Contemporary Mongolians: Between memory and modernity
During my journey to Mongolia, I was not searching only for a place, for the immensity of steppes that seem to have no end, or for traces of the Mongol Empire in cities and faces. As a traveller and writer, I was trying to read the human being before reading the geography: to see how contemporary Mongolians inhabit two different times and move between them with striking ease, as though the distance between past and present were not centuries, but a single moment.
The Mongolia I saw is not a country living in the past, as someone viewing it from afar might imagine, nor is it a society that severed its ties with its past when modernity arrived. It is a social space in which different eras coexist, and the past remains present, not as a museum, but as an identity that can be summoned at any time.
Perhaps what struck me most about contemporary Mongolians was their ability to live two parallel lives without experiencing any sharp contradiction between them.
In everyday life, Mongolians are modern: they wear urban clothes, use smartphones, work in institutions, companies, universities and government departments, drive cars, follow the world online and engage with the modern economy and the demands of professional and urban life. They belong wholly to the twenty-first century. Yet all it takes is a national occasion, a cultural celebration or a festival for the transformation to occur.
They put on the deel, the traditional Mongolian garment, and seem to summon another identity from within. At that moment, they are not merely putting on a piece of clothing; they are recovering an entire collective memory. The garment becomes a social language that calls forth the ancestors, the steppes, the horses, the nomads, the epics of forebears, the stories of the empire and symbols accumulated across long centuries.
What is striking is that the transformation requires no elaborate ritual. A single piece of clothing can be enough to carry a person from the contemporary world of professional life into another symbolic realm. The employee becomes a child of the steppes, the intellectual recovers the figure of the ancient storyteller, and the young city-dweller suddenly finds a place within a narrative older than the city in which they live.
From a sociological perspective, this behaviour can be read as a form of daily negotiation between identity and modernity. Mongolians do not necessarily choose between past and present; they draw on both to construct the self. Modernity provides the tools of life and work, while historical memory provides the meaning of belonging.
The distinctive quality I encountered during the journey lies precisely in this: for Mongolians, the past is not the opposite of modernity, but one of its symbolic components. They can move from the office to the traditional ger, from a smartphone screen to a folk song and from an official meeting to a celebration led by horses, wrestlers and archers without feeling that they have left themselves behind.
This, in my view, explains the powerful presence of traditional symbols in Mongolian public life. Heritage is revived not only so that people may remember what once was, but so that they may declare who they are now.
Traditional dress, horses, music and popular festivals are therefore not merely folkloric spectacles for tourists. They are instruments through which collective memory is reproduced, and identity redefined in a society that moved rapidly from a nomadic way of life to the modern state, and from the open steppes to the capital and urban society.
In Ulaanbaatar especially, the paradox becomes more visible. It is a crowded modern city of towers, institutions, cafés, screens, smartphones and cars; amid all of this, traditional dress appears as though declaring that modernity has not erased the steppes from memory.
Perhaps the opposite is true: the stronger the presence of the modern world, the greater the need to summon one's roots. This made my journey to Mongolia transcend the meaning of geographical travel. I moved from place to place while also moving through layers of time. In contemporary Mongolians, I saw that compelling balance between the modern citizen and the child of the steppes.
They do not inhabit the past at all times, yet they know how to summon it at the appropriate moment. They do not abandon modernity when they put on the garments of their ancestors, and they do not abandon their ancestors when they return to contemporary dress and go to work.
I came to understand that contemporary Mongolians live two parallel lives: an everyday life governed by work, the city and technology, and a symbolic life inhabited by memory, legend and ancestors. There is no rupture between the two, but an open door through which a person may pass whenever they wish.
Perhaps this capacity to bring different eras together was one of the most beautiful lessons I carried away from Mongolia: modernity does not necessarily require us to forget who we once were, and respect for the past does not require us to stop creating the future.
When travellers leave Mongolia, they may carry with them images of steppes, horses and mountains. Yet if they listen closely to the people there, they return with something deeper: the understanding that identity is not a garment worn once and for all, but an entire world through which we can move between yesterday, today and tomorrow without losing ourselves.
Shamanism in Mongolia: When the soul listens to the sky
In Mongolia, the shaman does not appear to be a figure belonging solely to the past, but a presence that still finds a place in collective memory and the popular imagination, and in the profound relationship between human beings and nature. The roots of Mongolian shamanism reach back to distant ages before the spread of Buddhism, when nomadic peoples perceived spirits and powers in the sky, mountains, rivers and steppes as worthy of respect and reverence. The shaman, or Böö in Mongolian tradition, stands as a symbolic intermediary between the visible world and the realm of spirits, drawing on chants, drums and traditional rituals on different occasions, as we witnessed: the lighting of the fire, the presentation of offerings amid incense and the ringing of bells.
Among the most enduring symbols of shamanism is the Eternal Blue Sky, which represents a supreme power in the Mongolian worldview, alongside reverence for nature, mountains, rivers and sacred places. Fire is also regarded as an element of particular spiritual significance, while certain rituals retain their connection to ancestral heritage and to the search for protection and blessing. The great shaman Ziran Byambadorj accompanied us throughout the journey, from beginning to end.
During a journey through Mongolia, it is difficult to separate shamanism from the landscape itself. The vast steppes, the neighing of horses, the clarity of the sky and the distant mountains all provide this heritage with its living space. Perhaps the distinctive character of Mongolian shamanism lies in the fact that it offers more than a body of ancient religious rites. It expresses a philosophy of life in which human beings see themselves as part of nature rather than its masters. Some of its symbols have therefore remained present in contemporary culture as a bond between Mongolians, their ancestors, their land and the sky above their country.
The Mongolian academic military song and dance ensemble
We visited two places whose names are associated with the military: the Mongolian Academic Military Song and Dance Ensemble under the General Staff of the Mongolian Armed Forces, and the Official Ceremonial Horse Training Centre.
The ensemble is an artistic institution that carries the memory of a nation in its performances, bringing together music, dance, history and the military spirit. Since ancient times, the Mongolian people have accumulated a rich heritage of customs, traditions and arts, which successive generations have passed down as part of their identity and collective memory. The ensemble emerged from this wellspring, and its history became closely connected to the memory of soldiers and warriors: to the songs that stirred their resolve, the hymns of victory, the rhythms of marches and battle, and the dreams for which they fought - land, independence and freedom.
During our visit to the academy, our military guide and artist, Renchindorj Onorjargal, recounted the ensemble's history, which began in 1932. Since then, 12 December has been observed each year as the anniversary of its foundation. Throughout its history, the ensemble served as an artistic voice accompanying the armed forces in times of war and liberation. It also performed for the people, contributed to national cultural life and participated in cultural events within Mongolia and abroad.
The state formally recognised this artistic contribution. The ensemble received the War Merit Medal in 1962, a Government Certificate of Appreciation in 1972 and the Red Banner Medal for Military Merit in 1982.
On 27 November 2002, under Mongolian Government Resolution No. 29, the ensemble was officially granted the name "Academic Military Song and Dance Ensemble", in recognition of its stature and contribution to national culture.
During my visit, I felt that I was witnessing more than an artistic ensemble. I was drawing close to Mongolia's memory as it sang and danced: every melody carried a trace of the past, every movement revived an image of the warriors and every rhythm connected past and present. It was an experience confirming that art can preserve history in ways books alone cannot; that a song can become memory, a dance a story and the stage a space in which the warrior's spirit meets the soul of poet and artist.
At the Official Ceremonial Horse Training Centre, I learned about some of its responsibilities and its role in administering and developing the military institution and strengthening its readiness to perform its national duties. Its work encompasses strategic planning, the development of military education and training, improvements in leadership efficiency, the modernisation of weapons and equipment systems and the strengthening of military security, a role that preserves identity.
It has become customary for the Nine White Banners of the State, accompanied by the eight additional banners, to be carried in a ceremonial procession during the Naadam festivals. Mongolia's State Symbols Law stipulates that the President shall approve the procedures governing these ceremonies. Under the law and established ritual, the state flag flies on the southern side of the Government Palace, while the honour guard, wearing golden-yellow hats, takes its position as though time itself had stopped before us. The honour guard lines up facing the statue of Genghis Khan. As soon as the solemn military music rises through trumpets and drums, guards emerge from the eastern gate beside the statue of Genghis Khan carrying the Nine White Banners.
The resounding music, its measured rhythm and the assured, solemn steps of the procession seem to revive the spirit and glory of the Mongol ancestors. The bearer of the State Banner leads the procession, followed by the principal banner bearer and the ceremonial guard. The horses, prepared for the ritual over months and years, perform their task in silence and composure, undisturbed by the thunder of the music or the crowds. They proceed with confident steps, without a single superfluous movement.
Under the law, the procession consists of thirty-two horses: two dapple-grey horses, eight light chestnuts and twenty-two black and dark-brown horses, recalling the colours of Genghis Khan's horses as recorded in history.
For these nomadic people, every number carries meaning. The two dapple-grey horses symbolise central authority; the eight chestnuts represent protection and balance; and the twenty-two dark-coloured horses signify movement and continuity. Led by a single rider and arranged in rows of three, the procession passes before the Government Palace, circles it clockwise and then continues in orderly formation towards Bogd Khan Mountain along the road stretching across the open steppes.
The crowds salute the Nine White Banners and follow the procession amid cheers of joy and celebration. Gradually, the sound of the horses' hooves rises above the music and the voices of the people, becoming clearer and more distinct until it seems no longer merely a sound, but a vibration coursing through the body itself.
The State Banner was fashioned as a single piece from the mane and tail hair of pure white horses. The hair used is at least 80 centimetres long and was carefully selected from herds in different regions of Mongolia.
The Nine White Banners stand 362 centimetres high, while the circumference of their crown measures 55 centimetres. Each of the eight accompanying banners is 262 centimetres high, with a crown diameter of 40 centimetres. Their upper sections terminate in branching steel finials shaped like forks and engraved with exquisite motifs. At the summit of the Nine White Banners is an ornament in the shape of a flame resting on a flower-shaped base. The banner is wrapped with a four-part silk ribbon made of white brocade decorated with yellow motifs.
From the earliest ages to the present day, Mongolians have revered and honoured the Nine White Banners as a symbol of the state's prosperity and continued existence. The roots of the tradition date to 1206. Historical records state that the Nine White Banners were first raised when Genghis Khan proclaimed the establishment of the Great Mongol Empire.
In Volume 31 of Ethnology, in a study entitled "Some Issues Concerning the Origin and Development of Genghis Khan's White Banners" by researcher S. Ulziibayar and others, we read:
"The political concept that described all the nations of the earth as 'the five-coloured peoples and the four foreigners', and called the ruler who extended his authority over them all 'the Khan of the Nine Banners', had existed for a thousand years. The number of nine white banners, established at the Great Khural in 1206, reflected this tradition, while white symbolised the blessing of the power of Heaven.
"Thus, the Nine White Banners became the banners of the Great Mongol Empire, which flourished under the protection of the Eternal Sky. They were sacred banners made from the white hair of mares and stallions, raised as an oath before the Eternal Sky that their bearer had become ruler of the earth.
"The ornament above the banner represented a white falcon descending while embracing the sun and moon, carrying to the Mongols the spirit of Heaven and its sacred blessing - the blessing of the Borjigin lineage beneath the Eternal Sky. Restoring the ancestors' banners in their authentic form - the banners of those whose power was strengthened by the Eternal Sky and protected by the Great Sacred Fortune - remains a wish shared by many Mongolians."
When Mongolia adopted its new Constitution in 1992, it stated: "The traditional Nine White Banners of the unified Mongolian state are the revered symbol of the Mongolian state." With this declaration, the Nine White Banners, which had nearly withered in the winds of time, returned once more with all the power and majesty they carry.
A literary journey beyond borders
The international "Ekh Nutag" celebration was not merely a programme commemorating the 120th anniversary of the birth of Dr Natsagdorj, but a cultural journey across Mongolia, following a route that connected Ulaanbaatar, Dunjin Boldog, Bayandelger, Baganuur, Tsenkhermandal and Kherleniin Khodoo Aral.
The journey allowed us to discover Mongolia not only through its literature, but also through its nature and historical memory. For Mongolian readers and intellectuals, the celebration reaffirmed the continuing presence of one of the most important literary voices in the country's history. The road from the capital to the steppes became a metaphor for literature itself: a road crossing borders, generations, and cultures, yet always returning to its source: land, memory, and homeland.
I cannot leave without speaking of the food. I have no idea how many sheep I ate! Mutton seemed to be in almost every dish, and I will never forget khorkhog, which is not merely a meat dish, but an experience that captures something of the spirit of Mongolian nomadic life. It is usually prepared with mutton or goat: stones heated intensely in a fire are placed with the meat inside a tightly sealed container, allowing the meat to cook through heat and steam in an enclosed space.
The secret of khorkhog lies not only in its ingredients, but in the ritual surrounding it. Its rich aroma fills the air, while the meat cooked on the bone seems to have absorbed the very essence of the bones, until water, salt and meat appear to have become a flavour deeper than the sum of their parts. The hot stones are themselves part of the experience. People of the steppes handle them confidently, passing them from palm to palm, but visitors must approach them with care: they are not merely warm stones.
Khorkhog retains its own special magic: an aroma that arrives before the taste, heat that touches the hand and a flavour carrying the memory of the steppes and the Mongolian people.
In celebrating Natsagdorj 120 years after his birth, Mongolia was not merely reclaiming the past. It was affirming that the poetry of homeland remains a living force, capable of bringing people together, opening new horizons for cultural dialogue and transforming a journey across the steppes into a shared journey through me
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