Peace and Conflict in Ladakh

Brill’s Tibetan Studies Library

Edited by

Henk BlazerAlex McKay

Charles Ramble

VOLUME 13

Peace and Conflict in Ladakh

The Construction of a Fragile Web of Order

by

Fernanda Pirie

LEIDEN • BOSTON2007

Cover photo: The Babar celebrating the exorcism of evil from Photoksar at the end of theNew Year celebrations, December 1999 (Photo by Fernanda Pirie).

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

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ISSN 1568-6183ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15596 1ISBN-10: 90 04 15596 1

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CONTENTS

List of maps and illustrations ......................................................... .... vi

Note on transliteration .................................................................... viii

Acknowledgements ............................................................................. ix

Maps ................................................................................................... xi

Chapter One Introduction .............................................................. 1

Chapter Two Ladakh ................................................................... 17

Chapter Three Village organisation .............................................. 42

Chapter Four Conflict in the village ............................................ 68

Chapter Five The realm of the spirits .......................................... 88

Chapter Six Losar .................................................................... 112

Chapter Seven The sacred social order ........................................ 125

Chapter Eight Ethnographic Tibet .............................................. 143

Chapter Nine Urban process and political change ..................... 170

Chapter Ten Conclusion ........................................................... 196

Glossary .......................................................................................... 209

Bibliography ................................................................................... 217

Index ................................................................................................ 227

LIST OF MAPS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

Maps

Ladakh ............................................................................................... xi

Ethnographic Tibet ........................................................................... xii

Photographs between pages 116 and 117

1 The Potala palace.

2 Tibetan government officials at the Potala.

3 Leh palace.

4 The mosque.

5 Ridzong monastery.

6 The winter cham festival at Likir monastery.

7 The route from the Shi Shi La to Photoksar.

8 A lhato protecting travellers on a mountain path.

9 The gorge between Wanla and Photoksar.

10 Descending from the Sengge La towards Nyeraks and Lingshed.

11 Photoksar.

12 The hamlet of Machu.

13 Photoksar.

14 Meme Sonam reading a Buddhist text.

15 Paljor carving a block for a prayer flag.

16 Meme Sonam pouring tea.

17 Choron collecting water from the frozen river.

18 Yangzes washing clothes.

19 A yak herder.

20 Threshing with yaks.

21 Orsal and his brother learn to winnow.

22 Paljor reads a chos before the first ploughing.

23 Changing the juniper on the lhato.

24 The komnyer performing a sangs at the lhato.

25 Gyaltsen tending the lhato for the phalha.

26 The lhaba possessed by the yullha.

27 The bele.

28 The boys’ alamdar and the girls’ patimo.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS vii

29 Village women dancing in age order.

30 The onpo and the amchi at the front of the line of dancers.

31 The onpo.

32 The chos-sil.

33 One of the older village women with her prayer wheel.

34 Orsal taking leave of the goba before departing for Lamayuru.

35 Village women listen to Chado Rinpoche’s teachings.

36 Chado Rinpoche performing a skurims in Photoksar.

37 The lama placing a pungpa in a new lhato.

38 Morup and Api Rigzin with one of Morup’s sons.

39 Khangltakh in the snow.

40 Chortens above the village.

41 A seventeenth century document.

Photographs 1 and 2 courtesy of the Pitt Rivers Museum, University of

Oxford. All other photographs by the author.

NOTE ON TRANSLITERATION

Ladakhi is a Tibetan language. Most words have a standard written form

but local pronunciation often differs markedly from that of central Tibet.

In this book I transcribe most Ladakhi words as they are spoken in the

Photoksar dialect, which sometimes differs even from that of Leh.

In the case of standard Tibetan terms, such as chösi zungdrel, how-

ever, I have retained the standard romanization. I do the same with

Tibetan names, such as Sakya, pronounced Saskya in Ladakh, and adopt

the individual’s preferred form in the case of Ladakhi names such as

Thupstan Chhewang, pronounced Tupstan Tsewang. Where the spelling

is relevant I have included the widely-accepted Wylie transcription

(Wylie 1959) in the text.

The glossary lists all the most frequently used Tibetan and Ladakhi

words, together with the written Tibetan form and an English translation.

The Ladakhi use of a word can differ markedly from that elsewhere in

Tibet. For example trims (khrims) means ‘custom’ in Ladakh but gener-

ally has the sense of ‘law’ in central Tibet. The absence of a written

forms means that the word does not appear in the dictionaries of either

Das (1998), Hamid (1998) or Jäschke (1881) and the spelling is not

obvious.

The ‘-pa’ ending indicates a person, as in ‘Ladakspa’`, a Ladakhi.

The same ending is found in yulpa, a person of the yul (village), and

nangpa, a person of the nang (inside), that is a Buddhist.

‘I’ and ‘e’ are generally genitive endings, so onpe chos is the chos

(rituals) of the onpo.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The fieldwork on which this book is based was funded by the Economic

and Social Council of Great Britain and the Max Planck Institute for

Social Anthropology in Halle. I am also grateful to the Max Planck

Institute for funding the inclusion of the photographs in the volume.

Nick Allen, Martijn van Beek, Martin Mills and David Parkin all read

and made important and helpful comments on sections of the manu-

script. Marcus Banks, Keebet and Franz von Benda-Beckmann, Clare

Harris and Charles Ramble read and commented on earlier drafts of the

material that has been transformed into this book. I am very grateful to

them all.

John Bray, among others at the International Association of Ladakh

Studies, has been consistently helpful in providing information and

materials on the region.

I spent over twenty months undertaking fieldwork in Ladakh between

1998 and 2005. During this time Ladakhi people from far and wide were

unfailingly helpful, friendly and supportive. Those of Photoksar, partic-

ularly the family in Khangltakh, were generous beyond measure.

Wangchuk and Becky of SECMOL, Sonam Phuntsog of Hemis

Shukpachan, Lama Tsewang Jorgas and Karma Namgyal of Lingshed,

Tinles Angmo, Henk Toma, Sharif Bhat and Soso in Leh must, in

particular, be mentioned for the help and advice they gave over a long

period.

For editorial assistance I am indebted to Eva Pirie, to Paul Honey at

the Centre for Socio-Legal Studies of Oxford University and to Patricia

Radder at Brill.

Six months after I first visited Ladakh, while on a student holiday in

1983, a letter from my father was returned by the Indian post office,

having lain uncollected in the poste restante in Leh. He had opened the

atlas, he said, and could not resist sending off a missive to a place whol-

ly represented by a swirling mass of purple. His letters, discovered in

post offices throughout my journey, were evocative, inquisitive and

thought-provoking, qualities which I can only aspire to as an anthropolo-

gist. Seventeen years later, when I returned to Ladakh, an array of frien-

ds wrote the letters that sustained the ups and downs of a long period of

fieldwork. The envelopes that were waiting each time I returned to Leh

x ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

from Photoksar contained thoughts and reflections, advice and admon-

ishment, which greatly enriched my time in Ladakh. This book is dedi-

cated to all the letter-writers. These include my father, Gordon Pirie,

who did not live to write to me again in Ladakh, but who would, I hope,

have been pleased with what I have done.

The quotes are from Rizvi (1983) (title page), also cited in Bray (2005: 2), Srinivas1

(1998: 4) and Aggarwal (2004: 3, 7, 8). They are, it should be pointed out, matched by

those, generally in earlier works, that emphasise Ladakh’s ‘seclusion’ and geographical

position ‘encircled by the highest mountain chains in the world’ (Crook and Osmaston

1994: xxv; Dollfus 1989: 19).

CHAPTER ONE

INTRODUCTION

‘Crossroads of high Asia’, ‘a borderland’, ‘a vulnerable and strategic

tract for India’, ‘positioned in the penumbra of the Line of Control ...

part of the discord in Kashmir’. The images used in recent studies to

introduce Ladakh, the Himalayan region of the Indian state of Jammu

and Kashmir, emphasise its liminal position on the westernmost corner

of the Tibetan plateau. Ladakh was, and still is, the meeting point of the1

Islamic and Buddhist worlds and of the Tibetan and Indic cultures.

Historically it was a staging post on the formidable trade routes that

crossed the Himalayas to connect central Asia with India and central

Tibet. Now within India, but abutting its disputed borders with Pakistan

and China, the region hosts army camps for the forces engaged in the

Kashmir conflict. Over the centuries the Ladakhi people have become

used to invasions and conflict, political interference, fiscal demands and

religious proselytisation from east and west, north and south. The birth

of the Indian nation state, with its programme of social and economic

development, and the opening of the area to tourism mean that the forces

of consumerism and material advancement have now reached even the

remotest villages of the region. This book investigates the processes by

which the Ladakhi people have constructed their own ideas of commu-

nity and spaces of social order amidst such diverse influences.

Ecologically, Ladakh is part of the high Tibetan plateau, an arid

region, lying beyond the monsoon watershed formed by the Himalayas.

Most inhabited areas lie at over 3,000m and the sparse population

clusters around the pockets of flat land on which the water from melting

glaciers or snow-fields makes irrigated agriculture possible. Apart from

the nomads who herd their livestock on the Chang Tang plateau to the

east, most Ladakhis live in geographically-bounded villages separated

by acres of pasture and wasteland. Theirs is still largely an agricultural

society; even the inhabitants of the towns rely upon the complex irriga-

2 CHAPTER ONE

Politically, the region is now divided into the Leh Block and the Kargil block with2

Buddhist and Muslim majorities, respectively. In 1999 each block had a population of

around 115,000 (Census of India 1999).

tion systems that provide water for their gardens, orchards and barley

fields.

The languages of the region are varieties of Tibetan, quite distinct

from the Urdu of neighbouring Kashmir, a legacy of Ladakh’s historic

links with early Tibetan civilisations. For centuries Ladakh was, how-

ever, an independent kingdom, governed by a long line of hereditary

rulers. They were assisted by a small aristocratic elite who extracted

taxes from the villagers and traders and raised armies for the kings’ wars

with Kashmiri, Tibetan and Mongolian forces. Under the influence of

religious leaders from Tibet the kings patronised Buddhist monasteries

throughout the region and the major part of population in the east re-

mains Buddhist. Several kings came under pressure from Kashmiri

leaders to convert to Islam, however, and much of the population in the

Kargil area to the west is now Muslim. This division has been associated

with communal tensions and mistrust in the late twentieth century. 2

In the 1840s, Ladakh was conquered by the Dogras, then rulers of

Kashmir, and they undertook a series of administrative reforms, land

settlements and development initiatives over the following century.

Since Indian independence Ladakh has been subject to the administra-

tive control of the Indian state and it is from the cities of India that a host

of bureaucrats, entrepreneurs and, more recently, development workers

and tourists now bring the values of modernity and the market economy

into the region, as well as the ecological, political and ethical ideals of

the west.

During the time of the Ladakhi kingdom it was the aristocrats, the old

Ladakhi elite, who were most closely involved in relations with the

outside world. Those who had acquired high aristocratic or religious

status tended to live along the Indus valley, close to the political and

monastic centres. But traders, both Buddhist and Muslim, also travelled

great distances on perilous journeys, often accompanied by pilgrims or

monks who had been sent to train in the monasteries of Tibet. Their

modern-day equivalents are the children of the upper classes and newly

wealthy families sent for education to India, members of non-govern-

mental organisations (NGOs), entrepreneurs and local politicians.

Educated in Jammu, Delhi or the monasteries of India, making a living

from tourism, development activities or western patronage, most cosmo-

INTRODUCTION 3

politan Ladakhis are acutely aware of the issues of development and

modernisation as they affect their populations. Many are concerned

about the effects on their small region of the new market economy, a

changing cultural heritage and the divisive effects of party politics.

Although the greater proportion of the Ladakhi population remains

subsistence farmers scattered through the region’s remote villages, they,

too, go on pilgrimage to Leh, some even to India and Nepal. They send

their children to school in the towns; they visit Leh to buy consumer

goods and negotiate with government officials; they vote in regional and

national elections. They are far from being isolated from the forces of

change and modernity sweeping through the Indus valley.

The questions I set out to answer here concern the ways in which the

Ladakhi populations, both urban and rural, maintain their social order in

the midst of these influences. I draw on interviews conducted with

people from all over Ladakh, but concentrate on the experiences of two

distinct groups, the inhabitants of one of the remoter villages and those

living in the urban centre, Leh. Their experiences of modernity are

vastly different but there are common threads to be found in the ways in

which they manage conflict and pursue peace, constructing fragile webs

of order within the boundaries of their Himalayan communities.

The SECMOL dispute

One winter’s day in 1999 on the dusty streets of Leh, under a sun that

was still hot although the temperature had hovered below freezing for

weeks, a group of Buddhist monks set upon a boy who was selling

magazines at the main bus stand. They beat him up and destroyed a large

number of his copies. The monks had taken offence at an article in the

magazine which had made critical remarks about monks who behave in

a ‘non-Buddhist’ way. Ladags Melong (Mirror of Ladakh), is produced

by the Students’ Educational and Cultural Movement of Ladakh

(SECMOL). This non-governmental organisation, founded in 1988,

works for the improvement of education and to preserve the culture of

the region. It was run by a group of young, educated Ladakhis, many of

whom had obtained, or were studying for, university degrees and who

were encouraged to take an interest in the changing social conditions

brought about by modernisation and its effects on Ladakhi culture. The

article in question had been written by Rigzin, one of the SECMOL

students, in which he recounted, in critical terms, how a group of Bud-

4 CHAPTER ONE

In 1999 there were around 65 rupees to the pound sterling.3

dhist monks had recently thrown him off a bus. The incident was the talk

of the town for several weeks.

When I investigated this incident the following summer, Tashi Mor

up, the editor of the magazine, told me that he had advised the magazine-

seller not to take the case to the police. He felt that it could better be

solved by dialogue with the monks. The case was taken over by Sonam

Wangchuk, founder and Secretary of SECMOL, who wrote a letter to the

monks asking for an apology. When none was forthcoming, he threat-

ened to take the case to the court or to the Dalai Lama in Dharamsala.

The SECMOL members were then invited to a meeting with the Ladakhi

Gonpa Association (LGA), a body which represents the Buddhist monas-

teries of the region.

At the meeting, the monks claimed that they had been sent by the

LGA to beat up the sales boy because Rigzin’s letter had insulted their

religion. They had destroyed the magazine, they claimed, ‘for the monas-

teries’ and ‘for the chos’, the Tibetan term used to denote religious

rituals, doctrine and texts. In response, Wangchuk told me, he had

decided to use a ‘traditional tactic’ and asked one of the monks to put a

picture of the Dalai Lama on his forehead and repeat his claim. ‘I do not

really believe in such things,’ Wangchuk told me, ‘but I knew the monks

had enough sense not to lie with the Dalai Lama on their foreheads.’ At

that, the monks’ attitudes had changed, he said, and they began to sug-

gest that Ladakhis were a minority people and should not fight. Eventu-

ally they agreed to pay a fine to SECMOL, which they agreed at 500

rupees (Rs). Some of the monks argued that Rigzin should also pay a3

fine ‘because of the letter’. Wangchuk advised him to agree to a fine of

Rs200, on the basis that the dispute would otherwise become ‘big news’,

which would be bad for Ladakh. Rigzin told me that he did not consider

the fine to have been just; this was India and he had a right to express his

opinions in the media. However, he had accepted Wangchuk’s argument

that such a small region could not afford internal fighting. Wangchuk

also told me that he did not think the fine had been right. However, he

had advised Rigzin to accept it in the interests of resolving the whole

issue.

When narrating these events to me Wangchuk expressed the opinion

that the dispute was really about the freedom of the press. However, he

said, SECMOL would have to have gone to the court to ensure that such

principles were explicitly recognised. In the end, he thought, things had

INTRODUCTION 5

worked out in a satisfactory way because the result had upheld, and had

been seen to uphold, the right principles. Rigzin was less sanguine,

reflecting that if he had known his rights better, he might not have

accepted the fine. Wangchuk and Rigzin were both aware of the princi-

ples of freedom of speech and individual rights, that is, but had been

prepared to compromise them for the sake of reaching a settlement.

This case involved a number of the most well-educated, politically

and socially aware young Ladakhis. The three SECMOL members had

all had experience of modern urban Indian society. They associated

frequently with international development workers, educationalists,

ecologists and tourists, and Wangchuk, married to an American, had

travelled widely in the west. Their education had been inspired by

models and ideologies imported from modern India, many of western

origin. Nevertheless, when they themselves became embroiled in a

conflict, they had turned, for guidance, to Buddhist leaders. Under state

law there would have been no case against the magazine and no justifi-

cation for the monks’ assault. Yet the SECMOL members were prepared

to submit to the mediation of their traditional leaders. The value and

sanctity of religion were not overtly questioned during the mediation

process, while the principles of freedom of speech and of the press were

not raised. The importance of resolving the dispute and reaching a

settlement in the interests of the wider community was both expressed

and implied on all sides throughout the process.

When I asked Wangchuk to explain why he had chosen to accept the

LGA’s mediation his answer was that, ‘like all Ladakhis I do not like to

fight; we like to settle our disputes because everyone knows each other;

we have to get on and do not like lingering disputes.’ During our discus-

sions, Tashi Morup, the magazine’s editor, also reflected more generally

on Ladakhi attitudes to disputes. ‘Our society is close knit,’ he said, ‘and

families are prepared to suppress crimes when they consider social

relations; few cases go to the police and the majority are solved at family

level with the use of apologies. Pressure is applied to make people settle,

but the decisions are generally right because the older people understand

the society.’ These young men were, thus, suggesting that they, along

with other Ladakhis, are averse to conflict and place a premium on the

settlement of disputes, conscious of the effects they can have on the

community as a whole. Their sense that order must be maintained within

their community, in other words, leads them to accept the mediation of

elders and to compromise their individual interests, in this case by

accepting a fine they patently did not consider to be just. The SECMOL

6 CHAPTER ONE

men were choosing to set aside the values of freedom of speech as well,

one might add, as freedom from physical attack, in favour of compro-

mise and the restoration of order.

The question that arises is, quite simply, why they place the interests

of their community above their own rights. It is a question which goes

to the heart of their ideas, both explicit and implicit, about the nature of

order in their society. It raises issues which have been central to anthro-

pological inquiry since the early days of the discipline, when scholars

first began to discuss the ‘problem of order’. How is the anthropologist

to approach these issues in the early twenty-first century?

The problem of order

As Roberts (forthcoming) points out, two models of order recur in

sociological theory, that of the leader and his following, often over-

simplistically attributed to Weber, and that of the shared, articulated

repertoire of norms, generally associated with the theories of Durkheim.

Both have continued to be relevant to anthropological writings on order

in the early twenty-first century (Benda-Beckmann and Pirie, forthcom-

ing).

The Indian legal system, the principal means by which the state seeks

to impose social order within its borders, is not absent in Ladakh. In both

Leh and Kargil there are courts and judges. A number of my informants

had trained as lawyers and were practising as such within the Indian

legal system. However, as I describe later, the laws, structures and

officers of this system play little part in the processes by which most

Ladakhis, either urban or rural, resolve their conflicts. Even in the

towns, judicial practices have developed apart from the state. In the

SECMOL dispute, for example, the state’s agents were distanced in

favour of the religious elite, whose authority stems from long-standing

political and religious structures. They were also, however, joined by

Tsering Samphel, the President of the Ladakhi Buddhist Association

(LBA). The LBA is a local political party which has been active in

demands for regional autonomy and was at the centre of the communal

tensions of the 1980s and 90s. It is dominated by members of the local

elite, those with education and high status jobs or members of the old

Ladakhi aristocracy. However, its aims and activities and, thus, the

authority of its President, are very contemporary. He had played an

important role in the mediation process, Wangchuk told me.

INTRODUCTION 7

‘Legal’ is a term I use infrequently, save in connection with legal anthropology or4

the Indian legal system. Like Roberts (1994), I regard it as too closely associated with

governmental or state processes and structures to be well-suited to informal processes of

the kind I am more often describing in Ladakh.

Ladakhi villages range from those in the Indus valley with populations of around5

In order to understand the dynamics of order in Ladakh it is, there-

fore, necessary to consider the history of the political, judicial and

religious power exercised by these different groups, both secular and

religious. This involves examining the nature of the authority their

leaders have established which I do, in part, by reference to Weber’s

categories of legitimate authority. It also involves examining the

relationhsip between political, religious and judicial forms of authority.

This requires consideration of the relationship between the political and

religious domains in Tibetan societies, a topic which has been the sub-

ject of extensive debate among both Tibetan writers and western ana-

lysts.

‘Political’ is a broad term. In the context of the Ladakhi kingdom I

use it to refer to relations between kings, aristocrats and the wider

populations, the raising of armies and taxes, in other words, the business

of rule. In reference to later periods, it concerns the exercise of power by

the Dogras and their administrators and, subsequently, by Indian politi-

cians and bureaucrats, including the processes of the Indian democracy.

When used in the context of the village, it concerns events connected

with the organisation of the village economy and relations with outsid-

ers, events which are mostly directed by the village meeting and negoti-

ated through the payment of village taxes. I use the term ‘judicial’ to

refer to processes connected with the resolution of disputes and settle-

ment of conflict. ‘Religion’ is a term I use in its widest sense to refer to4

activities directed towards the spirit world, as well as the practices of

Buddhism. In subsequent chapters I discuss the complex relations be-

tween these realms.

As well as the continuing importance of traditional forms of status,

the SECMOL dispute highlighted the importance of the participants’

ideas about conflict. The norms invoked during the SECMOL dispute

were dominated by an emphasis on the promotion of reconciliation, the

ceremonial restoration of good relations and a rhetorical affirmation of

the undesirability of conflict within the local community.

In order to understand the nature and role of such norms I undertook

fifteen months of fieldwork in Photoksar, a remote village in the Sham

area of Leh District from the summer of 1999. Photoksar is two days’5

8 CHAPTER ONE

1,000 down to hamlets with no more than a dozen. Photoksar’s population was around

200 in 1999 and that of Leh roughly 15,000.

walk from the road and a long day’s journey over high passes to the

nearest villages on either side. I interspersed this fieldwork with periods

in Leh, where I was able to contrast the ideas and customs I observed in

the village with the views and practices of my urban informants. Once

I was in the village it quickly became apparent that all forms of fighting,

arguing, quarrelling, abusive and insulting language were strongly

condemned. They were unequivocally considered to be undesirable,

even dangerous. If a quarrel was reported people would shake their

heads and they shuddered at the mention of fighting. Even to express

anger was considered to reflect bad personal qualities. The statements

of my SECMOL informants that disputes had to be resolved ‘within the

community’ were repeatedly emphasised by these villagers. People

would use phrases meaning ‘inside’ or ‘within’, nangla or nangosla, as

the context in which disputes had to be settled. This reflected a strong

sense of local community, of the village as a place with boundaries

beyond which disputes must not be allowed to emerge. The concerns

with settlement and the restoration of order that were implicit in the

attitudes of the SECMOL men, including the idea that conflict is harmful

to the wider community, dominated in the village.

Throughout my fieldwork in Ladakh certain fundamental attitudes to

conflict and order recurred and these are reflected in the examples cited

in this book. I am not suggesting that there was only a single, let alone

a static, set of norms in Ladakh; there are sets of beliefs and practices

that are accepted by different people at different times. Nevertheless,

certain ideas dominated in these discussions. This raises questions about

the origins of such attitudes and the relationship between them and the

religious beliefs and practices of the Ladakhi people, particularly given

their historic links with Tibet.

Ladakh and Tibet

Ladakh is generally regarded as forming part of ‘ethnographic Tibet’, a

large area encompassing parts of China, India, Nepal, Bhutan and Paki-

stan in which the major part of the population is ethnically Tibetan and

shares numerous aspects of culture, language, social organisation and

religion (Bell 1924: 5, 8; Samuel 1993: Ch 3). Many studies of Ladakh

INTRODUCTION 9

These include nineteenth century writers (Ramsay 1890), historians (Francke 1907,6

1926; Carrasco 1959), linguists (Denwood 2005), scholars of religion (Samuel 1993),

Ladakhi scholars (Nawang Tsering Shakspo 1997a, 1997b, 1999) and anthropologists

(Riaboff 1997; Mills 2003; Gutschow 2004; Pirie 2005).

have rightly and profitably analysed the historic, religious and social

processes found in the region by reference to Tibetan religion and

culture.6

The early Tibetan empire of the seventh to ninth centuries incorpo-

rated what is now Ladakh, but after its dissolution in 842 the region

became and remained largely an independent kingdom until it was

conquered by the Dogras in the 1840s. Nevertheless, Mahayana (Ti-

betan) Buddhism was well established in the western part of the Tibetan

region from at least the twelfth century and the religious links between

Ladakh and Tibet remained close until the 1950s. As Buddhist monaster-

ies established a politically dominant position in central Tibet all the

major sects founded their own establishments in Ladakh. Right up until

the Chinese invasion of Tibet in the 1950s, Lhasa and the central Ti-

betan monasteries exerted considerable religious control over Ladakh.

During a series of wars and relations with Kashmir, a substantial propor-

tion of the Ladakhi population in the Kargil area was converted to Islam,

but even after a century and a half of rule by Kashmir most of the Bud-

dhist population of Ladakh continues to emphasise its religious identity

as nangpa. Literally ‘insiders’, this is the term used by them to refer to

followers of Tibetan Buddhism. In the twenty-first century, monasteries

are still major landowners and even the poorest families send significant

donations and, often, their sons into these establishments. The monks are

placed high in the social hierarchy and some have risen to senior posi-

tions within Indian politics. Buddhist leaders played a central part in the

settlement of the SECMOL dispute. To what extent, therefore, have

Buddhist leaders and ideas influenced the way order is maintained in

Ladakhi society? Do the attitudes expressed during the SECMOL dis-

pute reflect some sort of Buddhist morality or legal principles, whether

deeply ingrained in Ladakh during centuries of contact with Tibet, or

more directly influenced by contemporary leaders?

Many studies of Tibetan communities have placed the practices and

principles of Buddhism at the heart of their analyses of social forms

(Stein 1972; Ortner 1978; 1989; Samuel 1993; French 1995). Dreyfus

(1995: 119), for example, states that Buddhism, ‘is dominant both from

religious and socio-political points of view’ in the region. The religious

realm is eclectic and heterogeneous, having incorporated numerous

10 CHAPTER ONE

elements of more local and indigenous ritual practices, but it is, never-

theless, fundamental to the shape of the ‘total social whole’ of Tibetan

societies. Samuel (1993: 362) uses this phrase in his wide-ranging work

on Tibetan Buddhism, for example, talking of the ‘cultural patterns’

supplied by the religion.

The idea that legal practices in Ladakh might represent a form of

Tibetan law, based on Buddhist practices and principles, gains consider-

able support from Rebecca French’s work on Tibetan law, The Golden

Yoke: the legal cosmology of Buddhist Tibet. In a study which relates to

the whole of ethnographic Tibet, she characterises Tibetan understand-

ings of law in terms of a ‘kaleidoscope cosmology’ (1995:16, 21). One

of the questions I set out to explore was whether similar ideas could be

found in the remote villages of Ladakh, which might have suggested that

Ladakhi attitudes to conflict could be traced to Buddhist principles. To

my initial surprise, however, I did not find religious ideas to be central

to legal practices, whether philosophical Buddhist concepts or more

straightforward moral precepts. I concluded, after long months of field-

work, that even though Buddhism, its practices and practitioners, have

had a profound influence on many aspects of lay life in Ladakh, the

influence of Buddhist principles on legal practices was nonexistent. It is

one of the aims of this book to analyse the consequences of this finding

and, in so doing, to challenge the unreflected equation of social practice

in Tibetan communities with religious principles.

Harmony ideology in legal anthropology

My Leh-based informants were generally quick to refer to the villages

when discussing Ladakhi attitudes to conflict. One lawyer, explaining

the region’s legal system to me, for example, spent some time describing

the state courts and procedures. ‘But Ladakhis don’t often use the courts

in Leh’, she continued, ‘they settle most of their disputes in their vil-

lages.’ ‘Ladakhis are peace-loving people’, she added, echoing the

attitudes of my SECMOL informants, ‘they don’t like long-running

disputes.’

Although the history of the late twentieth century in Ladakh has been

characterised by unrest and disruption, the SECMOL men were con-

cerned about the maintenance of good relations in their ‘small region’.

To what extent might their attitudes and understandings simply reflect

the historical structures of Ladakhi society, the division of the popula-

INTRODUCTION 11

The expression of similar attitudes to conflict are found, for instance, among the Dou7

Donggo of eastern Indonesia (Just 1990, 2001), in groups in Japan (Henderson 1965;

Smith 1983) and Morocco (Rosen 1989, 2000), as well as among the Zapotec of highland

Mexico (Nader 1990) and the many others referred to by Nader.

tion into small, clearly-bounded communities and the sense, even on the

part of urban populations, that their region is a small and fragile part of

a much larger whole? Were the SECMOL men simply articulating

judicial norms developed in the small, isolated Ladakhi villages, which

are lingering in the urban centre, not yet swept away by the counter-

forces of modernity?

The emphasis on peace and conciliation apparent in these attitudes

finds echoes in the legal practices described by anthropologists in many

parts of the world. Nader (1990), for example, has famously described

how the Zapotec of highland Mexico assert that ‘a bad compromise is

better than a good fight’ (1990: 1), an attitude she labels a ‘harmony

ideology’. As Just (1992: 392) points out, an ideology of harmony is, in

fact, ‘a widely distributed sense of what justice ought to be and seems

to be as common a mode of justice as the western adversarial/absolutist

models of dispute settlement.’ (1992: 392) A similar emphasis on peace7

and harmony is often associated with small-scale, face-to-face societies.

The papers in the volume edited by Howell and Willis (1989) Societies

at Peace, for example, almost all concern communities of this nature, as

do many of the others referred to by Nader and Just.

A harmony ideology is by no means a universal characteristic of

small-scale societies, however, as anthropological literature on Melane-

sia (Strathern 1985; Harrison 1989, 1993) and Amazonia (Chagnon

1968; Overing 1989), among others, graphically illustrates. Moreover,

the ideas that have developed in the Ladakhi villages cannot be assumed

to have arisen entirely autonomously of the political, religious and

cultural influences that have swept across Ladakh over the centuries.

During the Ladakhi kingdom, people from even the remotest villages

were drawn into wars, conflicts and long distance trading activities, well

before the region fell under the influence of Kashmir. Nor do they now

exist in some sort of isolation from the modern world.

The problem of relating the legal practices and understandings found

in a local setting to wider political and economic processes and religious

influences is far from new within legal anthropology. While early stud-

ies of social order often focussed on small-scale societies seemingly in

isolation from the influence of colonial regimes and other external

influences, and seemingly deliberately ignoring relations of leadership

12 CHAPTER ONE

and hierarchy, there has subsequently been considerable interest in the

relations between them (von Benda-Beckmann and Pirie, forthcoming).

All people are, at least theoretically, now governed by a framework of

national laws and judicial structures designed to maintain order and

resolve disputes. These are often influenced by international laws. In

India, for example, the legal system is based on the British model and

NGOs undertake campaigns explicitly designed to promote minority,

women’s or child ‘rights’. The SECMOL men were familiar with such

ideas. In recent years many legal anthropologists have focussed on the

issues of hegemony and domination and the global spread of legal

regimes: empire, colonialism and the establishment of state structures by

a political elite (Starr and Collier 1989; Nader 2002).

How, then, are such processes to be related to the concerns with order

found in Ladakh and its villages? In her analysis of the Zapotec, Nader

(1990) looks beyond their highland communities and attributes their

‘harmony ideology’ to the hegemonic colonial system of the Christian

missionaries finding that ‘the culture of harmony is constructed as part

of the development of Christianity as a messianic religion associated

with a particular political economy.’ (1990: 291) That ideology was,

therefore, ‘a product of nearly 500 years of colonial encounter,’ but it

was also ‘a strategy for resisting the state’s political and cultural hege-

mony.’ (1990: 2) Similar styles and ideologies of harmony, she says,

have been found in communities elsewhere in the world, and she con-

cludes that ‘the discourse of harmony among the Zapotec is undoubtedly

connected to the spread of Christian colonial policies,’ as it was else-

where in the world (1990: 320). Can the Ladakhi judicial practices and

attitudes be explained by reference to missionary, colonial or other

similar activity? This would seem inherently unlikely, given that there

was little missionary activity in Ladakh and the colonial encounter was

mediated through the rule of the maharajah of Kashmir. For much of its

one hundred and fifty years as part of India, the Ladakhi experience of

government has been light, particularly in its remoter villages.

Nader’s analysis of the Zapotec also relies upon a model of domina-

tion and resistance to explain the existence of a harmony ideology. This

is a model which has been pervasive in many areas of political and legal

anthropology, particularly in the seminal works of the Subalterns Studies

school (Guha 1982), the writings of Scott (1985, 1990) and the many

studies these writers have inspired. While many valuable insights can be

gained from these analyses, I would suggest that in its simpler forms the

model sets up an opposition which can obscure many of the subtleties

INTRODUCTION 13

A distinction needs to be drawn between fully ordained monks and lamas. The latter8

are teachers of Tantric practices and include incarnates, or trulku, whose status

automatically qualifies them as such (Samuel 1993: 31; Mills 2003: 28). Ladakhi people

tend to use the term to refer to all monks, but in order to avoid confusion I only use it in

the more restricted sense in this book.

and ambiguities in the relations between subaltern and dominant groups.

Just (1992), for example, while praising Nader’s ethnography, has

cogently criticised her final analysis by saying that it ‘does little justice

to either the variety and subtlety of the missionaries ... or to the struc-

tural and moral imperative of indigenous solutions to the problems of

“making the balance”.’ (1992: 392) Nader describes how the construc-

tion of harmony was used by the Zapotec to resist external control.

However, she does not ask how that ideology might have reflected

indigenous, pre-Christian, or at least non-Christian, ideas and how these

ideas might themselves have been transformed by, survived or explain

the Zapotec reaction to the colonial encounter.

In Ladakh, representatives of the state’s legal system, as well as many

of the old elites and religious leaders, are distanced from the judicial

processes found in the villages. However, many of the attitudes and

ideas that are central to such processes are also found in the urban centre

and very similar ideas about community, order and the undesirability of

conflict appear to underlie both. The SECMOL men actually turned to

the authority of members of the local elite, including the LGA, in their

attempts to resolve their disputes. While, as I describe in subsequent

chapters, the villagers turn their backs on external elites, these urban

disputants reaffirmed the supremacy of traditional statuses. They both

embraced ideas of modernity, rights and justice and deliberately

emphasised elements of tradition. A model of domination and resistance,

I suggest, is too simplistic to explain these different, but clearly related,

attitudes to conflict and the judicial process. The analysis of the ways in

which judicial practices, norms and attitudes have emerged and are

maintained needs to take into account a multiplicity of encounters:

between Ladakh and Tibet, Ladakh and Kashmir, Buddhists and Mus-

lims, laity and monks, monks and lamas, local leaders and Indian8

politicians, villagers and urban elite, as well as between Ladakhis as

quasi-colonial subjects and their rulers.

Whilst I cannot and do not attempt to map out all these forces,

through a number of case studies this book demonstrates how different

Ladakhi communities negotiate their order within this complex web of

relations, distancing some power-holders, embracing others, relying on

14 CHAPTER ONE

‘traditional’ values, adopting new ideologies and adapting to new forms

of power and control.

Divisions and discord

In recent years there has been considerable interest on the part of many

anthropologists in Ladakh’s position as part of Jammu and Kashmir and

its links to the south and west, both historically and in the contemporary

period. Political developments, including the activities of the LBA, their

demands for regional autonomy and the communal violence that erupted

in the late 1980s and early 1990s, are the subject of a number of studies

(van Beek 1996, 1997, 1999; van Beek and Bertelsen 1997; Bertelsen

1996, 1997; Srinivas 1998). These describe the processes of identity

creation that accompanied the growing demands for benefits and, ulti-

mately, for a measure of autonomy from the governments of India. Not

surprisingly, such processes have been accompanied by a conscious

valorisation of both the values of Buddhism and the ‘traditional’ culture

of Ladakh. It could be said that in subtle ways modern Ladakhi leaders

are using local concepts of community and religious authority to

strengthen their own positions and pursue their own political agendas.

The fieldwork on which this book is based was conducted some time

after the worst of these communal tensions had died down, in the mid

1990s. Nevertheless, the violence of the previous decade was recent

enough to be a powerful memory for most Ladakhis and there remains

a lingering tension between the Buddhist and Muslim communities. The

main organisations of each, the LBA and the Anjuman-e Mu’in-e-Islam

of the Sunni Muslims in Leh, compete with each other to broadcast

prayers through their loud speakers in the market. Aggarwal (2004)

investigates the ramifications of such processes within a village with a

mixed Buddhist and Muslim population close to the disputed line of

control between Indian and Pakistani-administered Kashmir. She dis-

cusses the multiple influences of modernity in Ladakh and the forces of

social stratification, gender divisions, regional politics and communal

tensions. She offers an insight into the conflicts and divisions found in

the village, the ‘intersecting struggles of religion, class, caste, gender,

and ethnicity’ (2004: 8). However, this approach does not account for

the processes of conflict resolution and the sense of local community I

found in both Photoksar and Leh.

During fieldwork I discovered, for example, that the LBA and the

INTRODUCTION 15

Anjuman, as well as undertaking semi-political functions, performed

valuable social services for their respective communities. These included

the provision of a forum for dispute resolution. The LBA runs a Shakhs

Khang, literally, ‘house of resolution’, which considers disputes that

village headmen have been unable to resolve themselves, and the

Anjuman hears disputes that have arisen within the community of Sunni

Muslims. Each provides an alternative to the formal processes of the

state courts, which are said to be beset by delays, expense and, on

occasion, corruption. These are mechanisms by which modern urban

Ladakhis are deliberately creating means of restoring and maintaining

order within the complex society of the urban centre.

My suggestion is that such forms of conflict resolution are more than

just the response to a history of domination or the political turmoils of

the late twentieth century. They display attitudes, understandings and

cultural elements identifiable in the village. The ways in which people

react to the spread of legal and political regimes is profoundly affected

by local understandings and expectations. Subsequent chapters describe

the key aspects of such processes: the manner in which concepts of

community are generated, the underlying moral principles, the relations

between individual and community and the expectations of leadership

and authority, both political and religious.

Found in both rural and urban settings, these have been shaped, I

suggest, by the history of relations between local communities and

centres of power. In many cases the containment of conflict within a

community’s boundaries and the resolution of disputes without reference

to the police or other representatives of state authority acts as a means

of keeping the state at bay. Monks and other members of the elite,

although highly respected, have historically been distanced from the

judicial processes of the Ladakhi villages. The SECMOL disputants also

shunned the formal frameworks of the state’s laws and judicial proce-

dures and submitted to the authority of political and religious leaders,

asserting a type of regional autonomy in the face of the state’s political

and legal authority. The issue of autonomy is one that recurs throughout

this book. This is not simply resistence to domination, however. It is a

more active, creative process involving both deference towards external

power holders and the simultaneous maintenance of distance from them.

In this study I analyse the local practices, epistemologies and moral

understandings found in a remote village, but in the context of Ladakh’s

religious and historical legacies, its historical position as an independent

kingdom and as part of ethnographic Tibet, as well as its experiences

16 CHAPTER ONE

over the last 150 years as part of India and its experiences of modernity.

Among these influences a variety of different dynamics of order can be

found: the cultural order of Tibetan Buddhism; the controlling order of

the kings; the order of the social hierarchy; the administrative order of

the modern bureaucracy; the dynamics of the market economy with the

associated opportunities for wealth, status and influence; the ideologies

of the Indian democracy; the ideals of the international development

community; and the processes by which village communities create their

own forms of internal order. The SECMOL dispute, to which I return in

my conclusion, illustrates the dynamics found at the intersection of these

forces, in particular the creative attitudes of deference and distance

adopted towards powerful elites, the acceptance and adaptation of new

ideas and the creation of new spheres of order.

My suggestion is that the construction of order needs to be regarded

as a creative and dynamic process. Certain patterns of order can be

imposed by the controlling hand of a leader or through the powerful

ideologies of a religion; they can reflect deep-seated norms and values;

disorder can be found in relations of domination and resistance and

power struggles between competing groups and leaders; but order can

also be creatively constructed by small communities caught in the midst

of such heterogeneous forces.

The chronicles, analysed by Petech (1977) and Francke (1926, 1998), are the best1

source, albeit not a wholly reliable one, for the period up to the 15th century.

In accordance with Ladakhi tradition (e.g. Nawang Tsering Shakspo 1997), Bud-2

dhism was re-introduced into the region by the great Tibetan teacher Lotsava Rinchen

Zangpo (958-1055). However, the earliest surviving Buddhist monuments, such as the

temple complex at Alchi, are now attributed to the twelfth or thirteenth centuries

(Luczanits 2005).

CHAPTER TWO

LADAKH

The Ladakhi chronicles, the Ladakh Gyalrabs, compiled in around the

seventeenth century, refer to several dynasties of kings, some of which

were said to be descended from Gesar, the mythical Tibetan hero

(Francke 1998: Ch V; Petech 1977: 16). The account of Hye Ch’o, a1

Korean pilgrim who travelled through the Himalayas between 724 and

727, indicates that Buddhism was already being practised in Ladakh,

having probably penetrated along trade routes from Kashmir, even

before the Tibetans assumed control of the region in around 663

(Luczanits 2005). With the collapse of the Tibetan empire in 842 the

area dissolved into a series of principalities, however, and the chronicles

refer to warfare and raiding, which was particularly problematic during

the harvest season (Petech 1977: 13).

In the tenth century a new state was established in Purang, south of

Mount Kailash in western Tibet, by descendants of the central Tibetan

monarchy and this came to incorporate a large part of Ladakh. Buddhism

re-entered Ladakh under the Dro clan, of elite central Tibetan descent,

who established a small principality in Ladakh. This then became the2

basis of the Ladakhi kingdom, as the family extended its influence and

local rulers were forced to pay them tribute (Petech 1977: 17-18; Lucza-

nits 2005).

As Buddhism flourished in central Tibet over the following centuries,

its influence in Ladakh increased. King Lhachen Gyalpo is said to have

established Likir monastery, probably in the early 12th century (Petech

1977: 18-19), and subsequent Ladakhi kings patronised new monastic

establishments. By 1450 the Gelukpa sect, which had been established

in Tibet by the great Buddhist teacher Tsongkapa, had penetrated

Ladakh, and the monasteries of Spituk, Tikse, Karsha and Puktal, along

18 CHAPTER TWO

Petech is of the opinion that the reliability of Francke’s record of inscriptions is not3

great (1977: 3). However, the story probably represents a significant historical tradition.

with the Sakyapa monastery of Matho, had all been founded (Howard

1997: 121). An edict carved on a rock at Mulbe, dating from this period,

records an order by the king, in the name of Tsongkapa, that animal

sacrifices be abolished. However, another inscription on the same rock

by the people of Mulbe claims that the order was too hard to execute, for

what would the local deity say if the goat were withheld from him?

(Francke 1998: 79) This tension between the orthodox Buddhism of the3

religious establishments and more locally-rooted ritual practices is a

recurrent theme in the history of Buddhism in both Tibet and Ladakh.

Between 1394 and 1416, the Moghuls, who had recently conquered

Kashmir, invaded Baltistan and the subsequent history of Ladakh is

punctuated by invasions from Kashmir and wars with the Moghuls

(Petech 1977: 23, 26-28, 30). The period 1450 to 1550, the interregnum

between the Lhachen and the Namgyal dynasties of Ladakhi kings, was

particularly troubled (Howard 1997). Baltistan was the first area of

greater Ladakh to adopt Islam, probably in the early fifteenth century

(Francke 1998: 90), and a number of mosques had been established in

Purig and Baltistan by 1500 (Howard 1997: 122). Over the course of

several centuries the majority of the population in what is now the

Kargil Block adopted Islam. Kashmiri traders also established bases

along their routes, bringing Islam to Leh and its surroundings.

From the sixteenth century onwards Ladakh flourished under the

Namgyal dynasty of kings, who extended their kingdom from Purig, in

the east, to Guge, now part of Tibet, in the west (Petech 1977: 28). They

were adherents of the Kargyud sect of Tibetan Buddhism and founded

a number of monasteries, including Hemis, Phyang, Stakna, Hanle and

Chemre. There were subsequent tensions between the Drukpa and

Gelukpa monasteries in Ladakh, influenced by relations between the two

sects in Tibet. However, Hemis, of the Drukpa Kargyud order, was

patronised by the Ladakhi kings and remains the richest and most

influential in the region today.

The Namgyal kings engaged alternately in warfare and peaceful

relations with Balti and Kashmiri rulers, on the one hand, and Tibetan

leaders on the other. Jamyang Namgyal, for example, was disastrously

defeated by Ali Mir, ruler of Skardu, in the early seventeenth century.

Thereafter he patronised Tibetan monasteries and invited the great

Drukpa monk Staktsang Raspa to Ladakh, under whose influence several

LADAKH 19

monasteries were founded (Petech 1977: 33-37). His successor, Sengge

Namgyal, who reigned from 1616 to 1642, is generally regarded as the

greatest of the Ladakhi kings. His reign saw an extended state of tension

with Guge in western Tibet. Having successfully resolved this, he

entered into conflict with the forces of the Qoshot Mongols under Gushri

Khan, who then exercised considerable power over central Tibet. At the

same time the Moghuls were threatening Purig, then a Muslim chiefship.

The king was successful in his counter-offensive against both Balti and

Moghul forces but it interrupted Ladakh’s trade for several years with

disastrous economic consequences (Petech 1977: 41-51).

Deldan Namgyal (1647-91), for his part, became embroiled in Tibet’s

conflict with Bhutan, which occasioned an offensive by Tibetan and

Mongol forces against Ladakh. Eventually he asked for help from

Ibrahim Khan of Kashmir and although the Moghuls forced the Tibeto-

Mongolian forces to withdraw they imposed stringent conditions on

Ladakh, demanding tribute, monopolising the wool and pashmina trade

and requiring the king to convert to Islam in 1683 (Petech 1977: 63-65).

The following year the Tibetan Regent, concerned about the danger to

Buddhism in Ladakh, sent a mission which succeeded in reconverting

the king. His emissary also negotiated the Tingmosgam treaty of 1684,

which fixed the frontier between the two territories. This treaty recorded

Kashmir’s monopoly over the purchase of pashm, which amounted to

the mortgaging of Ladakh’s only product of economic value (Rizvi

1999: 54). The treaty also established the triennial lopchak trade mission

from Ladakh to Lhasa, which became one of the most important sources

of commercial relations for Ladakh’s merchants. The mission continued

until the 1940s, when economic and technological developments and the

unrest associated with Indian partition made the arduous journey imprac-

ticable (Rizvi 1999: 261).

The lopchak, significantly, took offerings to Lhasa for the Dalai

Lama and other incarnates on the occasion of the mon lam, the great new

year festival, as well as contributions to the Lhasa treasury. This symbol-

ised Ladakh’s religious dependence on Tibet (Petech 1977: 78). In 1685,

Deldan Namgyal pronounced his adherence to the Dalai Lama’s Gelukpa

sect and sent his son to train as a monk in Tibet. Petech talks of

Ladakh’s ‘subordination’ to Tibet by the end of the seventeenth century

(1977: 87).

Tibetan influence over Ladakh was again exercised in the mid

eighteenth century when conflict broke out between Ladakh and Purig,

a region which had established itself as an independent kingdom under

20 CHAPTER TWO

Trashi Namgyal, uncle of the Ladakhi king, Phuntsog Namgyal, in 1734.

This complex dispute was complicated by threats from Kashmiri troops,

which interrupted trade through the region. The seventh Dalai Lama was

called upon and sent his emissary, the incarnate lama Katog Rigzin

Tsewang Norbu, to intervene. The lama succeeded in settling the dispute

under a treaty dated 1753, which re-established workable relations

between Ladakh and Purig and ensured the resumption of trade. One of

the main players in this conflict was Gyalsas Rinpoche, brother of the

Ladakhi king Phuntsog Namgyal, who acted as regent for the king’s son

after his abdication (Petech 1977: 98-108; Schwieger 1997a)

As Schwieger (1997b: 433) describes it, in the late eighteenth century

Ladakh had to deal with two large foreign powers, Tibet on the one side

and the Moghul Empire on the other. Both had an interest in maintaining

the stability and independence of Ladakh, partly as a buffer against the

other and partly to ensure the continuation of smooth trade links between

India, Central Asia and Tibet, in which Leh was a centre of the utmost

importance (Rizvi 1999). There is evidence that as well as the emissary

sent by the Dalai Lama and subsequent visits by Drukpa lamas from

Tibet, the Moghuls also sent diplomatic mediators to Ladakh (Schwieger

1997b: 434). The involvement of certain high ranking Ladakhi lamas in

regional politics is also evident.

Throughout this period the population must frequently have been

mobilised for military campaigns. Under subsequent rulers the kingdom

suffered attacks from both Baltistan and Kashmir eventually, however,

falling to a sustained invasion by the Kashmiri Dogras which began in

1834. In 1842 the territory was formally merged with the dominions of

Gulab Singh and in 1846 he became Maharaja of Kashmir under British

protection.

Administration in the Ladakhi kingdom

By the time of the Dogra invasion the Ladakhi king had established a

position of considerable status and honour and he ‘was surrounded by

a sacral aura’ (Petech 1977: 154). However, there was no very stable

structure of authority. Petech describes a shifting pattern of power

relations between the king, his senior ministers and the monasteries.

William Moorcroft, who visited Ladakh in 1820-22, describes the then

king, Tsepal Namgyal, as an individual with little real power who

relinquished his affairs entirely to his kalon (Moorcroft and Trebeck

LADAKH 21

Francke (1926: 125), however, describes how the king later seized the prime4

minister’s seal and appropriated power to himself again.

1841: 332-34). Cunningham, who came to the region in 1846 and 1847

after the Dogra invasions, notes that although there had been powerful

kings in the past, in the last years of the kingdom king Tsepal Namgyal,

‘literally did nothing’, leaving the conduct of government to his power-

ful prime minister. He adds that, ‘the apparent power of the prime

minister was absolute, but his real power was much curbed by the wide-

spread authority of the monastic establishments, and by the partial

independence of the petty Gyalpos and district kalons.’ (1854: 257-8)4

Carrasco (1959: 162) describes three grades of ministers in the

Ladakhi kingdom: four or five hereditary ministers, kalon, from among

whom the prime ministers were chosen, lesser hereditary minsters,

lonpo, and a small number of elders, rgan sum, of standing and experi-

ence. The first two formed the class of nobility, skudrak. The kalon were

district governors, often relatives of the king’s family and many of the

lonpo families were the chiefs of districts that had once been independ-

ent. They remained in charge of their districts and acted as a sort of

advisory council to the government, also supplying officers for the army

(Petech 1977: 156).

Monasteries representing all the major Tibetan sects had been

established in Ladakh by the sixteenth century and they acquired large

land holdings. Although a few high lamas, such as Gyalsas Rinpoche of

Hemis, participated in affairs of state, the religious establishments never

achieved the power that they did in Tibet, where the Sakya and Drukpa

sects dominated a number of lesser states and the Gelukpas effectively

controlled the Ganden Potrang government in Lhasa. This dominated

central Tibet from the mid seventeenth century to the mid twentieth and

its leader, the Dalai Lama, was regarded as supreme ruler and land-

holder, as well as the highest religious figure in the whole of Tibet. In

Ladakh, by contrast, there were no equivalents of the monk officials who

held government positions in Tibet (Carrasco 1959: 166-7). The Ladakhi

government was largely organised by assigning additional duties to the

kalons and lonpos, such as the offices of army chief (dmag dpon),

treasurer (phyag mdzod), chief collector of taxes (shi gam phyag mdzod),

master of the horses (ga ga rta rdzi) and judicial officers (gshags dpon

and khrims dpon) (Carrasco 1959: 178; Cunningham 1841: 259; Petech

1977: 154-7). The income of these officials was basically derived from

their estates and the only salaried posts were those of treasurer and

22 CHAPTER TWO

judicial officers. Unlike in Tibet, there were no provisions for the formal

training of officials, no fixed scale of offices and promotions, no limita-

tions on the period of tenure and no centralised system of local govern-

ment (Carrasco 1959: 179).

Local administration, therefore, remained largely in the hands of

local hereditary chiefs, the lonpos, and officials were only occasionally

sent from central government (Carrasco 1959: 164-5). These local rulers

collected revenues, administered justice, oversaw the system of begar,

transportation provided by local labour as a form of taxation (Grist 1994,

Bray forthcoming), and were responsible for raising armed forces from

their districts. Cunningham describes the inferior officers, mipon or

goba, who were directly responsible to the kalon or lonpo on all criminal

matters and most accounts of revenue (1841: 260). The titles of these

officials varied, however, from one district to another, suggesting

considerable regional autonomy. These mipon or goba were almost

certainly the same village headmen, goba, that are found in every

Ladakhi village today.

Judicial activities

According to the chronicles, Jamyang Namgyal (ca 1595-1616) ‘equal-

ized rich and poor three times ’ (Francke 1926: 106). As Petech (1977:

36) remarks, although this claim seems to be copied from the Tibetan

chronicles, in which it is attributed to the eighth century king Mune

Tsanpo, it probably indicates some form of widespread tax reform.

Nyima Namgyal (1691-1725) was also known for his re-organisation of

the judiciary. The chronicles (Francke 1926: 118) state that he appointed

elders, rganpo, from each district to decide questions and established a

tribunal of elder officers of the state. He consulted state officers when-

ever he delivered a judgment personally and requests for legal docu-

ments were referred to a tribunal consisting of three elder officers of the

state who took oaths on the Three Jewels, the most sacred Buddhist

symbols. Moreover, the roots of every case were carefully inquired into.

Petech’s translation adds that, on the whole, this resulted in a sharp

decline of crimes such as robbery and theft (1977: 83).

Francke describes a case settled by Jamyang Namgyal in the seven-

teenth century, which was recorded in a document preserved at Khaltse

(1998: 116-7). The previous king had, apparently, elevated the family of

LADAKH 23

‘Dragchos’ could be the title (drag shos), which Jäschke (1881: 260) gives as ‘an5

inferior officer or magistrate’.

one Gangva Gyatso, to be Dragchos or ‘chieftain’ of the village.5

However, Dondrub Sodnam, of the previously most powerful village

family, had objected and petitioned the king in Leh. The edict then

reads, ‘The elders of Upper and Lower Ladakh, having carefully listened

to the case, cast lots to find exactly the truth, and made the king swear

an oath. Gangva Gyatso won and my oath is...’. He then stipulates that

the Dragchos was entitled to be treated as a member of the nobility,

taking the place of honour and the dish of honour at festivals and a share

of the harvest from the peasants and commanding the other noblemen to

treat him accordingly. The use of lots and oaths in legal cases has

historically occurred all over the Tibetan region, a phenomenon I discuss

further in chapter eight.

A document from 1822 also records a dispute between three villages

over the use of some land, which was settled before the king and elders

in Leh (Schuh and Phukhang 1979: Doc LIII). The actual provisions of

the settlement are not mentioned in the document, but what is stated is

that the parties are not to quarrel any further and that any individuals

who do so are to have their property confiscated. It therefore seems that

there were some attempts to systematise the administration of justice

from as early as the seventeenth century, but there is little evidence of

extensive, let alone independent, judicial structures.

Cunningham (1854: 262-8) describes the administration of justice in

the nineteenth century as being ‘truly patriarchal’. Anyone injured or

aggrieved proceeded directly to the gyalpo, the kalon of the district or

the goba of his village. An assembly of five to seven elders was then

called, whose business it was to decide on the yul trims the customs of

the land (Petech 1977: 157). In Leh, as Cunningham describes it, judicial

procedures had some formality. A complaint had to be made to the

lonpo, who reported to the kalon, who then gave instructions to the

shakspon, the chief justice, who assembled a court with members

selected from among the rgad po (undoubtedly the same as the rgan

sum and rganpo referred to by Carrasco, above), joined by two or more

trimspon or law officers. Punishments meted out included stripes, fines

and imprisonment with banishment, an ignominious expulsion from

society, being the punishment for murder. However, the commutation of

a punishment was almost always procurable for money, near relationship

with the judges might induce them to impose a lighter sentence and a

24 CHAPTER TWO

Schwieger (1997b: 429) describes the repeated use of precedents in the Ladakh-6

Purig treaty of 1753, but not in the form of law codes.

The Alchi lonpo who died in 2002 told me that his family only stayed in Photoksar7

a short while after the appointment and that the move to Alchi was 20 generations ago,

during the time of the early fifteenth century king Gyalpo Dragspa.

bribe judiciously bestowed might persuade the head lama of Hemis to

appeal to the king’s mercy, which it was unusual for him to refuse.

Punishments seem to have been more violent in theory than in practice.

According to Cunningham, however, in a doubtful case where the

evidence was considered to be unsatisfactory a decision was obtained by

casting lots or by ordeal. In the latter case the accused had either to draw

a red-hot iron through his hand or take a stone out of a pot of boiling oil

without injury.

The impression one gets is that although there was some formality in

the administration of justice it was still organised on a rather ad hoc

basis, as part of king’s business of rule, with the involvement of the

kalon and other existing officials as appropriate. There does not appear

to have been any reference to legal codes or other written precedents.6

The use of lots and ordeals in difficult cases is significant and finds

echoes in legal processes and systems of governmental administration

recorded throughout the Tibetan plateau.

How, then, was this system of governance experienced in the vil-

lages? In response to my enquiries about historical events the people of

Photoksar described a time of fighting, when their forebears suffered

aggressive raids from other villages and had to gather in a walled area

and defend themselves with slingshots. In this period, they said, one of

the village households provided the goba, a chief with real power who

could order the others around. A strong leader with power to give

commands was obviously needed at this time in order to organise the

defence of the community. They spoke of the kings’ power as marking

the coming of peace in the region, by which they meant that it brought

an end to inter-village raiding. At some point, they told me, their fore-

bears had removed the power of their local leader. The excuse was that

his family had been responsible for bringing smallpox into the village,

but it is likely that they simply did not need a strong leader any more in

peaceful times.

Then, however, came the power of the lonpo. He was the head of one

of the village families, who was appointed as lonpo by the king in

around the fifteenth century. He was granted lands closer to Leh, nearer7

LADAKH 25

A document I found in Photoksar dating from the late seventeenth century records8

an order by the king, Deldan Namgyal, relieving two of the village households of their

taxes because a member of each had been killed during his campaigns (photo 41).

the Indus at Alchi, and moved his residence there sometime later. He

still remained nominally in charge of the Photoksar-Lingshed area,

however, and was responsible for collecting taxes for the king. The

villagers’ oral histories recall the harshness of his rule and the retainers

who wielded big sticks to enforce his orders. Having got rid of their

internal leader, therefore, the Photoksarpa (the people of the village)

found that a lonpo was imposed on them as a ruler by the king. Like the

coming of the king’s own rule to Ladakh, which was established by

virtue of military superiority, the lonpo’s authority was imposed on them

from the outside.

The Alchi lonpo told me that his ancestors ‘gave the law’ (trims

tangs) in Photoksar and settled their disputes: he was the shakspon, the

term used for law officials in the central administration. After his family

moved its residence to Alchi people would still come to him for media-

tion from the whole region, he said. However, his main duties were as

one of the king’s ministers and his contact with the remote villages was

limited. There was clearly no systematic body of law that was imposed

at local level and nor was the justice system easily accessible from the

remoter areas. We can surmise that in villages like Photoksar the inhabit-

ants were largely left to make their own decisions about internal matters

and to settle their own disputes. They had to pay taxes to the lonpo and

to provide labour for the king’s wars and other villages may well have8

been more closely dominated by the power of the aristocracy. But the

rule of the kings was principally about wars, trade and taxes and pene-

trated very lightly into local affairs.

The legitimation of rule

The earliest Ladakhi kings were outsiders from western Tibet and their

rule was imposed on the area by virtue of their military superiority.

Their regimes did not, however, remain solely dependent on the sanction

of force for their authority. Tibetan myths concerning the early kings

link them with divinity or divine qualities (Haarh 1969) and, as Riaboff

(1997: 110) and Schwieger (1997b) have noted, both Ladakhi and

Zangskari kings claimed descent from, and attributes of, early Tibetan

26 CHAPTER TWO

Petech (1977: 19) puts king Lhachen Morup into the thirteenth century and makes9

no reference to this practice, but it certainly became customary for monks to go to central

Tibet for higher training.

Dollfus (1996: 13) describes how in the village of Hemis Shukpachan the annual10

ceremony to the village god used to be carried out by a representative of the king, thus

establishing a ‘control of the social space’ of the village. This did not occur in Photoksar,

however, and lapsed in Hemis Shukpachan with the demise of the kingdom.

kingship. On the other hand, the political authority of the Ladakhi rulers

did not develop out of their power as ritual specialists and guarantors of

prosperity, in accordance with Hocart’s (1927) theory of the emergence

of kingship. By the time the Ladakhi kings established their rule in

Ladakh, Buddhism had already developed its own structures of power

and influence and these did not merge, as they did in central Tibet with

the rise of the Sakyapa and Gelukpa sects, to positions of political

dominance. Rather, the kings patronised the monasteries in order to

secure their support. Furthermore, from as early as the fourteenth

century, under king Lhachen Morup, it became customary for novice

monks to go to Tibet for training (Francke 1926: 98), which would have

meant that local monasteries remained subordinate to the superior

Tibetan establishments and ensured that they did not become too power-

ful in their own right. Whilst, therefore, the Dalai Lama in Tibet was,9

first and foremost, a religious leader, uniting ritual with secular author-

ity, the power of the Ladakhi kings remained distinct from that of the

monasteries. The kings established themselves as monastic patrons and

only performed limited ritual functions, for example during the New

Year and Spring festivals, which were not under the control of the

monasteries (Ribbach 1986: Ch 7).10

The Ladakhi chronicles also attribute meritorious, as well as ritual,

qualities to the early kings:

After a council had been held by them all they said: ‘Now we must elect

from among us a “lord of the fields”, a man who is able to distinguish

between good and bad, a man of great diligence and courage, a man king

towards all men, and great in merit generally, who is wise in all works as

well as in speech, who is clever in administering judgment (literally,

measuring)’. All of the field-owners offered him tribute and he received

honour from the whole assembly of men..... (Francke 1926: 68)

This indicates that, at least by the seventeenth century, the time the

chronicles were written, the Ladakhi kings were legitimising their

LADAKH 27

Documents concerning the early kings of central Tibet describe their descent from11

heaven at the request of people who were without a ruler, huddled into fortresses and

unable to unite and settle their disputes (Stein 1972: 47-48)

The parallels with the Tibetan chronicles indicate that these may originally have12

been Tibetan ideas, which were adopted in Ladakh.

Gutschow suggests figures of 2% and 8% respectively, based on her fieldwork in13

Karsha village in Zangskar (1998: 62), while the neighbouring village of Stongde had

two garba families, out of a total of thirty-one extended families, in 1980 (Attenborough

1994: 306-08). Erdmann (1990: 143) suggests that the upper and lower classes were

roughly equal in size, each comprising less than 5% of the total population, although it

is generally agreed that the lower castes together form a larger group than the upper

classes. Aggarwal (2004: 177) refers to a ‘Scheduled Tribes census’ which lists 2,100

members of the lower castes, equivalent to 8.4% of the population. However, ‘unofficial

estimates’, she says, are closer to 5,000.

authority by reference to the wisdom of their predecessors and their

response to the demands of their subjects. The attribution of tax11

reforms to the sixteenth century king Jamyang Namgyal similarly

reflects an ideal of kingship: the good king uses his power to ensure

equality among his subjects, reflecting mutual duties between ruler and

ruled. As the narratives of my Photoksar informants also indicate, the12

kings achieved some legitimacy in the eyes of their people as the bringe-

rs of peace. These Ladakhi kings thus appear to have developed an

authority that was a mixture of the divine (claimed descent from the

gods, a limited ritual role and patronage of the monasteries) and the

moral or contractual (their response to the needs of their subjects,

assumption of obligations towards them and justness of their rule).

Over the centuries this authority became institutionalised through the

construction of a social hierarchy. An aristocracy was created by confer-

ring a higher social status on a small, endogamous, ruling class of kalons

and lonpos, collectively known as the skudrak, and the kings placed

themselves at the head of this hierarchy. Petech describes an increase in

the hereditary character of the highest offices of state under Nyima

Namgyal in the early 18th century (1977: 93). The skudrak probably

accounted for less than 5% of the population and below them in the

hierarchy, which is still widely recognised on social occasions today,

were the commoners, the mimangs. Below these were the rigsngan, three

castes separated on the basis of impurity. This under-class of black-

smiths, garba, musicians, mon and itinerant performers, beda probably

makes up less than 10% of the population. An extensive system of13

social status, comparable to the caste hierarchy in India, did not, there-

28 CHAPTER TWO

As Quigley (1993: 16) points out, the elaborate Indian caste system evaporates14

above a certain altitude in the Himalayas. His theory (1993: Ch 6) is that it is linked to

the emergence of complex, agricultural-based, surplus-producing societies, which were

politically unstable and in which internecine conflict undermined structures of kingship.

Caste, a structure based on kinship, emerged as a means of generating order in such

societies. Whether or not he is right about this, caste gives many lowland Indian societies

a radically different character from those of Ladakh.

fore, develop in Ladakh. The Ladakhi social hierarchy elevated the14

king and a tiny group of aristocratic families, which helped to legitimate

their political authority, but village leaders, goba and mirpon, did not

form part of the hereditary nobility and neither, even, did the rganpo

who advised the king.

We can surmise that the kings were a very distant form of authority

for the inhabitants of the remoter villages. They were at the head of a

hierarchy, members of whose upper strata barely touched these commu-

nities, save when their representatives visited to collect taxes and throw

an annual party, as they described it to me in Photoksar. They may have

been a more immediate presence in the villages along the Indus valley,

whose inhabitants also had greater access to Leh and the ceremonies

associated with the king’s entourage. At best, however, the aristocracy

were a small elite, clustered around the king, and this almost certainly

has a bearing on subsequent attitudes to centralised power and authority

on the part of Ladakhi villagers.

As I describe in more detail in chapter four, the monasteries repre-

sented distinct centres of power, based upon the religious authority of

their monks and reincarnate lamas. Although senior lamas, like the 18th

century Gyalsas of Hemis, had their origins in noble or royal families

and played a significant role in affairs of state, monks could be drawn

from any of the social classes. They still take the top places in the social

hierarchy, above the skudrak, today and certain high lamas have risen to

prominent positions within political institutions of the Indian state.

There was, thus, a dual system of power and authority, secular and

religious, whose two strands were, in many respects, interconnected but

also remained distinct. This dual system is still significant in Ladakh

today, although it has become complicated by the advent of the Indian

administration. It also remains significant, although in a different form,

within the village.

LADAKH 29

The Dogra period

From 1846, when the princely state of Kashmir was integrated into the

Indian Empire, Ladakh was governed by a Wazir, appointed in Kashmir.

The Dogras’ initial activities consisted primarily in the imposition of

another layer of taxes on the population (van Beek 1999: 436). William

Henry Johnson, who held the office of Wazir from 1871 to 1883, began

the survey that eventually led to the land settlements of 1908-9, by

which every area of cultivated land in Ladakh was mapped and its

ownership was recorded. The maps and records produced during this

period are still the basis of the land records kept in Leh, according to

which, land revenue officials decide cases of ownership. The chronicles,

which were continued up until the early twentieth century, record that

Johnson assembled the nobility and other people of high rank, including

the monks of Hemis and Chemre monasteries, to obtain their agreement

to the imposition of the new taxes and Francke (1926: 141-42) records

that he was criticised for concerning himself more with the nobility than

the peasantry. Old forms of status were not, therefore, immediately

swept away.

Grist (1994: 267, referring to Gordon 1876:12), says that the Dogras

initially tried to implement a new system of local administration. How-

ever, this failed and they quickly reverted to a set of arrangements that

were very similar to the old, albeit giving new names to their officers. As

Bray (forthcoming) puts it, ‘the Dogra administration took over the

existing system and, rather than making fundamental changes, reinforced

it, to extract maximum economic benefit’. The preliminary land settle-

ment report (Muhammad 1908), for example, records that until around

1901 the gobas, appointed and changed from year to year by the villag-

ers themselves, had been responsible for the collection of land revenue,

the provision of begar and the supply of provisions to visitors. It also

indicates that a lambadar’s agency had recently been set up, with

responsibility for the collection of taxes, and that the gobas were

recognised as local lambadars, although under the supervision of the

kardars (an Urdu term). Village administration and responsibility for the

collection of taxes, therefore, remained with the gobas.

Above the gobas were the kardars who, according to the preliminary

settlement, ‘represented the gentry and in some cases the nobility’. The

names listed in this report indicate that at least one of these was a

Muslim and one a kalon (Muhammad 1908). It states that ‘all important

services connected with judicial and revenue administration, supply of

30 CHAPTER TWO

transport and provisions etc. were rendered by the Kardars’. ‘Some of

them’, it continues, ‘possess considerable influence in the distant

borders of the State.’ The report does not elaborate on the role played by

these officials but it seems that their primary duty was to liaise between

the villages and the central administration. The Alchi lonpo told me that

his family had been appointed as zaildar or kalkar (which must be the

same as kardar) under the Wazir, who gave him orders which he passed

on to the goba. In Photoksar they remembered having to pay taxes to the

kasdar or zaildar in Lamayuru.

The main administrative changes brought about by the Dogras,

therefore, appear to have been the recognition of the goba as a tax

official and the replacement of the kalons and lonpos as officials with

responsibility for tax collection to the centre, by kardars, many of whom

were, in fact, the same people. Of course, the language of the new rulers

was quite different from that of the Ladakhis, which must have posed

further administrative problems.

Relations between the administration and the people were far from

happy. The chronicles report repeated petitions by the Ladakhi people

to the Dogras to lessen their taxes and in 1886 there was a serious

complaint about the unjust seizure of land, bribery by the rich, false

accusations and beatings of the poor (Francke 1926: 141-5). van Beek

(1996: Ch 4; 2001: 535) describes a letter of 1879 asking for the rein-

statement of Wazir Johnson. This took the form of an appeal from the

people of Ladakh on the grounds that earlier sahibs had taken all the

edibles and pack animals without paying for them and punished people

for no reason. Several attempts by different Wazirs to reform the tax

system were opposed by Ladakhi delegations, notably the monks, whose

establishments stood to lose revenue (Bray forthcoming).

In the early years of the twentieth century, as described by the

historian Shridhar Kaul (1992), district officials used their powers in a

despotic way, especially tahsildaris, land revenue officials, but also the

Wazir himself, who combined the roles of Superintendent of Police,

District Magistrate and Judge. Local constables, he reports, invented

crimes in order to be able to extract bribes and in Zangskar years were

reckoned to be good or bad depending on the number of visits from

officials. A similarly bleak picture of the pre-independence period was

painted by a number of Leh families (Crook and Shakya 1983). The law

was administered very harshly they said: people could be chained up for

simple offences and state officials, especially patwaris, the lowest land

revenue officers, were very domineering.

LADAKH 31

The Dogras obviously saw themselves as being responsible for law

and order in Ladakh and there does appear to have been a certain amount

of judicial activity in Leh and Kargil during their administration. The

chronicles indicate that Maharajah Rambir Singh, who governed from

1857 to 1883 created a ‘law book’, called the Kannun (from the Urdu

qanun) (Francke 1926: 138-148), although I have seen no record of its

content nor evidence of its application in practice. Hanlon (1894) refers

to the Wazir’s court which sat once or twice a week, when required, and

heard cases of petty theft, encroachment on a neighbour’s land, allowing

livestock to stray onto fields and adultery. A description of a court case

is given by Rassul Galwan (1923), a Muslim who lived in Leh and

accompanied Francis Younghusband on several of his expeditions at the

end of the nineteenth century. When he was a young man one of the

Wazir’s soldiers accused Rassul of adultery. He was taken to the Wazir’s

court where a number of people were called to give evidence. Although

his mother tried to bribe the Wazir, Rassul was found guilty, ordered to

pay a fine and spent a month in jail. Ribbach, a Moravian missionary

who worked in Ladakh between 1896 and 1913, wrote a fictional

account of the life and conversion to Christianity of a village head-man.

In it, he describes one incident in which a thief was brought before the

headman in his capacity as ‘village magistrate’, whereupon he held a

short trial, not wanting to go to Leh to seek judgment. In a later incident,

however, the head-man was, himself, arrested and tried while on a visit

to Leh and was invited to offer a bribe to a police officer in order to

obtain an appointment as a district official (Ribbach 1986).

Probably as part of the land settlement process, a survey was under-

taken by the Assistant Settlement Officer of Ladakh, Thakar Singh, to

establish a ‘code of tribal custom’. The report (Singh 1912) attempts to

identify local customs relating to marriage, succession, wills, gifts and

so on. It also contains short reports of a number of cases that had been

decided by the Wazir, Assistant Wazir or Tahsildar in the previous ten

years. The report indicates that in many instances the officer had sent for

evidence of local customs and decided the case accordingly. Twenty-two

cases are reported, on matters of divorce, maintenance and entitlement

to property, most of which originated in Leh, just a few coming from

nearby villages. However, the survey does not appear to have been

translated into a set of codified laws. It seems that the Wazirs simply

continued to provide an informal dispute resolution service over which

a variety of officers might preside, which was available for those who

32 CHAPTER TWO

wanted to and were able to travel to Leh to use it, rather as the king’s

administration had done earlier.

In other colonial situations around the world, extensive exercises

were undertaken to record and codify custom, or what was regarded as

such by colonial officials. This was then developed into a corpus of

regulation, or ‘customary law’, which was recognised in the courts and

integrated into the colonisers’ systems of government and administration

of justice (see, for example, Bloch 1971: 31-2 and Chanock 1985). The

exercise carried out by Singh appears to have been a preliminary step

towards such an exercise for Ladakh. However, it did not result in a code

of ‘customary law’ that was applied in any systematic way. Rather, the

pattern of light and unsystematised judicial control by the centralised

administration continued.

It is important, therefore, not to make assumptions about the Ladakhi

experience of colonial rule by analogy with writings on the colonial

experience in other parts of the world. The historical reports offer a

picture of an administration primarily concerned with the raising of

taxes, in money or kind, the provision of begar and the institution of

certain limited improvements, such as irrigation and schooling (Kaul

1992). In the urban centres these decades saw a succession of adminis-

trative, fiscal and economic changes, which must have been unsettling,

but also provided the opportunity for members of the old elite and

enterprising individuals like Rassul Galwan, to obtain new positions of

power and take part in new economic activities. Power relations must

have been shifting and uncertain as a succession of outsiders, Kashmiri

and British, came and went.

The reports of my informants in Photoksar suggest that the villagers’

main experience of government during this period continued to be tax

collection and the burdensome begar, which required that several men

leave the village with their pack animals, to provide transport for

officials, for two or three months at a time. From their perspective, the

various officials, the sahibs, had the status of upper classes and the

Wazir was a person to whom respect was due, whose family (and dog)

had to be transported back and forth between Leh and Skardu, the

summer and winter capitals, but who also rewarded service with gener-

ous tips. Many institutions of bureaucratic control - courts, police and

land settlements - were introduced during this period. However, as

regards the practical maintenance of law and order and the settlement of

disputes, the picture one obtains from these accounts is that, particularly

in the remoter areas, the structures of village organisation and the goba

LADAKH 33

These events have been extensively analysed by Bertelsen (1996, 1997) and van15

Beek (1996).

Practices of polyandry have been extensively discussed in the literature on Tibet16

(Prince Peter 1963; Goldstein 1971c; Levine 1988; Crook and Crook 1994). Practices

vary considerably throughout the region. The official marriage of a wife to a number (but

generally not all) of the sons of a pastoral family is found in Amdo, although the system

is relatively rare. In Ladakh the wife is married to the eldest son and the arrangements

between her and the younger brothers are informal. The essential element is that there is

only one wife per generation, as it was in central Tibet (Goldstein 1971c), a practice

system continued to function relatively autonomously and the officials

remained largely distant from the everyday life of the villagers.

Economic and legal developments in the twentieth century

In 1934 the Young Men’s Buddhist Association (YMBA) was formed

by a number of men from the Ladakhi elite, in particular members of the

Leh kalon family, who were also renowned sponsors of Hemis monas-

tery. They formed links with a group of Kashmiri activists, the ‘neo-

Buddhists’, who had adopted the cause of the Buddhist Ladakhi people

and, in 1932, set up an association to represent the interests of Ladakh

to the Glancy Commission. This was looking into the conditions of the

people in Jammu and Kashmir. The two groups shared the view that a15

gradual shift in the demographic composition of Ladakh in favour of

Muslims was occurring and in 1941 they secured the passing of the

Abolition of Polyandrous Marriages Act by the state of Jammu and

Kashmir (Bertelsen 1997; van Beek, 2001: 533). As Bertelsen (1997: 67-

68) remarks, this was the first collective representation made on behalf

of a large segment of the people of Ladakh and it laid the ground for the

practice of identification in Ladakh along religious lines.

Shortly after the Polyandry Act the YMBA secured the passing of the

Ladakhi Succession to Property Act 1943, which stipulated that all land

should be divided equally between the sons of a land-owner on his death.

This was replaced, in 1956, by the Hindu Law of Succession Act, which

still applies to Buddhists and requires equal division between both sons

and daughters. These laws initially had a negligible impact. Among the

Buddhist Ladakhis it continued to be the norm to have one wife per

household, per generation, which is the way in which the Ladakhis

themselves describe their practice. In the remoter areas this continues

today. Primo-geniture remained the norm until the 1980s, although it16

34 CHAPTER TWO

which served to maintain the landholding intact.

depended very much on the area, and land division only became

common-place in 1990s. Indeed, one of my most knowledgeable Leh

informants even considered that these laws had not been introduced until

the 1970s. The twentieth century has, therefore, seen an increase in legal

consciousness among certain sections of Ladakh society, with the idea

that social reform can and should be brought about through legislation.

At the same time the agitation for autonomy and benefits for the region,

such as the petition to the Glancy commission, was often pursued

through the language of entitlements.

Compared to these early legal activities, however, far greater changes

were subsequently brought about by the social campaigns of the Ladakhi

Buddhist Association (LBA) and the Ladakhi Gonpa Association (LGA).

In 1950, after Indian independence, the LGA was formed by Bakula

Rinpoche of Spituk monastery, primarily to resist the effects of the

Indian land reforms, which would have decimated the monastic land

holdings. In this it was successful and, together with the YMBA, it

began a campaign against polyandry, animal sacrifice and the consump-

tion of barley beer, chang (van Beek 1996: Ch 5; Mills 2003: 302, 320).

In the mean time, a new administration had been established. After

Indian independence some Ladakhis obtained seats in the Kashmir

parliament but they were not, generally, considered to be capable or

sufficiently educated to run their own affairs (van Beek 1999: 437) and

the region continued to be administered by a District Commissioner

appointed by the State government. Senior officials still tend to be sent

from outside the region, although the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Council

was established in 1995 to give the region a measure of autonomy.

In 1949, the Indian Prime Minister Nehru visited Ladakh and de-

clared his intention that the ‘backward’ Ladakhis should be assisted in

developing their region as part of the modern Indian nation state. The

results, encouraged by the demands of Ladakhi religious and political

leaders, in particular Kushok Bakula Rinpoche, profoundly affected

many aspects of Ladakhi life. The settlement and cancellation of debts

shortly after independence led to considerable improvement in the living

conditions of many Ladakhi villagers, who had been heavily indebted to

landlords and money lenders (Phylactou 1989: 44; van Beek 2001: 534).

Two important motor roads were constructed: the two-day link with

Srinagar, along which truck-loads of subsidised foods, fuel and building

materials are brought throughout the summer and subsequently a link

LADAKH 35

van Beek (2001: 537) and Aggarwal (2004: 73-74) discuss some of the social17

effects of these changes, including the sense of dissatisfaction experienced by many of

the newly educated youth, unable to find suitable employment.

with Manali much used by tourists and the army. A hydro-electric plant

has been constructed, health and education services introduced and

tourism has been encouraged since 1974. The army has been a huge

presence since the Sino-Indian wars of 1962 and 1971 and because of

the continuing Indo-Pakistani frontier conflict. It maintains the main

roads and creates a demand for cash crops and opportunities for wage

labour.17

From a village perspective many of these changes have been unequiv-

ocally beneficial. The importation of cheap food ‘rations’ of wheat-flour,

rice and salt, along with kerosene and gas cylinders, has dramatically

improved food security. In Photoksar they told me of times when food

was so scarce that they had to travel to Lingshed, a good ten hour walk

for a healthy, unencumbered man, and return with sacks of barley on

their backs when supplies ran low in the spring. One house in the village

suffered so badly that its family emigrated to Zangskar, to be followed

some years later by its successor in the same household. Since the advent

of rations, however, there has always been enough of the staple foods

and the population’s fertility has dramatically improved since the 1980s.

The government has established a primary school in every village that

has more than ten children of school age and pays a trained medical

assistant for each village. The larger villages have Middle and Higher

schools and there are two or three boarding Higher Schools for children

from remote areas, like Photoksar, who otherwise would not have access

to secondary education. There is an excellent hospital in Leh. In prac-

tice, however, the provision of services to the remote villages is far from

satisfactory. Trained teachers and medical assistants do not like these

postings and fulfill their duties, at best, half the time. In fifteen months

I did not see the Photoksar medical assistant once. A bureaucratic

administration, marred by corruption, together with a reluctance to lodge

complaints, allows this situation to prevail. The Public Works Depart-

ment maintains the roads that branch off the main highways when they

are damaged by floods and land-slips, but it does a poor job of maintain-

ing the paths and bridges in the remoter areas. Nevertheless, the govern-

ment provides a basic level of services which is beneficial to the vil-

lages, in theory if less so in practice.

36 CHAPTER TWO

Her views are largely shared by John Crook (1994).18

For a thorough criticism see van Beek (2000b).19

There is a debate in some quarters about the overall benefits of such

development in Ladakh, led by Helena Norberg-Hodge whose book,

Ancient Futures (1991), is much publicised and widely read. She paints

a depressing picture of the pernicious effect that the government’s

development efforts are having on the local ecology and the impact that

new material values are having on village life. Many of the points she18

makes about damage to the environment, dependence on the central state

and threats to village and family social structures from migration to the

towns have much force. However, the picture is one-sided, failing to

mention the benefits brought about by the introduction of rations,

schools, health-care and roads. It is not my intention to enter into these19

complex debates about the effects of development, however. Their

relevance to the subject of this book lies in their impact on village

organisation and legal practices and in the relations between the villages,

representatives of the central administration and development agencies.

The fact that villages now look for the provision of services to the

centre means that many issues which were formerly organised by the

villagers themselves are now dealt with by government departments:

agricultural improvements, the maintenance of paths and bridges and the

provision of food and fuel. For pathway repairs and certain agricultural

developments the villagers of Photoksar must, or at least can, travel to

the relevant towns to find money and other forms of assistance. They are

also entitled to educational and medical services, which are administered

from Leh and Khaltse. Since those who should provide these services

often do not care to travel to remote villages, securing development and

progress depends upon finding a representative who can travel to Leh

and negotiate with the authorities. This requires time, money and, most

importantly, the confidence and skills to deal with officials who are

often supercilious, rude and do not speak Ladakhi. These arduous tasks

are generally deemed to be the responsibility of the goba and they

represent new duties which demand a certain skill and education. This

has had an impact on internal village organisation and the balance of

power, but much more so in the villages closer to the centre, where the

opportunities for obtaining material benefits are greater.

LADAKH 37

The activities of the LBA and the issues of identity and communalism have been20

extensively analysed by van Beek (1996, 1999, 2001), Bertelsen (1996, 1997) and

Aggarwal (2004).

Political agitation in Leh

The YMBA started to become politically active again in the late 1960s

and reformed itself as the LBA. It organised the first agitation in Leh in

favour of regional autonomy in 1969. This was followed by an Action20

Committee for central administration which, in 1980, made its first

demands for Scheduled Tribes status for Ladakhis, which would have

resulted in reserved government jobs and educational opportunities,

concessionary loans and other funds. This year also saw the first in a

series of clashes between Buddhist and Muslims, which continued over

a number of years. The LBA’s movement for autonomy continued

throughout the 1980s and culminated in violent agitation in Leh in 1989

between Buddhists and Muslims. This was something of a watershed,

the agitation diminishing in subsequent years as negotiations for auton-

omy took place and, finally, the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Council

(LAHDC) was established in 1996.

As well as its agitation for regional autonomy, the LBA began

campaigning in the villages in the early 1970s. Its main aims were said

to be (i) to preserve and promote the religious and cultural traditions of

Ladakh, (ii) to disseminate and promote the teachings of Buddhism, (iii)

to eradicate the social evils prevailing amongst Buddhists and (iv) to

promote the Bodhi (Tibetan) language. At the height of its power and

influence in the late 1980s, it established regional groups and village

representatives and attempted to create its own administrative and

judicial structures in the villages. In 1989 the Youth Wing was estab-

lished and a wide network of committees promoted a new form of

Buddhist morality, campaigning against the ‘social evils’ of alcohol and

polyandry. In this it was supported by the LGA, which had a similar

agenda to reform religious practices. This can be regarded as part of a

long history of efforts by Buddhist leaders to establish what they con-

sider to be proper Buddhist practices in Ladakh. The communal tensions

that exploded in Leh were played out in divisions and conflict between

such committees and other village organisations, especially in villages

with a mixed Buddhist and Muslim population (Aggarwal 2004: 72, 77-

87).

38 CHAPTER TWO

For example, one Leh-pa told me that the gifts and khatags, white scarves, given21

at weddings were gradually becoming very expensive and the LBA had usefully issued

a ruling about the maximum amount that should be spent.

In order to ensure support for its own leadership, the LBA also

encouraged the appointment of ‘a person of authority, competence and

initiative’ as village headman, rather than allowing the post to rotate, as

had been the norm (van Beek 1996: 323). Ahmed (1996: Ch 8.2) de-

scribes the way in which the LBA publicly criticised the practice of the

Chang Tang nomads who elected their goba using dice. The LBA also

encouraged its groups to become involved in dispute resolution. Srinivas

(1998: Ch 6) reports from Nubra that in the early 1990s its committees

had influence with the gobas and were mediating in disputes. The Alchi

lonpo told me that there had been a regional LBA committee based in

Saspol, close to Alchi, of which he had been the President and that, as

such, he had become involved in resolving disputes throughout the area.

In the late 1990s, however, the Saspol organisation, like most of the

LBA’s regional committees, was disbanded and everyone I talked to,

including current LBA officials, said that the organisation now wields

less power in the villages. The LBA remains politically active in Leh,

continuing to campaign for increased autonomy for Ladakh, but its direct

influence is now limited to the issuing of social rulings from time to

time. Whatever the former strength of the LBA, its power was linked21

to its political campaign for autonomy in the late 1980s and early 1990s

and, with the creation of the LAHDC, this activity has diminished. At

the same time, its influence on village politics has reduced to being

negligible and authority over local affairs has reverted to the hands of

the goba and villagers themselves. No-one I talked to would offer a firm

view as to why the authority of the LBA in the villages had declined

recently. However, its campaigns had obviously had no dramatic effect

on village-level politics and its committees have not supplanted the

existing structures of village meeting and headman. Consciously or not,

the villagers were mostly able to resist a direct attempt on the part of the

LBA to interfere in their internal organisation. It is, as I describe in later

chapters, the activities of development organisations and entrepreneurs

that have subsequently had a greater affect on relations of power and

authority in the villages.

It is clear from van Beek’s accounts that the LBA’s activities were

much influenced by religious leaders, high lamas and rinpoches, who

were able to use their authority to add to the movement’s power and

LADAKH 39

influence. By the 1960s Kushok Bakula Rinpoche of Spituk, Togdan

Rinpoche of Phyang and Khanpo Rinpoche of Tikse monasteries were

all active in politics and variously formed alliances with other prominent

Ladakhis, including members of the LBA. van Beek suggests that many

of the concerns of the LBA were genuinely the same as those of the

monks and the LGA. However, the LBA represents a new type of

centralised power and authority in Ladakh, which has obviously been

successful, at least in part, because of its identification with religious

leaders. van Beek’s own informants expressed the view that in order to

get the support of a significant part of the Ladakhi population the co-

operation of religious leaders, both Buddhist and Muslim, was needed.

‘You cannot go against the ka, teaching or command, of a religious

leader,’ he was told (van Beek 1996: 199). He also attributes the 1998

electoral success of the National Conference party in Ladakh to the

skilful enlisting, by Kashmir Chief Minister Farooq Abdullah, of two

ambitious Buddhist leaders, Khanpo Rinpoche of Tikse and Togdan

Rinpoche of Phyang (van Beek 2001: 546).

The LBA has also been able to use the social status of many of its

leaders to add to its influence. Rigzin Namgyal, the second President of

the YMBA, was from the powerful Leh kalon family and in 1988

Thupstan Chhewang, the nephew of Bakula Rinpoche, was elected as

President. He is from the Shey lonpo’s family and married to the daugh-

ter of the Queen of Stok, descended from the old royal family. He had

also been recognised as a reincarnate lama, which, although he had

chosen to live a secular life, added to his status. Commenting on this,

one Leh-dweller told me that Tsering Samphel, the current President of

the LBA would eventually acquire a similar status himself but that this

would take a while because he was not from an upper class family.

A number of Ladakhis, particularly in Leh, suggested that the status

of the upper classes has been very much in decline recently. At least one

kalon family has accepted marriage with commoners and one of my

informants, a man from the Nubra lonpo’s family, only mentioned his

status to me, and with some embarrassment, after I had known him for

a long time. However, it is evident that the old aristocratic statuses

remain significant. Many still insist on using their titles of lonpo and

kalon and some people told me that the importance of these titles has

revived since the later 1990s. The Alchi lonpo’s elder son, for example,

who worked for a development organisation in Leh, told me, with some

embarrassment, of his difficulty in finding a wife. His family, still based

in their village, does not have the wealth now expected by some upper

40 CHAPTER TWO

In fact, when I returned in 2003, he was married to a girl from the lonpo family in22

Mulbekh.

class brides. However, it would be impossible for him to marry a com-

moner, he told me, because the people of Alchi would not accept it.22

Status is especially evident on social occasions among the women, who

put great store by their position in the social hierarchy and may end up

in tears if they feel their due status has not been respected. It was

suggested to me by one Leh dweller that this is partly attributable to

Thupstan Chhewang who publicly insists on the recognition of his social

as well as his political position.

There has been a strong movement on the part of the urban-based

elite, including the LBA, to abolish discrimination against the lower

castes (Aggarwal 2004: 174-75). This has had some positive effects with

a few mon and garba men rising to high office. It is a more difficult task

in the villages, however, and Tsering Samphel, president of the LBA,

explained to me that he and a number of others had to physically place

themselves below members of the lower castes in the social hierarchy in

his village and to assist them in carrying their dead to the cremation

ground, activities normally shunned by commoners. Only in this way

could other commoner families gradually be persuaded to ignore the

caste-based rules, he explained. At the same time, however, I heard the

story of a group of commoners who were trying to deny the status of the

upper classes in Leh. They were wrong-footed when the skudrak said

they would give up their positions only if the commoners accepted the

lower castes in their seating lines. The commoners hurriedly backed

down.

Patterns of power, authority and influence in contemporary Ladakh

are, thus, complicated by the interaction between distinct forms of

social, religious and political status, and the introduction of new forms

of wealth, which have altered these patterns to some extent. In some

villages this has led to changes in the authority structures and, often, to

factionalism and power struggles, as I describe in chapter nine. How-

ever, old established statuses of the upper classes and respect for reli-

gious authority remain effective and potent forces.

For the people of a village like Photoksar, the events I have summa-

rised in this chapter have meant that Leh, the political centre of power

in Ladakh, has changed from being an extractor of taxes, patron of the

monasteries and a place of superior social status, to a provider of

material benefits. The elite who inhabit it now fall into three categories -

LADAKH 41

government officers (often sent from Jammu) and local Ladakhi politi-

cians, including those involved in the agitation for autonomy; members

of development organisations who can provide benefits for the village;

and those with aristocratic status, who are often also members of one of

the other categories. The monasteries represent a more diffuse power,

but their lamas enjoy social status and, often, political power. Ladakhi

monks are still sent to train in Tibetan monasteries in India, from where

high status teachers, including the Dalai Lama, travel to give teachings

in Ladakh. Buddhist ideas and ideologies are, thus, brought into the

region, and further disseminated through local teachings and the monas-

teries’ support of small temples in each village. I consider the influence

of religious practitioners further in chapter five. First, however, I turn to

Photoksar and describe the villagers’ maintenance of internal social

relations, their attitudes to the management of conflict and relations with

outsiders and external influences.

CHAPTER THREE

VILLAGE ORGANISATION

At 4,200m Photoksar is one of the highest villages in Ladakh. It is part

of the Wanla region of Sham, lower Ladakh, and lies on the historic

summer route that links the main Indus valley, via Lamayuru, with the

trans-Sengge La group of villages. This route continues into Zangskar

and used to be the main artery between the two regions before roads

were built in the 1970s. Previously Photoksar was a week’s journey from

Leh and it is still a long day’s walk from the end of the nearest road. The

journey involves traversing either the difficult Shi Shi La pass which, at

4,900m, is snow-bound in the winter, or the rocky Askuta gorge, treach-

erous when the river rises in the summer. The nearest villages along

either route take several hours to reach. Villagers from across the Sengge

La, a pass of over 5,000m in the other direction, and monks from

Lingshed, the small Gelukpa monastery in that area, still pass through

Photoksar on their way to Leh. However, the Zangskaris now use the

motor road to Kargil.

As in most Ladakhi villages, the dwellings are scattered around an

area of relatively flat land divided into fields irrigated by water chan-

nelled from the river. This is, itself, fed by snow fields and melting

glaciers. The majority of the houses are clustered on the edge of a steep

ravine above the main river, from which the women must carry up their

household’s water along precipitous paths in the winter. There is a

separate group of houses at Machu, forty-five minutes’ walk down the

valley, but these are treated, to all intents and purposes, as part of the

village (photos 11-13).

Barley is the only grain that grows at this altitude. Peas provide

winter fodder for the livestock and these are also dried and ground into

a coarse flour which, when mixed with barley flour, provides the villag-

ers’ heavy, but nutritious, staple food, paba. This is generally eaten with

stored turnips and radishes or dried lettuce, in the winter, and with

yoghurt or fresh vegetables in the summer. This diet is supplemented by

stews based on noodles made out of the wheat flour that the villagers

bring from Wanla, at the end of the road, and the meat of their sheep,

goats and yaks. Photoksar is lucky in having access to large areas of

good pasture, high in the mountains, where yaks are tended during the

summer by herders living in tiny stone huts, who return periodically to

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 43

the village with butter and cheese. These yaks, along with the flocks of

sheep and goats kept year-round in the village, provide milk and butter,

as well as meat and wool, which is woven into coats, blankets, mats,

ropes and saddle bags. Women spin constantly throughout the long

winter evenings, when they cluster in their dark kitchens, around the yak

dung stoves.

The diet is not rich and the villagers tell of serious food shortages in

the past, when late snows or heavy rain destroyed their crops. The Indian

government’s food rations have dramatically improved food security. A

third of the barley crop can now be spared to make chang, the local

barley beer, which is consumed in large quantities on all social occa-

sions. Social events regularly punctuate the daily round of life, espe-

cially in the winter when temperatures fall to -30�C, or lower, and hover

below freezing all day. When skies are clear the sun still provides

warmth, however, and the villagers can gather on their roofs to celebrate

weddings, births, the new year or one of the many religious festivals that

punctuate the year.

Most households still depend on their fields and livestock for subsis-

tence and the opportunities for wage labour are limited. Some young

men go into the army and are able to send money home. There is one

carpenter in the village and a few of the younger people are, in the early

2000s, completing their schooling and seeking jobs as teachers or

medical assistants or in business ventures in Leh. Otherwise, the sale of

animals is the main source of income. Villagers travel regularly to

Wanla to collect their ‘rations’ of flour, rice and kerosene, or to Leh

where they buy household goods. Their social links, by contrast, are

concentrated on other villages in the Wanla area, both those towards the

road and those over the Sengge La, where marriages are contracted and

kin links provide the excuse for social visits. Brides generally now come

from the villages further into the mountains because the construction of

the roads means that families in the better connected villages are unwill-

ing to send their daughters to Photoksar.

The village has just over two hundred inhabitants, divided into

twenty-two main households, khangba and a fluctuating number of

smaller khangu. In around half of the households all generations live

together in the khangba, but in others the older generation or two has

moved into a smaller, dependent house, the khangu, with younger

children, leaving the eldest son, his wife and children in the khangba.

This practice is found widely in Ladakh and distinguishes the region

from other parts of the Tibetan plateau (Phylactou 1989; Dollfus 1989).

44 CHAPTER THREE

There has been considerable discussion of the nature of the household in Ladakh1

(Phylactou 1989; Dollfus 1989) and the applicability of Levi-Strauss’s concept of the

‘household society’ (Kaplanian, forthcoming).

Throughout most of my fieldwork there were eighteen khangu in

Photoksar, but the number fluctuates, unlike that of the khangba, as

families divide and older generations die out.

Khangltakh, the household in which I stayed, is one of the largest in

Photoksar, in terms of its landholding, the size of its house and number

of family members. Three generations ago the family lacked children so

the present grandfather and grandmother, Meme Sonam and Api Rigzin,

were brought in from two different houses, Rigzin from Photoksar and

Sonam from the village of Nyeraks, beyond the Sengge La. This is not

an uncommon event and it does not affect the continuity in the identity

of the household. The grandparents’ eldest son, Sonam Paljor (Paljor),1

is the village amchi, the practitioner of Tibetan medicine. Although this

is a hereditary post elsewhere, it is not in Photoksar. Meme Sonam,

therefore, sent Paljor to train at Ridzong, a Gelukpa monastery where

there was a renowned amchi teacher who had trained at the Mentsikhan-

g, the famous college of Tibetan medicine in Lhasa. Paljor is, conse-

quently, well educated and knowledgeable. He took a great interest in

my research and became one of my most valuable informants. His wife,

Morup, who had come from the village of Lamayuru, was also a great

source of information. When I first arrived in 1999 Paljor’s brother

Tsewang was married to a village girl called Yangzes, but unusually they

had not moved into a separate khangu. Their youngest brother, Jigsmet,

had found a job in Khaltse. Paljor’s eldest son Gyaltsen had also just

been married to Choron, a girl from Nyeraks. This union had been

arranged, as most are, by their families and Meme Sonam had used his

links with his natal village to do so. Choron had, thus, become the new

nama, the in-marrying wife. Paljor and Morup also have two daughters,

both of whom were attending the boarding school in Khaltse, and three

younger sons.

The household

To be a member of the village means to be a member of one of its

khangba or khangu, by either birth or marriage. This involves being

brought within the protection of the household spirits through the

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 45

ceremonies that accompany either birth or marriage, which establish the

outsider as a full member of the new household. Even after I had been

staying in the village for over a year and was firmly attached to

Khangltakh, people would laugh if I referred to ‘our’ house. This

suggested I must have married one of the sons, which was a source of

great amusement. People are usually known by their household name:

Chulampi Ama (the mother from Chulam), Takshe Meme (the grandfa-

ther from Taksha), Rdamte Nama (the in-marrying wife at Rdamta).

Chortrakh, an unmarried man who spent most of his time outside the

village in a small house in Askuta, a collection of fields and dependent

dwellings two hours walk down the valley, was as independent as any

individual in Photoksar. He lived essentially alone and hardly ever

appeared in the main part of the village, but he was still uniformly

referred to as ‘Onpopi Chortrakh’ (Chortrakh from Onpo).

The importance of the household, the khangba, as the basic unit of

village organisation cannot be over-emphasised. All non-communal land,

livestock, agricultural and household goods are owned by the khangba

and water rights and village obligations are allocated amongst them. It

is the basic tax-paying entity of the village and all village meetings have

to be attended by at least one man from each. Khangba take it in turns

to assume the annual obligations to provide the village headman and his

assistants, to guard the fields from livestock, to host the main ritual

events and to provide the participants in the new year festival, as well as

a host of other village duties. These are known as tral, village taxes.

Photoksar’s number of khangba, twenty-two, has remained constant

for many years. Since the land settlements of 1908 there has been only

one change, caused by a failure in succession to Pilipa, a house which

has subsequently remained empty. Its fields are still known as ‘Pili

zhing’ (the fields of Pilipa), however. The villagers can name the heads

of each khangba from over 200 years ago. They told me about a time,

long past, during which an epidemic of smallpox had wiped out several

of the households which thus required some reorganisation and consoli-

dation, but that was an unusually traumatic and distant event. The idea

of a fixed and unchanging collection of households is central to the

villagers’ sense of their own community.

Under what the villagers call the ‘old’ custom of having only one

wife per household, per generation, the eldest son was married to the

nama, but his younger brothers stayed with them in the khangba. This

form of polyandry meant that the landholding passed, undivided, from

one generation to the next, as it does elsewhere in the Tibetan region. It

46 CHAPTER THREE

Change can, of course, also lead to tensions. In Sankar, one of the villages into2

which Leh is divided, the khangba had been demanding that the khangu contribute

equally to the local duties. In 2000 their continued refusal to do so resulted in the

khangba imposing a social boycott on the khangu.

This would support the conjecture of some that the phaspun is a relic of an ancient3

lineage-based system that has long since given way to household organisation (Kaplanian

1981, forthcoming and cf. Crook 1994: 506 and Riaboff 1997 on Zangskar). The rules

of exogamy for phaspun that apply in Photoksar, and used to apply elsewhere, also

also meant that it was only in the khangba that children were born and

the continuation of the household as an entity was ensured. When she

enters the new household the nama is only, however, married to the

eldest son. The way the custom works was explained to me by Sonam

Phuntsog, the teacher posted in Photoksar from another village in Sham.

As he put it, an elder brother is glad when he hears that his younger

brother is having sexual relations with his wife, because it means that he

is less likely to want to set up a separate family in a khangu. Neverthe-

less, some younger sons have now done so in Photoksar, causing a

permanent division in the landholding. This is much more common in

Leh and surrounding villages, where alternative forms of employment

mean that a family can afford to divide its land. The Photoksar villagers2

are conscious that, by contrast, they follow the ‘old customs.’ Younger

sons now generally move to a khangu, with their parents, instead of

remaining in the khangba, but unless they become monks or marry a girl

who has no brothers, thus becoming a makpa in her household, it is rare

for them to marry. The identity of each khangu is still firmly attached to

that of the associated khangba, whose name it bears. The khangba is still

the larger house, with the greatest number of fields, finer household

goods, the resources to host major social events and greater village

obligations. The khangu do have certain village duties and they now

have an equal vote with the khangba at village meetings, but the taxes

weigh much more heavily on the khangba.

The khangba, with their associated khangu, are grouped into a

number of networks, including the phaspun, a group that is found widely

in Ladakh. It is, as Dollfus says, an association of three to ten house-

holds which worship the same household divinity, the phalha, and help

each other, especially at life-cycle events (1989: 170-181). It was

originally assumed to be a kin group because the word itself is derived

from roots meaning ‘father’ and ‘cousin’ and the explanation given to

me in Photoksar was that phaspun were formed when two brothers set

up separate households. However, it is now generally recognised as3

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 47

support this theory.

This term is spelt mem bhar in village documents. It almost certainly derives from4

the English ‘member’.

having become primarily a mutual assistance group. As Dollfus also

found, the phaspun are seen as creating more permanent alliances that

those of cousins. ‘After several years,’ said one man in Photoksar, ‘we

forget our cousins but the phaspun remains’. As Mills (2003: 214) points

out, however, its association with life-cycle events is significant. It is on

the occasion of birth, marriage, death and during the new year and spring

festivals that the protection of the phalha is particularly sought..

The two Machu khangba form a phaspun with three others in the

body of the village. This binds them into an alliance with the main group

of houses and counteracts the danger of the hamlet separating itself off

from the rest of Photoksar. There are many other networks which also

unite different groupings of households for other purposes. There are

fixed groups of households that join together to undertake the larger

agricultural events, such as the ploughing. Others jointly organise the

large festivals or host prayer readings. These are different combinations

from those of the phaspun and different again from those of the three

chutsoks or khor. These are the three sections into which the village is

divided for political purposes, which follow geographical lines: an

upper, a middle and a lower section. Each has a representative, a memb-

ar, who is responsible for raising levies and calling householders to4

village meetings. There are other more informal networks which manage

the communal herding of livestock in the mountains, for example, a task

organised according to rotas set up between the households. The faces

that appeared most regularly in the kitchen at Khangltakh were those of

the khyimtses, the neighbours, in this case a group of four households

whose members are called upon to lend food and utensils or to help

drink up the remains of a barrel of chang which might remain from a

party. Shnyen, relations, are also frequent visitors and they co-operate at

demanding times such as the ploughing and harvest seasons and make

loans to poorer relations.

Each household is, thus, allied to several distinct groups of others -

phaspun, chutsoks, khyimtses, shnyen, ploughing, harvesting and herding

networks - depending on the occasion. Between them there is, thus, a

web of links, relations and networks through which religious, agricul-

tural and social events are co-ordinated. The whole village is united

through these cross-cutting alliances and there is no single household

48 CHAPTER THREE

In the monasteries, the dral is based on monastic seniority, that is numbers of vows5

taken and entrance into the monkhood, rather than on age (Mills 2003: 34).

grouping that can dominate. This is fundamental to the sense the villag-

ers have of their own community, how it is constructed and, ultimately,

to their sense of local order. It is also one of the many ways in which

village structures and practices counteract the emergence of hierarchies

and dominant groups and promote relations of equality among both

individuals and households.

The dralgo

In every village household, whether the family are living in the big

summer kitchen or have moved into a dark, windowless winter kitchen,

there is an arrangement of mats and cushions around the stove. On one

side sits the cook, normally the wife of the eldest son, maybe surrounded

by his sisters and her own children. On the other side sit the elder men

on a slightly elevated platform or, at least, on cleaner carpets. Other

members of the household hover in between, depending on their tasks.

In the winter the heat from the cooking stove may be supplemented by

a separate iron stove or a pile of smouldering, face-blackening sheep’s

droppings, around which other family members cluster. As soon as

guests walk in, however, everyone leaps up and re-arranges themselves

to give the newcomers the seats by the stove and one of the men will join

them to pour tea and chang. On the occasion of a party, a common event

during the winter, a full line, a dral, will form around the walls, starting

by the stove. The dral is the line of seats or dancers into which Ladakhis

organise themselves on every social occasion, the most senior men (or

women, if no men are present) sitting at the top by the stove, the dralgo,

and the most junior at the bottom, men above women, or in two separate

lines at major events. Each new guest knows where to sit, depending on

his age and gender (photos 29 and 30).

Much has been made in the literature of the social stratification that

is apparent in the dral (Kaplanian 1981: 171-90; Aggarwal 2004: 154-

55). Monks take the highest seats, according to their own hierarchies of

seniority, followed by the skudraks (upper classes) and then the drong-5

pa or mimangs (the commoners), with the rigsngan (the outcaste black-

smith and musician families) at the bottom. In most villages, however,

the vast majority of people are drongpa. A village of 50 households

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 49

This is also remarked upon by Dollfus (1989: 154).6

might have one lonpo and one or two mon and garba families but in

Photoksar there are no upper class or outcaste families. Unless monks or

important guests are present three village men take the upper seats at the

dralgo: first the onpo, the ritual practitioner, second the amchi, and next

to him the goba, the headman. Below them people take their places in

either the women’s or the men’s line solely according to the year of their

birth. Differences in wealth, between older and younger sons, between

members of richer and poorer households and between those from

khangba and khangu are not recognised here.

The symbolic importance of the dral cannot be over-emphasised. The

Photoksar villagers are extremely sociable and for a man, at least, it is

a rare day that he will not be involved in a dral at some point, either in

his own or another household. Even in the tiny yak-herders’ huts a

scrappy piece of a mat by the fire will indicate the dralgo. On larger

social occasions everyone knows where to sit but must first try to take

a lower place in the line. This is particularly pronounced among the

women: even the most senior will make for a lowly place while the

others protest loudly and there are physical struggles between peers,

which are watched with amusement by the others. They were all de-

lighted when I learnt to join in this game, although the women had been

careful first to find out my age, so that they knew where my rightful

place was.

The dral is, therefore, a ranking system. It is used to recognise the

social superiority of monks and skudraks, the superiority of gender and

age, the statuses of the onpo and amchi. But it also represents equality

between households, between elder and younger sons, between married

and unmarried and between rich and poor. A younger son living alone

in a tiny khangu, such as Onpopi Chortrakh, will take a seat in the line

which is higher than that of the elder son from a large household, Paljor

and Gyaltsen from Khangltakh, for example, given their differences in

age. This is one of the most important ways in which relations of relative

equality are marked between members of a single community who could,

otherwise, be differentiated on the basis of wealth, literacy, position in

the household and influence over village affairs.6

There is obviously a male social superiority within the village, as

expressed in the dral (and this is never denied, even in jest) and within

the household there is a certain hierarchy of men over women. However,

this is expressed weakly amidst a host of roles, duties and expectations.

50 CHAPTER THREE

When ‘en famille’ men tend to take the higher seats at the dralgo by the

stove, but even Meme Sonam will go round to the other side to help with

the cooking if the need arises (photo 16). Men are responsible for any

task that takes them away from the village, while women are tied by the

daily routines of child-care and, in the summer, the irrigation and

weeding of their fields. However there is no perceived ranking of work.

‘This is men’s work, that is women’s work’, they told me, without

offering any explanation for the difference (see also Dollfus 1989: 147).

Among the women in Khangltakh, Morup was in charge of most of the

meals, making the chang and supervising the stores, having taken over

this role from Api Rigzin. She allocated tasks among other people, but

this was done almost imperceptibly and the obligation was on other

people, especially Choron, the nama, to offer help. Although the running

of this large household required divisions of labour and responsibility,

the organisation was characterised by a fairly equal division of tasks,

some by gender, others by habit, others by agreement. Authority and

superiority were expressed to a minimum degree.

Women do not attend village meetings but the men report their

discussions in detail and the women comment freely on all subjects, both

before and after the event. They are forthright and confident in express-

ing moral judgments on other members of the village (and those outside

it) and on matters of village organisation, such as irrigation arrange-

ments, that affect their household. The men expressly take their views

into consideration when discussing village matters amongst themselves.

Only boys used to be taught to read, before the introduction of schools,

and it is generally only the men who take part in the chos sil, the recita-

tion of religious texts, but now girls are just as likely to be encouraged

to study. Among those sent to higher education in Leh there are now as

many girls as boys.

The goba and yulpa

The nominal head of the village is the headman, the goba. He controls

the village funds and represents the village vis à vis outsiders. He

organises meetings, ensures that everyone is aware of the onpo’s direc-

tions concerning the timing of agricultural events, as well as being

responsible for settling disputes. However, this is not a permanent post.

It rotates annually, as does that of the chief membar, his assistant,

between all the khangba in the village. Any man can and every house-

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 51

This recalls Goldstein’s (1971d) comment that gen-bo (village elders) in central7

Tibetan villages were regarded as agents of the tre-ba (members of tax-paying

households).

hold must take its turn. At most social events the goba is accorded social

status and at the beginning of the year the two new office-holders each

host a party at which they are complimented with khatags by the whole

village. When I arrived in Photoksar in the middle of a year, however,

it was a long time before I was able to work out who the goba was and

even longer before I realised that Paljor was the chief membar. Although

referred to by their titles when it comes to political matters, the post-

holders are accorded no day-to-day status and no-one in Khangltakh

thought it important enough that I should know about Paljor’s position.

Nor is the post considered to require special individual qualities. It is

generally a younger man, rather than an elder Meme (grandfather), who

assumes the post, but in his absence another male member of the house-

hold, even a boy, will carry out the requisite duties and be referred to as

‘goba’. It is a tax, one of the tral that falls on each household in turn,

more than an individual appointment. For the villagers the post is

unequivocally seen as a burden rather than a privilege. They say that a

household has been ‘struck’ by this obligation, as it is struck by any tax.

The goba’s duties are onerous and, in particular, the need to travel to

Leh to negotiate with authorities takes up precious time and resources.

The occurrence of a dispute may also require immediate attention by the

goba and membar, who shoulder the responsibility for achieving a

settlement. The goba’s powers are balanced by burdensome duties.

The goba’s power is also limited, in practice, by the fact that all

important and innovative decisions are taken at the village meeting, a

forum attended by all the adult men, the yulpa. It is the yulpa, acting at

the meeting, who are the political authority of the village, taking deci-

sions about the village taxes and festivals, overseeing the water rotation

and making new rules. They also act as ultimate arbiters in disputes,

when a case is serious or the goba has been unable to resolve it. They

impose fines and ensure that all arguments are ceremonially resolved,

thus acting as the village’s ultimate judicial authority. The goba is, in

effect, the agent of the yulpa. The yulpa were explained to me as being7

‘everyone’. Membership extends to all village men, although women and

children are, in fact, excluded. This group also excludes all outsiders and

even the komnyer, the monk sent by Lamayuru monastery to tend the

small temple it owns in the village, who is from Onpo, a village house-

52 CHAPTER THREE

Since meetings were all male affairs and often dealt with sensitive subjects I would8

not have felt comfortable sitting among the men and tended to watch from a distance with

the other women. However, Paljor and meme Sonam were happy to tell me in detail

about the course of the meeting, as did they did the women of the household, who were

always interested in the discussions and decisions.

hold. There are two such temples in Photoksar, unusually for a Ladakhi

village, the other belonging to Hemis, which sends its own komnyer.

The meetings of the yulpa are relatively informal. They are attended

by all men who wish, sometimes several from one household. There is

one important meeting held at the beginning of each year, when the

goba’s and membar’s posts are changed and the tral for the coming year

are determined, which all men are expected to attend. One of the central

village fields is used for the meeting and men come and go throughout

the proceedings, depending on their own interests, work obligations and

the importance of the occasion. Women watch from a distance, espe-

cially if something is going on which directly concerns their own

household, and departing men report to them on what is happening.8

At the meetings there is no fixed agenda and no seating plan. The

dralgo does not apply here, thus denying even the superiority of age that

determines seating order on social occasions. The goba takes a central

seat with the membars (the chief membar and those from each chutsoks)

and is in charge of business, but everyone has the chance to speak. If a

consensus is not reached, a ballot will be taken, Paljor explained to me,

one vote counted from each khangba and khangu. However, this is rarely

necessary because in practice consensus is almost always reached.

Differences of opinion may initially be expressed but people let an

agreement emerge. There is no question of opposing camps forming,

either before or during a meeting. Men never lobby their neighbours to

secure support for a controversial proposal. In practice, certain men talk

more than others at meetings, some go to more than others, some are

listened to more respectfully than others, but when people discuss the

events of the meeting afterwards the influence of such individuals is

never acknowledged. Those who attend always report what ‘we’ agreed:

‘we decided that every household with more than one son must send one

of them to the monastery,’ or ‘the yulpa imposed a fine on them’.

Documents drawn up to record their decisions invariably stress the fact

of agreement between the yulpa. In effect, therefore, divisions amongst

the individuals who form this body are precluded by the procedure of the

meeting and the rhetoric of agreement, which expressly deny any

lingering differences of opinion. It is the yulpa, as a group, who have the

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 53

ultimate authority to control and organise the activities of the village.

The will of the yulpa is expressed in the form of decisions said to have

been taken by ‘everyone’, even when, as normal, only a proportion of

the men actually attended the meeting. The idea is of absolute inclusion

and unity amongst them.

Rules and customs

Control over village affairs is, therefore, exercised by the yulpa largely

through the imposition of tral, taxes. The concept of tral covers almost

all village obligations imposed on households, from small contributions

in money or kind for festivals, up to the most burdensome of all, assum-

ing the post of goba. Other rotating tral obligations include being an

assistant membar, responsible for relaying information to each chutsoks,

being mon (village musician in the absence of any member of the mon

caste in Photoksar), being lorapa, responsible for keeping livestock out

of the fields in the summer, undertaking government work, such as

looking after the medical assistant or being on the village education

committee, organising one of the numerous village festivals and taking

on one of the ritual roles during the new year festival. The most impor-

tant of these duties rotate annually between the khangba, according to

lists drawn up many years ago. Others are distributed between the

khangba and khangu as a matter of agreement at the annual village

meeting, but on the understanding that tasks are to be allocated fairly

throughout the village. Yet others, such as providing transport for

visiting lamas or government officials, still known as begar, and carry-

ing out work on common property in the village (maintaining the

helicopter pad, for example) are organised, as the need arises, by means

of rotas. Both khangba and khangu also have to make contributions to

village funds for certain festivals.

Most tral can be passed over on payment of a fine, generally by

providing chang for the village, but this is only accepted if it is recog-

nised that the household is going to have genuine problems in fulfilling

the obligation, for example if there are no adult males in the household

to provide the goba. The irrigation system also operates like a tral,

although it is not generally referred to in this way. Formerly, they told

me, the field owners worked out an ad hoc arrangement so that each

received a fair share of water. However, in the early twentieth century

they established a rotation system for the two main channels, which

54 CHAPTER THREE

Each village has its own particular methods of organising water distribution. In9

Alchi and other villages where droughts are frequent the rules are complex and very

strict. In Urtsi, a small village near Photoksar each day a number of houses is entitled to

take water from the entire irrigation system and this effectively limits the number of

fields a single household can comfortably cultivate (Cynthia Hunt – personal communi-

cation).

serve almost all the houses in the village. Depending on the number of

fields it intends to cultivate that year, each household will ask for one,

two or three days in a cycle of ten to fifteen days. It then has to send as

many people to help clear out the channel as it wants days in the rota-

tion. The actual sequence is determined by lots. In the case of the

smaller channels, which serve lesser numbers of fields, they still make

informal arrangements.9

The yulpa occasionally decide upon new tral. During my fieldwork,

for example, they decided that there were not enough monks in the

village, the Lamayuru komnyer being the only one, and Hemis sending

a monk who was only occasionally resident. They decided that each

household with more than one son should send at least one into the

monastery. This, of course, makes it less likely that the landholding will

have to be divided at a later stage, but it also reduces the amount of

manpower in the household and the potential for income. The household

also has to support the boy in the monastery, which can involve many

years of education if he turns out to be academically minded, so it was

a burdensome new tax.

In the case of most tral, like the irrigation arrangements, there is

hardly ever a case of non-compliance. Everyone knows what everyone

else’s obligations are and someone else would carry out the task if the

person responsible did not appear, creating an obligation to reciprocate

on the part of his household. The well-established nature of these tral

and the sense of absolute obligation when it comes to these duties all

contribute to ensure that failure to comply is, in practice, impossible. In

the case of a new rule, however, like the obligation to send one son to a

monastery, the yulpa might decide that any household which failed to

comply would have to pay a serious fine. In this case it was set at Rs

5,000, a considerable amount in local terms, being almost the value of

a yak. The yulpa also have the ultimate sanction of a social boycott at

their disposal to enforce their will on recalcitrant individuals or house-

holds. However, both this and the imposition of fines require the deci-

sion of the yulpa which is, therefore, limited to cases serious enough to

warrant the calling of a meeting. When I returned to the village almost

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 55

In fact, when I visited the village in subsequent years it became apparent that the10

rule was, in fact, being implemented by almost all households.

exactly a year after this rule had been passed a number of households

had still not complied. Gyaltsen reflected that it showed how many

people in the village were tsokpo, bad, refusing to do what the yulpa

decided. Paljor, who had been one of the more enthusiastic supporters

of the rule and had already sent his son, Orsal, to Lamayuru, was more

positive: ‘they will go’, he reassured me. This reflects a difference in

attitude between father and son: Paljor is much more community-minded

and had been active in securing the decision on this new rule; Gyaltsen

is more representative of the slightly cynical, reluctant attitude of the

majority of the villagers. However, it also demonstrates the fact that10

differences do arise between individuals and limit the nature and number

of the innovations they can implement.

The yulpa, therefore, have authority to impose and allocate tral and

other village obligations and to control compliance through the imposi-

tion of fines. In practice, change is limited, however, by the practical

necessity of securing agreement among the yulpa. It is also limited by

the trims, the customs of the village. The concept of trims is one of

something ‘we do’, not for any particular reason but simply because it

is there, the custom. Some trims, patterns of dress, for example, are

recognised as being followed everywhere in Ladakh, as opposed to in

Tibet, or within the Tibetan exile community or by Kashmiris, for

example. Other trims are particular to the Buddhist, as opposed to

Muslim communities, certain marriage practices, for example. However,

the strongest notion is that of the yuli trims, those of the village (nor-

mally just referred to as ngati trims, ‘our customs’). People explained

that in the neighbouring Wanla, where there are many more khangu, the

trims has changed so that all households contribute equally to the village

tral. ‘But in Photoksar we still have the old trims,’ they said. Many trims

are associated with festivals, weddings, and the new year celebrations

and people generally talked approvingly about the former, snganme,

trims of the area, which are different and older, they said, from those of

villages closer to Leh.

These trims govern many important matters of internal village

organisation, khangba/khangu status in village politics, tax obligations,

succession to property and its division when a new khangu is set up.

These are all important because not only do they play a defining role in

the political structures of the village but they limit the authority of the

56 CHAPTER THREE

Two of each household’s best fields are designated the Api’s and the Meme’s11

fields, the lto zhing, and these are taken to the khangu to provide for their subsistence,

being transferred back to the khangba on their decease. Lto is a reference to food (Das

1998: 545), indicating the nature of the fields as security for subsistence.

yulpa. When a family decides to divide, for example, it is invariably the

practice that the older generations move to the khangu, not the

younger. One day Paljor was called to see the grandmother in one of11

the Machu households, who was already living in a khangu with her

younger son and his family. She was not getting on with the nama, he

reported, and wanted to move out to a separate khangu. She would find

it hard to set up a new khangu, however. ‘This is a trims tsokpo’, he

reflected, referring to the fact that it was she, not her son and daughter-

in-law, who would have to move. I asked if the custom could change or

be ignored in cases like this, but he said simply, ‘no, it is our trims.’ He

was, thus, recognising that the trims would work injustice in this case,

but accepted that there was no question of ignoring or trying to alter it.

The trims also govern marriage and succession practices, including

the practice of having only one wife per household, per generation and

not dividing the landholding. The development of these practices can be

explained in socio-economic terms, as suggested by Goldstein (1971c).

Dividing a landholding would, until recently, have been economically

disastrous and changes in marriage practice elsewhere in Ladakh have

coincided with economic developments. However, it is important not to

ignore the force of the trims. In Photoksar in 2000, although it was still

not the norm, there were five younger sons who had married and were

raising their own families in a khangu. Moreover, the fourteen unmarried

younger sons had almost all moved into the khangu, too. This represents

a considerable change from the older trims, in which younger sons

remained in the khangba. Meme Sonam said that the change had come

about because there is now more food and younger sons can afford a

separate family, but he also acknowledged the influence of changing

practices in Leh. Morup explained to me that previously everything used

to go to the eldest son but ‘now we give some fields to younger sons, if

they want, and, if they have a family in the khangu, their fields do not go

back to the khangba. The trims is changing a bit’. She was quite specific

about the new trims: the eldest son gets most, the next about half that

amount and younger ones, if they want some, even less. This change,

although prompted by economic development and changing practices

elsewhere, is locally perceived as a change to the village trims.

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 57

Although many trims are, essentially, immutable, marriage is also an

area in which the trims is negotiable in practice. Shortly before I arrived

in Photoksar there was a violent argument between the second and third

(adult) sons in one household, apparently over the nama. The yulpa

decided that both sons should move out to separate khangu. The older

was given a small house but said he did not want any fields. The younger

went to live with his father who was already in a khangu, but was only

given a small additional field to take with him, ‘because of the argu-

ment’, Morup explained. By contrast, if Paljor’s younger brother Tsewa-

ng wanted to move out to a khangu, she said, ‘we would give him a lot

of land, animals and household goods’. In practice, therefore, the

circumstances of the move to the khangu are taken into account in each

individual case. Although the trims appear to give sons rights of succes-

sion, therefore, in practice each situation is resolved according to its own

particular circumstances. The trims act as a sort of standard, setting the

starting point and limits within which a decision can be arrived at

regarding what should be given to each person. Another case of negotia-

ble trims is found in divorce arrangements. Morup explained to me that

if the divorce is the man’s decision, implying that the wife is not work-

ing properly, then her family would have to repay all the bride price. If,

on the other hand, it is the woman’s decision, on the basis of some sort

of fault on the part of her new family, then, although her family repays

the bride price, she also reclaims all her trousseau, the implication being

that this would achieve parity. In practice, however, these rules are

highly negotiable. In Khangltakh, Tsewang’s nama, Yangzes, had come

with very little trousseau and only a small bride price had been paid. On

their divorce she took all her personal possessions back but the bride

price was not repaid. Rather, Khangltakh paid the equivalent of half a

yak to her family. Morup described this as being ‘for the child’ that the

wife’s family were taking, although other people suggested it was

because Tsewang had been bad, tsokpo.

Trims are, therefore, customs that have developed rather than rules

decided upon in village meetings. They are seen as subject to gradual

change, but they cannot be altered at will by the villagers. In some cases

the trims is fixed and not negotiable. In others it merely provides a

standard against which an individual case can be judged, according to its

own circumstances. The trims, therefore, serve as limitations on the

authority of the yulpa to make and enforce new rules and a framework

within which their autonomy, as the political authority of the village, can

be exercised. They also serve to centre the village organisation within

58 CHAPTER THREE

Similar dynamics are described by Dollfus (1989: 224-25) in her account of Hemis12

Shukpachan.

the community itself, notionally denying the influence of outsiders. The

changing succession practices that I have noted in the village are, for

example, clearly linked to wider processes of change in Ladakh, in

particular the developing economy but also the legal changes that

occurred in the 1940s and 50s. Sonam Phuntsog also mentioned the

campaign of the LBA to stamp out polyandry and the effects of educa-

tion, which made people feel ‘embarrassed’ about the old trims. In

Photoksar, however, the changes are almost exclusively discussed as

changes to ‘our trims’. External influences are barely acknowledged and

the existence of state laws was never mentioned. Even Paljor looked

puzzled when I tried to ask about ‘government trims’. There is a strong

narrative of autonomy in village organisation here, both in terms of the

decisions of the village meeting, which exclude outsiders, and in the

force of ngati trims, quasi transcendent rules, which bind the yulpa.

Hierarchy and equality

The village community is, therefore, made up of a network of house-

holds between which there is, or should be, a web of co-operative

relations, and it is governed by the yulpa, amongst whom there is an

ideology of unity and agreement. There are, however, numerous tensions

inherent within its internal structures, which constantly have to be

negotiated. Relations between households and individuals are complex,

often tense and fractious. Ideals of peaceful cooperation and united

decision-making are based on an idea of equal relations, in a number of

different contexts, between both households and individuals. These are

needed, however, to counteract the emergence of hierarchies and in-

equalities.12

There are richer and poorer, larger and smaller households in the

village, but the most significant status distinction is that between the

khangba and khangu. It is found in all Ladakhi and Zangskari villages,

although not, apparently, among the Muslims of the Suru valley in

Kargil (Grist 1998: Ch 2), and many analysts have described, or implied,

that the khangba is socially superior to the khangu (Kaplanian 1981:

133; Dollfus 1989: 156-57). Mills (2003:66), for example, describes the

khangba as the place of surplus production, which is able to supply

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 59

Dollfus (1989: 57) does describe the strategies of younger sons to obtain greater13

status for their khangu and the possibilities now afforded by wage labour. However, she

also remarks that as of the late 1980s most khangu had, in fact, been established for at

least forty years.

festivals and sponsor monastic rituals, while the khangu merely has

sufficient for its own survival. The khangba is the place of reproduction,

while in the khangu the (older) members are expected to live increas-

ingly celibate lives. In Photoksar I found, however, that older genera-

tions were often keen to move out of their khangba into a khangu. In

Khangltakh such a move was being contemplated during my field-work

on the grounds that the younger couple were not pulling their weight in

the house. When discussing this prospect both Morup and Api Rigzin

expressed a certain pride in the fact that their two generations had not

separated, but had lived together harmoniously for many years. Never-

theless, they talked about their move without expressing any resentment

at having to move from their larger house and long-standing home. In a

khangu their work loads would be lighter and the taxes lower, they

explained. 13

In other contexts, too, living in a khangu was presented as being a

preferable option because of the lighter village obligations. One of the

village khangba, Pili, had effectively been abandoned in the late twenti-

eth century, having produced no heirs in a previous generation. This had

happened twice and the first time, as is normal, a nama and makpa had

been found from other houses. When it had happened again people

began to suspect that bad spirits might be attached to the house. After

explaining this to me the Khangltakh women also commented that it was

always difficult to find someone in the village prepared to take on the

burden of being a khangba householder. There were generally plenty of

unmarried younger sons around, they explained, but such men generally

preferred to remain, unmarried, in a khangu, where their work-loads

would be lighter. The khangba is larger and richer than the khangu,

therefore, but the social status that accompanies this is counter-balanced

by the burden of greater agricultural responsibilities, heavier taxes and

more extensive social obligations, so much so that, given the choice,

many people prefer the latter.

Between the khangba, while every household has enough land and

livestock to support a family some do have a significantly greater

number of fields and larger houses. Wealth is most clearly marked by the

fact that the richer households are able to host the more elaborate social

60 CHAPTER THREE

This was the most dramatic change in fortunes demonstrated by the land records,14

however, which otherwise suggest a certain stability in wealth.

events, to which a certain prestige attaches. Paljor suggested that the

reason that two of the village chutsoks are called ‘Khangltakh khor’ and

‘Chulam khor’, after the houses with those names, was that way back

these were the first households to acquire more sophisticated household

goods and to invite others to social events. Khangltakh also has a large

landholding and during the harvest it sends out an invitation for manual

help, providing two meals with plenty of chang for the workers. This

clearly demonstrates the status of Khangltakh as one of the wealthier

households. During my first harvest in the village, however, when the

family were explaining the event to me, they described it as ‘just a party

that we always hold’. Differences in wealth were always downplayed

and it was some time before I was sure that Khangltakh was, indeed, one

of the wealthier households.

Such differences are generally historic, but fortunes do fluctuate

according to size of family because a large family can cultivate more

fields and tend more animals. Machu Gongma, one of the two khangba

at Machu, for example, is a large house and in the 1908 land settlement

records is listed as owning over 100 sheep and goats. This was by far the

greatest number of any of the Photoksar households at that time. When

I mentioned this to the family in Khangltakh, however, they laughed and

asked if I knew how many sheep and goats the family now had. It was

just twenty-five, considerably fewer than in Khangltakh. ‘They do not

have enough people at Machu Gongma to look after them any more,’

they explained. They were obviously amused by this demonstration of

fluctuating fortunes. Beyond the social events and livestock numbers14

there are few obvious markers of wealth. Dress, for example, is uniform

in quality as well as style. The only clear symbol of wealth is the

woman’s perak, the turquoise studded head-dress that she receives from

her family on marriage. However, this is more an indication of the

wealth of her natal home and that of her mother than of her new home.

Whilst, therefore, there are marks of social superiority in the village,

which are linked to the wealth of a household and the types of events it

can afford to host, there are also rhetorical and social practices by which

the villagers downplay the wider significance of such distinctions. Paljor

and Morup told me that when a household obtains a new source of

wealth and become richer, this causes khon, resentment, which can bring

people into conflict. Wealth is not something the villagers boast about

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 61

This position has been formalised by the structure of the land records, which list15

the eldest man as head of household and owner of all the property. However, it is

probably true that some concept of household head pre-dated these records. When

discussing the longevity of households, for example, Paljor and Meme Sonam were able

to recite the names of heads of households back into earlier periods.

and, on the contrary, Paljor was keen that if I found any Westerners

willing to sponsor a Photoksar child to attend a school in Leh then one

of the poorer families should benefit. Everyone is aware of the dispari-

ties in wealth but they resist discussing and even acknowledging them

and in the vast majority of respects all households and their members are

treated as being socially equal.

This tension between the contrary forces of hierarchy and equality is

matched by even more complex relations between individuals, both

those within one household and those of different houses. As with the

difference between khangba and khangu, some writers have seen the

difference between older and younger sons in terms of social status.

Gutschow, for example, describes the household as maintaining an

authority structure with a clear head of household, a position which

determines many social and ritual roles in the village (1998: 56). This

position passes from father to elder son. Aggarwal (2004: 74) avers that

when a male child is born to the eldest son, that son ‘stakes his claim as

head of the main household ... requiring that his parents and siblings

shift to an auxiliary dwelling’. This is vastly to over-dramatise the

dynamics that generally arise (see e.g. Dollfus 1989: 154).

In Khangltakh both the grandfather, Meme Sonam, and the father,

Paljor, had lived under one roof for many years after the latter’s majority

and there was no clear head of household. Meme Sonam was still very

active during my fieldwork, even after his grandson, Gyaltsen, had

reached adulthood and taken a nama, and none of the three men had any

obvious superiority when it came to household affairs. In a few distinct

areas, such as property division, any Meme, even one who has moved to

a khangu, has a specific role to play. ‘When there is a question of15

succession he determines everything,’ they told me. In Khangltakh it was

Meme Sonam who finalised the divorce agreement for his son, Tsewang.

However, this status does not extend into other situations. Paljor made

equally important decisions, deciding to spend a large amount of money

on a small property in Leh, for example, against the counsel of both his

parents. Tsewang took a minor role to that of his elder brother in house-

hold affairs, but this was primarily due to the fact that he spent most of

his time in the mountains with the livestock. When he was back in the

62 CHAPTER THREE

village he took part in discussions of household and village affairs and

attended village meetings.

Elder sons do, undoubtedly have a certain status in the village,

therefore, but this is counteracted by the ways in which this is downplay-

ed in practice. One of the main ways in which this is done is, of course,

in the dralgo, which requires that a younger son from a poorer khangu

will take a higher seat to an elder son from a richer khangba, purely

because of his age.

Trelba

One of the strongest, but least explicit, of the forces that promote

equality in the village is an antipathy towards individualism and a

corresponding expectation of conformity in daily life. All agricultural

techniques are, for example, common to the whole village. Households

are maintained, food is prepared and clothes are sewn in the same way.

A village woman can sit down at anyone else’s stove and prepare a meal.

At Losar guests are given meat, at the spring festival dras tuk (rice

stew); skyu (round noodles) and chu tagi (bow-shaped noodles) go with

meat while tukpa, vegetarian or cheese stew, contains long flat noodles.

Neighbouring villages may have slightly different trims when it comes

to their clothes or the tailoring of their shoes but within Photoksar even

the colour and style of their knitted hats is standard. Turquoise is good

for women, but not for men, Choron informed me. Each time I acquired

a new piece of local clothing (including the turquoise acrylic hat that, I

realised, had to replace the warm black wool I had brought from Leh)

and began to look more and more like a villager, the women noticed and

approved. Conformity, not individuality, is beautiful.

Conformity also governs social events. Most parties are determined

by the time of year or circumstances, such as a birth or marriage, and

everyone knows what to expect from each event. Only small variations

in the size, the quality of the food and the amount of chang offered are

countenanced. There are rules, too, for who is invited to each event - the

whole village or just the phaspun, relatives or neighbours. Whenever I

returned from a social event, Api Rigzin would ask for a detailed

account of the proceedings, who was there and what had been served. If

I got something wrong a sceptical look would immediately cross her

face.

These expectations of conformity are generally expressed through the

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 63

Of all the generosities that my hosts in Photoksar displayed towards me, learning16

to indulge my persistent desire to participate in mundane tasks, which meant overcoming

this sense of embarrassment, was one of the greatest.

notion of trelba, which can mean all of embarrassing, shameful and

contrary to social etiquette. It is much heard in everyday conversation

and applies to such things as placing the small tables, choktse, the wrong

way around, sitting too high in the dral, spending too much time visiting

other people and accepting their hospitality, even writing a letter or

speaking incorrectly. Clumsiness, but also breaches of eating rules, such

as passing an individual plate above the serving dish are all trelba.

Children learn their social and practical skills very young, which means

that adults are not used to being teachers for each other and they were

frustratingly averse to teaching me anything difficult. This reluctance

was partly lack of habit but also a concern that they might have to point

out that I was doing something wrong which they would have considered

trelba, embarrassing for me. It was something that constantly marked me

out as an outsider. I was exempt from participation in everyday tasks, but

if I tried and failed, which I did repeatedly, the results were embarrass-

ing. 16

Trelba, therefore, stigmatises inappropriate behaviour. The contrary,

socially appropriate behaviour, consists in knowing one’s place, acting

appropriately in any social situation and knowing the right way to

perform all household and agricultural tasks. Even greater merit is

acquired by publicly downplaying one’s status, as happens, most obvi-

ously, in the fight to take a lowly dral position. Such merit could be

characterised as a form of social capital. This capital is, however,

acquired through conformity rather than the display of individual

qualities attracting status and superiority. Trelba is one of several

concepts and practices that promote a sense of unity and equality

amongst the individuals who comprise the community. The rules of the

dral, membership of the yulpa and significance of local knowledge,

associated with the concept of trelba, also serve to mark out the insider

from the outsider, a point I return to in the following chapter.

Leadership and autonomy in village politics

The conformity in behaviour that is expected of individual villagers is

mirrored in notions of unity and agreement, which are intrinsic to the

64 CHAPTER THREE

political authority exercised within the village. The goba is more of an

agent of the yulpa than an autonomous leader with personal power.

Moreover, a sense of inclusion and agreement characterises the activities

of the yulpa, the ultimate political authority in the village. Decisions are

always represented as having been taken by ‘all of us’, suggesting equal-

ity in political participation.

This is the way in which the village administration was always de-

scribed and presented to me. In practice, too, it was almost impossible

for me to identify any de facto leaders in the village or men with lasting

influence on village affairs. Workers from a Ladakhi development or-

ganisation who were undertaking a project in Photoksar, for example,

referred to some of the village men as ‘active’, Paljor in particular. They

were the ones who first introduced me to the village and when I arrived

I expected to be able to identify prominent and influential men. Paljor,

I could easily see, was educated, clever and highly regarded in the vil-

lage. However, when his term of office as village membar came to an

end he strongly resisted attempts made by others to continue to involve

him in the resolution of disputes. A group of men came to the house, one

evening, to report a quarrel and instead of going to assist Paljor indicated

a reluctance to give up further time to village duties: it was someone

else’s turn, he protested.

My attempts to identify effective leaders were constantly thwarted by

counter-examples and denials, like this: the onpo, for example, is the

most senior man socially, in the village, and his pronouncements with

respect to the calendar are followed absolutely. He was the one called to

Khangltakh to mediate Tsewang’s divorce. However, he only performed

such a role once during my stay and it soon became apparent that he had

no particular political authority. He generally talked very little in village

meetings and when conversation turned to village politics he was one of

the least vocal. In fact, there were no men who were called on more than

others to be mediators. Meme Sonam was often deferred to within our

household as a source of knowledge and experience and people would

often come to seek his advice on practical matters, such as the tailoring

of clothes and shoes. Even he, along with the other older men, however,

did not have any obvious political influence. Indeed, he once complained

to me that he now had less influence in the village because he was grow-

ing old.

The villagers themselves never acknowledged the superior capacities

and influence of any individuals. At one point a foreign development

worker came to the village and called for a small meeting of influential

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 65

men. Her Ladakhi interpreters, trained in the town to look for leaders

and ‘active men’, translated this as mi gyalla, good men. However, the

villagers simply sent the goba and membars. On another occasion

Gyaltsen tried to throw his weight around by being physically aggressive

to the school teacher. Sonam Phuntsog told me he thought that Gyaltsen

was trying to rely on his father’s status. Paljor, however, disciplined

Gyaltsen severely for this behaviour. He was ambitious for his children,

but this took the form of a desire that they be well educated so that, as

he explained to me, they might become amchis or onpos. These are the

only forms of status to which individuals can properly aspire.

Outspoken characters in the village, those that have ideas about what

they want and are the sort of people who might become leaders in other

societies, tended to get into arguments, thereby attracting strong disap-

proval. One woman impressed the same development worker, who had

brought some dentists to the village, by gamely agreeing to undergo

extensive treatment and then insisting that her daughter do the same,

holding her head during the process. ‘This is just the sort of person we

need to galvanise the villagers into action,’ commented the development

worker. I had to demur. She was treated with suspicion by her fellow

villagers because she was forthright and got herself into too many argu-

ments. The women in my household had already told me she was tsokpo

because of the number of times she had become involved in serious

quarrels in the last few years.

Ladakhi villagers are often strongly criticised by development work-

ers (and not without justification if change and development are the

goals) for their lack of leadership and innovation. As I have suggested

elsewhere (Pirie 2002), this can be attributed to their reluctance to ac-

knowledge and grant power or authority to individuals with leadership

qualities and their corresponding practices of selecting a headman by

rotation. This, of course, means that the goba is often one of the least

politically capable men in the village. He also has to call a village meet-

ing to secure approval for any controversial new proposal, which is a

further barrier to innovation and change.

It was, in the end, possible to see that some of the older men did

concern themselves more in village affairs, were more ready to speak in

meetings and had voices that were listened to with more respect than

those of others. However, their influence over village politics was very

subtle and, in the case of Paljor, the chance to take a more prominent

role was actively avoided. There is a resistance to asserting status in this

way. Social capital attaches to self-effacement and knowing one’s place

66 CHAPTER THREE

in the village order. To an extent, status and respect are earned by those

with age, education and knowledge of the chos, as well as those with the

positions of amchi and onpo. However, these statuses are strictly limited

in their significance and there is more merit to be gained by denying

social superiority.

Social status is also attributed to outsiders, most visibly in the struc-

ture of the dral. All visitors are placed high in the dral and I, too, was

initially forced to take a seat here. I had to make deliberate and pro-

longed efforts to sit with the women while in Khangltakh, and according

to my age in the dral on social occasions. Subsequently, when returning

to the village, I was again required to take a high position. Respect is

also paid by the use of honorific language, zhe skat, with which monks

and members of the aristocracy are almost invariably addressed. This

symbolic respect paid to outsiders serves to distinguish them from mem-

bers of the village. Close relations and those who stay for any length of

time, as I did, are eventually addressed in normal language and inte-

grated into the age-ranking order of the dral, symbolising our partial

integration into the social structures of the village. However, initially

outsiders are physically set apart. These markers of respect subtly indi-

cate the boundaries of the community.

This is even more marked at village meetings. While the dral places

outsiders, like monks, in higher positions, the body of yulpa excludes

them completely. They never attend village meetings as members of the

yulpa. Even the Lamayuru komnyer, who was from a village family and

would, otherwise, have attended village meetings, was never invited. His

status placed him outside the ranks of the yulpa. When outsiders, such

as development workers, visit the village they often call for a village

meeting, usually with the attendance of women. This is not, however,

considered as a meeting of the yulpa and it is not regarded as an appro-

priate place for the villagers to discuss the tral or to mediate conflict, for

example. The notion of the yulpa thus symbolises the boundaries of

village membership and marks out an important separation between

monks and lay householders.

Order in the village is, therefore, the responsibility of the yulpa,

acting in the village meeting. They have the power to make and enforce

the tral and also, as I describe in the next chapter, to manage and punish

those who engage in conflict. They are, however, bound by their own

trims. There is, thus, a strong sense of autonomy in village organisation:

this is found both in the composition of the yulpa, which excludes out-

siders, and in the power of ngati trims, customs rooted in the village

VILLAGE ORGANISATION 67

itself, but which represent a quasi transcendent force that binds the

authority of the yulpa.

The village, as a community, is, therefore, made up of a web of cross-

cutting ties, characterised by tendencies towards hierarchy and status,

which are counteracted by processes of uniformity and equality. What

is of constant concern to the villagers, however, is that relations between

households and individuals should be cooperative and peaceful. Ensur-

ing this is one of the most onerous and important responsibilities of the

yulpa.

Tea should always be available when there are people in the house. Being able to1

store it in a thermos rather than a simmering kettle is one of the many advantages modern

technology has brought to the village. However, the glass-lined vessels they buy in Leh

are easily broken and tiresome to transport.

CHAPTER FOUR

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE

During the first few months of my fieldwork, when I could still under-

stand very little of what was being said around me, I would prick up my

ears whenever I heard raised voices and run to catch a glimpse of

quarreling people from the roof of our house or the window of my room.

In my quest to gather data on disputes, however, I was invariably

disappointed. Paljor’s tone of outrage turned out to be directed at a guest

who was hastily tucking his empty cup into a pocket and tearing himself

away from the chang jug and Paljor’s entreaties to stay. The neighbour’s

cries were last minute instructions to a husband who was departing with

his donkeys down the hill. Information, invitations and instructions were

shouted from afar. It was never insults that were being flung around.

The villagers seemed to be able to avoid quarrels and arguments

when tiredness, frustration and displeasure might have provided reasons

for bad tempers and cross words. They laughed easily at their own and

others’ mistakes. The breaking of a thermos, a valuable item, was

greeted with a shrug of the shoulders and a sigh. Tsewang would1

emerge out of a snowstorm in the mountains, where he must have spent

a miserably freezing night, and laugh as he thawed his hands by the

stove. A runaway donkey or a cloud of chaff blown into the face were

greeted with laughter. Dignity, it seemed to me, did not need to be

upheld by showing annoyance or blaming another person for one’s

misfortunes.

At Khangltakh I could occasionally sense tension in Meme Sonam’s

sharp remarks or an exhausted Morup speaking crossly to Paljor. This

was obvious even before I could understand the details of their conversa-

tions. But I never actually witnessed anything that could be termed a

quarrel. Paljor would listen while the tone of Morup’s voice gradually

subsided. Gyaltsen shrugged his shoulders and said nothing while Meme

Sonam complained. Even mild expressions of annoyance were rarely

directed at others. During the harvest, while the whole family worked

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE 69

long days to pull out whole fields of barley and peas by hand under a hot

sun Gyaltsen and Choron spent a large amount of their time lying on

their backs in the fields, eating the peas and young turnips they found

there, while the others persevered with their back-breaking labours. It

annoyed me to see them lounging around. ‘Why doesn’t anyone else

remark on it?’ I wondered. Only once did I see Tsewang, the most

outspoken of the family, tell Gyaltsen he might get back to work. It was

not that the others did not notice and did not mind, however. It became

apparent later that the older generations were seriously displeased with

the extent to which the young couple were failing to contribute to the

household’s tasks. As I became more integrated into the household both

Morup and Api Rigzin divulged their disapproval of Choron to me: she

was refusing to help and stealing food. But the extent of their displeasure

was not even hinted at while they were together in the fields and they

never treated Choron with anything but warmth and concern. Good

personal relations were always maintained. When I visited Photoksar

eighteen months later the family had decided to divide and both the older

generations were going to move to a khangu, a disastrous occurrence for

the young couple, who would have to maintain the large khangba, with

all the related tax and social obligations, on their own. Nevertheless,

they were all working together to build the new house and maintaining

harmonious family relations in the meantime.

Once, when I returned to the village from a visit to Leh, both Morup

and Paljor told me privately that they had had an argument about some

money. They were obviously concerned that someone else might tell me

about the quarrel as, indeed, one of the village women did, and wanted

to impress on me that it had all been resolved. There was obviously an

element of shame in having a public quarrel. Earlier in my stay Tsewang

and Yangzes had had a stormy argument. I did not witness this but

people told me that she had reproached him for hitting their son, upon

which he had hit her. As a result she had become angry (sho yongse) and

taken her two children back to Wadze, her natal khangba in the village.

Just days after the event Khangltakh hosted a party, however, which both

Yangzes’s brother and father attended and I watched them chatting and

laughing without any sign of tension. There had, indeed, been an argu-

ment; it was being treated seriously by both families and eventually lead

to a divorce, but in the mean time the wider families were refusing to let

it affect their social relations. Public displays of anger, discontent and

disharmony were, thus, rare, and it gradually became clear that such

behaviour attracted moral disapproval.

70 CHAPTER FOUR

The morality of anger

Paljor quickly became one of my major sources of information about the

village, its history and customs. The women in the family were, on the

other hand, the most outspoken in their judgments of their fellow

villagers. They were particularly critical of those who got involved in

public quarrels. In the aftermath of one argument between two village

women Morup and Choron told me that one of the protagonists was very

bad because she got into a lot of arguments. They could list the number

of people with whom she had quarrelled over the years. I never saw

women being critical of their husbands in such a forthright way as when

they suspected them of arguing and they were positively afraid at the

thought of their men fighting. One evening Gyaltsen, who normally

drank very little, came back slightly drunk from a party at which raised

voices had been heard. He was immediately harangued by Choron, with

the support of Morup and Api Rigzin: ‘If you get drunk you will start

arguing,’ she said, ‘and then you will get into a fight.’ Gyaltsen took the

criticism in silence. One of the most serious fights I saw occurred

between drunken men at a wedding. As soon as her husband reappeared

the young wife of one of the protagonists started shaking and berating

him in floods of tears telling him very publicly to ‘go away, go home!’

The villagers talked about both fighting and arguing in the abstract

as very bad. The phrase used to describe people who got into quarrels

was usually tsokpo, a general word meaning bad or dirty but also used

to signify strong disapproval. This is distinct from behaviour which is

merely regarded as breaching the trims, which is greeted by amusement

and the phrase jara met khan (I/you have been clumsy/stupid). The use

of the words gyalla, good, and tsokpo, bad, in such contexts implies

moral approval and disapproval.

The condemnation of conflict was matched by the censure of those

who expressed anger. Whenever anger, sho, was mentioned it was with

a shake of the head. To get angry, sho yongse, was always tsokpo. The

concept of sho can generally be translated as ‘anger’, but it was also

used, with the same element of disapproval, to refer to people who

merely expressed aversion or displeasure. A visiting foreign tourist, for

example, had stayed in the main guest room in Khangltakh, the one I

normally occupied, while I was away for a few days. After I had returned

he came through the village again and was offered the second, smaller

guest room. He thought this was inadequate and went off to try to find

something better. As the Khangltakhpa described it, he had become

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE 71

When he failed to find a better room elsewhere and returned to Khangltakh they2

were not, however, too proud to offer him the second room again.

cross, sho yongse, which they considered to be tsokpo and they refused

to let me offer him my room as an alternative. 2

Disapproval was also voiced of those who were perceived as failing

to co-operate with others. As already mentioned, the young couple in

Khangltakh were regarded as falling well below their implicit duties to

contribute to the household tasks. Choron, Morup told me, should be

relieving Api Rigzin of some of her work, by insisting, ‘no, I’ll do that.’

Any failure to comply with the obligation to help and co-operate with

other households, particularly in agricultural matters, also attracted

criticism. The sheep and goats were taken up to the mountains every day

in two combined flocks, for example, and each morning someone from

each household would milk the animals and then drive them to the

meeting point. Very often, one person would ask a neighbour to take

both groups together and it was expected that the other would agree. In

one case a quarrel ensued from one woman’s refusal to do this and she

was quietly criticised by Morup. ‘If someone else asks us to take their

animals we should say ‘ya ya’� (OK), she told me. In other words, there

is a clear social and moral obligation to assist others. A similar expecta-

tion of co-operation also ensures that water from the smaller irrigation

channels and their maintenance is shared fairly.

Along with anger, selfishness and laziness are, thus, readily criti-

cised. When a development worker visited the village and gave out free

toothbrushes Morup told me indignantly that she had seen a couple of

women asking for more than they needed. ‘Some people always say nga

nga’ (me, me), was the view of the others around the stove that evening.

On another occasion the komnyer did not arrive when he was expected

to perform a ceremony in Khangltakh, causing inconvenience to Morup.

Paljor shook his head and said that the komnyer was lhende. Lhende can

mean stupid or selfish but he meant lazy and unhelpful in this context.

Such strong criticism is rarely voiced publicly of anyone, especially a

monk, and Morup’s comments about the selfishness of the village

women were equally unprecedented. The villagers’ reluctance to express

sho means they are rarely openly critical of each other. They are more

likely to talk about anger and fighting in the abstract. Nevertheless, after

I had spent some time in the village and became integrated into the

household, the Khangltakhpa expressed critical views to me which

72 CHAPTER FOUR

indicated the implicit moral standards by which they were constantly

appraising each other’s behaviour.

Anger, laziness and selfishness are all, then, regarded as bad. Positive

stubbornness is even worse. Apart from getting into arguments, simply

stirring up trouble by talking badly of others was also described as

tsokpo. For the most part, the villagers avoided behaviour which dis-

played such characteristics. The excessive drinking of alcohol was also

frequently criticised in the abstract, being linked to the occurrence of

quarrels and fights. Alcohol, in general, was mentioned with disap-

proval. However, the expectations of hospitality demanded that chang

was brewed, offered and drunk in very large quantities. The drunkenness

the villagers fear was regularly forced by them upon one another. In

practice, when a man (much more rarely a woman) returned home drunk

from a social event and fell asleep in front of the stove he was laughed

at indulgently. What the villagers really fear is alcohol-induced aggres-

sion. As Meme Sonam once said to me, ‘most of us just fall asleep, but

chang makes some men feel tall and then they start arguing.’ It is the

resulting quarrels that are the real object of the disapproval of drinking

in the village.

Adultery was never discussed by the Photoksarpa in front of me but

Sonam Phuntsog, the teacher posted in Photoksar, assured me it was

common in the village. It is disapproved of, ‘but’, he explained, ‘a man

will say, "it is OK because my wife has done the same thing," or, "her

husband is proud"’. In practice, the child of a wife will always be

regarded as her husband’s son or daughter and a child of her household,

even when everyone knows the biological facts, and I never heard of any

conflict arising out of adultery. It is the child of an unmarried woman

that is a problem because a child must, above all, have a household. As

with the chang, therefore, the underlying object of the behaviour that

attracts moral disapproval is the social disruption that is liable to result.

These moral judgments are directed at the overall good of a harmonious

community.

Morality and the individual mind

The moral realm is, therefore, a public one, directed at a public good.

Any scheme of moral imperatives, however, implies a distinction

between an ‘is’ and an ‘ought’. It implies that the person is, in certain

crucial respects, an autonomous individual, responsible for his own acts,

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE 73

People would also attribute anger to a sems lchinte, literally a strong mind, but they3

would use this phrase interchangeably with sems chungun.

capable of choosing to act correctly and, consequently, worthy of

opprobrium if he does not. The individual who gets angry in Photoksar

‘ought’ to restrain himself.

When discussing anger in the abstract, the villagers would generally

attribute it to having a sems chungun, a ‘small mind’. This involved a

certain recognition that individuals have different sorts of minds, which

affects their tendency to express certain sorts of emotions. Expressions

of emotion are, on many occasions, matters of ritual display, particularly

during the events of a wedding when a bride is expected to weep contin-

uously over several days. The villagers also, however, recognise that

some individuals tend to be more emotional than others. In Khangltakh,

Api Rigzin would always cry easily, much more than Morup, and people

laughed about this, although it was not something she was proud of. She

was considered to have a sems chungun, which meant that she also

quickly became afraid in the dark. All Ladakhis, but especially women,

are expected to be afraid outside at night or when travelling alone

because of the lhandre, the ghosts, and the evil spirits. The Khangltakh-

pa were always amazed when I wanted to travel alone and when they

saw westerners trekking by themselves. Many men also refused to do

this and some would not even spend a night alone in a house, a fact

remarked upon during these conversations. Other men, however, gener-

ally those who do the yak-herding, spend long days relatively alone in

their huts in the mountains. These men have sems chenmo, big minds,

people explained. A large or small mind or, indeed, something in

between, is what you are born with, therefore, rather than being the

result of personal effort or practice. Paljor, for example, readily admitted

that he had a sems chungun and his mother agreed that he used to get

terribly afraid in the dark as a child while his brother, Tsewang, and son,

Tundup, are afraid of nothing.

Having a sems chungun, then, means that you tend to get emotional

at leave-takings and are easily afraid in the dark. Paradoxically, how-

ever, the sems chungun is also equated with anger. In one conversation3

Paljor explicitly linked the two. ‘If you have a sems chungun you get

angry; and you also get afraid easily’. This patently does not reflect the

reality because individuals who were fearless could also be those who

were quick to anger. Tsewang was a good example of this. Nevertheless,

74 CHAPTER FOUR

the fearful sems chungun was equated with the strong mind, prone to

anger, while the fearless sems chenmo is the soft mind of patience.

There is a conflation of the moral and the emotional worlds here.

Anger attracts moral disapproval while fear and weeping are merely

laughed at. The thread that links the two ideas is the notion of self-

control. Those who do not become angry are self-disciplined and an

emotionally self-disciplined person should be able both to master the

emotion of fear and to control the morally reprehensible expression of

anger. This is to ascribe autonomy to the individual, however, which

makes evident the conceptual paradox in the concept of the sems. It is

something a person is born with and is unchangeable. Some people are

inevitably liable to cry at leave-takings and to be afraid in the dark. Yet

the sems is also supposed to account for the expression of anger, which

is the object of moral opprobrium. The man who is tsokpo because he

gets angry ‘ought’ to restrain himself, to exert a measure of self-control,

implying the exercise of individual will. On the one hand, therefore,

each individual has an unalterable propensity to a certain expression of

emotion: the concept of sems expresses innate differences in individual

personalities. On the other, however, there is a set of moral values with

which the individual ought to comply: anger is a controllable emotion

and the individual is a free agent to act appropriately.

Mauss, in his celebrated essay (1985), discusses the different con-

cepts of the person that have existed in different societies over time. He

describes the social person identified with clan totems and ancestors

among the North Americans, the jural person of Classical Rome, the

moral person of the Greek Moralists and the Christian notion of the

person as rational and indivisible. He also draws a distinction between

the personne, the socially-constructed person, and the moi, the individual

free agent. He is describing the different ideas encompassed in the

concept of the person as it has evolved through time and across cultures.

However, his essay becomes particularly enlightening if, as Allen (1985:

42) has suggested, it is allowed that several such aspects may exist

synchronically. A person may be identified with his clan, but also be a

jural individual and a rational being. To this complex we could add the

coexistence of moi- and personne- oriented systems. As Carrithers points

out (1985: 235, 236) Mauss draws a distinction between the personne

and the moi, the social person and the individual, and then elides the

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE 75

The moi-oriented moral systems of Stoicism, Christianity and Buddhism, for4

example, are based on images of man alone, ‘communing with nature of the German

Romantics, acting according to his intrinsic human nature for the Stoics, meditating in

the forest for the Theravada Buddhists, struggling in one’s room in prayer for Protestant

Christians’. ‘There are theories found in complex societies which simply could not be

characteristic of a simple society.’ (1985: 48-49) In other words, the moi-oriented

systems are also social constructs. If the Ladakhi villagers do not participate fully in the

philosophies of Buddhism, as I suggest in the next chapter, they do, nevertheless, have

a sense of moral responsibility which implies individual will and responsibility.

The concepts of flesh (sha) and bone (rus) are also connected to ideas about the5

transmission of bodily substances from parents to children, which are part of the kinship

patterns of the clan-based societies of Tibet, although not given any prominence in

Ladakh.

Mills (forthcoming) stresses the physical elements of spirit possession in the Tibetan6

region.

difference. The moi- and the personne-oriented systems do, in fact,4

relate to and influence one another.

The individual in Photoksar is, accordingly, defined in numerous,

interlinking and not always consistent ways. The sems can be attacked

by the evil spirits to cause physical illness; the physical person of the5

lhaba, the spirit medium, is liable to be possessed; membership of the6

yulpa is a jural position; the social individual in the dral-go has a status

determined by gender and age; the fortunes of the person as a metaphysi-

cal being are influenced by astrological configurations; the fate of the

soul in the next life is governed by the laws of karma; and there is the

individual who is autonomous with respect to the dictates of morality.

The moral, social, jural and metaphysical are all distinguishable, al-

though interlinked, aspects of the Ladakhi person. Even the moi is a

complex of ideas: on the one hand its nature is determined by the sems

and on the other it is autonomous with respect to moral behaviour. It

would be a mistake, I would suggest, to try to rationalise these different

aspects. Despite the notion of the sems chungun, each individual is also

a moi who inhabits a moral universe, responsible for keeping the peace

and avoiding the evils of anger and conflict. In a similar way, as I

suggest in the next chapter, Buddhist notions of the individual soul,

subject to the moral laws of karma, do not eclipse the notion of the moi

who inhabits the realm of village morality.

76 CHAPTER FOUR

Order and responsibility

The way the Photoksar villagers judge each other, which aspect of the

person they invoke at any particular time, is very much dependent on

context. When discussing fear and anger in the abstract, for example,

these emotions are attributed to the state of a person’s sems. In the

context of particular instances of conflict, on the other hand, one villager

is more likely to pass a moral judgment on another, criticising him or her

as tsokpo for getting angry. The attribution of moral responsibility to

individuals within the village must also, therefore, be approached from

the point of view of those who place the blame.

In his comparative discussion of violence in an African and a British

setting, David Parkin (1986) points out that two different views of evil-

doing and evil-doers can be distinguished. Referring to a study by

Pocock (1985) he distinguishes between a relativistic or circumstantial

view of evil, on the one hand, and a more absolute image, on the other.

Those who adopt the first can excuse gross perpetrators, regarding them

as individuals who might have excuses or who can, at least, claim

reasons for forgiveness. The second view precludes such forgiveness.

Pocock’s study, based on British data, had suggested that the second was

the majority attitude: public attitudes to crime tend to condemn the

perpetrators by reference to the effects of their actions on society,

demanding punishment to fit the crime. However, as Parkin suggests

(1986: 209), most people (in the west) probably alternate at some time

between different attitudes to criminality.

The more absolutist view, which characterises perpetrators as deviant

and crime as a lapse from absolute standards of socially acceptable

behaviour, is the attitude adopted by the Ladakhi villagers in many

contexts. They do recognise that anger and violence can be caused by

provocation - people worry if they think their remarks have made

someone else angry. However, such provocation never excuses the other

person’s anger. The expression of anger and use of harsh words are

never considered to be morally justified within the village, so much so

that the concept of revenge is unequivocally disapproved of. After a

fight a man may try to justify his own aggression on the basis that the

other person provoked him or struck the first blow, but this does not

absolve the sin of fighting.

This became apparent in the context of a discussions about the Sumde

Gokpo, some old wooden Buddha statues in the village of Sumda

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE 77

‘Gokpo’ is the word used to refer to things that are old and in disrepair, like the7

abandoned temple above Photoksar. However, Tim Malyon, who has studied these

statues (Malyon and Denwood 1986) told me that gokpo can also refer to the long trance

that Buddhist meditators enter into. The statues date from between 1000 and 1350

(Luczanits 2005: 84).

In fact, the explanation that the villagers of Sumda Chenmo, themselves, have given8

to others is rather different (Tim Malyon, personal communication).

Chenmo, about three days’ walk away from Photoksar. As I was about7

to leave to visit them Morup shuddered and said that the statues were

tsokpo. ‘But are they not Buddhas?’ I asked. ‘Yes but angry ones (sho

yong-khan),’ she replied. The statues turned out not to represent fear-

some protector deities with bared teeth and weapons, of the kind de-

picted on many monastery walls, however, so I asked Paljor for an

explanation when I returned. He told me that the Buddhas are angry,

tsokpo, because people go to the statues and make offerings to ask the

deities to wreak revenge for them. As far as he was concerned, there-8

fore, the task of taking revenge could be entrusted to these angry, non-

worldly beings. However, even on the part of such deities the act of

taking revenge was tsokpo, being the work of anger. The concept of

revenge, that is, is acknowledged but unequivocally disapproved of.

When I discussed it with Sonam Phuntsog he used the expression lan

tang-ba, literally: to give an answer. This can be either good or bad, a

lan gyalla or a lan tsokpo, he explained. In other words, the phrase

encompasses the returning of a favour as well as the answering of one

bad deed by another. A bad answer, lan tsokpo, is always tsokpo,

however. There is no concept of justified revenge. The idea of ‘an eye

for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’ has no local equivalent.

External events can, thus, give rise to tension in the mind, which

makes people quick to express anger. However, responsibility for angry

or aggressive actions is not absolved by these considerations. The use of

the words tsokpo and gyalla to describe those who get into fights and

arguments is an absolute moral judgment, implying that the person

always ought to and always could, restrain himself. As Parkin (1986)

suggests, we should not be surprised by inconsistencies in judgments of

personal responsibility. Provocation, like the state of one’s mind, can

give rise to anger. However, there is an over-riding moral responsibility

on the part of all individuals to restrain themselves from expressing this

emotion, which is central to the ways in which the villagers maintain

relations of order within their community.

78 CHAPTER FOUR

The same term is found in Shakhs Khang, the LBA’s mediation service.9

There are, therefore, paradoxes and inconsistencies amongst the

multiplicity of concepts which concern the individual person and

morality in Photoksar. To a large extent these reflect the context within

which (moral) judgments are made. The fact that the villagers live with

inconsistencies in their epistemological worlds is, however, of impor-

tance when examining their attitudes to the supernatural and their

relations with religious leaders.

Disputes

When anger leads to a quarrel but the protagonists walk away or make

up their differences then the incident remains merely a talking point in

the village. If animosity remains active, however, it becomes a village

concern. An unresolved dispute is an ongoing problem for the house-

holds involved and, ultimately, for the village as a whole. It is primarily

the goba’s duty to engineer a form of resolution. Whenever we discussed

the role of the goba, both in Photoksar and other villages, people always

also mentioned dispute resolution, very often first, among his list of

duties. The primary concern of his intervention is to restore good

relations between the individuals, shakhs choches. One day, for exam-9

ple, one of the village women came in a state of high indignation to talk

to Paljor, who was then village membar. She had just had a quarrel with

her daughter-in-law’s mother, a woman from another village. Paljor

listened and a few days later accompanied the goba to a meeting to

resolve the problem. Choron told me that the two women had argued and

thrown stones and that the meeting was to make them shake hands so

that they did not throw stones any more. She also used the expression

chams chug. Chug means ‘to cause’ and chams was explained to me in

terms of the affection that family members feel for each other. A rela-

tionship of chams was to be restored between them. No-one could tell

me what the quarrel had actually been about, however. That was not the

point. It was the argument that was the problem and Paljor’s responsibil-

ity, as village membar, was to ensure that good relations were restored.

For the villagers, disputes are events of public significance and

shakhs (mediation) is a conscious, deliberate process. It is a widely

discussed village practice which follows a hierarchical pattern culminat-

ing in the meeting of the yulpa, the village’s ultimate judicial authority.

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE 79

There are two phenomena here, which could be distinguished as ‘differ-

ences’ and ‘disputes’. The words used to describe disputes are roughly

translatable as ‘shouting’, ‘flinging abuse’, ‘arguing’, ‘quarrelling’ and

‘fighting’, in other words overt forms of antagonism. Their public nature

means that disputes affect the whole community. Mere differences that

do not result in overt antagonism, by contrast, are dealt with as practical

problems. On the border between differences and disputes are those bad

relations between individuals who, nevertheless, avoid an open quarrel.

I came across one of these in the village one winter, when I returned

after my primary period of fieldwork. Two men had not talked to each

other since the previous summer when an argument over livestock had

occurred. Two other men had decided to try to get the disputants to sit

down and shake hands, but without success. They were sure, however,

that things would eventually be resolved. Some of the older men would

get involved and ‘talk wisely’, they told me. The bad relations between

the two men were not an urgent problem for the community, but gener-

ated a continuing sense of unease, both because of the disrupted house-

hold relations but, more importantly, because they could develop into a

full-scale fight if they were not resolved.

Differences or disputes that do not involve violence might be re-

solved by employing the services of a mediator, a barmi. As already

mentioned, shortly after I arrived in the village Tsewang, Paljor’s

younger brother, had had an argument with his wife, Yangzes, during the

course of which he had hit her. It was reported to me that she had then

‘become angry’, sho yongse, and returned to Wadze, her natal home. In

the days that followed there was much contact between the families.

Meme Sonam, Gyaltsen and Morup from Khangltakh all went to Wadze

to ask her to come back but she said that she did not want to return.

Tsewang did not go and there was much shrugging of shoulders about

his attitude. Maybe he did not want her back. Eventually they called in

the onpo to act as mediator. According to Morup, he ‘talked wisely’. At

first he told Tsewang to go and bring Yangzes back but Tsewang said he

did not want to do so. The onpo, therefore, consulted Yangzes who also

said she did not want to return. So he suggested a divorce: one of the two

children should belong to Khangltakh and the other to Wadze. Later they

drew up an agreement which included the payment of half a yak from

Khangltakh to Wadze. The whole issue was resolved within a month.

Tsewang and Yangzes remained on bad terms but the continuation of

good relations between the two households was assured by this settle-

ment.

80 CHAPTER FOUR

Although the resolution of disputes is ultimately the goba’s responsi-

bility, others can, thus, act as mediators. There are no individuals who

are particularly qualified to assume this role, however. It is generally

older men who are asked to do so but, as with other matters of village

politics, there is no status of ‘village elder’, or the like. It is considered

to be more important that the mediator should know the parties and,

therefore, the background to the dispute. Several families divided while

I was staying in Photoksar. These are always problematic events involv-

ing the division of property, and they are sometimes acrimonious,

although members of the khangba and khangu invariably continue to co-

operate over social and agricultural events. On one occasion, for exam-

ple, the old Meme from one household came to complain to Paljor about

the situation in his khangba. He had been arguing with the Ama (the

mother), and the children were stealing his things, he said, so he wanted

to move to a khangu where he could lock the door. Paljor advised him

not to move because of the extra work that would be involved in living

by oneself, but he suggested that he should, in any event, consult a

mediator. He named another older man, a relation of the family. If that

mediator could not settle things, Paljor explained to me later, the case

would have to go to the goba and membar and if they also failed it

would be considered by the yulpa. There is a clear hierarchy in the levels

of village mediation, therefore, which culminates in the yulpa.

The mediation of disputes

Mediation is always a deliberate process, subject to public discussion

and comment. One evening the family in Khangltakh were asking me

about my own country. After questions about population, jobs and rates

of pay Paljor asked if there was a goba and if people got into fights. ‘If

so, do the neighbours intervene and resolve matters, as they do in

Photoksar?’ he asked. This then led to a discussion of the Photoksar

customs. He was quite specific about the hierarchy of mediation. First

the family will try to resolve a dispute, he said, then the neighbours will

get involved, then they will go to a mediator. If he cannot resolve the

problem the goba and membar will be called and if they cannot solve it

the case will go to a whole village meeting. As a last resort it could go

to the police, he said.

The occurrence of two fights on consecutive days at a summer

wedding, for example, prompted the most decisive judicial activity I

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE 81

witnessed during my fieldwork, with a village meeting called immedi-

ately to deal with the problem. The root of one of the fights lay in the

previous year’s New Year (Losar) celebrations, during which a fight had

occurred between two men. There was long-standing animosity between

them because the daughter of one had been married to the other man’s

younger brother. He had, therefore, joined the father’s household as a

makpa, but he had soon walked out and left his wife. The two men got

into a fight after they had been drinking during the Losar celebrations

and the following day the goba and membar were called upon to sort it

out. Morup explained to me that the goba and membar were going to tell

the two men that they had been drunk yesterday, that tomorrow they

would not be drunk, and so they must get on, shake hands and have no

more argument. I discovered, later, that the goba and membar had also

drawn up an agreement for the men to sign, each undertaking to pay a

fine of Rs1,000 to the village if he fought again.

At a wedding, about six months later, the two men did, indeed, get

into another drunken fight. Then, on the second day of the wedding

another fight erupted, this time between some of the younger village

men, three of whom ganged up against a fourth. At the time the men

were restrained by those around them, including some of the women.

This was the incident during which the young wife berated her husband

publicly in floods of tears. Very early the next day, however, the goba

came to see Paljor together with the beaten man’s father. It was agreed

that an entire village meeting was necessary. Word was put about and

the men gathered the same morning. All the protagonists were called,

except the victim of the second fight who stayed in his house. First the

yulpa dealt with the smaller fight. Because of the earlier agreement each

man acknowledged that he had to pay a fine of Rs1,000 to the village

and was made to sign another agreement to the effect that if he fought

again he would pay a fine of Rs10,000 to the village, an astronomical

amount in local terms. Even Rs1,000 was very significant and there was

much discussion in the following days about how the men had managed

to raise the money. They also went through a ceremony of yal. Yal is the

term used for the pouring of chang from a changskyan, a ceremonial

brass jug decorated with butter which is used on formal occasions. In

this case the father had to give yal first by pouring and offering chang

to the brother, because he had said the first harsh words. Then the

brother had to give yal and also a khatags to the father, because he had

struck the first blow.

82 CHAPTER FOUR

The meeting then dealt with the larger fight. From my position at a

distance I could see that each of the protagonists was being questioned.

Although there was no formality in the meeting, men coming and going

all the time, there was a small core made up of the goba and membars

who directed the questions. Paljor told me later that they had asked the

men why they had fought. The men had said that the other had used

harsh words towards them. Paljor shrugged at this, suggesting that he

thought it a poor explanation: an insult does not justify retaliation. So,

he continued, they had told the men they each had to pay a fine to the

victim because he had been hurt. The men had offered Rs500; the victim

had said that was not enough; the yulpa had then suggested Rs600 and

after some to-ing and fro-ing everyone had agreed to this figure. All four

also had to pay Rs100 to the village ‘because of the fight’ and to sign an

agreement undertaking to pay a fine of Rs5,000 if they fought again. The

goba and membar had then taken the three men down to the victim’s

house for yal. The three had given yal and khatags to the fourth and he

had then given them yal, but not a khatags, because he was the one who

had been hurt. A little while later they all emerged from the house,

laughing and talking. Good relations had, obviously, immediately been

restored. I commented on this later to Meme Sonam who said, simply,

‘chams song, yal tangs’, a relationship of chams had been restored after

the yal had been given.

There was a perceived need to restore good relations, chams, in all

these cases and in all of them the mediation of the goba and yulpa was

ultimately successful. Lingering antipathy might have remained, as it did

between the father and brother and between Tsewang and Yangzes, but

workable relations were restored, most importantly between their

respective households. Village life, with its networks of cooperation and

assistance, could, therefore, continue as normal. Similar attitudes

towards the restoration of good relations were expressed in conversa-

tions I had about disputes with informants from all over Ladakh. One

striking example is reported by Kim Gutschow from Zangskar (2004:

140-42). A case of rape, which had resulted in the death of the girl, was

dealt with entirely internally to that village. The girl’s father merely

demanded and obtained, against an admittedly guilty party, a donation

to the monastery and a payment for a sangs, purification ritual. Gutsch-

ow comments on the way in which the following year the father and his

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE 83

Gutschow attributes this reaction to belief in the law of karma. However, for the10

reasons I give in the next chapter I consider this not to be a realistic or sufficient

interpretation.

daughter’s attacker were again working side by side in the fields without

any apparent residue of animosity between them.10

The resolution of fights in Photoksar can involve an element of

punishment by the community of the individuals involved, with the

protagonists called to justify themselves before the village meeting and

fines being paid to the village, ‘for the fight’. When we were discussing

the mediation carried out by the yulpa, for example, Paljor was quite

specific about the sort of fines they would impose in different cases. In

a bad case of fighting the protagonists would have to give khatags and

yal and a fine of between Rs6,000 to Rs9,000, but the fine would only

be around Rs1,000 if the case was less serious. If it was just an argument

then they would only have to give khatags and yal. I never encountered

any cases of theft but Paljor said that if they caught a thief then the goba

and membars or the yulpa would beat him.

This punitive authority on the part of the yulpa was readily apparent

in the resolution of the most serious fight I came across in Photoksar,

which had occurred a little before I arrived in the village. The two

younger brothers of the three at Chushot, men probably in their 40s, had

argued over the Mother of the house, a problem not uncommon in

polyandrous relationships. Morup told me the background in some

detail, suggesting that the Chushot Mother had been playing the two

younger brothers off against each other, using bribery and flattery. There

had been much conflict between the two, she explained, which had

become violent, the older brother getting out his rifle at one point (he

had been in the army for a while). After this incident the yulpa had

intervened and decided that both men should leave the khangba and live

in separate khangu. They also made each sign an agreement undertaking

to pay a fine of Rs9,000 to the village if they ever returned to the

khangba. They were required to pay a smaller fine to the village immedi-

ately, ‘because of the argument’. However, after some months, when I

was in the village, the Chushot Mother enticed the younger brother back

to the khangba, asking him to help with their work, and he was seen to

be living there again. As a result he had to pay his fine to the village and

another agreement was drawn up recording this.

84 CHAPTER FOUR

The epistemology of conflict

Despite this element of punishment and even when the yulpa have

imposed fines on the parties to a dispute, conciliation is still needed

before a dispute is recognised as having been resolved. Agreement

between the protagonists is an absolute requirement. One summer, for

example, an argument occurred over the lora, the duty of certain house-

holds to protect the fields from the animals. A large group of people

gathered in the upper fields and after a while some of them passed by the

place where I was sitting and told me that two women had been quarrel-

ling over the animals. One of them was Rigzin, whose household had

that year’s lora obligations. I learned later that some animals had got

into the other woman’s fields and she had complained to Rigzin, where-

upon Rigzin had used ‘harsh language’ against her. Rigzin was clearly

seen by the villagers as having been at fault by turning the complaint

into an argument and the goba and membar went to discipline her.

However, Rigzin then started arguing with them and refused to apolo-

gise. Paljor later told me that Rigzin had been bad, tsokpo, because she

was stubborn, khyongbo, and disobedient, kha ma nyan (literally, not

hearing his words).

Now the problem was considered to have become serious. It was

discussed at the next village meeting and a group of the yulpa was sent

to ask that she apologise to the goba and membar. They came back

saying that she had refused to do so and further discussion took place.

Eventually another party of people went to threaten her with a social

boycott, chu len me len chad. This is a tactic commonly employed in a

variety of different contexts throughout Ladakh. It was used by the LBA

against the Muslims during the communal tensions which arose in Leh

in the late 1980s, for example. In the village it is the ultimate sanction

that can be applied since life would be impossible without cooperation

from other households over agricultural and ritual events. Eventually,

faced with this threat, Rigzin had agreed to give yal and say ‘jule, jule’,

that is, to apologise to the goba, and everything was settled. In this case

merely imposing a fine was not an option. The miscreant had to apolo-

gise for shakhs to have been achieved.

Even in the case of a theft, Paljor told me, the thief would have to pay

a fine as well as endure a beating. If he accepted the fine and apologised,

by saying ‘jule, jule’, that would be an end of the matter, he explained.

There is, therefore, an element of punishment in many of the settlements

negotiated by the village and heavy fines might be imposed but the

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE 85

ideology of agreement pervades them all. A case is not settled until

agreement has been achieved between the parties.

Abel (1974), along with certain legal anthropologists, defines conflict

as arising when parties develop inconsistent claims to a resource.

Gulliver (1969), for example, defines a dispute in terms of disagreement

between persons or groups in which the alleged interests or rights of one

are claimed to have been infringed by the other. Indeed, some anthropol-

ogists have concluded that it is of the essence of dispute resolution that

it involve a procedure of inquiry into guilt and responsibility and the

process of adjudication between conflicting claims (Epstein 1967). In

Photoksar, however, when a dispute or a fight occurs it is the fact of the

conflict, not the clash between competing rights, that is the focus of

attention. What are discussed by the villagers are the details of the

argument or fight, not the underlying rights and wrongs of the situation.

Indeed, an analysis of individual claims and interests is striking in its

absence. In Rigzin’s case the focus of the villagers’ attention was on the

course of the argument, initially that between the two women and later

the attitudes expressed by Rigzin towards the goba. During the course

of the yulpa’s involvement in this case the underlying cause of the

quarrel between the two women and the question of who had been at

fault for letting the sheep eat the barley was entirely forgotten. There

was no question of the woman who complained demanding or receiving

compensation.

The same emphasis on the nature of the antagonism, rather than the

underlying cause of the quarrel, can be seen in the context of another

argument which arose one summer. Two women, one from Chushot and

the other from Zurba, got into a disagreement over the res, the herding

of the sheep and goats. The Zurba Mother came to tell her story to all

those sitting at the stream, the village’s central meeting place, so it soon

became the talk of the village. Apparently her daughter had asked the

Chushot daughter to take both flocks together up to the mountains, but

the Chushot Mother had come out and told her not to, reducing the

Zurba daughter to tears. The Zurba Mother had then come to complain

and a big argument had ensued between the two women. I met one of the

village men later at the stream who confirmed these details, but when I

asked him about the rights and wrongs of the situation, enquiring who

had been tsokpo, he just shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know’, he said,

obviously feeling uncomfortable that I had even asked the question and

not wanting to have to make any judgment on the matter. That evening

Api Rigzin told me that the goba and membar had settled the problem.

86 CHAPTER FOUR

Paljor had sorted it out with khatags and yal, she said. But she could not

tell me, and was obviously not interested in, who had given what to

whom, who was right, wrong or at fault.

It was only later that Paljor told me, because I specifically asked him,

that the Chushot Mother had given yal first because she had been the

first to use harsh words, but the Zurba Mother had given both yal and

khatags because her language had been worse. The settlement, therefore,

was determined according to the course of the quarrel, not to the under-

lying rights and wrongs of the disagreement. When I asked about the

reason for the argument, Paljor told me that Zurba had been sending its

animals to one area of the mountains but had asked Chushot to take them

to another area with theirs. As part of the settlement they would now be

taken to the second area together. What he was telling me was how the

settlement had dealt with the future question of the herding, not who had

been right or wrong at the time. Only later, when I was in the fields with

Morup and Choron and the subject of this argument arose again, did I

get any view on what had caused it. Morup volunteered the opinion that

the Chushot Mother ought to have agreed to take both flocks. Every day

people ask each other for help with their animals and we say ‘ya, ya’,

‘yes, yes’, she told me. In her opinion, therefore, the fault had lain with

Chushot. This, however, was a very private opinion. The notion of fault

was not the primary concern of the villagers and had not determined the

giving of yal and khatags. Choron followed up what Morup had said by

expressing the opinion that the Chushot Mother was tsokpo, bad, be-

cause she regularly got into arguments. This was the real focus of village

disapproval, not how the res system ought to have operated, important

though this is in the normal course of daily life.

It is not that the villagers completely disregard the issue of the fault

attaching to the differences underlying an argument. When Morup was

explaining procedures that follow a divorce for the return of the bride

price and trousseau, for example, she told me that it would depend on

whose choice the divorce had been. The implication was that the party

who chooses has some justification and that the settlement will reflect

this. On the other hand, in the actual case of Tsewang’s and Yangzes’s

divorce I got different accounts from the two families. Khangltakh told

me that it was Tsewang’s decision and, rather than reclaim the bride-

price, Meme Sonam had generously offered to pay half a yak to Wadze,

Yangzes’ family. Other people, however, expressed the view that

Khangltakh had been mean in only offering half a yak. When I stayed in

a village on the way to Leh, my hosts, kin of Khangltakh, were keen to

CONFLICT IN THE VILLAGE 87

As Cowan et. al. (2001: 1-4) point out, although ‘the model of rights is today11

hegemonic’, this discourse is animated by ‘a desire to establish universal rights’. Rights

discourse constitutes a kind of culture, part of the global and transnational cultural order

(2001: 11-13).

catch up on such events. They asked whose choice the divorce had been

and whether Yangzes had not been working hard enough (the normally-

cited reason for a man to seek a divorce). They were, therefore, inter-

ested in the rights and wrongs of the situation. However, the settlement

itself had not involved any determination of or judgment on these issues.

All these cases could be analysed in terms of competing claims,

interests and rights: the Chushot and Zurba women had competing

interests in the herding of the sheep and goats; the divorce settlement

involved a determination of the respective parties’ property rights and

their entitlements with regard to the children. Similarly, relations

between members of a household, between different households and

between individuals and the community as a whole could be analysed in

terms of rights and control over resources. However, this type of analysis

is not the local one. It does not explain the villagers’ attitudes to and

perception of what conflict is, its consequences and significance for the

community. The villagers effectively preclude the expression of11

individual rights by concentrating on the course of the disruption and

expression of anger and antagonism. What could be analysed as a clash

of interests is, rather, described as a disturbance to order. This is what

marks the distinction between differences (clashes of interests that

require a pragmatic solution) and disputes (overt antagonism that

requires reconciliation). It is the latter that disturbs the village order and

requires the most immediate and deliberate remedy.

According to this epistemology, all overt antagonism is a danger to

the order of the community requiring resolution and the ceremonial

restoration of good relations. This is supported by the local scheme of

morality according to which all such behaviour is reprehensible on the

part of the individuals involved, who are labelled tsokpo. The question

I turn to in the next chapter is whether these epistemological and moral

aspects have been shaped by the ideas and ideologies of Buddhism or

whether any other cosmological concerns can explain the villagers’

anxieties about disorder.

The translations from the French are my own.1

Aggarwal (2004: 153) likewise suggests that ‘to sit in a place (in the dral) is to2

embody and inhabit a material territory, a cosmological sphere, a social identity, a niche

in the universe’.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS

Several writers have suggested that a sense of cosmological order

underlies the social and political structures of Ladakhi communities.

Dollfus, for example, maintains that, ‘the observance of hierarchy and

order is necessary for the maintenance of order, the success of a mar-

riage, the efficacy of a ritual’. (1989: 98) This is expressed in seating1

plans, in language (the use of honorifics) in food and serving dishes. It

reflects, she says, the hierarchical spatial ordering of the world in which

east is superior to west and above over lower, which is also reflected in

the physical structures of individual houses and the arrangement of the

village itself (1989:102). Hierarchy is also said to be present in the2

worlds inhabited by the spirits, the lha, which are divided between the

stanglha (an upper realm), the barsam (the immediate world) and the

yoklu (the underworld) (Phylactou 1989: 55; Day 1989: 162; Riaboff

1997: 339; Mills 2003: 151-61). These writers suggest that the house-

hold is a similarly ordered social space, in which religious activities are

related to productive and reproductive processes in a hierarchical

relationship: the chod khang for the Buddhist deities is on the upper

storey of the house, along with the lha khang for the phalha; in the

middle are the rooms devoted to the pragmatic business of daily life and

it is here that the spirits of the locality receive offerings from each meal

prepared on the stove; while on the lower levels are the animals’ quar-

ters and the shrines to the lu, the spirits associated with fertility. Protec-

tor deities are, thus, placed above humans who, themselves, inhabit a

realm superior to that of the important, but problematic, lu. As Mills

points out (2003: Ch 6), deity is superior to fertility.

These writers, therefore, present a picture of a hierarchical cosmolog-

ical realm, reflected in the structures of village organisation and in the

relations between the human and supernatural inhabitants of the village,

which symbolises village order and the sense of solidarity that unites its

members. The existence of the community, Dollfus maintains (1989:

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 89

This view is substantially repeated in her later work (1999: 102-05).3

125), is ‘often defined by reference to either the village divinity or the

gonpa,’ and she links this to the ‘strong sense of solidarity’ within the

village. Srinivas (1998: 90) also suggests that, ‘the symbolic unity of the

village ... the internal field of power and well-being, is affirmed in the

presence of the god of the village settlement’. Conflict, it would seem,

must pose a threat to this overarching cosmological order, dislocating

the hierarchies which constitute it and which allow humans and spirits

to live in harmony. Indeed, there is evidence that elsewhere in the

Tibetan region disputes are, indeed, considered to give rise to drib,

spiritual pollution (Schickelgrüber 1989).

Other writers on the Tibetan region have linked religion and social

practices in different ways. In his study of the Sherpas of Nepal, Fürer-

Haimendorf (1967: 181) describes their local moral concepts as having

been ‘shaped by’ the philosophy of Buddhism. Ortner (1978, 1989)

describes Buddhist divinities and rituals as providing models for the

social problems of Sherpa society. The symbolic meanings of these rites,

she says, provide models for the problems of ageing, wealth, status,

fighting and the contradiction between hierarchy and equality. Inspired

by Geertz’s (1973c) description of religion as a cultural system, she

argues that through its rituals, ‘the Buddhist mode of seeing, feeling,

interpreting, categorising and so forth, are constantly and systematically

fed into lay experience.’ (1978: 162) A related view is taken by Samuel3

(1993: 362) who suggests that other aspects of religious life in Tibet, not

just the strictly Buddhist, provide the ‘cultural patterns’ that are funda-

mental to social forms. As he puts it (1993: 4):

For Tibetans, the vocabulary and modes of thinking deriving from Indian

Buddhism came to pervade many areas of experience that we do not neces-

sarily think of as ‘religious’, while the concerns of Tibetan folk religion, such

as the maintenance of good luck and good fortune, continue to underlie

virtually all facets of life.’

Religion, that is, is multi-faceted and fundamental to social life.

These writers, thus, suggest three distinct ways in which the religious

or supernatural may be concerned with wider social and moral processes

in Tibetan societies. Fürer-Haimendorf and Ortner concentrate on the

moral content of Buddhism and the symbolism of its rites and deities.

Indeed, Ortner has been criticised for over-interpreting her material in

line with Buddhist doctrine (Ramble 1980). Samuel’s analysis of the

90 CHAPTER FIVE

complexities of religious forms in Tibet finds cultural patterns in an

array of religious practices. Dollfus and other writers on Ladakh focus

on the structures of the spirit realm. My own thesis, however, is that

neither the moral order of Buddhism nor the realm of the spirits is

related to the moral and political order of the village that I have de-

scribed in previous chapters. The monks and other ritual practitioners are

firmly distanced from this realm, and the activities of the lha, complex

and important though they are in daily life, do not have any direct

bearing on the villagers’ concerns with conflict, nor the moral judgments

by which they condemn the expression of anger.

Tibetan religions

Samuel’s distinction between Indian Buddhism and Tibetan folk religion

is one that structures many discussions of religion in Tibetan societies.

At its starkest, Stein suggests that in Tibet the central religious activity:

is the concern of monk and hermits. It is inaccessible to ordinary believers.

Their deep faith depends upon the members of the monastic community.

Lay Buddhists do not take part in rituals and religious services, save

sometimes as mere spectators. They do not hear sermons and have no

private prayers. (1972: 172)

The ‘nameless religion’, by contrast, is ‘the whole body of ideas and

customs belonging to the indigenous tradition: a religion, but an unor-

ganised churchless, doctrineless, priestless and almost nameless, whole.’

(1972: 164) As Samuel describes it, this ‘folk religion’ is concerned

primarily with this-worldly concerns (1993: Ch 10). According to Tucci,

‘the numina ... assist [the Tibetan] in his difficulties, they stand by his

side in his incessant struggle to defend himself against obstacles and

dangers, open and secret adversaries, who everywhere threaten his

existence, his well-being, his property.’ (1980: 165)

Many writers suggest that by a long process of assimilation,

Buddhism in Tibet came to incorporate local invocations and festivities

into its own ritual world and to adopt local numina into the ranks of its

protector deities (Tucci 1980: 163-6, 206). The notion of subjugation or

taming, dulwa, is the metaphor found widely in Tibetan texts to describe

the spread of Buddhism and the conversion of both human populations

and local numina (Gyatso 1987). Having been tamed and brought into

the service of Buddhism by Padmasambhava, among others, such local

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 91

gods can now be called upon in monastic worship to perform a protec-

tive function (Snellgrove 1957: 239-42; Tucci 1980: 168).

A range of practices is, thus, directed at the local gods, whose

importance is justified on the basis of their subjugation and conversion

to Buddhism. However, many of them command an uneasy respect from

the more orthodox practitioners. As Samuel says:

The Buddhist teachings repeatedly describe [the worldly gods] as foolish,

vain, and untrustworthy, as not fit objects in whom to take refuge or seek

protection, as involved only with the affairs of this world and not with

salvation. Yet within the context of this life, as opposed to rebirth or

Enlightenment, the gods can assist one or cause one harm, and relation-

ships with them have to be negotiated properly. (1993: 190)

There is, therefore, a tension between types of practice and the related

numina. This has given rise to debates about the relationship between

the orthodoxy and ideals of the religious elite and the practices those

elites would not regard as ‘true’ Buddhism (Gombrich 1972: 488; Huber

1994: 32-3). Gellner (2001) describes the spectrum of views taken by

anthropologists, albeit of Theravada Buddhism, concerning the relation-

ship between these systems. At one end is the ‘the whitewash theory of

syncretism’ according to which, high religion is seen as a thin veneer

covering a mass of non-Buddhist practices. Gellner describes this as the

‘modernist position’, one taken by Tibetan Buddhist elites who, them-

selves, regard Buddhism as a quintessentially elite practice. Against this

there is a populist position, which regards Buddhism as the practice of

the masses, which has been ‘distorted’ by the middle class (Southwold

1982). A middle ground, the one taken by most anthropologists and

many Buddhists themselves, is that Buddhism contains ‘a hierarchy of

teachings and roles that coexist with other systems in a structured

hierarchy.’ (2001: 50-1) The idea of a hierarchy is found in certain

discourses in Ladakh, particularly those of the monks, who suggest that

the rituals of the higher monastic practitioners, along with the deities of

the orthodox Buddhist canon, are superior to local rites and deities, in

whom the laity often place too much faith.

While it is useful to distinguish between types of practice in this

way, however, I would suggest that the differences between them cannot

simply be viewed in terms of a hierarchy. Mills (2003) has re-analysed

the relationship, suggesting that both village and monastery, laity and

monks, exist within the power of local gods and their associated

cosmologies. The relationship between local deities and Buddhist

92 CHAPTER FIVE

practitioners cannot, therefore, be regarded in terms of a simple hierar-

chy of power. Bearing this in mind, I turn to the ritual practices I ob-

served in Photoksar.

Village practices

Each Ladakhi household is allied to one or other of the main monasteries

and most laymen’s primary contact with the Buddhism of these estab-

lishments is through the komnyer, the monks sent by the monastery to

tend the small temples they have established in each village. In Photoks-

ar there are two temples, belonging to Lamayuru and Hemis gonpas

respectively, and normally two komnyer. Both are invited by individual

households to do a monthly sangs, the basic purification ritual said to be

‘for everyone, for the animals, to make sure we do not get ill and do not

have accidents’. They also carry out the ‘Guru Rinpoche’ chos on the

tenth day of each Tibetan month and various annual rituals. The Hemis

komnyer was particularly keen to introduce ‘proper’ Buddhist practice

into the village and, when I arrived, had recently instigated a three-day

ritual of devotion on the thirteenth to sixteenth days of the first month,

one of the most holy, during which the villagers congregated to recite

mantras, later circumambulating the village temples and associated

monuments, making prostrations along the way.

Each khangba has a shrine room, a chod khang, which contains

Buddhist statues, tankas (painted hangings), offering bowls and the

ritual objects that might be used by either the monks or the onpos, the

local ritual practitioners. Most houses also have a lha khang for the

household god, the phalha, a windowless room containing juniper

branches, white scarves and skulls from the animal sacrifices of former

years, in which daily offerings are made. The village roofs and nearby

hillsides are dotted with lhato, cairns of stones topped with juniper

branches, containing a jar of barley, gold, silver, turquoise and other

precious objects, where offerings are periodically made to the different

phalha or for the yullha, the village god. Each household also has at

least one pang gong, a shrine for the water spirits, the lu, who are

associated with springs and fertility. These are square, white-painted

structures, containing pots of barley and other ‘treasures’.

Within the village, the lha are a ubiquitous presence, responsible

for the physical security of both people and livestock. All acts of eating

and sleeping, the responses to birth and death, and all agricultural and

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 93

Some writers describe this as being for the tap lha, the spirit of the stove (Mills4

2003: 156) but this has, at best, a shady existence and in Photoksar they suggested that

it was the phalha who received such offerings.

The same word root is found in chodpa, the general term for offerings made in all5

Buddhist rituals.

These words are compounds of zhi (gzhi, home, residence), sa (earth) and dagpo6

(bdagpo, lord or owner). Paljor also explained them as zhis-la shnase duk khan, meaning

the original (sna) inhabitants of the place.

Literally, this means the mouth (kha) of the earth (sa).7

pastoral activities are conducted in a way that will appease them, while

sicknesses, misfortunes and deaths are unequivocally attributed to the

pernicious influence of their malevolent counterparts. In Khangltakh,

Api Rigzin renewed the offering bowls of water in the chod khang every

morning and performed a number of prostrations, while Morup carried

a small censer of burning juniper around the house, blowing smoke into

every room and calling invocations to the local gods. Throughout the

day, numerous small food offerings were made to the spirits. The first

spoonful of any meal was placed on the side of the stove, ‘for the lha’,4

and before the meal that accompanies any ritual, of which there are

many, a short mantra was recited while a chod (literally, food) offering5

was made. A small piece of barley dough, some flour and chang were

tossed into the air for the lha, placed on the stove for the phalha and cast

onto the ground to pacify the hungry ghosts. Chod were also offered

when people ate out in the fields or up in the mountains, for the zhidag

and sadag, the spirits that inhabit the locality (photo 19).6

Many of these spirits are directly implicated in the fertility and

prosperity of village life. The zhisdag and sadag, for example, are

primarily responsible for the fertility of the soil in the areas of land with

which they are associated, both cultivated fields and mountain pastures,

and they are appeased in many of the rituals which punctuate the year in

accordance with the agricultural cycle. Spring, for example, sees a series

of rituals, called the Sakha. In Khangltakh a two foot conical dough7

offering, bando, was prepared for the Sakha that occurred during my

fieldwork and a small party was held for the phaspun group of houses.

At the end of this, Meme Sonam made a three-part chod offering and

then placed a plate of tagi (flat bread) with a portion of the bando, flour

and chang on the kitchen shelf as an offering for the phalha, while

another older man read a short prayer. Then a goat-skin filled with

barley and topped with juniper was raised high three times, as invoca-

tions to the lha were shouted by all present, before it was taken up to the

94 CHAPTER FIVE

Shub means an unripe ear of grain.8

fields for a ceremonial ploughing of the first furrow (with a pick-axe)

and scattering of seed from the bag. On the following day each house-

hold performed a ritual first ploughing of its own fields, with further

dough offerings, shubla, decorated with ears of barley and pods of peas,8

and the recitation of another short chos (photo 22). My informants were

unable to explain the meaning of either of these rituals to me, however,

saying that they were for the zhisdag and sadag, ‘old customs’ per-

formed for the sowing and the harvest. The involvement of the phaspun

indicates the importance of the phalha in ensuring fertility during the

following agricultural year.

There are numerous other small rituals associated with the agricul-

tural year, which all involve food offerings to the lha. Food always has

to be shared between people and spirits. After the birth of the first yak

calf in the Spring, for example, a custard, phrums, was made with the

milk and an offering was created out of this (with the usual tagi, flour

and chang) and placed by the stove with an incantation for the lha after

further chod offerings. This was said to be ‘for the new calves, lambs

and kids and for good grass in the mountains’. Further shubla offerings

were prepared on the first day of the harvest, when the grass was cut in

the mountains, and placed in the chod khang and lha khang, while

another was taken to the phalha’s lhato on the hillside.

The lu are connected with water and springs, where many of the

shrines, the pang gong, are placed. These protect the whole village,

while others are specific to individual households and can be found in

their basements or on their roofs. The lu are generally associated with

wealth and fertility but they are also easily offended and cause tsitu, an

illness described to me as being like a cold. This is most likely to happen

if their residences are disturbed and if married (so potentially child-

bearing) women from other households come too close to them. In some

villages they live in trees, usually junipers, which must, therefore, not be

cut and in others it is dangerous for any married woman to go close to

their springs, shrines and trees. In Khangltakh the pang gong were in a

room in the basement, which meant that married women from other

households could not enter any room directly above them. Offerings to

the lu are made at the springs several times over the summer, preferably

by a monk who has not eaten meat or drunk chang for seven days. But

lay people also make offerings at the springs, using milk that must have

come from a red goat or a white sheep, as long as the offerant has

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 95

Riaboff (1997: 344-45) discusses the ambiguous place of the powerful and9

aggressive rgyalpo in Zangskar, who seem halfway between lha and dre (evil spirits).

Kaplanian (1987) suggests that gyapo, probably the same term, are a class of lha who

punish theft with madness. It would be a mistake, however, to assume that either of these

descriptions necessarily holds true elsewhere. While some features of the spirit worlds

are widespread, others are highly localised.

abstained from meat and chang for a day. The lu are sensitive to meat

and chang while all the other lha enjoy these offerings.

Other lha are more powerful protectors but they are, accordingly,

more dangerous. The phalha, the household god, receives offerings in

the lha khang and the lhato on the hillside, as well as the chod offerings

placed on the stove. The lha khang and lhato are dangerous areas for

married women from other phaspun, this group of households being

united by having a single phalha. Paljor described these lha as gyalpe.

Gyalpo is a word usually used to refer to the king, with the associated

adjective, gyalpe, meaning victorious. Referring to lha (as Jäschke 1881:

109 indicates it can) the term, therefore, indicates a spirit with a wider

domain than that of the yullha, suggesting that the phalha can protect

individual people and animals in places beyond the realm of the village,

the yul. The phalha have a multiple physical presence, associated with9

several lhato. Their activities are generally protective, as long as they are

carefully propitiated, and a phalha seen to be a good one in Photoksar

can be adopted by other households in substitution for their own.

However, they remain dangerous and liable to cause trouble, particularly

for married women, as are the lu, a point stressed by other writers

(Riaboff 1997: 342). Many years ago one household in Photoksar had

severe problems with food and crop failures and its family twice mi-

grated to Zangskar. In the end the phalha was thought to be the problem

and his lhato was move from the lha khang in the house out onto the hill.

The family that subsequently moved into that khangba has prospered.

The yullha, named Shpungsal, is the protector of the village and a

powerful spirit who can offer all kinds of protection to the villagers and

their animals against the host of malevolent forces that constantly

threaten them. The shrine where he resides, the main lhato, overlooks

the village from a high point on the opposite side of the valley so his

presence is evident in almost all parts of the village. There are two

associated lhato on the village side of the valley, at one of which a

sangs, the basic offering ritual made to local deities, is performed three

times a month, on the holy third, eighth and fifteenth days, in sight of the

lha. This is preferably done by a monk, but can also be carried out by the

96 CHAPTER FIVE

In fact, most of these ceremonies include meat offerings. Even if an animal is not10

sacrificed at the lhato, therefore, the villagers still share their most valuable foods with

the lha.

village onpo. The other shrine is a simple cairn topped with juniper next

to the much-used path that leads from the village to the fields. When

they pass this spot all the villagers salute the lha opposite and, if they are

carrying food or drink, they place a little on the top of the cairn. The

yullha is, therefore, appeased both by food offerings and by the sangs, a

ceremony performed by Buddhist monks. Machu, being at a distance

from the main village, has a separate protective lha with its own lhato,

at which members of the two households make offerings for the protec-

tion of that area.

Twice a year a group of men climbs the hill to the main shrine of

the yullha opposite the village accompanied by one of the village monks.

Here they undertake the shukpa shpoches, the changing of the juniper

(photos 23 and 24). This shrine is a square stone building with a sealed

doorway topped with juniper branches wrapped in white cloths. Inside,

they say, it contains jars with barley, wheat, precious things and clay

figures of horses, other animals and people. The monk carries up his

drum, cymbals and other ritual objects to perform a sangs while village

men replace the juniper branches. The yullha is called Shpungsal

because years ago he is said to have demanded the offering of human

blood from the shoulder (shpungba) of a young boy who, therefore, had

to be sacrificed every year. That custom is, however, said to have been

changed long ago to the sacrifice of a yak and then to a white goat. Older

members of the village remember the goat sacrifices, which were

performed by a renowned onpo who came from Nyeraks. He was

described as extremely powerful, trakpo, and the villagers told me that

he would open up the lhato, sleep inside for a few days and renew the

offerings. In around the early 1980s, however, Togdan Rinpoche of

Phyang monastery, the highest Drigungpa lama in Ladakh, visited the

village and told the people to cease their animal sacrifices. Instead they

should perform a sangs twice a year. After some initial scepticism and

fear that Shpungsal would be dissatisfied with the new offerings the

villagers have accepted the new practice.10

There seems formerly to have been at least one other yullha in

Photoksar, but it was not clear why he faded from prominence. The

villagers still change the juniper on his shrine but told me that he no

longer possesses anybody. This is another important feature of the

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 97

I was allowed to observe the shukpa shpowa ceremony in 2000 but they said firmly11

that they would not allow it another year if I were to be married.

Several writers have interpreted these events as indicating the presence of drib, the12

ritual impurity that arises on birth and death (Dollfus 1989: 178; Mills 2003: 212-13).

In Photoksar, however, the notion of vulnerability to spirit attack was dominant. It was

not so much that mother and baby might pollute external spaces if they ventured outside

the house as that they would be likely to be harmed by the yullha.

yullha. One of the older men in the village is a lhaba who is possessed

by the yullha annually as part of the New Year celebrations and also

when there is a sickness, and it is thought that the yullha, through the

lhaba, might be able to exorcise the spirits responsible. In Khangltakh,

Choron’s first baby was sickly for several weeks after his birth, as was

Choron, and the lhaba was called to suck out the poison from her body,

the standard practice of spirit mediums all over Ladakh (Day 1989). He

also advised, while in trance, that the baby should be taken to the

hospital in Leh.

While the yullha is a powerful protector he is also, like the phalha

and lu, a dangerous presence, capable of causing harm, especially to the

vulnerable, particularly fertile women and new-born babies. All married

women are in danger if they approach Shpungsal’s lhato too closely.11

Birth is considered to be a particularly dangerous time when mother,

baby and, initially, father must be shielded from the yullha. All three are

confined to the house for two or three days following the birth, after

which a sangs is performed and the father is free to leave. Mother and

baby must, however, remain in the house for at least another month, until

after the performance of two more sangs, one in the house and one

opposite the main lhato. The most auspicious date for these is deter-

mined by the onpo who will also perform the sangs if there is no monk

present. During this period they must also be careful not to go onto the

roof if it is overlooked by the lhato or else erect some sort of screen to

protect them from the sight of the lha.12

The evil spirits

Although they are, thus, dangerous, especially to fertile women and new-

born babies, the yullha and the phalha offer protection to the villagers

against the multitude of evil spirits that inhabit their surroundings and

who are liable to cause illness and misfortune at any moment, the gegs

and dre. Paljor told me that there were 80,000 of them (the number also

98 CHAPTER FIVE

Tucci (1980: 18) says that they symbolise the flesh and bones of enemies, which13

the protective powers can use to bring about their destruction.

given in Das 1998: 279), of many different kinds. They are associated

with shkyen, misfortune or ill-luck and, particularly in children, they

cause semne shnamtok, aberrations of the mind, which make them

physically ill. They are generally thought to lurk outside the boundaries

of the village, beyond the protection of the lha, but people can carry evil

spirits around with them. So, when Meme Sonam returned late one

evening from Machu, Api Rigzin went out with a ladle of burning coals

to scare off any lurking spirits that might affect the children when he

entered the house.

The rituals by which the protection of the yullha or phalha is

invoked often involve the exorcism of these troublesome numina throu-

gh the making and throwing out of storma. Storma are dough creations

used in many Buddhist rituals, which are described, elsewhere, as

‘offerings’ to the spirits (Tucci 1980: 115-6; Samuel 1993: 265-6),

‘offerings made to malignant demons as a kind of exorcism or appeasing

gift’ (Jäschke 1881: 210). Das (1998: 527) calls them ‘sacrificial objects

offered as appeasing gifts to the gods, saints and evil spirits’, while

Mills’ monastic informants described them as offerings to be scattered

in order to remove, rather than destroy, influences inimical to religion

(2003: 190-91). In Photoksar, however, the term was usually used in13

a way synonymous with bele, offerings thrown out as exorcisms. Paljor,

for example, described them to me as lud, ransom offerings, to the

protective deities, whose purpose was dra’o dulches, the conquering or

subduing of dra (evil spirits), or gegs shadches, exorcism of the gegs.

These are the fiercest of all the evil spirits, whose exorcism can only be

achieved by the throwing out of bele.

Storma rituals, generally known as skurims, are a frequent and

important part of village life, signalling the people’s preoccupation with

the dangers of evil spirits. When his youngest child was suffering from

an extended illness during the winter, for example, Paljor made a

storma with male and female dough figures who were smeared with soot

and surrounded by old tea leaves, pieces of bone, salt and flour. These

were placed on a plate and carried around the baby before being taken

outside to be flung down the slope to banish the spirits that were trou-

bling him. More elaborate storma rituals are performed during the New

Year festival and, in one of the village houses where a young mother had

died, the family sponsored an annual ritual, during which three large

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 99

Gyazhi literally means four hundred. They explained to me that this comprised 10014

storma, 100 chonme (butter lamps), 100 tinglo (small discs of dough) and 100 changsbu

(rolls of dough pressed between the fingers).

Tucci (1980: 176-7) explains that the mdos ritual is to give protection, in contrast15

to the gto (i.e. storma), which are exorcist rituals.

storma were thrown down the hillside at night. This was performed by

the Lamayuru komnyer because, as they put it, the Hemis lama did not

‘know’ this ritual.

Every household will sponsor a skurims from time to time, if there

is a capable practitioner present in the village, simply for their general

protection. There is a family of hereditary onpos at Sumdo, a tiny hamlet

about a day’s walk down the valley, and the elder of these periodically

tours the area to perform such rituals. The Sumdo onpo arrived during

my stay in Khangltakh, for example, to perform a shesnying. This

involved the creation of chodpa, the standard dough offerings found in

Buddhist rituals, against which he lent pictures of Atisa, other great

lamas and Buddhist deities. It also involved the creation of male and

female storma, four rows of seven small figures (the shesnying them-

selves) and 100 small storma for the gyazhi ceremony, which formed

part of this ritual. At the end of the ceremony Tsewang carried all the14

storma outside the house and flung them down the slope, Meme Sonam

following with a brush, while everyone else shouted ‘gya-hor’, the cry

normally used to banish evil spirits. The explanation was that the ritual

was ‘for everyone in the house’ and that the shesnying were bele that

were flung out to ensure that people would not get ill, that snow would

fall in the winter, that the lu’s illnesses would be avoided and that the

gegs and dre, the evil spirits, would be exorcised. A special form of

gyazhi, the word applied to the strongest exorcist rites, these were

particularly useful for casting out the evil spirits, Paljor explained.

There are many different skurims, Paljor told me, some specifically

directed at ensuring snow, others for clear weather in the Spring, but all

of them for curing and averting sickness. The Sumdo onpo, he told me,

was Drigungpa and so he used Drigungpa chos in his skurims, but he

was often asked to perform rituals in households belonging to other

sects, including those in Lingshed, which are all Gelukpa. His is trakpe

las, strong or powerful work, he told me, which involves bele phangches

(exorcism), dos tangches (specifically to give protection against ill-

nesses), zhing shakhs (for the household) and shinon (a very trakpo

ritual, good for warding off all sorts of evil). These sorts of skurims are15

also performed by the Nyingma and some Drigungpa tantric lamas but

100 CHAPTER FIVE

the Gelukpa lamas do not undertake this trakpe las, he said. The Sumdo

onpo, himself, gave me a similar explanation: the Gelukpa monks

specialise in zhiwa, practices like abstinence from meat and chang, and

reading the chos but they shun rituals involving gyazhi. A monk from

Lingshed even claimed to me that in his monastery they do not do any

gyazhi at all. While it is clear from Mills’s account that they do perform

gyazhi, he does note (2003: 171-72) that there are other ‘wrathful’ rites

which would breach monastic ethics and for which the Lingshed villag-

ers, therefore, have to call in a different sort of practitioner.

There is, thus, a tension between forms of practice here, the more

ethical zhiwa practices performed by the monks and the more effica-

cious, ‘strong’ rituals demanded by the villagers to protect themselves

against pernicious supernatural influences. For the villagers, an impor-

tant component of their ritual practices is, thus, determined by over-

whelmingly pragmatic concerns, which have little to do with monastic

practice. For them, the hierarchies of Buddhist practice are not necessar-

ily the best answer to the perils of supernatural chaos and they have no

hesitation in calling in a skilled onpo if the komnyer is unwilling to

perform the necessary ritual.

Hierarchy and protection

It is not, however, that the monks’ rituals are without efficacy. In the

fourth month of the Tibetan year, the villagers perform the bumskor,

during which a procession of Buddhist texts is taken from the temples

and carried all the way around the perimeter of the village, including the

hamlet of Machu. The symbolism of the ascendancy of the chos over the

natural forces in the valley and the protection they can afford the inhab-

itants is a recurrent theme in village rituals. Buddhist monuments, such

as chorten, are dotted around the village and its fields, especially along

the boundaries of cultivated areas and at the points where the village

first becomes visible to the approaching traveller. According to Mills,

the bumskor is one of several rituals that involves the re-ordering of

village space, ‘the auspicious ordering of the natural environment as an

adjunct of the social order.’ (2003: 185)

In the weeks following the harvest a skangsol is sponsored by each

household, an important ritual which takes at least two days and is said,

in Photoksar, to require a monk or a good onpo. Its purpose is generally

said to be to atone for the killing of the small creatures, which has

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 101

inevitably taken place during the harvest, and to avoid the wrath of any

local deities who might have been angered by these activities. The

emphasis of the Photoksar villagers when describing these rituals to me

was, however, rather more on banishing the harmful local spirits than

atonement for sin or purification. For this purpose they asked for a

gyazhi to be performed at the end of the skangsol. The Hemis komnyer

did so, but unwillingly. Mills (2003: 189-196) explains the skangsol

ritual as centred on the purification of space. It involves the act of dulwa,

taming, which separates chthonic forces from religious, establishing

each in their place. Harmful influences are exorcised, but this is not just

a matter of protection through the negation of polluted or impure sub-

stances, it also involves the re-ordering of space through the purification

of territory. Such purification flows downwards from the shrine in the

form of blessings, which consecrate those things within the ken of the

shrine. The bumskor, similarly, makes fertility the object of purification

and augmentation and in so doing places the fertile below the (religious)

sources of purification and blessing. In this way, it cures the disorder

that may have resulted if the balance between religion and fecundity has

become confused in any part of the village (2003: 181-85). This, he says,

is similar to the effects of the chams, monastic dances based on the

structure of the mandala, which, he suggests, re-order ritual domains

around a sacred centre. During these processes, non-Buddhist elements

are incorporated into Buddhist hierarchies as deities and spirits bound

to protect the religion.

According to this account of ritual efficacy, therefore, the villagers’

(and monks’) pragmatic needs for protection against harm and disorder

are answered by rituals of purification. These are conducted according

to an idiom of re-ordering which takes the form of a vertical Buddhist

cosmological hierarchy. In Photoksar, however, it is the mandala, with

its idiom of outside-inside, that is more appropriate to describe the

villagers’ views of their supernatural world, although this image is never

explicitly referred to. For them, danger lies not so much in disruption to

a religious hierarchy as in the failure to keep the forces of evil outside

their domestic spaces. Their descriptions of the skangsol and other

skurims rituals centre on the straightforward need to rid their domestic

spaces of evil influences, which must be banished outside the house and

village. There is an order established by such rites, which connects

divinity with fertility, but it involves the protection of the fertile in a safe

internal space guarded by the powerful lha against the evil numina.

102 CHAPTER FIVE

Mills describes seven yullha in Lingshed, who are each associated with certain16

areas of the village where their lhato are built (2003: 151-53).

During the related rites, the protectors are enjoined to guard these spaces

and also not to harm those within them.

The theories of Dollfus and others, including Mills, who emphasise

the existence of a cosmological hierarchy must, I would suggest, be

assessed in this light. The Photoksar villagers did talk to me about three

realms and they described the stanglha as the place where the lha live.

However, most of the local spirits have a physical presence in the village

which is rooted in their shrines or physical features in the landscape, or

associated with particular households and their members in the case of

the phalha, which does not always accord with this hierarchy. The tri-

partite scheme places the sadags in the middle and the fertile lu at the

bottom. However, the sadags inhabit the high pastures, way above the

village, its temples and lhato. The pang gong, associated with the fertile

lu, can be placed on the roof of a house in Photoksar, even above the

chod khang, and the yullha and phalha, whose lhato can be at the

highest points in the village, are just as much associated with fertility as

are the lu. The spirit world does not represent a neat model of hierarchi-

cal order with divinity above fertility. Rather, I would suggest, it repre-

sents a model of centre and periphery tied to physical features of the

landscape.

Both Dollfus and Srinivas suggest that an idea of unity among

villagers, as individuals and households, can be linked to the symbolic

presence of the yullha. In Photoksar, however, Shpungsal has a geo-

graphically limited presence, which only extends to the territory within

the purview of his lhato. It is for this reason that the hamlet of Machu,

out of his sight down the valley, has its own separate lha. The villagers16

incorporate Machu into the village as part of a complex web of social

and political relations but the two yullha, in fact, symbolise the physical

separation between the two parts of the village.

The spirit world that surrounds Photoksar is, therefore, character-

ised by a sense of outside-inside, defined by the sight of the yullha. Like

other protective spirits, when properly appeased, he creates a safe space

for the villagers. The domains and powers of these spirits are firmly

linked to physical space. The presence of the spirits, therefore, defines

the physical boundaries within which fertility and the biological continu-

ity of the community is possible, but it is an area structured by the

geographical features of the landscape and the placement of the lhato

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 103

Kaplanian (1987) suggests that a certain class of lha, the gyapo, punish theft with17

madness, but this was never mentioned in Photoksar. Dollfus (2003: 15) suggests that the

lu cause damage as a result of the breach of the yuli trims, village customs, but this is a

reference to activities that specifically offend the lu, such as polluting their shrines.

Hemis Shukpachan, where she undertook fieldwork, is renowned for its sensitive lu.

within it, rather than by any cosmological hierarchy. Beyond these

spaces of security the spirit world is overwhelmingly chaotic. It is a

disordered universe teeming with a multitude of malevolent influences

in constant battle with the stronger protectors, who turn up unexpectedly

to prey on the weak and unwary, despite their best ritual endeavours.

Even the protective lha are troublesome creatures, liable to cause harm,

as well as offering protection.

The moral order

The activities of the spirits might, therefore, be re-ordered during the

Buddhist rituals discussed by Mills, but even then they do not provide

a template for the ideas of harmony and solidarity which dominate inter-

personal relations. The lha are, in fact, supremely uninterested in the

moral behaviour of the villagers. During all the processes of conflict

resolution described in the last chapter and in the discussions that

surrounded them there was never any suggestion that conflict angers the

lha or disturbs the cosmos. At first I simply assumed that my lack of

language skills meant I was missing some of the sense of the conversa-

tions. On the other hand, people were very keen to ensure that I under-

stood the significance of the lha in other contexts, during the sangs

rituals and New Year celebrations, for example. Eventually, when I tried

to ask directly about the spirits in the context of conflict or processes of

dispute resolution people would simply look at me as if I had failed to

understand a basic point. ‘No, this does not concern the lha,’ was the

normal response. Finally it became clear that the lha are not involved17

or invoked in any way during processes of dispute management. The

resolution of conflict requires the restoration of harmony through the

enactment of respect towards other villagers, symbolised in the giving

of khatags and yal, but not through any ritual directed towards the

spirits.

Whilst the local lha are overwhelmingly responsible for fertility

and the biological continuity of the community, therefore, and while

they demand regular propitiation with appropriate offerings, they take

104 CHAPTER FIVE

He also distinguishes between pre-literate religions that include, or not, a notion of18

reincarnation, but that distinction is not relevant to my analysis. The Photoksar villagers’

notion of reincarnation is firmly connected with Buddhism.

Fürer-Haimendorf’s survey of non-Hindu peoples in South Asia supports this19

model (1967: 216).

no interest in inter-personal relations. It matters not one bit to them

whether the villagers are living harmonious or disordered lives. It is a

series of human relationships that defines the community as the place of

social interaction. A host of complex relations between households and

individuals ideally produces a peaceful, cooperative community. This

order is, for the villagers, vital to the successful survival of their commu-

nity, but it is wholly unconnected to the activities of the lha.

There is a separation between two realms here, that of the spirits

connected with the physical fortunes of the villagers, their livestock and

environment, and that of the political and moral relations between the

villagers and their households. For the villagers this separation is simply

conceptualised as what does or does not concern the lha. However, it is

a separation that also relates to the structural organisation of the commu-

nity: the villagers’ participation in most social and political activities is

organised by the dral and by household and yulpa membership. These

are the organisations that constitute the village as a place of social and

political interaction. By contrast, the activities by which the villagers

venerate their lha and protect themselves from supernatural harm,

including the way they move around it, are organised by the phaspun

and by reference to the physical placement of the lhato, a different set

of organising structures.

As I have discussed at greater length elsewhere (Pirie 2006a), the

spirit world of the Photoksar villagers accords with Obeyesekere’s

account of ‘pre-literate’ religions. According to his model such religions

are ‘non-ethicized’, that is, characterised by the absence of a notion of

sin (1968: 12-14). The associated salvation beliefs, that is, do not

incorporate a conception of sin as violation of religious ethics. In such

societies there is, therefore, a separation between the secular morality

that underpins the norms of social life and the ideas connected with

religion. In Photoksar the lha, for example, are not concerned with18

inter-personal relations within the village or with the ethics of the

villagers’ conduct towards one another. According to Obeyesekere19

(1968: 12), it is primarily world religions that have ‘ethicized’ religious

life, offering accounts of the supernatural which reinforce the demands

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 105

French (1995) regards these moral rules as the basis for the legal codes, on which20

she founds much of her analysis of Tibetan law.

of what comes to be construed as a religious morality. The secular moral

world is thus transformed and associated with religious concerns.

Tibetan Buddhism is one of these religions, its moral scheme being

linked to its eschatological theory: under the law of karma an individ-

ual’s moral activities in this life substantially determine his reincarnation

in the next. What is significant about Photoksar is that the people

maintain a secular morality despite their long conversion to Buddhism.

They have accepted the law of karma and the idea that certain quotidian

activities affect the fate of their souls in the afterlife, but it is a different

set of activities that are condemned as morally ‘bad’, in that they ad-

versely affect the social order of the community. The reasons for this, I

suggest, lie in the distinctly physical influence they continue to attribute

to the inhabitants of the spirit world and the indifference of these numina

to the moral order of the community. The Buddhist deities and the

powers of the lamas have largely been assimilated by them into their

amoral spirit world where their rites assist in the constant battle against

demonic forces. Like the lha, however, they are not regarded as having

an impact on their realm of social order.

Buddhist morality

While it should be no surprise that the moral attitudes expressed by the

villagers and their condemnation of anger should not be connected, by

them, with the activities of the lha, capricious, dangerous and greedy as

they are, what of the more ethical practices and principles offered by the

monks and their zhiwa practices? Although the Buddhist rituals carried

out in the village are largely associated with the veneration of local

protectors, the religion also offers straightforward schemes of morality

of relevance to the laity. Most important of these are the ‘three poisons’,

duk sum, of anger, jealousy, and ignorance said to underlie all immoral

behaviour. The ten prohibitions, mi gewa rchu, and the mi chos, the

sixteen moral rules, also contain practical injunctions for the daily lives

of the religion’s adherents. The Photoksar villagers were mostly aware20

of the basic Buddhist precepts while the more literate, such as Paljor,

could recite the longer lists. Moreover, they have unequivocally ac-

cepted the principle of karma, whereby their actions in this life deter-

106 CHAPTER FIVE

Mills (2003: 228-31) also describes the sangs as an offering to local deities which21

is regarded as a veneration by the laity but is construed by monks as encouraging the

rokspa spirits to remain compliant.

mine the nature of their rebirth. The Buddhist schemes of morality

enumerate the sins that have karmic effects. The villagers never, how-

ever, made an express connection between the Buddhist schemes of

morality and the Buddhist law of karma, on the one hand, and their own

moral condemnation of fighting and anger, on the other. Just as they

conceptually separate their moral concerns from the activities of the lha,

so do they regard these concerns as falling into a different category from

the moral injunctions of Buddhism, which relate to the long path to

enlightenment.

In order to make sense of these conceptual distinctions we can turn

back to the tension between the pragmatic needs of the villagers for

trakpe rituals and the zhiwa practices offered by the Gelukpa monks.

From the villagers’ point of view some monks simply do not ‘know’ the

more powerful rites. However, from the point of view of the more

orthodox Buddhist practitioners many of the laity in Ladakh place too

much belief in their local lha. The Hemis komnyer in Photoksar, for

example, repeated the opinions expressed by the Dalai Lama that too

many minor lha are revered and allowed to possess the lhamos and

lhabas, to whom the people then go for advice. Many of these are merely

spirits wandering in the bardo which have not yet found a re-birth, he

said. The Photoksar villagers are too afraid of the yullha’s capacity to

cause harm and it is only the people’s beliefs that create this power. One

of the monks at Spituk, a Gelukpa monastery, told me that the local

lha should be treated like rokspa, friends and helpers, and they are not

suitable for full veneration as Buddhist deities. As we walked past the

lhato above his monastery he made a point of raising his hand and giving

the common greeting ‘jule’, as opposed to the more reverential gesture

with both hands clasped, which people use for religious monuments.21

Despite this disapproval, however, all the gonpas have lhato for

their local deities and these are generally prominent on the hills above

the main monastery buildings. Moreover, no-one was prepared to

discount the importance of these lha completely. When I specifically

mentioned the yullha, the Hemis komnyer was quick to reassure me that

this lha was a good one. Even in the urban centres in Ladakh, where

there is a greater proportion of educated people who self-consciously

follow more orthodox forms of Buddhist practice, every house has a

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 107

The head of one household in Leh described to me the day-long chos which is22

performed to accompany the erection of new namgo and sago, the dogs’ and sheep’s

skulls filled with the precious objects said to protect the household members and their

livestock. But, he complained, it was difficult to get the lamas to undertake this chos.

‘Only the Nyingma lamas ‘know’ it’, he told me, ‘because it is really an onpos’ practice’.

This tension between forms of practice is not particular to Ladakh. A ritual to23

prevent malevolent spirits from sending hailstorms was carried out by Nyingmapa lamas

in Tibet, for example, although one of them spoke of it as ‘dirty business’, non-virtuous

activity designed to harm the spirits contrary to the dictates of Buddhism (Klein and

Khetsun Sangpo 1997: 539).

I was subsequently able to discuss this issue with the Rinpoche in Leh and, far from24

belittling the villagers’ superstitious beliefs in the powers of their lha, he said he was

pleased to hear that there had been no further trouble since his visit. This meant, in

practice, that after a death in one of the khangba closest to the lhato the family could

remain in their house where they had previously been thought to be in danger from the

lha.

It is one of the central contentions of Samuel (1993) that the higher tantric25

practitioners have much in common with the local ritual practitioners in Tibet, as he

lhato for their phalha. Most also have a pang gong for the lu. Sonam22

Phuntsog explained that most monks and some lay people consider these

onpos’ chos, particularly the gyazhi, to be harmful for Buddhism and do

not want to have an onpo in their family because theirs is ‘bad’ work.

His own view was that the onpo do the more ‘powerful’ gyazhi which

are ‘dangerous’ because, while good practitioners can change the natures

of the evil spirits, that is, subjugate them, the less skilful will leave them

unreformed but strengthened in this world, where they will pose a

renewed threat to humans. However, many of the monks do perform the

gyazhi, and the Lingshed monk who had expressed disapproval of the

ritual was not prepared to say that it was not a nangpe (Buddhist) chos.23

There is a narrative here that expresses a hierarchy in ritual prac-

tices and in the pantheon of spirits to whom they are directed, which

echoes the hierarchy proposed by Gellner. As Mills (2003) points out,

however, the ordinary monks are not able to rise above the influence of

the lha. Only the incarnates can do so. The Photoksar villagers, simi-

larly, regard the highest Buddhist lamas as being the most powerful to

deal with their troublesome local spirits. Togldan Rinpoche from

Phyang, was, for example, called upon by the Photoksar villagers when

it was thought that Shpungsal, their yullha, was causing trouble. The

lhaba went into trance in his presence and the Rinpoche was able, the

villagers told me, to enjoin him to behave more favourably. The24

villagers regard the high lamas as the practitioners with the greatest

powers to deal with their problematic lha. The ordinary monks are far25

108 CHAPTER FIVE

explains elsewhere (2005: 11-13).

less efficacious in this regard. They simply do not ‘know’ many of the

rituals that the villagers need. They are, therefore, inferior to both lamas

and onpos, in different ways.

Examining this relationship, Mills suggests that both village and

monastery exist within the power of local gods and their associated

cosmologies, which is why the relationship between local deities and

Buddhist practitioners cannot be regarded in terms of a simple hierarchy

of power (2003: 163). It is only the incarnate who can implement Bud-

dhism’s ascendancy over local domains by effecting the ritual transfor-

mation of places, merging them with a divine realm (2003: 259-62, 305-

07). Ordinary monks are embedded in their physical environment and do

not have the authority to effect changes to the spirit world. There is,

thus, a tension between the static and dependable world of monastic

ritual and the fluid and capricious world of local chthonic deities within

which they work and over whom they maintain a tenuous ascendancy.

If a monastery (or any locality) is cut off from higher sources of institu-

tionalised power, the local spirits can rise up and take back their former

powers, demanding again to be propitiated in the old ways. Reciprocity

between man and god, rather than the ascendancy of Buddhism over

local forces, then becomes the dominant relationship (2003: 319-22).

According to Mills, therefore, the order of the Buddhist cosmology,

which is imposed on local space through the skangsol ritual, is only a

contingent one, dependent on the continual intervention of ritual practi-

tioners and, ultimately, the authority of the incarnate lama. Without

them, local deities again become ascendant, in a more chaotic and

divided landscape.

This is the context in which, I would suggest, the Photoksar villag-

ers are acutely aware that they live. Safety can be provided by local

ritual practitioners, either monks or onpos, if they are able to perform the

powerful exorcist rituals which invoke the protectors to banish the evil

spirits. In cases of great danger, however, it is the incarnate lama who

must be called upon. The more ethical ritual practices of the monks,

particularly those of the Gelukpa sect, are only of limited benefit. In a

village like Photoksar, therefore, the ritual order of monastic Buddhism

and its moral codes are largely irrelevant to local cosmological concerns.

They are part of the more ethical religious practices which the villagers

admire, but do not regard as efficacious to deal with their own trouble-

some numina.

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 109

This distinction between forms of ritual practice, in terms of their

purpose and efficacy, is the same distinction that the villagers make

between their realms of morality. The moral attitudes by which the

villagers judge inter-personal relations are all oriented towards the

community. Individuals are expected to co-operate with others, maintain

good relations and ensure that community life proceeds smoothly. The

ideal individual is patient, calm, obedient, helpful and generous. All of

these qualities concern an individual’s social relations with others and

the consequences of his actions for the community. It is a pragmatic

scheme, according to which individuals are judged more by the conse-

quences of their actions for the community than by any sense of personal

degeneracy. The content of this scheme is very similar to that of the

Buddhist moral codes, the duk sum and gewa rchu, but the latter have a

different significance in their eyes. They express the laws of karma,

which determine the fate of the soul in the after-life, not the harmony of

the village community.

It is not, therefore, that the rituals performed by the monks and their

zhiwa practices are irrelevant to the villagers. While it is true that the

philosophical content of large swathes of religious practice is only

accessible to monks well advanced in their studies, lay people rely upon

religious specialists, including onpos, to perform such rituals on their

behalf. The villagers send their sons into the monasteries and support

them there, they make substantial donations to the monasteries and

sponsor rituals, which ensure blessings and protection. Contrary to

Stein’s (1972) depiction of Buddhist practice being ‘inaccessible’ to

ordinary people, in Photoksar all the laity recite mantras and the literate

men participate in the periodic reading of the Buddhist texts, the chos sil

(photo 32). Before going to sleep and on waking, everyone performs the

standard three prostrations and recites the skyabdro prayer by which

individuals ‘take refuge’ in the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha.

Older members spend moments of leisure reciting the om mani padme

hum mantra with their prayer beads or spinning prayer wheels. This, they

explain, is to increase their good karma, which is particularly important

at this time of their lives.

There is, therefore, a set of ethical practices which the villagers

associate with the laws of karma. Killing, alcohol drinking and smoking

have negative karmic consequences, while prayers, prostrations, pilgrim-

age and donations to the monasteries are seen as having a countervailing

beneficial effect. These are the activities which the lamas enjoin them

to avoid or undertake and which are exemplified in the zhiwa practices

110 CHAPTER FIVE

of the monks. This is a different set of concerns from those of their

secular moral realm, by which the villagers strive to uphold the social

order of their community. Killing and drinking have karmic conse-

quences, while pride, sloth and antagonism affect the order of the

village.

Morality and the spirits

There are, for the Photoksar villagers, three different sets of concerns

and three associated realms of village activity: the laws of karma deter-

mine the fate of the soul in the after-life and require ethical practice,

according to the gewa rchu; the lha directly affect the physical fortunes

of the villagers and require a host of propitiation and avoidance prac-

tices, many of which can only be undertaken by specialist ritual practi-

tioners; the maintenance of the community as a realm of political and

moral order requires cooperation amongst individuals and, above all, the

avoidance of anger and conflict. The higher Buddhist deities and the

incarnate lamas have superior powers to intervene directly to assist a

soul in the afterlife. They also have the ability to deal effectively with

the inhabitants of the amoral spirit world. By contrast, although the rites

and deities invoked by the ordinary monks help to ensure a favourable

rebirth and assist in the constant battle against demonic forces, they are

far less efficacious in this regard. Nevertheless, the twin objects of ritual

practice remain distinct for the villagers and neither directly impinges on

their realm of secular morality.

It would be easy, therefore, to read into certain activities and

discourses in Photoksar the influence of the practices, principles and

cosmologies of Buddhism. The pragmatic need for cosmological protec-

tion can be expressed through the esoteric idioms of Buddhist ritual

hierarchies. However, as Mills says (2003: 198), it is problematic to

view the performance of skangsol rites as simply being ‘about’ Buddhist

values. They are ritual actions, designed with contextual, rather than

universalist, goals in mind. Each ritual is located in a particular physical

context, which embodies the pragmatic needs of those who inhabit it.

Similarly, the anger that the villagers criticise in one another can be

regarded as one of the fundamental Buddhist poisons and the cause of

negative karma. However, meaning is context dependent and what may

be a legitimate interpretation in the case of certain classes of people, the

monks and educated elite, for instance, can make no sense in the

THE REALM OF THE SPIRITS 111

epistemological world of another, such as that of the lay villagers. The

condemnation of anger can be interpreted as an expression of the duk

sum on the part of many Tibetans, but anger is simply regarded as tsokpo

and dangerous to the community in the eyes of the Photoksar villagers.

I would, therefore, suggest, that the ways in which certain authors

have attributed different aspects of the religious, supernatural and

cosmological worlds with social significance become problematic if read

too widely. The moral and ritual content of religious texts is not re-

garded by the Photoksar villagers as having any relevance for the moral

and political organisation of the village. Nor do the activities of the

lha or the ordering of the supernatural realm impinge directly upon this

sphere of activity. The social world of the Photoksar villagers, that

which is upheld by their moral injunctions, is a secular, non-cosmologi-

cal realm, of no concern to the lha and of little relevance to the fate of

the soul in the after-life.

As the villagers go about their daily lives this separation of realms

is, for the most part, imperceptible. Some of their activities are directed

towards the lha, others are not. They might recite mantras, toss food to

the spirits and discuss a recent case of conflict on the same social

occasion. However, there is one time of the year when the underlying

tensions between the realm of the lha and that of the villagers’ social

organisation are highlighted. This is Losar, the New Year festival. The

events which occurred on one occasion that I participated in the Photoks-

ar Losar also highlighted the strained relations that exist between the

villagers and external forces, in this case the powerful Buddhist estab-

lishments. Such tensions, I would suggest, are intrinsic to the web of

order that the Photoksar villagers maintain within their community. It is

this festival to which I turn in the next chapter.

The Ladakhi New Year is really a second birth when the group rejects the old and1

welcomes the new (my trans.)

CHAPTER SIX

LOSAR

Losar is the height of the villagers’ ritual calendar in Photoksar and

celebrates the passing of the old and onset of the new year. Within the

nine days (and more) of dances, rituals and sheer enjoyment there are

exemplified, in subtle ways, the dynamic between the social organisation

of the village and the inhabitants of the spirit world, an underlying

tension between the yulpa and the resident monks, and a self-conscious

suspicion of modernity and resistence to change.

It is generally agreed that the central themes of the Losar celebrations

are the chasing away of the old year, with its bad or inauspicious ele-

ments, and the welcoming in of the new (Rigal 1985:95; Dollfus 1987:

64). Kaplanian (1981: 277), for example, says, ‘Le Nouvel An ladakhi

est réellement une deuxième naissance où le groupe rejette l’ancien et

accueille le nouveau’. Similar interpretations were offered by a number1

of my informants in Leh. The rituals chase out the bad elements of the

past year and welcome the good of the new. Specifically they are

intended to ensure that people do not become ill, that livestock does not

die, that snow falls, babies are born and everyone flourishes.

Losar is undoubtedly a rite of passage, from the old year to the new,

involving the deliberate exorcism of the evil spirits which threaten life.

It also involves a symbolic denial of the processes of ageing and death,

a feature of rite of passage rituals throughout the world. However, the

symbolism of evil and age that pervades the festival, that which is to be

chased away with the past year, is surrounded by music, dancing, eating

and drinking, masquerade and pantomime. There is a constant juxtaposi-

tion of the forces of age and sickness with symbols of youth and fertility.

In this, I would suggest, it is possible to detect a subtle challenge to the

established social order. It occurs at several points during the festival,

particularly in the more exuberant activities of the youth.

LOSAR 113

The historical and mythological elements of Losar have been discussed by Rigal2

(1985), Kaplanian (1981) and Brauen (1980), along with the reasons it is celebrated in

the eleventh, not the first month, of the year. Dollfus (1987) concentrates on the festival’s

affirmation of internal unity and social relations. I participated in the Photoksar Losar

twice, in 1999 and 2002.

The events of Losar

Losar, itself, runs a course of nine days in Photoksar, as it used to

elsewhere, beginning on the first day of the eleventh month, but pre-

ceded by a number of preliminary events. There are significant differ-

ences in the form that the celebrations take here from those now found

in other Ladakhi villages, but most of the important events and the

significant aspects of the festival as I describe them, seem to have been

present in the celebrations that occurred throughout the region.2

The Galden Ngamchod commemorates the day on which Tsongkapa,

founder of the Gelukpa sect of Buddhism, achieved enlightenment. It is

observed on the twenty-fifth day of every month and is not, therefore,

directly linked to Losar, but its occurrence in the tenth month marks the

start of the celebrations. In Photoksar this is the first day of the meto, the

bonfire lit after dusk by the boys of the village. On this and subsequent

nights, up to and including the twenty-ninth, a group of boys visits each

village house, collecting flat bread, which they divide up between them

while they warm themselves and sing songs around the fire. The most

important song describes Bagatam, a mythical figure who journeys into

Ladakh from the mouth of the Indus and who needs to be banished along

with the evils of the old year. On the last two days, burning branches

from the fire are flung down the hill to cries of ‘gya khor!’ the impreca-

tion with which evil spirits are always banished, here directed at Bagata-

m. There is a considerable party atmosphere around the bonfire which

develops into a general round of singing and dancing, along with the

telling of licentious jokes, at which point any watching women become

embarrassed and run away.

The annual changing of the juniper on the shrines of the phalha

deities takes place on the twenty-ninth. Formerly, there was a blood

sacrifice at these shrines, which were smeared with blood and decorated

with skulls and horns. However, following the intervention of Togdan

Rinpoche, this practice has been replaced by a simple purification ritual,

normally carried out by the local komnyer. As part of this sangs, a dough

ibex figure, flat bread, flour, chang and juniper are offered to the spirits,

as they are repeatedly throughout Losar.

114 CHAPTER SIX

On the afternoon of the thirtieth, a large plate of food, including meat

and offal from the yak killed by every household specially for Losar, is

taken up the hill to be offered to the dead ancestors, the shimi tsalma

(literally, meal for the dead). A smaller plate, with a little of each food,

is placed on a rocky outcrop with a recitation to ‘the ancestors who have

died’ and the imprecation ‘khye-khar’, which always accompanies

offerings made to placate troublesome ghosts. The remaining food is

then fried up over a fire and enjoyed by the participants along with jugs

of chang. As in so many of the offerings made to the numina of the

village, the element of sharing between men and spirits is strong.

In the evening each household hosts a stonzang, a dinner for the other

members of its phaspun. There is a round of tea and chang, ending with

meat from the Losar yak. The eldest man makes an elaborate food

offering to the local spirits, placing a piece of bread and meat, sprinkled

with flour and chang, on a plate for the spirit of the hearth and tossing

more flour and chang into the air and onto the ground for the benign

spirits of the earth, as well as the more unwelcome ghosts. These

gatherings, therefore, affirm social relations within the phaspun, the

group associated with life-cycle events. However, at the end of the meal,

the children, together with a few adults, make balls of dough which they

fling at each other, boys against girls. At no other event is this sort of

behaviour expected, or even tolerated. This is not quite an act of subver-

sion on the part of the children, but an unusual licence to waste food and

temporarily to step out of line.

The first day of Losar itself, the first day of the eleventh month, is

devoted to the veneration of the higher Buddhist deities and to a celebra-

tion of the family within the household. In the morning one man from

each house takes offerings up to each of the two small temples above the

village. The Hemis komnyer resident in 1999 disapproved of meat and

chang and so the villagers brought only tea and bread to his temple.

Meat and chang, more precious foods, are otherwise the norm. Later in

the day more offerings are prepared and taken by the women of the

household to the Buddhist deities and household spirits in their respec-

tive shrine rooms. That done, the mother of the household goes through

a small ritual, by which she greets every member of the family with a

changskyan of chang. In Khangltakh, Morup was followed by Api

Rigzin in this. One of the men then takes the changskyan to pay his

respects to the onpo and the goba and later in the afternoon all the

villagers go to the goba’s house for a party with food and drink, singing

and dancing.

LOSAR 115

The new year is, therefore, welcomed with a propitiation of the

protector deities and an affirmation of family and phaspun relations and

of the central, albeit subordinate, position of the mother. It is also an

affirmation of the social and political order of the village, as the onpo

and goba are complimented and the latter hosts his party. It is later the

same evening that elements of evil and misfortune are brought into the

midst of the celebrations with the appearance of the first of the ritual

figures. The festival now enters a new phase as the community is

brought into direct contact with the forces of the spirit world.

On this evening the two Babar make their entrance. These roles are

played by two of the village men, an annual obligation which rotates

between all households. The men are dressed in heavy yaks’ hair carpets,

associated with dirt, and wear plaited crowns of straw around their caps.

They also put smudges of soot on their faces. People told me that until

around 1990 the Babar used to blacken their faces completely and

represented storma, the ritual offerings that are flung out at the end of

many rituals to banish the evil spirits. The Babar, acting as such storma

themselves, would visit each household during Losar, put a foot on top

of the stove, something that would normally be considered an extreme

and dangerous insult to the resident deities, recite a litany of illnesses

and declare that they were carrying them all away with their black horns.

Then they would run out of the door, while the household members

would shout ‘gya khor’ after them and whistle. Sometimes people even

threw stones, they told me, as they do at other storma.

Now the Babar do not blacken their faces completely and do not

represent storma themselves. One informant told me that the highest

lamas had disapproved of this practice. However, people still say that

the Babar are ‘expelled’ (sha-de) at the end of Losar, when they take a

ritual bath and change into fine clothes. Until that time they unequivo-

cally represent forces of evil. On the first day of Losar the Babar simply

make an appearance in the centre of the village by the mani, the small

central temple and prayer flag, with the mon (musicians) to orchestrate

an hour or two of singing and dancing. A similar party led by the Babar

and principally attended by the young men, who dance with considerable

enthusiasm and indecorum, ends each of the subsequent days of Losar.

On this, the first day, the Babar then go to be entertained at the house of

the goba.

The second day of Losar sees the appearance of the three other ritual

figures, the Api-Meme, grandmother and grandfathers, all played by

village men. The two Meme wear sheepskin jackets turned inside out and

116 CHAPTER SIX

carry bows and arrows. The single Api wears a black hat, formerly

standard dress for old women who had given up their peraks. The Api

also wears a baby’s coat tied to his back, ‘to symbolise the bog’, the

sheepskin back-covering worn by married women. He carries a branch

of juniper and a long stick which he rides like a horse, using the juniper

as a whip. At other times he uses the juniper like a broom, sweeping

away the dust on the ground and finding it on other people’s clothes.

Like the Babar the Api-Meme are expelled on the last day of Losar,

when they ceremonially fling away their arrows, juniper and stick and

change their clothes. One of the villagers explained to me that as old and

decrepit figures they represent the passing year. While the Babar

represent the ill effects of the evil spirits, therefore, the Api-Meme

symbolise the natural, biological processes of ageing and decay. Both

cosmological evil and natural decay are, thus, brought right into the

centre of the celebrations, where they remain until the ninth day. Like

the Babar, however, on the first day of their appearance, the Api-Meme

go with the Babar and Mon to be entertained by the goba.

On all the following days the Babar and Api-Meme are at the centre

of the celebrations, the Babar acting as masters of ceremonies and the

Api-Meme as their assistants, always accompanied by the musicians.

They visit each household at least once, where they are entertained to a

meal. The Babar sit at the head of the dralgo, while the Api-Meme act

as hosts for the party, pouring out the chang and serving food. They also

symbolically steal a piece of food from every household. In this way the

Babar and Api-Meme circulate throughout the village, and bring their

representations of evil and decay into the centre of each household.

On the third day, when the new moon makes its appearance, there are

special celebrations, for which the women dress in their best clothes and

turquoise peraks. In the morning the whole village waits for the appear-

ance of the village god, the yullha, who has entered into possession of

the lhaba. He arrives, dancing around and waving a white scarf, and

addresses the assembled villagers, giving them instructions. On one

occasion these concerned the way they should treat dead bodies, which

were interpreted, for the villagers, by the komnyer. The lhaba continued

to rant, more or less comprehensibly, while the musicians began to play,

eventually dancing round the circle of villagers, who all bowed in front

of him, before running off to collapse as he came out of his trance (photo

26). The villagers then all proceeded to the fields above the village

where the young men competed in horse races.

On the fifth to the eighth days there are dances for the whole village

in the afternoon. The first is led by the goba and his wife, who have been

1. The Potala palace, seat of the Dalai Lamas’ Ganden Potrang government in central Tibet between the seventeenth and twentieth centuries. 1936.

2. Tibetan government officials entering the Potala for the enthronement of the Dalai Lama in 1940.

3. Leh palace, seat of the Ladakhi kings until the mid-nineteenth century, which still dominates the old town.

4. The mosque, at one end of the main street in Leh below the palace.

5. Ridzong monastery.

6. The winter cham festival at Likir monastery.

7. The route from the Shi Shi La to Photoksar.

8. A lhato protecting travellers on a mountain path.

9. The gorge between Wanla and Photoksar.

10. Descending from the Sengge La towards Nyeraks and Lingshed.

7

8

9 10

11. Photoksar.

12. The hamlet of Machu, physically separate but socially integrated into the social community of the village.

13. Photoksar.

11

12

13

14. Meme Sonam reading a Buddhist text.

15. Paljor carving a block for a prayer flag.

16. Meme Sonam pouring tea.

17. Choron collecting water from the frozen river.

18. Yangzes washing clothes.

14

15

16

18

17

19. A yak herder high in the mountainsduring the summer.

20. Threshing with yaks.

21. Orsal and his brother learning to winnow.

22. Before the first ploughing Paljor reads a Buddhist text next to an offering for the local spirits.

19

20

21 22

23. Changing the juniper on the lhato, from where the yullha protects the village.

24. The komnyer performing a sangs at the lhato.

25. Gyaltsen tending the lhato for the phalha.

23

24 25

26. The lhaba possessed by the yullha.

27. The bele which are to be thrown out by the Babar.

28. The boys’ alamdar interrupting the girls’ patimo.

26

27

28

29. Village women dancing in age order.

30. The onpo and the amchi at the head of the line of dancers.

31. The onpo at the head of the dral next to the chang.

29

30 31

32. The chos-sil.

33. One of the older village women with her prayer wheel.

34. Orsal taking leave of the goba before departing for Lamayuru.

32

33 34

35. Village women listen to Chado Rinpoche’s teachings.

36. Chado Rinpoche performing a skurims in Photoksar.

37. The lama placing a pungpa in a new lhato.

38. Morup and Api Rigzin with one of Morup’s sons.

39. Khangltakh, painted white, in the snow.

40. Chortens above the village.

41. A seventeenth century document exempting two Photoksar households from taxes after Deldan Namgyal’s campaigns.

LOSAR 117

invited to dance by the Babar and the Api-Meme. They are led around

by the Api, brandishing his juniper, and are complimented with khatags

by the other villagers. The next dance is led by the panch, the next by

the membar and the next, on subsequent days, by the onpo and the

amchi. Thus, the socially important figures in the village are honoured

in these dances and they are expected to reciprocate by giving money to

all the ritual figures of Losar. On a later day it is the newly-wed couples

who are asked by the Api-Meme to lead the dances and to be honoured

with white scarves. There may also be one dance primarily made up of

the young and unmarried. Thus, there is a conjunction of the forces of

ageing with those of youth and fertility. The latter are celebrated but

have to pay tribute to the former.

The evening parties at the mani are also lead by the Babar and Api-

Meme. These are more enthusiastic and exuberant events, at which the

dancers are not under the constraints of decorum which attend the more

formal afternoon dances. All the festivities by which the villagers

welcome in and celebrate the coming of the new year are, thus, hosted

and directed by the symbolic figures who represent the forces of age and

the evil of the past year, which are to be exorcised at the end of Losar.

The humans, those alive and well, the young and fertile, are brought into

direct contact and under the influence of the old and the evil, who

positively encourage their celebrations. Their vitality and high spirits are

encouraged by the forces of degeneration.

On the fifth to eighth days these dances are preceded by displays,

ltanmo, by the boys and girls of the village. The girls, known as patimo,

dress up in the embroidered shawls their mothers wear for festivals.

They cover their faces with thin scarves and dance under the directions

of the Babar. This was explained to me as being something that the girls

do ‘to please the lha’ and ensure that there will be plenty of babies in the

village in the following year. Their rather decorous movements are,

however, interrupted by the arrival of a gang of boys who have removed

their locally made coats in favour of combat style army-surplus clothing

and rush in brandishing wooden swords, also with their faces covered.

This is the alamdar. The boys leap around the dancing area for a while

and then run at the onlookers, especially the women, actually hitting

them with their sticks in some cases, while the patimo girls are shielded

by the Babar (photo 28). The alamdar was explained to me by saying

that the boys represented lha trug, child spirits, who are chasing away

evil demons. The boys, thus, demonstrate their prowess to deal with the

local spirits and exemplify the capacity of the protector spirits to control

the forces of evil. On another level, however, the alamdar represents a

118 CHAPTER SIX

defiance of the normal child-adult and men-women relations. Their faces

masked, the boys have a licence to overstep the normal markers of

behaviour, acting with disrespect towards women and adults.

On the eighth day, there is a more elaborate pantomime, involving the

enactment of a wedding by the patimo girls, which the audience greatly

enjoys, but which is again interrupted by the alamdar boys. This com-

pletes the central dances of Losar. The Babar, Api-Meme and Mon then

retire for food and drink and, when they return, as evening approaches,

the Api-Meme have a last dance in the central field where the ltanmo has

taken place. At the end of this they suddenly produce a lamb which

someone has given them. The onlookers find this highly amusing, but it

is an important ritual, and people were concerned that I should not have

missed it. Giving the Api-Meme a new-born lamb, they told me, will

ensure that plenty of lambs and goat kids are born in the new year. Here

again, fertility is represented as a product of the process of ageing and

decay.

The culmination of the events of Losar lies in the creation and

destruction of a series of storma. The first is made by the onpo on the

seventh day. Called a dradzor (or drador) and taking the form of an

elaborate spindly figure, it is placed on the ground in the centre of the

village, in front of the assembled villagers, who whistle and insult it. It

is then carried off by the goba, along a trail of specially laid flour, to be

flung down the slope below the village, to cries of ‘gya khor’ from the

assembled crowd.

On the morning of the last day of Losar the Api-Meme make a final

appearance at the mani, dance with their bows and arrows and then shoot

the Memes’ arrows down the slope and fling away the Api’s juniper and

stick, before going away to change out of their ritual clothes. The Api-

Meme have, thus, been expelled, they explained to me. Subsequently, the

Babar and Mon, with a large retinue of men, visit every house in the

village to perform individual storma rituals. Unlike the rituals of the

past, when the Babar carried off the evil of the house as storma them-

selves, special rounds of bread are prepared, to represent male and

female elements. These are flung out of the door, or off the roof, to cries

of ‘gya khor’. At the same time, the onpo is making two more

storma figures, a white male belpo and a black female belmo (photo 27).

These are placed outside at the centre of the village, where people come

to jeer at them. As a large number of people gather, the Babar raise the

two storma aloft. To a chorus of abusive shouts, cries and whistles they

carry them away through the village and out to the steep slope which

falls away beneath the houses. Here they are held high and everyone

LOSAR 119

watches from a distance as they are smashed onto the ground. The

Babar’s carpet robes and straw head-dresses follow. While their retinue

continue to shout and whistle in the direction of the smashed figures the

Babar take a short ritual wash and change into celebratory clothes. They

then return to lead the last dance around the fire in front of the assem-

bled villagers, before disappearing to divest themselves of their finery.

This is the final celebration of the villagers’ triumph over the forces of

evil, which have now been dramatically expelled.

The rite of passage

The ritual figures who represent the bad effects of the evil spirits and the

processes of ageing and decay, thus take centre stage in the village for

nine days. For the villagers, however, Losar is also a time for celebra-

tion, led by the young and vital, surrounded by the imagery of birth and

life. Fertility and gender differences are constantly represented during

Losar: the boys banish the evil forces at the meto, but embarrass the girls

with their sexual jokes as they do so; the stonzang dinner is a celebration

of the phaspun, which is responsible for all life-cycle events; the boys

display their prowess as horsemen while the women dress in their finest

clothes on the third day; the patimo girls supplicate the yullha for

fertility and act out the events of a wedding.

These elements are all brought into association with age and vulnera-

bility, in the form of the Api-Meme. The grandfathers and grandmother

sweeping away the dust of the past year represent the inevitable process

of age and decay, and yet they are frequently and explicitly linked to

images of youth and fertility. The Api wears a child’s coat on her back.

They constantly encourage the youth to dance and specifically honour

young married couples. On the eighth day they publicly parade a lamb

‘to ensure fertility’. It is they who, therefore, appear to be responsible for

bringing forth and nurturing the new life of the new year.

A similar juxtaposition of the symbols of fertility and sexuality with

those of sickness and death in rites of passage has been noted by anthro-

pologists elsewhere (Bachofen 1861; Frazer 1890; Hertz 1907; Leach

1961: 125; Huntington and Metcalf 1979). As they describe, this juxta-

position can be interpreted as a symbolic reversal of the process of

ageing. The forces of life and fertility are depicted as flourishing along-

side, and despite, the degeneration of age, nurtured and encouraged by

its representatives. In their final act of producing a new-born lamb the

Api-Meme demonstrate birth to be the product of age.

120 CHAPTER SIX

In other ways, too, the festival follows the form of the classic ‘rites

of passage’ famously delineated by van Gennep (1960). Most of the

Losar events take the same form as the many other parties and celebra-

tions by which the village Ladakhis punctuate their year. What is

different about Losar is that all these events are hosted and directed by

the Baba and Api-Meme, ambiguous figures who ‘steal’ the food which

they distribute and bring evil and death into every household. The

community is, thus, placed into direct contact with the effects of the

natural and numinous forces which transcend the human world. It enters

what could be called a liminal period between the old and new years,

before the ritual figures are banished at the end of the celebrations. The

basic scheme outlined by van Gennep of a three-stage process from old

to new, though a stage of liminality during which masquerades, revelry

and role-reversal are prominent, is apposite for Losar. The meto can be

seen as a preliminary ritual, prefiguring later events. Then, in the first

stage of Losar itself, the normal social order is represented in the

veneration of the deities and affirmation of family and social relations.

During the following nine days there is an extended liminal period,

dominated by the Baba and the Api-Meme. Challenges to the social order

and the role-reversals found in the alamdar, the patimo and in the male

Api, all contribute to the sense of unreality, a community temporarily

separated from the normal world and its social order. The expulsion of

these figures and exorcism of evil from the community mark the return

to normality and promise a positive beginning to the new year.

One thing that Losar does not do, however, is affirm the supremacy

of the social order. It does not unambiguously state, reiterate or reinforce

traditional social ties or delineate social roles, as many other forms of

ritual are said to do (Moore and Myerhoff 1977:5) and which Dollfus

asserts to be the final object of Losar (1987: 94-95). The festival repre-

sents the undoing of the well-established pattern of the village’s social

and political order as much as it affirms it. That order is evident at many

points during Losar. The fact that the Babar’s meals are hosted by each

household in turn, even though nominally directed by the Api-Meme,

confirms their equality within the community, and as equal contributors

to the village tral. The goba and onpo are honoured in the dancing,

along with others who have status in the village. The headman is also the

first port of call for the Babar and Api-Meme and carries off the first

storma. Throughout the dancing the villagers line up, as they always do,

in the dralgo. This social and political order, whilst it thus underpins the

whole organisation of Losar, is often symbolically challenged, however.

The Api-Meme go around stealing food, indicating a flagrant disrespect

LOSAR 121

for household property. The youth have a particular licence to transgress

the social order at several stages. The seniority of age and adulthood, in

particular, is flouted as they throw their food around after the stonzang

dinners and attack the women and onlookers during the masked alamd-

ar. These challenges to the social order are prominent in the central,

liminal stage of the festival. Dollfus (1987: 92) regards these as markers

of that liminality but I would argue that there is considerably more at

stake in this festival.

What Losar represents is the triumph by the villagers over the two

major threats to life, the evil spirits embodied in the Babar and the

process of ageing represented by the Api-Meme. However, this triumph

is only achieved at the expense of the social order. The events surround-

ing the Api-Meme, in particular, represent and affirm the constant

renewal of the biological order, the old giving way to and nurturing the

efflorescence of youth and vitality. This is embodied in the celebrations

of the young, their masquerades, the demonstration of their strength and

prowess in the horse races and the alamdar. At these times their exuber-

ance breaks through the normal hierarchies and boundaries and over-

comes the normal deference to age and seniority, which is supposed to

be observed by the young. Losar is their time for taking centre stage,

actively encouraged by the Api-Meme in a public display of vitality and

exuberance. It would appear, I suggest, that the hierarchy of age repre-

sented in the dral has to be transcended if the finality of the biological

process is to be denied.

As well as the biological processes represented by the Api-Meme, the

world of the spirits - to which it is related - also appears to transcend and

overshadow the moral and political order of the village during Losar.

The protector deities who can assist in the struggle against the evil

demons are constantly propitiated and directly invoked by the girls’ and

boys’ masked patimo and alamdar. The youth take centre stage during

the ltanmo in the battle to prevent the chaotic cosmic forces from

intruding on the lives of the community. It is the physical fragility of the

village community and the threats to its biological continuity that are

highlighted during Losar, symbolised by the Babar and the Api-Meme.

For the evil spirits, who represent an important part of that world, to be

vanquished, the social order has, temporarily, to be overturned. The

youth have to display their powers. It is also they who must triumph over

age, asserting their vitality and exuberance in the face of the processes

of ageing and decay. The social order, which grants status to age, must,

therefore, temporarily take second place in the representation of the

struggle over the biological continuity of the community.

122 CHAPTER SIX

The social order is, thus, represented and affirmed during Losar, but

not unequivocally. The tensions between the supernatural and the social

realms of the village are also dramatically symbolised during the festi-

val.

Change

Throughout the Lingshed area, remote from the Indus valley, Losar is

celebrated in similar ways to the Photoksar festival, although with many

small differences. In villages closer to Leh, like Lamayuru, however, the

ritual figures of Losar have disappeared. Neither Babar nor Meme appear

any more here (they never had an Api). In Leh people say they spend the

first few days of Losar cooking large meals and visiting friends and

relations; they make offerings and throw out storma and rilzan, but there

are few of the more elaborate and pantomime elements left to the festival.

It could well be that it is the monastic influence and a disapproval of the

old roles of the Babar as storma, that has caused such customs to disap-

pear.

In Photoksar during my first Losar in 1999 the Babar and Api-Meme

hardly dressed up at all. There were no carpet robes, head-dresses or

soot-smudged faces and they did not symbolically go around stealing

food. By 2002, on the other hand, the villagers had decided to revive the

old customs. Paljor explained to me that they had decided the old cus-

toms were ‘good’. They were, therefore, self-consciously going against

the trends of modernity followed in villages closer to Leh. The revival of

these customs, however, caused the flaring up of an old conflict between

the villagers and the Lamayuru komnyer. This became apparent on the

seventh day, when the onpo was creating the first storma. The komnyer

entered the room and soon launched into a diatribe against ‘old customs’.

He frequently referred to the disapproval voiced by the lamas and

eventually raised the issue of the old practice by which the Photoksar

villagers (supposedly) used to sacrifice an eight-year old boy to the

yullha. The implication was that if the villagers started reviving the old

customs then where would it end? Discussing these events in Khangltakh,

Choron told me that the komnyer had recently given up chang and meat.

In other words, he was on a reforming mission.

Later, Paljor explained that there was a long-standing conflict between

this komnyer and himself, along with certain other villagers. In around

1990 Togdan Rinpoche had visited the village and told them to set up a

committee to reform the ‘old customs’, particularly those relating to

LOSAR 123

(non-Buddhist) rituals, like Losar. Paljor and the komnyer had both been

on the committee. However, they had fallen out when Paljor had argued

in favour of keeping many of the old customs. The komnyer was now

trying to reassert his authority. While he was holding forth during the

storma preparation, several of the older village men objected vocally.

One, in particular, referred to the annual meeting at which the revival of

the old customs had been decided upon. It was a decision made by ‘mi

sakh’, all of us, he insisted. The komnyer, he was suggesting, did not have

authority to override the decision of the yulpa. The ongoing tension

between the reforming forces of establishment Buddhism and the auton-

omy of the villagers’ own practices was developing into a struggle for

control over the most important ritual of the year.

When I returned to Photoksar in 2005, however, Paljor told me that

they had again dropped the old customs. ‘But why?’ I asked. Paljor

shrugged. ‘The komnyer threatened to leave the village’, he told me.

‘Now the Babar do not dress up any more. You were lucky to see the last

Losar when this happened.’ Paljor was expressing a reluctant resignation

to the forces of modernity and the power of the Buddhist establishment,

which had eventually prevailed through the komnyer’s reforming cam-

paign.

In these events, I would suggest, one can detect many of the inherent

tensions within the social order of the village, in particular that between

its moral and political organisation and the realm of the spirits. The

elemental demands of the physical world mean that the youth, those who

represent the biological future of the village, have to triumph, tempo-

rarily, over the structures and hierarchies of its social order. The tension

between local ritual forms and the modernising impulses of establishment

Buddhism was also played out in the conflict and discussions surround-

ing the re-establishment of the ‘old customs’ in favour of the rites

approved by the senior lamas. This was also a conflict between the yulpa

and outsiders, namely the external power of the religious establishment,

here represented by the komnyer. The decision to revive the ‘old cus-

toms’ represented a conscious valuation of tradition by some of the

villagers over the forces of modernity; but the subsequent reversal of that

decision indicated the ultimate power of the latter to change the course

of the events in Photoksar, as it had already done in communities closer

to the urban centre. Such are the tensions and processes found in one of

the many fragile webs of order that constitute Ladakhi society.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SACRED SOCIAL ORDER

If the moral and political order, which must be maintained at all costs,

is not to be interpreted in religious or cosmological terms, then how is

it to be understood and explained? This order is described by the bound-

aries of the community, which are themselves defined by the fixed

number of households and the web of cooperative relations that should

exist between them. It is not, however, an order symbolised or idealised

in any abstract way. There is no Ladakhi word readily translatable as

‘order’, for example. In the case of a resolved dispute the Photoksarpa

merely say ‘drig song’, meaning, ‘it is OK again’. Drig is a very com-

monly heard word meaning ‘all right’ or ‘satisfactory’. The restoration

of order is simply, then, a return to normality.

A certain oblique light was shed upon the implicit notions of order

underlying such concerns during conversations I had about notions of

justice in Photoksar, notions for which my Ladakhi and Tibetan dictio-

naries suggested various terms. The Ladakhi dictionary (Hamid 1998:

131, 31) gives drang po (trangpo) as ‘straight, honest, candid, fair’ and

khrims drang po (trims trangpo) as ‘justice’, while Das (1998: 649), the

Tibetan dictionary, gives drang po as ‘right, truthful, straight, sincere,

honest’, khrims drangpo as ‘righteous judgment, justice’ and las drang

po as ‘good actions, righteous deeds’ (las means work, but is also the

general word used to refer to karma in Tibetan languages). When I raised

the concept of trangpo with Paljor, however, he gave me a rather

different set of explanations. Trangpo, he explained, means straight, like

a piece of wood. But a mi trangpo (mi is man) is someone who does not

lie. Spera trangpo (spera is speech), likewise, means to tell the truth. I

then asked about trims trangpo and his explanation was that if you have

a quarrel and a mediator achieves a settlement, shakhs, that is trims

trangpo. The idea is, therefore, not of some abstract justice but of

achieving settlement, making things ‘straight’ in the community, one

might say. Las trangpo, he said, meant yulpe las, community work,

which he went on to explain as nangla nyams mi cho, not causing injury

or suffering (nyams) inside (nang). Nang is the shortened form of

nangosla usually used in Photoksar to refer to the village. The idea of

las trangpo, then, is of work or actions that do not harm us, the yulpa,

inside our community.

126 CHAPTER SEVEN

The dictionary lists them as (1) a decrease in the duration of life, (2) perversity in1

thoughts and religious disbeliefs, (3) the five poisons, (4) difficulty to convert and (5)

degenerate ages or times.

Looking for a concept of justice I was, therefore, met by a series of

expressions which referred back to the community, to the yulpa and the

nangosla, as opposed to any abstract scheme of right and wrong or

fairness. The resolution of disputes is conceptualized not as a case of

discovering the truth, nor of determining individual rights, let alone

applying laws that enshrine some abstract principle of natural justice. It

is, rather, conceptualised as making things straight in the community by

restoring order within it.

There is, then, a vision of an ideal community here, one that is free

from any form of conflict and anger. When I suggested to Paljor that the

Photoksar villagers did not quarrel very much he was quick to disagree:

‘Oh no, we have a lot of arguments, which is very bad,’ he said, shaking

his head. ‘We drink too much chang,’ he explained. This was not just a

criticism of the villagers as individuals but an admission of failure and

poor standards on the part of the community as a whole. On another

occasion he was looking through my Tibetan dictionary, as he often did

to help me with my language, and came across the term snyigs ma,

which is translated there as ‘degenerated’ and ‘grown worse’ (Das 1998:

501). He asked me what the dictionary said and I explained the English

entry for snyigs ma lnga ni, the ‘five impurities’. He then explained his1

understanding of the concept as being a state in which people die young,

they have too much work, bad minds (sems tsokpo) and there is fighting.

According to his understanding, therefore, fighting is something which

afflicts a community in which people have bad minds and it accompa-

nies a physical struggle to survive. Conflict is a sign of a degenerate

society.

The sense of order that underlies attitudes to conflict and the yulpa’s

practices of dispute resolution is founded, therefore, on the idea of the

peaceful, united, harmonious community. It is a similar idea that, I have

suggested, underlies the villagers’ moral judgments of each other,

including the criticism of those with a sems tsokpo. Order is, therefore,

the responsibility of each individual. It is a human order, one found in

the activities of individuals, rather than a cosmological or divine order,

such as the Hindu order of caste, or an abstract order, such as the

jurisprudential idea of ‘natural law’. It is not something to be imposed

THE SACRED SOCIAL ORDER 127

The English translations are, for the most part, those of Cosman (2001). However,2

she translates ‘interdites’ as ‘surrounded by prohibitions’, which is somewhat loose.

from above and it can only be restored through the voluntary acts of

those involved.

The ideal community is made up of individuals between whom and

between whose households there is a network of harmonious relations.

Cooperation, sharing, hospitality and collective work are their manifesta-

tion. It is a spider’s web of delicate, cross-cutting, inter-linked relation-

ships. Like a spider’s web, however, this order can easily be ruptured.

Two individuals exchanging harsh words and one woman refusing to

cooperate with another are enough to damage the web and a full-scale

fight will create a tear which the whole community must combine, if

necessary with a social boycott, to mend.

The sacred social

This notion of order accords with the concept of the sacred social

community found in Durkheim’s (1912) discussion of religion. He

suggests that it is the distinction between the sacred and the profane that

is fundamental to any form of religion (1912: 50). The sacred, he

explains, is that which is to be protected (1912: 56), set apart and out of

bounds (séparées et interdites) (1912: 65). Religion is a unified system2

of beliefs and practices relating to sacred things, which unites its adher-

ents into a single moral community (un système solidaire de croyances

et de pratiques relatives à des choses sacrées ... qui unissent en une

même communauté morale ... tous ceux qui y adhèrent). (1912: 65) It is

this, rather than any notion of the supernatural or the mysterious,

including the existence of gods and spirits, that defines religion. Ulti-

mately, it is the idea of society, itself, that is the soul of religion. It is the

social that is sacred, albeit an idealised society, something superimposed

upon the real (surajouté au réel) (1912: 602). A similar sense of the

sacred, I would suggest, characterises Ladakhi notions of the ideal

community, that referred to as the nang, the nangosla or the yul, a

concept which is superimposed upon or transcends the real.

The village community is not here the subject of worship, or even the

veneration directed at a crown, flag or other symbols of kingship or

nationhood elsewhere. Nor is it in any real sense ‘set apart’. However,

the community is sacred in the sense that it is something that must be

128 CHAPTER SEVEN

As Cosman (2001: xxvii) points out, Durkheim does not, however, reduce religion3

to morality.

preserved, kept intact and not disturbed or disordered by conflict. It is

surrounded by prohibitions to the extent that conflict is both morally and

judicially sanctioned. It is also a moral ideal and the foundation of the

judicial epistemologies and moral practices I have described in previous

chapters. Moreover, it unites the people into a single moral community,

elevating common above individual interests, that which Durkheim

characterised as profane (Cosman 2001: xxii). It is an ideal that gives3

rise to moral forces, the subject of aspirations and the sense, on the part

of individuals, of something beyond or transcending the world of

experience (1912: 600-04).

Durkheim also discussed the ritualised nature of the sacred and ‘the

cult’ (le culte) which supports it (1912: 611). In Photoksar many of the

rituals I described in the previous chapter concern the realm of the spirits

or the dictates of Buddhism, spheres from which, I have argued, the

moral community remains distinct. However, there is symbolism and

formality in the dralgo and the fight to deny social status by which, I

have suggested, people constitute themselves as proper members of that

moral community. The meetings of the yulpa, informal though they are,

and the way in which their activities are reported, symbolise the bound-

aries of the community and the ideal of unity amongst those who consti-

tute it. Durkheim, himself, also emphasised the meetings and congrega-

tions (les réunions, les assemblées, les congrégations) (1912: 610)

which, as others have pointed out (Just, forthcoming) are more important

in the construction of small communities than the elaborate symbolism

that characterises more complex societies. The social and moral order of

the community in Photoksar is, therefore, defined by the notion of the

ideal community in which everyone lives harmonious lives. The social

is sacred.

What Durkheim’s theory does not account for, at least on the face of

it, is the separation described in the last chapter between the realm of

moral and social relations amongst the villagers and that of the spirits,

who affect their physical fortunes. Although Durkheim was at pains to

stress that notions of the divine and the supernatural did not form the

basis of religion, he did give an account of the way in which such

notions could develop from the concept of the sacred social, leading to

the formation of the established religions as we know them today (1912:

Bk II, ch 9). The notion of the soul, too, and the associated eschatologi-

THE SACRED SOCIAL ORDER 129

As Allen (2000: 143) points out, Mauss was thinking of gatherings that bring4

together the whole of society, past, present and future, and everything associated with it.

Losar could be seen as such a gathering in Photoksar, where humans and spirits, judicial,

moral, political and familial relations are brought together. However, as I described in

the previous chapter, the festival also highlights certain tensions between these realms.

cal beliefs derive from the more fundamental concepts of religion (1912:

343). A notion that appears to be central to this account is that the

fundamental categories of thought have religious origins:

It has long been known that until a relatively advanced time in evolution, the

rules of morality and law were indistinguishable from ritual prescriptions. In

short, it maybe said that nearly all great social institutions are born of

religion. (On sait depuis longtemps que, jusqu’à un moment relativement

avancé de l’évolution, les règles de la morale et du droit ont été indistinctes

de prescriptions rituelles. On peut donc dire, en résumé, que presque toutes

les grandes institutions sociales sont nées de la religion.) (1912: 598)

There is, in this passage, an implicit model of an original, undeveloped

society in which religion is the eminent form and epitome of all collec-

tive life. It is a theory which is echoed in the writings of several other

anthropologists. Mauss, for example, describes the ‘total social phenom-

ena’, in which ‘all kinds of institutions are given expression at the same

time - religious, juridical, and moral’ (1990: 3) while Douglas describes4

‘primitive cultures’ in which there is a ‘lack of differentiation’ between

persons, their physical environment and the cosmos, and in which

‘physical forces are thought of as interwoven with the lives of persons.

... The universe discerns the social world and intervenes to uphold it.’

(1966: 88) Although their theories are, in many respects, different, the

legal anthropologists Maine (1883, 1909) and Gluckman (1955) base

their accounts of the origins of law and judicial practices on a similar

model of an original, undifferentiated society. Gluckman talks of ‘the

general lack of differentiation’ in simple society, the extent to which

custom is sacerdotalized to provide the basis for law, and the fact that

morality is a source of legal rulings in adjudication (1955: 264-67).

Samuel’s notion of the ‘total social whole’, as the basis on which

religious forms are to be understood in Tibet (1993: 362), similarly

suggests that religion provides the cultural forms that shape the whole

gamut of social processes.

Photoksar is a small-scale society in which the spirit world is clearly

interwoven with the lives of person, deeply implicated in their physical

and environmental fortunes. However, this world does not have any

130 CHAPTER SEVEN

direct impact on its moral and judicial organisation. The spirits and their

associated rites and rituals have little or no bearing on what I would

characterise as the sacred social. The judicial processes I have described

are part of a separate social realm. Religion, in this sense, provides the

basis for law. However, that form of religion, the sacred social, is not the

realm inhabited by the spirits, and with which the vast majority of the

practices of Buddhism are associated by the villagers. Custom has not

been sacerdotalized.

As I mentioned in the previous chapter, this separation corresponds

to distinct forms of social reorganisation within the village: the ranking

order of the dral, the division of the population into households and the

status and activities of the yulpa all relate to organisation of political and

moral relations between individuals. The notion of a sacred order is

found in peaceful and harmonious relations between people and their

households. By contrast, the phaspun comes together to organise peo-

ple’s relations with their phalha and their involvement in life-cycle

events, during which the protection of the lha is negotiated. Similarly,

much of the physical organisation of the village and people’s movement

within it, around religious monuments, in and out of the sight of the

yullha, maintaining an appropriate distance from certain shrines, is

determined by the presence of the spirits. Of course, there is some

overlap between these forms of organisation. Phaspun membership is

defined in terms of household membership. The timing of many agricul-

tural events is determined by the onpo and preceded by rituals, but the

event then depends on patterns of co-operation between households. It

is the same with many religious rituals. However, the group of khyimtses

gathering for an informal party has a completely different significance

from the members of the phaspun, often the same people, who gather to

organise a birth celebration.

The separation of realms

As Obeyesekere (1968) noted with regard to what he termed ‘pre-liter-

ate’ religions (using the term ‘religion’, contrary to Durkheim, to refer

to the supernatural rather than the social world), there is a separation

between the secular morality that underpins the norms of social life and

the ideas connected with religion, that is the rites and practices con-

cerned with the supernatural and the afterlife. I would suggest that in

Photoksar the sacred nature of the social accounts for the extent to which

THE SACRED SOCIAL ORDER 131

Among communities of nomadic pastoralists in Amdo, I found a certain similarity5

in ideas of order to those I observed in Photoksar. However, the fluidity of such

communities and the feuding relations between them, as well as the very different

historical trajectory and forms of political organisation in Amdo, have resulted in the

emergence of very different dynamics of order (Pirie, forthcoming).

it has been protected from external influences, including those of

establishment Buddhism, and also kept apart, in significant ways, from

the controlling hand of the former kings and aristocrats and their equiva-

lents in the modernday world.

In several other parts of ethnographic Tibet, particularly the remoter

Himalayan regions, a similar sense of a transcendent social whole has

been noted. von Fürer-Haimendorf (1964: 104), for example, remarks of

the Sherpas of Nepal that, ‘whatever the composition of a village

community, the guiding principle for its government everywhere is that

authority is vested in the totality of its inhabitants’. Ramble (forthcom-

ing), in his study of a village in Mustang, also describes the ‘reified

entity that transcends the community as an assembly of individuals and

households’. It would, thus, seem that other Tibetan populations5

maintain the idea of a community that transcends the status of the

individuals and families within it, an idea that also founds the authority

of those charged with responsibility for maintaining order. But that

community is also vulnerable to the encroachment of external forces.

Ramble (forthcoming Ch 7) describes a degree of incompatibility

between aspects of the cults of territorial deities found in this village,

and the soteriological Buddhist creed, to which they nominally sub-

scribed. As he puts it, the villagers do not ‘struggle with the problem of

irreconcilable systems, but deal with the component fragments of these

systems according to whether they are beneficial, harmful, salient or

irrelevant’. They do not treat Buddhism as an entire system, rather as

raw material, ‘divisible stuff’ which is employed in the construction or

elaboration of the local tradition (1990: 194). It is similar, I would

suggest, in Photoksar. The villagers regard the rites carried out for them

by Buddhist practitioners in terms of their efficacy within their own

supernatural world, whose numina are implicated, above all, in their

physical fortunes. The moral condemnation of drinking, adultery and

other sins, which is preached by the monks, represents a distinct set of

concerns, directed at the fate of the soul in the after-life and associated

with the ethical, but largely esoteric and obscure, zhiwa practices carried

out by the monks. Both of these are separate from the set of moral

concerns by which they maintain the social order of their community.

132 CHAPTER SEVEN

The Photoksar villagers, like those of Mustang described by Ramble,

are, thus, pragmatic and somewhat selective in their acceptance and

interpretation of Buddhism: they have assimilated it according to their

own needs and world views. But when the lamas are held in the highest

regard and when they visit the villages to give teachings, why do the

same villagers not accept and assimilate their cosmologies and moral

teachings more readily, especially when these would appear to support

their own moral concerns?

In the summer of 2005 Chado Rinpoche, from Sera monastery in

India, visited Photoksar on his way to Lingshed and stayed for two days

to give teachings and perform a skurims ritual (photos 35-37). During

the teachings he laid considerable emphasis on the merits of helpfulness,

selflessness, and the Buddhist moral virtues, explicitly referring to the

gewa rchu. When I asked a number of people to tell me what he had

been discussing, however, they were vague and merely mentioned his

injunctions about alcohol, the importance of saying prayers and the

benefits of education. They were interpreting his words, that is, in terms

of what they believed to be the activities relevant to their karma. His

teachings were being understood by the villagers in a way which synthe-

sised with their local understandings about the significance of karmic

morality. His explanations did not entirely fall on deaf ears, however.

The more educated villagers, such as Paljor, are knowledgeable about

Buddhist doctrine and attempt to synthesise its teachings with their more

pragmatic village concerns. At the same time, thoughtful monks con-

stantly attempt to interpret local ritual ideas and practices in more

orthodox Buddhist terms. These efforts lead to more or less successful

syntheses and heterogeneous understandings. The contradictory attitudes

towards alcohol found in Photoksar are one example of this: the villagers

both accept the lamas’ condemnation of alcohol, in the abstract, and

reserve their effective criticism of each other for those whose drunken-

ness leads to antagonism and violence.

Spiritual pollution, drib, is also thought, in some Tibetan contexts, to

arise from conflict (Schickelgrüber 1989). Drib is a phenomenon found

widely amongst Tibetan communities and is generally regarded as

arising after birth and death, negatively affecting relations between

humans and spirits. In Photoksar the concept implies vulnerability to

spirit attack: it is because of their susceptibility to drib that babies,

mothers and the family of a deceased have to avoid proximity to, and

even sight of, the shrines of the powerful protector deities, lest they be

struck by illness. The village concept is a pragmatic, supernatural one.

THE SACRED SOCIAL ORDER 133

Kaplanian (1988) describes mi kha as arising from the jealousy of wealth and new6

babies. The Photoksar villagers told me it arises from gossip, with similar effects to a

mild spirit attack which can be cured by a short prayer reading. Mi kha, thus, has

cosmological connotations. The gossip need not be malicious, however - it could even

include speculating about how the anthropologist is faring back home. Paljor, moreover,

made a firm distinction between mi kha and the enmity that arises when two people

quarrel, which he referred to as khon. The distinction is subtle but, in my view,

Even Paljor shook his head over the explanations of my Tibetan dictio-

nary which link drib with blood, oaths, chastity, and fighting (Das 1998:

244). In Leh, both the monks and other educated informants were

dismissive of the villagers’ understandings, however. One monk told me

that these were ‘old forms’ of drib which were not so relevant any more.

What is important is the purification rituals ‘which make everything

clear with the gods’, he asserted. In order to explain the practices and

attitudes he found among his monastic informants in Lingshed, Mills

(2003: Ch 8) elaborated a complex theory of drib based on the idea of

dislocation from a world in which divinities, the Buddha, and humans

are in harmony. The notion of drib is simultaneously, then, a concept

with pragmatic, supernatural significance for the Photoksar villagers and

a concept with religious and moral implications for Tibetan elites.

A similarly complex concept, also open to multiple interpretations,

is that of the sems, the mind, which, as discussed in chapter three, has at

least two different connotations in Photoksar. A third is the Buddhist

concept of the disciplined, educated mind that is only achieved after long

training. One Ladakhi monk told me that the Photoksar villagers do not

receive enough teaching about Buddhist morality, as a result of which

they have sems lchinte, ‘strong’ minds and cannot control their anger. In

the village, on the other hand, the sems lchinte is equivalent to the small

sems chungun, which explains why some people are liable to anger and

fear. When I raised this subject with Paljor, whilst agreeing with the

local description he also told me that education, by which he meant

knowledge of Buddhist texts, leads to a good mind and characterises

those who control their anger. He did not acknowledge the apparent

contradiction between the Buddhist idea of knowledge as the foundation

of proper conduct and the local idea of the biologically determined mind.

Numerous practical and moral concerns of the laity are also the

subject of ritual texts within the Buddhist canon. ‘Idle speech’ (ngag

�chal) is, for example, one of the mi gewa rchu, the ten Buddhist moral

prohibitions. There are also texts which concern gossip and jealousy, mi

kha (Kapstein 1997: 527-37). Lopez presents several texts that address6

134 CHAPTER SEVEN

significant. Mi kha can be caused accidentally but khon is a sign of bad personal relations

and has no cosmological connotations.

quotidian concerns of the laity with the object of correcting the image of

Buddhism as ‘a disembodied philosophy’ (1997: 36). The extent to

which the content of such documents penetrated lay consciousness is not

clear, however. They may simply have been regarded as texts for

recitation.

Certain ideas - the pollution associated with birth and death, the

evaluation of the mind and the dangers of gossip - are, therefore, con-

nected by members of the elite with the principles of Buddhism and

represent a combination of moral and religious ideas. The same concepts

retain an almost wholly pragmatic significance for most of the Photoksar

villagers, however. The Photoksar villagers have incorporated certain

ideas and practices of Buddhism and the authority of the Buddhist

practitioners into their local world in a way which synthesises, albeit not

without tensions, with their own pragmatic, physical and cosmological

concerns.

This apparent triumph of pragmatism over religion can be attributed,

at least in part, to the sacred nature of the social from which these

supernatural concerns remain distinct. It is something that needs to be

preserved from the hegemonic power of Buddhism, whose establish-

ments and leaders, of course, extracted taxes from the lay populations.

But such leaders also offer notions of order, morality and religious

authority which compete with local understandings. There is a funda-

mental resistence to allowing outsiders and those with power, whether

religious, economic or political, from encroaching on the internal spaces

of the village, whether the sacred social or the web of relations they

maintain with their lha.

The ongoing process of religious assimilation is increasing as Ladakh

is incorporated more firmly into the modern world and communications

with Buddhist centres in India are made ever easier. Monks and wealthy

individuals can now easily travel to Dharamsala and other centres of

Buddhist learning to hear the teachings of senior lamas. The Dalai

Lama, in particular, deplores ‘non-Buddhist’ spirit veneration and

promotes a morally-based form of Buddhism. At the same time, organi-

sations like the Maha Bodhi Society, a Theravada Buddhist organisation,

distribute short, readable texts within Ladakh concerning Buddhist

principles. Some young development workers were reading these when

they visited Photoksar. They disparaged the villagers, to me, as ‘igno-

THE SACRED SOCIAL ORDER 135

rant’, attributing their lack of cooperation with a new development

project they were trying to implement, to alcohol drinking. This, they

said, was a sign of their ‘bad minds’. At the same time, however, even

the most educated Ladakhis retain a reverence for their religious texts

which places them beyond the realm of practical relevance. Young

people would typically express reluctance to explain religious principles

to me, referring instead to the monks or elders who ‘knew’ them better.

Even for these groups, therefore, the Buddhism of the texts remains

esoteric. This reification of Buddhist texts serves to distance the ethical

codes, in the eyes of most of the Ladakhi laity, from matters of practical

morality. At the same time, it serves to distance the religious power-

holders from the practical business of village politics. Deference and

distance, I would suggest, characterise all these relationships.

The autonomy of the sacred social in the Ladakhi village is, thus,

threatened by the powerful narratives of Buddhism, as well as internal

tendencies towards hierarchy and conflict. The villagers need actively

to maintain and preserve the autonomy and unity of their community.

Although its achievement is an impossible task, however, they maintain

the ideal. In so doing they pursue patterns of autonomy and deference by

which they distance external forces from their internal spaces of order.

Autonomy

The villagers take it upon themselves to settle even the most serious

cases of internal conflict. A striking example of this occurred in Lingsh-

ed, a considerably larger, but more remote, village than Photoksar. One

summer a group of four boys, ages six to ten, had gone up to the moun-

tains to herd the sheep and goats but only three had returned. They

would not say what had happened to the fourth so search parties were

sent out. They eventually found the missing boy’s body, partly buried in

the ground. It was not clear what had happened, the boys claiming that

he had fallen and hurt himself and that they had buried the body in a

panic. The family of the dead boy asked the goba and membars to

intervene and a village meeting was called. It was decided that the

families of the three should pay compensation to the family of the fourth

and they were instructed to ‘take care’ about their children in the future.

Compensation of around Rs100,000 was originally decided upon, a truly

astronomical amount, but the three asked for another meeting to agree

a reduction and it was eventually lowered to something in the region of

136 CHAPTER SEVEN

Rs60,000. According to my informant from Lingshed, this was in

consideration of the wealth of the families and the fact that the boys

were still young and irresponsible. The families of the older two had to

pay more than that of the younger, on the basis that they must have been

more responsible. The villagers obviously considered that the boys were

in some way responsible for the death but the truth was never firmly

established. Nevertheless, the boys’ families did not attempt to take the

case to a higher authority, to the police or to the court in Leh, even

though they were not at all happy, other informants told me, with the

level of the fines. In the end they accepted the authority of the village

meeting and agreed to pay the fines.

This is a dramatic example of a remote village’s maintenance of

autonomy and distance from the central administration by resolving a

serious conflict internally. Like the Zangskar rape, mentioned in chapter

four, it was not referred to the police by the families of the deceased boy

or by the goba, nor by the families of the accused boys. The police have

theoretical status as an external authority and they were often mentioned

to me during conversations we had about village disputes in Photoksar.

When I asked Paljor about the meaning of the phrase shakhs, for exam-

ple, he used the police as the ultimate example of a body which can

achieve shakhs. Likewise, after the meeting that had resolved the two

major fights in Photoksar he explained that if there was any more trouble

between the same men then the yulpa would be able to show the agree-

ments to the police as a record of exactly what had happened. The police

were, therefore, talked about, at least to me, as the ultimate arbiters in

matters of village conflict. In practice, however, it was quite clear that

they were not regarded as either a welcome or a realistic source of

judicial authority. When I asked Paljor, during the same conversation,

what the police would do if they were called to the village he shrugged

his shoulders and said they would probably just beat people up and take

money. Once or twice in the past people had been to the police, he said,

‘but now we try to settle everything nangosla’, among ourselves. Despite

their official status as guarantors of law and order in Ladakh, the villag-

ers are keen to avoid their involvement as far as possible.

The villagers pay lip service, therefore, to the supremacy of the

state’s authorities, in the form of the police and government officers. In

practice, however, these are treated as little more than distant powers,

whose interference in village affairs must be avoided. It is the yulpa who

have the ultimate authority to maintain order in the village, both by

deciding the tral and by settling conflict. The villagers rhetorically

THE SACRED SOCIAL ORDER 137

acknowledge the authority of the government’s representatives, as they

probably did that of the lonpo, but the idea that conflict must be resolved

with a ceremonial reestablishment of good relations serves to confine all

disputes within the village. External power-holders are effectively

distanced from the internal affairs of the village. The resolution of

conflict is very much an internal matter, one which is defined by and

also reinforces the sense of the village as an autonomous community.

This becomes particularly relevant when considering the dynamics of

order in the urban centre, where similar ideas are found among much

more complex social networks, as I describe in chapter nine.

There are also reports from elsewhere in Ladakh of cases in which

the police or other government officers were called to settle conflict and

found themselves drawn into practices of mediation determined by local

expectations. Srinivas (1998: 111-16), for example, records a number of

cases from villages in Nubra, a region to the north of Ladakh, over one

of the many high passes that were traversed by the trading caravans on

their route into Central Asia. Although most of the disputes were

resolved internally, one involved a violent conflict between two villages

which resulted in the intervention of the police. They were, however,

unable to stop the violence until local officials joined with village

representatives to undertake a process of mediation between the two

villages. Pascale Dollfus (1989: 119) records a similar event in the

village of Hemis Shukpachan. A fight was reported to the police by one

of the protagonists. A group of neighbours, with the assistance of the

goba and membar, persuaded the police to come to the village but with

unsatisfactory results and the villagers had to bribe them, collectively,

to achieve the result they considered appropriate with fines, apologies

and khatags. In each of these cases the police acted not as independent

agents of the state but, rather, found themselves drawn into local pro-

cesses of conflict resolution.

Returning to consider the historical developments discussed in

chapter two, it is possible to understand the ways in which the Photoksar

villages must have negotiated their village order under previous regimes.

We know that representatives of the lonpo, who became an official for

the Dogras, visited the village regularly to collect taxes. The villagers

told me of the harshness of these taxes and the way the lonpo’s retainers

used to enforce their demands with big sticks. These were doubtless

treated with the greatest social respect and the annual party which, the

lonpo told me, his ancestors used to throw was welcomed. It is, never-

theless, probable that the villagers organised the vast majority of their

138 CHAPTER SEVEN

internal affairs without interference from these representatives. There is

certainly no evidence of any great involvement in village organisation

on the part of these or any others, save for the extraction of taxes, the

enforcement of begar obligations and the recruitment of men for the

kings’ armies. While the lonpo told me that his ancestors used to ‘give

the law’ to the villages, it is almost certain that the villagers, under their

yulpa and goba, maintained order by settling conflict internally, much

as they do today.

The nature of administrative control changed considerably under the

Dogras, particularly after Kashmir was incorporated into the British

Empire. The mapping of agricultural land and the creation of the land

settlement records was, as described by van Beek (1996: Ch 2), one of

the ways in which the villagers’ resources became subject to closer

control. From a legal point of view the land settlements had a significant

effect on the definition and organisation of property relations throughout

Ladakh. However, although the Photoksar villagers were well aware of

the maps and records held in Leh they did not regard them as having

altered their property relations in practice, and they never have recourse

to them in cases of doubt. I saw two written records of disputes that had

occurred over property boundaries in the village during the second half

of the twentieth century, although these were few in comparison to the

records of other forms of disagreement. One had concerned a piece of

land that was claimed by one household as its own, but by others to be

communal property. Certain of the older members of the village had

been called upon to give evidence as to the historic use of the land. They

had not referred to the land officials in Leh, however. Nevertheless, the

land records still reflect, remarkably well, the current pattern of house-

hold landholding. There are just a few areas in which fields have been

washed away or abandoned or new ones have been created and the

villagers were not at all surprised that maps created almost a hundred

years previously should closely mirror their contemporary pattern of

land ownership. The sense of immemorial continuity is strong. Doubtless

the land records were drawn up to reflect closely the villagers’ own

property relations at the time and these have remained the same, with

only minor changes, into the twenty-first century.

As far as the villagers are concerned, therefore, their patterns of land

ownership, household organisation and internal village administration

have remained substantially the same despite, and during the course of,

the dramatic changes that have taken place in the political regimes of

Ladakh since the 1830s, when it changed from a kingdom to an annexe

THE SACRED SOCIAL ORDER 139

to the Dogra state, to a part of the colonial empire, to a marginal region

in the Indian nation state. This sense of internal continuity, also reflected

in the notion of the local and unchangeable trims, is one of the ways in

which they maintain the autonomy of their community against the

influence of outsiders. There is, I have suggested, a pattern of deference

and distance towards external sources of power which runs through

these historic relations between villagers and outsiders. This is exempli-

fied in their relations with Buddhism, whose deities and lamas are

accorded the highest respect and whose religious power is practically

unquestioned, but who are not allowed to impinge on the moral and

social relations that are at the heart of the construction of their own

community.

Autonomy and equality

The root of the practices that distance the influence of outsiders from

these internal village processes is often, I would suggest, to be found in

the same processes by which the villagers maintain a sense of unity and

equality amongst themselves. The dralgo, for example, as well as

symbolising relations of equality between members of village house-

holds, also differentiates members of the village from the aristocracy,

monks and outsiders.

Monks are invariably elevated in the dralgo and even when they are

from village families they are also excluded from meetings of the yulpa.

This includes the youngest novices. While I was staying at Khangltakh,

Orsal, Paljor and Morup’s second son, was chosen to be sent to Lamayu-

ru monastery, in compliance with the new tral. He and another village

boy, both around eight years old, were despatched with a touching

ceremony which saw the villagers gather on the roof of one of the houses

over-looking the rocky path that descends steeply into the gorge below

the village (photo 34). As they paid their respects with changskyan and

khatags, Morup was typically dry-eyed, but Api Rigzin wept copiously.

Even Paljor wiped away tears as the two small figures took their leave

and receded into the distance behind the donkey carrying their small

packs down the valley and towards their new lives in the monastery.

Some months later they returned on a visit, now proudly wearing the

maroon robes of the novice monk. Paljor had reported tears on Orsal’s

part when he had visited Lamayuru and this was his first chance to be

reunited with his family. The boys were greeted outside the village by

140 CHAPTER SEVEN

In fact, in the next few days, Orsal joined his brothers and friends in their normal7

activities and seating places and was soon being scolded by his mother and grandmother

for his pranks. In subsequent years he and his companions learned how to shift easily

between statuses, sitting with the monks during festivals and dancing with the other

children in the evenings.

their mothers and neighbours carrying changskyan and as soon as they

entered the kitchen they were placed at the head of the dralgo. Meme

Sonam fussed around them, pouring tea and deliberately using zhe skat,

the formal mode of address. As a westerner, my heart bled for the young

boys who, to my eyes, must have wanted desperately to be ‘at home’,

just to be boys in their families again after the uncomfortable surround-

ings of the monastery. They were being denied this comfort by the

formality of their treatment. What was happening, however, was that

their new status was being publicly and symbolically marked. As long

as they stayed in the monastery they would never be the same as the

other villagers; they would also never enter the ranks of the yulpa. 7

The dral and honorific speech are, thus, used to elevate all monks

socially but also to distance them from village politics, which means

they will never be consulted in connection with disputes and never

attend village meetings. Both symbolically and physically the politico-

moral order of the village is, in such ways, protected and set apart from

the powerful authority of the religious establishments. Maintaining this

sense of distance from the political and religious centres of the region

does not, however, amount to the rejection of established social statuses.

The respect shown to monks and aristocrats in the dralgo and in a

myriad of small hospitality rituals is not cynically or reluctantly be-

stowed. Rather, there is a subtle system of deference and distance here

with regard to those in superior positions. They are elevated in the social

hierarchy but not allowed political influence within the village.

As well as the aristocrats and monks, all visiting officials are placed

in higher positions in the dral, as are social visitors from other villages.

Those that are relatives or members of nearby villages soon fall into the

age-ranking order if they stay for any time. The villagers, thus, mark a

certain affinity with them, as they also did, eventually, with the anthro-

pologist. However, the initial placing of outsiders in superior positions

represents their exclusion from the internal processes of village organi-

sation. When politicians, local officials and workers from non-govern-

mental organizations visit the village to rally political support or institute

development projects they are, likewise, placed alongside the aristocrats

and monks in the seating plan. This symbolic respect is matched by

THE SACRED SOCIAL ORDER 141

deference and acquiescent attitudes on the part of the villagers. How-

ever, when they leave very little effort is normally made to comply with

their directions. Although the villagers may have promised faithfully to

dig the foundations for a new school, which will then be funded by a

development organisation, for example, its representatives are likely to

return the following year to find few, if any, signs of progress. This was

the experience and the object of considerable complaint on the part of

organisations in both Lingshed and Photoksar during, or shortly after,

my fieldwork. It can partly be seen as a function of rotating leadership

in the village and the need for the yulpa to achieve unanimity in major

decisions, which are barriers to decisive leadership and innovation.

However, the physical respect accorded to outsiders also sets them

symbolically outside the cohesive group of villagers and reinforces the

latter’s passive resistance to external control.

The dral is, thus, used by the villagers to reinforce relations of

equality between households and, to a large extent, between the individ-

uals within them. The same hierarchy supported the authority of the old

political elites and continues to support the social status of monks and

upper classes. It has been adapted to accord similar honour to modern

political and economic leaders, but at the same time it symbolically

distances such leaders and potential authority figures from the bounded

internal structures of village order.

Photoksar, as one of the more remote Ladakhi villages, retains a

greater autonomy than villages closer to Leh, where external influences

are much greater. It is not that the villagers do not engage with external

forces, however. They welcome food supplies, schools and health

services and the maintenance of the roads and paths (such as it is). It is

not just that old forms of autonomous organisation are lingering here,

not yet swept away by the forces of modernity that come through greater

contact with the external world. The Photoksar villagers have always

engaged with this world, changing as it is, but when it comes to internal

organisation their relations are structured in a way that protects the

autonomy of their sacred social space, their own yul. The greatest social

respect is paid to outsiders, monks and representatives of the govern-

ment, but leadership and authority over their internal affairs is limited

to the insiders, to the inclusive group of yulpa.

The Photoksar villagers are, therefore, distancing a number of power-

holders and their associated ideological frameworks from their internal

spaces of social order. They are keeping at bay external frameworks of

order. To put this in Redfield’s (1960) terms, the little tradition, with its

142 CHAPTER SEVEN

moral and legal domain and associated rituals, is being safeguarded

against the great tradition, or great traditions, with their associated

moral, legal and ritual frameworks. As Mills’s work demonstrates,

however, aspects of authority may be established by the great tradition

without overwhelming the autonomy of the little. As he shows, the

practitioners of the great tradition of Buddhism, the monks, are them-

selves embedded within the local cosmological domains of the little

tradition. One of the sources of the incarnates’ authority is their ability

to transcend and re-order that cosmological domain. When it comes to

economic and political relations, the aristocracy and monastic establish-

ments of the ‘great tradition’, the Ladakhi kingdom, established superior

positions for their members within the overall Ladakhi social order.

These are recognised in the social order of the little traditions, the dralgo

formed within the villages, which supported their economic and political

power. However, neither they, nor their successors in the modern state,

have firmly established judicial authority over the internal organisation

of these villages. They are distanced from the moral and legal orders of

these communities who are, thus, continuing to retain a measure of the

autonomy, even from the ‘great tradition’ of the Indian state.

In the next chapter I turn to the wider region to look, in particular, at

the legal practices and ideas that developed within the ‘great tradition’

of central Tibet and to assess whether they have had any impact on the

‘little traditions’ of either the Ladakhi kingdom or the modern Ladakhi

village.

This initially occurred in the fourteenth century, during a brief period in which they1

patronised this sect, before the rise of the Phagmodru (Wylie 1978).

CHAPTER EIGHT

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET

The Gelukpa sect, which came to dominate the government of central

Tibet under the leadership of the Dalai Lamas, was founded by Tsongka-

pa in the late fourteenth century. In 1641 the Mongol leader Gushri

Khan helped the Gelukpa defeat the Tsangpa kings to become effective

rulers of central Tibet. Their leader, the ‘Great’ fifth Dalai Lama exer-

cised administrative control by re-organising the system of taxation, in

particular by endowing monasteries with landed estates (Carrasco 1959:

24). The system of succession by reincarnation, which had been devel-

oped by the Karmapa sect and recognised by the Mongols, was ex-1

panded to apply to a large number of influential monastic positions. The

death of the fifth Dalai Lama was followed by a period during which the

Chinese Manchu regime exercised almost complete control over Tibet,

having defeated the Mongols in 1724. They subsequently established the

seventh Dalai Lama as formal head of government in 1751. With

continuing Manchu support he established a stable, although limited,

bureaucracy based on the exercise of a certain amount of financial and

administrative control and this became what is known as the Ganden

Potrang government. Through this government the Gelukpa effectively

remained in power in central Tibet, under successive incarnations of the

Dalai Lama or his Regent, until the Chinese occupation of the 1950s.

Within this administration, positions of responsibility and authority

were divided between monastic and lay officials. Before the reforms of

the thirteenth Dalai Lama in the early twentieth century, however, the

central government remained small. As Goldstein summarises it:

the government did not maintain a national police force or internal postal

services, and it kept only a very small permanent military force which, in any

case, served as a corvée tax obligation. Most of the government’s income

was earmarked not for government activities but, rather, for religious

ceremonies. The traditional Tibetan government needed little income

because it did very little. (1989: 85)

144 CHAPTER EIGHT

The begar system in Ladakh operated in a similar way and the two systems were2

linked in the case of trade between the two regions (Rizvi 1999).

Even after international events, including the British invasion of Tibet

in 1903-04, had prompted the expansion of the bureaucracy and military

by the thirteenth Dalai Lama, the primary focus of government contin-

ued to be the collection of taxes and maintenance of peace (Goldstein

1971a: 175).

The majority of Tibet was divided into estates under the control of

local lords, monasteries or officials sent by Lhasa. The latter adminis-

tered the government’s own estates whose revenues were paid directly

to Lhasa. Two officials, one lay and one monastic, were appointed for

a period of years, mainly to collect revenue. They also had to ensure the

functioning of the corvée labour system, the obligation to provide both

men and livestock for transport, which was essential to the administra-

tion of this vast and sparsely populated region. Similar functions were2

carried out by the rulers of the private and monastic estates. As Carrasco

summarises it (1959:25), there was a wide variety in systems of adminis-

tration through time and across the geographical spread in Tibet, with an

underlying pattern of more or less formalised patron-client relationships.

The larger estates, principally Sakya, Trashi Lhunpo and Lhagyari,

enjoyed a considerable degree of autonomy, particularly over revenue

collection, which was their main administrative concern. In the outlying

areas, where the lords remained further from governmental control,

many administrative functions were delegated to local hierarchs, who

worked under the loose control of the central government (Carrasco

1959: 133-37).

As Geoffrey Samuel describes it (1993: 62-63), centralised power

remained fragile throughout Tibetan history. Drawing on Tambiah’s

(1976) model of a ‘galactic polity’, he describes the Dalai Lamas’

regime as a ‘mandala-type structure based on an exemplary centre and

regional administrations that replicated the structure of the centre’.

These drifted historically between periods of attachment to one or

another centre and periods of autonomy: ‘central rule is as much a matter

of performance (as in the elaborate rituals of the Lhasa administration)

as administration.’ (1993: 62) The primary focus of the whole enterprise

was the extraction of produce and control of personnel. Michael (1982)

and Dreyfus (1995) argue for a model of bureaucratic control but

Goldstein (1971a) suggests that there was a balance or oscillation

between centralisation and decentralisation of political, economic and

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 145

The use of the term ‘serf’ to translate mi ser is contentious. Goldstein (1971b, 1986,3

1988, 1989a) argues, against Michael (1982) and Miller (1987, 1988) for an analogy

between the Tibetan peasantry and the serfs of Medieval Europe, primarily on the basis

of the hereditary ties that bound them to their estates.

administrative control. In any event, it is generally accepted that the

raising of revenue and funding of rituals were the main concerns of

government and that a considerable number of its administrative con-

cerns, including the organisation of the corvée system and the mainte-

nance of order, were delegated to local lords, monasteries and adminis-

trators.

Kyirong was one of the estates administered directly by Lhasa. One

of French’s informants was appointed as a senior official there and he

told her that his main duties were the collection of taxes, the manage-

ment of border controls and customs (1995: Ch 19). Legal cases brought

to him for resolution mostly involved land - inheritance, monastic

disagreements, land disputes between monasteries and lay people - but

also serious theft and robbery. Officials from the central government in

such places obviously, therefore, carried out considerable judicial

functions. These were only loosely controlled by Lhasa, however.

Carrasco (1959: 93-4), for example, describes an edict circulated by the

central government to district officials every year, which required

impartiality in the administration of justice, in the levying of taxes, the

treatment of the serfs (mi ser), the protection of government lands and3

the regulation of trade.

Shigatse, location of Trashi Lhunpo monastery and seat of the

Panchen Lama, could be called a semi-autonomous polity, although it

had close ties to Lhasa. Charles Bell made a record of an edict posted in

a district office in Shigatse in the 1920s, which describes the duties of

district officers answerable to the Lhasa government. These primarily

concerned the collection of taxes, the organisation of supplies, the

transport that could be demanded by officials and the maintenance of

order. Crimes, particularly theft, were to be reported by both lay and

monastic estate owners and limits were set on the punishments they

could hand down. There were also restrictions on the interest that could

be charged on loans, provisions for festivals, the reading of chos and the

killing of animals (French 1995: 233-35).

At least in theory, therefore, the Lhasa government exerted control

over crime and punishment in such polities. Nevertheless, it could not be

regarded as having a centralised and bureaucratic legal system by which

it managed the administration of justice, even in central Tibet. Rather,

146 CHAPTER EIGHT

It did not, in fact, spread widely until the time of Tri Songdetsen, in the eighth4

century, and it had to be re-introduced after the collapse of the empire in 842, under what

is known as the ‘second diffusion’ in the tenth to eleventh centuries.

The historical details in this section are drawn from Shakabpa (1967: Ch 6),5

Fairbank (1994: Chs 2 & 5 and 1998: 245) .

it issued guidelines and left considerable discretion in the hands of local

officials.

The legal codes

The founding king of the empire, Songtsen Gampo, is said to have been

responsible for the bringing of Buddhism into the region in the seventh

century. The Old Tibetan Chronicle, dating from the late eighth or early4

ninth centuries, credits him with the creation of a system of laws and

simultaneously glorifies him for his practice of good religion (Stein

1972: 52-3; Kapstein 2000: 36, 56). Later histories, such as the rgyal

rabs gsal ba’i me long, compiled in the fourteenth century, and the

mkhas pa’i dga’ ston (the Khepa), compiled in the sixteenth, also

describe him as the source of the ‘Sixteen Pure Popular Rules of Con-

duct’ (mi chos gtsang ma bcu drug) (the mi chos), a code of ethics. The

legal codes used in Lhasa until the mid-twentieth century are described

as being based on the mi chos of Songtsen Gampo, as well as the mi

gewa rchu, propounded at the same time (French 1995: 41-42).

The fragments of legal documents that survive from the time of the

empire contain no references to Buddhism, however, nor traces of the

influence of Buddhist ethics (Kapstein 2000: 56-57). For the most part

they are ‘rather functional, dry, hard-nosed statements of offences and

punishments’ (Huber 1998: 85). There was, therefore, some system of

centralised laws, of a largely administrative and punitive nature, in the

early Tibetan Empire (Richardson 1989, 1990; Dotson forthcoming) but

an explicit connection between legal provisions and religious principles

did not appear until later.

The death of King Langdarma in 842 led to the collapse of the

Tibetan empire and little is known about the period up to the thirteenth

century, when Mongol forces began to exercise influence in Tibet. The

region had, by then, dissolved into a series of petty states and local

dynasties, often allied to Buddhist sects. Prominent among these were5

the Sakya, whose ruling family came to exercise political control over

a significant area in the thirteenth century and provided the head of the

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 147

Buddhist sect of that name. The Sakyapa Pagspa lama was largely

responsible for converting the Mongol’s leader, Khubilai Khan, to

Buddhism and was, in turn, rewarded with political support. Sakya

remained a substantially independent polity into the twentieth century,

although its wider power was overshadowed by that of the Pagmodru

kings, allied to the Drigunpa sect, in the fourteenth century.

The Mongols may have introduced some sort of legal codes into

Tibet, based on the Yüan (Ming) imperial codes, but their political

organisation was not highly centralised and they did not establish any

significant administrative structures. The Sakya are reported to have

used the Mongol laws (Tucci 1949: 37) but it was the Pagmodru leaders

who, in the fourteenth century, established the legal codes that were later

to became widespread in Tibet. The Tsang dynasty, based in Shigatse,

which enjoyed power until its defeat by the fifth Dalai Lama in 1641, is

said to have produced its own complex system of laws. These were

designed for a military administration and included provisions for the

duties and promotion of officers and the maintenance of borders (Dreyf-

us 1995:35).

The fifth Dalai Lama adopted the legal codes of the Pagmodru kings

(Schuh 1984b). These are generally referred to as the zhal che churukpa

or chuksumpa (the zhal che), the sixteen or thirteen laws, depending on

the version (Jäschke 1881: 473; Das 1998: 1068). The existing copies

are largely similar in their provisions (White 1894; Meisezahl 1973;

Dawa Norbu 1974; Schuh 1984b). They make rules for officials and

official procedures. They provide for the use of the death penalty and

mutilation punishments in cases of patri- or matricide, the murder of a

monk or high status individual, death caused by poisoning or magic,

robbery, offences against the property of the church or state and insur-

rection in times of peace. They also set out the compensation payments

to be applied in a large number of cases, including death, injury, damage

to property, divorce, adultery and the non-return of borrowed animals.

The longer versions add provisions about warfare and the treatment of

the populations of border areas. The vast majority of these provisions are

also found in documents dating from the time of the empire, although

this historical legacy is not made explicit in the later documents and

histories. Rather, they claim that the zhal che are based on the mi chos,

themselves attributed to Songtsen Gampo (Meisezahl 1973: 225; Schuh

1984b: 298). As Schuh (1984b: 299) points out, however, the practical

and often punitive nature of the zhal che is, however, very different from

the statements of general moral principle found in the mi chos. In any

148 CHAPTER EIGHT

As Kapstein puts it (2000: 58), albeit referring to the Empire, the foundation of a6

universal state, ruling many different people necessitated a framework of universal law,

which Buddhism was able to supply.

event, the mi chos were customs (religion) of men, as opposed to the

religion of gods (lha chos) (Stein 2003: 535). The influence of Bud-

dhism was ‘a retrospective, purely fictitious, ideological construction’.

(Schuh 1984b: 300)

As Sørensen (1994: 35) suggests, the moral basis claimed for the

codes was part of a project to create ‘a vivid symbol of Tibetan dynastic

history,’ initially undertaken by the Pagmodru leader Changchub

Gyaltsen. As Dotson (2006) explains, the later rulers were appealing to

the legacy of their predecessors by projecting religious laws (and the mi

chos) onto the religious kings of the empire. Tibetan historiography

initially glorified Songsten Gampo as a great administrator, for his legal

practices and statecraft and his deeds only later came to be interpreted

in Buddhist terms. By the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, good

customs and a great and heroic kingdom (chos bzang srid mthos) were

replaced by the unity of politics and religion, chösi zungdrel (chos srid

zung �brel) as a legitimating narrative (Stein 2003: 534-39).

This model of the harmony between political power and religious

authority, chösi zungdrel, came to function as the ideological template

for the legal and political systems of Tibet (Dreyfus 1995: 168). Legal6

documents typically proclaimed that: ‘Tibet is a country in which

political and religious affairs are carried on simultaneously, with its

chief aims the propagation of Buddhism and the seeking of happiness for

all souls on earth.’ (Carrasco 1959: 80) The process by which existing

legal provisions came to be legitimised in religious terms is evident in

the structure of the sixteenth century Khepa, which has a lengthy section

on law and state (Uray 1972). As Dotson (2006) suggests, the authors

were probably aware of the dissonance between these provisions, which

have little to do with Buddhism, and the legacy of Songsten Gampo as

a great religious king. The story of the Khotanese monks in the preamble

to that section acts as an apologetic for what follows. In this story

Songsten Gampo appears as an incarnation of Avalokitesvara and

explains the evidence of draconian legal punishments as mirages,

manifestations designed to convert his resistant subjects to Buddhism.

A comparable, and more explicit, attempt to legitimise the legal codes

is found in the chronicle written by the fifth Dalai Lama. He explains

that the laws of the Mongols, which provided that the murder of one

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 149

Dreyfus’s theory is less convincing when it comes to the administration of justice.7

He agrees with Samuel that ‘Tibet could be thought of as a loose federation overseen by

a small bureaucracy organized around the charismatic figure of the Dalai Lama’, while

the increased bureaucratisation of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries marked a

transition to a more bureaucratic polity, at least for the central part of Tibet dominated

by Lhasa. ‘This evolution’, he says, ‘is clearly marked in the Tibetan legal system and

the development of mechanisms of enforcement.’ (1995: 133) However, as described

here, the administration of justice in Tibet was far from systematic.

person was to be repaid by the death of another, were sinful and required

re-writing to reinstate the old Tibetan practice of compensation (Schuh

1984b: 303). In fact, the principles of both compensation and retribution

are found in the codes, and this statement, like the parable of the

Khotanese monks, must be regarded as part of the programme to provide

religious legitimation for the structures and legal practices of the Tibetan

government.

The codes and legal system, as a whole, Dreyfus says, reflected the

‘semi-bureaucratic’ nature of the Tibetan state, which was ‘more sub-

stantive than formal’. ‘Rather than insisting on procedures, Tibetan law

emphasized the importance of social harmony, moral and religious

values ... they also stressed the importance of conciliation, and the

relevance of religious doctrines.’ (1995:136-7) ‘Law’, in this sense, was7

a tool of government. It was a mixture of specific directions aimed at

officials and general principles and values supposed to guide their

activities. It did not amount to a ‘rule of law’ system, with clear laws and

procedures on which ordinary people could rely, both in their dealings

with one another and with the government.

Legal principles

The legal codes did contain a mixture of administrative directions and

stipulations for severe punishments. Schuh (1984b: 300-02) suggests that

these provisions conform to two fundamental principles. The first is that

of punishment on the basis of retaliation, which is to be found in the list

of crimes said to merit the death penalty or mutilation. The second is

that of reparation by compensation, found in the several sections that

provide for fines in respect of crimes as serious as murder, along with

injury, theft, divorce and adultery. Referring to evidence from eastern

Tibet, where principles of compensation have long been used to settle

nomad feuds (Shih -Yü Yü Li 1950:132), Schuh’s hypothesis is that

150 CHAPTER EIGHT

compensation is the oldest Tibetan legal principle (1984b: 302). He

considers that the ‘criminal provisions’, based on the principles of

deterrence and retaliation, were developed later by the rulers of the small

Tibetan kingdoms in order to protect their state and religious establish-

ments.

As evidence from eastern Tibet indicates, however, practices of

compensation invariably formed part of developed systems of revenge

(Ekvall 1964; Pirie 2006b). Mi stong, blood money, is a substitute for

retaliation, as it usually is throughout the world (Stewart and Strathern

2002: 11-13). It is almost inconceivable that the subjects of the Mong-

ols’ rule or the early Tibetan polities would have exercised one without

adopting the other. Moreover, concepts of retaliation were still found in

the legal practices taking place in twentieth century Lhasa, as I describe

later. Neither retaliation nor compensation, I would suggest, should be

accorded any primacy. Both were part of legal practice in Tibet at

different times and in different places.

A more relevant, but also problematic, distinction is that between the

punitive and physical nature of the justice meted out by Tibetan authori-

ties and practices of conciliation, which were also widespread and

accorded more with religious ideals. There is evidence that justice was

administered in a harsh and punitive manner by Tibetan courts right into

the twentieth century. Luciano Petech (1950: Ch 15), for example,

describes the legal procedures of the eighteenth century as being swift

and that the criminal law was very severe, with capital punishment being

imposed for a large number of crimes. As Dieter Schuh (1984b: 291-93)

points out, there are numerous reports of draconian punishments im-

posed by both local lords and central government to be found in the

accounts of travellers to the region in the nineteenth and twentieth

centuries. Capital punishment was officially banned in Lhasa in the

twentieth century (Huber 1998: 87). However, Charles Sherring, a

British officer who toured Tibet in the 1900s, records the use of torture

to extract confessions in western Tibet: if the accused did not confess

then the accuser was tortured for bringing a false charge (Sherring 1906:

194).

In contrast to these accounts, in The Golden Yoke, French (1995)

emphasises the moral principles of the mi chos and the Buddhist princi-

ples of gewa rchu as the foundation of the Tibetan legal codes and, thus,

of Tibetan legal practice. She claims that ‘many of the traditional words,

phrases and proverbs that the Tibetans used in their legal proceedings

derived from the ancient law codes.’ (1995: 99) She frequently cites the

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 151

She also suggests, implausibly, that Tibetan criminal jurisprudence, including8

considerations of karma, evolved from the administrative rules of the eighth century

(1995: 316).

‘Neudong code’, of the Phagmodru, which apparently contained state-

ments of general moral principle, as well as fifteen substantive laws

(1995: 43) and a collection of ‘law stories’ and ‘law codes stories’,

which illustrated the mi gewa rchu (1995: 83, 92, 95-97).8

French, thus, presents the mi chos, the zhal che and Buddhist princi-

ples, more generally, as part of an intellectual legal whole. She suggests

that certain ‘basic Tibetan concepts’ affected the law, including the

Buddhist ideas of reality and illusion, karma, rebirth and non-duality

(1995: 61). She asserts, for example, that Tibetans considered that

‘disputes were engendered by mental affliction that hinder one from

understanding the perfected aspect of the world’ (1995: 62), that ‘con-

flict was defined as relating to incorrect visions, to affliction in the

perceptions and abilities of humans’ (1995: 73) and that ‘conflict was an

inevitable part of samsara...the goal of legal proceedings was to calm the

mind, relieve the anger of the disputant through .... catharsis, expiation,

restitution and appeasement and to rebalance the natural order.’ (1995:

73) ‘Litigants often analysed their involvement in a lawsuit....in terms

of the religious - in particular karmic - consequences of conflict’ (1995:

74).

French claims to be describing legal processes from a ‘mundane

perspective’: ‘the daily operation of the law in administrative offices and

courts as understood by individual Tibetans - the average as opposed to

the spectacular and influential.’ (1995:15) French’s informants were,

however, primarily members of the central Tibetan elite who had crossed

from central Tibet into exile when the Dalai Lama fled from the Chinese

army in 1959. As Huber comments (1998: 88-89) ‘Buddhism is .... full

of contradictions and syncretisms which the anthropologist finds in the

rituals of a poor village household in Lho kha, or in the values and views

of the A mdo nomadic shepherd’. As he puts it, any Tibetan ‘cosmol-

ogy’, ‘is saturated with values and categories that are manifestly non-

Buddhist’. French does not suggest any social or cultural explanations

for legal practices that are not directly referable to Buddhist doctrine.

She describes, for example, a case of a ‘wandering monk’ (1995: 65-7)

in which a headman from the Sakya region dealt with a mendicant monk

by absorbing him into his own family and reads underlying notions of

‘karma, radical particularity and illusion’ into the ‘particularist’ response

152 CHAPTER EIGHT

As Anne Frechette (1996) puts it, more theoretically, the lack of social and political9

context means that legal ideology is conflated with legal processes and legal structures.

In French’s (1995: Ch 24) discussion of crime and punishment, for example, she10

highlights the restorative and karmic aspects of criminal procedures (1995: 319).

of the headman. However, it could just as well be interpreted as involv-

ing a simple and pragmatic solution to an individual problem. By

introducing each of her ‘Reports from the countryside’ (1995: Pt 3) with

an extract from a law code, French is, therefore, imposing on the nar-

rated events a sophisticated philosophical interpretation based on

complex legal documents which were probably unfamiliar to many

laymen, without evidence that they represented local understandings.9

Moreover, most Tibetan legal documents are characterised by ‘the total

absence of anything that might remotely be construed as Buddhist,

except for their propagandistic introductions written for purposes of

legitimation and authority (van der Kuijp 1999: 288).

French’s analysis of Tibetan legal history, including the uncritical

attribution of the mi chos to Songtsen Gampo, has been justifiably

criticised (Frechette 1996, Huber 1998, van der Kuijp 1999). However,

her account highlights a striking contradiction between the ideas about

justice found in the codes themselves, with their legitimation of the

death penalty and physical punishment, and the religious ideas which

were presented as underlying them, which emphasise the mental causes

of conflict and its karmic consequences. I would suggest that there was10

a tension between the punitive and conciliatory aspects of Tibetan legal

procedures, and between the promulgation of rules as a means of enforc-

ing governmental control and as a means of enacting religious and moral

principles, which remained significant until the 1950s. There are,

however, other principles to be found within the codes, which also

reflect practices of law found widely within the Tibetan region. These

include a preference for mediation, the use of dice and ordeals to make

decisions and the use of torture to extract confessions.

Legal practices

By the mid twentieth century there were three courts in Lhasa, (French

1995: Chs 21-23): the nangtse shak (snang rtse shag), which had limited

jurisdiction but also acted as a prison, the lhasa nyertsang (lha sa gnyer

tshang), which heard all cases arising within the city boundary, and the

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 153

Although Dawa Norbu uses the word ‘corrupt’ it is not evident that taking gifts was11

illegal. Rather it seems to have been expected, on the understanding that it ought to be

done in moderation. That is, such practices were subject to the general moral principles

sherkhang (gsher khang), which heard cases of murder and appeals

brought from the provinces. The second and third of these also carried

out extensive administrative functions, so there does not seem to have

been a clear separation of judicial from other governmental activities.

French (1995: Chs 21 & 22) gives accounts of a number of cases heard

in Lhasa and it is clear that there was some formality in the proceedings

and the presentation of petitions. However, there was also flexibility in

terms of who carried out the investigation into the case and who could

present a petition and each of the cases she records was settled in a

pragmatic way without any explicit reference to legal codes or even to

moral principles.

Goldstein also confirms that ‘there was actually no set of written laws

against which behaviour was compared’ in legal proceedings (1971a:

175). Evidence from Sakya suggests that there was an ornately bound

copy of the ‘Thirteen Pronouncements’ ascribed to Songtsen Gampo,

which the Law Officials ceremoniously consulted on complicated or

delicate points of procedure, but to which only the highest officers had

access (Cassinelli and Ekvall 1969: Ch 6). Dawa Norbu, a historian who

lived there into the 1960s, refers to the Thirteen Pronouncements as the

khrims yig zhal lce bcu gsum, which, he says, were highly respected but

only accessible to a few lawgivers and officials. He is able to cite the

code in detail but it is not evident that it was actually referred to during

the course of either of the two cases in which his family was involved.

In a chapter headed ‘The law’s delays’ (1974: Ch 4), he describes

how there was no separate Court or judicial body in Sakya, the Governor

simply appointing two senior officials to investigate each case. The

cases he describes, a theft from his family and a defamation of its social

status, both suffered long delays caused by officials who would deliber-

ately prolong the proceedings in order to extract bribes. There were

some impartial and conscientious law officers, he says, but others had

a ‘big stomach’ for gifts. Despite these reservations, Dawa Norbu is

relatively positive about the result of the proceedings, saying:

Though a case might take time and money and cause anxiety, the verdict

seldom went against the innocent ... Even corrupt judges knew that ultimately

they had to restore justice, and that they must heed public opinion if they

were to retain their reputation. (1974: 87)11

154 CHAPTER EIGHT

of fairness and proportionality.

It is also interesting to note the limits of the Sakya government’s jurisdiction. The12

thief in the first case escaped justice by fleeing to the city of Shigatse and even residents

of Sakya who offered their allegiance to Nepal and Kashmiri Muslims were said to be

beyond its jurisdiction.

The defamation case was resolved with a ceremony which took place

outside the gate of the Sakya monastery in which the accuser acknowl-

edged that his accusation had been false and gave chang and a khatags

to Dawa Norbu’s mother, who had instigated the case.12

Further evidence of how court cases were handled is found in legal

documents collected by Dieter Schuh (Schuh 1976, 1984a; Schuh and

Phukhang 1979). One of these (1984a: 227), dating from 1861 during the

minority of the twelfth Dalai Lama, records the settlement of two

disputes involving Samtenling monastery and neighbouring villages in

Kyirong, a government estate in southern Tibet. One concerned grazing

rights and the other the ownership of a field claimed by the monastery,

whose harvest, the village maintained, should be used to finance a local

ritual. The parties had originally appeared in Lhasa but had been sent

away to undertake mediation to settle their differences (dpyad mchams).

The parties having failed to do so, the court asked the governor of Dingri

district (in which Kyirong lies) along with two district officials, to

investigate, visit and talk to the parties. When they also failed to achieve

a settlement, the case was heard by the Regent in Lhasa, assisted by

district officials. The Lhasa court was, therefore, reluctant to assume

jurisdiction until all other avenues had been exhausted.

The document records a certain amount of procedural formality with

a summary of the documents put before the court and of an oral exami-

nation and it stipulates penalties for any contravention of the final

agreement. There is also a statement of legal ideology in the opening

section, apparently typical of such documents. It refers to the religious

and civil duties (chos dang srid kyi khrims) of the monks and peasants

respectively. It declares that the parties are living in auspicious times

during which all should be content and relations between monks and lay

donors should be of mutual benefit and solidarity. Even where there is

controversy and hate between the parties, it is said, relations between

them are not to be severed. The document also explicitly refers to the

possibility of examination under torture and the imposition of physical

penalties for the parties’ disrespect for the laws. Both of these had been

considered but rejected, it was said, on account of the status of the

monastery’s founder and the poverty of the villages, lying as they did on

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 155

the borders of Tibet. These statements, thus, assert a religio-political

ideology but also reflect the possibility that physical coercion might,

nonetheless, have been needed both during the collection of evidence

and as a means of punishment.

The outcome is a mixture of judicial decision and compromise. The

evidence in the dispute over the field was held to be clear and led to a

decision in favour of the monastery. However, the court also directed

that the rituals that the village had claimed were being paid for by the

harvest should be continued. It therefore declared that both parties,

monastery and village, should henceforward share the cost, a decision

obviously not consistent with the monastery’s ownership of the field. In

the case concerning the grazing the evidence was inconclusive. Rather

than reach its own decision on the basis of the evidence, the court gave

the parties a choice: either they could pay for a ritual in which dice

would be used to decide who was entitled to the grazing or else they

could agree that neither party would use the pasture. In both cases the

parties had to agree to the outcome and sign the document accordingly.

The court, therefore, refused to assert its own authority to decide the

disputed facts. The document records that the parties rejected the dice

but that another minister in Lhasa eventually summoned both parties to

his residence and worked out a compromise.

The approach of the Lhasa authorities to this case is significant in a

number of ways, both procedural and substantive. First is their attitude

that the case should be settled locally, even a reluctance to assume

judicial authority until all other avenues had been exhausted. Secondly,

the document refers to the potential for torture and physical penalties.

However, the court found reasons not to invoke these provisions and

highlighted and invoked the religious principles that were supposed to

govern the behaviour of the parties and guide the ultimate solution. The

third is the emphasis on the need for agreement to be reached between

the parties and the suggested use of a dice ritual in the case of disputed

evidence. All these features recur in the reports of legal cases from

throughout Tibet and point to the existence of a number of important

principles, both explicit and implicit.

Legal principles: adjudication and conciliation

Melvyn Goldstein describes the central Lhasa authorities of the twenti-

eth century as forming a court of last appeals for the whole Tibetan

156 CHAPTER EIGHT

This is one of his reasons for arguing that Sakya was subordinate to the authority13

and rule of central government, disagreeing with the claims of Cassinelli and Ekvall

(1969) that it had ‘independent’ status.

polity, including semi-independent states like Sakya. On the basis of13

his research among Tibetan refugees he states that:

Although lords held primary adjudicatory rights over their serfs, in cases

where the serfs of different lords were involved, or even in cases where the

Serfs of a single lord were not satisfied with their lord’s decision, the case

could be brought to the central government for adjudication. All Tibetans

living within the Tibetan polity had the right to appeal decisions rendered by

their lords or by lower government officials such as district commissioners.

There have been numerous examples of serfs bringing cases against their

lords and of the central government adjudicating in favor of the serfs. If the

central government reversed an earlier decision of a lord, the lord had no re-

course but to accept it and perhaps reappeal in the future. (1971a: 177)

Goldstein, thus, insists on the adjudicatory role of the Lhasa courts and

authorities, although intermediate lords also exercised juridical control

within their own estates. He does acknowledge, however, that ‘the

adjudicatory role of the centre was a passive one’ in the sense that it did

not initiate proceedings itself. Goldstein is focussing, here, on the extent

to which the exercise of judicial authority reflected the essence of the

Tibetan political system which involved ‘the delicate balance between

centralized and decentralized (feudallike) political authority’ (1971a:

171).

Reports from the semi-independent polity of Sakya indicate a similar

approach to legal cases. Goldstein’s summary of the judicial power of

the nobility here is that:

Lords held primary adjudicatory rights over their serfs, but did not maintain

any force in their territory whose primary, or even secondary function was to

seek and apprehend violators of criminal and civil norms. In other words,

they maintained no police force. The adjudicatory rights of lords were, thus,

passive. While lords had the right to issue decisions and impose even

corporal punishment and imprisonment, they acted only on cases brought

before them. Civil disputes were initially handled through mediation and it

was only when this failed that cases were brought to the lord for adjudication.

In criminal cases, the initial responsibility for the apprehension of the

criminal suspect fell on the victim, and the case only reached the lord if the

victim was successful in catching the suspect. (1971a: 175)

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 157

Although Goldstein insists on the word ‘adjudication’ rather than ‘media-

tion’, to describe the practices and authority of the Lhasa and Sakya

judges, there is, therefore, even in his own account, evidence that

mediation was preferred over adjudication. The local lords exercised a

passive, rather than an active, authority over the people within their

polities, who were encouraged to settle cases through local mediation.

This point is supported by Cassinelli and Ekvall’s account (1969),

derived from interviews with members of the ruling families of Sakya

who had fled into exile and described the situation immediately prior to

the Chinese occupation. The system of government involved, at its

lowest level, headmen who were supposed to be selected by consensus.

One of their duties was to solve disputes. As the authors’ informants put

it:

In Sa Skya there was always a strong preference for resolving all problems

without reference to formal governmental action; even the very important

Law Officials at the capital welcomed the opportunity to refer to private

mediation cases that they had already begun to investigate. The less fre-

quently a Headman had to refer issues to his superiors the more valuable he

was considered.....Once again the society emphasized harmony and consen-

sus. (1969: 92-3)

The preference for devolving cases to local levels for mediation is also

mentioned by Henderson, who worked with Cassinelli and Ekvall’s

informants. He says that although

there was a specialized court and a considerable body of written law and

records in Sakya, conciliation (Bar aDum) was the chief method of settling

both civil and criminal disputes in Sakya. Minor civil disputes were usually

settled locally and privately with ... some neighbor or friend, ... or brought to

the attention of the village headman who would appoint a mediator or in

some cases might try himself to bring pressure to bear on the parties to settle

by agreement. (1964: 1101)

In the urban centre of Sakya instead of headmen there were ‘Group

Officials’ at the lowest administrative level who, although they had no

authority to make final legal decisions, in fact solved almost half the

cases referred to them (Cassinelli and Ekvall 1969: 122). At a higher

level the same ‘Law Officers’ would hear disputes that had not been

solved through mediation. Cassinelli and Ekvall describe the practice of

these governmental judicial authorities as follows:

158 CHAPTER EIGHT

The government was willing to ignore situations in which it was assumed that

harmony and regularity could be restored by extragovernmental methods.

When it did intervene, on the request of someone involved in the dispute....its

purpose was not to punish anyone but to obtain a just settlement between the

people directly concerned. Justice was here less a matter of abstract principle

than something acceptable to the disputants; social harmony was to be

restored and future disputes forestalled. (1969: 66)

Cassinelli and Ekvall (1969: 119) thus emphasise the importance of the

principle of social harmony, saying that ‘the emphasis on harmony’,

which led to the attempt to resolve minor disturbances through the

process of mediation without resort to the power of government, was one

of the two basic beliefs about the nature of government. The other belief

was the need to concentrate power, leading to the rather pronounced

autocracy of the highest officials. While the first of these statements

undoubtedly reflects the official ideology of the elite, keen to portray

their polity in the best possible light to the authors, the emphasis on the

restoration of social harmony cannot be dismissed. It does, of course, go

against Goldstein’s description of law proceedings as a form of adjudica-

tion, rather than mediation, but it supports his theory of conflicting

tendencies between centralisation and decentralisation. On the one hand

there was a concentration of formal judicial authority in the central

government and an assertion of adjudicatory judicial power by them. On

the other, there was a preference for devolving power to local officers,

to whom the task of conflict resolution was, in practice, entrusted and an

emphasis on conciliation and agreement.

While the judicial promotion of agreement is always easier to achieve

at more local levels, where the parties and mediators know each other

and the context of the dispute, in Tibet a preference for conciliation was

also evident at the centre. Goldstein, for example, suggests that although

judges had the power to make decisions they tended to settle cases by

finding a compromise to which both parties would agree (1968: 93).

French’s informants also told her that in twentieth century Lhasa a

‘thick’ case, where the parties were unyielding or hard in their opinions,

would take a long time to decide: if the parties could not agree, truth

could not be reached (1995: 138). She describes the ceremonial restora-

tion of good relations that took place after a case involving a dispute

between a monastic hostel and an adjoining Lhasa family. This ‘getting

together’, was a process of ‘reharmonizing after the dispute’, in which

three of the monks went with khatags, tea and bread to the family and

also presented them with money to use for offerings, saying, ‘We have

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 159

both fought for the sake of our houses, not for individuals. We have both

used harsh words and created strife. Now it is over. Let us be patient and

friends in the future.’ (1995: 278-88) There were also provisions for

such payments in the law codes she cites, which made specific provision

for conciliation (1995: 122).

Henderson suggests that in Sakya homicide was an exception to this

rule. He describes the legal process in such cases as ‘very much an

adversary proceeding’ between the accuser and accused (1964:1103). At

the same time, however, the judge (khrims dpon) acted as a conciliator

between the families of the two parties because, as he says, a case could

only be settled by agreement between them. Even at the higher levels the

procedure might have been adversarial in form, therefore, but it was

mediatory in practice and aimed at promoting agreement between the

parties.

Similar dynamics have been noted in imperial China, where the rulers

historically favoured substantive over procedural justice, punishments

were often draconian and the formal system was complemented by a

large informal system and practices of mediation (Peerenboom 2002: 38-

68). Informal methods of resolving conflict are clearly necessary when

a legal system does not have a well-developed set of procedures for

decision-making and when it favours the application of general princi-

ples to particular cases, rather than the uniform application of legal

rules. In China such practices were supported by what has been called

a traditional preference for mediation over litigation. There was, more-

over, never any claim to a divine basis for written law; at best there was

an appeal to a transcendent moral order (Peerenboom 2002: 162). In

Tibet, by contrast, an apparently comparable preference for mediation

was promoted, at least on the part of some, by reference to the religious

ideals of harmony and consensus. Thus, the pragmatic requirement for

effective methods of mediation could be used to support the govern-

ment’s ideology of religious and political harmony.

Legal principles: the search for truth

Mediation and conciliation were, therefore, described as the preferred

methods for resolving conflict. As French puts it, if the parties did not

agree, truth could not be reached (1995: 138). At times, however, torture

of the parties by flogging was resorted to in order to obtain an agree-

ment. The judge, that is, was not able simply to pronounce a verdict,

160 CHAPTER EIGHT

even though the state would doubtless have had the power to enforce it.

There were also cases when agreement could not be reached even after

flogging, in which case, as a last resort, the judges could resort to dice

or forms of ordeal. Cassinelli and Ekvall (1969) give a detailed account

of a homicide case in which neither accuser nor accused would relent,

even after being flogged. The judge, therefore, resorted to the use of

dice. A yak hide was spread bloody side up on the floor and the two men

knelt to roll dice on it. ‘Appealing to the supernatural, calling for

vindication and vilifying the opponent, the two men each threw two

dice’. (1969: 176) After three rounds the accused won and so was

declared innocent. As well as the dice ritual offered to the parties to the

Kyirong dispute, there are numerous other references to the use of such

methods in legal cases (French 1995: 134-35; Francke 1998: 116-17).

Cassinelli and Ekvall’s informants, for example, referred to the possibil-

ity of drawing pebbles from a jar of opaque oil in order to achieve a

decision (1969: 75-76) and Della Penna refers to the use of boiling oil

(Markham 1876: 324). Provisions are also found in the legal codes

themselves. At least some versions provide for the resolution of insolu-

ble cases by oaths, the roll of dice or picking out pebbles from a bottle

of water or oil (White 1894: 5; Dawa Norbu 1974:75; French 1995: Ch

11).

At times it seems that the use of such methods was associated with

spirits and supernatural forces which could work through dice, as when

the parties to the Sakya murder case made direct appeals to the supernat-

ural to punish the guilty party. At others, however, that link does not

appear to have been made. The essential fact is that the decision was

taken out of the hands of any human agent. Justice was not found in the

decision of a judge but in the achievement of conciliation or by refer-

ence to some extra-human authority.

The problem of how to determine the truth raises issues of both

method and authority that are universal to judicial processes worldwide.

In the legal systems of the west that problem has been resolved by the

development of rules of evidence and standards of proof. These are to

be applied, in criminal cases, by the jury, a quasi-transcendent body

representing ‘the people’. In earlier centuries a system of judicial torture

to extract confessions was developed in medieval Europe, where it was

promoted by the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215 to replace trial by

ordeal, duels and sacred oaths. As Asad (1983) analyses it, ordeals

produced truth, often by means of an appeal to the supernatural. Justice

was found in the outcome of the physical test. The use of torture to

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 161

extract a confession, on the other hand, was a step towards establishing

truth through the spoken word. The physical pain produced the words on

the basis of which the facts could then be established and justice pro-

nounced. Some writers have regarded the development of judicial

torture, in this way, as a step towards the promotion of a rationally-based

form of justice, found in the establishment of truth, rather than direct

appeals to the supernatural (Southern 1959: 101-02; Peters 1973: viii).

Asad also, however, stresses the links between the promotion of

torture by the Lateran Council and the development of bodily practices

of asceticism, penance and physical hardship within Christian practice

and doctrine at around the same time. In Tibet, asceticism has a certain

place within Buddhist practice, but it is not possible to draw such clear

links between religious and judicial practices of bodily discipline. It is

evident from the remarks of the judge in the Kyirong dispute, for

example, that torture, along with physical punishment, remained a

problematic practice for the Tibetans. In the case of intractable disagree-

ment, flogging was presumed to be the solution and physical punishment

was the remedy for many crimes. These were particularly employed in

Lhasa, where the government resorted to both in order to enforce its

authority, especially at times of political conflict and power struggles.

However, this continued to trouble the authorities involved.

Following the death of the thirteenth Dalai Lama in 1933, for exam-

ple, there were political struggles in Lhasa, during which two contenders

for power were deposed and punished (Goldstein 1989b: Chs 5 and 6).

The first was Kumbela, who had been the personal attendant to the Dalai

Lama. He was accused of having played a part in the death of the Dalai

Lama and was tried before the National Assembly, an advisory body

consisting of the highest government officials in Lhasa. He was found

to have been partly responsible for the death by failing to summon

medical assistance but also by deliberately having engaged in black

magic. He was exiled and all his property was confiscated (1989b: 165-

77). A later contender for power was Lungshar, a talented government

official and military commander who had, himself, played a central role

in the fall of Kumbela. His subsequent attempts to secure power were

contested by Trimön, a powerful member of the Kashag, the highest

body under the Regent and Lönchen. Lungshar was arrested and tried by

a committee appointed by the Kashag, who found him guilty of a plot to

kill Trimön and assume power. He was sentenced to blinding and

imprisonment and had all his property confiscated. He sons were also

barred from government office (1989b: 199-212).

162 CHAPTER EIGHT

The removal of eyeballs was, however, so rare that they had no experience of this14

procedure when they carried it out on Lungshar and the execution went badly wrong

(Goldstein 1989b: 209-09).

She describes how the headmen of Shelkar district called a yearly meeting to draw15

up the rules to specify appropriate conduct in the fields during the growing season.

Transgressions and also, apparently, other cases of dispute, were heard by the whole

committee. In two cases the parties reached agreement for the payment of fines and

exchange of khatags.

It is, therefore, evident that the Lhasa government had the power to

exercise severe punitive authority and that there were institutions which

supported this, namely the National Assembly and the Kashag’s investi-

gating committee. There was also an untouchable caste who carried out

mutilation punishments. On the other hand, there was considerable14

ambivalence about the exercise of such power. The Regent, a reincarnate

lama, clearly endorsed the punishment but refused to sign Lungshar’s

mutilation order on the basis that, as a monk, it would have been inap-

propriate for him to do so. He was concerned that the exercise of puni-

tive judicial powers was contrary to the religious principles of his

religion (1989b: 208). Even more significantly, however, the members

of the Kashag’s investigating committee were ambivalent about their

own authority to act as the final arbiters of justice. Despite the fact that

capital punishment had officially been banned, they considered that

execution would be appropriate in Lungshar’s case. However, they were

afraid that if they ordered execution his vengeful spirit might hinder the

search for the new Dalai Lama, or even harm his reincarnation (1989b:

207). It was not just that execution might have karmic consequences for

them, but that the vengeful nature of Lungshar’s spirit might have an

effect on more immediate events. While these government authorities

were, therefore, prepared to mete out justice as a direct exercise of

power, rather than by promoting conciliation, they were concerned about

supernatural interference in the judicial process.

There were, therefore, four distinct ways in which cases could be

resolved in Tibet. The first was by accord, that is, the resolution of a

case by conciliation. This was found widely at lower levels, in reports

from Sakya and central Tibet (French 1995: Ch 16). There were also15

related provisions in the legal codes and it was promoted at higher

levels, as in the Kyirong case, where there was an emphasis on the

ceremonial restoration of good relations. The second was the employ-

ment of ordeals and dice. The use of dice is reported widely, while

references to ordeals are found more often in statements about practice,

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 163

such as those of the codes themselves. In such cases the legal result, or

truth, was determined by the method itself, rather than by agreement

between the parties. These were, however, methods which were said to

be used only as a last resort, after attempts at mediation had failed, as

directed in the Sikkhim code, for example (White 1894: 51). The third

was the use of torture to extract a confession. This followed a different

principle, that is, the establishment of facts through verbal concession.

It was used as a prelude to the making of a judgment, possibly a punish-

ment order, on the part of the judge. However, it sometimes failed, when

it had to be succeeded by the use of dice, as in the Sakya homicide case.

The fourth was adjudication by a judge, who decided matters of both

fact and punishment, as they did in the cases of Kumbela and Lungshar.

Lungshar had previously suggested the use of flogging to establish the

truth.

No one method obviously prevailed. The use of ordeals, oaths and

dice seems to have been rarer in the peripheral areas, where legal

practice was less systematic and reports of conciliation are widespread.

However, a preference for conciliation was also expressed at the highest

levels in Lhasa, while unease was evident about the use of both inquisi-

torial torture and punishment. Asad (1983: 299), emphasising the

importance of socio-economic background in explaining judicial prac-

tice, points out that the establishment of truth by inquisition allowed a

more persistent, more pervasive exercise of centralised control by a

dominating, rationalising power, than did appeals to the supernatural

through the use of ordeals. In Tibet, likewise, it is in Lhasa, where the

government had the most securely-established centralised power, that we

find the rare cases of adjudicatory authority, notably in the cases of

Kumbela and Lungshar. Similarly, the use of torture to extract confes-

sions has most often been noted on the part of government officials and

lords. However, Tibet never developed a systematic set of legal practices

that allowed judges secure methods of establishing the truth, comparable

either to the procedures established by the Lateran Council or to the

rules of evidence and jury systems developed in the west.

Dice and chance

The use of dice to decide problematic cases reflects the use of similar

methods of chance to select leaders and make decisions throughout the

Tibetan region. Such methods date back to the time of the Empire, when

164 CHAPTER EIGHT

In her study of villages in Dingri, central Tibet, Dargyay describes a headman who16

was elected from among the tre-ba every year. His duties were not extensive, however,

and he could only make decisions in consultation with the rest of the tax-payers and she

talks of selection by an oracle in difficult cases.

Their political system, as Sagant describes, was similar to that found in Photoksar,17

in that it incorporated ideas of rotation, of equality between clans and ages, and the

headmen did not wield effective power.

the use of dice to make administrative decisions was formalised and

enshrined in ‘statutes’, whose correct use was the subject of instructions

granted by the central authorities to those in the provinces (Dotson,

forthcoming). The use of lots has already been noted in the Kyirong

dispute and rotation was commonly used to select leaders and make

political decisions throughout the Tibetan region (Goldstein 1973; Jest

1975; Dargyay 1982). Similar processes have been described in Amdo16

and Nepal (Walsh 1906; Sagant 1990). Among the Sharwa of Amdo, for

example, Sagant found that the leaders of their expeditions were nomi-

nated according to prowess, seen as a gift from the gods, but that the

final choice was made by lot. The Manangi in Nepal also chose their

headmen by lot. Even within the central Lhasa regime, as Ramble17

(1993) notes, high ranking individuals were chosen by lot or, as in the

case of the Junior Tutor of the Dalai Lama, by putting candidates’ names

into dough balls. As Goldstein (1973: 447) points out, even the selection

of the Dalai Lama was, at times, partly effected by lot.

Ramble (forthcoming: chapter 11) discusses the elaborate, but

ultimately random, game by which the headmen of Te, a village in

Mustang, were chosen. This complex ceremony, he suggests, ‘contrib-

utes to the creation of a reified entity that transcends the community as

an assemblage of individuals and households.’ The selection is, then,

‘the result of human action but not of human design.’ The method,

nevertheless, has ‘qualities normally attributed to divinity, namely,

exteriority, transcendence, unpredictability and inaccessibility’. As he

points out, the supernatural is an inconsistent element within such

practices (Ramble, forthcoming: chapter 11; Pirie 2005). A more indeter-

minate form of transcendent authority was, rather, appealed to, in the

form of dice, lots and games of chance. However, as Goldstein (1973:

447) notes, the use of lots in the selection of the Dalai Lama was not

regarded as ‘chance’ by the Tibetans themselves, who were confident

that even when the Manchus were interfering in the process the right

candidate was chosen.

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 165

Thus, the model court house in the United States replicates a Greek temple, with18

architecture designed to produce an atmosphere of awe, reverence and majesty,

appropriate to a house of worship (Just, forthcoming). Civil order can also appeal to a

secular principle, for example, the justice symbolised by the blind Goddess of Justice

who tops the Central Criminal Court in London with her scales.

Judicial principles and political authority

The Ganden Potrang government in Lhasa, therefore, evolved a form of

political power based on a religio-moral ideology and economic control

and backed by a certain amount of military force. As Just (forthcoming)

suggests, there is a deep-seated desire on the part of the public, wherever

it may be, to see the legal, civil order correspond to a cosmic order. The

ruler can, himself, make claims to divine authority (Hocart 1927). The18

supernatural authority and religious principles to which the Tibetans

could appeal, however, were either more concerned with the fate of the

soul in the after-life, in the case of the bodhisattvas and the laws of

karma, or dangerously vengeful, in the case of the local spirits and their

practices of revenge. The Lhasa authorities, instead, appealed to the

religious status of the Dalai Lamas and their predecessors and relied

upon the rather vague principle of chösi zungdrel, the harmony between

politics and religion. By claiming that the law codes were based upon

the mi chos of Songtsen Gampo they promoted the moral religious

foundations of judicial practice and their connection with the founding

father of Tibetan civilisation.

French’s informants, when explaining legal practices and the signifi-

cance of the law codes, clearly articulated the judicial preference for

mediation and conciliation in terms of Buddhist principles of karma and

non-duality. Such principles could hardly, however, form a basis for the

legal activities of a centralised government, concerned with the practical

business of maintaining order, which often required the use of force, nor

a basis for the principles of punishment found in the codes themselves.

Ideas about mental afflictions, samsara and non-duality were not of great

use in the practical maintenance of order. Despite the twentieth century

development of a more rational form of government (in a Weberian

sense), the Ganden Potrang did not develop a coherent body of laws, nor

a systematic set of legal procedures. There were never clear and certain

rules that could be relied upon by ordinary citizens, as well as members

of the government, let alone laws that they could use to control the

exercise of administrative power. Government officers were allowed

considerable autonomy in the making of decisions, including the resolu-

166 CHAPTER EIGHT

tion of conflict. Their activities were primarily controlled through the

guidelines issued from Lhasa, while they were also supposed to abide by

moral principles, as reflected in the instructions to the Kyirong and

Shigatse officials.

In this way the courts were also able to rid themselves of judicial

burdens, sending cases back to lower levels where, as the evidence from

Sakya indicates, there were effective methods of mediation. The central

governments could then claim moral authority over the subordinate units

without having to engage in the time-consuming business of mediation.

They could claim moral credit, that is, for the judicial practices carried

out by others. Moreover, they could assert, as the informants of

Cassinelli and Ekvall did, and with some justification, that they were

supporting the principles of harmony and conciliation.

The centre, thus, asserted moral supremacy over the provinces, while

allowing them to retain a certain degree of political and judicial auton-

omy. To a large extent this resolved the problem of the ideological clash

between the monastic status of many officials and the punitive authority

needed to support a centralised government. However, it did not resolve

it completely. In particular, the use of torture and physical punishment,

although widespread, caused unease in many quarters. In this, the

Tibetans contrasted with the members of the Lateran Council for whom

bodily pain was, according to Asad, already integral to religious prac-

tice. It was, maybe, the reluctance on the part of the Tibetan elite to

order physical punishment that prevented the development of more

systematic judicial procedures, which would have allowed the truth to

be more readily established as a prelude to punishment.

Tibetan ideas about the nature of justice also retained a darker aspect

alongside its moral and religious ideologies. There were vengeful and

capricious supernatural forces that could be stirred up by the enactment

of judicial power. The legal system in Tibet, therefore, remained unde-

veloped and unsystematic, with a great deal of discretion devolved to

individual officials, who received loose guidance from Lhasa about the

need to act fairly and impartially in their administration of justice. The

practice of mediation was widespread and promoted by some as a means

of achieving the religious ideals of harmony and consensus. At the same

time, however, dice and other methods of chance were widely used,

albeit not in a very systematic way.

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 167

Ladakh: judicial practices, autonomy and power

What can, then, be said or inferred about the ‘great’ legal tradition of

Tibet and its relation to Ladakhi practices, or about the existence of

wider cultural patterns within judicial practices? Firstly, it is apparent

that the appeal to Buddhist principles in judicial proceedings was not

systematic, nor integrated in any rational way into Tibetan procedures

for conflict resolution. There is, in any event, no evidence that such

principles flowed down from the centre and made their way out to the

periphery in the form of texts or the instructions of monks and lamas or

otherwise. They certainly did not form part of a single, coherent, let

alone Buddhist, cultural system, as both Samuel (1993) and French

(1995) are inclined to suggest.

Secondly, there was a comparable devolution of power to local

hierarchs in both Ladakh and Tibet. The Ganden Potrang government in

central Tibet was a much more centralised administration than that of the

Ladakhi kings, with a more elaborate bureaucracy, legal codes and

political ideology. Nevertheless, it remained relatively uncentralised and

unbureaucratic, as did the polities that emerged throughout Tibet.

Comparable ecological factors, of course, made communications tortu-

ous and centralisation impracticable. It was, therefore, a matter of

necessity that responsibility for order was devolved to local lords and

village communities or allowed to remain with them. It should not,

therefore, be surprising that the Ladakhi phenomena I have described

appear to be rooted in local social patterns, in practices of autonomy and

regional political events, rather than in pan-Tibetan judicial principles,

with religious or other origins.

Thirdly, and despite these reservations, it is apparent that dice, lots

and methods of chance were employed widely in legal proceedings

throughout the plateau. The use of lots is only mentioned once in the

(very sparse) reports I have been able to track down of legal cases

decided at higher levels in Ladakh. Nevertheless, dice are used fre-

quently among the Chang Tang nomads to determine positions of

responsibility (Ahmed 1986: Ch 8) and the use of rotation to select

leaders is still widespread in Ladakhi villages, as it is in Photoksar.

When it comes to judicial decisions, the yulpa in Photoksar, with their

ideology of unity and agreement, are able relatively easily to make

decisions and to promote agreement between the parties to a dispute,

often using a certain amount of coercion. They also do not wrestle with

the fear of the supernatural consequences of their judicial decisions.

168 CHAPTER EIGHT

To talk about the ‘deconcentration’ of authority, of course, presupposes a certain19

amount of concentration or centralisation. The operation of the principle of reincarnation

can also be mentioned here. Carrasco remarks that, ‘although reincarnations are often

found among the nobility, a given post is never monopolized by any single family,’ and

‘reincarnation in a commoner always kept the noble families from gaining too much

power.’ (1959: 23-24) However, the system could also be turned to the advantage of the

upper classes. The succession of Regents who held power until the majority of the

thirteenth Dalai Lama in 1895 became ‘fantastically wealthy’ (Goldstein 1973: 449), and

of the highest lay officials in government, the Shapes, 86% were from aristocratic

families (Goldstein 1989b: 17).

However, they appeal to lots or simply to a list of names to make

administrative decisions. Such methods involve appealing to a transcen-

dent, but generally non-supernatural, form of authority. Evidence from

Mustang and Nepal suggests that similar practices here supported the

authority of local communities over their own political affairs.

Finally, the patterns of deference and distance, hierarchy and equal-

ity, that I observed in Photoksar also have some resonance with relations

of power and autonomy that have been noted in the wider Tibetan

region. Some authors have regarded such phenomena in terms of cultural

patterns. Stein (1972: 94), for example, suggests the existence of two

general principles which, as he says, ‘are interdependent and antagonis-

tic: egalitarian joint ownership and hierarchy’. These principles, he says,

are found both in family relations and in structures of authority. ‘The

hereditary authority of one person and a keen sense of hierarchy’ tends

to be matched by ‘cohesion and the strength of the group’. (1972: 125)

When one threatens to dominate, the other appears to counterbalance it.

Samuel also suggests that there was a tendency within Tibetan

institutions to avoid giving power to one person, for example through the

appointment of two men, one lay and one monastic, to many official

positions (1993:152). He refers to Ter Ellingson’s (1989) work on

monastic constitutions, which he describes as carefully defining and

controlling the power and authority of monastic office holders and

which, he says, can be seen as part of a tendency to specify and distrib-

ute rights and responsibilities. This resulted in what Ellingson describes

as ‘the deconcentration and distribution of authority’ (1989: 217-8) and

which, Samuel suggests, is true of Tibetan societies more generally

(1993:153-4).19

All three authors, therefore, point out the existence of conflicting

tendencies between hierarchy, centralisation and the concentration of

power, on the one hand, and equality, decentralisation and the distribu-

tion of power on the other. Tibetan society was not deeply stratified, in

ETHNOGRAPHIC TIBET 169

a way comparable to caste-based Indian society. Nor is there evidence

of egalitarian individualism. Economic, religious and political power

certainly came to be concentrated in the hands of a few, both monastic

and aristocratic elites, but countervailing forces took the form of the

devolution of power and its distribution through rotation and methods of

chance. Ideologically there were principles that counteracted the systems

of reincarnation and aristocratic superiority, which could legitimate the

concentration of power in the hands of a few.

What has resulted is a certain attitude to leadership and centralised

judicial control, which is still found in twenty-first century Ladakh. The

statement of the Alchi lonpo that his ancestors ‘gave the law’ to villages

like Photoksar mirrors the assertion of adjudicatory judicial authority

over the regions by Lhasa officials described by Goldstein (1971a). In

both cases this turns out to have been more of a theoretical than a

practical reality, however. In central Tibet the peasants could take their

complaints against the lords to Lhasa and there is evidence that some did

so (1971a: 177). In Ladakh the Photoksar villagers could take their

complaints to Alchi and can, now, have recourse to the police or the

courts in Leh. However, they rarely, if ever, do so and containing and

resolving disputes internally is one of their ways of maintaining a

measure of local autonomy against the great traditions of the centre.

Such practices continue to be a significant force within the urban

dynamics in Ladakh. It is to these to which I turn in the next chapter.

CHAPTER NINE

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE

The social and moral order maintained in the village of Photoksar, to

which the practices of conflict resolution I have described here are

oriented, is defined by an implicit sense of a sacred social community.

This community, I have suggested, is itself maintained by patterns of

equality, which serve to counteract tendencies towards hierarchy. The

containment and resolution of conflict within the village, as well as

safeguarding and preserving that sacred social space, can be seen as part

of a larger pattern of deference and distance towards the religious and

political centres in the region. This explains the measure of autonomy

maintained by the villagers against the powerful influence of kings,

religious forces and development projects. It also, I would suggest, helps

to make sense of the dynamics of order found in the urban centre, Leh.

The attitudes to conflict and dispute resolution that I have described

in Photoksar are found widely throughout Ladakh. The importance of

settling disputes locally was expressed to me repeatedly by members of

different villages, Ladakhi NGO officers and urban dwellers. Informants

were always able to give me examples of disputes that had been settled

through the mediation of family and neighbours or at the instigation of

the goba or village meeting. Such informal procedures even extend into

the socially fluid atmosphere of modern Leh, where concepts of legal

rights are widely accepted but the authority of the Indian legal system

impinges only very lightly on legal practices.

The educated classes are familiar with the political and legal arena of

the Indian state and those who find work with NGOs quickly become

adept at using the language of international development, with its

emphasis on ‘child rights’, ‘women’s rights’, ‘the right to education’ and

so on. Nevertheless, when it comes to their own disputes, such language

quickly becomes muted. One of the major sources of conflict in the

urban centres of Ladakh, particularly Leh, is now land. With the new

economy have come a great many employment and economic opportuni-

ties. Government jobs, in particular, are secure, well paid and sought

after, but there are also some who take their chances in business, and

others, particularly from the Chang Tang, who simply come to work as

labourers, hoping to escape the hardships of life in the remoter areas

(Goodall 2004). Leh has, in consequence, become a target for migration.

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 171

There has been considerable development on what was previously waste

land because property is in short supply and the older, irrigated areas of

Leh, where houses have the potential for gardens and can be turned into

guest-houses have become particularly valuable. As a result, children of

Leh families are keen to share in their household’s property and have

become conscious of their inheritance rights. Even daughters insist on

their shares, especially if they marry a man from outside the capital. In

general, property is the most common cause of serious conflict here,

accounting for the greatest number of civil court cases. As one Leh

resident put it, ‘formerly people did not care about boundaries but now

the slightest dispute is liable to end up in court’. I came across more than

one case in which a dispute between two children had resulted in long-

standing, unresolved animosity between their respective, immediate

families.

This, in turn, has resulted in the gradual acceptance of the ideology

of individual property, as enshrined in the State laws, in social obliga-

tions, as it still is in Photoksar and many other villages. However, it is

still rare to hear people talking in terms of their ‘rights’ to land. Tinles

Angmo, a Ladakhi lawyer based in Leh, told me that members of the

older generation often insist that the elder son should still receive a

larger share. The unease with which many Ladakhis regard the changes

in the nature of their property relations is illustrated by the case of

Rinchen, a man from Nubra now working as a teacher in Leh. His father

was a khardar and a member of an aristocratic family in Sabu, a village

close to Leh. However, his father had abandoned his first wife and

daughter to marry a Nubra girl as a makpa. The Nubra girl’s family were

lonpos so finding a suitable husband for her had been difficult, Rinchen

explained. They had had five children, including my informant. Since he

was working in Leh, Rinchen wanted to establish a house there and had

asked his half-sister for a share of the Sabu property. She had refused so

he had brought a case in court which had, ultimately, been successful.

However, he narrated his story to me with some embarrassment and was

anxious to stress the fact that he had not been greedy for land. He

genuinely needed it for his family to live on, he emphasised, and it

would have been wrong if he had sold it. Having won the case he had

returned half his entitlement to his sister and they had re-established

good relations. In Nubra, by contrast, his family khangba’s land had not

been divided yet. His mother was still alive and she would not like it;

she tells her sons to stay together and would regard a division of the land

as a sign that they were going to fight, he explained.

172 CHAPTER NINE

Rinchen’s concern to maintain good family relations and reluctance

to be seen to have been asserting his ‘rights’, exemplifies the prevailing

attitudes towards property and property disputes. The question that

arises is whether it is possible to see any connection between these

attitudes and the concern with the restoration of order and re-establish-

ment of good relations that I have described in Photoksar. It would seem,

prima facie, unlikely that the latter, bound up, as it is, with notions of

community, is replicated in Leh. Rinchen’s attitude primarily concerned

the status of his family. Nevertheless, I would suggest that something

similar is at work, even in the far more fluid social structures of Leh,

where people can be seen actively to be creating small spheres of order.

Leh

After Indian independence, as Leh grew in size, the administration

divided it into separate wards. These largely corresponded to the existing

social units, then known chutsoks or mahalla, an Urdu word introduced

by the Dogras. More recently new housing areas have been developed.

The biggest of these, the Housing Colony, was established on non-

agricultural land. It is treated as a single unit by the administration, but

within the Colony the people have organised themselves into smaller

‘village’ groups. These select their own goba and also, generally, a

committee, tsokspa. The duties of these representatives include liaising

with authorities over the provision of services and building projects and

organising festivals and ceremonies for the local lha. These are spirits

of the locality which have been established as protectors of these new

communities. One resident explained that if a dispute occurs within the

village then the goba has to sort it out with the help of the tsokspa or

some of the older men. Disputes have to be settled inside, nangkuli, she

insisted, and not allowed to go outside the village. Nangkuli (of uncer-

tain etymology and orthography) is the Leh equivalent of the term

nangosla, used by the Photoksar villagers. The same sense of commu-

nity, as a place with boundaries within which disputes must be con-

tained, as well as with its own lha, has, therefore, been established here.

Each of the villages in the older areas of Leh, where there are fields

and irrigation channels, now has a number of representatives. Typically

these include one chupon, an official in charge of water, one nyerpa, in

charge of festivals and religious activities, and one membar, who is

responsible for calling meetings. There is no man known as goba, but

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 173

the membar reports to the chief goba for the whole of Leh. A man who

had recently been chief goba told me that the post used to be hereditary,

but that in the early 1960s the next in turn declined to take up the

position and it had remained vacant for over twenty years. Then, in

around the early 1980s, a delegation of men, including the Leh kalon, the

head of the highest aristocratic family, had persuaded him to take up the

office, initially for one year, and then to continue in the post. Ultimately

he had held the job for 14 years. The government departments and

Deputy Commissioner (‘DC’) consult the goba on matters such as the

building of roads, bridges and other infrastructure developments and the

allocation of new areas of development land. His duties also include

liaising with the chief onpo over the days on which agricultural activities

should take place and settling disputes, principally those which concern

land. Another member of Leh town told me that the goba was selected

on the basis that he knew the fields, knew the irrigation system, knew

how everything worked and ‘could sort out any problems’. Tsewang

Dorje, a former Assistant Commissioner, the second highest government

officer in Ladakh, spoke very highly of this goba: ‘He was a very good

man. He knows every village, every field, every street and malla (irriga-

tion channel) in Leh.’ Although he had no official status, the kalon who

died around the turn of the century was also informally regarded as a

representative of the town by the administration and sometimes known

by them as ‘chief citizen’. He was often consulted by government

officials, including the DC. Although, therefore, the administration of

Ladakh is officially under the control of a government bureaucracy,

headed by the DC, informal Ladakhi posts, including that of the kalon,

are still recognised and have considerable significance for the day-to-day

maintenance of order.

Serious arguments and fights, the former goba told me, are his

biggest responsibility. It is often difficult to resolve them, he said,

because he does not have much power: he can only impose fines of Rs

400 or Rs 500 and some people are selfish and will not accept his

advice. The problem, therefore, is that he has to find a solution with

which everyone agrees. However, if cases go to court they are usually

sent back to him to resolve. In the end, he thought, he was generally

successful in his job because he knew and understood the people.

As well as the goba there are twelve chupon in Leh, one from each

village, selected on the basis of rotation between households. They used

to be paid in kind by the villagers, as did the goba, but now they receive

a small government allowance. They choose a chief chupon among

174 CHAPTER NINE

Tiwari and Gupta (forthcoming) describe the system and its recent evolution.1

themselves every year when they organise the ceremony that marks the

beginning of the agricultural year. This system, one of the chupon told

me, was a matter of mirabs tradition, and the complex system of water

distribution represents the chui trims, water customs, that had been laid

down by the kings. Every year the chupon are called upon to settle1

minor disputes over the water distribution but, he said, there is rarely a

question of who is in the wrong because everyone knows the trims. His

job is to make the wrong-doer apologise, pay a fine, and, if there has

been an argument, sign an agreement not to quarrel in the future. This is

generally confirmed with an exchange of khatags. He can threaten to

beat an offender or ask the village membar or some elders, rgadpo, to

assist him and if there is a serious problem he will call in the Leh goba

who, in turn, can call other membars to assist him. Cases are almost

always settled, he told me, because the wrong-doers are ashamed, trelba,

and they do not allow disputes to go to the court because this would be

even more shameful. Disputes have to be settled internally, nang kuli, he

insisted.

The Leh goba made similar remarks when talking about the new

panchayat system that was being introduced at the time, which I discuss

further below. When I asked him whether the new panchayats would, if

they replaced the old goba system, undertake dispute resolution he

replied that they would ‘have’ to do so. Disputes must not be allowed to

extend beyond the village boundaries, he emphasised. If a dispute goes

to court it can take four or five years to decide and usually ends up back

in the village for the goba to sort out anyway.

In practice, therefore, the police, courts and lawyers are marginal to

the majority of the processes by which conflict is resolved in Leh. They

get involved in high profile fights, property and marital disputes, but the

day to day business of maintaining order is organised by these semi-

official Ladakhi post-holders.

Conflict and community

The statement that disputes should be solved within the village commu-

nity was emphasised by all these informants. It was also evident from the

chupon’s descriptions that, in practice, the community, including the

goba, membar and elders, puts pressure on any wrong-doer to come into

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 175

line. The idea that wrong-doing and quarrelling are shameful, trelba, is

also a potent force. Within the communities into which Leh is divided,

even the relatively new structures of the Housing Colony, therefore, a

dispute is conceptualised as a problem for the community which must,

at all costs, be contained.

At the same time, the existence of long-running disputes can often be

traced to structural divisions within or between communities. Although

the villages in the remoter regions, such as the Lingshed area of Sham,

tend to be distinctly bounded, separated by acres of waste land, good

relations, cemented by kinship ties, are generally maintained between

them. This means that disputes can be resolved in a similar manner to

those arising within the village. The Photoksar villagers, for example,

told me of one dispute that had arisen between a Photoksar household

and some villagers from the neighbouring Nyeraks, a village with which

Photoksar has many kin ties. A yak had been lost from herds grazing

together and it was not apparent to whom it belonged. The Photoksar

goba was called in to find a solution and, unable to determine which of

two animals was missing, decided that the Photoksar household should

keep the remaining animal but pay half of its value to the Nyeraks house.

His decision was accepted by both parties. In this situation, where there

were long-standing relations of cooperation over pasture-land as well as

extensive kinship ties between the two villages, it was possible to

mediate between the two distinct communities, despite the lack of an

overarching judicial authority.

On the other hand, there is a history of animosity between many

villages in other areas and even dissent between village sections. The

document published by Schuh and Phukhang (1979: Doc LIII), men-

tioned in chapter two, indicates that there had been a conflict between

the different parts of Shara, a village close to the Indus valley in upper

Ladakh, in the early nineteenth century. In the late twentieth century, I

found that an extended dispute was also dragging on between the three

sections of this village. These had come to function, in many respects,

as separate communities. The primary bone of contention was the

benefits of a development project undertaken by the Ladakh Ecological

Development Group (LEDEG), an NGO set up by Helena Norberg-

Hodge, a prominent western environmentalist, to promote ecological

development in Ladakh. One of my informants from the village claimed

that this was not a historic problem, rather attributable to three or four

of the current leaders. However, it does seem as if the cleavage between

village sections has historic antecedents. In Sabu village, closer to Leh,

176 CHAPTER NINE

there was also a conflict between village sections over the distribution

of water. This lead to a boycott against one section of the village by the

other two, who refused to cooperate with it over ritual and agricultural

activities. A Leh-based NGO worker, who had undertaken numerous

projects for LEDEG, told me of several other cases in which the advent

of development projects had caused rupture between the semi-autono-

mous sections of a village or groups of villages.

In most of these cases it is, therefore, possible to trace conflict to

existing cleavages in community structures. Most Ladakhis’ sense of

attachment to a wider community outside their immediate village, is

weak, save when it comes to their religious identity. This was also

apparent in Photoksar. One evening, for example, a group of men was

enjoying some chang around the stove. One of them began to make up

verses in antonyms about the villagers: ‘tellers of truth, is what we are;

tellers of lies, is what we are; builders of our yul, is what we are; de-

stroyers of our yul, is what we are,’ and so on. He used the phrase

ngatang mi, literally ‘we people’, but when someone challenged him to

explain exactly who ngatang mi were he hesitated, ‘Photoksarpa, no

Ladakhspa, no Shamma (the area of lower Ladakh)....’, he suggested.

Beyond the village he was unwilling to assert any firm sense of identity.

This, I would suggest, accounts for what occasionally seemed like

contradictions in the attitudes to conflict expressed in the village. Anger

and conflict are unequivocally condemned and when we discussed

fighting in the abstract or All India Radio reported on the conflict in

Kashmir, for example, Paljor would always shake his head and declare

it to be tsokpo. One day, however, he returned from Leh, proud to have

taken part in a demonstration organised by the LBA to demand auton-

omy for Ladakh. This was occasioned by the move, on the part of certain

political parties in Kashmir, to obtain a measure of self-rule from India.

He described the demonstration in surprisingly aggressive terms as

having been ‘against Farooq Abdullah’, leader of the Jammu and

Kashmir State government. At other times he joked that he would not eat

the bread I had bought for the journey back to Photoksar from the ‘Balti’

bakeries in the town. His willingness to express opposition and even

antagonism towards the Ladakhi Muslims, despite the general horror of

all forms of conflict articulated by the villagers within their own commu-

nity, reflects his lack of a sense of attachment to a wider political entity,

Ladakh, encompassing both Buddhists and Muslims. He identified,

rather, with his religious community. Fighting, in the abstract, might be

bad, but he was not slow to identify with the communal antagonism

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 177

She was referring to the Abolition of Polyandrous Marriages Act 1941, mentioned2

in chapter two.

expressed towards people with a different religious identity. The

Photoksarpa identify themselves as Shamma and nangpa, rather than

Ladakhspa.

Among certain members of the elite in Leh, I did, by contrast, find an

idea of community which extended to encompass the wider region of

Ladakh. These urban elites would talk about Ladakh itself, as a small

community and the need to maintain harmony within it. Wangchuk had,

for example, described his decision to settle the SECMOL dispute as one

taken in the interests of ‘our community, in which everyone knows

everyone else’. He was, thus, expressing an ideal of harmony within

even the heterogeneous community of Leh. Tinles Angmo, my lawyer

informant, also talked about the impossibility of polyandry prosecutions

in the ‘small’ Ladakhi society. She explained that polyandry had been

officially abolished by the Act of 1941 and would now be charged as2

bigamy or adultery. However, she added, she had not known a single

prosecution in Ladakh. Such a thing ‘would not be possible’ in such a

small society, she said. Even Tsering Samphel, President of the LBA and

supporter of his organisation’s anti-Muslim policies, used the phrase yul

chig, one country, when mediating in a conflict between different

villages.

In all these cases my informants were, therefore, expressing a sense

of belonging to the wider region of Ladakh, a community which would

be disrupted by conflict. The history of Ladakh has been punctuated by

warfare with external forces, which might have been thought to have

created a sense of regional unity under the king. However, there has also

been antagonism between its constituent parts and their rulers and a

constant movement of traders, monks and other outsiders coming from

all directions through the Indus valley. For a multitude of reasons,

political, historical and ecological, there is little sense or symbolism of

unity or of regional boundaries around Ladakh as a whole. Even today,

Kargil Block has an ambiguous status. Is it part of greater Ladakh, in

which the people share linguistic, ecological, agricultural and cultural

similarities, or is it a separate Muslim area? The political division

between Blocks seems to be pushing it towards the latter.

The communal tensions of the 1980s and 1990s are just the most

dramatic example of the divisions that characterise the Ladakh popula-

tion. The question, then, is, what impelled these elites to create a sense

178 CHAPTER NINE

Five out of the nine cases I saw concerned marriage and children, one concerned3

inheritance to land and the others miscellaneous disputes.

of regional unity, and with what effects? It was in fact, the President of

the LBA, the body most responsible for the communal tensions, who

acted as mediator in the SECMOL dispute, and his organisation had

been running the Shakhs Khang, an important forum for the resolution

of conflict in Leh, since the 1980s.

The Shakhs Khang

In the 1980s and early 1990s the LBA became, and has remained, a

campaigning organisation whose activities also led to drastic divisions

between the Buddhist and Muslim populations of Ladakh and to violent,

communal antagonism between them (van Beek 1996, 1999, 2000a,

2001; Bertelsen 1996, 1997; Aggarwal 2004). Nevertheless, the LBA

has always carried out a certain amount of dispute resolution. In their

early days considerable time was devoted by the LBA and its predeces-

sor, the YMBA, to arbitrating in disputes concerning etiquette, in

particular the difficult question of seating hierarchy (van Beek 2000a:

176). LBA officials told me that at first people simply used to consult

the President, Vice-President or Secretary with their problems. However,

in 1990, following the LBA’s rise to power and the setting up of regional

groups, and as part of a boycott of the state’s bureaucracy, a formal

dispute resolution committee was formed. Its hearings, which continued

after the end of the boycott in 1992, are popularly referred to as the

Shakhs Khang (place of mediation).

Cases are heard weekly at the LBA’s offices in Leh. These are

generally brought by the sending of a letter setting out a complaint, after

which the committee summons all relevant parties to a hearing. Three of

the elder members of the LBA generally conduct the hearings but the

President and other members may join or replace them. The majority of

the cases, they say, concern family matters and land division and they do

not deal with criminal matters. However, this statement was little more3

than a gesture towards the authority of the police and the courts. One

case I saw had involved an assault and the committee was concerned to

resolve it themselves so as to ensure, they expressly said, that the police

complaint was dropped. Like the Photoksar villagers, the LBA is ready

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 179

to acknowledge the authority of the police but quick to ignore it in

practice.

The hearings are always informal, the parties sitting around a room,

with no particular place for the mediators or either party and no set

procedures. When a dispute comes to them from within a village they

often call for the village’s goba to attend the hearings and they defer to

his knowledge of the context and the people involved. The parties are

allowed to have their say and the mediators ask them to speak in turn,

but they often interrupt each other or the mediators intervene and friends

and relations contribute to the discussion. The mediators are accorded

an astonishing (to me) lack of formal respect, allowing themselves to be

interrupted and contradicted. There are no references to precedent, law

or custom but the mediators seem quickly to reach a common view

without consultation, even in cases of disputed evidence. The bulk of

their work then consists in trying to persuade the parties to accept

whatever solution they suggest. Acceptance is crucial and they may put

considerable moral pressure on both parties to agree. In one case a

woman had made an allegation that she had become pregnant by a man

from her village, a charge he denied. The mediators clearly thought that

the man was lying and spent most of the hearing trying to make him

admit this, pointing out the weaknesses in his story. Eventually they sent

everyone away and told the two principal witnesses to look at them-

selves carefully in a mirror and realise that if they lied once they would

have to lie another hundred times. As in most of the Tibetan cases, there

is no question of simply making a judgment against one party.

The whole ethos of the hearings is to get the parties to agree to a

solution. The concept of individual rights and claims never enters the

discussion. The mediators are primarily concerned to find a workable

arrangement for the future. So, in one case, a woman was saying that she

wanted to divorce her husband on the grounds that he was a drunkard but

the mediators exerted considerable pressure on her to stay with him for

the sake of their four children and discussed how she might deal with his

alcoholism by locking up the drink. In another, a couple had already

separated but were arguing over the children and the wife was, again,

complaining of her husband’s alcoholism. The husband, on the other

hand, had promised not to drink any more and the mediators were

suggesting that he sign a written undertaking to this effect. In yet

another, the wife was spending time away from home, because of her

work, which was making her husband suspicious. The mediators told me

later that the real problem was that the husband had a ‘straight mind’,

180 CHAPTER NINE

believing whatever pernicious gossip people suggested to him, so they

were trying to make him understand the wife’s position.

The informality of the hearings and the rhetoric of the mediators both

represent an orientation towards agreement and towards the wider

community. The parties are encouraged to see their dispute in the

context of its effects on their family and village but also, in appropriate

cases, on Ladakhi society as a whole. The mediators evidently see their

Shakhs Khang as a type of court of appeal for disputes that cannot be

solved at village level and they were anxious that I remind the Photoksar

villagers that they should follow this route in similar cases. However, the

President was quite frank about the LBA’s recent decline in power.

Between 1989 and 1995, he told me, when the LBA was strong, and had

to be strong for its political fight, the committee could simply give a

judgment and people would comply. Now they have to use more negotia-

tion in the process and cases take a lot longer to resolve. They are using

the ‘traditions of the people’ more, he said.

Although the LBA had initiated the most dramatic political agitation

undertaken in Ladakh in the recent past, its concern, when resolving

disputes, was said to be to prevent the escalation of any conflict that

could have political overtones. The most serious case that I saw, in that

every hearing was attended by the LBA President, Tsering Samphel, had

started as a simple assault on a bus driver by a group of youths in the

village of Nimmu, where his bus had temporarily halted. One of the

driver’s relatives was in the Khaltse police force and had, they said, used

his influence to secure a letter from the chief goba of Khaltse block

alleging a history of harassment by the Nimmu youths. This letter was

sent to Nimmu village, to the police, the LBA, the bus drivers’ union and

a number of politicians. The LBA committee took the matter very

seriously and called not just the Nimmu villagers who were very keen to

resolve the affair, but also the chief goba of Ladakh, the chief officer of

the Khaltse police and the head of the bus drivers’ union to a series of

hearings. The President told me before the first hearing that he was

anxious to prevent this from becoming a big dispute and that his primary

interest was in correcting any misunderstandings between the chief goba

and the Nimmu people. During the hearing the President, backed up by

the other LBA members and the Nimmu villagers, put pressure on the

chief goba and the driver’s father to settle the matter then and there.

They told the parties that the dispute should first have been brought to

the LBA, who could have resolved it by calling evidence. This was

supported by the Nimmu villagers who said that they could have in-

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 181

volved the village elders and made the boys responsible understand and

apologise for their misdeeds.

The President talked, during the hearing, about the size of the dispute

and how bad it was that two villages should be in conflict, frequently

using the phrase yul chig, one country. The head of the Nimmu tsokspa

backed this up by saying that it was the goba’s action in going to the

police that had been trelba, shameful. All these speakers, thus, expressed

a concern about unity within the general Ladakhi community. The case

was ultimately resolved by a letter to be written by the chief goba to the

Nimmu villagers in which he acknowledged that he had used harsh

language in his previous letter, that he did not want to cause bad rela-

tions between the villages and that it was important to maintain peace

and harmony.

The Shakhs Khang provides the Ladakhi population with an effective

alternative to the state’s courts which, as my informants invariably

commented, are expensive and prone to delays and corruption. Ahmed

(1996: 305), for example, describes a long running disagreement be-

tween the nomads of Rupshu and those of Kharnakh over the salt lake,

Tsokhar, on the Chang Tang plateau. This dispute, she says, was settled

by an agreement in 1982 but erupted again with fighting in 1987. The

Rupshu nomads then took the case to the Leh court, which decided that

the land records demonstrated Rupshu’s ownership and determined that

Kharnakh should pay a fine. However, the Rupshu nomads were still

dissatisfied so they approached the LBA. The LBA engineered a com-

promise under which Rupshu would make a fixed supply of salt to

Kharnakh for a small payment. It also achieved a settlement on the

question of access to the grazing land around the lake. The nomad

communities eventually, therefore, accepted the mediation of the LBA

in the interests of settling their dispute, having rejected the authority of

the court to determine the question of ownership.

The interests of harmony within Ladakh were presented as a persua-

sive reason for reaching agreement in the Nimmu case. By using the

phrase yul chig the LBA mediators were taking an ambiguous concept,

yul, normally applied to a village community, and extending it to apply

to the whole of Ladakh. In this way they were actively promoting a sense

of Ladakh as a unified whole. This clearly suited their purposes as a

body agitating for regional autonomy, which finds it difficult, as Tsering

Samphel admitted to me, to encourage a sense of regional identity.

While the former kings could use their military power, backed by their

social status and religious patronage, to extract taxes and muster armies,

182 CHAPTER NINE

contemporary leaders have to use different tactics to carry out the

activities they see as being in the best interests of Ladakh. The resolution

of disputes can be seen as one of the ways in which they establish their

moral authority to do so. In the process they have to strengthen the sense

of community identity by drawing on and expanding the sense of order

and harmony found within the smaller village units.

The Anjuman

At the same time as the LBA is providing mediation services for the

Buddhist populations, parallel activities are being undertaken by the

Muslims’ organisations. Leh has a substantial Sunni and a rather smaller

Shia Muslim population. The Sunnis have an Anjuman-e Mu’in-e-Islam,

which is the main policy-making body for their community, and a

Shariat committee which includes all the Molvis, religious leaders of

high status. The Shias have an Anjuman-e Imamia, equivalent to the

Sunnis’ Anjuman-e Mu’in-e-Islam, and there is a Muslim Coalition

Committee, which includes members from both and is chaired by the

Presidents of each Anjuman. Mohammed Shafi Lassoo, the president of

the Sunni Anjuman, told me that his organisation exists to promote

religious and cultural ideas and harmony, both within the Muslim

community and between that community and others. Both the Shariat

Committee and Anjuman are involved in the resolution of disputes, the

Committee’s formal role being to interpret and decide upon the applica-

tion of Shariat law, and the Anjuman being more concerned with imple-

mentation.

Several people told me that disputes that occur amongst Muslims in

the villages are generally solved at local level, with the help of family,

neighbours and elders. Village Muslims generally have a village Muslim

committee to whom they can turn for help, but they often use the village

goba, and only resort to the Shariat committee or Anjuman in Leh in

extreme cases. I did not witness the hearing of any such cases, but three

of the Sunni Anjuman members, the President, Mohammad Shafi

Lassoo, the Chairman of the Shariat Committee, Molvi Abdul Qayoom

Nadvi, and the Anjuman Secretary, Shabir Bande, were very willing to

talk about their procedures for dispute resolution. Before they get to the

stage of a formal complaint many disputes are taken to one of the

community elders for resolution, they told me. The Committee hears

property, family, maintenance and commercial cases, around twelve in

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 183

In fact, Martijn van Beek, who has undertaken research in Leh over several years,4

has seen cases where both physical force and threats of exile have been employed

every year. The law applied is Shariat, said Shabir, but they do not mete

out harsh punishments, as in Saudi Arabia. Lassoo said that they applied

a lenient, moderate form of Shariat, using their own discretion and

incorporating local, customary law. Qayoom also confirmed that they

cannot adopt the whole method of Islamic law but have to recognise

elements of custom and tradition, many of which have come from the

Buddhists.

Even though the Shariat Committee is talked of as a court, giving

verdicts in accordance with Shariat law, it is evident that its procedures

for dealing with disputes are primarily designed to make the parties

themselves reach agreement and many of the practices and ideals are

similar to those of the LBA’s Shakhs Khang. Qayoom, in particular, told

me that although the principles of land distribution are fixed by the

Koran, the Committee tries to reach a settlement on the basis of mutual

understanding. They do not go too deeply into religious decrees, he said,

but aim to find a solution that maintains good social relations. The

Committee acts like an investigator, calling evidence, contacting the

goba and other members of the parties’ village. They tell the parties who

they think is right and wrong but then suggest a middle point that will be

best for all concerned. Shabir said that the Committee hearings were

designed not to feel like a court, with the parties all accorded respect

rather than treated as opponents. The important thing, he said, is to get

the parties to shake hands, to say that what has passed has passed and

that they are now brother and sister again.

The Anjuman, for its part, is concerned with implementation and acts

like a negotiator, said Lassoo, bringing in other members of the parties’

families and communities, aiming to keep the parties together and bring

them to an agreement. Qayoom stressed the fact that they cannot force

the parties to comply with any ruling and they have to use persuasion,

explaining the draw-backs of a divorce, for example, and often involving

other people in the solution. Shabir told me that it acts by persuasion, by

making recommendations, but he also said that it also used forms of

persuasion that are similar to those employed in the villages. They can

use harsh words and threats and bring in the relatives to persuade the

parties. They cannot use physical force, he said, but the ultimate sanc-

tion of a social boycott is stronger than any physical threat. He has only

seen it used once. These solutions are similar to the village and LBA’s4

184 CHAPTER NINE

(personal communication).

practices, a point expressly made by Lassoo. Where an apology is

appropriate khatags and tea (rather than chang) are given or exchanged.

Agreements and decrees may also be drawn up in which conditions are

imposed.

Like the Tibetan cases and the LBA’s practices, therefore, the idea

is to get the parties to reach an agreement, even if strong tactics are

necessary to achieve this. Likewise, the orientation is outwards, involv-

ing other members of the family and the larger community, appealing to

the interests of others and relying on the ultimate threat of a social

boycott.

The existence of the separate bodies, the LBA and the Anjuman,

which both carry out quasi-political functions is, of course, an indication

of a divided population in Ladakh and people’s sense of religious, rather

than regional, identity. Nevertheless, the LBA, in particular, uses

narratives of a single Ladakh, yul chig, during its practices of mediation,

thereby strengthening its authority within the Ladakhi population. The

same idea is reflected in the rhetoric of the elite mentioned earlier. At

the same time the urban dwellers are creating small new communities in

the expanding and heterogeneous capital. In all these ways, different

sections of the Ladakhi population are actively creating new forms of

community, both small and large, and associated spheres of order. They

are also creating boundaries which serve to exclude, to some extent, the

state’s forces of law and order.

Ideals of order

A sense of community as a social space which is to be protected from

harm, both internal divisions and external threats, is, thus, to be found,

I would suggest, in the urban as much as the rural setting. The overriding

concern is with the harm that conflict and antagonism will inflict on that

community and the harmonious relations that have to be maintained

within it. At the same time, however, the goal of peace or harmony, as

an abstract ideal, is remarkably weak. Largely absent in Photoksar, it is

only heard occasionally in elite circles in Leh. For example, I had many

conversations with Tinles Angmo, the lawyer, about the courts, legal

system and practices of dispute resolution, during which she invariably

expressed the opinion that Ladakhis do not ‘like’ to be in conflict, they

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 185

‘like’ to settle their disputes. She said that she herself always encourages

her clients to try to settle their cases, especially those that concern

maintenance for children and other family matters, because of the time

and expense involved in the court procedure. She also uses the radio to

appeal to families to give their daughters their due shares in property so

as to avoid lengthy court cases. Like Rinchen, therefore, she was keen

to paint a picture to me of the ideal Ladakhi society.

Spalzes Angmo, a lawyer turned politician, expressed similar senti-

ments and told me that older practices of land division (or non-division)

persist because children are prepared to compromise and adjust to the

views of their parents. They ‘respect’ their elders, she said. She was also

concerned to present the Ladakhi people as ‘peace-loving’, telling me

that Ladakhis generally wanted to avoid disputes. She attributed this to

the principle of compassion at the root of Buddhist society: ‘you cannot

have peace without compassion,’ she explained. This was the only time

that any of my Ladakhi informants made an explicit, or even implicit,

connection between attitudes to conflict and religious ideals. Having

done so, however, Spalzes paused. ‘Of course my brother is a high

lama,’ she admitted, ‘so my attitude may have been influenced by the

Buddhist view.’ In other words, she was expressly acknowledging that

her views had been influenced by the ideas promoted by contemporary

religious leaders and doubting the legitimacy of offering a religious

explanation for local attitudes towards conflict.

Other educated Leh-based Ladakhis were more pragmatic. One told

me that it is the immigrants to Leh who are usually the ones who end up

taking their disputes to the Court or to the LBA. The problem is that if

their relatives try to intervene, he explained, they do not know the people

involved, they do not understand the rights and wrongs of the case and

cannot make proper judgments. In the villages, he said, it is as if every-

one is related. Other people can then make ‘unbiased decisions’, they

care for all the people. A similar opinion was expressed by Tashi Morup,

the magazine editor, who told me that Ladakhi society was close knit,

that disputes tend to be solved at family level with the use of apologies

and that decisions made at community level were generally right because

the elders understood the society. His reflection on the Shakhs Khang

was that as a court it was ‘primitive’, and it was never certain that the

result would be ‘right’, but that it still performed a valuable function.

Sonam Wangchuk, of SECMOL, was also quite sceptical about the

Ladakhis being ‘peace-loving’. Leh used to be like a big village, he said,

with fights resolved through the intervention of the goba, the giving of

186 CHAPTER NINE

khatags and chang, but now it has grown enormously and is no longer

such a close-knit community. There are fewer fights because there are

not so many neighbourhood parties, he said, but those that occur are not

sorted out and people tend to remain enemies. A similar attitude was

expressed by my informant from Shara describing the conflict within his

village. He commented that the problem was that people in the village

who stand to gain most from the project are ‘bad, selfish and prone to

fighting’. This is attributable to three or four of the current leaders,

influential men who dominate the village committee, the tsokspa. They

have ‘negative attitudes’, he thought.

Whilst in some of these accounts, therefore, the Ladakhis are ideal-

ised as ‘peace-loving’, other informants were quite prepared to be

negative about the fighting and animosity that breaks out among their

compatriots. The Leh goba and chupon, described earlier, and many

development workers expressed similar attitudes. The process of dispute

settlement, moreover, was invariably described to me in pragmatic

terms, with doubts expressed by the English speakers familiar with the

western notion of justice about whether the ‘right’ results were usually

achieved. Settlement is simply something that ‘has’ to be achieved. The

implicit idea of order tends, therefore, to be more closely expressed in

the negative appraisal of conflict, rather than being directed at any

idealised form of justice or fairness or the maintenance of a form of

harmony inspired by Buddhist morality. As in Photoksar the sacred

social is a largely implicit ideal. Nevertheless, it is a potent one, I would

suggest, which shapes the attitudes to conflict and practices of resolution

which are found throughout Ladakh.

Status and power

Old forms of status are still strong in Ladakh. Aristocrats and rinpoches

dominate the political positions, membership of the Ladakh Hill Council

and even higher administrative positions. In Photoksar the villagers

successfully distance most such power-holders from their internal

political organisation. Nevertheless, when the SECMOL dispute erupted,

the parties involved turned to both political and religious leaders, in the

form of the LBA and LGA for mediation. The issues of status and power

affect the processes by which Ladakhis maintain order in the urban

centres and surrounding villages to a much greater degree than they do

in Photoksar.

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 187

This was part of the LBA’s education campaigns of the early 1990s (van Beek and5

Bertelsen 1995).

The development of the economy and the new opportunities it has

provided for the acquisition of wealth have lead to new forms of status

and power for a number of Ladakhis. Money does not tend to bring

status and influence, per se, but the power and opportunities of the

centralised economy mean that the ability to deal with the centre and to

negotiate with development organisations and government representa-

tives gives certain individuals an important position within their villages.

This is largely effected through the tsokspa, the village committee,

which is now a common feature of village life and allows them to

exercise power without the responsibility that traditionally attaches to

the posts of goba and membar.

Originally set up by the LBA as cultural committees, and used by it

to try to obtain a measure of control over the villages and support from

their leaders, the tsokspa are now usually concerned with development

matters. In the larger villages close to Leh there has been a proliferation

of youth tsokspa, ame tsokspa (women’s committees), tsokspa responsi-

ble for festivals and others for agricultural development. Many of these

only concern themselves with development work and defer, in the case

of important decisions, to the village meeting. Elsewhere, however, the

tsokspa, especially the youth groups initially set up by the LBA, are

politically active and have become a source of village conflict. Some

young Ladakhis working for a local NGO in Leh, for example, told me

that in their three villages the youth groups were taking an assertive

stance, demanding changes to certain rituals. In one, it was making new

rules and regulations, stipulating that every household was allowed to

have only two light-bulbs, for example, and taking it upon themselves to

break any others. Another told me that in his village there was a conflict5

between the youth and development tsokspa, which the goba could not

resolve because half the village was behind each. Previously, one of my

informants told me, when the goba had managed everything, things had

gone ‘in a straight line’.

Aggarwal (2004) describes numerous forces of disruption and

division which, she says, have characterised Ladakhi society in recent

years. As well as the activities of the LBA, which cause communal

tensions in several villages with mixed populations, she discusses the

divisive force of caste, including inter-caste conflict, gender divisions,

which are exacerbated by modern Indian stereotypes, and the rivalries

188 CHAPTER NINE

Aggarwal highlights important aspects of Ladakhi society, in particular the effects6

of the LBA’s campaigns and continuing caste divisions. I consider, however, that she

overstates the nature of such divisions in many ways, alleging that women are ‘ritually

repressed’ in their natal homes (2004: 137), for example, and characterising the dral as

a site of ‘subversion’ and ‘struggle fraught with political activity’ (2004: 163). One of

the aims of the present work is to balance out this picture by focussing on parallel

processes of community construction and conflict resolution.

engendered by Indian party politics. She demonstrates the ways in6

which such tensions are played out at local level in the mixed Buddhist

and Muslim village of Achinatang, close to the disputed Kashmiri line

of control. Elsewhere, as I found, similar tensions can be exacerbated or

supplemented by the activities of the NGOs, who have considerable

influence in even the remotest villages and are usually regarded as an

important source of money and other benefits. They invariably channel

their resources through the tsokspa or elected village committees, whose

membership is not generally marked by burdensome responsibility. It is

inevitably men who are already used to dealing with the centre, because

they have education or government jobs or are from upper-class families,

who obtain these positions. In the opinion of local NGO workers this has

enabled, or even encouraged, many of them to use their positions to

wield power and influence to their own advantage.

Photoksar, further removed from the opportunities offered by Leh

and from the attentions of development organisations, has not experi-

enced the factionalism that occurs elsewhere. However, even here,

external funds have been abused. The Education Department had given

the contract for the construction of the local school to a village man, in

consultation with the teacher. The school had not been properly finished,

however, and a couple of villagers told me they thought that the teacher

and contractor had been dishonest over the money. ‘But what can we do

about it?’ they shrugged. On the one hand it was not their money to

control, but on the other, they obviously did not want confrontation with

a member of their village. This unwillingness to enter into confrontation

is, I would suggest, crucial in explaining many of the tensions and

conflicts that have occurred as a result of economic development and

NGO activity.

The dominant idea in development circles is that the elected commit-

tee is the most suitable type of village organisation to oversee and

manage projects and take charge of funds. However, Ladakhi villagers

often seem unable to operate a simple committee system, electing

inappropriate representatives and failing to vote unsatisfactory members

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 189

off the committee. Given their traditions of inclusion and agreement that

I described earlier and the means they employ, along with Tibetan

populations elsewhere on the plateau, to rotate power and counteract

forces that promote status and hierarchy, why is this so difficult?

The unwillingness to criticise, expressed to me by the Photoksar

villagers, is, I would suggest, crucial. The villagers’ use of rotation to

choose their leaders is a particular method of controlling the use of

power, similar to the principles of government and selection that found-

ed the participatory democracy of the Athenian city-state. Here, laws

were made by the Assembly, open to the whole body of citizens, who

numbered between 30,000 and 45,000, amongst whom unanimity was

preferred. There was also a Council of 500, whose members were

selected by lot, but membership was restricted to two terms and there

were very few elected officers. Athens was, of course a large and

complex society with disparities in wealth, patronage and de facto

leaders (Hornblower 1992). Similarly in Ladakh, practices of consensus

and inclusion do not rule out conflicts, gender differences and inequali-

ties in wealth. Neither lives up to any ideal of participation and equality.

However, the ideologies that guide their political processes - rule by the

demos, the authority of the yulpa, the principle of inclusion, the duty on

citizens to participate, the ideal of unanimity and the use of lots to fill

positions of authority - are the same.

Representative government, by contrast, is based on the use of the

ballot box. The idea is that elections should clarify matters of public

interest and the elected few would be likely to be competent and capable

(Held 1993: 19). Yet such a system relies upon the electorate being able

and willing to criticise and deselect incompetent leaders. Some Ladakhi

NGO workers told me of a village meeting in which people had gone as

far as opposing the election of their headman to a new committee.

However, although they had articulated their complaints to my infor-

mants in private they had not been prepared to explain their reasons

publicly. In response to a challenge to do so, one of them had quoted a

Ladakhi saying: ‘if you talk at night you will not be heard.’ They

consider there is something shameful, my informants explained, in

talking about past conflicts or bringing them into the open.

This fear can be linked, I would suggest, to the perception that all

disputes are dangerous to the social order. As I found in Photoksar, even

expressing distaste and disapproval were frowned upon. Yet this is what

is required, as a matter of public activity, in order to implement a

successful committee system. Bad leaders must be criticised and pub-

190 CHAPTER NINE

licly removed from office. Selection by rotation, lot, games and dice, on

the other hand, abnegates responsibility for choosing and deselecting to

an external force. It does not require the villagers to select on the basis

of merit nor, even more significantly, to depose on the basis of perfor-

mance.

In Leh and the surrounding villages, those close to modern develop-

ments and the economic opportunities of the capital, therefore, old forms

of status remain strong and new ones are emerging. Moreover, opportu-

nities for wealth creation and development activities are giving rise to

new forms of status within established communities, which disrupt older

forms of organisation and controls on the exercise of power. Neverthe-

less, the emphasis on conflict resolution remains an important compo-

nent of the sense of community found at different levels throughout the

region, often promoted by the elite.

Elitism and hierarchy have long characterised many aspects of

Ladakh society, therefore, and old forms of status continue to be drawn

upon by those who become involved in modern politics. The 1980s and

90s saw the worst communal tension for decades. Moreover, economic

and administrative developments, coupled with the introduction of new

micro-processes into village politics, have had the effect of creating new

factions and power struggles. Nevertheless, in the midst of these pro-

cesses, the groups I have described, both in Photoksar and the villages

closer to or within the urban centre, maintain a sense of community

boundaries and, at times, create new ideas of belonging. In each case the

idea of community imports a sense of order and a feeling that conflict

needs to be contained and resolved inside, nangkuli, and ultimately gives

rise to the practices of dispute resolution that are still, as I found,

widespread within Ladakh.

Such practices also serve to reinforce the boundaries of the commu-

nity and to safeguard it from the interference of external power-holders.

This, I would suggest, should be understood in the light of the relations

of deference and distance I have described on the part of the Photoksar

villagers and which doubtless characterise many local communities in

Ladakh, towards the power-holders in the political, economic and

monastic centres of the region. All these processes are evident in the

collective reactions of local communities to the introduction of the new

panchayat system of local government.

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 191

The Hill Council and panchayats

The resilience of the goba system of local organisation and conflict

resolution was recognised by many of my informants. However, talking

to certain members of the elite in rather different contexts yielded almost

diametrically opposed views. NGO workers, when discussing recent

administrative changes, told me that the gobas now have ‘no power’ and

I heard the same view from several other people. The context was

generally an explanation of or reference to either the Ladakh Hill

Development Council (LAHDC) or the new panchayat system of local

government. Each body is supposed to manage matters of local adminis-

tration to some extent, thus taking over the ‘traditional’ role of the goba

and supplanting his authority, at least in the eyes of the central adminis-

tration.

The LAHDC was established in 1994 as a result of the extended

campaign led by the LBA for a measure of regional autonomy for

Ladakh. In theory, matters such as rural development, health and educa-

tion are all under its control. This means that it can give directions to

officers in the relevant government departments, although there can be

power struggles between the Council and other government officers. The

Council is made up of elected representatives from each area of Ladakh.

Photoksar, for example, is represented by the Wanla councillor, who has

very little knowledge of or interest in the village according to my

informants.

The panchayats are supposed to act on a much more local level.

Under the Panchayat Raj Act 1989, a halqa panchayat has been estab-

lished in each village, or group of small villages, with elected members

and a leader, sarpanch, who is supposed to sit on the District level adalat

council. Representatives of each of the district bodies are supposed,

then, to make up a Block-level panchayat council. Powers to draw up

development plans and to organise education, health, agricultural and

irrigation services are supposed to be devolved to the panchayats. In

practice, by 2005, there were just a few programmes that had already

been devolved: ‘watershed’ (agricultural and pastoral) development,

‘SGRY’ (Sarvodaya Gram Rozgar Yojana, a rural employment scheme)

and ‘CD’, community development. Elections for the panchayats were

held in April 2001 and some had already proved to be effective in

obtaining benefits for their villages. Photoksar, however, forms part of

the Wanla area, with a single panchayat, and Paljor was critical of the

results. ‘It has not worked’, he told me in 2005, ‘the sarpanch is no good,

192 CHAPTER NINE

There is also considerable overlap between the powers and duties that are supposed7

to be exercised by each body and the existing government departments. This is one of the

reason for the very slow implementation of the panchayat system. In particular, it would

seem that the Block-level council would be a direct rival for power to the LAHDC and,

as of 2006, it had not yet been established.

he does not achieve anything for us.’ He regarded the panchayat as a

form of liaison with the central authorities, whose business it was to

secure what funds and resources are available. In Lingshed, by contrast,

the former Hill Councillor had been elected as sarpanch and, skilled at

negotiating in Leh, he had achieved many things for his area.

The idea that the panchayat members have to fight for what is due to

them was echoed by members of the Ladakhi Development Organisation

(LDO), a local NGO that has taken it upon itself to educate the public

about the new system and advise the councils on how to proceed, in the

absence of useful information and assistance from the authorities. ‘They

have to keep pushing and shouting or else nothing will happen’, one told

me, describing the role of the panchayat members. This means travelling

to Leh to negotiate with the Chief Executive Councillor of the LAHDC

to obtain the funds they are due. Of course, this is just the type of

activity for which people in the remoter villagers, such as Photoksar, are

ill-prepared, in terms of time, money and experience.

The legislation also makes provision for a panchayat adalat, a body

that is supposed to administer justice in each panchayat area. The

Panchayat Raj Act 1989 contains provisions for the selection of mem-

bers (all of whom have to be literate, a qualification that would rule out

the majority of the female population) and for the types of cases that

should be heard by them, while the Jammu and Kashmir Panchayati Raj

Rules 1996, provide for procedures. The framework is supposed to be

informal, but it follows the adversarial format of the state courts, with

statements from each party, evidence and judgments. The names of

prospective members of the panchayat adalat have to be put forward by

the sarpanch and this has now been done, LDO told me, although they

were not aware of what activities, if any, they had yet undertaken.

There is, therefore, a confusing proliferation of positions and respon-

sibilities in the villages. There are Hill Councillors, panchayat members,

a sarpanch, members of the panchayat adalat, the tsokspa, the goba and

membars. The Councillors and halqa panchayat are supposed to be in

charge of development, while the panchayat adalat takes care of justice

and the goba remains in charge of social relations. It was in this context7

that several of my informants told me that the goba now has very little

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 193

One of these is, in fact, Photoksar, where the panchayat includes all the villages in8

the Wanla area, some of which are more than a day’s walk apart and normally maintain

little contact. It is recognised by both villagers and officials that this is unsatisfactory, but

whether the panchayat will be divided in the future remains to be seen.

power. ‘He is just a tax collector’, said one member of the LAHDC,

reflecting his official government position, which is now practically

insignificant given the very limited taxes that most villagers pay.

From an official point of view, therefore, the system of village

administration has been almost completely transformed by these new

developments. Nevertheless, when I pressed my informants, they always

acknowledged that the goba do still play a role in conflict resolution, the

implementation of the ‘old trims’, as one of them put it, and that a good

goba can do very good work in his village. The members of LDO said

that the halqa panchayat and panchayat adalat were now supposed to be

playing the political and judicial roles that had formerly been the

responsibility of the goba. The problem, they thought, is that the legisla-

tors were not properly aware of the ‘traditional system’ and Ladakh now

faces a dilemma of whether to reject the panchayat system or do away

with the goba. Ideally, of course, they should work together, they said.

This dilemma is not, maybe, so stark in reality as it seems on paper,

however. In practice, as the examples given above have shown, Ladakhi

villagers are quite capable of distancing officials from their internal

affairs, even in the urban centre. There is, in fact, no evidence that the

panchayat adalats have begun to take a proactive role, displacing the

social and judicial roles of the goba and yulpa, and it is not considered

to be a priority by bodies such as LDO to encourage them to do so. In

Photoksar they have chosen one of the few young men with a modicum

of formal education to be the panchayat member and he is now hon-

oured, along with the goba and membar, at the new year celebrations.

However, the villagers clearly see his role as being quite separate from

that of the yulpa, who are more concerned with internal relations.

Moreover, although panchayat members are supposed to be elected, the

Panchayat Officer in Leh, recognising the limitations of the ballot box

within village politics, has allowed villages to present their members to

him according to their own methods of selection. For the most part,

village meetings have unanimously agreed on these appointments and it

is only in a few cases, generally those in which a panchayat’s constitu-

ency crosses village boundaries, that elections have been necessary. It8

is important, therefore, not to regard the new political structures imple-

mented in Leh as representative of the reality everywhere, which is what

194 CHAPTER NINE

LDO thinks this is very important and a material change to the old system. In fact,9

in some villages, like Likir, the village meeting is now dominated by women, although

in others, like Hemis Shukpachan, the meeting has rejected the possibility of admitting

women and in Photoksar the issue has not even been raised. As LDO told me, in many

villages the men are practically absent, with jobs in the town or army, so women should

be on the panchayat. However, in Photoksar, men are very much present and well aware

of the needs of the women, such as the demands of water collection and spinning.

Moreover, at present, women still have far less experience of and confidence in dealing

with outsiders, matters in which even the men mostly feel inadequate. Demanding

women representatives runs the risk of exacerbating the differences between remoter and

less remote villages, whatever the laudable aims in terms of elevating their position in the

villages.

is being done by those who declare that the goba and the ‘old trims’ are

no longer relevant.

The panchayat system is based on quite different principles from

those that historically govern the organisation of the village meeting and

the selection of the goba. Instead of rotation and inclusion they demand

election, representation and forms of justice handed down by an edu-

cated elite. They also demand the involvement of women. In practice,9

panchayat members also have to work within the structures of state

government. The ideology of the legislation, as set out in the preamble

to the Act, is local self-government, participation in decision-making and

the better implementation of development programmes. The new repre-

sentatives have to fight for funds, however, and to ensure the proper

implementation of the panchayat structures. This requires people with

knowledge, time, money and, above all, experience in dealing with Leh-

based authorities. As with the committee systems introduced by NGOs,

this will favour the individuals and villages with easier access to the

centre, thus reproducing existing patterns of inequality between remoter

and more central communities and between better and less well-con-

nected individuals. It also reinforces the dependence of most villages on

the centre and on the few individuals able to deal with it.

One can, therefore, see the new system coming into conflict with

existing expectations, providing opportunity for personal gain on the part

of a few individuals, but also being adapted according to local expecta-

tions (in the villages) and the assessment of needs (by local NGOs).

Quietly and unobtrusively, and throughout decades of political change,

Ladakhi villagers have been continuing to maintain their own form of

judicial practices, linked to their ideas of community and order. This is

not to say that their forms of village organisation will not, in the long

URBAN PROCESSES AND POLITICAL CHANGE 195

run, be affected by these new developments. But nor should it be as-

sumed that the changes will be unequivocally negative.

The Photoksar villagers have already accepted the idea of a new

village post, someone responsible for dealing with the panchayat system,

and have incorporated his status into the social hierarchy during the new

year celebrations. These new systems are undoubtedly forces for change,

but the old pattern of deference and distance towards external influences

remains. The chances are that Ladakh’s villages will strive to safeguard,

or to create anew, a sense of local order, a sacred social space from

which the multitude of external forces is distanced. The extent to which

they succeed in doing so remains to be seen.

CHAPTER TEN

CONCLUSION

Ladakh is a region that has long been pulled in different directions by

political, economic, religious and cultural forces on all sides. For

centuries Tibet, to the east, was the source of the religious and cultural

influence of Buddhism. Its texts and teachers offered the Ladakhi people

a sophisticated philosophical framework, with elaborate images of moral

and cosmological order, and its leaders interfered in Ladakh’s internal

power struggles. The all-powerful Tibetan monasteries have now

substantially been relocated to India, but the identity of Ladakhi Bud-

dhists with their religion is strong and they are conscious of a shared

religious and cultural heritage with Tibet.

Kashmir, to the west, was long seen as a military threat, whose

leaders not only tried to dominate the region but also to convert its

people to Islam. The resulting interface between the Buddhist and

Islamic worlds has created a sense of split identity for many Ladakhis,

especially those of the Kargil region, who feel culturally and linguisti-

cally part of Ladakh but tied by religion to Kashmir. This religious

divide has been exploited by Ladakhi politicians agitating for regional

autonomy, giving rise to communal violence and lingering mistrust.

Despite these historic tensions Kashmir has always been a source of

trading opportunities. The descendants of Kashmiri traders form a

distinct group in and around Leh, where they mingle with contemporary

entrepreneurs and governmental administrators.

From the north and east traders used to arrive from central Asia and

Tibet, having crossed monumental passes with their horses, donkeys and

sheep before travelling on into India, bringing salt, pashm, cloth, rice

and exotic goods and bearing away apricots, barley, wool and butter.

These routes also provided the opportunity for Ladakhi traders and

monks to travel, bringing back religious knowledge, foreign ideas and

wealth.

Now the old trade routes have been closed and consumer goods are

trucked in from the south and west, along roads that also take Ladakhi

pilgrims south into India and transport tourists in large numbers during

the short summer months. The construction of the airport means that

politicians and development workers, traders and administrators can fly

in throughout the year, bringing opportunities for business and employ-

CONCLUSION 197

Baltistan must not be forgotten. The Balti people share considerable linguistic and1

historical features, especially with the people of Kargil and they previously represented

important trading partners for the whole of the western part of Ladakh. My older

informants in Photoksar recalled taking grain to trade in Baltistan, where they could just

about understand the dialect, returning with locally-made earthenware pots. Since the war

between India and Pakistan, the line-of-control has severed the two regions but in the

summer of 2005 some Balti scholars were, for the first time, able to travel to Kargil. They

made the arduous journey via Islamabad, Lahore, Amritsar, Delhi and Leh, to arrive, after

three days, at a point less than 140 kilometres (via the old Indus valley trade route) from

Skardu. Here they were greeted with immense excitement by the Kargilis, who were soon

listening enraptured to their songs and stories, all familiar from their own cultural

heritage.

ment and the values of consumerism and international development, as

well as the democratic processes and ideals of the nation state. 1

Among all these influences Ladakhis have found numerous sources

of order, both in the controlling hand of leaders and in the more ideolog-

ical influence of iconic events and ideas. The Ladakhi kings’ struggles

with their powerful neighbours shaped the nature of the polity and the

power they wielded over its population; Buddhist monks, colonial

leaders and Indian administrators have all sought to impose their own

models of order on the region. Order has, at times, been imposed as a

matter of command, as part of the control exercised by a powerful leader

or state. In Weber’s (1968) terms these have included patriarchy (in the

case of aristocratic families), feudalism (in the case of their relations

with the kings), charisma (in the case of certain influential lamas) and,

now, the rational bureaucracy of the modern nation state. Wars, commu-

nal tensions and the region’s incorporation into India have shaped a

Ladakhi sense of identity or, rather, given rise to multiple and varying

ideas about regional autonomy, religious allegiance and communal

differences. There has been a simultaneous distancing of external power-

holders and the embrace of the economic opportunities provided by

trade, the market economy and tourism. There is both distrust and

acceptance of consumerism, competition and the new forms of status

they provide. Nevertheless, more localised forms of order have simulta-

neously been maintained within the numerous small communities of

which Ladakh is composed, supported by local social and moral norms.

These, in turn, have developed alongside the powerful ideological forces

of Buddhism and the economic, ecological and material values of the

late twentieth century.

In this book I have not attempted to map out all these forces. Rather,

my task has been to investigate the ways in which Ladakhi people have

198 CHAPTER TEN

negotiated their own order amongst them. Looking from the inside

outward, I have analysed the experiences of members of two very

different populations, those in a remote village and those of the urban

centre. My ethnographic focus on disputes and processes of conflict

resolution has been the means by which I have explored fundamental

ideas about order on the part of the Ladakhi populations and their

expectations of how it is to be maintained.

The hermeneutics of order

Living in Leh, the young men of SECMOL were caught in the midst of

these influences when they found themselves in conflict with members

of the powerful religious establishment. The approach taken by different

members of their organisation to the resolution of this dispute illustrates

the dilemmas and opportunities faced by many urban, educated Ladakh-

is. Their social values had been shaped by ideas of belonging and

identity formed in their local communities, the values of the modern

world, their own organisation’s agenda for the preservation of Ladakhi

culture and their relations with both the ancient and the modern elites of

the region. Their approach to this dispute highlights the paradoxes of

their situation: that they have embraced the secular ideas of justice and

individual rights, while self-consciously turning to religious leaders and

employing ‘traditional tactics’ during the mediation process; that they

were prepared to accept the primacy of the interests of their community,

in this case ‘the small region of Ladakh’, over their own individual

interests and rights; and their acceptance of the authority of both reli-

gious leaders (the LGA) and modern political elites (the LBA), while

avoiding representatives of the state and the authority of its courts and

lawyers. This event is just one example of the ways in which urban

Ladakhis negotiate their modernity, in this case by maintaining what

they see as the order that should characterise their region.

My suggestion is that, to make sense of the way this dispute was

handled, we need to analyse the processes, dynamics and

epistemological, moral and ontological concerns that govern Ladakhi

ideas concerning conflict. The attitudes expressed by the parties to the

SECMOL dispute reflected the procedures I observed in Photoksar, a

remote Ladakhi village, where the people are physically, economically

and intellectually far removed from the social milieu of the urban elite.

Analysing the sense of sacred community found here sheds light on the

CONCLUSION 199

way in which both rural and urban Ladakhis draw upon and construct

ideas about conflict and disorder, actively creating spheres of order in

their own communities and distancing themselves from the influence of

centralised power. There are similarities, I have suggested, between the

ways in which both populations negotiate their way amongst the inter-

secting spheres of power and influence that make up their worlds.

The attitudes towards conflict that I found in Photoksar were domi-

nated by a perceived need to resolve any overtly antagonistic dispute

with a ceremonial restoration of order. Good relations between individu-

als had to be publicly re-established in order to return the community to

a state of normality. Conflict was approached by considering and

elevating the interests of the community above those of the individual,

restoring harmony rather than determining individual rights. Resolution,

therefore, needed agreement between the parties, not a judgment by

some form of judicial authority. This order was supported by a strong

sense of the moral duty each individual was under to maintain harmoni-

ous relations within the community. It was a similar set of concerns that

was apparent in the attitudes of those involved in the SECMOL dispute,

namely the need to restore order in the interests of the community as a

whole, rather than to determine the respective rights of the parties.

Similar concerns and ideas about conflict were influential in the pro-

ceedings of the Shakhs Khang and the attitudes of its mediators. Indeed,

they were apparent in almost all the descriptions and discussions about

conflict that I had in Ladakh, whether with members of the educated

elite in Leh or villagers from one of the even more remote communities

I passed through on my journeys.

Implicit in these concerns was the idea that conflict represents

ruptured social relations, a dangerous tear in the fabric of the community

and the web of order that constitutes it. The nature of the judicial

process among these Ladakhis, the ways in which they understand,

approach and react to conflict and antagonism, is, therefore, shaped and

defined by their epistemology of conflict, itself supported by ontological

and moral concerns. This is to regard law, or legal practices, as a matter

of ‘local knowledge’ (Geertz 1983). In Local Knowledge: fact and law

in comparative perspective, Geertz advocates the adoption of a ‘hermeneu-

tic’, rather than a ‘functional’ approach to the study of law, arguing that

‘law is a distinct manner of imagining the real’ (1983: 184). ‘Different

adjudicative styles have imaginative power ... They do not just regulate

behaviour, they construe it.’ (1983: 214-5) As Just (1992) points out,

however, this ‘hermeneutic’ approach to the study of law contrasts with

200 CHAPTER TEN

Fuller does not elaborate on what type of study would avoid such criticism, although2

he cites with approval certain work on legal pluralism and studies, such as that of Nader

(1990), which place law within a wider political context. It should also be pointed out

that Geertz, himself, emphasises Weber’s insistence that ideas must be carried by

powerful social groups in order to have social effects; that they must be institutionalized

to find a material existence in society (1973a: 314).

the ‘hegemonic’ approach, which analyses law in the context of wider

relations of power, domination and political control, and has character-

ised much legal anthropology of the late twentieth century. A number of

writers in this tradition have been critical of Geertz’s approach. Moore,

for example, has said that:

[it] does not take one very far in understanding what people actually do on

the ground or why they do it at particular times and places. Presenting the

‘traditional’ categories of legal discussion without the context of discourse

offers statements without speakers, ideas without their occasions, concepts

outside history. (1989: 278)

Yngvesson (1989: 1690) makes similar points, while Fuller suggests that

this approach ‘is open to the familiar criticism that it is also idealistic;

after all, law is about repression just as much as imagination.’ (1994: 11-

12) It does not, in other words, take into account the wider power

relations that surround the legal process and the ways in which these

constitute and support or oppose one another. He does not, however,2

present this as a ground for dismissing the hermeneutic approach

altogether. Ideally the anthropologist should take into account the

political and the repressive as well as the imaginative reasons for legal

behaviour.

As Just (1992) points out reviewing the literature in legal anthropol-

ogy, however, this is rarely done. It seems, he says, that we must choose

‘between moving outward into the grand historical machinations of class

and cash, power and privilege, or moving inward to the nubs and slubs

in the fabric of meaning and belief.’(1992: 376) In the present study I

have sought to do both, on the one hand to investigate the ideal aspects

of judicial processes and their consonance, or not, with the moral and

religious world of the Ladakhis amongst whom I lived. On the other

hand, I have analysed these same processes in the context of the power,

gender and economic relations in the village, as part of the relations

between local communities and centres of power in Ladakh and, ulti-

mately, as relating to the macro-political processes that have impinged

upon the region. Nevertheless, at least to some extent, the two ap-

CONCLUSION 201

proaches remain opposed. They suggest alternative means of analysis,

alternative insights into the processes of order, and it would be a mistake

to try to unify them into a single, overarching explanatory model.

The sacred in the social

To puruse the hermeneutic approach, it is apprent that the sense of order

that underlies judicial processes in Photoksar remains largely implicit

and unexpressed. There are powerful, but inexplicit, ideas about order,

the realms in which it is defined and their boundaries. Nevertheless,

these give shape to a set of ideas about how such order can and must be

maintained and how the disputes that threaten it must be resolved.

These, in turn, relate to ideas about the status and duties of the individ-

ual within the community, the role of the yulpa as representatives of the

whole community and the relationship between them. The judicial

processes I observed in Photoksar were defined by implicit understand-

ings about what conflict was, that is, by an epistemology of order; but

they were also shaped by ontological understandings and moral con-

cerns.

The best way to make sense of this web of ideas is, I have suggested,

in terms of a sacred social space. In this case it is the local community,

whether the village of Photoksar, the village sections of the Housing

Colony in Leh or the ‘small region’ of Ladakh invoked by my SECMOL

informants, that represents the social. In Durkheim’s terms the social is

sacred to the extent that it is that which must be preserved, that which is

supported by ritual, namely the dralgo, the village meeting and the

ceremonial resolution of disputes. It is also that which unites people as

a moral community, here exemplified in the attitudes which, as I have

described, are directed at maintaining integrity and order within it. In the

case of Photoksar, that community is represented by the ‘us’ of the

yulpa, who exert authority over the individuals who constitute it, most

notably when called to restore good relations after conflict. This body

has a transcendent quality, able to exert authority over the individuals

within it.

It is one of the central findings of this study that the sacred that

defines this social community is distinct from the sacred of the religious

realm associated with Buddhism, in all its various forms. It is also

distinct from the realm of the spirits who exist outside the Buddhist

pantheon. The multitude of practitioners, rituals, deities and ideas of

202 CHAPTER TEN

Buddhism have, over the centuries, been assimilated and are continuing

to be assimilated deeply into the lives of the Ladakhi populations.

Buddhism has provided them with a soteriological framework and a set

of ritual practices and prohibitions which now define their concerns with

the afterlife: its rites and deities can assist the soul in the vital process

of rebirth. Nevertheless, the spirits are still closely linked with the

pragmatic concerns of the villagers, their health, fertility and physical

fortunes. The Buddhist protectors have come to occupy superior posi-

tions within the realm inhabited by these numina and they are here

primarily concerned with the physical and environmental fortunes of the

villagers. The community as a moral whole, by contrast, is maintained

through a host of social and moral norms, expectations and practices,

with which the spirits have little or nothing to do and which remain

distinct from their concerns with the afterlife.

The autonomy of the social

This separation of realms and the tensions it sets up is central, I would

suggest, to the dynamic way in which order is maintained in Photoksar.

The sacred social has to be actively constructed and maintained in the

face of competition and conflict between the individuals who constitute

it. It also has to be preserved against hegemonic external influences,

including the moral framework of Buddhism. This accounts, I would

suggest, for the resilience and re-emergence of distinct social spaces in

the much more fluid and complex world of the modern urban centre of

Leh.

Within the village a complex pattern of hierarchy and equality is

found and there is a constant need to achieve a balance between the two,

in order to maintain the community as a body of equal individuals.

Similar tensions have been noted by other writers in different contexts

throughout the Tibetan plateau (Stein 1972; Samuel 1993). The wide-

spread emphasis on conciliation and agreement for the resolution of

disputes and the methods employed to control and distribute power,

principally those of rotation, games and other forms of chance, contrib-

ute to these dynamics and serve to counteract the influence of more

powerful hierarchies. In the Ladakhi kingdom a centralised, hierarchical

form of judicial power was asserted by the king and his ministers, while

in central Tibet the Ganden Potrang government developed a centralised,

bureaucratic administration with complex structures of political and

CONCLUSION 203

economic power, matched by monastic hierarchies. Nevertheless, the use

of dice and chance to make judicial decisions and appointments within

these structures served, to some extent, to counteract the tendencies

towards centralisation and hierarchy. In Tibet, moreover, despite moves

towards a Weberian type of rational bureaucracy, a correspondingly

rational legal system never developed, whether based on Buddhist

principles or otherwise. Rather, there was a preference for devolving

power and discretion to regional offices and lower bureaucratic levels

and an emphasis on the value of mediation, which came to be expressed

in terms of Buddhist ideology. In Ladakh, as in Tibet, those at the

judicial centre, such as the Alchi lonpo and representatives of the Indian

legal system, asserted and assert authority over judicial processes but

local communities have always maintained considerable autonomy over

their own practices.

In Photoksar, village autonomy against external forces constantly has

to be maintained but individuals also actively engage with many of them.

There has always been a stream of individuals who have left the village -

to take part in the king’s wars and in trading expeditions, to negotiate

with the king’s representatives and to enter monasteries. Now they go

back and forth to the town to trade, to buy household goods, negotiate

with authorities, pursue education and go on pilgrimage to India. Such

activities, of course, can give status to those who engage in them and

they also serve to import the influence of outsiders into the village, the

superiority of aristocrats, the religious ideas transmitted by senior

monks, the material values of traders, the requirements of government

administrators and the ideals of NGO workers. I have described the

relations of deference and distance that characterise the villagers’

relations with many of these outsiders. In particular, while adopting the

social and religious hierarchy that was established over the centuries,

they have also adapted it to distance the aristocracy and monks, those to

whom it gave status, from their own internal procedures. It is a dynamic

and continuing process, by which they maintain the integrity of their

own social community.

There are parallels between these processes and the ways in which

local forms of religious practice are safeguarded from the hegemonic

influence of Buddhism. The religious superiority of the Buddhist

establishments and practitioners has been accepted by the villagers. So

was the social superiority of the kings, aristocrats and monks. The

statuses of the emergent political and economically successful classes in

twentieth-century Leh are now recognised in the dral and the use of zhe

204 CHAPTER TEN

skat. Nevertheless, such individuals are distanced from internal village

processes, not invited to the village meeting, ignored when it comes to

internal decisions and symbolically set apart through the use of the same

markers of respect. The economic, ecological and democratic ideals of

the late twentieth century are only cautiously adopted. In a parallel

process, the philosophical and moral ideas of Buddhism have been

accepted, but adapted to supplement, and only partly to replace, the ideas

associated with the local spirit world. There is deference and distance in

all these realms.

The dynamism found in these processes goes a long way, I would

suggest, to explaining the events now taking place in the urban centre

and the emergence of the new spheres, patterns and processes of order

that I have described there. These are clearly derivative, in many re-

spects, of village processes and concepts. There have always been

hierarchies and inequalities in the urban centre, in wealth, social status,

political power and religious connections. Now, as the result of political

and economic developments in the late twentieth century, new forms of

status and economic opportunities are adding to the inequalities and

imbalances. Different individuals are able to dominate while old statuses

are reinforced and new divisions are created. However, the processes of

equality, autonomy, deference and distance that I observed in Photoksar

allow the creation of new forms of community and the strengthening of

existing ones. Thus, attempts by the LBA to create new forms of village

administration and leadership have been resisted, disputes are contained

and settled nangkuli, within both the old and the new communities that

have emerged in Leh. The goba and chupon are recognised as having the

authority to take charge of disputes in the town outside the structures of

the government administration, including the potentially serious irriga-

tion disputes that arise every summer. In a similar way, members of the

Shakhs Khang and the Anjuman committees ensure that disputes are

kept away from the courts. At the same time, the LBA is promoting a

new form of Ladakhi identity in its mediation processes, drawing on the

concept of yul found in the villages. New instances of the sacred social,

the place within which disputes must be contained and resolved, have

been created in the midst of the divisions and power struggles of the late

twentieth century.

CONCLUSION 205

Legal processes and political relations

There has been no shortage of power relations in Ladakh. The Ladakhi

kings, foreign invaders, aristocrats, traders, religious leaders, modern

bureaucrats, development workers and foreign ecologists have all

exercised influence in the region, through military might, bureaucratic

control and economic power. Each has shaped the dynamics of power

and order, bringing wars, foreign influences, religious idioms, economic

development, bureaucracy, democratic processes, communal tensions

and the glitter of modernity to the populations of Ladakh. However,

none of these has been defining or dominant in the construction of order

amongst the Ladakhi populations.

Nader (1990) analysed the ‘harmony ideology’ that she found among

the Zapotec of Mexico as an ‘anti-hegemonic’ force, one developed in

response to the hegemonic influence of Christian missionaries, as well

as to that of more recent state control. To an extent, a similar dynamic

can be identified in Ladakh. The containment and resolution of disputes

within the local community distances the authority of the police, lawyers

and courts from the internal organisation of the remote village communi-

ties, as well as those of the newer configurations in Leh town. A similar

attitude to conflict served to avoid the involvement of state agents in the

relations between those caught up in the SECMOL dispute. Comparable

dynamics almost certainly characterised the villagers’ internal organisa-

tion at the time of the kingdom, distancing the aristocrats from village

administration. The Leh goba and chupon, like their counterparts in the

village communities and the members of the Shakhs Khang, quietly

maintain their own forms of authority over processes of order. However,

there is much more going on here than a dynamic of domination and

resistance. There are more complex interactions found in the creation of

new communities and more positive processes in the formation of the

new spaces that come to be regarded as the nangkuli. Dynamics of

deference and distance, not just domination and resistance, characterise

the relations between these internal and external forces.

The village community, even one as remote as Photoksar, cannot,

therefore, be regarded as some sort of village republic, as a ‘bounded,

self-contained, wholly autonomous dorpsrepubliek’, successfully

resisting the domination of the centre, to cite the image of the Balinese

village thoroughly discredited by Clifford Geertz in Negara (1980).

Geertz’s descriptions of the theatre state in Bali, with its expressive,

elaborate, exemplary centre, is famous but his fine ethnography also

206 CHAPTER TEN

contains a compelling analysis of the relations between the centre and

local spheres of influence. He describes the ‘interlocking spheres’ of

influence - notably the ritual, economic and political - that made up ‘a

composite political order’ at the local level (1980: 47). For each there

were separate, although not unrelated, institutions to manage the public

aspects of community life, the regulation of irrigation facilities and the

organisation of popular ritual. In a similar way in Ladakh, I would

suggest, the village communities with their yulpa and ideas of internal

order, the monasteries with their lamas, komnyer and Buddhist ideals

and, now, the NGOs with their local development workers and notions

of rights and development ideals, provide separate, but related, forms of

ordering. The yulpa distance the monks and development workers from

some, but not all, aspects of village organisation.

Geertz describes the relations between the centre and local institu-

tions in Bali as a complex and interlocking web of power. The ritual

organisation was matched by the technical, the centripetal was matched

by the centrifugal and the integrative by the dispersive (1980: 85).

Custom flowed down from the elaborate exemplary centre while power

was ‘surrendered’ up and ‘cumulated’ from below (1980: 63). In Ladakh

the kings performed significant ritual functions (Ribbach 1986: Ch 7)

and the Indian state sponsors new ceremonies and festivals as part of its

process of rule (Aggarwal 2004). The exemplary role of the centre is far

less elaborate than that of the extravagant Balinese state, but there is a

comparable, selective granting of authority to outsiders. As in Bali, those

exercising power in the centre have never fully established the type of

authority characteristic of those in a Weberian, ideal-type of state,

whether bureaucratic, feudal or patrimonial. On the contrary, there are

parallel and overlapping spheres of order - the aristocratic, the religious,

the village yulpa, the NGO committees, the modern democratic struc-

tures - which create a web of specific claims and interests. As Geertz

describes it, ‘the political centre of gravity sat very low in this system,

as it does in all such systems.’ (1980: 85) In Ladakh the authority of the

yulpa, the goba, the chupon, the mediators of the Shakhs Khang and

Anjuman committee derive from local spheres of order. Adjustment and

consensus characterise their activities, as they did the hamlet and

irrigation groups of Bali. Authority is claimed by outsiders, often

successfully in the cases of those with new status in the urban economy.

However, such individuals are in many, if not all, contexts distanced

from local spheres of power: they are only selectively allowed to claim

authority over local social organisation.

CONCLUSION 207

Geertz repeatedly acknowledges his debt to Weber (e.g. 1983: 233). In his (1973b)3

article, Politics past, politics present, which foreshadows much of his analysis in Negara,

he explicitly draws upon Weber’s (1968) discussion of ‘patrimonialism’ and subsequent

writings in the same tradition for their insights into the nature of traditional polities and

their authority structures (1973a: 328-29).

The insights of Durkheim and Geertz need to be brought together, I

would suggest, to make sense of the way in which order is constructed

and maintained amidst the complex pattern of political, economic and

religious forces that characterises contemporary Ladakh. Doing so

combines the different traditions inspired by Durkheim and Weber

(within which many of Geertz’s writings can be counted), the different3

models of order identified by Roberts and the hermeneutic and hege-

monic approaches to law distinguished by Just. The aim is not to unite

or synthesise such approaches, which would fail to do justice to any of

them. Rather, it is to draw on aspects of each, in order to provide com-

plementary insights into the subtleties and complexities of the Ladakhis’

own webs of order.

As Durkheim suggests there is a sense of the sacred in the social

which I found among all the Ladakhi groups I studied. A sphere of order

is actively constructed and maintained in the village, in the new urban

communities in Leh and also in Ladakh as a whole, particularly by those

conscious of its position within the Indian nation state. The sense of

community and order found in these spheres is maintained from below,

with a power-base in the community itself. It is a precarious order, easily

disrupted by the powerful forces of government intervention, money and

status, but it can be adapted to incorporate or distance new power-

holders, such as the new panchayat members in the villages. It can also

be created anew in complex situations, such as the new Housing Colony

of the urban centre, with its diversity of inhabitants. On a more abstract

level the sense of community embodied in the concept of the yul can be

drawn upon by those in positions of power, those involved in the SECM-

OL dispute and the mediators of the Shakhs Khang to create a new sense

of identity and belonging defined by the image of a pan-Ladakhi commu-

nity.

In Photoksar it is the gap between this sense of the social, as a moral

community, and the realm of the spirits, involved as they are in the

physical fortunes of the villagers, that is the main reason, I have sug-

gested, that Buddhism has not been able to dominate its social order. The

principles and practitioners of the religion have been physically, politi-

cally and conceptually distanced from the sacred sphere of social order.

208 CHAPTER TEN

In Ladakh, as a whole, the power structures of successive rulers, reli-

gious leaders, those at the top of the social hierarchy and the new

educated classes who staff the NGOs, intersect with and influence the

organisation of the village community, but none is able to dominate it as

the locus of order. They are distanced from the processes by which

conflict is contained and resolved, placed outside the moral order of the

community, just as the monks have always been kept apart from such

processes. Likewise, in the urban centres new spheres of order are being

created in which, almost imperceptibly, people are insulating themselves

from the interference of external forces. These are dynamic processes,

as new forms of community are added to the interlocking spheres of

order. A constant tension between the opposed forces of control and

autonomy, hierarchy and equality, characterises their internal structures.

Processes of deference and distance have long dominated the Ladakhi

populations’ relations with the holders of power and are continuing to

do so amidst the manifold changes of the twenty-first century.

GLOSSARY Romanized Ladakhi and Tibetan words are followed by the Tibetan or Ladakhi spelling, where known, and then the sense in which they are used in the text.

aba � � � � � � father alamdar boys’ masked dance at Losar ama ���� mother�amchi ����� practitioner of Tibetan medicine api � � � grandmother babar ritual figures representing storma offerings at Losar bando offering for the lha barmi ����� mediator

barsam ����� middle/between world

beda �� ��� itinerant musician begar transport labour tax bele, belpo, belmo male/female storma offerings

bumskor ��������� ritual procession

with religious texts cham ���� religious dances

chams ���� love, affection

chang ��� Tibetan beer

changskyan ������ vessel for pouring chang

chig ����� one

chowa ������ to do/make

chod khang �������� shrine room

chodpa ������� religious offering

210 GLOSSARY chösi zungdrel �������������� �� the harmony of religion and politics (Tib.) choktse ����� � small table

chonme ������ � butter lamp

chorten �����! �� stupa (Buddhist monument)

chos ���� religion, doctrine, text, ritual

chos-sil ��������� chos reading

chu �"� water

chu len me len �"�� ��� �� ������ social boycott (literally to stop chad the lending of water and fire) chug �#��� to cause

chupon �"������ water official

chutsoks ��$�%&��� village division

dra�o dul �'�����()�� to conquer or subdue

dralgo '������ (head of the) seating or dancing line dras ���� rice

dre �* � evil spirit

drib '��� spiritual pollution

drig �'��� all right

drongpa '����� commoner

duk sum ()������� the three poisons

dulwa �()���� to subjugate

garba ��� �� blacksmith

gegs shad �� ������� to exorcise the evil spirits (gegs)

genbo +����� elder (Tib.)

goba �,���� headman

gokpo �������� old, ruined, damaged

gonpa ������� monastery

gyalla -���� good

gyalrabs -����� history of the royal genealogy

(r)gyalpo -����� king

gyazhi -�� .�� exorcist ritual

gyongpo /��� ��� stubborn

GLOSSARY 211

kalon �0��1���� high ranking minister

kha �� mouth

khangba ����� (main) household

khangu ������ subsidiary household

khatags ���2��� offering scarf

khon ���� jealously, resentment

khor ���� round, circle

khyimtses 3����% �� neighbour

komnyer �0����4 � caretaker monk

lama 1��� Tantric teacher, monk

lan ��� answer

las ��� work, karma

lha 5� spirit, deity

lhaba/lhamo 5 � � �/5���� male/female spirit medium

lha khang 5���� shrine room for the lha

lhandre 5��* � ghostly spirit

lhato 5�6�� shrine to the lha

lha trug 5�78�� child lha

lhende/lhenpa 9 ���� stupid, lazy, unhelpful

lonpo 1������ minister

lopchak ����� triennial trade mission from Leh to Lhasa lora to guard the fields from livestock losar ������ New Year festival

ltanmo :����� festival, spectacle

lu ;<� water spirit

makpa ����� in-marrying husband

mangpo ������ much, many

membar � ���� village official (probably from

the English) meme � �� � grandfather

meto � �6�� bonfire

212 GLOSSARY mi ��� man, person

mi chos (tsang ������� ,����� � ma chu ruk) ��$�*8�� the sixteen moral rules

mi gewa rchu ����� �����$� the ten religious prohibitions

mi kha ����� pernicious gossip

mimangs �������� commoner

mirpon �������� village official

mi ser ���� � peasant, serf (Tib)

mon ���� musician

monlam =������ prayer, prayer festival

nama ������ in-marrying wife

nangpa ����� insider, Buddhist nangkuli inside, within nangla ����� inside, within

nangosla ��������� inside, within

nga �� I, me

ngatang �� ��� we

ngati �� ��� my, our

nyams >��� harm, injury, suffering

nyanba >���� to hear

nyerpa > ��� village official in charge of festivals onpo �������� astrologer, ritual specialist paba dough made from parched barley flour and dried peas pang gong shrine to the lu patimo girls’ masked dance at Losar perak � ��� married woman’s turquoise- studded head-dress pha lha ?�5� spirit of the house and pha spun

pha spun ?�@<�� group of households worshipping the same pha lha res �� turn, roster

GLOSSARY 213

rgadpo/ rganpo +����� /rgansum +������� elder, older man

rigsngan ������� lower caste

rokspa ������ friend, helper

sadag ������ spirit of the earth

sakha ���� spring festival

sangs ����� purification ritual

sems chenmo/ � ���� �����/ chungun/lchinte �"������/����2 � large/small/strong mind

shaks �A��� settlement of a dispute

shakspon �A�������� judge, mediator

shakhs khang �A������ place of mediation, court

shkyen � �� misfortune, ill-luck

shesnying A ��B��� �()��C��� protective ritual with exorcist (dud lok) element shimi tsalma A����� %���� meal for the deceased ancestors

shnamtok D��E��� aberrations of the mind

shnyen �> �� relative, relation

sho (yongs) ���F���� (to become) angry

shpungba ������� shoulder shubla ear of unripe corn shukpa shpoches G)����@����� to change the juniper

skangsol ��������� autumn purification ritual

skudrak �H�*�� upper classes

skurims �H���� religious ritual

skyabdro I����'�� to take refuge

skyu IJ� noodle stew

snganme K������� old, former

spera �� �� speech

stanglha L �� 5� an upper realm inhabited by the lha ston zang L������� meal eaten on the eve of Losar

storma �2���� exorcist offerings

214 GLOSSARY tanka 6��0� religious painting or hanging

tap 6�� stove tagi flat bread (Hindi) tangba � 2�� � � to give

trakpo *����� strong, powerful

tral M�� tax

trangpo *����� straight

tre-ba M���� tax-payer (Tib)

trelba M ���� ashamed, embarrassed

trims M���� custom, rule

trimspon M��������� judge

trulku NO���H� reincarnate lama tsitu cold-like illness tsokpo ��&����� bad, dirty, reprehensible

tsokspa %&����� group, society, association

tukpa 6����� noodle stew yal (tangs) (to give) chang as a mark of respect yoklu F���;<� the underworld inhabited by the lu yongba F��� �� to come

yul F��� village, land, country

yulpa F����� villager, inhabitant zhal che (churuk/ .��� ���$�*8���

chuksum pa) ��$�������� the thirtee or sixteen laws�zhe skat . �������� honorific speech

zhidag �.������ spirit of the locality

zhing .��� field

zhiwa .���� peaceful

GLOSSARY 215

Proper names

Chado Rinpoche ������������ �

Changchub Gyaltsen ����"��-���%��

Choron ����P����Deldan Namgyal �� �Q��D��-��

Drigung ����,)�� Dro ����

Druk ��8�� Galden Ngamchod ���� Q����������

Ganden Potrang ����Q��?����� Geluk �� ������

Gyalpo Dragspa -�����'�����

Gyalsas Rinpoche -������������ �

Gyaltsen -���%���Gyelrab Salwe Melong -�������������� �����

Jamyang Namgyal �#�������D��-��

Kargyud �0�� �-R��

Katog Rigzin Tsewang Norbu 0��6�������ST��% �����������

Khangltakh ���:�� Khanpo Rinpoche �������������� �

Kumbela U)���? ������ Kushok Bakula Rinpoche �H�A������U)����������

Kyirong I���'���

Langdarma 9������

Lhachen Gyalpo 5�� ��-�����

Lhachen Morup 5�� �������'8��

Lotsava Rinchen Zangpo ����������� ��������� �Lungshar ����A�

Morup �����'8�� Nyingma V����� Orsal ���������Pagmodru ?�����'8� Paljor ���������

216 GLOSSARY Phuntsog Namgyal ?��%&���D��-��

Rigzin ����ST�� Sakya ��I�

Sengge Namgyal � �� � �D��-��

Sonam ����������Songtsen Gampo ���� ����W�����

Staktsang Raspa L��%�� ���� Togdan Rinpoche E����Q��������� �

Trashi Namgyal �X�A���D��-��

Tsepal Namgyal % �����D��-��

Tsewang % ����� Tsongkapa �&������

Trimön M��=����Wangchuk �� �� Y�� �Yangzes �����S ���

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INDEX

Achinatang, 188

Acts of Parliament,

Abolition of Polyandrous Marriages

Act, 33, 177

Hindu Law of Succession Act, 33

Ladakhi Succession to Property

Act,

33

Panchayat Raj Act, 192

adjudication, 85, 155-59

See also mediation, settlement

administration,

of Ladakh, 33-36, 135-39, 172-74,

191-95

of Ladakhi kingdom, 20-25

under Dogras, 29-33

of Tibet. See under Ganden Potrang

village, 29, 63-67, 137-39

administration of justice,

in Ladakhi kingdom, 22-25

under Dogras, 31-33

administrators. See under officials

Aggarwal, R. 88, 178, 187-188, 206

agreement. See under consensus, settle-

ment, unity

Ahmed, M. 38, 167, 181

alamdar, 117-18, 120-21

Alchi, 17, 24-25, 39-40, 54

See also lonpo

alcohol, 34, 37, 72, 132

Allen, N. 74, 129

amchi, 44, 49

Amdo, 131, 164

anger, 8, 68-77

Anjuman, 182-84

anthropology, legal, 10-14, 199-201

Api-Meme, 115-122

aristocrats, aristocracy, 21-22, 27-28,

39-41, 186

Tibetan, 168-69

army, 35

Asad, T. 160-61, 163

Athens, 189

authority, 206-07

categories of, 7

in contemporary Ladakh, 40, 167-

69

political, 165-66

judicial, 136, 155-65

of Ladakhi kings, 20, 25-28

monastic, religious, 28, 108, 140

of officials, state, 136-37, 178-179,

198, 203

in village, 131, 134, 141-42, 201

of yulpa, 51, 55, 63-64, 67, 83

autonomy, 135-42

of the social, 202-05

Ladakh and Tibet compared, 144,

167-69

in village, 63-67, 135-42

See also LBA

Babar, 115-122

Bachofen, J. 119

Bagatam, 113

Bakula Rinpoche, 34, 39

Baltistan, 18, 32, 197

van Beek, M. 14, 29, 30, 33-39,

138, 178, 183, 187

begar, 22, 32, 53, 138, 144

See also corvée labour

bele, belpo, belmo, 98-99, 118-19

Bell, C. 145

von Benda-Beckmann, K. 6, 12

Bertelsen, K. 14, 33, 37, 178, 187

Bloch, M. 32

blood money. See under mi stong

boycott, social,

in Leh, 46

in village, 54, 84

by Anjuman, 183-84

Brauen, M. 113

Bray, J. 1, 22, 29-30

Britain, British, 12, 20, 32, 76

Buddhism, 9-10, 90-92, 105

deities, rites, rituals, 88-89, 105-10

doctrine, orthodoxy, philosophy,

10, 41, 88-89, 131, 150-52,

165, 185

in village, 88-90, 105-10, 132-35,

201-02

228 INDEX

See also morals, monasteries,

monks

bumskor, 100-01

bureaucracy,

in modern Ladakh 173, 197

in Tibet, 144, 149

Ladakh and Tibet compared, 167,

203

Carrasco, P. 9, 21-23, 143-145,148,

168

Carrithers, M. 74

Cassinelli, C. 153, 156-158, 160, 166

caste. See under class

Chado Rinpoche, 132

chance, 163-64

Chang Tang plateau, 1, 181

chang. See under alcohol

change. See under modernisation

Chanock, M. 32

China, 159

chod offerings, 93-95

chösi zungdrel, 148, 165

chos, 4, 100, 107

See also mi chos

chupon, 172-74, 204-06

class, caste, 27-28, 40, 48-49, 188

in Tibet, 168-69

See also aristocrats

codes. See under legal codes

Collier, J. 12

committees,

in village, 123,

in Leh, 172

NGO, 188-90

See also tsokspa

communalism, communal tensions and

violence, 14, 37, 176-78

community,

boundaries of, 8, 15, 66, 102-03,

125

interests of, 5-6, 87, 199

in Leh, 112, 174-75, 190

membership of, 44-45

sense of in village, 8, 48, 125-27,

176, 190, 194-95, 205-08

sense of in Ladakh, 175-76, 180-82,

184, 190, 198-99, 207

symbols of, 88-89

See also nang, sacred social

compensation, 135

absence of, 85

in Tibet, 149-50

See also settlement

compromise. See under settlement

conciliation, 150, 155, 158-66

See also settlement

conflict,

condemnation of, 8, 65, 69, 70-72

definition of in village, 78-79, 84-

87, 126

in Leh, 171, 173-74, 184-86

over land, 23, 171, 178, 181, 183

and religious ideals, 150, 159, 185

conformity, 62-64

See also individualism

consensus, 52, 157-59, 166, 189

See also harmony

corvée labour, tax, 143-45

Cosman, C. 127-128

cosmology, 10, 151

cosmology of law, 10, 151

cosmological order, 88-89, 100-02,

108, 165

courts, 6, 10, 165

in Ladakh 136, 171, 174, 181, 184-

85,

in the Ladakhi kingdom and under

Dogras, 23, 31-32

in Lhasa, 151-57

Cowan, J. 87

Crook, J. 1, 30, 33, 36, 46

Cunningham, A. 21-24

customs, 53-58

‘old’, 45-46, 94, 122-24

and traditions, 180, 183

See also law, norms, trims

Dalai Lamas, 4, 19-21, 26, 41, 106,

134, 143-44, 164-65

fifth, 143, 147-48

seventh, 143

thirteenth, 143-44, 161

fourteenth, 106, 134

Dargyay, E. 164

Dawa Norbu, 141, 153-154, 160

Day, S. 88, 97

deference and distance, 170, 190, 195,

203-05, 208

deities. See under Buddhism, spirits

Delhi, 2, 197

Denwood, P. 9, 77

INDEX 229

development,

issues of, 3, 36

economic and legal in Ladakh, 33-

36

language of, 170

projects, 65, 141, 175-76, 188

in villages, 187

workers, 41, 64-65, 134-35, 141,

205-06

See also panchayats

dice, 38, 152, 155, 160, 163-64, 167,

190

disorder, 16, 87, 101, 103-04

See also order

disputes. See under conflict

Dollfus, P. 26, 43-44, 46-47, 58-59, 61,

88, 90, 97,102-103, 113-114, 120-

121, 137

drib, 89, 97, 132-34

Dogras, 2, 9, 20-21, 29-33, 138

domination and resistance, 12-13, 15-

16, 200-05

Dotson, B. 146, 148, 164

Douglas, M. 129

Dreyfus, G. 144, 147-149

dral, dralgo, 48-50, 66, 88, 139-42,

188

duk sum, 105, 109, 111

Durkheim, E. 6, 127-128, 130, 201,

207

education, 35, 50, 188

Ekvall, R. 150, 153, 156-15, 160

equality, inequality,

and autonomy, 139-42

and hierarchy, 58-62

and political ideals, 189

under panchayat system, 194

in village, 48-50

in Ladakh, 204

Ladakh and Tibet compared, 168-

89

elders,

and conflict resolution, 5, 185

in Ladakhi kingdom, 22-23

in village, 51, 80

genbo, 51

rgadpo, rganpo, 28, 174

rgan sum, 21

eldest son, 46, 49, 61-62, 171

elections, 3, 189, 194

elites,

authority of, 6, 198

in LBA, 6

in Leh, 40-41, 177, 184-85

in Tibet, 158

religious ideas of, 91, 134

Ellingson, T. 168

embarrassment. See under trelba

empire, Tibetan, 9, 146-48, 164

epistemology,

of conflict, 84-87, 199

of order, 201

Epstein, A. 85

ethical practices. See under zhiwa

exorcism, exorcist rituals, 97-98, 101,

108, 112, 117, 120

fear, 73-74, 76, 133

fertility, 88, 92-94, 101-03, 117-20

fines, 4-5, 52, 81-84

food offerings. See under chod

Francke, A. 9, 17-18, 21-22, 26, 29-31,

160

Frazer, J, 119

Frechette, A. 152

French, R. 152-153, 158-160, 162, 165,

167

Fuller, C. 200

von Fürer-Haimendorf, C. 89, 104, 131

galactic polity, 144

Galwan, R. 31-32

Gandren Potrang, 165, 167, 202

Geertz, C. 89, 199-200, 205-207

Gellner, D. 107

Gellner, E. 91

Gelukpa sect,

monasteries in Ladakh, 17-19

monks and rituals, 100, 108

in Tibet, 143

genbo. See under elders

gender. See under women

van Gennep, A. 120

gewa rchu, 105, 109-10, 132, 133, 146,

150-51

Gluckman, M. 129-130

goba,

in Ladakhi kingdom and under

Dogras, 22-24, 29-30

LBA and, 38

in Leh, 173-74

and panchayats, 191-94

230 INDEX

role in politics, 63-67

role in mediation, 80-83, 135-38,

170, 172

and yulpa, 50-53

gods. See under spirits

Goldstein, M. 143-146, 153, 156-158,

161-162, 164, 168-169

Gombrich, R. 91

Goodall, S. 170

Gordon, T. 29

Grist, N. 58

Guha, R. 12

Gulliver, P. 85

Gupta, R. 174

Gutschow, K.

Gyatso, J. 22-23, 90

gyazhi, 99-101, 107

Haarh, E. 25

Hamid, A. 125

Hanlon, H. 31

harmony,

and concepts of order, 126-28,

130

ideals of in Leh, 177, 181-82, 184

ideals of in Tibet, 157-59, 166

indifference of spirits, 103-04

in village relations, 69, 72

harmony ideology, 10-13, 205

Harrison, S. 11

Held, D. 189

Hemis, 18, 21, 23, 28-29, 33, 52, 54,

99, 101, 106, 114

Hemis Shukpachan, 26, 58, 92, 103,

137, 194

Henderson, D. 11, 157, 159

Hertz, R. 119

hierarchy, 168-69, 202-03, 208

religious, 91-92, 100-03, 107-08

social, 27-28, 40, 121, 141, 178

in village, 58-62, 88-89, 170

See also equality

Hill Council. See under Ladakh Auton-

omous Hill Development Council

Hocart, A. 26, 165

Hornblower, S. 189

households, 44-48

khangba and khangu, 43-66, 69, 80

Housing Colony, 172, 175, 201, 207

Howard, N. 18

Howell, S. 11

Huber, T. 91, 146, 150-152

ideology,

of Buddhism, 85, 203

legal, 152, 154-55

political, 158-59

of unity and agreement, 58, 168

See also harmony

India,

Ladakh as part of, 1-3, 196-97

legal system of, 6

party politics, 187-88

See also laws

individuals, individualism,

moral obligations of, 109

in Leh, 5

in village politics, 51-53

within the sacred social, 127-30

concepts of the person, 74-78

See also conformity, mind, rights

inheritance. See under primo-geniture,

rights

insiders. See under outsiders

irrigation, 53, 54

in Leh, 172-73

See also chupon

Islam, 1-2, 9, 18-19, 196

See also law

Jammu, 2, 41

Jammu and Kashmir state, 14, 33, 176,

192

Jest, C. 164,

judges, judiciary, magistrates,

in the Ladakhi kingdom, 23, 25,

30, 31

in Sakya, 153

in Tibet, 154-63

judgment, legal, 163, 179, 189

Just, P. 165, 199-200, 207

justice, 11, 125-26, 150-66, 186

kalon, 20-24, 27, 33, 39, 173

See also aristocrats

Kaplanian, P. 44, 46, 48, 58, 95, 103,

112-113, 133

Kapstein, M. 133, 146, 148

karma, 75, 83, 105-06, 109-10, 132,

151-52, 165

Kaul, Shridhar, 30

Khaltse, 36, 44, 80

khangba, khangu. See under house-

holds

INDEX 231

Khanpo Rinpoche, 39

Kargil, 42, 58, 177, 196

Kargyud sect, 18

Karsha, 17, 27

Kashmir. See under Jammu and Kash-

mir state

Khetsun Sangpo, 107

kingdom, of Ladakh, 17-28

kings, Ladakhi,

Deldan Namgyal, 19, 25

Gyalpo Dragspa, 24

Jamyang Namgyal, 18, 22-23, 27

Lhachen Gyalpo, 17

Lhachen Morup, 26

Namgyal dynasty, 18-22

Nyima Namgyal, 27

Phuntsog Namgyal, 20

Sengge Namgyal, 19

Tsepal Namgyal, 20, 21

komnyer,

activities in village, 92, 99, 101,

113-14

conflict with in village, 122-24

exclusion of, 51

Klein, A. 107

Kumbela, 161, 163

Kyirong, 144, 154, 160-162, 164, 166,

Ladags Melong, 3

Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development

Council (LAHDC), 34, 37-8, 186,

191-93

Ladakhi Buddhist Association (LBA),

6, 37-41, 178-88, 191

campaigns of, 58, 204

demands for autonomy, 14, 37-38,

176

Ladakhi Gonpa Association (LGA), 4-

5, 34, 37

Ladakhi kingdom. See under kingdom

Ladakhi kings. See under kings

lamas, 13, 107-08

in Ladakhi kingdom, 21

in Ladakhi politics, 28, 38-39

Lamayuru, 30, 44, 122

komnyer, 54, 66, 99, 122

monastery, 51, 55, 92, 139

land. See under property

land settlement, records, 29, 31-32, 61,

138

law, laws,

customary, traditional, 31-32, 129,

183

under Dogras, 31-32

of India, 33-34, 177

international, 12

Islamic, 182-83

See also local knowledge

LBA. See under Ladakhi Buddhist As-

sociation

Leach, E.119

legal codes,

in Ladakh, 24

of Mongols, 147

in Tibet, 146-49, 149-52, 153, 160,

163, 165

legal principles, 4-5

and Buddhism, 9

in Tibet, 155-63, 165-66

Levine, N. 33

LGA. See under Ladakhi Gonpa Asso-

ciation

lha. See under spirits

lhaba, 75, 97, 106, 107, 116

lhato, 92, 95-97, 102

Lingshed, 42, 99, 100, 102, 107, 133,

135-6, 141, 175, 192

local knowledge, 63, 199

lonpo, 21-27, 30, 39, 49, 137

Alchi lonpo, 30, 38, 39, 137-38

See also aristocrats

lopchak, 19

Lopez, D. 133

lots, casting lots. See under dice, chan-

ce

lu. See under spirits

Luczanits, C. 17, 77

Lungshar, 161-63

magistrates. See under judges

Maine, H. 129

makpa, 46

Malyon, T. 77

Manali, 35

Markham, C. 160

marriage. See under polyandry

Mauss, M. 74, 129

mediation,

in Ladakh, 137

in Leh, 5

in Tibet, 154, 155-59

in village, 78, 80-83, 175

232 INDEX

See also Shakhs Khang, Anjuman

meetings, village. See under yulpa

Meisezhal, R. 147

membar,

in Leh, 122-23

in village, 47

See also goba

Metcalf, P. 120

mi chos, 105, 146-48, 150-52

mi kha, 133-34

mi gewa rchu. See under gewa rchu

mi stong, 150

Michael, F. 144-45

Miller, B. 145

Mills, M. 9, 47-49, 75, 88, 91, 93, 97-

98, 100-03, 106, 107-08, 110, 133

mind,

concept of sems, 133-34

and morality, 72-75, 126, 135

and physical illness, 98

modernity, modernisation, 2-3, 13, 16,

112, 122-24, 198, 205

Moghuls, 18-20

monasteries,

in Ladakhi kingdom, 21, 26

in traditional Tibet, 143-45

relations with villages, 41, 92

See also specific names

Mongols, 19, 143, 146-47, 148

monks,

in Ladakhi politics, 9

Gelukpa, 100, 106

novices, 139-40

social status of, 4, 8-9, 203

and yulpa, 51, 66, 140

See also komnyer, lama, zhiwa

Moorcroft, W. 20

Moore, S. 200

morality, morals,

of anger, 70-72

and Buddhism, 89-90, 105-10,

134, 150-52, 201-02

and mind, 72-75

and responsibility, 75-78, 199

and spirits, 90, 103-05, 110-11,

123

separation of realms, 130-35, 142,

207

codes, See under mi chos

See also gewa rchu

Muslim,

populations, 13-15, 33

and Buddhists, 37, 84, 176-78

customs of, 35, 58

See also Anjuman, Islam, Kargil,

Kashmir

Mustang, 131, 164, 168

Nader, L. 11-13, 200, 205

nama, 45-46, 56, 59

nangla, nangosla, nangkuli, 8, 125-27,

136, 172, 174, 204-05

nangpa, 9, 177

Nawang Tsering Shakspo, 9, 17

networks, village, 46-47, 58, 82, 127

NGOs. See under non-governmental

organisations

Nimmu, 180-81

nomads, 38, 131, 149, 167, 181

non-governmental organisations

(NGOs), 170, 175-76, 188-89, 192-

95

Norberg-Hodge, H. 36, 175

norms, 6, 7-8, 104, 130, 197, 202

See also customs, order

Nubra, 38, 137, 171

numina. See under spirits

Nyeraks, 44, 96, 175

oaths, 22-23, 160-63

Obeyesekere, G. 104, 130

officials,

government, 30-36, 41, 136-38,

140

judicial. See under judges

local, 23, 30, 51, 64, 172-74, 180,

191-94

in Tibet, 143-49, 154, 156-58, 161-

63, 166, 168

onpo, 49

in Leh, 173

in village politics, 64

Nyeraks, 96

ritual practices of, 107-08

Sumdo, 99-100

ordeals, 24, 152, 160-61, 163

order,

biological, 121

dynamics of, 7, 13, 16, 170, 172,

184, 199, 202-05, 208

hermeneutics of, 198-201

law and, 32, 137

INDEX 233

in Leh, 174

in Tibet, 165-66

models of, 6, 11-12, 207

sense of, 8, 199, 201

in Leh, 5-6, 13, 182, 184-86,

190

in village, 48, 77, 125-27

sources of, 16, 28, 196-98, 205-08

web of, 3, 111, 124, 127, 199, 207

See also cosmology, sacred social

Ortner, S. 9, 89

Osmaston, H. 1

outsiders,

and insiders, 123-24

exclusion of, 51, 66, 134, 139-41

relations with, 203, 206

status of, 66

Pakistan, 1, 35, 197

panchayats, 174, 191-95

See also Acts of Parliament

Parkin, D. 76-77

patimo, 117-21

peace, peacefulness,

ideals of, 58, 67, 126

in Leh, 181, 184-85

of Ladakhi kings, 24

‘peace-loving’, 10, 185-86

Peerenboom, R. 159

person. See under individual

Petech, L. 17-23, 27, 50

Peter, Prince, 33

Peters, E, 161

phalha. See under spirits

phaspun, 46-47, 62, 93-95, 104, 114-

15, 130

Phyang, 39, 96, 107

Phylactou, M. 34, 43, 44, 88

Pirie, F. 9, 65, 104, 131, 150, 164

Pocock, D. 76

police, 4-5, 136-37, 178-81

politicians, 2, 13, 41, 140, 196

pollution, spiritual. See under drib

polyandry, 33-34, 37, 45, 58, 177

See also primo-geniture

Primo-geniture, 33-34

See also polyandry

property,

division, 33-34, 61-62, 80

ownership, 138, 171-72

protection. See under spirits

punishment, 23-24, 83-84

in Tibet, 145-66

Quigley, D. 27

Ramble, C. 89, 131-32, 164

Ramsay, H. 9

rebirth. See under karma

reconciliation. See under settlement

Redfield, R. 142

reincarnation, 104-05, 143, 168

retribution. See under revenge

revenge, 76-77, 149, 150, 162

rgadpo, rganpo. See under elders

Riaboff, I. 9, 25, 46, 88, 95

Ribbach, S. 26, 31, 206

Richardson, H. 146

Ridzong, 44

Rigal, J-P, 112-13

rights,

sense of,

in Leh, 5, 170, 179,

in village, 85-87, 126

inheritance, 171, 178

rites of passage, 112, 119-22

Rizvi, J. 1, 19-20

Roberts, S. 6-7, 207

rotation, 50-51, 65, 141, 164, 169,

189-90

See also tral

sacred social, 127-30, 201-02

sacrifices,

animal, 18, 34, 92, 96, 113

human, 96

Sagent, P. 164

Sakha, 93

Sakya, 144, 146-47, 153-54, 156-57

Samuel, G. 8-10, 89-91, 107, 129, 144,

167, 168

sangs, 92, 95-97, 106

Schickelgrüber, C. 89, 132

Schuh, D. 147-50, 154

Schweieger, P. 20, 24

SECMOL. See under Students’ Educa-

tional and Cultural Movement of

Ladakh

sems. See under mind

settlement,

compromise, 5-6, 11, 155, 158, 185

conciliation, 84, 149, 155-59, 162-

63

See also agreement, adjudication,

234 INDEX

mediation, shakhs

Shakabpa, W. 146

shakhs, 78, 84, 136

Shakhs Khang, 15, 178-82, 185

shame. See under trelba

Shara, 175, 186

Sherring, C. 150

Shigatse, 145

shrine. See under lhato

skangsol, 100-01, 108

Skardu. See under Baltistan

skudrags. See under aristocrats

skurims, 98-99

Snellgrove, D. 91

social boycott. See under boycott

Sonam Wangchuk, 4-6, 186

Songtsen Gampo, 146

Southwold, M. 91

spirits,

dre, 98

evil, 97-100, 121-22

gegs, 97-99

lha, 92-93,

lu, 88, 92, 94-95, 102-03

phalha, 46-47, 92-95

yullha, 92, 95-98, 102, 106-07, 116

and Buddhism, 105-10

in Leh, 106-07, 172

and moral order, 103-05, 110-11

protection of, 44, 47, 91 of,

realms of, 88-89

See also lhato

Spituk, 17, 34, 39, 106

Srinagar, 34

Srinivas, S. 38, 89, 102, 137

Starr, J. 12

Stein, R. 90, 109, 168

Stongde, 27

storma, 98-99, 115, 118-19

Students’ Educational and Cultural

Movement of Ladakh (SECMOL),

dispute, 3-9, 16, 186, 199

members of, 10-13, 15, 198

Tambiah, S. 144

taxes, taxation,

in Tibet, 143-45

in Ladakhi kingdom, 21-22, 25,

27

under Dogras, 29-30

village, 45-46, 53-55, 59, 137-38

See also tral

temple, village, 51-52, 92, 114-15

texts, religious, 111, 133-34, 135

Thupstan Chhewang, 39-40

Tibetan empire. See under empire

Togdan Rinpoche, 39, 98, 113, 123

torture, 150, 152, 154-55, 160-61, 163

trade, traders, 1-2, 17-20, 197, 203, 205

trakpo, 96

tral, 45, 53-55

transcendent, transcendence, 131, 164,

168, 201

Trashi Lhunpo. See under Shigatse

trelba, 62-63, 174-75, 181,

tribunal. See under courts

trims,

meanings of, 125

under Dogras, 23

irrigation, 174

in Ladakhi kingdom, 25

in Leh, 193-94

in village, 55-58

trulku. See under reincarnation

truth, 125-26, 158-63

Tucci, G. 90-91, 98, 99, 147

tsokspa, 172, 187-88

LBA, 187

unity, idea of,

in Ladakh, 181

among yulpa, 53, 58, 167

in village, 139

symbolised by yullha, 102

Uray, G. 148

yal, 81-84, 86, 103

See also settlement

yul, 127, 176-77, 207

yul chig, 181

yullha. See under spirits

yulpa, 50-53, 201

authority of, 55, 57, 66-67, 123

Walsh, E. 164

Wanla, 42-43, 55, 191-92

Wangchuk. See under Sonam Wangch-

uk

Wazirs, 29-32

wealth, 59-61, 187, 190

Weber, M. 6-7, 165, 197, 200, 203,

206-07

women,

and morality, 70,

INDEX 235

roles of in village, 50, 52

social status of, 48-49

under panchayat system, 194

vulnerability of, 95, 97

Wylie, T. viii, 143

Yngvesson, B. 200

Young Men’s Buddhist Association

(YMBA), 33-34, 37

See also Ladakhi Buddhist Associa-

tion

Zangskar, 27, 82, 95

See also Karsha

zhal che. See legal codes

zhe skat, 66, 140

zhiwa practices, 108-110, 135, 100, 106

BRILL’STIBETAN STUDIES

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