Jari
Ce“, 1937-39) bei der Ersterwähnung nicht nur
von Merkmal „+/-human“ des Referenten und
der syntaktischen Funktion „+/- Subjekt“ gesteuert
wird, sondern entscheidend auch von der Häufig-
keit des späteren Auftretens als Protagonist oder
Umstandsangabe der Handlung. Die angeführten
Beispiele und Häufigkeitsangaben verdeutlichen
semantische und syntaktische Merkmale der Text-
struktur, deren Bezug zu Hoppers und Thom-
psons (1984) universeller “Categoriality Hypothe-
sis” allerdings an keiner Stelle deutlich wird, da
letztere praktisch funktionslos und nur als termino-
logisches Geklapper in Titel, Ein- und Ausleitung
kommod zitiert wird. In dem bombastischen Ter-
minologiegeklingel geht der unbestreitbare Wert
dieses im Grunde genommen ganz traditionel-
len (in bestem Parsons’sehen Sinne) Beitrags zur
Hausaphilologie fast verloren.
H. Jungraithmayrs “Hausa and Chadic: A Re-
appraisal” hat mit dem Hausa nur marginal, und
mit dem modernen Stand der Tschadistik bzw.
Hausaistik praktisch gar nichts zu tun. Der Autor
tut im Prinzip hier nur die seit Jahrzehnten wohl
von niemandem ernsthaft bestrittene Auffassung
kund, daß das Hausa in der Tat eine tschadi-
sche Sprache sei. Dies aus gegebenem Anlaß vor
dem Hintergrund zweier Aufsätze Parsons’ (1970,
1975), in denen jener in der Kritik der proto-
tschadischen Rekonstruktionen von Newman and
Ma Newman (1966) zum Nachweis genealogi-
scher Beziehungen des Hausa zu anderen tscha-
dischen Sprachen u. a. die vollständige Rekon-
struktion proto-tschadischer Lexeme, d. h. nicht
nur von Konsonantengerüst, sondern auch von Vo-
kalen und Tönen, gefordert hatte. Jungraithmayr
verteidigt nun die anachronistische Auffassung,
daß tschadische Rekonstruktionen von „Wurzeln“
schon allein deswegen vokallos zu sein hätten,
weil hier im Prinzip einstmals wohl dieselben
Verhältnisse wie im Semitischen geherrscht haben
mögen. Semitozentrismus in der vergleichenden
Afroasiatistik (Jungraithmayr hält wacker das Ban-
ner „Hamitosemitisch“ hoch) hat jedoch den wis-
senschaftlichen Fortschritt bislang eher behindert
denn gefördert! Es wäre ehrlicher, einzugestehen,
daß einfach die Verhältnisse in den tschadischen
Sprachen so sind, daß die gängige Methode der
vergleichenden Sprachwissenschaft bei den Voka-
len zu versagen scheint. Daß dies vermutlich damit
zusammenhängt, daß die synchronen phonologi-
schen Systeme der heutigen Sprachen nicht mit
dem nötigen Abstraktionsgrad beschrieben wer-
den, ist eine Einsicht, die sich in P. Newmans
Referenzwerk (1977a) allerdings nur andeutet (in
diesem Sinne ist P. Newmans zugegebenermaßen
irritierende Passage zu verstehen, daß Proto-Tscha-
disch “can be reconstructed as having had at most
four phonemic vowels iaau, and possibly only
two, o and a“, die Jungraithmayr in Verkennung
ihrer Bedeutung zitiert). In u. a. Wolff (1984) wird
Anthropos 85.1990
526
Berichte und Kommentare
diese Problematik hingegen vergleichend für eine
Untergruppe zentraltschadischer Sprachen exem-
plarisch vorgeführt. Hier wird die zentrale Not
tschadischer Komparatistik zur Tugend erhoben,
verbunden mit recht selektiven Literaturverweisen.
Im Hauptteil seines Beitrags präsentiert Jung-
raithmayr mögliche tschadische Kognaten für Hau-
sa sänyü „Kälte“ und wütsiyäa „Schwanz“, oh-
ne jedoch den Nachweis genetischen Zusammen-
hangs führen zu können, da er ja zwei Drittel
des zu vergleichenden phonologischen Materials,
nämlich Vokale und Töne, vorsätzlich vernachläs-
sigt. Auf diese Idee wären die vor-junggramma-
tischen Väter der Vergleichenden Indoeuropäistik
vor fast 200 Jahren wohl nicht einmal im Traum
gekommen - und auch sie hatten Probleme mit
Vokalen (nicht zuletzt wegen komplexer Um- und
Ablauterscheinungen, mit denen sich ja auch die
tschadische Komparatistik herumplagen muß)! Da-
bei setzt uns die inzwischen relativ gute Kenntnis
afrikanischer Ton- und Akzentsysteme durchaus in
die Lage, quasi nach-Vemer’sehe Bedingungen des
Lautwandels auch im Tschadischen zu entdecken.
Kolumnenartiges Anordnen allein von konsonanti-
schen Segmenten bei gegebener „Bedeutung“ hat
heute - außer vielleicht bei marginal am Tschadi-
schen interessierten Semitisten - kaum mehr als
anekdotischen Wert.
Als eine weitere historische Quelle des Le-
xikons des Hausa bzw. des Tschadischen insge-
samt identifiziert Jungraithmayr „altes Lehngut“,
ohne uns jedoch darüber aufzuklären, woher denn
nach seiner Meinung Hausa wutsiyää „Schwanz“
(weiter oben war dies noch ein Beleg für die
genetische Zuordnung des Hausa zum Tschadi-
schen, wenn auch eine eher “concealed Chadic
etymology”!), kitsee „Fett“, maataa „Frau“ kämen.
Als „offensichtliche Niger-Kongo Entlehnungen”
wirft er noch naamaa „Fleisch“, biyu „zwei“, kiifii
„Fisch“ und „etc.“ in die Debatte, zitiert aber auch
hier zum Nachweis weder entsprechende (Pro-
to-)Niger-Kongo-Belege noch die wichtige Arbeit
von C. Hoffmann (1970), der als erster die syste-
matische Identifikation solcher Entlehnungen aus
dem Benue-Kongo geleistet hatte.
J. A. Mclntyre, “A NAg-ging Question in
Hausa: Remarks on the Syntax and Semantics of
the Plural Noun of Agent”. Diese kleine Studie
eines, wie es scheint, marginalen Problems der
Hausamorphologie ist von hervorragender prag-
malinguistischer Bedeutung. Minuziös analysiert
und erklärt Mclntyre die nur scheinbar freie Wahl
des Hausasprechers, in der Sequenz von Nomen
agentis bzw. Verbalnormen plus Komplement den
genusspezifischen sogenannten “linker” zu ver-
wenden oder nicht. Oft genug, wenn nicht stets,
ist mit der “linker”-Option eine deutliche seman-
tische Funktion verbunden, die Mclntyre verall-
gemeinernd als „Zeitstabilität“ (“time-stability” in
Anlehnung an Givön 1979) bezeichnet. Vgl.
a. matäflyaa Kando “those travelling to Kano”
b. matäftya-n Kando “travellers originating in Kano”
a. ta näa dakä daawäa “she is pounding the guinea- corn”
b. ta näa dakä-n daawäa “she pounds guinea-com (for a living)”
In a. wird eine vorübergehende, vielleicht
einmalige Tätigkeit signalisiert, während in b.
ständige, oft berufsmäßige Tätigkeiten als solche
markiert werden. Mclntyres Beitrag belebt ganz
entscheidend die noch längst nicht abgeschlosse-
ne Diskussion über Normalisierungsstrategien von
Verben im Hausa.
P. Newman, “O Shush! An Eclamatory Con-
struction in Hausa”. Originell ist dieser Beitrag
über ein ubiquitär ersetzbares, pragmatisch ge-
steuertes (tonal dem Verbalsuffix des gr. 6 ver-
gleichbar) Ableitungssuffix -oo nicht allein des-
halb, weil dieses in der linguistischen Hausalite-
ratur praktisch unbekannt geblieben ist, sondern
weil dessen morphophonologisches Verhalten ge-
eignet ist, einige Auffassungen über phonetische,
phonologische und morphologische Eigenschaften
des Hausa zu überprüfen und neue Fragen aufzu-
werfen:
1. Warum verletzen -oo bzw. das Verbonominal-
suffix -‘waa das Prinzip (nach Newman 1986),
daß „tonintegrative“ (d. h. Tonmuster-bildende)
Suffixe links von „nicht-tonintegrativen“ stehen?
Ist das Prinzip selbst falsch?
2. Das Suffix bestätigt die Auffassung von New-
man and Salim (1981), silbenfinales VN strukturell
wie einen Diphthong zu werten.
3. Für CV(V)-Strukturen ergeben sich interessante
Ansätze: Welchen phonologischen Status haben
jeweils die auftretenden Gleitlaute w und y zwi-
schen Stamm und Suffix? Warum werden manche
Stammvokale dabei gekürzt, wie z. B. nii+oo >
nfloo „l.pers. sg.“, andere hingegen bleiben lang,
wie bei faa+oo >faawoo „flacher Fels“? Und wie
erklärt man die ungewöhnliche Tatsache, daß im
Pronomen der 2. pers. sg. f. kee+oo > ke^oo kur-
zes lei in nicht-finaler Position auftritt?
4. Aufgrund der offenkundigen Parallelen zum
gr. 6-Suffix des Verbums glaubt Newman schlie-
ßen zu können, daß gr. 6-Formen mit „epentheti-
schen“ Gleitlauten, wie z. B.
gr. 6 kiraawoo < kiraa „rufen“
gr. 6 hiyaawoo < biyaa „(be)zahlen“,
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
527
die mit exklamativem -oo keinen Gleitlaut auf-
weisen, vgl. kiroo, hiyoo, Beweise für seine ande-
renorts (Newman 1977h) aufgestellte Behauptung
sind, daß die unterliegende Form des gr. 6-Suffixes
-woo, also der Gleitlaut, nicht epenthetisch sei.
Dies scheint mir denn doch zu weit zu gehen. Kei-
nesfalls ist damit „bewiesen“, daß w und y in den
beiden genannten Beispielen (es handelt sich ja
hier um notorisch „unregelmäßige“ Verben) nicht
sprachhistorisch stammhaft sein können. Es ist
vielmehr durchaus möglich, daß das exklamative
-oo in seiner fast uneingeschränkten Kombinier-
barkeit mit nahezu allen Wortarten sehr viel
jüngeren Datums ist und als “input” für sei-
ne morphophonologische Auslautvokalersetzungs-
Regel schlicht die snychrone Oberflächenform ver-
wendet (also biyaa und kiraa), während gr. 6-“ven-
tives” von der „historisch korrekten“ unterliegen-
den Form (also *kiraaya, *biyaaya\ vgl. Wolff
1984: 4 f.) gebildet werden.
5. Auf eine relative Chronologie von morphopho-
nologischen Regeln läßt exklamatives -oo auch in
den Fällen von Depalatalisation schließen. Wenn
es vordere Auslautvokale ersetzt, wird nach gutem
Hausa-Systemzwang ein durch letzteren palatali-
sierter Konsonant in der Regel ent-palatalisiert:
z.B.
pl. mootoocii+oo > mootoot-oo „Autos“.
Simplexformen haben allerdings die Ten-
denz, sich der Depalatalisierung zu widersetzen -
allerdings ist hier der Sprechergebrauch durchaus
schwankend, wie Newman einräumt, also z. B.
sg. hancii+oo > hanc-oo „Nase“.
Meines Erachtens ist die beobachtete intra-
und inter-idiolektale Schwankung im Gebrauch ein
weiterer Hinweis auf das relativ junge Alter dieser
Formen im Hausa, das wir ja schon weiter oben
zu vermuten Anlaß hatten. Interessant ist in diesem
Zusammenhang, daß einer der beiden Informanten
- aufgrund unterschiedlichen sprachhistorischen
Alters der jeweiligen Palatisierungsregel? - einige
Depalatalisierungen schlichtweg „falsch“ betreibt,
wie z. B.
pl. gidäajee+oo > gidaaz-oo (falsch) „Häuser“.
Warum lehnt er die (historisch korrekte) Form
gidaad-oo ab und läßt allenfalls die nicht-depala-
talisierte „Kompromißform“ gidaaj-oo gelten?
6. Schließlich verdient Erwähnung, daß exklama-
tives -oo, ganz wie gr. 6 -oo- “ventive”, in prä-
pausaler Position jene auffällige „nicht kurz und
nicht lang“-Dauer mit phonetischem Glottalver-
schluß aufweist (vgl. auch Carnochans Beitrag
weiter oben).
Es sind durchaus keine trivialen Beobachtun-
gen und Fragen, die sich aus Newmans Beitrag
ergeben, sondern sie sind geeignet, unsere Einsicht
in die Struktur des Hausa beträchtlich zu vertiefen.
R. Ma Newmans “Augmentative Adjectives
in Hausa” ist, parallel zu einer nicht leicht zu-
gänglichen Arbeit von Abdou Mijinguini (1986),
die erste systematische Behandlung einer bereits
von Parsons identifizierten Wortklasse, die durch
komplexe morphologische Prozesse gekennzeich-
net ist und in den großen Lexika von Barger (1934)
und Abraham (1962) unbefriedigend und wider-
sprüchlich dargestellt ist. Ma Newman beschreibt
systematisch die verschiedenen Flexions- und De-
rivationsformen, die von diesen typischerweise re-
duplikativen Augmentativqualitativa gebildet wer-
den, wie z. B. von der abstrahierten Wurzel maak-
„lang und breit (Raum, Acker)“
sg. m.; maakeekee
sg. f.: maakeekiyaa
pl. c.g.: maakaa-mäakäa
exklamativ: maaki\
Monovokalische Wurzeln erlauben oder for-
dern erweiterte Basen, wie z. B. fank- „sehr breit
(Gewässer)“;
einfach erweiterte Basis:
redupl. erw. Basis:
sg- m.:
sg. f.:
pl.c.g.:
explikativ:
fank-am-
fank-am-k-am-
fankamii
fankameemee
fänkankämii
fankameemiyaa
fankamaa-fänkämäa
fankämil
dazu, quasi außerhalb des engeren Subsystems der
Qualitative, „singulative“ und „plurative“ Formen,
die als ideophonische Modifikatoren (Galadancis
[1971] “ideophonic qualifiers”) fungieren, in den
Wörterbüchern hingegen mitunter fälschlich als
systemhafte Pluralformen angesprochen werden:
singulativ fänkämkäm
plurativ fankam-fänkäm.
Welcher am Hausa interessierte Leser könnte
sagen, daß er hier nicht wirklich etwas Neues über
das Hausa lernte?
N. Pilszczikowa-Chodak, “On the Distribu-
tion of Consonants and Vowels in the Initial
Syllable of Disyllabic Grade 2 Verbs in Hausa”.
Die Frage, ob sich Anlautkonsonanten und erster
Stammvokal frei oder nur bedingt in lexikalischen
Einheiten kombinieren, wäre trivial, wenn über
den phonologischen Status der Hausavokale un-
eingeschränkt Klarheit bestünde. Dies ist ja nicht
der Fall, denken wir an die asymmetrische Di-
stribution langer und kurzer Vokale und an das
Anthropos 85.1990
528
Berichte und Kommentare
Problem der kurzen hohen Vokale in Stammsilben
sowie an das signifikante statistische Übergewicht
der tiefen Vokale a, aa. Insofern ist eine syste-
matische Untersuchung der möglichen Bedingtheit
von Stammvokalen im Hausa durch vorangehende
Konsonanten durchaus von Interesse. Ausgehend
von einem Corpus von 400 Verben des 2. Stam-
mes kommt Pilszczikowa-Chodak als Resultat ih-
rer Analyse zur Annahme einer weitgehenden Be-
dingtheit, von der die tiefen Vokale erwartungs-
gemäß ausgenommen sind. Unter Verwendung der
akustischen Merkmale “grave/acute” (nach Jakob-
son etal. 1951) und Chomsky and Halles (1968)
Merkmalen “anterior” und “continuant” kommt
die Autorin zu einer in ihrer Einfachheit zunächst
verblüffenden Kookkurrenzsystematik:
Anlautkonsonant erster Vokal
Merkmal Artikulationsstelle Merkmal Artiku-
lations-
stelle
+grave labial, velar, glottal +grave back
-grave alveolar, palatal -grave front
+ant labial, alveolar +ant front
-ant palatal, velar, glottal -ant back
Artikulationsweise Vokal-
quantität
+cont alle Nicht-Okklusiven +long lang
-cont alle Okklusiven -long kurz
Zwei prinzipielle Einwände lassen sich erhe-
ben. Zum einen fehlt die systematische Einord-
nung der palatalisierten und labialisierten Konso-
nanten in die “grave/acute”-Dichotomie; Es wäre
von entscheidender Wichtigkeit, zu untersuchen,
ob sich z. B. ein palatalisierter Labial nun wie
ein Labial (+grave) oder wie ein Palatal (-grave)
oder gar indifferent hinsichtlich dieses Merkmals
verhält. Zum zweiten enthält die zusammenfas-
sende Verallgemeinerung Widersprüchliches, zu-
mal keine Hierarchie der Kombinationspräferen-
zen angegeben wird: Labiale (+grave, +ant) und
Palatale (-grave, -ant) kommen sowohl mit vor-
deren als auch mit hinteren Vokalen vor. Dies ist
ein unbefriedigendes Ergebnis, wenn auch sicher
eine relevante Beobachtung, denken wir an das
Phänomen der Palatalisierung und Labialisierung
im Hausa - was bedeutet diese Beobachtung aber
nun für die systematisch-phonetische Ebene der
Sprachbeschreibung? Eindeutig scheint die Zuord-
nung von Velaren und hinteren Vokalen auf der
einen, und von Alveolaren und vorderen Vokalen
auf der anderen Seite zu sein. An dieser Stelle
hätte eigentlich die Untersuchung erst beginnen
sollen! Auf jeden Fall gibt dieser Beitrag jenen in-
teressantes Spielmaterial in die Hand, die für älte-
re Sprachstadien (Proto-Hausa, Proto-Tschadisch)
sehr viel weniger Vokalphoneme ansetzen als die
snychronische Beschreibung sie erfordert: wieviele
Vokale gab es, außer lal, die nicht zugleich silbi-
sche Realisierungen der konsonantischen „schwa-
chen Radikale“ y und w waren? Und inwieweit
waren kurzes i und u nicht nur phonetisch bedingt
als Realisierungen epenthetischer Vokale, deren
Färbung durch die Umgebung jener Konsonanten
hervorgerufen wurde, deren Häufung zu sprengen
ihre phonetische Funktion war?
L. Tullers “Resumptive Strategies in Hau-
sa” diskutiert im Rahmen neuerer Entwicklungen
der generativen Grammatik (“Extended Standard
Theory”) verschiedene Formen der syntaktischen
Extraktion (also “wh-interrogation”, “relativiza-
tion”, “focalization”), von denen einige im Hausa
Spuren in Form von (sogenannten resumptiven)
Pronomina (bzw. sogar eines resumptiven Ver-
bums yi „machen, tun“) in der Oberflächenstruktur
zurücklassen. Der Beitrag ist ohne Kenntnis der
zentralen theoretischen Konzepte wie “Subjacency
Condition” und “Empty Category Principle” und
des modularen Charakters des zugrundegelegten
Grammatikmodells weitgehend unverständlich.
Tuller kommt zunächst zu der überraschen-
den Beobachtung, daß die Relativisierung, im Ver-
gleich zu anderen Extraktionen, offenbar die Sub-
jazenzbedingung verletzen darf, sobald es sich um
ein Subjekt oder unbelebte (non-human) direkte
Objekte handelt. Im Rahmen der vorgegebenen
Grammatiktheorie wären die behandelten Fälle je-
doch nur dann akzeptabel, wenn resumptive Pro-
nomina aufträten. Tuller argumentiert, daß genau
dieses der Fall ist, da das Hausa hier null Rea-
lisierungen von Pronomina zuläßt (“zero pronoun
Parameter”)! Dies wäre die erste resumptive Stra-
tegie.
Ähnlich ist die Situation hinsichtlich der Gül-
tigkeit des “Empty Category Principle”: Auch
hier ist es die null Realisierung von Pronomina,
die zunächst die Systemkonformität bestimmter
Beispielssätze verschleiert, denn solcherart rea-
lisierte resumptive Pronomina füllen strukturelle
„Lücken“, die durch Extraktion entstehen. Dies ist
die zweite resumptive Strategie.
Ergibt sich die theoretisch interessante Frage,
warum es zwei Arten resumptiver Pronomina im
Hause gibt, von denen die eine, wie es scheint,
die Subjazenzbedingungen verletzen darf (bei der
Relativisierung), die andere hingegen nicht. Dies
erklärt Tuller mit dem modularen Charakter des
Grammatikmodells. Der Unterschied liegt in der
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
529
Ebene, auf der die Koindizierung des Pronomens
erfolgt (LF = “logical form”-Ebene vs. S-Struktur-
Ebene).
Ein „Meilenstein“ der Hausaforschung ist die
vorliegende Festschrift sicher nicht. Sie ist viel
eher ein getreuliches Abbild der Hausaistik 150
Jahre nach J. F. Schön: Die Spannbreite der Inter-
essen an dieser Sprache ist gewaltig gewachsen,
sie reicht, gemessen am heutigen Stand der theo-
retischen und komparativen Linguistik, von immer
noch eher naiv vergleichenden Fragestellungen bis
zu hochabstrakten Validitätsüberprüfungen theore-
tisch-linguistischer Modelle am konkreten Sprach-
material. Neben “language” und “literature” ver-
mißt habe ich soziolinguistische Beiträge, die sich
mit der enormen sozialen und politischen Bedeu-
tung des Hausa in Nigeria und Niger auseinan-
dergesetzt hätten: Schon vor fast 150 Jahren ist
auch dieser Aspekt der Hausaforschung themati-
siert worden, der vor allem im frankophonen West-
afrika in unseren Tagen eine explosive Bedeutung
zu gewinnen beginnt. Hausa “has, from various
causes, such as the dispersion of Hausas among
other nations, through ... the commercial pursuits
of the natives of the Soudan, and the beauty of
the language itself, become, as it were, to Africa,
what the French is to Europe” (Schön 1862: ii).
Zitierte Literatur
Abraham, R. C.
1962 Dictionary of the Hausa Language. London; Univ. of
London Press. [2nd ed.]
Baldi, S.
1977 Systematic Hausa Bibliography. Rom: Istituto Italo-Af-
ricano.
Bargery, G. P.
1934 A Hausa-English Dictionary and English-Hausa Vocab-
ulary. London: Oxford University Press.
Carnochan, J.
1951 A Study of Quantity in Hausa. Bulletin of the School of
Oriental and African Studies 13: 1032-1044.
1952 Glottalization in Hausa. Transactions of the Philological
Society: 78-109.
Chomsky, Noam, and Morris Halle
1968 The Sound Pattern of English. New York: Harper and
Row.
Furniss, Graham, and Philip J. Jaggar (eds.)
1988 Studies in Hausa Language and Linguistics. In Honour
of F. W. Parsons. London; Kegan Paul International,
xxxi + 282 pp.
Galadanci, Kabir
1971 Ideophones in Hausa. Harsunan Nijeriya (Kano) 1:
12-26.
Givon, T.
1979 On Understanding Grammar. New York; Academic
Press.
Hoffmann, C.
1970 Ancient Benue-Congo Loans in Chadic? Africana Mar-
bur gensia 3: 3-23.
Hopper, P. J., and S. A. Thompson
1984 The Discourse Basis for Lexical Categories in Universal
Grammar. Language 60: 703-752.
Jaggar, P. J.
1983 Some Dimensions of Topic-NP Continuity in Hau-
sa Narrative. In: T. Givon (ed.), Topic Continuity
in Discourse: A Quantitative Cross-Language Study;
pp. 365-424. Amsterdam; John Benjamins.
Jakobson, R., C. Gunnar, M. Fant, and M. Halle
1951 Preliminaries to Speech Analysis. The Distinctive Fea-
tures and their Correlates. Cambridge, Mass.: M. I.T.
Press.
Jungraithmayr, H., and K. Shimizu
1981 Chadic Lexical Roots; vol. 2. Berlin; Dietrich Reimer.
Mijinguini, Abdou
1986 A propos des profusatifs en Hausa. Les Cahiers du
CELHTO (Niamey) 4; 423-441.
Newman, P.
1977a Chadic Classification and Reconstructions. Afroasiatic
Linguistics 5: 1-42.
19776 Chadic Extensions and Pre-Dative Verb Forms in Hau-
sa. Studies in African Linguistics 8: 275-297.
Newman, P., and R. Ma Newman
1966 Comparative Chadic; Phonology and Lexicon. Journal
of African Languages 5: 218-251.
Newman, P., and Bello Ahmed Salim
1981 Hausa Diphtongs. Lingua 55: 101-121.
Newman, R. Ma, and V. J. van Heuven
1981 An Acoustic and Phonological Study of Pre-Pausal
Vowel Length in Hausa. Journal of African Languages
and Linguistics 3: 1-18.
Parsons, Frederick William
1970 Is Hausa Really a Chadic Language? Some Problems
of Comparative Phonology. African Language Studies
11: 272-288.
1975 Hausa and Chadic. In: J. and Th. Bynon (eds.), Hami-
to-Semitica; pp. 421-458. The Hague: Mouton.
Schon, James Frederick [Jakob Friedrich]
1842 Grammatical Sketch of the Hausa Language. Journal of
the Royal Asiatic Society 14/2.
1862 Grammar of the Hausa Language. London.
Wolff, E.
1983 Reconstructing Vowels in Central Chadic. In: E. Wolff
and H. Meyer-Bahlburg (eds.), Studies in Chadic and
Afroasiatic Linguistics; pp. 211-232. Hamburg.
1984 Simple and Extended Verb Stems in Hausa: Towards
an Internal Reconstruction of the Old Hausa Verbal
System. Journal of West African Languages 14; 3-26.
Anthropos 85.1990
530
Berichte und Kommentare
Austronesian Root Theory
Paul Geraghty
I was genuinely amazed by a discovery made while
working on this review-article of Robert A. Blust’s
“Austronesian Root Theory” (1988). Having de-
cided to consult Otto Christian Dahl’s “Proto-Aus-
tronesian” (1973), the text I was reared on as a
young postgraduate student at the University of
Hawaii, I scanned the bibliography to find not a
single reference to the works of Robert Blust. Aye,
indeed, that was another era. Such has been Blust’s
dominance of Austronesian comparative studies
over the past decade and a half that it is very rare to
find a scholar in the field who has not had cause to
refer to a Blustian reconstruction, or been goaded
into action by a piece of Blustian presumption
in his neck of the woods. It was Blust who first
proposed and then elaborated on the currently most
widely accepted subgrouping of the Austronesian
language family, and his passion for devouring da-
ta from every comer of what is arguably the largest
and most diverse language family in the world has
yielded a body of reconstructions that surpasses in
every way the previous standard, published fifty
years ago by the father of Austronesian studies,
Otto Dempwolff. This fascinating book, which
is based on those reconstructions, demonstrates
for Proto-Austronesian (PAN) a level of linguistic
analysis between the phoneme and the morpheme,
and very throroughly explores the repercussions
for general linguistic theory.
Blust defines the Austronesian root in the
first chapter. It is neither the familiar “root” of
Indo-European, nor that of Semitic, but apparently
a peculiarly Austronesian phenomenon. It is “an
entire CVC (or, rarely, CV) syllable in which there
is no limitation on the filling of consonant and
vowel positions apart from the general morpheme
structure constraints of the language ... [it] may
occur as an independent form, but only if it is
onomatopoetic ... except when it occurs as an
independent form, [it] is always the last syllable of
a disyllable or longer word ... not all morphemes
contain a root ... some roots exhibit a pattern of
vowel variation which appears to be correlated
with semantic gradation .,. Most significantly,
analysis of the Austronesian root suggests that
there is a level of language structure intermediate
between the phoneme and the morpheme which
has been generally overlooked by linguists ... [it]
is an analytical product of recurrent association,
isolated through a lexically pervasive sound-mean-
ing correlation in which neither the recurrent ele-
ment nor the residue is independent, and in which
only the recurrent element has meaning. Opera-
tionally, then, the Austronesian root bears a closer
resemblance to the phonestheme (English gl- in
glow, gleam, glimmer, glitter) than to the ‘root’
as previously discussed either in Semitic or in
Indo-European linguistics” (1-2). The theory is as
yet language-family-specific, but may eventually
be usefully applied across language families to a
class of sound-meaning associations which can be
identified in the absence of paradigmatic contrast.
Chapter 2, “The Morpheme: Two Operational
Definitions,” is a discussion of the definition of
the term “morpheme.” Bloomfield alone seems to
have defined it by recurrent association (rather than
paradigmatic contrast), and thereby admitted as
morphemes what later came to be termed “pho-
nesthemes” - isolable portions of morphemes that
have meaning but cannot occur independently, and
leave a residue that is itself meaningless. The
Austronesian root is a kind of phonestheme. Al-
so included under this rubric are certain sub-root
phonesthemes of Austronesian (see below).
Chapter3, “A Synoptic History of Austrone-
sian Root Theory,” leads the reader back to the
origin of Austronesian root theory in a 1916 paper
by Brandstetter, and details the characteristics of
the root, and means of forming word-bases from
it, as outlined in that paper.
Chapter 4 is a critique of Brandstetter’s theo-
ry. While agreeing that the theory is “built around
a core of valid observations and explanations,”
Blust argues nonetheless that Brandstetter “at-
tempted to extrapolate well beyond what the data
legitimately appear to support, and in so doing he
unwittingly discredited his theory in the eyes of
many later researchers” (10). Blust lists six major
weaknesses:
1. Many pseudo-roots were reconstructed as
a consequence of Brandstetter’s lax control of
chance, for example his requiring only two inde-
pendent witnesses (Blust requires four), and not
taking into account phonological mergers.
2. Similarly, although he specifically cau-
tioned against assuming that an attested monosyl-
lable derives from an original monosyllable (since
an original consonant may have been lost, e.g.,
in Old Javanese), there are instances of his doing
precisely that.
3. Brandstetter repeatedly used “cognates” to
establish roots, when what is required is a recurrent
partial in “unrelated” forms.
4. Perhaps the fundamental cause of these
“errors of enthusiasm” was a belief - suggested
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
531
in Brandstetter’s discussion of Karo Batak - that
all word-bases contain a root, whereas very few in
fact do.
5. Brandstetter also gave too much rein to his
imagination in the setting up of “root variants” -
roots that are semantically connected and differ
only in a single segment.
6. Brandstetter’s claim that the formatives
that co-occur with roots to form word-bases are
also meaningful units, for which he provides little
evidence in any case, appears to be quite unfound-
ed, as is his claim that such formatives also occur
as infixes and suffixes.
In Chapters, “Austronesian Root Theory Re-
visited,” Blust presents his rigorous redefinition of
the Austronesian root, avoiding the inadequacies
inherent in Brandstetter’s work by requiring that;
1. no terminal -CYC be accepted as a root
unless corresponding sequences of closely similar
meaning are attested in four etymologically inde-
pendent morphemes;
2. relevant sound changes be taken into ac-
count;
3. cognate morphemes be treated as single
witnesses;
4. root variation be recognized only where
there is unequivocal evidence of patterning; and
5. the recognition of formatives be subject to
the same methodological controls as the recog-
nition of roots. The remainder of Chapters is a
detailed discussion of aspects of the revised root
- its empirical reality, its characteristics, its value
in linguistic comparison, its psychological reality,
and its origins.
Blust demonstrates the empirical reality of the
root first by synchronic, then by diachronic com-
parison. In searching for synchronic evidence, a
simple technique was used, consisting in scanning
the dictionary for disyllables ending in a potential
root, having first generated all phonotactically pos-
sible first syllables. Blust illustrates with the root
-pit in Malay. The result: “No fewer than 19 of
the 39 disyllables that end with -pit in Wilkinson
[1959], or 49 %, can plausibly be characterized as
referring directly or indirectly to the approxima-
tion of two surfaces in a pincer-like movement”
(20). Thus is a root established in Malay. But
to qualify for listing as an “Austronesian” root,
the root candidate must be contained in a mor-
pheme reconstructed for PWMP (Proto-Westem-
Malayo-Polynesian) or higher, viz., PMP (Proto-
Malayo-Polynesian) or PAN (Proto-Austronesian),
as well as in at least three etymologically unrelated
morphemes; or, it must be distributed such that it
is potentially reconstructable for PWMP, PMP, or
PAN. So roots reconstructable only for, say, Pro-
to-Philippines, are not listed here. Such diachronic
evidence is naturally subject to the requirement
that putative cognates adhere to the relevant sound
changes, and do not require the use of the “benign
slash” - the arbitrary morpheme division so fre-
quently resorted to by over-enthusiastic compar-
ative linguists. Similarly, Blust accepts relatively
little meaning variation among base morphemes
deriving from the same root, only allowing a more
radical-looking semantic extension or shift when
there is clear evidence that it is common in Aus-
tronesian languages. With these stringent proce-
dures, Blust has amassed 231 Austronesian roots.
In a final assertion of their reality, Blust addresses
the question; how do we know that the material
of Appendix 2 [the comparative evidence for the
roots] - in whole or in part - is not a product of
the random matching of sound and meaning? This,
of course, is a problem for all historical recon-
struction, and, while a mathematical model might
be theoretically possible, linguists have on the
whole been content to make intuitive judgements
based on the length of the reconstructed segment,
the number of languages compared, the number
of reflexes, tightness of semantic fit, etc. Blust
concludes: “although some roots are supported
by only four or five etymologically independent
attestations, the average level of support is 11.09
___ It might be objected that in drawing mate-
rial from over 100 languages the role of chance
convergence in producing similarity is far greater
than I have estimated. However, perhaps 80 % of
the material in Appendix 2 is drawn from no more
than a dozen languages. Intuitive though it might
be, then, our elimination of chance is founded
on a careful consideration of probabilities and a
relatively conservative judgement” (29).
Having presented its credentials, Blust pre-
cedes to describe the root. A study of phoneme fre-
quency distributions produces some striking points
of contrast with reconstructed base morphemes,
none of which however seems to lead anywhere.
Semantically, roots can be verbal, nominal, or
adjectival, but their one outstanding semantic char-
acteristic is their relationship to onomatopoeia: “So
far as I have been able to determine, with one
or two possible exceptions ALL word-bases in
Dempwolff (1938) that might be characterized as
onomatopoetic contain a root .... [This] suggests
that the expressive component of onomatopoetic
words in AN languages is almost invariably the
last syllable, a constraint which is unknown in
English and - so far as I know - in other Indo-Eu-
ropean languages” (33). A statistical study of the
Anthropos 85.1990
532
Berichte und Kommentare
shape of the “formatives” (segments that precede
the root in word-bases) shows that practically all
CV-sequences occur, so that Brandstetter’s claim
that formatives constitute a closed set of prefixes
is not supported. In any case, there is no con-
stant meaning assignable fo any of the formatives.
On the other hand, Brandstetter’s notion of root
variation, which Brandstetter himself pursued to
such lengths that he came close to losing credi-
bility entirely, Blust finds to be valid. Particularly
striking is vowel gradation in onomatopoetic roots:
where all four PAN vowels are found between
identical pairs of consonants, the root with a refers
to a harsh and discordant sound, e is muffled, i is
high-pitched, and u deep. Perhaps not a startling
discovery, since we all know cannon “boom” and
bullets “zing,” but the system emerges very clearly
and neatly from Blust’s data. Consonant variation
also occurs, but is a little trickier to get a handle
on. Blust points out a number of pairs of most-
ly onomatopoetic roots where an initial voiced
stop indicates a louder sound than its homorganic
voiceless counterpart; and others where a final
stop symbolizes a sound with abrupt termination,
while its homorganic nasal symbolizes a sound
with gradually diminishing resonance. Again, not
startling because iconic and hence universal, but
nicely demonstrated.
Next, Blust wonders whether he is bearing
us a treasure chest or a Pandora’s box. Now we
have accepted the reality of the root, a meaning-
associated submorphemic string of phonemes, are
we in fact any better off for our wisdom? We
are wiser, but do we know more? Blust lists first
the pluses. “One benefit that the recognition of
roots can offer to phonological reconstruction is
to disambiguate a proto-form where this is not
possible on the basis of the attested word-bases
themselves” (46). This is really good news for
potential reconstructors of the PAN lexicon, since
quite a few proto-phonemic distinctions hang on
evidence from remote comers, especially from
Taiwanese languages. Even more welcome is the
suggestion that the *t/T (*T is retroflex) distinction
- founded on a distinction witnessed only in Ja-
vanese and some immediate neighbours - may be
spurious, as has indeed been argued by a number
of linguists (Dahl 1973; 64, 66-67, Wolff 1982:
14-16). Conversely, Blust points out that certain
proto-phonemes that have come into question re-
cently are reconstmcted in roots, which is a solid
argument for their reality: since the morphemes
containing them are not fully cognate, borrowing is
ruled out as an explanation. So PAN *r and are
supported by root theory, though *c may possibly
turn out to be a secondary development of some
Western Malayo-Polynesian languages. The root
also has a heuristic value in lexical reconstruction:
a root reconstmcted on the evidence of morphemes
with formatives is more than likely to occur also
reduplicated, an onomatopoetic root is likely to
have variants with vowel gradation, etc.
To break the bad news gently, Blust poses
a relevant question: do all the morphemes which
contain a root derive from PAN morphemes, or (as
seems more likely) has the root remained produc-
tive throughout the history of the differentiation
of AN languages? If the latter, then we have a
problem - morphemes that appear to be impecca-
ble cognates may therefore be simply independent
formations on a cognate root. So, from now on,
reconstmcted morphemes which contain a root
must all be viewed with just a little more suspicion.
Blust actually conducted a test of the “psycho-
logical reality of the root” using a small number
of speakers of Western Malayo-Polynesian lan-
guages, under far from ideal conditions, and the
results might charitably be viewed as inconclusive.
Finally in this chapter, Blust mentions, and dis-
misses, a suggestion that roots may be the result
of blending (which would imply that they were
not real elements of Proto-Austronesian at all),
and speculates that, on the contrary, they may yet
help demonstrate a historical relationship between
Austronesian and other language families, such as
the Mon-Khmer languages.
In Chapter 6, “Related Matters,” Blust pre-
sents evidence for meaning-associated phonemes
(as opposed to roots, which are phoneme strings
of the shape CV(C)) in Austronesian languages. In
initial position, the meanings “mb, scrape, scratch”
are represented with far greater than chance fre-
quency by morphemes that begin with a velar
stop (or reflex thereof), while words that begin
with a velar nasal tend to refer to the area of
the mouth and lips. Medial *y commonly occurs
in words that refer to swinging, swaying, and
so on. And in final position, *1 appears in an
inordinate number of roots meaning “blunt, dull.”
There are also two cases of discontinuous sound
symbolism, which Blust terms “Gestalt symbol-
ism”: the meaning “wrinkled, ceased” is frequently
conveyed by a trisyllabic form beginning with a
velar stop, having a liquid as the second con-
sonant, and (with rather less frequency) ending
in t\ and in a number of Formosan and Western
Malayo-Polynesian languages, a form reflecting
*(C)ay(e)CV(C) is recurrently associated with the
meaning “stench.” The concluding tangent is a re-
markably restrained assessment of a recent (1985)
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
533
study of sub-morphemic meaning associations in
Bahasa Indonesian by Keith McCune, the semantic
latitude in which frankly recalls the worst excesses
of the 19th century popularists.
The brief final chapter before the Appen-
dices is headed “Implications for General Lin-
guistic Theory.” In it, Blust first gathers the dis-
parate threads of the literature on “sound sym-
bolism,” then proposes a universal typology of
submorphemes. One type is “expressives” (forms,
some onomatopoetic, related by sound-meaning
gradience); another is isolated meaning-associated
segments or clusters, such as gl- in English glim-
mer, glitter, glow, or the initial velar stop in Aus-
tronesian words meaning “rub, scrape, scratch”; a
third is meaning-associated syllables, i.e., roots;
and there may be others. Can the acceptance of this
level of linguistic competence offer us any insight
into longstanding problems? Blust suggests it may
be an important factor in lexical innovation. Cer-
tainly the evidence presented for Austronesian sug-
gests that some specific types of sound symbolism
are widespread, so awareness of sound symbolism
seems to be a latent part of every Austronesian
speaker’s acquired knowledge of his language, an-
other instance of “drift.” On the other hand, Blust
rejects the idea that roots or any submorphemes
may become morphemes over time.
Finally, the data are presented in three appen-
dices. Appendix 1 is an alphabetical listing of Aus-
tronesian roots, showing at a glance the support
each has in terms of numbers of independent attes-
tations in proto-forms at PAN, PMP, and PWMP
levels, and in isolated morphemes in Formosa,
West Malayo-Polynesian, Central Malayo-Polyne-
sian, and Eastern Malayo-Polynesian. Appendix 2
is the same alphabetical listing, but with all the
supporting data in detail. Appendix 3 is a listing in
order of quantity of witnesses, so allows the reader
to assess at a glance how securely established each
reconstructed root is.
The areas of weakness I would particularly
like to comment on are as follows: (1) terminol-
ogy, (2) characteristics of the root, (3) data for-
mat, (4) semantic relatedness, and (5) treatment
of Oceanic data.
I feel some uneasiness over terminology. As
a generic term for meaningful submorphemic ele-
ments, Blust uses both “phonestheme” and “sub-
morpheme,” without ever stating that the two
terms mean the same thing. Though he has shed
much light on the subject, lexical innovation is
not one of Blust’s fortes. The author coins an
abstract term “gestalt symbolism” for a type of
submorphemic process, without giving us a name
for the submorpheme type, when the analogy with
discontinuous morphemes almost begs us to call
them “discontinuous submorphemes.” To add to
the confusion, Blust has very recently published
the last instalment of his Austronesian Etymol-
ogies in which he, without so much as a by-
your-leave, redefines the term “gestalt symbolism”
to include meaning-associated single segments or
clusters (Blust 1989: 113-114). This last category
of submorphemes is also unlabelled -1 would sug-
gest perhaps “subsyllabic submorphemes.” Anoth-
er term, “counterfeit cognates” for formally impec-
cable “cognates” which are in fact reflexes of the
same root that have fortuitously acquired the same
formative - carries the unfortunate implication that
some denizen of the underworld is forging this
false coinage to confuse linguists. What’s wrong
with “pseudo-cognates” or “false cognates”? The
term “formative” for the C(V)- that is prefixed
to roots is fine, but we are offered no word for
the combination of root and formative (root-based
morpheme? formatum?). And such “formata” as
are only reconstructable at a level below PAN or
WMP are called “morpheme isolates” - something
like “low-level formata” (or whatever) would be
clearer. The term “root” itself is far from being
beyond reproach. As Blust himself notes, “root”
has quite different (and well-established) meanings
in Indo-European and Semitic linguistics, and the
only justification offered for using the term at all
is that it translates Brandstetter’s German Wurzel
(though it might be added that it is shorter than
“syllabic submorpheme”). I don’t actually have a
better suggestion, but I do believe that chiding
McCune for using “root” to refer to a word-base
(61) is a little unfair.
I find Blust’s description of the characteristics
of the root wanting in two respects, one seman-
tic, one distributional. On p. 33, it is stated that
“The semantic domains represented by roots in
AN languages do not appear to be limited in any
way. Roots may be verbal ..., nominal ..., or
adjectival ..., and may refer to a wide range of
activities, objects, and qualities. The one outstand-
ing characteristic of the root is its relationship to
onomatopoeia.” The prominence of onomatopoeia
is undeniable, but my count of non-onomatopoetic
roots has verbs outnumbering nouns by over four-
to-one. Quite a number of these nouns are in any
case probably deverbal nouns, with meanings such
as “bundle,” “bunch,” “walking-stick,” “adhesive
material,” “plug.” In contrast, Blust’s own random
list of sixteen PAN reconstructions that do not
contain a root (12) contains ten nouns, and a check
through Dempwolff confirms that nouns constitute
Anthropos 85.1990
534
Berichte und Kommentare
over half the entries. Roots, therefore, are very
strongly verbal. Blust may have contributed to his
own deception by an unconscious habit - possibly
acquired from Dempwolff, or maybe even a much
more widespread tradition - of glossing a recon-
structed verb (or adjective) with an English noun.
For example, the four reflexes of *jjaC are glossed
“put on a sour face; speak sternly, bitingly,” “an-
gry,” “one who characteristically dislikes things,”
and “speak in irritation,” yet the reconstruction is
glossed “anger, irritation.” Other examples of the
same kind of thing are *git, *law, *piC, *pik, and
*tut. Even within the vast semantic field of verbs,
there are certain areas within which most roots
seem to cluster. Of a total of 168 non-onomato-
poetic reconstructed roots, 18 (over 10%) have
meanings like “bend, curl, twist, wind, fold.” Oth-
er major areas score as follows: “press, squeeze,
cram, block” - 11; “cover, enclose, shelter” -
10; “cut, split” - 9; “mud, dust, powder, sap” -
8; “gather, heap, bundle” - 6; “light, dark” - 6;
“grasp, embrace” - 5; “angry” - 5. On the other
hand, not a single root is to be found meaning
“voluntary motion” (e.g., walk, run, crawl, swim)
or in the range of “carry, bring.” I have already
noted the almost complete absence of nouns, other
than verb-based instrumentals and fluid substances
- no natural species, no topographical terms, no
manufactures. What this all means I shall leave for
others to explore, though it strikes me that these
semantic areas are ones that are generally unstable,
and highly prone to lexical innovation. I hope at
least to have demonstrated that non-onomatopoetic
roots are not evenly distributed over all semantic
fields.
Blust discusses two types of “distributional
characteristic” of the root, one being “distribu-
tion across word bases.” He sets out to describe
the formatives which combine [as prefixes] with
roots to form word-bases, and discovers that they
constitute an open class (and so cannot be con-
sidered fossilized prefixes, as had been claimed
by Brandstetter). All this is quite true, but Blust
omits to look for patterning between the C- of the
formative and the C- of the root. Had he done so,
he would have discovered that there are some very
strong co-occurrence restrictions. Blust observes
correctly, for instance, that the most common C-
of the formative is t. What he fails to observe
is that dental-initial formatives are prefixed to
35 roots beginning with a bilabial consonant, 41
roots beginning with a velar consonant, and 6
roots beginning with a palatal consonant, but only
2 roots beginning with a dental consonant (note
that I exclude reduplication from the definition
of formative). Similarly, bilabial-initial formatives
are prefixed to 45 velar-initial roots, 12 palatal-
initial roots, and 17 dental-initial roots, but only
1 bilabial-initial root; and velar-initial formatives
are prefixed to 24 bilabial-initial roots and 17
dental roots, but no palatal-initial and only 1 ve-
lar-initial root. A study of Dempwolff’s (1938)
reconstructions reveals that these restrictions are
not confined to root-based morphemes, but appear
to be a characteristic of all PAN bisyllables (again
excluding reduplications). To take the most strik-
ing case, of the 163 bisyllables beginning with *p,
28 have a velar as C2, 37 have a palatal (excluding
Dempwolff’s *j, really a glide), 37 have a dental,
but not one has a bilabial. For initial *£, the
figures for C2 are: bilabial 51, dental 16, palatal
21, velar 3. For the initial palatal *f (= *5 in
contemporary usage) it is: bilabial 45, dental 8,
palatal 6, velar 34. The dental *t is less restricted -
bilabials 90, dentals 19 (of which 11 are instances
of *«), palatals 16, velars 44 - but still shows the
same resistance to Cj and C2 being homorganic. As
far as I am aware, these disassociations have not
been noted before for PAN, though their presence
in Fijian has long been known and speculated
on (Geraghty 1973, Arms 1973, Milner 1989).
Their recognition is, like the recognition of roots,
a mixed blessing. Because they limit the number
of potential formatives for any given root, they
increase the likelihood of “false cognates” arising.
On the other hand, they offer supporting evidence
for the phonetic nature of proto-phonemes. Giv-
en that the total number of p-b associations (in
Dempwolff) is 1, k-g 0, and t’-d’ 1, the fact that
there are 8 t-d associations lends weight to the
proposal that PAN *<7 was not homorganic with *t.
Likewise, the fact that Dempwolff’s retroflex *t
strongly disassociates from dentals reinforces the
argument for its being a secondary development
from PAN *t. Of course there has been a huge
increase in PAN reconstructions since Dempwolff,
and the data now available should support a much
more detailed study of the phenomenon than I have
attempted here.
Turning to the appendices, my first grouse is
a minor one. The listing of what Blust calls “mor-
pheme isolates” (forms - or rarely reconstructions
- that witness the root but cannot be reconstructed
in toto for PWMP or PMP) is in alphabetical order.
The reason for this escapes me entirely, though it
is perhaps marginally preferable to no order at
all. It would have been far more illuminating to
have arranged them by subgroup, which in turn
would have eliminated almost entirely the need
for Appendix 1.
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
535
Rather more to the point, in terms of gener-
al acceptance of Blast’s theory, it is my feeling
that he has been rather over-generous in granting
semantic latitude. To be sure, one expects a good
deal of semantic change in a language family the
size of Austronesian, and had Blust adopted the
usual ploy of apologizing in advance for erring on
the side of inclusion, in the hope that those who
follow will tidy up, I would have held my peace.
But Blust in fact makes the opposite claim: “I have
accepted relatively little meaning variation among
base morphemes that are assumed to contain the
same root. Where I have departed from identity
or near-identity of meaning, it has generally been
with the support of parallel examples” (25). I
began to suspect that my understanding of “near-
identity” differs from Blust’s in the course of the
discussion (18-20) of Malay forms containing the
root -pit, characterized as “referring directly or
indirectly to the approximation of two surfaces in
a pincer-like movement.” Aside from this being
an exceedingly opaque definition, we find that the
witnesses for this root range from “half closed
(of the eye)” to “lining, thin partition,” and also
include such criminally vague definitions (from
Wilkinson’s dictionary) as “pressure between two
disconnected surfaces” - in pounds per square
inch, perhaps? These are, to be sure, extreme ex-
amples, but Blust does himself a disservice, and
invites scepticism much as Brandstetter did, by
including them at all, when there is a solid body
of witnesses glossed “nip, squeeze,” “confined,” or
“pincers” - all aspects of a single verbal meaning.
In the data in the Appendices, Blust does tighten
up on meaning but we still find some rather remote
synonyms such as Madurese tekket “press down”
from *ked “prop, support; staff,” Fijian buki “tie,
fasten” from *kit “join along the length,” PWMP
irjus “sniffle; snot” from *pus “snout,” Nggela tapo
“slap, clap” from *pek “decay, crumble; sound of
breaking; powder,” Fijian beti “pluck fruits” from
*tik “spring up; flicking motion,” and Arosi rjiri
“(dog) whine, (cat) mew; (insect) hum, buzz” from
*Rirj “to ring,” where I would judge English to be a
far better witness than Arosi. On p. 59, we discov-
er that Blust considers “parallel examples” from
American English sufficient grounds for granting
semantic change beyond near-synonymity, when
he claims that “the literal sense of dullness [i.e.,
blunt, of knife, etc.] is sometimes transferred met-
aphorically to dullness of wits.” I have a hunch
that had Blust been brought up a native speaker
of British rather than American English, he would
have been looking for the metaphorical extension
of bluntness to forthright speaking, and very likely
have found it too. Blust comments thus in his
critique of the cosmic latitude allowed by McCune
in his study of submorphemes in Bahasa Indone-
sian (63): “Every lexical meaning is a plexus of
latent semantic components. Out of this plexus one
may arbitrarily select any component that happens
to be convenient for a particular purpose.” How
true, and how comforting for us all to know that
even Blust is not immune to the failing, citing Lau
(South-east Solomons) bala “white from scars, of
the face or body” in support of *lat “scar,” and its
obvious cognates from neighbouring Sa’a pala(pa-
la) “light in colour (coconuts, people, animals)”
and Arosi bara “pale in colour, as a yellowish
variety of coconut; pale from fear or illness, of
men” in support of *balar “pale; albino” (Blust
1989: 126). I have actually attributed this set to
Proto-Eastem-Oceanic *baRa “light in colour,”
citing Roviana bara “clear, clean, vivid” as the
external witness for *R. My comments here, how-
ever, refer to a very small proportion of the data:
the great majority of data sets assembled show
very little meaning variation, and provide a very
substantial and convincing data base in support of
Austronesian root theory.
My final remarks have to do with the treat-
ment of Oceanic data. I am sure that Blust would
happily admit that he is less at home with Oceanic
than with Western Austronesian, and I will happily
admit too that reconstructing final consonants for
Oceanic is not a simple matter, so what is to follow
should be considered not so much as criticism, but
as my own small contribution to the development
of Austronesian root theory from the area where
I feel most at home. It is true, as Blust states on
pp. 36-37, that “the great majority of the better-
known Oceanic languages have lost original final
consonants, and show extensive consonant merg-
ers in other positions,” the implication being that
Oceanic languages are therefore not very useful
as witnesses for roots, even though numerically
they constitute over half of the whole Austronesian
language family. Two points need to be made
here. First, languages of the Western Solomons,
including the classic Roviana, retain final conso-
nants followed by an echo vowel, and they are
also retained sporadically in all of Oceania outside
the Central Pacific area, which comprises Fijian,
Rotuman, and Polynesian (Geraghty 1990: 122).
Second, all Oceanic languages, including those of
the Central Pacific, retain final consonants when
supported by a suffix, e.g., in transitive verbs.
Now, it has been demonstrated for Fijian that some
of these final consonants have changed under ana-
logical pressure to mark the semantic class of the
Anthropos 85.1990
536
Berichte und Kommentare
verb, and there is some evidence that these changes
were already under way at Proto-Eastem-Oceanic,
or even Proto-Oceanic level (Geraghty 1983: 267-
269). Nevertheless, roughly half of Fijian verbs
reflecting a PAN etymon retain faithfully the final
consonant - Arms (1973: 543) reckons 45 %, Mil-
ner (1989: 62) 43 %. So, with a knowledge of the
semantic realignments and phonotactic constraints
involved, it is often possible to use Fijian, and
probably other Eastern Oceanic, data to support the
reconstruction of PAN final consonants. Curiously,
Blust does this with Samoan, but not with Fijian or
any other Oceanic language. For the record, Fijian
and other Oceanic reflexes (some not mentioned by
Blust) support the final consonant of the following
roots:
*Dem “think”: Arosi ’ado-mai
*kep “seize, grasp, embrace”: Fijian rako-v “embrace”
*nut “husk, fibre”: Bugotu penutu “coconut husk”
*pas “tear or rip off’ (sic, but the more widespread meaning
is “loosen, remove, untie”); Roviana rupa-h “loosen,” Arosi
ruha-s “loose, let go, untie”
*Tuk “knock, pound, beat”: Fijian vutu-k “pound,” natu-k
“knead, pummel”
A systematic search would doubtless produce
more corroboratory evidence. For about ten re-
constructions for which Blust provides Oceanic
reflexes, the final consonants are not supported by
the evidence. I will not discuss these further, as
it would involve detailed discussion of the Fijian
data, not to mention considerably more research
into languages other than Fijian, to determine
whether they have also been subject to semantic
realignment of final consonants and phonotactic
restrictions - but I believe such research will even-
tually result in as secure a reconstruction of final
consonants for Proto-Oceanic and Proto-Eastem-
Oceanic as for any other subgroup of Austrone-
sian.
The final consonants of Fijian transitive verbs
merit further attention here, because they con-
stitute a set of subsyllabic submorphemes in an
Austronesian language that have been recognized
as such since 1850 (see Milner 1989: 59-67 for
a summary of the literature). Essentially, many
verbs show a non-etymological final consonant,
usually referred to as the “thematic consonant,”
which is determined by the semantic class to which
the verb belongs, so long as it is not homorganic
with either of the consonants of the base. The
thematic consonant only surfaces when the verb
is transitive, and is always followed by a vowel.
For example, verbs of motion take v: lako-v “go-
for,” cici-v “run-for,” lade-v “jump-over,” siro-v
“descend”; but the opposite of “descend,” cabe-t
“ascend,” may not take v because there is a bilabial
consonant in the base. Verbs of physical func-
tion take c [d]\ rai-c “see,” rogo-c “hear,” boi-c
“smell,” buno-c “sweat-on,” regu-c “kiss,” lua-c
“vomit-on”; but cegu-v “breathe” may not take c
because the base contains c. Verbs of breaking take
k: musu-k “break,” vow-k “smash,” diri-k “crack
open,” dresu-k “rip, shred,” basu-k “tear open”;
but gutu-v “snap, cut (vine, etc.)” may not take k,
since the base contains a velar consonant. I do not
propose to offer an analysis of this phenomenon,
but I trust it is sufficiently clear that it represents
another problem for the traditional definition of
the morpheme, as has indeed been recognized by
one who helped develop that traditional definition:
“The behaviour of the Fijian thematic consonants
was one of the real facts about languages that led
me slowly but surely to abandon what I now refer
to as the ‘atomic morpheme theory,’ the theory
of grammatico-lexical structure I helped develop
in the 1940’s and to which I clung for a long
time. That theory proposes that every phonemic-
ally relevant piece in any utterance must be a part
of one or another morpheme (or of the phonemic
representation of one or another morpheme), and
that morphemes are minimal meaningful elements
in much the same sense in which we all assumed
phonemes were minimum meaningless but differ-
entiating elements” (Charles Hockett p. c., quoted
in Milner 1989: 77). Blust’s monograph may not
replace Flockett’s doubts with certainty, but it is
a thoughtful and provocative discussion of where
the limits of morphology lie, based on an extensive
collection of data which no one but Blust could
have mustered so skilfully.
The book is both easy in the hand and a treat
to the eye, well bound and designed, and with
only a handful of innocuous typographical errors,
though I fear many readers will be looking in vain
for maps to locate the myriad languages. Blust is to
be congratulated, once again, on a very important
contribution to Austronesian studies, and to lin-
guistics generally.
References Cited
Arms, David G.
1973 Whence the Fijian Transitive Endings? Oceanic Lin-
guistics 12: 503-558.
Blust, Robert
1988 Austronesian Root Theory. An Essay on the Limits of
Morphology. Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing
Company. (Studies in Language Companion Series, 19)
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1989 Austronesian Etymologies - IV. Oceanic Linguistics
28/2: 111-180.
Dahl, Otto Christian
1973 Proto-Austronesian. Lund: Studentlitteratur. (Scandina-
vian Institute of Asian Studies Monograph Series, 15)
Dempwolff, Otto
1938 Vergleichende Lautlehre des Austronesischen Wort-
schatzes, 3. Bd.: Austronesisches Wörterverzeichnis.
Berlin: Dietrich Reimer.
Geraghty, Paul
1973 Some Aspects of Casemarking in Fijian. Unpublished
paper. Department of Linguistics, University of Hawaii,
Honolulu.
1983 The History of the Fijian Languages. Honolulu: Uni-
versity of Hawaii Press. (Oceanic Linguistics Special
Publication, 19)
1990 Proto Eastern Oceanic *R and its Reflexes. In; J. H. C. S.
Davidson (ed.), Languages of the Central Pacific. Lon-
don: School of Oriental and African Studies, University
of London.
McCune, Keith Michael
1985 The Internal Structure of Indonesian Roots; parts 1 and
2. Jakarta. (NUSA: Linguistic Studies of Indonesian and
Other Languages in Indonesia, 21/22)
Milner, George
1989 On Prosodic Relations between Fijian Bases and Ver-
bal Suffixes. In: J. H. C. S. Davidson (ed.), South-East
Asian Linguistics. Essays in Honour of Eugénie J. A.
Henderson. London: School of Oriental and African
Studies, University of London.
Wilkinson, R. J.
1959 A Malay-English Dictionary. London: Macmillan.
Wolff, John U.
1982 Proto-Austronesian *c, *z, *g, and *T. In: A. Halim,
L. Carrington, and S. A. Wurm (eds.), Papers from the
Third International Conference on Austronesian Lin-
guistics; vol. 2: 1-30. Canberra: Australian National
University. (Pacific Linguistics, C75)
Zeremonien, Etikette und das
Verhältnis von Mann und Frau im
griechischen Dorf
Ulrike Krasberg
Die Menschen im griechischen Dorf bilden eine
Gemeinschaft, in die jeder einzelne eingebunden
ist, sogar wenn er oder sie temporär im Ausland ar-
beitet. Die Zusammengehörigkeit im Dorf entsteht
und wird getragen durch Handlungszusammenhän-
ge (s. Krasberg 1989), die in der Tradition fest
Umrissen und definiert sind. Es sind symbolische
Gesten, derer sich die Menschen in der Kommu-
nikation bedienen, um ihre Zusammengehörigkeit
zu manifestieren. Die Bereitschaft der Dorfbewoh-
ner, die Beziehungen untereinander durch Rituale,
zeremonielle Praktiken und das Spielen von zu-
gewiesenen Rollen herzustellen und aufrechtzu-
erhalten, ist eine wesentliche Voraussetzung für
das Fortbestehen dieser Gemeinschaft. Wie jede
Gesellschaft zeichnet sich auch die Dorfgemein-
schaft durch eine spezifische Art der sozialen Kon-
trolle aus. Und wie jede Gesellschaft gewährt sie
gleichzeitig ihren Mitgliedern einen persönlichen
Freiraum, in dem die Individuen ihr Feben relativ
unabhängig von gesellschaftlichen Eingriffen ge-
stalten können.
Im folgenden wollen wir an einem Beispiel
sehen, wie diese Zusammengehörigkeit von Indivi-
duen sich in einem Bergdorf auf der ost-ägäischen
Insel Fesbos herstellt, und in einem zweiten Teil
der Frage nachgehen, wie sich die männliche und
die weibliche Welt innerhalb der Dorfgesellschaft
zueinander verhalten und wie beide Bereiche in-
einandergreifen und das Ganze der Gesellschaft
bilden.
1. Die Zeremonie des Bewirtens
Zunächst soll anhand der genaueren Betrachtung
des Ablaufs einer Zeremonie, nämlich der der
Bewirtung, aufgezeigt werden, welche Bedeutung
diese innerhalb der sozialen Zusammenhänge der
Dorfgemeinschaft hat.
Jede Gesellschaft hat bestimmte Rituale und
Zeremonien, um Gäste zu bewirten. Diese Be-
wirtungen werden meist unter dem - etischen -
Aspekt gesehen, auf welche Weise der Gastgeber
den oder die Fremde in sein Haus aufnimmt, d. h.
mit der - immer auch bedrohlichen - Fremdheit
umgeht, sie durch Rituale bannt.
Im folgenden wollen wir jedoch die Zere-
monie der Bewirtung unter dem Aspekt der Her-
stellung sozialer Beziehungen betrachten. Es soll
gezeigt werden, auf welche Weise diese Zeremo-
nie ein sozialer Integrationsmechanismus inner-
halb der „Welt der Frauen“ ist und gleichzeitig Teil
der Kultur in Griechenland überhaupt. Wenden
wir uns einer solchen Zeremonie der Bewirtung
zu, wie sie von Frauen im griechischen Dorf oft
durchgeführt wird, und sehen uns ihren Ablauf im
einzelnen an (s. auch Gavrielides 1974):
Zoula hatte Geburtstag und deshalb eingeladen, „um zu bewir-
ten“ (va sas keraso): Ihre Nachbarinnen Evangelia, Panajota
und Mirsini, deren Schwiegertochter Litsa mit ihren Kindern
und Zoulas Mutter waren dabei. Gegen 7 Uhr abends kamen
Anthropos 85.1990
538
Berichte und Kommentare
alle in ihren Hof, wo die Stühle schon im Kreis standen, in
der Mitte ein Tablett auf einem niedrigen Hocker. Nachdem
alle Platz gefunden hatten, kam Zoula mit einem Tablett mit
Spitzendecke, auf dem das gliko (kandierte Früchte) auf kleinen
Kristallschälchen - für jeden eine Feige -, silberne Gäbelchen
und die Gläser mit Wasser standen. Jede Besucherin bekam
ein Schälchen, und während jede ihre Feige aß, stand Zoula,
mit dem Tablett auf den Händen, wartend dabei. Die geleerten
Schälchen wurden wieder auf das Tablett gestellt; dann nahm
jede ein Glas Wasser und prostete damit Zoula zu, indem ihr
chronia pola (viele Jahre) gewünscht wurde. Dann verschwand
Zoula in der Küche und kam als nächstes mit einem Täßchen
griechischen Kaffees für jede. Den selbstgebackenen Kuchen
(kailc) legte sich jede mit einer Serviette auf die Knie. Die
Kinder bekamen Limonade und Kekse. Während gegessen und
getrunken wurde, setzte sich Zoula dazu und nahm an der Un-
terhaltung teil. Nach dem Kaffee servierte sie weißen Nußlikör
und Nußpralinen. Auch hier wartete sie, mit dem Tablett auf
den Händen, stehend bis alle den Likör ausgetrunken und ihr
nochmals chronia pola und stin i gia su (auf deine Gesundheit)
gewünscht hatten. Nach einer kleinen Pause gab es für jede
ein Stück Schokoladen-Buttercreme-Torte, die mit einem Glas
Wasser serviert wurde. Zum Abschluß des Nachmittagsemp-
fangs bewirtete sie die Gäste noch mit Schälchen voll Eiscreme.
Der ganze Empfang hatte etwa eine Stunde gedauert, dann stan-
den alle ziemlich abrupt auf und gingen wieder, mit Hinweisen
auf diverse Arbeiten, die sie noch zu erledigen hätten.
Die Kinder hatten bei diesem Empfang große Mühe, nach
der Limonade und den Keksen noch die Schokoladentorte zu
essen. Nach drei Bissen hatten sie genug, wurden aber von
den Erwachsenen, teils mit freundlichem Zureden, teils mit
sehr ernsthaften Ermahnungen, zum Weiteressen bewogen. Als
ein kleiner Junge aus der Nachbarschaft mit seiner Großmutter
zufällig hereinkam, suchte er sich trotz heftigem Zureden von
Zoula, er solle ein Stück Torte essen, den allerkleinsten Keks
aus. Auch die Großmutter weigerte sich, außer einer Nußpraline
etwas zu sich zu nehmen. Die Gastgeberin aß während des
Empfangs nichts.
Zoula feiert ihren Geburtstag, und nicht ihren
Namenstag wie traditionell üblich. Dadurch signa-
lisiert sie ihren Nachbarinnen, daß sie eine „mo-
dern lebende“ Frau ist. Im Ablauf der Bewirtung
richtet sie sich aber nach der traditionellen Ze-
remonie. Die Zeremonie der Geburtstagsfeier be-
inhaltet das Ritual der Bewirtung. Wann immer ein
Gast das Haus betritt, bekommt er oder sie von der
Hausfrau ein Schälchen gliko und ein Glas Was-
ser als Willkommensgruß gereicht. Die freundli-
che Aufnahme und die Bewirtung von Fremden
wird von Griechen selbst als ein hervorstechendes
Merkmal ihrer Kultur gesehen, und jemanden zu
bewirten, ist ein Akt, der dem Gastgeber bzw. der
Gastgeberin hohes Prestige einbringt (s. Herzfeld
1985: 136 f. und Gavrielides 1974).
Die gesamte Zeremonie hat in der Durchfüh-
rung viele Gemeinsamkeiten mit dem kabul günü
in der Türkei. (Die Insel Lesbos liegt nahe der tür-
kischen Küste.) Der kabul günü ist ein festgelegter
Empfangstag einmal im Monat oder einmal in der
Woche, den die Dame des Hauses für Bekannte,
Freundinnen oder die Ehefrauen der Arbeitskol-
legen ihres Mannes gibt. Am späten Nachmittag
und frühen Abend kommen die Frauen für ein oder
zwei Stunden zusammen und werden von der Gast-
geberin bewirtet mit Kaffee oder Tee, Süßigkei-
ten und Zigaretten. Währenddessen werden Neu-
igkeiten ausgetauscht. Oftmals werden auf diesen
Treffen auch soziale und gesellschaftspolitische
Ereignisse diskutiert, und zwar so, daß durchaus
auch ein Gegengewicht zur oder eine Bestärkung
der männlichen Politik entstehen kann (s. Aswad
1974; Benedict 1974). Im griechischen Dorf finden
diese Art Treffen unregelmäßig statt.
Gavrielides berichtet von zeremonialen Emp-
fängen, die ältere Familienväter anläßlich und zur
Feier ihres Namenstages von den Frauen der Fami-
lie veranstalten ließen, um Wohlstand und Ansehen
in der Dorföffentlichkeit zu zeigen (1974: 56 f.).
Er stellt diese Zeremonie in einen Zusammenhang
mit zeremonialen Bewirtungen bei Besuchen zu
kalendarischen Festen wie Ostern und Weihnach-
ten und zu den Feiern von Hochzeiten, Kindtau-
fen und Beerdigungen und den Kirchweih-Festen
(panijiri). Wir müssen aber sehen, daß es nur die
Rituale der Bewirtung und bestimmte zeremoniale
Abläufe sind, die sich auf allen Festen und festli-
chen Bewirtungen wiederholen; die je spezifische
Bedeutung liegt im sozialen Kontext. Die Namens-
tagsfeier der Männer, schreibt Gavrielides, finde in
der Regel erst zu einem Zeitpunkt im Lebenszy-
klus der Männer statt, wenn sie zu einem gewissen
Wohlstand gekommen seien, also etwa mit 50 oder
60 Jahren. Dies sei auch der Zeitpunkt, an dem -
wenn vorhanden - die Töchter verheiratet werden
müßten, d. h. die Demonstration des Wohlstandes
sei vor allem auch auf zukünftige Schwiegersöh-
ne ausgerichtet. Dieser Bedeutungszusammenhang
gehört in den Kontext der männlichen Welt, und
die Feier des Namenstages als persönliches Fest,
durch das die Schutzfunktion des Heiligen als
Namenspatron gefestigt und erneuert werden soll,
ist „nur“ der Anlaß.
Auch der Empfang unter Frauen nimmt eine
persönliche oder Familienfeier zum Anlaß. Sogar
der Namenstag eines Ehemannes kann von seiner
Frau auf diese Weise ohne seine Anwesenheit
gefeiert werden. Verheiratete Frauen veranstalten
diese Empfänge sehr viel öfter für sich, die Nach-
barinnen und Verwandte als für den Ehemann.
Somit hat die zeremoniale Bewirtung hier weniger
Status-Signalwirkung als vielmehr die Funktion
einer ständigen Bestätigung und Aufrechterhaltung
eines sozialen (auch sozial-politischen) Netzes.
Bewirtungen der Frauen finden häufig in der
warmen Jahreszeit statt und dann in den Wohnhö-
fen der Häuser, also in einem Teil des Hauses -
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
539
Haus als weiblicher Bereich der am öffentlich-
sten ist. Die Namenstagsfeier des Hausherrn findet
dagegen im saloni statt, dem Repräsentationsraum
der Familie (s. Friedl 1962: 39—41). Die Frauen
sitzen auch sonst in den Wohnhöfen beieinander,
bei einer solchen Bewirtung aber geht es förmli-
cher zu. Alle sind besser gekleidet als gewöhnlich,
es wird mehr darauf geachtet, daß sich die Kinder
ruhig und gesittet verhalten, und beim Essen und
Trinken wird mehr auf die Haltung geachtet und
die verbale Etikette in Form von Trinksprüchen
usw. eingehalten. So ist es zum Beispiel unhöflich,
dargebotene Speisen abzulehnen. Aber man kann
sie mit nach Hause nehmen, und oft wird den
Gästen der letzte Gang - der Kuchen - schon
eingepackt gereicht.
Auffallend an der festlichen Bewirtung ist das
Auseinanderfallen der Zeremonie mit ihren vor-
bestimmten Verhaltensweisen einerseits und den
offensichtlichen Bedürfnissen der Menschen an-
dererseits. Leiris (1985: 211) bemerkt zu die-
sem Phänomen: „Bevor man ... den Betroffenen
Scheinheiligkeit ... unterstellt, muß man ... die
grundsätzliche Unmöglichkeit in Betracht ziehen,
gelebte Erfahrungen vollständig mit den von der
Tradition übernommenen Ideen zur Deckung zu
bringen ....“ Bei der Zeremonie geht es nicht so
sehr darum, gemeinsam mit Freundinnen, Nach-
barinnen und Verwandten sich an Kuchen, Likör
und Kaffee gütlich zu tun, sondern darum, soziale
Bindungen zu festigen und zu bestätigen. Aber
auch die in der Enge der dörflichen Nachbarschaft
leicht aufkommenden Konflikte oder Spannungen
werden im Ritual nivelliert und geglättet.1 Die
Kinder müssen lernen, die Torte zu essen, auch
wenn sie ihnen nicht schmeckt oder sie satt sind.
Weil es nicht um die Torte geht, sondern um das in
diesem Verzehren der Torte zum Ausdruck kom-
mende Ritual der positiven nachbarschaftlichen
Verbundenheit. Die individuellen Schwierigkeiten
der Teilnehmerinnen dieser „Zeremonie der Bewir-
tung“, sie mit vollem inneren Engagement durch-
zuführen - also die Speisen und Getränke nicht
abzulehnen und etwas länger zu verweilen, als die
Etikette es für unbedingt notwendig erachtet -,
1 Nach Ivo Strecker (1969) ist das Ritual der Integrations-
mechanismus einer Gesellschaft, es symbolisiert wichtige
soziale Normen der Gruppe, ruft sie wach, erneuert und
artikuliert sie. Es hat die Aufgabe, die Unzulänglichkeiten
der sozialen Struktur auszugleichen, und tritt da auf, wo die
soziale Struktur ausgeprägte Widersprüche zeigt. Struktu-
relle Widersprüche einer Gesellschaft enthalten immer auch
einen Keim des Wandels, der aber nicht Realität werden
muß. Wirklichkeit ist das dynamische Ineinander von Ritual
und Konflikt.
zeigt auch, daß die Sinn-Ebene der Zeremonie sich
sozusagen außerhalb der durchführenden Perso-
nen befindet. Gute nachbarschaftliche Beziehun-
gen können aufrechterhalten werden, ohne daß die
Akteure emotional sehr involviert sind. Goffman
schreibt sogar; „Der Handelnde kann durch das
Bezeugen von Achtung, die er gar nicht wirklich
empfindet, eine Art innerer Autonomie bewahren,
da er sich von der zeremoniellen Ordnung distan-
ziert, und zwar gerade in dem Moment, in dem er
sich aufrechterhält“ (Goffman 1971:66).
Zunächst ist also auffallend, daß Männer und
Frauen zwar beide ihre Namens- bzw. Geburtstage
feiern, der gesellschaftliche Kontext aber nicht der
gleiche ist. Für die Männer bedeutet die Zeremonie
die Darstellung und Einbindung ihres Status in
die Dorfgemeinschaft, von daher stehen Prunk und
ein überreichliches Speiseangebot - vornehmlich
Fleisch - im Zentrum der Zeremonie (Gavrielides
1974: 56). Die Feier der Frauen dagegen betont
und erneuert in der Bewirtung eher die Zusammen-
gehörigkeit der Frauen und hat mehr Ähnlichkeit
mit dem kulturellen Phänomen des kabul günü in
der Türkei als mit der Namenstagsfeier der Männer
im Dorf. Die Zeremonie der Bewirtung ist ein
kulturelles Phänomen, das seine gesellschaftliche
Manifestation sowohl im Kontext der männlichen
als auch in dem der weiblichen Welt findet. Be-
tont werden soll darüber hinaus, daß diese Ze-
remonie die Kraft hat, die Integration der Indi-
viduen im sozialen Bereich zu vollziehen, ohne
daß die Teilnehmerinnen individuell ihren Jeweils
persönlichen Bezug zu den anderen Besucherinnen
definieren müssen (s. Douglas 1981: 36-57 über
die Kommunikation mit dem „restringierten“ und
„elaborierten Code“).
2. Männliche und weibliche Welt
Die männliche und weibliche Welt sind in sich
weitgehend autonom und stellen jeweils eine Form
der weiblichen bzw. männlichen Realisation dieser
Kultur dar. Kulturspezifisch hieran ist nur die ge-
sellschaftlich relativ stark ausgeformte Trennung
der Geschlechter, denn generell gilt, daß die Welt
nicht in der neutralen, sozusagen übergeordneten
Menschlichkeit erfahrbar ist, sondern nur in der
spezifischen Form von männlich oder weiblich,
denn Menschlichkeit bedeutet immer zuerst Männ-
lichkeit oder Weiblichkeit (Devereux 1976)2. Jeder
2 „Tatsächlich kann man nicht menschlich sein, ehe man
männlich oder weiblich ist; Männlichkeit und Weiblichkeit
sind inhärente Konstituentien des Begriffs vom mensch-
Anthropos 85.1990
540
Berichte und Kommentare
der geschlechtsspezifischen Bereiche oder Katego-
rien für sich kann die Gesamtkultur in ihrer ge-
sellschaftlichen Ausprägung repräsentieren, beide
Bereiche zusammengenommen stellen aber erst die
gesamte Kultur dar.* 3
Wenn wir die Kultur hier in männliche und
weibliche „Welt“ aufteilen, so soll „Welt“ alle
vom Menschen erfahrbaren und erlebbaren Berei-
che umfassen. Vom geographischen Ort, an dem
sich das „Alltags“-Leben abspielt, bis zu dem, was
Maya Nadig (1986) den „kulturellen Raum der
Frau“ nennt. Also die van Gennepsche „männli-
che und weibliche Kategorie“ (1960). Weibliche
und männliche Welt bilden nicht nur im additi-
ven Sinne die Gesamtkultur. Die Bereiche greifen
vielmehr ineinander. Etwa wie ein Vexierbild, das
in sich zwei Darstellungen präsentiert, die der Be-
trachter abwechselnd sehen kann. Das besondere
dieser Vexierbilder ist, daß zwar immer auch das
jeweils andere Bild vorhanden ist, aber nicht im
gleichen Moment beide Bilder gesehen werden
können. Weder den Mitgliedern der Gesellschaft
noch dem Ethnologen in der Feldforschung ist es
möglich, sich gleichzeitig im Bereich der Männer
und in dem der Frauen aufzuhalten. Die Gesell-
schaft läßt sich immer nur aus dem einen oder
anderen Blickwinkel heraus betrachten und ver-
stehen. Erst in der - notwendigerweise abstrakten
- ethnologischen Analyse ist es möglich, die Ge-
samtschau zu geben.
liehen Wesen ebenso wie seiner Realität. Es ist über-
dies wahrscheinlich sogar operational unzulässig zu sagen,
daß der Begriff ,menschlich‘ allgemeiner1 oder ,umfassen-
der4 sei als der Begriff .männlich4 oder .weiblich4.....es
ist unmöglich menschlich zu sein, ohne gleichzeitig auch
geschlechtlich zu sein; männlich oder weiblich. Männlich-
keit wie Weiblichkeit setzen implizit auch die Existenz
eines anderen Geschlechts voraus und stellen signifikante
Reaktionen auf dessen Existenz dar44 (Devereux 1976: 213).
Bergers und Luckmanns Theorie der „gesellschaftlichen
Konstruktion der Wirklichkeit“ (1970) müßte demnach spe-
zifiziert werden, in eine „gesellschaftliche Konstruktion“
der „weiblichen“ und der „männlichen Wirklichkeit“. Van
Gennep (1960; 189) sieht die Teilung in die Kategorien
.männlich - weiblich4 und .heilig - profan4 als grundlegend
für jede Gesellschaft an.
3 S. auch Strecker (1969: 40): „... denn eine ethno-sozio-
logische Beschreibung, die nach einer Ganzheitserfassung
der Gesellschaft strebt, aber gleichzeitig ihre Daten als
.Indikatoren4 eines hypothetischen .Beobachter-Systems4
auffaßt, wird sich ihrer Selektivität bewußt sein, ja gerade
diese kritisch hervorheben, und sie wird damit der Gefahr
des ‘bias’ Vorbeugen, einer Gefahr, der jede ganzheitliche
Beschreibung einer Gesellschaft erliegen muß, die auf un-
kritischer Selektivität der Beobachtung und Beschreibung
beruht.“ Das bedeutet für die ethnologische Forschung,
daß sie die analytische Erfassung der Gesamtkultur nur mit
„Daten beiderlei Geschlechts“ vornehmen kann.
Männer und Frauen wissen von dem jeweils
anderen Bild, mehr noch, der eigene geschlechts-
spezifische Bereich erfährt Definition und Um-
riß erst durch den jeweils anderen, der zwar peri-
phär, als solcher aber ständig vorhanden ist. Man
könnte sagen, daß die Stellen oder Orte bekannt
sind, die jeweils „negativ“ im Bild des anderen
Geschlechts eingenommen werden. Von daher ist
es möglich, jeweils im „Bild“ des anderen Ge-
schlechts vorhanden zu sein, bzw. - da wir es mit
einer Gesellschaft zu tun haben - eine Rolle zu
spielen, deren Bedeutung innerhalb des Bezugs-
rahmens des anderen Geschlechts liegt. So tritt
die Frau bei dem Namenstagsfest ihres Mannes
nicht auf, ist aber genauso wichtig wie ihr Mann,
denn ohne sie kann er nicht repräsentieren, zu-
mal die Bühne seines Auftritts ihr Haushalt ist.
Goffman spricht in diesem Zusammenhang von
„Regie-Dominanz“ und „dramatischer Dominanz“
(1973: 94).
Jede Kultur verleiht auf der gesellschaftlich
sichtbaren Ebene der männlichen und weiblichen
Realität spezifische Gestalt. Diese kann sehr auf-
fallend und stark betont oder im Erscheinungsbild
kaum wahrnehmbar sein. In der griechischen Dorf-
gemeinschaft finden wir eine auffallende Trennung
von männlichem und weiblichem Lebensbereich.
Einher mit dieser Trennung geht - wie wir gese-
hen haben - eine relativ starke Normierung ge-
sellschaftlicher Interaktion und eine ausgeprägte
Etikette im alltäglichen Umgang der Indidividuen
miteinander. Aber nicht nur die Gestaltung der
männlichen Und weiblichen Welt ist kulturspezi-
fisch, auch die Art der gesellschaftlichen Kontrolle
der Triebstruktur des Menschen wird von jeder
Kultur auf spezifische Weise festgelegt. Muslimi-
sche Gesellschaften z. B. werden charakterisiert
als solche mit ausgeprägter Differenzierung und
Trennung der Geschlechter und einer starken Nor-
mierung zwischenmenschlicher Beziehungen. Ein
Grund dafür wird darin gesehen, daß in diesen
Kulturen die Triebstruktur des Menschen nicht als
etwas gesehen wird, das das Individuum in sich,
in der Isolation des Selbst, kontrollieren muß und
kann. Die Kontrolle findet - nicht ohne sein Zutun
- außerhalb des Individuums statt und fällt somit
der sozialen Umwelt - die hier die Familie ist
- zu. Normiertes Verhalten und strenge Etikette
sind eine Voraussetzung für die familiale Kon-
trolle menschlicher Triebe wie z. B. Aggressivität
und Sexualität. Von daher könnte erklärt werden,
warum häufig stark normiertes Verhalten und eine
strenge Trennung der Geschlechter gemeinsam in
einer Kultur zu finden sind.4 In unserem Zusam-
menhang interessiert aber nicht so sehr das War-
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
541
um dieses Phänomens als vielmehr, ob die Dif-
ferenzierung einerseits und das Ineinandergreifen
andererseits von männlicher und weiblicher Welt
überhaupt erst mit Hilfe von Ritualen, Etikette und
Zeremonien möglich wird.
3. Über Rituale, Etikette und das Spielen von
Rollen
Hier wird es notwendig zu definieren, was wir
unter Ritual, Zeremonie und Etikette verstehen
wollen. Mit Hilfe der Etikette wird das Verhalten
der Individuen im Alltagsleben - und bei Festen
- untereinander geregelt. Es sind kulturspezifische
Gesten, die der Interaktion der Individuen Defini-
tion und gewissermaßen „Reibungslosigkeit“ ge-
ben sollen. Ein dörfliches Hochzeitsfest ist eine
Zeremonie, in die Rituale eingebunden sind, die
die kulturellen (und religiösen) Werte der Dorfge-
meinschaft verkörpern und zum Ausdruck bringen
(s. van Gennep 1960: 116-119). Das Ritual ist der
Integrationsmechanismus dieser Dorfgesellschaft,
es symbolisiert wichtige soziale Normen der Ge-
meinschaft, ruft sie wach, erneuert und artikuliert
sie (Strecker 1969). Mit Turner soll das Ritual
nicht statisch als “social glue”, eine Art „sozialer
Leim“, verstanden werden, der die Gesellschaft
zusammenhält, sondern im Geertzschen Sinne als
ein „Modell für“ und ein „Modell von“ der Kultur.
Rituale haben eine kreative, fließende Kraft, die
auch unter Bedingungen des sozialen Wandels die
tiefer liegenden Werte einer Gruppe darzustellen
und zum Ausdruck zu bringen vermag (Turner
1982:82).
Wir haben es im Dorf mit einer Gesellschaft
zu tun, die in ausgeprägtem Maße Rituale und Ze-
remonien im Alltag und bei Festen lebt. Das heißt,
es ist eine Gesellschaft, für die Rituale und Etikette
keineswegs „leer“ sind, sondern in hohem Maße
inhaltsreich (Douglas 1988: 11-78). Über Etikette
und zeremoniale Praktiken sind die einzelnen in
den Zusammenhang der Gemeinschaft integriert.
4 “Symbolic shelter is provided ... against the strong impuls-
es such as sexual desire and aggression which are clearly
recognized as being part of the human condition. ... Sexual
impulses ... are seen as overwhelmingly strong and difficult
for the individual to resist .... Much of the burden of
impulse control in both sex and aggression is shifted to
social institutions and mediated through the immediate face-
to-face group” (Papanek 1973: 316). In diesem Zusammen-
hang ist der Begriff der „Normierung“ gesellschaftlicher
Interaktion korrekter als der der „Ritualisierung“, da hier
die Wiederholung einer einmal festgesetzten Form gemeint
ist und weniger die Inhalte (religiöser Art), die mit dem
Begriff der „Ritualisierung“ im Vordergrund stehen.
Das Einhalten der Regeln der Etikette ermöglicht
eine Selbstdefinition in bezug auf den anderen und
die gemeinsame soziale Situation. „Wo zeremo-
nielle Praktiken sorgfältig institutionalisiert sind
..., ist es leicht, ein Selbst zu haben“ (Goffman
1973: 101). Der einzelne - eingebunden in die
Dorfgemeinschaft - muß seine Identität nicht su-
chen, sie wird ihm gleichsam „in die Wiege gelegt“
(s. Berger und Luckmann 1970: 175). Identität ist
verbunden mit Status und wird mit Hilfe fest defi-
nierter Rollen „gespielt“ (vgl. Goodenough 1969:
312). Nach Max Gluckman (1962: 35) treten Zere-
monie und Etikette immer dann auf, wenn gleiche
Personen verschiedene „Rollen“ spielen müssen
und sie auf der Enge einer „Dorfbühne“ voneinan-
der unterschieden werden sollen. Jeder spielt ver-
schiedene Rollen verschiedenen Mitgliedern der
Gesellschaft gegenüber, aber auch einer einzigen
anderen Person gegenüber. Ein Familienvater kann
auch Bauer und Priester sein und Freund und Feind
gleichzeitig in einer Person, denn jeder ist auch mit
verschiedenen Gruppen liiert (1962: 41; vgl. van
Gennep 1960: 191 f.).5
Nicht in allen Gesellschaften ist das „Schau-
Spielen“ ins Theater verbannt. In vielen Kulturen
ist das Schauspielen notwendig ins Alltagsleben
integriert, ohne daß das Postulat der „Ehrlichkeit“
in den zwischenmenschlichen Beziehungen in Fra-
ge gestellt würde. Denn das Spielen der Rolle ist
zugleich auch die Integration in die Gemeinschaft.
Die Person wird nicht in erster Linie als Indivi-
duum - getrennt und verschieden von allen ande-
ren - gesehen, sondern der einzelne bekommt erst
Gestalt, wird erst eine „soziale“ Person über seinen
Status, der ihm in der Gesellschaft zugewiesen
wurde.6
5 „Insofern eine Darstellung (soziale Interaktion) die gemein-
samen offiziell anerkannten Werte der Gesellschaft ... be-
tont, können wir sie ... als Ritual betrachten, d. h. als eine
ausdrückliche Erneuerung und Bestätigung der Werte der
Gemeinschaft. Darüber hinaus wird in dem Maße, in dem
die in der Darstellung nahegelegte Sicht als Wirklichkeit
akzeptiert wird, diese Darstellung Züge einer Zeremonie
haben. Im eigenen Zimmer zu bleiben und sich von dem Ort
femzuhalten, an dem die Festlichkeit stattfindet ..., heißt
sich femzuhalten von dem Ort, wo Wirklichkeit dargestellt
wird“ (Goffman 1971; 35 f.; s. auch Gluckman 1962 und
Strecker 1969).
6 Goodenough betont, daß der Status einer Person sich we-
sentlich über Rechte und Pflichten definiert, wobei die
Pflicht des einen das Recht des anderen sei und umgekehrt
(1969: 312-314). In der Arabischen Welt drückt sich bei
der Nennung des Namens bzw. seiner Zusätze, bei der
Vorstellung einer Person, diese Vielfalt der Rollen aus:
z. B. Hassan aus Sefrou, Hassan der Sohn Alis, Hassan
der Metzger, Hassan der Lahme (Hildred Geertz 1979:
341-346). S.z. B. Schauspiele auf Bali, wie sie Clifford
Anthropos 85.1990
542
Berichte und Kommentare
So ist z. B. auch der Status „Mann“ definiert
und vorgegeben (Gluckman 1962: 41). Herzfeld
zeigt am Beispiel der Männer in einem kretischen
Bergdorf, daß es in der Interaktion mit dem an-
deren oder dem eigenen Geschlecht nicht darum
geht, zu beweisen, daß man ein Mann ist, sondern
es geht darum, die Männlichkeit zu leben, der
festumrissenen Rolle Individualität zu geben und
Anerkennung darüber zu finden, auf welche Weise
man seinen männlichen Status lebt. “... there is
less focus on ‘being a good man’ than on ‘being
good at being a man’ ...” (Herzfeld 1985: 16).
Herzfeld legt hier die Betonung auf Handeln, auf
das Spielen der Rolle, die den Status erst wahr-
nehmbar macht. Das Spielen der Rolle ist ohne
Etikette und den Zusammenhang von Zeremonie
aber nicht möglich. Die kleinen Varianten beim
Spielen der Rolle drücken die Unabhängigkeit, die
innere Freiheit aus. Es ist der „Status Mann“, der
die Integration in die Dorfgemeinschaft herstellt,
und es sind die Varianten im Ausdruck der Männ-
lichkeit, die die Individualität herstellen.
Die Individuen im Dorf sind für die Gemein-
schaft in erster Linie „öffentliche Person“ und erst
in zweiter Linie Privatpersonen, wobei die Privat-
person außerhalb der Familie keinen gesellschaft-
lichen Stellenwert hat. Deutlich wird dies auch
daran, daß traditionellerweise im Dorf nicht der
Geburtstag, sondern der Namenstag gefeiert wird.
Da im Dorf jeder jeden mit Vornamen kennt und
die Namen in der Regel Namen der Heiligen sind,
die im Ablauf des Jahres jeweils einen nach ihnen
benannten Tag haben, weiß auch jeder im Dorf,
wann die einzelnen Namenstag haben, und man
kommt, um zu beglückwünschen. Die gemeinsame
Identität in „Zeit und Raum“ und im übergrei-
fenden Zusammenhang des orthodox-christlichen
Glaubens schafft die Identität und Geborgenheit
(s. Gavrielides 1974: 53).
4. Söhne und Töchter
Im folgenden wollen wir sehen, wie der Status von
Mann und Frau sich in der Interaktion darstellt,
bzw. welche Bedeutung ein Ereignis, das Mann
und Frau gleichzeitig betrifft, nämlich die Geburt
Geertz in „Religion als kulturelles System“ (1987: 79—86)
beschreibt, oder Leiris (1985) über den zdr-Kult; s. auch
Turner (1982: 86) über die Verbindung von Ritualen und
moderner Lebensweise und über die Bedeutung gelebter
religiöser Rituale.
ihres (ersten) Kindes, jeweils für die beiden Ge-
schlechter hat: wie durch Zeremonien und Etiket-
te die jeweilige geschlechtsspezifische Bedeutung
sich gesellschaftlich vermittelt und - wie in der
Metapher vom Vexierbild - beide Bedeutungszu-
sammenhänge ineinandergreifen und sich gegen-
seitig integrieren.
Es gibt verschiedene Kontexte, in denen die
Bedeutung der Geburt eines Sohnes oder einer
Tochter gesehen werden kann. Zum einen im Kon-
text von Ursprungsmythen - welche Bedeutung
hat das männliche und weibliche Geschlecht für
das Überleben der Menschen und ihrer Gemein-
schaften überhaupt? Zum zweiten im Kontext ei-
ner bestimmten Kultur - welche spezifische Be-
deutung wird dem Männlichen und Weiblichen
beigemessen und wie wird dies in zeremoniellen
Praktiken zum Ausdruck gebracht? Und zum drit-
ten; wie wird in dieser Kultur, im Kontext des
Alltagslebens, d. h. des Zusammenlebens in der
Familie, und der Arbeitsteilung, die Bedeutung des
Geschlechts der Kinder gesehen?
Für Lévi-Strauss (1981) steht am Anfang kul-
tureller „Geschlechter-Ordnung“ das Inzest-Tabu.
Brüder und Schwestern müssen untereinander auf
eine Sexual-Partnerschaft verzichten, damit die
Schwestern in einem jeweils fremden Familien-
clan für das Überleben dieser Sippe sorgen kön-
nen. Durch diesen Frauentausch werden die Be-
ziehungen zwischen den Familienclans befriedet.
Die Frauen sind die Bindeglieder zwischen den
einzelnen Clans und sichern durch die Nachkom-
menschaft das Überleben der Clans. Die Aufgabe
der Frau hat damit etwas vergleichsweise Dynami-
sches, Aktives, während die Aufgabe des Mannes
in bezug auf das Weiterbestehen des Clans eher
konservativ und passiv ist, nämlich, im Clan zu
bleiben und, durch bloße Existenz, die Existenz
des Clans zu dokumentieren. Es wird Sorge ge-
tragen dafür, daß die Kinder aus der Verbindung
„fremde“ Frau und Clanmitglied zu Mitgliedern
des Clans werden. Auf diesem Hintergrund - aus
dem Blickwinkel der Männer des Clans - bedeutet
die Geburt eines Jungen direkt das Fortbestehen
des Clans, die Geburt eines Mädchens aber nur
indirekt, denn sie wird fortgegeben, um gegen
eine andere Frau eingetauscht zu werden. Aus der
Sicht der Frauen allerdings hat die Geburt eines
Mädchens viel direkter mit Fortpflanzung zu tun,
denn sie ist es ja, die die Kinder gebärt. Diese Sicht
ist umfassender und geht über den Blickwinkel
des Clans hinaus. Beide Aspekte gehören zur Fort-
pflanzung und zum Weiterbestand der Menschheit.
Welche Bedeutung mißt die Dorfgesellschaft
Kalitheas der Geburt eines Jungen und eines Mäd-
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
543
chens bei, und wie äußert sich dies in Etikette
und Zeremonien jeweils in der männlichen und
weiblichen Welt?
Froso Zourou (1974: 21) schreibt in ihrem
Buch über Hochzeitsbräuche auf der Insel Lesbos
auch über die Bedeutung, die das Geschlecht des
ersten Kindes hat: Wenn das erste Kind in der
neuen Familie ein Junge sei, so sei dies die positive
Bestätigung des Status des Mannes. Es ehre den
Vater. Der Junge trüge den Vatemamen weiter in
die nächste Generation und vermehre durch seine
Arbeit den materiellen Reichtum der Familie. Die-
jenigen, die dem Vater zuerst die gute Nachricht
über die Geburt eines Sohnes brächten, könnten
mit einem Bakschisch rechnen, und die Hebamme
bekomme bei der Geburt eines Jungen mehr Geld
als bei einem Mädchen.
Wenn wir uns vorstellen, daß der Vater sich
im Kaffeehaus aufhält, während zu Hause die Ge-
burt stattfindet (falls er nicht bei der Arbeit ist),
dann wird schon deutlich, daß seine Freude sich im
Kontext der männlichen Welt ausdrücken wird, mit
den hierfür festgelegten zermoniellen Praktiken.
Zourou betont, daß aber auch die Mutter sich
freue, weil es ihr gelungen sei, den Vater zu ehren,
und sie dafür gelobt werde. Außerdem müsse sie
sich nicht um die für die Mädchen obligatorische
Aussteuer (proika) kümmern und habe doch in-
direkt teil an der Aussteuer ihres Sohnes, bzw.
ihrer Schwiegertochter. (Der Familienbesitz einer
guten Aussteuer hat auch heute noch im Dorf
großen ideellen Wert.) Nach einem auf Lesbos
gängigen Vers sagt die Mutter:
Echou gio ts echou chara
pou tha gevou pithira:
tsi tha katsou pa stou mnter
tsi tha m’divi kafe stou eher.
Habe ich einen Sohn, habe ich Freude,
denn ich werde Schwiegermutter:
Ich werde sitzen und bekomme
den Kaffee in die Hand serviert (Zourou 1974: 22).
Die junge Mutter hat also zwei Gründe, sich
zu freuen: der eine Grund - daß sie ihren Mann
geehrt hat - liegt im Kontext der männlichen Welt,
der andere - daß sie nicht für die Aussteuer zu
sorgen braucht - entstammt dem Kontext der weib-
lichen Welt. Der dritte Grund, daß sie überhaupt
ein Kind geboren hat, gibt ihr Anlaß zu ganz
individueller Freude, und diese individuelle Freude
kann auch der Vater empfinden. Sie ist aber nicht
Teil der zeremonialen Praktiken, die im sozialen
Kontext die Freude über eine Geburt ausdrücken,
sondern sie spielt sich im Privatraum der Familie
ab. Diese individuelle Freude und den Stolz über
das eigene Kind zu sehr in der Öffentlichkeit zu
zeigen, widerspräche aber ausdrücklich der Eti-
kette.
Denich schreibt nach Djilas (1958) über die
Sarakatsani in Montenegro (die auch im nordgrie-
chischen Epirus beheimatet sind), daß dort die
Männer, nach der Anzahl ihrer Kinder gefragt, nur
die Jungen aufzählen (1974; 250; s. auch Gavrie-
lides 1974: 62). Sie schreibt nicht, in welchem
„sozialen setting“ die Väter auf die Frage nach
der Zahl ihrer Kinder nur die Söhne rechneten,
aber anzunehmen ist, daß es in einer „öffentlichen
Situation“ geschah, wobei „öffentlich“ sowohl die
Unterhaltung unter Männern im Kaffeehaus sein
kann als auch die Befragung eines Ethnographen in
einer „häuslichen“ Umgebung. In Gesellschaften,
die eine stark ausgeprägte Trennung von männli-
chen und weiblichen (Lebens-)Bereichen aufwei-
sen, verlangt es der moralische Anstand, daß ein
Mann seine Frau und die Töchter vor anderen
Männern und in der Öffentlichkeit überhaupt nicht
erwähnt.7 Auch wenn männliche und weibliche
Welt auf den ersten Blick so völlig getrennt zu sein
scheinen, ist gerade im Weglassen der Töchter bei
der Aufzählung seiner Kinder, eine Reflexion der
und ein Bezug auf die Frauen vorhanden. Um auf
den Vergleich mit dem Vexierbild zurückzukom-
men: Die Welt des Mannes integriert die Welt der
Frau, indem sie sie ausschließt.
Auf Lesbos ist der gesellschaftliche Kontext,
in dem das Geschlecht bei der Geburt eines Kindes
Bedeutung findet, für die Frau folgender; Tra-
ditionellerweise sorgt die Familie der Braut für
die Wohnstätte der zukünftigen Familie: Einmal
indem sie das Haus kauft, aber auch, indem Mutter
und Tochter einen Teil der Einrichtung hersteilen
(Pavlidis and Hesser 1986: 71-73). Heute wer-
den Möbel, Teppiche und Gardinen zum größten
Teil gekauft, früher wurde - außer den wenigen
Möbelstücken - alles in Handarbeit von Mutter
und Tochter hergestellt. Aber auch heute noch
werden Bettwäsche, Tischwäsche und Gardinen
genäht und gestickt, und oft gehören auch noch
7 Diese Trennung von Männerwelt und Frauenwelt, die zu-
gleich auch eine scharfe Trennung zwischen Familie und
Öffentlichkeit vollzieht, ist weniger ein Merkmal des Islam,
sondern steht im Zusammenhang patrizentrischer Kulturen,
die als muslimische, christliche oder hinduistische Ge-
sellschaften dann jeweils kulturelle Ausformungen finden.
“Men ... are not at liberty to discuss personal subjects such
as women and sex, except in the most general terms ....
Discussions of private affairs are not socially permissable
among men, who are too concerned with the honor of their
families to permit access to other men even by word of
mouth” (Webster 1984: 255).
Anthropos 85.1990
544
Berichte und Kommentare
Flickenteppiche und Kelims (gewebte Wollteppi-
che), die selbst gewebt werden, zur Aussteuer.
Für die Mutter bedeutet die Herstellung der proika
eine große Verantwortung; sie muß die Finanzen
kalkulieren, Zeit und Arbeitsaufwand koordinie-
ren und gleichzeitig eine möglichst gute hand-
werkliche Qualität herstellen. Um das Material für
die Aussteuer kaufen zu können, machen in den
ärmeren Familien die Frauen nebenbei oft noch
Lohnstickereien und verdingen sich jedes Jahr im
Winter bei der Olivenernte bei fremden Bauern,
denn das Geld, das die Männer durch die Schaf-
und Ziegenzucht verdienen können, reicht meist
nur für den Lebensunterhalt der Familie oder wird
gebraucht, um das Haus für die zukünftige Familie
der Tochter zu erwerben oder umzubauen.
Nach der Verlobung des Mädchens muß ihre
Familie Geschenke an die Familie des zukünftigen
Schwiegersohnes machen, und dies ist die Situa-
tion, die in dem Vers angesprochen wird: zum
einen ist es eine der Pflichten der Verlobten, ihrer
Schwiegermutter den Kaffee zu servieren, gleich-
zeitig ist der Kaffee hier aber auch Symbol für
viele Geschenke und Arbeiten, die der Schwieger-
mutter zustehen, zumindest bis zur Hochzeit ihres
Sohnes. Und das bedeutet, daß Mutter und Tochter
bis zur Hochzeit hart arbeiten müsssen; sowohl,
um das Geld für die Geschenke und die Aussteuer
herbeizuschaffen, als auch, um diese anzufertigen.
Die Sorge um die Aussteuer (proika) bleibt
der Mutter eines Sohnes erspart. Gefordert wird
hier aber der Vater, der sicherstellen muß, daß der
Sohn entweder durch die Mitarbeit im väterlichen
„Landwirtschaftsbetrieb“ (als Schafzüchter oder
Bauer) genug Geld verdienen kann, um eine Fa-
milie zu ernähren, daß er als Alternative die Mög-
lichkeit bekommt, ein Handwerk zu erlernen, oder
daß er mit finanzieller Unterstützung des Vaters ein
Geschäft eröffnen kann. Es gibt auch Väter, die
dem Sohn ein Taxi, einen Lastwagen oder einen
Omnibus kaufen. Die Aufgabe der Mutter ist es,
so zu haushalten, daß genug Geld für eine solche
Anschaffung gespart werden kann. Die Verantwor-
tung, dem Sohn den Start ins Familienleben zu
ermöglichen, hegt beim Vater.
Froso Zourou schreibt weiter, daß, auch wenn
die Geburt eines Sohnes mit mehr Darstellungen
der Freude verbunden sei als die eines Mädchens,
ohne Zweifel die Familien und besonders die Müt-
ter auch Töchter brauchten. Und die Väter liebten
ihre Töchter letzten Endes auch sehr. Ein Mädchen
als erstes sei auf alle Fälle am praktischsten, weil
es der Mutter beim Aufziehen der anderen Kin-
der helfe (Zourou 1974: 21). Daisy Dwyer (1978:
98) erwähnt in einer Ethnographie über die Fami-
lienzusammenhänge marokkanischer Berber einen
Familienvater, der von seinen Nachbarn bedauert
wurde, weil er seiner Frau eine Haushaltshilfe
finanzieren mußte, da sie nur Söhne hatten.
Die Freude des Vaters über die Geburt eines
Sohnes spielt sich in der Dorföffentlichkeit, die
Teil der männlichen Weh ist, ab. Und der Sohn ist
perspektivisch Mitglied dieses sozialen Bereiches.
Die Geburt eines Mädchens kann folgerichtig in
der männlichen Welt nicht die Bedeutung haben
wie die Geburt eines Jungen. Die Frau hat mit
der Geburt des Sohnes mit ihren weiblichen Fä-
higkeiten dem Manne Grund zu Freude und Stolz
im Rahmen seiner Welt gegeben und ist unausge-
sprochen - siehe oben - Teil dieser Freude in der
männlichen Welt.
Die Freude über die Geburt eines Sohnes in
der Dorfgemeinschaft ist eine klar definierte Ze-
remonie - wir können sie auch Schauspiel nen-
nen -, die primär auf der Männerbühne, also im
Kaffeehaus oder auf den Dorfplätzen, lautstark in
Szene gesetzt wird. Diese Zeremonie entspricht
aber nicht direkt den tatsächlichen Gefühlen der
Eltern. Die Freude über die Geburt eines Jungen
muß nicht gleichbedeutend sein mit der Freude
bei einer damit verbundenen Zeremonie. Was in
der Zeremonie gezeigt wird, ist die Integration
des neuen „Erdenbürgers“ in die Gemeinschaft,
indem er auf den „Platz“ gestellt wird, wo sich
sein zukünftiges Leben in der Gemeinschaft ab-
spielen wird. Und wenn dabei die Zeremonie bei
der Geburt eines Jungen auffallender und „bunter“
ist als bei der Geburt eines Mädchens, so bedeutet
dies nicht, daß der Junge in der Kultur und ge-
sellschaftlichen Manifestation dieser Dorfgemein-
schaft wichtiger ist als ein Mädchen.
Das Grundprinzip der dörflichen Gemein-
schaft ist die Integration der Individuen mit Hilfe
von Etikette, Zeremonien und rituellen Praktiken
und dem Spielen fest definierter Rollen. So wie
es für beide Geschlechter einen öffentlichen und
einen privaten Lebensraum gibt, existiert der ein-
zelne als Privatmensch, dessen Individualität von
der Gesellschaft in der Regel nicht angetastet wird
- aber für die Öffentlichkeit auch uninteressant
ist - und als „gesellschaftlicher“ Mensch, der fest
in die Gemeinsamkeit eingebunden ist. Mann und
Frau als Ehepartner sind für die Dorfgemeinschaft
in gewisser Weise unwichtig, sie interessieren als
Mutter und Vater und sind über diese Rollen in die
Gesellschaft integriert. So ist bei der Geburt eines
Kindes die Bedeutung, die diese Geburt für Mann
und Frau als Ehepaar hat, bei der vorhergehenden
Betrachtungsweise weitgehend ausgeblendet, was
aber nicht bedeutet, daß dieser Bereich unbedeu-
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
545
tend ist im Leben der Individuen. Wenn die Geburt
eines Sohnes durch die Art der zeremonialen Prak-
tiken dem Betrachter ein Bild vermittelt, daß der
Junge eine bedeutendere Rolle in der Dorfgesell-
schaft spiele als das Mädchen, so müssen wir uns
darüber im klaren sein, daß sich hier nur die Ebene
der gesellschaftlichen Integration darstellt.
Der private Bereich, in dem Mann/Vater und
Frau/Mutter ein Ehepaar sind und gemeinsam die
Familie darstellen, hat andere Bedeutungsinhalte
für die Freude über die Geburt einer Tochter oder
eines Sohnes. Hier kann sich der Vater freuen,
von seiner Tochter umhegt zu werden, und hat
vielleicht Angst vor der beruflichen Konkurrenz
seines Sohnes. Dieser familiäre Kontext ist ge-
nauso real wie der öffentlich-gesellschaftliche und
hat im Leben der Individuen auch genausoviel
Gewicht8. Nur ist der Privatraum in der sozialen
Interaktion ausgeblendet. Wenn wir davon ausge-
hen, daß männliche und weibliche Welt getrennte
Kategorien sind, so hat die Geburt einer Tochter
die größere Bedeutung für die Welt der Frauen. Da
die Welt der Frauen aber nicht die (Dorf-)Öffent-
lichkeit ist, mit ihrer bunten Vielfalt der (männli-
chen) zeremoniellen Selbstdarstellungen, wird die
Geburt auch nicht auf diese Weise gefeiert. Aus
der Vielfalt zeremonieller Praktiken bei der Geburt
eines Jungen auf die Bedeutung des Geschlechts in
der Dorfgemeinschaft zu schließen, scheint zwar
logisch, wäre aber falsch.
5. Schlußbemerkung
Das Thema des Verhältnisses von männlicher und
weiblicher Welt in der Dorfgemeinschaft konnte
hier wegen seiner Komplexität keinesfalls erschöp-
fend behandelt werden. Das Anliegen war, die-
se Komplexität deutlichzumachen und gleichzeitig
aufzuzeigen, daß eine Bewertung von männlicher
und weiblicher Welt innerhalb solch einer Dorf-
gemeinschaft nicht möglich ist. Die Komplexität
entsteht nicht nur dadurch, daß beide Welten in
sich komplett sind: jede Welt hat ihren Zugang zur
und ihre Bedeutung in der Dorfgemeinschaft, in
der Familie, in bezug auf die Religion, das „Heili-
ge“ und das „Profane“; für jedes Geschlecht haben
die Lebenszyklen eine spezifische Bedeutung. So
bedeutet z. B. Heirat für die Frau etwas anderes
8 Wie wichtig familiale Privatheit ist, schreibt auch Friedl
(1962: 14), indem sie betont, wie sehr die einzelnen Fami-
lien versuchen, ihre Angelegenheiten für sich zu behalten,
und auch die Einsichten in ihre Häuser und Höfe vor
fremden Blicken zu verbergen trachten.
als für den Mann. Privatheit und Öffentlichkeit
äußern sich verschieden und haben verschiede-
ne Bedeutung. Die Komplexität entsteht auch da-
durch, daß beide Welten einen existentiellen Be-
zug zueinander haben, den die Metapher von den
zwei Seiten einer Medaille nur sehr unzureichend
abdeckt. Wie männliche und weibliche Welt das
Ganze der dörflichen Gemeinschaft bilden, aber
bedarf noch weiterer Untersuchungen.
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Greece; pp. 97-120. Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press.
Strecker, Ivo
1969 Methodische Probleme der ethno-soziologischen Beob-
achtung und Beschreibung. Versuch einer Vorbereitung
zur Feldforschung. [Dissertation Universität Göttingen]
Turner, Victor
1982 From Ritual to Theatre. New York: PAJ Publications.
Webster, Sheila
1984 Harim and Hijab: Seclusive and Exclusive Aspects of
Traditional Muslim Dwelling and Dress. Women’s Stu-
dies 7.
Zourou, Froso
1974 O Gamos sti Boria Lesbou. Mytilini.
Das neue Völkerkunde-Museum der
Stadt Lugano in Castagnola
Kritik eines soziologischen
Ausstellungskonzeptes?
Matthias Mersch
1. Zur Geschichte der Sammlung
Am 23. September 1989 wurde in Castagnola
das «Museo delle Culture Extraeuropee» in den
Räumen der Villa Heleneum eröffnet. Dieses neue
Völkerkunde-Museum liegt in einem kleinen, reiz-
vollen Park am Ufer des Luganer Sees, unweit
der berühmten Villa Favorita des Kunstsammlers
Thyssen-Bornemisza. Zur Einrichtung der Dauer-
ausstellung wurden glücklicherweise nur die unbe-
dingt erforderlichen Restaurationsarbeiten in der
neo-klassizistischen Villa Heleneum vorgenom-
men. So blieb der ursprüngliche Charakter des An-
wesens erhalten, und zugleich wurde verhindert,
daß der heutzutage so geschätzte Wille zur stili-
sierten Präsentation von Ausstellungsstücken die
Exponate mit dem Museumsdesign in Konkurrenz
um die Aufmerksamkeit des Besuchers treten läßt.
Der Designer trägt bei dieser Konfrontation leider
allzuoft den Sieg davon.
Im Jahre 1985 schenkten die Eigentümer der
Sammlung, Serge und Graziella Brignoni, der
Stadt Lugano ca. 600 Objekte aus Afrika, Asien,
vor allem aber Ozeanien. Bislang bilden diese
Stücke den alleinigen Bestand des Museums. Über
50 Jahre hinweg hat Serge Brignoni die Sammlung
zusammengetragen. Früh entdeckte er Kunst- und
Sammelleidenschaft: bereits als Kind faszinier-
ten ihn die afrikanischen Skulpturen des Berner
Völkerkunde-Museums. 1903 in Chiasso geboren,
kam Brignoni als junger Maler in den zwanziger
Jahren nach Paris, wo er ein künstlerisches Umfeld
betrat, in dem die sogenannte „primitive Kunst“
in hohem Ansehen stand. Die Avantgarde schätzte
sie gleichermaßen als Inspirationsquelle wie als
Präfiguration eigener plastischer Entwürfe. Bri-
gnoni schloß sich der surrealistischen Bewegung
an, reüssierte in Gruppenausstellungen und legte
zugleich das Fundament zu seiner Sammlung, die
ihn bis zur Schenkung an die Stadt Lugano durch
sein Leben begleitete. Anders als den meisten
Künstlern seiner Generation sind ihm die Skulp-
turen aber nicht nur inspirierende Manifestation
„neuer“ Formen, die er losgelöst von den Kulturen
betrachten mag, denen sie entstammen. Wie seine
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
547
Aufzeichnungen, Interviews und Stellungnahmen
im schweizerischen Fernsehen belegen, interessiert
sich Brignoni in außergewöhnlicher Weise für den
kulturellen Kontext der Objekte seiner Sammlung.
Durch die Bekanntschaft mit einer Reihe von
Forschungsreisenden, sein intensives Quellenstu-
dium und häufige Museumsbesuche konnte er sei-
ne Kenntnisse über Jahrzehnte hinweg vertiefen.
Zunächst hatte Brignoni mit seiner Geburts-
stadt Chiasso in Verhandlungen um die Übernah-
me der Sammlung gestanden. Sie scheiterten aus
Mangel an Geld und geeigneten Unterbringungs-
möglichkeiten, so daß schließlich die Stadt Lugano
zum Zuge kam. Im Donationsvertrag vom No-
vember 1985 verpflichtete sie sich zur Einrichtung
eines Museums.
Im Frühjahr 1986 wurden rund 100 Objekte
der Sammlung aus Ozeanien und Indonesien erst-
mals in der städtischen Galerie Villa Ciani der Öf-
fentlichkeit vorgestellt. Zur Ausstellung erschien
ein kleiner Führer in Broschürenform, der mangels
fachlicher Betreuung nicht frei von Fehlern war,
aber einer breiteren Öffentlichkeit zum ersten Mal
Existenz und Bedeutung der Sammlung eröffnete
(Gianinazzi 1986). Im Frühjahr 1988 stellte die
Stadt Lugano schließlich die finanziellen Mittel
(insgesamt 2 Millionen Schweizer Franken) zur
Einrichtung des Museums bereit. „Für die wissen-
schaftlichen Arbeiten wie die Zusammenstellung
des Katalogs und das Verzeichnis der Ausstel-
lungsstücke“ konnte, wie die Tessiner Zeitung am
16.4. 1988 (3) schrieb, „Prof. Christian Giordano
gewonnen werden. Giordano ist einer der wenigen
Experten auf diesem Gebiet und arbeitet zur Zeit
als Dozent für Anthropologie an der Universität
in Frankfurt.“ Eine überaus freundliche Charakte-
risierung des Organisators, die erstaunlicherweise
nicht durch den akademischen Werdegang des Be-
treffenden untermauert werden kann.
2. Der wissenschaftliche Direktor des Museums
Als Ozeanist oder Museumsethnologe war Chri-
stian Giordano bislang noch nicht in Erscheinung
getreten. Sein Umgang mit Ozeanien beschränkte
sich nach eigener Aussage auf den Besuch des
einen oder anderen Seminars, das während seiner
Studienzeit am „Institut für Soziologie und Ethno-
logie“ in Heidelberg von dessen Gründer Wilhelm
E. Mühlmann angeboten wurde. Seit 1980 dozierte
Giordano am „Institut für Kulturanthropologie und
Europäische Ethnologie“ der Universität Frank-
furt/Main. Seine Veranstaltungen trugen Titel wie
„Die quantitativen Methoden der empirischen So-
zial- und Kulturforschung“ oder „Kohäsion und
Konflikt: zur kulturanthropologischen Relevanz
Georg Simmels“. Seine Publikationen waren schon
früh dem Namen des Instituts verpflichtet: „Mo-
bilisierung oder Scheinmobilisierung? Genossen-
schaften und traditionelle Sozialstrukturen am Bei-
spiel Siziliens“ (1975, gemeinsam mit Robert Hett-
lage); „Handwerker- und Bauernverbände in der
sizilianischen Gesellschaft: Zünfte, Handwerker-
konfraternitäten und Arbeiterhilfsvereine zwischen
1750 und 1890“ (1975); „Geschichte und Skepsis.
Das Überlagerungsmotiv in mediterranen Agrar-
gesellschaften“ (1982); „Zwischen Mirabella und
Sindelfingen. Zur Verflechtung von Uniformie-
rungs- und Differenzierungsprozessen bei Migra-
tionsphänomenen“ (1984) und andere Arbeiten
mehr.
Mag sein, daß sich Giordano auch in seinem
Drang, den Bogen von Sindelfingen über Mirabella
in die Südsee zu schlagen, von seinem Lehrmeister
Mühlmann inspirieren ließ, der seine „Memora-
bili“ so betitelte: „Zwischen Trapani und Tahi-
ti“. Die Affinitäten zwischen Lehrer und Schüler
reichen jedoch weit über stilistische Anlehnungen
hinaus, wie wir noch sehen werden.
Auch wenn Giordano durch sein Wirken vor
der Gestaltung des neuen Museums nicht als Fach-
mann ausgewiesen ist, so sagt dies doch nichts
über die Qualität seines Konzeptes. Gerade ein
Außenstehender ist oft in der Lage, überzeugende
Ideen zu realisieren, auf die ein musealen Tra-
ditionen verschworener Antiquar niemals würde
eingehen können. Warum also sollte nicht ein
Ethnosoziologe den Versuch unternehmen dürfen,
ein Völkerkunde-Museum nach eben jenen Ge-
sichtspunkten zu gestalten, die ihm als wesentlich
erscheinen für das Verständnis fremder Kulturen?
Im mitteleuropäischen Raum wäre dies ein bei-
spielloses Vorhaben und schon aus diesem Grun-
de eines Experimentes wert. Bedenklich stimmen
könnten zunächst nur zwei Umstände: 1. Giorda-
no setzt ganz offensichtlich Ethnologie mit So-
ziologie gleich, wie Titel und Inhalt seines Auf-
satzes „Soziologie/Ethnologie und Geschichtswis-
senschaft“ (1986) zeigen. 2. Glauben wir dem
oben zitierten Artikel der Lokalpresse, so schienen
die Stadtväter Luganos der Meinung zu sein, mit
Giordano einen Experten für die Sache des Mu-
seums zu „gewinnen“, erhielten aber stattdessen
einen interessierten Laien, der gewillt war, sich mit
großem Eifer in ein neues Gebiet einzuarbeiten.
Ob und wieweit ihm dies gelungen ist, mögen die
folgenden Erörterungen erweisen.
Anthropos 85.1990
548
Berichte und Kommentare
3. Das Konzept des Museums
Giordano hat das Konzept seines Museumsprojek-
tes wiederholt an verschiedenen Orten vorgestellt:
auf einer Pressekonferenz im Juni 1989, deren
Früchte auf dem lokalen Meinungsmarkt feilgebo-
ten wurden, in einer Sendung der Reihe Nautilus
des Fernsehens der italienischen Schweiz, in einem
ganzseitigen Artikel im Corriere del Ticino und am
ausführlichsten in seinem Beitrag zum Katalog der
Ausstellung, dem auch vorgenannter Artikel fast
vollständig entnommen ist.
Giordano schließt sich den von Louis Necker
(1985a und 1985b) aufgestellten vier Hauptprin-
zipien der Museumsarbeit an: das Museum hat
die Pflicht, mit allen Mitteln die sachgerechte Kon-
servation der in seinem Besitz befindlichen oder
ihm leihweise überlassenen Objekte zu garantie-
ren; - das Museum hat die Aufgabe, das kulturelle
Erbe durch neue Anschaffungen zu vervollstän-
digen; - das Museum fördert die wissenschaftli-
che Erforschung der seinem Bestand angehörenden
Objekte und des Kontextes ihres Ursprungs; - das
Museum ist schließlich ein Ort kultureller Diffu-
sion und Kommunikation“ (zitiert nach Giordano
1989b: 11).1
Bevor er zur expliziten Darlegung seines eige-
nen Konzepts kommt, räsoniert Giordano ausführ-
lich über den Gegenstand des von ihm inaugurier-
ten Museums: es geht um Artefakte „primitiver“,
„wilder“, „niederer“ und „archaischer“ Kulturen,
wie er würdige Ahnherren der Ethnologie zitiert
(1989b: 13). Ausgesprochen aufgeklärt beleuch-
tet und durchschaut er akademische und populä-
re Ethnozentrismen, denen er seine Ideen nicht
auszuliefem gedenkt. In diesem Streifzug durch
die Kulturgeschichte des Irrtums stellt Giordano
zwar seine stupende Beschlagenheit auf dem Felde
ethnologischer Theoriebildung unter Beweis, be-
wahrt aber schließlich die Terminologie der Alt-
meister, wenn er sie auch um die obligaten Gän-
sefüßchen bereichert. Wie er schon zu Beginn sei-
ner geistesgeschichtlichen Erörterung konstatierte,
besitzt nämlich eine derartige Terminologie, bzw.
die darin enthaltenen Konzepte, den „unleugbaren
Vorzug, die Neugierde des Lesers zu wecken“
(Giordano 1989b: 13). Also - so sei ergänzt - be-
halte man sie tunlichst bei, denn jedes Museum hat
etwas von einem zirzensischen Spektakel, setzt es
doch wie dieses ein begeistertes Publikum voraus.
Etwas unvermittelt schwenkt Giordano nach
der Diskussion des Primitivitätsbegriffs - die eben
nicht zu einer Überwindung desselben geführt
1 Die Übersetzungen sind von M. Mersch.
hat - auf die Frage, welche Art der Präsentation
den „Objekten, die mehrheitlich ,primitiven4 oder
,archaischen4 Gesellschaften entstammen“ (1989b:
21), gemäß sei. Für Giordano reduziert sich die
Wahl auf entweder eine Ausstellung der Objekte
als Kunstwerke, wodurch ihre ästhetischen Eigen-
schaften betont würden, oder aber auf eine Präsen-
tation der Objekte, die diese in ihrem „sozio-kul-
turellen Kontext“ erläutern wolle.
Ohne Bedeutung und Charakter der Objekte
als Kunstwerke leugnen zu mögen, entscheidet
sich Giordano für eine ethnologische Präsentation,
da zu befürchten ist, daß eine unkommentierte,
dekontextualisierte Ausstellung der Objekte gerade
jene Stereotypen und Vorurteile über Primitivität
fördern würde, die so lange Zeit hindurch nicht
nur die wissenschaftliche Annäherung an fremde
Kulturen behindert haben. Giordano glaubt mit
Dürkheim an ein kollektives Bewußtsein der Euro-
päer, in dem derartige Einstellungen verwurzelt
seien. Es gelte also, Aufklärung zu leisten über
die Gesellschaften, in denen die ausgestellten Bild-
werke hervorgebracht wurden. Dies geschehe am
zweckmäßigsten durch Information und Kommen-
tar.
Zu Recht verfehlt es Giordano nicht, das kriti-
sche Maß auch an die Bemühungen der Museums-
ethnologen zu legen, durch eine kommentierte Prä-
sentation der Objekte dem Besucher kulturelle An-
dersartigkeit nahezubringen: „In der Tat, kraft wel-
chen Prinzips erwählt sich der Anthropologe selbst
zum privilegierten Exegeten der ,Andersartigkeit4?
Und ist nicht das ,Wissen4 darum, es ,besser
zu wissen4 als die anderen (eingeschlossen jene,
die anderen Kulturen angehören), nicht vielleicht
schon wieder ein Akt naiver Eitelkeit, der im west-
lichen Ethnozentrismus wurzelt?“ (1989b: 25).
Selbstkritische Erwägungen dieser Art wer-
den aber stets in der Frageform belassen. Der
Kulturrelativismus wird als realisierbar empfunden
und gilt als einzige Möglichkeit, eine erläuternde
Präsentation fremder Kulturen zu unternehmen.
Der Ansatz der kognitiven Anthropologie, eine
Gesellschaft von innen heraus zu erklären, d. h.
sie nach ihren eigenen Maßstäben zu deuten, um
so allmählich den „Sinn“ kollektiven Handelns und
Denkens zu verstehen (1989b: 24), wird mit Lob
bedacht und zur Richtschnur der eigenen Muse-
umsarbeit gemacht.
Folgerichtig weist Giordano in Anlehnung an
ein Wort Guiarts den «exotisme de grand papa»
ebenso zurück wie die Gründung eines Kunstmu-
seums oder eines „Museums der 3. Welt“. Letz-
teren Begriff entleiht Giordano einer museologi-
schen Diskussion der siebziger Jahre, die uns in
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
549
der Zeitschrift für Ethnologie überliefert ist. Vor
allem Volker Harms begeisterte sich damals für
ein reichlich skurriles Museumskonzept: .. nicht
mehr das für das Museum gesammelte und im Mu-
seum erforschte Objekt als Repräsentant fremder
Kultur dürfte im Vordergrund auch sogenannter
problemorientierter Ausstellungen stehen, sondern
die konkrete historisch-gesellschaftliche Proble-
matik der Armut, Unterdrückung und Entrechtung
der besitzlosen Klassen und Gruppen in den Län-
dern der Armen Welt müßte als die solidarisch zu
überwindende Situation den Ausgangspunkt aller
Überlegungen für Ausstellungen und weitere In-
formationsangebote in einem solchen Zentrum bil-
den“ (Harms 1976: 273).
An einem grotesken Beispiel wird die Ver-
wirklichung solcher Solidarität vorgeführt: „Er-
fahrungen aus der Studentenbewegung (auch per-
sönliche) zeigen, daß z. B. der Krieg der USA
in Indochina zunächst nur moralische Empörung
auslöste; diese jedoch führte im Verlaufe des Pro-
testes gegen den Krieg zu Aktionen für die Völker
Indochinas und darüber hinaus für alle unterdrück-
ten Völker der Armen Welt und damit schließlich
zur Solidarisierung mit ihnen“ (Harms 1976: 273).
Erfreulich, daß Harms seinen Prinzipien in den
folgenden Jahren untreu wurde und ansehnliche
Ausstellungen konzipiert hat.
Für Giordano enthält das Konzept eines Mu-
seums der 3. Welt „dilettantische Militanz“ (1989h:
26), die er ablehnt, denn sie mache das Muse-
um „Manövern politischer Demagogie“ (Giordano
1989a: 38) zugänglich. Er bezeichnet neben dem
großväterlichen Exotismus und dem Drittweltler-
tum dunkel ein weiteres Phänomen, auf das er sein
Museum nicht zu gründen gedenke: den „voyeuri-
stischen Snobismus der Eliten oder Pseudoeliten“
(1989a: 38). Trotz dieser geradezu klassenkämp-
ferischen Begriffsschärfe bleibt unklar, welcher
Kreis ausgemachter Finsterlinge hier gemeint ist
und wie wir uns die schändlichen Praktiken vor-
zustellen haben, denen er erlegen ist.
Nach dem Willen Giordanos soll das Museum
hingegen dem Publikum die Möglichkeit bieten,
„die verschiedenen Dimensionen der , Andersar-
tigkeit4 zu entdecken, auch um besser die eige-
ne Kultur kennenzulernen“ (1989a: 38; 1989h:
26). Diese Wirkung soll erzielt werden durch die
Darstellung historischer, sozio-kultureller Kontex-
te und durch die Würdigung der aktuellen Dimen-
sion, ohne dabei die ästhetischen Charakteristika
der Objekte auszulassen (1989a: 38). Das Museum
befinde sich in einem ständigen Zustand des Wer-
dens, worauf schon der Titel des Katalogbeitrages
verweist. Eine zweite „Ausbauphase“ werde ange-
strebt, die gekennzeichnet sei durch eine Erweite-
rung der Ausstellung, der Eröffnung eines Stu-
dienzentrums, einer Bibliothek und der Initiierung
begleitender Veranstaltungen. So soll das Haus
nach dem Willen seines Gestalters schrittweise die
vier Hauptaufgaben eines Museums erfüllen, wie
sie von Louis Necker skizziert worden sind.
Wir sehen, daß Giordano zu einem erkennt-
niskritisch wohlreflektierten Standpunkt gelangt
ist, den er als „Dritten Weg“ preist, und wir sollten
damit rechnen, daß er ihn mit großer Sensibilität in
der Darstellung des Fremden zu beschreiten weiß.
Sein Konzept ist zwar nicht originell, aber funk-
tionstüchtig, vorausgesetzt es gelingt ihm, seine
Idee ohne Reibungsverlust zu realisieren. Wir wol-
len nun betrachten, wie Giordano museologische
Theorie in Praxis umgesetzt hat.
4. Aufbau und Inhalt der Ausstellung
Über drei räumliche Ebenen, denen eine thema-
tische Ordnung entspricht, verfügt das Museum:
Erdgeschoß, 1. Etage, 2. Etage. Giordano bezeich-
net die drei Ebenen als „Ebenen der Vertiefung
der Materie“ (1989a: 38) und erläutert sie so:
Im Erdgeschoß befinde sich die „anthologische
Abteilung“, in der die verschiedenen Kulturen
Ozeaniens und Indonesiens kurz vorgestellt wer-
den. Das 1. Obergeschoß sei den vier Kulturregio-
nen gewidmet, denen der größte Teil der Samm-
lung Brignoni entstammt: Asmat, Neu-Irland, Se-
pik und Maprik. Im 2. Obergeschoß befinde sich
eine „thematische und vergleichende Ausstellung,
die drei Gegenstände behandelt: die Universalität
der Masken, den Ahnenkult und das Verhältnis
zwischen Mensch und Natur, solcherart anspielend
auf jene komplexe und kontroverse Thematik des
Totemismus“ (1989a: 38).
4.1 Im Erdgeschoß
Das Erdgeschoß besteht neben dem Foyer aus drei
Räumen. Der Besucher gelangt in die Ausstellung
durch den zweiten dieser Räume. Dort muß er
lernen, seine gierigen Blicke zunächst zu bändi-
gen, denn möchte er der Ordnung der Präsentation
folgen, so muß er blindlings diesen Saal durch-
queren, um im anschließenden, äußersten Raum
den Beginn der Ausstellung zu erreichen. Er steht
nun vor Wänden, die mit Artefakten behängt und
mit Schaukästen verstellt sind. Der Presse gelten
diese Schaukästen - die aus den Beständen der
Zweigstelle des Linden-Museums in Schloß Ett-
Anthropos 85.1990
550
Berichte und Kommentare
lingen stammen - als klimatisiert (Cordere del
Ticino, 17. 6. 1989), was tatsächlich nicht der Fall
ist. Zahlreiche Exponate werden zudem ohne den
Schutz des Glases ausgestellt. Die Raumtempera-
tur scheint weder geregelt noch überwacht zu sein:
das Personal öffnet gelegentlich die Fenster zur
besseren Durchlüftung der Räumlichkeiten. Ich ha-
be keine der üblichen Meßinstrumente zur Ermitt-
lung der Luftfeuchtigkeit entdecken können. Wenn
wir bedenken, daß sich das Gebäude unmittelbar
am Seeufer befindet, können wir uns leicht vor-
stellen, wie während der Sommermonate die Ob-
jekte fast heimatliche Bedingungen antreffen, die
ihrer Konservierung jedoch ebensowenig dienlich
sein dürften wie die feuchte Kälte des Winters.
Künftigen Förderern des Museums wird es daher
geraten erscheinen, ihre Schenkungen von strikten
Auflagen abhängig zu machen. Zum Zeitpunkt der
Eröffnung der Ausstellung kann jedenfalls nicht
von der Erfüllung der konservatorischen Pflicht
des Museums gesprochen werden, ganz abgesehen
davon, daß dem Hause kein fachlich geschultes
Personal für eine sachgerechte Konservation des
Bestandes zur Verfügung steht.
Auffällig ist die Abwesenheit von Kartenma-
terial - sei es im Foyer, sei es in den Räumen
der Ausstellung -, das den Großraum Südostasien-
Ozeanien in seiner vollen Ausdehnung in Bezie-
hung zu den anderen Erdteilen setzte und so erst
eine Orientierung des Besuchers ermöglichte.
In der ersten Vitrine befinden sich neben dem
Hinweis auf die Region („Neuguinea, Nordwest-
küste, Nordküste“) zwei Kartenskizzen: die eine
zeigt Melanesien und das nordöstliche Australien,
die andere die Umrisse Neuguineas, ohne Angabe
von Flüssen oder Dorfnamen, die auf den Kar-
tenskizzen grundsätzlich nicht festgehalten wer-
den. So hat der Besucher bereits hier erhebliche
Schwierigkeiten, die beiden ersten Exponate der
Vitrine, es sind zwei Schilde, auch nur geogra-
phisch einzuordnen: eines ist mit Potsdamhafen
beschriftet, das andere mit Ramu-Fluß.
Der Text steht in dieser Vitrine noch kaum
in sachlichem Zusammenhang mit den Expona-
ten; ähnlich verhält es sich mit den zumeist zwei
Schwarz-Weiß-Fotografien, die neben einem Text
jeder Vitrine oder jedem Vitrinensegment beige-
geben sind. Die Fotografien tragen lediglich den
Bildnachweis, nicht aber das Jahr ihrer Aufnahme
oder eine Indikation dessen, was auf dem Foto
dargestellt ist. Gelegentlich geht dies aus dem
Textzusammenhang hervor, oft bleibt die Bezie-
hung zwischen Objekt, Text und Foto rätselhaft.
Nach dem Schema: Objekt, Karten (geogra-
phische Großregion und Kulturregion), Text und
Schwarz-Weiß-Fotografien ist die Ausstellung
durchgehend gestaltet. In nahezu keinem der
Schaukästen fehlen diese Elemente. Im Erdge-
schoß sind die Texttafeln für alle Räume durchnu-
meriert, die Ziffern entsprechen dort den Kulturre-
gionen; in den beiden anderen Etagen beginnt die
Zählung in jedem Raum neu. Die Texte sind gut
lesbar mit schwarzen Lettern auf weißem Grund
in italienischer Sprache geschrieben.
Der Inhalt der Texte kann insgesamt nicht
zufriedenstellen, denn a) ist ihre Begrifflichkeit
vollkommen abhängig von akademischen Konzep-
ten der westlichen Welt, die nicht selten dem
ideologischen Fundament des «exotisme de grand
papa» entliehen sind, also in perfektem Gegen-
satz stehen zu dem uns von Giordano in Aussicht
gestellten kognitiven Ansatz; b) wird die gegen-
wärtige politische, gesellschaftliche, wirtschaftli-
che und ökologische Situation der abgehandelten
Ethnien entweder völlig übergangen oder nur mit
wenigen Worten unzureichend zu beschreiben ver-
sucht, so daß Giordano in diesem Punkt lediglich
sein Versprechen einlöst, kein „Museum der 3.
Welt“ eröffnen zu wollen; so ist jeglicher rea-
listischer Gegenwartsbezug gründlich vermieden
worden; c) ermangelt es den Texten nicht nur an
Hinweisen auf die gegenwärtige Lage der Ethnien,
sondern ebenso an Indikatoren, die eine histori-
sche Zuordnung des Beschriebenen ermöglichten.
Die in der „anthologischen Abteilung“ immer-
hin noch spärlich gestreuten Jahres- oder wenig-
stens Jahrhundertangaben verschwinden ab der 1.
Etage zur Gänze. Gemeinsam mit den Fotogra-
fien, die durch ihre ausschließliche Wiedergabe in
Schwarz-Weiß bereits einen angejahrten Eindruck
vermitteln, obwohl sie den Bogen spannen von
der Jahrhundertwende bis in die siebziger Jahre,
geben die Texte dem Besucher den Eindruck, ihm
würden Kulturen präsentiert, die sowohl endgültig
der Vergangenheit angehörten (suggeriert durch
die überwiegende Verwendung des Imperfekts bei
ihrer Beschreibung) als auch zeit ihres Bestehens
keinerlei Geschichtlichkeit unterworfen gewesen
wären; d) sind die Texte von der ersten bis zur
letzten Vitrine durch eine fast ununterbrochene
Kette sachlicher Fehler miteinander verbunden.
Beginnen wir damit, diesen letzten Punkt et-
was zu illustrieren: Unter „1 Neuguinea, Nord-
westküste, Nordküste“ erscheint nach einer kur-
zen Topographie der Insel eine Bemerkung über
die Herkunft ihres Namens: „... die ersten Nach-
richten über diese Region reichen tatsächlich ins
16. Jh. zurück, als der spanische Seefahrer Jorge
de Meneses das, was er sah, auf den Namen Neu-
guinea taufte ...“.
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
551
Jorge de Meneses, der im übrigen Portugiese
war, „entdeckte“ zwar 1526 die Insel, kommt aber
als Taufpate nicht in Frage: 1546 erhält die Insel
ihren bei uns gebräuchlichen Namen durch den
Spanier Yuigo Ortiz de Retes.
Unter „3 Sepik“ und der etwas traktätchen-
haften Überschrift „Eine Aufeinanderfolge von
Dörfern, in denen die Bewohner die Ergriffen-
heit einer tiefen Religiosität bekundeten“, lesen
wir, daß die Bevölkerung in Dörfern hause, die
an Orten gebaut würden, die geschützt seien vor
Überschwemmungen. Eine kluge Maßnahme der
einheimischen Architekten, möchte man meinen;
aber für die Ethnien des Sepik erweist sie sich
als undurchführbar; regelmäßig aber undirigierbar
wechselt der Sepik wegen seines geringen Gefäl-
les und der Schlammassen, die er mit sich führt,
seinen Lauf, so daß ein Dorf, das heute in einiger
Entfernung vom Fluß liegt, durchaus einmal an
seinem Ufer oder an einem ausgetrockneten Sei-
tenarm gestanden haben mag. Neben den Verände-
rungen seines Laufes, die zu Überschwemmungen
führen können, gibt es in der langdauernden Re-
genzeit regelmäßig Hochwasser, von dem das ge-
samte Flußgebiet betroffen ist. Nichts Tragisches
eignet dortzulande dieser Naturerscheinung, da die
Häuser in Pfahlbauweise konstruiert sind und die
Bewohner über Boote verfügen.
Im nächsten Satz des Textes wird übrigens
das im Italienischen ungebräuchliche Wort igname
(Yams) eingeführt, ohne daß es erläutert würde.
Dies geschieht erst unter „6 Washuk“, und dann
lediglich mit der dürren Erklärung, es handele sich
um eine Knolle. Eine weitergehende Umschrei-
bung finden wir erst ein Stockwerk höher unter
der Überschrift: „Die Feinheiten und die Bande
zwischen dem Menschen und seiner Welt“.
In Vitrine 13 wird Santa Cruz den Salomon-
inseln zugerechnet, was sich allenfalls rechtfer-
tigen ließe, wenn der Präsentation der Kulturre-
gionen politische Einheiten zugrundelägen. Geo-
wie ethnographisch bildet die Insel gemeinsam
mit anderen eine eigene Einheit. Ein von Santa
Cruz stammender Gegenstand (Oc/Mel 5.6 Br)
wird irrtümlich als cap-cap bezeichnet, ein Brust-
schmuck aus Muschelkalk und Schildpatt, der ur-
sprünglich auf Neu-Irland hergestellt wurde. Er
hat mit diesem zwar eine gewisse Ähnlichkeit,
wurde auf Santa Cruz aber nie als cap-cap be-
zeichnet.
Im Text zu den Salomonen begegnet uns eine
klassische „Erklärung“ der Kopfjagd: „Die Auf-
häufung von Schädeln schuf soziales und persön-
liches Prestige, dank des Glaubens, daß der Be-
sitz dieses physischen Überbleibsels des Feindes
demjenigen die Lebenskraft desselben verschaffte,
der sich seiner bemächtigte.“ Daß der Triumph
über eine möglichst große Anzahl von Feinden
Anerkennung verschafft, ist einsichtig. Die me-
taphysische Kraftmeierei einer „Lebenskraftaneig-
nung“ gehörte zwar lange zum Repertoire religi-
onsethnologischer Spekulation, darf aber dennoch
angesehen werden als “ethno-fiction” aus Zeiten
des grand papa, dessen Weitsicht Giordano so
wortreich bekämpft hat.
In „14 Massim“ wird über den kula der Tro-
briand-Insulaner referiert. Die Beschreibung endet
mit dem Satz: „Heutzutage ist der kula verschwun-
den.“ Um zu erfahren, daß der kula lebt, genügt es,
wenige Zeilen in der Untersuchung von Giancarlo
M. G. Scoditti (1985: 24 f.) nachzulesen.
Der „Betelbehälter“ (Oc/Mel 1. 380 Br) aus
Abteilung 15 „Huon-Golf, Tami-Insel und Astrola-
be-Bay“ ist ein „Kalkbehälter“ und somit lediglich
eines der Accessoires zum Betelgenuß.
Eine ungewöhnliche Fehlerdichte an der
Grenze zur kompletten Unsinnigkeit des Textes
erlebt der Besucher angesichts der Giordanoschen
Polynesien-Travestie. Die Region ist mit nur 10
Exponaten und 3 Fotografien eher unterreprä-
sentiert. Eine Kartenskizze, der als unmaßstäbli-
cher Ausschnitt Neuseeland beigegeben ist, enthält
die Samoa-, Tonga-, Cook-, Gesellschafts-, Mar-
quesas-, Hervey- und Tuamotu-Inseln, sowie die
Osterinsel. Fidschi fehlt, was angesichts der kul-
turellen Brückenfunktion dieser Gruppe zwischen
Melanesien und Polynesien noch zu rechtfertigen
wäre, nicht aber dann, wenn dessen ungeachtet ein
„Zeremonialstock“ aus Fidschi ausgestellt ist. Auf
seinem Etikett wird Fidschi kurioserweise „Zen-
tral-Polynesien“ zugeordnet. Auf den Unsinn, die
Tubuai- oder Austral-Inseln in Hervey-Inseln um-
zutaufen, komme ich in der Rezension des Kata-
loges zur Ausstellung zu sprechen (vgl. Anthropos
85.1990: 598). Am originellsten aber ist die Stor-
nierung Hawaiis aus Polynesien, wodurch das so
anschauliche und daher didaktisch sehr wertvolle
„polynesische Dreieck“ nicht konstruiert werden
kann. Offenbar sind der Luganeser leisure-class
die Hawaii-Inseln nur als amerikanisches Mallorca
geläufig, was den Blick auf kulturelle Zusammen-
hänge verstellt.
Ich habe oben unter b) unter anderem die
mangelnde Vermittlung der aktuellen politischen
Lage in Ozeanien beanstandet. Auch dafür liefert
Giordanos Polynesienbild geeignete Belege. Auf
Texttafel 17 können wir lesen; „Erobert und seit
dem 19. Jh. zwischen den Regierungen Englands,
Frankreichs und Deutschlands auf geteilt, besteht
es heute in seiner Mehrzahl aus winzigen unab-
Anthropos 85.1990
552
Berichte und Kommentare
hängigen Staaten mit eindrucksvollen ökonomi-
schen Bindungen an die alten Kolonialnationen.
Die hauptsächlichen dieser Staaten sind: Neusee-
land, Fidschi, Samoa, Tonga, Tuvalu, Nauru und
Cook.“ Wäre in dieser Liste Nauru, ein Inselstaat,
der in Mikronesien liegt, korrekterweise gegen Ni-
ue ersetzt worden, hätte sich damit bereits die Auf-
listung der selbständigen polynesischen Staaten
erschöpft. Ein Blick auf eine aktuelle Landkarte
erspart uns hier eine Aufzählung all der Inseln und
Archipele, die nach wie vor unter fremder Herr-
schaft stehen. Sie bilden die Mehrheit. Die Nen-
nung Neuseelands in einem Schriftzug mit Fidschi,
Tonga, Samoa (korrekterweise müßte es heißen:
„West-Samoa“, da der östliche Teil der Gruppe von
den USA verwaltet wird), Cook etc. entbehrt nicht
der Ironie und spricht für die historisch-politische
Naivität der Texter: Neuseeland hat für eine Reihe
dieser heute selbständigen Inseln die Rolle des
kolonialen „Mutterlandes“ gespielt, ganz abgese-
hen davon, daß bestimmte Gebiete noch heute
unter neuseeländischer Verwaltung stehen und auf
neuseeländischem Boden Ausrottungsfeldzüge ge-
gen die einheimische, polynesische Maori-Bevöl-
kerung stattfanden.
Amerikas Rolle in der Kolonialisierung Po-
lynesiens wird übergangen, französische Atom-
bombenversuche - das brennendste Problem des
gesamten südpazifischen Raumes - haben offenbar
nie stattgefunden. Wo denn auch? Erfreuen sich
doch nach Giordano die allermeisten Inseln der
politischen Unabhängigkeit.
Im benachbarten Schaukasten Neukaledoniens
können wir erfahren, daß die „interethnischen Be-
ziehungen zwischen Franzosen und Autochthonen,
die nicht frei von Konflikten sind, in sich die Span-
nungen des Kulturwandels unserer Epoche enthal-
ten“. Eine sehr diplomatische Formulierung für
bürgerkriegsartige Zustände, aber auch eine For-
mulierung, die in ihrer Inadäquatheit leicht „poli-
tischer Demagogie“ die Tore des Museums öffnen
könnte. Über Konflikte auf Neukaledonien werden
dem Besucher immerhin Andeutungen gemacht,
zur Situation in Irian Jaya erfährt er nichts, außer
daß Indonesien diesen Teil der Insel Neuguinea
annektiert habe.
Lassen wir es bei diesen Beispielen bewen-
den, sie alle sind allein den drei Räumen des
Erdgeschosses entnommen.
4.2 Im ersten Obergeschoß
Für die 1. Etage hat uns Giordano eine Vertiefung
des im Erdgeschoß Angeklungenen in Aussicht
gestellt, was vor allem durch die Konzentration auf
vier Hauptregionen geschehen soll.
Die Abelam werden recht umständlich als
Pflanzer vorgestellt, bei denen die Yams-Wurzel
sakralisiert sei. Im nächsten Abschnitt der Texttafel
wird dies dahingehend eingeschränkt, daß nicht
alle Yams-Arten in „hoher Wertschätzung des Kol-
lektivs gehalten wurden“. Mythen werden ange-
deutet, aber nicht erzählt, wodurch religiöse In-
halte unkonkret bleiben. Auf der Grundlage der
Mythen, so der Text, bildeten die Bewohner des
Maprikgebiets eine „Reihe von Vergleichen und
Entsprechungen: Erde und Samenkörner wurden
als Schoß der Frau und als Embryo angesehen, der
sich dort entwickelt. Es versteht sich von selbst,
daß die Nährpflanzen, geboren aus der Erde, im
gleichen Maße als Söhne angesehen wurden wie
die eigenen Kinder“. Hat der Besucher dies auf
Tafel 1 gelesen, wird er sich - konfrontiert mit
Text 5 - wundern, denn dort steht: „... es genügt,
die Tatsache zu zitieren, daß der Mann sich der
Pflege der vergöttlichten Knolle annimmt wie ei-
ne Mutter ihres eigenen Kindes.“ Die Yams-Wur-
zel behält also ihre infantile Rolle, während das
Mutterfach von der Erde an den Pflanzer abge-
treten wird. Übergehen wir, daß natürlich keine
Samen ausgestreut, sondern Setzlinge in Pflanzlö-
cher gesetzt werden, so erinnern mich die Vorkeh-
rungen, die der Pflanzer in der Wachstumsperiode
der Wurzeln trifft, eher an Zeugungsverhalten: u. a.
werden die Knollen wiederholt mit roter Farbe
bestrichen, was ihr Wachstum fördern soll. Dies
erinnert an die bei den Abelam verbreitete Vor-
stellung, das Kind im Mutterleib müsse durch die
Samenflüssigkeit des Mannes ernährt werden, wes-
halb ohne wiederholten Geschlechtsverkehr keine
Geburt möglich sei. Auch wenn dem Vergleich
der heranreifenden Pfahlwurzel mit einem Kind
einiges abzugewinnen ist, so fragt es sich doch,
wann die Kindheit des Yams endet: nach der Ernte
werden sie jedenfalls mit den Abzeichen der „gro-
ßen Männer“ (nimandu) geschmückt und scheinen
eher in die Großvaterrolle zu fallen.
Die Ausstellung der Wurzeln vor dem Kult-
haus oder ihre Unterbringung darin ist dem Autor
der Texttafeln keiner weiteren Betrachtung wert,
ebensowenig das Fest, das sich der Ernte als ei-
nem der wesentlichen Höhepunkte des Dorflebens
anschließt.
Das Kulthaus, berühmter Fokus des rituellen
Lebens, ist im Treppenhaus des Museums durch
das Fragment eines Giebelfeldes vertreten. Dan-
kenswerterweise ist diesem Artefakt die Fotografie
eines Kulthauses beigegeben, aber einen Kommen-
tar zur zentralen Bedeutung dieses Bauwerks für
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
553
die Kultur der Abelam finden wir leider dort eben-
sowenig wie anderswo. Es erscheinen nur noch In-
nenaufnahmen des Kulthauses, wie stets, unkom-
mentiert. Über Inhalt und Form der elaborierten
Initiationsriten der Abelam erfährt der Besucher
so wenig wie über die ausgestellten, hervorra-
genden Beispiele der lokalen Bildhauerkunst. Die
Verbindung der Skulpturen mit dem Kulthaus, den
Initiationsriten und dem sogenannten „Yams-Kult“
wird nicht einmal in Ansätzen zu erklären ver-
sucht. Unter der Überschrift „Das Weibliche und
das Männliche ... getrennt in den Aktionsräumen“
heißt es lediglich: „Einmal gerufen, werden letzte-
re [die Schutzgeister] in den Skulpturen materiali-
siert und im ,Korombu‘ deponiert, dem ausgespro-
chen männlichen Ort und Zentrum des religiösen
Raumes des Dorfes.“ An anderer Stelle heißt es
noch zaghaft, daß die Bedeutung der Figuren, die
„Yamsgeister“ verkörpern sollen, die Bedeutung
des Mythos widerspiegele. Dafür wird ausführ-
lich, aber wenig sachgerecht, über das angeblich
der Abelam-Kultur zugrundeliegende mana-Kon-
zept spekuliert. Mana wird mit dem persönlichen
„Schutzgeist“ gleichgesetzt, der für einen Abelam-
Mann nicht zu verlieren sei, wie ein „Dogma der
Abelam-Religion“ besage. In diesem Punkt Halb-
wahrheit von Unsinn scheiden zu wollen, führte
zu nichts; unserer Aufmerksamkeit sei lediglich
die dem Christentum und nicht-ozeanischen Re-
ligionen entliehene Terminologie empfohlen. In
den „Etagen der Wissensvertiefung“ begegnet sie
dem Besucher noch einige Male, so etwa in einem
Raum des 2. Obergeschosses unter der Überschrift
„Der nutzbar gemachte Tod“, wo man erfahren
kann, daß „der traditionale Mensch schon als Le-
bender eine potentielle Reliquie darstelle“. Ob es
legitim ist, eine religiöse Terminologie, die einem
bestimmten Kulturkreis entstammt, auch nur zu
Übersetzungszwecken auf Phänomene aus einer
anderen Kultur anzuwenden, ließe sich ausführ-
lich diskutieren, wozu hier nicht der Ort ist. Vom
Standpunkt der etischen Sichtweise der kognitiven
Anthropologie, die Giordano angeblich favorisiert,
ist eine derartige Anwendung jedenfalls nicht zu
rechtfertigen.
Am Beispiel der Präsentation der Yatmül-
Kultur läßt sich eindringlich ein bereits angedeu-
tetes Grundübel der gewählten Ausstellungsform
aufzeigen. Das Männerhaus - für die Kulturen
des Sepik von ebenso zentraler Bedeutung wie
das Kulthaus für die Abelam - wird nur in Zu-
sammenhang mit dem „Ahnensitz“ erwähnt. Die
Beschreibung der Gestik eines Redners ist durch-
gehend im Imperfekt gehalten, aber zugleich mit
Fotografien illustriert, die in den siebziger Jahren
in einem Yatmül-Dorf von Florence Weiss aufge-
nommen wurden, also gegenwärtige Verhältnisse
reflektieren. Durch die Tatsache, daß diesen Fotos
wie allen anderen weder Jahres- noch Ortsangaben
beigegeben sind, muß beim Betrachter der Ein-
druck entstehen, ihm werde eine untergegangene
Kultur präsentiert.
Der einzige - leicht zu übersehende - Gegen-
wartsbezug wird im Erdgeschoß auf Tafel „3 Se-
pik“ hergestellt, wo davon die Rede ist, daß die
einheimische Bevölkerung an Orten, die vor Über-
schwemmungen geschützt sind, angesiedelt war
und ist. Sachlich ist dies zwar unrichtig, wie wir
weiter oben gesehen haben, aber dieser Satz bleibt
das einzige Lebenszeichen der Yatmül-Kultur. An-
sonsten wird ein Potpourri aus Vergangenem und
Gegenwärtigem gerührt: die längst abgeschaffte
Kopfjagd wird ebenso wie die nicht mehr vor-
kommenden Dorfkriege ausführlich referiert, der
Einfluß der Mission hingegen, der zu begrenz-
ten gesellschaftlichen Veränderungen geführt hat,
existiert in der Ausstellung ebensowenig wie der
gegenwärtige Generationskonflikt unter den Yat-
mül. Rückzug und Wiederbelebung alter kulturel-
ler Werte könnten plastische Beispiele für die Dy-
namik einer sogenannten „traditionellen“ Gesell-
schaft liefern, freilich um den Preis des Verzichts
auf ein Gesellschaftsbild altvorderer Urigkeit, das
sich möglichst stark von der uns umgebenden eu-
ropäischen Realität unterschiede. Aber selbst in
der Schilderung überlieferter Züge der Yatmül-
Kultur begegnen uns verfehlte Darstellungen: Über
die vorwiegend durch Flöten und Trommeln er-
zeugte Musik heißt es etwa, „dank ihrer besänftig-
ten sie die übernatürlichen Wesen, und man setzte
sich in Harmonie mit ihnen.“ Musik zur Besänfti-
gung der Geister? Eine Vorstellung, die doch sehr
nach Karl May und dem von ihm behaupteten
Verhältnis des Apachen zu Manitu klingt. Am
Sepik werden die Zeremonialflöten zumeist paar-
weise gespielt und „besänftigen“ nicht die Geister,
sondern verleihen ihnen Stimme: In den Flöten
materialisieren sich zeitweilig die Ahnengeister,
ihre Stimmen sind der Klang des Instruments.
Bei der Erläuterung des Brautpreises, der im
übrigen nicht nur aus Zahlungen von Zeremoni-
algeld besteht, sondern erhebliche Mengen von
Nahrungsmitteln und heute vor allem Geld ein-
schließt, wird eine simple Grundregel der Exoga-
mie zur Verpflichtung des Bräutigams, und nicht
etwa zu der des gesamten Familienverbandes, er-
hoben. Es gilt, dem Clan, aus dessen Reihen die
Braut stammt, eine Frau zu „erstatten“, um den
Verlust einer Arbeitskraft auszugleichen. Die in-
teressante Tatsache, daß bei der Hochzeitswerbung
Anthropos 85.1990
554
Berichte und Kommentare
die Frau die Initiative ergreift, wird ebenso über-
gangen, wie die für neuguineanische Verhältnis-
se außergewöhnliche Selbständigkeit, welche die
Frauen in der Yatmül-Gesellschaft besitzen. Dies
ist um so unverständlicher, als wir in der glück-
lichen Lage sind, über eine hervorragende Studie
von Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin zur Rolle der Frau
in der Yatmül-Gesellschaft zu verfügen, die sogar
im Literaturteil des Katalogs zur Ausstellung ver-
zeichnet ist, den Organisatoren und Autoren der
Texttafeln also hätte bekannt sein müssen. Durch
die langjährigen Forschungen von Basler Ethnolo-
gen im Sepikgebiet ist kaum eine andere Region
Neuguineas durch neue und neueste Studien von
sehr hoher Qualität so gut wissenschaftlich er-
schlossen (vgl. etwa Kaufmann 1984/85; Schuster
1973, 1985a, 19856; Stanek 1982, 1983; Schindl-
beck 1980, Weiss 1981, 1984).
„Die Gesellschaften des Sepik handelten unter
dem fortwährenden Zeichen der Gewalt. ... Der
Kriegszustand schloß dennoch sporadische, we-
niger kriegerische Beziehungen nicht aus“, heißt
es unter der Überschrift „6 Die Aggressivität und
das Prestige ... das Essen und Reden“. Es stimmt
zwar, daß auch verfeindete Dörfer zu festlichen
Anlässen Besuchergruppen austauschten, daneben
gab es aber immer Dörfer, die sich traditionell nie
im Kriegszustand miteinander befanden, sondern
Tauschbeziehungen pflegten, die zum Teil heute
noch bestehen und meist von den Frauen unterhal-
ten werden, oft ohne daß sich die Tauschpartner
zu Gesicht bekommen. Eine Gesellschaft, die sich
unter dem „fortwährenden Zeichen der Gewalt be-
wegte“, wäre kaum überlebensfähig. Hier wie an
anderen Stellen erinnert die Diktion der Texttafeln
an Missionsliteratur, die lange Zeit nicht müde
wurde, das unbekehrte Leben der Einheimischen
als „voller Furcht und Grausamkeit“ zu charak-
terisieren (Matanle 1960: 1161). Die Ausstellung
verzichtet aber wenigstens darauf, die Segnungen
der Missionierung zu preisen, nicht aus Einsicht
in die Gegebenheiten, sondern einfach dadurch,
daß historische Prozesse und gesellschaftliche Ver-
änderungen nahezu keinen Platz in diesem Muse-
um finden konnten. Im Falle der Abschaffung von
Kopfjagd und Dorfkriegen dürfte ein Rekurs auf
die Mission wenig bewirken, sie verdankt sich den
keineswegs gewaltfreien Aktivitäten australischer
Patrol-Officers.
Die Phantasie des Texters wird bei fast allen
Kulturen Neuguineas durch die Kopfjagd erhitzt.
Eine besondere Erklärung findet dieser Brauch bei
den Asmat: neben der Herstellung von Skulpturen,
die im Text nicht beim Namen genannt werden -
wahrscheinlich handelt es sich um die sogenannten
„6A-Pfähle“ -, diene die Kopfjagd dazu, „den
eigenen Verstorbenen Frieden zu schenken“. Man
könnte auch einfacher sagen, daß der gewaltsame
Tod eines Menschen Rache erfordere. Bevor der
Geist nämlich zum Ahnen erhoben werde, lebe
er in dunklen Winkeln der natürlichen Umgebung
und inkarniere sich in nachtjagenden Tieren, die
als große Früchtefresser bekannt seien, wobei eine
Analogie zwischen Frucht und jagdbarem Kopf
bestehe. Eine Erklärung, die natürlich trefflich dem
Totemismus-Modell dienen kann, von dem Gior-
dano in seinem Konzept gesprochen hatte. Stöhr,
der sich wie die Organisatoren des Museums auf
Gerbrands stützt, sieht zwar auch eine Analogie
zwischen Frucht und Kopf, setzt aber auf der
Grundlage des Mythos den Menschen mit dem
Baume gleich (Stöhr 1971; 134).
4.3 Im zweiten Obergeschoß
Das zweite Obergeschoß ist drei Themen gewid-
met, in denen regionale Zugehörigkeiten fast auf-
gehoben sind: Masken, Ahnen, Tiere (Vögel und
Krokodile). Der Gebrauch von Masken wird als
universelles Phänomen aufgefaßt und in 11 Kate-
gorien vorgestellt; ihr Gebrauch bei Initiationsri-
ten; unter der Überschrift „afrikanische Metamor-
phosen“, deren Inhalt in einem Zitat zusammen-
gefaßt ist: „Die Maske enthüllt dem Individuum
seine eigene Persönlichkeit und wird anerkannt als
Kohäsionsfaktor für die Gesellschaft“; die Verbin-
dung der Masken mit Macht, in der sie in den
traditionalen Gesellschaften stehen; ihr Verhältnis
zur Fruchtbarkeit, wozu ihre Verwendung im Rah-
men von Regenerationszauber zitiert wird; unter
der Überschrift „Das Vielfache und die Einheit“
wird gesagt, daß sich in der Maske „technische
Fähigkeiten, die Organisation des Kollektivs und
die religiöse Sphäre verbinden“; der Gebrauch der
Masken bei Trauerriten und daher ihre Verbin-
dung mit dem Tod; Reflexionen über Masken als
Ausdruck des Imaginären; Masken, die nicht am
Körper getragen werden; Überlegungen, warum
Masken in Zeremonien getragen werden: in ze-
remonialer Atmosphäre fänden die „Beziehungen
und Gefühle zwischen Jungen und Alten, Vätern
und Müttern, Brüdern und Schwestern, dem Guten
und dem Bösen ihren höchsten Ausdruck“; die
Maske als Instrument des Akteurs, der sich nach
dem Ritus enthüllt, um den Initianden das Schau-
spielhafte des Ritus zu verdeutlichen; Reflexionen
darüber, daß sich in der Maske Vergangenheit,
Gegenwart und Zukunft kondensiere.
Es mag legitim sein, eine Kategorie von Ob-
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
555
jekten wie Masken thematisch zu untergliedern,
vorausgesetzt, wir bleiben uns bewußt, daß be-
reits die Definition einer solchen Kategorie un-
serer Kultur entspringt. Bei Betrachtung der kurz
skizzierten Inhalte dieser Kategorisierung fällt je-
doch ein Wechsel auf zwischen Erläuterungen zur
Verwendung dieser Masken und Erläuterungen zu
ihrer Gestaltung, vor allem aber zu ihrer Wirkung.
Die Betrachtungen zur Fertigung der Masken und
zu ihren vorgestellten oder tatsächlichen Wirkun-
gen sind ungeordnet und enthalten in ihrer Be-
liebigkeit lediglich Gemeinplätze. Den Eindruck,
daß es sich bei der Herstellung einer Maske um
einen kreativen Akt handelt, um die Bearbeitung
natürlichen Materials, können die Texttafeln dem
Betrachter genausowenig vermitteln wie ein Be-
wußtsein ihres sakralen Wertes.
Schwerer wiegt die Präsentation afrikanischer
Kulturen allein durch einen Vergleich ihrer Mas-
ken mit Beispielen der Maskenbildnerei Ozeani-
ens. Was ist mit einer solchen Anordnung beab-
sichtigt? Betrachten wir den kurzen Text, der in die
Abteilung einführt: „Masken sind ein weltweites
Phänomen, bezeugt aus allen Kulturen der Erde.
Mit den Masken drückt sich jede Gesellschaft
plastisch aus, um die Probleme der Beziehungen
zwischen den Individuen und den Sinn ihrer Exi-
stenz zu lösen.“ Dem Text folgt in großen Lettern;
„Die Maske, Inszenierung des sozialen Lebens.“
Die Masken, wenn man so sagen will, also
nicht nur als gesellschaftliches Ereignis, sondern
als universelles dazu. Es fragt sich nur, warum
bei aller Universalität der Maskenproduktion nicht
etwa auch eine alemannische Fasnachtsmaske aus-
gestellt wird. Es hätte nicht allzu schwerfallen
dürfen, sie wenigstens als Dauerleihgabe dem Mu-
seum einzuverleiben. Ich halte es nicht für einen
Zufall, daß ausschließlich Masken aus Afrika und
Ozeanien gezeigt werden, Masken, die aus Ge-
sellschaften stammen, denen die Europäer übli-
cherweise nicht die Auszeichnung attribuieren, ei-
ner „Hochkultur“ anzugehören. Bei der Gestaltung
der Maskenabteilung wurde Giordano vom Kon-
strukt der primitiven Gesellschaft eingeholt: was er
glaubte hinter sich gelassen zu haben durch seriöse
Reflexion im Katalog, die Neutralisierung alles
Fremden durch Versammlung unter dem Begriff
der Primitivität, der Unterentwickeltheit in allen
Lebensbereichen, schafft er hier selbst als Werk-
zeug des „kollektiven Unterbewußtseins“, wie man
es in seinem Fall nennen muß. Giordano kann
das summarische Bild, das er vom Sammelbegriff
„traditionale Gesellschaften“ zeichnet, gar nicht
als unangemessen empfinden: seine Subsumierung
wird nicht durch Detailkenntnis der fraglichen Ge-
sellschaften gestört: er ist weder Afrikanist noch
Ozeanist, sondern Soziologe. Kategorien zu bil-
den, Klassifikationen zu erstellen, dies ist sein
Handwerk, und es erstaunt, wie konsequent er nach
aller Einsicht und beruflicher Erfahrung zu einer
puristischen, weder der Historie noch der Völker-
kunde zugeneigten Soziologie zurückgekehrt ist:
die Gesellschaft, das Kollektiv, die Organisation
werden von Giordano intensiver beschworen, als
es den Einheimischen jemals in den Sinn käme.
„Die Maske, Inszenierung des sozialen Lebens“,
hieß es, und, ein Stockwerk tiefer, wo von den
Yatmül die Rede ist: „Die Figuren des Vorfahren
und des Helden erwiesen sich als eng der na-
türlichen Umwelt und der sozialen Struktur ver-
bunden. In ihrer Substanz zerlegten sich diese
Gestalten in verschiedene Formen, vielzählig und
instabil, variierend von Gruppe zu Gruppe. Diese
Variationen spiegeln die der Natur, in zyklischer
Transformation, wie es scheinbar auch die Bezie-
hungen zwischen Individuen sind, dort wo man
nie dahin gelangt ist, die Grenze einer stabil or-
ganisierten Gesellschaft zu fixieren.“ Die „stabile
Gesellschaft“, die von den im Museum gezeigten
Kulturen angeblich entbehrt wird, also unterschei-
det uns von ihnen, weshalb wohl der Berner Senn
niemals in einer Ausstellung neben einem Gurkha
erscheinen kann. Traditionale und westliche Ge-
sellschaft gelten als virtuell inkommensurabel.
In der Festschrift für Wilhelm E. Mühlmann
schrieb Giordano (1986; 148 f.): „Außerdem ver-
deutlichten die Forschungen von Stirling und Pitt-
Rivers, daß die gegenwärtigen Verhaltensformen
in mediterranen Agrargesellschaften nur in Zusam-
menhang mit der Berücksichtigung vergangener,
d. h. historischer Prozesse erklärlich sind. Die dar-
auffolgende Entstehung einer ‘social anthropology
of Europe’ ..., die sich mit den ,Zivilisierten4
befaßte, zeigte, daß der Horizont, der für die Un-
tersuchung der ,Primitiven4 gewählt wurde, viel
zu eng war. Um der Komplexität europäischer
Gesellschaften gerecht zu werden, mußten die ‘so-
cial anthropologists’ ihre jahrzehntelang gepflegte
Fiktion des isolierten Kleingebildes aufgeben.“
Indem Giordano Ozeanien mit Afrika zusam-
menführt, überwindet er die „Fiktion des isolierten
Kleingebildes“, aber er verzichtet zugleich dar-
auf, die Gesellschaften seines Museums zu hi-
storisieren, eben aus dem einfachen Grunde, weil
er sie den europäischen Agrargesellschaften nicht
für gleichwertig hält. So erwählt er für ihre Be-
schreibung einen „engen Horizont“, den er mit
der Selbstsicherheit eines europäischen Gesell-
schaftsanalytikers für ausreichend ansehen mag.
Giordano begrüßt die Historisierung der Soziolo-
Anthropos 85.1990
556
Berichte und Kommentare
gie/Ethnologie so, wie ihm die Ethnologisierung
der Historie willkommen ist. Als geschichtsbe-
wußter Anthropologe hat er über Sizilien gearbei-
tet, aber wenn er sich dem südlichen Meere zuwen-
det, muß sich die Methode der Gesellschaftsdeu-
tung verändern? Für Giordano gewiß: die Gesell-
schaften Ozeaniens gelten aus seiner Perspektive
als einfach und geschichtslos. Also erkläre man
sie für frei von innerer Entwicklung, für natur-
belassen. Dank ihrer Einfachheit kann man sie
mit Hilfe anderer Gesellschaften anderer Erdtei-
le erklären, die sich wie sie durch „Losigkeiten“
auszeichnen: Schriftlosigkeit, Naturwissenschafts-
losigkeit, Diversifikationslosigkeit, Metallosigkeit
(was spätestens bei den Benin schwierig wird).
Kurz, es fehlt ihnen jegliches gesellschaftsstruk-
turelles Raffinement. Die abstrakten Begriffe, mit
denen Giordano die kulturelle Wirklichkeit einer
Ethnie vermessen will, leiten sich so gut wie nie
aus deren eigenem Wortschatz her.
„Die Begriffe begreifen nicht; sie gehen an
der religiösen Wirklichkeit vorbei, um das minde-
ste zu sagen“ (1964: 17), schrieb Werner Müller
über die Terminologie des Giordano-Lehrers W. E.
Mühlmann. Und wie sehr der Schüler im Muse-
um seinen Meister durch Nachahmung lobt, zeigt
eine andere Stelle aus Werner Müllers Schrift:
„Wir greifen noch einmal unsere Charakteristik
der Mühlmannschen Darstellungsweise auf: ein
schwer faßbares und nur selten diskutierbares Ge-
misch abstraktester Schablonen und echter Wirk-
lichkeitsdaten, bei dem das erstere durchaus über-
wiegt. ... Eine derartige Sucht zu theoretischen
Erörterungen kommt bei einem Ethnologen einer
Belastung gleich.
Abstraktionen widerstreiten nämlich dem We-
sen des völkerkundlichen Stoffes aufs stärkste.
‘Humanities’ entziehen sich nun einmal dem be-
grifflichen Verständnis und dem kategorialen Zu-
griff. Wie so manches Mal erkennt Mühlmann
auch hier die Situation mit aller nur wünschens-
werten Deutlichkeit: ... Er zieht gegen die reli-
gionsethnologischen Qualmwörter vom Leder wie
Animismus, Präanimismus, Seelenglaube, Magie:
sie hätten genug Unheil angerichtet, man möge
diese Schablonen über Bord werfen, solche typolo-
gisch-generalisierenden Begriffsbildungen preßten
eine Fülle von Erscheinungen in Schemata; allein
man wartet vergebens darauf, Mühlmann seine
eigenen Schablonen hinterherwerfen zu sehen. Ja,
mit Erstaunen vernimmt man alsbald, jenes so-
eben noch abgewiesene Generalisieren und Typi-
sieren sei die spezifisch ethnologische Methode“
(1964: 14 f.).
Die nochmalige Aufbereitung der Ahnenver-
ehrung bei den Melanesiern liefert keine neuen
Aspekte, nur weitere Ethnozentrismen: so heißt
es zwar, daß man in Anbetracht von Amuletten
oft nicht sehr berechtigt von Fetischismus spre-
che, aber ungeachtet dieser weisen Distanzierung
vom inkriminierten Begriff folgt darauf in einiger
Breite die ganz unbefangene Erklärung dessen,
was man sich unter Fetischismus vorzustellen habe
(Tafel 1); nicht anders bei Tafel 2, wo - wie schon
erwähnt - vom menschlichen Körper als wandeln-
der Reliquie die Rede ist.
Kurios ist der Totemismus-Raum. Der Begriff
wird vermieden, auch wenn er der Präsentation
zugrundeliegt. Aus dem Tierreich werden Vögel
und Krokodile gepickt, um an ihnen totemisti-
sche Beziehungen zu exerzieren; Vögel dienten
dem Menschen als Beschützer (oder auch nicht,
denn vom Kasuar heißt es, daß er dem Menschen
gefährlich werden könne), und deshalb begrün-
de der Mensch mit ihnen Verwandtschaftsbande.
Außerdem verbinde er Natur mit Übematur, was
den Vogel wiedemm dem Krokodil ähnlich mache:
letzteres werde mit dem Leben assoziiert, aufgrund
seiner Rolle im Mythos mancher Melanesier. Die
Vereinfachung kulminiert in einem schulbuchwür-
digen Merksatz: „Mit dem Ahnen wird in die
Gesellschaft der Tod inkorporiert, mit den Tieren
das Leben“ (Tafel 3).
Nur ein Stockwerk tiefer wird die Bedeu-
tung des Tieres in den theriomorphen Darstellun-
gen Neu-Irlands anders gedeutet: „Die dekorativen
Elemente, die den Verstorbenen schmückten, sind
im allgemeinen Tiere: Säugetiere, Vögel, Fische
und Schlangen. Auch diese waren Protagonisten
mythischer Erzählungen, vor allem assoziiert den
Lebenselementen der Existenz wie Erde, Luft,
Wasser und Feuer. Diese Verbindung war durch
das eingeborene Wissen gerechtfertigt, das in sei-
nen Inhalten illustrierte, wie das Leben in seinen
höchsten wie in seinen niedrigsten Formen die
gleiche kosmische Würde besitze“.
Die Beschränkung auf Vogel und Krokodil in
der Totemismus-Abteilung ist also arbiträr, da an-
dere Tierarten offenbar eine analoge Rolle spielen.
Dem Symbolsystem der malanggan-Hersteller ei-
ne Mischung aus Buddhismus und Darwinismus zu
unterlegen, ist kühn, vor allem, wenn wie hier der
Texter über keine Kenntnisse der einheimischen
Taxonomie verfügt.
Im letzten Raum, fast steht der Besucher
schon wieder im Treppenhaus, erlebt man einen
mahnenden Übergriff in die Gegenwart, der für
einen Moment aufscheinen läßt, wie interessant
das Museum hätte gestaltet werden können, wäre
die Wahl auf ein anderes Konzept gefallen, ein
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
557
Konzept, das die Gegenwart der Ethnien nicht als
Sündenfall der Geschichte auffaßte, den man mit
peinlichem Schweigen zu übergehen habe. Zu vier
Exponaten ein leider zu kurzer Text: „Im Grab der
verstorbenen Gottheiten installiert sich der Kom-
merz des Exotismus. Objekte, deren Techniken
und Formen an traditionelle erinnern, aber konzi-
piert sind nach dem mutmaßlichen Geschmack des
Fremden.“ Ein Wandel wird hier also wenigstens
konstatiert, auch wenn er als Dekadenz verurteilt
wird.
Anders als der Kritiker hat der Besucher
schon früh Klugheit walten lassen und es aufgege-
ben, die Texttafeln zu lesen, wodurch er vielleicht
dem Eindruck entging, sich in der postmodemen
Version von Großvaters Exotenschau die Zeit zu
vertreiben. Er hat sich in die Betrachtung der
Skulpturen vertieft, was ihm leicht ist, denn durch
eine geschickte Beleuchtung wird es vermieden,
daß sich die Scheiben der Vitrinen in Spiegel
verwandeln und so den Kopf des Betrachters in
die Skulpturen integrieren. Der Betrachter blickt
also neugierig und wenigstens nur seinen eigenen
Vorurteilen preisgegeben auf die Kunstwerke der
anderen. Die Objekte sind es wert, betrachtet zu
werden, gründlich betrachtet zu werden, das ist si-
cher, denn äußerst Rares und sehr Wohlgelungenes
ist in Fülle zu sehen. Da läßt man sich auch gerne
als voyeuristischen Snob betiteln.
Zitierte Literatur
Anonyma
1988 Weltberühmte Gemälde gehen, und ein internationales
Museum kommt. Tessiner Zeitung, 16.4. 1988.
1989a Le «vite diverse». Villa Heleneum. ln gestazione: il Mu-
seo delle culture extraeuropee. Eco di Locamo, 17.6.
1989.
19896 Le culture extraeuropee. A Lugano arte dalLOceania,
Giornale del Popolo, 17. 6. 1989.
1989c Sarà preminente la funzione didattica al Museo delle
culture extraeuropee. Corriere del Ticino, 17. 6. 1989.
1989d II fascino delle culture extraeuropee al nuovo Museo di
Villa Heleneum. Corriere del Ticino, 25. 9. 1989.
Gianinazzi, Claudio
1986 Arte dell’Oceania. Lugano.
Giordano, Christian
1986 Soziologie/Ethnologie und Geschichtswissenschaft.
Zum aktuellen Geschichtsbegriff beider Disziplinen. In:
H. Reimann (Hrsg.) 1986: 143-156.
1989a La donazione Brignoni a Lugano, un museo fra certezze
e interrogativi. Corriere del Ticino, 11. 11. 1989; 38.
19896 Società extraeuropee e immaginario occidentale, proble-
mi e prospettive di un museo in «statu nascondi». In:
C. Gianinazzi e C. Giordano (edit.), Culture Extraeuro-
pee. Collezione Serge e Graziella Brignoni; pp. 11-26.
Lugano.
Harms, Volker
1976 Toleranz oder Solidarität als Leitvorstellung für die
Bildungsarbeit in ethnologischen Museen von morgen?
Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 101: 265-277.
Hauser-Schäublin, Brigitta
1977 Frauen in Kararau. Zur Rolle der Frau bei den latmul
am Mittelsepik, Papua New Guinea. Basel.
Kaufmann, Christian
1984/85 Von den mündlich überlieferten Geschichten zu den
Umrissen einer Geschichte des Sepik-Gebietes (Papua-
Neuguinea). Ethnologien Helvetica 8: 137-152.
Matanle, R. P.
1960 Polynesien. In: Franklin H. Littel und Hans Hermann
Walz (Hrsg.): Wehkirchenlexikon. Handbuch der Öku-
mene. Stuttgart.
Mühlmann, Wilhelm E.
1986 Zwischen Trapani und Tahiti (Memorabilia). In; H. Rei-
mann (Hrsg.) 1986: 41-47.
Müller, Werner
1964 Ethnologie und Soziologie. Grundsätzliches zu drei Ver-
öffentlichungen W. E. Mühlmanns. Anthropos 59: 1-19.
Necker, Louis
1985a Cri d’alarme. In: Le visage multiplié du monde. Quatre
siècles d’ethnographie à Genève; pp. 229-234. Genève.
19856 Programme pour un nouveau Musée d’ethnographie. In:
Le visage multiplié du monde. Quatre siècles d’ethno-
graphie à Genève; pp. 235-250. Genève.
Reimann, Horst (Hrsg.)
1986 Soziologie und Ethnologie. Zur Interaktion zwischen
zwei Disziplinen. Beiträge zu einem Symposium aus
Anlaß des 80. Geburtstages von W. E. Mühlmann. Opla-
den.
Schindlbeck, Markus
1980 Sago bei den Sawos. Basel.
Schuster, Meinhard
1973 Zur Dorfgeschichte von Soatmeli. In: K. Tauchmann
(Hrsg.), Festschrift zum 65. Geburtstag von Helmut Pe-
tri; pp. 475^491. Köln.
1985a Das Männerhaus, Zentrum und Angelpunkt der Kunst
am Mittelsepik. In: S.Greub (Hrsg.), Kunst am Sepik;
pp. 19-26. Basel.
19856 Urzeit und Jenseits am Mittleren Sepik. In: B. Men-
sen (Hrsg.), Jenseitsvorstellungen verschiedener Völker,
Vortragsreihe 1984/85; pp. 83-110. St. Augustin: Aka-
demie Völker und Kulturen.
Scoditti, Giancarlo M. G.
1985 Kitawa. Iconografia e semantica in una società melane-
siana 1973-76. Milano.
Stanek, Milan
1982 Geschichten der Kopfjäger. Mythos und Kultur der
latmul auf Papua-Neuguinea. Köln.
1983 Sozialordnung und Mythik in Palimbei. Basel.
Stöhr, Waldemar
1971 Melanesien. Schwarze Inseln der Südsee. Katalog zur
Ausstellung des Rautenstrauch-Joest-Museums in der
Kunsthalle Köln, 12. 11. 71 bis 16. 1. 72. Köln.
Anthropos 85.1990
558
Berichte und Kommentare
Weiss, Florence
1981 Kinder schildern ihren Alltag. Die Stellung des Kindes
im ökonomischen System einer Dorfgemeinschaft in
Papua New Guinea. Basel.
Weiss, Florence et al.
1984 Gespräche am sterbenden Fluß. Ethnopsychoanalyse bei
den latmul in Papua Neuguinea. Frankfurt.
Das Problem des Anderen in der
Darstellung ethnologischen Verstehens
Bernd Mitlewski und Sylvia M.
Schomburg-Scherff
Arbeitet man sich durch neuere wissenschafts-
theoretische Studien, die sich die Ethnologie zum
Thema genommen haben,1 fällt auf, daß sie in
der Regel eine innere Zweiteilung der von dieser
Disziplin produzierten Texte diagnostizieren.2
Dem einen Teil wird gewöhnlich die tradi-
tionell-realistische Ethnographie zugeordnet - ei-
ne wissenschaftliche und literarische Gattung, die
sich etwa in der Zeit zwischen 1900 und 1960 eta-
blierte. Diese, von einem Spezialisten verfaßte und
auf teilnehmender Beobachtung basierende Kultur-
beschreibung folgte ganz bestimmten, hier nur
kurz zusammengefaßt wiedergegebenen Gattungs-
konventionen3: Die Geschichte der Forschung war
meist lediglich implizite Erzählstruktur; die textli-
che Organisation war sequentiell (d. h., dem kom-
plexen Ganzen einer Kultur versuchte man mit Hil-
fe seiner Teile - Sozialstruktur, Politik, Ökonomie,
Religion - habhaft zu werden); der ethnographi-
sche Bericht erweckte den Eindruck einer „objek-
tiven“ Darstellung, indem das Ich des Autors/Er-
zählers hinter dem wissenschaftlichen Beobachter
und der individuelle Andere hinter der dritten Per-
son Plural („die Trobriander“, „die Nuer“) ver-
schwanden; er tat so, als ob die fremde Kultur
aus der Perspektive der Einheimischen beschrieben
1 Z. B. Marcus and Cushman 1982; Clifford 1983 (deutsch
1988); Marcus and Fischer 1986.
2 Überarbeitete Fassung eines Vortrags, gehalten auf der
Sektionstagung 1988 zum Thema „Textformen und Darstel-
lungsprobleme ethnographischer Erfahrungen und herme-
neutischer Interpretationen“ der Sektion „Sprachsoziologie“
der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Soziologie.
3 Eine eingehendere Analyse dieser Gattungskonventionen
bzw. Schreibstrategien findet sich bei Marcus and Cushman
1982: 31-37; Clifford 1983 (1988); Geertz 1988.
würde; sein Stil war generalisierend-typisierend;
er bediente sich eines spezifischen Jargons (zur
rhetorischen Demonstration ethnographischer Au-
torität) und versuchte den Leser, wie indirekt auch
immer, von der Vertrautheit des Feldforschers mit
der fremden Sprache (Demonstration sprachlicher
Kompetenz als Garant ethnographischer Authenti-
zität) zu überzeugen.
Dem anderen Teil werden neuere Praktiken
ethnographischen Schreibens zugeordnet, die sich
in kritischer Auseinandersetzung mit den bis da-
hin gültigen Darstellungsformen vor allem inner-
halb der interpretierenden Ethnologie etwa seit
1950 entwickelt haben. Diese überwiegend als ex-
perimentell bezeichneten Ethnographien zeichnen
sich, kurz gesagt, durch den bewußten Umgang mit
Schreibstrategien und Darstellungsmitteln aus. Sie
machen sowohl die Interpretation einer anderen
kulturellen Realität als auch den Forschungspro-
zeß selbst explizit, beschäftigen sich eher mit Ein-
zelaspekten einer Kultur, reflektieren das subjek-
tive Beteiligtsein des Forschers am Zustandekom-
men seiner Erkenntnisse, präsentieren diskursive
Prozesse in der Form eines Dialogs zwischen dem
Ich und dem Anderen, stellen den gesamten Ver-
lauf der Forschung als ein fortlaufendes Verhan-
deln, d. h. als eine gemeinsame Produktion ethno-
graphischen Wissens von Forscher und Informan-
ten dar oder experimentieren mit mehrfacher Auto-
renschaft. Obwohl einige dieser neueren ethnogra-
phischen Texte gelegentlich in „poetische“, also
„nichtwissenschaftliche“ Darstellungsformen aus-
weichen,4 ist ihre überwiegende Mehrzahl dennoch
innerhalb der Grenzen, allenfalls an den Rändern
einer realistischen Kulturwissenschaft anzusiedeln,
wie Clifford (1983 [1988]) feststellt.
Diese Unterscheidung in traditionelle und mo-
derne ethnologische/ethnographische Texte kann
fruchtbar sein, wenn sie dazu führt, die ihr zu-
grundeliegenden veränderten historischen und po-
litischen Bedingungen sowie die veränderten Er-
kenntnisinteressen zu untersuchen. Denn sowohl
die Welt, die Ethnologen für gewöhnlich erfor-
schen und die man früher primitiv, tribal, tradi-
tional oder naturvölkisch genannt hat, als auch die
Welt, für die Ethnologen ihre Forschungen betrei-
ben - die Welt der Wissenschaft -, haben sich seit
Beginn dieses Jahrhunderts verändert (siehe Geertz
1988: 131-138). Mit dem Ende des Kolonialismus
ging nicht nur das Ende des Szientismus einher,
sondern eine andere - „postmodeme“, „postkolo-
niale“ - Zeit ließ auch andere narrative Formen
4 So etwa Carlos Castanedas bei ethnologischen Laien belieb-
te, bei Fachleuten aber meist verpönte „Don-Juan-Serie“.
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
559
notwendig erscheinen (siehe Marcus and Fischer
1986: 24; Clifford 1988: 5).
Nicht selten erweckt die genannte Dichoto-
misierung zusammen mit der Rede von „besse-
ren“, „subtileren“ Texten jedoch den Eindruck,
als ob es hierbei weniger um die Betonung und
Untersuchung veränderter Erkenntnisbedingungen
gehe als darum, traditionelle und moderne ethnolo-
gisch/ethnographische Texte auf ihre unterschied-
liche Adäquatheit bezüglich der (fremden) Wirk-
lichkeit zu befragen (siehe z. B. Marcus and Fi-
scher 1986: VII, IX, 8). Hierbei offenbart sich
dann, daß fundamentale Glaubenssätze der „al-
ten“, eher naiv-realistischen Ethnologie sich un-
bemerkt bis in die häufig positiven Einschätzun-
gen der „neuen“, eher selbst-reflexiven Ethnologie
hineingerettet haben. Denn die Vorstellung von
der Adäquatheit bestimmter Schreibstrategien hin-
sichtlich der Wirklichkeit ruht notwendigerweise
objektivistischen Konzeptionen auf, die der „ande-
ren“ Gesellschaft ein An-sich-sein zuweisen, dem
es gilt, sich so weit wie möglich anzunähem. So
treten verschiedene, aus der Tradition der verste-
henden Soziologie entstandene Ansätze (etwa der
symbolische Interaktionismus, die Ethnolinguistik,
die Ethnométhodologie)5 mit dem Anspruch auf,
„bessere, wenn auch unvollkommene“6 Einsichten
in die „anderen“ Sprach-, Handlungs- oder Denk-
systeme zu gewinnen und zu vermitteln. Dabei
bleibt in der Regel unberücksichtigt, daß durch die
Zuordnung einer „adäquateren“ Darstellungsform
5 In diesem Zusammenhang sei an Bourdieus Kritik an der
phänomenologisch orientierten Sozialwissenschaft erinnert,
wonach diese die ökonomischen und gesellschaftlichen
Bedingungen des Glaubens an die Geltung der Erfah-
rung von Wirklichkeit nicht thematisiert (1976: 150 f.).
Fabians Aneinanderrücken von Relativismus und (ahisto-
rischem) Positivismus schlägt in die gleiche Kerbe (1983:
78). Selbst wenn Ethnomethodologen wie etwa Mehan und
Wood (1975: 34 ff.; dt. Übersetzung des zweiten Kapitels
in Weingarten, Sack und Schenkein [Hrsg.] 1976: 29-63)
bemüht sind, dem Postulat der Reflexivität, d. h. der Ein-
beziehung der Realität des Forschers in die Realität(en)
des Erforschten, so umfassend wie nur irgend möglich
zu entsprechen, so entgehen doch auch sie letztlich nicht
den Fallstricken des Realismus, wenn sie einerseits alle
Realitäten als „Aberglauben“ abqualifizieren (1976: 44) und
damit unbeabsichtigt die Frage nach dem diesem Urteil
zugrundeliegenden Maßstab und seinem Realitätsstatus pro-
vozieren und andererseits die Aufweichung eingefahrener
Realitäten nur zu dem Zwecke betreiben wollen, dem Leser
„die .Gewißheit einer minimalen Möglichkeit* der Existenz
einer anderen Realität“ (1976: 58) zu vermitteln. Wenn
Realitäten eine Existenz haben, verdiente ihre Bestimmung
als Aberglauben wohl, überdacht zu werden!
6 Clifford 1988: 6. - Für Literaturhinweise auf neuere, „expe-
rimentelle“ Ethnographien s. die von Clifford (1988: 22 ff.)
dargestellten „besseren“ Forschungsansätze.
dem „Anderen“ gleichzeitig eine spezifische Denk-
und/oder Handlungsweise beigelegt wird, die es
üblicherweise als das „Andere“ der industriege-
sellschaftlichen Lebensform bestimmt (man denke
hier nur an Lévi-Strauss’ Konzeption des „wilden
Denkens“ oder an das „prälogische Denken“ bei
Lévi-Bruhl). Zwar entstehen solche Analysen üb-
licherweise im moralischen Namen des Allgemein-
menschlichen und wollen die Andersartigkeit des
jeweils „Anderen“ lediglich als Akzidenzien dieses
grundsätzlich Gleichen verstanden wissen. Doch
bleibt es hier meist bei der Beteuerung, und Detail-
studien der Argumente und Interpretationen bele-
gen nicht selten, daß den „Anderen“ wieder einmal
Attribute „entdeutet“ werden, die mit einem uni-
versellen Subjektbegriff, dessen Konnotation plu-
ralistischen Perspektiven genügt und Ethnozentris-
men vermeidet, nur schwer in Einklang zu bringen
sind.
Um diese Bewegung an einem konkreten Bei-
spiel nachzuvollziehen, analysieren wir im Folgen-
den einen Text, der das „Andere“ wegen erlittener
Gewalt bedauert, dem „Eigenen“ die Ausübung
dieser Gewalt vorwirft, das „Andere“ für ziemlich
dumm hält, das „Eigene“ für ziemlich gescheit und
letztlich das „Andere“ mit dem „Eigenen“ ver-
mitteln will - und dabei doch von der prinzipiellen
Unmöglichkeit dieser Vermittlung überzeugt ist.
Zwar ist Tzvetan Todorov kein Ethnologe,
und seine Studie „Die Eroberung Amerikas. Das
Problem des Anderen“ (1985 [1982]) gibt kei-
ne ethnographische Erfahrung im engeren Sinne
wieder. Doch läßt sie sich durchaus dem Fundus
„neuerer“, „experimenteller“ ethnologischer Tex-
te zurechnen. Todorov geht bewußt mit den von
ihm benutzten Darstellungsmitteln um. Als Er-
zählform wählt er die Gattung der exemplarischen
Geschichte. In seinem Buch gibt es, „ähnlich wie
in einem Roman, abwechselnd Zusammenfassun-
gen oder summarische Überblicke, Szenen oder
mit Zitaten gespickte Detailanalysen und Pausen,
in denen der Autor kommentiert“ (1985: 12) -
ein komplexes Wechselspiel von Monophonie und
Polyphonie. Todorov tritt weder als Autor völlig in
den Hintergrund, um ausschließlich den Stimmen
anderer Gehör zu verschaffen, noch unterwirft er
die herangezogenen historischen Texte total der
eigenen Kontrolle. Er wählt die Form des Dialogs,
befragt, interpretiert die Texte, läßt diese aber auch
sprechen und sich verteidigen.
Das Thema seiner Studie ist von immenser
ethnologischer Relevanz: die Bestimmung der An-
dersartigkeit der anderen Kultur, in diesem Fall
der Kultur des vorspanischen Amerika, aber auch
der des sich auf der Schwelle vom Mittelalter
Anthropos 85.1990
560
Berichte und Kommentare
zur Moderne befindlichen Europa (vgl. 1985: 21),
das nicht nur das Andere des damaligen Anderen,
„Amerikas“, war, sondern auch ein Anderes zum
aktuellen Interpretationsstandpunkt des Autors To-
dorov bildet. Sehen wir zuerst, welche Absichten
und Ziele der Autor mit seiner Studie verbindet.
Todorov „will von der Entdeckung des An-
deren durch das Ich sprechen“ (1985: 11). Da die
Untersuchung dieses „Anderen“ sich ihm als uner-
schöpflich darstellt, greift er sich „etwas willkür-
lich und weil man nicht alles auf einmal tun kann“
(11) eine bestimmte „Kategorie“ dieses „anderen“
heraus, nämlich „Die Unbekannte(n), Fremde(n),
deren Sprache und Bräuche ich nicht verstehe,
so fremd, daß ich im Extremfall zögere, unsere
gemeinsame Zugehörigkeit zu ein und derselben
Spezies anzuerkennen“ (11). Konkret: Todorov in-
terpretiert Texte, die die Eroberung Amerikas (ge-
nauer die der Karibik und Mexikos) zum Inhalt
haben und etwa im 16. Jh. entstanden sind. In der
Hauptsache geht es ihm dabei um „die Wahrneh-
mung der Indianer durch die Spanier“ (1985: 12).
Die Auswahl gerade dieses Themas rechtfertigt
der Autor (es scheint einer Rechtfertigung zu be-
dürfen) u. a. durch seine hermeneutische Relevanz
(im Sinne der philosophischen Hermeneutik Ga-
damers,7 wäre hinzuzufügen). Denn gerade die Er-
oberung Amerikas habe eine konstitutive Rolle für
die Herausbildung ,,unsere[r] gegenwärtigen Iden-
tität“ gespielt (1985: 13). Todorov handhabt die
Thematik mit dem Selbstverständnis eines „Mora-
listen“, dem „die Gegenwart ... wichtiger [ist] als
die Vergangenheit“ (12). Mit diesem Bekenntnis
spricht er sicherlich vielen jüngeren Ethnologen
aus dem Herzen, deren „Erkenntnisse“ vielfach
ebenfalls nur vor dem Hintergrund einer gelegent-
lich auch ausdrücklich formulierten Kulturkritik
an der „abendländischen Zivilisation“ (1985; 218)
zu verstehen sind, sich mithin ähnlichen morali-
schen Prinzipien verpflichtet fühlen. Für Todorov
7 Gadamer formuliert sein hermeneutisches „Prinzip der Wir-
kungsgeschichte“ folgendermaßen: „Das historische Be-
wußtsein soll sich bewußt werden, daß der vermeintlichen
Unmittelbarkeit, mit der es sich auf ... die Überlieferung
richtet, diese andere (wirkungsgeschichtliche) Fragestellung
stets, wenn auch unerkannt und entsprechend unkontrolliert,
mitspielt. Wenn wir aus der für unsere hermeneutische Si-
tuation im ganzen bestimmenden historischen Distanz eine
historische Erscheinung zu verstehen suchen, unterliegen
wir immer bereits den Wirkungen der Wirkungsgeschichte.
Sie bestimmt im voraus, was sich uns als fragwürdig und
als Gegenstand der Erforschung zeigt, und wir vergessen
gleichsam die Hälfte dessen, was wirklich ist, ja mehr
noch: wir vergessen die ganze Wahrheit dieser Erscheinung,
wenn wir die unmittelbare Erscheinung selber als die ganze
Wahrheit nehmen“ (Gadamer 1975: 284).
aber ist diese räumliche Begrenzung der Kritik auf
das „Abendland“ dem prinzipiellen Kriterium der
ethnischen Kritik nur äußerlich und, wenn man so
will, ein historischer Zufall. Den entscheidenden
Unterschied in der Weise, wie man auf das Andere
Einfluß ausübt, sieht er dagegen darin, „ob ... [er]
auferlegt oder nahegelegt ... [wird]“ (1985: 215).
Erlegt man dem Anderen auf, „so impliziert dies,
daß man ihm nicht denselben menschlichen Status
zuerkennt wie sich selbst“ (215), ein Vorwurf, der
sowohl an moderne Kolonisatoren aller Couleurs
wie aber auch an ihre mittelalterlichen Vorgän-
ger und ebenso an die präkolumbischen Azteken
zu richten sei. Legt man dem Anderen jedoch
nahe, anerkennt man - so etwa die Paraphrase
der in vielfache Gewänder gekleideten Grundthese
Todorovs - den anderen als Ich, soll heißen: als
Subjekt. Das Lacansche Konstrukt der Bildung
einer einheitlichen Ichidentität durch Identifizie-
rung mit einem als einheitlich erlebten Anderen,
dem sogenannten Spiegelbild (Lacan 1975: 63-
70), steht hier offensichtlich Pate (vgl. Todorov
1985: 293) und wird auf die Ebene kultureller
Identitäten hin umgebogen. Da Ich immer schon
der Andere ist und der Andere Ich, ist auch meine
Kultur immer schon die andere, so wie die an-
dere immer schon meine ist. Als psychologische
wie kulturelle Eigenart des menschlichen Subjekts
erweist sich nun aber gerade, daß sein Bewußt-
sein diese Identität in unterschiedlichen Intensi-
tätsgraden leugnet, so daß, wie Todorov fordert,
„der andere ... entdeckt werden [muß]“ (291),
und zwar innerhalb des gesamten Kontinuums von
Andersartigkeit zwischen den Polen des „anderen
als ein mit seiner Umwelt verschmolzenes Objekt
bis hin zum anderen als ein dem Ich ebenbürti-
ges, aber dennoch von ihm verschiedenes Subjekt“
(291). Als erste ethische Forderung des Morali-
sten Todorov läßt sich mithin formulieren, dieser
dialektischen Verschränkung oder gar Identität von
Ich und Anderem durch adäquates Verhalten Rech-
nung zu tragen, gewissermaßen den kategorischen
Imperativ Kants in die Tat umzusetzen und „den
Unterschied in der Gleichheit [zu] leben“ (294).
Todorovs selbstreflexive Haltung - auch hier-
mit fügt er sich in aktuelle Tendenzen ethnolo-
gisch/ethnographischen Schriftgutes ein - führt ihn
nun dazu, die Verwirklichung seiner explizit wie
implizit postulierten Norm nicht nur zu fordern,
sondern auch den Versuch zu unternehmen, sie
in der Form seiner textlichen Darstellung selbst
zu erfüllen. Gegen den systematischen Diskurs
der „europäischen Zivilisation“, der aus dem Sieg
des Logos über den Mythos hervorgegangen sei,
entscheidet er sich, wie bereits erwähnt, dafür,
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
561
eine „exemplarische Geschichte“ zu erzählen (300
u. a.). Damit will er sich von den Diskursformen
der Sieger im amerikanischen Konflikt lösen, ohne
aber zu einer rein mythischen Erzählweise „zu-
rückzukehren“ (299), soll heißen; ohne in den
Diskurs des Besiegten zu fallen. Todorovs Vermitt-
lung von systematischem und narrativem Text soll
daher eher vorschlagen als aufzwingen (299), wo-
mit der kantische Imperativ seiner kategorischen
Bedeutung entkleidet wird und eher den Charakter
einer unverbindlichen ethischen Offerte annimmt.
Die zweite Absicht Todorovs - schon eine Folge
der ersten - besteht somit darin, einen „geeigne-
ten Diskurs“ (299, Hervorhebung der Verfasser)
für die Darstellung des Verhältnisses von Ich und
Anderem, für ein „heterologisches Denken“ (299)
also, zu präsentieren. Dieser Diskurs würde dann
durch seine respektvolle Distanz der Identität von
Ich und Anderem, soweit es beider Subjekthaftig-
keit betrifft, Rechnung tragen und dem Anderen in
seiner spezifischen Eigenart adäquater sein.
Soweit Todorovs Absichten gemäß seinem
eigenen Selbstverständnis. Es verdient nun eine
detailliertere Würdigung, wie er tatsächlich inner-
halb dieses antiethnozentristischen Rahmens mit
dem Anderen umgeht und wie er die Subjektivität
der auf beiden Seiten an der Eroberung Amerikas
beteiligten Kulturen bestimmt.
Todorov charakterisiert seine Akteure primär
innerhalb des Rahmens semiologischer und kom-
munikationstheoretischer Argumente. Die Weise
des Seins der Menschen bestimmt sich durch die
Weise, wie sie mit anderen Menschen und der
Welt in Kontakt treten und wie ihr Verhältnis zu
den Zeichen ist, mittels derer sie dies tun. Und
hier nun sieht Todorov die humane Welt in zwei
Vorgehensweisen geschieden. Auf der einen Sei-
te steht eine Kommunikationsmethode, die man
objektivierend nennen könnte. Ihrer bedienen sich
das europäische Mittelalter (21), als dessen letz-
ter Vertreter sich Christóbal Colón erweist, sowie
auch die indianische Kultur Altamerikas (86 ff.).
Auf der anderen Seite praktizieren die erobernden
Spanier von Cortés ab sowie letztlich die gesamte
moderne Welt eine eher als subjektivierend zu
bezeichnende Form der Kommunikation (86 ff.,
121 ff.). Es lohnt, einen Augenblick bei dieser
Unterscheidung zu verweilen, denn sie ist alles
andere als selbstverständlich. Auch Todorov sieht
dies, wenn er zugibt, daß „das Postulat der Dif-
ferenz ... leicht das Gefühl der Überlegenheit ...
nach sich zieht“ (80). Doch bleibt sein Augenmerk
letztendlich auf die Bestimmung dieser Differenz
gerichtet, da die geschichtlichen Abläufe ja eine
vermeintliche Überlegenheit der zweiten Metho-
de, Kommunikation zu betreiben, erweisen (80,
auch 69 ff.). Wie aber kennzeichnet sich diese
Unterscheidung nun inhaltlich? Die „alte“ Form,
mit dem Anderen in Kontakt zu treten, stellt eine
Beziehung „zwischen Mensch und Welt“ (86) her.
Sie zeichnet sich dadurch aus, den Anderen nicht
in seiner Subjekthaftigkeit anzuerkennen, sondern
ihn wie ein Ding in der Welt zu behandeln. „Der
Mensch ist hier eher als Gegenstand des Diskurses
von Bedeutung denn als dessen Adressat“ (87). So
bewegt sich Colón mit seiner Kommunikations-
weise außerhalb des Bereiches der Intersubjekti-
vität, da es ihm ausschließlich darum geht, Natur
zu benennen (40). Dies bezieht sich sowohl auf
seine Beziehungen zu Menschen seiner eigenen
Kultur (45) als und vor allem auch auf die zu
den Indianern. „Colón spricht nur deshalb von
Menschen, die er sieht, weil auch sie letztendlich
zur Landschaft gehören“ (47). In vergleichbarer
Weise zielt auch der indianische Diskurs chro-
nisch am Subjekt vorbei, indem er es nicht als
„gesellschaftliche Ganzheit“, sondern „nur [als]
konstitutives Element jener anderen Ganzheit, der
Gemeinschaft“ (84) gelten läßt. Individuen sind
in traditionellen Kategorien prädeterminiert, und
lediglich die sanktionierte rituell-religiöse Sphäre
kann die maßgebenden Kriterien für die ethische
und semantische Interpretation liefern. Die „mo-
derne“ Form der Kommunikation dagegen schreibt
eine Beziehung „zwischen Mensch und Mensch“
(86) fest. Die Konquistadoren handhaben ihre Re-
ligion, das Christentum, gemäß ihren Interessen,
und „diese untergeordnete und letztendlich be-
grenzte Rolle des Austauschs mit Gott läßt einer
menschlichen Kommunikation Raum, durch die
der andere eindeutig [sic!] erkannt wird“ (132).
Cortés versucht mithin nicht, sich den Anderen auf
eine dinghafte Weise anzueignen, sondern ihn pri-
mär zu verstehen, auch wenn er ihn nicht schätzt!
In seiner Anerkenntnis der Subjekthaftigkeit des
Anderen eröffnet sich ihm die Möglichkeit, ihm
auf seiner semantischen Ebene gegenüberzutreten
und strategischen Einfluß auszuüben, der über die
rein militärische Gewalt hinausgeht. Hier nun löst
sich dann das Rätsel des spanischen Sieges: er wird
ermöglicht durch die Überlegenheit der Spanier
auf dem Gebiet der intersubjektiven Kommunika-
tion. „Die Begegnung zwischen Moctezuma und
Cortés, zwischen Indianern und Spaniern ist vor
allem eine Begegnung zwischen Menschen; es ist
deshalb nicht verwunderlich, daß die auf menschli-
che Kommunikation Spezialisierten siegen“ (120).
An diesem Punkt der Todorovschen Interpre-
tation angelangt, ließe es sich - wenn auch schon
mit einiger Mühe - noch vorstellen, daß sie mit der
Anthropos 85.1990
562
Berichte und Kommentare
oben herausgestellten antiethnozentristischen Ab-
sicht des Autors in Einklang zu bringen wäre, wür-
de man die unterschiedlichen Kommunikationsfor-
men - die Sinnhaftigkeit ihres Konstatierens ein-
mal vorausgesetzt - auf ihre Bedeutung in dem je-
weiligen sozialen und historischen Kontext hin, in
dem sie auftreten, als eine mögliche Form gesell-
schaftlicher Praxis untersuchen. Dies tut Todorov
jedoch nicht. Statt dessen, und hier nun schiebt
sich seinen humanistischen Intentionen ein grund-
sätzlich ethnozentrisches Kriterium unter, ordnet
er sie als Formen unterschiedlicher Effizienz auf
der Stufenleiter eines semiologischen Evolutions-
schemas an. Damit löst er sich von der in weiten
Passagen seines Textes eingenommenen herme-
neutischen Haltung, die bemüht ist, unter Einbe-
ziehung der kulturellen Herkunft des Interpretie-
renden das Interpretierte innerhalb seiner eigenen
(vom Interpretierenden interpretierten) Kategorien
zu verstehen, und wechselt zu einer Anthropologie
der absoluten Bedeutung über, die definitiv be-
stimmt, im Gebrauch von Metalläxten einen Fort-
schritt gegenüber dem Gebrauch von Steinäxten
zu sehen und entsprechend Schrift-Gesellschaften
für fortschrittlicher zu erachten als schriftlose Ge-
sellschaften. Dieser letzte Unterschied ist es, um
den es Todorov geht, wenn er die aztekische und
spanische Form, Kommunikation zu treiben, in der
oben beschriebenen Art und Weise auseinanderdi-
vidiert. Ihm liegt nun eine Dichotomie von kultur-
spezifischen Symbolisierungsformen zugrunde, die
kaum mehr innerhalb einer einheitlichen Subjek-
tivitätsauffassung einen Stellenwert haben kann.
Todorov leitet seine diesbezüglichen Gedanken mit
einigen äußerst kryptischen Sätzen ein - untypisch
für den sonst durchweg klaren, ja brillanten Stil
der Studie - und macht anschließend sein Haupt-
argument, wonach die Indianer identifizieren, wo
die Spanier symbolisieren, an einem Beispiel, der
Beschreibung eines aztekischen Opferrituals durch
den Konquistador Duran, deutlich (190 ff.). Nach-
dem ein Indianer mittels verschiedener Bräuche
mit einem Gott identifiziert worden war, häutete
man ihn und zog die Haut einem anderen Indianer
über, wodurch dieser selbst zu eben diesem Gott
wurde. Hier nun meint Todorov das Fehlen der
,,notwendige[n] Distanz zur Funktionsweise des
Symbolischen“ (191) diagnostizieren zu können,
da „das Symbolisierende ... nicht wirklich von
seinem Symbolisierten getrennt [sei]“ (191). Nur
im „eigentlichen“ Symbol, in dem, das für das An-
dere steht, es aber nicht ist, bleibt diese Distanz ge-
wahrt. Indem er so den schriftlosen Gesellschaften
die Fähigkeit zur Symbolbildung abspricht, finden
hier unter der Hand alle Stereotypen des vor- und
frühethnologischen Primitivenbildes wieder Ein-
gang und verschwindet die Subjekthaftigkeit der
Indianer im Dunst einer fehlenden Abstraktions-
fähigkeit, einer nicht an die realen Erfordernisse
anpaßbaren Kommunikationsform und einer infe-
rioren Position auf einer imaginären Evolutions-
skala.
Sicher trifft diese Kritik Todorov nur zum
Teil. Sein Versuch, unsystematisch oder nicht nur
systematisch zu schreiben, mündet teilweise in
narrative Darstellungsformen, die die eindeutige
These vermeiden, mithin auch nicht von einer
eindeutigen Antithese widerlegt werden können.
Einige seiner grundlegenden Argumente präsen-
tiert er daher in der Form von Vermutungen oder
Fragen, und in der unserer Ansicht nach zentra-
len evolutionistischen Konzeption der verschie-
denartigen Stellung zur Symbolisierung möchte
Todorov lediglich „einen graduellen Unterschied“
(193) sehen. Er selbst bezeichnet die dabei ent-
stehende Aporie als nur „scheinbar widersprüch-
lich“ (297) und nennt dann die beiden fraglichen
Positionen noch einmal beim Namen: „Die In-
dianer bevorzugen den Austausch mit der Welt,
die Europäer den mit den Menschen; keine dieser
beiden Kommunikationsarten ist der anderen dem
Wesen nach übergeordnet, und es sind immer bei-
de zugleich notwendig“ (297), und: „gleichzeitig
habe ich auch die Feststellung getroffen, daß es
eine Evolution in der ,Technologie4 der Symbolik
gibt“ (297), mithin die eine Kommunikationsart
der anderen überlegen ist, wie man hinzufügen
kann. Seine Antwort auf die rhetorisch gestellte
Frage: „Wenn es eine Evolution gibt, hat dann
der Begriff der Barbarei nicht doch wieder eine
nicht-relative Bedeutung?“ (298), kann allerdings
nicht befriedigen, demonstriert sie doch lediglich
die Resignation vor dem inneren Widerspruch ei-
nes dualistischen Kulturkonzepts, dessen Notwen-
digkeit Todorov nur unbefragt voraussetzt, jedoch
nie wirklich problematisiert. Er schreibt: „Die Auf-
lösung dieser Aporie besteht für mich nicht darin,
von einer der beiden Aussagen Abstand zu neh-
men, sondern eher darin zuzugestehen, daß jedes
Ereignis auf vielfältige Weise determiniert und
somit jeder Versuch, die Geschichte zu systema-
tisieren, zum Scheitern verurteilt ist“ (298). Mit
diesen Worten legt Todorov letztlich seinen alles
fundierenden mythischen Ontologismus offen, der
sich nicht um Bedeutungen kulturspezifischer Art
schert, sondern sich ausschließlich an den eigenen
unreflektierten Grundannahmen orientiert. Seine
häufigen, den dialektischen Zusammenhang von
Selbst- und Fremdverständnis demonstrierenden
Textinterpretationen stehen selbst auf dem Funda-
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
563
ment einer zutiefst undialektischen, weil absoluti-
stischen anthropologischen Theorie.
Offensichtlich geht es uns bei dieser Kritik
um nichts weniger Grundsätzliches als um die Kri-
tik naiver Erkenntnistheorien in den Menschenwis-
senschaften. Selbst dann, wenn der Mensch - hier
in der Perspektive seiner Mitgliedschaft in einer
mehr oder weniger schlüssig abgrenzbaren kultu-
rellen Gemeinschaft - dem Untersuchenden in der
Weise vorläge, wie ihm (zumindest vermeintlich)
ein unbelebter Gegenstand vorliegt, könnte nicht
der Gewinn von Erkenntnissen über ihn erwar-
tet werden, die mit dem Anspruch auf objektive,
überzeitliche und eindeutig verifizierbare Wahrheit
aufträten.8 Da zudem Erkenntnisse in den Hu-
manwissenschaften immer aus einer mittelbaren
oder unmittelbaren Kommunikation zwischen For-
schenden und Erforschten heraus entstehen, möch-
ten wir eine hermeneutisch orientierte Erkenntnis-
theorie vorschlagen, die sowohl ihre subjektiven
Erkenntnisbedingungen - auf seiten des Forschen-
den: das Erkenntnisinteresse, auf seiten des Er-
forschten: das Interesse, ein bestimmtes Selbstbild
darzustellen - als auch ihre historische Endlichkeit
und Offenheit reflektiert.
Für das ethnologisch/ethnographische Wissen
bedeutet dies, daß hier sinnvollerweise nicht das
Kriterium seiner Übereinstimmung mit den „Tatsa-
chen“ oder der „Wirklichkeit“ relevant sein kann.
Wenn Beobachtungen und erst recht Sätze über
Beobachtungen immer Interpretationen im Lichte
von Theorien sind, gibt es weder Unmittelbares
in unserer Erfahrung noch eine reine Wirklich-
keit. Mit Nelson Goodman (1984) ausgedrückt:
Erkenntnis repräsentiert nicht, sondern bringt her-
vor. Deshalb sind in der textlichen Fixierung oder
anderweitigen Präsentierung ethnologischen Wis-
sens innere und äußere Konsistenz im Sinne der
inneren Widerspruchslosigkeit des Textes und sei-
ner äußeren Bewährung in der wissenschaftlichen
Diskussion sowie Reflexivität zu fordern. Die Ent-
stehung dieses Wissens muß dem, der sich mit
ihm auseinandersetzen will, nachvollziehbar sein.
8 Auch wenn man Karl Popper nicht unbedingt als Kron-
zeugen für eine henneneutisch orientierte Erkenntnistheo-
rie heranziehen kann, kritisiert doch auch er den abso-
luten Wahrheitsanspruch der Wissenschaften, speziell der
Naturwissenschaften. „Man wird sich wohl daran gewöhnen
müssen, die Wissenschaft nicht als ein , System unseres
Wissens*, sondern als ein System von Hypothesen aufzufas-
sen, d. h. von grundsätzlich unbegründbaren Antizipationen,
mit denen wir arbeiten, so lange sie sich bewähren, ohne
daß wir sie als ,wahr* oder auch nur als ,mehr oder weniger
sicher* oder .wahrscheinlich* ansprechen dürfen“ (1986:
258). Alles Wissen, auch das der Naturwissenschaften, ist
für Popper Vermutungswissen.
Erst dann wird sich dieses Wissens als das of-
fenbaren, als was man es auch ohne negativen
Beiklang bezeichnen kann, als Konstruktion, auch
wenn, worauf Clifford (1988: 22) hinweist, die
an der Konstruktion Beteiligten anzunehmen ge-
neigt sind, sie hätten sich einfach in die Reali-
tät ihres Gegenüber eingepaßt. Und es wird sich
zur gleichen Zeit als weniger resistent gegen eine
produktive Kritik erweisen. Todorovs These etwa,
daß zwischen Kulturen mit und ohne Schrift eine
prinzipielle Unterscheidung zu treffen sei, wird zu
einem Glaubensbekenntnis, dem man zustimmend
oder ablehnend begegnen kann, wenn man diese
Unterscheidung als Aussage über die objektive
Seinsweise von Kulturen nimmt. Fragt man sich
statt dessen, was ihn dazu veranlaßt zu behaup-
ten, nur die Schrift gestatte die Abwesenheit der
Sprecher, und warum er nicht beispielsweise oral
rezitierte Mythen, die oft in der Gestalt eines ein-
zigen Zitates eines ursprünglichen Erzählers, d. h.
als Rede ohne aktuell Sprechenden auftreten, in
der gleichen Weise interpretiert usw., dann gerät
die relative Beliebigkeit dieser „Erkenntnis“ in
den Blick und kann sich nicht mehr hinter einer
ontischen Gegebenheit verstecken.
Die im eigentlichen Sinn ethnographische Er-
kenntnis bzw. ihre Vermittlung in Texten besitzt
mehrere Konstruktionsebenen. Zuerst die der so-
genannten ethnographischen Erfahrung. Vor aller
Verarbeitung in Form eines Textes entstehen in der
gelebten Kontaktsituation zwischen Feldforscher
und gastgebender Gruppe Erlebnisse, die einen
großen Interpretationsraum schaffen. Der Ethno-
loge wird vergleichbare Geschehnisse in unter-
schiedlichen Phasen seines Aufenthalts verschie-
den erleben, weil sein Bild der „Gesamtgruppe“
an Konsistenz gewinnt und das Geschehnis sich
sinnvoller in ein System einfügen läßt; oder weil
seine Informanten sich ein konsistenteres Bild von
ihm machen, was sie dazu veranlaßt, ihre Informa-
tionen seinen Bedürfnissen, wie sie sie verstehen,
gemäß zu strukturieren; oder weil sich seine For-
schungszeit dem Ende zuneigt und ein Geschehnis
nun endlich verstanden werden muß; oder weil er
oder seine Informanten sich gut oder schlecht füh-
len usw., usw. Daran schließen sich weitere Kon-
struktionsebenen an, die als Systematisierungsver-
suche eben jener Felderfahrung schon während der
Forschungszeit selbst beginnen, da der Ethnolo-
ge kein ausschließlicher Teilnehmer, sondern auch
und vor allem ein professionalisierter Beobachter
ist - und zwar nicht der gastgebenden Gruppe,
sondern der sich im Kontakt zwischen ihm und
ihr ergebenden Verstehensprozesse! Weiter kon-
struiert der Ethnologe in der durch eventuelle
Anthropos 85.1990
564
Berichte und Kommentare
Unterbrechungen seines Feldaufenthalts bedingten
distanzierten Pause bis hin zu den gedanklichen
Vorarbeiten zur Textualisierung seiner Erkenntnis-
se zu Hause am eigenen Schreibtisch. Ob diese
Darstellung dann die Form einer traditionellen Mo-
nographie, einer Ethnopoesie, eines Ethnoromans,
einer Ethnophilosophie, einer Ethnolyrik oder ei-
nes Ethnofilms annimmt: sie bleibt das konstrukti-
ve Resultat vorangegangener Konstruktionen und
verlangt von ihrem Leser oder Betrachter nun, in
Auseinandersetzung mit ihr, selbst Erkenntnisse,
Einsichten oder Verständnisse zu konstruieren.
Im Anschluß an die Ablehnung einer Onto-
logisierung des Anderen weisen wir daher auch
eine Ontologisierung der Erfahrung des Anderen
zurück. Will Ethnologie als wissenschaftliche Dis-
ziplin ein für Erfahrungen mit der anderen Kultur
offenes Forum bleiben, muß sie auch die Frage
nach der adäquaten Darstellungsform der ethno-
graphischen Erfahrung als sinnlos ablehnen. Dies
gilt nicht nur für Textformen, sondern auch für die
Statusbewertung von mündlichen Berichten, Fotos,
Filmen usw., alles Arten der Vermittlung des An-
deren ins Eigene und des Eigenen ins Andere, die
sich im Einzelfall hinsichtlich der ihnen zugrun-
deliegenden Theorien und Erkenntnisinteressen zu
rechtfertigen haben, keinesfalls aber an der Qua-
lität der Transparenz zu messen sind, mit der sie
prinzipiell das Andere oder die Erfahrung mit dem
Anderen „an sich“ wiederzugeben vermögen.
Zitierte Literatur
Bourdieu, Pierre
1976 Entwurf einer Theorie der Praxis. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp.
Clifford, James
1983 On Ethnographie Authority. Representations 1/2: 118-
146.
1988 Über ethnographische Autorität. Trickster 16: 4-35.
[Übersetzung von 1983]
Fabian, Johannes
1983 Time and the Other. How Anthropology Makes its
Objects. New York: Columbia Univ. Press.
Gadamer, Hans-Georg
1975 Wahrheit und Methode. Tübingen. J. C. B. Mohr (Paul
Siebeck). [4. Aufl.J
Geertz, Clifford
1988 Works and Lives. The Anthropologist as Author. Stan-
ford: Stanford Univ. Press.
Goodman, Nelson
1984 Weisen der Welterzeugung. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp.
[1978]
Lacan, Jacques
1975 Das Spiegelstadium als Bildner der Ichfunktion, wie sie
uns in der psychoanalytischen Praxis erscheint. In; J.
Lacan, Schriften I; pp. 63-70. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp.
Marcus, George E., and Dick Cushman
1982 Ethnographies as Texts. Annual Review of Anthropology
11: 25-69.
Marcus, George E., and Michael M.J. Fischer
1986 Anthropology as Cultural Critique. An Experimental
Moment in the Human Sciences. Chicago: Univ. of
Chicago Press.
Mehan, Hugh, and Houston Wood
1975 The Reality of Ethnomethodology. New York: John
Wiley & Sons. [Deutsch in Weingarten et al. (Hrsg.)
1976: pp. 34 ff.]
Popper, Karl
1986 Logik der Forschung. Tübingen. J. C. B. Mohr (Paul
Siebeck). [9. Aufl.]
Todorov, Tzvetan
1985 Die Eroberung Amerikas. Das Problem des Anderen.
Frankfurt; Suhrkamp. [Original: Paris 1982]
Weingarten, E., F. Sack und J. Schenkein (Hrsg.)
1976 Ethnométhodologie: Beiträge zu einer Soziologie des
Alltagshandelns. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp.
Rückkehr der gestohlenen Bilder
Ein Versuch über „wilde“ Filmtheorien
Heike Behrend
Ethnologen haben in den letzten Jahren nicht
nur ethnographische Monographien geschrieben,
sondern zunehmend auch - als Alternative oder
Komplement - den Film für ihre ethnographi-
sche Arbeit eingesetzt. Die von Walter Benjamin
1935 emphatisch erhobene Forderung, daß jeder
heutige Mensch einen Anspruch habe, gefilmt zu
werden, scheint sich zu erfüllen. Denn anders als
die Malerei, die nur einigen wenigen Privilegierten
erlaubt, ein Abbild, ein Portrait der eigenen Per-
son, zu besitzen, erlauben Photographie, Film und
Video im Zeitalter der technischen Reproduzier-
barkeit jedermann, ein Bild von sich zu gewinnen
(vgl. Gadamer 1988).
Doch wie in der Ethnographie lange Zeit die
Beobachtung alleiniges Privileg der Ethnologen zu
sein schien, und sie vergessen konnten, daß auch
sie beobachtet wurden (Kramer 1987: 7), so ver-
gaßen auch viele ethnographische Filmemacher,
daß nicht nur sie durch die Kamera beobachteten,
sondern daß auch sie beobachtet wurden. War in
der Barockzeit das Auge Gottes eines der wich-
tigsten Meditationsbilder, das dem Erkennen das
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
565
Erkanntsein und dem Sehen das Gesehenwerden
gegenüberstellte (ibid.), so legte nun das Kamera-
auge einseitig einen Blick fest, der nicht erwidert
werden konnte.
Das Kameraauge erhebt das Sehen zum Pri-
vileg. Es beobachtet und bewahrt das Beobachtete
im Bild, das zu einem Beweisstück wird. Dieses
erlangt Autorität. In seiner Allmacht, zu sehen
und das Gesehene festzuhalten, gleicht das Ka-
meraauge dem Auge Gottes. Das haben auch die
Dinka im heutigen Sudan erkannt. Sie erzählten
der bei ihnen arbeitenden Ethnologin,1 daß Gott
im Himmel die Menschen wie in einem Kino sieht.
Das, was auf dem Film zu sehen ist, entspricht dem
Blick Gottes auf die Menschen. Im Kino teilen
Dinka und Gott den Blickwinkel. Im Kino können
die Dinka sehen, wie Gott sie sieht. Sie sehen und
haben das Gesehenwerden doch nicht vergessen.
Nur wenige ethnographische Filmemacher be-
dachten denn auch, wie die Gefilmten das Gefilmt-
werden erfahren und interpretieren. Und nur weni-
ge brachten den Gefilmten die ihnen genommenen
Bilder zurück und führten ihnen vor Augen, wie
sie im Film zu sehen waren. Ich möchte von diesen
wenigen berichten.2 Am Beispiel der Arbeiten von
Jean Rouch bei den Songhai am Niger, Barbara
Keifenheim und Patrick Deshayes bei den Kashi-
nawa-Indianem in Peru und meiner eigenen Arbeit
bei den Tugen im Nordwesten Kenias möchte ich
im folgenden die Vorstellungen wiedergeben, die
die Gefilmten sich von der photographischen Auf-
nahme machten.
Jean Rouch, Filmemacher und Ethnologe,
kehrte mit seinen Filmen immer wieder zu den
Gefilmten nach Westafrika zurück, um ihnen vor-
zuführen, wie sie im Film zu sehen sind. „An-
thropologie partagée“, geteilte Ethnologie, nennt
er den Dialog, den die zurückgebrachten Bilder
initiieren: Die Vorführung der Bilder gibt den Ge-
filmten nicht nur Einblick in die ethnographische
Arbeit - sie „teilen“ sie mit dem Ethnologen -,
vielmehr kommentieren und interpretieren sie
auch das Gesehene und Gehörte. Der Ethnologe
gewinnt zusätzliche Informationen und trägt sie
nach Hause.
Die Rouchsche Arbeitsweise hat dazu geführt,
daß sowohl die Songhai am Niger als auch die
1 Ich danke Irene Leverenz für den Hinweis.
2 Die Auswahl wurde willkürlich aus dem wenigen für dieses
Thema in Frage kommenden Material getroffen. Die Arbei-
ten von Worth and Adair und Bellman and Jules-Rosette
habe ich nicht berücksichtigt, weil die technische Apparatur
die Filmaufnahmen so stark determiniert, daß Aussagen
über kulturspezifische Sehweisen m. E. nicht möglich sind.
Dogon in Mali zu Cineasten wurden, die über-
aus kompetent Kameraführung, Ton und Montage
beurteilen können. Die Songhai, mit denen Jean
Rouch seit über vierzig Jahren zusammenarbeitet,
entwickelten auch eine Theorie des Films. Sie
interpretierten ihn im Kontext ihres Besessenheits-
kultes (Rouch 1981 [1982]). In ihrer Vorstellung
besitzt jedes Ding, jeder Mensch und jede Gottheit
eine Double, eine Art Doppelgänger oder einen
Schatten, den sie bia nennen. Während des ganzen
Lebens ist das bia mit dem Körper eines Menschen
verbunden. Es kann sich aber auch zeitweise von
ihm entfernen. Im Schlaf löst es sich vom Körper,
geht auf Reisen und besteht gefährliche Abenteuer.
Was es erlebt, erfährt der Schlafende im Traum.
Auch im Zustand der Besessenheit entfernt sich
das bia und verläßt den Körper des Besessenen.
An die leere Stelle setzt die Gottheit oder der
Geist, der den Besessenen ergreift, sein eigenes
bia. Im Denken der Songhai ist die Besessenheit
ein Tausch von bias. Mit einer blutigen Haut „er-
stickt“ die Gottheit ihr Medium, hüllt dessen bia
in die Haut ein und verkörpert sich in ihm. Eine
Verwandlung findet statt. Das Medium ist Gottheit
geworden. Will die Gottheit ihr Medium wieder
verlassen, dann öffnet sie die Haut und befreit das
bia. Dieses kehrt zu seinem Besitzer zurück, er
öffnet die Augen und hustet wie am Ende eines
Erstickungsanfalls (Rouch 1982: 5).
Nach dem Tod eines Menschen bleibt das bia
zuerst auch weiterhin in seiner Nähe. „Es beklagt
seinen eigenen Tod“ (Rouch 1960: 27). War der
Tod des Menschen ein schlechter Tod, dann ver-
sucht das bia, sich an den Lebenden zu rächen.
War sein Tod ein guter Tod, dann wechselt es in
die andere Welt und „lebt“ dort ewig (1960: 24 ff.).
Das bia eines Menschen kann auch gestoh-
len, zerstört und gegessen werden. Es sind Hexer,
die die Songhai tyarkaw nennen, die bias stehlen
und essen. Im Denken der Songhai werden sie
der Wildnis, dem Busch, dem Anderen der Song-
hai-Kultur, zugeordnet. Während die unbewohnten
Regionen - wie Wildnis oder Busch - als Orte
der Angst angesehen werden, sind die bewohnten
Regionen, die Dörfer, Orte der Sicherheit (1960:
18). Doch immer drohen die Mächte der Wildnis,
in die Dörfer einzudringen und den dort leben-
den Menschen Schaden zu bringen. Vor allem
nachts versuchen Hexer, die Bewohner der Dörfer
anzugreifen. Ihre „Verkehrtheit“ und A-Sozialität
kommt auch in ihrem Ursprung zum Ausdruck:
Sie sind die Nachkommen einer Frau, die sich in
die Wildnis zurückzog und dort den Mann, der sie
schwängerte, in ein Schaf verwandelte und dann
aß (1960: 283). Hexer sind für ihre Taten nicht ver-
Anthropos 85.1990
566
Berichte und Kommentare
antwortlich. Sie können verschiedene Gestalt an-
nehmen und versuchen, ihr Opfer zu erschrecken.
Denn im Augenblick des Schreckens ist das bia
nur lose mit dem Körper eines Menschen verbun-
den und kann leicht gestohlen werden. Gelingt der
Diebstahl, dann bleiben dem Bestohlenen sieben
Tage Zeit, um sein bia mit Hilfe eines Magiers
zurückzugewinnen. Andernfalls muß er sterben.
Allein der Magier, sohantye genannt, kann
als Gegenspieler des Hexers das verlorene bia
zurückgewinnen. Um Magier zu werden, muß er
sich einer langwierigen Initiation unterziehen. Wie
ein Schamane schickt er sein bia auf die Reise,
um das bia eines Hexers zu zwingen, das gestoh-
lene und noch nicht gefressene bia des Opfers
zurückzugeben. Ein Kampf des bias des Magiers
mit dem bia des Hexers um das bia des Opfers
findet statt. Verliert das bia des Magiers diesen
Kampf, dann muß das Opfer sterben. Fällt ihm
dagegen der Sieg zu, dann bringt er das gestohlene
bia seinem Eigentümer zurück, und dieser wird
genesen (Rouch 1982: 8 f.).
In ihrer Filmtheorie nehmen die Songhai die
vorgeführten Filmbilder für sichtbar gewordene
bias von Menschen und Gottheiten, die sie sehen
und hören können, die aber selbst nicht sehen und
hören können (1982: 2), Den Akt des Filmens in-
terpretieren sie als eine Verwandlung des Kamera-
manns analog der Verwandlung, die ein Medium in
einem Besessenheitsritual erfährt, wenn es von ei-
ner Gottheit ergriffen wird. Der Kameramann fällt
in Cine-Trance, verwandelt sich, wird ein Anderer.
Wie ein Hexer auf Jagd nach einem bia so macht
er sich nun auf die Jagd nach Bildern, um sie zu
stehlen und dann zu fressen. Doch bringt er die
gestohlenen Bilder bei der Vorführung des Films
wie ein Magier wieder zurück. Der Filmemacher
ist aus der Sicht der Songhai sowohl ein Dieb von
bias, d. h. ein Hexer, als auch ein Magier, der die
gestohlenen Bilder zurückbringt. In seiner Person
verbinden sich also die zerstörerische Macht des
Hexers mit der heilbringenden des Magiers.
Wie ein Hexer wird der Filmemacher der
Wildnis, dem Anderen der Songhai-Kultur, zu-
geordnet. Auch bringt sein Eindringen die glei-
chen Gefahren, die ein Hexer bringt. Und so wie
die Mächte der Wildnis vom Magier, dem Mittler
zwischen beiden Welten, domestiziert werden, so
wird auch die Bedrohlichkeit des Filmemachers
gemindert, wenn er wie ein Magier die gestohlenen
Bilder zurückbringt. Doch behalten die Filmbil-
der eine merkwürdige Macht. So wie die Gottheit
ihre Darstellung im Besessenen, ihrem Medium,
erzwingt, so zwingen die Filmbilder die Medien,
wenn sie sich auf der Leinwand wiedererkennen,
augenblicklich in den Zustand der Besessenheit zu
fallen (1982: 12).
Jean Rouch filmte niemals ohne die Erlaubnis
der Songhai. Seit vierzig Jahren kehrte er immer
wieder zu ihnen zurück. Aus einem Fremden und
Hexer wurde er zu einem Bekannten und Freund.
Es ist anzunehmen, daß in diesem Zeitraum sich
nicht nur ihr Verhältnis zu ihm, sondern auch
zum Film wesentlich veränderte. Doch darüber hat
Rouch bisher nicht berichtet.
Auch Barbara Keifenheim und Patrick Des-
hayes brachten den Kashinawa-Indianem in Peru,
bei denen sie seit 1977 ethnographisch arbeiteten,
die gestohlenen Bilder zurück. Ziel ihrer Arbeit
war, das Bild kennenzulemen, das sich die India-
ner von den Weißen machen. Sie erfuhren, daß die
Kashinawa die Weißen seit langer Zeit kennen.3 In
einem Mythos erzählten sie von der ursprünglichen
Einheit und Gleichheit aller Menschen. Infolge
eines Streites teilten sich die Menschen jedoch
in zwei Gruppen: in die Weißen, die über das
Metall und damit über Werkzeuge und Maschinen
verfügen, und die Indianer, denen das Fleisch der
wilden Tiere gehört. Seit der Trennung leben beide
Gruppen weit voneinander entfernt. In regelmäßi-
gen Abständen gehen die Indianer jedoch freiwillig
auf die Weißen zu, um am Besitz des Metalls
teilzuhaben. Und obwohl sie friedlicher Absicht
sind, kommt es unweigerlich zum Krieg. Sie töten
die Weißen - oder werden von den Weißen getötet
- und ziehen sich dann in den Urwald zurück,
um nach einiger Zeit wieder zu versuchen, den
metallenen Reichtum der Weißen zu gewinnen. In
der Geschichte der Kashinawa wirkt der Mythos
fort. Ihre Geschichte ist eine Geschichte der Wie-
derholung dieser katastrophalen Begegnung mit
den Weißen.
Nachdem die Kashinawa während des Kau-
tschuk-Booms wieder eine der katastrophalen Be-
gegnungen mit den Weißen hinter sich gebracht
und in den Urwald zurückgezogen waren, kam
1951 ein Deutscher mit Namen Harald Schultz
zu ihnen. Dieser hatte einen Fotoapparat und eine
Filmkamera dabei und nahm Bilder von den In-
dianern auf.4 Während seines Aufenthaltes brach
eine Masem-Epidemie aus. Von den 450 Indianern
überlebten 90. Die Ursache der tödlichen Krank-
heit sahen sie in der Kamera. Im Sucher hatten
sie verkleinerte Bilder ihrer selbst gesehen. Sie
3 Im folgenden Abschnitt beziehe ich mich auf Barbara Kei-
fenheim 1987.
4 Die Filme von Harald Schultz befinden sieh im Institut für
den wissenschaftlichen Film in Göttingen.
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
567
glaubten, Schultz habe sie ihnen geraubt und der
Verlust dieser Bilder töte sie.
Schultz war als Fremder zu ihnen gekommen.
Er hatte die Krankheit von außen zu ihnen gebracht
und den Tod vieler verschuldet. Der Kontakt mit
ihm bestätigte, daß jede Berührung mit der Außen-
welt bedrohlich ist. Die todbringende Macht der
Außenwelt hatte sich in der Kamera materialisiert.
Trotz dieser eher abschreckenden Vorge-
schichte versuchten die beiden Ethnologen - mit
Hilfe von Polaroid-Fotos -, Kamera und Foto-
apparat die bedrohliche Macht zu nehmen. Sie
verteilten Polaroid-Fotos gegen eine kleine Gabe.
Auch gaben sie den Kashinawa Fotos, auf denen
sie selbst und nahe Verwandte abgebildet waren,
damit die Indianer die gleiche Macht erlangten, die
umgekehrt sie über die Bilder der Indianer und
damit auch über die Indianer erlangt hatten. Mit
der Unterstützung des Häuptlings drehten sie ei-
nen kleinen Film. Als Gegengabe verlangte dieser
einen Film über das Leben der Weißen. So wie die
beiden Ethnologen Bilder der Kashinawa einfin-
gen, um sie in Europa „ihren“ Leuten zu zeigen, so
sollten sie auch Bilder von Europäern einfangen,
um sie den Kashinawa zu zeigen. Die Ethnologen
hielten das Versprechen und brachten im nächsten
Jahr den über die Indianer gedrehten Film und
einen Film über Paris zu ihnen zurück. Aus diesem
Tausch genommener und zurückgebrachter Bilder
entstand die Idee, einen Film über die eigenen,
europäischen Lebensformen zu besorgen, ihnen
diesen Film vorzuführen und sie wiederum bei der
Vorführung dieses Films zu filmen. Weil in der
Vorstellung der Indianer die Weißen die Herrscher
über das Metall sind, brachten die Ethnologen
ihnen zehn kurze Filme über das Ruhrgebiet mit, in
denen Industrielandschaften, Arbeiter unter Tage,
Arbeiter in der Roheisenindustrie, Straßenszenen
mit Passanten, der Duisburger Hafen, Arbeiter zu
Hause, beim Essen und vor dem Fernseher, die me-
chanisierte Landwirtschaft und der Gelsenkirchner
Schlachthof zu sehen sind. Die Vorführung dieser
Filme filmten sie. Das Ergebnis ist der Film „Nawa
Huni“. Nawa heißt „Fremder“ und dient auch der
Bezeichnung von anderen Ethnien. Mit einem be-
stimmten Beiwort versehen bezeichnet nawa auch
Krankheiten wie Blattern, Masern, Husten und
Windpocken. Nawa huni heißt „weißer Mann“ und
„Drogenvision“.
Der Film zeigt, wie die Indianer in geordneten
Reihen vor einem in einem Rahmen gespanntes
Tuch, der Leinwand, sitzen und die Filme betrach-
ten. Ihre Bemerkungen, Einrufe und Kommentare
werden in Untertiteln übersetzt und in Gesprächen
vor der Kamera ausführlich wiedergegeben.
Im Film zu sehen: ein Arbeiter, der einen
Hochofen öffnet; ein Indianer sagt: „Das habe ich
schon gesehen!“ Und ein anderer, als glühende
Metallströme auf einem Fließband vorbeiziehen:
„Auch das kenne ich schon!“
Die Bilder vom Ruhrgebiet sind den Indianern
nicht fremd. Sie haben sie schon in Visionen, die
sie mit Hilfe einer Droge hervorrufen, gesehen.
Sie erklärten, daß sie den Film für ein Mittel
der Weißen nehmen, Dinge zu sehen, ohne sich
fortbewegen zu müssen. Genau das erleben sie
auch, wenn sie den bitteren Saft der Liane ein-
nehmen, der die Visionen erzeugt. Sie sagen im
Film: „Filmbilder sind wie Drogenvisionen. Doch
ist es viel Arbeit, einen Film zu machen. Mit dem
Saft der Liane ist es einfacher.“
Doch während Drogenbilder kontrolliert wer-
den können, weil die Drogeneinnahme eingebun-
den in ein Ritual unter Aufsicht eines Spezialisten
stattfindet, sind Filmbilder nicht zu kontrollieren.
Ein Indianer sagt im Film: „Wenn wir unsere
Drogen einnehmen, können wir die übermächtigen
Bilder erbrechen. Das ist bei Filmbildern unmög-
lich. Deshalb machen sie krank.“
In ihren Visionen stellen die Kashinawa eine
Verbindung zur Außenwelt her: zu fremden India-
nern, den Weißen und den Toten. In ihren Visionen
dringen sie in diese fremde und bedrohliche Welt
vor. Auch die Filme, die die beiden Ethnologen
ihnen über das Leben der Weißen im Ruhrgebiet
zeigten, führten ihnen - wie die Visionen - Bilder
dieser bedrohlichen Außenwelt vor Augen. Und so
wie die Außenwelt ihnen als Quelle von Unglück,
Krankheit und Tod erscheint, so auch die Bilder
dieser Außenwelt. Doch können sie in ihren Ritua-
len den Drogenbildern das Bedrohliche nehmen,
den Filmbildern dagegen nicht.
Die Indianer gaben Fotos und Filmbildern den
Namenyushin, d. h. Geist. Daminyushin, Geist der
Visionen, nennen sie den Teil der sozialen Person,
der sich unter Einfluß von Drogen vom Körper
löst und in die Außenwelt zieht. Gesänge bewir-
ken, daß er schließlich wieder zurückkehrt und die
Person sich als gesund, d. h. ungeteilt, erfährt. Als
Harald Schultz 1951 zu den Indianern kam, ent-
deckten sie auf dem Sucher seiner Kamera ein ver-
kleinertes Abbild ihrer selbst. Aus ihren Visionen
kennen sie die Verkleinerung oder Vergrößerung
des Geschauten. Sie nahmen deshalb das verklei-
nerte Abbild auf dem Sucher für damin yushin,
den Geist der Visionen, der sonst nur unter Drogen
sichtbar wird. Und wie die Songhai interpretierten
auch sie das Filmen und Photographieren als einen
Diebstahl eines Teils der sozialen Person, dessen
Verlust zum Tod führen kann. Allein die Rückgabe
Anthropos 85.1990
568
Berichte und Kommentare
der gestohlenen Bilder, ihre Einbindung in den
Tausch, konnte die Bedrohung mindern.
1978 begann ich eine ethnographische Feld-
forschung bei den Tugen im Nordwesten Kenias.
Auch drehte ich dort zwei ethnographische Filme
und nahm Photographien auf.5
Tugen - auch wenn sie in der Distrikt-Haupt-
stadt leben - kennen das Kino nicht. Allein ein
Missionar zeigte in einigen Gegenden einen Je-
sus-Film. Als in Bartabwa6 bei einer Vorführung
die ersten Bilder auf der Feinwand erschienen,
erhoben sich einige der Ältesten und gingen nach
vorne, um die auf der Feinwand abgebildeten
Personen zu begrüßen. Nachdem sie festgestellt
hatten, daß es sich um Abbilder und nicht um reale
Personen handelte, kehrten sie ruhig auf ihre Plätze
zurück und sahen den Film bis zum Ende.
Während Tugen das bewegte photographische
Bild also kaum kennen, kennen sie aber das un-
bewegte, da in einigen Gegenden der Tugen-Ber-
ge Fotostudios den Umgang mit photographischen
Portraits alltäglich gemacht haben. Vor allem die
jungen und „modernen“ Feute treiben einen klei-
nen Kult mit Photographien. Die Ältesten, „die
noch wir ihre Väter leben“, zeigen dagegen kaum
ein Interesse. Im folgenden möchte ich vor al-
lem deren Vorstellung von Film und Photographie
wiedergeben. Mit ihnen habe ich hauptsächlich
gearbeitet und ihren Standpunkt geteilt.
Während die Jungen photographische Bilder
als “picture” bezeichneten, benutzten die Ältesten
das Tugen-Wort tondoi, Schatten. In ihrer Vorstel-
lung hat jeder Mensch einen oder zwei Schatten,
einen hellen und einen dunklen. Im Gegensatz zu
tondoi, dem Schatten, den Menschen werfen, wird
der Schatten, den Tiere und Dinge werfen, als
rurwe bezeichnet. Tondoi ist fest mit dem Körper
eines Menschen verbunden, kann sich aber z. B.
im Schlaf vom Körper des Schlafenden lösen und
in der Welt umherziehen. Was ihm widerfährt,
erfährt der Schlafende im Traum. Erwacht er,
dann kehrt sein Schatten zu ihm zurück. Deshalb
dürfen Schlafende nie plötzlich geweckt werden,
5 „Im Bauch des Elefanten“ (1982) und „Gespräche mit Kop-
cherutoi“ (1985); allein den letzten Film habe ich in Nairobi
1987 vorführen können; es ist mir nicht gelungen, die Filme
in den Tugen-Bergen zu zeigen. Meine Kenntnisse über die
Interpretation des Films bei den Tugen beziehen sich vor
allem auf den Prozeß des Filmens und Photographierens.
Überhaupt ist der folgende Abschnitt als ein vorläufiger
Entwurf zu betrachten, ich hoffe aber, die Untersuchung in
Zukunft fortsetzen zu können.
6 Ich habe vor allem im Norden der Tugen-Berge, in Bartab-
wa, Sublocation Ngorora, gearbeitet.
weil dann dem Schatten zu wenig Zeit bleibt, zum
Körper zurückzukehren.
Nach dem Tod löst sich der Schatten eines
Menschen vom Körper und irrt verzweifelt auf der
Suche nach einem neuen Körper umher. In dieser
Zeit gilt er als besonders gefährlich. Er versucht,
sich an den Schatten anderer, noch lebender Men-
schen zu heften, und bringt diesen dann Unglück,
Krankheit und sogar Tod.
Weil die Ältesten nie wissen, ob ein fremder
Schatten sich an den eigenen heftete, achten sie
sehr darauf, wohin ihr Schatten fällt. Sie suchen
zu verhindern, daß er auf Kinder und schwangere
Frauen fällt, weil diese besonders leicht Schaden
nehmen können. Auch der Schatten von Fremden
gilt als gefährlich.
Tugen gliedern die Welt in einen Bereich
der bewohnten Welt, in dem die Lebenden leben,
und einen Bereich der Wildnis, in dem die Toten,
die sich in Ahnengeister verwandelt haben, leben
(Behrend 1987; 66 ff.). Die Wildnis ist das Andere
der Tugen-Kultur, die Negation der bewohnten
Welt. In den Ritualen des Lebenszyklus werden die
Initianden nach und nach aus der Wildnis entfernt
und in die bewohnte Welt integriert. Nach dem
Tod findet eine gegenläufige rituelle Bewegung
statt. Der Tote wird nun wieder aus der bewohnten
Welt entfernt und in die Wildnis integriert. In den
Bestattungsritualen verwandelt sich der Schatten
des Toten nach und nach7 in einen Ahnengeist,
der so lange in der Wildnis bleibt, bis sein Na-
me einem seiner Nachkommen gegeben wird. Im
Namen dieses Kindes oder Enkels kehrt er in die
bewohnte Welt zurück und wiederholt das Leben.
Während bei den Songhai ein Hexer das hia
stiehlt, sind es bei den Tugen vor allem die Ah-
nengeister, die sich an den Schatten Lebender
heften und ihnen Krankheit, Unglück und Tod
bringen. Tugen haben aber nicht eigentlich einen
Ahnenkult. Ihre Ahnen sind nicht eindeutig Trans-
figurationen der moralischen Ordnung, wie z. B.
die Ahnen der Tallensi, die nur in der bewohnten
Welt leben. Die Ahnen der Tugen dagegen leben
in der Wildnis. Sie sind janusköpfig, haben zwei
Seiten: in der Wildnis verhalten sie sich wild,
amoralisch und böse, sind anonym, unberechenbar
und fügen ihren lebenden Verwandten Schaden zu,
wann immer sie können. Betreten sie dagegen die
bewohnte Welt, in der ihnen geopfert wird und
man ihren Namen ausspricht, dann werden sie „do-
mestiziert“ und verhalten sich ihren Verwandten
gegenüber moralisch und freundlich.
7 Die Tugen-Ältesten haben sich nie sehr explizit über die
genaueren Umstände dieser Verwandlung geäußert.
Anthropos 85.1990
Berichte und Kommentare
569
Die Ältesten erklärten mir, daß der Neid der
Ahnen auf ihre lebenden Verwandten, die ihren
Platz eingenommen haben, sie treibe, unberechen-
bar - wie Zauberer und Hexer - zu handeln, zu-
mindest solange sie sich in der Wildnis aufhalten.
Wie Songhai und Kashinawa so nahmen auch
die Tugen-Ältesten das Filmen und Photographie-
ren für einen Diebstahl: Der Photograph stiehlt
tondoi, den Schatten eines Menschen, einen Teil
seiner sozialen Person. Doch schien die Ältesten
der Verlust des Schattens kaum zu beunruhigen.
Sie erhoben keinen Einwand, sich photographieren
oder filmen zu lassen. Nachdem ich in den Te-
riki-Klan aufgenommen und in ein soziales Netz
eingebunden war, in dem die Ethik der Großzü-
gigkeit herrschte, vertrauten sie mir ihre Worte
und ihre Schatten an, ohne eine Gegengabe zu
fordern. Auf diese Weise machten sie mich zu ihrer
Schuldnerin, sie verpflichteten mich und behielten
damit auch weiterhin Macht über mich und die
Worte und Schatten, die sie mir gegeben hatten.
Schenkte ich ihnen Polaroid-Fotos, dann nah-
men sie diese an, aber legten sie rasch aus der
Hand in einen Vorratsspeicher, in dem sie Din-
ge aufbewahrten, die nicht mehr zu gebrauchen
waren.
Auch erkannten sie oft ihr eigenes Bild nicht.
Weil sie, anders als die Jungen und „Moder-
nen“, keine Spiegel besitzen, ist ihnen das eigene
Spiegelbild nicht vertraut. Sie haben kein Selbst-
bild, das sich auf die Selbstbetrachtung in einem
Spiegel gründet. Sich selbst sehen sie nur in und
mit den Augen der anderen.
In vielen afrikanischen Gesellschaften wird
die realistische Darstellung von Personen pein-
lich vermieden. Denn die Magie der Ähnlichkeit
gibt demjenigen, der ein realistisches Abbild eines
anderen herstellt, Macht über den Abgebildeten
(Kramer 1987: 190, 191). Um nicht der Zauberei
angeklagt zu werden, vermeiden deshalb afrikani-
sche Künstler die realistische Darstellung von Per-
sonen. Es ist möglich, daß Furcht vor Zauberei die
Ältesten bewegte und sie deshalb Fotos mieden.
Junge und moderne Tugen dagegen stellen
Fotos in Holzrahmen in einer Ecke ihres “sitting
rooms” aus. Sie führen vor Augen, wer sie sind
und wen sie kennen. In einigen Häusern entdeckte
ich Fotos, auf denen der jetzige Staatspräsident
Daniel arap Moi, ein Tugen, zusammen mit Fami-
lienangehörigen des Hauses abgebildet war. Diese
Fotos, so wurde mir erklärt, taten Wirkung. Sie
strahlten die Macht des abgebildeten Präsidenten
aus und brachten dem Besitzer des Fotos z. B. in
Gerichtsverhandlungen Vorteile.
Den Vorstellungen von Songhai, Kashinawa
und Tugen über Film und Photographie ist gemein,
daß sie Film und Photographie als fremde Dinge,
die von außen in ihre Gesellschaft gebracht wur-
den, mit der Wildnis, dem je Anderen der eigenen
Kultur, identifizieren. Sie interpretieren die photo-
graphischen Bilder als Teil der sozialen Person,
die der Photograph sich unrechtmäßig aneignet.
Songhai, Kashinawa und Tugen fassen die soziale
Person als etwas Zusammengesetztes auf. Wäh-
rend wir eine Person als eine mit sich identische,
ihrer selbst bewußte Einheit auffassen, denken sie
eine Person eher als Komplex heller und dunk-
ler Sphären, die teils dem bewußten Willen des
Subjekts, teils an fremde Mächte ausgeliefert sind
(Kramer 1987: 40). Bia, der Geist der Visionen und
tondoi sind Teil der dunklen Sphäre der sozialen
Person. Sie führen eine eher unabhängige Exi-
stenz, können sich im Zustand der Besessenheit,
im Schlaf oder mit Hilfe von Drogen weit von der
Person entfernen und unkontrollierbar in fremde,
gefährliche Regionen der Wildnis Vordringen. Bia,
tondoi und der Geist der Visionen stellen die frem-
den Mächte dar, die Mächte der Wildnis, denen das
Individuum in bestimmten Situationen ausgeliefert
ist, die aber im rituellen Kontext beherrscht wer-
den können. Dieser mit dem Anderen der eigenen
Kultur identifizierte Teil der sozialen Person wird
vom Filmemacher oder Photographen gestohlen.
Sowohl Songhai als auch Kashinawa und Tugen
nehmen das Filmen und Photographieren für einen
Diebstahl.
Die Frage, wem die Photographie oder das
Filmbild eines Menschen gehöre, stellte sich auch
mit dem Aufkommen von Photographie und Film
bei uns im letzten Jahrhundert.8 Aus der Wirklich-
keit, die im Film oder in der Photographie reprodu-
ziert wurde, mußte ein Rechtsobjekt gemacht wer-
den. Denn die Realität, die das photographische
Bild reproduzierte, gehörte schon immer irgend
jemandem. Das Recht mußte also eine Kategorie
schaffen, die es erlaubte, sich anzueignen, was
bereits angeeignet war.
Die Rechtsprechung schrieb fest, daß jeder
Mensch einen Rechtsanspruch auf sein Bild habe.
Ohne seine Zustimmung durfte ein Bild von ihm
nicht genommen werden. Er allein konnte es ver-
äußern. Doch trat neben diesen Rechtsgrundsatz
noch ein zweiter, der mit dem ersten in einen
Widerspruch geriet und den allein, so scheint mir,
8 Im folgenden Absatz beziehe ich mich auf Edelmann 1973.
Seine Ausführungen gelten vor allem für die Rechtspre-
chung in Frankreich, weniger für die Deutschlands oder
Englands.
Anthropos 85.1990
570
Berichte und Kommentare
die westlichen Gesellschaften, in denen Film und
Photographie entstanden, entwickeln konnten. Zu
Beginn des Aufkommens der Photographie war
der Photograph nichts anderes als ein Arbeiter,
der eine Maschine bediente und ein Plagiat der
Natur hervorbrachte, das allen gehörte. Erst als
Photographie und Film zu Industriezweigen wur-
den und auf dem Markt als Waren zu zirkulieren
begannen, wurde der Photograph zum Künstler
erklärt, der das Bild, das er hervorbrachte, auf eine
ihm eigene Weise beseelte. Mit dem Anspruch,
nicht nur Plagiator, sondern Schöpfer der Bilder
zu sein, konnte er sich als Rechtssubjekt setzen
und das Eigentumsrecht über die Bilder erlangen.
Die Rechtsprechung folgte hier den allgemeinen
Eigentumsgesetzen der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft:
Wer Eigentümer der Produktionsmittel ist, dem
gehören auch die Produkte, die mit Hilfe dieser
Produktionsmittel produziert werden.
Songhai, Kashinawa und Tugen kennen allein
den Rechtsanspruch einer Person auf ihr Abbild.
Doch ist der Verlust dieses Abbildes eigentlich
mehr als ein Diebstahl. Weil hia, tondoi und der
Geist der Visionen lebenswichtiger Teil der so-
zialen Person sind, ist ihr Diebstahl ein Angriff
auf das Leben des Bestohlenen. Denn der Verlust
des Abbildes kann zum Tod des Opfers führen.
Deshalb ist die Rückgabe der gestohlenen Bilder
unabdingbar.
Die hier wiedergegebenen Vorstellungen über
Photographie und Film sind nicht zu verallgemei-
nern. Sie halten nur einen Moment der Geschichte
der Aneignung fremder Dinge fest. Denn jedes
Ding - ob fremd oder nicht - hat eine kulturelle
Biographie (vgl. Kopytoff 1986: 64 ff.), die es
noch zu schreiben gilt. Bedeutungen und Funk-
tionen von Dingen verändern sich: Diese können
ihre Fremdheit und Bedrohlichkeit verlieren und
vertraut werden. Sie können entzaubert werden,
aber auch neuen Zauber gewinnen.9 Interessen und
Wünsche treiben die Menschen, auf die Dinge
9 Die Mitglieder einer unabhängigen afrikanischen Kirche,
der “Church of Bethlehem”, deren Prophetin, Mary Akat-
sa, in einem Slum von Nairobi lebt, predigt und heilt,
lassen Photographien von Kranken oder Sterbenden, die
die Prophetin selbst nicht mehr aufsuchen können, von ihr
segnen und dadurch heilen. Ein etwa zehnjähriger Junge,
der bereits als tot galt, wurde mit Hilfe einer gesegneten
Photographie wieder zum Leben erweckt. Vgl. meinen Film
„Mary Akatsa, Prophetin“ (1989).
einzuwirken. Es ist aber nicht immer sicher, wer
wen treibt. In einem kleinen Film, den Jean Rouch
bei den Songhai drehte, konnte er zeigen, daß die
Anwesenheit der Kamera die Besessenheit eines
Priesters, die auszubleiben drohte, auslöste.10
Zitierte Literatur
Behrend, H.
1987 Die Zeit geht krumme Wege. Raum, Zeit und Ritual bei
den Tugen in Kenia. Frankfurt: Campus Verlag.
Bellman, Béryl L., and Bennedetta Jules-Rosette
1977 A Paradigm for Looking. Cross-Cultural Research with
Visual Media. Norwood.
Edelmann, B.
1973 Le droit saisie par la photographie. Paris. [Auszug über-
setzt in Filmkritik 218.1975]
Gadamer, Hans-Georg
1988 Platon als Portraitist. Vortrag gehalten am 29.2. 1988
in der Glyptothek München. Herausgegeben vom Ver-
ein der Freunde und Förderer der Glyptothek und der
Antikensammlungen München e. V.
Keifenheim, B.
1987 Wenn Bilder auf die Reise gehen. In: Rolf Husmann
(Hrsg.), Mit der Kamera in fremden Kulturen. Emsdet-
ten: Gehling.
Kramer, Fritz
1987 Der rote Fez. Über Besessenheit und Kunst in Afrika.
Frankfurt: Athenäum.
Kopytoff, Igor
1986 The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as
Process. In; Arjun Appadurai (ed.), The Social Life of
Things. Cambridge; Cambridge Univ. Press.
Rouch, Jean
1960 La religion et la magie songhai. Paris: Presses Univer-
sitaires de France.
1981 Essai sur les avatars de la personne du possédé, du
magicien, du sorcier, du cinéaste et de l’ethnographe. In:
La notion de la personne en Afrique noire. Paris: CNRS.
[Übersetzt in Kinemathek-Heft Film und Ethnographie
60, Dezember 1982]
Worth, Sol, and John Adair
1975 Through Navajo Eyes. Bloomington: Indiana University
Press.
10 Es handelt sich um den Film «Tourou», eine Plansequenz
von 8 Minuten aus dem Jahr 1971.
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
Anderson, Martha G., and Christine Mullen
Kreamer: Wild Spirits Strong Medicine. African Art
and the Wilderness. Ed. by Enid Schildkrout. Photo-
graphs by Jerry L. Thompson. Seattle: University of
Washington Press; New York: The Center for African
Art, 1989. 152 pp., map, photos. Price: $37.50
The very well-documented analysis, the interre-
gional and thematic focus, as well as J. L. Thompson’s
splendid photographs - quite exempt of voyeurist exot-
icism - of performances and masterpieces of visual art
from 67 societies in West and Central Africa, make this
catalogue most insightful and enjoyable.
Drawing on interregional cults of affliction and
widespread mythic lore, cosmologies, dramaturgy, and
patterns of nonverbal body symbolism (viz., scenes of
performance, dance, mime, adornment, healing prac-
tices) the editor, Enid Schildkrout, and the authors en-
deavor to find a thematic approach to works of African
art including sculpture, drawing, masquerades, shrines,
and medicines.
For their approach, the authors draw on Claude
Lévi-Strauss’ models of dual classification that differ-
entiate among others between wild and domesticated,
nature and culture, female and male, water or bush
spirits on the one hand and ancestral spirits on the other.
Schildkrout argues that such an analysis holds for visual
art in agricultural African societies; agriculturalists aim
at ritually compensating for their insufficient techno-
logical mastery and control over the environment. The
editor states that the same binary approach would prove
improper for art forms in nomadic societies of herders
and hunter-gatherers.
Many artistic performances are a symbolic search
for mastery over the wild, unpredictable, unseen, or
over intrusive agencies (ranging from predators, wasting
diseases, raging epidemics, slave traders, colonial agents
and institutions), as contrasted to the qualities of orderly
village life (chap. 1). The works of art may also aim at
ritually transforming wild-life into potent metaphors and
sources of initiatory transformation and order, as is well
documented for the Lega of Zaire (chap. 2). Works of
art, moreover, aim at ritually transforming wild-life into
fertility (chap. 3), or into divinatory insight, and sources
of medicines, game and hunting skills, as represented
by Songye figures (chap. 4), or into instances of power
and authority, as exemplified among others by the royal
arts of the Cameroon grasslands (chap. 5).
In ritual performances, the hush and forest often
appear as associated with angry and malevolent wil-
derness spirits, that is with the domain of anti-order,
menace, ugliness, and disease. However, untamable wa-
ter spirits, associated with rain or draught, river or
sea, seem to represent more benevolent, but subsocial
sources of fecundity, health, good luck, wealth, social
change, enhancement, and power. Water spirits appear
in cosmogonic rituals of healing or of enthronement
that reenact the foetal development and birth of the
individual, that portray the individual’s sexual matura-
tion, or that aim at enhancing the productivity of crops.
In contrast with bush and forest spirits, water spirits
and their imagery are more often associated with forms
of unprecedented intrusion by foreigners, slave traders,
and Europeans, who brought promising new kinds of
wealth, and who for hundreds of years dealt with African
people from dockside stations supplied by ships and
river boats.
Artistic performance and works of art, in the con-
texts of initiation, divination, healing, and political rit-
ual, may depict and even control the transition from
lawlessness, chaos, indivisibility, or wilderness to form,
man-made divisions and boundaries, law and sequence
in village life. Whereas the book argues that the agricul-
tural mode of production may form the binary pattern
under consideration, I would moreover search for basic
models in the village mode of settlement, behavior,
and production. Does village life as contrasted to the
surrounding bush or forest, not underly the way in
which works of art are portraying the transformation
from formlessness to form, from chaos or anti-order
to order, from wilderness to wild-life control and law,
from hidden harm to divinatory revelation, from deadly
sorcery to healing and social order, from the promiscuity
of witches to sanctioned forms of (re)production? In
lines with these oppositions, distinctions between male
and female, senior and junior, chief and commoner,
good-health and ill-health, and so on, give rise to gen-
der-based varieties of spaces, activities, bodily hexis,
colors, adornment, and works and styles of art.
Let it suffice to suggest here that the adopted per-
spective is most heuristic and innovating in the domain
of African art studies. In line with post-structuralist
anthropology, the analysis should focus even more on
concrete art performance, as, for example, on rituals,
cults, cosmogonic drama that produce or re-empower the
Anthropos 85.1990
572
Rezensionen
works of art and that give form to the very transforma-
tion from wilderness to social life. Moreover, it would
be fascinating to examine why some African cultures
do not develop visual works of art at all: what is its
effect on other artistic productions like rhetorics, song,
and dance? Analyzing the transformation of wilderness
through and into art production, the present study is
itself a contribution to an innovative transformation of
African art theory. René Devisch
Andrews, Peter Alford (ed.): Ethnie Groups in the
Republic of Turkey. Wiesbaden; Dr. Ludwig Reichert
Verlag, 1989. 659 pp., maps, tab., fig. (Beihefte zum
Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, Reihe B: Geistes-
wissenschaften, 60) Preis: DM220,-
Mit dem von Peter A. Andrews herausgegebenen
Band “Ethnie Groups in the Republic of Turkey” ist ein
außergewöhnliches Handbuch über die in der Republik
Türkei lebenden ethnischen Gruppen erschienen. Dabei
ist besonders hervorzuheben, daß der Herausgeber sich
bemüht hat, sich den sehr komplexen Problemen, die das
Thema aufwirft, zu stellen und ihnen in der Gliederung
des Bandes wie in der Auswahl der Beiträge gerecht zu
werden.
Dies betrifft vor allem das Problem des Begriffs
selber: Bei „ethnischem Selbstverständnis“, „ethnischer
Zugehörigkeit“ bzw. „Ethnizität“ handelt es sich nicht
nur um komplexe Definitionsphänomene, bei denen Bin-
nensicht und Fremdeinschätzung (oder Fremdstereoty-
pisierung) sich nicht nur gegenseitig beeinflussen und
bestimmen, sondern auch um Klassifikationsphänomene
und Strategien, mit denen symbolische Gewalt ausgeübt
wird - um Phänomene mithin, mit denen politische
Ansprüche erhoben bzw. abgewehrt werden können.
Dies aber bedingt den außerordentlich fluiden Charakter
des Phänomens. Letztendlich wird man es, wie der Her-
ausgeber, bei der selbstreferentiellen Definition belassen
müssen, nach der eine ethnische Gruppe eine Gruppe ist,
die sich als solche versteht. Darin ist enthalten, daß je-
derzeit eine Gruppe (oder die Fraktion einer Gruppe)
beginnen kann, den Gegensatz zu anderen Gruppen, der
bisher etwa als religiöser bestimmt wurde, nun ethnisch
zu fassen und damit den Unterschied in den „Kulturen“
in den Vordergrund zu stellen. Prozesse dieser Art finden
zur Zeit etwa bei den Süryani und den Aleviten statt, wo
es einen wohl auch generationsbedingten Konflikt gibt,
der darum kreist, ob man die Gruppenidentität primär
religiös oder ethnisch begreift.
Die Unterteilung in einen eher lexikalischen und in
einen analytischen Teil, die der Herausgeber des Hand-
buches getroffen hat, scheint mir ein gangbarer Weg zu
sein, um diesen Schwierigkeiten zu begegnen. In dem
lexikalischen Teil wurde zunächst der Begriff der „ethni-
schen Gruppe“ sehr weit gefaßt. Es wird ein möglichst
vollständiger Überblick über die verschiedenen Gruppen
mit einer deutlich abgegrenzten Identität gegeben (das
gewählte Kriterium ist Endogamie) und dabei außer acht
gelassen, ob dieses Selbstverständnis nun zunächst die
Sprache, die Religion oder die soziale Organisation zur
Grundlage hat - aufgenommen sind also auch Gruppen,
die man auf den ersten Blick beispielsweise als religiöse,
nicht aber unbedingt als ethnische Gruppen auffassen
würde (und die sich selbst so sehen). Dies scheint mir
gerechtfertigt, weil hiermit gleichsam die Basis für po-
tentielle ethnische Bewegungen erfaßt ist. Dieser lexi-
kalische Teil umfaßt 1. einen Katalog von 47 ethnischen
Gruppen mit einer knappen Charakteristik (Fremd- und
Selbstbezeichnungen, Größe, geographische Verteilung,
Sprache, Religion und Grundlage des Selbstverständ-
nisses); 2. surveys über einzelne Regionen und 3. eine
Auflistung ethnischer Gruppen nach Regionen.
In der von Andrews verfaßten sehr lesenswer-
ten Einleitung und im analytischen Teil wird dage-
gen in mehreren verschiedenen Einzeldarstellungen eher
den fluiden Definitions-, Wahmehmungs- und Klassi-
fikationsprozessen Rechnung getragen; So zeigt etwa
R. Benninghaus, wie unterschiedlich die Klassifikation
„Laz“ gehandhabt wird, oder M. M. van Bruinessen,
welche komplexen Probleme von Außensicht und Bin-
nensicht sich mit der Klassifikation „Kurde“ verbin-
den. Angesprochen werden ebenfalls die Konsequenzen
von gesellschaftlichem Wandel - Urbanisierung, inter-
nationaler Migration, Verlust einer identitätsstiftenden
beruflichen Basis - auf ethnisches Bewußtsein. Die-
se Umstrukturierungsversuche machen es notwendig,
eine vorher als selbstverständlich gegebene ethnische
und soziokulturelle Identität bewußt zu begründen: Sie
muß zum Teil, wie P. J. Bumke zeigt, neu begründet
werden; nicht selten erweist es sich als notwendig, kul-
turelle Traditionen erneut zu rekonstruieren, wenn nicht
gar, wie van Bruinessen für kurdische Gruppen zeigt,
neu zu erfinden. Es versteht sich, daß diese Neudefi-
nitionen auch fehlschlagen können; So erwähnt B. Öz-
bek mißlungene Versuche, eine „kaukasische“ ethnische
Identität zu begründen.
Der Band macht jedoch ebenfalls auf den von
Andrews zu Recht als „inadäquat“ bezeichneten Stand
der ethnologischen Erforschung der Türkei aufmerksam.
Die Ursachen liegen wohl hauptsächlich in dem eminent
politischen Charakter der Ethnizität und dem damit zu-
sammenhängenden Umgang des türkischen Zentralstaa-
tes mit ethnischen Gruppen. Die für einen Vielvölker-
staat bemerkenswert konsequent betriebene Weigerung,
kulturelle Differenzen zu akzeptieren, oder der nicht nur
im Fall der Kurden massiv vorangetriebene Versuch, an-
dere Kulturen zu zerstören, führte auch zu einer massi-
ven Einschränkung der Forschung auf dem Gebiet. Dies
drückt sich im lexikalischen Teil in der trotz energischer
Anstrengung unvollständig gebliebenen Auflistung der
Dörfer ethnischer Minderheiten aus.
Noch schmerzhafter werden die Lücken der For-
schung bewußt, wenn man sich dem analytischen Teil
zuwendet. So mußten für die Darstellung der jüdischen
und christlichen Minderheiten nichtethnologische Spe-
zialisten gewonnen werden, weil ethnologische Dar-
stellungen nicht existieren. Die Problematik zeigt sich
jedoch auch bei anderen Artikeln: Es ist bezeichnend,
daß viele der Artikel historischen Charakter tragen. Als
Anthropos 85.1990
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573
Ethnologe vermißt man häufig genaue Ausführungen zur
sozialen und politischen Ordnung - mit Ausnahme der
Artikel von P. J. Bumke (alevitische Kurden), A. Gokalp
(alevitische Nomaden), L. Yal?in (kurdische Stämme in
Hakkari) und - allerdings etwas knapp - I. Svanberg
(Pakistanische Flüchtlinge). Es ist keine Ausnahme,
wenn sich etwa B. Özbek in bezug auf die Tscherkes-
sen auf die lapidare Bemerkung beschränkt, daß „von
der traditionellen tscherkessischen Klasseneinteilung ...
heute in der Türkei wenig mehr als die Terminologie
überlebt“ habe (588): Es ist mit Sicherheit so, daß die
Migration in die Türkei weitgehenden Einfluß auf die
soziale Ordnung hatte (dies gilt nicht nur für die kom-
plexe soziale Schichtung, sondern auch etwa für das
Heiratsverbot innerhalb von sieben Generationen). Es
reicht m. E. indes nicht, diese nur negativ zu fassen: Die
Frage wäre, welchen Bedeutungswandel diese für das
Selbstverständnis zentralen Institutionen erlebt haben.
Hinweise in die Richtung, in die zu fragen wäre, gibt
etwa Yal^ins Diskussion des Tribalismus. Dies ist -
darauf möchte ich hinweisen - weniger den Autoren
anzulasten, als daß es die allgemeine Forschungssitua-
tion reflektiert: Gerade die Darstellung von sozialer
Organisation ist nicht von außen möglich, sondern er-
fordert Feldforschung, die in der Türkei auf Grund des
politischen Drucks nur in Ausnahmefällen möglich ist.
Kurz: Bei dem Handbuch handelt es sich eher
um eine notwendige und unverzichtbare Ausgangsbasis
für die weitere ethnologische Forschung der Türkei, als
um eine abschließende Bestandsaufnahme. Es ist nicht
zuletzt das Verdienst des Herausgebers, dies in aller
Deutlichkeit herausgestellt zu haben.
Werner Schiffauer
Barber, Karin, and P. F. de Moraes Farias (eds.):
Discourse and its Disguises. The Interpretation of Afri-
can Oral Texts. Birmingham: Centre of West African
Studies, 1989. 209 pp., fig., map. (Birmingham Univer-
sity African Studies Series, 1) Price: £6.95
Perrot, Claude-Hélène (éd.); Sources orales de
l’histoire de l’Afrique. Paris: Editions du CNRS, 1989.
228 pp., tabl., fig., cartes, ph. Prix: FF 165,00
“Discourse and its Disguises,” a bouquet of twelve
essays, is the fruit of a 1987 conference held at the
Centre in Birmingham in 1987. Contributors approached
oral works from a variety of angles which the editors
have presented under three main headings: “Orality,
History, and Criticism,” “Africa and Europe: Indigenous
and Imposed Discourses,” and “Stratification, Islam, and
the Production of Texts.” In the first section papers deal
successively with Yoruba oriki (Barber), Hausa poetry
(Fumiss), the notion of poetic licence (White), a discus-
sion of the art of performance, labeled “oracy” with Kru
examples from Liberia (Tonkin), and a presentation of
Zulu praise poetry for trade unions (Gunner). On the
whole the authors are much concerned with the Sitz
im Leben of oral art and its meaning in contemporary
settings, a meaning that varies from evocation of the past
to a presentation of a position in an ongoing debate,
a licence to freely criticize, or a shaping of workers’
consciousness.
The next section has less internal unity than the
first. The three papers deal respectively with the prob-
lems of translation (Yai), the way Asante reason about
“Asante matters” as opposed to a foreign interpretation
(McCaskie), and the ritualization of the recitation of
Islamic holy texts (Brenner). All three of these papers
are difficult to fully grasp, but worth the effort. The
most crucial among them is McCaskie’s: How did and
do Asante grasp Asante’s past and present as distinct
from Western scholars?
The third section contrasts with the first two in that
it contains a much more straightforward presentation of
particular issues and deals with a small part of western
West Africa. These are the oral traditions of women of
servile conditions in Jaara (Mamadou Diawara), Tukulor
weavers’ songs (Dilley), the pilgrimage to a “pagan”
Mecca in Mandenka stories of origin (de Moraes Farias),
and an interpretation of the famous buffalo-woman tale
in the Sunjata epic (Bulman). The first two papers deal
with traditions of despised and casted groups, while the
two last are concerned with the history of and about the
elites.
The introduction explains that the conference call-
ed for better ways to interpret oral texts than were prac-
ticed hitherto both by literary analysts and historians.
The result was twelve contributions and twelve different
angles of approach. But there were some common find-
ings. Meaning as an expression of fact or opinion cannot
be read off from texts nor can context elucidate meaning.
Texts are first produced in a past, transmitted in a past,
and many texts are about the past, but performance
is in a present. Texts are a product of a community
or an individual, and the sociology of this production
must be taken into account. No “society” or “people”
is culturally homogeneous, and certainly not a cultural
monolith. All of these findings are important although I
disagree with the use of the notion of “text” rather than
“utterance.” The latter stresses the connections between
ephemeral performance and mnemonic continuity, be-
tween one utterance and a remembered corpus, between
audience expectation and actual utterance, which are all
crucial yet ignored by the notion of “text.” And certainly
Yai and McCaskie hold a similar view.
The most important finding of all authors certainly
is that there is no fundamental dichotomy between “oral
culture” and “literate culture,” pace Parry and Lord (3),
even if the writing-centred view of the world of scholars
goes deeper than is usually thought. Let me add that
“an oral mode of thought” does not exist because all
humans share the same mental and mnemonic dynamics
(both oral and visual); to defend such a mode of thought
as opposed to a “scriptural mode of thought” is merely
to recreate a inferior “other” and to revive the odious
distinction between “civilization” and “savagery.”
It is useful to compare this collection of papers to
the one edited in the same year by C.-H. Perrot, G. Gon-
nin, and F. Nahimana as “Sources orales de 1’histoire de
Anthropos 85.1990
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Rezensionen
1’Afrique.” The emphasis here is much more focused on
oral works as a source with which to construct history.
Hence the subdivisions: the sources for the past of a
society, the diversity of the traces of the past in an
oral culture, from genealogy to history, and, invariance
and mobility of sources. The French collection does not
really raise the hermeneutic issue of knowability; can
scholars steeped in western culture of histories in Africa
grasp the message and meaning of oral sources in a valid
way and, among others, use them to reconstruct history.
Here the standard methodology of history is taken to be
valid universally, the goals and perspectives of western
historians are not questioned, and the book argues by
demonstration that oral works can be used as sources,
in a great variety of manifestations (for instance objects,
places, songs, religious ritual, masks), given due caution
regarding the remodeling of sources as a society reflects
on its past.
Practicing historians will no doubt relate better
to the vision from Paris than to the vision from Bir-
mingham. The Paris school incites one to get on with
the job without paralyzing doubts! But if they want
to produce studies of lasting value, even this group
of scholars studying oral traditions would do well to
ponder the discourse from Birmingham, however tan-
gled and opaque it may seem to them at first sight,
because their task is to reconstruct a most probable
history of Africa, a history in which perceptions and
motivations approximate as much as possible those of
the actors in the past. On the other hand, those who are
mesmerized by the ever shifting colors of oral utterances
as expressions of original thought, should accept the
contemporary African need for a most probable history.
J. Vansina
Barnes, Sandra T. (ed.): Africa’s Ogun. Old
World and New. Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
1989. xi + 274 pp., fig., photos, maps. Price: $ 19.95
In the Preface, the editor explains the force behind
her inquiries regarding the vitality which the Yoruba
spirit Ogun enjoys throughout a relatively large portion
of central and southern Nigeria, as well as in many parts
of Latin America, even after the advent of Christianity.
Her inquisitiveness inspired her to assemble original
contributions from respected authors and experts in
Western African religious systems.
The book is divided into ten chapters, the first of
which is the Introduction, written by Barnes. Chapters 2
through 5 (Part One) discuss histories and the diaspora
of Ogun throughout Africa and the New World, while
6 through 10 (Part Two) speak of the many meanings
Ogun has as seen in various art forms, including ritual
and myth. In Chapter 1, Barnes explores the philosophy
responsible for the many faces of Ogun and how this
divinity is characteristic of the many other spirits pres-
ent in the African pantheons. The interactions between
humans and deities are an essential part of the African
ethos as experienced in sacrifice, divination, and pos-
session. Herein, the participants express pragmatism as
well as the many facets of human nature with all its
foibles, emotions, and personality traits.
The question of Ogun’s birth and survival is con-
nected with his importance within the so-called “sacred
iron complex” which generated an apotheosis of a be-
ing who grew out of common beliefs concerning the
mystical properties of iron and the acquired strength
of the people who use iron utensils. Overall, Ogun is
the product of an historical accumulation of ideas and
legends which has developed along distinct lines in
diverse societies, molded by historical circumstances.
Not only did Ogun blend with forms of Christianity in
the New World, but in the Old as well, where Islam has
also played an important part in shaping popular creeds.
A few pages are devoted to a methodology for
understanding the multifaceted meanings Ogun intrinsi-
cally contains. It is through a polythetic classification
of overlapping features which combine in sets, each
having a majority of these features, that will prove
powerful enough to define and comprehend the many
tangential points stemming from diverse geographic and
historical domains, but which serve to obtain heuristic
and hermeneutic ends.
Throughout the book one is confronted with the
paradox of creation and destruction existing within the
same entity yet not opposing one another. Bames at-
tempts to explain this phenomenon in Chapter 1 by
presenting some aspects of a general African philosophy
which accepts such opposite traits within one personage
as two distinct sides of the same coin which, after all,
is a representation of our human frailties and strengths.
Ogun, then, is the split personality figure who becomes
enraged and kills wildly, and then repents bitterly as
he absconds into solitude to mourn his uncontrollable
anger. This, in turn, is a symbol of human nature and
human destiny and the key for resolving the problem
of how to reconcile the need for constraints versus the
need for freedom. Ogun is a complex and root metaphor
(S.C. Pepper, World Hypotheses. Berkeley 1966: 91 f.)
(an antonomasia or metalepsis) and as such operates
across cultures as he changes over time. This plurality
is explored in different ways in the chapters that follow.
In Chapter 2, Robert G. Armstrong seeks possible
etymologies for the word Ogun and begins by agreeing
with Bames that the concept may indeed have sprung
from varying sources and separate cults. Similar myths
as well as cognate words are considered while trying
to piece together the sources giving rise to the Ogun
figure. Within this context, the Idoma word dgwu is con-
sidered as phonetically and semantically (an abstraction
referring to hunting, war, and iron) similar enough to
the Yoruba Ogun that it may be one of the sources,
in addition to Igbo dgbu “killer.” At the same time, by
exploring the various sememes of each cognate, looking
not only at the concept of iron but also those of hunting
and warring, one may broaden the search for origins.
Armstrong does this in part by presenting two Idoma
texts gathered in situ which speak of these additional
concepts.
Anthropos 85.1990
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575
Sandra T. Barnes and Paula Girshick Ben-Amos
authored Chapter 3, which explores the expansion of the
Edo, Fon, and Yorùbâ states along the Guinea Coast
between 1400 and 1700. They all shared a symbol-
ic complex centering around Ogfin made up of iron,
warfare, and statebuilding. Ogün cognition then spread
and grew in like fashion among these states, taking
on symbolic meanings of hunting, agriculture, metallur-
gy, urbanization, and finally the formation of empires.
Through a series of sections devoted to iron technology,
warfare, kingship, interaction between peoples of differ-
ent political and cultural backgrounds, sharing beliefs,
and finally Ogun symbolism, the authors demonstrate
how basic symbolic meanings were shared and how
this all developed into ideologies of progress which
explained the hegemony enjoyed by these three states.
In Chapter 4 Karen McCarthy Brown discusses the
history and the sociopolitical structures of Haiti vis-à-vis
Ogou as he has taken shape in this Caribbean country.
The Ogou figures (there are many Ogou in Haiti) are
compared to the Rada and Petro pantheons in light of
the inevitable changes occurring as cultural symbols
that are molded by the social structures into which they
are placed. These Ogou function as mediators between
the opposed social stances of the Rada and the Petro.
As such, they display certain characteristics which are
defined and exemplified through songs: the power of
Ogou against his enemies, against his followers, and
against himself, all within the context of Vodou worship.
Herein, we see how the Haitian Ogou acts and reacts
to diverse social situations and how the Ogou symbol
has acquired the new dimensions of slave persecutions,
ambivalent anger, and loneliness, which faithfully re-
flect the Haitian’s saga of historical and socioeconomic
struggles.
Renato Ordiz studies the relation between the rise
of Umbanda in Brazil and the place Ogum occupies
within this relatively new urban cult. First, we are pro-
vided a comparison between Candomblé and Umbanda
where we find different Ogums appearing with distinct
roles. Through examples of some “point songs” and
sociohistorical explanations, we discover that the Ogum
of Candomblé is one orixâ among many whereas in
Umbanda he has been elevated to a symbol of national
identity. As such he takes his place among other media
which have proclaimed Brazilianism since the declara-
tion of independence in the nineteenth century.
The second part of the book opens with a rather
long article by John Pemberton III who presents ex-
amples of festival songs, photographs, and prose ex-
planations of Ogun as a dreadful god and a divine king.
As in the entire second section, there are many quotes
written in the original Yorùbâ, with English translations.
These passages convey a sense of the phonetic texture
felt within the proclamations of the chants even though
the reader may not know Yorùbâ. They are part of the
descriptions of two civic festivals held in the town of Ila-
Orangun in which Ogun figures prominently; the first,
called Odun Ogun, is held in June, and the other, Odun
Oro, in early September. Emphasis is placed in the ritual
segments of each, the so-called “Iwa Ogun” and the
“Iwa Aso.” In both oral traditions, the main theme deals
with the realities and ambiguities of human violence,
which creates and destroys; in them the Yorübá realize
that social and political accord may be achieved through
submission to a cultural power which is able to transcend
the awesomeness of Ogun. In about 24 pages of text
and an illustration of the ritual space and participants,
we are informed, through the use of detailed analyses,
of the actions, wardrobe, and paraphernalia employed in
each ritual, as well as of the symbolism inherent therein.
Special care is taken to explain complex concepts such
as the áse and the power of the oba or king, whose
crown has supernatural powers and may be understood
only in the context of the ritualistic performance. The
ritual, in turn, denotes the special power of the kingship,
which is akin to that of the gods who gave it to the
people originally. The perpetual struggle for power be-
tween the chiefs and the king, as seen in Yorübá history,
is reflected in these rituals, as they oppose the potential
threat of tyranny within the king figure as well as the
threat of discord among descent groups. Solidarity is
ultimately achieved through the homage paid to Ogfin
by the king in recognition of the fact that this deity will
indeed bring peace and perpetuate the society.
Adeboye Babalola paints a portrait of Ogun as
seen in ijálá chants in Chapter 7. These chants, used to
entertain and greet Ogfin, are replete with contradictions
and so should be analyzed in the light of a universal
contradiction which Ogfin symbolizes, i.e., that humans
are strong and weak at the same time. The ijálá chants,
then, are a true reflection of reality. As in previous
chapters, Ogfin is seen as a terribly complex figure
whose many contradictions and variations help explain
his total character. After presenting arguments for the
ijálá having had its origin in the deity Erinle, and not
Ogfin, Babalola proceeds by offering many examples of
chants which describe the multifaceted personality of
Ogfin and how it fits perfectly within the framework of
mankind’s destiny - the struggle between good and evil.
Other chants show how Ogfin is like a Robin Hood fig-
ure, taking from the rich to give to the poor, while others
sing of the protection given to his faithful dependents.
Still others recall his solitary nature and draw attention
to his clothes, which are bright red, symbolizing his
belligerent nature and unwieldy rage. As in other parts
of the book, mention is also made of the máriwó or fresh
palm fronds, with which Ogfin girds himself; they have
significance mainly as they signal the close presence of a
deity in modem Yorübá society. It is perhaps noteworthy
that the Brazilian Ogfin wears neither red nor palm
fronds, but rather is normally depicted in blue, wearing
cloth pantalettes under a skirt. Throughout Yorubaland,
Ogfin enjoys universal fame and is often associated with
kingship since he is related to Oduduwa, the founder of
all the Yorübá. Those Yorübá rulers who can trace their
ancestry back to a human figure who founded a set-
tlement with Ogfin (those settlements which are known
for some specific trait belonging to Ogfin) are especially
fortunate since they bring prestige to a community as the
Anthropos 85.1990
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Rezensionen
community itself gains honor and fame because of its
unique history.
Examples of oral traditions, explicatory prose, and
many photographs form Chapters, written by ’Bade
Ajuwon, which concentrate on the Iremoje of Ogiin, a
series of poetic chants sung at funeral ceremonies held
for deceased hunters. Here the author provides us with
detailed accounts of the ritual performances, as first the
living say farewell to the dead, and then the praises of
Ogtin are sung, emphasizing his traits as an innovator,
founder, and leader, all demanding self-reliance. In the
iremoje, the hunter is depicted as a versatile but lonely
member of society who altruistically provides for that
society.
The importance of wearing charms is brought to
the fore, as we are told of the special iron armlets
used for protection while also symbolizing manliness
and power. It is significant to note that during the Agbe-
koya Uprising in 1968-69 in the Ibadan area, iron arm-
lets were worn by the protesting farmers, who felt them
to be a very important part of their armour! In sum,
the Iremoje express three important facets of Oglin’s
philosophy: (1) humans are essentially alone, (2) the best
of individuals will take leadership roles, and (3) generic
man is judged by his own achievements. All of this
represents an ontological entelechy within a teleological
framework.
In Chapter 9, Margaret T. Drewal explores the
symbolism present in verbage and dance in Ogiin pos-
session dance trances in Nigeria and Brazil. Through the
semantic and phonetic power of words, the Yoruba are
able to invoke the dynamics present in the universe and
thus provoke mental images which are intimately con-
nected with the physical arrangements of dance. When
one utters the name of something, it can be brought into
actual existence. Citing Pierre Verger, Drewal shows
how the power of words, especially the so-called act-
ing verbs, cause the juxtaposition of the spiritual and
physical worlds when uttered. By the same token, the
expressiveness of dance evokes the dynamic qualities
of divine essences as the mediums are ridden, as horses,
by the spirits during possession. The author presents a
splendid hermeneutic summary of the dances in western
Yorubaland and in Bahia, Brazil, discussing not only
Ogiin’s role, but also the importance of other orixd,
such as Oxossi and Oxumare. The text is accompanied
by expressive photographs which add immensely to the
understanding of the ceremonies, as do the citations
in the original Yoruba language. In her comparison of
the ceremonies in the two countries, Drewal points out
the importance in Bahia of the dance as mime of what
Ogiin actually does during the performances, since the
meanings of the oral literature have been lost for the
most part, whereas in Africa this is not the case. Also,
the emphasis in religious contexts of the left is not at
all as evident as it is in Nigeria where lefthandedness
is a sign of spiritual communication as well as of the
way in which the spiritual and the physical worlds are
kept separate from each other. In both Yorubaland and
in Bahia, it is the actual performance which invokes
and activates metaphysical forces through which Ogiin
is seen to be an explosive power which is tapped as a
means of helping to meet life’s demands.
Finally, Henry John Drewal contributes a piece
dealing with Yoriiba body artists. He begins by examin-
ing the attributes of Ogiin which are said to be very
important for the body artist who must depict them in
human flesh using delicate tools and a great deal of
dexterity. The Ogiin figure is particularly important for
the body artist simply because one of Ogiin’s “branches”
is that of the face-cutter-knives.
Much of the study is devoted to the nature of iron
and iron tools as they are used in the Yoriiba society,
to the types and significance of the body marks, and
to the tools and techniques of the body artist, after
which the author briefly discusses the interconnections
between the body marks, the artists, and Ogiin. Here
we learn that the marks themselves are signs of courage
and personal strength, which, of course, are attributes
of Ogiin. Also, like Ogiin, who creates order by helping
to form cities and cultivate the land, the body artist or
olöölä helps to create order by giving people the chance
to become part of a larger social and cosmic universe.
Other traits possessed by Ogiin and the body artists are
also discussed in light of the latter’s potpourri of skills
and personalities which clearly merge with the concepts
surrounding the former.
Even though the book emphasizes the African side
of Ogiin worship, history, personality traits, etc., it does
provide us with substantial information of a comparative
nature about this spirit figure as he exists on both sides
of the Atlantic. Perhaps more importantly, it gives an
overview and detailed analyses of the variety of concepts
surrounding the concept of Ogiin, many times as he is
compared to other spirits. The essays contained in the
book are well organized in that it begins with descrip-
tions of the multifaceted aspects of Ogiin, proceeds with
some historical aspects about the spirit, including possi-
ble etymologies of the name itself, after which we find
studies dealing with the anthropopathism, semasiology,
polysemy, and multifunctionality of the Ogiin figure as
it pervades the philosophies and lifestyles of Yorubaland
and their New World descendants. The heuristic aspects
in the book are particularly outstanding because of the
many photographs, illustrations, detailed explanations,
and materials presented in the original Yoriiba language,
which together produce a very fine holistic approach to
the reification of one particular numen that has not only
persisted in the face of possible extinction, but has even
gained in popularity through its polyphyletic descent and
its diaspora across the ocean.
William W. Megenney
Beck, Kurt: Die Kawähla von Kordofan. Ökologi-
sche und ökonomische Strategien arabischer Nomaden
im Sudan. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag Wiesbaden,
1988. 421 pp., Ktn., Fig., Tab. (Studien zur Kulturkunde,
85) Preis: DM 96,-
Kurt Beck erbringt mit seiner Monographie der
Anthropos 85.1990
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577
Kawähla von Kordofan m. E. vor allem zwei bemerkens-
werte Leistungen: Zum einen ergänzt er die Arbeiten
seiner Vorgänger, lan Cunnison und Talal Asad, die vor
allem Fragen der politischen Anthropologie nordkordo-
fanischer Nomaden (Baggara und Kababish) im Auge
hatten, um den zentralen und umfassenden Aspekt der
sozialen Organisation der Arbeit und ihrer Einbettung
in das ökologische Umfeld. Zum anderen verweist er
die volkswirtschaftliche und entwicklungssoziologische
Debatte über die Bedeutung des Pastoralismus mit Über-
zeugungskraft auf die Rationalität des Standpunktes der
Kawähla.
Im ersten, einleitenden Teil des Buches geht es
vor allem darum, anhand der Geschichte der Kawähla
zu zeigen, daß die heutigen „Stämme“ Kordofans ein
Ergebnis kolonialer Politik sind. Ehemals fluktuierende,
genealogisch dargestellte politisch-rechtliche Zugehö-
rigkeiten wurden von den Kolonialherren eingefroren,
indem sie sie als Verwaltungseinheiten benutzten. Um-
gekehrt konnten die Kawähla diesen Handlungsrahmen
geschickt ausnutzen und mit der Zeit zum Instrument
gegen den staatlichen Verwaltungsapparat ausbauen.
Auf Seite 140 beginnt mit dem zweiten Teil der
zentrale Argumentationsbogen, der über 260 Seiten bis
zum Schluß gespannt wird. Der hier ansetzende Auf-
bau des Buches enthält bereits die Kemaussage: Am
Anfang steht eine detaillierte Darstellung der Ökologie
Nordkordofans, besonders der Wasserverhältnisse und
der Vegetation. Daraus leiten sich die Tierarten ab, die
unter den gegebenen Umständen am besten gedeihen
können, und es ergeben sich die wichtigsten Kriterien
der „Hütesysteme“ sowie der Hirtenarbeit, die im drit-
ten Teil analysiert werden. Im vierten Teil geht es um
die daraus folgenden Strategien der Nutzenmaximie-
rung, die nicht nur ökologisch angepaßt, sondern auch
weitgehend marktorientiert sind, und die wiederum als
Grundlage der sozialen Organisation der Arbeit gelten,
die den fünften und sechsten Teil ausmachen.
Während die Kawähla den Anforderungen ihrer
Tiere, von denen sie leben, gerecht werden, müssen
die Tiere an die ökologischen Bedingungen angepaßt
sein. Die Hauptstrategie besteht darin, die Herden den
Weideverhältnissen so folgen zu lassen, wie sie sich
über das Jahr verändern, zumal nur eine hohe Mobi-
lität und Flexibilität die notwendige Regeneration der
Pflanzenwelt ermöglichen. Diese Art der Nutzung der
Umwelt setzt wiederum verschiedene gemeinschaftliche
Eigentumsrechte an Wasser und Weiden voraus. Auch
die Diversifizierung der Herden - die Kawähla züchten
Kamele, Rinder, Schafe und Ziegen - ist Teil dieser
Strategie. Daraus ergibt sich auf der anderen Seite auch
die Aufteilung der Familienverbände bzw. Wirtschafts-
einheiten: die Kamelhüter legen zwischen Regenzeit-
und Trockenzeitweiden viele hundert, die Rinderhüter
aber nur fünfzig bis sechzig Kilometer zurück.
Auch die Zusammensetzung der Familie wird im
Hinblick auf ihre Funktion als nomadischer Betrieb dar-
gestellt, und selbst die unter Arabern verbreitete patri-
laterale Parallelcousinenheirat erscheint nach Beck erst
auf diesem Hintergrund plausibel: Am Anfang der Ehe,
wenn das junge Paar noch keinen eigenen Haushalt be-
sitzt und der Mann für lange Phasen abwesend ist, kann
seine Frau den prekären Status der Schwiegertochter
leichter ertragen, wenn ihr Schwiegervater gleichzeitig
ihr patrilateraler Onkel ist.
Die Argumentationsstruktur nimmt zunächst einen
Determinismus der Ökologie an und leitet alles weitere
daraus ab, wodurch die Gefahr einer harmonisieren-
den Stilisierung der Kawähla zum „Naturvolk“ entsteht.
Doch die Gediegenheit der Feldforschung und die Ge-
nauigkeit der Analyse lassen eine solche Vereinfachung
letztlich nicht zu. Die Kawähla treten dem Leser als
moderne Zeitgenossen gegenüber, deren Tun als ver-
nünftiges Handeln transparent gemacht wird, auch und
gerade, wenn es um die komplexen Probleme natio-
naler Marktökonomie und staatlicher Verwaltung geht.
Beck zeigt, wie Subsistenzökonomie und Marktproduk-
tion unauflöslich miteinander verwoben sind; die Ka-
wähla verkaufen die meisten ihrer männlichen Tiere zur
Zeit des jährlichen Höchstpreises als Schlachtvieh, um
dadurch zum einen ihr Grundnahrungsmittel Hirse zu
erwerben; den Überschuß reinvestieren sie hingegen in
reproduktive Tiere, die sie nach komplexen Kriterien
zur Vergrößerung der Herden einsetzen. Daraus ergibt
sich nebenbei, daß erst alternative und ebenso attraktive
Investitionsmöglichkeiten das Anwachsen der Herden
unterbinden könnten.
Das „Lohnhirtenwesen“ ist ein weiterer Anknüp-
fungspunkt zwischen Geldwirtschaft und Subsistenzöko-
nomie. Etwa ein Drittel aller Herden Nordkordofans
werden nach Becks Schätzung von Knechten gehü-
tet, die Klientenfamilien des Eigentümers entstammen
oder durch fiktive Verwandtschaft mit ihm verbunden
sind. Trotz solcher und anderer Ausbeutungsverhältnisse
sind unter den Kawähla keine über Generationen stabi-
le Reichtumsunterschiede entstanden, denn eine Reihe
von Umverteilungszwängen, vertikalen Mobilitätschan-
cen sowie Seuchen und Dürrekatastrophen wirken da-
gegen.
Die voluminöse Arbeit gleicht einem Handbuch
der nomadischen Viehhaltung (allerdings ohne Index),
das einen Großteil der Überzeugungskraft aus der Be-
harrlichkeit gewinnt, mit der bis ins kleinste Detail
gegangen wird. Leider hat Beck, wie die meisten ethno-
logischen Autoren besonders des deutschen Sprachrau-
mes, die sich gerade über die Detailfreude anbietende
Chance der literarischen Darbietung für ein allgemei-
nes Publikum nicht aufgegriffen. Ich fürchte, er konnte
sein Ziel, möglichst genau zu beschreiben, nur für den
Preis erreichen, daß er das Durchhaltevermögen auch
desjenigen ethnologischen Lesers bisweilen strapaziert,
der weder als Nomadismusexperte noch als faszinierter
Sudanforscher zum Buch greift. Allzu häufig entwickelt
sich der Text nach dem Strickmuster der vollständigen
Aufzählung von Fakten und Perspektiven, die zu einer
Frage gehören.
Dadurch erzielt der Verfasser indes eine andere
Qualität: er erspart dem Leser nur wenige Schritte, die er
selbst gegangen ist, um seine Erkenntnisse zu gewinnen,
und macht seine Ethnographie dadurch mit einer selte-
Anthropos 85.1990
578
Rezensionen
nen Ehrlichkeit nachprüfbar. Diese Transparenz ergibt
sich m. E. aus der in der Einleitung dargelegten Feldfor-
schungsmethode: Beck lebte für fünfzehn Monate unter
den Kawähla, „saß“ dabei und „wartete“, bis ihm das
alltägliche Leben die Fragen und Antworten zuspielte.
Diese Vorgehensweise läßt den Ethnographen die Be-
deutung des realen Lebenszusammenhangs spüren und
baut in ihm Skrupel auf, die ihn später am Schreibtisch
daran hindern, erlebte Nuancen wegzustilisieren, um
dem Leser entgegenzukommen. Richard Rottenburg
Bischof-Okubo, Yukiko: Übernatürliche Wesen
im Glauben der Altvölker Taiwans. Frankfurt: Verlag
Peter Lang, 1989. 247 pp., Ktn., Abb. (Europäische
Hochschulschriften, Reihe 19/B: Ethnologie, 17) Preis:
sfr 56-
This monograph offers an extensive and ambitious
overview of religious concepts held by the ethnic mi-
norities of Taiwan, based on translation and evaluation
of primary source material, predominantly written in
Japanese and Chinese. It bridges a conspicuous gap in
Western perceptions of these minorities who very proba-
bly hold a key position in the question of Austronesian
origins.
A general introduction into the geographical and
historical environment is followed by a very detailed
research history, enumeration of source materials, a brief
discussion of ecological and sociological factors, and
short descriptions of the cultures of the ethnic minorities.
Religious concepts are presented under the main head-
ings of “soul, death, and other world concepts,” “deities
and their functions,” “demons and other ghosts.” In a
final chapter the author condenses the data into basic
religious concepts and worldviews.
Having covered roughly the same ground with-
in the restrictive framework of a contribution„to the
“Wörterbuch der Mythologie” (Vol. 6, 1988: 215-384),
the reviewer finds herself essentially in agreement with
the author’s presentation of the data and her basic con-
clusions.
At the start Bischof-Okubo addresses herself to the
perennial and thorny problem of transcription (9) and
states that she simply alphabetized transcripts recorded
in the Japanese Kana syllabary, whenever she could not
correlate a term with other sources. While one can readi-
ly sympathize with her, it is regrettable that she did not
make the additional effort of utilizing the dictionaries
available for the Austronesian languages of Taiwan for
all Austronesian terms. This, in fact, is the only serious
flaw in her work, because it virtually negates many years
of labour and moves us back to Square I and the likes
of Sajimuji, the Kana approximation of Sa-temedj, the
demiurge, founding ancestor, culture hero, etc., of the
Paiwan (cf. E. Kaneko, Die Religionen der Altvölker
Taiwans. In: Die Religionen der Menschheit; vol. 23:
247-289. Stuttgart 1975: 257-259). Transcription does
not only entail reconstruction of sound values in vari-
ants which may be more or less recognizable (Salimo-
ji [89], Salmati [160], Salmuds, Saumai, Sajimuji [96]),
it should ideally be structured to give insights into
etymological, semantic, and grammatical characteristics
of the terms in question.
There are a few minor factual errors which may
partly be inherent in Bischof-Okubo’s source material.
The parakalay of the Paiwan is not a female pulingao of
the highest rank (119), but a male religious official in
charge of the men’s house and hunting rites. He also
officiates at the Five-Year-Festival ieve-ieveq-an and
addresses the first ritual song to the initiator Sa-temedj.
The pulingao of the highest rank is known as ka-daring-
an. Kakita’an is the office of the chief cult priest of an
Amis village, hereditary in certain houses which were
entitled to special privileges. Because the Kakita’an was
invariably a person of wealth and influence, the term has
in modem contexts assumed a secondary meaning of
“man of means and prestige” (154, the “richest” man).
The sheep mentioned in connection with the mi-palos
of the Yami (101) and in other contexts should be
converted into goats (Sayama 1914; 239 translates Amis
siri as sheep, but sheep not being known, the word
denotes goat. For want of an other word, siri is now used
in bible translations). In the description of the festive
garb of the Atayal, often reserved in use to prominent
headhunters and used otherwise as compensation pay-
ment (68), “pearls” should be understood to mean shell
beads and shell disks.
Bischof-Okubo also discusses the interesting ques-
tion of the priority of jomai, Panicum miliaceum L.,
over Setarica Italica K., in agricultural and ritual con-
text (167). Her source (BKC V/3: 134) transcribes this
jumai, or romai, and uses the character “hie,” glossed
as a short barnyard grass. In fact, tumay is not Panicum
miliaceum, but Panicum crusgalli (Barnyard millet).
The Paiwan village name Pacaval is for some reason,
consistently misspelled Pacoval. The “old troughs” near
the Amis village of Pisiri’an mentioned in connection
with prayers for rain (139) are prehistoric stone sarco-
phagi, or stone vats according to another interpretation
(Kaneko). An interesting description of the rain prayer
ritual, making use of these structures is contained in
Bischofberger’s “Heil und Unheil” (Fribourg 1976).
The subchapter on souls of the dead and their place
in rituals (66-79) prompts the reviewer who has written
her doctoral thesis on the death ritual of the ethnic mi-
norities (prehistoric and ethnographic present) and never
lost interest in this subject, to add a caveat. Suffice it to
say here that the [my] thesis is marked with all defects
inherent in research based on written sources only, with
some additional flaws added for good measure. For one,
the salient discrepancy between the attitude of fear and
dread, expressed in words and ritual actions, designed
to ban the soul of the dead and avert its evil influences,
which is prominently described in primary sources, and
other attitudes and actions in connection with the death
ritual which indicate nurturing and loving care of the
soul of the dead, was not accounted for. It is noted
by Bischof-Okubo in passing (67) and with reference
to ambivalent human attitudes toward the dead. For
the reviewer this unresolved discrepancy remained a
Anthropos 85.1990
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579
nagging doubt and led to intermittent and somewhat
random data gathering among Atayal, Sedeq, Bunun,
Amis, Rukai, and Paiwan. These data indicate the need
for a major correction, at least in the sense that it is
not the soul of the dead who is feared (the Yami seem
to be the sole exception), but the malevolent spirits
who tend to gather around and above a corpse and
adhere to digging holes, clothes, etc. The ritual barriers,
exhortations to do no harm, orders and threats to go
and stay away are thus not addressed to the soul of the
dead, but to the malevolent spirits. Bischofberger has
since published detailed material to the same effect.
Bischof-Okubo devotes a subchapter (214-220)
to a fair and balanced discussion of the elusive and
somewhat controversial “Hochgottglauben” - belief in
a Supreme Being. Referring to J. HaekeTs minimal
definition she adds the very pertinent comment that if
based on European points of view, this definition easily
lends itself to misinterpretations and misrepresentations
of specific religious contents.
In connection with D. Schroder’s interpretation
of Dhemawai (Puyuma) as a “Hochgott,” the reviewer
offered the tentative suggestion that Dhemawai, Xamo
(Tsou) and ’Ake-dixanen (Bunun) might reflect faded
memories of Dutch missionizing in the XVIIth century.
The prevailing view that the Dutch only knew the
peoples of the Western Plain and had very fragmen-
tary notions of the eastern part of the island, is quite
wrong. Pimaba (Puyuma) was for several years after
1636 the operation basis for repeated expeditions to
the north in search for gold. On these expeditions they
were accompanied by their Puyuma allies and on one
occasion reached a point only four Dutch miles outside
of Keelung. On their march along the coast, these ex-
peditions led by one Marten Wesenlingh, made contact
with other members of the East India Company stationed
in various Amis villages to gather informations and get
acquainted with local languages and customs. Wesen-
lingh, together with his soldiers and interpreters, was
killed during a surprise raid on Puyuma by the villages
of Tamalakao and Rikavong (Nakamura 1949, based on
the Dagh-register and other Dutch sources; Kaneko). In
addition, there are published and unpublished traditions
about marriages between resident Dutch personnel and
local girls. In this sense, the suggestion was at least
an “educated guess.” In contrast, parallels with Chinese
(Fukienese) folk religion which in essential components
date back to the religion of ancient China, are pointed
out by Bischof-Okubo as a feasible alternative to pos-
sible Christian influences. Her precise formulation of
the difference between the concept of a Supreme Being
among some of the ethnic minorities and monotheism,
respectively Christianity (219), should be kept well in
mind.
The reviewer does not share the author’s optimism
in respect to the feasibility of a future clarification of
these concepts by means of questioning (217). After
more than half a century of Christian missionizing and
utilization of traditional religious terms in Christian
contexts, it would be a very rare informant who clearly
defines traditional and Christianized concepts and can
verbalize the differences.
It is hoped that the material now available in a
Western language, thanks to Bischof-Okubo’s achieve-
ments, may stimulate research interest in the traditional
cultures of the ethnic minorities, because there is so
much to be done and so little time left.
Erika Kaneko
Brandstetter, Anna-Maria: Herrscher über tau-
send Hügel. Zentralisierungsprozesse in Rwanda im 19.
Jahrhundert. Mainz: PÔ A PÔ Presse im Verlag Titus
Grab, 1989. x + 123 pp„ Tab., Ktn. Preis: DM22,-
L’histoire du Rwanda précolonial a fait l’objet de
travaux très nombreux. Certains se basent essentielle-
ment sur les traditions officielles et sont axés sur le seul
Rwanda central; d’autres mettent l’accent sur la grande
diversité des structures et des processus historiques en
explorant les traditions populaires et régionales. Sur le
plan des méthodes, les historiens se sont efforcés de
compléter les informations issues des traditions orales,
au sens strict, par des témoignages non formés d’avance
qui se laissent découvrir par des interviews stratégi-
quement orientées vers des problèmes spécifiques. Les
archéologues ont entrepris de vérifier les traditions et
les reconstructions des historiens. On a également com-
mencé à utiliser des sources non-narratives, comme les
distributions claniques, dans une approche historique.
Anna-Maria Brandstetter, assistante à l’Institut
d’Ethnologie et d’Etudes africaines de l’Université de
Mayence, présente ici une remarquable synthèse de nos
connaissances sur l’évolution du Rwanda précolonial.
Dans le premier chapitre, l’auteur évalue les différents
types de traditions orales et retrace succinctement le
développement des études ethnologiques et historiques
sur le Rwanda. Le deuxième chapitre examine la littéra-
ture relative à la catégorisation «ethnique» de la po-
pulation rwandaise et aux questions qui s’y rapportent
(l’hypothèse dite «hamite», le concept de caste, la mobi-
lité sociale), ainsi que les hypothèses (spéculations) sur
les migrations et le peuplement du Rwanda. L’organi-
sation socio-politique de la population agricole avant la
naissance du royaume rwandais fait l’objet du troisième
chapitre: il porte sur la structure et les fonctions des
groupes de filiation et sur la question de savoir comment,
à partir de cette base, des entités politiques territoriales
ont pu se développer. Le quatrième chapitre esquisse
l’évolution du royaume rwandais jusque vers 1800 dans
quatre de ses aspects: l’idéologie de la royauté sacrée,
les armées, la structure administrative et l’expansion
territoriale; dans le dernier volet de ce chapitre, l’auteur
analyse les constraintes limitant l’exercice de l’autorité
royale à la veille du XIXe siècle, époque de la consolida-
tion centralisatrice. Le cinquième chapitre, le plus long,
correspond au sous-titre de l’ouvrage. Après un bref
aperçu de l’expansion territoriale du Rwanda au XIXe
siècle, l’auteur étudie en détail l’évolution des struc-
tures foncières, mettant l’accent sur la désintégration
progressive du domaine lignager et l’individualisation
Anthropos 85.1990
580
Rezensionen
de la tenure; elle analyse les innovations administratives
dans le Rwanda central et l’administration des régions
périphériques; la dernière section de ce chapitre met
en évidence la perte de l’autonomie des groupes de
filiation. Le chapitre final présente les processus histo-
riques étudiés sous un éclairage sociologique. Après
avoir rejeté l’étiquette «féodale» pour caractériser le
Rwanda précolonial, l’auteur analyse les conséquences
qu’ont eues pour la centralisation de l’Etat et le ren-
forcement du pouvoir royal les changements intervenus
au XIXe siècle: la bipartition de la fonction de chef de
district, la création de nombreuses entités territoriales
soustraites à l’administration régulière, la multiplication
des résidences royales et la grande mobilité des rois,
les efforts déployés pour briser le caractère héréditaire
des fonctions politiques par la nomination, aux postes
nouvellement créés, de favoris n’appartenant pas aux li-
gnages influents. En annexe, on trouve une typologie des
traditions orales, deux chronologies des règnes royaux et
quatre cartes dont la dernière (Expansion du Rwanda au
XIXe siècle) est indubitablement la meilleure qui existe
sur le sujet.
«Herrscher liber tausend Hügel» ne contient pas de
nouvelles données de terrain. Aussi les points importants
que le travail met en évidence se retrouvent-ils tous dans
la littérature historique et ethnologique récente. Il est
utile d’en rappeler les principaux: le Rwanda précolonial
n’était pas un royaume centralisé caractérisé par une
administration homogène; c’est une grossière simplifica-
tion de présenter la société rwandaise précoloniale com-
me divisée en groupes «ethniques» figés et strictement
hiérarchisés; il est nécessaire d’abandonner la rigidité
du modèle dichotomique hutu-tutsi pour appréhender la
flexibilité de la réalité historique; le Rwanda précolonial
connaissait une mobilité sociale plus grande que beau-
coup d’auteurs ne l’ont pensé; la clientèle (uhuhake)
n’était pas une institution universelle; elle n’était pas non
plus très ancienne dans beaucoup de régions; l’idéologie
de la royauté, dans l’Etat rwandais précolonial, cor-
respond pour l’essentiel à celle des petits royaumes
agricoles antérieurs; les principaux leviers du processus
de centralisation ont été l’appropriation du contrôle de la
terre par une multiplicité d’instances ramifiant à partir
de la Cour royale, la désintégration des lignages et la
perte de leur autonomie économique; jusqu’à la fin du
XIXe siècle, la centralisation n’a guère rencontré de
succès dans les régions montagneuses du centre-ouest,
du nord-ouest et du nord.
Le mérite d’A.-M. Brandstetter est d’avoir écrit,
à partir d’une évaluation critique de la littérature, une
synthèse érudite de l’évolution du Rwanda précolonial.
Fourmillant de références et de notes, l’ouvrage exige
une attention soutenue. On peut craindre que les lecteurs
pressés ou peu au courant des travaux sur les Rwanda
ne fassent guère justice à la maîtrise que l’auteur en a, la
finesse de sa lecture et son souci de la précision. Ayant
eu jadis l’occasion de me livrer à une étude critique
similaire, je peux apprécier la quantité de labeur que
Mme Brandstetter a investi dans son ouvrage. Malgré
quelques failles, c’est un travail très sérieux. L’auteur
évalue les travaux de ses prédécesseurs avec honnêteté
et pertinence. Chaque fois qu’il y a lieu, elle signale les
points qu’elle n’a pas pu résoudre, parce que la littéra-
ture est lacunaire ou contradictoire. Elle met le doigt sur
le travers dont les études rwandaises ont souffert depuis
toujours: celui de confondre des paliers historiques et
régionaux différents pour construire un profil unitaire et
intellectuellement satisfaisant de telle ou telle institution,
de tel ou tel développement. Elle n’est pas tombée
dans ce genre d’amalgame mais a pris grand soin de
rapporter à une époque et à une région déterminée les
structures et les changements qu’elle décrit, s’abstenant
de se prononcer en cas de doute.
Certes, je ne puis souscrire à toutes les interpréta-
tions de l’auteur, mais leur discussion détaillée dépasse-
rait le cadre de ce compte rendu. Je réserverai donc ma
critique à quelques points généraux. Le premier porte
sur l’historiographie rwandaise. Evaluant la littérature
ethnologique et historique, l’auteur se plaît à souligner
la césure [«ein frischer Blick», 8] des années soixante où
anthropologues et historiens remettent en question, cha-
cun à sa manière, certaines idées largement admises jus-
que-là; l’uniformité des structures politiques du Rwanda
précolonial, le caractère monolithique de sa culture, la
rigidité de la stratification sociale, l’universalité de la
clientèle (ubuhake), l’interprétation fonctionnaliste qui
en avait été donnée. Tout cela est bien correct. Toutefois,
séduite sans doute par quelques formules percutantes,
l’auteur a tendance à exagérer l’importance de la césure
et ne fait pas entièrement justice à des travaux antérieurs
qui n’étaient nullement inspirés par l’idéologie officielle
ou une vision centraliste des choses. Nous pensons en
particulier à «Historique et chronologie du Ruanda»
(Kabgayi 1956), un recueil de traditions locales dû à
un agent de l’administration belge. Jan Vansina a expli-
citement reconnu que c’est cet ouvrage qui Ta amené
à revoir l’histoire du Rwanda. Mme Brandstetter ne le
signale pas. Et il n’y a pas que cet ouvrage. A vrai dire,
on pourrait très bien soutenir qu’à partir des années soi-
xante, par-delà de ce j’appellerais, excessivement certes,
la parenthèse Kagame-Maquet, les anthropologues et les
historiens renouent avec la représentation beaucoup plus
diversifiée que les auteurs antérieurs avaient donnée du
Rwanda précolonial. Un point d’histoire encore: c’est
l’anthropologue américaine Helen Codere, dans «Power
in Ruanda» (.Anthropologica 1952), que Mme Brand-
stetter ne signale pas non plus, qui a, la première, remis
en cause l’interprétation fonctionnaliste de J. Maquet.
Comme quoi l’étiquetage péjoratif du «Rwanda des
anthropologues» n’est pas non plus exempt de schéma-
tisation.
Il y a d’autres lacunes documentaires. Il est curieux
de constater que l’auteur ait pu consacrer une section à
l’identification de catégories «ethniques» au moyen de
caractères physiques, sans même mentionner une seule
étude anthropobiologique de J. Hiemaux, fût-ce pour
la contester. Les travaux archéologiques des dernières
années (M.-Cl. Van Grunderbeck, E. Roche et H. Dou-
trelepont 1983; Fr. Van Noten 1983) manquent cruelle-
ment dans les sections où il est question du peuplement
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
581
du Rwanda, des plantes cultivées, de l’élevage, du fer,
de l’économie des communautés agricoles, des cime-
tières royaux, etc. La discussion de la royauté du Bu-
sozo aurait avantageusement tiré profit de deux articles
d’E. Ntezimana (1980). L’auteur eût pu compléter son
analyse de l’administration des régions périphériques au
XIXe siècle par le cas du Bwishaza-Rusenyi, région à
laquelle R. Vanwalle (1982) a consacré un important
article. Comment expliquer enfin que l’auteur n’a pas
eu l’occasion de consulter deux ouvrages essentiels pour
son propos, et que cependant elle connaît, à savoir
les cinquante-quatre «Enquêtes foncières» d’I. Reisdorff
(1952), qui abondent en données concrètes sur l’évo-
lution du régime foncier, et les «Généalogies» de L.
Delmas (1950)?
A propos du concept de féodalité, on ne peut
que souscrire à la mise en garde générale de l’auteur
que l’application aux sociétés africaines de catégories
conçues à partir d’autres contextes socio-historiques ne
favorise guère la compréhension de leur propre ratio-
nalité («aus ihrer eigenen Begrifflichkeit heraus», 97).
Néanmoins, l’interprétation sociologique gardant en jau-
geant le développement de l’Etat rwandais du XIXe
siècle à l’aune de l’idéal-type patrimonial de Max We-
ber. Sans me faire le défenseur d’une interprétation
féodale, je me demande cependant si, pour nuancer le
débat, il ne serait pas utile de continuer dans la voie
wéberienne en distinguant d’une part la féodalité comme
une forme de rémunération du cadre administratif par
les revenus d’un fief - ce dont on ne peut guère nier
l’existence dans le Rwanda précolonial; d’autre part,
la féodalité proprement politique comportant pour le
tenant du fief des droits d’autorité personnels, souvent
héréditaires, sur la population qui y vit, réduisant ainsi
le pouvoir effectif de l’autorité centrale - ce qui ne
correspondait pas à la situation rwandaise, du moins
dans la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle.
Malgré quelques imperfections, «Herrscher über
tausend Hügel» offre un excellent exposé synthétique
de l’histoire sociale et politique du Rwanda précolonial.
Si l’ouvrage ne nous dispense pas de la fréquentation
directe des auteurs, il peut être considéré, moyennant
certaines réserves, comme un guide fiable dans la mul-
titude des écrits. Marcel d’Hertefelt
Bruinessen, M. M. van: Agha, Scheich und Staat.
Politik und Gesellschaft Kurdistans. Berlin: Edition Pa-
rabolis, 1989. 541 pp., Fotos, Ktn., Tab., Fig. Preis:
DM 38,—
Bereits 1987 schon einmal in Berlin mit dem Un-
tertitel „Die soziale und politische Organisation Kurdi-
stans“ als „erschienen“ angekündigt, liegt nun die über-
arbeitete Version der in Englisch abgefaßten Dissertation
(Utrecht 1978) des Autors vor. Wie Jochen Blaschke
vom Berliner Institut für Vergleichende Sozialforschung
in seinem Vorwort mit Recht betont, ist die Arbeit „ein
Klassiker der vergleichenden Sozialforschung“ (6), der
bereits von vielen Wissenschaftlern und Kurdenexperten
benutzt und zitiert wurde.
Zum Hintergrundverständnis sowohl der Ausgangs-
situation als auch des Untersuchungsgegenstandes emp-
fiehlt sich die Lektüre der Einleitung (9-22). Erfrischend
aufrichtig stellt van Bruinessen darin dar, was er eigent-
lich vorgehabt hatte, was in der Praxis möglich gewesen
war und was er im Endeffekt aus dem zwischen Juli
1974 und August 1976 in Iran, im Irak, in der Türkei und
in Syrien unter den Kurden gesammelten Feldmaterial
herausarbeiten konnte.
Gegenstand der Untersuchung sind die „ursprüng-
lichen Loyalitäten“, die das politische Leben in den
Kurdengebieten noch immer nachhaltig beeinflussen.
Van Bruinessen beschreibt die Strukturen von Stämmen,
Klanen und Derwischorden, wie er sie vorfand bzw. wie
er sie aus Interviews und aus der Literatur rekonstruieren
konnte. Darüber hinaus versucht er die Strukturen von
Stämmen zu analysieren, Beeinflussungen durch externe
Faktoren aufzuzeigen und die Wechselwirkungen zwi-
schen kurdischem Nationalismus und den ursprüngli-
chen Loyalitäten, wie sie sich aus Stamm-, Klan- oder
Ordenszugehörigkeit ergeben, zu hinterfragen.
Die Arbeit erhebt nicht den Anspruch, eine um-
fassende Darstellung der kurdischen Gesellschaft zu
sein (19). Was van Bruinessen jedoch als mögliche
Schwäche der Arbeit angibt, erweist sich als ihre Stär-
ke: Die Konzentration auf den Aspekt traditioneller
Machtstrukturen in der kurdischen Gesellschaft und ihre
Auswirkungen auf den kurdischen Nationalgedanken.
Kern der Arbeit sind daher die Kapitel: „Stämme, Stam-
mesführer und Nichtstammesgruppen“, „Stämme und
Staat“, „Scheichs: Mystiker, Heilige und Politiker“ und
„Sex Seids Aufstand“. Der als Einstieg in die Materie
notwendige allgemeine Überblick über den geographi-
schen Begriff „Kurdistan“ - das Land der Kurden -
im ersten Kapitel ist durch seine Kürze teilweise zu
plakativ geraten. Hier hat man gelegentlich den Ein-
druck, daß wesentliche Informationen in den Fußno-
ten stehen. Nicht zutreffend ist, daß aus der Türkei
seit dem Zensus von 1955 keine Angaben mehr über
Sprachzugehörigkeiten vorliegen. Sie wurden auch noch
von den Volkszählungen 1960 und 1965 veröffentlicht.
Angesichts des Umstandes, daß in der Türkei zusam-
men mit der Volkszählung alle fünf Jahre auch eine
Sprachenzählung durchgeführt wird, deren Ergebnisse
seit 1965 nicht mehr bekanntgegeben werden, erscheint
diese kleine Ungenauigkeit jedoch marginal.
Ein Nachschlagen spezifischer Fragen ermöglicht
das ausführliche Inhaltsverzeichnis (531-538). Im In-
haltsverzeichnis auf S. 5 werden lediglich die Kapitel-
überschriften angegeben. Die kapitelweise angeordne-
ten Anmerkungen (453-511) weisen leider Lücken auf;
die Anmerkungen 76-96 vom fünften Kapitel fehlen.
Ein Glossar häufig vorkommender „orientalischer“ Aus-
drücke (527-530) sowie Literaturangaben (513-526)
schließen den Textteil ab. Nützlicher als die auf unpa-
ginierten Seiten anschließend untergebrachten 37 Fotos
wäre wohl ein Index von Namen und Begriffen gewesen.
Dem Autor gelingt es, einen Insider-Eindruck von
Machtstrukturen in der kurdischen Gesellschaft zu ver-
mitteln. Vieles, was in rezenter Zeit von und über
Anthropos 85.1990
582
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kurdische Aktivitäten bekannt wurde, kann vor dem
Hintergrund der vorliegenden Arbeit anders interpretiert
und verstanden werden - weniger an europäischen Ge-
sellschaftsformen und -normen gemessen, sondern mehr
an spezifisch vorderorientalisch-kurdischen. Als eines
von vielen Beispielen dazu sei hier eine Passage wie-
dergegeben, die am Ende des Kapitels über den Shaikh
Said-Aufstand (Türkei 1925) steht:
„Eine Grenzlinie zwischen Sozialbanditentum und
politisch motiviertem Guerillakrieg ist schwer zu be-
stimmen. Das gleiche kann von der Grenze zwischen
Traditioneller4 Ablehnung von Eingriffen der Regierung
und »eigentlichem4 Nationalismus gesagt werden. Der
kurdische Nationalismus in diesem Jahrhundert blieb
immer in dem undefinierbaren Zwischenbereich und
bewegt sich auch heute noch weitgehend in der Nähe
dieser vagen Grenzlinie“ (432).
Am Ende des Buches kommt van Bruinessen wie-
der auf seine eingangs gestellte Frage nach den ur-
sprünglichen Loyalitäten zurück. Er führt aus, daß ihre
Vielfalt selbst in einer kleinen Gesellschaft zu groß und
ständig im Fluß sei. Alte Loyalitäten brächen zusammen,
neue entstünden. Dabei behielten die „ursprünglichen“
jedoch eine starke Vitalität bei und behaupteten sich
auch im größeren Kontext wie z. B. Nationalismus und
Klassenkampf, wobei sie letztere modifizierten. „Viel-
leicht“, meint der Autor auf der letzten Seite, „sind Na-
tion und Klasse zu weit gefaßte und abstrakte Konzepte,
als daß sie das Zugehörigkeitsbedürfnis der Individuen
zu einer identifizierbaren Gruppe auf die Dauer befrie-
digen könnten“ (450 f.). Diese auf die Kurden bezogene
Feststellung läßt sich auch auf andere Gesellschaften des
Vorderen Orients übertragen, da die kurdische Gesell-
schaft trotz spezifischer Ausprägungen nicht losgelöst
von ihrem vorderorientalischen Umfeld betrachtet wer-
den kann. Erhard Franz
Burkhart, Louise M.: The Slippery Earth. Nahua-
Christian Moral Dialogue in Sixteenth-Century Mexico.
Tucson: The University of Arizona Press, 1989. xii +
242 pp„ map, illus. Price: $40.00
“It is slippery, it is slick on the earth” (Nahuatl
proverb; v).
“Central Mexico in the sixteenth century was the
scene of a social experiment which, though hopelessly
quixotic, bequeathed to modern scholarship an excellent
and extensive record of intercultural contact, including
the largest body of native-language texts from anywhere
in the New World” (3).
“The earth was perhaps more slippery than ever,
but for those who could retain their balance it remained
a Nahua earth. Ye ixquich [thus it ends]” (193).
These three quotations bracket a work of quite
extraordinary scholarship. Among the works that have
been engendered by the anthropological “culture as text”
movement, Burkhart’s study belongs to the small but
highly significant minority that actually have a text to
examine.
The text in this case is a corpus of 13 Nahuatl
missionary documents of 1540-1579. They are treated
here as a literary and philosophical dialogue between
six Franciscan, Dominican, and Augustinian friars and
their Nahuatl-speaking wards. The research that has
gone into the work is thorough and comprehensive,
and the analysis is both linguistically and theoretically
rigorous. The result is a rich, rewarding, and integrated
interpretation.
The thesis of the book is that the spiritual conquest
of New Spain was a failure in that it did not make
Spaniards of the Nahuas. But it also undertakes to
explain why. The author’s reading of the case is that
the missionary fathers made the risky assumption that
they could use Nahuatl metaphors to convey Catholic
truths only to find that the Nahuas generally read these
as metonyms - literal reiterations of what they already
believed. One cannot help but recall that Montezuma
said as much to Cortes.
Burkhart says, for example: “The friars’ attempt
to use sickness as a metaphor for sin was sucessful to
the extent that Nahua ideology associated sickness with
the domain of immorality. But in Nahua thought moral
misdeeds caused disease; conditions of disease or other
physical deficiencies were aspects of a person’s moral
condition. Sin as a spiritual version of earthly disease
was an alien idea. One could be ‘metaphorically’ sick,
but this did not mean that the soul was sick while the
body was healthy, but simply that immorality was ‘like’
sickness, and could stand for it symbolically as well as
cause it” (183).
It is difficult to do justice to the subtlety and scope
of Burkhart’s argument. In order to assess the successes
and failures of the missionary effort, she has made a
major contribution to the reconstruction of the system-
atics of the Nahua religious system that the missionaries
confronted. The central image in her construal is that
of the “slippery earth,” that gives the book its title. She
quotes from Sahagun: “They went saying that indeed on
a jagged edge we go, we live on earth. Here is down,
over there is down. Wherever you go out of place to
the side, wherever you take off to the side, there you
will fall, there you will throw yourself over the prec-
ipice” (58). She depicts Nahua cosmology as focussed
upon centrality and peripherality, upon order and chaos,
and upon a philosophic monism fundamentally at odds
with the Christian dualism of good and evil.
It is against this background that Burkhart ques-
tions the missionaries’ choice of tlatlacolli (“something
damaged”) for conveying the Christian concept of sin;
of tlacatecolotl (“human owl”) to designate the Devil; of
tlazolli (“rubbish which they throw on the dungheap”)
for the idea of pollution; of tlamacehualiztli (“the mer-
iting of things”) to refer to penance. She concludes
in each case that the Nahuatl expressions encouraged
the preservation of native religious ideas, and failed to
convey the essence of Christian dogma.
The exploration deals at length with centers and
peripheries, purity and pollution, abstinence and excess,
health and sickness. The research is no less thorough in
its treatment of the Christian theology than in its culling
Anthropos 85.1990
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583
of the Nahuatl texts, and of the extensive and growing
body of interpretations of Nahua culture. The work
is well written, persuasive, and ultimately compelling.
It is an impressive piece of scholarship and a major
contribution to its subject. Munro S. Edmonson
Colleyn, Jean-Paul: Les Chemins de Nya. Culte de
possession au Mali. Paris: Editions de TEHESS, 1988.
221 pp., ph., cartes, fig. (Anthropologic visuelle, 1) Prix:
FF 130,00
While the topics of spirit possession, trance, spirit
mediums, and shamanism are discussed at length in
books dealing with religion in general, the literature
describing African religion does not treat these topics
as extensively as it should. This book, however, begins
to remedy this situation. Jean-Paul Colleyn describes
and analyzes spirit possession brought about through
the power of Nya among the Minianka people in south-
eastern Mali. The book is based on field research con-
ducted by the author among this people over the years
beginning in 1971. He was accompanied by Danielle
Jonckers and Philippe Jespers. Because he was able to
spend such a long period of time on this investitgation,
the author was also able to collect valuable material on
the men’s society associated with possession and the cult
of Nya. The book appeared in the series “Anthropologic
visuelle” and was accompanied by a video cassette, “Les
Chemins de Nya,” put out by Radio-Television of the
French Community of Belgium RTBF.
The book consists of three parts devoted, 1) to
visual anthropology and to the video tape, 2) to the
Minianka community, and 3) to the cult of Nya itself.
Despite its abridgements and simplifications, the video
tape on which this book is based is well-made and gives
the viewer a goocl understanding of the social context
of what is happening. It gives a vivid picture of the
people’s culture and describes a dynamic, lively society.
Moreover, the film is available to a far greater number
of viewers than the book itself, which was published in
French in an edition of 1500 copies.
The first part of the book is devoted to this film
(17-56), while the second part (57-99) presents ele-
ments of the social and religious life of the Minianka
people. They number about 200,000 and belong to the
Senufo group of the Gur language. In this segmentary
society, power is wielded by the owner of the land
(ninge-fo) and the headman (kulu-fo). The functions
performed by these two chiefs should be given more
attention and their authority more clearly specified.
Beings and powers which are recognized by the
Minianka people as part of their religion are: Kle, god
and creator (an indefinite being, distant and morally
ambiguous), his wife the Earth, non-personified powers
(Nya, Komo, Kono, Nankon, Manyan, Tyi-wara, Dago-
ro), and the ancestors. Ancestors are given importance
here, but not to the extent found among other peoples
of West Africa. Along with other male socioreligious
associations which are popular with a number of African
peoples, the men’s society centered on the power of Nya,
together with its cult practices, is widespread among
the Minianka, so much so that they are given the name
of “Nya people” by their neighbors. The cult of Nya
probably comes from the Mande people.
The Nya cult is particularly concerned with fertil-
ity and the crops. It also serves to moderate conflicts
between various political interests. Finally it tries to
identify the causes and prevent the consequences of evil
and misfortune. African people consider sorcery to be
one of the important causes of evil. The possession of
certain objects (“autel”) and the ritual acts associated
with the Nya cult, which are performed by the men, pro-
tect the people from witches. Since the Minianka ascribe
witchcraft only to women, the cult of Nya also performs
an additional function (of separating men from women)
in addition to controlling witchcraft, something widely
known in different countries of sub-Saharan Africa.
In the main part of the book (101-208), the au-
thor explains what the power of Nya is. He also deals
with the cult structure and organization and the relation
between the cult of Nya and authority. The description
of the nature of Nya runs into certain difficulties. Ac-
cording to the author, the name of Nya signifies an
unknowable religious power which reveals itself dif-
ferently in different sacred objects (yapere). Following
E. Durkheim, the author accepts that Nya is an imper-
sonal power or force, but this is controversial because
metaphors about the femininity of the spirit and the
opinions expressed by a few authors (Ch. Monteil, Rev.
Henry L. Tauxier), who are quoted by Colleyn, point
to the personal character of this somewhat indefinite
spirit. Nya, thought to be a whimsical female spirit,
controls the biological and agrarian cycles. A series of
misfortunes in a family or in a village is cause enough
to establish a sanctuary honoring the Nya spirit. It is
said that this spirit comes from the bush and when it is
domesticated, it becomes dangerous for the head of the
sanctuary. It is of the same nature as the witches against
whom it fights.
Three elements are fundamental for the structure
and organization of the cult. These are: certain sacred
objects, a sanctuary, and a place of offering. All associa-
tions use the sacred objects, which are filled with power.
These objects are called yapere. The term “fetish,”
which was formerly applied to signify these objects, has
generally been given up by anthropologists. The objects
among the Minianka are the size of a fist, and black as
a result of frequent washing with blood. They consist
of leaves, roots,, bark, bones, a claw, a beak, feathers,
small mineral, and metal elements. These are all tied up
with wire and then smeared with blood, powder, water,
and earth from a grave, a termitary, or a well. These
objects, numbering between 100 and 300, are kept in
three sacks which are placed in the sanctuary, which
consists of a round hut situated in a big yard in the
village. People possessed by the spirit of Nya carry the
sacred objects in the sacks twice a year to a special
sacrificial enclosure in the vicinity of the village. This
enclosure contains pots with water and plant roots (one
for each possessed person), a pot with water, and three
Anthropos 85.1990
584
Rezensionen
big clay containers where the sacred objects are put.
Here, after the harvest in December and at the beginning
of the planting season before the April rains, the feeding
as well as the washing of the sacred objects takes place.
The blood of sacrificial animals (chickens and dogs)
is rubbed over the objects. By means of prayers and
offerings, the people turn to the Nya spirit, which, in
turn, speaks to the people through possessed persons.
This communication is connected with the circulation
of energy and the vital power (nyama) between super-
natural beings and the people. The longer ritual goes on
for three days while the shorter one lasts one day.
According to the author, an important element is
the spirit possession of a medium, through whom the
Nya spirit then communicates something to the villagers.
The possessed are then “Nya’s messengers.” According
to M. Eliade, L. de Heusch, R. Bastide, and G. Rouget,
this type of spirit possession is different from shaman-
ism. In the former, supernatural beings appear to people,
while in the latter people enter into contact with the
spirit world. I. M. Lewis disagrees with this distinction.
According to the author of this book, possession and
shamanism do not belong to two different classes of
phenomena, but are two poles of one phenomenon (169).
Among the Minianka, the possession by the spirit of
Nya is considered neither a pathological phenomenon
nor a sign of disease, but neither is this state desired
by an individual in order to hide an inner conflict or
achieve social prestige. Colleyn does not agree with
the sociological theory as presented by I. M. Lewis,
according to which spirit possession is an expression
of protest on the part of the oppressed people. The
cult associated with the possession of Nya is a public
reflection of certain tensions. It helps to maintain the bal-
ance of power and political influence of such individuals
as head of the family, landowner, head of the village,
heads of initiation societies and village associations
or other particular individuals. Spirit possession gives
information, which, in turn, gives power and authority.
As opposed to an ordinary diviner, it is not limited to
answers to questions. Nya communicates such matters as
commands concerning definite sacrifices of propitiation
and redress and warnings and verdicts which are socially
acceptable. The author cites 15 cases which clearly show
that the Nya spirit used to be assigned responsibility
for explaining the deaths of different people, who, in
public opinion, were guilty of ritual and moral offenses.
Because the people are now subject to law, the Nya spirit
is no longer considered to have the function of killing
the guilty. As a result of the increasing influences of
Islam too, one can notice that the importance of the
sanctuaries of Nya in the religious and political life of
the Minianka people is diminishing.
This book is published with great care. It includes
two maps, 18 photos, and a list of expressions in the
Minianka language. A few printing errors crept in.
This work can be recommended to all Africanists and
scholars of religion. Considering its content and theoret-
ical significance, it is an important contribution to our
knowledge of the phenomenon of spirit possession and
spirit mediums not otherwise sufficiently treated in the
Africanist literature. Henryk Zimon
Currie, P. M.: The Shrine and Cult of Mu‘In al-
DTn ChishtT of Ajmer. Delhi: Oxford University Press,
1989. 220 pp., map, photos, tab. Price; Rs 180
This book represents the first attempt at a com-
prehensive study of an Islamic centre of pilgrimage in
South Asia. This in itself makes the publication worth
reading. It deals with the 14th century Sufi Shaikh,
Mu‘In al-DTn ChishtT, one of the mystics most revered
in South Asia, whose tomb in Ajmer (in the Indian
Province of Rajasthan) has long been a major centre of
pilgrimage for Muslims (and non-Muslims) from various
parts of South Asia, and even beyond.
The book is divided into 10 main chapters. The first
of these, entitled “The Role of Saints in Islam” (1-19),
tries to provide an overview of this subject. The next
three chapters; “The Quest for the Mu‘Tn al-DTn ChishtT
of History,” “The Legend of Mu‘Tn al-DTn ChishtT,”
and “A History of the Shrine of Mu‘Th al-DTn ChishtT,”
provide useful background material on each of these
subjects. Especially Chapters carefully discusses the
mass of material available in non-English sources.
Chapters 5 to 9 deal with various aspects of the
shrine: with the pilgrimage, the pilgrims, the servants
traditionally attached to the shrine, the spiritual repre-
sentatives of Mu‘Tn al-DTn at his shrine, and, finally, the
administration and economy of the shrine. The chapter
on the pilgrimage is rather weak. We are told, for
example (131), of a “sample” of pilgrims who were
interviewed by the author, but the nature of this sample
(i.e., total size and break up, according to criteria such
as gender or age or place of origin or occupation, etc.) is
not given anywhere. Two pages later, however, a sample
of 200 couples is casually mentioned, and the reader
is left wondering whether this was the entire sample
originally referred to, or only a part of it. This chapter,
as all the others, are, in fact, purely descriptive. Even the
concluding chapter, in which one could have expected
some analysis of the data, is only a summary of the rest.
The volume includes 12 interesting black and white
plates, and a plan of the mausoleum, referred to as “Fig-
ure 4.1” (104) - no other figure is, however, numbered
and hence it is not clear which the other three figures
are. The book ends with the genealogy of the sajjdda
nishln of the shrine and four Appendices: the English
translation of major inscriptions at the shrine, phonetic
transliteration of terms used in the text, translations of
the documents of offerings made between 1673 and
1835 by various persons to numerous servants at the
shrine, and a list of Mughal endowments made to the
shrine between 1560 and 1725. All of these will be
useful for further research. Apama Rao
Dalmia Yashodhara: The Painted World of the
Warlis. Art and Ritual of the Warli Tribes of Maha-
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
585
rashtra. New Delhi: Lalit Kala Akademi, 1988. 241 pp.,
map, illus., photos. Price; Rs 200
The mural paintings of the Warlis have attained
great popularity in Indian and Western art circles during
the last decades. The Warlis as “tribes” living in relative
seclusion in the district of Thane of the Maharashtra
State near Bombay are comparatively lesser known.
This is the first systematic study which deals with their
paintings in the context of their ritual traditions and
their worldview. The authoress and the editors of this
second volume of the “Loka Kala Series” have to be
congratulated for their efforts to document Indian folk
art in situ.
One method to understand the meaning of the
paintings would be to explore the actual beliefs and the
consciousness of the artists. But this is a notoriously
difficult task in the case of a social group which did not
have to explain its culture to outsiders. The interviews
with the artists reproduced verbatim reflect this, for ex-
ample: “... We asked what the painting meant. She [the
paintress] said she did not know. She just did it” (140).
As so often in folk culture and folk religion, rituals are
something to be done by those who are involved in
it and cannot be articulated for the sake of outsiders.
Yet the interviews do help to convey the meaning of
the paintings and the structure of consciousness. Oral
literature is another source the authoress taps. In oral
literature we may find a certain degree of self-awareness
which views one’s culture as an object. The need of
recording further the songs of the goddess village by
village is rightly stressed. Perhaps the oral literature
of the Warlis is in even greater danger of extinction
than their visual art. Besides interviews and oral lit-
erature empirical observation remains one of the most
important means to identify the import of the paintings.
Towards this end the whole panorama of Warli culture
is unfolded, and we never have the impression that we
just get data in order to explain the paintings. Their
meaning emerges from the background of sustained, viv-
id, and insightful observations and descriptions which
sometimes approach the poetical. All strands of Warli
culture as a part of their life are identified and discussed,
the socioeconomic factors, the worldview, and the ritual
cycle of the year with all its festivals, until the paintings,
the process of painting, and the constituent elements are
again in the foreground of discussion.
Particularly interesting are the similarity and the
interrelation between birth, marriage, and death rites
(24 ff., 39) expressed by circular patterns which are
drawn on the floor on these occasions. One is reminded
of the spatially not so far away prehistoric megaliths
in the middle of the river bed with “mother goddess
circles” on the Deccan Plateau of Maharashtra as re-
ported by D. D. Kosambi (Myth and Reality. Bombay
1962; 136. Kosambi is singled out as a source of inspi-
ration by the authoress). And there may be a continuity
or structural similarity in the meaning of the concentric
circles caused by fish in a huge waterhole in the river
bed near Phaltan (Satara district). They are taken to be
expressions of the river goddess BhivaT. The seventh
circle is believed to be dangerous and must not be looked
at. This goddess is also closely connected with birth,
marriage, and death (G.-D. Sontheimer, Pastoral Deities
in Western India. New York 1989: 76 f.).
The cult of the goddess is pervasive in the reli-
gion of the Warlis, whether she appears in the song of
Kansan (the “Com Goddess”), in the form of Maha-
laksmT at Javhar, or especially as Palaghata, the mar-
riage goddess who, framed by the outlines of a square
(caukat), dominates the paintings, Palaghata stands for
the pot overflowing with vegetation and brimming with
life (33 f.). It is convincingly shown how she can be
compared with the sculptures of the reclining headless
mother goddess who has her legs apart. Such sculptures
of uncertain but ancient date have been found in a
number of places in Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, and
Maharashtra. In the paintings of the Warlis she is also
basically headless, has a massive body, and her limbs
“appear to be harrows,” but they are hands and feet
according to the Warlis. The actual painting is done
by women “whose husbands are alive,” i.e., savdsinls,
which is but a derivation from (Marathi) suvdsinl. One
cannot follow the authoress to find it curious that only
women whose husbands are alive are, as in other parts
of Maharashtra and elsewhere, to perform important
rites in marriage. For they are auspicious in marriage
rituals as compared to unmarried girls or widows. In
this context “impurity” is more auspicious and the value
of fertility is higher rated than the value of purity, even
if one may be apologetic. The Dhavlens, on the other
hand, are marriage priestesses who perform wedding
rites and accompany them with songs (98). They act
in the place of Brahmans who occur as officiants in
marriage ceremonies only in songs! (115).
The centrality of the goddess in the religious life
of the Warlis has to be seen in the light of the presence
of male deities. This book presents fascinating material
of the age-old tension between the goddess and her male
divine and human (the hhagats) partners in India. In the
oral literature of the Warlis it is Indra who tries to sub-
due the earth goddess. Indra’s continuing and pervasive
appearance here as elsewhere in folk religion (unlike
in Sanskrit literature where he tends to be relegated
to the background) is certainly a topic which merits
a systematic study. An ubiquitous god is Vaghdeva,
Vaghya, or simply Gamadeva (69), the Tiger God and
protector of three villages. Another male deity is the
rather mysterious Pancasiriya who has his name from
his “five heads” and possesses the groom and the bride
during the marriage ceremony travelling up the “five
veins.” He is considered to be the companion of the
Palaghata and is depicted outside the main square. He
often rides a horse. It would have been helpful, especial-
ly for folk art specialists, if some more information had
been gathered about this deity, particularly in view of the
many folk bronzes emanating “from Nasik” about which
virtually nothing is known except the name. The deity
has been compared here with Ravana, but it could also
have been related to the five-headed “Brahma” whose
tribal and folk versions are found from Rajashtran up to
Anthropos 85.1990
586
Rezensionen
Karnataka (cf. S. Settar, The Brahmadeva Pillars. Arîi-
hus Asiae 1971: 36; V. N. Sisodia and K. C. Malhotra,
Some Terracotta and Wood Votives of the Vârlis. East
and West 1963: 69 ff.).
References to parallels to Warli culture in the ad-
jacent regions are understandably eclectic and limited
to the specific purpose of the book. But, generally,
one wishes that there would be more concerted efforts
to systematically document region by region the tribal
and rural culture of India. A much more coherent and
reliable picture of Indian folk culture as a component
of Indian culture as a whole would emerge. Too often
the uniqueness of the culture of a particular group or
the intrinsic unity of folk culture is assumed. Both
assumptions may be true, but have to be proved.
Though there are illuminating references to, e.g.,
prehistory, Vedic times, and similar phenomena in Ma-
harashtra, they sometimes could be more precise. For
example, are the “hand marks” or rather “fist marks” on
the walls of Warli huts really “commonly done all over
Maharashtra” (56)? Has this been verified? One may
also not be reconciled with the idea that the widespread
and very complex deity Khandoba is “try[ing] to merge
with Bhairava” (65) when everybody, even the simple
Dhangar shepherd considers him to be Saiikar, i.e., Siva.
The danger is that such statements will be cited in perpe-
tuity. The bhagat is the priest and medium of the Warlis,
and the word may indeed be folk etymologically derived
from a word meaning the “man who is a tiger” (48)
rather than from bhakta, a devotee. Rather than leading
us to the baghaüt in south Bihar one could have more
appropriately pointed to the Vâghyâs (from vdgh = tiger)
of the Khandobâ cult in Maharashtra. They are special
devotees of this deity and are the “dogs” of the god.
They carry a bag containing turmeric powder which is
made of tiger skin. They still enact tiger imitations in
some places on certain occasions tearing and biting the
throat of sheep.
To explain the meaning of rituals the relevant Warli
Marathi terms are given and translated. As “possession”
by the goddess plays such an important role the word
vàre could have been also translated. It means in Marathi
the “wind” of a deity or of a spirit which enters the body.
Similarly dev cadhavne could be translated as “to make
the deity rise.”
Unfortunately the authoress seems to have been
let down by the layout of the book. The beautiful
photographs and well-executed drawings rarely face the
corresponding text. This would not be so serious had
the numbers of the figures been arranged consecutively.
Instead we have, e.g., fig. 39 following fig. 49 and so
on. In a book where the text and the illustrations are
so interdependent this seems somewhat irritating. But
notwithstanding these critical annotations we must thank
the authoress for a beautiful and thought-provoking
work on Warli art and its religious background which
is extremely useful for everybody interested in the folk
culture of India. Giinther-Dietz Sontheimer
Day, A. Grove: Mad about Islands. Novelists of
a Vanished Pacific. Honolulu: Mutual Publishing Co.,
1987. 291 pp. Price: $9.95
Dr. A. Grove Day, emeritierter Literaturprofessor
der Universität von Hawaii und Autor von über 50
Büchern, geschichtlichen Werken und Anthologien, die
sich mit der Literatur des Pazifik beschäftigen, gilt unter
einigen seiner Kollegen als unbefragte Autorität auf
diesem Gebiet, z. B. bei James A. Michener; er nennt
ihn “the world’s foremost authority on the literature in
English of the Pacific Islands”.
Auch das vorliegende Buch ist dieser Thematik
gewidmet: 10 bedeutende und bekannte Schriftsteller,
Erzähler und Romanautoren, die in der Südsee unter-
wegs waren und die sich vom Zauber dieser Inseln ge-
fangennehmen ließen, stehen im Mittelpunkt seiner Un-
tersuchungen; ihn interessiert, wie sich Leben und Werk,
Dichtung und Wahrheit zueinander verhalten. Zuvor gibt
er eine Einführung in die literarische Landschaft und den
Kosmos der Inseln, in dem sich seine Autoren bewegen,
und berichtet exemplarisch von einigen ersten Kontakten
zwischen Entdeckungsreisenden und Insulanern.
Um es vorweg zu sagen: dieses Buch ist zugleich
verdienstvoll und ausgesprochen ärgerlich. Warum?
Verdienstvoll ist es, weil es den Schatz der Ge-
lehrsamkeit eines ganzen Lebens für den an der Li-
teratur der Südsee interessierten Leser und Forscher
ausbreitet, oft in spannenden Episoden, die ihm Lust
machen, die Originale endlich oder wieder zu lesen,
in farbigen Zitaten, die die Erinnerung auffrischen. Oft
werden sie allerdings wieder unterbrochen durch langat-
mige Passagen über lokale Einzelheiten, eine manchmal
irrelevante Detailfülle - wie z. B. die Körpergröße und
die Barttracht des jungen Melville (“He probably wore a
light beard - whalemen and beachcombers seldom found
it comfortable to shave, .... Herman was stocky, with a
height of five feet nine and one-half inches”; 65).
Für die detektivische Rekonstruktion von Lebens-
und Werkgeschichten mögen solche und andere Ein-
zelheiten, z. B. auch weitverzweigte Familienbindungen,
von Interesse sein, sie drängen sich aber leicht in den
Vordergrund und verstellen den Blick auf die geistige
Dimension der Abenteuer.
Zehn Autoren, die in den Worten von Grove Day
und Michener “nesomaniacs” oder “creatures mad about
islands” (etwa „inselsüchtige Narren“) waren, die seit
über 100 Jahren in den Weiten des Pazifiks den paradie-
sischen Ort für ihre Geschichten suchten, werden in
diesem Buch ausführlich vorgestellt: “Whaleman from
New York: Herman Melville”; “Innocent Abroad in Ha-
waii: Mark Twain”; “Scottish Sun-Seeker: Robert Louis
Stevenson”; “Trader and Blackbirder: Louis Becke”;
“Sailor from California: Jack London” und “Jack Lon-
don’s ‘Heart of Darkness’”; “A Leaf Trembles; W.
Somerset Maugham”; “A Bountiful Shelf: ‘Nordhoff
and Hall’”; “The Trader of Puka Puka: Robert Dean
Frisbie”; “Taleteller for the World: James A. Michener”.
Nicht alle von ihnen haben gleichen Rang, nicht alle
großen Ruhm gefunden. Grove Day zählt z. B. Louis
Becke zu den besten Kennern des Südpazifik im 19.
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
587
Jh., dessen Bücher lange Zeit nicht wirklich beachtet
worden seien.
Aber hier wie auch andernorts in Beschreibungen
und Kommentaren werden leider schon die ärgerlichen
Seiten des Buchs sichtbar: “A definite contribution by
Becke to The Mutineer was to make the Tahitian villain
Pipiri a leader in the scandalous Areoi Society. From the
time of Captain Cook, observers had noted this privi-
leged band of priests, strolling players, and promiscuous
child-murderers who worshipped the god Oro” (142).
Grove Day übernimmt völlig unbefragt die eurozentri-
sche Perspektive vieler Autoren und Missionare aus dem
19. Jh.
Die in den ersten drei Kapiteln gegebene kurze
Übersicht über die Geschichte westlicher Entdeckungen
und der darauf folgenden literarischen Interessen, be-
sonders aber die Darstellung der Besiedlung und der
Kulturen Ozeaniens, ist für den Ethnologen/Anthropolo-
gen eine Fundgrube überholter Begriffe und kolonialer
Klischees: “The people of Melanesia ... are termed
Oceanic Negroes (negro is the Portuguese word for
‘black’). They closely resemble the earliest inhabitants
of ... Africa, but nobody can explain how pioneers
of such an ethnic group traveled from Africa into the
deep Pacific. ... until recently the inhabitants have been
among the most primitive on earth” (21). Und Grove
Day schreibt weiter über Salomonen und Neue Hebri-
den: “Their histories reveal constant local wars in search
of human heads and bodies, for the ancestors of most
Melanesians were bold cannibals and proud warriors
whose lives reveal what conditions must have been like
in the Old Stone Age” (22). Der von Malinowski auch in
seinen sozialen Dimensionen gründlich erforschte Kula-
Handel kommt in der folgenden Version in seinen Blick:
“And in these islands, the women are less important
than the men and do most of the boring work, leaving
the men free to spend much of their time carrying out
fancy schemes to entertain themselves. These amuse-
ments vary from inventing secret fraternities to trading
for rare and useless objects” (22). Gerade das letzte
Beispiel verweist auf eine Weitsicht und Werthaltung,
in der Europäerhochmut und American way of life, ja
selbst rassistische Untertöne, offenbar noch unreflektiert
beheimatet sind. Die romantische Verklärung der Poly-
nesier als selbst den Wikingern überlegene Seefahrer
unterstreicht diese Sicht eher noch.
Auch in der knappen Beschreibung der heuti-
gen Situation in Mikronesien (Erhaltung amerikanischer
Stützpunkt-Interessen, Rekurs auf die Atombombe, aber
fehlender Hinweis auf den Widerstand in Palau) hätte
man sich mehr Verständnis und Einfühlung für die Be-
lange der Insulaner gewünscht. Da die Aufnahme dieses
Buchs in einer ersten Besprechung so rückhaltlos positiv
ausgefallen ist, “a compelling and comprehensive survey
of the literature of Oceania that should be included
on every ‘must read‘ list of Pacific Books” (Pacific
Studies 1989/2: 115-119), erscheint es der Rezensentin
unerläßlich, auf die zuletzt genannten Mängel dieser
Arbeit aufmerksam zu machen.
Zum Schluß noch ein Wort zur zeitgenössischen
Literatur der pazifischen Region in englischer Sprache:
Im letzten Kapitel, “... And Much, Much More!” (256),
berichtet Grove Day von einer Vielzahl von Erzählern
und Erzählungen, die bis in die Gegenwart hineinführen
und in denen z. B. der Krieg im Pazifik breiten Raum
einnimmt. Erst in den letzten zehn Zeilen des Buchs
entdeckt der Autor Albert Wendt aus Samoa mit seinem
1977 publizierten Roman “Pouliuli”, und wohlwollend
anerkennt er: “The book, valuable as ethnology as well
as story, also displays qualities of poetry, fable, and
folklore. Signs are abroad that will bring closer togeth-
er the minds and hearts of Occidental and Oceanian
alike” (272). Daß in den letzten zehn Jahren eine völ-
lig neue Literatur in englischer Sprache in Ozeanien
entstanden ist (z. B. von Albert Wendt), gerade auch
in der Auseinandersetzung mit den westlichen Roman-
schriftstellern wie Stevenson, Maugham oder Melville,
ist Grove Day offenbar entgangen. Für Literaturangaben
vgl. z. B. R. v. Gizycki, „,Our Own Visions of Oceania
and Earth1 - Zeitgenössische Schriftsteller im Südpazifik
...“ (Anthropos 1986: 264—276) und „,The canoe is
afloat ...‘ Zur Entstehung und Entwicklung der South
Pacific Creative Arts Society ...“ (.Anthropos 1988:
546-554). Renate von Gizycki
De Montmollin, Olivier: The Archaeology of Po-
litical Structure. Settlement Analysis in a Classic Maya
Polity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989.
xvii + 287 pp., fig., tab., maps. Price: £ 30.00
This book is an anthropological challenge, an invi-
tation to archaeologists to be more flexible, creative, and
(thereby) more realistic in studying political structure in
ancient complex societies. Specifically, de Montmollin
seeks to characterize political structure in Maya soci-
ety of the Rosario valley, Chiapas, Mexico, during the
Late/Terminal Classic period (here, ca. A. D. 700-950).
More broadly, however, this particular case study is
offered as illustration of the potential productivity of
the multiple and wide-ranging analytic and interpretive
approaches the author espouses.
The book begins with a critique of monolithic so-
cietal typologies, arguing they obscure the actual range
of variability in how political systems work. As alterna-
tive, the author’s approach builds on ideas of political
scientist David Easton, using what de Montmollin calls
“bundled continua of variation” (16) as a more satis-
factory analytic structure for capturing the complexity
of political systems in use. Rather than describing a
particular system as either unitary or segmentary, for
example, de Montmollin asserts it is more realistic to
allow that said system might occupy a position on a con-
tinuum in which the two listed alternatives were simply
the extreme ends. Moreover, de Montmollin argues that
analysis at multiple scales of a system (from neighbor-
hood “wards” or other intracommunity levels through
the polity as a whole) might well show different levels,
or different exemplars of individual levels, being more
segmentary or more unitary than others. When multiple
such continua are studied (e.g., pyramidal vs. hierar-
Anthropos 85.1990
588
Rezensionen
chical organization; mechanical vs. organic solidarity),
the result, in his view, is a model of political structure
likely to be much less simple and tidy than conveyed
in “either/or” typologies, but one correspondingly more
realistic in complexity and more capable of Capturing
the relative idiosyncrasy of individual cases.
This approach makes a fundamental assumption
of both complexity and dynamism in organizational
systems. That is, cultural systems are neither as simple
nor as static as we analysts would wish them to be,
and therefore resist fitting neatly into the nice model-
ling boxes we build for them. Obviously, most social
scientists recognize this fact in principle, but de Mont-
mollin is laudably creative in his efforts to create new
analytical tools adequate for addressing these sorts of
system complexity. In the same vein, while he acknowl-
edges the incompleteness of the archaeological record
in preserving traces of ancient social systems, he argues
that this too is less a problem than is archaeologists’
timidity in exploring and manipulating the information
that can be tapped. This view echoes Lewis Binford’s
exhortations of nearly 30 years ago, but freshly so, and
leads him to two important stands. Neither is entirely
unique to de Montmollin, certainly, but their clear and
well reasoned presentation in this book is nonetheless
very welcome.
The more controversial position is the notion that,
in building models of political structure, archaeologists
should not be cowed by the issue of whether the mod-
elled elements and their connections are fully testable
in the archaeological record. Archaeologists should first
dare to ask the most interesting questions, and then try to
develop methods to investigate those questions, methods
specifically appropriate to the available data base. While
“few would defend totally untestable models ... it does
not follow that totally testable models are required. Call-
ing for totally testable models is a form of categorical
yes/no thinking” (33; cf. 237). More broadly; “Loose
ends are not always a bad thing and aims should exceed
the means of achieving them” (34).
The other, less controversial stand is that a com-
plex system merits development of multiple indices to
measure that complexity, again geared to the nature
of the data base at hand. To study segmentariness vs.
unitariness of political structure, for example, de Mont-
mollin first divides that continuum into several sub-
continua (centralization, differentiation, integration) and
then develops multiple (albeit related; e.g., 149) means
of measuring each, using the settlement record from the
Rosario polity and its subdivisions. No one measure will
suffice as an index of how a political system, or any
complex system, worked.
The multiple analytic perspectives tend strongly
to be “top-down” in both method and theory. That is,
analyses emphasize higher-order settlement scales (from
multi-community districts to the polity as a whole), and
interpretations favor control-seeking rulers as the most
important media of political unification. De Montmollin
explicitly eschews involvement in the conflict vs. con-
sensus debate in political evolutionary theory (95), but
for various, usually explicit reasons, he favors control
over voluntarism, conflict over consensus, as a broad-
based category of determinants of political structure.
This is clearest in the discussion of centralization (Chap-
ter 5), and specifically of “forced settlement” as a cen-
tralization index. Here and elsewhere the author argues
cogently that action-theoretic and like models provide
more convincing bases for interpretation than do mod-
els founded in (especially) information theory and/or
formalist economics (87 ff.; cf. de Montmollin, Forced
Settlement and Political Centralization in a Classic Maya
Polity. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 1987:
220-262).
Both de Montmollin’s theoretical arguments and
his substantive applications of multiple cross-cutting
measures of complexity paint an intriguing if still pre-
liminary picture of an evolving, functioning polity, a
picture that invites further research both in the Rosario
valley and beyond.
This last assertion, of course, raises the question of
how successful the book is with respect to interpretation
of the Rosario data. A few comments on the nature of
that data are in order. The data base on which de Mont-
mollin draws comes virtually entirely from reconnais-
sance and surface survey of pre-Columbian architectural
sites in virtually all of the Rosario valley of Chiapas.
Such sites in this valley are highly visible and well
preserved. Although surface artifacts are scarce, the few
excavations conducted to date suggest the settlement re-
cord maps an essentially synchronous distribution of res-
idence and other activities for the Late/Terminal Classic.
Arguing that political organization structures settlement,
rather than the reverse (9, 52), de Montmollin poses
multiple questions of this data set, questions concerning
relative tendencies toward centralization, hierarchical
organization, and other political structuring principles
that have been (or might be) posited for ancient Maya
polities. He then develops indices for assessing where
the Rosario system falls within the range of possibilities.
As the reader will guess from the foregoing, the author’s
conclusion is that the Rosario polity, and its constituent
parts, are neither entirely one thing nor another, whether
the continuum in question is centralization, segmentary
vs. unitary organization, or whatever.
In keeping with the de Montmollin’s approach, I
would say that the resulting model of Rosario political
structure - along with the book as a whole - is likewise
neither entirely successful nor entirely unsuccessful. It
is surely, however, much closer to the successful end of
the continuum. The author is gratifyingly frank about the
limitations of his data base and the preliminary nature of
both his data and his analytic tools. Moreover, he is quite
explicit about offering the Rosario study as primarily
a starting point for what he conceives as a long-term
investigation of political structure, by multiple scholars
in diverse places (e.g., 233 f.). Many of the specific in-
terpretations outlined in the book are quite intriguing and
these wonderful “loose ends” invite further discussion
and research (e.g., 87, 93: on inferred factors behind
variability in settlement nucleation; 167, 171: on greater
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
589
clarity of site-planning evident in colonial capitals as vs.
in centers of the colonizing home base; 227-230: on the
possible identification and implications of civic centers
as settlement microcosms).
There remain some relatively small but bothersome
problems. One is that the book is occasionally less
self-contained than it should be. In general, the decision
to minimize descriptive data reporting has proven wise,
and maintains focus. Cross-reference to other sources
is an appropriate way to make the supporting data
indirectly available. Some of the interpretations and
assertions seem overly scant, however, such as the al-
lusion to indicators of rank used to define sociopolitical
rank classes (186). Although these classes are basic
to the author’s assessment of stratification, no further
information on the nature of the indicators is given,
and the only cross-referenced source is an unpublished
paper. Likewise, such intriguing terms as “ethnic plaza
plan” deserve some in-text clarification, the availability
of published discussion notwithstanding (de Montmol-
lin, Tenam Rosario - A Political Microcosm. American
Antiquity 1988: 351-370). This sort of sketchiness is
minor, but does undermine the strength of the inter-
pretive assertions made, even when these are avowedly
preliminary.
Another issue is the dominant “top-down” perspec-
tive cited earlier. Such a perspective, with its attendant
analytic focus on higher-order settlement scales, is ap-
propriate for study of political systems, and de Mont-
mollin argues this appropriateness effectively (e.g., 244-
249). I am not convinced, however, that analyses from
the bottom up, including the household-archaeology
studies the author so roundly criticizes, are useless en-
deavors for understanding political structures. If the lat-
ter partly determine settlement patterning, as the author
posits (and I agree), then changing patterns in household
size, structure, and organization can offer insights into
adjustments in political, economic, and social structure
in an evolving society (e.g., D. S. Rice, Classic to Post-
classic Maya Household Transitions in the Central Pe-
ten, Guatemala. In: R. R. Wilk and W. Ashmore (eds.).
Household and Community in the Mesoamerican Past;
pp. 227-247. Albuquerque 1988. - M. E. Whalen, House
and Household in Formative Oaxaca. I hide, pp. 249-
272). While de Montmollin’s top-down emphasis is
analytically fruitful, the choice between top-down and
bottom-up need not be so “either/or” as his presentation
suggests.
Likewise, the author’s arguments justifying the con-
trol-oriented interpretive perspective (described above)
are generally convincing. When this perspective leads,
however, to use of terms like “forced settlement” as
labels for measurement tools, detachment seems to have
been lost. Causation seems presumed in the process
of measurement. Why not the more neutral, formally
descriptive term “nucléation”?
These remain relatively minor points, however, in
comparison with the overall contribution of the book.
De Montmollin’s perspective is, for the most part, re-
freshingly creative, open-minded, and nondogmatic; the
various rationales for theoretical premises and interpre-
tations are generally thoughtful and well reasoned. This
stimulating book deserves detailed consideration, from
those concerned with political structure and evolution
generally, as well as with its study via archaeology.
Wendy Ashmore
Dettmar, Erika; Rassismus, Vorurteile, Kommu-
nikation. Afrikanisch-europäische Begegnung in Ham-
burg. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag, 1989. 427 pp., Fig.
(Lebensformen, 4) Preis: DM48,-
Seitdem die Ethnologen begonnen haben, auch die
eigene Kultur und Gesellschaft in ihr Forschungsfeld
einzubeziehen und zu hinterfragen, sind kritische Stu-
dien über interkulturelle Beziehungen zu beliebten Di-
plomthemen geworden.
Dettmars Dissertation reiht sich hier ein. Es ist eine
empirische Untersuchung über die auf verschiedenen
Ebenen (mehr allgemeine Konfrontation - persönliche
Kontakte - Dauerbeziehung) stattfindenden Interaktio-
nen zwischen Weißen und Schwarzen in Hamburg, die
sich im Wohn-, Arbeits-, Freizeit- und Öffentlichkeits-
bereich in unterschiedlichen Formen alltäglicher Dis-
kriminierung der Immigranten und deren Reaktionen
äußert. Die Autorin legt großes Gewicht auf die Hin-
tergründe und Wurzeln der Diskriminierung, die sie
historisch-ideologisch in rassistisch-evolutionistischen,
ökonomischen und machtpolitischen Denk- und Ver-
haltensstrukturen und in den negativen oder einseitigen
Vorurteilen der frühen europäischen Kontakte mit Afrika
sieht. Die heutigen zwischenmenschlichen Spannungen
und Konflikte in Hamburg müssen, nach ihr, entspre-
chend als Reproduktion und Weiterexistenz der kolonia-
len Wertstereotypen und Dependenzstrukturen im kon-
kreten städtisch-europäischen Milieu gesehen werden, in
dem die Überlegenheit der westlichen Kultur vorgespielt
und stabilisiert wird. Der Ausbruch aus dem Neokolo-
nialismus und seiner Ideologie aufgrund menschlicher
Begegnung und kritischer Auseinandersetzung mit der
Eigenkultur und ihren Stereotypisierungen gelingt nur
wenigen Deutschen. Für die Afrikaner, die - vor allem,
was die Asylbewerber betrifft - von Integration und
Assimilation träumten, hat die ausweglose Situation oft
pathologische Folgen. Sie bleiben in den europäischen
Metropolen weitgehend die Segregierten, Ausgebeute-
ten, Frustrierten, sogar dort, wo es ihnen gelingt, deut-
sche Lebenspartner zu finden. Die Bewußtseinskrise und
anfängliche Resignation kann bei ihnen auch zu psycho-
logischer und politischer Umorientierung führen.
Dettmars Untersuchung zeichnet sich, mit ähn-
lichen Erhebungen verglichen, als intensive und rei-
fe Arbeit aus. Sie hat es sich nicht leicht gemacht
in ihren umfassenden theoretischen Darlegungen zur
Kultur als dialektischem Konzept, zu den phänomeno-
logischen, soziostrukturellen und historischen Ansätzen
der interkulturellen Kommunikationsforschung, zu den
Vorurteilen als kulturellen und ideologischen Kategori-
sierungen, zu den in den Rassenbeziehungen inhärenten
Widersprüchen von Assimilation und Segregation (an-
Anthropos 85.1990
590
Rezensionen
dere Autoren sprechen von Inklusion und Exklusion).
Man kann manchmal über einzelne begriffliche For-
mulierungen und Akzentsetzungen, über Einbeziehung
oder Nichteinbeziehung konkreter theoretischer Fragen
und Exkurse geteilter Meinung sein - hervorzuheben ist
aber ihr Bemühen, die theoretische Erarbeitung in ihre
empirischen Analysen einzubauen. Was sie über ihre
Untersuchungsmethode schreibt, kann als beispielhaft
gelten. Besonders beachtenswert ist, daß sie beide Inter-
aktions-Partnergruppen, Afrikaner und Deutsche, nach
ihren Selbst- und Fremdkategorisierungen und nach ih-
ren tatsächlichen gegenseitigen Begegnungen befragt,
bzw. relevante Information darüber im Dialog heuri-
stisch erarbeitet hat. Daß dabei Einzelaussagen nicht
Belege für Generalisierungen sein können, ist selbstver-
ständlich. Hugo Huber
Dhavalikar, M. K., H. D, Sankalia, and Z. D.
Ansati (eds.): Excavations at Inamgaon; vol. 1, parti
and 2. Pune: Deccan College Post-Graduate and Re-
search Institute, 1988. xx + 1044 pp., maps, photos, hg.,
tab. Price: Rs 700, Rs 800
From the end of the Second World War up to
the present day the archaeological pioneer work on
non-Harappan prehistoric cultures of Western India, be-
gun by the late H. D. Sankalia and his cohorts from
Deccan College, has yielded a rich harvest of published
results. The discovery in 1950 of the chalcolithic Malwa
(1700-1400 BCE) and subsequently of the Early/Late
Jorwe (1400-1100/1100-700) assemblages in Maha-
rashtra as well as further held research on them, is
developed considerably in the present study, overtaking
as it were several preliminary reports. At Inamgaon
in the Pune District a wholistic treatment of determin-
ing environmental and artefactual factors worked up in
twelve seasons of excavation finds expression in the
following chapter-studies: goals/problems, site descrip-
tion, quarternary stratigraphy, present environment, late
pleistocene fauna, site catchment analysis, chronology,
architectural structures, the burials, pottery, small finds,
plant economy, faunal assemblage, chalcolithic diet,
summary, bibliography, and index which result in a
comprehensive and thorough report.
The printing is on the same high level as the orga-
nization and content. Evident is an excellent coordina-
tion of the efforts of several authors with each other and
with the printers. One feature of this excavation report
is particularly useful - the typological tables provided
the different classes of finds. Given the scope and range
of this study only selected aspects can be mentioned in
the space available here.
A second volume complements this excavation
report in the same series: John R. Lukács and Subhash R.
Walimbe, “The Physical Anthropology of Human Skele-
tal Remains. An Osteological Analysis” (Pune 1986), the
results of study of 243 prehistoric burials, for whatever
reason, are not integrated into the excavation report.
The chapter by G. M. Badam on “Late Pleistocene
Fauna” catalogues, anatomically according to species,
602 fossils, revealing ecological conditions and a great
variety of fauna (and flora) in this part of the Ghod
tributary.
R. S. Pappu’s site catchment analysis, the first of its
kind in India, rests on results of survey work in the area
and on models from catchment analyses in other parts
of the world. The immediate catchment area around
Inamgaon has a radius of some 5 km. The resources de-
termined in the other chapter studies (soils, metals/ores,
fauna) within this area are discussed and mapped. The
chalcolithic farmers of Inamgaon exploited nearly all of
the necessary resources within the immediate area of
the settlement. Progressive erosion and the introduction
of irrigation, potentially the most important develop-
ments in the history of the settlement, seem not to
have changed the catchment pattern. Metallic, especially
copper ore, does not occur in the immediate area, and the
closest known sources are situated some 60 km away.
Even if little native copper has survived (119), this can
as easily point to the intensive exploitation of this much
sought commodity as to its nonexistence in India. Large
pieces of native copper (e.g., at Malanjkhand in Madhya
Pradesh) unexpectedly have come to light, surviving an-
cient prospection. The inhabitants of chalcolithic Inam-
gaon probably need not have traded for metal as far as
Raichur und Gulbarga since nearer sources exist. These
do not appear in geological surveys in part because they
are too small to be of modem industrial importance. We
should underestimate neither the ability of chalcolithic
prospectors nor contemporary smelting abilities: Both
sulfidic (chalcopyrite, pyrite, bomite, etc.) and oxidic
(malachite, azurite) ores were smelted in India of the
second millennium BCE.
In Z. D. Ansari’s chapter on the absolute chronol-
ogy 38 radiocarbon determinations range over the three
periods at Inamgaon. The scatter in the determinations
is astonishingly narrow (except no. 23 and 28), and the
resulting absolute chronology conforms nicely with this
evidence.
The architecture is well dug and well presented.
Those who have excavated in South Asia know the
extreme excavation difficulties here caused by dryness
and soil-related factors.
The chapter dealing with the burials encompasses
a large corpus of observational data and an unequivo-
cal documentation (scale, north arrow, etc.) enabling a
chronological picture of the graves and burial customs.
A summary would be helpful, to complement an in any
case clear presentation.
A flexible classification is used for the pottery of
the three periods at Inamgaon. A variety of wares occur
in the different pottery industries. Inasmuch as statistical
counts of the pottery were made according to period
(cf. 499), it would be little trouble to plot the different
fabrics in a histogramme. Whereas the research of the
second millennium in South Asia invariably stresses
interregional and international contacts, this approach
reveals itself to be inappropriate with the material from
Inamgaon.
The lithic industry consists of both knapped and
Anthropos 85.1990
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591
ground tools. The chart which summarizes the 71 ground
lithics is a first for this material. For non-specialists
the difficulties in typologizing this material in order to
determine regional differences become clear. The murky
photos traditional in publications on South Asian prehis-
tory are no exception here - especially in the depiction
of the knapped blades, which in any case are difficult
to photograph. Often shadowy outlines of the stone and
other objects would be more readily visible if sufficient
lighting and/or a lighter background were used. The
chapter on lithics is supplemented by a concise and
well-presented treatment of lithic-wear. Different kinds
of polish expertly are described and illustrated.
Numerous metallic and other small finds follow in
a catalogue-study. Orginally the implements probably
were traded by unit of weight which some catalogers
provide for the metal objects to facilitate archaeometric
studies. But the weights are lacking here. The reviewer
would classify the crescents no. 13 and 14 (564 fig. 13.9)
with little hesitation as razors - a category seldom con-
sidered in South Asian metallic artefacts. The repertoire
of metallic artefacts is unique to the region, although
occasional parallels occur for some of the objects outside
of the settlement. Aside from the corpus of the chro-
nologically preceding Harappan Period, this collection
is the most extensive excavated and published one in
South Asia, for which reason it is very important. Other
classes of finds appear catalogued. The beads receive
much needed attention - typologies of the kind used
here are still quite rare. Future researchers interested in
seriation of necessity will have to alter the typology into
material/shape/colour groups also taking the frequency
of each more clearly into account. Welcome is the treat-
ment of the molluscal material which among other things
provides a further potential criterion for interregional
contact. The relevant documentation and identifications
are more than adequate.
The extensive treatment of the plant and the ani-
mal economies clearly presents the material recovered,
revealing in a historical fashion the great range of wild
and domesticated plants. Bone counts are extensive -
including the amount of usable meat in given excavation
units.
In summary, the spectrum of analyses provides a
unique basis for the reconstruction of this ancient settle-
ment and civilization. The minor cavils raised here must
be taken in the light of a very ambitious and successful
research undertaking. It is a pleasure to review such a
work. Paul Yule
Dissanayake, Ellen: What is Art for? Seattle: Uni-
versity of Washington Press, 1988. xv + 249 pp., photos,
fig., tab. Price; $ 20.00
Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaftler haben für Etho-
logen oder Entwicklungsbiologen, die Phänomene
menschlicher Kultur mit genetischer Programmierung
erklären wollen, selten mehr als Geringschätzung übrig.
Dessen ist sich Ellen Dissanayake bewußt. Ihr aus hu-
manethologisch-evolutionistischer Perspektive geschrie-
benes Buch hat deshalb etwas Demonstratives: es nimmt
alle nur denkbaren Einwände vorweg, versucht, sie als
Vorurteile zu entkräften, nähert sich dem eigenen The-
ma, es negativ eingrenzend, auf Umwegen, um schließ-
lich den entwicklungsbiologischen Ansatz zu exemplifi-
zieren und seine Erklärungskraft zu erweisen.
“What is Art for?” ist - in bester angelsächsischer
Tradition - erfrischend unakademisch geschrieben - für
den wissenschaftlichen Leser ebenso informativ wie für
den Laien verständlich. Im Vorwort bekennt sich die Au-
torin mit milder Selbstironie - ein Stil, der für das ganze
Buch charakteristisch ist - zu ihren weitgespannten Am-
bitionen: sie will sich dem komplexen, undefinierbaren,
vielgestaltigen Phänomen Kunst auf neuen Wegen nä-
hern und es umfassend, die Grenzen einzelner Wissen-
schaften (wie Entwicklungsbiologie, Humanethologie,
Ethnologie, physische Anthropologie, kognitive Psycho-
logie, Entwicklungspsychologie, europäische Kulturge-
schichte und Ästhetik) überschreitend, behandeln. Ihr
Interesse gilt dabei nicht der Einzigartigkeit künstle-
rischer Schöpfungen, sondern den Übereinstimmungen
menschlichen Verhaltens überall auf der Welt und zu
allen Zeiten. Entsprechend ist nicht das hervorragende
Einzelkunstwerk, sondern Kunst als allgemeiner Verhal-
tensaspekt Gegenstand ihrer Untersuchung. Gleichzeitig
warnt die Autorin ihre Leser, daß eine hypothetische
Rekonstruktion der Evolution eines so komplexen Ver-
haltens, wie es die Kunst darstellt, nur spekulativ sein
kann - wenn auch enorm interessant, weil eine derartige
Rekonstruktion Aufschluß über die Eigenartigkeit der
westlichen Zivilisation des ausgehenden 20. Jh.s gibt.
Nach dieser Vorrede ist der Leser nicht wenig
gespannt zu erfahren, zu welchen neuen Ergebnissen die
Studie gelangt. Doch mit an Hitchcock erinnernden Sus-
pense-Techniken hält Ellen Dissanayake ihn bis in die
Mitte des Buches in der Schwebe. Zunächst wird er kurz
mit Problemen und Erkenntnissen der Entwicklungsbio-
logie vertraut gemacht. Dann wird ihm anhand eines
prägnanten und sachkundigen Überblicks über ethno-
logische Forschungsergebnisse demonstriert, daß die
allgemeine Beantwortung der Frage „Was ist Kunst?“
an den verschiedenartigen Vorstellungen und Praktiken
verschiedener Kulturen zu verschiedenen Zeiten nur
scheitern kann. Das dritte Kapitel versucht daher einen
neuen Einstieg über die andere Frage „Was bewirkt
Kunst?“ Es zeigt, daß auch funktionalistische Antworten
verschiedenster Spezialgebiete unbefriedigend bleiben.
Das vierte Kapitel löst die Spannung des Lesers
vorübergehend auf und markiert einen ersten Höhe-
punkt. Die Autorin formuliert, nachdem sie Kunst, Spiel
und Ritual als eng miteinander verbundene Verhaltens-
formen dargestellt hat, ihre These. Von den Anfängen
der Menschheitsgeschichte bis heute liegt den verschie-
denen Erscheinungsformen der Kunst eine allgemeine
Verhaltenstendenz zugrunde: die Tendenz, Dinge oder
Tätigkeiten mit Besonderheit auszustatten, zu überhö-
hen, aus dem Bereich des Alltäglichen herauszuheben
und in den des Magischen, Übernatürlichen oder heute
des Ästhetischen zu überführen. Damit hat Ellen Dissa-
nayake, auch wenn sich, so ihre Einsicht, Kunst nicht
Anthropos 85.1990
592
Rezensionen
darauf reduzieren läßt, einen gemeinsamen Nenner aller
künstlerischen (ebenso wie spielerischen und rituellen)
Ausdrucksformen gefunden.
Nach einem Kapitel, das die Evolution dieses
Kunstverhaltens rekonstruiert und als ein aus vielen (ma-
nipulativen, perzeptuellen, affektiven, symbolischen und
kognitiven) Fäden bestehendes Gewebe charakterisiert,
greift die Autorin erneut die Frage nach der Funktion
des Kunstverhaltens in der Evolution des Menschen
auf, behandelt jedoch vor einer Beantwortung noch den
affektiven Aspekt der Kunst, die - entwicklungsge-
schichtlich betrachtet - nicht nur nützlich, sondern auch
angenehm ist, indem sie ästhetisches Vergnügen bereitet.
Ihre These: Kunst hatte die Funktion, sozial wichtige
Tätigkeiten körperlich und emotional befriedigend zu
machen.
Das Schlußkapitel enthält die Auflösung. Es ver-
sucht, Tendenzen der Avantgarde-Kunst des 20. Jh.s
aus entwicklungsbiologischer Perspektive einzuschät-
zen. Zunächst liest es sich wie der Abgesang auf ein
verlorenes Paradies, voller Trauer um den Verlust einer
heilen Welt, der logisch-ästhetischen Integration mensch-
licher Kultur. Doch kommt es auf den allerletzten Sei-
ten des Buches noch einmal zu einer überraschenden
Wende. Ellen Dissanayake sieht im neuen Ästhetizismus
zwei Tendenzen am Werk, die den heutigen Menschen
als biologischen Homo sapiens erweisen. Die sogenann-
ten hohen Künste sind in unserer Kultur für diejenigen,
die sie schätzen, eine Art und Weise, Heiligkeit und
Spiritualität in einer profanen Welt zurückzugewinnen;
die Bewegung „Alles ist Kunst“ dagegen eine Weise,
fragmentarischen Lebenserfahrungen Kohärenz (Form,
Integration) zu verleihen.
Bereits zu Beginn der Studie bekennt die Autorin,
die 15 Jahre in Ländern der „Dritten Welt“ gelebt hat,
ihre Sympathien für die Menschen in traditionellen Ge-
sellschaften, für deren Weltanschauungen und Lebens-
weisen. Die Ergebnisse ihrer Studie decken sich über
weite Strecken mit denen einer allgemeinen Ethnologie.
Das Buch ist der interessante und anregende Versuch,
mit Hilfe der Entwicklungsbiologie den modernen mit
dem traditionellen und vorgeschichtlichen Menschen zu
versöhnen. Sylvia M. Schomburg-Scherff
Donald, Leland (ed.): Themes in Ethnology and
Culture History. Essays in Honor of David F. Aberle.
Meerut: Archana Publications, 1987. 467 pp„ maps, fig„
tab. Price: Rs 250
Diese Sammlung von Essays datiert bereits aus
dem Jahre 1983 und ist zudem an ziemlich entlege-
ner Stelle veröffentlicht worden. Beide Sachverhalte,
ergänzt um die Feststellung, daß sie einige bemerkens-
werte Beiträge enthält, rechtfertigen die Besprechung
des Bandes auch noch zu diesem verhältnismäßig späten
Zeitpunkt nach dem Erscheinen des Buches. Als Einfüh-
rung wird die Sammlung von Essays mit einem Bericht
über die persönliche und wissenschaftliche Laufbahn
von David F. Aberle eröffnet, für den der Herausge-
ber Leland Donald vom Department of Anthropology
der Universität von Victoria (Vancouver Island, British
Columbia) verantwortlich zeichnet.
Die in dem vorliegenden Buch gesammelten Es-
says sollen in etwa die wissenschaftlichen Interessen von
David F. Aberle reflektieren, der auf einigen Gebieten
bedeutende Beiträge zur Kulturanthropologie geliefert
hat. Schwerpunkte seiner Forschungstätigkeit waren die
Felder Verwandtschaft / Sozialordnung, Wirtschaft, Re-
ligion / soziale Bewegungen, Linguistik und Persön-
lichkeitserforschung / Psychologische Anthropologie;
umfassende, langjährige Feldstudien führte er bei den
Navajo-Indianern des nordamerikanischen Südwestens
durch. Die der Einführung angefügte Bibliographie von
Aberle enthält fast 90 Bücher, Abhandlungen und Buch-
besprechungen. Seine bemerkenswertesten Bücher sind;
seine Dissertation unter dem Titel “The Reconciliation
of Divergent Views of Hopi Culture through the Ana-
lysis of Life-History Material” (1951), “The Psychoso-
cial Analysis of a Hopi Life-History” (1951), “Navaho
and Ute Peyotism: A Chronological and Distributional
Study” (mit Omer C. Stewart, 1957), “Navaho” (in:
D. M. Schneider and K. Gough [eds.], Matrilineal Kin-
ship. 1961: 96-201), “The Peyote Religion among the
Navaho” (1966) und “Lexical Reconstruction, The Case
of the Proto-Athapaskan Kinship System” (mit I. Dyen,
1974).
Von den elf weiteren Beiträgen des Bandes kann
an dieser Stelle nur auf einige wenige eingegangen
werden, zumal eine gleichgewichtige Betrachtung aller
Abhandlungen den Rahmen dieser kurzen Besprechung
sprengen würde. Zu den Beiträgen, die hier außer acht
bleiben, gehören “A Formal Analysis of Three Apa-
chean Kinship Terminologies” von Leland Donald und
Marion Tighe (34-80), “Roots of the Pol Pot Regime in
Kampuchea” von Kathleen Gough (125-175), “Family
Labour Strategies in Modem Peasant Societies” von
Nancie L. Gonzalez (227-258), “Tricksters in Myths
and Families: Studies on the Meaning and Sources of
‘PregenitaT Relations” von Guy E. Swanson (259-308),
“Hopi Deviance in Historical and Epidemiological Per-
spective” von Jerrold E. Levy, Stephen J. Kuntiz und
Eric B. Henderson (355-396) und “Butaritari and Abe-
mama: Contrasting Gilbertese Adaptations to European
Contact” von Kenneth E. Knudson (397-467).
In seinem Beitrag “Creolization in Genetic Theo-
ry” (81-93) beschäftigt sich Isidore Dyen mit der Defi-
nition von Kreol-Dialekten und -Sprachen, Fragen ihrer
Entstehung und ihren Einfluß auf die genetische Ver-
wandtschaft von Sprachen. Dabei kommt er zu dem
Ergebnis, daß Kreol-Sprachen erst von den jüngsten
historischen Perioden, nämlich der Kolonialzeit, her be-
kannt sind, und führt ihre Entstehung auf bestimmte so-
zioökonomische Umstände zurück. Er wirft die für den
Sprachhistoriker in höchstem Maße relevante Frage auf,
ob vergleichbare sozioökonomische Randbedingungen,
die zur Entstehung der Kreol-Sprachen führten, auch
schon in vorkolonialen historischen Perioden bestanden
haben können. Nach seiner Auffassung ist das zwar
nicht schlechthin undenkbar, aber dennoch sehr unwahr-
scheinlich, zumal nicht ein einziges Beispiel dafür bisher
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
593
bekannt ist. Deshalb brauchen Sprachhistoriker mit der
Möglichkeit einer Kreol-Sprache vor der Kolonialzeit
nicht zu rechnen.
Die Spaltung von Siedlungen ist unter den Natur-
völkern ein sehr häufig verbreitetes Ereignis. Die Ur-
sachen hierfür und die Umstände, unter denen derartige
Ereignisse stattfinden, haben allerdings bei den Ethnolo-
gen bislang keine theoretische Beachtung gefunden. In
seiner Arbeit über “Village Splitting as a Function of
Population Size” (94-124) beabsichtigt Robert U. Car-
neiro zwar nicht, eine allgemeine Theorie für derartige
Vorgänge zu liefern, er befaßt sich aber darin mit einem
wesentlichen Aspekt dieses Problems, nämlich dem Zu-
sammenhang zwischen der Größe einer Siedlung und
ihrer Tendenz, sich zu spalten. Dabei beschränkt er sich
allerdings auf autonome Siedlungen, also solche, die
nicht einer politischen Kontolle von oben unterliegen.
Nach seinen Ermittlungen ist die Wahrscheinlichkeit,
daß eine autonome Siedlung sich spaltet, proportional,
nicht einfach zu ihrer Größe in irgendeiner allgemei-
nen Weise, sondern spezifisch zu dem Quadrat ihrer
Bevölkerungszahl. Das Verständnis des Phänomens der
Siedlungsspaltung ist natürlich für die Erforschung der
Menschheit von erheblicher Bedeutung, zeigt es doch
Prozesse von einer gewissen Regelmäßigkeit auf, an
Hand derer die historischen Linien einzelner Völker
verfolgt werden können.
Joseph G. Jorgensen hat bereits in seiner bedeu-
tenden Studie “Western Indians: Comparative Environ-
ments, Uanguages, and Cultures of Aboriginal Western
North America” (San Francisco 1980) versucht, Zusam-
menhänge zwischen Umwelt, Sprachen und Kulturen in
dieser weitläufigen Region aufzuzeigen. Mit der nun-
mehr vorliegenden Studie unter dem Titel “Political So-
ciety in Aboriginal Western North America” (175-226)
stellt er die Behauptung auf, daß Unterhaltsressourcen
entscheidend für die besondere Verbreitung politischer
Organisationsformen im westlichen Nordamerika sind,
und insbesondere, daß, im Gegensatz zu den vorherr-
schenden Erklärungen über die Ursachen der verschie-
denen Arten politischer Gesellschaften im westlichen
Nordamerika, das Eigentum an strategischen Schlüssel-
ressourcen durch Verwandtschaftsgruppen den Haupt-
faktor für die Verhinderung komplexer Entwicklungen
politischer Organisationsformen in den reich ausgestat-
teten nutzbaren Regionen des fernen Westens darstellt.
Diese Feststellung wird durch ein umfangreiches Daten-
material eindrucksvoll belegt. Statt komplexe Formen
politischer Organisation zu entwickeln, findet die Ver-
sorgung unter souveränen Wohngruppen sehr viel häu-
figer durch Solidaritäten, Moieties und Zermonien statt.
Die Wechselbeziehung konzentrierter, reichhaltiger und
lagerfähiger Ressourcen mit seßhaften Verwandschafts-
gruppen und Dörfern als souveräne Organisationen ist
hoch und die Regel für das westliche Nordamerika,
insbesondere in seinen milden Küstenregionen, die sehr
intensiv bevölkert waren. Jorgensen stellt als Ergeb-
nis seiner Untersuchungen fest, daß die Schemata der
Evolutionisten und Systemökologen für die von ihm
entdeckten Formen kaum herhalten können.
Thema des Beitrags von Elman Service unter dem
Titel “The Bifurcation of Method and Theory in Ethnol-
ogy” (309-336) ist die wissenschaftsgeschichtliche Be-
handlung von Prozessen der Spaltung in Methode und
Theorie der Ethnologie. Er beschreibt die Spaltungs-
phänomene unter den Begriffspaarungen Positivism vs.
Humanism, Determinism vs. Free-willism, Environmen-
talism vs. Mentalism, The Comparative Method vs. Ho-
lism, Generalization vs. Particularism, Evolutionism vs.
Relativism, Social Structure vs. Culture und schließlich
Organismic Analogy vs. Language Analogy. Jede der
beiden Seiten in der Ethnologie hebt einige Fragen und
Probleme hervor, die von der jeweils anderen Seite
ignoriert werden. Der Autor bietet zur Überwindung
der Spaltungsphänomene eine moderate und dennoch
einfache und vermutlich auch offenkundige Lösung an.
Er geht zunächst davon aus, daß das menschliche Ver-
halten einer Analyse ziemlich schwer zugänglich ist, so
daß es den unterschiedlichsten, irgendwie immer ein-
seitig orientierten Frageansätzen nie ganz gerecht wer-
den kann. Was schließlich die ganze wissenschaftliche
Wahrheit darstellen könnte, kann nur über die jeweili-
ge Fragestellung, den Betrachtungsansatz, beantwortet
werden.
Der letzte Beitrag des Essay-Bandes zu Ehren von
David F. Aberle, auf den hier kurz eingegangen werden
soll, ist “Blood is Thicker than Water: The Fundamen-
tal Assumption in the Study of Kinship” von David
M. Schneider (337-354). In der modernen Ethnologie
gilt Verwandtschaft stets als eines der bedeutendsten,
manchmal sogar als das bedeutendste Merkmal der
Kultur. Der Autor wirft die Frage auf, warum Verwandt-
schaftsstudien innerhalb des Studiums der Struktur von
Kultur und Gesellschaft ein derart prominenter Platz ein-
geräumt wurde. Er versucht unter Bezugnahme auf sei-
nen kompakten Streifzug durch die Geschichte der Ver-
wandtschaftsstudien sogleich eine Antwort und kommt
zum Ergebnis, daß ein wesentlicher Teil der Antwort
in der Annahme begründet liegt, die mit der Art und
Weise verknüpft ist, mit der Verwandtschaft definiert
und verstanden wird. Diese Annahme lautet, daß „Blut
dicker als Wasser“ ist, das will sagen, es handelt sich bei
den verwandtschaftlichen Banden um die stärkste Kraft,
die in einer Gesellschaft vorhanden ist. Zielsetzung der
Abhandlung Schneiders war es allerdings keineswegs,
für diese Annahme den Beweis anzutreten. Aber: “My
aim was to make this assumption explicit and to offer
some evidence for its existence, and the form in which
it occurs, so that the suggestion cannot be treated as
purely hypothetical. But I would be the first to insist
that I have proved nothing here; I am only suggesting”
(352).
Eine andere Zielsetzung seiner Arbeit ist, so
Schneider, vorzuschlagen, daß, sofern das vergleichende
Studium der Verwandtschaft haltbar oder ein legitimes
Unternehmen darstellen soll, angenommen werden muß,
daß Verwandtschaft ein einzigartiges Phänomen ist und
daß dieses Phänomen auf der schon erwähnten fun-
damentalen Annahme beruht. Sofern nämlich Verwandt-
schaft nicht von einer Gesellschaft zur anderen ver-
Anthropos 85.1990
594
Rezensionen
gleichbar ist, ist es einleuchtend, daß das vergleichende
Studium außer Frage steht. Wenn nämlich die Vergleich-
barkeit zwischen den Verwandtschaftssystemen nicht
auf der Grundannahme “Blood is Thicker than Water”
beruht, worauf beruht sie dann? Schneider hat schließ-
lich noch zu belegen versucht, daß die Grundannahme
im wesentlichen implizit ist. Sollte sich heraussteilen,
daß die grundlegende Annahme einer sorgfältigen Über-
prüfung und Bewertung nicht standhält, dann muß das
vergleichende Studium der Verwandtschaft entweder auf
irgendeine andere passende Grundlage gestellt werden
oder ganz aufgegeben werden. Schneider hält mit seiner
eigenen Meinung hierzu nicht zurück, nach der die
Grundannahme unhaltbar ist und eine solche eingehende
Überprüfung nicht überleben wird.
Ich möchte mit dem Ausdruck des Bedauerns dar-
über schließen, daß diesem Buch wohl wegen seiner
schweren Zugänglichkeit keine sehr große Verbreitung
beschieden sein wird. Einige der Essays hätten sie ver-
dient gehabt. Uwe Johannsen
Eibl-Eibesfeldt, Irenàus; Human Ethology. New
York: Aldine de Gruyter, 1989. xvi + 848 pp., photos,
fig., tab., illus. Price: DM 148,—
This is a remarkable work, and a worthy testimony
to a remarkable career. A successor to Ethology: The
Biology of Behavior (1967), this book (published first
in 1984 in German) is mainly on human behaviour, to
which the author has devoted the last 25 years. Irenaus
Eibl-Eibesfeldt has pioneered the trail of cross-cultural
human ethology. Indeed, he tells us in the Preface to
this book that he has spent 1568 days at target sites in
other cultures, gathering some 200 km of 16 mm film!
This epic research effort is matched by the scale of
this book: 848 pages plus an (estimated) 2000 refer-
ences. Besides the traditional areas of human ethology
(conceptual bases; methodology; communication; social
behaviour; behaviour development; conflict and war),
the book discusses ethological contributions to aesthetics
and urban design, and reflects on the overall political
and ecological future of humankind from a biological
perspective.
Inevitably, a book of this scope will have both
strengths and limitations. The strengths are clear: a
wide-ranging account of the panorama of human behav-
iour, written by someone who has sensitively observed
such behaviour in a greater range of cultural contexts
than most of us will have the chance to do. Through-
out much of the book, particular kinds of behavioural
sequences are illustrated by time-sequence frames from
the 16 mm film archive. These add greatly to the book’s
clarity and appeal. They are particularly useful in Chap-
ter 6 on “Communication,” where interaction strategies
can be illustrated in considerable detail. This provides
one of the highlights of the book.
Eibl-Eibesfeldt follows in the ethological tradition
of Konrad Lorenz (1903-1989), to whom this book is
dedicated. This debt is particularly clear in Chapter 2 on
“Basic Concepts of Ethology.” For example," Eibl-Eibes-
feldt makes considerable use of the concept of Innate
Releasing Mechanism (IRM) in relation to such human
behaviours as imitation of facial/hand movements in
babies, and response to signs of dominance, or attributes
of sexual partners (e.g., 57-66). This concept has had
more of a chequered history amongst Anglo-American
ethologists, many of whom have criticized the assump-
tions of innateness and of causal relations which the
concept seems to imply. One could argue that much
of the material in the book does not need to rely on
such concepts, and that the idea of interaction strategies
developed in Chapter 6 is generally more promising.
However, Eibl-Eifesfeldt would doubtless wish to de-
fend its use.
Similarly he quotes, apparently largely in agree-
ment, Lorenz’ hydraulic model of motivation, and ap-
plies this to aggressive behaviour (e.g., 385 f.). It would
seem he still defends the idea of an aggressive drive,
and that in addition that this can be endogenously pro-
duced without external stimulation. Again, many would
disagree with this. Eibl-Eibesfeldt does consider the
evidence on catharsis in some detail, but, on the whole,
does not give the contrary view on aggressive drives
due weight. The discussion of types of aggression and
functions of agression is very valuable; but the extension
of exploratory aggression from young children to nation
states (392 f.) illustrates how ethologists can sometimes
slip all too easily into unjustified analogies.
Eibl-Eibesfeldt’s work in fact embodies a conti-
nental and even to some extent specifically German
tradition in ethological investigation, which is distinctly
different from the Anglo-American tradition. This is
apparent even from the referencing in the book. Cram-
mer, Hassenstein and Schiefenhovel each have more
references to them than Blurton-Jones, Hinde, McGrew,
or Strayer, for example. This is not meant as a critique,
but a statement of fact. Anglo-American ethology has
its own slants and selectivity. Much Anglo-American
psychology has been much worse in its ignoring both
cross-cultural and ethological contributions. An exam-
ple: J. Dunn’s considerable and pioneering work on
siblings, and sibling relationships and rivalry, does not
reference Eibl-Eibesfeldt’s work even though he has
extensive cross-cultural data on this; similarly, Eibl-Ei-
besfeldt does not reference Dunn’s work.
From the perspective of someone in the Anglo-
American tradition then, Eibl-Eibesfeldt’s book can be
both refreshing in its reliance on different sources, and
disconcerting in some of its omissions. Amongst the lat-
ter might be included: more recent work on attachment
types and consequences of multiple care (J. Robertson,
M. Main, B. Tizard), and history of parenting (L. Pol-
lock); also an awareness that there is a large literature
on the integration or “mainstreaming” of handicapped
children in schools (319); and of another large literature
on linguistic paleontology and relations of Indo-Euro-
pean languages (141 f.). Of course, almost any book of
this scope is bound to have such omissions. On a larger
scale, the book does not really tackle recent develop-
Anthropos 85.1990
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595
ments in “cognitive ethology,” or the adaptiveness of
consciousness (’’consciousness” does not appear in the
index). This might be a tall order, but there is currently
a lot of developments in this area.
A main thrust of the book lies in delineating
features of “human nature” which appear fairly con-
sistently across a spectrum of cross-cultural studies.
This may still be somewhat anathema to some social
scientists, but as someone in the ethological tradition
myself, and despite some differences in emphasis al-
luded to above, I find myself in agreement with much of
Eibl-Eibesfeldt’s comments on issues which inevitably
have socio-political connotations. In this respect he has
certainly advanced beyond Lorenz in consideration of a
range of ethological and psychological evidence, and in
tempering what can at times be an irritating tendency in
biologists to pontificate on human affairs beyond their
field. For example, his discussions of the pan-cultural
dimensions of motherhood and mother-infant attachment
(e.g., 194), and of sex roles and related child rearing
techniques (e.g., 285 f.) seem to me to be basically
balanced, well-informed, and ultimately humane. What
finally comes through from Eibl-Eibesfeldt’s writings on
these topics - and similar ones such as the nature and
functions of primitive warfare - is that knowledge of
ourselves is vital for any sane planning for future human
existence; that such knowledge may well suggest certain
features of human nature (e.g., a tendency for sex role
differentiation; a tendency to go to war over resource
acquisition) which may be true even if “unpopular”; and
that understanding such aspects of human nature does
not mean acceptance of it, but rather a more informed
attempt to work either with it or against it for ends
which we ultimately must choose for global survival.
Eibl-Eibesfeldt sees the reasons for and functions of war
clearly enough; this does not mean he sees it as desirable
or inevitable, as he makes very clear toward the end of
the book.
Much of the running on “human nature” now
comes from human sociobiologists. Eibl-Eibesfeldt does
consider the human sociobiology movement, parts of it
in detail, though it is clear he has some mixed feelings
about it. He attacks the primate evidence on the adap-
tiveness of infanticide (94 f.), gives only a limited dis-
cussion of evolutionary stable strategies or ESS’s (96 f.),
and defends the idea of group selection in humans (100).
While some of these ideas are defensible, his critique is
not at the level of, for example, Kitcher’s; while his
discussion of the key issue of the relationship between
biological evolution and cultural evolution would have
benefitted from consideration of the writings of Camp-
bell, or Boyd and Richerson (the latter is not really a
group selection model, as implied on p. 100).
In Chapter 8, “Man and his Habitat; Ecological
Considerations,” Eibl-Eibesfeldt branches furthest from
traditional human ethology areas but with considerable
success. Given the inevitable limitations in drawing
together material from ethology, ecology, prehistory,
population studies, social psychology, urban studies, and
politics, this is an impressive integration; especially the
material on human habitation where the cross-cultural
discussion and illustrations are informative. Eibl-Eibes-
feldt is trenchant in his criticism of some modem archi-
tecture without being simplistic about this. His later
speculations as to political scenarios for fulfilling human
potential are of course controversial. I thought the swipe
at Swedish social democracy (661) was uninformed,
suggesting that mothers were being forced back to work;
to the contrary, in Sweden mothers or fathers can take
up to 18 months parental leave (mostly paid) on the birth
of a child, and as a result they do not have the concern
about possibly deleterious effects of very early full-time
day care raised by Belsky and others. This policy seems
in accord with “human nature” and should surely be
approved of by Eibl-Eibesfeldt, given his discussion of
mothering earlier in the book.
Such points aside, this chapter is an ambitious and
inspiring one, and could end the book on a suitable note.
In fact, it is followed by Chapter 9 on aesthetics, and a
short concluding Chapter 10. Chapter 9 is interesting but
could come earlier; while Chapter 10 adds little to what
has gone before. Some re-ordering might be considered
if the book goes to another edition.
I have tried to draw out both the strengths and
limitations of this book. The limitations are certainly
there, and it is important that the reader is aware of
them. So are the strengths. It is precisely because the
book is so wide-ranging and ambitious that one can pick
up the author on numerous points, both large conceptual
ones and smaller ones of detail. However in broad terms
this is a book well-informed by years of observation and
analysis of human social behaviour. Eibl-Eibesfeldt has
put his 1568 days and 848 pages to good use; this is a
book he can justly be proud of, and one that will stand
as a landmark in the human ethology literature.
Peter K. Smith
Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi, Gabriella: The Self-milk-
ing Cow and the Bleeding Lihgam. Criss-cross of Motifs
in Indian Temple Legends. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrasso-
witz, 1987. xxiv + 264 pp., photos, tab., illus. Price:
DM 84,-
Why a book on South Indian temple legends just a
few years after David Shulman’s famous “Tamil Temple
Myths” (Princeton 1980)? Mrs. Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi
shows that Shulman hasn’t said it all. Both books, even
though they draw their material from the same corpus
of literary sources, namely the South Indian sthala purà-
nas, i.e., temple myths (according to Shulman) or temple
legends (according to Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi), are quite
different. The present book is an analysis of both Saiva
and Vaisnava temple legends and also opens the view for
a worldwide comparative approach within the paradigm
of structuralist anthropological theory.
The question of whether the source material of the
study is to be considered as myth or as legend leads
us straight into one of the main issues discussed in
the introductory part of the book. The author argues
quite convincingly that a distinction between the two
Anthropos 85.1990
596
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categories is a foreign, European, one that can be derived
from the definitions in the “Oxford English Dictionary,”
but it is nowhere present “on the ground” in India.
Therefore, Indian temple myths and temple legends are
indistinguishable. Mrs. Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi -accord-
ingly explains her preference for the term “legend” with
the fact that the myth as a European literary category
tends to be more lengthy and deals with “heavier”
material than the legend. Nonetheless, the similarity
between myth and legend in the South Indian context
has to be made explicit to argue against Lévi-Strauss
who talks exclusively about myths when he uses his
method of reconstructing the whole or primordial myth
by using one variation of the myth to interpret obvious
inconsistencies in another variation of the same theme.
According to the author this method may be used to
speak about legends as well.
Her approach integrates Lévi-Straussian structural-
ism and polythetic classification (R. Needham, Polythe-
tic Classification. Man 10.1975: 349-369). “Although I
claim that there are no mythic constants and any motif
may be combined with any other, I am also convinced
that such combination is not totally or only arbitrary.
Within the limitless polythetic class of sthala purdnas
certain motifs ... are prototypical, i.e., they occur with
greater frequency than others” (69). She makes use of
material from 456 sthala-purdnas from all over India.
The bulk of the material, however, comes from the core
area of Dravidian culture, Tamil Nadu, Kerala, Andhra
Pradesh, and Karnataka. But she does not leave it at that.
The book includes a worldwide cosmos of legendary
motifs from North India, Europe, Egypt, and Indonesia,
to mention only the most frequent ones cited.
The author has divided her book into two parts.
The first expounds, as the title says, the legends of the
self-milking cow and the bleeding lihgam as polythetic
classes. Both legends are first narrated in an abstract
form (5, 23) called the “prototype” of the legend which
is devoid of all adornments and reduced to its essential
motifs. As a second step variations of the respective
central motives are introduced to illustrate their “shifting
polythetic nature,” and thirdly the wider variations of
the legends (when the cow becomes replaced by a goat
or a human; 8) are presented. Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi
uses the method of polythetic classification in a very
illustrative way and shows this to be a very powerful tool
of analysis. This enlargement of the material in three
steps is first applied to the motif of the self-milking cow
and then to that of the bleeding lihgam. A third chapter
combines both motifs polythetically, and their “substi-
tutions, inversions, omissions, and reminiscences” (51)
give the reader a vivid picture of their possible variations
all over South India. Although the two motifs are rarely
found together in a single legend, they only become
meaningful as a contrasting pair within their dyadic
oppositions, such as male and female, red and white, hot
and cold, etc., as the structural pattern of South Indian
sthala purânas.
The second part of the book is devoted to structural
analysis. In the first chapter, “culture specific” motifs
necessary to understand the legends, are discussed under
the headings “The Complex Figure of Siva,” “Snake and
Anthill,” “The Sanctity of the Cow and Her Products,”
and “The Rite of Abhiseka.” All of these occur in vari-
ants of the prototypical legends. The second chapter has
a wider scope and discusses “culture-free motifs” of the
temple legends. Non-Indian parallels to the motifs such
as cow, milk, snake, and blood are discussed, and then
two important structural elements, colors and numbers,
analyzed in their various contexts. Here the number 18,
a quite important symbol in India, is omitted. Mrs.
Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi holds that besides the worldwide
occurrence of dyadic oppositions which structuralists
usually observe, South Indian temple legends also show
triple sets (triads) and even more complex basic sets of
legendary motifs. In order to demonstrate this, the author
introduces the categories of “contrasting” sets of proto-
typical elements (contrasting dyads, triads, etc.) and “re-
dundant” sets of prototypical elements (redundant pairs
and higher redundancies). Redundant sets are further
subdivided into those showing identical redundancy and
others showing merely a similarity between the items
of the set. The chapter on color combinations (139)
provides some examples: combinations of red (blood,
rice, lotus) and white (milk, water) are commonplace
in both Vaisnava and Saiva rituals and texts. Here the
opposition between hot and cold items is emphasized.
Similarly the combination of black and white (e.g.,
buffalo versus cow or bad deed versus meritorious deed)
occur frequently in sthala purdnas. The third combi-
nation, red and black, symbolizes “bloodthirsty village
goddesses and terrifying forms of great gods” outside
the scope of the sthala purdnas.
I should like to persue further on the question
of combined dyads and triads, since it has interesting
theoretical implications. A wide field of possible new
combinations is presented in the last chapter of the
second part (164) on the significance of redundancy in
the structure of the legends. A triad, for instance, can
either be a sequence, such as one of increasing intensity,
precision, etc., or can be split into a dyad and a single
item or set. Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi’s example here is the
frequent technique of the legends to “overcompensate”
for something negative with twice the amount of its
complementary positive substance, as may be the case
when an anthill, in which a white boar has disappeared,
has to be bathed with the milk of a black cow (141,
173). In this last and most theoretical chapter, alternative
interpretations should have been discussed. The reader
wants to know, for example, why the advocated model
([a : b] :c), i.e., a combination of a dyadic redundancy
and a dyadic complementary relationship between three
sets of motifs, is to be preferred to the possibility of the
equally plausible sequence, at least from an etic point
of view, a <r^fa h(c) <-> h, where a and h represent two
sets of opposites and c stands for an intermediary stage
that includes characteristics of a as well as of h. Here
a may represent white, h its opposing counterpart black,
and c an intermediary such as red. This is the case
on p. 141, where “red has ambivalent connotations.”
Anthropos 85.1990
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597
Polythetic classification provides the rules for this class
of transformations. Another explanation of a triad is the
Dumontian idea of a single dyad in which one item
encompasses another dyad so that the model looks very
much like the one in the author’s book, but the emphasis
in this case lies on the overall structure of the relation-
ships as a unity and not on the different properties of
individual sets. This class of relations is, in the opinion
of the reviewer, best represented by a combination of
the above mentioned tyo dyadic transformations, thus
[a : b] : c a : [b : c] <-> b : [a : c]. No elementary
triad is necessary here. This means that according to
the circumstances in a proto-typical legend, similar to
Lévi-Strauss’ theorem, the combination of the topoi may
vary within defined boundaries and can be reduced to
a set of dyads which encompass other dyads at several
levels.
The book contains a very useful index of all temple
legends together with their sources. There are also a few
plates, but no maps showing the location of the temples
mentioned. Since most readers will not be able to re-
member the exact locations of all temples and legends
mentioned, a few maps would have been of great help,
just as diagrams would have done a lot for readers who
are not familiar with the polythetic notion and its use in
the analysis of myths and legends. Georg Berkemer
Erlmann, Veit et Habou Magagi: Girkaa. Une
cérémonie d’initiation au culte de possession bèorii des
Hausa de la région de Maradi (Niger). Berlin: Dietrich
Reimer Verlag, 1989. 173 pp. (Sprache und Oralitat in
Afrika, 2) Prix: DM 59,-
In this handsomely produced monograph, Veit Erl-
mann (who has previously published a study of bori
music) joines forces with Habou Magagi, of the Institute
for Research in Human Sciences at Niamey, to produce
a detailed record of the songs sung in the major initiation
ritual of the Hausa bori cult. The study is based on six
months’ field research among the Hausa population of
Maradi in Niger. Following the day by day sequence of
the ritual (which lasts eight days), the authors present
the songs in order of occurrence in Hausa and French
translation and include information on the singers and
other participants in the ritual. Explanatory notes are
marshalled at the end of the book with a useful annex
listing the different spirits referred to in the texts.
This rich ethnographic account of the actual ritual
initiation of a woman into the bori cult is a useful
addition to the existing literature. The structure of the
ritual and its meaning largely confirms the analysis given
in the works of Jacqueline Monfouga-Nicolas based also
on research in the Maradi valley. What is presented here
is essentially valuable documentation. As the authors say
in their introduction, “a deep analysis of bori liturgical
songs should lead to an enhanced understanding of the
Hausa social system and its assimilation in religious
thought.” However, comprehension of what the authors
also call the “system of mythic thought,” based on an
analysis of its sources in ritual songs, must await a much
fuller collection of texts from different Hausa areas.
In the meantime, this scholarly produced and modestly
presented monograph is a valuable contribution to the
growing volume of bori studies. I. M. Lewis
Ferdon, Edwin N.: Early Tonga. As the Explorers
Saw It, 1616-1810. Tucson: The University of Arizona
Press, 1987. xvi + 340 pp., illus., map. Price: $29.95
Im Vorwort seines Buches erklärt Ferdon, er wolle
in erster Linie ein ethnohistorisches Dokument präsen-
tieren, eine Synthese aus dem, was frühe europäische
Besucher in Tonga gesehen hätten; er möchte es als eine
Art Grundlage betrachtet sehen, von der aus “speed and
nature of culture change, either prehistoric or historic,
may better be gauged and understood” (xiii f.). Ferdon
sieht in dieser Phase des beginnenden Kulturwandels
die alte Ordnung der Dinge noch relativ intakt; die
Beschränkung auf Daten, die innerhalb des von ihm
gewählten Zeitraums überliefert wurden, ohne das “po-
tential enlightenment”, aber auch ohne “unintentional
contamination” durch spätere Berichte oder mündliche
Überlieferungen (“vagaries that can accrue to the oral
transmission of history”, 182), soll gewissermaßen einen
authentischen Einblick in die alte Kultur und Gesell-
schaft Tongas geben. Es handelt sich um die Zeit vor der
massiven Missionierung der Inseln durch die Methodi-
sten (Wesleyaner), auch um die Zeit vor dem lange Jahre
währenden, zerstörerischen Bürgerkrieg, der mitbedingt
durch die europäischen Einflüsse revolutionäre Verände-
rungen zur Folge hatte: die Einigung des Landes unter
Täufa’ähau und die Errichtung einer konstitutionellen
Monarchie, die als Kopie westliöher/britischer Staats-
verfassung bis heute Tonga vor kolonialer Annexion und
Abhängigkeit bewahrt hat.
Wie weit es wirklich möglich und sinnvoll ist, die
zeitliche Begrenzung strikt einzuhalten, läßt sich bei
der Diskussion einer so wichtigen Frage wie der nach
dem Verlust der Autorität des Tu’i Tonga zum Beispiel
mit einem gewissen Recht bezweifeln (43-50), und der
Autor macht in diesem Fall auch Gebrauch von neueren
Arbeiten (Bott 1982, Kaeppler 1971a, Marcus 1977).
Wer sind die frühen Besucher Tongas, die in die-
sem Buch als “Explorer”, also Forschungs- oder Ent-
deckungsreisende, bezeichnet werden? Ihre Qualifikatio-
nen als Beobachter sind unterschiedlich: zunächst waren
es Seeleute verschiedener Bildungsgrade (Le Maire,
Tasman, Cook, Mariner, Wilson), dann Missionare (Va-
son), vereinzelt auch schon Naturkundler (G. Förster)
oder Künstler (Webber, Piron). Sie beschrieben die aus
europäischer Sicht „frühe“ Kultur Tongas im Zeitraum
zwischen 1616-1810 unter den Bedingungen kurzer
Schiffsbesuche oder begrenzter Aufenthalte unter der
Schirmherrschaft hoher Häuptlinge (Vason und Mariner
lebten um 1800 je vier Jahre dort). Die Berichte, die wir
ihnen verdanken, sind für den heutigen Tonga- oder Po-
lynesienforscher wahre Fundgruben und in jeder Form
als Quellen unersetzlich, und niemand kann ihnen aus
heutiger Sicht einen Vorwurf daraus machen, daß sie
uns manche Frage unbeantwortet lassen. Im Gegenteil,
Anthropos 85.1990
598
Rezensionen
es ist für die heutige Forschung ein Glücksfall, daß der
jugendliche Mariner mit solcher Frische und Leben-
digkeit von seinen Erfahrungen erzählt und uns eine
Fülle zum Teil sehr präziser Daten überliefert hat; und
daß der ebenfalls noch nicht 20jährige Georg Förster
uns bereits wissenschaftlich reflektierte Beobachtungen
mitteilt (vgl. dazu z. B. „Reise um die Welt“. 1778). Ihm
war schon damals bewußt, daß „selten zween Reisende
einerley Gegenstand auf gleiche Weise gesehen“ ha-
ben, „sondern jeder gab nach Maaßgabe seiner Empfin-
dung und Denkungsart eine besondere Nachricht davon“
(1778: Vorrede). Von verstreuten Bemerkungen im Text
abgesehen, macht Ferdon im Umgang mit den Quellen
keine grundsätzlichen Unterschiede: der entlaufene Mis-
sionar (Vason) oder der prüde Kapitän (Wilson, der einer
’mast-Zeremonie deshalb nicht beiwohnt, weil er in
tonganischer Tracht, also „halbnackt“, hätte erscheinen
müssen; 91) sind generell als Zeugen mit den oben-
genannten gleichberechtigt. Der Leser hätte sich hier
zum besseren Verständnis der Aussagekraft von über-
lieferten Daten eine Charakterisierung der Beobachter
gewünscht; Ferdon widmet dieser Frage im Vorwort nur
ganze 24 Zeilen (xiv).
Vor weiteren kritischen Anmerkungen aber zu-
nächst kurz zum Inhalt des Buches (das übrigens durch
seine qualitätsvolle Aufmachung und gute Illustrationen,
u. a. von Webber und Piron, besticht); die Kapitelein-
teilung folgt den in der Ethnographie weithin üblichen
Kriterien der Gliederung wie 1. Wohnen; 2. Soziale Or-
ganisation; 3. Kava-Trinken (Riten); 4. Religion; 5. Täg-
liches Leben; 6. Lebensablauf (Geburt und Tod); 7. Un-
terhaltung; 8. Nahrungssuche und -bereitung; 9. Flandel
und Transport; 10. Krieg und Frieden; und sie wird mit
einem Nachwort abgeschlossen, in dem noch einmal die
Probleme des kulturellen Wandels unter dem Gesichts-
punkt diskutiert werden, ob es angesichts wachsender,
vor allem touristischer Einflüsse möglich sei, sich einem
erzwungenen Wandel auch künftig zu widersetzen, oder
ob die Gefahr des Verlustes “of Tonga’s long-standing
freedom to make its own cultural choices” unabwendbar
sei (288). Der Autor versteht sein Buch als einen Beitrag
zur Einschätzung und zur Abwehr solcher Gefahren.
Diese auf den ersten Blick so einleuchtende Struk-
tur des Buches wirft allerdings bei näherer Betrachtung
auch einige Fragen auf. Selbst wenn mann die Kapi-
telüberschriften, unter denen Ferdon die alten Quellen
auswertet und ordnet, einmal als solche akzeptiert, fällt
dann die unterschiedliche Gewichtung der Themen auf,
die ganz klar die Vorliebe des Autors, der als Ethnohi-
storiker und Archäologe 1955 an der Thor Heyerdahl-
Expedition zu den Oster-Inseln beteiligt war, erkennen
läßt. So beschreibt er zum Beispiel auf zwanzig Seiten
“Trade and Transportation” (Kap. 9: 229-249), Tanz und
Gesang hingegen sind lediglich als Unterkapitel mit
ganzen sechs Seiten vertreten (197-204); sie gehören
mit Jagen, Boxen und Musikinstrumenten zum Kapitel
“Recreation”. Hätte die Rezensentin, wie es sich auf
den ersten Blick empfiehlt, Ferdons Buch - anstelle
der Quellen - als eine praktische Einführung in die
Kultur des alten Tonga benützt, die Welt der Poeten und
Gesänge wäre ihr verschlossen geblieben. Es fehlt darin
beispielsweise der von Mariner überlieferte “Song” über
die Wetterküste von Vavau, einer der schönsten Gesänge
Polynesiens; die geistige und künstlerische Dimension
der alten Kultur wurde also bereits damals von einigen
Besuchern durchaus wahrgenommen. In der Merkwelt
des Autors dagegen steht sie deutlich zurück: während
er liebevoll detailliert die Herstellung von Tapa oder
die Zubereitung von Mahlzeiten beschreibt (119, 103 f.),
reicht ihm eine Seite für das Thema “Song” (203 f.).
Ähnliches gilt für den Index: hier finden wir z. B.
“Barber”, aber keine “Bards”; “Hibiscus Tilliaceus L.”,
aber nicht “Hiva” (Song); “Plum, Polynesian”, aber
nicht “Poet”, usw. Genug der Beispiele.
Daß für die frühen Berichterstatter die sichtbare
und materielle Kultur im Vordergrund stand, leuch-
tet ein; der geschulte Wissenschaftler aber hätte seine
Auswahl- und Bewertungskriterien begründen müssen.
So liest man Ferdons Buch mit zwiespältigen Gefüh-
len; die zeitbedingte selektive Wahrnehmung der frühen
Beobachter, ihre europäische Sicht, wird nicht umfas-
send reflektiert, ja häufig noch durch den Gebrauch
ethnozentrischer Begriffe (“recreation”) verstärkt. So
gibt es Verzerrungen und weiße Flecken im Bild der
alten Kultur, die zum Teil vermeidbar gewesen wären.
Andererseits, wo sich der Autor auf eigenem, vertrauten
Forschungsgelände bewegt, vermittelt das Buch trotz
allem auch faszinierende Einblicke in das Leben der
Tonganer (daily life), so wie es den frühen Besuchern
erschienen ist. Gerade im Bereich der materiellen Kultur
hat Ferdon eine Fülle verstreuter Daten integriert und
zu einem Mosaik zusammengefügt; die sorgfältigen An-
merkungen erlauben jederzeit eine Rückführung auf den
ursprünglichen Text, wo immer der Autor eigene Hypo-
thesen einbringt. Renate von Gizycki
Gianinazzi, Claudio e Christian Giordano (eds.):
Culture Extraeuropee. Collezione Serge e Graziella
Brignoni - Extra-European Cultures. The Serge and
Graziella Brignoni Collection. Lugano: Edizioni Cittä
di Lugano, 1989. 366 pp., fotos, carte. Prezzo: sfr 40.-
Der Katalog zur Dauerausstellung der Sammlung
Serge und Graziella Brignoni im neuen «Museo delle
Culture Extraeuropee» in Castagnola (Tessin) enthält
neben Beiträgen der Museumsorganisatoren interessante
Selbstzeugnisse Brignonis zur Geschichte seiner Samm-
lung. 32 Farbtafeln sehr guter Qualität präsentieren ei-
ne Auswahl der Sammlung, von der uns ein Teil in
Schwarzweißfotografien auf den 274 Seiten wiederbe-
gegnet, die der Katalogisierung der Sammlung gewid-
met sind. Ein Artefakt einmal in Farbe, das andere Mal
in Schwarzweiß abzubilden, erscheint mir gerechtfer-
tigt, wenn die Aufnahme aus einer anderen Perspekti-
ve erfolgt. So erhält die auf den Seiten 78 bzw. 319
abgebildete, als «portale funerario» bezeichnete anthro-
pomorphe Darstellung durch Perspektivenwechsel eine
völlig andere Gestalt, wodurch dem Betrachter ins Ge-
dächtnis gerufen wird, daß auch und gerade ein Foto-
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
599
„Dokument“ immer eine Interpretation des dargestellten
Objekts bedeutet. Lobenswert ist die Tatsache, daß im
Katalogteil ein Einzelobjekt häufig mit mehreren Fotos
vorgestellt wird, d. h., neben der Frontansicht erscheint
das Profil oder ein vergrößerter Teilausschnitt. Durch die
ausschließliche Verwendung eines weißen Hintergrunds
verlieren die Objekte jedoch bedauerlicherweise an Pla-
stizität, so daß die Qualität der Schwarzweißfotografien
oft nicht zufriedenstellen kann.
Die Legende zu den Objekten soll neben ihrem
Namen und den üblichen Material-, Färb- und Größen-
angaben vor allem Angaben zu ihrer Herkunft enthal-
ten und zwar in folgender Reihung: „Region, Ethnie,
Dorf, insofern bekannt“ (81). Zur zweifelsfreien Identi-
fizierung wird neben der laufenden Katalognummer die
Signatur des Objekts wiedergegeben, woraus ersichtlich
ist. daß der Katalog keineswegs den vollen Bestand der
Sammlung präsentiert, auch wenn dies auf der Bestell-
karte behauptet wird. Er enthält lediglich 541 Objekte,
während sich die Angaben der Lokalpresse über den
Umfang der Sammlung zwischen ca. 600 Stück und
mehr bewegen, wovon 450 Exemplare ausgestellt sein
sollen.
Unbegreiflicherweise informiert der Katalog weder
über die genaue Anzahl der Sammlungsobjekte noch er-
läutert er die Auswahlkriterien, die dazu geführt haben,
etliche Objekte nicht in den Katalog aufzunehmen. Um
die Wiedergabe aller lediglich in der Dauerausstellung
gezeigten Objekte kann es dem Katalog auch nicht zu
tun sein, da er rund 100 Artefakte mehr enthält, als in
der Ausstellung zu sehen sind. Neben ihren Signaturen
erhalten die Objekte im Katalog eine laufende Nummer,
auf die in der Ausstellung verzichtet wird, was das
Auffinden eines Objekts nicht eben erleichtert.
Die Signatur spiegelt den geographischen Groß-
raum (Ozeanien, Asien, Afrika), die Region (Melane-
sien, Polynesien. Insulinde, Indien, West-Afrika, Äqua-
torialafrika) und die Sammlung (ausschließlich Brigno-
ni). Die in der Signatur enthaltene Zahlenkombination
orientiert sich ebenfalls an geographischen Gegebenhei-
ten; so sind die aus Neuguinea stammenden Objekte in
einer Kategorie zusammengefaßt (so lautet eine Signatur
etwa Oc/Mel 1. 20 Br), die Objekte z. B. aus Neu-Ir-
land in einer anderen (Oc/Mel 3. 20 Br). Die Ziffer 20
in unseren Beispielen zeigt an, daß es sich um das
zwanzigste Artefakt aus der gegebenen Region handelt.
Um eine Vorstellung von der geographischen Lage der
einzelnen Kulturregionen zu vermitteln, sind im Katalog
nicht nur sechs Karten abgebildet, die einen Eindruck
vom Großraum vermitteln sollen und nur Inselnamen,
Bezeichnungen von Flüssen und Ethnien, nicht aber
Dorfnamen enthalten, sondern darüber hinaus 31 kleine
Kartenskizzen ohne Beschriftung, auf denen schraffiert
die Region erscheint, aus der die Stücke stammen. In der
Gestaltung dieser Karten aber nehmen Nachlässigkeiten.
Fehler und Absurditäten überhand, die sich ungebrochen
in den Angaben zur Herkunft zahlreicher Objekte fort-
setzen.
Beständig werden geographische Bezeichnungen
mit den Namen politischer Einheiten verwechselt. Die
Salomon-Inseln umfassen auf der Karte (280) den geo-
graphischen Begriff Salomon-Inseln, schließen also Bu-
ka und Bougainville ein, die politisch zu Papua Niugini
gehören. Der Bezeichnung des Staates Vanuatu wieder-
um wird ein „Neue Hebriden“ beigegeben, die von der
Karte um die Santa-Cruz-Inseln und Tikopia vergrößert
werden, obwohl diese zu den Salomon-Inseln zählen,
wohlverstanden im politischen, nicht im geographischen
Sinne dieses Namens. In der Ausstellung werden die
Salomon-Inseln, nebenbei bemerkt, auch als geographi-
sche Einheit aufgefaßt, der fälschlicherweise die San-
ta-Cruz-Inseln beigesellt werden. Neu-Kaledonien wird
mit dem Epitheton «Oceania francese» (Französisch-
Ozeanien) ausgestattet; wiederum handelt es sich um
einen rein geographischen Begriff, der Neu-Kaledonien
ebenso einschließt wie etwa die Marquesas-Inseln, die
an anderer Stelle (294) zutreffenderweise unter der poli-
tischen Einheit Französisch-Polynesien geführt werden.
Die Fidschi-Inseln werden unkommentiert Polyne-
sien zugeschlagen. Dies negiert ihre Brückenfunktion
zwischen Melanesien und Polynesien. Damit nicht ge-
nug, werden die Inseln originellerweise auch noch unter
der Rubrik „Zentral-Polynesien“ geführt, was nur mit ei-
ner kühnen Neuinterpretation der klassischen Einteilung
Edwin Burrows oder aber radikaler geo- und ethnogra-
phischer Kenntnislosigkeit erklärlich ist. Vollends ent-
hemmt dreht sich das Karussell geo-politischer Begriff-
lichkeiten auf Seite 294: ein Exponat, es handelt sich um
eine Zeremonialkeule, stammt zugleich aus Französisch-
Polynesien, von den Gesellschaftsinseln (soweit noch
keine Unmöglichkeit, aber eine erneute Vermischung
von geographischen mit politischen Bezeichnungen) und
von den Hervey-Inseln. Welch Privileg! Die Ausstellung
hat für die Lokalisierung dieses Objekts die Hervey-
Inseln favorisiert, ohne daß die Organisatoren recht zu
wissen scheinen, welche Inseln mit diesem längst ob-
soleten Namen gemeint sind. Der Autor des Katalogs
und sein Kartenzeichner verstehen unter Hervey-Inseln
offenbar die Tubuai- oder auch Austral-Inseln, die nie-
mals den Namen des Augustus John Hervey, Lord of the
Admiralty, getragen haben. Er diente früher als Namens-
patron für die heute sogenannten südlichen Cook-Inseln.
Im Katalog steht übrigens der Name Cook-Inseln fälsch-
licherweise allein für die südlichen Cook-Inseln. Die
nördlichen Cook-Inseln werden nicht erwähnt und sind
aus den Karten getilgt.
Die Dunkelheit über die Herkunft einer anderen
Zeremonialkeule (Oc/Pol 1. 1 Br) verdichtet sich un-
ter den Ortsangaben: „Fidschi oder Tonga, Insel Vi-
tu“ (294). Gehört die Insel Vitu zu den Fidschi- oder
Tonga-Inseln? Vitu ist in diesen beiden Inselgruppen
unbekannt. Vermutlich ist die Fidschi-Insel Viti Levu
gemeint. Es gibt die Vitu- oder Witu-Inseln, früher auch
Französische Inseln genannt, die jedoch in gehöriger
Distanz im Bismarck-Archipel liegen. Zeremonialkeulen
dieser Machart sind von dort bislang nicht bekannt.
Erhält der Leser einmal präzise Ortsangaben wie
Kararau oder Angriffshafen, so wird ihm doch jede
Möglichkeit zur genauen Lokalisierung des Dorfes ge-
nommen: die Kartenwerke sind regelmäßig so großma-
Anthropos 85.1990
600
Rezensionen
schig geknüpft, daß keine Ortsnamen auf ihnen erschei-
nen.
Fragt man nach dem Urheber derartiger Mängel
bei der Inventarisierung der Sammlung, so verweist
das Impressum den Leser auf Ilario Rossi, der unter
dem schönen Titel eines «assistente scientifico» seinen
Dienst an Sammlung und Katalog versah. Neben Chri-
stian Giordano, Serge Brignoni und Claudio Gianinazzi
bereicherte er den Katalog zudem mit Reflexionen, die
unter dem prätentiösen Titel «Un’eclissi, la profilassi e
una certa continuità. Dal consumo estetico dell’oggetto
etnografico alla comprensione dei suoi contenuti cultu-
rali» versammelt sind. Rossi warnt davor, die Objekte
nach unserem ästhetischen Bewußtsein zu begutachten,
es sei statt dessen geboten, den kulturellen Kontext des
Objekts zu erfassen. Nur so könne man verstehen lernen,
was vom einheimischen Betrachter in einer Skulptur
gesehen und nachempfunden werde. Es ist dies ein sehr
vernünftiger Standpunkt, jedoch dürfte es gerade Rossi
nicht leichtfallen, eine derartige Position glaubwürdig
zu vertreten, haben wir doch gesehen, daß es ihm schon
Schwierigkeiten bereitet, die Kulturen, deren Weltbild es
zu erkunden gelte, auch nur zu lokalisieren. Folgerichtig
versteht es Rossi, dem Leser diese Kulturen nicht anders
nahezubringen als vermittels Abstraktionen und Inven-
tionen, die europäische Soziologen in der Studierstube
erfunden haben. Dumpf das Unzulängliche solcher Be-
grifflichkeit ahnend, will Rossi sich von ihr distanzieren
und hängt doch von ihr ab: „Mit einer summarischen und
oberflächlichen Beschreibung könnte man diese beiden
Konzepte [künstlerischer Ausdruck und Religion] zu
einer animistischen Sicht der Welt reduzieren, in der alle
Naturerscheinungen sakralisiert sind und so zum Sitz
immanenter Kräfte werden“ (33).
„Animismus“, „Kommunikation“, „Makrokosmos“,
„Mikrokosmos“, „sozio-ökonomische Determinismen“
und natürlich das unzertrennliche Paar „heilig-profan“
(ebenso wie Giordano bezieht sich Rossi gerne auf
Durkheim) sind die Schlagworte, mit denen nach So-
ziologenart alles Eigene einer Kultur, und das eben nur
ihr Zueigene, hinwegabstrahiert wird. Die Übersetzerin
Melanie Laing hat sich an manchen Stellen der Mühe
unterzogen, das begriffliche Dickicht für die englische
Fassung durch Streichungen ein wenig zu roden, was ihr
ohne Sinnverlust des anvertrauten Textes gelang (29, 32,
33, 34).
Den Beiträgen sind Fotografien ohne Erläuterung
eingestreut, man erfährt lediglich aus dem Impressum,
daß sie von Paul Wirz, dem weitgereisten Neuguinea-
Forscher, stammen. Sie symbolisieren geradezu den In-
halt des Katalogs: das Fremde muß herhalten, um das
akademische Räsonieren zu untermalen, nicht um es
zu erläutern. Das soziologische Deutungsmuster ist sich
nämlich selbst genug und kann durch Einbrüche lästiger
Realitätsabbilder nur gestört werden, würden kommen-
tierte Fotografien doch womöglich den Schluß zulassen,
man habe es mit Menschen zu tun, die den Dimensionen
des Raumes und der Zeit unterworfen sind, mithin also
örtlich und historisch zu lokalisieren wären. In der prä-
sentierten Form aber eignen sich die Fotos trefflich dazu,
die zeitlose Wildheit eines Wilden zu beweisen, der wild
allein schon deswegen ist, weil Kleidung und Schmuck
in seinem Besitz zur Frucht kannibalischer Raubzüge
stilisiert werden.
Interessant und aufschlußreich ist neben den Selbst-
zeugnissen Brignonis - im Interview mit Elke-Nicole
Kappus und in den „Anmerkungen eines Künstlers und
Sammlers“ - auch der Beitrag von Claudio Gianinazzi,
der den Bogen schlägt von der Sammlung Brignonis
und der Person des Künstlers zur Rezeption außereu-
ropäischer Kunst in den zwanziger und dreißiger Jah-
ren. Allein vermißt man in allen diesen Beiträgen ei-
ne Würdigung der Künstler- und Sammlerin Graziella
Brignoni, die als Mitstifterin der Sammlung geführt
wird. Der umfangreiche Artikel von Christian Giordano,
wissenschaftlicher Direktor des Museums und maßgeb-
licher Organisator der Ausstellung, ist museologischer
Natur. In ihm wird das Konzept des neuen Museums
entwickelt, weshalb er uns im Rahmen der Würdigung
des «Museo delle Culture Extraeuropee» interessieren
wird. Matthias Mersch
Goddard, Ives, and Kathleen J. Bragdon; Na-
tive Writings in Massachusett; 2 vols. Philadelphia;
The American Philosophical Society, 1988. xiv + x +
791 pp., photos, tab. (Memoirs of the American Philo-
sophical Society, 185) Price: $60.00
Die Bedeutung des vorliegenden umfangreichen
Werks liegt in der Tatsache begründet, daß hier erst-
malig in einer nordamerikanischen Indianersprache von
Indianern abgefaßtes Schrifttum aus einer sehr frühen
historischen Phase in bemerkenswertem Umfang gesam-
melt, bearbeitet und mit Anmerkungen versehen einer
breiteren Fachwelt zugänglich gemacht wird.
Das Interesse der beiden Herausgeber an diesem
Projekt wurde in den 70er Jahren geweckt. 1978 be-
gannen sie dann, unterstützt von der Phillips-Stiftung
der American Philosophical Society, systematisch nach
den weit verstreut in zahlreichen Archiven lagernden
Text- und Dokumentenbeständen zu forschen und die
Materialien zu sammeln. Diese wurden dann nach den
unterschiedlichsten Gesichtspunkten geprüft, übersetzt
und in ihren jeweiligen historischen Kontext gestellt.
Die meisten Texte sind im vorliegenden Werk nicht nur
in der Massachusett-Sprache neu abgedruckt und mit der
englischen Übersetzung versehen worden, sondern als
Originaldokument daneben in einer photographischen
Reproduktion repräsentiert, so daß sie auch für weitere
Untersuchungen künftig gut zugänglich zur Verfügung
stehen.
„Massachusett“ ist eine längst ausgestorbene Spra-
che des Ost-Algonkin, die ursprünglich und in der
Kolonialzeit im heutigen südöstlichen US-Staat Mas-
sachusetts verbreitet war. Sie wurde von Gruppen wie
den Massachusetts, den Wampanoags (oder Pokanokets)
und den Nausets gesprochen. Insbesondere die Unter-
suchungen der im vorliegenden Band wiedergegebenen
Dokumente belegen eindeutig, daß es sich beim „Mas-
sachusett“ um eine eigene Sprache handelt, obgleich mit
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
601
einem gewissen Ausmaß an Dialekt-Verschiedenheiten.
Bekannt geworden ist diese Sprache durch die Bibel-
übersetzung von John Eliot (l.Ausg. 1663, 2.1685),
seinerzeit der ersten Bibel in einer fremden Sprache
in der Neuen Welt. Die Massachusett-Völker gehörten
zu den ersten nordamerikanischen Indianern, denen die
europäischen Entdecker im Nordosten des Kontinents
begegneten. Und sie gehörten auch zu jenen Indianern,
deren Land am ehesten im Zuge der Kolonisierung den
europäischen Siedlern zum Opfer fiel.
Insbesondere auf der Grundlage der Eliot-Bibel
erhielten die Indianer des südöstlichen Massachusetts
eine umfangreiche Schulung in ihrer eigenen Sprache.
In Massachusett verfaßtes Schrifttum fand rasch weite
Verbreitung in diesem Gebiet. Die als “Praying Towns”
in die neuweltliche Geschichte eingegangenen Indianer-
siedlungen konnten sich auch in der kolonialen Phase
ein beträchtliches Maß an lokaler Autonomie bewahren.
Und diese politische Unabhängigkeit war es vor allem,
die es ihnen ermöglichte, ihre offiziellen und religiösen
Angelegenheiten unter sich durch Verwendung der ge-
schriebenen Massachusett-Sprache zu regeln. Viele der
im vorliegenden Werk enthaltenen Dokumente betreffen
derartige Angelegenheiten.
In einer ausführlichen Einleitung (1-23) werden
die historischen und ethnographischen Zusammenhänge
dargestellt, in denen die Indianerschriften entstanden
sind. Auch wird in zusammengefaßter Form aufge-
zeigt, welche Arten von Informationen aus den Schriften
über die christlichen Indianersiedlungen des südöstli-
chen Massachusetts entnommen werden konnten. So
wird der kulturelle Kontext der Massachusett-Dokumen-
te beschrieben, es werden kurz die Aktivitäten der Mis-
sionen bei den Indianern des südöstlichen Neu-England
skizziert, und es findet sich eine Darstellung der Art
und Weise, wie die “Praying Towns” regiert wurden.
In einem weiteren Abschnitt geht das Herausgeberteam
auf den Inhalt der Massachusett-Dokumente ein und
macht in diesem Zusammenhang deutlich, daß diese
Eingeborenenschriften einen Einblick in einen Abschnitt
der Geschichte des kolonialen Massachusetts vermitteln,
der vordem nur fragmentarisch und eher nur aus außen-
stehender Sicht bekannt war. Die Erkenntnisse bestär-
ken den Eindruck, über den bereits mehrere Historiker
berichtet haben, daß nämlich die Missionierungsanstren-
gungen lediglich ein Mittel politischen Drucks und die
Indianerbibel von John Eliot in dem Zusammenhang ein
probates Mittel hierzu gewesen sein dürfte.
Jedenfalls, so resümieren die beiden Herausgeber,
erlauben die vorgelegten Massachusett-Dokumente ei-
ne ethnohistorische Erforschung der betreffenden In-
dianer in einer so detaillierten Weise, wie sie für die
meisten Gruppen, die nur aus Schriftzeugnissen „stam-
mesfremder“ Personen bekannt geworden sind, schlicht
unmöglich wäre. So konnten durch die Analyse der
Eingeborenenschriften viele Aspekte des Lebens der
Indianer im südöstlichen Neu-England erkannt werden,
die zuvor niemand verstanden hatte, einschließlich z. B.
der Natur der Massachusett-Verwandtschaftsterminolo-
gie, über die die Mitherausgeberin, Kathleen Bragdon, in
ihrer Dissertation ihre Forschungsergebnisse vorzulegen
vermochte, sowie der Details über die Bodenbenutzung
und die politische Organisation in den früheren und
späteren geschichtlichen Abschnitten.
Natürlich bilden die Dokumente mit den Überset-
zungen und Anmerkungen (25—471) selbst den Haupt-
teil des Werks. Die englische Übersetzung lehnt sich
sehr eng an den Text in Massachusett an. Die An-
merkungen zu jedem Dokument enthalten eine kurze
Zusammenfassung des Dokuments mit der entsprechen-
den Hintergrundinformation und eine Beschreibung der
Eigenheiten der Handschrift eines jeden Verfassers des
Dokuments. Die Dokumente bestätigen und korrigieren
unser Wissen über viele Aspekte indianischen Lebens
im 17. und 18. Jh. und sie ermöglichen uns den Zugang
zu der historischen Erfahrung der christlichen Indianer-
siedlungen des südlichen Neu-England mit den eigenen
Worten der Indianer.
Abgerundet wird das Werk in seinem zweiten Band
durch die erste moderne Skizze der Massachusett-Gram-
matik, mit einem Wörterverzeichnis (jeweils bezogen
auf die Dokumenteninhalte), einem Index in Englisch,
einem Anhang sowie einem ausführlichen Verzeichnis
der verwendeten Literatur. Uwe Johannsen
Gomes, Mércio Pereira: Os indios e o Brasil.
Ensaio sobre um holocausto e sobre urna nova possibi-
lidade de convivéncia. Petrópolis: Editora Vozes, 1988.
237 pp. Prepo: $ 12.00
Der Untertitel dürfte einige Verwirrung stiften,
denn in der Ethnologie ist es zwar üblich, von Ethno-
zid und Genozid zu sprechen, jedoch nicht vom Holo-
caust - einem Terminus, der den Verbrechen der Nazis
und ihrer Verbündeten Vorbehalten bleibt und der den
planmäßigen, systematischen Mord an ganzen Völkern,
legitimiert durch eine entsprechende Ideologie, meint.
Damit ist eine provokante These des Buches bereits in
seinem Untertitel explizit genannt. Das zweite zentrale
Stichwort, convivéncia, bedeutet sowie wie „Zusam-
menleben“, „vertrauter Umgang“ und stellt damit die
Antithese zum Holocaust dar. Für sie wird eine reale
Chance im heutigen Brasilien gesehen.
Gomes’ Buch ist in einem besonderen historischen
Kontext zu sehen. Darcy Ribeiro, der auch das Vorwort
für dieses Buch verfaßte, hat in einem viel beachteten
Artikel (Culturas e linguas indigenas do Brasil. Edu-
cando e Ciéncias Sociais 2/6.1957: 5-102) mit Hilfe
einfacher statistischer Verfahren nachgewiesen, daß zwi-
schen 1900 und 1957 von 230 damals bekannten in-
dianischen Gruppen 87 als unterscheidbare sprachliche
und kulturelle Einheiten ausgelöscht wurden. Die daraus
resultierende Perspektive für die Zukunft der brasiliani-
schen Indianer fiel deshalb in fast allen pro-indianisch
orientierten Kreisen sehr pessimistisch aus. Seit den
60er Jahren hat sich der demographische Prozeß jedoch
insgesamt umgekehrt: viele indianische Gruppen ver-
zeichneten Bevölkerungswachstumsraten, die - prozen-
tual betrachtet - mit zu den höchsten der Welt gehören.
Diese Phänomene wurden überhaupt erst Ende der 70er
Anthropos 85.1990
602
Rezensionen
Jahre in größerem Zusammenhang registriert. Mit ih-
nen einhergehend entstand innerhalb weniger Jahre bei
vielen Indianergruppen ein (z. T. auch induziertes) neues
politisches Bewußtsein über die eigene politisch-recht-
liche Situation. Veränderte politische Handlungsweisen
und neue regionale (und sogar gesamtstaatliche) Orga-
nisationsformen stellen eine ganz neuartige Opposition
gegen den autoritär-patemalistisch agierenden brasilia-
nischen Staat und seine Vertreter dar. Dies sind einige
der zentralen Themen des Buches.
Der Autor gehört zu den ersten Anthropologen
seines Landes, die sich systematisch mit Fragen ausein-
andergesetzt haben, wie einzelne Indianergruppen trotz
jahrhundertelanger Kontakte zu nicht-indianischen Be-
völkerungsteilen ihre spezifischen Kulturen haben be-
wahren können (vgl. M. P. Gomes, The Ethnie Survival
of the Tenetehara Indians of Maranhäo, Brazil. Un-
publ. Diss., Gainesville: Univ. of Florida, 1977). Doch
statt sich auf diesen Bereich zu konzentrieren, ist es
Gomes’ Absicht, einen kompletten Überblick über die
Beziehungen zwischen Staat und Indianern von 1500 bis
in die aktuellste Gegenwart zu vermitteln. Der eigene
hochgesteckte Anspruch, bei diesem komplexen The-
ma Wiederholungen gegenüber Werken anderer Autoren
(mit z. T. ähnlichen Inhalten) zu vermeiden, konnte na-
türlich nur teilweise eingelöst werden, meistens durch
Anführung vorher wenig bekannter Fallbeispiele und
Details.
Im Anschluß an eine ausführliche Einführung
(zur Aktualität der „Indianerfrage“; Wissenschaftshisto-
risches; zur heutigen Situation der Anthropologie in
Brasilien) folgen sechs Kapitel, in denen umfangreiches
Material für die Diskussion der Thesen geliefert wird,
wobei jeweils zwei aufeinanderfolgende Kapitel als Ge-
gensatzpaare angeordnet sind: (1) Indianerpolitik aus der
Sicht der Opfer vs. (2) die jeweilige Indianerpolitik aus
der Sicht ihrer Vertreter; (3) die Indianer in den Augen
der Nicht-Indianer (Theorien und Ideologien) vs. (4) ihre
realen Lebensumstände; und (5) die gegenwärtige Posi-
tion der Indianer vs. (6) ihre mögliche zukünftige. Es
zeigt sich, daß im gegenwärtigen Verhalten der Indianer-
behörde FUN AI längst keine konsequente Politik mehr
erkennbar ist. Die Forderung nach ihrer Abschaffung ist
daher naheliegend.
Für die These des Holocausts lassen sich in vielen
Einzelfällen zwar Beweise auftreiben, jedoch nicht als
ein durchgängiges Charakteristikum der brasilianischen
Geschichte. Trotz der von Gomes an nicht wenigen
Stellen angeführten Beispiele pro-indianischen Engage-
ments revidiert er seine These nicht, so daß es bei die-
sem Produkt lateinamerikanischer Verbalinflation bleibt.
Für das demographische Wiedererstarken läßt sich bis-
her keine eindeutige Erklärung finden (allmähliche Ge-
wöhnung an die sog. Zivilisationskrankheiten und Über-
windung des Schocks angesichts rapiden Kulturwandels
oder doch verspätete Erfolge von Impfprogrammen?).
Hinsichtlich des Konzeptes der convivencia fällt auf,
daß dieses noch genauso unklar formuliert ist wie dasje-
nige der „multikulturellen Gesellschaft“ in der Bundes-
republik. Gomes’ Zukunftsperspektive wirkt zu optimi-
stisch, blauäugig, zumal angesichts jüngster Ereignisse
wie im Gebiet der Yanomami (um nur ein Beispiel zu
nennen). Sie ist bei diesem Autor jedoch keine grund-
sätzliche Position, sondern wohl eher Resultat der Ent-
stehungsumstände der neuen Verfassung (seit Oktober
1988 in Kraft), die damals viele brasilianische Kolle-
gen zeitweilig in ungewohnt zuversichtliche Stimmung
versetzten.
Der Schreibstil tendiert eher in Richtung Popula-
rität. Es handelt sich um keine strikte Beweisführung
auf ein konkretes Untersuchungsziel hin. Gomes’ stark
durch seinen pragmatischen Kontext geprägtes Buch hat
dafür den Vorteil exzellenter Lesbarkeit. Eine Bibliogra-
phie fehlt; stattdessen erfolgen die zahlreichen Referen-
zen lediglich in Form von Fußnoten. Ein Anhang listet
fast alle Indianergruppen, geordnet nach Bundesstaaten,
sowie deren jeweilige Mitgliederzahl auf.
Wegen seines unkomplizierten Portugiesisch, das
sich auch mit bloßen Spanischkenntnissen ohne grö-
ßere Mühe erschließt, eignet sich das Buch hervorra-
gend als Einführungsliteratur in die vergangenen und
gegenwärtigen Probleme der Indianer Brasiliens (z. B.
für Regionalveranstaltungen), aber auch, als ein Fallbei-
spiel, in die Beziehungen zwischen Staat und ethnischen
Minoritäten in Lateinamerika. Es handelt sich um eine
unbedingt notwendig gewordene Aktualisierung dieser
Themen, zumindest was den Fall Brasilien betrifft.
Angesichts der Tatsache, daß die Werke Darcy
Ribeiros in deutscher Sprache erhältlich sind, verdient
auch dieses Buch eine Übersetzung, vor allem wegen
des in jüngster Zeit stark zugenommenen Interesses am
Schicksal der indigenen Bevölkerung Brasiliens.
Peter Schröder
Grenand, Françoise: Dictionnaire wayâpi-fran-
çais, lexique français-wayâpi (Guyane française). Pa-
ris; Peeters Press; Editions de la SELAF, 1989. xiii +
538 pp„ cartes, tabl., ill. (LSA, 1) Prix: FF 568,00
Die schon seit längerem durch Forschungen zur
Kultur und Sprache der Wayäpi-Indios bekannte Ethno-
login Françoise Grenand (u. a. La langue wayàpi [Guya-
ne française]: phonologie et grammaire, Paris 1980; Et
l’homme devint jaguar. Univers imaginaire et quoti-
dien des Indiens wayàpi de Guyane, Paris 1982) hat
nun ihr lange erwartetes, umfangreiches Wörterbuch
zu dieser Tupi-Sprache vorgelegt und damit nicht nur
die Kenntnisse dieser Sprache erweitert bzw. überhaupt
erst zugänglich gemacht, sondern auch die Möglich-
keiten der zur Zeit auf sichererer Grundlage als früher
stattfindenden sprachvergleichenden Untersuchungen im
Bereich der Tupi-Guarani-Sprachfamilie erheblich ver-
größert (vgl. hierzu Cheryl Jensen, O desenvolvimen-
to historico da lingua wayampi [diss. de mestragem],
Campinas/S. P. 1984; Wolf Dietrich, More Evidence for
an Internal Classification of Tupi-Guarani Languages,
Berlin 1990).
Die Wayäpi, (auch Wayampi, Oyampi) stellen mit
den Emérillon die nördlichste Gruppe Tupi-Guarani
sprechender Indios dar; sie sind als einzige nördlich
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
603
des Amazonas zu finden. Die 700 noch existierenden
Wayäpi zerfallen in drei Gruppen: 412 Sprecher lebten
im März 1983 am Oyapock-Fluß (Französisch-Guaya-
na, Grenze zu Brasilien), die übrigen 295 als Wayäpi
am oberen Jari und als Wayäpi-puku am Amapari-
Fluß (Staat Amapá, Brasilien). Während die „brasiliani-
schen“ Wayäpi und Wayäpi-puku in den letzten Jahren
von Angehörigen des Summer Institute of Linguistics
(Allen und Cheryl Jensen, Gary und Robería Oison)
erforscht worden sind, sind Gegenstand der Untersu-
chungen von Françoise Grenand die Wayäpi in Franzö-
sisch-Guayana. Die sprachlichen Unterschiede zwischen
den Gruppen sind nicht groß, aber immerhin auch im
grammatischen Bereich am deutlichsten zwischen den
„französischen“ und den „brasilianischen“ Gruppen. Für
letztere gab es bisher den nach Sachgruppen angelegten
«Dicionário por tópicos nas línguas oiampi (wajapl) -
portugués» von Robería Oison, der jedoch ein schlichtes
Wörterverzeichnis ohne weitere Angaben ist und weder
vom Umfang noch vom Anspruch her mit dem Werk
von F. Grenand für das Wayäpi in Französisch-Guayana
verglichen werden kann.
In der Tat muß man im Bereich der Tupi-Guarani-
Uexikographie lange Ausschau halten, um Vergleichba-
res zu finden. Vom Umfang her (6000 Lemmata) ist zu
denken an Max Boudin, «Dicionário de tupi moderno.
Dialeto tembé ténêtéhara do alto do rio Gurupi» (2 Bde.,
Sao Paulo 1978), der aber weder die sprachliche Analyse
der Wörter noch die exhaustive botanische und zoolo-
gische Beschreibung enthält wie Grenand. Das gleiche
gilt für Wörterbücher der «língua geral» (nheengatú)
und des Paraguay-Guarani, die außerdem nicht Sprachen
von traditionell lebenden Stämmen beschreiben. Von
den Wörterbüchern des 20. Jh.s könnte das vorliegende
allenfalls mit dem des P. Anselmo Schermair, «Voca-
bulário sirionó-castellano» (Innsbruck 1957) und «Vo-
cabulário castellano-sirionó» (Innsbruck 1962), in der
Ausführlichkeit und Menge der Beispiele, nicht jedoch
hinsichtlich der sprachwissenschaftlich unzureichende
Analysetechnik bei Schermair verglichen werden. Inso-
fern ist durchaus der vom Nestor der Tupi-Guarani-For-
schung, Aryon D. Rodrigues (Campiñas und Brasilia),
im Vorwort (x-xi) gemachten Qualifizierung des Wör-
terbuchs von Frau Grenand zuzustimmen, daß es «sûre-
ment la plus importante réalisation moderne dans le
domaine de la lexicographie tupi-guarani» sei.
Das Hauptgewicht des Wörterbuchs liegt in dem
Teil «wayâpi-français» (113-538), wohingegen der
knappe Teil «français-wayâpi» (47-78) nur einer ersten
Orientierung dienen kann. Die Bedeutung, die der Be-
schreibung von Fauna und Flora in diesem Wörterbuch
beigemessen wird, zeigt sich auch an der Aufstellung
der für die Flora und Fauna des betreffenden Gebiets re-
levanten Species und Subspecies mit den wissenschaft-
lichen lateinischen Termini und ihren Entsprechungen
in Wayäpi (79-112). Das Werk wird eingeleitet durch
Hinweise auf Sprachstruktur, Sprachverwandtschaft und
Adstrate des Wayäpi, einen exemplarischen Vergleich
mit Vokabularien der Sprache seit der ersten Hälfte des
19. Jh.s sowie eine Bibliographie.
Die alphabetische Anlage ist streng phonologisch,
d. h., daß z. B. nasaliertes ä erst nach oralem ay- folgt.
Sinnvollerweise sind die Wörter in Wortfamilien an-
geordnet, wobei das Grundwort als Haupteintrag voran-
steht. Dies erleichtert auch die morphologische Analyse
komplexerer Einheiten, da die angegebenen Grundele-
mente jeweils leichter im Wörterbuch aufzufinden sind.
Besonders positiv und ein gutes Verständnis für die mor-
phologische Struktur der Tupi-Guarani-Sprachen zei-
gend ist die Einordnung der zahlreichen Wörter mit sog.
mobilem Anlautkonsonanten - der jeweils relationeller
Déterminant für eine bestimmte syntaktische Funktion
ist - unter dem wirklichen Stammanlaut und nicht unter
dem eines der Determinanten, was gegenüber traditio-
nellen Tupi-Guarani-Wörterbüchern durchaus eine will-
kommene Neuerung ist (z. B. [-l-]apo ,BaumwurzeT un-
ter a, nicht unter /). Allerdings konnte dieses Verfahren
in schwierigeren Fällen der Analyse nicht durchgehalten
werden, so daß z. B. teko <être humain, homme> (434)
zwar richtig als t(e)~ <Morphem der Nicht-Determin-
ation> + ko <être> interpretiert wird, aber eben doch
unter t, nicht unter k eingeordnet ist. Dort (232 f.) findet
man nur 4ko <être> als Verb mit seinen vielfältigen Ab-
leitungen, darunter auch (-le-)ko <avoir> mit eben jenem
präfigierten relationellen Morphem der Determination,
dessen Gegenstück t(e)- hier gerade nicht erscheint.
Nicht erkannt wurde auch, daß das unter / stehende
2-leko <épouser (vom Manne aus gesagt)> (264) das glei-
che Verb ist. Ein Vergleich mit anderen Tupi-Guarani-
Sprachen, in denen die ,Gattin4 -embi-r(e)-ko, d. h. ,das,
was man (Mann) hat/besitzt‘, heißt, hätte hier Klarheit
geschaffen.
Insgesamt ist jedoch die Leistung von Françoise
Grenand, die nicht in erster Linie Linguistin, sondern
Ethnologin ist, erstaunlich und vorbildlich. In jahrelan-
ger Arbeit vor Ort, im Zusammenleben mit den Wayäpi,
hat sie sich tief in die Gebräuche, in die Denk- und
Vorstellungswelt der Indianer eingearbeitet und bietet
hier eine große Fülle authentischen Materials, ange-
reichert durch ethnologische Erklärungen sowie durch
vielfältige Zeichnungen, die die materielle Kultur dieses
Volkes verdeutlichen. Alles in allem ein linguistisch
wie ethnologisch bedeutsames Werk, ein Meilenstein in
der neueren Tupi-Guarani-Forschung, der hohe Aner-
kennung verdient. Wolf Dietrich
Hanchett, Suzanne; Coloured Rice. Symbolic
Structure in Hindu Family Festivals. Delhi: Hindustan
Publishing Corporation, 1988. xix + 335 pp., fig., tab.,
photos. Price: $45.00
The book is based on 21 months of fieldwork
conducted mainly in 1966/1967 with checkups a decade
later. The area of study are two multi-caste villages of
Karnataka; one of which has since disappeared due to
the construction of a dam. The author carefully examines
four groups of family festivals and connected myths with
the purpose of revealing their symbolism.
The first group of festivals, dominated by yellow
and golden colours, comprises Mangala Gauri and Vara
Anthropos 85.1990
604
Rezensionen
Mahalaksmi that are celebrated in honour of the wives
of Siva and Visnu respectively. The author perceptively
points out that these benign goddesses are invited to
their devotees’ houses and sent off again like married
daughters visiting their natal homes. They might- there-
fore be called “married women goddesses” rather than
“mother goddesses” in the maternal sense. Their rituals
aim at furthering family welfare in general rather than
being narrowly concerned with fertility only.
Unlike Mangala Gauri and Vara Mahalaksmi,
which are celebrated by all castes, rituals for amman
goddesses are limited to non-Brahmins. Amman god-
desses are conceived as women deified on their untimely
deaths. Their restless spirits have to be appeased and
propitiated in “pseudo-auspicious” ceremonies domi-
nated by red and black colours.
The third group of festivals addressed to collective
ancestor spirits is again common to all castes though
they perform them at different times of the year and
with different kinds of offerings. Ancestors are thought
of as peaceful spirits. Semi-inauspicious ancestor rites
serve to make good relationships with them even better.
Given the great variety of ancestor rites no one
colour dominates in them. However in cobra festivals,
celebrated almost exclusively by non-Brahmins for the
benefit of their children, there is a pronounced stress on
white.
Convinced that rituals “are by definition heavily
symbolic” the author tries to discover the symbolic
meanings of colours, numbers, foods, and utensils used
in them. Clearly, colours may be given symbolic mean-
ings. The auspicious feminine connotations of yellow
turmeric, for instance, has wide validity in India, but
this does not mean that these connotations must always
be relevant. Vegetal growth is easily associated with
human growth, but to claim the mere presence of green
leaves suggests birth imagery seems exaggerated. The
use of neem leaves in cholera rites, for instance, can
hardly be connected with birth. The auspiciousness of
odd numbers and inauspiciousness of even numbers, as
a general rule, is a cultural fact; but one should beware
of attributing specific symbolic meanings to numbers.
All one can reasonably do is draw attention to cultural
or universal preferences for certain numbers. Given the
countless uses of the number five in India (as a look at
any dictionary of an Indian language confirms), to call
five an “auspicious feminine number” sounds strange.
The author pays great attention to the colour,
shape, and taste of foods used in rituals as well as their
methods of preparation: boiling, frying, soaking, etc. No
doubt, these criteria may at times be used for expressive
purposes, but one must be careful not to overinterpret the
data. For instance, contrary to the author, the reviewer
sees no particular meaning in the offering of cooked rice
to restless spirits, since this type of offering is shared
by many other deities and happens to be a staple in the
great Sanskritic temples of South India.
During most family festivals examined in the book
myths are told which justify why the festivals in question
have to be performed. The author interprets these myths
according to ideas of Lévi-Strauss and Susanne Langer
who postulate the existence of deeper meanings. In the
case of Lévi-Strauss, the deeper meaning invariably con-
sists in a dilemma stated through repeated oppositions
and mediators. Examining three similar versions of the
Mangala Gauri myth along these lines, the author claims
that motifs missing from one variant are implicitly
present in it, as if variants were held together by an
invisible bounded structure. It is easy to demonstrate,
however, that there cannot by any boundary around a
group of myths within which their structure and meaning
remain the same so that implicit motifs would make
sense. Since any motif may become the starting point
for associations, by picking out the motif of the wife
saving her husband’s life one may, for instance, arrive
at the Savitri myth; by picking out the motif of death
destined to strike at the age of sixteen, but then avoided,
one may arrive at the Markandeya myth, etc.
Domestic rites are mostly in the hands of women
and therefore probably say something about the position
of women. But one has to espouse the idea of eternal
strife (as expounded by Hegel, Marx, and Lévi-Strauss)
to see their position as problematic. Since patrilocal
residence is a common and workable arrangement the
world over, one wonders why the admission of women
outsiders to the family should be viewed as a key
paradox treated in myth.
Special mention merit the clear and detailed de-
signs illustrating the book, such as the arrangement
of foods on leaves for ancestor meals. The publisher,
however, could have given more care to the printing of
photographs.
“Coloured Rice” gives an excellent account of
Kannada village rituals. Even if some of its symbolic
interpretations are open to doubt, its ethnographic con-
tribution will be appreciated by all students of Indian
culture. Gabriella Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi
Handwerker, W. Penn; Women’s Power and So-
cial Revolution. Fertility Transition in the West Indies.
London: Sage Publications, 1989. 254 pp., tab., fig.
(Frontiers of Anthropology, 2) Price: £ 14.95
This book examines women’s and men’s power
struggles on the Caribbean island of Barbados. It is
also a book about social change, focusing on changes
in fertility behavior and related family dynamics. The
study serves as a reminder that the political arena as
the locus of power also includes the so-called private
aspects of life.
The specific purpose of this project was “to test
the idea ... that the long-term ... decline of fertility
to very low levels reflected a change in the morality of
child-bearing and parent-child relationships of women
and (perhaps) their mates” (224).
Handwerker compares Barbadian fertility behavior
of the 1950s and 1980s and analyzes the process of
change which has occurred over that period of time. He
uses various data sets, such as census estimates of total
fertility rates over time, data on gender dynamics col-
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
605
lected in the mid-fifties (S. Greenfield, Socio-Economic
Factors and Family Form. Social and Economic Studies
1961: 72-85; English Rustics in Black Skin. New Haven
1966), and data obtained from interviews through his
own fieldwork on Barbados during the summers of 1985
and 1986.
Handworker outlines how changes in the Barbadian
economy are paralleled by changes in fertility behav-
ior and family dynamics. As the importance of sugar
declined, new industries, such as industrial manufac-
turing and tourism, emerged. And as the job market
changed, the conditions of employment also changed,
becoming “subject to selection on the basis of qualifi-
cations and performance rather than personal relation-
ships with employers” (203). This situation, according
to Handworker, created opportunities for both sexes, and
had ramifications with respect to reproductive behav-
ior. While women in the 50s perceived childbearing
as an investment activity providing access to spousal
support, and later support from children, the women
of the 80s saw new opportunities that were separate
from childbearing. Childbearing was now increasingly
seen as a consumption activity. Fertility sharply de-
clined, and women became “independent agents who
were able to chart their own courses in life in ways
that had been denied their mothers and grandmothers”
(204), and “young men, like young women, have been
able to take advantage of educational and economic
opportunities denied their fathers and grandfathers. The
existence of these opportunities has meant that young
men, unlike their fathers and grandfathers have not been
placed in a position in which they must exploit the
women with whom they become involved in order to
respond rationally to the resource structure in which
they find themselves” (96; first emphasis in original,
second emphasis added).
Still, young women’s and men’s lives did not
progress at an equal pace. As the author states, “Sex-
ual exploitation still occurs, of course” (96; emphasis
added). This is a puzzling statement. I do not think
that Handworker wishes to suggest that male behavior
naturally necessitates the exploitation of women, but one
could read his statement this way.
What actually did bring the reported changes in fer-
tility behavior about? Handworker develops and applies
his resource access hypothesis to answer this question.
According to the hypothesis such changes are not the
result of increased levels of literacy, industrialization,
education, urbanization, or the work of family plan-
ning programs (220), but came about because of the
emergence of new resource access channels: “What
men and women believe and do changes in predictable
ways when there are changes in resources or in the
costs attached to particular resources and resource access
channels” (214). In simpler words more specific to the
context of fertility behavior, what this means is that
while children helped a woman in the 50s to survive
(by functioning as her resource access channels), they
have basically come to lose this important function,
and women now gain power and access to resources
through vocational means. Addressing policy implica-
tions, Handwerker then suggests that, in order to achieve
declining fertility ratios, it is necessary to change the
cost structure of resource access and to provide good
jobs for both sexes, rather than increasing literacy or
educational levels.
In so many ways Handwerker calls not only for a
class but also for a gender revolution, but the message
does not come across easily or clearly.
Sequencing of chapters, terminology, use of jargon,
and repetitiveness, make this a difficult book to read.
For example, the data presented in the appendix provide
important and interesting information with respect to the
background and methodology of the study which would
have been more effectively placed as an integral part
of the introductory sections of the book. The reader is
strongly urged to start with the appendix. Also, a more
extensive index and a listing of the numerous tables
would have been helpful in a book of this nature. And
terminology and definitions present at times a challenge
to the reader: Children, for example, change from having
been “resource access channels” in the 50s to “consumer
durables” in the 80s; or “Power is a function of the
variable K, which is the ratio of the number of channels
by which people gain access to those resources relative
to the size of the population that seeks access to those
resources” (21). While these are problems that could
have been resolved by more effective editing, the book is
likely to create controversy due to the author’s position
on philosophies and policies regarding social change
which some readers will find troublesome.
Education is a case in point. Feminist scholarship
maintains that women deal differently with power and
resources as compared to men due to their socialization
and education. This line of thought could invite new
ideas about resource- and resource access-management,
but Handwerker ignores this issue by denying the role
and impact of socialization: “Men and women do not
think and act in ways that are fixed by socialization
or convention. Their childhood and adult experiences
provide cultural prototypes that they can use to construct
and negotiate social relationships in particular social in-
teractions” (214). In the absence of definitions the reader
must try to grasp the nebulous meaning of “cultural
prototypes.” Handwerker also denies or minimizes the
influence of formal schooling: “The decline in fertility
associated with increasing levels of education stems
merely from the fact that women delay childbearing
while they are in school” (174; emphasis added). But,
in my opinion, this may well indicate changes based on
women’s intentions and goals, processes that might very
well be influenced by the very education these women
receive.
In sum, Handwerker does challenge his readers and
invites them to rethink the issues.
Maria-Barbara Watson-Franke
Anthropos 85.1990
606
Rezensionen
Harris, Marvin: Kulturanthropologie. Ein Lehr-
buch. Frankfurt: Campus Verlag, 1989. 502 pp., Tab.,
Fig. Preis: DM48,-
Ein Vorteil des akademischen Lebens in den USA
sind die guten Lehrbücher. Man teilt dort nicht unse-
ren späthumboldtianischen Snobismus, demzufolge die
Studenten das nötige geistige Rüstzeug entweder mit-
bringen oder sich neben dem Studium selbst erarbeiten
müssen, so daß die Professoren getrost ihre Steckenpfer-
de reiten können. Das Studium ist dort mehr „verschult“.
Das erfordert Lehrbücher. Da diese sich auf einem sub-
ventionsfreien Büchermarkt durchsetzen müssen, müs-
sen sie das Wesentliche des Lehrstoffes enthalten und
dazu klar gegliedert und gut geschrieben sein. Deutsche
Lehrbücher der Ethnologie sind zumeist Sammelwerke;
sie stellen demnach verschiedene, oft schwer vereinba-
re Standpunkte vor den Studenten hin. Amerikanische
Lehrbücher sind dagegen aus einem Gestaltungswillen
heraus geschrieben. Es gibt dort Gelehrte, deren Repu-
tation vor allem auf der Systematisierung vorhandenen
Wissens beruht. Einer von ihnen ist Marvin Harris.
Durch eine Disziplingeschichte bekannt gewor-
den (The Rise of Anthropological Theory. New York
1968), hat Harris seither eine überraschende Menge
von Übersichtsarbeiten vorgelegt, in denen er den „kul-
turmaterialistischen“ Ansatz mit großer Bestimmtheit
vertritt. Diesem Ansatz zufolge sind die Befriedigung
von Subsistenzbedürfnissen („Produktionsweise“) und
die damit zusammenhängende Regulierung des Bevölke-
rungswachstums („Reproduktionsweise“) die kausalen
Ursachen sowohl der sozialen Strukturen wie auch der
kulturellen Superstrukturen (vgl. 28 ff., 444 f.). Für den
deutschen Leser ist das ein Marxismus abzüglich der
Dialektik. Statt unmittelbar auf Marx führt die geistige
Genealogie dieses Ansatzes eher auf den „Neo-Evolu-
tionismus“ von Steward und White und über diesen auf
die „Kulturologie“ Wilhelm Ostwalds zurück. Kulturen
sind für ihn Systeme der Energietransformation, die im
Laufe der Entwicklung immer effizienter werden.
Im vorliegenden, von der Ethnologin Schomburg-
Scherff klar und kompetent übersetzten Lehrbuch hat
Harris den ethnologischen Lehrstoff nach kulturmateria-
listischen Gesichtspunkten aufbereitet, wenn er gleich
verspricht, „zu kontrovers diskutierten Themen alter-
native Perspektiven aufzuzeigen“ (30). Dies tut er je-
doch mittels der objektivierenden Nebeneinanderstel-
lung, bei der dann die kulturmaterialistische Perspektive
als die insgesamt systematischer begründete am besten
abschneidet. Zwischen theoretischen Einleitungs- und
Schlußkapiteln eingespannt werden folgende Themen-
kreise abgehandelt: Evolution der Kultur; Sprache;
Produktionsweisen; Reproduktionsweisen; Wirtschafts-
organisation; Haushalt und Familie; Verwandtschaftssy-
steme; Recht, Politik und Krieg; Staatenbildung; Stra-
tifikationssysteme; Religion; Kunst; Persönlichkeit und
Geschlecht; Entwicklungsethnologie; Ethnologie der In-
dustriegesellschaft.
Eine beachtliche Kompilationsleistung also! Ein
wirklich gutes Lehrbuch ergibt das jedoch nicht. Harris
hat zweifellos die Gabe der Überschau und der Zu-
sammenfassung. Er schreibt mit leichter Hand, ohne
Glanz, aber eingängig. Doch offenbar konnte er sich
nicht zwischen einem Einführungstext und einem Kom-
pendium entscheiden. Der Fülle und Komplexität des
Stoffes widerspricht die simplistische Darstellungsform.
Dazu ein paar Beispiele:
„Gibt es höherwertige und minderwertige Spra-
chen?“ - Der Student darf beruhigt sein, die rhetorische
Frage wird mit „nein“ beantwortet: alle Sprachen sind
gleich entwicklungsfähig; bestehende Entwicklungsun-
terschiede spiegeln bloß kulturell definierte Lebensnot-
wendigkeiten wider (68 ff.). Unter „gleicher Entwick-
lungsfähigkeit“ wird eine unbegrenzte Geschmeidigkeit
gegenüber äußeren Anforderungen verstanden: „Wenn
aber ein bestimmtes Wort oder eine bestimmte gramma-
tikalische Regel Menschen verletzt und beleidigt, warum
sollte man dann das Wort oder die Regel beibehal-
ten?“ (75). Dieser Konventionalismus durchzieht das
ganze Buch. Er wirkt beinahe naiv. Wie das in ame-
rikanischen Einführungstexten üblich ist, bemüht sich
auch Harris, für die Tugend interkultureller Toleranz
zu werben und das entsprechende Laster des Ethno-
zentrismus anzuprangem. Eine fundierte Diskussion des
Relativismusproblems gibt er aber nicht. Statt dessen
setzt er die Forderung nach Toleranz immer wieder
zur Rechtfertigung solcher Werthaltungen ein, die eben
einem amerikanischen Liberalen lieb und teuer sind.
So etwa in dem Kapitel über Geschlecht, worin er
sich offenbar sehr bemüht, nicht als “male Chauvinist
pig” dazustehen, und den Feministinnen ein onkelhaftes
Wohlwollen erweist, für das das oben angeführte, aus
dem Sprachkapitel stammende Zitat als Beleg dienen
mag. Wenn es heikel wird, hilft er sich mit der be-
währten Methode objektivierender Nebeneinanderstel-
lung: „Die Einstellungen zur Homosexualität reichen
von entsetzter Ablehnung bis hin zu chauvinistischem
Enthusiasmus“ (Beispiele folgen, 359 f.). Das eigentli-
che Böse, der Ethnozentrismus, wird als ein Denkfehler
entlarvt, und zwar als „mangelnde Einsicht in die Rolle,
die die Enkulturation bei der Erhaltung gruppenspe-
zifischer Verhaltens- und Denktraditionen spielt“ (22),
ein Einsichtsmangel, der sich etwa durch Teilnahme an
ethnologischen Lehrveranstaltungen beheben ließe.
Es mag unfair erscheinen, einem Buch, dem man
Überfrachtung vorgeworfen hat, im selben Atemzug
vorzuhalten, was ihm fehlt. Doch Harris’ Auslassungen
sind weniger zufällig als manche seiner einfach dem
Zettelkasten entnommenen Beispiele. Er meidet die Ebe-
ne zwischenmenschlicher Beziehungen. Man findet bei
ihm daher auch kein Kapitel über die Forschungsme-
thodik. Die Feldforschung, die in Deutschland noch als
das Spezifikum der Ethnologie gilt, scheint bei Har-
ris nicht einmal im Sachregister auf (freilich besteht
in den USA, wo man die Indianerreservate praktisch
vor der Haustüre hat, weniger Anlaß, diese Methode
zu idolisieren, als in Deutschland). Im übrigen werden
von ihm alle jene Probleme stiefmütterlich behandelt,
die mit der Innenansicht fremder Kulturen und Gesell-
schaften Zusammenhängen; dies ist der „blinde Fleck“
der kulturmaterialistischen Perspektive. In der obenge-
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
607
nannten Themenliste verläuft ein unsichtbarer, aber um
so auffälligerer Trennungsstrich zwischen den Kapiteln
„Stratifikationssysteme“ und „Religion“: davor ein Sy-
stem, danach eine Gruppe von Residualkategorien.
Harris’ Materialüberschau ist - wenn auch von
einem beschränkten Standpunkt aus - souverän. Dieses
Buch, das sich so betulich an Erstsemester zu wenden
scheint, wird sicher auch dem Fachmann Neues bringen;
“the state of the art” ist hier von einem führenden
Fachvertreter resümiert. Als Lehrbuch auf deutschen
Universitäten wird es sich dagegen kaum durchsetzen.
Dafür ist es zu umfangreich und zu sehr Zeitdokument.
Justin Stagl
Hauser-Schäublin, Brigitta: Leben in Linie, Mu-
ster und Farbe. Einführung in die Betrachtung aussereu-
ropäischer Kunst am Beispiel der Abelam, Papua-Neu-
guinea. Basel: Birkhäuser Verlag, 1989. 175 pp., Abb.,
Fotos, Fig., Kt. Preis: sfr 58.-
Schon der Untertitel „Einführung in die Be-
trachtung aussereuropäischer Kunst“ deutet darauf hin,
daß der Inhalt des Buches weniger von ethnographi-
schen Fragen als vielmehr von künstlerischen Inhal-
ten bestimmt ist. Das erklärte Ziel der Autorin ist,
dem Leser die Gestaltungsprinzipien der Abelam-Kunst
zu vermitteln und ihm zu ermöglichen, sich in diese
außereuropäische Kunstform selbst hineinzudenken. Sie
wendet sich damit also auch nicht an einen rein wis-
senschaftlich orientierten, sondern einen größeren all-
gemeinen Leserkreis. Ethnographische Beschreibungen
müssen zugunsten dieser Zielsetzung in den Hintergrund
treten. So erfolgt auch der Aufbau des Buches nach
künstlerischen Kategorien wie Malerei und Schnitzerei,
und nicht nach ethnographischen Gesichtspunkten wie
Funktion von Kunst und Stellung des Künstlers. Als
Grundlage der Kunstbetrachtungen dient der Bestand
des Basler Völkerkundemuseums, der wohl die umfang-
reichste Abelam-Sammlung überhaupt birgt, da er die
Sammlungen von Alfred Bühler sowie die von Anthony
Forge enthält. Dazu kommt noch die vollständige In-
nenausstattung eines Abelam-Kulthauses, die vom Nie-
derländer G. F. J. N. Gerrits Anfang der siebziger Jahre
zusammengetragen und dokumentiert wurde.
Bevor die Autorin mit der eigentlichen Kunstbe-
trachtung beginnt, gibt sie im Vorwort knapp gefaßte
einführende Informationen. Unter dem Titel „Wer sind
die Abelam?“ (10) erklärt sie kurz Lebensraum und
Lebensweise dieser Ethnie und geht auf den seit dem
ersten Kontakt mit den Europäern stetig fortschreitenden
Kulturwandel ein. Daran anknüpfend weist sie unter
dem Punkt „Kulturwandel und Veränderungen in der
Kunst“ (11) auch auf die Veränderungen innerhalb der
hier vorgestellten Kunst hin: Die besprochenen Beispiele
stammen alle aus einer Zeit, in der Formen, Muster und
Technik noch das traditionelle Weltbild widerspiegeln,
in die aber Metallwerkzeug und Chemiefarben bereits
Eingang gefunden haben. Dieser Hinweis stellt eine
wichtige Orientierungshilfe für den Leser dar, denn ge-
rade dem europäischen Museumsbesucher fällt es immer
wieder schwer, außereuropäische Kunst zwischen Tra-
dition und modernem Leben in der Dritten Welt zeitlich
richtig einzuordnen.
' Im ersten Kapitel, „Malerei“, geht die Autorin zu-
nächst auf die Bedeutung bestimmter Phänomene ein,
die jemandem, der sich bisher nur mit europäischer
Kunst beschäftigt hat, fremd sein müssen: die über-
greifende rituelle Bedeutung von Farben, die von der
Gesamtbedeutung des Kunstwerkes unabhängige Stel-
lung des Ornaments und der kultische Kontext fast aller
Kunstgegenstände.
Bezogen auf die darstellerischen Mittel will die
Autorin aufzeigen, daß sich zumindest innerhalb der
Malerei eine Entwicklung von mehr figürlichen Darstel-
lungen hin zum Abstrakten abzeichnet. Damit nimmt sie
bewußt eine Gegenposition zu Anthony Forges Auffas-
sung von der Malweise der Abelam ein (26). Bei diesen
Ausführungen operiert sie mit den von der europäischen
Kunstgeschichte geprägten Begriffen „Abstraktion“ und
„Naturalismus“. Das ist notwendig, um die künstleri-
schen Ausdrucksmittel der Abelam für den europäischen
Betrachter überhaupt nachvollziehbar zu machen. Es
wird aber gleichzeitig sehr gut verdeutlicht, daß diese
Art der Zuordnung zu Kunststilen den Abelam selbst
nicht eigen ist und darum keine künstlerische Wertung
im europäischen Sinne damit verbunden werden sollte.
Im folgenden wird dann die Malerei auf Palmblatt-
scheiden dargestellt. Dies geschieht nicht als rein be-
schreibende Erörterung des fertigen Kunstwerkes, son-
dern es erfolgt die Schilderung aller vorbereitenden Ar-
beiten und des Malvorganges an sich sowie die Deutung
aller einzelnen aufgetragenen Motive und Ornamente.
Um die Inhalte der Bilder zu verdeutlichen, werden sie
in immer wieder verwendete gestalterische Einzelele-
mente zerlegt, wie Bänder, Zickzacklinien, Ovale, Krei-
se oder auch Tropfen-, Herz- und Schmetterlingsformen.
Anhand von Zeichnungen werden diese Bestandteile
der Malerei isoliert dargestellt und ihre Bedeutung und
die Art, wie sie zu meist anthropomorphen Figuren
zusammengesetzt sind, erklärt. Unter dem Titel „Die
anthropomorphe Darstellung und ihre Variation“ (49)
erläutert die Autorin die Gesamtkompositionen anhand
von Malereibeispielen, wobei sie auch regionale Stilun-
terschiede des Maprikgebietes berücksichtigt.
Während im ersten Hauptkapitel die Palmblattma-
lerei, die Giebelwände der Kulthäuser und die Kopf-
aufsätze von Tänzern und Zeremonialyams im Mittel-
punkt stehen, bietet das zweite Kapitel, „Kunst und
Kult“ (68 ff.), Raum für Gegenstände, die gänzlich
außerhalb der europäischen Kunstkategorien wie Male-
rei oder Skulptur liegen. Dabei handelt es sich um Bil-
der, die aus auf Schaumteppichen ausgelegten Blättern
und Blüten zusammengelegt und daher von der Auto-
rin zum besseren Verständnis als „Collagen“ bezeich-
net werden (77). In dieses Kapitel gehören auch Netz-
taschen, Stirn- und Rückenbänder als Kampfschmuck
der Männer, die geflochtenen Kopfscheiben und Mas-
ken der Zermonialyams sowie die schweinegestaltigen
tote-Masken. Schließlich gehören zu diesem Komplex
Anthropos 85.1990
608
Rezensionen
auch die nur von Frauen getragenen Rückenschürzen aus
Rindenbaststoff.
Wie im vorangegangenen Kapitel werden an den
einzelnen Gegenständen vor allem die Bedeutung von
Ornamentik und Farbgebung erklärt, die Erläuterung
kultischer Funktionen und Zusammenhänge nimmt je-
doch sehr viel mehr Raum ein. So wird die Anwendung
der verschiedenen Kunstobjekte in den Initationszere-
monien beschrieben. Ebenso wird die durch bestimmte
Muster vorgenommene Kennzeichnung bestimmter In-
itiationsstufen und die Zugehörigkeit künstlerisch gestal-
teter Objekte entweder zur männlichen oder zur weibli-
chen Sphäre deutlich gemacht.
Das dritte Hauptkapitel, „Schnitzwerke“ (108 ff.),
behandelt zunächst die unbemalte Reliefschnitzerei auf
Knochendolchen, Trommeln und Gefäßen, wendet sich
aber dann dem großen Bereich der, überwiegend anthro-
pomorphen, Holzskulpturen zu. Auch hier verdeutlicht
die Autorin Skulpturtypen und Darstellungsmittel wie-
der anhand von Beispielen. Dabei zeigt sie auf, daß es
zwischen Schnitzerei und allen anderen Kategorien der
Abelam-Kunst Berührungspunkte und Übergänge gibt.
Auch hier nimmt sie wieder eine Gegenposition zu
Anthony Forge ein, der Malerei und Skulptur bei den
Abelam für unterschiedliche, voneinander unabhängige
Systeme hält (131 f.).
Im Gegensatz zur Malerei ist bei der Skulptur
die Entwicklung zur stärkeren abstrakten Ausgestaltung
nicht so eindeutig festzustellen. Bestimmte Schnitzbei-
spiele lassen vielmehr das Anstreben einer naturalisti-
scheren Darstellungsweise erkennen. Das läßt auch die
Autorin in ihren Formulierungen durchblicken, wenn
sie von der Rundplastik als der „Befreiung aus der
Zweidimensionalität der Malerei“ (161) spricht oder von
der Lebendigkeit im Ausdruck bei plastischen Tierdar-
stellungen (169).
Schließlich weist sie auch darauf hin, daß gerade
dort, wo Schnitzerei - außerhalb des kultischen Zu-
sammenhangs - keinen festen Formenreglementierun-
gen unterliegt, besonders ausdrucksstarke Kunstwerke
anzutreffen sind (169). Leider bleibt es unklar, ob es
sich hier nur um eine bestimmte Gruppe von Schnitze-
reien handelt oder ob sich hier eine zeitliche Entwick-
lung abzeichnet. Bedauerlich ist auch, daß in diesem
Zusammenhang die am Anfang des Buches vertretene
These einer Entwicklungstendenz von der figürlichen
zur abstrakten Darstellungsweise nicht noch einmal neu
diskutiert wird.
Im Schlußteil weist die Autorin auf die allgemeine
Bedeutung der Kunst als eine Art Kommunikations-
system hin: Den Abelam dient sie „zur Tradierung von
kulturellen Werten von einer Generation auf die ande-
re“ (171), womit ihr in einer schriftlosen Kultur eine
Schlüsselfunktion in der Wertevermittlung zukommt.
Obwohl aber die Kunst der Abelam dadurch ganz
bestimmten Regeln unterliegt, wiederholt der Künstler
nicht einfach nur mechanisch immer wieder die glei-
chen Motive, sondern komponiert durchaus gekonnt mit
den ihm zur Verfügung stehenden Ornamenten, Far-
ben und Darstellungsweisen individuelle Kunstwerke.
Bis auf diese anschließenden Ausführungen enthält das
Buch so gut wie keine Erklärungen zur Person des
Abelam-Künstlers selbst. Auch wenn der Schwerpunkt
des Werkes eindeutig auf den künstlerischen Ausdrucks-
mitteln liegt, wären doch detailliertere Erklärungen zu
Motivation, Ansehen und gesellschaftlicher Stellung der
Abelam-Künstler wünschenswert, um dem in Ethnologie
nicht vorgebildeten Leser zu einem besseren Verständnis
zu verhelfen.
Zum Schluß formuliert die Autorin noch einmal die
beiden schon im Vorwort genannten Ziele ihrer Arbeit:
Der Leser soll zunächst die Abelam-Kunst erkennen und
verstehen lernen, darüber hinaus aber auch Kenntnisse
zur Deutung von Kunstwerken anderer außereuropäi-
scher Kulturen erwerben. Dem widerspricht, daß außer-
europäische Kunst nicht als Einheit existiert. Jede Kultur
ist von der anderen verschieden, und ihrer Kunst liegen
jeweils ganz unterschiedliche Inhalte und Gestaltungs-
prinzipien zugrunde. Gerade hierauf weist die Autorin
auch selbst hin, wenn sie z. B. sagt: „Die visuelle Kunst
der Abelam ist auch nicht durch Mythen in Inhalt und
Form bestimmt, wie dies in anderen Kulturen der Fall
ist ...“ (25). So wird das letztgenannte Ziel sicher nur
insofern erreicht, als daß dem Leser grundsätzlich klar
wird, daß er an außereuropäische Kunstwerke mit ganz
anderen Kriterien herangehen muß, als er sie von der
europäischen Kunstkritik gewohnt ist.
Das erste und wichtigste Ziel des Werkes wird
aber voll und ganz erreicht: Im Gegensatz zu vielen
Museumskatalogen wird hier nicht oberflächlich das
beschrieben, was der Kunstbetrachter selber sehen kann,
sondern die kulturspezifischen Gestaltungsprinzipien der
Abelam-Kunst werden mit großem Tiefgang im Detail
erklärt. Schritt für Schritt werden dem Leser Inhalt und
Bedeutung der Kunstwerke nahegebracht, wobei auch
das Zusammenwirken von Text, Zeichnung und Foto
eine große Rolle spielt.
Wichtigste Grundlage für die gute Verdeutlichung
der künstlerischen Inhalte bilden jedoch die intensiven,
während der Feldforschungen gesammelten Kenntnisse
der Autorin. Diese Tatsache widerlegt solche Kunsthi-
storiker, die meinen, ganz ohne ethnologische Kriterien
die Kunst anderer Kulturen ausstellen und beschreiben
zu können. Daher ist es auch wohl nicht übertrieben,
dieses Buch als wegweisend in der Vermittlung außer-
europäischer Kunst an den europäischen Betrachter an-
zusehen. Eva Ch. Raabe
Hissink, Karin und Albert Hahn: Chimane. No-
tizen und Zeichnungen aus Nordost-Bolivien. Stuttgart;
Franz Steiner Verlag Wiesbaden, 1989. 217 pp., Fotos,
Abb„ Tab., Kt. (Ergebnisse der Frobenius-Expeditio-
nen, 21) Preis: DM 160,-
En esta obra se hace un cuadro etnográfico integral
de los Chimane, grupo aborigen del Oriente Boliviano,
América del Sur. La información volcada en el libro
proviene, básicamente, de una expedición del Frobe-
nius-Institut de Frankfurt, que entre los años 1952-54
recorrió intensamente la zona, describiendo también a
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
609
otros grupos aborígenes: Tacana, Chama y Mositene.
Las monografías correspondientes a los dos primeros,
ya han aparecido: en 1961 y 1984 se edita la obra sobre
los Tacana, en 1988 la de los Chama, en 1989 la que
reseñamos. La etnóloga K. Hissink dió la conocer, asi-
mismo, entre 1954 y 1962 varios artículos sobre temas
específicos relacionados con estas etnías. Como en las
obras anteriores, en la presente, el rol de A. Hahn ha sido
el de documentar mediante dibujos, calcos y fotografías
toda la cultura en cuestión, con énfasis en los tipos
físicos, los rostros, las actitudes del indígena selvático.
Los Chimane junto con los Mositene forman una misma
familia etnolingüística autodenominada «Monci» que
significa «gente». Habitan en la región de «montaña»
entre los 500 y los 1800 m. s. n. m., recorrida por los
ríos Maniquí, Matos y Rápulo. El poblado boliviano
más cercano es San Borja. Los Chimane recibieron la
catequización de jesuítas, dominicanos, franciscanos y
redentoristas, en este mismo orden. Los autores del
libro estuvieron por ejemplo, en Fátima, una Misión
Redentorista, donde les fue posible obtener un registro
bastante completo de la cultura en cuestión. Allí también
comprobaron la predisposición de los Chimane a dejar
las pautas tradicionales y entrar de lleno en el comercio
ganadero (de ganado vacuno). Ello no obstó para que
no haya indígenas que voluntariamente se aislaran y
vivieran solitariamente en este extenso, abrupto y rico
territorio virgen.
Como en otras etnías de la selva y montaña, caza,
recolección, pesca, cultivo de la huerta, son importantes.
La cría de animales domésticos les interesa, y amplian
el repertorio con la cría de gallinas y perros. Quizás,
dentro del tema de la recolección pueda incluirse la de
la sal. Hasta 1925, dice K. Hissink, los Chimane tenían
el monopolio de este producto, que era abundante en las
cabeceras del Maniquí. Dominaban la técnica (casera) de
la concentración de la sal, entraban en el comercio de
trueque y tantas otras actividades relacionadas con este
elemento mineral, escaso en otros territorios.
Sus principales manufacturas son las tejidas, en
algodón, en «el telar prehispánico vertical». Como en
el caso de los Tacana, los Chimane (opina la autora)
muy antiguamente solo conocían las manufacturas en
tela de corteza. Hoy se realiza en corteza la cuna y la
«manta o frazada para recíen casados». Los motivos con
que se pintan estas últimas son puntos, zigzags, líneas
paralelas o cruzadas, órganos sexuales femeninos. En
síntesis: los mismos motivos que pueden verse en los
petroglifos del Alto Maniquí (Pachene).
Los Chimane trabajaban la arcilla no solo para
confeccionar ollas sino repetían en madera balsa o cedro.
De madera también son las máscaras. Nunca antes,
habían sido citadas máscaras como componiendo el
patrimonio cultural de los Chimane. Hissink y Hahn no
solo encontraron muchas, sino que también profundiza-
ron en sus significados. La mayoría de estas tallas en
madera representan animales y ello se lo comprueba si
se observan las características de cada animal (monos,
sobre todo) muy bien captadas. Se las colocan para
«festejar» (Feier) una buena caza. Una máscara con
rasgos antropomorfos representa a Opo que un señor
de los animales y un «heroe» (Held). El danzarín que se
la coloca actúa en medio de los demás enmascarados o
danza solo. Dicen los autores que las máscaras deben ser
vistas no tanto desde la faz estética y de su confección,
sino en su marco socio-religioso. Aparentemente están
relacionadas con un calendario ritual y de fiestas, que
habría, dicen, que conocer más en profundidad.
Todo a lo largo del libro, se hace alusión a conteni-
dos religiosos verdaderos guías en la conducta del Chi-
mane. Son contenidos que hacen a su religión tradicional
y no al cristianismo. Ellos reconocen distintas teofanías
y dioses: un genio bien intencionado (freundlich geson-
nener Geist) que toma la forma de perros del bosque,
un «demonio» (Dämon) malvado, un Señor del bosque
y patrón de los animales silvestres (Herr des Waldes
und Patron der Waldtiere) que es un jaguar enorme, que
simboliza la fuerza (Kraft) y el vigor (Stärke), el Dios
creador Dohitt, que es un Deus otiosus, su hermano es el
Sol Mitcha, la esposa de este es Kira o «luna». Dohitt
roba la esposa embarazada a su hermano y ésta da a
luz a un niño: madre e hijo serán convertidos en sal.
Sus figuras están representadas en los petroglifos del
Pachene. Finalmente está Opo, trickster y demonio con
apetencias sexuales.
Respecto a las narraciones en tomo a Opo, puede
resumirse lo siguiente: de las plantaciones que Opo tiene
en el cielo, provienen casi todas las plantas útiles de los
Chimane. Los antiguos o bien lograron cambiar algunos
bienes para obtener estas plantas o las robaron. Así
consiguieron el maíz. Dos veces le pidieron a Opo maíz
y este les devolvía maíz cocido que no servía para plan-
tar. «Si quieren maíz que sirva para cultivar, tráiganme
primero una mujer con la que yo pueda dormir», decía
Opo. Obtuvo la mujer, cohabitó con ella, y entregó a la
gente el maíz.
Algo semejante sucedió con las bananas. La gente
le pedía para plantar pero el solo les entregaba las frutas.
Entonces la gente comenzó a espiarlo cómo hacía él en
su plantación y vieron que metía gajos en la tierra. Le
robaron entonces gajos y así obtuvieron las bananas.
La etnóloga duda sobre si entre los Chimane no
pudo haber un cierto tipo de canibalismo. Sin embargo,
en los mitos, el tema no aparece. Opo, muy importante
para ellos, es una figura adversaria (Widersacher) del
ocioso Dohitt. Muchas veces, constató la autora, apa-
recen luego de las crecientes, huesos enormes, que son
fósiles de mamíferos extintos. Los Chimane dicen que
son los huesos de Opo y los usan para curar.
La casa de culto Chimane (chipa) no pudo ser
registrada por los etnólogos Hissink y Hahn, pues ya por
1920 había desaparecido; o al menos, la habían retirado
del centro del poblado donde se solía erigir. La más
antigua costumbre era que la casa de culto estuviera
cerca de la del jefe en medio del asentamiento.
Hablando con algunos viejos Chimane y con un
Boliviano que tuvo en 1922 la experiencia de encontrar
una casa de culto en medio de la selva y ver un rito,
lograron reconstruir la siguiente: las casas eran redondas
de paredes de arcilla de 1 m. de alto con un diámetro
Anthropos 85.1990
610
Rezensionen
de 7 m., al centro un palo de chonta tallado y pintado.
Del centro partían largueros al perímetro del círculo
formando un techo cónico, la puerta daba al lado del
poniente, tenía 1 de ancho y estaba cerrada con una este-
ra. En el piso había esparcidos huesecillos de animales
de caza y conchillas en el centro y los costados había
figuras en madera de forma humana de hasta 1 m. de
alto y otras más pequeñas, también antropomorfas, de
terracotta; atados de plumas e instrumentos musicales
(sonajeros y trompetas) y otra parafernalia para el culto
se colgaba de las paredes. El culto era de ancianos, que
realizaban «brujería» (Hexerei) sentados en círculo en
el centro hasta un número de 12 participantes, atavidos
con plumas y camisas pintadas. Importante elemento de
culto debían ser las máscaras que también pendían de
las paredes junto con maderos zumbadores que servían
para reproducir la «voz de los muertos y los genios».
En el libro comentado se pone en duda el uso
de drogas que faciliten el accionar del shaman. Sin
embargo, Marcelo Bórmida, Mario Califano y Andrés
Pérez Diez, etnólogos argentinos quienes realizaron va-
rias investigaciones entre los chimane del Maniquí,
encontraron que el uso del tabaco es común. Incluso
el vocablo para designar al shamán kuhkusí proviene
del nombre de la planta de tabaco (kús). En el tabaco
encuentra el shamán precisamente su potencia.
El tema de los daños y de las curaciones, puede
resumirse del siguiente modo
1) los viejos jefes de familia podían dañar o matar
por concentración y fuerza sugestiva (Konzentration und
Suggestivkraft), o sea, la antes mencionada «brujería» de
los ancianos;
2) los shamanes chimane podían curar y dañar. La
curación se hace por absorción y/o extracción de cuerpos
extraños y por el uso de hierbas;
3) el uso de hierbas, es casi exclusivo de «mujeres
curadoras» (Extraktion und Ahsaugen). El shaman es el
mediador entre dos mundos, el de los espíritus o genios
(Geister) al cual viaja sin usar precisamente drogas y el
reino de las plantas y los animales, del cual extrae gran
parte de los medios curativos. Elay que aclarar que mu-
chos productos del reino animal también son usados para
curar: pelos, dientes, rabos o colas, huesos, grasas. Es
difícil extraer del libro comentado términos que sirvan
para especificar la fuente de poder del shamán, menos
aún encontrar las palabras indígenas al respecto. En
alemán se habla de besondere Fähigkeiten (capacidades
especiales) y del arte (Kunst) y «fuerzas» (Kräfte) del
shamán.
El patrimonio mítico chimane, sobre el cual la
sociedad se asienta y rige, se centra en narraciones sobre
el Dios Creador Dohitt y su enemigo Opo. También hay
narraciones relacionadas con la caza y el cultivo. En
los mitos dice la autora, sobresale la enorme capaci-
dad de transformación (Wandlungsfähigkeit) de la forma
externa: madera y piedra llega a ser gente, la gente
se transforma en animales, los animales de nuevo en
piedra y así sucesivamente. Plantas pueden convertirse
en hombres o en un fenómeno natural. Por ejemplo, hay
un mito en que un chimane duerme con una gran flor
que prosperaba en su jardín. Luego del acto amoroso
ella pasa a ser mujer y ambos se trasladan al cielo.
Algunos otros detalles se irán dando a continua-
ción: Dohitt y Mitcha, su hermano, han creado todo; el
lucero vespertino también es un protagonista importante.
Opo es descripto en forma humana y gigante con un
miembro viril extradimensional, posee rasgos de duende
forestal, es bueno, posee una plantación en el cielo de
la cual la gente le robó maíz y plátanos, frutos que
desde entonces poseen los chimane. Kiri, la luna, robó
mandioca de la plantación de Dohitt en el cielo, trayendo
este producto a los agutís y a los hombres.
Algunos temas de mitos más son; como apareció
la lluvia, cómo llegó el trueno al mundo, cómo llegó la
Iguana al cielo, la vía láctea, el cometa que comía gente,
el incendio del mundo, el que nunca estaba satisfecho,
cómo los animales de rapiña sacaron a la gente de
la salina, cómo un hombre de Ixiamas cazó muchos
jaguares, el jaguar y la muchacha chimane, el joven
que podía convertirse en jaguar, la niña y el ocelote, la
anaconda malvada, cómo la gente mató a la anaconda,
cómo la anaconda comío los ojos a la gente, cómo
empezaron los tapires, la historia del falso hombre-tapir,
cómo la gente y los agutís obtuvieron mandico, el hijo
del oso y la abuela del agutí.
Luego de la lectura del capítulo sobre el arte ru-
pestre del Pachene (alto Maniquí) en la zona de salinas,
no queda dudas que todo confluye a confirmar que
los grabados (petroglifos) fueron hechos por antiguos
Chimane. La coincidencia entre los motivos grabados
y la decoración de las mantas para recién casados es
demasiado estrecha. Lo mismo, hay grabada en el Pa-
chene la imagen de la pareja mítica de Dohitt con la
mujer robada a su hermano y el niño recién nacido.
Hasta tiempos bastante recientes los Chimanes acudían
a las salinas para perpetrar un rito relacionado con la
renovación constante de la sal y con ello de la vida.
Allí se utilizaban máscaras.
Este libro con abundantes textos y dibujos cierra,
como lo dice Eike Haberland en el prólogo, a serie
llamada Ergehnisse der Frohenius-Expeditionen (Resul-
tados de las expediciones del Instituto Frobenius). La
serie es, por otra parte, criatura o producto de una época
y tradición, que quizás pueda parecer, dice el mismo in-
vestigador, «pasada de moda». Sin embargo, el profundo
interés de Hissink por la etnología religiosa, continúa
siendo el punto candente de la etnología contemporánea,
lo mismo que el afán de documentar y publicar todo,
antes que se produzca la irremediable descomposición
de las etnías amazónicas. Alicia Fernández Distel
Holm, John: Pidgins and Creoles; vol. 2: Refer-
ence Survey. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1989. xxv + 259-704 pp., maps, tab. Price: £ 17.50
The first volume of this excellent two-volume work
was reviewed in Anthropos 84.1989. That volume bears
the subtitle “Theory and Stucture.” The present volume
is a reference survey of approximately one hundred indi-
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
611
vidual language varieties that have undergone significant
restructuring and fit the definition of pidgin, creole, or
semi-creole. It is worth repeating the raison d’etre for
the two volumes, namely that researchers have tended
to study the many pidgin and creole varieties spoken
around the globe in relative isolation, so missing out
on the general insights gained by others because of the
near impossibility of knowing enough about all the other
varieties to be sure to what extent their development and
structure are parallel and therefore relevant.
Vol. 2 may be used independently of vol. 1. The
global maps indicating the location of the world’s pid-
gins and creoles, with a separate map of Caribbean cre-
oles, appear at the beginning of both volumes. However,
the volumes are obviously designed to complement each
other. Indeed vol. 2 contains a combined index to both
volumes and a combined table of contents. Pagination
is sequential throughout both volumes.
Holm’s second volume is arguably the most com-
plete and certainly the most up-to-date reference survey
of the world’s pidgins and creoles. It presents the pidgins
and creoles in seven groups, depending on the prin-
cipal lexical source language, as follows: Portuguese-
based varieties, Spanish-based, Dutch-based, French-
based, English-based, varieties based on African lan-
guages, and varieties based on other languages, such as
Bazaar Malay, Eskimo Trade Jargon, and Russenorsk.
The section on each variety is introduced with
a discussion of the sociohistorical events that have
shaped its development. This is followed by an out-
line of the current sociolinguistic situation in the area
concerned. Then follows a discussion of some of the
individual variety’s most salient features and a brief
text with a morpheme-by-morpheme translation. Holm
observes that, wherever possible, the texts have been
selected from natural connected speech, phonemically
transcribed in IPA script. He notes that, as far as pos-
sible, the presentation of sections on particular varieties
follows the historical order of their origin, often related
to a geographical order. This serves to highlight their
sociohistorical interrelationship.
Vol. 2 assumes a knowledge of the main points
covered in the first volume, which emphasized linguistic
structures in the Atlantic creoles. In that volume Holm
concluded that, despite their differing lexicons based on
Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch, French, and English, the
Atlantic creoles appear to form a group of languages
sui generis. He maintains that any claim regarding their
genetic relatedness must rest on the genetic relatedness
of both their superstrates and their substrates, but that
there would appear to be a strong case for independent
parallel development, with a greater likelihood of diffu-
sion of features within lexical-base groups. In this sec-
ond volume. Holm concentrates on the sociolinguistic
side of the coin, for sociolinguistic factors are essential
to any definition of pidgin and creole. This is of crucial
importance, since the validity of any of the theories ad-
vanced to explain the genesis and development of pidgin
and creole languages depends on whether these theories
can satisfactorily encompass the complex sociolinguistic
circumstances under which specific pidgins and creoles
came into being and developed.
Holm’s presentation within the framework de-
scribed above is remarkable in that he provides a suc-
cinct synthesis of essential sociohistorical factors for
individual pidgins and creoles. He provides a mass of
detail in an uncluttered presentation. At the same time
he presents sub-grouping arguments with dispassion-
ate neutrality, witness his discussion of Isle de France
Creole French. The textual specimens of each of the
languages he presents nicely complement his discussion
of important characteristics. One regrets, however, that
they could not have been longer than the ten or so lines
to which Holm limited himself. On the other hand, “Pid-
gins and Creoles” does constitute a solid reference work,
so providing researchers with the necessary details to
enable them to pursue further studies in any given pidgin
or creole. On the whole, Holm’s references are extensive
and generally up-to-date, with a few minor exceptions
such as some of the Portuguese-based varieties in West
Africa. On the other hand, Holm is to be congratulated
on the series of maps he provides for each variety which
plot the dates of first settlement or acquisition by each
of the European groups which provided the lexical bases
for the pidgins and creoles he so amply documents.
Holm has produced what will undoubtedly become
a standard reference work for pidgin and creole studies.
His ability to grapple with, assimilate, and synthesize
such an enormous wealth of data from a huge and
disparate range of sources is nothing short of remark-
able. “Pidgins and Creoles” is a must for pidginists
and creolists no matter where their focus of interest
lies, for Holm’s work certainly provides the breadth of
perspective required for further advances in the field.
Darrell T. Tryon
Holmberg, David H.: Order in Paradox. Myth,
Ritual, and Exchange among Nepal’s Tamang. Ithaca;
Cornell University Press, 1989. xvi + 265 pp., maps,
tab., photos, illus., fig. Price: $ 32.95
L’histoire des recherches ethnologiques au Népal
a connu ces dernières années une accélération sensible.
En trois décennies, de 1960 à 1990, une pléiade d’ethno-
logues occidentaux et japonais a recueilli et publié une
masse de documentation considérable, encore difficile à
apprécier dans sa totalité, sur des populations dont on ne
savait pratiquement rien auparavant. A l’exception d’une
poignée de résidents anglais confinés dans la vallée de
Kathmandou et de quelques rares orientalistes, le Népal
est en effet resté fermé aux étrangers jusqu’en 1951. On
a davantage écrit sur l’ethnologie de ce pays au cours
des trente dernières années que durant toute la période
précédente. Le cas est frappant pour les groupes de
langues tibéto-birmanes de la zone des collines, ce vrai
Népal, qui composent une mosaïque ethnique très variée
de quelque trois millions d’individus dispersés sur un
territoire long de 500 km et large de 80 km, au pied des
cimes enneigées de la chaîne himalayenne. La plupart
Anthropos 85.1990
612
Rezensionen
de ces ethnies - Magar, Gurung, Tamang, Limbu, etc. -
possèdent aujourd’hui leur monographie, écrites par des
ethnologues professionnels.
En matière d’anthropologie religieuse, ces travaux
restent cependant marqués par une approche très ethno-
graphique. Par nécessité, il fallait d’abord décrire, in-
ventorier, classer. Le livre de Holmberg, consacré aux
Tamang de la Salankhu Khola, à l’ouest de la vallée
de Kathmandou, est le premier à traiter une religion
«tribale» d’un point de vue résolument anthropologique,
en employant des concepts affinés. Son projet implicite:
développer une nouvelle méthode d’analyse pour com-
prendre les phénomènes religieux de ces populations.
Comme beaucoup de sociétés de T Himalaya et
de l’Asie du Sud, les Tamang du Népal font appel
à plusieurs spécialistes religieux. Trois prêtres sont
concurremment utilisés: le lama, maître des rituels du
bouddhisme tibétain, le lamhu, exorciste spécialisé dans
les pratiques sacrificielles, et le chamane, bombo. Selon
Holmberg, les deux premiers recréeraient des ordres
primordiaux et chercheraient à maintenir un échange
équilibré entre les hommes et les êtres surnaturels. Le
chamane, lui, se situerait sur un terrain différent; en
dévoilant les aspects cachés de l’univers, il jouerait avec
les paradoxes et mettrait en évidence les aspects arbitrai-
res des règles sociales. Cette thèse me paraît juste pour
le bombo, qui tente toujours d’incamer des synthèses
incompatibles, plus incertaine en ce qui concerne les
deux autres spécialistes.
Les chapitres les plus intéressants, les plus no-
vateurs ont trait au prêtre lamhu et au chamane. Le
premier n’est pas seulement chargé d’expulser les mau-
vais esprits, tel Nakhle Mhang, qui menacent Tordre
des communautés. Il s’occupe également des divinités
du terroir (shyihbda), à la fois masculines et féminines.
Ces divinités, notons-le bien, sont souveraines: lors des
rituels, le lamhu les installe sur une trône. Le chamane
pour sa parte se caractérise par une composante féminine
essentielle. Il est associé à des esprits féminins appelés
tsen qui se nourrissent du nectar des fleurs et évoquent
les beau tibétains, esprits du monde intermédiaire vivant
entre ciel et terre. Ces tsen sont des divinités familia-
les attachées aux femmes; ils s’héritent uniquement en
ligne féminine. Si on ne leur offre pas de sacrifice,
ils provoquent des stérilités chez les femmes et des
troubles ophtalmiques chez les hommes. Grâce à eux,
les chamanes possèdent un pouvoir visionnaire dans
Tau-delà dont les autres humains sont démunis.
Comment ces spécialistes religieux coexistent-ils?
Apparement, les domaines distingués se complètent au-
tant qu’ils s’opposent. Une même maisonnée fera appel
à un lama pour ses cérémonies funéraires, à un cha-
mane pour rappeler T âme d’une personne malade et
à un lambu pour célébrer un rite apotropaïque avant
la montée des troupeaux en alpage. Dans certains ri-
tuels, plusieurs types de prêtres participent de concert.
D’un point de vue plus théorique, Holmberg rejette à
la fois l’approche historique, «stratigraphique», qui ne
voit dans ces champs religieux qu’une superposition
d’éléments d’âges divers, et l’opposition petite/grande
tradition (chamanisme, culte chthonien/lamaïsme) qui
isole de manière trop tranchée les parties d’un même
ensemble. Il met l’accent sur les traits structuraux de
ce syncrétisme, sans pourtant réduire les configurations
sacerdotales à des schémas simplistes.
«Order in Paradox» contient également des pages
pertinentes sur le panthéon, la structure sociale (mariage
de cousins croisés) et la formation de l’identité ethnique.
Réagissant contre la tendence fréquente chez nombre de
népalisants à confondre culture et ethnie, l’auteur tente
de montrer comment T ethnicité tamang s’est développée
au XIXème siècle parallèlement à l’édification d’un Etat
national népalais. Il convient d’émettre ici une réserve:
s’il est vrai que le pouvoir central joua un rôle capital
dans la genèse des distinctions ethniques (le Code Mulu-
ki Ain de Jang Bahadur a de toute évidence substantifié
des ethnonymes aux frontières autrefois plus floues), on
reste sceptique quant à une possible influence exogène
des structures politiques sur le système de mariage
des cousins croisés (31). Holmberg ne confont-il pas
lui-même «tribalisation» et système matrimonial? Les
mariages prescriptifs dans un degré rapproché de parenté
n’ont pas, après tout, attendu la naissance des Etats pour
voir le jour. Et Ton comprend mal comment les villages
des Tamang de l’Ouest, souvent situés à plusieurs jours
de marche du centre hindou le plus proche, auraient pu
subir une pression extérieure en matière de coutumes
matrimoniales.
On regrettera que David Holmberg n’ait pas
cherché à ancrer davantage le système symbolique dans
la structure sociale. De telles articulations sont pourtant
fréquentes dans des sociétés du type de celle des Ta-
mang, fondées sur d’impérieuses règles de réciprocité
et inscrites dans des espaces sociaux restreints. Le rôle
du gendre dans les rituels chamaniques est par exemple
mentionné, mais guère commenté - malgré son impor-
tance dans le chamanisme en général.
Soyons juste; il s’agit d’un très bon livre, un de
ceux qui font penser sans sacrifier les faits ethnogra-
phiques à des vues théoriques trop rapides. Il nous
rappelle utilement que les déséquilibres sont souvent
des éléments constitutifs d’un équilibre global et que
la position périphérique de certains agents sociaux, par
exemple le chamane, ne les empêche pas de faire partie
intégrante d’un système total. Un voyage raisonné donc,
à travers un univers symbolique surabondant de sens:
tous les spécialistes de la chaîne himalayenne et de
la Haute Asie qui réfléchissent aux faits religieux y
trouveront des points intéressants de comparaison.
Gérard Toffin
Jacobson-Widding, Anita, and David Wester-
lund (eds.): Culture, Experience, and Pluralism. Essays
on African Ideas of Illness and Healing. Stockholm:
Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1989. 308 pp., tab.,
fig., illus. (Uppsala Studies in Cultural Anthropolo-
gy, 13) Price: skr 164-
Das Buch ist eine Sammlung von Aufsätzen,
die auf ein 1987 in Uppsala abgehaltenes Symposium
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
613
zurückgehen. Hier kamen unter der Schirmherrschaft
des Swedish Council for Research in the Humanities
and Social Sciences skandinavische Afrikaspezialisten
verschiedener Disziplinen (Geschichte, Anthropologie,
Missionsforschung, Linguistik und Religionsforschung)
zusammen, um afrikanische Denkmodelle und ihr Wir-
ken auf „Kranksein und Heilen“ zu diskutieren.
Den Erfahrungshintergrund dazu bilden Kulturen
des ostafrikanischen Raumes, mit denen sich die ein-
zelnen Wissenschaftler z. T. mehr als zwei Jahrzehnte
auseinandergesetzt haben. Dieser recht lange Beobach-
tungszeitraum veranlaßte eine Reihe von Autoren, sich
mit der historischen Dimension in traditionellen Gesell-
schaften zu befassen, d. h. der Veränderung von Sicher-
heits-/Unsicherheitsfaktoren bez. Gesundheits-/Krank-
heitsbegriffen nachzuspüren und den Wandel gesell-
schaftlicher Reaktion und subjektiver Beurteilung auf
und von Mißgeschick/Krankheit im Kontext heilkundli-
cher Veränderungen zu beleuchten.
Der Titel des Buches weist auf eine Dreigliederung
der Aufsätze hin, deren jeder Teil einem Schwerpunkt
zugeordnet ist: I. Kultur; II. Erfahrung; III. Pluralismus.
Der Untergliederung entsprechend zeigen sie auch unter-
schiedliche wissenschaftliche Ansatzpunkte in der Sicht-
weise kultureller Aspekte von „Kranksein und Heilen in
Afrika“.
Der erste Teil ist ein kultur-anthropologischer An-
satz, der die Konzeptualisierung und Klassifizierung von
Krank- bzw. Gesundsein einer Gruppe in den größeren
Zusammenhang des allgemein kognitiven Systems ei-
ner spezifischen Kultur oder einer ganzen Kulturregion
stellt.
Traditionelle afrikanische Konzeptsysteme, „Phi-
losophien“, werden anhand der Analyse von symbo-
lischen Glaubensmanifestationen und Ritualen identifi-
ziert, Kranksein und Heilen denn auch in diesem Zusam-
menhang gesehen - und nicht als eine eigene Abteilung
der Kultur. Krankheit hängt demnach sehr oft nicht
von einer Ursache und deren Behandlung ab, sondern
ist Ergebnis einer Kosmologie: Beispiele von den Sho-
na (Jacobson-Widding), Giriama (Udvardy) und Koma
(Paarup-Laursen). Ferner wird am Beispiel der Maasai
(Arhem) und Somali (Helander) gezeigt, wie Heilmittel
als Kraftträger vorgestellt werden können, wenn sie dem
Bereich des Unbekannten, Fremden entstammen, das
sich einer Klassifikation entzieht.
Die symbolistisch-relativistische Interpretation von
Kranksein und Heilen entspricht der phänomenologi-
schen Schule skandinavischer Tradition, erschwert aber
übergreifende Zusagen von Ergebnissen, bzw. läßt sie
oft gar nicht zu. Was überdies in diesem Zusammen-
hang reizvoll wäre und Bedeutung für den Umgang mit
Patienten erhielte, wäre eine Gegenüberstellung dieser
Kosmologien mit dem praktischen Wissen um Körper
und Umwelt, das der einzelne in jenen Kulturen hat.
Der zweite Teil befaßt sich mit dem ständigen Dia-
log zwischen Erfahrung und Kultur, mit den persönli-
chen und emotionalen Aspekten jener Tatsache, Mitglied
einer bestimmten Gemeinschaft zu sein; Persönliche
Lebenserfahrung stellt sich in Beziehung zur offiziellen
Ideologie; und dies läßt Widersprüche entstehen, die es
zu lösen gilt oder mit denen man zu leben hat.
Der sozial festgeschriebenen Gebundenheit des
Einzelnen in das Kollektiv steht die emotionale Er-
fahrung des Individuums gegenüber mit dem vitalen
Bedürfnis der Entäußerung. Je nach Stellenwert des Ein-
zelnen in der Gesellschaft sind die Möglichkeiten dazu
jedoch gering. An der Reibungsfläche offiziell kollekti-
vistischer Ideologie und persönlicher Ausdrucksbedürf-
nisse wird die Entstehung von Krankheit oft angesie-
delt. Die wenig definierte Grenze zwischen individuellen
und kollektiven Interessen wird zu einer Grauzone, wo
Fluch, Zauberei und Besessenheit ihren Ausgangspunkt
nehmen.
Die Arbeiten des dritten Teils beschäftigen sich mit
der Vielfalt intra- und interkultureller Bezugsrahmen,
derer sich afrikanische Patienten bedienen, wenn sie
das Vorkommnis Krankheit erklären wollen und nach
geeigneten Heilmethoden und -mittein suchen.
Sowohl intrakulturellen Pluralismen medico-reli-
giösen Denkens als auch der historischen Dimension
des Wandels im sozialen Mikrofeld wird breiter Raum
geschenkt: so bei der Beleuchtung der Ätiologien der
Buschmänner, Maasai, Sukuma, Kongo und Yoruba
(Westerlund) oder in den personalistisch oder naturali-
stisch gefärbten Erklärungsmodellen der Zinza (Bjerke)
und Maasai (Olsson), in denen Zauberei und Krankheit
zum Instrumentarium einer übergeordneten Macht wer-
den können.
Ingstad befaßt sich mit der Interaktion einheimi-
scher Heilexperten unterschiedlicher Ausbildungsher-
kunft im Tswana-District und den Problemen, die bei der
Zusammenarbeit daraus resultieren; während Swantz an-
hand von zwei einheimischen Heilem der tanzanischen
Küstenregion zeigt, wie diese Heilsysteme unterschied-
licher Provenienz handhaben und mischen und daß das
Heilangebot gemäß der zugrundeliegenden Küstenkultur
ebenfalls synkretistischen Charakter hat.
Whyte befaßt sich zum Schluß mit der unterschied-
lich gearteten Wissenschaftsinterpretation von Mißge-
schick/Krankheit - eine Interpretation, die den Schritt
von der Religionsanthropologie zur medizinischen An-
thropologie gemacht hat: was früher Divination war,
ist heute Diagnose, das Opfer übernatürlicher Kräfte
heißt heute Patient, und man ist versucht, von einer
Medikalisierung der afrikanischen Religion zu sprechen.
Alle Arbeiten entstammen dem weiten Feld der
Kulturanthropologie und geben reichlich Stoff zur theo-
retischen Diskussion. In der Praxis jedoch können sie
leider nur zu begrenzter Verwendung dienen. Schade ist,
daß es in einem so anregenden Buch keinen Platz für
Erfahrungsbeiträge von Praktikern vor Ort gegeben hat.
H. Sheikh-Dilthey
Kendall, Laurel: The Life and Hard Times of a
Korean Shaman. Of Tales and the Telling of Tales. Ho-
nolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1988. ix + 157 pp.
Price: $ 9.95
A fertile mix of indigenous, Buddhist, Confucian,
Anthropos 85.1990
614
Rezensionen
and Taoist beliefs and practices embedded in an intri-
cate male-female division of labor; a symbolic system
expressing the politics of masculinity and femininity,
as well as solidarity and resistance to larger political
questions; the riches of Korean folk religion have only
recently begun to be revealed to readers of Western lan-
guages. Of these riches, none have garnered more atten-
tion than the dramatic, colorful ceremonies of Korea’s
shamans. Already in the twenties folkorists had begun
collecting the texts and ritual paraphernalia that have
revealed the wealth of narrative and symbolic tradition
preserved by Korea’s shamans, whom they tend to see as
repositories of an authentic Korean substratum relative-
ly “uncorrupted” by foreign influence. More recently,
anthropologists have looked at the way social relations
are symbolized and manipulated in ritual, or, fascinated
by the vibrant personality of the shamans themselves,
have investigated shamans’ life history and the process
of their development.
In “The Life and Hard Times of a Korean Sha-
man”, Laurel Kendall, who, in her 1985 work, “Sha-
mans, Housewives, and Other Restless Spirits,” gave
us a splendid analysis and description of the role of
shamans’ ritual and beliefs in a semiurban village on
the outskirts of Seoul, has returned to a consideration of
the life history of her key informant, Yôngsu’s Mother.
Interest in the life history of shamans, even Korean sha-
mans, is not new. From the early accounts of Czaplicka,
Bogoras, and Boas to the present day, the collection of
life histories has been an important tool for investigating
the psychosocial development of shamans. Youngsook
Kim Harvey’s 1979 collection of the life history of
six Korean shamans is a good example of this genre.
Kendall’s interest in the life history of Yôngsu’s Mother,
however, comes less from a concern with personality
formation than the contemporary anthropological con-
cern with the nuances of texts - both the interpretation
of native “texts” and the production of ethnograph-
ic ones. Like other anthropologists who have recently
turned to life history, Kendall wants to explore how a
sense of real, lived lives can be infused into all-to-often
dry and overly abstract anthropological accounts. More
importantly, however, Kendall uses the stories Yôngsu’s
Mother told her about her life to investigate the way
“a remembered and consequently subjective past” is
edited and transformed into narratives which give these
experiences transcendental significance.
The center of the book are the stories: transcrip-
tions of anecdotes about her life that Yôngsu’s Mother
has told the ethnographer over the decade that they have
known each other. Kendall links these anecdotes to-
gether with appropriate comments on the circumstances
of their telling, the relationship of different versions of
the same anecdote told in different contexts, and how
discrepancies might be reconciled so that they form a
more-or-less chronological account. Although this is not
the major point of her text, Kendall does, on occasion,
discuss the truth-value of the stories. The result is a
sophisticated and engrossing book which works both
as “data” (texts available for interpretation) and as an
account of the transactions between shaman and eth-
nographer. The total effect of this mode of presentation,
however, is more than the sum of its parts: it illus-
trates how the shaman uses the working and reworking
of life history narrative to create social and religious
meaning for both herself and her clients. As Kendall
notes, by reading the anecdotes of Yongsu’s Mother,
“We leam how one articulate ritual specialist weaves an
appropriate idiom ... into a personal parable and how,
having done so, she presents her tale to the audience
at hand. I am interested in the fit of Yongsu’s Mother
the storyteller to Yongsu’s Mother the shaman, in her
use of dreams, divinations, stories, and healing rituals,
to explain and reconcile her own unique ghosts and in
how, on this authority, she makes sense of the dreams
and stories of others” (4).
“The Life and Hard Times of a Korean Shaman,”
thus, is an engrossing and original book which, on the
one hand, is simply a good story, but, on the other,
gives a beautiful and original illustration of the way
experience can be given significance through narrative
and ritual. As Kendall vividly demonstrates, a shaman’s
recitation of stories about her life is an artistic creation
of texts edited and transformed to create interest, drama,
humor - and meaning. This is an important insight.
While older folkloristic studies of Korean shamans’
ceremonies also focused on their texts, they have, on
the whole, frustrated anthropologists because this has
led to the exclusion of systematic consideration of the
social context of shamans’ performances. Later anthro-
pological studies focused on the context and function
of ceremonies, but downplayed the text. Here Kendall
has begun to redress the balance and, by giving us both
the text and the context which makes it meaningful, has
taken the study of Korean shamans one step further than
in the past. Perhaps we can see yet another step on the
horizon. One virtue of the folkoristic studies has been
their demonstration that Korean shamans operate within
an oral narrative tradition which links them to singers
of ballad operas (p’ansori) and other tellers of tales.
Korean shamans, in addition to being ritual specialists
and creators of meaning, are artists who use tradition-
al tropes and narrative devices in their production of
meaning. Perhaps, then, it is now time for a rhetoric
of shamans’ narratives, but whatever future studies of
Korean folk religion bring, we will certainly remain
grateful for Kendall’s fresh and insightful presentation
of the life of Ydngsu’s Mother. Clark Sorensen
Krengei, Monika: Sozial Strukturen im Kumaon.
Bergbauem im Himalaya. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag
Wiesbaden, 1989. xiv + 322 pp., Ktn., Fotos, Tab., Fig.
(Beiträge zur Südasienforschung, 124) Preis: DM66,-
Raheja, Gloria Goodwin: The Poison in the Gift.
Ritual, Prestation, and the Dominant Caste in a North
Indian Village. Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1988. xiv + 286 pp., maps, tab., fig., photos. Price:
$ 19.50
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
615
Both books under review here discuss social struc-
ture in rural North India; in fact, the villages covered
by both studies are located in the same administrative
province, Uttar Pradesh. Both studies deal with Hindu
populations, and the stress in both is on the locally
dominant castes. Both authors are Western women who
learned the local languages well enough to have appar-
ently worked without interpreters. Finally, both studies
focus on the contexts, processes, and forms of giving
and taking - Krengel’s implicitly, Goodwin Raheja’s
explicitly.
Monika Krengel’s book is based on her PhD Dis-
sertation (Heidelberg, 1988). The data presented were
collected in 16 months of field research undertaken in
the mid-1980s, in the Himalayan region of Kumaon.
It is a broad and clearly formulated ethnography of a
Thakur-dominated village of small agriculturalists and
animal-husbanders half of whose men work as migrant
labour beyond the village.
The book is divided into ten chapters and contains,
additionally, 2 appendixes giving the legends of local
Gods and the various festivals, a glossary, twelve black-
and-white photographs of the place and the people, an
index, and an English summary. The first two chapters
are mainly descriptive and provide the reader with basic
insights into Kumaoni rural life. Chapter 3 concentrates
on the structure of village society and politics, with
emphasis on prestations. The last two chapters of the
book describe and discuss certain rites of passage and
religious ritual in the broader context of the concepts
of pure and impure. The remaining five chapters are
centred around the theme of kinship, which is ana-
lyzed according to the wife-giver vs. wife-taker model.
Surprisingly, Krengel tends to neglect kinship relations
from the perspective of a female Ego and gives little
weight to the fact that all terms she herself mentions,
are used by both men and women. Further, it is doubtful
whether the term didi (= elder sister) constitutes a line
(182-197). Didi and dad constitute a terminological
pair; however, “elder sister” as a focal kin-type would
not conform to the lineal structure postulated by Kren-
gel.
Krengel’s study is in fact the first published work
available on Kumaoni ethnography, and hence she has
done well to write what she herself describes as a
“monograph, which can serve as a foundation for further
research and reflection” (5; my translation). The book
contains a great deal of ethnographic data, and one gets
the impression that the author was fairly well accepted
by the community she worked with. It is thus perhaps
regrettable that she did not use her position as a woman
to obtain and present data on rural life as seen from the
perspective of the village women also; this would have
helped to fill in some of the inevitable gaps existing in
the studies of neighbouring Himalayan populations in
Kangra (J. P. Parry, Caste and Kinship in Kangra. Lon-
don 1979) and in Garhwal (e.g., G. D. Berreman, Hindus
of the Himalayas. Berkeley 1963). Above all, however,
one is left wishing that Krengel had placed her data in
a broader and more challenging analytical framework.
Also, the quantitative data which she apparently had
collected to supplement the qualitative data, is not used
as effectively as it may well have been to lend more
cogency to her arguments. Unfortunately, the book also
contains a large number of typographical erros. It is to
be hoped that Monika Krengel will be able, in future,
to build on the foundations she herself lays and provide
deeper insights into Kumaoni society.
Whereas caste plays a relatively subordinate role
in Krengel’s ethnography, in Goodwin Raheja’s study
it is of central importance. Centrality - ritual centrality
based on the act of giving - is the theme of this book on
a Gujar-dominated village in southwestern Saharanpur
District. The data presented were collected in 18 months
of fieldwork in the late 1970s. Contrary to Krengel’s
study of a Kumaon village, this book has a relatively
narrow focus, although the author herself refers to it as
a “monograph” (31).
It consists of five main chapters and a short, con-
cluding sixth one. 19 black-and-white plates are includ-
ed between chapters 4 and 5. The first, introductory
chapter delineates clearly the theoretical concerns of the
author as well as the manner in which she proposes
to look at her empirical data. Thus, right from the
start, the reader is plunged into theoretical deliberations
interwoven with a rich mass of ethnography. Most of
this ethnography consists of detailed descriptions of
gift-giving: the ritual occasions on which the prestations
are made, the gifts themselves, the forms of giving;
a constant attempt is made to present the underlying
concepts in the words of the villagers themselves (it is
unfortunately not clear whether these are transliterated
or transcribed). The predominant gift-givers here are,
naturally, members of the wealthiest and dominant caste
- the Gujars. The recipients belong to several other
castes. In the place of the much debated disjunctive
model proposed by previous scholars between religious
and temporal powers in Hindu society, Goodwin Rahe-
ja suggests a pattern of centrality, based not only on
economic wealth and temporal power, but on a constant
concern for well-being, which in turn is linked to the
religious categories of auspiciousness.
While neither denying the obvious hierarchy, nor
wanting to replace it by a model of centrality (32), she
suggests: “Hierarchical considerations provide merely a
parameter or set of assumptions concerning the media in
which the prestations will be made ...” (241). In Pahan-
su, the village she studied, “Gujars see themselves and
are seen by all others as standing at the centre of village
life” (20 f.). As far as intercaste relations are concerned,
these are primarily “... concerned with promoting auspi-
ciousness, and they implicate the configuration of castes
that I have termed centrality. ... The cultivator is the
jajman, the ‘sacrifier,’ and he stands at the conceptual
center of village ritual organization ...” (248). While
rejecting or at least sharply criticizing many well-worn
anthropological models of Hindu society - notably those
of Louis Dumont -, the author draws on the early studies
of A. M. Hocart (Caste: A Comparative Study. London
1936; Kings and Councillors. Chicago 1938). But the
Anthropos 85.1990
616
Rezensionen
book’s theoretical considerations go beyond the Hindu
setting and discuss, albeit briefly, the concept of the gift.
The weakness of the book lies in its narrow focus
on ritual life - although all prestations are of a material
nature, and a majority consists of grain and other food,
the only explicit discussion of agricultural labour covers
a mere five pages. A second weakness lies in the almost
complete overlooking of studies of similar villages in
neighbouring areas of northern India. The combination
of these two factors tend to weaken the basic argu-
ment of the author. One is tempted to ask whether the
non-hierarchical, central pattern which is brought out
so clearly in the sphere of rituals, is equally valid in
the non-ritual contexts of intercaste relations. Finally,
Pahansu is depicted as a nearly conflict-free society,
in which the ja/mani system is still intact and unques-
tioned. One wonders whether the peaceful “mutuality”
existing in this village - with about 2,500 inhabitants
belonging to 15 different castes - is really representative
of the contemporary rural scene in this part of North
India. On the whole, however, this is a very interesting
and innovative study, and one hopes that the theoretical
perspective presented here will be taken up by others.
Apama Rao
Kuper, Adam: The Invention of Primitive Soci-
ety. Transformations of an Illusion. London: Routledge,
1988. 264 pp., tab., fig., map. Price: £9.95
„Dekonstruktionen“ belebten die ethnologische
Szene der letzten Jahrzehnte. Mit dem Modewort
ließ sich Lévi-Strauss’ Behandlung des Totemismus
(1962), Needhams Nachruf auf das Konzept Verwandt-
schaft (1971) oder Cricks Abkehr von der Anthropologie
der Hexerei (1976) charakterisieren. Diese etablierten
„Bereiche“ konnten nicht einem jeweiligen Satz gemein-
samer Kriterien entsprechen und wurden deshalb als
Illusionen ausgeräumt. Adam Kuper, der gegenwärtig
wohl einflußreichste Ethnologe, will gleich das ganze
Fachgeschäft leeren. Er dekonstruiert das, was im eng-
lischen Sprachgebrauch wertfrei “primitive society” ge-
nannt wird: “Social anthropology is changing its object
of study. It is no longer about the primitive, and no lon-
ger particularly or necessarily about ‘the other’” (243).
Im Jahre 1982 hatte Kuper gleichzeitig eine aus-
gezeichnete Studie über Allianzen im südlichen Afrika
(“Wives for Cattle”) und eine vernichtende Kritik von
Deszendenz- und Allianztheorie (in Annual Review of
Anthropology) publiziert. Das jetzt vorliegende Werk
vertieft diese Kritik. Von Maine bis Héritier werden die
“intellectual failures” (13) der berühmtesten Fachleute
angeprangert. Kuper nennt auch die Gründe für die
Langlebigkeit der Illusion: Die Idee von der primitiven
Gesellschaft bezog sich auf letzte Werte (Staat, Familie
u. s. f.), sie schuf ein akademisches Fach, das als solches
andauem will, und sie ließ zahllose Transformationen
zu, in denen spezielle Interessen untergebracht werden
konnten.
Das Konzept „Transformation“ bildet den Schlüs-
sel der Kritik. Im Sinne von Bernard Cohen soll es
einmal eher für die systematische Revision veralteter
Ideen stehen, zum anderen für die Mytho-Logik des
Claude Lévi-Strauss, d. h. für systematische Manipula-
tionen, die klare Beziehungen (Gegensätze, Widersprü-
che, Inversionen, Symmetrien) erbringen. Der akademi-
sche Mythos von der primitiven Gesellschaft erlebt also
einmal Synthesen, wird dann aber auch im Sinne einer
„Logik des Konkreten“ mehrfach auf den Kopf gestellt,
um mehrfach wieder in der Ausgangslage zu landen.
Die Geschichte beginnt mit Maine oder, besser,
mit Maines höchst individuellen Karriereambitionen im
Rahmen der britisch-indischen Kolonialpolitik. Maines
politische Aussage in “Ancient Law” richtet sich gegen
Benthams Utilitarismus. Er stellt die Vision eines „So-
zialkontrakts“ auf den Kopf, denn nicht freie, gleiche
Individuen schließen anfangs zum gemeinsamen Nutzen
Verträge ab, sondern der Ursprung des Rechts liegt im
Patriarchat des Despoten, das progressive Gesellschaften
nur allmählich in rechtliche Fiktionen, das billige Fall-
recht und schließlich Gesetzgebung entwickeln können.
Andere Gesellschaften folgen dann auf dem langen Weg
von (zugeschriebenem) Status zu Vertragsverhältnissen,
von der Verwandtschafts- zur Territorialordnung oder,
wie Kuper sarkastisch formuliert, von Blut zu Boden.
Mit dieser Bewertung von Geschichte setzte sich Maine
als erster Vertreter einer „angewandten Ethnologie“ in
der Indienpolitik durch.
McLennans Transformation ersetzt im Gegenzug
„Mutter-“ für „Vaterrecht“. Wie Maine von der deut-
schen historischen Philologie und Rechtswissenschaft
inspiriert, findet auch Morgan zu dieser Inversion. Doch
über öffentlich-rechtliche Institutionen hinaus ergeben
differenzierte Analysen von Verwandtschaftsterminolo-
gien einen Ursprung der Menschheit in herrschaftsfreien
Verhältnissen, die am Ende aller Tage wiederkehren
sollen. Im Lehrbuchstil skizziert Kuper sodann den wei-
teren Verlauf der Lineage der Illusionisten; Morgans
Anhänger Rivers etwa gibt die genealogisch definierte
Verwandtschaft zugunsten von “relationship Systems”
auf, die er aus den Heiratsbeziehungen der Dual- oder
Klanordnung ableitet. Sein Schüler Radcliffe-Brown lie-
fert die Umkehrung: Heiratsregeln ergeben sich allein
aus dem sorgfältigen Studium der Relationen in der Ver-
wandtschaftsterminologie. Dessen Schüler Evans-Prit-
chard und Fortes dagegen ignorieren die Nomenklatur
und trennen den häuslichen Verwandtschaftsbereich von
der Lineageordnung des öffentlichen Rechts, die mit der
Territorialordnung nicht identisch ist, aber ihr Sinn gibt.
Im Gegenzug unterscheiden Lévi-Strauss und die Alli-
anztheorie Gesellschaften mit „elementaren Strukturen“
des Tausches bei jenen Beziehungen, die die Alltags-
sprache „Heirat“ nennt. Gegenüber diesem Formalismus
zeigt darauf Edmund Leach, wie asymmetrischer Tausch
mit territorialen und anderen politisch-ökonomischen
Ansprüchen einhergeht und die symmetrischen Struk-
turen der Singhalesen auf die Verteilung von Land (d. h.
Boden) reduziert werden können.
Kuper geht weiter als sein Lehrer Leach. Er will
den Bezugsrahmen „Gesellschaft“ insgesamt abschaf-
fen. Sein Held ist der akademische Großvater Malinow-
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
617
ski und dessen findiges Individuum. Die individuelle
Praxis allein soll im Mittelpunkt des Fachinteresses ste-
hen. Andere analytische Ebenen (Regeln, Ideensysteme)
leiten sich aus der Praxis ab oder sind nutzlose Spiele-
reien der Idealisten. Darüber hinaus schlägt Kupers Herz
für den kritischen Empirizismus eines Franz Boas, für
dessen politisches Engagement und dessen Sorgfalt bei
den “raw data” des historischen Einzelfalls. Die holi-
stischen Flausen, für viele der besondere Wert unseres
Faches, sollen der Ethnologie angeschminkt werden.
Wie immer ist Kupers Text eminent lesbar. Er
würzt ihn mit Liebesgeschichten und Angaben über
Hobbies (Morgan trifft Lubbock beim Cricketspiel).
Seine Polemik gegen Evans-Pritchard oder Needham
soll gar nicht erst den Anschein erwecken, er wolle
deren Methode oder Technik verstehen. Cambridge de-
konstruiert Oxford und ignoriert dabei auch die gegen-
wärtig im anderen Lager entstehende Evolutionstheorie
(von N. J. Allen), die zu technisch ist, um allgemein
verständlichen Attacken als Popanz zu dienen. Wegen
dieser technischen Differenzierung mag Kuper auch die
Kategorie „Person“, d. h. den mit diesem Begriff verbun-
denen spezifischen Evolutionismus des Marcel Mauss,
souverän übersprungen haben.
Die beschriebenen Kontroversen werden bei Kuper
mit unterschiedlichen politischen Strömungen (Marxis-
mus, Imperialismus) oder individuellen Karrierekonflik-
ten begründet. So wird z. B. der liberale Einwanderer
Boas vom WASP-Establishment verfolgt. Nun bestreitet
niemand diese Anlässe, aber es gab wohl auch die
fremden Gesellschaften selbst, die zum Nachdenken
veranlaßten. Im südlichen Afrika hat Kuper ihre all-
gemeinen Strukturen beschrieben. War auch das eine
Illusion? Der Rezensent hat spezielle Probleme mit dem
Satz: “Ancestor worship, burial rituals, the position of
women, all came down to the structure of unilineal
descent groups” (205), denn er beobachtet seit Jahren
aufwendige Bestattungsrituale, die die Frauenrolle defi-
nieren, die Vorfahren würdigen und in der Sprache der
Betroffenen gotr (oder unilineare Deszendenzgruppe)
genannt werden.
Kuper will die „primitive Gesellschaft“ aus dem
Lehrplan werfen, und zwar “once and for all” (8). Die-
ses Ende einer akademischen Lineage sieht aber keine
Alternativen vor. Kuper muß deshalb als Gründerahne
einer Assoziation des postmodemen “anything goes”
verstanden werden. Fraglich ist nur, ob andere diesen
Omnibus besteigen und länger mitreisen wollen.
Bei der Antwort sollte der Webersche Idealtypus
der „legal-bürokratischen Herrschaft“ beachtet werden.
Weltweit wird die neuere Geschichte durch mehr oder
weniger gelungene Annäherungen an diesen Typus ge-
prägt, wie durch die ständigen Umwälzungen der ka-
pitalistischen Produktionsweise. Weltweit bestehen aber
auch weiterhin zahllose Gesellschaften mit Ordnungen,
die nicht segregierte „Bereiche“ von Ökonomie, Ver-
teidigung, Familie oder Religion aufweisen. Diese von
Sahlins „multiplex“ genannten Ordnungen implizieren
andere Werte als die uns vertrauten individualistischen.
Das gleiche gilt für „andere“ komplexe Gesellschaften,
wie die indische (siehe Dumont) oder die muslimische
(siehe Gellner), die bürokratischen bzw. kapitalistischen
Prägungen gegenüber Widerstand leisten. Sollen wir
eine gesonderte Würdigung dieser „anderen“ kulturel-
len Konstrukte und ihrer verallgemeinerungsfähigen Po-
tentiale abschreiben? Sind diese „anderen“ Ordnungen
in sich wirklich so unterschiedlich, wie die gegen-
über bürokratischen Verfassungen und den Geboten des
„Weltmarkts“? Bleibt uns nur ein zielloser Relativismus
als Bezugsrahmen, der sich an individuellen Manö-
vrierchancen ergötzen mag, aber konstituierende Bezie-
hungen des Systems allenfalls für sich, nicht aber im
Kontext irreversibler Prozesse vergleichend zu würdigen
weiß? Führt die Dekonstruktion von societas nicht eher
zwangsläufig zu jener soziozentrischen Borniertheit, die
wir alle ablehnen?
Kupers politische Bezüge und sein allgegenwär-
tiger Pragmatismus mögen auch in seiner theoreti-
schen Perspektive reflektiert werden. Die veränderte
Forschungssituation macht Ethnographie zu einem un-
endlich mühseligen Geschäft in der postkolonialen Ära.
Wenn aber erst einmal unsere Fußballplätze, Kaufhäuser
und Vorstandssitzungen den Soziologen entrungen und
zum Ethnographieren freigegeben sind, läßt sich der
ethnographische Aufwand (mit den üblichen Gesund-
heits- und Karriererisiken) ganz erheblich reduzieren.
Georg Pfeffer
Kurbjuhn, Kornelia (comp.): Maya. The Com-
plete Catalogue of Glyph Readings. Kassel; Schneider
& Weber, 1989. viii + 239 pp., fig., tab. Price: DM54,-
Die sprachliche Entzifferung der Hieroglyphen-
schrift der Maya (etwa vom 2. bis zum 17. Jh. n. Chr.
im Gebiet der heutigen Staaten Mexiko, Guatemala,
Belize, Honduras und El Salvador) hat in den letz-
ten Jahren rasante Fortschritte gemacht. Elf Jahre nach
der Albany-Konferenz, wo eine richtungweisende Be-
standsaufnahme der damaligen Forschungen auf die-
sem Gebiet unternommen wurde (J. S. Justeson und L.
Campbell [eds.], Phoneticism in Mayan Hieroglyphic
Writing. Albany 1984), ist die Zeit überfällig für ein
weiteres Projekt dieser Art. Viele der zahlreichen neu-
en Lesungsvorschläge und Entzifferungen liegen weit
verstreut in der sehr spezialisierten Literatur vor oder
sind als noch nicht publizierte Daten nur einem kleinen
Kreis etablierter Fachwissenschaftler zugänglich. Aus-
gehend von dieser Situation konzipierte Komelia Kurb-
juhn ein Nachschlagewerk, welches, in Ergänzung zu
einer Zusammenstellung bereits publizierter Daten, auch
Lösungsvorschläge von Fachwissenschaftlem beinhaltet,
die, ähnlich wie bei der Albany-Konferenz, mit Hilfe
von Fragebogen zusammengetragen worden sind. Der
Katalog richtet sich besonders an Fachleute, denen in
diesem Rahmen ein schneller Überblick über bekannte
Lesungen ermöglicht wird, sowie an Studenten, denen
er den Einstieg in die Maya-Epigraphie erleichtern soll.
Der Aufbau der Arbeit orientiert sich in erster Linie
am Thompson-Katalog (J. E. S. Thompson, A Catalog
of Maya Hieroglyphs. Norman 1962), der bis heute
Anthropos 85.1990
618
Rezensionen
ein Standardwerk zur Transkription der Glyphen dar-
stellt. Der Ordnung der T-Nummern folgend, stehen
in Ergänzung neben der Abbildung des entsprechenden
Zeichens, bzw. einiger seiner Varianten, die Kommenta-
re und Lesungsvorschläge verschiedener Wissenschaft-
ler. Neu sind auch die gelungene graphische Zuordnung
der Zeichen des „Landa-Alphabets“ und des Zimmer-
mann-Katalogs sowie die Aufnahme nicht bei Thomp-
son erfaßter Glyphen und die erstmalige Zeichnung der
Glyphen der T1300-Kategorie (Zeichen, die von ihm
nicht eindeutig zugeordnet werden konnten).
Im Anschluß an den Katalogteil befinden sich noch
Tabellen für die Berechnung des Maya-Kalendars (154),
eine Zusammenstellung der Kalendemamen, transkri-
biert von Kornelia Kurbjuhn und erweitert um die Na-
men des mexikanischen Kalenders (155 ff.), die Glyphen
für die Stellenwerte der „Langen Zählung“ (168 ff.), die
Zahlenkoeffizienten (170 ff.) sowie eine ausgezeichne-
te Bibliographie der einschlägigen Literatur zur Maya-
Schrift (174 ff.). Die zahlreichen Abbildungen sind qua-
litativ gute Nachzeichnungen, teilweise auch Verbesse-
rungen (vgl. z. B. die Kalenderglyphen) und Umstellun-
gen der Illustrationen des Thompson-Katalogs und ei-
nes weiteren Klassikers desselben Autors (Maya Hiero-
glyphic Writing. Norman 1950). Gelungen ist auch der
Aufbau des Buches. Zwischen den einzelnen Zeichen-
Kategorien wurde für erforderliche Nachträge Raum
gelassen. Insgesamt hat der Katalog den Charakter eines
Handbuchs: Er bietet auf den ersten Blick eine nützliche
und kompakte Zusammenstellung wichtiger Informatio-
nen und ist ein hilfreiches Nachschlagewerk für die
Arbeit im Feld.
Auf den zweiten Blick bleiben jedoch viele Wün-
sche offen, und der Eindruck, mit Hilfe des Katalogs und
der kurzen Einführung alle Mittel für die Entzifferung
zur Hand zu haben, trügt. Die bloße Ansammlung von
Lesungsvorschlägen allein ist nicht ausreichend für die
Arbeit mit den Inschriftentexten. Ihre Plausibilität kann
nur durch den Kontext der Analyse selbst überprüft wer-
den. Aus diesem Grund ist es sehr bedauerlich, daß die
Kompilatorin darauf verzichtet hat, jeweils den genauen
Ursprung der einzelnen Lesungsvorschläge anzugeben.
Auch an anderer Stelle geht sie äußerst sparsam mit
Quellenverweisen um. So ist es nicht möglich, den
Fundort und somit den Kontext der angeführten Lesun-
gen bei Bedarf zurückzuverfolgen. Die umfangreiche
Bibliographie steht als bloße Ansammlung der Titel
isoliert da und ohne Bezug zum Katalogteil. Dies ist vor
allem deshalb problematisch, da insgesamt völlig unklar
bleibt, welche der im Text aufgeführten Lesungsvor-
schläge auf der in der Bibliographie angeführten Litera-
tur und welche auf der Fragebogenaktion basieren, die
offenbar auch nicht als systematische Erhebung durch-
geführt worden ist (keine gleichwertige Repräsentation
aller Beteiligten: “Newcomer” sind nur mit eigenen Le-
sungen vertreten, wobei nicht spezifiziert wird, wer denn
eigentlich diese “Newcomer” sind, während andere Epi-
graphen mit kompletten Lesungslisten aufgeführt wer-
den; Unterschiede in der Vollständigkeit und zeitliche
Differenz der Daten, Ergänzung der Fragebogenanga-
ben durch die Kompilatorin). Im Abkürzungsverzeich-
nis wird das Lebensalter der Epigraphen als einziger
Hinweis auf eine mögliche chronologische Zuordnung
vorausgeschickt (!). Hierzu schreibt Kurbjuhn: “A com-
mon phenomenon is duplication of effort. There are
numerous cases where two individuals have reached the
same conclusion totally independent of each other. This
can happen at the same time in widely distant places or
many decades apart. This is why I never added a year
to any reading or emphasized the first decipherer of any
glyph” (iii). Diese berechtigten Bedenken wären durch
eine kurze Erläuterung in der Einführung aus der Welt
zu schaffen, ohne die Nachprüfbarkeit der gesamten
Darstellung zu beeinträchtigen. Die gewaltigen logisti-
schen Probleme, die die Ausarbeitung eines Katalogs
zur sprachlichen Entzifferung der Maya-Schrift mit sich
bringt, sollten klar herausgestellt werden. Die Vermi-
schung unterschiedlicher Erhebungsebenen der Daten
vermittelt unwillkürlich den Eindruck einer provisori-
schen und eher unsystematischen Bestandsaufnahme.
Da den Lesungen verschiedene Maya-Sprachen zu-
grunde liegen, wäre eine durchgängige Anmerkung der
jeweiligen Idiome erforderlich. Ähnliches gilt für die
Vereinheitlichung der Orthographie, die in der Fachli-
teratur immer noch stark differiert. Hier wäre es sinn-
voll, die Anregungen nach einer Standardisierung der
Schreibweise aufzugreifen und in diesem Rahmen eine
klare graphische Unterscheidung zwischen Logogram-
men und Silbenzeichen zu treffen. Durch eine solche
Standardisierung könnte der Katalog eine richtungwei-
sende Funktion erhalten.
Für eine nächste Fassung, die offenbar bereits in
der Planung ist, wären Verbesserungen wie die oben
genannten sowie aber auch z. B. ein Index der Lesungen
äußerst wünschenswert. Hierdurch ließe sich der un-
bestrittene Gebrauchswert eines solchen Katalogs noch
bedeutend steigern. Ute Schüren
Levine, Nancy E.: The Dynamics of Polyandry.
Kinship, Domesticity, and Population on the Tibetan
Border. Chicago; The University of Chicago Press,
1988. xvii + 309 pp., tab., fig., maps, photos. Price:
$21.50
The Western fascination with Tibet and Tibetans
has not stimulated an equivalent outpouring of anthropo-
logical literature about that culture area, and it remains
one of the few regions of the world where firsthand
objective information is still hard to come by. The
appearance of new data, whether for Tibet proper or
for the ethnic Tibetan zone in the northern Himalayas,
therefore, is always a welcome event, and Levine’s study
represents an important new source of information on
Tibetan social organization.
Despite the title “The Dynamics of Polyandry,” the
book is really an ethnographic study of the system of
kinship and social organization of the Nyinba, a group
of ethnic Tibetans in Northwest Nepal (Humla) at the
very edge of the Hindu-Buddhist interface. Located only
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
619
miles from the major Nepalese district headquarters
at Simikot, some of the Nyinba’s social and cultural
patterns are different from other Tibetan groups (for
example their use of per stirpes inheritance and related
concern with paternity), but they are clearly a part of
the broader Tibetan polyandry zone.
The book presents detailed and rich data on a range
of topics including, of course, polyandry, and this detail
is its strength. However, when the author moves to
discuss polyandry per se, the book is less successful.
There are problems on a number of topics and at many
levels. For example, the modern literature on polyandry
is presented in a very misleading way, almost in the form
of a strawman or caricature. This misrepresentation, of
course, effectively enhances the “distinctiveness” of the
author’s interpretation.
Levine states that this book presents a new and
improved explanation of polyandry that breaks with
existing arguments which have found a “determinant
materialist logic in polyandry” (xiii). In various parts
of the book the author elaborates on this theme, e.g.,
stating, “Attempts to explain the existence and per-
sistence of Tibetan polyandry have focused primarily
on its economic advantages. ... The assumption has
been that without polyandry, Tibetans would be reduced
to poverty” (158). This she attributes to early com-
mentators such as Westermarck (1925), and the 18th
century Jesuit missionary Desideri (de Fillipi 1937), but
also then suggests that later studies, including my own,
really adhere to the same view. For example, “Today
we find similar arguments, supported by fuller data and
couched in more sophisticated terms, most persuasively
in the work of Goldstein. He argues that polyandrpus
marriage is valued, not as an end in itself, but for its
economic benefits, and that the system is an adaptive
and rational response to conditions of scarce resources.
... Goldstein has refined the image of polyandry as a
check against ‘eternal warfare or eternal want’ (West-
ermarck 1925: 187), stressing instead ‘material markers
of affluence ...’” (158 f.; emphasis added).
But in point of fact, my interpretation of Tibetan
polyandry has been anything but narrow, mechanistic,
and deterministic. I have argued that a number of in-
terrelated factors such as land tenure, political (class)
structure, the corvee tax system, interpersonal relations
and conflict, male labor, ecological and economic con-
straints, demography, and changing political and cultural
parameters underlie polyandry. And I have categorically
rejected, not refined, naive materialistic explanations
that see polyandry as a poverty avoidance mechanism:
“Polyandry in Tibet, therefore, while clearly related to
economic factors, is oriented primarily toward the so-
cial consequences of economic productivity rather than
toward subsistence per se. ... Polyandry is primarily
selected not for bread and butter motives - fear of star-
vation in a difficult environment - but rather primarily
for the Tibetan equivalent of oysters, champagne, and
social esteem” (Goldstein 1978; 329). I have also written
extensively about how potential interpersonal problems
between brothers and between younger brothers and the
wife also influence the distribution of polyandry at any
point in time (Goldstein 1987, 1978).
Levine’s interpretation of polyandry emphasizes
cultural values. Thus, whereas I have argued that Ti-
betans consider polyandry more as a means to an end,
this book emphasizes it as an end in itself, arguing that
polyandry has a special cultural value for the Nyinba
whose legends portray ancestors of both the distant and
recent past as brothers linked in polyandry. I find Lev-
ine’s view unconvincing. For example, despite Levine’s
criticisms of my analysis, the Nyinba clearly discuss
polyandry in economic and practical terms. To quote a
few examples:
Nyinba also see polyandry as a practical response to
environmental constraints, and they praise its material
advantages (159).
People say that polyandry prevents the dispersion of
household wealth and the fragmentation of land and that
it avoids the proliferation of households, thus restricting
village growth (32).
People describe a direct connection between wealth,
household size, and polyandry (8).
Sometimes people volunteered the advantages of mar-
rying polyandrously, how it prevented the dispersion of
property and fragmentation of limited landholdings and
how it supported a higher standard of living (9).
As Nyinba see it, the only way to juggle the multi-
ple economic involvements of agriculture, herding, and
trade is through polyandry and the economic specializa-
tion of brothers (82).
Certainly we all know that Tibetans see nothing
wrong or unusual with polyandry, but if they were
primarily marrying polyandrously because of its cultural
value per se, we would expect polyandry to be distribut-
ed equally throughout the society, regardless of issues of
class and landownership. This, however, is not what the
data show. As I have written, polyandry is characteristic
of those households who formed the “taxpayer” class,
with the “small households” engaging in polyandry only
infrequently because they had no hereditary land to
conserve and no large taxes (especially corvee ones)
to fulfill. Thus, although Tibetans evaluate polyandry
positively, it is typical of the upper strata (landowning)
peasants (and aristocrats). I do not think the Nyinba
ara different. When one reads Levine’s ethnography
carefully, the polyandry sections deal primarily with
the trongba, i.e., only the upper strata, landed class of
the peasantry. The Nyinba small households, like the
lower strata Tibetans I wrote about, practice polyandry
less frequently, if at all. Although it is surprising that
this issue was not addressed directly and in detail (e.g.,
despite numerous tables on other topics there is no
table breaking down marriage type and social strata),
Levine in one section of the book confirms that my
contention is also valid in Nyinba: “In Madangkogpo
... The better-off households are large and extended,
and their more recent marriages have been polyandrous.
The poorer households are small, and their marriages
remain monogamous. ... Thus we find polyandrous and
large households among the wealthier freedmen in this
Anthropos 85.1990
620
Rezensionen
group, but the majority of households remain small,
monogamous, ..(83 f.).
The “special cultural value” explanation of poly-
andry emphasized here by Levine has other problems.
It cannot explain recent changes in the distribution of
polyandry. For example, in 1965, just four years af-
ter leaving Tibet, a resettlement community containing
several thousand Tibetan refugees had no new fraternal
polyandrous unions. The reason for this lay in India’s
implementation of a new system of land tenure which
negated the traditional advantages Tibetans perceive
polyandry offers. Specifically, each person received
1 acre of arable land but only for his or her lifetime,
the plot reverting to the community at death. With no
core of inheritable land, the new system was similar
to that of the “small householders” in Tibet and, not
surprisingly, the marriage pattern was also that of the
lower stratum, i.e., monogamy not polyandry (Goldstein
1971: 73). Deep seated cultural values obviously had
not changed in four years. What had changed was the
socio-politico-economic system under which the Tibet-
ans were living, and this affected their perception of the
benefits of polyandry.
In conclusion, then, although this book exhibits a
number of serious flaws, it is an important study of an
interesting ethnic Tibetan group, and will have to be
read and reread by scholars and students in the years
ahead for its rich ethnographic data.
References Cited
Fillipi, Fillipo de (ed.)
1937 An Account of Tibet: The Travels of Ippolito Desideri
of Pistoia, S.J., 1712-1727. London: Routledge and
Sons.
Goldstein, Melvyn C.
1971 Taxation and the Structure of a Tibetan Village. Central
Asiatic Journal 14: 1-27.
1978 Pahari and Tibetan Polyandry Revisited. Ethnology 17:
325-337.
1987 When Brothers Share a Wife. Natural History 96/3:
39—49.
Westermarck, E.
1925 The History of Human Marriage; voi. 3. London: Mac-
millan. [5th ed.]
Melvyn C. Goldstein
Levinson, David: Family Violence in Cross-Cul-
tural Perspective. London: Sage Publications, 1989.
145 pp., tab., fig. (Frontiers of Anthropology, 1) Price:
£ 12.95
This brief book is presented as a holocultural study
based on the data contained in the Human Relations Ar-
ea Files (HRAF). Works of this kind are intended to be
worldwide comparative studies which test correlations
between selected items in a statistical manner, in this
case family violence with a host of other behaviors. The
author is primarily interested in wife beating, physical
punishment of children, fighting between siblings, and
husband beating, with the focus on wife abuse. The book
takes appropriate care to clarify methodology, using
information and procedures already developed by the
HRAF staff. The book, consequently, does not specif-
ically add to the methodology of the holocultural ap-
proach. It does attempt to test various theories of family
violence, which are briefly listed in the introduction,
then again related to his findings in the final chapter of
the book. These theories have been derived mostly from
studies of violence in America and other developed,
complex societies. The author’s data base, however, is
restricted to 90 small-scale and peasant societies. This
made me somewhat uncomfortable throughout the book,
but it is certainly valid.
Another approach, related to the above, had to do
with what I felt was an inconsistency. The theories he is
testing and their description seem to utilize the concept
of culture as the meanings which lie behind violent
behavior, especially as he derives them from American
data. In his testing, however, he explicitly limits himself
to the behaviors of people (12). But when he gives
examples from the literature which forms his data base,
he again brings in the notion of culture as something
more than behavior, which aids the understanding of
behavior (91, 96).
The main conclusion of the book, the one most
consistently proven to be significant across cultures, is
the following: “The model combines the four sets of
factors that are the strongest predictors of frequent wife
beating in societies around the world - sexual economic
inequality, violent conflict resolution, male domestic
authority, and divorce restrictions for women” (88).
One of the more striking negative findings was the one
that “household type is not a predictor of any form
of violence considered here” (54). He admits that this
runs counter to the findings of many other studies. By
analyzing the data in a slightly different manner, he does
come up with a relationship with child punishment. I be-
lieve a concern with the cultural meaning of the nuclear
family, the cultural content of the roles played out in the
family, and the cultural way the nuclear family meshes
with the larger kinship system, not just with (structural)
household type as viewed cross-culturally, would help
resolve this difficulty (54 f.). The holocultural approach
does not readily allow for this.
In two appendices (108-130) the author outlines
his methodology and discusses the measures he used in
the body of the book. These also serve to give the reader
some sense of the holocultural approach. These appen-
dices are followed by a long and good list of references
(131-139) and a brief name and subject index.
As a final conclusion to this review, one who is
familiar with and accepts the holocultural approach to
comparative cross-cultural research will probably appre-
ciate this attempt. Others, unfamiliar with this method of
research, might find it to be either too brief to appreciate,
or they might be too inclined to bring in all manner of
qualifications as they attempt to flesh out the behaviors
described with the meanings lying behind the behaviors.
Suum cuique. Ernest Brandewie
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
621
Lewis, I. M.: Ecstatic Religion. A Study of Sha-
manism and Spirit Possession. London: Routledge,
1989. 200 pp., fig. Price; £ 10.95 [2nd ed.]
In den letzten Jahren hat sich in den westlichen
Gesellschaften ein Interesse und Bedürfnis nach eksta-
tischen Formen der Religion entwickelt, das in seinem
Ausmaß überraschend und von kaum jemandem voraus-
gesehen worden war. Diese Entwicklung, die sich frei-
lich schon seit einiger Zeit vorzubereiten schien, rückt
das vor bald 20 Jahren erschienene und jetzt in über-
arbeiteter Fassung wieder aufgelegte Buch von Lewis
nicht nur in das Interesse von Ethnologen, sondern auch
einer allgemeinen Öffentlichkeit.
Während die meisten Untersuchungen, die sich mit
Besessenheit, Trance und anderen ekstatischen Formen
der Religion befassen, Fragen nach den mit diesen
außergewöhnlichen Zuständen verbundenen Vorstellun-
gen, einzelnen Kultpraktiken, ihrer therapeutischen oder
theatralischen Funktion ins Zentrum stellen, geht Lewis
von den soziologischen Fragen aus, wer bzw. welche
sozialen Gruppen an ekstatischen Kulten teilnehmen,
unter welchen Bedingungen ekstatische Kulte auftreten
und welche Bedürfnisse der Teilnehmer in diesen Kulten
eine Befriedigung finden. Dabei wird als besessen der
angesehen, der seine außergewöhnlichen Zustände als
Besessenheit bezeichnet und von seiner sozialen Umwelt
als Besessener anerkannt ist. Besessenheit ist, was ich
betonen möchte, kein naturgegebener Zustand, sondern
die sozial anerkannte Deutung eines außergewöhnlichen
Zustandes. Dieser kann religiös interpretiert und z. B. als
von Geistern oder Göttern verursacht angesehen werden,
oder er kann auch, wie bei uns, aber z. B. auch bei
den Samburu, säkular verstanden werden. Geisterbeses-
senheit wird in der Regel nur in den Gesellschaften
auftreten, in denen diese Deutung außergewöhnlicher
Zustände gesellschaftlich angeboten wird.
Ekstatische Formen der Religion hat es immer
wieder, auch im Christentum, und fast überall gegeben.
Insofern überrascht es, daß vor der Untersuchung von
Lewis diese Erscheinungen von Religion nicht zum Ge-
genstand einer soziologischen Analyse gemacht worden
sind. Im Gegenteil, im Anschluß an M. Eliade, der
Ekstase und Besessenheit als eine archaische, der frühen
Menschheit bekannte Technik betrachtet, um den in der
Urzeit als verloren behaupteten Zusammenhang mit und
Zugang zum Heiligen oder zu den Göttern wiederher-
zustellen, sind soziologische und geschichtliche Fragen
nach dem Auftreten von außergewöhnlichen Erschei-
nungen eher verdrängt worden.
Lewis nimmt auf der Basis der Analyse von zahl-
reichen Besessenheitskulten vor allem aus Afrika, wo er
sich auf eigene Feldforschungen stützen kann, aber auch
aus anderen Teilen der Welt, eine Unterscheidung dieser
Kulte auf der Basis ihrer gesellschaftlichen Stellung und
Funktion vor. Er kann zeigen, daß sich diese Kulte in
zwei Gruppen gliedern. Die einen, von ihm als „zentral“
bezeichneten Besessenheitskulte, stehen im Dienste der
in einer Gesellschaft anerkannten Religion und ihrer
Funktion zur Aufrechterhaltung der sozialen Ordnung
und der Moral. Der Zugang zur „kontrollierten Beses-
senheit“, der von Lewis Schamanismus genannt wird, ist
dann strengen Regeln unterworfen. Die anderen, „eph-
emer“ genannten Besessenheitskulte bilden sich z. T.
sogar in direkter Opposition zu der in einer Gesellschaft
oder sozialen Gruppe herrschenden Religion heraus. An
ihnen nehmen die in einer Gesellschaft zurückgesetz-
ten oder unterdrückten, in den Gestaltungsmöglichkei-
ten ihres Lebens eingeschränkten Personen teil. Diese
sind auch häufig von einer vollen Beteiligung an der
offiziellen Religion ausgeschlossen oder nur beschränkt
zugelassen. Eine Krankheit oder ein Leiden bilden in der
Regel eine Voraussetzung oder den Beginn der Initiation
in einen ephemeren Besessenheitskult. Der Besessen-
heitskult übernimmt deshalb zunächst die Bedeutung
einer Therapie und wird von den dominierenden Mitglie-
dern dieser Gesellschaft auch als solche anerkannt. Dar-
über hinaus entwickeln sich diese Besessenheitskulte,
zumal bei wiederholter und andauernder Teilnahme, zu
einer “clandestine religion” oder gar zu einer Subkultur,
in der oder mit deren Hilfe die Zurückgesetzten einer
Gesellschaft, meistens Frauen, wenigstens partiell vieles
von dem verwirklichen können, was ihnen sonst versagt
ist. Tatsächlich läßt sich denn auch zeigen, daß am Zar-
Kult, Bori-Kult, Hole-Kult ebenso wie an vielen anderen
afrikanischen Besessenheitskulten, aber auch am Shango
und am Voodoo in Amerika, vor allem Frauen und sozial
marginalisierte Männer teilnehmen. Besessenheitskulte
sind insoweit als, wenn auch gebrochene, Protestbewe-
gungen zu deuten. Sie können aber auch auftreten, wenn
ganze soziale Gruppen oder gar Ethnien z. B. infolge
der Kolonialisierung oder durch die Islamisierung, wie
vor allem in Afrika, durch die Christianisierung, wie in
Amerika, marginalisiert werden oder unter sozialen und
politischen Druck geraten. Selbstverständlich lassen sich
Beispiele zeigen, in denen sich „periphere“ Besessen-
heitskulte zu „zentralen“ Religionen entwickelt haben.
Die konsequente soziologische Analyse macht die
Bedeutung dieses Buches aus; es ist zu wünschen,
daß die von Lewis verwendeten Methoden und Über-
legungen zum Vorbild auch für andere Gegenstände
der Religionsethnologie werden und zu deren Verständ-
nis, aber auch zum Verständnis der bei uns wieder
auftauchenden ekstatischen Veranstaltungen beitragen.
Eine rasche Übersetzung ins Deutsche würde ich sehr
begrüßen. Hartmut Zinser
Luhrmann, T. M.: Persuations of the Witch’s
Craft, Ritual Magic in Contemporary England. Cam-
bridge: Harvard University Press; Oxford: Basil Black-
well, 1989. x + 382 pp„ illus., fig. Price: § 25.00; £ 17.50
This is an anthropological study of contemporary
magical practices mainly among middle-class urban per-
sons who have joined groups following pagan mysteries,
witchcraft, magical texts and novels, the kaballah, the
tarot, astrology, and other occult teachings. In this the
author develops ideas initially put forward in Evans-
Pritchard’s landmark study of “Witchcraft, Oracles, and
Magic among the Azande” (1937) and subsequently
Anthropos 85.1990
622
Rezensionen
embroidered (for better or worse) by a wide range of
social scientists and philosophers. “This study looks
at ordinary middle-class English people who become
immersed in a netherworld of magic and ritual, and asks
a classic anthropological question: why do they practice
magic when, according to observers, the magic doesn’t
work?” (4)
The book is divided into five broad parts: Part 1,
Magicians in the Modern World, provides background
both historically and as an overview to the present pro-
liferation of occult practices and studies in Britain and
America. The author describes how she joined occult
study groups and eventually both a witches’ coven and
those practicing the Western Mysteries. While Luhr-
mann professes disbelief in the occult, she avoids either
supporting or rejecting claims of such practitioners. She
does provide general characterizations of what she con-
siders the four broad types of occult believers thriving
in Britain: 1) covens, small, insulated groups of witches
worshipping a goddess; 2) Western Mysteries groups
fairly insulated but much larger than covens, hierarchical
and devoted to the seemingly endless task of exploring
arcane lore supposedly passed down from ancient times
through Hermes Trismegistus, the kaballah, tarot, as-
trology, and other complex teachings; 3) ad hoc ritual
groups devoted to working out assorted rituals which
members write much like play scripts and which are
directed to a very wide range of beings and forces from
pagan gods and goddesses to more abstract powers; and
4) various study groups where lectures and discussions
further familiarity with the occult. These second two
types are more fluid than the first two and often involve
overlapping membership.
Luhrmann, an American anthropologist trained in
both America and England, had little difficulty estab-
lishing rapport and gaining entry into these groups and
seems to have found them both agreeable and attractive.
Her accounts consequently are sympathetic and positive
and could be read approvingly by most of her infor-
mants. Current ethical considerations about fieldwork
would allow no other viable approach. Luhrmann does
observe that most magical material is highly self-ref-
erential and that there is a wide range of diversity in
beliefs and practices even within particular groups so
that open-minded learners would be encouraged. This
tolerance leads to great diversity within the groups
which Luhrmann discusses. Many paths and symbols
are generally seen as equally valid, depending on a
person’s make up. This highly individualized character
of believers in the occult (at least those studied by
the author) encourages Luhrmann to present a study
far nearer social psychology than conventional cultur-
al anthropology or sociology. Group cohesion, social
authority, social boundaries and control, and a common
body of beliefs and practices appear weak to nonexis-
tent, and since members are encouraged “to do their own
thing,” a coherent occult culture is difficult to portray.
Instead, this is a study of different states of mind and
how these do or do not form systems, and do or do
not relate to Western codes of rationality and science.
What the author finds is hardly surprising. She asserts
that people are intellectually messier than anthropol-
ogists (what anthropologists?) generally present them
to be, that people compartmentalize different sectors
of behaviour much as Evans-Pritchard described the
Azande as doing fifty years ago. She further concludes
that emotions and behaviour are often so intertwined
with beliefs that we sometimes forget that they may be
caused by them rather than vice versa. There is much to
remind one of William James in Luhrmann’s account,
especially his 1896 Lowell Lectures.
In Part 2, Listening to the Goddess, Luhrmann
discusses magical rituals. She stresses the fact that
such practices themselves may change intellectual habits
and gradually transform sceptics into believers. She
describes how magicians believe that reality is a “dy-
namic flux” of subtle, concealed energies and how magic
allows the mind to alter matter since both consist of
comparable and related forces. Lor magicians this is
reflected by the insights and feelings that analogies and
metaphorical thinking and rituals provide to a profound-
ly patterned world. Above all, Luhrmann here discusses
how magical failure and success are rationalized, much
as among the Azande, in separated social contexts that
allow practitioners to continue to believe despite contra-
dictions and disappointments.
Part3, Summoning the Powers, discusses the ways
that rituals are constructed and the use of the lan-
guage and symbols employed. Luhrmann emphasizes
the powerful effects that meditation and ritual induced
“visualization” may have on magical practitioners. Yet
what is involved remains remarkably individual and
idiosyncratic, and hence difficult to portray. “Unlike
Trobriand Island gardeners, magicians do not draw from
a collective mythological corpus. Their literature seems
to be part of a conscious attempt to provide a mythology
for their practice in a myth-impoverished world. Their
magical practice becomes a loosely syncratic, freely
inventive symbolism which uses the historical depth of
myth and legend for its evocation, but freely adapts the
myths to personal ends” (241). “Historical and cultural
circumstance is but an ephemeral stain upon a deeper
substrate. Thus history becomes the raw material out
of which to craft a personal vision, and the role of
tradition is to forge it anew, to suit your own particular
symbolic needs” (241). In brief, these contemporary
magicians practice a radical form of self-appropriating
hricolage. Such ritual constructions repeatedly contra-
dict the most elementary historical accuracy, especially
in the case of feminist witches who often claim that
radical “revision” is essential to redress past patriarchal
wrongs and distortions. In this section and elsewhere,
Luhrmann claims that such imaginative involvements
with myths and images may be therapeutic. She provides
no demonstration for this assertion which, to me, would
seem no more likely than arguing that these beliefs could
also support delusional and obsessional tendencies (see
250, 260 f.). What seems clear is that “self-expression”
holds a high value for the author.
Part 4, Justifying to the Sceptics, discusses the
Anthropos 85.1990
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623
ways that magical practitioners attempt both to defend
and explain their views to unbelieving outsiders, and
to comb the available non-occult literature, such as the
works of Jung, in order to shore up their positions.
None of the rationalizations which Luhrmann describes
suggest very rigorous or sophisticated thinking. This is
not to say that these arguments are remarkably bad, but
only that they reflect inconsistent and sloppy thinking
characteristic of most people most of the time, a point
long ago made central to Pareto’s dim view of humanity.
People who want to believe will select arguments to
bolster their assumptions, even though such arguments
are unlikely to convince outsiders.
Part5, Belief and Action, discusses the way that
practitioners of the occult rationalize their beliefs to
themselves. Luhrmann’s major conclusion, already aired
in Part 1, is that behaviour and feelings influence be-
lief quite as much or at times even more than be-
liefs determine behaviour. She also repeats many of
Evans-Pritchard’s well-known observations on intellec-
tual compartmentalization and non-rationality, often, as
I have already noted, formulated by Pareto even earlier.
She concludes with, among other remarks, the banal
observation that: “Magic is a modernist religion: it chal-
lenges the validity of religious dogmatism, authoritative
symbology, and intellectual analyses, while gaining its
inspiration from archaic primitive forms; and its struc-
tural ambiguity rests upon a deconstructed notion of be-
lief’ (336). Yet if such believers are presently tolerated
it is because in fact they are not seen as posing any
serious challenge to the prevailing religious or scientific
communities.
This is an interesting study providing much useful
information on how occultism is viewed by practitio-
ners. It is not, however, the analytical breakthrough
implied by two scholars cited on the dustjacket. Luhr-
mann’s theoretical analyses and pronouncements take us
little beyond Evans-Pritchard and William James, and,
while that would still be valuable analysis, any claims to
innovation fall flat. What is valuable is Luhrmann’s in-
sistence that these issues remain important and still poor-
ly worked out, and that contemporary social scientists
have neglected them. Furthermore, it is disappointing
that the analyses remain almost entirely within the realm
of social psychology, and few useful resorts to either so-
ciology or cultural anthropology are discernable. There
is no extended discussion of occult group composition
or control, nor even of what different social implications
are involved in contrasting the intimate covens and the
larger, hierarchical mystery groups. Relations of social
control to manipulation and endorsement of information
or to group size are never considered. Why computer
specialists appear among the most likely members of
occult groups is surely worth more discussion than Luhr-
mann provides. Finally, it seems incredible that all of
Luhrmann’s informants are represented as constructive,
benign practitioners. There is no black magic or ma-
levolent implication in any of the beliefs and practices
discussed. Even among authorities that Luhrmann cites,
those works suggesting such negative issues are not dis-
cussed; for example, there is no mention of A. E. Waites’
famous study of black magic. This then is a study of
do-gooder magicians, a picture alien to a great deal
reported about magical practice in the history of many
cultures. Nor is there any account of how such magical
practices function during real crises. Do believers also
consult physicians, psychiatrists, dentists, lawyers, and
others during severe problems? How is this related to
magic? It is easy to compartmentalize and rationalize
during everyday ups and downs, but dire crises pose
more threatening challenges. Finally, Luhrmann at times
assures us that magical practices in preliterate, “simpler”
societies mean something rather different from what she
studied in England. Yet at other times she appears to
draw all such behaviour into one set of generalizations.
It is consequently difficult to pin down Luhrmann as to
just what may be the interrelationship and relevance of
her work to that of us who worked in preliterate, more
homogeneous, and less tolerant societies.
Luhrmann appears fond of citing Evans-Pritchard
and draws heavily on some of his ideas. Yet nowhere
does she mention that Evans-Pritchard also demon-
strated how Zande beliefs about witches are manipu-
lated by Zande princes in order to support their power,
even though these very princes must recognize serious
discrepancies in how they report and interpret events.
Evans-Pritchard’s famous study is indeed a study of
modes of thought, but it is also a study of how beliefs
enable some to exploit, dominate, and intimidate others.
Luhrmann’s views about beliefs and social life are far
tamer and less subversive.
This provocative and absorbing study would have
been improved if it were shorter. Luhrmann is a prolix
and clumsy writer. She also appears to subscribe to the
current vogue in self-revelatory narrative. This is very
much a study enmeshed in our present anti-scientific,
morally relativistic, deconstructive times. Yet I enjoyed
reading it despite that. T. O. Beidelman
McCay, Bonnie J., and James M. Acheson (eds.):
The Question of the Commons. The Culture and Ecol-
ogy of Communal Resources. Tucson: The University
of Arizona Press, 1987. xvi + 439 pp., fig., tab., maps.
Price: $35.00
Seit Garrett Hardin seinen Artikel “The Tragedy
of the Commons” (Science 162.1968: 1243-1248) ver-
öffentlichte, ist es um dieses Thema nicht mehr still
geworden, schien doch hier eine schöne “middlerange
theory” entwickelt worden zu sein, die nicht nur plau-
sibel erschien, sondern auch überprüfbar war: Wenn
immer Ressourcen gemeinsam genutzt werden, so lau-
tete die These, so führt die Summe der individuellen
Maximierungsbestrebungen im Konkurrenzkampf gegen
die Mitnutzer zur Überschreitung der Tragfähigkeit des
Biotops, und auf kurz oder lang bricht das System
zusammen.
Die alten englischen Gemeinschaftsweiden, die
“commons”, die Hardin u. a. als Beispiel für das Pro-
Anthropos 85.1990
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Rezensionen
blem dienten, sollten dieses Dilemma besonders deut-
lich zeigen: Jedes Tier, das der einzelne Herdenbesitzer
zusätzlich auf die Gemeinschaftsweide schickt, erhöht
seinen eigenen Profit, und dies auch dann, wenn- das
Gebiet bereits überweidet ist. Die Nachteile, d. h. die
Kosten der Überweidung, teilt er sich jedoch mit allen,
die diese Weide nutzen. Die Tragödie hegt also darin, so
meinte Hardin (1968: 1244), daß: “Each man is locked
into a System that compels him to increase his herd
without limit - in a world that is limited. Ruin is the
destination toward which all men rush, each pursuing his
own best interest in a society that believes in the freedom
of the commons. Freedom in a commons brings ruin for
all.” In diesem Dilemma müßten sich im Prinzip die
meisten Jäger/Sammler, Fischer und pastoralen Noma-
den sowie die gemeinschaftlich Weiden nutzenden trans-
humanten und seßhaften bäuerlichen Gemeinschaften
befinden. Diese Theorie reizte natürlich zur Überprüfung
an einzelnen Fällen, und der vorliegende Band, der sich
kritisch mit ihr auseinandersetzt, ist das Ergebnis einer
solchen Auseinandersetzung.
In dem einführenden Kapitel der Herausgeber,
“Human Ecology of the Commons”, wird das Problem
in seinen einzelnen Bereichen und mit seinen unter-
schiedlichen Konsequenzen diskutiert, wobei besonde-
res Gewicht auf die Frage gelegt wird, ob sich die
postulierte Tragödie generell finden läßt und, wenn ja,
welchen Ausweg es aus dem postulierten Dilemma gibt.
Auf den ersten Blick böte, und das war die Mei-
nung Hardins, der Eingriff durch den Staat bzw. die
Privatisierung die einzige Möglichkeit, das Problem zu
lösen; Wenn die Verantwortung für die Ressourcen und
ihre Ausbeutung in jeweils nur einer Hand liegt, wird
die Chance erhöht, daß das Gesamtsystem im Bereich
eines ökologischen Gleichgewichts bleibt, da der Besit-
zer/Nutzer eine langfristige und vorhersagbare Ausbeu-
tung anstreben wird und den Zusammenbruch des Sy-
stems verhindern möchte. Diese Hypothese geht jedoch
einerseits fälschlicherweise von der generalisierenden
Annahme aus, daß Privatbesitz prinzipiell die Ressour-
cen vor Mißbrauch und Vernichtung schützt, und über-
sieht andererseits, daß gemeinsam genutzte Ressourcen
nicht notwendigerweise durch Überausbeutung zerstört
werden, was kürzlich auch in einem Artikel von Berkes
etal. (Nature 340.1989: 91-93) dargestellt wurde.
Hardins Annahmen beinhalten u. a., daß das Ge-
meingut immer und für jeden zugänglich ist, daß die
Nutzer egoistisch sind und daß keine sozialen Nor-
men der Gemeinschaft sie darin zügeln, daß die Nut-
zer nur daran interessiert sind, kurzfristig hohe Profite
zu erwirtschaften, und daß die Ressourcen so inten-
siv genutzt werden, daß die Tragfähigkeit überschritten
werden kann (7). Von welchen „Gemeinschaften“ (ein
Begriff, der in Hardins Modell bezeichnenderweise auch
nicht auftaucht) ist also bei der Bewirtschaftung der
“commons” die Rede, wenn das angebliche Dilemma,
das zur Tragödie führt, prinzipiell darin liegt, daß min-
destens 2 Mitspieler, ohne miteinander im Informations-
austausch über den Zustand des Systems zu stehen, auf
„Teufel komm raus“ maximieren?
Dies ist der grundlegende Fehler, der Hardin in
dem vorliegenden Band nachgewiesen wird: “The the-
sis of the tragedy of the commons fails to distinguish
between common property as a theoretical condition in
which there are no relevant institutions (open access)
and common property as a social institution (the com-
mons)” (8); oder, wie in Berkes etal. (1989: 93) weiter-
hin präzisiert wird: “First, the Hardin model confuses
common-property resources with open access - the ab-
sence of property rights. By equating common property
resources with open access, and then assuming that open
access leads to overexploitation, the model falls into the
trap of equating the commons with overexploitation.”
Eine Überprüfung anhand spezifischer Fälle, wie
sie in diesem ausgezeichneten Sammelband vorgenom-
men wird, führt so auch zu dem Ergebnis, daß es den
vereinfachten Hardinschen Typ der “commons” nicht
oder nur in den seltensten Fällen gibt und daß eine
Einbeziehung von kulturspezifischen Faktoren, nämlich
den gesellschaftlichen Übereinkünften, den Nutzungs-
rechten und den Pflichten und Einschränkungen, die
dem einzelnen Nutzer auferlegt sind, das Bild völlig
verändern. Die Einbindung der Situation gemeinsam
genutzter Ressourcen in die ökonomische und soziale
Wirklichkeit einer spezifischen Gruppe oder Ethnie läßt
so auch ein weitgehend anderes Bild entstehen. Ein kur-
zer Blick in die Literatur hätte Hardin gezeigt (und dies
sogar bei seinem eigenen Beispiel der englischen “com-
mons”), daß in wohl allen Gesellschaften mit gemeinsa-
mer Nutzung von natürlichen Ressourcen komplizierte
Rechtssysteme dem Problem der Überausbeutung durch
Einzelmaximierer Rechnung tragen (z. B. die äußerst
komplizierten Nutzungsrechte wohl aller europäischen
alpinen Gemeinschaftsweiden, wie sie aufs ausführlich-
ste bereits 1932 in Carriers bekanntem Werk “Water and
Grass” dargestellt wurden). Somit ist ein großer Teil der
Untersuchungen, die in diesem Werk zusammengetragen
wurden, auch kritisch gegenüber dem extrem vereinfa-
chenden Modell Hardins.
Die nach dem einführenden und zusammenfas-
senden Artikel der Herausgeber folgenden 17 Arbeiten
weisen leider ein gewisses Ungleichgewicht in den Bei-
spielen auf, denn von den 17 folgenden Fallstudien, die
in die 3 Bereiche; 1. “Conservation and the Commons”,
2. “Specifying the Commons” und 3. “The State and the
Commons” gegliedert sind, entfallen allein 9 auf Ana-
lysen von Fischereisystemen (Acheson: Hummerfang in
Maine; Berkes: Fischerei der Cree; Stocks: Fischerei der
Cocamilla am oberen Amazonas Perus; Carrier: mariner
Fischfang der Punam Neu Guineas; McCay: verglei-
chende historische Untersuchung der marinen “com-
mons” in der Neuen und der Alten Welt; Taylor: Be-
sitzverhältnisse der irischen Fischer; Anderson: Fischer
im westlichen Malaysia; Pinkerton: Fischer in Britisch
Kolumbien; Durrenberger und Pälsson: Meeresfischerei
in Island).
Hieraus ergibt sich eine gewisse Unausgewogen-
heit gegenüber den übrigen Fallbeispielen, denn neben
drei theoretischen und allgemein gehaltenen Arbeiten
mit ökologischem bzw. wirtschaftstheoretischem Inhalt,
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
625
verteilen sich die verbleibenden 5 Untersuchungen auf
gemischte Wirtschaftssysteme (Bauer: Landbesitz und
seine Bewirtschaftung bei den Tigray Äthiopiens; Von-
dal: Landnutzung, mit dem Schwerpunkt der Untersu-
chung auf den Nutzungsrechten und ihren Problemen
im Sumpfland auf Bomeo), sowie zwei Arbeiten, die
das Weideland und seine Nutzungsformen in den Vor-
dergrund stellen (Femandez: Die traditionellen Weide-
rechtsformen in Asturien/Spanien; Peters: Weiderechts-
vorstellungen und die damit verbundenen Probleme in
Botswana). Nur eine Arbeit stellt die Probleme von
Territorialität, Nutzungsrechten und besonders das Di-
lemma, das sich durch den Einstrom anderer Gruppen in
die Region und den damit zunehmenden Druck auf die
jagdbaren Tiere bei landgebundenen Sammlem/Jägern
ergibt, dar (Brightman: Die Probleme der Ressourcen-
nutzung bei den Algonkin der borealen Waldzone).
Trotz einer gewissen Einseitigkeit in der Auswahl
der Fälle kann gesagt werden, daß alle Arbeiten ein
überdurchschnittliches Niveau in Analyse und Argu-
mentation aufweisen. In ihrer Gesamtheit zeigen sie
deutlich die Schwächen von Hardins grob vereinfa-
chendem Modell, denn die verschiedenen menschlichen
Populationen nutzen auf der Basis von unterschiedlichen
Normen und Wertsystemen die Ressourcen in verschie-
dener Weise. In diesem „Spiel“ des Menschen „gegen“
die Natur gibt es sehr unterschiedliche Sätze von Regeln,
und diese sind kulturabhängig und oft kulturspezifisch.
Somit ist dieses Buch von herausragender Bedeutung,
schildert es nicht nur gut untersuchte Fälle von gemein-
samem Wirtschaften und unterschiedlichen Formen der
Territorialität und der Besitzverhältnisse, sondern wider-
legt auch weitgehend ein Modell, das den Anspruch der
Universalität erhob.
Zu dieser grundsätzlichen Aussage gelangten kürz-
lich auch Berkes etal. (1989: 93): “Studies after Hardin
have shown the dangers of trying to explain resource
use in complex socio-ecological Systems with simple
deterministic models.” Und auch S. J. Buck, “Cultur-
al Theory and Management of Common Property Re-
sources” {Human Ecology 17.1989: 101-116), diskutiert
die Möglichkeiten der Einbeziehung von Kulturtheori-
en, um das Management der Gemeinschaftsressourcen
zu analysieren und um dadurch die Folgen der unter-
schiedlichen Strategien besser verstehen zu können: “By
identifying an actor or group’s cultural bias, analysts can
explain the success or failure of different management
activities” (101). Hardins Modell war zu abstrakt und
grob vereinfachend, und jede Überprüfung zeigte diese
deterministische Simplifizierung.
Dennoch, dieser Typ falsifizierbarer Theorien/Mo-
delle ist überprüfbar und bietet die Chance, zu diffe-
renzierteren Aussagen mit Gesetzescharakter zu gelan-
gen. Daß diese Art wissenschaftlichen Arbeitens nur
für einen spezifischen Bereich der Ethnologie möglich
und sinnvoll ist, versteht sich von selbst, doch bietet
die Summe solcher grundsätzlicher Aussagen den so
dringend benötigten “common ground”, auf dem wir uns
miteinander verständigen können, unabhängig von den
mit rasender Geschwindigkeit wechselnden Forschungs-
schweipunkten, den Schulen und Moden in unserer Dis-
ziplin. Michael J. Casimir
McClain, Carol Shepherd (ed.): Women as Heal-
ers. Cross-Cultural Perspectives. New Brunswick; Rut-
gers University Press, 1989. xiv + 274 pp„ tab. Price:
$ 13.00
Carol Shepherd McClain, who compiled and edited
this collection of essays, is affiliated with the Medical
Anthropology Program at the University of Califor-
nia, San Francisco. She discusses, in the introductory
chapter, the development of two fields of research -
medical anthropology and the anthropology of women
- and attempts to integrate the contribution made by
experts coming from different disciplines. Her aim is to
investigate the significance of gender in healing and to
reinterpret cross-culturally the role of women as healers.
In doing so she observes “classification and contrasts
in medical and feminist anthropology,” “functionalist
interpretations of female healing,” as well as the specific
symbolism used by women in healing.
The book is divided into four parts: (1) Women as
Informal Healers; (2) Healing with Female Metaphors;
(3) the life stories of Women as Ritual Specialists; and
(4) Women Healers and Culture Change.
Thirteen contributors from the fields of psychiatry
and biobehavioral sciences as well as medical, psycho-
logical, social, and economic anthropology present elev-
en case studies of women’s roles in healing in different
parts of the world, i.e., the Andes, Puerto Rico, Jamaica,
Sri Lanka, Benin, Korea, Serbia, and the United States.
In Part One, “informal healing” is defined as oc-
curring at home without any legal or political implica-
tions because it does not promote “models of reality”
which depart from “cultural models articulated by men
in public arenas.” Finerman, having worked with the
Saraguro Indians in Ecuador, Nordstrom in Sri Lanka,
and Browner in Mexico, all three “contrast informal
healers with the range of specialist practitioners in the
communities in question and show how gender hier-
archies and their supporting ideologies determine the
distribution of medical roles between the sexes” (22).
Informal healing is viewed as a “social maintenance
device” to perpetuate “the integrity of the family.” Infor-
mal healers are, therefore, seen as mediating “between
formal and local interpretations of cultural beliefs and
precepts” and special attention is given to the nurturing
aspect of informal healing.
The nurturing aspect is picked up again in Part
Two and expanded to the extent that female healers are
conceptualized as those practitioners who cross “sym-
bolic boundaries” and establish contact with the world
of spirits and ancestors, especially spirits that cause
illness. Wedenoja talks about Balm, an Afro-American
folk healing tradition in Jamaica, while Kerewsky-Hal-
pern investigates Serbian magic. Both document in their
studies how women healers become “metaphoric moth-
ers” to meet the physical and affective needs of their
patients. Fox discusses then the “healing metaphysics”
Anthropos 85.1990
626
Rezensionen
of Christian Science and looks at gender images in a
group where God is androgynous.
The image of women is, however, not always
positive. They may be seen to exist “outside and below
culture”, but male practitioner may experience similar
criticism as well, depending on local concepts and be-
liefs.
Although the previous parts contained life histo-
ries already, the scene becomes lively with Kendall’s
paper on a Korean ritual practitioner or mansin who,
during possession, can reverse the misfortunes of the
living. This female shaman allows the researcher the rare
opportunity of participating in the construction of this
shaman’s own reality, i.e., the process of rationalizing
and sublimating past suffering. Valuable is also Singer
and Garcia’s tracing of the development of a Puerto
Rican “espiritista” in contemporary American society.
Green then reports on the apprenticeship of a sangoma
in southern Africa. We learn about strategies in ma-
nipulating cultural images to effect cures and witness
how misfortunes are explained and shaped by the social
and political context. The “functionalist explanation of
possession as conduit for women to protest their sub-
ordinate status and escape from gender role confines,”
as purported, e.g., by I. M. Lewis (Spirit Possession
and Deprivation Cults. Man 1966: 307-329; Ecstatic
Religion, Harmondsworth, 1971), is expanded and the
researchers suggest that we have to recognize not only
“the limiting dimensions of culture” but look at the
creative dimensions as well (137).
In Part Four, healers are described against the back-
drop of culture change. The Saraguro Indians, described
by Finerman in an earlier chapter, had already to cope
“with increasing state interests in their affairs, including
government sponsored health facilities,” and Nordstrom
reported for Sri Lanka that women enter “both tradi-
tional and modern medical professions” in increasing
numbers. Sargent draws now, in Part IV, comparisons
between midwifery and childbirth care practices among
rural and urban Bariba in the West African Republic
of Benin as they are evident today, while Reid recon-
structs “the changes in the ideology and practice of
lay midwifery in the United States that resulted in its
professionalization during the 1970s” (201). Economic
development had the greatest influence on practices in
Third World countries where women lost their tradition-
al advantages at home and in public. Government mater-
nity services removed the “traditional source of reward
and achievement for mothers” and Sargent observes that
consequently the art of traditional midwifery is dying
out in Benin. In the United States, Reid finds that “birth
attendants in the public sphere are formally educated,
publicly regulated, and organized into professions and
semiprofessions, associations based more on legal than
moral criteria” (203) while lay midwifery seems to
remain “a woman’s speciality” with stronger moral and
emotional overtones.
“Women as Healers” opens the door to new topics
and methods of inquiry. The value of the book lays in the
variety of approaches. Life stories as well as functional,
behavioral, and symbolic frameworks are exemplified in
scholarly studies which, like all good research, end with
more questions than answers.
The stated goal of the book - to clearly define
the role of women as healers - was not accomplished,
neither for a specific culture nor cross-culturally. The
reason for not coming up with clear categories, however,
is obvious - the process of redefinition is still going
on. Despite this not necessarily negative remark, this
book testifies to and documents a very promising start. I
personally find “Women as Healers” refreshing because
the reader is not asked to accept only one approach as
the right one but is invited to assist with the expansion
of scientific investigation into new territories and the
reader’s capability to synthesize and integrate different
views into larger frameworks is challenged. I highly
recommend this book for anybody who is interested in
cross-cultural studies on healing and especially those for
whom the issues of gender are important.
Ruth-Inge Heinze
McDaniel, June: The Madness of the Saints. Ec-
static Religion in Bengal. Chicago: The University of
Chicago Press, 1989. xi + 335 pp. Price: $ 19.50
Twelve years ago June McDaniel met in America a
Bengali Kali priest named Prahlada Candra Brahmacari.
He was the first mad guru she had ever met: he was
short, with a fat belly and a long white beard. He
spoke no English and fell into ecstatic trances almost
continually: he was baby Krsna claiming to be lost and
asking for his mother; or he was an all-knowing sage.
... When McDaniel asked his devotees if he were ill,
they replied: “No, he is a madman (pdgal). All of the
real holy men are mad. This is what religious people
are like in Bengal” (x). Puzzled by this experience, the
author went to conduct research in Bengal and she came
to the conclusion that not all holy men are mad but the
most respected ones are. The present book is the fruit of
this research and is one of the very few studies devoted
to religious madness in India.
The first chapter of the book introduces us to
the world of religious madness in Bengal. This mainly
occurs within the hhakti - or devotional - tradition. In
Bengal the devotional tradition is a history of deities.
Their ecstasy is the sign of the truth of their words, for
the divine presence is known to drive a person mad with
love and passion. Ecstasy, the straight encounter with
God, radically alters perception, emotion, and personal-
ity. In the shamanic ecstasy, the deity possesses the body
and mind of the devotee; in the devotional ecstasy, with
which this book deals, the devotee becomes God, there
is both fusion and passion, and the devotee no longer
worships his deity since he has become God himself.
While there are many religious madmen in Ben-
gal, psychiatrists state that they never see patients with
religious symptoms, for such people are kept within the
family group and become holy. People clearly distin-
guish between ordinary madness and religious madness.
In both cases, the madness is due to “separation” (vi-
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
627
raha) but while the madman longs for his home, or
money, or a wife, or his lost job, the ecstatic longs
for his god. Furthermore, the madman cannot become
normal voluntarily; the ecstatic, however, chooses his
state. He might be lost in trance and suddenly emerge
to argue with persons of different beliefs. The madman
has a weak, defective brain, is hostile, and lives in
trouble. On the other hand, the saint is filled with the
presence of Bhagavan (God): he is purified by the vision
of God; he can be bitten by snakes and will not die;
he can swallow poison and it will not hurt him (9).
Many of the mad ecstatics such as Nityagopal were
first considered as merely insane and were only later
accepted as saints (133 ff.). This distinction is crucial
since it clearly shows that people do not consider any
madness or eccentric behaviour as religious. Besides,
people can be very suspicious about accepting a man as
a saint and the ecstatic cannot become a guru if he is
believed to be mad in the secular sense (247 and 250).
Religious madness expressed in hhdva (emotional,
ecstatic state) should also be distinguished from posses-
sion hhor. Possession trance (bhor) is associated with
the poor and low caste while bhdva belongs to the
great tradition: it is a state of awareness, of divine love,
whereas possession trance has more practical ends such
as diagnosing, healing, asking a favour, etc. (229 f.).
Finally, the divine madness is a particular type of
approach to God which should also be distinguished
from the sdstrlya dharma or “path according to the
scripture.” While the latter emphasizes ritual worship,
loyalty, tradition, faith, self-control, and development
through stages (280), the former (bhdva) puts the stress
on chaotic visions and experiences, emphasizes pas-
sion, and can be called madness. Yet, as shown above,
Bengalis clearly differentiate ordinary madness from
religious madness, and any madness is not necessarily
considered holy.
In three major chapters. McDaniel analyzes cases
of religious madness in the Vaisnava tradition, in the
Sakta tradition, and, finally, among the Bauls, while a
fourth chapter is devoted to holy women. The chapter
on fascinating Bauls is probably the least convincing,
and I wonder whether we can amalgamate these with
the tradition of religious madness. McDaniel adduces
little evidence to help follow her on this path and no
portrait of a Baul madman is provided whereas numer-
ous cases of Vaisnava and Sakta saints or holy women
are described. Within Vaisnavism, hhdva is said to be
due to the grace of Krisna. It is a special gift from
Krsna, a ray of the sun of religious love. The love of God
intensifies until it reaches the highest state of ecstasy
or mahdhhdva which can lead to mddana or passionate
delirium. The goal of ritual practice is ecstasy, that is,
to bring the person a direct vision of Krsna. Among
the Vaisnava saints, Sri Krsna Caitanya, bom in 1486,
is one of the most famous. He lived an ascetic life but
had strange physical symptoms of his intense religious
love: his body would become distorted, stretched, and
compressed; sweat and blood oozed from his pores, and
saliva foamed at his mouth. Love of Krsna is liquid.
Devotees float in the seas of hhdva and are intoxicated
by drinking Krsna’s love. The orthodox Hindu is consid-
ered as hard-hearted, like a stone, whereas the Vaisnava
must be open, permeable; self-control and ritual order
cannot be maintained. Divine madness is an overflowing
of hhdva.
The popular Sakta tradition, as opposed to Vais-
navism, has no authoritative written tradition. It is
simply an oral tradition, organized by saints, temples,
and ashrams and is definitely syncretic: it contains ele-
ments from Tantric Buddhism, Vaisnava tradition, yoga
practice, shamanism, and worship of village deities. It
centres around the cult of the goddess Devi and it
is often claimed that the goddess is but an aspect of
Siva. Sakta saints such as Vamaksepa (1837-1911) or
Nityagopal (1856-1911) were both at first considered as
naturally mad since they had shown signs of madness
since early childhood, but people soon realized that their
madness was actually divine. The Sakta saints consider
themselves as children of the goddess; while throwing
his own urine at the statue of the goddess, Vamaksepa
said that a mother was not polluted by the excrement of
her baby. The famous Ramakrsna also belongs to this
current and was also considered as insane: his love for
the goddess also took clear erotic aspects. He declared
his own wife, Sarada Devi, an incarnation of the goddess
and worshipped her.
Apart from emphasizing the differences between
ordinary and divine madness, another interesting aspect
of McDaniel’s study is to show that people are not ready
to accept any eccentric as a saint. On the contrary, a
real, true ecstatic guru is not easily found. In some
cases, a true guru can be recognized through some
signs such as his immunity to pain or to poison. He
has disciples and followers and should not even handle
money. Gurus concerned with fame, reputation, or pride
arouse suspicion, for humility is another characteristic
of a true guru (242-247); he must be pure, passionless,
and tranquil. Finally, this book also emphasizes the
discrepancy which exists between “theology” and “lived
experience”: the former puts the stress on development
by stages and yogic control whereas the latter is a
“breakdown,” a chaotic experience and as such appears
as a synthesis between the Great and the Little Tradition.
For all these reasons, “The Madness of the Saints” is an
important work the reading of which will be undoubt-
edly important for students of the Hindu religion.
Robert Deliege
Maybury-Lewis, David, and Uri Almagor (eds.):
The Attraction of Opposites. Thought and Society in the
Dualistic Mode. Ann Arbor; The University of Michigan
Press, 1989. xii + 365 pp., tab., fig. Price; $51.50
This collection of articles, stemming from a confer-
ence held in 1983, takes up one of the themes addressed
in Maybury-Lewis’s earlier edited collection, “Dialec-
tical Societies: the Ge and Bororo of Central Brazil”
(Cambridge 1979), but on a far broader geographical
scale.
Anthropos 85.1990
628
Rezensionen
The conference had been inspired by the attempts
of the two editors to compare dualistic societies in Brazil
and East Africa, and the composition of the papers partly
reflects this. Thus, Maybury-Lewis and Seeger discuss
Gê and Bororo cases, and Zuidema considers Andean
societies, while Almagor (Dassanetch), Hinnant (Gu-
ji), Lamphear (lie and Turkana), and Spencer (Maasai)
describe and discuss East African cases from Ethiopia
and/or Kenya.
However, there are also articles on Australia
(Maddock and Yengoyan), Indonesia (Fox, Valeri, and
Traube), and Melanesia (Tuzin), while Rosman and Ru-
bel compare North-West Coast peoples like the Haida
and Tlingit with various Melanesian groups. In addi-
tion, Maybury-Lewis and Almagor both contribute in-
troductory articles, and there is a brief “Epilogue” by
Eisenstadt. In his introductory article, Maybury-Lewis
also considers Chinese dualism, as expressed in notions
of yin and yang, while Almagor summarizes the vari-
ous ethnographically-based contributions and draws out
some linking themes.
The original intention had been to include Indian
examples also, but this project was stymied by the late
withdrawal of the invited Indianist contributors. None-
theless, it is clear that the volume achieves a coverage
which is both broad in its geographical scope and deep
in the degree of attention devoted to the regions repre-
sented.
A brief review cannot possibly do justice to all
the contributions in a volume of this size. Fortunately,
the names of the contributors as listed above will be, for
most readers, a sufficient guarantee of the quality of their
respective contributions. In the circumstances, the most
urgent and useful role for the reviewer is to consider
whether those individual contributions are sufficiently
integrated and coherent to make this a genuine book,
rather than a mere ad hoc collection of articles under a
largely notional theme. In particular, given the explicitly
comparative nature of the overall enterprise, one has to
ask whether the basis of that comparison - dual or binary
organization - is adequately and consistently defined. Is
this mere “butterfly collection,” or is something more
profound going on?
On the whole, these questions can be answered
affirmatively. Indeed, Maybury-Lewis tackles the prob-
lem of definition right at the outset, making it clear
that in his view the “problem” of dual organization is a
false one. The difficulties once faced by anthropologists
confronted with dual organization stemmed in large part
from their excessively narrow definition of the phenom-
enon - from, to be precise, their preoccupation with
defining it in terms of social institutions in general, and
exogamous moieties in particular.
In reality, “the object of ... investigation is not a
class of societies that has to be defined. It is a procedure,
namely the use of polarity in social thought and social
action” (2). It follows from this that there is no hard-and-
fast distinction - indeed, no distinction at all - between
those societies which “have” dual organization and those
which do not. Instead, there is a continuum along which
all societies can be arranged. At one extreme are so-
cieties whose thought and organization are profoundly
influenced by a view that the cosmos is structured on the
basis of opposed but complementary principles. At the
other extreme are societies like our own, which certainly
do not lack binary categorizations, but do not link these
systematically into an overarchingly dualistic ideology.
The working assumption is also made that this
continuum is associated, in a very broad sense, with
a move from small-scale to large-scale societies. Eisen-
stadt points out in his concluding summary that “full-
fledged dual organization is found mainly, or perhaps
only, in societies with relatively low levels of technolo-
gy and of social and economic differentiation ... [and]
in which no distinct state formation develops” (353).
Yet he immediately adds that there must be more to it
than this, because by no means all small-scale societies
display the “full-fledged” form.
In fact, Eisenstadt suggests, dual organization has
to be viewed at three distinct levels, which are inter-
related but not necessarily congruent. Firstly, and most
conventionally, dualism may be found at the level of the
“concrete social organization”; secondly, it may mani-
fest itself in the “world view” of the society, including
the ideological means whereby the “legitimization of
control” is achieved; thirdly, dualism may function to
structure, wholly or partially, “the basic semantic map”
of the society concerned (350 f.). This is very reminis-
cent of my own contention (Man 1981: 108) - following
Rodney Needham, whose presence can also be discerned
at the shoulder of several contributors here - that kinship
in particular, and social phenomena generally, need to
be grasped simultaneously at the behavioural, jural, and
categorical levels if they are to be adequately under-
stood.
What is really at issue, then, and what most con-
tributions to the volume under review are ultimately
concerned to address, is the great variety of guises
which dual organization may adopt, and the even greater
variety of uses to which it may be put.
Anthony Good
Mitzlaff, Ulrike von: Maasai-Frauen. Leben in
einer patriarchalischen Gesellschaft. Feldforschung bei
den Parakuyo, Tansania. München: Trickster Verlag,
1988. 181 pp., Ktn., Fig., Fotos. (Rites de Passage, 1)
Preis: DM39,-
Die Neigung heutiger Ethnologinnen zu kritischer
Distanz gegenüber einer bisher einseitig männer-orien-
tierten ethnologischen Forschung (männliche Forscher
und Informanten, Männerwelt als privilegiertes Unter-
suchungsobjekt) ist verständlich und weithin legitim,
vor allem dann, wenn von ihnen über die Kritik hin-
aus sinnvoll ergänzende und korrektive Arbeit im Feld
geleistet wird. Ulrike von Mitzlaffs Untersuchung über
das Leben und die Lebenswelt der Frau bei den Pa-
rakuyo, einer halbseßhaften Maasaigruppe in Tansania,
kann als solche gesehen werden. Es ist aber gleich zu
bemerken, daß schon in den 40er und 50er Jahren, was
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
629
die Afrika-Literatur betrifft, vor allem im französischen
Sprachbereich, Frauen als Autorinnen relativ gut vertre-
ten sind.
Sind die Frauen der Maasai, dieser in der Fach-
literatur als klassisch patriarchalisch geschilderten Ge-
sellschaft, wirklich so unsichtbar, zweitrangig und nur
über Männer definierbar? Das ist die Ausgangsfrage
ihrer über drei Jahre (13 einmonatige Aufenthalte) sich
erstreckenden weithin auf ethnobiographischer Methode
und „lernender teilnehmender Beobachtung“ aufbauen-
den Feldarbeit. - Ihre Antwort: Auch wenn die Autorität,
die politische Kompetition und Macht der Männer, vor
allem im Umfeld des alles beherrschenden Altersklas-
sensystems, stark hervortritt, so haben auch die Frauen
ihre bedeutenden Freiräume, ihr Selbstwertgefühl und
ihren erheblichen sozialen und rituellen Einfluß auf die
Männer, deren ambivalente Rollen als Gatten und Lieb-
haber nicht selten ihre „Kapitulation“ und psychologi-
sche Abhängigkeit gegenüber den Frauen impliziert und
ihr Kontrollsystem entsprechend schwächt. Die markan-
te geschlechtsspezifische Trennung der Lebenswelten ist
eher dazu angetan, die soziale und persönliche Identität
der Frau zu stärken. Ihre Akzeptanz in der Gemeinschaft
der Mitfrauen wird hierin zum wichtigen Kriterium.
Wenn die Darstellung der eigentlich ethnographi-
schen und ethnobiographischen Daten (Kap. 2-4) von
eher durchschnittlicher Qualität sind - man möchte
beispielsweise, emisch und etisch gesehen, mehr über
die symbolische Sinndeutung von Einzelriten und Ge-
samtritualen wissen -, so bringt das 5. Kapitel, über
die Geschlechterbeziehungen, einen sehr direkten und
interessanten Einblick in die Bezugs- und Erlebniswelt
der Frauen, in ihre Freiheit und Eigeninitiativen in der
Wahl ihres Liebespartners. Hier wird denn auch vor
allem die Bedeutung der Frauenforschung durch die
Frau offenbar, die im Vergleich zum Mann unmittelba-
rer an den manchmal intimen Gesprächen der Frauen
teilnehmen kann. Hierin liegt die Stärke der Arbeit
von Ulrike von Mitzlaff. Auch wenn sie, wie sie im
Abschnitt „Frauenforschung?“ in feiner Weise darlegt,
als Europäerin und Frau ohne den Status der Mutter,
ohne (sichtbaren) Ehemann und ökonomisch unabhän-
gig nicht in die einheimische Rollenerwartung der Frau
hineinpaßte, so hat sie offenbar doch einen relativ guten
Zugang zu den Maasaifrauen gefunden. Hugo Huber
Moreira Neto, Carlos de Araüjo: Indios da
Amazônia, de Maioria a Minoria (1750-1850). Petröpo-
lis; Editera Vozes, 1988. 348 pp. Preço: $20.00
Die ca. 100 Jahre zwischen der Ausweisung der
Jesuiten aus den portugiesischen Kolonien und dem
allmählichen Einsetzen des Kautschukbooms galten in
der Geschichte Amazoniens bisher als ein relativ un-
wichtiger, ereignisloser Zeitraum ohne einschneidende
Veränderungen in den demographischen, ethnischen und
ökonomischen Verhältnissen der Großregion. Zum bra-
silianischen Teil des Amazonasgebietes liegt nunmehr
eine Publikation vor, in der der Autor zum genau ent-
gegengesetzten Ergebnis kommt: der während dieses
Zeitraumes an den Indianern begangene Ethnozid und
Genozid habe erst die Voraussetzungen für die späte-
re, d. h. auch die aktuelle, Kolonisation Amazoniens
geschaffen, da der bewaffnete Widerstand der Indianer
bereits damals weitestgehend gebrochen worden sei.
Der Autor, 1t. Umschlaginnenseite zuletzt Asses-
sor im Kulturministerium, gilt in Brasilien als einer
der kompetentesten Ethnohistoriker seines Landes und
ist durch sein öffentliches Engagement für die Rechte
der Indianer auch außerhalb der “scientific community”
bekannt geworden. Dieser persönliche Bezug läßt sich
an vielen Stellen am wenig distanzierten Schreibstil gut
erkennen. Moreira Neto bezeichnet deshalb sein Werk
als «ensaio» (Versuch), obwohl dies ein deutliches Un-
derstatement darstellt.
Seine Grundhypothese lautet, daß Amazonien bis
Mitte des IS.Jh.s demographisch und kulturell eine
überwiegend von indianischen Gruppen geprägte Re-
gion war (14 f.). In den sechs Kapiteln des Buches
werden in chronologischer Reihenfolge die Ereignisse
und Prozesse, die zur drastischen Umkehrung dieses
Bildes führten, beschrieben und analysiert. Als Eckdaten
dienen dabei der Beginn der spezifischen Indianerpolitik
des Marqués de Pombal (1699-1782) um 1750 und
die Schaffung der Provinz Amazonas als selbständiger
Verwaltungseinheit durch Loslösung von der bisherigen
Provinz Gräo-Parä (1850).
Eine besondere Rolle innerhalb des damaligen
Amazoniens kam einer Bevölkerungsgruppe zu, der hier
eine vorher in der Literatur nicht so gesehene Bedeutung
beigemessen wird: den tapuios, weitgehend akkulturier-
ten Indianern, die innerhalb der kolonialen Gesellschaft
lebten, keine indigenen Sozialorganisationen mehr kann-
ten und bereits eine eigene Identität entwickelt hatten
(sog. «indios genéricos», im Gegensatz zu den «Indi-
os tribais»). Wie bei allen Bevölkerungskategorien der
iberischen Kolonialreiche (mestigos, caboclos, crioulos,
mamelucos, u. a.) lassen sich kaum genaue Abgren-
zungskritieren erstellen (s. Aurélio Buarque de Holanda
Ferreira, Dicionário da língua portuguesa. Rio de Janeiro
1980: 1625, sub «tapuio»). Auch Moreira Neto gelingt
dies nicht. Seine Versuche klingen etwas gezwungen,
befriedigen nicht. Die tapuios erfuhren nach einem miß-
glückten antikolonialen Aufstand in Amazonien, der
«Cabanagem» (1835-36), äußerst brutale Repressions-
maßnahmen seitens der Regierung des Kaiserreiches, so
daß sie schließlich als eigenständige, charakteristische
Bevölkerungsgruppe physisch und kulturell ausgerottet
wurden.
Für die Klärung der spezifischen Untersuchungs-
problematik zog der Autor bisher ethnohistorisch noch
nicht verwertetes Quellenmaterial heran, wobei ver-
schiedene Dokumente aus dem Arquivo do Parä in
Belém besonders zu erwähnen sind. Was die ange-
wandten Untersuchungsmethoden betrifft, so ist hier ein
deutliches Defizit zu vermerken, da Moreira Neto sie an
keiner Stelle expliziert.
Die sechs Kapitel handeln nacheinander die fol-
genden Themen ab: (1) die Politik der Missionsorden
im 18. Jh. und deren Auswirkungen auf die indianischen
Anthropos 85.1990
630
Rezensionen
Gemeinschaften, sowie die pombalinische Indianerpoli-
tik, deren in Lissabon entworfene Gesetzesbestimmun-
gen an den Realitäten der Kolonie vollkommen vorbei-
zielten; (2) die Phase offen erklärter Ausrottungskriege
unter D. JoäoVI. und die unveränderte Situation in
Amazonien nach der Unabhängigkeit 1822; besonders
interessant ist hier die wiedergegebene Diskussion um
die Rechte der Indianer im Rahmen der Verfassungs-
gebenden Versammlung (1823), in der sich schließlich
die Indianergegner durchsetzten (sehr wichtig hierbei
die Vergleiche mit den aktuellen Standpunkten und
Praktiken!); (3) die «Cabanagem», und zwar weniger
die Ereignisse als die soziale und ethnische Herkunft
ihrer Teilnehmer und deren jeweilige Motive; (4) die
Repressionsmaßnahmen seitens der Regierung und der
daher resultierende starke Bevölkerungsrückgang, insbe-
sondere bei den tapuios\ (5) eine Zusammenfassung der
vorhergehenden Versuche, eine klare Definition für die
Kategorie tapuio zu geben; und (6) das Schicksal der in
indigenen Gemeinschaften lebenden Indianer von 1750
bis ca. 1870 anhand der Beispiele der Mura, Munduruku
und (Satere-)Maue, deren sehr unterschiedliche Strate-
gien im Umgang mit den Kolonisatoren alle längerfristig
zum Scheitern verurteilt waren.
Der Text ist von zahlreichen Originalzitaten (z. T.
auf Englisch, Französisch, Italienisch und Spanisch)
durchsetzt und hat daher die in den „weichen“ Wis-
senschaften übliche Gestalt. Der Schreibstil wirkt an
keiner Stelle langweilig. Das Portugiesisch ist unkompli-
ziert, also auch für Leser mit bloßen Spanischkenntnis-
sen geeignet. Auch die typischen lateinamerikanischen
Schlagwörter aus dem Bereich Kulturwandel («destriba-
lizacäo», «descaracteriza9äo», «desorganiza^äo») fehlen
nicht. Das bekannte Problem der Heranziehung von
Daten über Bevölkerungszahlen der Indianer aus den
Quellen geht der Autor lobenswerterweise sehr vorsich-
tig an. Leider kommt er jedoch dabei nur selten zu festen
Ergebnissen, etwa in Form der Angabe von möglichen
Mindest- und Höchstzahlen.
An die sechs Kapitel schließt sich ein Anhang mit
17 bisher z. T. unveröffentlichten Dokumenten zu den
vorher behandelten Themen an (143-339), alle transkri-
biert und mit Anmerkungen versehen. Moreira Netos
Buch liefert somit zeitsparende Arbeitsgrundlagen für
weitere Untersuchungen und ist allein schon deswegen
äußerst wertvoll.
Moreira Netos Beweisführung erscheint nachvoll-
ziehbar und glaubwürdig. Sein exzellent geschriebenes
Buch verdient einen deutlich größeren Leserkreis als den
„brasilianistischen“, zumal man an ihm lernen kann, wie
aktualitätsbezogen und engagiert Ethnohistorie in der
Forschungspraxis sein könnte. Peter Schröder
Moyle, Richard: Traditional Samoan Music. Auck-
land: Auckland University Press, 1988. xvi + 271 pp.,
maps, photos, fig., tab., illus. Price: $ 79.95
Mit diesem äußerst attraktiv gedruckten Buch legt
der Autor von “Tongan Music“ (Auckland Universi-
ty Press 1987) eine weitere umfassende Arbeit zur
Musik Polynesiens vor, die als stark erweiterte und
umgearbeitete Fassung einer unveröffentlichten Doktor-
arbeit (1971) ausgewiesen wird. Neben einigen Aufsät-
zen und zwei Langspielplatten werden hier die wis-
senschaftlichen Ergebnisse von 27 Monaten Feldfor-
schung in Samoa zwischen 1966 und 1969 zusam-
mengefaßt. Das Buch besteht aus den Kapiteln “In-
troduction” (11 pp.), “Musical Ethnography” (11 pp.),
“Musical Instruments” (30 pp.), “Solo Songs” (36 pp.),
“Unison Song Types” (54 pp.), “Responsorial Song
Types” (47 pp.), “Responsorial Song Types with Dan-
ce” (38 pp.), “Polyphonic Songs” (7 pp.), “Summary
Analysis and Conclusion” (9 pp.), einem Anhang “Post-
European Samoan Musical Influence” (4 pp.), einem
“Glossary of Samoan Terms” (2 pp.), einer umfassenden
Bibliographie, einem Index mit samoanischen Namen,
die für das traditionelle Musikleben von Bedeutung sind,
und schließt mit einem allgemeinen Index ab.
Der Autor beginnt mit der samoanischen Schöp-
fungsmythologie, in der Gesang und bestimmte Musik-
instrumente wie die Schneckentrompete mit der Mensch-
heitswerdung verbunden sind. Aus prähistorischer Zeit
sind Gesangstexte überliefert, so aus der Zeit der tonga-
nischen Invasion (vermutlich 13. Jh.). Moyle versucht
die Zeit der ersten Kontakte mit Europäern (18. Jh.
und verstärkt seit dem Beginn des 19. Jh.s) mit Hilfe
unterschiedlichster Quellen (z. B. die Handelsinventare
von Walfangschiffen, die Trompeten, Pfeifen und Maul-
trommeln erwähnen) zu rekonstruieren. Mit dem Ein-
setzen der Missionierung (1830) wird die Quellenlage
wesentlich ergiebiger. Für die spätere Zeit stützt sich
der Autor auf vorliegende ethnographische Arbeiten wie
vor allem die von Krämer (1902/3).
Die ersten phonographischen Dokumente wurden
1893 auf der Weltausstellung in Chicago aufgenommen,
die ersten Bandaufnahmen offenbar erst 1962 und seit
1966 in verstärktem Umfang (ca. 60 Stunden) durch
Moyle selbst.
Wie auch aus dem Buchtitel ersichtlich, geht es
Moyle um die Darstellung der traditionellen Musik.
Hierzu gehören nach seiner und samoanischer Sicht
“songs which relate to an established part of Samoan
culture either by dint of their kinetic activities (for
example paddling, dancing), or through textual refer-
ences to events and people within the country” (10).
In einer anderen Definition wird „traditionell“ mit „alt“
gleichgesetzt (’o pese fa’a Samoa lava).
In dem Kapitel zur musikalischen Ethnographie
werden mehrere Bereiche angesprochen: so die mu-
sikalische Terminologie Samoas oder das Verhältnis
von Komposition (oder besser ,das Komponieren4) und
ethnischer Identität, “Most villages have one or more
resident fatupese (‘composers of songs’) who, from time
to time, are called on to provide a multipart song,
typically of the vi’i (paean) category which celebrates
an achievement within the village” (14). Nachdem der
Gesang komponiert wurde, muß der Verfasser ihn mit
den Sängern einstudieren, die ihn auf dem entsprechen-
den Ereignis vorführen sollen. Ein kurzer Abschnitt ist
der Struktur der Gesangstexte gewidmet.
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
631
Obwohl die Musik Samoas weit überwiegend aus
Gesängen besteht, so ist das ausführliche Kapitel über
die Musikinstrumente von größter Bedeutung für alle,
die sich mit der Musik der pazifischen Region beschäf-
tigen. Maultrommeln aus dem Blatt der Kokospalme
werden nur noch selten von Kindern gespielt, während
Nasen- und Panflöten nur noch als Museumsobjekte
existieren. Nichts ist über ihre Stimmung und Spielweise
bekannt. Die europäische Gitarre und die Ukulele traten
an ihre Stelle. Verschiedene Formen von Schlitztrom-
meln zeigen Kultureinflüsse aus Tonga, Fiji und Raro-
tonga.
Von der Vokalmusik werden die wichtigsten Gat-
tungen dargestellt, mit Text- und Musiktranskriptionen
und der Beschreibung der Melodiestrukturen und stili-
stischen Merkmale: tagi (Gesänge) in den fägogo (Er-
zählungen), Gesänge zur Krankenheilung, Wiegenlieder,
Spiel- und Kindergesänge, Spottgesänge, Gesänge zur
Tätowierung und an Geister, zeremonielle Klagegesänge
(’äuala), Ruder- und Kriegsgesänge, ’ o le solo (gesun-
gene Dichtung), ta’alolo (Gesänge zur Zeremonie der
Nahrungsübergabe), Hochzeits- (tini) und Preisgesänge
(vi’i), historische und Arbeitsgesänge.
Die Tanzgesänge, die am stärksten dem Kultur-
wandel und der Zeitmode ausgesetzt waren (viele sind
nach Moyle heute obsolet), werden ihrer Bedeutung
entsprechend in einem gesonderten Kapitel abgehandelt,
das jedoch im Vergleich zu den übrigen insgesamt etwas
schwach ausfällt. Hier vermißt man ausführliche Dar-
stellungen zur musikalischen Struktur und Stilistik. Das
gilt besonders für die siva-Tänze (“the most common
type of dance in present use”; 199). Da nach Moyle
alle von ihm aufgenommenen s/va-Gesänge akkulturiert
(“acculturated”) sind und meistens von einer oder meh-
reren, von Gitarren und Ukulele verstärkten Stimmen
begleitet werden, schließt der Autor sie - weil nicht
,traditionell4 - von der Betrachtung aus (233). Das gilt
auch für die Mehrzahl der mehrstimmigen Gesänge mit
Ausnahme der parallelen Mehrstimmigkeit, die als ein-
zige Form auf traditionelle Wurzeln zurückgeht (z. B.
180 ff., 239 ff.). Nach Moyle „scheint der Ursprung
der Polyphonie in den samoanischen Gesängen in der
Blaskapelle zu liegen, einer Einrichtung, die von den
Deutschen während ihrer Verwaltung von West-Samoa
(1900-1914) eingeführt wurde“ (244). Es fragt sich, ob
nicht eine Gesamtdarstellung der mehrstimmigen Gesän-
ge, ohne Rücksicht auf den Grad der Akkulturiertheit,
sinnvoller gewesen wäre, dürfte es doch problematisch
sein, hier verbindliche Grenzen zwischen ,traditionel-
lem4 und ,nicht-traditionellem4 Gehalt (zumindest sei-
tens der Samoaner selbst) zu ziehen.
Von diesen Einwänden abgesehen, ist das Buch
auch für den musikethnologisch nicht vorbelasteten
Leser ein wichtiger Beitrag zur Kenntnis ozeanischer
Musikkulturen. Artur Simon
Münzel, Mark (Hrsg.): Die Mythen Sehen. Bilder
und Zeichen vom Amazonas; 2 Bde. Frankfurt: Museum
für Völkerkunde, 1988. 763 pp., Ktn., Fotos, Fig., Abb.
(Roter Faden zur Ausstellung, 14/15)
Lana, Feliciano: Der Anfang vor dem Anfang.
Frankfurt: Museum für Völkerkunde, 1988. 49 pp.,
Abb., Ktn. (Rotes Fädchen, 4)
Vorzustellen sind zwei neue Bände der bekannten
Reihe des Frankfurter Völkerkundemuseums, Veröffent-
lichungen zur gleichnamigen Ausstellung 1988/89 in
Frankfurt. Der lapidar-rätselhafte Titel reizt zur Fra-
ge, wie das möglich sein soll: Die Mythen Sehen.
Der Untertitel gibt einen genaueren Hinweis auf den
Inhalt der Bände, und das Vorwort verrät schließlich,
was vorgestellt werden soll: „Die bildende Kunst von
Indianern“ (11), genauer, der Indianer des östlichen
Südamerika. Weit über das eigentliche Amazonasgebiet
hinausgehend sollen die 16 Aufsätze von 12 Autoren
eine „Art Rundreise durch das östliche Südamerika“ (11)
darstellen. Einer „redaktionellen Vorbemerkung“ und
einem einleitenden Aufsatz von Mark Münzel („Zu
den Grenzen ethnologischer Kunstbetrachtungen“) fol-
gen Beiträge von Cláudia Andujar und Antonio Pérez
über Zeichnungen brasilianischer Yanomami. Andujar,
die als Fotografin bei den Wakatautheri am Rio Catri-
mani arbeitete, veröffentlicht in der Hauptsache Zeich-
nungen eines Medizinmannes, die den Tod einer älteren
Frau behandeln. Die Zeichnungen illustrieren die Jen-
seitsreise der Seele der Verstorbenen und den Ablauf des
komplizierten Trauerrituals. Zu den Bildern hätte man
sich etwas ausführlichere Kommentare gewünscht. Zur
Schilderung des Trauerrituals durch Andujar muß ergän-
zend bemerkt werden, daß das Vergraben der Knochen-
asche im Boden des Hauses erst von den Consolata-Mis-
sionaren eingeführt wurde.
Luiz Boglär behandelt unter dem prätentiösen Titel
„Die Kunst der Urwälder oder der Urwald der Künste“
die Masken der Piaroa in Südvenezuela.
Ein erster thematischer Schwerpunkt wird auf
Nordwest-Amazonien gelegt. Mark Münzel („Das from-
me Lachen über den bärtigen Barbar“) behandelt in
einem weitausgreifenden Aufsatz die Sammlung von
Zeichnungen der Indianer des Uaupés, die vor über 80
Jahren Theodor Koch-Grünberg anlegte, und macht auf
charakteristische Unterschiede zur heutigen indianischen
Kunst aufmerksam. Berta Gleizer Ribeiro schreibt über
„Die bildliche Mythologie der Desäna“. Die Autorin
stellt Bilder der Vettern Luiz und Feliciano Lana vor,
die mit Wasserfarben auf Papier gemalt wurden. Mün-
zel hat die von Feliciano Lana erzählte und gemalte
Schöpfungsmythe der Desäna zusätzlich als Kinderka-
talog („Rotes Fädchen“) publiziert, der in seiner an-
sprechenden Gestaltung auch für Erwachsene reizvoll
zu lesen und zu betrachten ist. Es ist daher sehr zu
bedauern, daß aus Platzgründen der Text gekürzt und
Bilder weggelassen werden mußten. Feliciano Lana hat
auf einer Missionsschule Zeichenunterricht gehabt. Sei-
ne Bilder wirken europäischer als die seines Vetters
Luiz, dessen Darstellungen schlichter, weniger farbig,
doch gleichfalls von der Darstellungsweise der Weißen
geprägt sind; Beide verwenden beispielsweise perspek-
tivische Darstellung (Abb. 162, S. 254 und Abb. 165,
Anthropos 85.1990
632
Rezensionen
S. 257; Abb. 167, S. 259 ist übrigens seitenverkehrt).
Die Motivation der beiden Maler ist die Bewahrung
der Stammesüberlieferung. Gleizer Ribeiro vergleicht
ihre Malereien ebenfalls mit dem Material von Koch-
Grünberg und mit Buntstift-Zeichnungen auf Papier,"de-
ren Anfertigung der kolumbianische Ethnologe Reichel-
Dolmatoff in den 60er und 70er Jahren bei anderen Tu-
kano-Gruppen anregte. Bezeichnenderweise fehlt jenes
System symbolischer Zeichen, das Reichel-Dolmatoff
in Nordwest-Amazonien bei den Barasana entdeckt zu
haben glaubt, in den modernen Malereien völlig.
Einen weiteren inhaltlichen Schwerpunkt nach
Nordwest-Amazonien bildet die Region des oberen
Xingu mit einer Vielzahl von Stämmen verschiedener
Sprachzugehörigkeit, deren Kulturen sich immer mehr
einander angeglichen haben.
Vera Penteado Coelho stellt intensiv-farbige Zeich-
nungen der Waurá vor, die den europäischen Betrachter
eigentümlich „indianisch“ anmuten. Leider bekommen
die Bilder durch das kleine Katalogformat leicht et-
was Niedliches, vergleicht man sie mit den größeren
Abbildungen der Buchveröffentlichung („Die Waurä“,
Leipzig und Weimar 1986); die Mythenillustration (531)
des Katalogs ist übrigens seitenverkehrt.
Aurore Monod-Becquelin beschreibt die Körperbe-
malung der Trumai, ebenfalls vom oberen Xingu, und
Mark Münzel die Kunst der benachbarten Kamayurä
(„Der spielerische Sieg über die Dämonen: Die Kunst
der Kamayurä“). Hier muß man bei allem Respekt vor
der souveränen Detailkenntnis des Verfassers, der sich
seit über 20 Jahren mit der Kultur der Kamayurä be-
schäftigt, fragen, ob er nicht gelegentlich der Gefahr
erlegen ist, mehr in seinen Gegenstand hineinzuinter-
pretieren, als vorhanden ist.
Neben diesem Aufsatz zählt der Beitrag von Lucia
Hussak Van Velthem zu den Kabinettstücken der beiden
Bände. Die Autorin behandelt in einer geradezu vorbild-
lichen Darstellung die Flechtmuster der Wayana-Apalai
im Staate Parä (Brasilien) „im mythischen Rahmen ihrer
Kultur“ (280). Sie beschreibt ein bewundernswürdiges
„ikonographisches System“ eines bestimmten Flechtmu-
sters. Einer ähnlichen Thematik widmet sich Gleizer
Ribeiro bei den Kayabi Zentral-Brasiliens.
Zwei Aufsätze über die Guarani Süd-Brasiliens
und Paraguays, mit denen der Bereich des Amazonas
und zum Teil auch der „Bilder und Zeichen“ des Un-
tertitels verlassen wird, wirken ein wenig deplaziert.
Bartomeu Meliä schreibt über die Kunst des „Wortes“;
derselbe Autor zusammen mit Olga Blinder schließ-
lich über Zeichnungen mit Buntstiften auf Papier, die
im Gefolge einer Alphabetisierungs-Kampagne von den
Autoren angeregt wurden.
Den Abschluß der beiden Bände bilden zwei Auf-
sätze über Ethnien des ostperuanischen Amazonas-Ge-
bietes. Alicia Fernández Distel beschreibt Rindenbast-
verzierungen der Haräkmbet (besser unter der Bezeich-
nung Mashco bekannt) und Bruno Uhus Kunst und
Kosmologie der Shipibo-Conibo. Die berühmten geo-
metrischen Muster (quené) der zur Pano-Sprachfami-
lie gehörigen Indianer werden als Zeichen ethnischer
Identität vorgestellt. Das „Große-Boa“-Muster gilt als
Körperzeichnung eines Geistes, bzw. der Anakonda, ist
aber gleichzeitig eine bestimmte kosmische Region „am
äußersten Ende des Wassers“.
Derartige Muster werden vom Medizinmann im
Ayahuasca-Drogenrausch wahrgenommen und von den
Töpferinnen auf die Gefäße aufgemalt. Die großen be-
malten Maniokbier-Gefäße gelten als Mikrokosmos mit
Oberwelt, Mittelwelt und Unterwelt.
Betrachtet man die Aufsätze in ihrer Gesamtheit, so
ergeben sich ganz von selbst zahlreiche Bezüge, worauf
der Herausgeber häußg eigens hinweist. Das macht die
Lektüre sehr anregend. Auffällig ist die Bevorzugung
der modernen Zeichnungen mit Stiften oder Farben auf
Papier. Insbesondere bei Ethnien, die nicht an eigene
zeichnerische Traditionen anknüpfen können, wirken sie
wie Fremdkörper. Schöner wäre es wohl auch gewesen,
den Untertitel des Kataloges, „Bilder und Zeichen vom
Amazonas“, als Haupttitel zu nehmen. Jörg Helbig
Nunley, John W., and Judith Bettelheim: Carib-
bean Festival Arts. Each and Every Bit of Difference.
With contributions by B. Bridges, R. Nettleford, R. F.
Thompson, and D. Yonker. Seattle: University of Was-
hington Press, 1988. 218 pp., photos, fig., map. Price:
$ 39.95
“Caribbean Festival Arts” besticht zunächst durch
seine farbenprächtigen, eindrucksvollen Fotografien. Bei
näherer Betrachtung wird jedoch deutlich, daß es sich
keineswegs nur um ein schönes Bilderbuch handelt, son-
dern um eine Publikation, die auch in wissenschaftlicher
Hinsicht höchsten Ansprüchen genügt. Hervorragende
künstlerische Gestaltung und fundierte wissenschaftli-
che Forschung sind hier in einer gelungenen Synthese
miteinander verschmolzen.
Das Buch erschien als Begleitband zu einer Aus-
stellung gleichen Titels, die das Saint Louis Art Museum
im Dezember 1988 veranstaltete. In sieben Kapiteln
vermitteln die beiden Autoren unter Mitarbeit von Bar-
bara Bridges, Dolores Yonker und Rex Nettleford, die
jeweils eigene Artikel beisteuern, ein anschauliches und
umfassendes Bild der Masken- und Festtraditionen der
Karibik.
Im Zentrum der Betrachtung stehen drei karibische
Festtraditionen: Karneval, Jonkonnu und Hosay, denen
jeweils ein eigenes Kapitel gewidmet ist. Es folgt die
Untersuchung der entsprechenden Traditionen in Cuba,
Haiti und New Orleans. Ein weiteres Kapitel befaßt sich
mit den noch jungen Veranstaltungen in London, New
York und Toronto, die auf die Initiative von Migran-
ten aus der Karibik zurückgehen oder zumindest stark
von ihnen beeinflußt sind. Gedanken über Funktion und
Bedeutung, die diesen großen Festen im politischen
Leben der Heimatländer, aber auch im Ausland, heute
zukommen, beschließen das Werk.
Durchgängig bemühen sich die Verfasser bei der
Darstellung der Festveranstaltungen, zugleich das We-
sen der karibischen Kultur herauszuarbeiten. In genauen
historischen Untersuchungen zeigen sie, wie hier im
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
633
Lauf der Jahrhunderte seit der Inbesitznahme durch die
spanischen Eroberer eine Vielzahl von Kulturen zu einer
Einheit zusammenwuchs und dabei die charakteristische
Mischung entstand, die heute die Eigenart der kari-
bischen Kultur ausmacht, worauf auch der Untertitel
“Each and Every Bit of Difference” verweist: Zuerst
verbanden sich europäische, afrikanische und indiani-
sche Elemente. Im 19. Jh. kamen dann durch die massive
Migration indischer Arbeiter, die nach der Abschaffung
der Sklaverei 1838 als Plantagenarbeiter eingesetzt wur-
den (120), noch weitere Einflüsse hinzu.
Der Prozeß des Zusammenwachsens der verschie-
denen Völker und ihrer Kulturen veränderte diese aber
selbst, weshalb es nicht möglich ist, etwa in Afrika
die genaue Entsprechung eines karibischen Festes zu
finden, obschon die Herkunft einzelner Elemente häufig
noch gut rekonstruiert werden kann (36). Auf diese
Weise führen die Autoren zugleich spezifische Proble-
me afroamerikanistischer Fragestellungen vor (z. B. in
dem Abschnitt über die “Cowhead”-Maske im Kapitel
über Jonkonnu; 54 ff. und 62). Obgleich die afrikani-
sche Komponente in den karibischen Kulturen dominant
ist - besonders im künstlerischen Bereich -, wäre es
dennoch verfehlt, in allen Erscheinungen ausschließ-
lich ein Erbe der afrikanischen Vergangenheit sehen zu
wollen. Bettelheims differenzierte Untersuchung zu den
Vorläufern der Maske “Pitchy Patchy” in den Jonkon-
nu-Veranstaltungen kann hier als beispielhaft gelten (46
Abb. 21; 50 ff.).
Der besondere Einfluß Afrikas auf die neuentstan-
denen Kulturen der Karibik wird aber von den Autoren
durchaus gewürdigt, wie bereits das Thema der Vorbe-
merkung von Robert Farris Thompson vermuten läßt.
Er versucht die afrikanischen Wurzeln einiger tragender
Elemente karibischer Festtraditionen aufzuspüren und
befaßt sich besonders mit der Bedeutung von Umzügen
und Paraden für die Kultur der Yoruba und Bakongo.
Dabei stellt er fest, daß sich beide Traditionen in der Ka-
ribik verbanden und gegenseitig noch verstärkten (20).
Interpretationen eines Bakongo-Künstlers, dem Thomp-
son Abbildungen von karibischen Masken vorlegte, wei-
sen zudem gewisse Ähnlichkeiten mit den Erklärungen
auf, die die Masken-Hersteller in der Karibik über ihre
Intentionen abgaben.
Im ersten, einführenden Kapitel beschäftigen sich
Bettelheim. Nunley und Bridges mit dem besonderen
Charakter der karibischen Kulturen, den sie v. a. in den
Festtraditionen manifestiert sehen, denn auch diese sind
von der Vermischung verschiedener ehtnischer Grup-
pen, Religionen und politischer Orientierungen geprägt.
Das verstärkte Interesse an Afrika hat in jüngerer Zeit
zu weiteren Veränderungen der karibischen Traditionen
geführt, wobei die Übernahme afrikanischer Elemente
neuerdings meist nicht mehr von der ethnischen Zuge-
hörigkeit abhängig ist, sondern die karibischen Künstler
frei aus den afrikanischen Vorbildern auswählen. Ästhe-
tische Kriterien ersetzten also weitgehend die traditio-
nellen Überlieferungsmuster.
Judith Bettelheim widmet sich im zweiten Kapi-
tel der Jonkonnu-Tradition in Jamaika. Jonkonnu ist
eine Art Straßen-Tanztheater, das von männlichen ko-
stümierten und maskierten Darstellern nach vorgegebe-
nen Tanzschritten zur Weihnachtszeit sowie anläßlich
der Nationalfeiertage aufgeführt wird. In vorbildlicher
Weise verfolgt Bettelheim die Geschichte Jonkonnus in
Jamaika zurück bis zu den Anfängen aus afrikanischen
Traditionen, in die zu Beginn des 19. Jh.s Elemente
des englischen Völkstheaters Eingang fanden (39-49).
In Jamaika werden heute zwei Arten von Jonkonnu
unterschieden: “Roots Jonkonnu” mit ausgeprägt afri-
kanischem Charakter und “Fancy Dress”, das mehr
europäisch ausgerichtet ist (50 ff.). Die gewissenhafte
historische Untersuchung des Ursprungs von Jonkonnu
erleichtert der Verfasserin im folgenden den Nachweis,
daß^John Canoe”-Aufführungen in Zentralamerika, Be-
lize, St. Kitts-Nevis, Nassau und den Bahamas sich nicht
direkt von der jamaikanischen Form ableiten lassen.
Der Karneval in Trinidad ist Gegenstand des drit-
ten Kapitels, von John Nunley. Auch diese Veran-
staltung unterlag mannigfachen Veränderungen, doch
blieb der Kostümwettbewerb bis zum heutigen Tage
das Kernstück. Aufgrund der hohen Teilnehmerzahlen
(über 100.000 Personen) ist hier eine ganz andere Or-
ganisation erforderlich (85 ff.) als etwa beim jamaikani-
schen Jonkonnu, bei dem jede Gruppe aus nur wenigen
Darstellern besteht. Nunley zeigt, daß trotz der großen
kommerziellen Bedeutung des Trinidad-Karnevals sehr
anspruchsvolle künstlerische Leistungen in Masken-
gestaltung und Choreographie erbracht werden, wobei
die Künstler häufig zu verschiedenen Themen, wie z. B.
zur Umweltzerstörung (99, 105), kritisch Stellung neh-
men.
Einst von indischen Plantagenarbeitem in Guyana,
Jamaika und Trinidad eingeführt, zieht das mehrere Tage
dauernde Hosay-Fest, das Bettelheim und Nunley im
vierten Kapitel besprechen, heute auch besonders Afro-
Kariben an. Eigentlich ist Hosay ein muslimisches Fest,
doch hat es bereits um die Mitte des vorigen Jahrhun-
derts Muslime, Hindus und Afro-Amerikaner zu einer
Einheit zusammengeführt (119-121). Ausschlaggebend
für die Teilnahme ist somit nicht die Zugehörigkeit zu
einer bestimmten Religionsgemeinschaft, sondern die
ethnische Identität (123 ff.). Seine Integrationsfähigkeit
weist Hosay als typisch karibisches Fest aus.
Den Karneval in Cuba, das Rara-Ritual in Haiti und
die “Black Indians” von New Orleans werden von Bet-
telheim, Bridges und Yonker im fünften Kapitel unter-
sucht, während das sechste die Verbreitung karibischer
Feste in modernen Großstädten Europas und Nordameri-
kas behandelt und von John Nunley stammt. Sowohl der
“Brooklyn Labor Day”-Karneval als auch der Londoner
Umzug von Notting Hill Gate und das Caribana-Fest
in Toronto sind sehr stark vom Trinidad-Karneval be-
einflußt (169, 172, 178). Diese Veranstaltungen erfüllen
ähnliche Funktionen wie ursprünglich das Hosay-Fest
in der Karibik: Sie helfen den westindischen Migranten,
ihre kulturelle Identität in einer fremden Umgebung zu
bewahren (173, 180L).
Rex Nettleford geht im abschließenden, siebten
Kapitel nochmals auf die letztgenannte Problematik
Anthropos 85.1990
634
Rezensionen
ein (196 f.). Er betrachtet die Entstehung der karibischen
Festtraditionen als Antwort auf das brutale Ausbeu-
tungssystem, dem die schwarzen Sklaven und später
die indischen Plantagenarbeiter ausgesetzt waren. Heute
fördern diese Traditionen die regionale Einheit in der
Karibik (184 ff.), weshalb ihnen nach Meinung Nettle-
fords die wichtige Aufgabe zukommt, den Zusammen-
halt unter den karibischen Staaten zu stärken und so
dem Hegemonialstreben der Supermächte entgegenzu-
wirken (190 ff.).
Ausführliche Anmerkungen mit vielen Details und
Literaturangaben, ein Glossar wichtiger Begriffe, eine
Liste mit Lektüreempfehlungen, ein Index und der Bild-
nachweis vervollständigen das Buch. Fotografien und
Bildmaterial haben nicht - wie so häufig bei ähnlichen
Publikationen - nur dekorativen Charakter, sondern sie
sind so ausgewählt und angeordnet, daß sie den Text als
eigenständige Quellen sinnvoll ergänzen.
“Caribbean Festival Arts” beleuchtet die Masken-
und Festtraditionen Westindiens gründlich und von allen
Seiten, wobei ganz unterschiedliche Aspekte berück-
sichtigt werden. So gelingt es den Autoren, eine umfas-
sende, lebendige Schilderung der karibischen Feste in
ihrem sozio-politischen Kontext zu liefern und zugleich
ein sehr schönes Buch vorzulegen. Iris Gareis
Nutini, Hugo G.: Todos Santos in Rural Tlaxcala.
A Syncretic, Expressive, and Symbolic Analysis of the
Cult of the Dead. Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1988. xv + 472 pp., maps, photos. Price: $75.00
Dies ist die fünfte Monographie Nutinis über das
ländliche Tlaxcala. Nach einer Ethnographie über San
Bernardino Contla mit thematischem Schwerpunkt auf
Heirat und Familienstruktur (1968), einer regionalen
ethnographischen Bestandsaufnahme (1974) sowie zwei
Bänden über rituelle Verwandtschaft (1980, 1984) er-
schließt er mit dem vorliegenden Buch über «Todos
Santos» einen weiteren Lebensbereich der Bewohner
dieser Region. Der Akzent liegt dabei auf der Bedeutung
dieses Festes im Rahmen des Totenkultes der einzelnen
Familien, der sich in weniger auffälliger und aufwendi-
ger Form über den ganzen Jahreszyklus erstreckt.
Ungeachtet der detaillierten ethnographischen Be-
schreibung verfolgt der Autor mit dem Buch das Ziel,
grundsätzliche methodische Beiträge zu liefern. Das gilt
sowohl für die Analyse von Symbolik und sozialem
Wirkungsgefüge bei diesem Kult als auch für allge-
meinere Fragen zur Untersuchung von Synkretismus.
Die Datenerhebung ist entsprechend weit angelegt und
umfaßt den zeitlichen Rahmen von der Conquista bis
zur Gegenwart. Dieser weite zeitliche Ansatz erlaubt es,
gegenwärtige Formen aus der Sicht der Vergangenheit
zu erhellen, umgekehrt aber auch, spärliche Angaben in
frühen Quellen auf der Basis heutiger Gegebenheiten
verständlicher zu machen.
Für die ethnographische Bestandsaufnahme erwie-
sen sich die vorangegangenen Untersuchungen in Tlax-
cala als überaus nützlich. So konnten Nutini und seine
Ehefrau u. a. auf ein Netzwerk von über 130 «compa-
dres» und «comadres» als Informanten zurückgreifen.
Hier zeigt sich der Vorteil von Langzeitstudien in einer
Region, da der mühsame Prozeß der Kontaktfindung und
Mißtrauensüberwindung weitgehend entfällt.
Das Buch behandelt zunächst die spanischen wie
indianischen Komponenten des Totenkultes und den
nach der Conquista abgelaufenen Prozeß zur Heraus-
bildung von Todos Santos in seiner aus der Kolonialzeit
überkommenen Form. In Tlaxcala war dieser Prozeß im
wesentlichen um die Mitte des 17. Jh.s abgeschlossen.
Nachfolgend gab es bis zum Ende des 19. Jh.s nur noch
kleine Veränderungen. Danach setzte ein Prozeß wei-
teren Wandels ein, bei dem es sich aber weniger um
das Zusammenfügen unterschiedlicher religiöser Tra-
ditionen als um Säkularisierungsvorschläge handelte.
Trotz dieser Vorgänge hatte sich das Ritual sowohl auf
öffentlicher wie privater Ebene bis um 1960 - dem
ethnographischen Präsens des Buches - weitgehend in
der aus der Kolonialzeit tradierten Form erhalten. Der
Schilderung und Analyse der damals beobachteten To-
tenfeiern ist der größte Teil des Buches gewidmet. Daran
schließt sich eine Zusammenfassung der Beobachtungen
über weitere Veränderungen an, die sich in den nachfol-
genden zweieinhalb Jahrzehnten ereigneten. Sie führten
zu einem einschneidenden Wandel, durch den das Fest
sowohl in der äußeren Gestaltung als auch in seiner
symbolischen und gesellschaftlichen Relevanz verarmt
ist.
So ist die ethnographische Darstellung überwie-
gend die Dokumentation einer vergangenen Lebenswei-
se. Durch die umsichtige Analyse unter verschiedenen
Blickwinkeln gewinnt sie jedoch den Charakter einer
Fallstudie, die auch unter methodischem Aspekt für
Vergleichsuntersuchungen von Bedeutung ist.
Ulrich Köhler
O’Hanlon, Michael: Reading the Skin. Adorn-
ment, Display, and Society among the Wahgi. London:
British Museum Publications, 1989, 164 pp., maps, pho-
tos, illus., fig. Price: £25.00.
The North Wall Wahgi of the Banz area in the
Western Highlands of Papua New Guinea have been
studied previously by the missionary-anthropologists
Heinrich Aufenanger and Louis Luzbetak, though they
are not so well-known, thanks to the prolific work of
Marie Reay, as the Kuma of the South Wall. “Reading
the Skin” looks like a “coffee-table book,” complete
with gorgeous color plates of highly-photogenic people,
numerous black-and-white photographs, and superb line
drawings (by Rebecca Jewell), as if intended to add
some dash to the more prosaic ethnographic literature.
However, as with the decorations that are the ostensible
focus of O’Hanlon’s attention, there is both more and
less than meets the eye in this extraordinary cautionary
tale.
O’Hanlon’s “account of’ adornment and display is,
at one level, an analysis of (primarily male) Wahgi body
adornment and display as “a system of communication,”
but he also seeks “to illustrate the bearing of Wahgi
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
635
material on debates as to the significance of art forms in
Melanesia” (17) and, indeed, whether and how we can
or should try to make sense of art in such a way.
In the Wahgi case, there would seem to be “emic”
warrant for such an approach, since they themselves
are said to spend considerable time in “assessments”
of appearance and performance in festive and martial
displays (Chap. 6-7), which are “felt to disclose the
true state of moral relations, otherwise obscured by
doubt and rival verbal accounts” (111). Among the
Wahgi, men’s appearance in displays is “thought of as
an external reflection of their inner moral condition with
respect to the questions of betrayal, of concealed anger,
of reciprocity in brides, of fidelity to allies, and acknowl-
edgement of ‘sources’” (124) -, i.e., as communicating
vital information relevant to the “themes” that pervade
Wahgi society and culture: “men’s preoccupation with
group strength, solidarity and with the minimising of
internal divisions at all levels”; “concern that the ideally
solidary group of clansmen yet contains within it traitors
... who, for their personal advantage, may be in secret
contact with enemy groups”; and an “emphasis that
individual health, strength, and appearance are substan-
tially externally derived, and spring from individuals’
relationships with their maternal kin” (23). And yet
- perhaps not surprisingly given such a large task -
adornment and display are “ultimately unable to sustain
the authenticating role allocated to them” (17). In the
end, like all else in Wahgi life, plumes and paint can
serve to conceal as well as reveal, and the inevitably
partial revelations and non-consensual assessments re-
sult in uncertainty.
The book may be regarded as an example of what
Gregory Bateson (Steps to an Ecology of Mind. New
York 1972: 1) called a “metalogue”: “a conversation
about some problematic subject” in which “the structure
of the conversation as a whole is also relevant to the
same subject.” Following a methodological and theo-
retical introduction, “Reading the Skin,” like “reading
the skin,” begins (Chap. 1-4) with the larger context in
which the Wahgi “themes” are embedded and thereby
concealed, until O’Hanlon reveals them to us as the
Wahgi themselves raise them to consciousness, through
case material on negotiations, disputes, and discussions.
Group structure, residence, leadership, marriage, witch-
craft and other forms of betrayal, courtship, food ex-
changes, payments to allies, and warfare are all dis-
sected, as is the pig festival, physically placed almost
precisely at the center of the book (71-79) as it is at the
center of Wahgi life. O’Hanlon then displays the Wahgi
as they do themselves (Chap. 5) by describing in detail
their preparations, decorations, dances, and songs, and
finally articulating (Chap. 6) and illustrating (Chap. 7)
the criteria used by the Wahgi as they “assess” the
meanings of it all.
The plurality of “meanings” must be emphasized
since, while adornment and display may be, and appar-
ently are, regarded as “a dynamic idiom in terms of
which moral issues are discussed, disputed and talked
through” (124), the “meaning” of an assemblage of
dancing clan members, their decorations, the condition
of their “skin,” their songs, etc., is “something that
is negotiated and transacted, rather than simply being
intrinsic to particular acts or events” (125). With lack
of unanimity among those assessing appearances and
performances, and no formal discussion following pub-
lic displays, no closure is possible: everyone seems to
agree that messages have been sent, but O’Hanlon is in
the same position as the Wahgi themselves. A glossary
(141-146) can be compiled, describing the major items
of ceremonial wear and ceremonial structures, and even
the terms of assessment for “skin,” but it is not a Rosetta
Stone, allowing mechanical, unambiguous translation.
If the author frequently uses the word “perhaps”
and “suggests” rather than asserts interpretations, these
are not symptoms of inadequate ethnography. Over
two years of fieldwork which yielded rich and de-
tailed case material and his obvious sophistication in
the metaphor-rich Wahgi language leave little question
as to O’Hanlon’s “ethnographic authority.” Instead, in
his forthright portrayal of a society in which social
prominence depends on oratorical dexterity but whose
members mistrust verbal statements, and men use wigs
that partially conceal the face and charcoal to color
the greying hair of elders at the same time that “the
decorated appearance is more often thought to reveal
than to conceal” (10), he convincingly conveys a sense
of a people among whom uncertainty “lends an ambiva-
lent quality to everyday social life” (68). Perhaps only
compilers of coffee-table books could suppose that the
spectacular is simpler than, or fundamentally different
from, the quotidian. Terence E. Hays
Pillai-Vetschera, Traude (Hrsg.): Indische Mar-
chen. Der Prinz aus der Mangofrucht. Kassel: Erich
Roth-Verlag, 1989. 220 pp., Abb. Preis: DM24,80
Until the recent popularization of radio and televi-
sion in the rural areas of India, the Indian villages were
the most active creators and propagators of folklore,
because they had to provide their own entertainment.
And the Indian villagers were certainly very inventive
in such activities. Prominent among the various kinds of
entertainment in the villages was story-telling. Indeed,
most villages had semi-professional bards and story-tell-
ers who in the off-season, when agricultural work was
less urgent, kept the village folk spell-bound with their
vivid recitations of myths, legends, and fairy-tales. Thus
also tribes like the Bhils and Minas of South Rajasthan
and Madhya Pradesh employed such semi-professional
story-tellers, since most of these tribals were illiterate.
The authoress of this book under review, Dr. Pillai-
Vetschera, collected her stories from story-tellers of
these two tribes.
Generally there is no dearth of publications in
Indian folklore. Verrier Elwin states (Folk-Tales of Ma-
hakoshal. Bombay 1944: ix) that already in 1927 more
than 3000 folktales of India and adjacent countries had
been published, and meanwhile many more books on
this subject have come out in print. Elwin himself had
Anthropos 85.1990
636
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published quite a number of myths, fairy-tales, and
folksongs of the Central-Indian tribes. However, so far
the folklore of the Bhils and Minas and of the region
in which they reside was largely unrecorded. We are,
therefore, grateful to Pillai-Vetschera for filling up“ this
lacuna. And still more pleased must be the linguists
because these stories were recorded by her on tape
in the local dialects of the Bhils (Rathvi) and of the
Minas (Mewadi-Wagadi), two little-known dialects of
Rajasthani.
However, the stories narrated in this collection can
hardly be accredited to the Bhils and Minas though they
were narrated by them. The publisher himself admits on
the fly-leaf of the book that the stories are too sophis-
ticated and betray a cultural environment too different
from that of the Bhils and Minas. Especially the very
long 1st and 2nd, but also the 7th, 12th, and 13th stories
can safely be excluded as Bhil and Mina products.
They obviously belong to the cultural background of the
higher Hindu castes of southern Rajasthan. But even as
such they are welcome specimens of Indian folklore.
The arrangement of this book appears somewhat
defective and confusing to this reviewer: Instead of
giving first some information about the region and the
people from where the fairy tales have been collected,
the book starts abruptly with the fairy tales. And when
the reader looks for notes and explanations of new
terms and strange customs, he is given the introduction
which he missed at the beginning. Only then comes
the commentary which normally follows the text of the
stories immediately.
The publisher then provides an all too short typol-
ogy of the folktales based on Stith Thompson’s book
“The Types of the Folktale” (EEC 184, Helsinki 1961).
This typological analysis should better have been based
on Thompson’s book which he co-authored with Jonas
Baly, “The Oral Tales of India” (Bloomington 1958,
reprint 1976).
These blemishes will, however, only concern the
folklorist. The reader who just wants to relax with a
book of outlandish fare, will surely be captivated by
the exotic timbre revealed in these stories, their dry
wit and humour, and, perhaps, by their very crudeness
and outspoken rudeness. In her short commentary of
only 22 pages the authoress tries to explain certain
local beliefs and customs of the people who live in the
towns and villages of one of the most backward and
old-fashioned regions of India. This qualification may
equally apply to the higher Hindu castes in their towns
as to the Bhils and Minas in their stray settlements and
hamlets in the hills. Stephen Fuchs
Preston, Laurence W.: The Devs of Cincvad.
A Lineage and the State in Maharashtra. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1989. xi + 273 pp., maps,
fig., tab. (Cambridge South Asian Studies, 41) Price:
£ 30.00
The Devs of Cincvad were a famous family in
the Maratha State and the hereditary custodians and
promoters of the “eight Ganpatis” (astavindyakas) of
Maharashtra. The influence of the cult of the elephant-
headed son of God Siva in Maharashtra has survived
all vicissitudes of history. Its religious, but also political
importance, especially among the brahmanical families,
was popularized by Lokamanya Bal Gangadhar Tilak
as a nationalist symbol and as a response to the
Muharram festival which had attracted many Hindus
as well. Recently rightist Hindus tried to enlist the
popularity of the Ganpati festival for what they call
Hinduism, but their efforts were counterbalanced by an
even more recent resolute attempt by the Maharashtra
Tourist Development Corporation to make the festival
an annual rousing tourist event.
Though this study takes us back to the origins of
the cult, it concentrates on the political, social, legal, and
economic history of the lineage of the Devs from the
17th to 19th century. The Devs were closely associated
with the Ganpati cult of Morgav and Cincvad. The
original founder of the lineage, Moroba Gosavi, and,
in turn, his senior descendants considered themselves
in certain contexts not just as acting on behalf of, but
as very manifestations of the deity. This might not
have been as such an uncommon phenomenon in Indian
religion, but the fact that it happened in the case of a
famous regional deity enhanced the religious status of
the senior descendants of the lineage and aroused the
curiosity of Early English travellers.
The author concentrates on the lineage history of
the Devs and elegantly cuts short the argument that
lineage history would not project new hypotheses. In this
he has been well-advised if one realizes that traditional
Maharashtra is typically structured not only by brahman
lineages, but by the dominance of the “five” and the
“96” Maratha lineages. Thus he sees the underlying
force in Indian history in the essential units of Indian
society, such as the lineage. And as his sources are
virtually untouched by historians such fundamental case
studies dictate the use of original documents. These
sources exist in abundance for the Maratha up to the
British period. 40,000,000 (in word: fourty million)
Marathi documents in Modi script - which only a
handful of scholars are still able to read - are housed
in Pune Archives, besides, of course, the more easily
accessible English primary sources. It is a remarkable
achievement of the author to have examined and utilized
hundreds of these Marathi documents in conjunction
with English primary sources. The differences between
Maratha notions of the relationship between the state and
the Devs as their “privileged subjects” and the British
post-conquest efforts to deal with the rights of their
subjects are thoroughly worked out, wherever necessary,
in the light of legal theory. The initial sympathy of
the British gave eventually way to the principles of
certainty, legislation, and procedure. Essentially the
concept and functioning of the Maratha state was never
fully understood. Probably it was the wish to adapt
that there was never anybody to explain and analyze
the meaning of the traditional state for the benefit of
Anthropos 85.1990
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637
the new rulers and administrators. It is only in recent
years that we begin to understand the traditional Indian
state, after it had been interpreted in Western terms for a
long time. These interpretations, of course, fell short of
insight, let alone plausibility. The present analysis is one
of a series of modem Western and Indian studies which
beyond purely economic matters open new prospects
of understanding traditional Indian society and the state
without presuppositions. It certainly breaks new ground.
The first part of the book deals with the rise of the
Devs and the acquisition of the indm from the Maratha
kings and the Peshwas in the 17th and 18th century.
Indm had a multifacetted meaning and in the case of the
Devs meant that they “owned” village “rent-free,” had
the right to coin rupees, and collected duties from trade
in and out of Pune. These enabled them to act, e.g., as
financers and arbiters of just causes, and generally to
provide a sound base for the welfare of their lineage,
and, last but not least, to function as a spiritual élite.
Indm was a personal grant capable of being resumed by
the state, that is, by the Maratha kings and the Peshwa
who assumed the de facto power. But because of the
enduring influential relationship with the leading powers
of the Maratha state and the religious importance of the
lineage a resumption was never envisaged. When the
state intervened, it was rather to strengthen the internal
harmony of the lineage as in the case of the tahandmd
of 1744 which provided a comprehensive settlement
of the claims of kinsmen to maintenance or a share
in the patrimony besides guarding the function of the
Samsthan and the ritual position of the Dev. The analysis
of the peculiar institution of the tahandmd, a kind of
political treaty plus elements of a lineage settlement,
makes very interesting reading. The impartible estate
of the indm was called a samsthan - an indivisible
endowment which approximated the Cincvad dominion
to a jaglr. This was normally given to the actual landed
feudatories of the Maratha state, interestingly, the term
devasthdn was never used in the Maratha documents.
One would have thought that the Dev administered the
estate on behalf of the deity, but the peculiar identity
of the god and in his prime devotee seems to have
precluded such an arrangement. What strikes the reader
is the cautious and balanced approach with which the
flexibility and contextual sensitivity of Maratha legal
terms are interpreted by the author.
A suggestive picture is drawn of the annual pil-
grimages which the Dev undertook to the ancient
original Ganpati shrine at Morgaon. The procession had
to pass Pune and was received by the Peshwa two miles
off the city. He acknowledged his ritual superior with
presents and provisions. The Dev, in return, bestowed
his blessings on the supplicant with a gift of prasdd, a
favour from a deity or ritual superior (94 f.). Temporal
power and ritual superior reaffirmed each other’s domain
of precedence. The author seems here to be too weary to
refer to the long-standing discussion of the relationship
between spiritual (brahman) and temporal (ksatram)
power, initiated by Louis Dumont. The British saw
no relevance of this ritual of the Maratha state and
eventually stopped the Dev’s pilgrimage allowance. The
annual pilgrimage is still performed and one wonders
how it is financed nowadays.
Part Two (“The Inamdar under the British”) con-
tinues to give a balanced picture of the post-conquest
period from 1818. A simple but significant piece of
evidence may illustrate the change here; Schemes to
accurately measure land productivity and levels of as-
sessment were propounded to fix government’s revenue.
In comparison, there were tremendous variations in as-
sessing revenue in the Maratha period which depended
on the nature of land, varying land measures, climatic
conditions, and varying arrangements of the inamdar
with his tenants. In other words, agriculture developed
to a hitherto unknown extent after the British. The
present reviewer feels that the essentially agro-pastoral
economy in wide parts of Maharashtra in the pre-British
period generally tends to be underrated by historians.
One of the major achievements of the British was the
promotion of trade. Between 1836 and 1844 the interval
transit duties were abolished in the British territories
throughout India. These rights to duties were closely
linked to landed rights. In the case of the Devs the transit
duties marked the “dominion” (samsthan). By 1852 the
British had effectively stopped all claims of the Cincvad
inamdar on the trade out and into Pune.
Chapter 6 deals with the chequered history of the
Inam Commission which had to settle the claim of the
inamdars on the basis of the Maratha records adopting
new procedures, interpretation, and strategies. Chapter 7
takes up the special case of the Cincvad Samsthan.
In seeking a title to alienated revenue problems of
what was now called Hindu law arose, especially the
interrelated law of adoption, the rights of widows, and
varieties of inheritance. We obtain valuable glimpses
in understanding the different functions and perceptions
of these institutions in the Maratha and British period.
Particularly lively is the analysis of the relatively strong
position of widows, and the author hints that it reflects in
part the power and the status of the family from which
they were given in marriage. He could have referred
to that pervasive Maharashtrian institution of mdher
(mother’s house) to which women could have recourse
and which safeguarded much of their interests in the
family of marriage.
Generally the author never forgets the wider cul-
tural context, but though the demands of the particular
sources used seem exasperating, the reader might have
liked to have some more questions answered. For in-
stance, who were the subjects over which the Devs ruled,
what crops did they raise, what were the environmental
factors which seemed to let the Devs live in relative
isolation, and so on. But these questions were admittedly
beyond the purview of this study which deals with many
substantial themes. In many cases the author moreover
indicates further lines of research. The scrupulous In-
dologist to whom this book is strongly recommended as
a counterweight to his biases, might find fault with the
Anthropos 85.1990
638
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translation of sutra as “line of descent.” Actually sutra
Asvaldyana refers to Vedic works of the Asvaldyana
Branch or School (Sakha) of the Rigveda such as the
Asvaldyana-srautasdtra (25 noted). “Moraya” is not so
much a formal rendering of the name Moroba as rather
a popular form derived by metathesis from Sanskrit
mayUra (ibid.). But this should not detract from the
conclusion that we have a painstaking and absorbing
study of how a social group, like the lineage of the
Devs of Cincvad, rose to religious, social, and political
eminence and flourished under the indigenous state and
adapted itself to survive a foreign, often ignorant rule.
Gunther-Dietz Sontheimer
Price, Sally: Primitive Art in Civilized Places.
Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1989. xi +
147 pp., photos, illus. Price; $22.95
Sally Price has written a brief introduction to the
most important and controversial issues involved in to-
day’s increasing interest in the plastic and visual arts of
preliterate (primitive) peoples. This is not an extended,
scholarly discussion of all of the complex issues raised
by the attempts to understand and exhibit the arts of
preliterate peoples, though the author is herself a scholar
who has made her reputation in this field by studying
the arts and society of the Maroons (“Bush Negroes”)
of Suriname. Instead, Price concisely and provocatively
presents many of the key intellectual and moral prob-
lems at the center of studying, appreciating, exhibiting,
and collecting such works without any attempt to resolve
them. It is a volume that should be read by anyone at
all involved in these matters. It is therefore odd that
the Chicago press did not bring this out in a cheaper,
paperback version.
The book is divided into an introduction, eight
short chapters, and an afterword. Unfortunately, it is
severely limited in its usefulness by having no index.
The introducton opens with a discussion of the
many ways that one may define “primitive art,” indi-
cating how misleading and ethnocentric the phrase may
be. To show this she contrasts conventional definitions
with far more radical ones of her own such as these:
“Any artistic tradition postdating the Middle Ages for
which museum labels do not identify the artists of
exhibited pieces. ... Any artistic traditiort postdating the
Middle Ages for which museum labels give the dates
of displayed objects in centuries rather than years” (2).
“The art of peoples whose in-home languages are not
normally taught for credit in universities. Any artistic
tradition for which the market value of an object auto-
matically inflates by a factor of ten or more upon export
out of its original cultural setting” (3).
”... this book is about the plight of objects from
around the world that - in some ways like the Afri-
cans who were captured and transported to unknown
lands during the slave trade - have been discovered,
seized, commoditized, stripped of their social ties, re-
defined in new settings, and reconceptualized to fit into
the economic, cultural, political, and ideological needs
of people from distant societies” (5). At this point a
reader may worry whether this will become another
“deconstructionist,” destructive tract in pseudo-liberal
anthropology and museum bashing (see my recent re-
view in Anthropos 84.1989: 263-267). While there are
occasional hints of self-righteousness, for the most part
Price appears sincerely committed to both anthropology
and museums, implicitly assuming that the proper study
and exhibition of such objects from alien cultures could
benefit both ourselves and the alien cultures concerned.
Furthermore, in both her quotations and her illustrations
Price reveals a playfulness that suggests some optimism
about bettering our understanding and treatment of these
objects and the societies from which they come.
The first chapter, “The Mystique of Connoisseur-
ship,” considers a topic involving considerable mystifi-
cation and psycho-babble in the fine arts. It sometimes
involves even greater obfuscation and ethnocentrism
when Western art historians, anthropologists, museum
curators, art dealers and collectors remark candidly
about their bases of aesthetic discernment. The difficul-
ty, of course, is that, as Wittgenstein long ago observed,
there is ultimately little difference between aesthetics
and ethics. To point out the confusions that abound,
Price provides a series of what should be embarrassing
quotes from a wide range of persons with well-known
associations with primitive art including the collectors
Dominique de Menil and Nelson Rockefeller, the mu-
seum curators William Rubin and Susan Vogel, and the
authors Ladislas Segy, Paul Wingert, and anonymous
editors of the American journal African Arts. What these
share are embarrassingly ill considered and rather pontif-
ical pronouncements of what they attribute to preliterate
peoples, views that sometimes appropriate the identities
of such peoples into a perspective that perpetuates ste-
reotypes about basic naturalness, less inhibited emotions
or a denial of any deep intellectual, experiential, and
cultural gulf separating their arts from ours - but at
the same time implicitly claiming the superior right to
discern and judge their achievements while discounting
their capacities to judge ours.
The main arguments of the second chapter, “The
Universality Principle,” is that “The ‘equality’ accorded
to non-Westerners (and their art), the implication goes, is
not a natural reflection of human equivalence, but rather
the result of Western benevolence” (25). According to
such thinking, Western connoisseurs are far more likely
to claim that they can more readily appreciate a Tlingit
carving than that a Tlingit Indian might have anything
useful to say about a Donatello sculpture. Even worse,
some connoisseurs argue that what they have to say
about Tlingit art is more significant than anything the
Tlingit themselves might utter.
The third chapter, “The Night Side of Man,” pro-
vides numerous quotes from those who believe that
dark, repressed, savage emotions animate primitive art
and that there is little of the calculated and intellectual
about it.
The fourth chapter, “Anonymity and Timeless-
ness,” argues that most writings on primitive art un-
Anthropos 85.1990
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639
derplay the differences in historical change in styles,
themes, and materials involved in primitive art. The
superb recent volume by E. Schildkraut and C. A. Keim
on “Mangbetu” art beautifully illustrates how care can
be taken to appreciate such factors (African Reflections:
Art from Northeastern Zaire. New York 1990).
The fifth chapter, “Power Plays,” argues that “In
short, Westerners have assumed responsibility for the def-
inition, conservation, interpretation, marketing, and future
existence of the world’s arts” (69). Here Price provides
horrendous accounts of how various Western collectors
intimidated, stole, or bamboozled for primitive art.
The sixth chapter, “Objets d’Art and Ethnographic
Artifacts,” discusses the sharp contrasts in treatment and
evaluation received by the same artefacts, depending
upon whether they are displayed as art in fine arts
museums or as ethnographic samples in museums of
ethnology or natural history. This is one of the most
provocative and controversial chapters. Unfortunately,
Price fails to indicate that it is not possible to secure a
full solution to the alternatives she poses. Such artefacts
are not reducible to being only art or only specimens but
are complexly both and more. Furthermore, Price should
also have indicated that issues of explication and display
of Western fine art are as hotly debated in museum
circles as are (or should be) treatment of “primitive
works.” In this sense, some of Price’s quarrels are with
those who control all types of museums and who deal
with all types of art, not just with non-Western.
Chapter seven, “From Signature to Pedigree,” ar-
gues that unlike Western art which is usually identified
with a particular artist or school, primitive art is willfully
presented as anonymous even when its authors might
be readily determined. Even worse, some of the greatest
creations in primitive art are identified and valued not
entirely for their inherent worth but for what famous
collectors previously owned them. Oddly, Price seems to
forget that this is sometimes also the case with Western
arts as well.
Chapter eight, “A Case in Point,” describes Price’s
experiences in trying to mount a show of Maroon art. In
the course of this account she repeats and summarizes
many of her criticisms from the preceding chapters,
although at times at the risk of repetitiveness.
Towards the end of her book Price tries to con-
clude on a more constructive note, advocating that those
studying and exhibiting Western fine arts should learn
from anthropologists in that they should provide broader
and deeper sociocultural contextualization. She cites G.
Schwartz’ study of Rembrandt (New York 1985) as
an example of what this should be; she could also
have cited I. M. Montias’ more recent study of Ver-
meer (Princeton 1989). Conversely, Price advocates that
anthropologists should leam from scholars in the fine
arts and consequently devote more attention to exploring
the identities and differences in individual artists, to
showing greater concern in the complexity and changes
in non-Western aesthetics, and to recognizing that the
arts of preliterate peoples are hardly timeless but subject
to dramatic and important changes in style, symbolism.
aims, materials, and techniques (see Schildkraut and
Keim 1990).
This is a work apparently aimed at non-anthro-
pologists. It recites the myriad errors and distortions
stemming from Western hubris, ignorance, and ethno-
centrism, all defects that anthropologists are supposed
to combat. It is sure to provoke comment and do good.
Yet I wonder if this might have been even more useful if
at least a few more positive examples were provided to
offset what is generally a litany of errors and abuses. Af-
ter all, however distorted or poorly considered, interest
in non-Westem art is partly grounded in motives about
trying to reach some other vision or way of being, and
that could be a constructive force. It might also have
been salutary for Price to point out that anthropologists
are also prone at times to profound cultural blindness
and arrogance, even when approaching their “own” cul-
ture which, historically, probably requires as much work
to understand as any exotic, non-Westem one. After all,
people today are not likely automatically to see works
by Botticelli or Piero della Francesca in most of the
ways these artists intended (M. Baxandall, Painting and
Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy. London 1972). In
this sense, all art appreciation, especially once it leaves
one’s own immediate purview in time and space, is hard
work. With this in mind I note that Price repeatedly
praises the late Sir Edmund Leach, yet one of the silliest
essays on the anthropological exposition of Western art
was perpetrated by Sir Edmund when he took on Mi-
chelangelo (E. R. Leach, Michelangelo’s Genesis. Times
Literary Supplement [18 March, 1977]: 311-313; Letter.
Times Literary Supplement [25 March, 1977]; 370; C.
Hope and D. Freedberg, Letter. Times Literary Supple-
ment [April 20, 1977]: 489^490). Similarly, it would be
difficult to find a more anti-scholarly, anti-intellectual
statement than this nonsense which Price cites from the
anthropologist Jacques Maquet: “Beholding art requires
silencing discursive activities; it is not compatible with
an analytical attitude” (92).
This, then, is a critical, essentially condemnatory
study; yet the author’s numerous citations, quotes, and
often hilarious illustrations prove that there is indeed
much to attack harshly. A more balanced account might
have been fairer and even more constructive in the long
run, but clearly the author has some grounds for assum-
ing that some of her targets are likely to be unsettled
only by the most aggressive shock tactics, at least as an
initial softening-up process before conversion.
T. O. Beidelman
Ross, M. D.: Proto Oceanic and the Austronesian
Languages of Western Melanesia. Canberra: Pacific Lin-
guistics, 1988. xiii + 487 pp., maps, tab., fig. (Pacific
Linguistics C, 98) Price: $A 38.00
This book represents a major contribution to the
study of the history of Oceanic languages. Its main
purpose is the elucidation of the higher-order genetic
relationships of the Austronesian languages of the Papua
New Guinea region, i.e., the western Melanesian area.
Anthropos 85.1990
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Ross argues that the languages of this area can
be divided into four clusters of languages which direct-
ly continue Proto Oceanic (POC) whose homeland is
assumed to be in or near the Vitiaz Strait (between
New Guinea and New Britain); a) the North New
Guinea cluster (consisting of the Schouten family, the
Bel family, the Mengen family, the South-West New
Britain network, the Ngero family, the residual Vitiaz
languages, and the Huon Gulf family), b) the Papuan
Tip cluster (consisting of the Central Papuan family and
the languages in south-east Papua and its offshore island
languages), c) the Meso-Melanesian cluster (consisting
of Bali-Vitu, the Willaumez chain, the Lavongai/Nalik
chain, other New Ireland languages, and North-West
Solomonic), d) the Admiralities cluster (consisting of
the western and the eastern Admiralities families). The
languages of the St Matthias group are not assigned to
any of these clusters.
The author structures his presentation as follows:
first he presents the reconstmction of POC by extensive-
ly describing its phonology (Chapter 3) and its morpho-
syntax, and then he discusses the subgrouping (Chap-
ter 4 to Chapter9). In Chapters particular attention is
paid to the problem of oral-/nasal-grade cross-over.
Ross shows that it is usually possible to reconstruct
the grade of the POC etymon without ambiguity for
the pairs *pl*mp, *k/*yk, and *d/*nd, since there
appears to be little cross-over among most Melanesian
languages. Another problem discussed in detail is the
other pair of grades which is called “fortis” grade and
“lenis” grade. At the conclusion of this chapter a revised
POC consonant paradigm is proposed: conventional *gp
is replaced by *bw, *mp by *b, *nt by *d, yk by *g, *nj
by */, *d by *r, *nd by *dr, *j by *c and *pm by *mw.
In Chapter 4 five POC morphosyntactic features are
discussed. It is shown that POC was basically a language
with the following characteristics; i) the noun phrase has
preposed articles, ii) the order is possessum + possessor,
iii) the pronominal system distinguishes more than two
numbers, iv) transitive verbs are marked by a reflex of
*-i or by reflexes of *-/ and a disyllabic suffix, often
*-aki, v) the tense/aspect-marking is complex, vi) ob-
lique roles are expressed by prepositional morphemes
belonging to two or more subclasses.
The chapters on the four clusters mainly consist
of 1) evidence in support of the establishment of the
clusters and of the internal relationships among their
languages, 2) figures of the genetic trees, 3) maps
showing the geographical distribution of the languages,
4) complete list of the reflexes of POC phonemes in the
lower-order proto languages and the modem languages.
One of the great merits of this work is that the genetic
classification is entirely based on qualitative evidence
(i.e., identification of shared phonological and/or mor-
phosyntactic innovations), and not on quantitative evi-
dence (i.e., lexicostatistics). Let me give an example:
the Huon Gulf family which represents a first-order
subgroup of the North New Guinea cluster is said to
reflect among others the following innovations (143):
1) POC *p always underwent lenition to Proto Huon
Gulf (PHG) *v, 2) POC *borok “pig” is reflected as
PHG *bor, i.e., final *-ok was unexpectedly lost, 3) all
POC verb-deriving prefixes were lost.
In the final chapter of the book Ross puts forth
the hypothesis that three of the four clusters identified
in western Melanesia (i.e., North New Guinea, Papuan
Tip, Meso-Melanesian) form a single subgroup which he
calls “Western Oceanic.” It is argued that these clusters
share certain innovations which have not occurred in
the Admiralities or in Central-Eastern Oceania. Based
on this hypothesis the following course of events has
to be posited: a POC dialect chain developed in the
north-west New Britain area, followed by a population
movement from this area to the Admiralities and also
to the south-eastern islands of the Solomons. This latter
settlement was only a step in the process of colonization
of the rest of Oceania. These movements from New
Britain were later followed by the diversification of “stay
at home” late POC (i.e., “Western Oceanic”) into the
North New Guinea, Papuan Tip, and Meso-Melanesian
clusters.
A serious methodological problem arises with re-
gard to Ross’ establishing genetic trees such as the
following:
The author uses this model when a language shows
innovations representative of two different subgroups.
Thus, in the tree above, language C is said to be a
“mixed” language. I would argue that as long as one
is able to identify certain features of language C as
being inherited from *Y and others as being the result
of contact with languages continuing *X, language C
should be classified as a daughter-language of *Y, and
not as continuing *X and *Y. As suggested by Ross in
another context (10 f.), an arrow can be used to indicate
the source of borrowings by C;
One example will suffice to demonstrate the im-
pressive amount of data used in the compilation of this
work: in Appendix A a total of 218 Oceanic languages in
western Melanesia is listed, for which data were used in
the research reported in the book. Finally, it should also
be pointed out that Ross carried out extensive fieldwork:
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
641
he collected data from informants for 149 Papua New
Guinea languages.
The book contains fifteen linguistic maps, thirteen
figures of genetic trees, one figure of the relationships
of the languages of the Manus network, and thirty-
nine tables containing lists of proto phonemes, gram-
matical elements, reflexes of certain proto phonemes,
etc. The bibliography represents an exhaustive list of
important publications on topics related to Ross’ re-
search. Bemd Nothofer
Runcimann, Walter Garrison: A Treatise on So-
cial Theory; vol. II; Substantive Social Theory. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. xiii + 493 pp.
Price: £ 12.50
“A Treatise on Social Theory” ist ein insgesamt
dreibändiges, aber durchaus separat lesbares und ver-
stehbares Werk des eine Business- mit einer wissen-
schaftlichen Karriere verbindenden britischen Soziolo-
gen und Geschäftsmannes W. G. Runciman. Im ersten
Band (“The Methodology of Social Theory”, 1983) wer-
den die Reportage, die Erklärung, die Beschreibung und
die Evaluierung menschlichen Verhaltens als die vier
grundlegenden Erkenntnismöglichkeiten und -Strategien
in den Sozialwissenschaften erörtert. Der noch nicht er-
schienene Band III (“Applied Social Theory”) wird eine
entsprechend gegliederte Fallstudie für das England des
20. Jh.s und damit zugleich ein expliziter Test (60) der in
dem hier zu besprechenden 2. Band (“Substantive Social
Theory”) entwickelten Theorie an einem konkreten Fall
sein. Dessen Thema sind die Grundmerkmale und im
globalen Vergleich erkennbaren Ausprägungsmöglich-
keiten der Gestalt, Ursachen und vor allem Genese der
menschlichen sozialen Systeme mit ihren internen wie
externen Komponenten und Beziehungen. Sein Ziel ist
eine (im Sinne des ersten Bandes explanatorische [4])
Klassifizierung der menschlichen Sozietäten, so wie
Darwin sie für Spezies vorgenommen hat (xi f.). Oh-
ne explizit Thema zu sein, werden de facto allerdings
laufend auch epistemische und methodische Probleme
thematisiert.
Das Vorgehen ist der Versuch einer Verknüpfung
von Systematik/Taxonomie im Linneschen Sinne mit
einem diachronischen/dynamischen Blick im Sinne Dar-
wins (49, 57) mittels einer sachbezogenen Theoriebil-
dung in einem speziesinternen Form-Fall-Dialog, in dem
die Fallseite sehr viel mehr berücksichtigt wird als die
Formseite. Auch wenn die ausführlichen Beispiele/Be-
lege grundsätzlich global gestreut sind und zahlreiche
ethnografische Befunde berücksichtigt werden, überwie-
gen doch die westlichen Sozietäten und Kulturen (sie-
he die Testfälle für die soziale Evolution in Kap. 4,
§§21-35). Neben einer Herleitung und Bestimmung
der Grundmerkmale und -konzepte des Sozialen und
der sozialen Systeme werden vor allem die wichtig-
sten Erscheinungsformen ausgelotet, wobei zu lösende
und/oder resultierende epistemische und methodische
Probleme, z. B. des Vergleichens und der Taxonomie
(Kap. 1, §§ 14-16), mit erörtert und gelöst werden.
Aufbau: Der zwar partiell herleitende, aber nicht
systematisch erzeugende Bericht ist in vier Kapitel un-
terteilt, in denen die angestrebte Theorie der sozialen
Beziehungen, Systeme und Evolution (60) entwickelt
bzw. vorgestellt wird. In Kap. 1 (“Introduction: Societies
as Subjects for Science”) werden die grundlegenden
Konzepte (vor allem Macht, Institution, Sozietät, Rolle,
systact, individuelle und kollektive Mobilität, soziale
Selektion und Evolution) diskutiert und eingeführt. In
Kap. 2 (“Social Relations”) geht es um die Identifizie-
rung und Verteilung von Praktiken, Rollen, Karrieren,
Funktionen, Ungleichheiten, Macht, Identität und In-
stitutionen in systacts und Sozietäten. In Kap. 3 (“So-
cial Structure”) werden die Stabilisierung, Reproduk-
tion, Machtverteilung, Widersprüchlichkeiten, Zwänge
und Funktionsweisen von systacts sowie intersozietäre
Beziehungen mit ihren Faktoren, kennzeichnenden Mu-
stern und Ausprägungsmöglichkeiten für verschiedene
(Arten von) systacts bzw. Sozietäten erörtert. Kap. 4
(“Social Evolution”) ist eine allgemeine (§§ 1-20 und
36-40) sowie an Fällen getestete (§§21-35) Analy-
se der Mechanismen und Prozesse des Wandels (wie
Regressionen, Katastrophen, Rebellionen, Revolutionen
oder Reformen), durch die Sozietäten von einer Art der
Verteilung von Macht mittels kompetitiver Selektion von
Praktiken zu einer anderen Verteilungsart evolvieren.
Zur Theorie: Als entscheidend für den Umgang
zwischen Menschen und damit für soziale Beziehungen
wird die Kapazität angesehen, das Verhalten anderer
beeinflussen zu können. Sozietäten werden deshalb über
die Verteilung von solcher Macht zwischen ihren Mit-
gliedern definiert (2), wobei für Macht drei grundle-
gende Dimensionen oder Arten unterschieden werden:
ökonomische, ideologische und nötigende/zwingende
Macht (12). Auch für die sozialen Rollen (13) und damit
für die aus diesen gebildete soziale Struktur (15) gälten
diese drei (häufig überlappenden, aber nicht reduzier-
baren) Aspekte. Soziale Einheiten zwischen Person und
Sozietät faßt Runciman zusammen, indem er mit dem
Neologismus systact alle Gruppen oder Kategorien von
Personen mit spezifischen Rollen bezeichnet, die eine
unterscheidbare und nicht nur vorübergehend ähnliche
Lokalität und ein gemeinsames Interesse (hier auf Erhalt
Macht und Rollen bezogen) haben, also z. B. Klassen,
Statusgruppen, Kasten oder Altersgruppen (20-27). Von
solchen systacts, die entscheidend die jeweilige sozie-
täre Organisation bestimmen, gebe es in den meisten
Sozietäten zwei bis vier, wobei über die Kennzeichen
der dominierenden systacts verschiedene Sozietätsar-
ten unterschieden werden (können). Soziale Evolution
wird von biotischer Evolution unterschieden, aber als
analog (296) und stetig verknüpft (38) angesehen. Sie
sei (als kontinuierlicher, aber in seinen Ergebnissen
nicht vorhersehbarer oder intendierter [340] Kampf um
Macht [449]) zwar kein unilinearer und womöglich fort-
schrittlicher Prozeß, in dem ein Stadium unausweichlich
in das nächste führe, aber doch in eine definierbare
Richtung gehend, also mehr als ein nur qualitativer
Wandel (296). Die für Evolution verantwortliche Se-
lektion finde auf der personalen, der systactischen und
Anthropos 85.1990
642
Rezensionen
der sozietären Ebene statt (42). Selektiert würden weder
Gruppen noch Ideen, sondern ökonomische, ideologi-
sche und koerzive Praktiken (“functionally defined units
of reciprocal action informed by the mutually recognized
intentions and beliefs of designated persons about "their
respective capacity to influence each other’s behaviour
by virute of their roles”; 41), die mutieren und rekom-
biniert werden können.
Schwächen: Das Buch fängt sofort inhaltlich an,
es gibt also keine systematische Explikation der Hinter-
grundannahmen, keine Herleitung, Rechtfertigung und
präzise Festlegung des Themas und der Vorgehenswei-
sen, aber auch keine systematische Zusammenfassung
der gewonnenen und vorgestellten Theorie (etwa in Gra-
fiken oder Tabellen). Trotz des vielfach sehr schön ein-
gesetzten und gut nachvollziehbaren Form-Fall-Dialogs
vermindert das (auch wegen des sehr unvollständigen
und ungenauen Index) den möglichen Ertrag. Proble-
matisch sind vielfache terminologische und begriffliche
Ungenauigkeiten, z. B. beim Evolutionsbegriff, der teil-
weise mit einem allgemeinen Geschichtsbegriff gleich-
gesetzt wird (39, 309) und dann überflüssig wäre. Trotz
des vor allem auch diachronischen Blicks bleibt die Per-
spektive speziesintern; hier sehr viel weiter fundierende,
strengere und konsistentere Entwürfe wie z. B. von Ru-
dolph und Tschohl (Systematische Anthropologie. Mün-
chen 1977) oder Bunge (Treatise on Basic Philosophy;
vols. 1-8. Dordrecht 1974-89) sind nicht berücksichtigt
worden, was die Konzipierung im Vergleich teilweise
etwas beliebig erscheinen läßt.
Ertrag für Anthropologie: Das Buch ist für Anthro-
pologen schon deshalb lohnend, weil es sich (trotz aller
Fallbezogenheit) aus der vielfach üblichen Fallverliebt-
heit bis Fallbeschränktheit löst und explizit versucht,
eine allgemeine Theorie zu bilden, die als Grundlage
für einheitlichere und damit besser (leichter, zutreffen-
der) vergleichbare Fallstudien sowie generalisierende
Theoriebildungen eingesetzt werden kann. Interessant
sind aber u. a. auch der auf Macht konzentrierte Fokus,
das Konzept der systacts, welches alle Gruppierungen
zwischen Person und Sozietät zu erfassen erlaubt, die
explizite Verknüpfung einer dicharonischen mit einer
systematischen Betrachtungsweise sowie die Erörterung
auch für die politische Diskussion wichtiger sozialer
Sachverhalte und Konzepte in einer breiten globalen
(und nicht auf Ethnien [in einem unsystematisch engen
Sinne] bezogenen) Perspektive. Aufgrund der didakti-
schen Führung und leichten Lesbarkeit ist das Buch aber
nicht nur für am sozialen Bereich und an Evolution inter-
essierte Fachleute geeignet. Es kann lehrbuchartig einge-
setzt werden und die zusammenfassenden Darstellungen
in einschlägigen anthropologischen Einführungen und
Überblicken sinnvoll kontrastieren und ergänzen, um
andere Blickmöglichkeiten zu verdeutlichen.
Andreas Bruck
Schak, David C.: A Chinese Beggars’ Den. Pov-
erty and Mobility in an Underclass Community. Pitts-
burgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1988. xiii +
245 pp., tab., fig. Price: $24.95
In his study of mendicancy, David Schak demar-
cates three periods: “the premodem China,” “the second
period” (1973-74), and “the final period” (1977-78, 80).
His coverage of the premodern era is based on various
published sources, notably Gray’s 1878 general study of
China and Gamble and Burgess’s 1921 study of Peking.
In Schak’s construction, “premodern China” is rather
strange and turns out to be so imprecisely framed that
he can include an ethnographic example of Penang,
Malaysia of the early 1970s. Such an example, of course,
is neither premodern nor Chinese.
His second and third periods centre on a descrip-
tive case study of Liong-hiat, specifically a creation of
contemporary Taiwan and a neighbourhood of Taipei.
Comparisons which are made over the periods can add
insight to laws concerning begging practices and beg-
ging tactics. However, it is not readily apparent how the
“premodern” serves as the historical forerunner of the
subsequent periods, despite Schak’s insistent attempts
to assert or imply linkages. For example, he writes,
“Begging was now illegal ... No longer was the beggar
chief officially linked to government” (5). The phrase
“no longer” was used four times on page 5 despite the
author’s failure to show explicitly how the first and the
subsequent periods are connected.
As if to compensate for the indefiniteness of the
era designated “premodern” Schak capriciously overrep-
resents the subsequent periods by focussing on a small
community with a total population of 169. The beggars
make up 24 households and totalling 101 people. Five
of these households, however, do not actually beg but
merely relate to the beggars by kinship or Active kinship
relations.
In the descriptive case study of Liong-hiat, based
on fieldwork during the 1970s, the beggars are observed
to be materially on a level with low-income families
in the Taipei area. However, in education, their expen-
ditures are well below average. Yet given the rising
economic level of Taiwan, they cannot be considered
destitute. Nonetheless, they are the poor of Taiwan, and
Schak’s discussion of the adaptations made by beggars
in Liong-hiat is certainly a positive contribution to the
study of the poor and marginal groups in general.
The beggars are a tightly knit group and are char-
acterized by cooperation and various forms of mutual
assistance such as loaning money to each other. Beg-
ging is technically illegal in Taiwan and may result in
incarceration. As in all times and places, the degree of
sympathy evoked in donors is based on factors such
as age, sex, physical presentation, and the apparent
ability of the mendicants to support themselves and their
dependents. Beggars take advantage of their physical
appearance, pitiful or strange, to arouse feelings ranging
from mere discomfort to actual fear of contamination.
Some of the economic adaptations made by the
beggars include activities of gambling and prostitution.
Accordingly, the females, especially among the teen-
agers, are far more economically active than the males.
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
643
The beggars gamble because they are stigmatized and
thus limit their outside associations. Most are also illit-
erate, especially the older ones, and this further limits
what they can do with the large amounts of free time at
their disposal.
Many of their deviations from the mainstream so-
ciety are seen as adaptations to the social and economic
realities. The beggars’ frequent use of fictive kinship has
such adaptive functions: for example, for the adoption
and fostering of children, for the extension of one’s net-
work and set of alliances, and for the use of the kinship
symbol to confer honour or to intensify a relationship
between individuals related in recognized form.
The history of one individual, Tiek-kou, among
the beggars also serves to illustrate the development of
Liong-hiat. He created the community, attracting other
beggars around him to form a beggar group. When
they had to shift locations because of an urban renewal
project, he held the group together, even attracting a
number of nonbeggar families to it. He has been a
leader to the beggars as an occupational group and a
community head to the neighbourhood.
The book represents a descriptive account of the
social life of the beggars. Schak claims to look at “the
ramifications of this research for theories of poverty,
particularly those of Oscar Lewis, Anthony Leeds, and
Chaim Waxman” (3). Unfortunately, these theories are
not critically examined in detail. He supports Waxman’s
position that it is the stigma placed on the poor by the
dominant classes that explains their poverty. The poor
are presumed to develop a subculture which is trans-
mitted as long as the poor continue to be stigmatized.
They neither share the system of the dominant classes as
maintained by Leeds nor develop one that is completely
their own as argued by Lewis. His discussions of these
theories of poverty is brief and cursory, centering on
stigmatization and the extent to which the poor develop
a culture of their own. In sum, this book is probably
a useful source of information for those who are in the
Chinese field and at the same time interested in the study
of mendicancy. Wing-sam Chow
Sellato, Bernard: Nomades et sédentarisation à
Bornéo. Histoire économique et sociale. Paris: Editions
de TEHESS, 1989. 293 pp., tabl., cartes, ill. (Etudes
Insulindiennes - Archipel, 9) Prix: FF 189,00
Il s’agit pour l’essentiel de la publication, sous
forme remaniée, d’une thèse de doctorat soutenue à
TEHESS. Le sujet, les Punan, chasseurs-collecteurs de
Bornéo, est peu connu. L’auteur, ingénieur géologique
de formation, connaît bien Tîle de Bornéo pour y avoir
séjourné durant 6 ans pour le compte d’une société
pétrolière. De fait, le principal intérêt de ce livre est de
nous offrir des données de terrain de première main dont
la valeur est d’autant plus grande qu’elles sont récentes
puisque collectées de 1973 à 1985.
Le propos de cet ouvrage est d’étudier le processus
qui conduit un groupe nomade à altérer son mode de vie
traditionnel pour s’insérer dans le circuit des échanges
commerciaux, se sédentariser et adopter certaines for-
mes d’agriculture. Une dizaine de monographies étaient
envisagées à l’origine; les nécessités de l’édition en
ont ramené le nombre à deux. Après avoir, dans un
premier chapitre un peu «fourre-tout», présenté le con-
texte géographique et méthodologique, l’auteur retrace
l’histoire des Bukat et des Kereho installés à l’heure
actuelle dans les provinces indonésiennes de Kalimantan
Ouest et de Kalimantan Est. Il se livre ensuite à l’analyse
de la culture nomade traditionnelle, puis envisage son
mode de transformation. De ce parti pris monographique
découlent à la fois la force et la faiblesse de ce livre.
C’est la forme, souvent maladroite, qui révèle les
défauts de l’ouvrage, perceptibles notamment au niveau
de la lisibilité. Disons-le franchement, les deux mono-
graphies qui couvrent près de 100 pages sont indigestes.
L’auteur qui connaît très bien, voire trop bien, son sujet,
donne parfois l’impression de livrer ses notes de terrain.
Le texte est touffu; il faudrait sans doute être Punan
soi-même pour en saisir toute la richesse. C’est le cas
notamment du passage consacré à l’histoire des nomades
Bukat de 1800 à 1980, particulièrement difficile à suivre:
les 15 cartes qui s’échelonnent de la page 91 à la
page 105 ne constituent en rien une aide pour le lecteur
(le schéma de montage page 93 est en soi effrayant).
N’aurait-il pas mieux valu insérer une carte hors-texte à
la fin de l’ouvrage?
Cette impression de confusion est significative du
principal défaut de l’auteur qui dispose d’une informa-
tion très abondante mais ne peut se résoudre à être
sélectif. Il est pourtant indispensable de hiérarchiser les
problèmes, d’insister sur l’essentiel et de «glisser» sur
l’accessoire, en particulier lorsqu’on aborde l’histoire
événementielle. C’est une illusion que de s’imaginer
que l’exhaustivité fait la richesse d’une texte; c’est au
contraire la rigueur de l’expression, la clarté de l’exposé
qui en font, la force.
D’où la nécessité de bien choisir son plan. Plutôt
que de se livrer à l’occasion de chaque chapitre, voire
à l’échelle de l’ouvrage, à un exercice souvent ma-
nichéen d’opposition entre une reconstitution préalable
et un processus d’évolution terme à terme, n’aurait-il pas
mieux valu organiser ce texte autour d’une idée centrale,
progressant par étapes vers une fin. Ce dont manque
essentiellement cet ouvrage, c’est d’une «construction
dramatique» capable de soutenir l’attention du lecteur.
Et pourtant, ce livre est très riche. L’information
de première main est sans cesse confrontée aux données
tirées de la littérature. Il convient d’ailleurs de saluer
l’honnêteté scrupuleuse de l’auteur qui n’hésite pas à
signaler les rares (très rares) lacunes de son informa-
tion (56). Pour qui s’intéresse à Bornéo, il y a là une
mine de renseignements; la confrontation d’expériences
personnelles et d’observations originales est extrême-
ment attrayante. On apprend énormément de choses de
la description de «genres de vie» peu connus; Tun des
tous premiers mérites de ce livre est de faire pénétrer le
lecteur dans l’intimité de ces «bandes», de lui permettre
de cerner de près leur espace-vécu.
Mais l’intérêt de ce texte dépasse, et de loin, le
Anthropos 85.1990
644
Rezensionen
côté anecdotique. La thèse que développe l’auteur, et
qui, malheureusement, n’est pas centrale, c’est que les
Punan ont développé une culture originale de chasseurs-
collecteurs différente de celle des Dayak agriculteurs.
C’est l’introduction de la hache de fer et du chien
qui, en libérant une fraction du temps de travail des
nomades, leur a permis de se transformer en collecteurs
et de s’insérer dans l’économie d’échanges. La fixation
des Punan devient alors le résultat d’une stratégie com-
merciale d’agriculteurs obsédés par l’idée d’assurer la
continuité de leurs approvisionnements en produits de
la forêt.
Et l’auteur de suggérer alors l’existence de trois
cultures traditionnelles indépendentes à Bornéo: celle
des nomades, celle des horticulteurs et celle des ri-
ziculteurs stratifiés. Mis à part le fait que ce terme
d’horticulteurs est décidément bien mal choisi (quand
se rendra-t-on enfin compte que les Ngaju n’aménagent
pas de jardins mais de véritables plantations?) il y a là
une piste de recherche intéressante.
Au total donc, un esprit pénétrant et un ouvrage
fort riche dont on ne saurait trop recommander la lecture
aux passionnés de Bornéo. Profitons-en pour signaler, du
même auteur, la parution chez Elf Aquitaine Indonésie,
de «Elombill and Dragon», ouvrage remarquable sur
Part des Dayak. Olivier Sevin
Seltmann, Friedrich: Die Kalang. Eine Volksgrup-
pe auf Java und ihre Stamm-Mythe. Ein Beitrag zur
Kulturgeschichte Javas. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag
Wiesbaden, 1987. 430 pp., Abb., Fig., Fotos, Tab., Ktn.
Preis; DM 244,-
Friedrich Seitmann, dem wir schon zahlreiche vor-
zügliche kulturgeschichtliche Untersuchungen verdan-
ken, hat mit dem Buch über die Kalang ein Lebens werk
vorgelegt. Es gründet zu einem Teil auf selbst erhobenen
Daten aus den frühen 60er Jahren, umfaßt aber auch
umfangreiche Literaturstudien.
Im ersten Kapitel „Historisches über die Kalang“
werden die wenigen vorkolonialen sowie die kolonial-
zeitlichen Nennungen der Kalang bis zum Jahr 1850
zusammengestellt. In einer der ersten Nennungen schon,
in der Trowulan-Inschrift von 1358, erscheinen die Ka-
lang in einer ihrer traditionellen Tätigkeiten, nämlich
als Fuhrleute. Seit den frühesten holländischen Infor-
mationen, von 1649 an, begegnen die Kalang regel-
mäßig als Holzfäller und -transporteure, die von den
einheimischen Herrschern ebenso herangezogen werden
wie von den Holländern zur Beschaffung edler Hölzer,
vor allem für den Schiffbau. Dabei werden sie häufig
in Herrschaftskonflikte hineingezogen und zahlreichen,
wechselnden Rechtsprechungen und Steuerregelungen
unterstellt. Zumindest während bestimmter Zeiten ver-
lief diese Besteuerung, anders als bei den anderen Java-
nen, „reichsunmittelbar“, und es ist auffallend, daß auch
die Companie in direktem Verhältnis zu den Kalang
stand. Weniger klar wird, wer denn diese Kalang eigent-
lich sind. Sie werden als fahrende Leute angesehen,
als javanisches Volk „dat vroeger rondzwierf“, wie es
bei Roorda van Eysinga heißt (26). Sie waren Wald-
wanderer, Jäger, Fischer, Fruchtsammler, Räuber, Seiler,
Sattler, Auspeitscher, Büffelfänger und -halter. Sie kön-
nen auch als Teil der hlandhong-Leute oder hlandhong-
Bewohner angesehen werden {hlandhong sind spezielle
Waldarbeiterdörfer, aber auch deren Bevölkerung). Sie
gelten als verachtenswert, allerdings nicht ihrer Tätig-
keiten, sondern ihrer Abstammung von einem roten
Hunde wegen. Ihre Tätigkeitsgebiete liegen vor allem
in den zu Beginn der Kolonialzeit noch waldreichen
küstennahen nördlichen Regionen Javas. Doch betont
besonders Raffles (1830), daß “until of late years ...
they were continually moving from one part of the Island
[i.e., Java] to another” (35). Auf der anderen Seite gab
es Kalang an den javanischen Höfen. Es ergibt sich aus
den Quellen bis zur Mitte des 19. Jh. ein sehr disparates
Bild von Menschen, die bestimmte Berufe ausüben,
mobil sind und eigene Bräuche und Vorstellungen haben
(sollen), und die in besonderen Verhältnissen zur jeweils
bestehenden Herrschaft stehen.
Demgegenüber entwirft der Autor schon in die-
sem Kapitel die ersten Einschätzungen der Kalang als
„Volksgruppe, ... die ... nicht zur eigentlichen javani-
schen Bevölkerung“ zu rechnen war und „einen eigenen
Status mit anderen bürgerlichen Rechten“ aufwies (30),
die auch bis zu den javanischen Versuchen, sie seßhaft
zu machen und zum Islam zu bekehren, „eine fremde
Volkseinheit mit völlig anderen Religionsvorstellungen“
war (35). Einer Abmachung zwischen den Reichsverwe-
sern von Solo und Yogyakarta aus dem Jahr 1771 ist zu
entnehmen (30), daß bei Heiraten von Untertanen der
Fürsten bei den Kalang der Mann den Vorrang genießt.
Daraus leitet der Autor, wohl, um die Andersartigkeit
der Kalang gegenüber den Javanen zu demonstrieren,
ab, hier „liege ein echter Hinweis auf die patrilinearen
Verhältnisse bei den Kalang vor“ (30). Ich komme auf
diese Einschätzungen zurück.
Im kurzen 2. Kapitel geht der Verfasser den einzel-
nen Bezeichnungen nach, seien es Zusätze zum Wort ka-
lang, die allgemeiner Art sind, oder solche, die mit Re-
gionen (nur eine), Gruppen, Berufen oder Ständen zu tun
haben. Obwohl ein Klärungsversuch zum Wort kalang
angekündigt wird (41), wird (42) dann von einer solchen
Deutung abgesehen, dafür aber angenommen (43); „Die
Bezeichnung ,Kalang1 scheint für die Javanen eine Art
Sammelname gewesen zu sein, worunter sie alle nicht
zu ihnen gehörenden Waldvölker im weitesten Sinne
gezählt haben dürften.“
Das ebenfalls kurze 3. Kapitel behandelt die Tätig-
keiten der Kalang. Über die schon genannten hinaus sind
hier die Kalang als Steinhauer (eine Erwähnung), als
Kupferschmiede und als Instrumentenbauer und Musiker
genannt. Dabei benutzen die Musiker cenang genannte
Gongs, wie sie früher in Semarang hergestellt wurden.
Der Verfasser schließt nicht aus, daß die Kalang auch
Gongs hergestellt haben könnten. Er geht nicht darauf
ein, daß dieses Handwerk ein eher städtisches und mit
einem „Wanderleben“ kaum zu vereinbarendes ist.
Unter den im folgenden Kapitel genannten „Ge-
pflogenheiten und Eigentümlichkeiten“ der Kalang sind
Anthropos 85.1990
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645
einige von Interesse, die zumeist aus dem „Serat Ca-
bolang“ und dem „Serat Centhini“ stammen, die beide
Aufzeichnungen jüngeren Datums sind, wohl auch, was
die Inhalte betrifft, wie die ausführliche Erwähnung
von Kaffee nahelegt. Interessant sind die Angaben zu
Anbauformen, die sowohl gaga, also Regenfeldbau, als
auch sabin, vermutlich sawah-Anbau, umfassen. Ge-
läufig scheint zu sein, daß Jungen mit den Männern,
Mädchen mit den Frauen arbeiten. In der Tracht ist
eine Besonderheit die Fräse, der Ringbart, den eini-
ge Kalang tragen. Auch wird ein Tabu auf Schwei-
nefleisch erwähnt (73). Genauere Angaben werden zu
den kosmischen Richtungen und magischen Abmessun-
gen gemacht, wobei eine Merkwürdigkeit ist, daß die
Orientierung der Bauten von den sonstigen javanischen
Himmelsrichtungen leicht abzuweichen hatte. Es wird
auch deutlich, daß um Wald, Bäume und Holz eine Viel-
zahl von Vorstellungen und Handlungsweisen bestand.
Es werden auch 26 Wörter genannt, die den Kalang
zueigen sein sollen, alle dem Ritualbereich angehören
und engere Beziehungen zum Balischen aufweisen sol-
len (81-84).
Das 5. und 6. Kapitel machen den Hauptteil des
Buches aus. Ersteres ist den Festen der Kalang gewid-
met und liefert unter A eine Kompilation der Angaben
von Raffles, Ketjen, Knebel, Van Hien und Inggris zu
Verlobung und Hochzeit. In der Auswertung wird dann
auf Elemente wie ,Omen von Hundespuren1, , Weben in
gesetzter Zeit1, ,Büffelopfer1, ,Hochzeitsgeschenke1 be-
sonderer Wert gelegt. Unter letzteren finden sich Büffel,
Pflug, Egge, Hacke und Reisähren, deutliche Hinweise
auf den agrarischen Charakter der Kalang, von dem der
Verfasser annimmt, „daß es sich ursprünglich um den
Ackerbau von Wanderbauem gehandelt hat“ (92). Nichts
in den Quellen legt eine solche Aussage nahe; der Pflug
und die Egge weisen eher auf permanente Bebauung
hin. Von besonderer Bedeutung sind dem Verfasser mit
Recht die Hausanlagen samt der von ihnen mitstruktu-
rierten Ritualfolge. Vorlage ist wieder eine Passage im
„Serat Cabolang“, die nahelegt, in den Häusern Pfahl-
bauten zu sehen. Über eine javanische Zeremonie wird
die Bedeutung von Erdboden, Leiter und verschiedenen
Geschossen erhellt. Man fragt sich, warum hier nicht
die ausgezeichneten Haus-Analysen von Cunningham
(Atoni), Bames (Kedang), Barraud (Kei), Feldman und
Viaro (Nias) u. a. herangezogen wurden; könnten sie
doch dazu führen, einen Nusantara-Typus zu bilden, von
dem sich das moderne javanische Haus deutlich absetzt.
Auf der anderen Seite werden im Ritualverlauf solche
Vergleiche angestellt, allerdings ausschließlich mit altem
Material. Die Bedeutung des Zusammenbindens oder
-nähens wird hervorgehoben. Zu Kindheitsfesten hat der
Verfasser keine Informationen gefunden, dafür aber zu
solchen für die und mit den Ahnen. Ob die in diesem
Zusammenhang erwähnten golek sijati den Rang einer
Gottheit hatten, ist unklar, möglich wäre auch, daß es
sich um die Totenfest-Puppen handelt.
Von diesen handelt u. a. der folgende Abschnitt, der
eines der Kernstücke des Buches ist, der über das große
Totenfest. Vorangestellt sind frühere Berichte, denen
derjenige von Seitmann selbst folgt. Er stellt zunächst
fest, daß fast alle bisher vorgelegten Berichte über
Mittelspersonen zustandekamen und bei den wenigen
anderen auch keine systematischen Befragungen vorge-
nommen, nicht einmal die entscheidenden Funktionäre
angesprochen wurden. Allerdings ist auch des Verfassers
Bericht nachträglich entstanden. Jedoch hat er nicht
nur einen Bericht und 30 Photographien des damaligen
Kulturamtes von Yogya zur Verfügung gehabt, sondern
konnte, diese zu Hilfe nehmend, mit dem Berichterstat-
ter, kompetenten Vertretern der Kalang und der Zermo-
nienmeisterin und ihren Angehörigen das gesamte Fest
durchgehen. Dies war nur kurze Zeit nach dem Fest, so
daß man davon ausgehen kann, daß die Informationen
dem nahe sind, was sich abgespielt hat. Auffällig beim
Personal ist, daß die Leiterin des Rituals, die dhukun
kalang obong, die auch den Titel hiku (123) führt, kei-
ne Kalang ist. Seitmann nennt dies eine komplizierte
Frage. Vielleicht gibt sie Anlaß, darüber nachzudenken,
wie verschieden von den Javanen die Kalang eigent-
lich waren. Die Dhukunposition, nicht zu verwechseln
mit der javanischen Dhukun, kann nur von einer Frau
eingenommen werden. Ihre Nachfolgerin ist die Tochter
des ersten ihrer jüngeren Brüder. Es ergibt sich eine
Frauenfolge über die jüngerer Bruder=Vater-Position.
Dieser jüngere Bruder hat beim Totenfest ebenfalls eine
wichtige Funktion. Sein Amt jedoch, so der Verfasser,
gehe auf den ältesten Sohn über und zeige somit eine
patrilineare Amtsfolge. Diese „stimmt also mit den patri-
linearen Gegebenheiten bei den Kalang überein“ (121).
Dazu ist festzustellen, daß das so entworfene System
nicht stimmen kann. Geht das Frauenamt auf die Tochter
des jüngeren Bruders über, so kann dessen Amt auch
wieder nur auf einen Sohn übergehen, der jünger als
diese Tochter ist. Andernfalls stimmt die erste Regel
nicht. Hier scheint der Wunsch des Verfassers die Analy-
se fehlzulenken, wie dies schon oben angedeutet wurde.
Es zeigt sich ein weiteres Mal (152), wo die Tatsache,
daß das sekul-kuku-Ritual ausschließlich eine Angele-
genheit der Frauen ist, als „merkwürdig“ bezeichnet
wird, „da das patrilineare Gefüge der Kalang-Obong-
Gesellschaft eine derartige Handhabung nicht ohne wei-
teres erwarten läßt“. Es wird nicht klar, warum Seitmann
die Kalang unbedingt patrilinear haben möchte. In sei-
nem Material spricht nichts dafür.
Die Darstellung vom Ablauf des Festes (119-161)
kann hier nur in den Hauptzügen wiedergegeben wer-
den. Angaben zur Person und Position der Dhukun
stehen am Beginn der Darstellung. Ihnen folgt eine sehr
hilfreiche Zusammenstellung der Festrequisiten, auf die
man sich im weiteren Text beziehen kann. Das Fest
dauert drei Tage, wobei zu Festbeginn schon die Puppen
(puspa) hergestellt sein müssen, die zu den Verstorbenen
in Beziehung stehen. Zu Beginn wird ein junger Wasser-
büffel-Stier geopfert und so ausgenommen, daß er wie
ausgestopft aufgebaut werden kann. Er wird der zentrale
Ort des Rituals. Zu seiner Rechten werden weitere Opfer
arrangiert, zu seiner Linken die puspa gesetzt. Deren
Herstellung wird beschrieben, das Ritual-Arrangement
sowie die Umgänge analysiert, die die puspa-tragenden
Anthropos 85.1990
646
Rezensionen
Männer unter der Leitung der dhukun vollziehen. Dies
ist eine der dichtesten Passagen im Buch. Ihr folgt ein
enttäuschender Abschnitt, in dem der Verfasser, obwohl
er keine Litaneien hat aufnehmen können, den Lesern
sagt, was die dhukun wohl gesagt haben wird. Einem
Opfermahl und einem Ritual, in welchem für die Weg-
zehrung der Verstorbenen gesorgt wird, und weiteren
Umgängen folgt der Zug zur Verbrennungshütte. Er
verläuft sehr bewußt, wird doch durch ihn sichergestellt,
daß die Toten wirklich zu ihrem Bestimmungsort ge-
langen. Die Hütte mit den darin sitzenden puspa wird
dann verbrannt, und man läßt die Asche vom nahen
Fluß hinwegtreiben. Seitmann beschließt diesen Teil mit
kurzen Informationen zu Vergleichbarem in der Kultur
der Badui und der Tengger.
Das 6., längste Kapitel (169-277) ist der Stamm-
Mythe der Kalang gewidmet, jenem Mythos, der die
Herkunft der Kalang aus der zweimal sich abspielenden
Verbindung eines Menschen mit einem Tier darlegt. Zu-
nächst ist es eine Bache, die vom Sperma oder (euphe-
mistisch?) vom Urin eines Mannes schwanger wird und
ein außergewöhnlich schönes Mädchen zur Welt bringt,
das neben anderen Dingen vor allem das Weben lernt.
Sie ist die schöne Weberin, der eines Tages beim Weben
in ihrem (Pfahl-)Haus ein Webgerät, meist das Schwert,
herunter- und durch die Bodenplanken fällt. Sie gelobt,
den zu heiraten, der ihr das Gerät wiederbringt. Dies ist
ein Hund, und aus der Verbindung der schönen Weberin
mit dem Hund entsteht ein Sohn, der meist als guter
Jäger geschildert wird. Er tötet den Hund / seinen Vater,
zieht fort und geht später mit seiner Mutter ein inzestuö-
ses Verhältnis ein. Aus diesem gehen die Kalang hervor.
Seitmann legt eine größere Zahl von Texten vor, nach
Regionen geordnet. Mit einigen Ausnahmen sind sie der
bekannten Kalang-Literatur entnommen, eine (G II) vom
Verfasser aus dem Javanischen übersetzt, eine weitere
(H VIII) von ihm aufgenommen (jav„ indon.?).
Zu diesen Mythemen und vielen Details gibt Seit-
mann Kommentare. So interpretiert er plausibel den
Aufenthalt der schönen Weberin im Pfahlhaus als In-
itiationsphase, weniger plausibel allerdings die Tötung
des Hundes durch den jungen Jäger als Relikt aus
Kopfjägerzeiten (269). Daß eine Kennzeichnung, wel-
che die Mutter dem Sohn beibringt, eine Tatauierung
gewesen sein könnte, ist vorstellbar. Weiter hergeholt,
wenn auch nicht auszuschließen, ist die Interpretation
des dem Sohn von der Mutter mitgegebenen Ringes
als Penis-Stäbchen. Zu dieser Erklärung gelangt der
Verfasser aufgrund seiner früheren Arbeit zum Thema
und einer, nicht die Kalang betreffenden Geschichte.
Das derartige Stäbchen existierten, ist für Indonesien
belegt. Die bekanntesten Beispiele stammen vom Candi
Sukuh.
Aber hier zeigt sich auch eine Schwäche der gan-
zen Arbeit. Die Verbindung dieser Stäbchen mit den Ka-
lang ist nicht ausschließlich, ja, nicht einmal belegt. Und
so steht es mit den Mythen überhaupt. Zahlreiche unter
ihnen nennen die Kalang überhaupt nicht. Keine einzige
wurde von einem Kalang aufgenommen. Und doch ist
von „Ur-Fassung“ (259) die Rede. Die Mythe von der
tierischen, speziell der Hunde-Abkunft der Menschen,
ist weit verbreitet (immer noch wichtig: Kretschmar
1938). Man braucht nicht Freudsche Psychologie heran-
zuziehen und in der Tötung des Pfundes eine verdeckte
Version der Ödipus-Geschichte zu sehen. Aber es läßt
sich über Ursprungsmythen sagen, daß in einem Typus
ein Elternteil oder auch beide als Tier dargestellt werden,
weil es bei Tieren kaum noch ein Fragen gibt: Wer war
vor diesem Tier?
Anders also als im Kapitel zum Totenfest (bei
dem die wichtigste Funktionärin allerdings auch keine
Kalang war) ist bei der Mytheninterpretation die Be-
ziehung zur Gesellschaft der Kalang höchst fraglich.
Aber wer ist denn diese Gesellschaft überhaupt? Die-
ser Frage widmet sich Seitmann in eigenartiger Weise.
Einmal (38) schreibt er: „Unter dem Namen ,Kalang‘
scheinen sich eine ganze Reihe von Spezial-Gruppen
zu verbergen ..und man könnte meinen, hier wür-
den die Kalang als Spezialisten vorgestellt, ohne gleich
ethnische Gruppe sein zu müssen. Dann wiederum er-
scheinen die Kalang als ursprünglich Wildbeuter („Da
wir von den Kalang wissen, daß sie ursprünglich vor
allem Wildbeuter gewesen sein dürften ..209), die
so verstreut gelebt haben, daß sie zur Identifikation
Zeichen wie die Tatau brauchten. Doch wenige Zeilen
später ist von Häuptlings- oder Fürstensöhnen die Rede.
„Wir wissen, daß die Kalang ein Wanderleben geführt
haben“ (257), aber der Jäger-Sohn muß seine fürstliche
Herkunft beweisen (229) oder in der Figur des Sang
Kuriang in der Führung von Staats- und Kriegsangele-
genheiten unterwiesen werden (249). Wildbeuter oder
Wandernde als Fürsten und Staatslenker? Es verträgt
sich auch mit dem Wander- oder gar Wildbeuterleben
nicht, daß ein wesentliches Mythem das Weben ist,
möglicherweise noch das von Ikat-Stoffen.
Hier muß man neu ansetzen. Anders als im lau-
fenden Text ist Seitmann in den Schlußbemerkungen
sehr vorsichtig. Hier weisen Büffelopfer, Mythen-Struk-
tur u. a. altertümliche Züge auf, „denen zufolge die
Kalang ursprünglich eine eigene Volksgruppe gebildet
haben könnten. Die Frage, ob die Kalang gar vor den
Javanen und Sundanesen auf Java domizilierten oder ob
sie als spätere Zuwanderer anzusehen sind, bleibt offen.
... sie werden wohl auch zu jenen Volksteilen gehört
haben, die sich nach der Muslimisierung ... in Rück-
zugsgebieten aufgehalten haben“ (290 f.). Hier könnte
gerade die jüngere Forschung über die Gesellschaften in
den sogenannten Rückzugsgebieten Aufschlüsse erlau-
ben. Ganz ähnlich den Badui und den Tengger könnten
die Kalang, und zwar in den verschiedensten Gruppen,
als Gegenentwürfe sowohl der Javanen, bzw. der Sun-
danesen, als auch von sich selbst angesehen werden.
Die javanische Kulturgeschichte ist zu kompliziert, als
daß einfache Schichtenmodelle ausreichten. Berthe hat
dies für die Badui getan, Lüem in Anwendung des
Cohenschen Modells für die Tengger. Wie sie in „Wir
sind wie der Berg - lächelnd aber stark“ (Basel 1988),
zeigen konnte, spielen sowohl in der Ethnogenese als
auch in der Selbstdarstellung zahlreiche Komponenten
eine Rolle. Plausibel hat Berthe die „inneren“ Badui
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
647
als Korrespondenzmodell, und nicht als Rückzugsgesell-
schaft, interpretiert. Man hat den einzelnen Situationen
nachzugehen, etwa so, wie dies Guillot in «Les Kalang
de Java, rouliers et prêteurs d’argent» (in: Lombard et
Aubin [eds.]: Marchands et hommes d’affaires asiati-
ques. Paris 1988) tut. Leider hat der Verfasser kaum nach
1970 erschienene Literatur berücksichtigt und gar keine
zu interethnischen Beziehungen und zur Ethnogenese.
Auf der anderen Seite muß man dem Autor dan-
ken für diese ausführliche Zusammenstellung, die auch
reich ist an Interpretationsansätzen und Anregungen. In
dieser Form lagen die Quellen noch nicht vor, und sie
lassen sich durch vorzügliche Indices gut erschließen.
Hier liegt des Autors problemreichstes Werk vor, den
Kalang gewidmet, auch wenn diese, anders als es der
Waschzettel sagt, keine Reliktgruppe sind.
Wolfgang Marschall
Sontheimer, Günther D., and Hermann Kulke
(eds.): Hinduism Reconsidered. Delhi: Manohar Pub-
lications, 1989. vii + 238 pp., map, tab. (South Asian
Studies, 24) Price: Rs 180
The challenge of a panel held at the 9th European
Conference of Modem South Asian Studies at Wil-
helmsfeld near Heidelberg (West Germany) in 1986 is
well summarized by Shulman in his key paper: “Recon-
sidering Hinduism means reconsidering our usual cate-
gories” (9). Scholars were invited to “discuss the ques-
tions whether we should reformulate our conventional
notions of Hinduism on the basis of new evidence and
modem theories and whether we can afford to interpret
Hinduism without an interdisciplinary (and contextual)
approach” (1). Their papers, therefore, focus on what
“Hinduism” really means, and present a lively picture
of a fascinating and thought-provoking panel. The scope
of the task was immense and the views expressed were
equally divergent. Far from reaching a coherent notion
of Hinduism, the papers are published under the vague,
yet apt title “Hinduism Reconsidered.” The main, or at
least a major, insight of this study is reflected at the end
of the introduction by the editors: “Perhaps the very
strength of Hinduism lies in the fact that it cannot be
forced into watertight, inflexible categories” (6).
With this statement the main concerns of the book
are identified. They are competently presented to the
various disciplinary views of Hinduism in this stimulat-
ing work. The many different approaches and ways of
viewing the theme of the book are brought out by the va-
riety of topics referenced under the term “Hinduism” in
the index (231). A few examples will show this: “[Hin-
duism] a number of different religions” (Stietencron);
“an analytical construct” (Shulman); “anthropological
study of H.” (Van der Veer); “anti-essentialist view
of H.” (Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi); “as a modem inven-
tion” (Frykenberg); “as a syndicated religion” (Fryken-
berg); “components of H.” (Sontheimer); “humanistic”
(Burghart); “in diaspora” (Vertovec); “local” (Eichinger
Ferro-Luzzi); “medieval mystical” (Mallison); “modem”
(Frykenberg); “regional” (Vertovec); “religous plurality
of H.” (Stietencron); “ritual spokesmen of H.” (Burg-
hart); “shifting its meaning” (Stietencron); “the orien-
talist perspective of H.” (Van der Veer).
Stietencron and Frykenberg consider the concept
of Hinduism as something of a misnomer, i.e., a mere
deceptive term, respectively it can be viewed as a con-
cept and as an institution. Wagle and Mallison reflect on
Hinduism as it expresses itself in Hindu-Muslim inter-
actions (“symbiotic relationship,” “cross-fertilization”)
in Medieval Maharashtra, or with respect to the un-
derstanding of the Nizàrï Ismâ’îlî missionaries. Van der
Veer considers “the concept of the ideal Brahman” to be
something constmcted by indologists. The significance
of the national liberation movement in India for the de-
velopment of “modem Hinduism” is shown by Krüger.
Vaudeville’s excellent study presents the complex and
multi-layered history of Hinduism with regard to the
Lord of the Govardhan hill. Thiel-Horstmann discusses
bhakti and the tension between samnyâsa and vaimgya
with reference to the Dâdüpanth of western India. Bouez
makes a strenuous, desperate attempt to link transgres-
sive behaviour as an incentive to devotion with the
features of the snake-goddess Manasâ. Only Vertovec’s
competent analysis of “The Transformation of Tradition
in Trinidad” shows the cultural blending and symbiotic
relationship, vitality and relevance of Hinduism outside
India. Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi advocates a polythetic-
prototype approach to Hinduism. Sontheimers seminal
paper is called “Hinduism: The Five Components and
their Interaction.” A very insightful paper on the herme-
neutics of Hinduism by Burghart questions the attitude
and methods of translating tenets of a religious tradition
from within and without.
The interdisciplinary approach, which the organiz-
ers of this panel obviously tried to achieve (1), is not
clearly accomplished in the essays which make up the
book. With the crossdisciplinary approach, which char-
acterizes most of the contributions in this book, there
is always the danger that the results of one discipline
will be utilized in a very eclectic manner or will be
subordinated to the assumptions of another discipline.
The importance, however, of various cultural factors,
and consequently the need of a contextual approach,
is recognized in most of the papers presented here.
This is true for the two studies which concentrate on
present-day Hinduism (Stietencron, Frykenberg), for the
various case studies and for the two contributions which
are especially characterized by their structural-analytical
nature (Sontheimer, Burghart). In their attempts to come
to grips with Hinduism, none of the papers avoids the
important issue of change and persistence, the way
culture is transformed.
Precisely those ethnologists and scientists of reli-
gion who think of culture in a holistic way realize how
difficult it is to understand Hinduism in all its variety.
According to their understanding, culture includes all
of the learned and shared knowledge which people of
a group use to interpret their experiences and give
meaning to their social relations. To culture in this
Anthropos 85.1990
648
Rezensionen
sense belong all of the areas and activities of human
life: economy, society, religion, worldview, values, prej-
udices, language, art, poetry, technical achievements,
ways of interacting, and so on. “Hinduism Reconsid-
ered” addresses these cultural issues, sometimes directly,
at other times indirectly. To be sure, not all of the articles
utilize such a broad and comprehensive concept of cul-
ture. Some authors see the different aspects of culture
in terms of functional relationship (e.g., Shulman [9],
Stietencron [passim], Wagle [51], Mallison [passim],
Thiel-Horstmann [135 f.], Burghart [passim], or stress,
indeed, the interdependence of the different aspects of
culture (Sontheimer, Van der Veer, Frykenberg [33 f.],
Kruger [84], Vaudeville [113 ff.], Bouez [142 f.], Verto-
vec [158]).
Occasionally, however, culture and religion are
separated from each other (Shulman [8], Frykenberg
[35, 41], Stietencron [20]), or various aspects of culture
are assumed to be more or less separable or, indeed,
separated from other aspects. Such a way of thinking
limits the inquiry into the continuity and change of
Hinduism as a whole; this also might lead us to overlook
the fact that Hinduism is embedded in the whole culture.
By contrast, the holistic way of looking at culture leads
one to view things, in this case religion, as an aspect of
every other dimension of culture. Religion is not viewed
as a slice of culture (separable from the other parts of
culture), but as an aspect of culture which affects every
other cultural domain. Religion, in other words, is a part
of culture, which, at the same time, can be found as a
component of every other part of culture as well. In this
way it is clear that everything is connected no matter
what cultural domain we take as our point of reference,
and that the whole changes whenever a part is changed.
Sontheimer’s critical study is especially challeng-
ing precisely in this sense, because he spells out most
thouroughly and consistently the consequences of taking
a holistic approach. His article is of special importance
for reconsidering Hinduism. He identifies five “compo-
nents” that constitute Hinduism which are in dynamic
interrelationship: “1) The work and the teaching of
the Brahmans, 2) asceticism and renunciation, 3) tribal
religion, 4) folk religion, and 5) bhakti. Though the em-
phasis here is on religion, these components may be seen
to entail other aspects of culture, e.g., social, physical,
linguistic, philosophical, and ideological aspects” (208).
“The process of mutual interaction between the com-
ponents is best described as ‘reflexivity’ which takes
many forms.... If phenomena of these components have
reflected on each other for many centuries and oscil-
lated between ‘divergence and convolution’ ... we can
expect a civilization which formed a close network of
religious interaction and interdependence. This religious
network cannot be refused the label Hinduism, even if
it does not fit the definitions of religion deriving from
the West” (209). Sontheimer’s etic view, drawing its
conclusions mainly from his emic studies, includes the
whole spectrum of Hinduism.
Stietencron, arguing mainly from the point of view
of the comparative history of religions, views Hin-
duism as a mere “etic construct.” “Hinduism in toto
... does not meet the fundamental requirement for a
historical religion of being a coherent system; but its
distinct religious entities do. They are indeed religions,
while Hinduism is not. What we call ‘Hinduism’ is
a geographically defined group of distinct but related
religions, that originated in the same region, developed
under similar socio-economic and political conditions,
incorporated largely the same traditions, influenced each
other continuously, and jointly contributed to the Hindu
culture” (20).
It is to Stientencron’s credit that he placed the
problem in a global context and radically questioned the
generalizations and distortions that have crept into the
concept of Hinduism when it is viewed as one religion.
His perspective - like that of a bird on high - shows that
Hinduism is a “socio-cultural unit or civilization which
contains a plurality of religions” (11). Stietencron makes
the situation very much simpler when he talks about
other religions. One might ask, for example, whether he
is not presenting Christianity, Judaism, and Islam too
much as monolithic blocks, for he does not pay enough
attention to their internal diversity. He also tends to
ignore the religious experiences of the average members
of these religions. When he deals with Christianity and
Islam, he does not emphasize differences with the same
clarity as he does with Hinduism. If the two traditions
of Christianity and Islam were as critically investigated,
theoretically and in terms of their practices, diachroni-
cally and synchronically, one would surely come away
with the conviction that neither Christianity nor Islam
is now, or has ever been, “a coherent religious sys-
tem” (13). Both have to be taken as “deceptive terms.”
Because many problems were only touched upon
and because an in-depth discussion requires more space
than an article allows, the reader is left somewhat dissat-
isfied. Where is one to draw the boundaries of a religious
tradition or identify its overlap? To what degree does its
change and development or the whole process of syncre-
tization depend on the co-religionists as a religious com-
munity, to the point that this religious community can
be considered a religion or a denomination? How mean-
ingful is it to distinguish between “important and minor
religions,” especially when no criteria for making the
distinction is offered? Reference is made to “polytheistic
Vedic Religion,” “bhakti religions,” “Advaita Vedanta
... becoming a new religion,” “Vaisnavism,” “Saivism,”
“Sâktism,” “independent cults,” “several syncretistic re-
ligions,” “Neo-Hinduism,” “tribal religions” or “ani-
misi [!] religions,” “major religions,” “literate religions,”
“non-literate religions,” but it is not clear which of these
religions ever existed, to use Stietencron’s phrase, as
“distinct historical phenomena,” or when or where they
so still exist. How did the cultural contacts between
the various religions take place? While the “attitude of
religious liberality which is truly admirable in the Hindu
culture” (22) is strongly emphasized, the boundaries of
this liberality in theological discussion and in the way
people live together is scarcely mentioned - as if there
were never a savage persecution of Jains and Buddhists.
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
649
The myth that Hinduism is more tolerant than other
religious traditions is again uncritically spread.
Nor can those who view culture holistically sup-
port Frykenberg’s thesis of “modem Hinduism” as a
“syndicated” religion (inspired by R. Thapar); of course,
one must recognize the importance of sociopolitical
processes in the development of Hinduism. And one
can agree with him that theoretical models and different
definitions of Hinduism which do not rely adequately
on historical and empirical data are at best time-bound
assumptions or pure constructs that need critique. On
this all of the authors represented in this volume agree.
However, a selective choice and use of sources can
also lead to distortion and require critique. Even if one
resists the temptation to see Frykenberg’s “syndicated
Hinduism” as an example of those who, according to
him, have led the concept of Hinduism “into trackless
deserts of nonsene” (32), “one would think that this
‘Syndicated Hinduism’ contradicts the essential charac-
ter of Hinduism” (Sontheimer, 209).
The authors of “Hinduism Reconsidered,” through
their field research and theoretical discussions, much of
which they have presented in earlier publications, have
developed their positions over the years. The excellent
case studies present, as the editors aptly point out,
“Hinduism most directly and unfiltered by conceptual
frameworks” (2). This also proves the vitality of Hin-
duism. The various papers abound with competent and
fascinating information challenging cultural anthropolo-
gists, sociologists, indologists, and scholars of religion
to reconsider some of their theories and notions of
Hinduism. Othmar Gachter
Spicer, Edward H.: People of Pascua. Ed. by
K. M. Sands and R. B. Spicer. Tucson: The University
of Arizona Press, 1988. xlviii + 333 pp., photos, maps,
fig. Price: $ 35.00
Pascua war ursprünglich eine kleine Ans(edlung
von Yaqui-Indianem aus Sonora, Mexiko, die um 1880
vor der Verfolgung durch die Mexikaner in die USA
geflohen waren und sich nördlich von Tucson in Arizona
niederließen. Heute ist Pascua ein Teil der Großstadt
Tucson, doch seine Bewohner bilden noch immer eine
eigenständige ethnische Gruppe.
Edward Spicer hat sein Leben als Forscher den
Yaqui in Sonora und Arizona gewidmet. 1980, drei Jahre
vor seinem Tod, erschien sein Buch “The Yaquis - A
Cultural History”, ein Meisterwerk der Ethnohistorie. Es
ist die Summe seines in über fünfzig Jahren Forschungs-
tätigkeit zusammengetragenen Wissens über die Yaqui,
die Jahrhunderte von Unterdrückung und freiwilliger
wie erzwungener Anpassung überdauert haben, ohne
ihre ethnische Eigenständigkeit aufzugeben.
“People of Pascua” ist ein Ausschnitt aus Spicers
frühem Schaffen, 1941 geschrieben, 1952 nochmals re-
vidiert, doch niemals publiziert. Spicer wollte die Privat-
sphäre seiner damals noch lebenden Informanten schüt-
zen und verzichtete deshalb auf eine Veröffentlichung.
Seine Witwe, Rosamond Spicer, hat es nun posthum
zusammen mit Kathleen Sands, einer Schülerin Spicers,
herausgegeben.
Einleitend beschreibt Rosamond Spicer ihre Erfah-
rungen mit den Yaqui an der Seite ihres Mannes, vor
allem die Anfänge ihrer gemeinsamen Yaqui-Forschung
in den dreißiger Jahren.
Im ersten Teil untersucht Edward Spicer die
Grundlagen der Yaqui-Kultur und die Kontaktgeschichte
mit Angloamerikanern, Mexikanern und anderen ethni-
schen Gruppen im Südwesten. Die in Teil zwei wieder-
gegebenen Biographien von acht Männern, vier Frauen
und vier Jugendlichen sind weitgehend nach einem ein-
heitlichen Schema aufgebaut: Life History, Orientation
in Yaqui Society and Culture, Orientation in Other Cul-
tures, Modes of Thought and Value System, Interpreta-
tion of ... Relations to Yaqui Culture.
In Teil drei beschreibt Spicer die kulturellen Pro-
zesse, die durch den Kontakt der Yaqui mit der an-
gloamerikanischen Gesellschaft in Gang gesetzt wurden.
Besonders wichtig ist dabei die Wiederbelebung der
Yaqui-Kultur in einer Form, wie sie nur in Pascua,
weit entfernt von der ursprünglichen Heimat, entstehen
konnte.
In einem Epilog würdigt Kathleen Sands das Werk
von Spicer und erklärt sein Interesse an individuellen
Lebensbeschreibungen folgendermaßen; “He was con-
vinced that by studying individual lives, he would be
able to discover the characteristics and modes of respon-
se to change that enable a cultural group to maintain
a distinct identity even in the face of pressures to be
assimilated into a dominant culture. Hence, he looked
to individual Yaquis and their life experiences to demon-
strate the enduring nature of Yaqui culture in the face
of persecution, relocation, and relations with American
society” (296 f.).
Wie Sands betont, betrieb Spicer nicht Feldfor-
schung, um seine bereits vorhandenen Theorien zu veri-
fizieren, sondern entwickelte seine Theorien aus seiner
Feldarbeit heraus (308). So entstand seine Theorie der
persistenten Identitätssysteme, die er in verschiedenen
Publikationen darlegte, zuletzt 1980 in seiner Kultur-
geschichte der Yaqui. “People of Pascua” ist somit
nicht nur ein wesentlicher Beitrag zur Akkulturationsfor-
schung im amerikanischen Südwesten, sondern gleich-
zeitig ein Stück ethnologischer Forschungsgeschichte.
Peter Bolz
Spittler, Gerd: Handeln in einer Hungerkrise. Tua-
regnomaden und die große Dürre von 1984. Opladen:
Westdeutscher Verlag, 1989. 225 pp., Fig., Tab., Ktn.
Preis: DM 39,50
Spittler, Gerd: Dürren, Krieg und Hungerkrisen
bei den Kel Ewey (1900-1985). Stuttgart: Franz Steiner
Verlag Wiesbaden, 1989. xiv + 220 pp., Fotos, Tab., Ktn.
(Studien zur Kulturkunde, 89) Preis: DM 59,-
„Hungerkrise“ ist das verbindende Thema der bei-
den Bücher, die Gerd Spittler gleichzeitig veröffentlicht.
Sie beruhen auf den Ergebnissen seiner langjährigen
Forschungen bei den Tuareg Kel Ewey, Bewohner der
Anthropos 85.1990
650
Rezensionen
zentralen Regionen des Air-Gebirges in der südlichen
Sahara. Das Air liegt im Grenzbereich von Sahara und
Sahel; in Jahren mit einer ergiebigen Regenzeit erscheint
das Air als nördlicher Ausläufer des Sahel, während es
in Zeiten der Dürre weitgehend den ariden Landschaften
der saharischen Gebirgsregionen entspricht. Wichtig ist,
daß die Regen im Air mit der sudanischen Regenzeit
Zusammenhängen, das heißt, Dürre im Air bedeutet
auch Dürre in den südlich gelegenen Gebieten von
Damergou, deren Hirse für die Kel Ewey den Grund-
pfeiler ihrer Ernährung darstellt. (Gerd Spittler beweist
diesen Zusammenhang durch vergleichende Diagramme
der jährlichen Regenmengen; ich vermisse jedoch ein
Diagramm, aus dem die monatliche Verteilung der Nie-
derschläge ersichtlich ist.) Denn die Kel Ewey sind, wie
alle Saharabewohner, wirtschaftlich keineswegs autark,
sondern weitgehend abhängig vom Austausch mit an-
deren Gruppen. Partner der Kel Ewey sind die Kanuri
von Bilma und Fachi als Lieferanten für Salz und Dat-
teln, die Gezebida des Kauar, von denen die Kel Ewey
Datteln beziehen, sowie die Hausa und Fulbe im Süden,
bei denen die Kel Ewey Salz und Datteln gegen Hirse,
Stoffe, Tee und anderes einhandeln. (Schade, daß im
Register die ethnischen Bezeichnungen nur unvollstän-
dig enthalten sind.) Die Kel Ewey sind ein Glied in der
Kette eines Handelssystems, das die Salz- und Dattel-
produzenten der Sahara mit den Hirseproduzenten des
Sahel verbindet. Ähnliche Handelssysteme gibt es auch
in anderen Gebieten der Sahara, aber wie ein derartiges
Handelssystem im einzelnen strukturiert ist, wie es auch
in Krisenzeiten funktionieren kann, wissen wir nun am
besten für den nigerischen Teil der Sahara zwischen Air
und Kauar durch die vorliegenden Arbeiten von Gerd
Spittler, die dieses interethnische Handelssystem aus der
Sicht der nomadischen Tuareg Kel Ewey beschreiben.
Sie stellen in vieler Hinsicht das Gegenstück dar zu
meinen eigenen Studien über dieses Handelssystem aus
der Sicht der seßhaften Kanuri der Oase Fachi.
„Hungerkrise“ wird in den beiden Büchern von
Gerd Spittler im wesentlichen unter zwei Aspekten dar-
gestellt. In dem Band „Handeln in einer Hungerkrise“
geht es, wie schon der Titel besagt, um Aktionsfor-
schung, um das Verhalten der Kel Ewey in Krisensitua-
tionen, um den geschlechtsspezifischen Anteil an den
traditionellen Überlebensstrategien, um die Gültigkeit
sozialer und moralischer Werte und Normen auch in
der Krise und um ihre Gefährdung beim Kampf um
das nackte Überleben. „Handeln“ bedeutet in diesem
Zusammenhang nicht nur, Wege zur Ernährung finden,
obwohl die verfügbaren Ressourcen weitgehend ausge-
fallen sind, es bedeutet für die Kel Ewey vor allem auch
„Mensch bleiben“. Die größte Bedrohung ihrer Existenz
ist für die Kel Ewey nicht der Hunger, nicht einmal
der Hungertod, sondern das Absinken des Menschen
aus der Kultur in den Bereich des Animalischen. Der
Mensch wird von seiner tierischen Natur eingeholt, um
zu überleben, lebt und verhält er sich „wie ein Tier“.
Er verliert seine Menschenwürde, der Schock sitzt tief,
er bedroht das Wesen des Menschen. Für die Kel Ewey
ist dies, nach Gerd Spittler, die schlimmste Erfahrung,
die sie in einer Hungerkrise durchleben müssen. (Bei
den Kanuri von Fachi habe ich die gleiche Auffassung
festgestellt.)
In dem Band „Dürren, Krieg und Hungerkrisen bei
den Kel Ewey (1900-1985)“ wird das Thema „Hun-
gerkrise“ vor allem als ethnohistorische Fragestellung
aufgearbeitet. Mit Recht vertritt Gerd Spittler die Mei-
nung, daß zum Verständnis der Krisenstrategien der Kel
Ewey die historische Dimension unverzichtbar ist. Aus
der geschichtlichen Rekonstruktion früherer Dürren und
Hungerkrisen wird erklärbar, warum die Kel Ewey in
der jüngsten Krise von 1984/85 so und nicht anders ge-
handelt haben. Die beiden Bücher ergänzen sich, sie sind
als zwei Teilpublikationen über ein Forschungsprojekt
zu betrachten. Darüber hinaus fließen auch Erfahrungen
ein, die Gerd Spittler bei seinen früheren Forschungen
im Hausa-Gebiet gemacht hat. Die Hausa haben eine
Auffassung von Ökonomie, die in vieler Hinsicht einen
Gegensatz zu jener der Kel Ewey darstellt. Gerd Spittler
macht deutlich, daß sich daraus recht unterschiedliche
Handels- und Handlungsstrategien ergeben.
Ein Vorzug beider Bücher ist die Akribie, mit der
Gerd Spittler bei der Definition und der Verwendung der
Termini verfährt. Was unter „Dürre“, was unter „Hun-
gerkrise“ zu verstehen ist, wird durch einen Vergleich
des „Normalzustandes“ und des „Krisenzustandes“ ein-
deutig festgelegt; bei der Darstellung der kulturellen
Phänomene setzt Gerd Spittler den entsprechenden Be-
griff der Kel Ewey im Tamajegh ein, erklärt den Be-
deutungsinhalt des Wortes in seiner ganzen Breite, hält
im Text an den Tamajegh-Begriffen fest und verlangt
von seinen Lesern, daß sie sich entweder die Wör-
ter merken oder immer wieder im Glossar nachschla-
gen. Den Ethnologen ist dieses Verfahren vertraut, aber
die fachfremden Leser, an die sich „Handeln in einer
Hungerkrise“ offensichtlich auch wendet, werden dies
möglicherweise als Zumutung empfinden. Hier zeigt
sich, wie schwierig es ist, ein ethnologisches Thema,
das auch für ein breiteres Publikum interessant ist, so
darzustellen, daß es einerseits angenehm zu lesen ist,
andererseits aber auch den spezifischen Anforderungen
des Faches gerecht wird. Diese Bemerkung zur literari-
schen Präsentation stellt natürlich die wissenschaftliche
Kompetenz des Autors nicht in Frage, denn Gerd Spitt-
ler ist derzeit zweifellos der hervorragendste Kenner
der Region und anerkannter Fachmann für den Bereich
„Krisenbewältigung mit traditionellen Strategien“, ein
von der staatlichen Entwicklungshilfe sträflich vernach-
lässigter Bereich, in dessen Rahmen sich „Hilfe zur
Selbsthilfe“ sehr viel erfolgreicher verwirklichen läßt als
durch spektakuläre, aber höchst problematische Lebens-
mittelgeschenke. Gerd Spittler hat dazu persönlich den
Beweis mit einem Hilfsprogramm geliefert, das er 1985
mit privaten Spenden aus der Bundesrepublik für die
Kel Ewey von Timia verwirklichen konnte. Es ist ein
Musterbeispiel dafür, wie sich bei genauer Kenntnis der
sozio-ökonomischen Zusammenhänge mit relativ einfa-
chen und billigen Mitteln erfolgreich und mit positi-
ven Perspektiven für die Betroffenen Hilfsmaßnahmen
durchführen lassen, ein Beispiel für die Möglichkeiten
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
651
der Verbindung von Ethnologie und Entwicklungshilfe.
Aber nicht nur aus diesem Grund gehören die bei-
den Bücher von Gerd Spittler zur Pflichtlektüre aller
Seminare über „Entwicklungsethnologie“, sondern sie
zeigen auch, daß „Handeln in einer Hungerkrise“ stets
kulturspezifisches Handeln bedeutet und ein historischer
Aspekt damit verbunden ist. Es folgt daraus, daß sich aus
den Überlebensstrategien der Kel Ewey keine allgemei-
nen „Patentrezepte“ für die Bewältigung von Dürreperi-
oden im Sahel ableiten lassen. Jede Dürre ist anders, jede
Gesellschaft ist anders, und jeweils unterschiedlich sind
die historischen Rahmenbedingungen einer Hungerkrise.
Es gibt nicht die Strategie zur Lösung des „Sahel-
Problems“, sondern eine Fülle lokaler und angepaßter
Strategien sind nötig. Diese im Einzelfall zu entwickeln,
bedarf der ethnologischen Grundlagenforschung. Für die
Tuareg Kel Ewey hat sie in nachahmenswerter Weise
Gerd Spittler geleistet. Peter Fuchs
Stoller, Paul: Fusion of the Worlds. An Ethnog-
raphy of Possession among the Songhay of Niger. Chi-
cago: The University of Chicago Press, 1989. xxiv +
244 pp., photos, fig., maps. Price: $ 28.75
«The sun set, leaving in its wake a rosy sky
streaked with bands of deep purple that momentarily
folded into an oriental fan» (68). «Stars twinkled in the
inky sky. A cool breeze from the west swept through
Tillaberi ...» (213). Ces deux phrases extraites parmi
bien d’autres du dernier livre de Paul Stoller, révèlent
une sorte d’hésitation entre l’art et la science, entre la
littérature et le traité d’anthropologie. Il est vrai que cet
anthropologue nous avait avertis ailleurs qu’il entendait
rompre avec l’empirisme dominant pour, en retenant
les leçons du peintre, «laisser agir sur lui les forces du
monde», en l’occurence «les mystères du monde de la
magie Songhay» (Stoller 1984). Dans cet esprit, Stoller
a pris le parti de pousser plus loin que ses collègues la
fameuse observation participante: il a appris la langue
Songhay et s’est soumis à l’initiation des «esclaves des
Sorko», les griots des cultes de possession.
Par son livre, Stoller entend restituer les multiples
facettes de la vie d’une troupe de possession, vue de Tin-
terieur. Selon lui, être initié correspond à un choix mais
aussi à une nécessité, car explique-t-il, les mots ayant
un pouvoir, les Sorko n’acceptent pas de livrer contre de
l’argent, leur savoir aux chercheurs. Pour enregistrer les
louanges des cultes de possession, l’anthropologue n’a
d’autres recours que de les apprendre lui-même (101).
Cette méthode d’enquête un peu particulière nous
vaut un livre très riche, qui complète les travaux déjà
consacrés aux pratiques religieuses Songhay-Zarma par
J. Rouch (1960), J.-P. Olivier de Sardan (1982) et L.
Vidal (1988); un livre qui apporte également des matéri-
aux précieux pour une analyse comparative des cultes de
possession ouest-africains, dont la théorie générale est
toujours loin d’être établie, malgré d’importantes con-
tributions totalisantes (Bourguignon, de Heusch, Lewis,
Rouget) ou monographies (Zempléni, Monfouga-Nico-
las, Echard, Gibbal). (Curieusement, Stoller, qui cite
abondamment Jean Rouch et le reconnaît comme une
sorte d’«aîné initiatique», ne cite jamais ses films. En
deux occurances au moins, l’apparition des possédés par
les esprits Hauka et les rites de pluies [yenaandi], il est
impossible de lire Stoller sans avoir en tête les images
de Rouch.)
Bousculant Tordre sacro-saint des monographies,
Paul Stoller nous entraîne dans une sorte de monta-
ge cinématographique qui alterne des séquences très
différentes. Si, comme le remarquait chacun de leur côté
E. Leach (1976: 1) et D. Sperber (1982; 8), la lectu-
re des monographies anthropologiques réclame souvent
une persévérance méritoire, ce livre comptera parmi les
exceptions, car jamais la vibration de la vie sociale
n’en est exclue. «Fusion of the Worlds» contient de
nombreux récits biographiques, en alternance avec des
sections plus documentaires. Le texte, souvent basé sur
des enregistrements, nous épargne l’encombrant style in-
direct: foin des «selon eux», «disent-ils», «sont censés»,
«aux yeux de», etc. ... La structure de l’ouvrage rend
aussi la première lecture très aisée, et Ton se lasse
d’autant moins que Ton passe d’un style à l’autre, d’une
ambiance à l’autre.
Mais en seconde lecture, que Ton veuille par exem-
ple systématiser ce qu’on a appris sur les Sorko, et
l’on se verra obligé de feuilleter quatre ou cinq endroits
différents du livre; que Ton veuille connaître les choix
épistémologiques de l’auteur, et Ton sera même con-
traint à rechercher les notes de fin de volume. Parfois,
on éprouve un peu l’impression de lire un journal «de
terrain» soigneusement réécrit et on aimerait en savoir
plus sur les positions théoriques d’un auteur, qui, un
peu à la manière des magiciens Songhay, en pense
certainement plus qu’il ne le dit.
Les questions fondamentales abordées sont nom-
breuses et foisonnantes, allant du rituel comme tentative
de contrôler le cours du monde, à l’organisation de la
troupe de possession, en passant par le recrutement des
médiums, la thérapie par l’initiation, la transmission de
la prêtrise, le mécanisme de la possession en référence
à la théorie de la personne, l’articulation mythe-rite,
l’importance du son et de la musique, la structure du
panthéon, le culte de possession comme mise en scène
du changement social, l’incorporation des influences
extérieures, les rapports hommes-femmes, Thomologie
entre les catégories d’initiés et d’esprits et la stratifica-
tion sociale, etc. ...
Je passe sur l’examen de toutes ces données ethno-
graphiques, dont un résumé ne saurait dispenser de
la lecture, pour en venir à des questions d’ordre plus
général.
Si Ton peut créditer Paul Stoller d’avoir davantage
que d’autres chercheurs payé de sa personne et s’il
est aujourd’hui celui qui connaît sans doute le mieux
les cultes de possession Songhay, son implication dans
un cursus initiatique ne lève pas toutes les hypothèses
qui pèsent sur les interprétations d’un observateur venu
d’ailleurs. Stoller a parfaitement le droit de contester la
prétention objectiviste de l’anthropologie et de choisir
la voie initiatique. Mais le choix de ce nouveau lieu
Anthropos 85.1990
652
Rezensionen
d’énonciation du discours anthropologique ne devrait-il
pas l’inciter à s’interroger sur l’écart différentiel qui, sur
le chemin de l’initiation, le sépare, en tant que professeur
d’anthropologie américain, du jeune candidat Songhay?
En invoquant son inclusion dans l’espace intérieur
(notion empruntée à Merleau Ponty) de la possession
Songhay, Stoller nous donne l’impression de vouloir
croire aux choses extraordinaires, aux pouvoirs excep-
tionnels, à la clair-voyance. Bien sûr, son ethnologie
enthousiaste nous vaut un récit très vivant, mais ne
répète-t-il pas quelques fois avec un rien de complai-
sance, en soulignant littérairement les coïncidences, ces
histoires incroyables qu’on aime raconter en Afrique,
avec des morts-châtiments survenues à point nommé ou
des pluies diluviennes s’abattant au lendemain des rites
de fertilité?
Ses dernières phrases ne sont cependant pas cel-
les d’un adepte de la religion qu’il prétend vivre de
l’intérieur, mais celle d’un anthropologue, soucieux,
comme tous les anthropologues depuis Malinowski, de
participer «le plus intiment possible» à la culture de ses
hôtes afin de réaliser le compromis d’une traduction,
d’une interprétation et si possible d’une explication, à
destination d’un public largement étranger à la culture
dont il est question.
Dans sa conclusion, il voit la possession comme
un acte créatif, comme une réaction esthétique aux
insuffisances du monde. C’est en «prêtant leur corps au
monde» que les médiums Songhay donnent sens à un
monde sahélien rude, fait de discordes, de sécheresses,
de famine et de mort. La possession n’est pas seulement
un sujet de réflexion et d’analyses académiques, c’est
aussi une scène où se confrontent les passions d’indi-
vidus de conditions sociales diverses. La frustration, le
désespoir, le sentiment de perte, l’angoisse incitent aussi
bien les vendeuses du marché que les fonctionnaires à
assister aux cérémonies et même à y prêter leurs corps.
C’est sur cette scène de la possession que fusionnent
le monde sociale et le monde des esprits, quand ces
derniers quittent le premier ciel où ils résident pour
rendre visite aux humains en s’emparant de certains
d’entre eux.
Bibliographie
Bourguignon, E,
1976 Possession. San Francisco: Chandler and Sharp.
Echard, N.
1978 La pratique religieuse des femmes dans une société
d’hommes. Revue Française de Sociologie 29: 551-562.
1989 Aspects d’un culte de possession hausa dans l’Ader et
le Kurfey (Niger). Paris: Editions de l’EHESS. (CEA
EHESS Documents de travail, 10)
Gibbal, J.-M.
1982 Tambours d’eau. Paris: Le Sycomore.
1988 Les génies du fleuve; voyage sur le Niger. Paris; Presses
de la Renaissance.
Heusch, Luc de
1971 Pourquoi l’épouser? et autres essais. Paris; Gallimard.
Leach, E.
1976 Culture et communication. Cambridge; Cambridge Uni-
versity Press.
Lewis, I. M.
1971 Ecstatic Religion: An Anthropological Study of Posses-
sion and Shamanism. London; Penguin Books.
Monfouga-Nicolas, J.
1972 Ambivalence et culte de possession. Paris: Editions
Anthropos.
Olivier de Sardan, J.-P.
1982 Concepts et conceptions Songhay-Zarma. Paris: Nubia.
Rouch, J.
1960 La religion et la magie des Songhay. Paris: P. U. F.
Rouget, G.
1980 La musique et la transe. Paris: Gallimard.
Sperber, D.
1983 Le savoir des anthropologues. Paris: Hermann.
Stoller, P.
1984 Eye, Mind, and Word in Anthropology. L’Homme 24/3-
4: 91-114.
Vidal, L.
1988 Les génies de la parole. Rituel de possession en milieux
Peul et Zarma au Niger. [Doctorat Paris V., 524 pp.
dact.]
Zempléni, A.
1966 La dimension thérapeutique du culte des rab. Nddp,
tuuru et samp, rites de possession chez les Wolof et
les Lebou. Psychopathologie africaine 2: 295-439.
1967 Sur l’alliance de la personne et du rab dans le ndôp.
Psychopathologie africaine 3: 441-450.
1973 Pouvoir dans la cure et pouvoir social. Nouvelle Revue
de Psychanalyse 8 (Pouvoirs): 141-179.
1984 Possession et sacrifice. Le Temps de la Réflexion 5:
325-352.
1985a L’enfant Nit Ku Bon: un tableau psychopathologie
traditionnel chez les Wolof et les Lebou du Sénégal.
Nouvelle Revue d’Ethnopsychiatrie 4: 9—A2.
19856 Du dedans au dehors: transformation de la possession-
maladie en possession rituelle. International Journal of
Psychology 20: 663—679.
1987 Des êtres sacrificiels. In: M. Cartry (éd.), Sous le mas-
que de l’animal; pp. 267-317. Paris: P. U. F.
Jean-Paul Colleyn
Ströbele-Gregor, Juliana: Dialektik der Gegen-
aufklärung. Zur Problematik fundamentalistischer und
evangelikaler Missionierung bei den urbanen Aymara
in La Paz (Bolivien). Bonn: Holos Verlag, 1988. xi +
369 pp., Ktn., Tab., Fig., Abb. (Mundus Reihe Ethnolo-
gie, 24) Preis: DM 40,-
„Sekten“, meist in dieser undifferenzierten Fas-
sung, in Lateinamerika sind ein Thema häufiger Diskus-
sion auf verschiedensten Ebenen, nicht nur im Rahmen
der katholischen Kirche, die ihre Felle davonschwim-
men sieht, nicht nur von Seiten der Linken, die sie als
ideologisches Instrument des nordamerikanischen Impe-
rialismus bewerten, sondern ganz allgemein fragt man
sich, wie konnte der durch die spanisch/portugiesische
Anthropos 85.1990
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653
Conquista scheinbar katholisch gewordene Kontinent
sich auch religiös zu einem Flickenteppich verwandeln?
Was bewegt v. a. Menschen der Unterschicht - noch spe-
zifischer: Indianer - dazu, sich diesen Gruppen mit voll-
ständig anderer ideologischer Prägung anzuschließen,
und welche Konsequenzen hat diese Art von Sinnes-
wandel gesellschaftlich? Anders gewendet: Mit welchen
Mitteln überzeugten oder „kauften“ die Sektenprediger
ihre Anhänger?
Juliana Ströbele-Gregor geht diesen Fragen nach
und bekennt (22) ihren persönlichen Lernprozeß wäh-
rend ihrer Feldforschung in La Paz, der sie von der
Hypothese der Sekten als „ideologisches Kampfinstru-
ment“ zur differenzierteren Fragestellung der Dynamik
der Sekten im Rahmen der Dialektik der Gegenaufklä-
rung brachte.
Ausgewählt wurden für die vorliegende Studie die
Siebenten-Tags-Adventisten in einem von Aymara-Mi-
granten bewohnten Vorstadtviertel von La Paz; die Aus-
wahl wurde, vor dem Hintergrund der umfangreichen
Bibliographie, u. a. damit begründet, daß das Phäno-
men evangelikaler und fundamentalistischer Religions-
gemeinschaften und ihrer Missionserfolge unter indiani-
schen Migranten noch weniger untersucht ist als in den
andinen Dorfgemeinschaften.
Die Darstellung der adventistischen Gemeinde La
Salvación (so nennt sie die Autorin) wird über zwei
Stränge vorbereitet: zum einen die historische und so-
zio-ökonomische Einführung zur Situation der Ayma-
ra (l.Teil), zum anderen die Struktur und Geschichte
der adventistischen Glaubensgemeinschaft in Bolivien
(2. Teil). Beide Hinführungen haben notwendigerweise
zusammenfassenden Charakter, zu kurz scheint dabei
jedoch die kulturelle Dimension zu kommen. Die Dar-
legung der Situation der Aymara konzentriert sich auf
sozio-ökonomische Fragen, obwohl bei der Diskussion
um die Akzeptanz der adventistischen Mission (in einem
im übrigen sehr gut gelungenen Unterkapitel: 2.II.5.)
auch auf kulturelle Zusammenhänge, Denkstrukturen
und Vorstellungswelten rekurriert wird. Gleichfalls ist
die den ersten Teil strukturierende Einteilung in „I. Le-
ben auf dem Land - Lebensbedingungen vor der Revo-
lution von 1952“ und „II. Leben in der Stadt - Lebensbe-
dingungen nach der Revolution von 1952“ irreführend.
Da Organisation, interne Struktur, Missionsstrate-
gien und weltanschauliche Grundsätze der Adventisten
im 2. Teil schon dargestellt wurden, konzentriert sich der
3. Teil mit den Ergebnissen der Feldforschung auf die
Gemeinde La Salvación und ihr täglich-wöchentliches
Leben, ihre Mitglieder, Konflikte etc. Juliana Ströbele-
Gregor konnte aufgrund ihrer persönlichen Teilnahme
das Leben dieser Gemeinde in seinen Details von innen
her darstellen, wobei sie sich eine Rückfrage an ihre
Methode, u. U. auch an ihre Berufsethik gefallen lassen
muß: Wie gelang es ihr, in dieser Form zur Teilnahme
zugelassen zu werden? Wußten die Gemeindemitglieder
von ihrem Forschungsvorhaben? Unter den methodolo-
gischen Vorbemerkungen findet sich keine klare Ant-
wort.
Die Ergebnisse, zu denen Juliana Ströbele-Gregor
kommt, sind interessant, v. a. weil sie eine fundierte
Kritik an der vorschnellen These der „gekauften India-
ner“ darstellt, überzeugender noch durch den Verweis
auf den persönlichen Lernprozeß. Es gelingt der Autorin
aufzuzeigen, inwieweit die Adventisten in der Perspek-
tive ihrer indianischen Anhänger scheinbar Antworten
geben auf die realen und alltäglichen Bedürfnisse, wobei
sie es nicht unterläßt, eindeutig darauf hinzuweisen,
daß diese Antworten für die jeweilige sozio-ökonomi-
sche Situation keine Lösungen darstellen. Anders im
sozio-kulturellen Bereich, wo von einer tatsächlich grö-
ßeren sozialen Anerkennung im Raum der Gemeinde
und damit von einem gestärkten Selbstbewußtsein der
Gemeindeglieder ausgegangen werden muß. Allerdings
bleibt zu beachten: Gesellschaftliche Nicht-Anerken-
nung und Diskriminierung in La Paz bezieht sich auf
die Aymara als Indianer; ihre Anerkennung innerhalb
der adventistischen Glaubensgemeinde erfahren sie je-
doch trotz ihrer indianischen Herkunft, nicht nur, weil
kulturelle indianische Elemente von seiten der Adven-
tisten grundsätzlich abgelehnt werden, sondern auch,
weil die Gemeinde, obwohl sie fast ausschließlich aus
Aymara besteht, sich einem nicht-indianischen, weißen,
westlichen Bewußtsein verpflichtet weiß. Der Titel der
spanischen Übersetzung macht dies deutlich: «Indios de
piel blanca» (Indianer mit weißer Haut). Wichtig bleibt
jedoch, daß Juliana Ströbele-Gregor den adventistischen
Aymara nicht ihre Selbständigkeit und Eigenständigkeit
als Subjekten abspricht, sondern vielmehr versucht, ih-
ren spezifischen Entscheidungsprozeß nachzuvollziehen,
dessen Motivationen aufzuarbeiten, ohne daß ihr dabei
die kritische Distanz der Forscherin verlorenginge.
Interessant ist gleichfalls die Dialektik von interner
Gleichheit (in der Gemeinde) und postulierter Unterwer-
fung unter die politischen Bedingungen des status quo,
der Punkt, an dem die Autorin die Dialektik der Gegen-
aufklärung aufzuzeigen versucht, dem aber im Gesamt
der Arbeit nicht der zentrale Stellenwert zukommt, auf
den der Titel schließen ließe.
Wo das genannte Spannungsverhältnis gebrochen
wird, d. h. wo die Gleichheit und Brüderlichkeit im
Hier und Jetzt von Adventisten politisch eingefordert
wird, bewegt sich die Autorin außerhalb ihrer Gemeinde,
muß sich auf die wohl sehr vereinzelten Beispiele ad-
ventistischer Aymara-Gewerkschaftsführer berufen. Die
politische Handlungsfähigkeit ist unter Adventisten an-
erkanntermaßen die Ausnahme, Juliana Ströbele-Gregor
selbst gibt in einem abschließenden ideologiekritischen
Rückblick zu, daß die Erziehungsmethoden und -prinzi-
pien der Adventisten (und Erziehung ist einer der Haupt-
pfeiler dieser Glaubensgemeinschaft und ihrer Mission)
eher geeignet sind, Anpassung an die bestehende „Ord-
nung“ zu fördern.
Überzeugend jedoch legt die Autorin dar, inwie-
fern adventistische und andere freikirchliche Glaubens-
gemeinschaften an ein noch vorhandenes Potential an
Utopie und Widerstand gegen die kolonialgeprägte Ge-
sellschaft anknüpfen. Die Tatsache, daß dieses Potential
nicht politisch, sondern quasi in einer Gegenbewegung
zu sich selbst genutzt wird, mag bedauerlich sein, sollte
Anthropos 85.1990
654
Rezensionen
jedoch nicht dazu führen, diesen Zusammenhang in
einem politischen Diskurs gegen die Sekten zu leugnen.
Die beiden Deutungsmöglichkeiten im Sinne der
Dialektik der Gegenaufklärung und im Sinne der Ideo-
logiekritik - entsprechend dem Forschungsprozeß
die End- und die Ausgangsposition des obengenannten
Lernprozesses und die in ihnen verdeutlichten Zusam-
menhänge bleiben am Ende der Lektüre jedoch un-
vermittelt. Der in den letzten Zeilen der Arbeit an-
gedeutete Versuch einer Vermittlung über die offenen
Entwicklungsmöglichkeiten der Zukunft überzeugt nicht
ganz angesichts der realen Konsequenzen der ideolo-
giekritisch dargelegten Realitäten. Anders gesagt: das
gegenaufklärerische Potential adventistischer Glaubens-
prinzipien erscheint in der dargestellten und wohl relativ
repräsentativen Gemeinde La Salvación nicht immer in
einem dialektischen Verhältnis zu den genannten ge-
sellschaftlichen Problemen, betrachtet man die Ebene
des politischen Handelns. Damit soll jedoch nicht ge-
leugnet werden, daß Juliana Ströbele-Gregors Ansatz
der Dialektik der Gegenaufklärung sehr wohl zu einem
Erkenntnisfortschritt des Verständnisses der Akzeptanz
freikirchlicher Missionsstrategien beiträgt, d. h. das Phä-
nomen der Ausbreitung dieser Glaubensgemeinschaft
überzeugend erklären kann.
Abschließend ist anerkennend anzumerken, daß die
Dissertation von Juliana Ströbele-Gregor innerhalb eines
Jahres von Hisbol, La Paz, in spanischer Übersetzung
vorgelegt wurde («Indios de piel blanca»). Auch wenn
die Betroffenen, d. h. die Mitglieder von La Salvación
oder anderen freikirchlichen Gemeinden, die Arbeit ge-
wiß nicht lesen werden, so kann sie doch in Boli-
vien zur Diskussion um das Phänomen der evangelika-
len und fundamentalistischen Glaubensgemeinschaften
beitragen. Es ist erfreulich, daß im Fall dieser Feld-
forschung der „Rücklauf4 so schnell funktioniert, eu-
ropäische Wissenschaftler Lateinamerika nicht nur als
Datenbank benutzen, sondern die geordneten Daten und
ihre Interpretationen in situ zugänglich machen; dies
gilt um so mehr für die vorliegende Dissertation, da
Juliana Ströbele-Gregor in erstaunlichem Maße lesbar
schreibt, die Arbeit also auch von Nicht-Fachleuten stu-
diert werden kann. Selbstverständlich bedeutet Zugang
auch Möglichkeiten der Kritik, der sich die Autorin
auszusetzen hat - vielleicht ist der wesentlich schärfer
gefaßte und in der Intention auch nicht identische Titel
ein Hinweis auf die bolivianische Rezeption?
Sabine Speiser
Taylor, Penny (ed.): After 200 Years. Photograph-
ie Essays of Aboriginal and Isländer Australia Today.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. xxv +
358 pp., map, photos. Price: £ 30.00
Zwei Männer, bis zum Bauch im Wasser, der ei-
ne mit Hemd, der andere ohne, lachen sich an. Man
schaut auf sie, beginnt mitzulachen und wird dabei von
etwas mehr als 200 Menschen beobachtet. “After 200
Years”. Schon der Umschlag dieses Fotobandes, der in
aufregener Weise aus schwarz-weißen und kolorierten
Porträts einen Rahmen für das erwähnte Bild formt,
macht Freude. Das Buch ist ein Bilderbuch “of the spirit
of what it means to be Aboriginal in 1988” (ix).
Es geht hier nicht um die Aborigines, die Ethno-
logiestudenten hierzulande in aller Regel in ihren Semi-
naren kennenlernen - um die Aborigines, die Spencer
und Gillen oder auch die Berndts in ihren Büchern
beschreiben -, es geht hier um die Aborigines, die heute
in Australien leben, die unsere Zeitgenossen sind, un-
sere gegenwärtigen Mitmenschen, die Leute von heute
sind, so wie wir, und nicht irgendwelche fremde, ferne
Sonderlinge, Exoten oder auch nur Schwarze aus einem
anderen Kontinent, einem anderen Land, einer ande-
ren Schicht. Dieses Buch macht Freude, weil wir hier
endlich die Menschen kennenlemen, die nach nur 200
Jahren schon in dieser Welt, die ehedem so weit weg,
ja so nichtexistent war, sich eingerichtet haben (weil
sie es mußten), sich auseinandersetzen, sich wehren und
sich arrangieren. Das ist es, was die Ethnologie, will
sie zu keinem Märchenfach werden, leisten muß. Sie
muß uns die Gegenwart zeigen, und zwar die ganze,
also die Nöte, Sorgen und Probleme unserer außereuro-
päischen Zeitgenossen, aber auch ihren Stolz, ihre Kraft,
ihre Schönheit. Im Vorwort fragt Ken Colbung: “As an
Aboriginal spokesman, I am one of a number of people
who have spent years fighting for better conditions,
to right the wrongs of the last 200 years, to move
from serfdom to citizenship. To achieve this has meant
addressing the poverty, the despair, but in doing so, have
we perhaps neglected to let people know the other side
of Aboriginal and Islander life: the achievements and
pride, the warmth and above all the good-humoured de-
light in being Aboriginal?” (ix). Der Humor, Malinowski
und Lips sprachen schon davon, kehrt in die Ethnologie
zurück.
Das Buch wurde als ein Hauptbeitrag zu den 200-
Jahrfeierlichkeiten der Australier 1988 geplant und sollte
mit Fotografien und Texten das vielfältige Leben der
Aborigines am Ende der achtziger Jahre darstellen. Über
zwanzig Fotografen, Aborigines und Weiße, darunter
die besten des Landes, widmeten sich diesem Projekt
und arbeiteten über ganz Australien verteilt in den ver-
schiedensten Communities. Mehr als 50.000 Fotos, die
heute im “Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies” in
Canberra aufbewahrt werden, waren das Ergebnis. Nur
ein kleiner Teil davon, immerhin aber ca. 500, fanden
Eingang in das Buch. Das Hauptziel, die heutige Viel-
falt des Lebens von Aborigines wiederzugeben, in die
tagtäglichen Welten der Arbeit, des Spiels, der Familie
und der Nachbarschaft einzutauchen, wurde glänzend
erreicht. Die Fotografen entwickelten ein Gespür für
die fotodokumentarische Ethik, in deren Umfeld sich
ein solches Vorhaben nur verwirklichen läßt. Es mußte
“a genre of collaborative documentary photography in
which the participants could control and direct the work
of the photographer, the selection of images and the texts
that would accompany them” (xv) gefunden werden. Die
Kooperation “between photographers and their subjects,
between different classes of people, between strangers
and friends” (xv) wurde zur angestrebten Arbeitsweise.
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
655
So repräsentiert das Buch “a process of collaborative
documentary photography in which the subjects, far
from being the passive victims of a photographer’s lens,
have played a major determining role” (xxv).
Wir sehen da eine Frau, die mitten auf einer
dieser riesigen Wüstenpisten, an deren Rändern zwei
Schrottautos von den unvermeidlichen Rückständen ei-
ner motorisierten Welt künden, mit Zweigen und auf
Knien rutschend ein offensichtlich der schnellen Be-
wegung widersprechendes kleines Ritual vollführt (61).
Wir sehen ein erfreutes Paar, er im Anzug mit Weste,
breiter Krawatte und Blume im Revers, sie im Kostüm
mit großem Sonnenhut und Perlenkette vor einem See
im Gras stehen, den es sich als Hintergrund für das
Hochzeitsfoto ausgesucht hat (69). Wir sehen ein an-
deres Paar - er mit einem Didjeridu in der Hand, sie
mit einem langen Stab, bekleidet nur mit Rock und
Hose -, das weißen Schulkindern zeigt, wie man früher,
“in the old times”, gelebt hat (90). Wir sehen einen
Mann vor seinem Haus auf seinem Bett sitzen. Um ihn
hemm Katzen und Hunde, und alle scheinen es sehr
gemütlich zu haben unterm Poinciana-Baum (148). Wir
sehen drei Männer mit den Symbolen früher westlicher
schwarzer Musik, Jeans, Turnschuhen, Blues-Guitars.
Und es scheint so, daß hier die “roots” noch nicht
gesucht werden müssen (153). Wir sehen endlich die
grandiose Natur, eine Natur, in der der Mensch noch
ein kleines Lebewesen ist. Aborigines auf einer Klippe
über einem Wasserfall (165). Wir sehen Sportsfreunde,
die es geschafft haben, die Natur zur Spielwiese zu ma-
chen; Golfer mit ihren großen Wagen und ihrem Blick
nach dem Ball (345). Wir sehen ein Feuer, in das der
Wind bläst und in dessen Flammen gleich ein Känguruh
fliegen wird, “to be cooked in the right way. ... That is
the Law” (293). Wir sehen schwarze Männer und eine
Frau. Alle in weißen Gewändern hinter einem großen
Tisch, mit ernstem Gesicht. Es wird zum Abendmahl
geladen in der Universal World Church (260). Wir sehen
Churchill an der Wand im Bilderrahmen. Unter ihm ein
junger Mann mit weißem Hemd und weißer Fliege im
hellen Anzug mit Kummerbund, neben ihm ein älterer
Mann im kurzen offenen Hemd, vor sich einen Jungen
mit Mickey Mouse T-Shirt. Und alle vier sehen uns
irgendwie fragend an (196). Wir sehen fünf Jungen
mit ihren Speeren vor uns stehen in der Haltung der
Alten, wenn sie nach langer Wanderung übers Land
stehen blieben, auf einem Bein (180). Ein Bild aus die-
sem nahezu unendlichen Meer der Eindrücke hat mich
besonders beschäftigt: eines der wenigen, das keinen
Menschen zeigt, das aber gerade deshalb vielleicht einen
so hohen Symbolwert hat. Wir sehen Bumerangs in der
Rohform. Sie liegen da im Sand, hölzern wie eh und
je. Natürliche Werkzeuge einer vergangenen Zeit. Man
sieht es deutlich: neben ihnen ein Beil mit Eisenklinge
und ein Schuhabdruck mit neuzeitlichem Profil (44).
Auch wir sind zu Spurenlesem geworden. Mit diesem
Buch müssen wir das Sehen üben.
Blättert man in dem Buch - immer wieder - und
betrachtet man die Bilder, die Menschen, ihre Unter-
haltungen, ihre Taten, ihre Konzentration, ihr Lachen
und manchmal ihren Ärger, ihren Zweifel, ihre Enttäu-
schung, so wird man hineinversetzt in eine Welt, die mit
selbst vielen Worten für uns immer fremd, unverständ-
lich, geheimnisvoll bleibt. “So much is written about
blacks, and yet the whites still don’t understand us.” Das
sagt ein junger Mann, der im Gefängnis von Cessnock
sitzt, und er weiß es (305). In diesem Buch sind es die
Bilder, die sprechen - und sie machen keine großen
Worte. Sie zeigen, jedes für sich, eine Kleinigkeit, eine
Geste, das, was uns Menschen zu Menschen macht.
Gerhard Schiatter
Van Maanen, John; Tales of the Field. On Writing
Ethnography. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press,
1988. xvi + 173 pp. Price: $7.95
Die Ethnologie erlebt gegenwärtig vornehmlich in
den angelsächsischen Ländern und in Frankreich eine
tiefgreifende Metamorphose hinsichtlich ihres Verständ-
nisses von angemessen betriebener Theorie und Praxis.
International respektierte Größen der Disziplin wie etwa
E. Leach (1986) oder C. Geertz (1986) haben allen
Meinungsunterschieden zum Trotz unmißverständlich
erklärt, daß sehr wesentliche Annahmen und Ziele der
Ethnologie, von den klassischen Begründern des Fachs
seinerzeit formuliert, heute ihre Verbindlichkeit verloren
haben. Weil „etwas Neues“ sowohl im Feld als auch
in der Akademie entstanden ist, so folgert etwa Geertz
in “Works and Lives” (Stanford 1988: 148), muß auch
etwas Neues auf den Seiten der ethnologischen Literatur
erscheinen.
In solchen Worten äußert sich die gegenwärtig
weithin feststellbare Unsicherheit bezüglich der geeig-
neten Mittel einer Kulturbeschreibung, welche der Le-
serschaft im gleichen Zuge auch über die Komplexität
der ethnographischen Begegnung, der wir die litera-
rische Beschreibung einer fremden Kultur verdanken,
in angemessener Weise Auskunft zu gewähren vermag.
Geertz’ Aufforderung zu einem umfassenden Überden-
ken von Theorie und Praxis einer künftig zu betreiben-
den Ethnologie spricht denn auch lediglich aus, was eine
seit Beginn der 80er Jahre kontinuierlich erstarkende
Strömung unter der nachfolgenden Generation mit der
sog. „Objektivierung“ und „Textualisierung“ soziokultu-
reller Lebensformen in engster Verbindung mit dem Pro-
zeß der ethnographischen Feldarbeit zum wissenschaftli-
chen Programm erhoben hat (Clifford, Clifford/Marcus,
Marcus/Cushman, Rabinow, Crapanzano, Rosaldo u. a.).
Mit dem anzuzeigenden Buch meldet sich nunmehr
ein amerikanischer Soziologe in dieser bislang fast aus-
schließlich unter Ethnologen geführten Debatte zu Wort.
Bereits der Titel „Geschichten vom Feld“ offenbart des
Autors distanzierte Haltung gegenüber dem Objektivi-
tätsanspruch der klassischen Monographie. Er konsta-
tiert u. a. die „Krise“ unter den Ethnographen (29 f.),
verweist darauf, daß Feldarbeit heute als „interpreta-
tiver Prozeß“ verstanden wird (34), und macht darauf
aufmerksam, daß die Aufgabe der Darstellung einer so-
zialen Realität sich momentan in einer „kreativen Phase“
Anthropos 85.1990
656
Rezensionen
befindet (126). Für Van Maanen gilt es als ausgemacht,
daß „Kultur“ durch bewußte Konstruktion des Texts kre-
iert wird (7). Ebenso werden die Details, auf denen eine
Kultur beruht, durch Gespräch und soziales Handeln
geschaffen (95).
In seinen zentralen Annahmen weiß der Autor sich
mit all jenen Ethnologen einig, die sich im Bemühen um
ein Rekonstruieren der Theorie und Praxis von Grund
auf dem Explorieren von neuen Strategien der Kultur-
darstellung verschrieben haben. Der besondere Reiz des
Buches besteht m. E. darin, daß hier die willkürlich eta-
blierten Fächergrenzen konsequent überwunden werden,
indem der Verfasser ausführlich demonstriert, daß die
zentralen Fragen des aktuellen theoretischen Diskurses
sowohl in der Ethnologie als auch, wenngleich in ge-
ringerem Maße, in der Soziologie allmählich ihre The-
matisierung finden. Immerhin stellt die Ethnographie
insbesondere in den USA einen spezifischen Bereich
sozialwissenschaftlicher Forschung dar, der Ethnologie
und Soziologie, dort gewöhnlich bis in die 50er Jahre
hinein unter einem administrativen Dach verbunden,
eher vereint als getrennt hat.
Dem Autor, selbst mit der Erforschung sozialer
Organisationsstrukturen in der eigenen Industriegesell-
schaft vertraut, geht es ausdrücklich nicht um eine
weitere Studie zur Epistemologie der Feldforschung.
Vielmehr ist es ihm um eine intensive Beleuchtung
des ethnographischen Schreibens, insbesondere der kon-
ventionellen Praktiken der ethnographischen Bericht-
erstattung zu tun. Denn seiner Meinung nach beginnt
die eigentliche Arbeit einer Forschung erst nach der
Rückkunft aus dem Feld: Der heimische Schreibtisch,
und nicht die exotische Feme ist jener Ort, an dem
letztlich das in der Fremde in Erfahrung Gebrachte im
nachhinein in die Form eines literarischen Texts gegos-
sen wird. Alle ethnographischen Schreiber wenden er-
kennbare rhetorische und narrative Strategien an, wenn
sie den Ergebnissen ihrer Feldarbeit im Text kunstvoll
Ausdruck zu verleihen suchen. Zu ergründen bleibt nach
Van Maanen folglich “the deskwork of fieldwork” (141),
in deren Verlauf die Feldergebnisse dank literarischer
Kunstgriffe der eigenen Zielsetzung gemäß geordnet und
in einem Text präsentiert werden. Gerade darüber aber,
so vermerkt der Autor (xiii), pflegen sich die einschlä-
gigen Schriften gewöhnlich auszuschweigen. Ethnogra-
phien können infolgedessen keinen Anspruch auf ab-
solute Wahrheit erheben; vielmehr sind sie immer Ge-
genstand verschiedenster Interpretationen und deshalb
niemals jenseits von Kontroversen (35). Gerade in dieser
Unabgeschlossenheit einer Kulturdarstellung aber liegt
zugleich auch deren eigentlicher Reiz, bietet sie doch
immer wieder neu Anlaß zu anderen Formen der Inter-
pretation.
Der nähere Blick auf die narrativen Strategien des
ethnographischen Genres - und dies ist das eigentli-
che Thema des Buchs - ist geeignet, unterschiedliche
Weisen der Kultur-Darstellung zu identifizieren. Nach
einem Abschnitt über das Aufkommen der modernen
Feldarbeit sowohl in der Ethnologie als auch in der
Soziologie untergliedert sich die Studie in drei Kapitel.
Darin wird je ein besonderer Typus des Feldberichts
erörtert, der zugleich von Beispielen aus der Werkstatt
des Autors zur Illustration durchsetzt ist.
„Realistische Geschichten“ zeichnen sich durch
das nahezu vollständige Fehlen der subjektiven Stim-
me des Forschers im Text um der Objektivität der
Kultur-Darstellung willen aus. Zudem verraten sie ge-
wöhnlich nicht, wie die mitgeteilten Dinge in Erfahrung
gebracht worden sind. Die Autorität von Texten des mit
„ethnographischer Realismus“ etikettierten Subgenres
wird geschaffen mittels des Feldforschers - gewöhn-
lich im Vorwort plazierten - Verweises darauf, daß er
tatsächlich „dort gewesen“ ist; zum anderen suggeriert
ein die Details des Alltagslebens berücksichtigender Stil
Unmittelbarkeit der Beobachtung, und schließlich sucht
der Schreiber die „Sicht der Eingeborenen“ getreu wie-
derzugeben. Nach diesem Muster sind die ethnographi-
schen Texte der Klassiker-Generation gestaltet. Selbst-
Reflexion oder gar -Zweifel haben laut Van Maanen im
sog. „ethnographischen Realismus“ keinen Platz (51).
Andere Charakteristika weisen hingegen die „kon-
fessionellen Geschichten“ auf, welche allesamt erst in
den 60er Jahren erschienen sind (Casagrande, Maybury-
Lewis, Spindler, Wax, Kimball/Watson). Hier erscheint
der Ethnograph als ein sichtbarer Aktor mit transparen-
tem Standpunkt. Die Fremden treten jedoch auffällig in
den Hintergrund. Empathie und Involviert-Sein werden
im Text anhand von persönlichen Erlebnissen zum Aus-
druck gebracht. Damit verknüpft ist der Versuch, das
Publikum von den humanen Qualitäten des Feldarbei-
ters zu überzeugen. Es handelt sich letztlich um einen
notwendig gemischten Bericht, der häufig eine partia-
le Deskription der Kultur mit einer ebenfalls partialen
Deskription der Felderfahrung verbindet.
„Impressionistische Geschichten“ stellen neuere
Versuche dar, in ausführlicherer Weise Forscher und
Erforschte in eine Darstellungsform zu bringen (Cra-
panzano, Rabinow, J. P. Dumont, B. und D. Tedlock).
Darin wird der Prozeß der Feldarbeit als Ergebnis un-
terschiedlicher Formen sozialer Interaktion dargestellt.
Damit soll der Tatsache Rechnung getragen werden,
daß beide, Feldforscher ebenso wie Informanten, ge-
meinsam daran beteiligt sind, dem Vorhaben Sinn zu
verleihen. Auf diese Weise wird der Ueserschaft die
gesamte Feld-Erfahrung von Anfang bis Ende anhand
bedeutsamer Ereignisse dargelegt. Zudem kommen die
Erforschten gewöhnlich in ausführlicher Weise zu Wort.
Mithin ist die „impressionistische Geschichte“ eine Dar-
stellungsform, die ihrerseits Gegenstand für weitere For-
men kritischer Analyse sein kann. Zudem wird die Le-
serschaft infolge der Komplexität dieser Text-Form in
hohem Maße dazu genötigt, sich mit dem Dargestellten
bewußt auseinanderzusetzen (104).
Gewiß lassen sich an dieser Studie einige Män-
gel anführen. Beispielsweise ist unverständlich, weshalb
europäische Beiträge zum Thema m. o. w. konsequent
ignoriert worden sind (Favret-Saada, Fabian, Schölte,
insbesondere Bourdieu). Der Text, in dem der Fach-
jargon kritisiert wird, ist alles andere als frei davon.
Wie Geertz liebt auch Van Maanen das Spielen mit
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensionen
657
Worten (“puns”). Bei der Lektüre entsteht zuweilen der
Eindruck, als ob im Jetflug über Bereiche hinweggegan-
gen werde, wo ein Verweilen angebracht wäre (so etwa
der gegen Cliffords „Surrealismus“ gewählte Begriff
„Impressionismus“).
Van Maanens Studie ist gut lesbar geschrieben
und bietet einen reichhaltigen Überblick über die ge-
genwärtig diskutierten Probleme des „ethnographischen
Schreibens“. Die Zielsetzung des Verfassers ist klar. Mit
seinem Buch verbindet er ausdrücklich das Interesse
daran, eine Diskussion über Leitbegriffe wie „Kultur“,
„Feldarbeit“ und „Ethnographie“ zu entfachen, um je-
ne schließlich mit den heutigen Erfordernissen ange-
messenen neuen Inhalten füllen zu können (xiv). Den
gangbaren Weg sieht er darin, daß die Ethnographen in
Zukunft mehr „impressionistische Geschichten“ in das
Zu publizierende Feld-Material einflechten, denn: “We
need more, not fewer, ways to tell of culture” (140).
Eberhard Berg
Vikpr, Lars S.: Perfecting Spelling. Spelling Dis-
cussions and Reforms in Indonesia and Malaysia 1900-
1972. Dordrecht; Foris Publications, 1988. 98 pp., tab.,
fig. (Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor
Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 133) Price: hfl 30.—
This monograph is a revised and improved version
of the second part of the author’s 1977 M. A. thesis
(doctoraalscriptie) at the University of Leiden; “Lan-
guage Policy, Language Planning, and Spelling Reform
in Indonesia and Malaysia.” The first part was published
as an article: “Language Policy and Language Plan-
ning in Indonesia and Malaysia” (in: T. Svensson and
P. Sprensen (eds.), Indonesia and Malaysia; pp. 47-74.
London 1983). An appendix on Old Malay spelling and
phonology, based on a working paper the author wrote
in Dutch in 1974, is attached at the end. As much as this
last part is useful in and of itself and contains a wealth of
materials on Old Malay, the present reviewer feels that
it does not really belong to the discussion of modem
spelling reform and hence should have been published
separately in an appropriate journal or anthology. To be
fair, it should be pointed out that the author does make
sporadic attempts at referring to the appendix throughout
the main text.
The monograph starts with a preface and introduc-
tion clearly laying out the purpose and background of
the work and placing it in context of previous works
on the same theme, respectively. Chapter 1 is a useful,
succinct review of the literature on the fundamentals
of orthography. Chapter 2 surveys the development of
the spelling of Malay up to 1900. It is unfortunate that
a very important and comprehensive source, the article
by J. Hoffman, “A Foreign Investment: Indies Malay
to 1901” (Indonesia 27 [April]: 1979: 65-92), has not
been used at all. The author also completely ignores
spelling standardization attempts by ethnic Chinese, the
most important being that by Lie Kimhok in 1884. Chap-
ter 3 is a discussion on the basic codification conducted
in Indonesia by the implementation of the Soewandi
spelling in 1947 and similar attempts in Malay up to
the 1940s. Chapter 4 is a highly interesting discussion
of the development of the spelling question, both ac-
ademically and politically, which led eventually to the
implementation of a joint Indonesian-Malaysian spelling
system in 1972. Chapters then expounds on the details
of the spelling problems. This part is perhaps the most
thoroughly worked out in the work and offers the reader
a treasure trove of interesting points. The main text
closes by concluding that the spelling reform of 1972
has largely been successful.
All in all, the present reviewer thinks the mono-
graph is a neat, systematic reference work that should be
in the library of any linguist working on Indonesian and
Malaysian linguistics. One just wishes that the author
had also done research on the actual implementation of
the spelling reform in the day-to-day lives of members
of the two societies, and that he had gone deeper into
the sociocultural and political background that makes the
reform so easily and immediately successful in certain
points (the change of the digraphs, for example) and
yet ignored in others (the question of vowel harmony
in Malaysian). But he has indicated early in the work
that he does not intend to do research on the actual
implementation, and to utter the above wish is to ask him
to write a completely different work, which one hopes
that he or someone else will eventually undertake, using
different types of extant written materials, and looking
at such questions as persistent variations in spelling in
Indonesia and Malaysia, both within either society and
between them, and the effect of the spelling reform on
changes in pronunciation, to mention but two examples.
Dede Oetomo
Anthropos 85.1990
658
Miszellen
When Giants Walked the Earth. The Life and
Times of Wilhelm Schmidt, SVD (Ernest Brandewie).
— As an ethnologist, Wilhelm Schmidt, SVD, is asso-
ciated with culture circles. But this narrow understands
ing can lead us to overlook many of the most important
features of his life. He was a great organizer, for exam-
ple, and a dedicated proponent of political involvement,
a friend and confidant of important and influential people
who sought out his advice. In many respects Schmidt
was a man bound by his times; in other regards he was
ahead of his times and much of what he said and started
are as fresh and relevant as today. Far from being a
narrow person, he thought and worked on a monumental
scale.
Ernest Brandewie emphasizes the diversity of
Schmidt’s work in this biography. He also places
Schmidt in his times, beginning with industrializing
Germany where he was bom, moving then to turn-of-
the-century Vienna, the first and second world wars, the
inter-war years, and the time after the second world war.
Only by doing this can one begin to understand Schmidt
and the many contributions he made throughout his
long life. - ([Studia Instituti Anthropos, 44] Fribourg:
The University Press Fribourg Switzerland, 1990. ISBN
3-7278-0712-1)
Expérience sociale de la mort. Etude des rites
funéraires des Bassar du Nord-Togo (Jacek Jan Paw-
lik). - Partant de la recherche sur le terrain parmi les
Bassar du Nord-Togo, l’auteur présente les rites funérai-
res comme une réponse collective au phénomène de la
mort. Cette réponse, formulée dans les expressions cul-
turelles: rites, danses, chants, mythes, crée une expérien-
ce totale qui permet au peuple d’affronter la mort et
de réduire symboliquement sa portée. Sans renoncer
à l’analyse des symboles et des structures de pensée,
l’ouvrage adopte une vision globale en empruntant la
conception de l’expérience (Erlebnis) élaborée par W.
Dilthey. En se laissant étudier dans ses expressions,
l’expérience détermine dans l’intellect la façon de con-
cevoir la vie, dans le domaine de la volonté, l’idéal
de vie et, au niveau affectif, la manière d’apaiser les
angoisses et de rétablir l’équilibre social.
Ce livre nous introduit dans le vécu collective des
Bassar. La première partie se réfère essentiellement à
la signification. Comment la mort est-elle présente dans
la pensée des Bassar et avec quel bagage conceptuel
réagissent-ils à son rencontre? La deuxième partie du
livre analyse l’ensemble des rites funéraires qui, grâce
à leur symbolique, soulignent la valeur ultime de la vie.
La troisième partie de l’ouvrage approche les festivités
funéraires du point de vue esthétique. Acteurs et spec-
tateurs confondus, le spectacle se joue sans recours à la
scène ni au décor. C’est le temps fort de la vie où se
produit une expérience totale qui permet de canaliser
les émotions, de rétablir l’ordre social et d’affronter
l’avenir. - ([Studia Instituti Anthropos, 43] Fribourg:
Editions Universitaires Fribourg Suisse, 1990. ISBN
3-7278-0688-5. Prix: sfr 63.-)
European Review of Native American Studies. -
Europe has always held an important place in the study
of North American Indian peoples and their cultures.
But much of the past research in the field has been
insufficiently recognized because of the fragmentation of
the scholarship by boundaries of language and academic
discipline. Communication within Europe and across
disciplines often proved to be more difficult than across
the Atlantic Ocean. Since 1980 the American Indian
Workshop, an outgrowth of the European Association
for American Studies, has promoted the cause of inter-
disciplinary and international exchange of information in
the field of Native American Studies by holding annual
meetings and by the publication of an informal American
Indian Workshop Newsletter.
In 1987 the Newsletter became part of a new jour-
nal, the European Review of Native American Studies,
devoted to the publication of scholarly articles from
the fields of anthropology, art history, contemporary
affairs, history, languages and literatures, music, and
history of religions. Contributions emphasize, but are not
limited to European resources, perspectives, and authors.
The newsletter section reports on meetings, exhibitions,
and popular culture phenomena, and carries book re-
views and book notes. An annotated bibliography of
publications in Native American Studies by European
authors or publishers supplies an ongoing account of the
state of the art. Of the two issues published per year,
one is guest edited by a distinguished scholar whose
expertise and perspective helps to diversify the journal’s
contents. Past guest editors have included Mick Gidley
of Exeter University, William Powers of Rutgers, and
Valery Tishkov of the Institute of Ethnography of the
Academy of Sciences of the USSR; up-coming guest
editors are Fedora Giordano (University of Rome) and
Armin Geertz (Aarhus University).
The European Review of Native American Studies
was initially published in Budapest, partly in order to
make the publication more easily available in eastern
Europe. With the recent opening of the borders, this
consideration is no longer of primary concern, whereas
better printing and more efficient service can be offered
by moving the production to Vienna within easy reach of
the editor’s office. Subscription is US$ 20.00 or ATS 240
per year (special rates are available upon request for
subscribers in eastern Europe).
All questions regarding subscriptions and contri-
butions to the journal as well as the annual meetings of
the American Indian Workshop should be addressed to
Christian F. Feest, Editor, European Review of Native
American Studies, Museum für Völkerkunde, A-1014
Wien, Austria. Christian F. Feest
Anthropos 85.1990
Neue Publikationen
Abreu, J. Capistrano de: Caminhos antigos e po-
voamento do Brasil. Belo Horizonte: Itatiaia; Säo
Paulo: Editora da Universidade de Säo Paulo, 1988.
164 pp. (Cole9äo Reconquista do Brasil, 135)
Adamec, Ludwig W. (ed.); Abadan and Southwestern
Iran. Graz: Akademische Druck- u. Verlagsanstalt,
1989. x + 789 pp., maps., tab. (Historical Gazetteer
of Iran, 3)
Adelberger, Jörg: Vom Sultanat zur Republik. Verän-
derungen in der Sozialorganisation der Für (Sudan).
Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1990. 246 pp., Fig.,
Tab., Ktn. (Studien zur Kulturkunde, 96)
Adler, Christian: Achtung, Touristen! Bielefeld: Peter
Rump Verlag, 1988. 112 pp., Abb.
Adornos africanos como entidade cultural. Coimbra:
Institute de Antropologia, Universidade de Coim-
bra, 1989. 66 pp., ilustr. (Publica§öes do Centro de
Estudos Africanos, 12)
Agadzanov, S. G.: Selgükiden und Turkmenien im 11-
12. Jahrhundert. Hamburg: Reinhold Schletzer Ver-
lag, 1989. 145 pp. (Turkmenenforschung, 9)
Aiken, Rebecca B.: Montreal Chinese Property Own-
ership and Occupational Change, 1881-1981. New
York: AMS Press, 1989. xii + 350 pp., tab., fig.,
maps. (Immigrant Communities and Ethnic Mino-
rities in the United States and Canada, 20)
Aldana, Susana: Empresas coloniales. Las tinas de
jabon en Piura. Piura: CIPCA; Lima: IFEA, 1988.
193 pp., mapas, cuadros, fig., (Historia regional, 1;
Travaux de 1TFEA, 47)
Alford, Richard D.: Naming and Identity. A Cross-
Cultural Study of Personal Naming Practices. New
Haven: HRAF Press, 1988. viii + 190 pp.
Alper, Harvey P. (ed.): Understanding Mantras. Alba-
ny: SUNY Press, 1989. v + 530 pp.
Amaladass, Anand (ed.); Jesuit Presence in Indian His-
tory. Commemorative Volume on the Occasion of
the 150th Anniversary of the New Madurai Mis-
sion, 1838-1988. Anand: Gujarat Sahitya Prakash,
1988. xi + 379 pp., maps.
Amborn, Hermann: Differenzierung und Integration.
Vergleichende Untersuchungen zu Spezialisten und
Handwerkern in südäthiopischen Agrargesellschaf-
ten. München: Trickster Verlag, 1990. 476 pp.,
Tab., Fig., Kt. (Notos Ethnologische Studien, 1)
Angulo Valdés, Carlos: Guájaro en la arqueología del
Norte de Colombia. Bogotá: Fundación de Investi-
gaciones Arqueológicas Nacionales, 1988. 198 pp.,
ilustr., mapas. (Publicación de la Fundación de
Investigaciones Arqueológicas Nacionales, 40)
Appell, G. N., and T. N. Madan (eds.): Choice and
Morality in Anthropological Perspective. Essays in
Honor of Derek Freeman. Albany: SUNY Press,
1988. xv + 248 pp., illus.
Arens, William, and Ivan Karp (eds.): Creativity of
Power. Cosmology and Action in African Societies.
Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989.
xxix + 315 pp., map.
Arte popular en Bolivia. La Paz: Edición IBC-IADAP,
1988. 48 pp., ilustr.
Assu, Harry, and Joy Inglis: Assu of Cape Mudge.
Recollections of a Coastal Indian Chief. Vancouver;
University of British Columbia Press, 1989. xix +
163 pp., maps, photos, fig., illus.
Augé, Marc et Jean-Paul Colleyn: Nkpiti. La rancune
et le prophète. Paris: Editions de TEHESS, 1990.
85 pp., fig., tabl., ph.
Augustins, Georges: Comment se perpétuer? Devenir
des lignées et destins des patrimoines dans les pay-
sanneries européennes. Nanterre: Société d’ethno-
logie, 1989. 434 pp., fig., tab., carte. (Mémoires de
la Société d’ethnologie, 2)
Axt, Friedrich und El Hadji Moussa Babacar Sy
(Hrsg.): Bildende Kunst der Gegenwart in Senegal.
Anthologie des arts plastiques contemporains au
Sénégal. Anthology of Contemporary Fine Arts
in Senegal. Frankfurt: Museum für Völkerkunde,
1989. 278 pp.. Abb.
Baeck, G. und R. Husmann (Hrsg.): Handbuch der
deutschsprachigen Ethnologie. Guide to German-
speaking Anthropology. Göttingen: Edition Re,
1990. 270 pp.
Banerjee, B. G., and Kiran Bhatia: Tribal Demogra-
phy of Gonds. Delhi: Gian Publishing House, 1988.
xii + 136 pp., map., fig., tab.
Barkindo, Bawuro Mubi: The Sultanate of Mandara
to 1902. History of the Evolution, Development,
and Collapse of a Central Sudanese Kingdom.
Stuttgart; Franz Steiner Verlag Wiesbaden, 1989.
252 pp., tab., fig., illus., maps. (Studien zur Kultur-
kunde, 91)
Barley, Nigel: Die Raupenplage. Von einem, der aus-
Anthropos 85.1990
660
Neue Publikationen
zog, Ethnologie zu betreiben. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta,
1989. 191 pp., Kt., Abb.
Barnes, John Arundel: Models and Interpretations.
Selected Essays. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1990. viii + 273 pp.
Baroin, Catherine (éd.): Gens du roc et du sable.
Les Toubu. Hommage à Charles et Marguerite Le
Coeur. Paris; Editions du CNRS, 1988. 286 pp., ill.
Barretean, Daniel et Robert Hedinger (éds.): Descrip-
tions de langues camerounaises. Paris: ORSTOM,
ACCT, 1989. xi + 408 pp., ill., ph., cartes, tabl.,
fig-
Basso, Keith H.: Western Apache Language and Cul-
ture. Essays in Linguistic Anthropology. Tucson:
The University of Arizona Press, 1990. xx +
195 pp., fig., tab., photo.
Bastien, Christine: Folies, mythes et magies d’Afrique
noire. Propos de guérisseurs du Mali. Paris: L’Har-
mattan, 1988. 230 pp.
Battaglia, Debbora: On the Bones of the Serpent.
Person, Memory, and Mortality in Sabarl Island
Society. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press,
1990. x + 253 pp., fig., tab., maps, photos, illus.
Baudler, Georg: Erlösung vom Stiergott. Christliche
Gotteserfahrung im Dialog mit Mythen und Reli-
gionen. München: Kösel; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1989.
435 pp., Abb.
Bayly, C. A.: Indian Society and the Making of the
British Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1988. xi + 230 pp., maps. (The New Cam-
bridge History of India, 2/1)
Bayly, Susan: Saints, Goddesses, and Kings. Muslims
and Christians in South Indian Society, 1700-1900.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989.
xv + 502 pp., maps, photos. (South Asian Stu-
dies, 43)
Bechhaus-Gerst, Marianne: Nubier und Kuschiten im
Niltal. Sprach- und Kulturkontakte im “no man’s
land”. Köln: Institut für Afrikanistik, Universität
Köln, 1989. 161 pp. (Afrikanistische Arbeitspapie-
re, Sondernummer 1989)
Bendix, Regina: Backstage Domains. Playing “William
Tell” in Two Swiss Communities. Bern; Verlag
Peter Lang, 1989. 332 pp., maps, tab., photos.
Benitez, Lilyan y Alicia Garcés: Culturas ecuatorianas
ayer y hoy. [3a ed.] Quito: ABYA-YALA, 1989.
231 pp., ilustr., mapas.
Berghes, Carl de: Beschreibung der Überreste azteki-
scher Niederlassungen auf ihrer Wanderung nach
dem Thaïe von Mexico durch den gegenwärtigen
Freistaat von Zacatecas. Hrsg, von Hanns J. Prem.
Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag, 1990. xlii + 71 pp.,
Abb., Ktn. (Völkerkundliche Abhandlungen, 11)
Bernd, Zilá: O que é négritude. Sao Paulo: Editora
Brasiliense, 1988. 58 pp., ilustr. (Coleçâo primeiros
passos, 209)
Beyersdorff, Margot: La adoración de los Reyes Ma-
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Psychology of Research. Tuscaloosa: University of
Alabama Press, 1988. xxii + 197 pp.
Werbner, Pnina: The Migration Process. Capital, Gifts,
and Offerings among British Pakistanis. Oxford:
Berg Publishers, 1990. xii + 391 pp., tab., maps,
fig., photos.
Werbner, Richard P.: Ritual Passage, Sacred Journey.
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Whelpton, John; Nepal. Oxford: Clio Press, 1990.
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Alle bei der Redaktion eingegangenen Bücher und Sonderdrucke werden hier kurz angezeigt. Bücher werden in einer
der folgenden Nummern nach Maßgabe von Zeit und Raum besprochen. Rezensionsexemplare sind unmittelbar
an die Redaktion, nicht an Mitglieder des Anthropos-Instituts persönlich, zu senden. Unverlangtes wird nicht
zurückgesandt. Für Tauschexemplare wird keine Verpflichtung zur Besprechung übernommen.
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Acta Ethnographica (Budapest)
33.1984-85/1-4.
Biernaczky, S., Poetry, Music, and Society in “Tradi-
tional Africa” (45-79). - Boglàr, L., The Indian and
the Birds: Amazonian Feather-Art (81-91). - Ecsedy,
C., Traditional Culture in Modem Africa (115-121).
- Haring, L., The Word of the Fathers. Proverbs in
Madagascar (125-164). - Lammel, A., The Sign System
of Indian Culture in Indigenist Literature (241-260).
Acta Orientalia (Copenhagen)
50.1989
Rischel, J., Fifty Years of Research on the Mlabri
Language. A Re-appraisal of Old and Recent Fieldwork
Data (49-78). - Lödel, H., Zu einigen Entwicklungsten-
denzen der Nationalsprache bahasa Indonesia in litera-
rischen Werken 1920-1965 (117-132).
Africa (Manchester)
59. 1989/3., 4.; 60. 1990/1.
3. Alnaes, K., Living with the Past: the Songs of the
Herero in Botswana (267-299). - Wipper, A., Kikuyu
Women and the Harry Thuku Disturbances; Some Uni-
formities of Female Militancy (300-337). - Diduk, S.,
Women’s Agricultural Production and Political Action
in the Cameroon Grassfields (338-355).
4. Knowles, J. N., D. P. Collett, Nature as Myth,
Symbol, and Action. Notes towards an Historical Under-
standing of Development and Conservation in Kenyan
Maasailand (433-460). - Pettier, J., ‘Three’s a Crowd’:
Knowledge, Ignorance, and Power in the Context of
Urban Agriculture in Rwanda (461-477). - Probst,
P., The Letter and the Spirit: Literacy and Religious
Authority in the History of the Aladura Movement in
Western Nigeria (478-495).
1. Reynolds, P., Children of Tribulation. The Need to
Heal and the Means to Heal War Trauma (1-38). - Hall,
M., The Mozambican National Resistance Movement
(RENAMO): A Study in the Destruction of an African
Country (39-68). - Green, M., Mau Mau Oathing Rit-
uals and Political Ideology in Kenya: A Re-Analysis
(69-87).
African Affairs (London)
88. 1989/353., 354.
353. Cell, J. W., Lord Hailey and the Making of the
African Survey (481-505).
354. Larson, A., The Social Epidemiology of Afri-
ca’s AIDS Epidemic (5-25). - Henderson, W., Seretse
Khama; A Personal Appreciation (27-56). - Maylan,
P., The Rise and Decline of Urban Apartheid in South
Africa (57-84). - Cobbe, J., Possible Negative Side
Effects of Aid to South Africa’s Neighbours (85-96).
African Studies (Johannesburg)
48. 1989/1.
Canonic!, N. N., The Sour Milk of Contention. Analysis
of a Zulu Folktale (1-36). - Pirie, G. H., Racial Seg-
regation on Johannesburg Trams: Procedure and Protest
(37-55). - Parratt, S, J., Muslims in Botswana (71-81).
Africana Marburgensia (Marburg)
22. 1989/1.
Azowou Onibere, S. G., Female Leadership and Na-
tion-Building: An African Religion Viewpoint (15-31).
- Okonjo, K., Rural Development in Nigeria; How Do
Women Count? (32-51).
Afrika und Übersee (Berlin)
72. 1989/2.
Mukarovsky, H. G., Ful und Soninke in historischem
Sprachkontakt (161-190).
Anthropos 85.1990
676
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Afrikanistische Arbeitspapiere (Köln)
20. 1989; 21. 1990
20. Ikome, N., A. M. Bakari, La condition de la
femme à travers la musique zaïroise moderne de 1964 à
1984 (5-47). - Abubakar, A., A Survey of Hausa Ver-
bo-Nominals (113-127). - Schröder, M., The Toposa
Verb in Narrative Discourse (129-142).
21. Andrzejewski, B. W., Biblical Translations and
Other Christian Writings in Somali. A Survey ( 105—
121). - Badejo, O. O., Sex-based Teacher Classroom-
Behaviour in Sub-Saharan Africa. A Case Study of Bor-
no Secondary Schools [Nigeria] (123-137). - Möhlig,
M. W., Dialektometrische Berechnungen mit Hilfe des
Computers (139-164).
Afrique Contemporaine (Paris)
29. 1990/153.
Marchai, R., D’une guerre à l’autre: le conflit au Sou-
dan hier et aujourd’hui (27^-1).
Almogaren (Hallein)
20. 1989/1.
Stumfohl, H., Die Urbevölkerung der Kanaren - In-
selberber? Eine Klarstellung (20-31). - Castillo, F, J,,
Die altkanarischen Sprachen in den Quellen des 14.,
15. und 16. Jahrhunderts (51-59). - Ulbrich, H.-J., Die
Entdeckung der Kanaren vom 9. bis zum 14. Jahrhun-
dert: Araber, Genuesen, Portugiesen, Spanier (60-138).
- Stumfohl, H., Bemerkungen zur Ethnogenese der
alten Kanarier (139-151). - Castillo, F. J., Die Sprache
der Altkanarier in zwei Studien des 19. Jahrhunderts
(152-160). - Rahn, G., Vom Auftauchen der Schrift
(181-197).
American Anthropologist (Washington)
91. 1989/4.
Douglas, M., Distinguished Lecture. The Hotel Kwilu
- A Model of Models (855-865). - Hanson, A., The
Making of the Maori. Culture Invention and Its Log-
ic (890-902). - Robarchek, C. A., Primitive Warfare
and the Ratomorphic Image of Mankind (903-920). -
Barrett, R. A., The Paradoxical Anthropology of Leslie
White (986-999).
American Ethnologist (Washington)
16. 1989/4.
Cooper, F., A. L. Stoler, Introduction: Tension of Em-
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Chatterjee, P., Colonialism, Nationalism, and Colonial-
ized Women: The Contest in India (622-633). - Stoler,
A. L,, Making Empire Respectable: The Politics of Race
and Sexual Morality in 20th-Century Colonial Cultures
(634-660). - Comaroff, J. L., Images of Empire, Con-
tests of Conscience: Models of Colonial Domination in
South Africa (661-685). - Cooper, F., From Free Labor
to Family Allowances: Labor and African Society in
Colonial Discourse (745-765).
L’Année Sociologique (Paris)
40. 1990/3.
Faublée, J., C. Rivière, A. Stamm, Mythes et sciences;
technologie; la pensée de Cl. Lévi-Strauss: nouveaux
apports (1984-1988); l’inceste et la royauté; le don dans
le Sud-Niger; analyse des rituels (357-369).
Annual Review of Anthropology
(Palo Alto)
18.1989
Paul, R. A., Psychoanalytic Anthropology (177-202).
- Crick, M., Representation of International Tourism
in the Social Sciences: Sun, Sex, Sights, Savings, and
Servility (307-344). - Williams, B., A Class Act: An-
thropology and the Race to Nation across Ethnic Terrain
(401-444).
Anthropological Quarterly (Washington)
62. 1989/4.; 63. 1990/1.
4. Dubish, J., Death and Social Change in Greece
(189-200).
1. Brow, J., Notes on Community, Hegemony, and the
Uses of the Past (1-6).
Anthropologischer Anzeiger (Stuttgart)
47. 1989/4.
Farkas, G., F. Szalai, Gedanken über die Ursache
der Saisonalität der Menarche. Mit 5 Abbildungen
im Text (311-322). - Wurm, H., Ethnogenetische
und sozialkonstitutionelle Aspekte bei konstitutionshi-
storischen Untersuchungen an völkerwanderungszeit-
lich-frühmittelalterlichen nordisch-germanischen Stam-
mesverbänden (353-377).
Anthropology Today (London)
5. 1989/6.; 6. 1990/1., 2.
6. Hodes, M., Dreams Reconsidered (6-8). - Lutke-
haus, N. C., The Use of Another Ethnographer’s Field-
Notes: Camilla Wedgewood’s Manam Island Research
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(9-12). - Kintz, D., Formal Men, Informal Women:
How the Fulani Support Their Anthropologists (12-14).
1. Sponsel, L. E., Ultraprimitive Pacifists. The Tasa-
day as a Symbol of Peace (3-5). - Rapport, N., ‘Surely
Everything Has Already Been Said about Malinowski’s
Diary!’ (5-9).
2. Kiirti, L., People vs the State. Political Rituals in
Contemporary Hungary (5-8). - Dominy, M. D., New
Zealand’s Waitangi Tribunal. Cultural Politics of an
Anthropology of the High Country (11-15).
Archipel (Paris)
38.1989
Adelaar, K. A., Les langues austronesiennes et la place
du malagasy dans leur ensemble (25-52). - Riddell, P.,
Earliest Quranic Exegetic Activity in the Malay Speak-
ing States (107-124). - Coppel, C. A., “Is Confucianism
a Religion?” A 1923 Debate in Java (125-135).
Arctic Anthropology (Madison)
26.1989/2.
Sheppard, J. R., Image and Form in a Tsimshian Nar-
rative (1-11). - Helm, J., Matonabbee’s Map (28-47).
Asian Folklore Studies (Nagoya)
48. 1989/2.
Zhao, Q., Chinese Mythology in the Context of Hy-
draulic Society (231-246). - Russel, S. D., The Grand
Canao: Ethnic and Ritual Dilemmas in an Upland Philip-
pine Tourist Festival (247-263). - Lytton, U., Aspects
of Dual Symbolic Classification; Right and Left in a
Japanese Kyu-Dojo (277-291).
Asiatische Studien (Bern)
43. 1989/2.
Sprockhoff, J. F., Versuch einer deutschen Übersetzung
der Kathasruti und der Katharudar-Upanisad (137-163).
- Steinmann, R. M., La notion du Dharma selon Manu
et dans la Bhagavadgltä (164-183). - Walther, W.,
Sehnsucht nach Fakten - Lust auf Phantasie. NagTb
Mahföz und die ägyptische Literaturszene (184-205).
Australian Aboriginal Studies (Canberra)
1989/2.
Jones, P., Ideas Linking Aborigines and Fuegians. From
Cook to the Kulturkreis School (2—13). — Rowland,
M, J., Population Increase, Intensification or a Result
of Preservation? Explaining Site Distribution Patterns
on the Coast of Queensland (32-42). - Reser, J., Ab-
original Deaths in Custody and Social Construction. A
Response to the View that there is no Such Thing as
Aboriginal Suicide (43-50).
Baessler-Archiv (Berlin)
36. 1988/2.; 37. 1989/1.
36. Romain, M., Die Mondgöttin der Maya und ihre
Darstellung in der Figurinenkunst (281-359). - Pfeif-
fer, R., Schnecken und Muscheln als magisch-religiöse
Symbole im mesoamerikanischen Kulturbereich (361—
397). - Bierbach, A., H. Cain, Makemake from Hiva
to Rapa Nui. An Attempt to Shed New Light on the Old
Topic of the Origin of Rapa Nui Culture (399-454).
37. Hauenstein, A., La religion des Ovimbundu (1-
36). - Vajda, L., Der Monosandalos-Formenkreis (131—
170). - Müller, C., Das Monosandalos-Motiv in Ost-
asien (171-200). - Tschohl, P., Das Ende der Leyenda
de los Soles und die Übermittlungsprobleme des Cödice
Chimalpopoca (201-279).
Behaviour Science Research (New Haven)
22. 1988/1-4.; 23. 1989/1-4.
22. Goodenough, W. H., George Peter Murdock’s
Contributions to Anthropology: An Overview (1-9).
- Davenport, W. H., George Peter Murdock’s Clas-
sification of “Consanguineal Kin Groups” (10-22). -
Kopy toff, L, George Peter Murdock’s Contributions to
African Studies (41-49). - Jorgensen, J. G., George Pe-
ter Murdock’s Contributions to the Ethnology of Native
North America (50-58). - White, D. R., L. A. Brudner-
White, The Murdock Legacy: The Ethnographic Atlas
and the Search for a Method (59-81). - Moore, C. C.,
An Optimal Scaling of Murdock’s Theories of Illness
Data - An Approach to the Problem of Interdependence
(161-179).
23. White, D. R., Focused Ethnographic Bibliogra-
phy: Standard Cross-cultural Sample (1-145). - Erick-
sen, K. P., Female Genital Mutilations in Africa ( 182—
204). - Ericksen, K. P., Male and Female Age Orga-
nizations and Secret Societies in Africa (234—264).
Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en
Volkenkunde (Dordrecht)
145. 1989/4.; 146. 1990/1.
4. Hoskins, J., Burned Paddy and Lost Souls (430-
444). - Geirnaert, D. C., The Pogo Nauta Ritual in
Loboya (West Sumba): Of Tubers and Mamuli (445-
463). - Renard-Clamagirand, B., Uppu Li’i, ‘Fulfill
the Promise’; Analysis of a Wewewa Ritual (464-477). -
Yamaguchi, M., Nai Keu, a Ritual of the Lio of Central
Flores (478-489). - Lewis, E. D., Word and Act in the
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Curin Rituals of the Ata Tana ’Ai of Flores (490-501). -
Forth, G., The Pa Sése Festival of the Nage of Bo’s Wae
[Central Flores] (502-519). - Fox, J. J., To the Aroma
of the Name: The Celebration of a Rotinese Ritual of
Rock and Tree (520-538). - Barnes, R. H., Mèi Nafa,
a Rite of Expiation in Lamalera, Indonesia (539-547). -
Friedberg, C., Social Relations of Territorial Manage-
ment in Light of Bunaq Farming Rituals (548-562).
1. Dijk, T. van, N. de Jonge, After Sunshine Comes
Rain. A Comparative Analysis of Fertility Rituals in
Marsela and Luang, South-East Moluccas (3-20). -
Pauwels, S., From Hursu Ribun’s ‘Three Hearth stones’
to Metanleru’s ‘Sailing Boat.’ A Ritual after the Harvest
(21-34). - Barraud, C,, A Turtle Turned on the Sand
in the Kei Islands. Society’s Shares and Values (35-55).
- Valeri, V., Autonomy and Heteronomy in the Kahua
Ritual. A Short Meditation on Huaulu Society (56-73).
- Platenkamp, J. D, M., ‘The Severance of the Origin.’
A Ritual of the Tobelo of North Halmahera (74-92). -
Ajawaila, J. W., Marriage Rituals of the Galela People
(93-102). - Barraud, C,, J. D. M. Platenkamp, Rituals
and the Comparison of Societies (103-123).
Boletín de Arqueología (Bogotá)
3.1988/2.
Langebaek Rueda, C. H., Entierros prehispánicos en
viviendas: un ensayo de interpretación (3-10).
Cahiers de Littérature Orale (Paris)
1989/26.
Pimpaneau, J., Importance de l’oralité en Chine (25-
35). - Baptandier-Berthier, B., Du bon usage des
mythes en Chine, avant et après la révolution culturelle
(37-57). - Ang, L, Je te mange, tu me manges: heurs et
malheurs reptiliens (59-82). - Mauclaire, S., Le sacri-
fice du serpent - Thématique mythique ancienne et rituel
contemporain dans certaines localités à Hiroshima-ken
(83-116). - Caület, L., Les métamorphoses d’un conte
ou les mues du ver à soie (117-151). — Berthon, J.-P.,
La voix des dieux: possession et communication avec les
esprits dans les nouvelles religions japonais (153-181).
Cahiers des Religions Africaines (Kinshasa)
22.1988/43-44.
Ifesieh, E. L, The Three Basic Aspects of Sacred Meal
Tradition in Igbo Religious Culture (7-16). - Sumbo,
F. S., Intersubjectivité conjugale à travers les «Cou-
vercles sculptés» dans la culture cabindaise (17-38).-
Mbadu, K., Significations et dimensions psycholo-
giques du rituel gémellaire chez les Hema-Banyamboga
(39-68). - Mbiti, J. S., Flowers in the Garden. The
Role of Women in African Religion (69-82). - Azo-
wou, S. G. O., The Contribution of African Religion
and Culture to Marital Harmony. The Nigerian Example
(83-99). - Umoren, U. E., The Symbolism of Annang
(Cross River State Nigeria) Personal Names. A Search
for Sources of Traditional Religion in African Culture
(101-116).- Ikenga, E.M., Search for Methodology
of African Religion (117-129). - Mukuama, L., Les
sources profondes du sentiment religieux. Essai d’a-
nalyse et d’interprétation à partir des données de la
psychanalyse (131-142).
Cahiers des Sciences Humaines (Paris)
24. 1988/4.; 25. 1989/3.
4. Ranc, E., L’anthropologie du développement aux
Etats-Unis: force et promesses d’une nouvelle profes-
sion. Development Anthropology in the United States:
Impact and Prospects of a New Profession (453-469).
3. Geffray, C., Les hommes au travail. Les femmes
au grenier. La société makhuwa (Erati) des années trente
à 1956. Men at Work, Women Managing the Granary.
Makhuwa Society (Erati) from the Thirties to 1956
(313-324). - Geffray, C., Hommes pique-assiettes et
femmes amoureuses. La société makhuwa (Erati) des
1956 à nos jours. Sponging Men and Loving Women.
Makhuwa Society (Erati) from 1956 to the Present Day
(325-337). - Quesnel, A., P. Vimard, Famille plurielle
en milieu rural africain. Un exemple en economic de
plantation. Le plateau de Dayes (Sud-Ouest Togo). Plu-
ral Family in a Rural African Environment. An Example
of Plantation Economy. The Dayes Plateau in SW Togo
(339-355). - Fauroux, E., La plasticité des structures
communautaires dans les processus de transformation
de l’Équateur rural. Plasticity of Community Structures
in Transformation Processes in Rural Ecuador (369-
381). - Robineau, C., Familles en transformation. Un
cas polynésien [Maatea, Moorea, Iles de la Société].
Families in the Course of Transformation. A Poly-
nesian Case [Maatea, Moorea, Society Islands] (383—
392). - Schlemmer, B., De quelques caractéristiques
du groupe familial tahitien. Normes, comportements,
projections. On Several Characteristics of the Tahitian
Family Group. Standards, Behaviour, Projection (393-
405).
Cambridge Anthropology (Cambridge)
13. 1988/1.; 1988-89/2.; 1989-90/3.
L Bodenhorn, B., Whales, Souls, Children, and Other
Things that are ‘Good to Share:’ Core Metaphors in a
Contemporary Whaling Society (1-19). - Quigley, D.,
Is Caste a Pure Figment, the Invention of Orientalists
for Their Own Glorification? (20-36). - Watson, H.,
The Mechanics of Mate Selection. Sexual Dialectics and
Marriage Strategies in the City of the Dead (37-49).
2. Clapham, C., The Structure of Regional Conflict
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in Northern Ethiopia (3-16). - May, R., Internal Di-
mensions of Warfare in Chad (17-27). - Twaddle, M.,
Violence and Rumours of Violence in Uganda during
the Early 1980s (28-44). - Allen T., Violence and
Moral Knowledge: Observing Social Trauma in Sudan
and Uganda (45-66). - Turton, D., Warfare, Vulnerabi-
lity and Survival: A Case from Southwestern Ethiopia
(67-85). - Drucker-Brown, S., Local Wars in Northern
Ghana (86-106).
3. Hugh-Jones, S., Edmund Leach (4-8). - Tambiah,
S. J., Personal Accounts; Edmund Leach Situates Him-
self (31-46).
Canberra Anthropology (Canberra)
12. 1989/1-2.
Healey, C. J., Introduction. The Anthropology of De-
velopment in Papua New Guinea (1-18). - Newton, J.,
Women and Modern Marriage among the Orokaivans
(28-47). - Healey C. J., Trade, Marriage, and Unequal
Development in the Papua New Guinea Highlands (48-
73). - Fergie, D., Limits of Commitment. The Resil-
ience of a Ritual System in Island Melanesia (99-119).
- Clark, J., The Incredible Shrinking Men. Male Ideol-
ogy and Development in a Southern Highlands Society
(120-143).
Cibedo (Frankfurt)
4. 1990/1.
Luyten, R., Die muslimische Familie in Deutschland
(1-13). - Kouaouci, A., Der Einfluß des Islam auf die
Festlegung und die Wirksamkeit der Geburtenregelung
(13-18).
Communicatio Socialis (Indore)
8. 1989
Nasimiyu, A,, Images of Women in African Religious
Tradition (135-143). - Bejo, N. B., Comics and Movies
in the Philippines (155-174). - Imathiu, E. I., African
People’s Theatre and Development (175-183). - Ca-
chiri, E. W., Transmission of Values Through Kikuyu
Traditional Stories (184-197).
Comparative Civilizations Review
(Carlisle)
1989/21.; 1990/22.
21. Hord, J. K., The State - Organized Progress or
Decay Product? (20^46). - Huff, T. E., On Weber,
Law, and Universalism: Some Preliminary Consider-
ations (47-79). - Stevens-Arroyo, A. M., The Radical
Shift in the Spanish Approach to Interciviliziational
Encounter (80-101). - Kavolis, V., Ancestral Voices
for a Sociology of Moralities (103-118).
22. Ritter, H., The Ethnological Revolution. On Mar-
cel Mauss (1-18).
Comparative Studies in Society and
History (Cambridge)
31. 1989/4.
Trompf, G. W., Macrohistory and Acculturation: Be-
tween Myth and History in Modern Melanesian Adjust-
ments and Ancient Gnosticism (621-648). - Edwards,
D. B., Mad Mullahs and Englishmen: Discourse in the
Colonial Encounter (649-670). - Llambi, L., Emer-
gence of Capitalized Family Farms in Latin America
(745-774).
Contributions to Indian Sociology
(New Delhi)
23. 1989/2.
Smith, B. K,, Classifying the Universe: Ancient Indian
Cosmogonies and the Varna System (241-260). - Ifeka,
C., Hierarchical Woman: The ‘Dowry’ System and Its
Implications among Christians in Goa, India (261-284).
- Werbner, P., The Ranking of Brotherhoods: The
Dialectics of Muslim Caste among Overseas Pakistanis
(285-315). - Lee, R, L. M., Taipucam in Malaysia: Ec-
stasy and Identity in a Tamil Hindu Festival (317-337).
- Cuba, R., Sociology in India: Some Elective Affinities
(339-346).
Critique of Anthropology (Amsterdam)
9. 1989/2., 3.
2. Kahn, J. S., Culture. Demise or Resurrection? (5-
25). - Collier, J. F., S. J. Yanagisako, Theory in An-
thropology since Feminist Practice (27-37). - Knight,
G. R., Sugar, Peasants, and Proletarians. Colonial South-
eastern Asia, 1830-1940 (39-63).
3. Marcus, G. E., Imagining the Whole (7-30). -
Webster, S., Some History of Social Theory in Sahlins’
Structuralist Culture History (31-58). - Thomas N.,
Taking People Seriously (59-69).
Culture, Medicine and Psychiatry
(Dordrecht)
13. 1989/4.; 14. 1990/1.
4. Nichter, M., C. Nordstrom, A Question of Medi-
cine Answering: Health Commodification and the So-
cial Relations of Healing in Sri Lanka (367-390). -
Ilechukwu, S. T. C., Approaches to Psychotherapy in
Anthropos 85.1990
680
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Africans: Do they have to be Non-Medical? (419-435).
- Awaritefe, A., Epilepsy: The Myth of a Contagious
Disease (449-456).
1. Wen, J.-K., The Hall of Dragon Metamorphoses. A
Unique, Indigenous Asylum for Chronic Mental Patients
in Taiwan (1-19). - Ots, T., The Angry Liver, the
Anxious Heart and the Melancholy Spleen. The Phe-
nomenology of Perceptions in Chinese Culture (21-58).
- Fabrega, H. jr., A Plea for a Broader Ethnomedicine
(129-132).
Curare (Wiesbaden)
12. 1989/2., 3-4.; 13. 1990/1.
2. Schmädel, D., Ayurveda - Medizinsystem im Wan-
del (97-112). - Sich, D., Zur Geschichte der Medizin
und der Geburtshilfe in Korea (113-117).
3—4. Koumare, B., J. P. Coudray, E. Miguel-Gar-
cia, Der psychiatrische Dienst in Mali. Überlegungen
zur Unterbringung von chronischen und psychiatrischen
Patienten bei traditionellen Heilkundigen (145-152). -
Ebigbo, P. O., B. Anyaegbuna, The Problem of Student
Involvement in the Mermaid Cult. A Variety of Belief
in Reincarnation (Ogba Nje) in a Nigerian Second-
ary School (153-160). - Petros, S., E. Schier, Tra-
ditional Attitudes towards Mental Illness in Ethiopia
(161-167). - Irigoyen-Rascon, F., Psychiatric Disor-
ders among the Tarahumara Indians of Northern Mexico
(169-174). - Burton-Bradley, B. G., Das Amoksystem
in Papua und Neuguinea (177-194). - Greifeid, K.,
L. Rossbach, Zur Marginalität moderner Medizin bei
der schwarzen Bevölkerung im kolumbianischen Choco
(195-200). - Andritzky, W., Zur heilerischen Funktion
des Wallfahrtswesens. Mit Ergebnissen einer teilneh-
menden Beobachtung der Prümer Echternach wallfahrt
(201-223). - Drobec, E., Zur Psychotherapie bei den
Naturvölkern (225-235).
1. Schultes, R. E., The Place of Ethnobotany in the
Ethnopharmacologic Search for Psychotomimetic Drugs
(31-48).
Current Anthropology (Chicago)
30. 1989/5.; 31. 1990/1., 2., 3.
5. Roth, A. P., Ethnography without Tears (555-569).
1. Bateman, R,, I. Goddard, R. O’Grady, V. A.
Funk, R. Mooi, W. J. Kress, P. Cannel, Speaking of
Forked Tongues. The Feasibility of Reconciling Human
Phylogeny and the History of Language (1-24). - Sieff,
D. F., Explaining Biased Sex Ratios in Human Popula-
tions. A Critique of Recent Studies (25—48).
2. Solway, J. S., R. B. Lee, Foragers, Genuine or Spu-
rious? Situating the Kalahari San in History (109-146).
3. Lindly, J. M., G. A. Clark, Symbolism and Mod-
ern Human Origins (233-262).
The Eastern Anthropologist (Lucknow)
42.1989/2., 3., 4.
2. Jain, R. K., The Concept of Man in Anthropology:
Beyond Cultural Relativism (137-149).
3. Gabriel T., Religion, Caste, and the Arts in Kalpe-
ni-Island (277-288).
4. Debnath, B., The Analysis of Myth. Its Legacy and
Potentialities (321-344). - Zehadulkarim, A. H. M.,
Economic Implications of Family Typology in Rural
Bengal (345-351). - Sharma, A. K., Growth of Muslim
Population in India. Some Policy Issues (353-364). -
Audinarayan, N., M. Senthilnayaki, Cultural Factors
and Age at Marriage in a Tamil Nadu Village (365-376).
- Venkatesan, D., A Perspective on Male Initiation Cer-
emony among the Onge of Andaman Islands (377-384).
- Lawal, M. O., Inter-Relationship between Indigenous
Religion, Culture and Technology. The Nigerian Case
(385-397).
Economic Development and Cultural
Change (Chicago)
38. 1990/2., 3.
2. Strauss, J., Households, Communities, and Pre-
school Children’s Nutrition Outcomes: Evidence from
Rural Cote d’Ivoire (231-261). - Edmundson, W. C.,
P. V. Sukhatme, Food and Work: Poverty and Hunger?
(263-280). - Schiff, M., A. Valdes, Nutrition: Alter-
native Definitions and Policy Implications (281-292). -
Cochran, S. H, M. A. Khan, I. K. T. Osheba, Educa-
tion, Income, and Desired Fertility in Egypt: A Revised
Perspective (313-339). - Khan, M. S., A. Mirakhor,
Islamic Banking: Experiences in the Islamic Republic
of Iran and in Pakistan (353-375).
3. Schultz, T. P., Women’s Changing Participation in
the Labor Force. A World Perspective (457—488). -
Brueckner, J. K., Analyzing Third World Urbanization.
A Model with Empirical Evidence (587-610). - Dar-
vish, T., Interindustry Mobility after Migration. Theory
and Application (611-623).
Enseignement des Droits de L’Homme
(Paris)
4. 1987
Glowczewski, B., J.-P. Razon, Fonctionnalisme, struc-
turalisme, marxisme et droits de l’homme (1-7). -
Bromley, J. V., Ethnologie et droits de l’homme (8-15).
- Waiko, J. D., Les droits de l’homme. La perspective
Anthropos 85.1990
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681
mélanésienne (16-24). - Hall, S., Culture populaire
et compréhension interculturelle (25-35). - Keesing,
R. M., De vieux coquillages apportent du nouveau. Une
autre image de la kula (36—45). - Schirmer, J. G., A. D.
Rentelin, L. S. Wiseberg, Anthropologie et droits de
l’homme. Un bibliographie sélective annotée (70-142).
Erdkunde(Bonn)
43. 1989/4.
Mäckel, R., G. Menz, D. Walther, Weidepotential und
Landdegradierung in den Trockengebieten Kenias, dar-
gestellt an Testflächen im Samburu-Distrikt (253-267).
- Burdack, J., Bevölkerungsentwicklung im ländlichen
Raum der USA in den achtziger Jahren: Trendwende
oder Kontinuität? (280-292).
Ethnia (Medellin)
66.1990
Jaramillo, O. O., Indios, Evangelio, Misión y Cultura
(6-16).
Ethnic and Racial Studies
(Henley-on-Thames)
12. 1989/1., 2.3.
1. Brown, D., The State of Ethnicity and the Ethnicity
of the State: Ethnic Politics in Southeast Asia (47-62).
- Stephens, T. M., The Language of Ethnicity and Self-
Identity in American Spanish and Brazilian Portuguese
(138-145).
2. Kuper, L., The Prevention of Genocide: Cultural
and Structural Indicators of Genocidal Threat (157—
173). - Corbridge, S., Tribal Politics, Fiance and the
State: The Jharkhand India, 1900-1980 (175-207). -
Chun, A. J., Pariah Capitalism and the Overseas Chi-
nese of Southeast Asia: Problems in the Definition of
the Problem (232-256).
3. Scheepers, P., A. Felling, J. Peters, Ethnocentrism
in The Netherlands: A Typological Analysis (289-308).
Ethnohistory (Durham)
36. 1989/4.; 37. 1990/1.
4. Kaplan, M., Luve Ni Wai as the British saw it.
Constructions of Custom and Disorder in Colonial Fi-
ji (349-371). - Kelly, J. D., Fear of Culture. British
Regulation of Indian Marriage in Post-Indenture Fiji
(372-391). - Fenton, W. N., Return of Eleven Wampum
Belts to the Six Nations Iroquoise Confederacy on Grand
River, Canada (392^-11).
1. Bateman, R. B., Africans and Indians. A Compar-
ative Study of the Black Carib and Black Seminole
(1-24). - McLoughlin, W. G., Ghost Dance Move-
ments. Some Thoughts on Definition Based on Cherokee
History (25-44).
Ethnologia Americana (Düsseldorf)
25. 1989/2.
Andritzky, W., Historische Aspekte zur Volksmedizin
der Schwarzen in Peru (1247-1251). — Krumbach, H.,
Kakao aus Mexiko (1254-1259).
Ethnology (Pittsburgh)
28. 1989/4.; 29. 1990/1., 2.
4. Strathern, A., Melpa Dream Interpretation and the
Concept of Hidden Truth (301-315). - Cacopardo, A.,
A. Cacopardo, The Kalasha (Pakistan) Winter Solstice
Festival (317-329). - Silva, A. L. da, Social Practice
and the Ontology in Akwe-Xavante Naming and Myth
(331-341). - Pans, A. E. M. J., Levirate and Sorarate
and the Terminological Classification of Uncles, Aunts,
and Siblings’ Children (343-358).
1. Lederman, R., Big Men, Large and Small? To-
wards a Comparative Perspective (3-15). - Scaglion, R.,
Legal Adaptation in a Papua New Guinea Village Court
(17- 33). - Lepowsky, M., Big Men, Big Women, and
Cultural Autonomy (35-50). - Kahn, M., Stone-Faced
Ancestors. The Spatial Anchoring of Myth in Wamira,
Papua New Guinea (51-66). - Podolefsky, A., Mediator
Roles in Simbu Conflict Management (67-81). - Fein-
berg, R., New Guinea Models on a Polynesian Outler?
(83-96).
2. Brown, P., Big Man, Past and Present. Model,
Person, Hero, Legend (97-115). - Frechione, J., Su-
pervillage Formation in the Amazonian Terry Firm. The
Case of Asenona (117-133). - Fricke, T. E., Elementary
Structures in the Nepal Himalaya. Reciprocity and the
Politics of Hierarchy in Ghale-Tamang Marriage (135—
158). - Huber, B. R., The Recruitment of Nahua Curers.
Role Conflict and Gender (159-176). - Rambo, K. F.,
Jesus came here too. The Making of a Culture Hero
and Control over History in Simbu. Papua New Guinea
(177-188).
Ethnology-Etnologie (Pretoria)
12. 1989/4.; 13. 1990/1.
4. Larson, T. J., Sorcery and Witchcraft with the
Bayeyi and Hambukusku: A Cross-Cultural Comparison
(131-136).
1. Malan, J. S., Aspekte van identiteitsvorming en
-verandering onder die Wambo. Aspects of Identity
Manifestation and Change among the Wambo (1-10).
Anthropos 85.1990
682
Zeitschriftenschau
- Sekhukhune P. D., Social Meaning in North Sotho
Ritual Symbolism (30-32).
Ethnomusicology (Bloomington)
33. 1989/3.; 34. 1990/1.
3. Robbins, J., Practical and Abstract Taxonomy in
Cuban Music (379-389). - Kruger, J., Rediscovering
the Venda Ground-Bow (391-404).
1. Schuyler, P. D., Hearts and Minds. Three Attitudes
toward Performance Practice and Music Theory in the
Yemen Arab Republic (1-18). - Lysloff R. T. A., Non-
Puppets and Non-Gamelan. Wayang Parody in Banyu-
mas (19-35).
Ethnos (Stockholm)
54. 1989/3-4.
Barth, F., The Analysis of Culture in Complex Societies
(120-142). - Kapferer, B., Nationalist Ideology and
a Comparative Anthropology (161-199). - Hannerz,
U., Culture between Center and Periphery. Toward a
Macroanthropology (200-216).
Ethos (Washington)
17. 1989/4.
Mageo, J. M., “Ferocious is the Centripede:” A Study of
the Significance of Eating and Speaking in Samoa (387-
427). - Boyer, L. B., R. M. Boyer, C. W. Dithrich, H.
Harned, A. E. Hippier, J. S. Stone, A. Walt, The Re-
lation between Psychological States and Acculturation
among the Tanaina and Upper Tanana Indians of Alaska:
An Ethnographic and Rorschach Study (450-479).
Études Inuit (Québec)
12. 1988/1-2.
Sonne, B,, In Love with Eskimo Imagination and In-
telligence (21-44). - Fortescue, M., Thule and Back:
A Critical Appraisal of Knud Rasmussen’s Contribu-
tion to Eskimo Language Studies (171-192). - Spby,
R. M., Some of the Works of Knud Rasmussen as yet
Unpublished (193-204). - Kleivan, I., R. Gilberg, E. S.
Burch jr., J.-L. Rousselot, Selected Works by Knud
Rasmussen (205-233).
Folk (Copenhagen)
31. 1989
Hastrup, K., Nature as Historical Space (5-20). - Paa-
rup-Laursen, B., Fertility and the Concept of Nature
among the Koma of Nigeria (75-86). - Krogstad, A.,
The Treasure House of Smell: From an “Unsensing” to
a “Sensual” Anthropology (87-103). - Sjprslev, I., The
Myth of Myths and the Nature of Ritual. Ideology and
Practice in Afro-Brazilian Religion (105-123).
Folklore (London)
100. 1989/2.
Davidson, H. R. E., Myths and Symbols in Religion
and Folklore (131-142). - Gailey, A., The Nature of
Tradition (143-161). - Johansen, T., Malefactor and
Antagonist: A Study in Aetiological Legend Structures
(184-200). - Vukanovic, T. P., Witchcraft in the Central
Balkans II: Protection Against Witches (221-236).
Frankfurter Afrikanistische Blàtter
(Frankfurt)
1989/1.
Nwabueze, E., The Masquerade as Hero in Igbo Tradi-
tional Society (95-107). - Braukàmper, U., The Sanc-
tuary of Shayk Husayn and the Oromo-Somali Connec-
tions in Bale [Ethiopia] (108-134).
Genève - Afrique (Genf)
27.1989/1., 2.; 28. 1990/1.
89/1. Omosule, M., Kalenjin: The Emergence of a
Corporate Name for the ‘Nandi-Speaking Tribes’ of East
Africa (73-88). - Dauphin-Tinturier, A.-M., Commu-
nication et tradition dans l’univers Bemba [Zambie]
(89-106).
89/2. Raynaut, C., L’opération de développement et
les logiques du changement: La nécessité d’une ap-
proche holistique. L’exemple d’un cas nigérien (7-38).
90/1. Azuonye, C., The Heroic Age of the Ohafia
Igbo. Its Evolution and Socio-Cultural Consequences
(7-35). - Boutrais, J., Les savanes humides, dernier
refuge pastoral. L’exemple des Wodaabe, Mbororo de
Centrafrique (65-90).
GEO (Hamburg)
1990/1., 2., 3., 4., 5., 6., 7.
1. Grielen, P,, Himba: Die letzten Freien ihres Volkes
(86-101).
2. Mechsner, F., Ayurveda. Heilung auf uralte Weise
(12-34). - Maréchaux, P., M. Maréchaux, Die schönen
Söhne der Wüste (94-108).
3. Sülberg, H., Letzte Chance für den Regenwald
(16-102).
Anthropos 85.1990
Zeitschriftenschau
683
4. Wolkomir, R., Schiffahrt durch die Wüste (12-54).
- Magnus, A., Indiens nackter Widerstand (166-180).
5. Hulcher, D., Doppelt bestattet hält besser (44-56).
- Imbeck, K., Die Höhlenhäuser von Matmata (154—
164).
6. Salvatori, N., Die letzten Jäger der Tundra (162—
188).
7. George, U,, Der Raupen wunderbare Verwandlung
(10-36).
History and Anthropology (London)
4. 1990/2.
Keesing, R. M., Colonial History as Contested Ground.
The Bell Massacre in the Solomons (279-301). - Fa-
bian, J., Religious and Secular Colonization. Common
Ground (339-355).
History of Religions (Chicago)
29. 1989/2.; 1990/3.
2. Orzech, C. D., Seeing Chen-Yen Buddhism; Tradi-
tional Scholarship and the Vajrayâna in China (87-114).
- Miller, D. A., Functional Operations and Oppositions
in the Thought-World of the Sagas (115-158). - Di-
mock, E. C. jr., Lila (159-173).
3. Swain, T., A New Sky Hero from a Conquered
Land (195-232). - Goldberg, H. E., The Zohar in Sou-
thern Morocco; A Study in the Ethnography of Texts
(233-258). - Glucklich, A., Images and Symbols in the
Phenomenology of Dhanna (259-285).
L’Homme (Paris)
29. 1989/1.
Racine, L., Du modèle analogique dans l’analyse des
représentations magico-religieuses (5-25). - Francillon,
G., Un profitable échange de frères chez les Tetun
du Sud, Timor central (26-43). - Segurado, J. B.,
L’emprise de l’échange restreint en Afrique centrale
matrilinéaire: les systèmes de parenté des Cewa [Mo-
zambique] et des Machinga Yao [Malawi] (44-75). -
Deliège, R., Les Mythes d’origine chez les Paraiyar
[Inde du Sud] (107-116).
Homo (Göttingen)
39. 1988/3-4.
Vark, G. N. van, J, Dijkema, Some Notes on the Origin
of the Chinese People (143-148). - Straka-Geiers-
bach, S., E. Voland, Zum Einfluß der Säuglingssterb-
lichkeit auf die eheliche Fruchtbarkeit am Beispiel der
Krummhörn, 18. und 19. Jahrhundert. On the Influence
of Infant Mortality on Marital Fertility [Krummhöm,
18th and 19th Centuries] (171-185).
IBLA (Tunis)
52. 1989/2.
Zoughlami, N., La femme dans les manuels scolaires
mauritaniens (271-287). - Ben Jemaa, B., Bibliogra-
phie du roman maghrébin d’expression arabe: III. La
Tunisie (289-301).
The International Journal of African
Historical Studies (Boston)
22. 1989/3., 4.
3. Bradlow, E., The “Great Fear” at the Cape of Good
Hope (401-421). - Ahmad, A. H., Darita, Bagemdir:
An Historic Town and its Muslim Population, 1830—
1889 (439-451).
4. Patton, A. jr., Dr. John Farrell Easmon. Medical
Professionalism and Colonial Racism in the Gold Coast,
1856-1900 (601-636). - Chappell, D. A., The Nation
as Frontier. Ethnicity and Clientelism in Ivorian History
(671-696). - Samarin, W. J., The Colonial Heritage of
the Central African Republic. A Linguistic Perspective
(697-711).
International Journal of American
Linguistics (Chicago)
55. 1989/4.
Clayton, M. L., A Trilingual Spanish-Latin-Nahuatl
Manuscript Dictionary Sometimes Attributed to Fray
Bernardino de Sahagun (391—416). - Levitt, M. L., Lin-
guistics as History: Preserving Linguistic Oral Records
(417-423).
International Journal of Comparative
Sociology (Leiden)
30. 1989/1-2.
Steenson, G. P., Karl Kautsky: Early Assumptions, Pre-
conceptions, and Prejudices (33^13). - Margan, D. W.,
The Eclipse of Karl Kautsky, 1914-1924 (57-67). -
Kautsky, K., My Book on the Materialist Conception
of History (68-72). - Kautsky, K., Nature and Society
(73-79). - Kautsky, J. H., Karl Kautsky’s Material-
ist Conception of History (80-92). - Salvador, M, L.,
Kautsky and Weber: Common Problems and Different
Approaches (93-108).
Anthropos 85.1990
684
Zeitschriftenschau
Irian (Jayapura)
17.1989
Wilson, J. D., The Yali and their Environment (19-37).
- Venema, H., Sago Grub Festival (39-63). - Haenen,
P., Marriage Alliance among the Moi of Irian Jaya
[Indonesia] (77-85). - Haynes, P., Agriculture, Soil,
and Climate in Irian Jaya (89-105).
The Islamic Quarterly (London)
33. 1989/1., 2., 3., 4.
1. Taylor, J. V., Religion: Peace-Maker or Peace-
Breaker (51-56).
2. Bu-Rasehd, A., Social Inequality. A Comparison
between Marx, Weber, and Islam (77-100). - An-
ees, M. A., Genital Mutilations: Moral or Misogynous?
(101-117). - Mashuq ibn Ally, M,, Christianity and the
World Religions: Muslim Response (139-149).
3. John, J., Ibn Khaldun’s Views on Language Learn-
ing: Their Relevance to Language Learning Today (153—
164). - Murata, S., Masculine-Feminine Complemen-
tarity in the Spiritual Psychology of Islam (165-187).
4. Kamali, M. H,, Source, Nature, and Objectives of
Shari’ah (215-235). - Barr, M., Isa. The Islamic Christ
(236-262). - Odibat, A. A., The Mind-Body Relation-
ship as Related to Theories of Sport and Physical Edu-
cation. The Islamic Philosophy in Comparison to Others
(263-276).
Islamochristiana (Roma)
15.1989
Ayoub, M., Thanksgiving and Praise in the Qur’an and
in Muslim Piety (1-10). - Lagarde, M., Position de
Fahr al-Din al-Râzî sur le mariage et la vie consacrée
(11-23). - Al-Zugul, A., ’A. A. Zurayq, M. Al-Fâhûm,
Les valeurs communes de paix et de justice en Chris-
tianisme et en Islam, et le rôle que les jeunes ont à
jouer pour les rayonner [en arabe] (1-19). - Kerr, D. A.,
Muhammad Iqbal’s Thoughts on Religion: Reflections
in the Spirit of Christian-Muslim Dialogue (25-55). -
Michel, T., Jesuit Writings on Islam in the Seventeenth
Century (57-85). - Bouhdiba, A,, L’avenir du dialogue
islamo-chrétien (87-93). - Teissier, H., Pour un renou-
veau du dialogue islamo-chrétien (95-107).
Jahrbuch des Museums für Völkerkunde
zu Leipzig (Berlin)
38.1989
Heyne, G. G., Die Jagd in den Wäldern des großen
Hinggan. Ein Beitrag zur Wirtschaftsethnologie der
chinesischen Rentier-Ewenken (32-100). - Nentwig, I.,
Bericht von einer Exkursion zur Ewenkischen Gemeinde
Aoluguya im Linken Ergun-Banner der Inneren Mon-
golei [VR China] (101-127). - Bliss, F., Religions-
wesen und Volksheilkunde im „Neuen Tal“ Ägyptens
(177-214). - Wagner, J., Das Giftspinnen-Orakel und
seine Deutung. Erfahrungen bei ethnopsychologischen
Felduntersuchungen in Zentral-Kamerun (215-223). -
Treide, B., Big-Men im Prozeß sozialökonomischer Ent-
wicklung [Teil III] (269-299). - Coelho, V. P., Infor-
mationen über ein Musikinstrument der Waurä-Indianer
(305-328).
JASO (Oxford)
20. 1989/2., 3.
2. Tambiah, S. J., King Mahasammata. The first King
in the Buddhist Story of Creation, and his Persisting
Relevance (101-122). - Duff-Cooper, A., Aspects of
the Aesthetics of Rice-Growing in a Balinese Form of
Life on Lombok (123-147). - Kingdon, J., The Body,
Style and Ethnic Values (148-167).
3. Burke, J. F., Becoming an ‘Inside-Outsider’ (219—
227).
Journal Asiatique (Paris)
277. 1989/3—4-,
Ramirez, P., Esprits ennemis, esprits alliés: la cosmolo-
gie politique des sociétés de TArunachal Pradesh, Inde
(263-298).
Journal de la Société des Américanistes
(Paris)
75.1989
Borrero, L., H. Yacobaccio, Ethnoarqueología de asen-
tamientos Aché. Cazadores-recolectores del Paraguay
oriental (7-33). - Martinic, M., Los Canoeros de la
Patagonia meridional. Población histórica y distribución
geográfica (siglos XIX y XX). El fin de una etnia (35-
61). - Bidou, P., Du mythe à la légende. La naissance
de la parole dans le village des Biannacas (63-90). -
Désveaux, E., Panthères abyssales et anaconda primor-
dial. Un petit groupe de Klein panaméricain (115-127).
- Saladin D’Anglure, B., La part du chamane ou le
communisme sexuel inuit dans l’Arctique central cana-
dien (131-171). - Scott, C., Knowledge Construction
among the Cree Hunters: Metaphors and Literal Under-
standing (193-208).
Journal de la Société des Océanistes (Paris)
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Fallu, B., Les morsures de serpents chez les Mekeo
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Journal des Africanistes (Paris)
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The Journal of African History
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Lovejoy, P. E., The Impact of the Atlantic Slave Trade
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Porter, G., A Note on Slavery, Seclusion, and Agrarian
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Journal of American Folklore (Washington)
102. 1989/406.; 103. 1990/407., 408.
406. Fish, L. M., General Edward G. Lansdale and the
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407. George, K. M., Felling a Song with a New Ax:
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408. Tedlock, D., From Voice and Ear to Hand and
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Journal of Asian and African Studies
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Tharamangalam, J., Religious Pluralism and the Theo-
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The Journal of Asian Studies (Ann Arbor)
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Kinship: Structural Principles and the Socialist Trans-
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Journal of Human Ecology (Delhi)
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J., La propiedad, los recursos naturales y el concepto
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25.1989
Dundes, A., The Ritual Murder or Blood Libel Legend.
A Study of Anti-Semitic Victimization through Projec-
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Aspects of the Arioi of Tahiti (47-78). - Sundby-
Sprensen, M., Interaction of Traditional Feasts and a
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Wahlstrôm, B., On Religious Decline and the Disap-
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Tribus (Stuttgart)
38.1989
Schleip, D., Ozeanische Ethnographie und koloniale
Praxis. Das Beispiel Augustin Krämer (121-148).
Trickster (München)
18.1990
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chilenischen Indies (179-186). - Benitez, A. G., Mision
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Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des
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An Introduction to the Modem Uygur Literary Language
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The Origins of House and Home? (336-347). - Ham-
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Saltüt und die Schia (308-318). - Sagaster, K., Die
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1. Kahl, O., Z. Matar, The Horoscope of as-Sähib Ibn
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of English on Serious and Humorous Tamil Speech
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Zeitschrift für Kulturaustausch (Stuttgart)
40. 1990/1.
Rausch, R., Frauenforschung im Umgang mit frem-
den Kulturen. Thesen und Gegenthesen (13-16). -
Müller-PIantenberg, C., Thesen zur kulturellen Rolle
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die Marginalisierung der Frauen in Algerien (63-68). -
Göhring, I., Bildung und Bemfe afrikanischer Frauen
(69-72). - Gosalia, S., Probleme und Perspektiven des
Bildungsstandes und der Bemfschancen von Frauen
in Indien (73-77). - Lüpsen, S., Bäuerliche Überle-
bensproduzentinnen in Peru zwischen Unterdrückung
und Befreiung - Synopsis (81). - Bruchhaus, E.-M.,
Veränderungen der familiären und sozialen Situation
der Landfrauen in Afrika - Synopsis (82). - Rott, R.,
Die Modernisierung der Ungleichheit. Fabrikarbeit und
Lebensräume von Frauen im brasilianischen Nordosten
(83-95). - Zapata de Polensky, M. R., Die Femini-
nisierung des peruanischen Erziehungswesens von der
Kolonialzeit bis heute (96-102). - Dagny-Stähle, V.,
Frauenarbeit, Migration und Kolonisierung im Kolum-
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Tourismus und exotischer Heiratsmarkt (113-114).
Zeitschrift für Volkskunde (Göttingen)
86. 1990/1.
Gerndt, H., Kulturvermittlung. Modellüberlegungen
zur Analyse eines Problemkomplexes am Beispiel des
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postmodemes Ereigniswerk und chiliastische Hoffnung
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ihre Bewältigung in der Sage (53-66). - Wehse, R., Die
„moderne“ Sage in Deutschland (67-79).
Anthropos 85.1990
Mitarbeiter dieses Heftes
Dr. Christoph Antweiler, Institut für Völkerkunde,
Albertus Magnus Platz, D-5000 Köln 41, West
Germany
Prof. Wendy Ashmore, Dept, of Anthropology, Rutgers
University, Box 270, New Brunswick, NJ 08903,
U.S. A.
Dr. Heike Behrend, Holsteinische Str. 2, D-1000 Ber-
lin 31, West Germany
Prof. T. O. Beidelman, Dept, of Anthropology, New
York University, 100 Rufus D. Smith Hall, 25
Waverly Place, New York, NY 10003, U. S. A.
Dr. Eberhard Berg, Bergstr. 25, CH-6004 Luzem,
Switzerland
Georg Berkemer, Historisches Seminar, Christian-
Albrechts-Universität, Olshausenstr. 40, D-2300
Kiel 1, West Germany
Dr. Peter Bolz, Marthastr. 6A, D-1000 Berlin 45, West
Germany
Prof. Dr. Ernest Brandewie, 2604 Marine St., South
Bend, IN 46614, U. S. A.
Dr. Andreas Bruck, Holunderstr. 10, D-4817 Leopolds-
höhe, West Germany
Brigitte Bidder, M. A., Damaschkestr. 41, D-1000
Berlin 31, West Germany
Prof. John W. Burton, Ph. D., Dept, of Anthropology,
Connecticut College, New London, CT 06320,
U.S. A.
Dr. Michael J. Casimir, Institut für Völkerkunde,
Albertus-Magnus-PIatz, D-5000 Köln 41, West
Germany
Dr. John Chariot, P. O. Box 81, Kâne’oe, HI 96744,
U.S. A.
Prof. Wing-sam Chow, Dept, of Anthropology, The
University of Winnipeg, Winnipeg, R3B 2E9,
Canada
Jean-Paul Colleyn, 97 rue Charles-Quint, B-1040 Bru-
xelles, Belgium
Dr. Robert Deliège, Rue des Tilleuls 4, B-5800 Grand-
Manil (Gembloux), Belgium
Prof. Leslie G. Desmangles, Ph. D., Trinity College,
Hartford, CT 06106, U. S. A.
Dr. René Devisch, Centre for Social and Cultural An-
thropology, Catholic University of Leuven, Tiense-
straat 102, B-3000 Leuven, Belgium
Prof. Dr. Wolf Dietrich, Romanisches Seminar, Uni-
versität Münster, Bispinghof 3/A, D-4400 Münster,
West Germany
Dr. Andrew Duff-Cooper, c/o Nishi, Tsurumakiso 202,
1-13-33 Asagaya Minami, Suginami-ku, Tokyo
166,Japan
Prof. Dr. Munro S. Edmonson, Dept, of Anthropology,
Tulane University, New Orleans, LA 700118-5698,
U.S. A.
Prof. Dr. Irenäus Eibl-Eibesfeldt, Forschungsstelle
für Humanethologie, Von-der-Tannstr. 3-5, D-8138
Erling-Andechs, West Germany
Dr. Gabriella Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi, Via Mario Fas-
cetti 67, 1-00146 Roma, Italy
Dr. Alicia A. Fernández Distel, CAEA, Av. de Mayo
1437 Io “A”, 1085 Buenos Aires, Argentina
Prof. Gregory Forth, Dr. phil., Dept, of Anthropology,
University of Alberta, 13-15 HM Tory Building,
Edmonton, T6G 2H4, Canada
Dr. Erhard Franz, Deutsches Orient Institut, Mittelweg
150, D-2000 Hamburg 13, West Germany
Prof. Dr. Peter Fuchs, Institut für Völkerkunde, Thea-
terplatz 15, D-3400 Göttingen, West Germany
Dr. Stephen Fuchs, SVD, Institute of Indian Culture,
Mahakali Rd., Andheri East, Bombay, 400 093,
India
Rolf Gehlen, Katharinenstr. 46, D-7300 Esslingen, West
Germany
Dr. Paul Geraghty, Institute of Fijian Language and
Culture, Office of the Prime Minister, Government
Buildings, Suva, Fiji
Franz Gieringer, WF, Kanisa Katoliki, S. L. P. 171,
Singida P. O., Tanzania
Dr. Renate von Gizycki, Birkenkopfstr. 4A, D-3500
Kassel-Wilhelmshöhe, West Germany
Prof. Melvin C. Goldstein, Ph. D., Dept, of Anthropol-
ogy, Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland,
OH 44106, U.S. A.
Dr. Anthony Good, Dept, of Social Anthropology, Uni-
versity of Edinburgh, 40 George Sq., Edinburgh,
EH8 9LL, United Kingdom
Ruth-Inge Heinze, Ph.D., Scholars of Asia, 2321
Russel # 3A, Berkeley, CA 94705, U. S. A.
Dr. Jörg Helbig, Dreimühlenstr. 15, D-8000 Mün-
chen 5, West Germany
Prof. Robert K. Herbert, Ph. D., Dept, of Anthropol-
ogy, SUNY, Binghamton, NY 13901, U. S. A.
Anthropos 85.1990
694
Mitarbeiter dieses Heftes
Prof. Dr. Marcel d’Hertefeit, Musée royal de l’Afrique
centrale, B-1980 Tervuren, Belgium
Prof. Dr. Hugo Huber, SVD, Institut de Froideville,
CH-1725 Posieux, Switzerland
Holger Jebens, M. A., Zeppelinstr. 94, D-1000 Ber-
lin 20, West Germany
Uwe Johannsen, Postfach 1142, D-2353 Nortorf, West
Germany
Dr. Erika Kaneko, 248 Kamakura-shi, Kamakurayama
4-9-21, Japan
Prof. Dr. Ulrich Köhler, Institut für Völkerkunde,
Werderring 10, D-7800 Freiburg, West Germany
Dr. Ulrike Krasberg, Kettenhofweg 125, D-6000
Frankfurt 1, West Germany
Prof. I. M. Lewis, Dept, of Anthropology, LSEPS,
Houghton St., London, WC2A 2AE, United King-
dom
Prof. Nancy McDowell, Ph.D., Dept, of Anthropology,
Franklin & Marshall, Box 3003, Lancaster, PA
17604, U.S. A.
Prof. Dr. Wolfgang Marschall, Seminar für Ethnolo-
gie, Schwanengasse 7, CH-3011 Bern, Switzerland
Prof. Dr. William W. Megenney, Dept, of Literatures
and Languages, University of California, Riverside,
CA 92521, U.S. A.
Matthias Mersch, Bahnhofstr. 21, D-8100 Garmisch-
Partenkirchen, West Germany
Dr. Bernd Mitlewski, Dalbigsbergstr. 18, D-6370 Ober-
ursel, West Germany
Dr. Victor C. de Munck, Dept, of Anthropology,
University of California, Riverside, CA 92521-
0418, U.S. A.
Prof. Dr. Bernd Nothofer, Fb 11 : Südostasienwissen-
schaften, Postfach 11 19 32, D-6000 Frankfurt 11,
West Germany
Dr. Dédé Oetomo, FISIP Univ. Airlangga, Jalan Air-
langga 4-6, Surabaya 60286, Indonesia
Prof. Dr. Georg Pfeffer, Institut für Ethnologie, Dros-
selweg 1-3, D-1000 Berlin 33, West Germany
Peter Probst, M. A., Damaschkestr. 41, D-1000 Ber-
lin 31, West Germany
Eva Ch. Raabe, M. A., Museum für Völkerkunde,
Schaumainkai 29, D-6000 Frankfurt 70, West Ger-
many
Dr. Aparna Rao, Institut für Völkerkunde, Albertus-
Magnus-Platz, D-5000 Köln 41, West Germany
Dr. Martin Rössler, Institut für Völkerkunde, Theater-
platz 15, D-3400 Göttingen, West Germany
Dr. Richard Rottenburg, Fontanepromenade 11, D-
1000 Berlin 61, West Germany
Dr. Werner Schiffauer, Limburgerstr. 30, D-6395
Weilrod 2, West Germany
Dr. Gerhard Schlatter, Olgastr. 2, D-7400 Tübingen,
West Germany
Dr. Sylvia M. Schomburg-Scherff, Eckenheimer Land-
str. 137, D-6000 Frankfurt 1, West Germany
Peter Schröder, M.A., Vogelsanger Str. 37, D-5000
Köln 30, West Germany
Ute Schüren, Görresstr. 6, D-1000 Berlin 41, West
Germany
Olivier Sevin, 55 Bd. Sérurier, F-75019 Paris, France
Dr. H. Sheikh-Dilthey, Mühltalstr. 93, D-6900 Heidel-
berg, West Germany
Prof. Dr. Artur Simon, Riehlstr. 13, D-1000 Berlin 19,
West Germany
Dr. Peter K. Smith, Dept, of Psychology, University
of Sheffield, Sheffield, S10 2TN, United Kingdom
Prof. Dr. Günther D. Sontheimer, Südasien-Institut,
Im Neuenheimer Feld 330, D-6900 Heidelberg,
West Germany
Prof. Clark W. Sorensen, The Jackson School of
International Studies, University of Washington,
Thompson Hall DR-05, Seattle, WA 98195, U. S. A.
Dr. Sabine Speiser, Depto. de Antropologia Aplicada,
Av. 12 de Octubre 14-36, Quito, Ecuador
Prof. Dr. Justin StagI, Schumannstr. 104, D-5300
Bonn 1, West Germany
Christopher B. Steiner, M. A., Dept, of Anthropology,
Harvard University, William James Hall, Cam-
bridge, MA 02138, U.S. A.
Gérard Toffin, CNRS, 1 place Aristide Briand, F-92195
Meudon, France
Prof. Dr. Darrell T. Tryon, Dept, of Linguistics, Aus-
tralian National University, GPO Box 4, Canberra,
ACT 2601, Australia
Prof. Dr. Jan Vansina, 2810 Ridge Road, Madison, WI
53705, U. S. A.
Prof, Dr. Maria-Barbara Watson-Franke, Dept, of
Women’s Studies, San Diego State University, San
Diego, CA 92182-0437, U. S. A.
Prof. Dr. H. Ekkehard Wolff, Seminar für Afrikani-
sche Sprachen und Kulturen, Rothenbaumchaus-
see 5, D-2000 Hamburg 13, West Germany
Dr. Paul Yule, Kurfürstenstr. 50, D-5300 Bonn 1, West
Germany
Dr. Henryk Zimon, SVD, ul. Jagiellonska 45, skr. p.
1110, PL-20-950 Lublin 8, Poland
Prof. Dr. Hartmut Zinser, Religionswissenschaftliches
Institut, Boltzmanstr. 4, D-1000 Berlin 33, West
Germany
Anthropos 85.1990
A^NTHROPOS
Internationale Zeitschrift
für Völker- und Sprachenkunde
International Review
of Ethnology and Linguistics
Revue Internationale
d'Ethnologie et de Linguistique
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Anthropos 85.1990
AUTORENINDEX
Artikel
Antweiler, Christoph: Das eine und die vielen
Gesichter kultureller Evolution. Eine Orientie-
rung zum begrifflichen Handwerkszeug des Neo-
evolutionismus .................................. 483
Bicchieri, Marco G.: From Eurocentric to Geo-
centric. The Perspective from Small-Scale Soci-
eties ............................................. 1
Andreas Bruck: Theorien statt Schulen. Ein
Vorschlag zur Systematisierung der Forschungs-
theorien in den Kulturwissenschaften.............. 45
Bühler, Brigitte: cf. Probst, Peter, and Brigitte
Bühler
Chariot, John: Aspects of Samoan Literature I:
The Structure of the Samoan Single Story Form
and its Uses.................................. 415
Desmangles, Leslie G.: The Maroon Republics
and Religious Diversity in Colonial Haiti .... 475
Donohue, John J.: Training Halls of the Japa-
nese Martial Tradition. A Symbolic Analysis of
budjo„ojo in New York....................... 55
Duff-Cooper, Andrew: The Multilingualism of
a Balinese Community in Western Lombok . . . 329
Färber, Walter: Magic at the Cradle. Babylonian
and Assyrian Lullabies..................... 139
Forth, Gregory: From Symmetry to Asymmetry.
An Evolutionary Interpretation of Eastern Sumba-
nese Relationship Terminology.............. 373
Herbert, Robert K.: Hlonipha and the Ambigu-
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Victor C. de Munck: Choosing Metaphor. A
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Steiner, Christopher B.: Body Personal and
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Wright, Gary A.; Being there and the Archeolo-
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Eibl-Eibesfeldt, Irenaus, and Marie-Claude Mat-
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Gieringer, Franz: “To Praise the Sun.” A Tradi-
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Quack, Anton: Mank’àceri - der Schattenfänger.
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Tucson 1988. 179 pp. (Hans A. Witte)......... 269
Schramm, Raimund: Symbolische Logik in der
mündlichen Tradition der Aymaras. Von schwieri-
gen Übergängen und richtigen Abständen. Berlin
1988. 280 pp. (Hans van den Berg).............. 270
Schweizer, Thomas (Hrsg.): Netzwerkanalyse.
Ethnologische Perspektiven. Berlin 1988. 229 pp.
(Franz Urban Pappi)............................. 271
Segalen, Martine (éd.) Anthropologie sociale et
ethnologie de la France. Actes du Colloque du
Centre d’Ethnologie française et du Musée na-
tional des Arts et Traditions populaires à l’occa-
sion du cinquantième anniversaire du Musée, 19-
20-21 novembre 1987; 2 vols. Louvain-la-Neuve
1989. 873 pp. (Pierre Emy).................... 272
Sellato, Bernard: Nomades et sédentarisation à
Bornéo. Histoire économique et sociale. Paris
1989. 293 pp. (Olivier Sevin)................. 643
Seltmann, Friedrich: Die Kalang. Eine Volks-
gruppe auf Java und ihre Stamm-Mythe. Ein Bei-
trag zur Kulturgeschichte Javas. Stuttgart 1987.
430 pp. (Wolfgang Marschall).................. 644
Smith, Raymond T.: Kinship and Class in the
West Indies. A Genealogical Study of Jamaica
and Guyana. Cambridge 1988. 202 pp. (Angelina
Pollak-Eltz)..................................... 273
Sontheimer, Günther D., and Hermann Kulke
(eds.): Hinduism Reconsidered. Delhi 1989. 238
pp. (Othmar Gächter) ............................ 647
Spicer, Edward H.: People of Pascua. Ed. by
K. M. Sands and R. B. Spicer. Tucson 1988.
333 pp. (Peter Bolz)............................. 649
Spittler, Gerd: Handeln in einer Hungerkrise.
Tuaregnomaden und die große Dürre von 1984.
Opladen 1989. 225 pp. (Peter Fuchs).............. 649
Spittler, Gerd: Dürren, Krieg und Hungerkrisen
bei den Kel Ewey (1900-1985). Stuttgart 1989.
220 pp. (Peter Fuchs)............................ 649
Stoller, Paul: Fusion of the Worlds. An Ethnog-
raphy of Possession among the Songhay of Niger.
Chicago 1989. 244 pp. (Jean-Paul Colleyn) ... 651
Strecker, Ivo: The Social Practice of Symboliza-
256
632
634
634
258
258
260
573
635
262
636
638
614
262
264
265
265
266
Anthropos 85.1990
702
tion. An Anthropological Analysis. London 1988.
246 pp. (J. Abbink)............................. 274
Ströbele-Gregor, Juliana: Dialektik der Gegen-
aufklärung. Zur Problematik fundamentalistischer
und evangelikaler Missionierung bei den urbanen
Aymara in La Paz (Bolivien). Bonn 1988. 369 pp.
(Sabine Speiser)................................ 652
Surgy, Albert de: De l’universalité d’une forme
africaine de sacrifice. Paris 1988. 286 pp. (Hugo
Huber) ............................................ 275
Taylor, Penny (ed.): After 2000 Years. Photo-
graphie Essays of Aboriginal and Islander Aus-
tralia Today. Cambridge 1988. 358 pp. (Gerhard
Schlatter)......................................... 654
Terrell, John: Prehistory in the Pacific Islands.
A Study of Variation in Language, Customs, and
Human Biology. Cambridge 1988. 299 pp. (Patri-
cia Price-Beggerly)................................ 276
Thomason, Sarah Grey, and Terrence Kauf-
man: Language Contact, Creolization, and Ge-
netic Linguistics. Berkeley 1988. 411 pp. (D. T.
Tryon)............................................. 278
Autorenindex (R)
Van Maanen, John: Tales of the Field. On Writ-
ing Ethnography. Chicago 1988. 173 pp. (Eber-
hard Berg)....................................... 655
Vikpr, Lars S.: Perfecting Spelling. Spelling Dis-
cussions and Reforms in Indonesia and Malaysia
1900-1972. Dordrecht 1988. 98 pp. (Dede Oeto-
mo)........................................... 657
Wells, Oliver N.: The Chilliwacks and their
Neighbors. Ed. by Ralph Maud, Brent Galloway,
and Marie Weeden. Vancouver 1987. 226 pp.
(Marianne Boelscher) ............................ 279
Whiteford, Andrew Hunter: Southwestern Indi-
an Baskets. Their History and their Makers. Santa
Fe 1988. 219 pp. (Wolfgang Haberland) .... 280
Wills, W. H.: Early Prehistoric Agriculture in
the American Southwest. Santa Fe 1988. 184 pp.
(Wolfgang Haberland)............................. 281
Zinser, Hartmut (Hrsg.): Religionswissenschaft.
Eine Einführung. Berlin 1988. 300 pp. (Eric J.
Sharpe).................................. 284
Zvelebil, Kamil V.: The Irulas of the Blue Moun-
tains. Syracuse 1988. 186 pp. (Dieter B. Kapp) 285
Anthropos 85.1990
Rezensenten
703
Rezensenten
Abbink 274
Antweiler 260
Ashmore 587
Baer 266
Beidelman 213, 226, 621, 638
Bera 262
Berkemer 595
Berg 223, 655
v.d. Berg 270
Bicchieri 242
Boelscher 262, 279,
Bolz 649
Boskovic 265
Brandewie 620
Brown 217
Bruck 641
Califano 203, 212
Casimir 623
Chow 642
Colleyn 651
Deliège 250, 626
Devisch 571
Dietrich 602
Doerfer 232
Dürr 245
Edmonson 582
Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi 215, 603
Emy 244, 272
Feeley-Hamik 240
Fernandez Distel 608
v. Frankenberg 233
Franz 581
Fuchs, P. 649
Fuchs, S. 238, 635
Gächter 647
Cardini 313
Gareis 632
Geraghty 530
Gesch 237
v. Gizycki 586, 597
Goldstein 618
Good 627
Haberland 280, 281
Hackstein 229
Hanisch 264
Hauschild 218, 258
Hays 634
Heinze 625
Helbig 631
d‘Hertefelt 579
Hicks 248
Hock 204
Huber 275, 589, 628
Hultkrantz 209, 251
Jacobs 252
Johannsen 210, 592, 600
Kaneko 578
Kapp 285
Köhler 634
Körner 258
Lewis 597
Maler-Sieber 241
Marschall 644
Megenney 574
Menges 173
Mersch 598
Michael 265
Mitlewski 256
Morgan 203
Moßbrucker 246
Nash 267
Nothofer 639
Oetomo 657
Orywal 229
Pappi 271
Pawlik 243
Pfeffer 616
Pollak-Eltz 273
Prem 228
Price-Beggerly 276
Quack 313
Raabe 607
Rao 584, 614
Rodegem 234
Rottenburg 576
Rottland 255
Schiffauer 572
Schlatter 654
Schobert 220
Schomburg-Scherff 593
Schröder 601, 629
Schüren 617
Sevin 643
Sharpe 284
Sheikh-Dilthey 612
Simon 630
Smith 594
Sontheimer 584, 636
Sorensen 613
Speiser 652
Stagl 606
Streum 207
Tardits 221
Toffin 611
Troll 253
Trouwborst 216
Tryon 278, 610
Vansina 573
Voigt 255
Wanckel 206
Watson-Franke 604
Witte 269
Wolff 523
Yule 590
Zimon 583
Zinser 621
Zvelebil 235
Anthropos 85.1990
GEOGRAPHISCHER INDEX*
Afrika
Bibliographie de l’Afrique sud-saharienne 234
Culture, Experience, and Pluralism 612
From Eurocentric to Geocentric 1
Rassismus, Vorurteile, Kommunikation 589
Sources orales de l’histoire de l’Afrique 573
Nordafrika
Aurès/Algérie, 1935-1936 264
Wirtschaftlicher und sozialer Wandel im ,Neuen Tal‘
Ägyptens 206
Nordostafrika
Die Kawahla von Kordofan 576
On T. O. Beidelman’s Reply 517
Reply to J. W. Burton’s “Two Studies of African
Religion” 192
Shilluk Kingship 105
The Social Practice of Symbolization 274
Ostafrika
Gender and Social Structure in Madagascar 240
Herrscher über tausend Hügel 579
Iraqw Grammar 255
LTslam et les «Swahili» au Rwanda 243
Maasai-Frauen 628
Siaya 213
“To Praise the Sun” 518
Westafrika
Africa’s Ogun 574
Body Personal and Body Politic 431
Une certaine conception de la mort chez les Gë-Mina
du sud-est Togo 182
Les Chemins de Nya 583
De l’universalité d’une forme africaine de
sacrifice 275
“Di:n wa dawla” 204
Discours and its Disguises 573
Einhundertfünfzig Jahre Hausaforschung 523
Fusion of the Worlds 651
Girkaa 597
The Hatchet’s Blood 269
Images from Bamum 221
Patterns of Control on Medicine, Politics, and Social
Change among the Wimbum 447
Rites de dation du nom initial de naissance chez les
Àjâ-Fon du Bénin 187
Studies in Hausa Language and Linguistics 523
Tourisme balnéaire ou tourisme rural intégré 267
Wild Spirits Strong Medicine 571
West-Zentralafrika
Dürren, Krieg und Hungerkrisen bei den Kel
Ewey 649
Handeln in einer Hungerkrise 649
On the Classification of Chadic as Hamito-Semitic
(Afro-Asiatic) 181
Wild Spirits Strong Medicine 571
Südost-Zentralafrika
Distant Companions 226
Südafrika
Hlonipha and the Ambiguous Woman 455
* Seitenzahlen in kursiv weisen auf Artikel oder Berichte und
Kommentare hin.
Anthropos 85.1990
Geographischer Index
705
Amerika
Nordamerika
American Indian Autobiography 210
The Chilliwacks and their Neighbors 279
The Curtain Within 207
Early Prehistoric Agriculture in the American
Southwest 281
Native Writings in Massachusett 600
“The Orders of the Dreamed” 209
People of Pascua 649
Prophecies and Eschatological Traditions of the Hopi-
Indians in Arizona 65
Shamanic Odyssey 251
Sous le signe de Pours 217
Southwestern Indian Baskets 280
Die Sprache der Chiricahua-Apachen 262
Themes in Ethnology and Culture 592
Training Halls of the Japanese Martial Tradition 55
Mittelamerika
The Archaeology of Political Structure 587
Aztec Warfare 228
Caribbean Festival Arts 632
Kinship and Class in the West Indies 273
The Maroon Republics and Religious Diversity in
Colonial Haiti 475
Maya 617
The Slippery Earth 582
Todos Santos in Rural Tlaxcala 634
Women’s Power and Social Revolution 604
Südamerika
Africa’s Ogun 574
Aipe Koka 212
Der Anfang vor dem Anfang 631
El Ankari 73
Bareapa und Johns Alptraum 91
Chimane 608
Dialektik der Gegenaufklärung 652
Dictionnaire wayäpi-fran9ais, lexique fran£ais-
wayäpi 602
Etnografia de los Guarani de Alto Parana 313
Indios da Amazonia 629
Los Indios de Tierra del Fuego 313
Os indios e o Brasil 601
Lenguaje y palabras chamänicas 203
Mank’äcen - der Schattenfänger 149
Mundo Ankari. Dreifaltigkeit und Orte der Kraft 266
Die Mythen Sehen 631
Religiöse Spezialisten des zentralen Andengebietes
zur Zeit der Inka 220
Symbolische Logik in der mündlichen Tradition der
Aymaras 270
„Von seiner Heimat kann man nicht lassen“ 246
Yanomami Wailing Songs 507
Asien
Westasien
Agha, Scheich und Staat 581
Ethnie Groups in the Republic of Turkey 572
Ethnologie des Nahen und Mittleren Ostens 229
Magic at the Craddle 139
Sudasien
Das Amt des Wahrsagers bei den Alu-Kurumba
(Siidindien) 170
Becoming a Marginal Native 125
The Cat in Irula Culture 165
Choosing Metaphor 317
Coloured Rice 603
Counsel from the Ancients 235
Deccan Megaliths 262
The Devs of Cincvad 636
The Dynamics of Polyandry 618
Excavations at Inamgaon 590
Hasmukh D. Sankalia (1909-1989) 161
Hinduism Reconsidered 647
Indische Marchen 635
The Irulas of the Blue Mountains 285
The Madness of the Saints 626
Order in Paradox 611
The Painted World of the Warlis 584
Les Paraiyars du Tamil Nadu 215
The Poison in the Gift 614
The Self-milking Cow and the Bleeding Lingam 595
The Shrine and Cult of MuTn al-DTn ChishtT of
Ajmer 584
Social Change and Social Research 250
Social Change in Village India 250
Sozialstrukturen im Kumaon 614
Women and Children in a Bengali Village 265
Zentralasien
Erzählstoffe rezenter mongolischer Helden-
dichtung 232
Nordasien
„Schamanismus der Türken Sibiriens“ 173
Anthropos 85.1990
706
Geographischer Index
Ostasien
A Chinese Beggars’ Den 642
La dame-du-bord-de-l’eau 203
The Life and Hard Times of a Korean Shaman 613
Training Halls of the Japanese Martial Tradition 55
Südostasien
From Symmetry to Asymmetry 373
Interpretationen kulturellen Wissens 345
Die Kalang 644
The Multilingualism of a Balinese Community in
Western Lombok 329
Nomades et sédentaires à Bornéo 643
People of the Source 248
Perfecting Spelling 657
A Share of the Harvest 260
Übernatürliche Wesen im Glauben der Altvölker
Taiwans 578
Europa
Anthropologie sociale et ethnologie de la France 272
Persuasions of the Witch’s Craft, Ritual Magic in
Contemporary England 621
Rassismus, Vorurteile, Kommunikation 589
Social Inequalitiy in a Portuguese Hamlet 258
Zeremonien, Etikette und das Verhältnis von Mann und
Frau im griechischen Dorf 537
Ozeanien
Austronesian Root Theory 530
Culture Extraeuropee 597
Das neue Völkerkunde-Museum der Stadt Lugano in
Castagnola 546
Prehistory in the Pacific Islands 276
Australien
After 2000 Years 654
Children of the Desert 265
The Noonkanbah Story 293
Melanesien
The Bishops’ Progress 237
Body Personal and Body Politic 431
Cargo-Kulte und Holy Spirit Movements 403
Intergenerational Exchange in Diachronic Context 393
Leben in Linie, Muster und Farbe 607
Proto-Oceanic and the Austronesian Languages of
Western Melanesia 639
Reading the Skin 634
Polynesien
Aspects of Samoan Literature 415
Body Personal and Body Politic 431
Early Tonga 597
Mad about Islands 586
Return to Tahiti 258
Traditional Samoan Music 630
Anthropos 85.1990
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to the following model:
Fowler, Catherine, and Joy Leland
1967 Some Northern Paiute Native Categories. Ethnology 6:
381^104.
Heesterman, J. C.
1957 The Ancient Indian Royal Consecration. ’s-Gravenha-
ge; Mouton.
Heller, Monica S.
1982 Negotiations of Language Choice in Montreal. In: John
J. Gumpertz (ed.), Language and Social Identity;
pp. 108-118. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Kelly, Isabel, et al.
1964 Southern Paiute Ethnography. Salt Lake City: Univer-
sity of Utah Press. (University of Utah Anthropological
Papers, 69)
Radcliffe-Brown, A. R., and Daryll Forde (eds.)
1950 African Systems of Kinship and Marriage. London;
Oxford University Press.
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Anthropos 85.1990
Forthcoming Articles
Thomas R. Barker: Small Bands of Strangers. The Contraposed ‘Lineage’ Reconsidered
David B. Kronenfeld: Fanti Kinship. Language, Inheritance, and Kingroups
George Celis: Introduction à la métallurgie chez les Songhai. Techniques et croyances
J. O. J. Nwachukwu-Agbada: Mbari Museum Art. Covenant with a God Fulfilled
Albert T. Dalfovo: Lugbara Proverbs and Ethics
Maribeth Erb: Stealing Women and Living in Sin. Adaptation and Conflict in Morals and
Customary Law in Rembong, Northeastern Manggarai
Pietro Scarduelli: Symbolic Organization of Space and Social Identity in Alor
Manabu Waida: The Flower Contest between Two Divine Rivals, A Study in Central and East
Asian Mythology
Rémi Mathieu: Croyances des Toungouses de Chine
John Schwab: The Sandalu Bachelor Ritual among the Laiapu, Enga
John Chariot: Aspects of Samoan Literature. II: Genealogies, Multigenerational Complexes, and
Texts on the Origin of the Universe
Siegbert Hummel: Beziehungen des Sumerischen zu einigen Sprachen im protoaltaischen Substrat
J. J. M. M. van Kessel: Interrogando la medicina Callaway a
Mehringer, Jakob und Jürgen Dieckert: Laufen für den Fortbestand der Welt. Der Klotzlauf bei
den brasilianischen Canela-Indianem aus emischer Sicht
Guillermo Bartelt: The Early Spread of English among American Indians
Patrick C. Douaud: Pre-Consonantal Aspiration in a Celtic and an Algonquian Language
Thomas Bargatzky: Pflug und Erdmutter bei den Hopi-Indianem. Einige kritische Anmerkungen
Peter Mason: Exoticism in the Enlightenment
Martin Rössler and Birgitt Röttger^össjeiUrhe^Anqnymitv of Persons in Ethnography.
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ANTHROPOS INSTITUT 85-1990-4/6