Ongon- Mongolian ArtifactArtifact"Spirit Vessel"

The Sacred North

Every ger had a north wall, the side farthest from the door, where honored guests sat and the family's most valued possessions were stored. The ongon lived there. Felt dolls with painted faces, leather figures stitched into human shape: each one held an ancestor. A grandmother, perhaps, or a shaman three generations dead. They sat against the wall and watched the household with whatever eyes their makers had given them.

Families fed the ongon before meals. Milk splashed across a felt face, fat rubbed into leather hands. A well-fed ongon meant a satisfied ancestor, and a satisfied ancestor meant the family's luck held. A neglected one meant trouble. Illness crept in and livestock sickened when the dead went hungry. Touching an ongon without preparation could offend the spirit inside, and an offended ancestor was worse than no ancestor at all.

The Shaman's Work

When a family member died, the shaman made a new ongon. The material depended on the person and the tradition: felt for some, wood for others. According to Diószegi's accounts of Siberian and Mongolian shamanic practice, the construction required ritual precision. The vessel had to be right, or the spirit would not settle. Once the ancestor entered, the ongon joined the others on the north wall, and the dead took up residence among the living.

Shamans kept their own ongon, and these were different. Each vessel held a previous shaman from the same lineage, and each carried the knowledge and power that shaman had accumulated in life and after death. When a living shaman healed the sick or drove off hostile spirits, it was not skill alone. The ancestors in the ongon worked alongside them. A shaman's collection grew over a lifetime, and every new vessel was another ally, another source of sight and strength brought to bear against whatever darkness came for the people under their care.